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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 6 months ago

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Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 10: Nobody Likes You, Everyone Left You]

A/N: I sincerely apologize for the delay, but Maggie Sundays are back, besties!!! And we have a new poll! Be sure to check it out AFTER you finish Chapter 10 🥰

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon™️, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes.

Series title and chapter title are lyrics from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Word count: 6.8k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

Here’s how it happens.

Let’s say you’re on a subway, or at a bus stop, or walking in or out of a grocery store, maybe fumbling with your purse or corralling small children, or talking on the phone, or wondering how you’re going to make rent, or trying not to drop one of your shopping bags, and out of nowhere some stranger lurches over and grabs you. They are filthy and noxious and moaning, and you assume they are insane, or on hard drugs, or maybe both. Your fellow upstanding citizens rush to your aid and the assailant is apprehended and carted off, unbeknownst to you surely to infect many more blithely unaware victims.

Maybe you notice that you were bitten, even just barely, even just a scrape of the teeth hard enough to scratch the skin; maybe you don’t. If you do notice and you seek medical attention, the best a doctor will offer you is disinfectant and antibiotics, maybe a rabies shot if they’re extra ambitions. Perhaps you have too much on your plate already without a detour to the doctor’s office (or perhaps you don’t have medical insurance), and you opt for at-home remedies, a vigorous scrub with hydrogen peroxide and a large rectangular Band-Aid slapped on top. Of course, none of this will do you any good. It was over the moment a drop of zombie saliva slipped painlessly into your bloodstream and began to replicate there like an invasive species, like an insurgent force. It only takes once.

You go home, and maybe when you start to feel really bad you call an ambulance and go to the hospital, and when you turn you bite anyone you can get your claws on there. Maybe you die at home and then attack your partner, your children, your parents, your roommates; maybe this new version of yourself ends up chewing bits of gristle off the bones of your dog or cat or ferret. And if any of your victims manage to escape once you’ve gotten a taste of them—no matter how fleetingly, no matter how trivially—they are sure to die in agony and reanimate too, and to pass along this plague you’ve gifted them, the bloodiest game of telephone.

Now millions are getting sick, fevers, headaches, purging, bleeding, but where do people go when they need a doctor? The hospitals are overrun, the clinics are swarmed, and doctors and nurses are falling ill too. There are unimaginable reports of the carnage. There is censorship to smother the panic. There are public figures vanishing from sight. There are zombies-in-progress boarding planes, checking into hotels, tottering onto cruise ships with armfuls of luggage, sweating through their bedsheets in crowded military barracks, silently ticking timebombs as the world as everyone knows it hurtles towards its end.

You would be amazed what people can refuse to believe. Once you believe something, that makes it real.

~~~~~~~~~~

There are no shovels, so Cregan tills the earth with his axe and then you dig with your hands. There are no headstones, so Rhaena finds a large sand-colored rock and writes on it with a jagged piece of slate: Baela and Briar, Summer 2024. Then she hesitates, the slate hovering in afternoon air, amber sunlight and eighty degrees, dust thick in the wind. She wants to say more. There needs to be more. How can two lives end with five words? At last Rhaena adds: Mother and child who perished en route to California. They were loved. They mattered.

“That’s good, Rhaena,�� Luke tells her, voice gentle, hands on her shoulders. She stares at the grave for a while, and you don’t have time to waste; the bear could return, there might be wolves or mountain lions, eventually the sun will set and you will be stranded in an infinite darkness like the ocean at night. But Aemond waits until Rhaena is ready. She tucks the shard of shale into her backpack, and then you are fleeing once again: from this day, from this world.

You hike back to I-80 and walk west towards the next ranch. All of you are here in south-central Wyoming, and yet none of you are: you are in the earth with Baela, you are back in Nebraska where Jace died, you are in Ohio where he was swept away by a river, you are in Pennsylvania where you and Rio climbed down from a transmission tower, you are in your lives before the world ended: Saratoga Springs, Boston, cliffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean, a part of Kentucky called the Wildlands. Aegon is limping along on his own and shoving Rio away each time he tries to pick him up.

“Stop,” Aegon says, wincing and exhausted, his bandages coated with dust.

“Come on, Honey Bun. You’re going to rip your foot open—”

“Stop it!” Aegon demands. “I’m not going to slow you down anymore! I’m not going to be a burden!”

There is a sound you don’t immediately recognize: a rumbling, a squealing. A car is pulling up alongside you. Instinctively, you unholster one of your M9s and raise it as you turn.

“No, no, no, we’re cool!” a woman says, showing you both of her hands. She is around fifty and driving a Subaru Outback; there is a man in the passenger’s seat, perhaps her husband, and two wide-eyed, hoodie-swathed teenagers in the backseat. “Are you…are you guys okay?”

All of you stare blankly at her: shellshocked, distraught, covered in dirt and blood. “Yeah,” Daeron says eventually.

The woman peers around, east, west. “Do you have a car or something?”

“We have a Tahoe,” Cregan says. “It’s out of gas.”

“We have a few cans in the trunk,” the Subaru woman replies. “I can give you one, five gallons. That will get you to Rock Springs, and you should be able to find more supplies there. We came through that way, it wasn’t too bad.” And then, before anybody can ask if she’s serious, the woman steps out of the car and opens the hatchback. She lifts out a red can and hands it to Rio, who is standing the closest.

“Thank you, lady,” he says, astonished.

“I’m sorry about that,” you tell the woman, meaning the fact that you were prepared to shoot her.

Rhaena adds: “We’ve had some…bad experiences.”

The Subaru woman smiles. “Haven’t we all. Where are you headed?”

“West Coast,” Aemond answers quickly: vague, guarded, inviting no further disclosures.

She nods; she can’t trust you, and you can’t trust her, and everyone agrees, an unspoken acknowledgement of what the world is like now. “Well, you don’t want to go anywhere near Salt Lake City.”

“But that’s the only direct route,” Aegon says, crestfallen.

“I know.” The Subaru woman is sympathetic. “And it’s going to burn a hell of a lot of gas and time to drive all the way around, but you have to. There are tens of thousands of zombies, and a lot of people are trapped there without fuel. I’m telling you, if someone sees you driving by in a working vehicle, they’ll try to put a bullet in your head so they can take it. So don’t give them the opportunity.”

“Okay,” Aegon says glumly, already pulling his map out of the pocket of his khaki shorts to plot a new course.

“Stay far away from Chicago,” Rio offers the Subaru woman in return. “And any nuclear power plants.”

“We’re headed south,” she says, then grins. “I’ve got a sister in eastern Tennessee. We’re going to learn how to fish and cook moonshine and make clothes out of deer hide, and live up in the mountains where nobody will ever bother us.”

People glance at you, the resident Appalachian; and you remember the crackling of woodstoves, flecks of ice in the creek, kicking up snow as you ran through the woods, following tracks of deer and opossums and raccoons. “It’s a beautiful place. I think you’ll like it.”

Rhaena asks the Subaru woman: “Is there anything we can do for you? To thank you for the gas?”

“Oh, I couldn’t take from a bunch of bloodied people who are stranded on the side of the interstate.” But her eyes catch on the pistol in your hand and stay there, envious, longing. You have another, so you give it to her.

“The safety is on. There are only nine bullets left, unfortunately.”

“That’s nine more than I had before,” the Subaru woman says as she takes the U.S. Navy’s standard-issue Beretta. Then she says to everyone: “Good luck.”

“Same to you, ma’am,” Cregan replies. The Subaru woman gets back into her car and disappears eastbound with her family. The nine of you that are left—ten, if you count Ice—trek back to the Tahoe, where Rio pours five gallons of combustible liquid gold into the gas tank.

Rhaena climbs into the driver’s seat and turns the key in the ignition. The rust-red Tahoe growls to life, the engine idling. Then she rests her arms on the steering wheel and breaks down sobbing. In the passenger’s seat, Aegon looks up from his map—which he is annotating with a glittery green gel pen—to gaze at her with shining, wounded eyes. After some hesitation, he extends a hand to hold one of hers. From the seat behind Rhaena, Luke is rubbing her shoulders and murmuring words you can’t hear.

Aemond says softly: “Rhaena, you can take some time if you need it.”

“No,” she insists, her voice quivering but determined. “We can’t wait. We have to get as far as we can before dark.” She shifts the Tahoe into drive, guides it onto I-80, and speeds west towards Rock Springs and the Utah border.

Rio is saying something to you, but at first you can’t grasp it. Helaena is scratching Ice’s ears as the massive grey wolfdog lies sprawled across her lap. Daeron is sniffling and wiping his eyes with the sleeves of his orange t-shirt. Cregan is talking to Aemond about needing to find an auto shop so he can get supplies to change the Tahoe’s oil and filter. One of Aegon’s mixtapes whirls in the CD player:

“My face above the water

My feet can’t touch the ground, touch the ground

And it feels like I can see the sands on the horizon

Every time you are not around…”

You are watching Aemond, your heartbeat growing loud in your ears. He won’t look at you at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

As the sun begins to set, you find a vacant house on the outskirts of Coalville, Utah overlooking the Echo Reservoir. You wash away the remnants of Wyoming in the cool blue water, dried blood and caked-on dirt, hopes eclipsed by horror. Dinner is soup spooned out of cans from the pantry—Dinty Moore beef stew, Campbell’s condensed chicken noodle—and caffeine-free sodas, Sprite and Fanta and Seagram’s Ginger Ale. Then Rhaena and Luke go straight to bed, and Helaena scuttles through the house with a flashlight to search for clothes, making each person a separate pile on the dining room table: large flannel shirts for Cregan, pastel-colored polos for Aegon. Aemond and Cregan are outside on the front porch, Daeron is carving sticks into arrows on the kitchen floor, Aegon has been passed out in one of the children’s bedrooms since Aemond debrided his burns again and dosed him with the last of the Vicodin. Fortunately, Helaena found a translucent orange prescription bottle of Tramadol in the upstairs bathroom, so Aegon won’t have to suffer too much tomorrow.

Rio tosses and turns on the living room couch. You know what’s wrong, but you have to wait for him to say it. You stay with him, kneeling on the beige carpet in the murky artificial luminance of Rio’s Moonbeam flashlight, threading your fingertips through his dark curls. And then at last Rio asks something that you know must have crossed his mind a thousand times since you left Saratoga Springs, but he’s never voiced aloud: “What if Sophie and the baby are dead?”

“They’re not.”

“But you don’t know, nobody knows—”

“Bryan, they’re not dead,” you say, and he is listening.

“I joined the Navy for Sophie.” And of course, you’ve heard this before. “I was just a stupid kid who couldn’t commit to anything, not work, not school, not a future with her, so she dumped me. And I decided I was going to get her back by proving I could make commitments after all. I could sign my life away for five years, and come out of it as someone who would be a good husband and father. And now…what if by enlisting and being so far away when everything happened, I abandoned her? What if…what if she’s gone, and she died terrified and in pain and alone, and I’m the reason why?”

“Sophie and the baby are waiting for you in Odessa. You have to believe that until we get there.”

“Because if they’re not, my life is over?” he asks bitterly, this man you have never known to be wrathful, defeated, weak, hopeless. But these are beasts that live inside all of us, waiting to be shaken awake by the perfect string of calamities.

“I believe they’re still alive.”

And Rio looks at you, wanting desperately to be convinced. “Why?”

You’ve never believed that you are someone who knows the right things to say; but you have to try. “If your parents’ community in Odessa is like you’ve always described it to me, I can’t think of a better place for someone to hide from all the disorder and the violence. It’s remote, but there’s support from other families who are living the same way. People have gardens, cows, goats, pigs, chickens, enough canned food to live on for years, homemade clothes and systems to collect rainwater. There are women who’ve had five homebirths and men who’ve built houses with their own hands. And the people in Odessa have guns and know how to use them. I think when you told Sophie to go there, you saved her life. And now she and the baby are both waiting for you to come home.”

“We’ve crossed this country by raiding dead people’s homes.”

“Yes. And we’ve seen plenty of living ones too.”

Rio takes a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling; and now he is calmer. “Okay,” he says, grabbing your hand where it rests on his head and smacking a noisy kiss onto your knuckles. “I’m sorry. Thank you. I think I’m done freaking out for tonight.”

“You good?”

“I’m good.”

“Try to sleep.”

Obediently, Rio closes his eyes, and within five minutes he’s snoring.

You rise and open the door to the front porch, thinking of what you’re going to tell Aemond when he is low, distracted, wary: You did everything you could, Aemond. It’s not your fault. It’s this world, it’s poison, it’s cursed, and you can’t turn back the clock to when it wasn’t. You’re just one man. But you can try to save the people who are left.

Yet Aemond does not speak to you, doesn’t even notice you; when you peek outside you are on his blind side, and he is deep in conversation with Cregan as they keep watch in the moonlight.

“I mean, yeah, I’ve been thinking about that too, man,” Cregan is saying. “A mansion by the ocean sounds nice and all, don’t get me wrong, but that ain’t me. I don’t see myself somewhere like that forever. Hell, I’ve never even seen the ocean, and to be honest I never really cared to. But a community of folks who are living off the land out in the woods? Those are my kind of people, that’s a place I could be useful…”

You retreat back inside the house, flashlights and shadows, doubts and fears. You stand there in the quiet for a while, then go to Aegon’s bedroom, where he is awake now and snuggling with Ice in a child’s bed shaped like a red racecar, listening to his pink Sony Walkman—Ava, the gleaming rhinestones proclaim—through one earbud.

Aegon coos as he ruffles the dog’s shaggy grey coat: “You’re so sweet, Blue Raspberry Icee. You were always my favorite flavor. Do you miss 7-Elevens too? Wrinkled old hot dogs and taquitos on rollers, drenching tortilla chips with the nacho cheese and chili dispenser? Did you guys even have 7-Elevens in Iowa? No offense, but your home state kind of sucks. It’s just fields and barns and whatever. You would have loved Boston. You could have fetched my golf balls when they rolled into ponds.”

Then he sings along to the song he’s listening to, effortlessly melodic but so softly you can barely hear him:

“You really had me going, wishing on a star

But the black holes that surround you are heavier by far

I believed in your confusion, you were so completely torn…”

Aegon spots you in the doorway. He smiles, then turns serious when he gets a good look at your face. “You okay, Mint Chocolate Chip?”

He feels like the only person you can say this to. You confess in a weak, hoarse whisper: “I hate this world.”

Aegon offers you the other earbud. “Then let’s go somewhere else.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“Come on,” you say to Rhaena as Rio and Luke rummage around inside the Shell gas station for food, drinks, batteries, medicine. You know they’re fine; you’ve already cleared the store, and you can hear them in there laughing. Rio is telling Luke about the bizarre Thanksgiving dinner you once had in Chinhae, South Korea: duck instead of turkey, fried rice with pears and squash instead of stuffing, candied sweet potatoes for dessert, a choir of solemn schoolchildren brought in to sing—for reasons you will never understand—Africa by Toto. You take your remaining M9 out of its holster. “Target practice.”

“Really?” Rhaena asks excitedly. She volunteered to stay back at the little blue mobile home with Aegon, Daeron, and Helaena—only a mile away—but you knew she needed a distraction. Truthfully, you do too. Aemond is in the Tahoe somewhere searching for gas with Cregan, a strange new alliance. He still hasn’t really spoken to you. You are trying to give him what he needs, but you don’t understand what that is.

It took all of yesterday to navigate around Salt Lake City, stopping every few hours to scrounge for gas, gallons siphoned piecemeal from cars, trucks, motorcycles, boats on trailers, four-wheelers left forgotten in garages and backyards. It was after nightfall when you rolled into Battle Mountain, Nevada, a gold mining town in what is known as the Cowboy Corridor, beginning at West Wendover just over the Utah border and ending in Reno. Today supplies must be replenished; tomorrow I-80 will take you to Winnemucca, where U.S. Route 95 branches off north towards Oregon while remaining on I-80 leads southwest through the Sierra Nevada Mountains and into the Bay Area of California. A decision needs to be made, which means Aemond will have to talk to you tonight. You’re relieved. You don’t want to have to be nervous and watchful with him, studying every inflection of his voice, reading some dire premonition in each line that creases his face. You’ve spent enough of your life that way already.

Battle Mountain is cloudless and hot and sandy, dry shrubs and gnarled mesquite trees, flat secretless earth. Staggering towards the Shell are three zombies, all dressed in faded blue uniforms like a mechanic’s or a miner’s. You hand Rhaena your M9.

“How many bullets do you have left?” she says, still a bit giddy.

“Fifteen. And you can have five of them.”

She raises the pistol and closes one eye. “I’m going to miss.”

“Well you’re not going to hit anything if you don’t turn off the safety.”

Rhaena giggles. “Oh, right. Whoops.” She clicks the tiny lever, then takes aim again.

“Line up your sights. Front looks like an I, back looks like a U. Put the I in the center of the U, and keep looking at that front sight. That’s where your bullet is going. Don’t blink when you fire. Don’t be scared of the recoil, that’s not your problem, your priority is getting the shot. Your arms are a little stiff…yeah, perfect, nice and limber. The recoil won’t hurt so much that way. Don’t try to fight it, just accept that it’s going to happen. If you’re all tensed up because you’re anxious about the recoil, it’ll throw off your aim, so forget about it.”

“Okay,” Rhaena says. “I am actively attempting to forget.”

“Remember, try not to blink.”

“Don’t tense up. Don’t blink.” A few seconds pass, and she pulls the trigger. There is a spray of dark curdled blood from one of the zombie’s collarbone, but it’s still stumbling towards the Shell. “Damn,” Rhaena says defeatedly, then tries to pass the M9 back to you.

“What are you doing? You have four more shots.”

“But I’m going to miss. I’m going to waste them.”

“Practice isn’t wasteful. You have to know how to do this in case something happens to me.”

“You do it,” Rhaena insists. “I’m terrible.”

“Is it alright if I help you?”

“Yeah,” she says, her doe-like eyes brightening. “Okay. Totally.”

“Go ahead and aim.”

She raises the pistol and peers through the sights. You stand behind Rhaena, place your hands lightly over hers, adjust her angle just barely. When she fires—she’s still tensing up just before she pulls the trigger, a common mistake—you hold the M9 steady. The bullet explodes through the same zombie’s rot-soft skull and the corpse tumbles facedown into the dust.

Rhaena gasps, exhilarated, triumphant.

“No celebrating yet. There are two more.”

“Right.” Very businesslike, she lines up the next shot. You provide your slight adjustments; a second zombie receives a lethal dose of lead.

“Want to do the last one on your own?” The third zombie is quite close now, maybe ten yards. It should be an easy kill.

“Okay…but if I miss, you have to save me.”

“Obviously.”

All on her own, Rhaena aims and pulls the trigger. She hits the zombie near the top of its head; an inch higher, and it would be functionally unharmed. But the corpse’s skull snaps back and its blood and brains spill out onto the asphalt of the parking lot, and it is of no further danger to anyone. It is carrion for the scavengers: raccoons, foxes, condors, vultures, crows.

“And with one of your allocated bullets to spare,” you say with a smile, accepting the M9 when Rhaena surrenders it. “Good progress.”

“That felt great,” she admits, perhaps a little dazed.

You know what she means. “It’s nice to have some control over what happens in your life.”

Luke is saying to Rio as they reappear from inside the Shell: “Maybe those Korean children were singing Africa because they knew your unit had been in Djibouti. Maybe they thought you were homesick for it or something.”

“Oh my God, you know what, kid? You might be right. I never even thought of that.”

“Find anything?” you ask.

Rio shrugs, adjusting the straps of his backpack. “A few bags of trail mix, a box of Band-Aids, some Life Savers, cans of Arizona tea. Oh, and Marlboro Golds for Honey Bun.”

“You shouldn’t be encouraging Aegon to smoke. It’s bad for him.”

“Give him a break, he’s sad and crispy.”

You can’t think of a rebuttal. The four of you walk back to the mobile home.

In the small patch of parched dirt that serves as the driveway, Cregan is—with great difficulty—shimmying out from beneath the Tahoe. Then he reaches back under to grab a pan of old motor oil. “Just about done here,” he announces. “Gotta put the fresh oil in and then we’re set for another 5,000 miles.”

You glance around. Ice is panting in the narrow aisle of shade of a mesquite tree. Aegon is napping on the tiny front porch, sprawled on his back and snoring, his plastic neon green sunglasses shielding his eyes; Helaena is surrounded by a jumble of empty cans and stirring a pot of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs as she heats it over a fire. She begins dishing out bowlfuls of it. Rio, Rhaena, and Luke all graciously accept their dinner.

“Did you guys find gas?” you say to Cregan.

“Not much. A few gallons.”

“Where’s Aemond?”

“Said he’d be back soon.”

“What?” You are incredulous. “You left him? He can’t be alone out there, Cregan. Someone has to watch his blind side.”

“He ain’t alone. He took Daeron.”

“What’s Aemond looking for?”

“He didn’t say. I didn’t ask.” Now Cregan is pouring a bottle of Pennzoil into the Tahoe, and Rio is prodding you with a bowl of Chef Boyardee spaghetti and meatballs, and Aegon is waking up and yawning loudly.

“What’d you bring me?” he says, lazy and grinning; and when he receives his pack of Marlboro Golds, he immediately sticks one between his teeth and lights it. Luke goes to sit by a shrub and then jumps up when he hears a rattling noise. Almost too swiftly for you to process it, a streak of red-gold scales slithers across the earth and vanishes into the desert.

“Western diamondback rattlesnake,” Helaena notes. “Venomous. Potentially fatal.”

“Great,” Luke says, carrying his bowl towards the front door of the mobile home. “I think I’ll eat inside.”

Aemond and Daeron don’t return until shortly before dusk, the sky turning to rust, lavender, gold, fire, blood. When they walk in, Rhaena is curled up on the floral couch—shredded in spots by a cat, though there are no signs of it now—and reading Mockingjay. Luke is sitting with her and keeping watch with periodic peeks out the window. Ice is resting with her muzzle propped on her large front paws. You, Rio, Cregan, Helaena, and Aegon are playing Uno on the floor.

“What color?” Aegon asks Helaena when she puts down a wild card.

“Blue.”

He groans. “How do you always know what I don’t have?!”

“Rhaena,” Aemond says, and then tosses something to her that glints in the artificial, sickly yellow radiance of the flashlights. She catches them in midair: a set of keys. She is mystified.

“What are these for?”

“The Ford Expedition that’s parked outside.”

“What?!” Luke says, twisting around in his seat to snatch the curtain aside and peer through the window. “Oh wow. Yeah, it’s out there.”

Rhaena is staring confoundedly at Aemond. “Why do we need a Ford Expedition?”

“Because that’s what you’ll be driving tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong with the Tahoe?”

“They will be driving the Tahoe to Oregon,” Aemond says, pointing to you, Rio, and Cregan. “We are taking Expedition to California.”

Everyone is too stunned to speak at first; even Daeron looks at Aemond doubtfully, as if this is the first time he’s learning of it. Aegon’s hand hovers frozen in the air above the draw pile of Uno cards. Ice whimpers.

Rio chuckles uncertainly. “You’re…you’re joking, right?”

“No, I’m not,” Aemond says. “When we leave Battle Mountain tomorrow, you’ll take I-80 to Winnemucca. We’ll take Route 305 south to Austin and then head west so we can get off the interstate and avoid the Reno area.”

Your voice comes out dark and poisonous. You can feel your eyes glaring, searing; Aemond won’t look at you. “What are you talking about?”

“We can’t stay together?” Luke asks.

“No,” Aemond says again, and now he’s getting impatient. “We have two different destinations. That’s been the situation since the day we met, and now it’s time to split up.”

“Why can’t we all travel to one place and then the other?” Rhaena says. “We could drive to the Bay Area, see what’s going on at the beach house, and after—”

“I can’t wait,” Rio interrupts. “My wife and baby are in Oregon, I’m going straight there even if no one else is.” As distracted as you are, you touch your palm to one of his broad shoulders. You’re going too. You promised.

“So we’ll drive to Oregon first,” Aegon says agreeably. “Right? We could do that. Go north and then swing by the Bay Area later.”

Aemond shakes his head. “It’s almost impossible to find gas now. There is just enough in the Tahoe to last it until Winnemucca, and just enough in the Expedition to get it down to Austin. There is no guarantee we’ll be able to find more. Every day there’s less gas and food and bullets, because there are less places that haven’t already been looted. There are 400 miles between where we are right now and either Odessa or San Franscisco. There are another 400 miles that separate those two destinations from each other. So let’s say we drive all the way to Oregon and then can’t find any gas to go south to the Bay. How long do you think we’d last like this on foot? A month? Because that’s how long it would take us, assuming not a single rest day. So if we travel to one location together, there’s a good possibility we’ll all be trapped there.”

“Maybe I’m okay with getting trapped in Oregon,” Aegon mumbles.

Aemond lashes out fiercely. “Are you serious? What about Criston, what about Mom?!”

“Maybe there are some things about home that I don’t miss!”

“Then go the fuck to Oregon!”

“You know I have to stay with you!”

Aemond scoffs. “Because you’re so capable of protecting anyone.”

Aegon rubs his sunburned face with both hands. He murmurs softly, miserably: “I’m trying, Aemond.”

“So that’s it?” Rhaena says, staring at you and Rio and Cregan, stunned and mournful. “We’ll just never see each other again?”

Aemond shrugs and averts his gaze. He doesn’t have an answer; maybe he doesn’t care.

Aegon turns to Cregan accusingly. “You helped plan this?”

“Nah,” Cregan says, avoidant and downcast, which is unusual for him. “I mean…I said I didn’t really see myself spending the rest of my life with a bunch of millionaires in a California mansion on the seashore, and that’s still true. I’d rather live in Oregon with people who are more like me. But that’s different than wanting to split up forever. I could always try to find y’all later for a visit, I guess…”

“Sure,” Aemond replies briskly. “Whatever you decide to do afterwards isn’t my problem. But you get them to Odessa first.”

Rhaena bursts out with sudden urgency: “This feels wrong. Don’t you see how this is wrong?! We’ve been through so much together, and now we’re just going to wave goodbye and disappear? Leave them to fend for themselves?”

“You want to add 400 miles to our trip?” Aemond asks her, and Rhaena falls silent.

“You know,” Luke begins. “We…we’ve already lost people. Maybe Aemond’s right. Maybe we’re forgetting how dangerous the world is now. It would be great if we could stay in contact, but the most important thing is to get everyone safely to where they need to be.”

“Exactly,” Aemond says, and something jolts awake in you as you remember what he told you in Nebraska, and in Wyoming, and in so many quiet moments that you’ve shared since you met, each an oasis in the desert. He said we would figure it out. He said he wasn’t going anywhere.

“So you were lying when you pretended not to know what we were going to do when we got to Nevada.”

Aemond nods towards the front door. “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?”

You stand up; Rio watches you apprehensively, wondering if he should follow. Your eyes flick to his. I’m fine. He relents, redirecting his attention. Aegon is slumped and despondent; Helaena is starting to cry, and Cregan tries to console her. She’s saying that something bad is going to happen, but she doesn’t know what.

On the porch of the mobile home, beneath a lilac sky pierced with stars, Aemond does not attempt to hold your hands or kiss you goodbye or give any other indication that you have ever been someone who mattered to him. “This isn’t personal. This is what gives everyone the best chance of survival.”

“You’re afraid of making a mistake and getting hurt,” you tell him. “And I understand, I know what that feels like, but Aemond…with the way the world is now…you can’t afford to wait for things to happen or cut them loose to see if they’ll come back to you. You might not get another chance.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Aemond says flatly. “Your route is safer than ours. Less cities, less zombies.”

“You’re honestly going to act like you are completely unbothered by the thought of never seeing me again?”

“I don’t know what you expected. I’m just some guy who helped get you off a transmission tower back in Pennsylvania.”

“Really? That’s all you are?”

And then Aemond smirks to himself, a cynical, mocking twist of his lips, something so dismissive and so cruel you almost believe for a razor-thin second that you could hate him. “Look, I’m not the one for you. Go to Oregon. Fuck Cregan.”

“There is nothing romantic between me and Cregan!”

Now Aemond seems annoyed. “Well, you two seem exceptionally suited for each other.”

“Because we both grew up shopping at Dollar General and know what it’s like to have an alcoholic parent?! That makes us soulmates, that’s the end of the calculation?!”

“Then find a man like him!” Aemond flares. “That’s what you really wanted, right? That’s what you were after this whole time. Some hero to convince you he’s worth it. Someone to break you in.”

You are seething, thunderstruck. “And you just said that in the most hurtful way possible to…what, prove how little you care about me?”

“I didn’t say I don’t care about you.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

“We were never going to end up in the same place.”

“Except we were, you told me that, you told me we’d figure something out, I mean, you…you…you said you’d be there if I wanted kids someday, what was that if not some kind of commitment?!”

“You don’t trust me,” Aemond says, so sharply and so abruptly it startles you.

“I do,” you object softly.

“No, you don’t. And I don’t blame you. But there’s nowhere for us to go from here.”

You can feel yourself becoming young and powerless and desperately afraid. “Please don’t do this, Aemond. It won’t bring Jace or Baela back. If we don’t have a plan before we split up, this is over. We’ll never find each other again. We’ll never have another chance.”

And he shakes his head like this was such a needless mistake. “I knew you’d fall in love with me.”

He’s leaving, you think, hazy and omnipotent like a nightmare, the present inseparable from the past and the future. I left my family and now my family is leaving me. “I’m not in love with you,” you reply as ruthlessly as you can. “I think you’re right. Cregan is a better man.”

“Yeah,” Aemond snaps.

“And I need someone like him.”

“Yeah,” Aemond says again, staring into the west where the last rays of the sun are sinking below the horizon, you erased as you stand where his left eye would once have seen you.

“And you need someone who’s going to fuck with your head so much you can’t possibly mistake it for something real.”

You walk back inside the mobile home and leave him speechless in the dying light.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I drew this for you,” Aegon says, handing Rio a folded piece of paper torn from Helaena’s spider notebook. It’s a map, illustrated in forest green gel pen ink. “Your route is actually really straightforward, it’s impossible to get lost. You’ll follow I-80 northwest to Winnemucca, then Route 95 north until it intersects with Route 140, and you stay on 140 all the way to Odessa. The only real city you’ll go near is Klamath Falls in Oregon, and I’ve marked that. Route 140 mostly stays along the outside, but you can cut it wider if things look dicey. The whole trip is just a couple days by car, assuming you don’t have to spend too long hunting for gas. But listen…” He points to the green dot labelled Winnemucca. “Between here and Denio Junction up by the Oregon border, there’s 100 miles of nothing, just desert. So make sure you have more than enough supplies to last you in case something happens. Then from Denio Junction to Adel is another 85 miles with no towns in between. So just…be careful, okay? You’re not back east anymore. Things are a lot farther apart, and it’s harder to find everything. If you run out of gas or bust a tire, you can’t just call AAA to come pick you up.”

“We got it,” Rio says, touched but trying not to dissolve into too much sentimentality. The three of you are standing in the short dirt driveway the next morning, Aegon putting most of his weight on his good leg. Cregan is waiting behind the wheel of the Chevy Tahoe that once belonged to his parents. Ice is peering out at you through one of the rolled-down windows. “Thank you, Honey Bun.”

“No problem. Now flip it over.”

Rio does; on the back of the first map is another, this one from Odessa south to the Bay Area, a place just north of San Francisco called Bolinas.

“Go all the way to the coast and follow it down,” Aegon says. “You don’t want to bump into Santa Rosa, Sacramento, Stockton, Modesto, San Jose, any of those places. Too many people.” Then he smiles, kind and warm. “I’m going to see you guys again, one way or the other. But first I have to make sure Aemond is safe. And Rio has to meet baby Otter.”

Rio laughs. “Man, don’t even joke about it. I’m seriously concerned that’s my firstborn’s name.”

“If you end up not staying in Odessa, leave me a note carved into a tree trunk or something so I can track you down.”

“You do the same at the beach mansion.”

“Totally.” Then Aegon turns to you; and although he’s still smiling, his eyes—those pools of murky, melancholy blue that remind you of the Gulf of Tadjoura, Corpus Christi Bay, the East China Sea, the Indian Ocean—are catastrophically sad. “Tortilla Chip, it’s been real. Don’t forget about me.”

“I don’t think I could even if I wanted to.”

He pats your backpack and winks, and you don’t understand why until ten hours later when you’re lying on the rooftop of an abandoned RV in Winnemucca, Nevada, gazing up at the stars as Rio and Cregan swap stories to weave affinity until it’s thick like a braid: Rio hiding a dead lemon shark in the Jeep of an officer he hated when you were stationed at Key West, Cregan’s fiancé leaving him after she got a field hockey scholarship to the University of Iowa. You haven’t found any gas for the Tahoe yet. You’ll have to search again tomorrow. You reach into your backpack for a pack of Life Savers and instead are surprised to discover Aegon’s pink Sony Walkman. The rhinestones spelling out a doomed little girl’s name glint in the moonlight.

You slip in both earbuds and press play. Aegon left it paused at an Enrique Iglesias song; you assume he must have been thinking of Rio.

“You look at me and, girl, you take me to another place

Got me feelin’ like I’m flyin’, like I’m out of space

Something ‘bout your body says, come and take me

Got me begging, got me hoping that the night don’t stop…”

You try to see constellations in the night sky instead of random, indifferent distant suns. You try not to remember the way Aemond was when you thought his mark on you was permanent.

“Girl, I like the way you move, come and show me what to do

You can tell me that you want me, girl, you got nothing to lose

I can’t wait no more

I can’t wait no more…”

You spot a glimmer of light among the stars and choose to believe it is a comet rather than a fighter jet, or a forgotten satellite, or the refracted remnants of a solar storm, or something you only imagined and that never existed at all.

#aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen #aemond x you #aemond x reader #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x y/n

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beardedmrbean · 3 months ago

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Few in the media seemed eager to attend a ceremony last week in Washington, D.C., where the prestigious American Academy of Sciences and Letters was awarding its top intellectual freedom award.

The problem may have been the recipient: Stanford Professor Dr. Jay Bhattacharya.

Bhattacharya has spent years being vilified by the media over his dissenting views on the pandemic. As one of the signatories of the 2020 Great Barrington Declaration, he was canceled, censored, and even received death threats.

That open letter called on government officials and public health authorities to rethink the mandatory lockdowns and other extreme measures in light of past pandemics.

All the signatories became targets of an orthodoxy enforced by an alliance of political, corporate, media, and academic groups. Most were blocked on social media despite being accomplished scientists with expertise in this area.

It did not matter that positions once denounced as “conspiracy theories” have been recognized or embraced by many.

Some argued that there was no need to shut down schools, which has led to a crisis in mental illness among the young and the loss of critical years of education. Other nations heeded such advice with more limited shutdowns (including keeping schools open) and did not experience our losses.

Others argued that the virus’s origin was likely the Chinese research lab in Wuhan. That position was denounced by the Washington Post as a “debunked” coronavirus “conspiracy theory.” The New York Times Science and Health reporter Apoorva Mandavilli called any mention of the lab theory “racist.”

Federal agencies now support the lab theory as the most likely based on the scientific evidence.

The Biden administration tried to censor this Stanford doctor, but he won in court

Likewise, many questioned the efficacy of those blue surgical masks and supported natural immunity to the virus — both positions were later recognized by the government.

Others questioned the six-foot rule used to shut down many businesses as unsupported by science. In congressional testimony, Dr. Anthony Fauci recently admitted that the 6-foot rule “sort of just appeared” and “wasn’t based on data.” Yet not only did the rule result in heavily enforced rules (and meltdowns) in public areas, the media further ostracized dissenting critics.

Again, Fauci and other scientists did little to stand up for these scientists or call for free speech to be protected. As I discuss in my new book, “The Indispensable Right,” the result is that we never really had a national debate on many of these issues and the result of massive social and economic costs.

I spoke at the University of Chicago with Bhattacharya and other dissenting scientists in the front row a couple of years ago. After the event, I asked them how many had been welcomed back to their faculties or associations since the recognition of some of their positions.

They all said that they were still treated as pariahs for challenging the groupthink culture.

Now the scientific community is recognizing the courage shown by Bhattacharya and others with its annual Robert J. Zimmer Medal for Intellectual Freedom.

So what about all of those in government, academia, and the media who spent years hounding these scientists?

Universities shred their ethics to aid Biden’s social-media censorship

Biden Administration officials and Democratic members targeted Bhattacharya and demanded his censorship. For example, Rep. Raja Krishnamoorthi (D-Ill.) attacked Bhattacharya and others who challenged the official narrative during the pandemic. Krishnamoorthi expressed outrage that the scientists were even allowed to testify as “a purveyor of COVID-19 misinformation.”

Journalists and columnists also supported the censorship and blacklisting of these scientists. In the Los Angeles Times, columnist Michael Hiltzik decried how “we’re living in an upside-down world” because Stanford allowed these scientists to speak at a scientific forum. He was outraged that, while “Bhattacharya’s name doesn’t appear in the event announcement,” he was an event organizer. Hiltzik also wrote a column titled “The COVID lab leak claim isn’t just an attack on science, but a threat to public health.”

Then there are those lionized censors at Twitter who shadow-banned Bhattacharya. As former CEO Parag Agrawal generally explained, the “focus [was] less on thinking about free speech … [but[ who can be heard.”

None of this means that Bhattacharya or others were right in all of their views. Instead, many of the most influential voices in the media, government, and academia worked to prevent this discussion from occurring when it was most needed.

There is still a debate over Bhattacharya’s “herd immunity” theories, but there is little debate over the herd mentality used to cancel him.

The Academy was right to honor Bhattacharya. It is equally right to condemn all those who sought to silence a scientist who is now being praised for resisting their campaign to silence him and others.

#nunyas news

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1800naveen · 3 months ago

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Dictatorship (Rhysand's version)

I made a post of Rhysand and Feyre being Donald and Melania Trump in another universe and have called him and the inner circle the definition of Fascism, nobody better not get butthurt over this. If you do, I don't give a fuck.

IF YOU LIKE RHYSAND AND/OR THE INNER CIRCLE, THIS POST IS NOT FOR YOU! LEAVE NOW, I WILL BE SHITTING ON THEM!

Let's start with a definition. What is dictatorship? A dictatorship is a government or a social situation where one person makes all the rules and decisions without input from anyone else. What is a dictator? A dictator is a political person who rules a country with total authority and often in a cruel or brutal way.

Notorious dictators and dictatorships in history are: Vladimir Lenin and Joseph Stalin of the Soviet Union, Benito Mussolini of Fascist Italy, Adolf Hitler of Nazi Germany, Hirohito of Imperial Japan, Pol Pot of the Khmer Rouge, and Mao Zedong of People's Republic of China.

Rhysand is the High Lord of the Night Court and has earned himself a reputation of being a cruel and evil man to the other Courts of Prythian. To others, the Night Court is seen as the Court of Nightmares; a land of cruelty but it's only a cover up to hide Velaris, the city of starlight and where Rhysand truly lives. The existence of Velaris is unknown with the expectation of a few people.

What makes someone a dictator? Google did not give me a clear answer so I had to go on Chat GPT and it gave me this (apologies if you don't like ai): Concentration of power, control over military and security forces, propaganda and censorship, repression and human rights abuse, and economic control. There are three more examples but I picked the ones that relate to Rhysand the most.

Concentration of power: As High Lord, Rhysand is the most powerful person in the Night Court. What he says, goes. His word is law. You can't go against him without facing punishment for it. If you are from Velaris, it doesn't matter because to you, Rhysand is a nice guy and a good ruler. To those in Illyria and Hewn City, he pays no attention to you. He doesn't give a damn about you.

Control over military and security forces: Whenever battle or war is coming, Rhysand goes to the Illyrian warriors and their warbands to aid him. He also has the darkbringers, elite warriors from the Court of Nightmares and are under the leadership of Keir come to his aid when Hybern attacks. Velaris was attacked in ACOMAF and Rhys and the inner circle went to defend their home and people but have they done the same for the Illyrians? Hewn City citizens? To them, the safety of Velaris will always be more important than the other two regions. That's just sad.

Propaganda and censorship: When it comes to making decisions, Rhysand either makes them himself or with the help of the inner circle. They may agree but as the high lord, his authority can never be challenged by them. As it is known to many, Rhysand has a track of using manipulation for his own gain or his court. Because of this, it forged the "the night court is evil" belief and the daemati powers don't make things better. He manipulates Feyre in the first book and makes her his pawn, doing it without her consent. Rhysand keeps many secrets hidden from the other courts which is somewhat normal but there are secrets that are crucial for other courts to know of. The cauldron for example or the book stolen from the summer court. He'll justify it as a way of protection when it's really not. (The pregnancy thing in acosf, cough.) He uses fear and intimidation when he feels it necessary and/or to keep control and it works all the time. An example would be how he acts when he visits Hewn City or the Spring Court.

To the night court, Rhysand is this great hero who sacrificed so much and will do anything for them. Which is true but it only goes for Velaris. To the other courts and Hewn City, Rhysand is as I said before, cruel and evil. The way the inner circle speaks of Rhysand (straight up dick riding), you would think he's one of the best things since sliced bread.

Repression and human rights abuse: What is repression? It's the act of using force to control a group of people and limit their freedom. What group in acotar has limited freedom and/or are controled? You guessed it, Hewn City citizens and Illyrians! What is human rights abuse? Anything that harms a person's rights but in this case, let's go with abuse of rights (since Illyrians aren't human).

The women of Illyria and Hewn city suffer under the system of men. In both regions, it rules under a patriarchal system. The Illyrian women have their wings clipped so that they can be used for breeding purposes and the Hewn women are sold off into marriages, even bidding their virginities. All these women face abuse (either physical, mental, or sexual) and their high lord has done nothing to stop it.

Rhysand knows the pain of sexual abuse and yet, this still happens to the women. "But the library!" HOW THE FUCK ARE HEWN WOMEN GOING TO MAKE IT THERE? HE DOESN'T LET THEM LEAVE, THINKS THEY'RE ALL EVIL, AND THEY DON'T KNOW IT EXISTS?

A woman with Illyrian wings is never mentioned; yes, we don't know if there is one or not but you think that a lady with big bat wings, someone would point it out. You're telling me that I'm getting abused by all the men in my life and there's a haven for women like me but I can't get access to it because I was born in the court of nightmares?

Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, Les aristocrates à la lanterne! Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira, Les aristocrates on les pendra!

You may say that Rhysand has to let the Illyrians do their own thing so that they cooperate with him but here's the thing, Rhysand is a daemati. Daemati is the ability to control and infiltrate a person's mind. He could easily go into the minds of the Illyrian men and tell them to stop with the wing clipping and boom, problem solved but he doesn't. The same thing with Hewn men, go into their mind and tell them to stop these arranged marriages and biddings.

But as long as Rhysand needs soldiers and as long as Velaris is at peace, Illyria and Hewn city will suffer for it. The sins of the father if you want to call it. Always an angel (Illyria and Hewn city), never a god (Velaris).

Economic control: What is economic control? It can be seen as a form of abuse as it prevents someone from gaining financial independence. Measures of which governments use to manage and/or their economy.

The Illyrians have it rough. Like rough, rough. They don't live in houses like Velaris or Hewn City citizens. They live in war camps. WAR CAMPS. Their situation is so bad that Cassian handed out blankets. I'm taking a guess and going with the idea that the Illyrians use their money on weapons and training, etc. "Who needs proper housing when we can fight!" I know they make their own money through trade or selling/making clothes but y'all can't afford to make a house?

A lot of the riches in the night court is stored in Velaris but where the hell do they get it from? Their mountains? It will eventually run dry. Trading? Why must the Illyrians live like this and not experience a similar life to Velaris? They don't have to change the entire thing but at least, build them houses or cottages.

Do you know what a war camp looks like in real life?

But this is a fantasy book so it looks like this:

This is not a post to be taken seriously, it's just for fun, I enjoy writing analysis (analyses?) on things I like or hate, no in between.

I am only a woke libtard who doesn't turn off their brain to enjoy a book but instead, will read and analyze/give my critics😔. If only I could act like you booktok girlies who don't bat (get it?) an eye at the weird choices and decisions in the series and who will eat up the very questionable actions of my favorite morally grey man because tattoos, dark hair, shadow daddy, grooming underage girls, committing acts of sexual assault, being abusive and justifying that abuse because tragic backstory, yada yada.

I hold some of my favorite characters accountable for their actions but I don't justify it, it's very easy to do. Yes, they have trauma but it's not an excuse to do what they did.

I am only a teenage girl who loves to hate and act like a hypocritical bitch because what's more fun in life than making grown adults mad because of my unpopular/controversial opinions?

Why are you mad that I'm insulting your "book husband"? It's not my fault your book husband is a POS and that your own husband that you married can't satisfy you so you have to turn to fairy porn and hardcore smut to get rid of your blue balls.

I would like to give thanks to @sonics-atelier for giving me some help and thanks to booktok for unironically making me hate men.

Edit: "You're taking this too seriously!" Number one, I don't care. Number two, I'm a history nerd who once spiraled down a path of learning about dictators. Number three, I'm an American. I know what a dictator looks and acts like, we're going to have one in office for the next four years.

(This has been sitting in my drafts for months and whenever I felt like it, I worked on it.)

#rhysand critical #acotar critical #anti rhysand #sjm critical #acotar analysis #acotar rant #anti inner circle #anti ic #inner circle critical #ic critical #illyria acotar #hewn city #court of nightmares #anti velaris #anti booktok #booktok critical #i love being a hater #anti night court

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jtargaryen18 · 6 days ago

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The Fight for Romance: How Oklahoma’s Senate Bill 593 Threatens the Books We Love

Romance readers, writers, publishers, and booksellers—we are facing a threat unlike anything we’ve seen before. Oklahoma’s Senate Bill 593 isn’t just a bill about obscenity laws—it’s a dangerous step toward widespread censorship that could strip us of the stories we love, the stories that have shaped lives, brought people together, and given voice to diverse experiences of love and passion.

If passed, this bill will go into effect on November 1, 2025, and it’s not just Oklahoma that should be worried. This bill could be a test run for a larger, national movement to silence the romance genre and restrict creative freedom across the United States. Here’s what you need to know, why it matters, and how you can fight back—whether you’re in Oklahoma or beyond.

What Is Senate Bill 593?

Senate Bill 593 broadens the definition of “obscenity” and “unlawful pornography,” allowing private citizens to sue anyone who produces or distributes materials they believe to be obscene. Yes, that’s right. They’re putting bounties on those who write, publish, and distribute romance using vague language and offering rewards to those turning them in. This would also obviously include fanfiction.

What’s considered obscene under this bill? Any content that:

Appeals to “prurient” sexual interests,

Is “patently offensive” in its depiction of sexually explicit conduct,

And lacks “serious literary, artistic, educational, political, or scientific value.”

While that might sound like it’s aimed at the worst of the worst, the vague language leaves the door wide open for romance novels with explicit content to be targeted—especially those that include steamy scenes, LGBTQ+ relationships, or anything that challenges conservative ideas of “acceptable” love stories.

Under this bill, authors, publishers, and even bookstores could face lawsuits from anyone who decides a book crosses the line. If a lawsuit is successful, the penalties are staggering:

At least $10,000 per image or depiction deemed “unlawful,”

Up to 10 years in prison for possession or distribution of these materials,

Fines up to $500,000 for organized distribution.

The bill doesn’t stop there—even those who “aid or abet” the production or distribution of such material can be sued. This means publishers, editors, librarians, and even booksellers could be targeted.

How Will This Impact Romance Novels?

Romance novels are beloved for their ability to explore the full spectrum of human emotion, including sexual desire and intimacy. But if SB 593 passes, books that feature explicit scenes—no matter how integral to character development or plot—could be labeled obscene.

Authors will self-censor to avoid legal trouble, watering down their stories and avoiding complex, realistic portrayals of relationships.

Publishers might refuse to publish books with explicit content, fearful of lawsuits.

Booksellers and Libraries could pull romance novels from their shelves to avoid risk.

Readers will lose access to diverse, passionate stories that reflect real life.

This isn’t just about steamy scenes. Books that feature LGBTQ+ relationships or address issues like trauma, abuse, and recovery could also be targeted, under the guise of “protecting community standards.” The result? A chilling effect that stifles creativity and silences marginalized voices.

What Happens If This Goes National?

Oklahoma could be just the beginning. If SB 593 passes and survives legal challenges, other states might adopt similar legislation. We’re looking at a future where:

Romance authors across the country will fear legal action, leading to a decline in the genre’s vibrancy.

Publishers and digital platforms like Amazon could impose stricter content guidelines, making it harder for indie authors to thrive.

Readers nationwide will find fewer options and less diversity in the romance section.

This is about more than just romance novels—it’s about free speech and the right to read and write stories that reflect the full range of human experience. Once we allow vague, subjective laws like this to pass, there’s no telling where the censorship will end.

The Bigger Picture: Free Speech Under Threat

At its core, SB 593 is a threat to free speech. The First Amendment protects our right to express ourselves, even if that expression makes some people uncomfortable. By allowing private citizens to sue over subjective definitions of “obscenity,” this bill opens the floodgates for widespread book bans and censorship.

Once romance novels are targeted, it won’t stop there. Books that explore racial issues, political dissent, or any topic that challenges the status quo could be next. This isn’t just about protecting spicy scenes in your favorite novels—it’s about protecting the right to tell stories that matter.

What Can Romance Fans in Oklahoma Do?

If you’re in Oklahoma, your voice matters right now. Here’s how you can fight back:

Contact Your State Legislators: Find out who represents you in the Oklahoma Senate and House. Call, email, or write letters expressing your opposition to SB 593. Be clear, passionate, and explain how this bill threatens creative freedom.

Support Local Bookstores and Libraries: Let them know you stand with them against censorship. Attend events, buy books, and show that you value access to diverse stories.

Join Advocacy Groups: Organizations like the American Library Association (ALA) and PEN America fight against book bans and censorship. Get involved, donate, or volunteer.

Spread the Word: Talk to your friends, family, and social networks about this bill. Use hashtags like #StopSB593 and #ProtectRomance to raise awareness.

What Can Romance Fans Outside of Oklahoma Do?

Even if you’re not in Oklahoma, this fight affects you too. Here’s how you can help:

Raise Awareness Nationwide: Share articles, social media posts, and videos about SB 593. The more people know about this bill, the harder it will be to pass similar legislation elsewhere.

Support Oklahoma Authors and Bookstores: Buy books from Oklahoma-based romance authors and indie bookstores. Show solidarity by keeping their voices heard.

Get Involved with National Advocacy Groups: Support organizations fighting for free speech, like American Library Association (ALA), PEN America, and National Coalition Against Censorship (NCAC).

Stay Vigilant in Your Own State: Watch for similar bills in your state legislature. If you see something, speak up immediately to prevent it from gaining traction.

The Time to Act Is Now

Romance novels and fanfiction are more than just entertainment—they’re a celebration of love in all its forms. They’re a refuge for readers, a creative outlet for writers, and a thriving industry that brings people together.

Oklahoma’s Senate Bill 593 threatens all of that. If we don’t fight back, we risk losing not just the stories we love but the freedom to tell them. Whether you’re an author, a reader, a publisher, or a bookseller, this is your call to action.

The battle for our books starts now. Let’s make sure our voices are louder than the ones trying to silence us.

youtube

Link to original article: https://www.theromancestudio.com/the-fight-for-romance-how-oklahomas-senate-bill-593-threatens-the-books-we-love/

#STOPSB593 #Book bans #Romance Novel bans #Fanfiction bans #Oklahoma Senate Bill 593 #Youtube

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justinspoliticalcorner · 19 days ago

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Zack Beauchamp at Vox:

When I was researching my book on anti-democratic politics, I found a striking pattern in modern incarnations of it — that these movements, almost uniformly, claim their most aggressive anti-democratic policies are actually defenses of democracy. While Donald Trump worked to overturn the 2020 election, for example, he insisted that he wasn’t trying to steal an election — but rather to “stop the steal” Joe Biden had already pulled off. When Trump returned to power this year, I expected to see the same rhetorical maneuver deployed to justify his inevitable power grabs. And indeed, many of Trump’s Day 1 executive orders did exactly this. Take, for example, Trump’s revival of Schedule F — a move that, in theory, could allow Trump to fire tens of thousands of nonpartisan civil servants and replace them with MAGA cronies. Such a move would be a serious threat to democracy, in that it would consolidate key powers of state in the executive’s hands in a manner that proved crucial to the rise of elected authoritarians like Hungary’s Viktor Orbán. Yet in the text of the order, Trump sells the move as a vindication of democratic principles. Because the president and vice president are the only executive branch members “elected and directly accountable to the people,” they must be able to assert greater control over civil servants “to restore accountability to the career civil service.” The same is true of other executive orders that might aid in Trump’s efforts to consolidate power. An executive order on “restoring freedom of speech and ending federal censorship” does not provide any concrete protections against abusive surveillance or internet control practices. It does, however, order the attorney general to set up an inquiry into Biden administration policies that could serve as a pretext to harass and dismiss federal employees who don’t share Trump politics. An order claiming to combat the “weaponization” of the federal government similarly does very little to prevent Trump from, for example, ordering the attorney general to investigate his political enemies or the IRS to audit them. In fact, it lays the groundwork for two separate probes into Biden administration policies that could end up targeting both federal employees and private citizens.

[...] Going forward, Trump will almost assuredly not do anything as blatant as abolishing elections. Instead, every move will be given a democratic defense, every power grab described as a victory for the American people against the “deep state.” The aim is to make the reality of the situation into just another partisan debate, where Trump says one thing while Democrats (and the media) say another. The erosion of core democratic principles, like separation of powers and political noninterference with government functions, will appear to many like a perfectly normal part of democracy. [...]

The global spread of American-style authoritarianism

As democracy became ideologically dominant around the world, similar practices became popular globally. Today, its most sophisticated practitioners are elected executives who have worked to take down democracy from within — people such as Orbán, Benjamin Netanyahu, and Narendra Modi. Orbán describes his political project, which in reality is the construction of an authoritarian kleptocracy, as an attempt to wrest back control of Hungarian democracy from Eurocrats in Brussels — with specific tactics, like restricting LGBT speech on television, being sold as an extension of the Hungarian people’s will. When Netanyahu attempted to impose political controls on Israel’s judiciary in 2023, removing the sole formally independent check on his majority’s power, he argued that he was merely reasserting the people’s control over unelected branches.

Fascist-in-Chief’s democracy-eroding EOs serve a purpose: baselessly claim to protect democracy while simultaneously undercut democracy.

#Donald Trump #Trump Regime #Illiberal Democracy #Trump Administration II #Narendra Modi #Viktor Orbán #Executive Orders #Schedule F #Civil Servants #Benjamin Netanyahu

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religion-is-a-mental-illness · 23 days ago

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By: Elizabeth Weiss

Published; Jan 17, 2025

Biological anthropology and archaeology are facing a censorship crisis. Censorship can be defined simply as the suppression of speech, public communication, or information, often because it is deemed harmful or offensive. It can be enforced by government agencies or private institutions. Even self-censorship is increasingly prevalent, such as when an author decides not to publish something due to fear of backlash from their colleagues, or the belief that their findings may cause harm.

In these fields, censorship is primarily driven by professional associations like the American Anthropological Association (AAA) and the California Society for Archaeology, academic journals (often produced by these associations) such as Bioarchaeology International, universities, and museums, including the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History. The focus of this censorship largely involves the suppression of images—including X-rays and CT-scans—of human remains and funerary objects, which are artifacts found in graves.

Biological anthropologists, such as bioarchaeologists (who study human remains from the archaeological record), have historically used photos and X-rays of skeletal remains and mummies to explore disease patterns of past peoples, teach new methods of age estimation and sex identification, and attract new students to the field of biological anthropology. Archaeologists use photos of artifacts to facilitate comparisons with other artifacts, aid in reconstructing past cultures, and explore topics like the peopling of the Americas, prehistoric trade patterns, and the emergence of new technologies. These are just a few of the many ways images have been used in the field.

Yet, in recent years, the use of photos of human remains and artifacts has faced increasing censorship. For example, the guidelines of the Society for American Archaeology (SAA) and its journals state: “Out of respect for diverse cultural traditions, photographs of full or explicit human remains are not accepted for publication in any SAA journal.”

Additionally, they add that “line drawings or other renderings of human remains may be an acceptable substitute for photographs.” In other words, they also may not be acceptable! So, the photo on the left would definitely not be accepted in SAA journals, and the image on the right may or may not be accepted.

In conference bookrooms, books featuring covers with photos or realistic images of bones are now being rejected for display. Ironically, just ten years ago, my cover photo from Paleopathology in Perspective: Bone Health and Disease through Time was so popular that someone stole the poster from the SAA conference bookroom. Just three years later, however, the SAA wouldn’t allow my publisher to buy advertising space using the cover of my book Reading the Bones: Activity, Biology, and Culture. Now, even realistic images of human remains are shunned! Somehow, I doubt my latest book, On the Warpath: My Battles with Indians, Pretendians, and Woke Warriors, will make it into any anthropology or archaeology conference bookrooms either!

Southeastern Archaeology, the journal of the Southeastern Archaeological Conference, has implemented a policy that it “will no longer publish photographs of funerary objects/belongings.” This is an expansion of their previous policy against publishing photographs of human remains. They now add that “in lieu of photographs, authors may choose to include line drawings or other representations of funerary objects/belongings.” This decision was initially made without member input, leading go backlash against the decision. However, after a discussion and a vote, the censorship was upheld. Majority rule is no way to run a scientific organization—which should be done on adherence to the principles and methodologies of science!

Not to be outdone by the southeastern archaeologists, the Society for California Archaeology (SCA) declared that “NO depictions of the remains of any specific person, regardless of ancestry, are to be included in any presentations, including photographs, drawings, X-rays, 3-D models, etc.” So, forget displaying any historic figures such as the mummy of Lenin, the death mask of Ishi, or the skeletal remains of Joseph Merrick (also known as the Elephant Man, who taught many people that physical deformity does not equate to a lack of intelligence). This restriction even extends to individuals like Jeremy Bentham, a professor from London College, who explicitly requested his preserved body be displayed, illustrating the breadth of these new policies. All of these and many others are now strictly off limits!

While banning photos, the SCA does permit the use of “[d]iagrams of generic skeletons, bones, teeth, or other body tissues.” Additionally, at their conferences, “[a] caution symbol will be placed next to all presentations discussing human remains in the program and on signage outside the door of the session so that those who wish to avoid this subject matter can easily do so.” Is education truly about avoiding uncomfortable information and materials?

The AAA’s Commission on the Ethical Treatment of Human Remains has ruled that images and digital materials must be treated as parts of bodies—and, thus, not published in any public spaces, including on social media. They state:

The use of images and any other digital materials (e.g. maps or GIS) derived from human tissues or Ancestral remains should be considered as part of the respectful treatment of those whose actual remains are used. This treatment acknowledges that their use should be restricted to defined (and consented) purposes, and that such use should remain confined to a protected, nonpublic space (and should never be displayed on social media or other non-password protected internet sites, including educational sites, and museums).

In other words, even maps constructed with DNA information are now subject to restriction!

They also plan to require members to take an “ethics pledge” to join or renew their membership. This is to ensure that no one goes rogue and shows a human bone in a place where someone might actually see it.

Journals that once served as valuable resources for understanding bone pathology (or disease) are now discarding the most important tool of all—images. Bioarchaeology International now demands “explicit recent permission” from descendants for the use of photos or images of human remains, even if the image were taken before these requirements and had been previously published (often on multiple occasions). These are referred to as “legacy images.” The journal further states that “if no permissions are forthcoming, the manuscripts are not considered for review.” Bioarchaeology International is not alone in censoring the use of legacy images; nearly all peer-reviewed anthropology and archaeology journals now enforce a similar policy.

One exception is the American Association of Biological Anthropology, which publishes the prestigious American Journal of Biological Anthropology. This organization specifies that the requirement to obtain permission for images and data of human remains applies only to new data; “legacy data is not included.” One wonders how long these comparatively ‘courageous’ holdouts will last before caving in. Currently, they have a committee developing a policy on human remains.

The International Journal of Paleopathology specializes in case studies of rare pathologies, where photos are essential to conveying information. The editorial board acknowledges the usefulness of photos, but they also state that:

While careful description of pathological lesions is essential to research in paleopathology, authors are encouraged to consider whether photographs of human remains are critical to the presentation of the research. If not essential, out of respect for descendent communities, they should be replaced with drawings or included as supplementary material. Authors may wish to consult the editor regarding these issues.

Can a line drawing really do justice to the complex and intricate changes that occur on skeletons due to diseases like osteomyelitis (bone infections), osteoarthritis, cribra orbitalia (a sign of anemia), or the various forms of dental disease seen sometimes in a single individual?

Beyond this censorship, institutions are also toeing the ideological line to exclude images of human remains. In September 2023, Penn Museum decided that its inventory would not include such images. And, the renowned Mütter Museum of the College of Physicians of Philadelphia, which aims to educate the public about anatomical medicine and health, has removed all images of human remains from its online database. This includes the image of Carol Orzel, who had specifically wished that her body be displayed to educate others about fibrodysplasia ossificans progressive, the painful, debilitating, and fatal bone and cartilage disease she suffered from.

The Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History issues a warning to anyone who might find human remains: “Never take photos of human remains in our region; that is culturally inappropriate here.” But Santa Barbara is a region that encompasses many cultures, including some Central Mexican communities who do not view photographing human remains as inappropriate, as they celebrate their ancestral past by displaying the dead. For example, Lisa Holtzover and Juan R. Argueta note in their 2017 article that in the central Mexican town of Xaltocan, indigenous residents support archaeological research and the exhibition of ancient human remains. Yet, North American academics often criticize their cultural preferences, even while they claim to be decolonizing the field. In their blind adherence to wokeism, academics’ patronizing “we know best” approach towards indigenous peoples who deviate from their narrative exemplifies a white savior complex. Ironically, those who claim to oppose racism in their quest for wokeism are themselves perpetuating it. What next? Should we give Egyptian mummies a Christian burial in the name of decolonization?

Universities, especially in California, have also imposed complete moratoria on the use of human remains images. For example, on August 30, 2023, California State University Bakersfield’s president issued a moratorium that stated:

[T]he university is placing a moratorium on the research, teaching, display, imaging, and circulation of human remains and cultural items (including archival material, notes, movies, and data) that are potentially subject to NAGPRA and CalNAGPRA.

Similarly, on March 26, 2024, the president of California Polytechnic Pomona issued a memorandum stating:

Cal Poly Pomona will consult with Tribes prior to access, use, distribution or display of potentially sensitive or proprietary information. This includes but is not limited to images, renderings, and reproductions of ancestral remains and cultural items that are or have been in a university’s collection.

The universities are dressing up their actions as compliance with national and state reburial laws, yet these laws do not yet ban the use of images. And, from the look of anthropologists’ self-censoriousness and the acts of university presidents, new laws are likely not even necessary to restrict scientific research and educational efforts.

But this isn’t just a US problem. For instance, Uppsala University in Sweden advises that “photographs of human remains from indigenous ethnic groups are not normally to be published.” Similarly, the National Museum of Scotland has put out a statement that “All images of human remains except those that are wrapped have been removed from our online collections database.” At the Smithsonian National Museum of Natural History, this policy resulted in the absurd covering up of a mummy that was wrapped because of the photo behind the mummy contained images of skulls from a forensic collection.

One may wonder what has led to such vast censorship. Progressive anthropologists have decided that images—and, in some cases, data—from human remains and funerary objects cause harm to indigenous peoples. They adopt the narrative from indigenous activists that these images are dangerous, rather than explaining the importance of research and dispelling the notion that societal ills like alcoholism, missing women and children, and poverty stem from evil spirits roaming the earth and wreaking havoc on their lives.

For instance, in a 2020 book chapter on digitizing anthropological collections, Laure Spake and colleagues, citing the Smithsonian’s collaboration with the Tlingit, stated, “the disturbance of Ancestors and their belongings can result in physical danger for the living.” Ironically, the authors used this argument to advocate for 3D scanning and creating replicas to allow for the rapid reburial of human remains as quickly as possible—a viewpoint that is now considered outdated!

At a Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act meeting on January 5, 2023, there was a discussion on the deletion of digital data. Even non-fungible tokens (NFTs) were discussed, although those discussing them didn’t even know what they were. During the meeting, Hawaiian Native activists argued that it’s possible to “entice the spirit of someone to inhabit” photos, digital data, and replicas, which they assert can be harmful. Consequently, the tribe opposes making scans and casts.

Larry Zimmerman and Margaret Conkey, in their 2024 article for the SAA Record, argue that control over photos and data should belong to Indigenous communities because it is “respectful” to believe their feelings of harm. In their words, “when someone tells you that what you are saying or doing hurts them and you truly respect them, you will make every effort you can to eliminate or at least to understand the cause of the hurt.”

Furthermore, in the 2024 AAA Ethical Commission on Human Remains, Sabrina Agarwal and her colleagues repeatedly imply that harm will come to descendent communities from research. The term “harm” actually was mentioned 44 times, including in the statement:

As an ethical approach to ethical solutions, the Commission chose to meet with representatives of those most affected by anthropological work with ancestral remains to learn their assessments of how they might be harmed or protected from harm when research and education is considered.

In a 2020 article in Sapiens, Chip Colwell wrote that “photographs of human are problematic because of specific cultural beliefs.” He elaborates that the Navajo, for instance, believe encountering spirits of the dead can sicken those who see them. He helpfully then adds that photos are more harmful than line drawings, 3D scans, or casts.

Also in 2020, Deborah Thomas, then the editor-in-chief of American Anthropologist, selected a photo of Margaret Mead with skulls for an issue featuring a special section on the anthropology of global white supremacy, complete with a republished conversation between Mead and James Baldwin. The image sparked a social media uproar and was said to be violent, racist, and harmful to indigenous and black communities. Thomas, agreeing that the image produced trauma, changed the cover and issued a groveling apology, which included the statement that “We know the role that anthropology has played in the erasure of Indigenous peoples in the Americas through its salvage/savage ethnography project and its continued use of human remains for ‘research’ purposes.”

Unfortunately, by leaving anthropology and archaeology devoid of images of human remains and funerary objects, we will learn less about the past. Legacy data will not be allowed for comparative research, and our next generation of forensic anthropologists will be poorly trained. More troubling is that non-scientists who attribute normal human variation to supernatural or alien influences will continue to captivate young minds with sensational images, drawing them towards pseudoscience instead of a genuine scientific understanding of the world.

Moreover, we should not expect censorship in anthropology and archaeology will be limited to new publications featuring human remains. I have no doubt that woke academics and publishers will start to remove previously-published materials. For example, the University of Florida Press deleted the images from my blog post, “Human Variation: More Than Skin Deep!”—which was intended to promote my book Reading the Bones—two years after its initial publication on their blog.

What is the solution for anthropologists? Woke anthropologists suggest a different mindset is needed. Zimmerman and Conkey argue that archaeologists will be required to abandon “cherished ideas like academic freedom” and “relinquishing complete control, ownership, or even stewardship of excavated materials” to continue working in the field. Additionally, the AAA Commission on the Ethical Treatment of Human Remains would also like to curtail our desire for academic freedom. They write, in a scolding tone, that “Academic freedom is not synonymous with ‘unrestricted access.’ Scholars, educators and museum curators must be responsible to descendants’ concerns for the dignified treatment of their dead.”

Once academic freedom is relinquished and the data—images and all—are in the hands of activist descendant communities, don’t expect new scientific discoveries. Instead, expect woke fairy tales arising out of victim narratives.

Censorship (and self-censorship) of images should not be seen as an isolated issue. It’s symptomatic of a wider pathology afflicting the field. Anthropology is dying. But when it’s finally dead, don’t expect to see a picture of the body!

About the Author

Professor Emeritus of Anthropology at San Jose State University and National Association of Scholars Board Member. Author of On the Warpath: My Battles with Indians, Pretendians, and Woke Warriors.

This is unabashed corruption.

Any organization or institution which implements policies like this must be stripped of all government (i.e. taxpayer) funding. You don't get to implement ideological dogma when the taxpayer is paying for it.

#Elizabeth Weiss #anthropology #archaeology #academic corruption #ideological corruption #woke dogma #wokeness #cult of woke #wokeism #wokeness as religion #woke #academic freedom #corruption #religion is a mental illness

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messrsrarchives · 12 days ago

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ohh are we talking about censorship?

well I’m a tumblr purge survivor. In an attempt to combat CSA (that was probably rampant here), tumblr decided to ban ALL adult content. All of it. And the execution of this can be summed up in one word:

it was terrible

Tumblr decided to use AI for this and it went really really badly. Literally what was flagged as inappropriate wasn’t just adult works but majorly also queer content, women’s sexual health, trans people’s surgery posts and anything related to sex work and workers.

flagged was also the entire tag for “chronic pain” and a text post about a gay family member with AIDS - at the same time the porn bots and actual CSA never went away

I’ve also seen it myself that someone’s completely sfw art of a merman was flagged as “adult” because the merman was topless. To this day, trans people aren’t allowed to post their post top surgery photos anymore because tumblr staff decided that surgery scars and “female presenting nipples” were seen as sexual, which was incredible vague and sexist because they were flagging pictures of breast feeding as well

in the aftermath what was not targeted by the purge and what was even promoted and seen a lot during the time was the following tags and content

White pride and white supremacists

pro-anorexia/bulimia blogs

school shooter and serial killer fandoms

MAP / pedophiles (which you can still find here)

Aftertwards new ridiculous censorship rules hit tumblr because of apple’s own draconian approach on it. For a time you couldn’t browse through innocuous tags like #girl because people would post adult material on it, and tumblr complied and removed it.

they’ve since then loosened their hard approach on adult material, but their rules after the purge never changed so people are careful about it.

So yes, censorship doesn’t just stop at one thing and censorship ALWAYS hits the most vulnerable people. And tumblr is now run by a skeleton crew and uses AI when you contact them. I reported so many things that went clearly against tumblr’s TOS (like graphic and violent fantasies someone publicised on their blog) and it was never taken down. On algorithmic apps, hate and bigotry are features - not a design error

i have nothing to add here but i'm sharing this because !!!! yes !!!!!

#asks #no eloquent response from me #you hit the nail on the head thank you

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look2the-starrs · 8 months ago

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I just know the new Hunger Games movie won't be it🥲

Don't get me wrong I'm beyond excited for the new book. I have faith that Suzanne Collins— the woman she is— will write a story so gripping, undeniably tragic and beyond critical of our current global politics that it will irrevocably change my brain chemistry.

But I have no faith in Hollywood to stay true to the heart of her next story.

We've seen this recently with TBOSBAS. The book was gritty, gruelling, stripped back from all the glam of the first Hunger Games. But the movie took away the worst of it. Now all I see of the movie is fan edits of Tom Blythe and the costumes Hunter Schaefer wears as if that is what we are meant to take away. And obviously this is no hate to the actors.

This is hate to a movie that will completely trivialise the heart of the next Hunger Games book. A book we know to be about propaganda and the lies our governments sell us so they can continue to commit atrocities on a global scale.

I was thinking about sscene in Mockingjay where the Capital bombed a hospital and how, when I was 12 and first read that, my brain thought "God that's awful". That would never happen.

But it happens today. It's happening right now. 34 of Palestine 36 hospitals have been reduced to piles of ruble and bodies.

Make no mistake. This new book will be about the censorship of the truth, about the governments in the west that we live under, that aid and are complicit in crimes across the world.

It will be about the USA, Israel and Palestine, about the UK's hand in the genocide in Congo and Sudan.

But you don't even have to have half a brain to know that the movie, that Hollywood, will never go there.

#thg #coriolanus snow #sunrise on the reaping #president snow #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #tbosbas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #the hunger games #the new Hunger Games book gives me many thoughts #Don't tell me to take politics out of a inherently political book #feral for this

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silvertidescribbles · 2 months ago

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Sweet Thing

“You made me listen kitten, to those cries, after flirting with me all day.”

Approx. 6.3k words

Pairing: Astarion x OC - See my little post about Alynea here. If you folks are curious to learn more about her, let me know :)

Content tags: MDNI, 18+ NSFW, smut, praise, begging, fingering, (mild) jealousy, depictions of blood/blood drinking.

A/N: Well, here I am posting smut ahah. Not a lot of context is needed, I've written it as much as I can into the fic itself. The vampire man has had a chokehold on me since the game came out, and I was compelled to write up one of my ideas of how he would go about seducing my tav while he's also struggling to keep his emotions separate :P.

Also, I have no idea how censorship works on here! Not entirely sure if this will get flagged in some way but oh well, such is part of learning. If you have the time and patience, feedback is appreciated <3 Is it strange to be nervous about posting smut? I don't know...

I hope this is enjoyable 😊

-Silver

Astarion waited impatiently in his tent, flipping carelessly through the pages of the novel he’d snagged during the day’s expedition. Despite his efforts, he found the tale within lacked the substance he needed to distract himself. Hells, he needed a distraction from what was happening outside his tent. He was positively sick of hearing Gale and Alynea geek out over magic together and he insisted to himself that he couldn’t be the only one.

Gale had made a habit of sitting late into the night at the campfire with the pale woman, a sneaky grin shared between them as they spoke of Waterdeep. Her a sorcerer and him a wizard, the two had bonded far too quickly for Astarion’s tastes, especially once it became known that both had been apprentices at Blackstaff. Even with his efforts to flirt with her, Astarion found himself further from the elf than he wanted to be. Another giggle from Alynea floated from the campfire up into the night sky, making him roll his eyes in irritation. Just how long was she going to make him wait? After all, she had promised to come to him after the others had gone to their bedrolls to let him feed.

Peeking out from his tent, Astarion was witness to how Alynea snickered at Gale’s words as she swallowed another mouthful of wine. The firelight cast a warm glow over her features and melded with the cooler palette of her skin and hair while her silvery eyes glittered. Albinism, she had said when asked. It explained the lack of colour in her, why her eyes twitched painfully under the bright sun and why her hair shone as white as bone, her pale skin only barely flushed with any warmth. As his eyes passed over the bruises on her neck, the memory of the first night she aided him rose to the surface.

“I’d hate to lose such a useful person over a little blood,” she had said so sweetly the night he’d tried to drink from her. “If that’s all you need, I’ll help.” He was honestly surprised she hadn’t staked him right there, and even more taken aback that she was willing to leave herself at his mercy. Alynea had struggled against him that night, body shaking as her blood was siphoned away. She hadn’t said anything in the moment, but there was something indescribable about the sudden head rush Astarion had experienced. It was invigorating and electrifying, sharpening his vision as a tingle arced down his spine. He would later confirm the wave of energy that washed over him when drinking from her wasn’t normal; the goblins he’d torn open a few days later did nothing to soothe the vampiric hunger the way her lifeblood did. Perhaps it was due to the magic she claimed burned inside her, though he couldn’t be sure. It was hard to believe at times she was such a fearsome spellcaster with her small presence and diminutive form, but the fireball she’d launched past his head earlier in the day begged to differ. Even though she was the shortest and physically smallest of the ragtag group, the rest of the party had quickly learned to not be the cause of her split hairs, lest they be the target of her next spell.

He was no longer reading the words in his book, fingers paused in the middle of turning the page as he realized he was reminiscing like a schoolboy. How embarrassing, he thought to himself. Sure, Alynea was another pretty face, but he couldn’t fathom why she lingered in his mind the way she did. The woman was a patriar’s daughter for hells sake—by all accounts she should be someone he held contempt for. Should was the operative word however, he was failing to find anything to find truly repulsive about the little elf. Perhaps the tadpole had scrambled his brain more than he’d like to admit. Before he could muse any longer on the thought, there was a noise that drew him back to the present.

“Astarion? Gale’s gone now. I’m… I’m here, if you would like.” Her warbly voice was soft outside his tent as she stood by, picking at the strap of the oversized top she’d chosen as a nightgown. Although intended for a man much larger than her the shirt made for an acceptable nightdress, if a little short. The sound of a book snapping shut alerted her to the vampire shuffling around inside the tent before the main flap was pulled back, a hand inviting her in. Crouching as she stepped within the boundaries of his tent, her pupils dilated as her vision adjusted. Being elves, the lack of light was no issue for them, Astarion could see her perfectly well in the dark, and he knew she could see him as well.

“Oh my... you’re in a distracting outfit tonight darling,” the vampire drawled. Alynea’s cheeks flushed pink at that as her fingers tweaked a strand of hair between them. “I can change if—” He waved a hand, cutting her off. “Oh I doubt that’ll be necessary. After all, I will be needing access to that pretty little neck of yours.”

She swallowed thickly at that, nostrils flaring slightly as his grin made her shiver. As she squirmed under his gaze a strange sense of irritation rose in his chest at the sight of her. The garment she wore hung loosely off her shoulders and low on her chest which left little to the imagination, the hemline only just reaching the top of her knee. It was a dress that, if one could even call it such, practically screamed sex appeal. Knowing she had been sitting shoulder to shoulder with Gale directly prior to this, jealousy stirred in him for a moment before he regained control. That bumbling wizard wouldn’t know what to do with Alynea even if she were to lie nude and expecting in front of him.

That mental image sparked a new sense of discontent in Astarion. He could hardly believe he was competing with Gale for her affections, dismayed at the thought of her possibly seeing them in the same league. In fact, he could hardly believe he was competing with any of them. Wyll was but a bright-eyed child, still wet around the ears. The warlock’s eyes shined with adoration for the woman, but it was clear he was unable to think beyond that. Shadowheart was just as bad, with the way she had roped the sorcerer into listening to her Sharran drivel. Astarion scowled at that, wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it.

Alynea cleared her throat, bringing him back to the present. “Are you alright Astarion?” There was an unknowable emotion in her eyes that made him shy away from her gaze, scratching at the nape of his neck. “Apologies,” he muttered. “I was distracted by a thought is all.” The excuse did little to sway her; she just stared back at him with those large silver eyes. Astarion tilted his head, seeing the way she looked down at the strand of hair she fiddled with. She was well within her rights to still be uncomfortable about the arrangement they’d made, though something whispered to him that it wasn’t fear of him that made her shy. Ever since the first incident, she’d insisted on giving her some of her blood when the group failed to find enough fights for him to feed from. Despite how palpable her nervousness was, she would take a deep breath and shake her head when he offered her an out, even as the anxiety rolled off her in waves.

Astarion shifted, adjusting his position to sit at one end of the tent with his legs spread. Given she was much smaller, he grabbed a pillow he’d swiped from the grove and placed it between his thighs. Frankly, she needed it, so he could reach her neck without craning his own horrendously. Alynea was fragile against him when his fangs were in her throat, and he didn’t want to risk hurting her more than he had to. Her willingness to let him feed from her was a gift and he would not squander it, he thought to himself. No, as much as he wanted to indulge, to feel her warmth fade as he drained every last drop from her body, he knew he couldn’t. Her generosity was one of the kindest things anyone had ever willingly done for him and he refused to ruin it.

He outstretched a hand to her to guide her as she sat down on the pillow, twisting around to press her back against him. The warmth of her skin was pleasant against his cool chest, something he always relished when she let herself nestle against his body. He paused at the way her muscles tensed when his fingers brushed along her ears, sweeping back her ivory locks to reveal her neck. The tiniest drop of guilt bubbled up in him upon seeing the lingering bruises from the last time, but it quickly faded away. He had plans to make it up to her tonight.

“Now, kitten,” he cooed into her ear, his lips only a breath away. “You let me know when you’re ready, darling.” Although she was insistent on letting him receive blood from her, Astarion had found she would flinch when he gave no warning before ravaging her neck. They had tried other veins, including her wrists or arms, but nothing had been as efficient as her throat for drawing enough. Despite how his gut would wrench with hunger at her scent, he found she handled the situation best when she was in control. How innocent, he had thought. But still he restrained himself; he could control his desires and he would.

At first, she had been telling him verbally when she was ready, but much to his surprise the last two times she had simply squeezed his knee to let him know she was prepared. Although she hadn’t been the quickest to warm up to him when they first met, it was the little things that told Astarion he was making progress with her. For all her sweet demeanor, she was a powerful sorcerer he wanted on his side. He’d slowly been gaining her trust and affection, and these intimate nights where she let him drink only accelerated the relationship. This time he was preparing to step things up, the scent of her blood filling him with a carnal desire to bend her over and break her.

“Sweet thing, you smell delicious tonight,” he whispered into her ear. She was wearing perfume tonight, same as the last few times. The aromas of mugwort and balsam floated up from her skin and filled his head as he remembered her picking the herbs earlier in the day. It was a sweet gesture, though it didn’t do much to distract him from his prize. Nevertheless, he was flattered by the effort. Sharp fangs slid out just a fraction from his gums, the pointed ends brushing along the cartilage of her upper ear. Alynea shuddered at the touch, squeaking out the tiniest yelp as one of his hands began rubbing along her arm. It was his attempt to relax her, to ply her to his want and to let herself go limp in his arms.

“Astarion, before you—” She paused, her breath hitching as his other hand innocently rested on one of her knees, thumbpad rubbing circles into her skin. “Yes, dear? What could possibly be the matter?” The low timbre of the vampire’s voice sent shivers down her body and she let out a short breath, unaware she had even been holding it.

“N-Nothing’s the matter,” Alyena stammered. Oh, how sweet that little stutter made her sound to him. She only ever stuttered like that when she was flustered, overwhelmed with her emotions. Those feelings always quieted down when he sank into her though, her shaky voice silencing to a soft “oh…” each time. He could hardly wait to feel her grip at his thigh, to signal to him that he could take her. “But I wanted to ask…” the man paused, lifting his head back slightly from her. She twisted around to look up at him and despite his best efforts, something twinged in the base of his stomach. A primal, growling desire rumbled in him, but he bit his tongue as those impossibly round doe eyes stared up at him.

“Um… Could you possibly take off your shirt before you do it?” A flush crept across her cheeks, a rare instance of her skin becoming rosy. “I… I like the way it feels, when you press your chest against my back, and…” Astarion cracked a devilish grin as she mumbled out her request, tripping and stumbling over her words. Something about it feeling safe when she was held in an embrace, how skin to skin contact felt, and so on. She blushed, biting a nail as she looked up. Liar, he snarked in his head. He knew she was attracted to him, despite her avoidance of the question when he had asked. She wanted a good piece of eye candy, that’s why she was asking.

“As you wish, so it shall be granted, darling,” he replied graciously to her. In a moment, his blouse was untied and slipped over his white curls, tossed aside to a forgotten corner of his tent. She paused to stare for a moment, biting her lip as her eyes took in his shape in the dark before sitting back against him. Alynea felt both panic and excitement rise in her throat as he settled back in, cool skin pressing against hers. She knew he could feel her heartbeat, smell the rush of her blood, though it wasn’t something she could control exactly. Truth be told, she had been working up the nerve to ask him to do this. She wanted the chance to see him up close without his shirt, and now she had her desire.

Although she had tried her best to keep the instances of blood drinking transactional, it had become more and more impossible. Gods, he stared at her in such a smoldering way. The way his eyes gazed into hers, how he cradled her body in his arms as he fed, all made her feel weak in the knees. The last two times after she had left his tent she had laid in her own bedroll, desperately chasing release with her own means. The loss of blood put a pleasant haze over everything, and she found herself soaked with need and desire as she fantasized about the tall, handsome man who practically eyefucked her every chance he could. She wasn’t stupid; she could tell Astarion was undressing her in his mind every time he saw her. She could only hope her eyes didn’t give it away as much as his did.

Astarion’s thumb was rubbing circles again. This time though, she tensed, feeling his hand far higher up than it had been previously. Where his palm normally rested on her knee, his hand had slid down to lay on her inner thigh. The hem of her nightshirt was pushed up, and she blushed seeing her own skin.

“Hm… you naughty girl, you’re not even wearing any underwear,” he purred. His voice made her blink and focus, becoming more alert to the position she was in. It made her blush further, realizing how she was fully lying back against the elf, heart thudding in her chest as his other hand moved lower, finding a spot at her waist. His touch made her voice catch in her throat, a particularly sweet sound coming out only barely above a whisper as he pulled her against him. “I…” she mumbled something, trying to think of a response, but finding none. Was he going to realize? Would he know she’d been planning this night in her mind all day?

“Shh, shh,” he hushed, his fingers dragging their nails over the milky skin of her inner thigh. Her leg twitched at this as his fingers moved closer to her groin, dangerously close. “Do you think I was oblivious to your antics the last two times?” His voice was a low growl now, a dangerous edge to it that she seldom heard, yet caused her belly to twinge all the same in response. “Coming in here, all perfumed, barely dressed,” he muttered into her ear. “Sitting here, all soft and sweet while you bled for me” he continued. “To then go back to your bedroll and whine the way you do,” he added, Alynea shivering at his voice. “Fucking yourself on your fingers while you moaned my name,” he hissed, mouth hovering over her neck, just behind her ear.

Alynea closed her eyes, her face flushed as she felt her stomach tie into a knot. She should’ve known, she realized. Of course a vampire, an elven one no less, would have been able to hear her whines, no matter how muffled. “Astarion,” she whimpered, her hand squeezing at his thigh. A silent yes, her way of giving him permission.

“The last two times,” he breathed out hoarsely, his tongue dragging along her neck and paying particular attention to the two bruises he’d left. She quivered under his touch, a hand coming up to cover her mouth as she tried not to squeak. “You made me listen while you made your desires known.” Alynea could hardly breathe, with how tight the tension in her body was coiled. She was melting under every single touch of his now. “You made me listen, kitten, to those cries, after flirting with me all day.” She nearly palmed his head away when his fangs scraped along her ear, making her strain and push against him, rocking her body back. Astarion grinned, his arm coming around to encircle her waist. He had her at his mercy now, unable to pull away as his other hand pushed up the hem of her nightgown even further, exposing her.

“All while acting so innocent to me the next morning,” he growled. She gasped when his fangs pierced her, louder than she ever had before. Her body shuddered against his as she let out a low breathy moan, one that seemed to egg him on as his arm pulled her against him even harder. A sharp pain, now a familiar embrace, dulled her senses and made her weak as she became more pliable in his arms. As she lay there, she realized something; he was drinking slowly, much slower in fact than usual. Blinking, she opened her mouth to say something but only managed to let out a quiet strangled noise

Astarion’s cool fingers had found her. She was already wet, and he found only the slightest bit resistance as he slid his first finger in before her body caved, freely letting him push into her. His thumbpad now circled her clit and she let out the most pathetic little sob of pleasure as he continued to slowly, agonizingly slowly, drink down her blood.

Alynea let out the softest, sweetest little moan, her hips jerking in response. She wasn’t thinking, just moving in reaction to him. Still, he held her firmly, slowly suckling out more of her blood as he dug his fingers into her. Hells, he thought to himself, she smelled and tasted incredible. The arousal he had smelled on her had already tipped him off to her state of mind when she had entered his tent, but now it was a full crescendo. Her little whimpers and moans as she attempted to be quiet, to not wake the whole camp, were like a symphony to his ears. It was a delight to hear it firsthand and by his hand, rather than how muffled it was when she was in her own bedroll, crying into her pillows to reduce the noise.

“Oh, Astarion...” He stiffened at her voice; the way his name fell from her mouth was sinful. He hummed as he slowly siphoned more blood, increasing the flow into his mouth and making her cry out as he slid another finger into her. His other hand reached up, tugging down her nightshirt from her shoulders and freeing her torso from the garment. Her lungs heaved as his fingers worked away at her flesh, pinching and groping and massaging the soft skin. Her whole body jolted at the touch, hips grinding up against his palm. With a loud groan of contentment, Astarion released his fangs from her throat, continuing to suck and lick at the two new puncture marks he’d left behind. He would take more later, but for now his focus was on seducing the sweet treat in his lap.

“Fuck, oh gods…” she whispered as Astarion looked down, smirking at what he saw. “Just me,” he crooned softly. He could see the ghost of a smile at his quip on her lips, but it vanished quickly as she melted into his embrace. Pleased with his work, he committed the image to memory. Alynea curled in his arms with her eyes closed, brows furrowed as she squirmed, her chest bared and blushed pink in various locations where he’d pinched and prodded. She was such a pretty thing, pushing her hips against his fingers. “You’ve been waiting for this,” he murmured against her skin. “Isn’t that right? You’ve been wanting to fuck yourself all over my fingers for a while now, you little minx.” Soft, shaky breaths escaped her as she shifted in his embrace while he dug further into her, searching for the soft little pad of tissue that he knew would undo her. He chuckled, nipping at her with his fangs. “Answer me, kitten.”

“A—yes, yes I—” she winced when she bit her tongue fumbling for words as he slid in a third finger. She felt his chest tighten as he sucked in a breath, tasting blood in her mouth. Their gazes locked, her wide eyes looking up at him as his free hand moved to come up to her chin. Firmly, but still gentle, he gripped her jaw as he pushed her to look at him.

Astarion couldn’t help but grin at the sight of her. The smell of her blood leaking from a nipped tongue, mingling with her hot breath made his own belly twinge. Her pupils were blown out, a sight he recognized well as lust. She whined when he withdrew his fingers from her, but he tutted at her softly as he brought them up to his own mouth. “You are perfect kitten,” he groaned softly, reveling in the taste. The smaller elf shivered as his hand left a smear on her thigh as he adjusted her in his arms. He shifted her head to his other shoulder, adjusting his own body to better support her frame as she leaned into him, his thumb pressed against her bottom lip. This night was about her, not him, but she was irresistible to him all the same. The primal, carnal urge within him growled, yearning to take her, though he forced it back down. Not yet, he hissed at it. Not tonight. He wouldn’t destroy this. He wouldn’t.

When he kissed her, he could feel her heartbeat skyrocket. His other hand fell, resuming his motions as she moaned into his mouth. His tongue chased hers, the linger taste of her mixing with her blood, a soft groan escaping him as she whimpered. A sweet thing indeed, he thought to himself. He stayed there, kissing her and lapping at the swollen spot on her tongue that bled just the tiniest bit, enticing him to go further as he kept up the rhythm, fingers reaching as far as he could into her.

Alynea was speechless, her mind racing. Gods, she had been dreaming about this exact scenario for over two weeks now. His fingers felt heavenly as they moved rhythmically against her, every stroke sending another jolt of pleasure through her bones. She could feel her heart in her throat as he kissed her, a strong hand on her jaw keeping her there as his tongue delved into her mouth.

It was all beginning to be too much. Still, she did nothing to stop him as he carried on, feeling herself react more and more sharply the longer he continued. In the back of her mind she could hear herself moaning louder, the sounds harder to control as the pleasure became more intense. Despite the spells inside her that roiled and bubbled up, she kept it down as he slid his fourth finger in, the noises becoming more obscene as her eyes rolled back slightly, waves of heat continuing to build in the bottom of her belly. She had trained her magic well enough to not be worried about a mephit blinking into existence or thornbushes coming up to entangle them, but nonetheless she fought off the tingling feeling in her chest as the tension in her body continued to grow.

“Astarion,” she whimpered against his mouth, catching his attention. His fingers paused for a moment and she whined, rocking her hips slightly as if desperately telling him not to stop. “Astarion, I want you to bite me,” she pleaded, “again, on the neck.” She could feel him smirk against her lips as his fingers started up again, this time more feverish than before. “Oh, you sweet thing,” he whispered, hand still on her jaw. He tilted her head down against his shoulder and she groaned as she felt her orgasm starting to build. She could faintly hear him laugh softly as she began grinding her hips into his hand, biting on her tongue in concentration, legs shaking as she did so. With her head resting in the crook of his neck, she began to moan again, unable to contain her voice as she reached for her release. Alynea had wanted this for so long, her body was on fire with anticipation. She felt his hand leave her jaw, returning to massage her chest and she stifled her cries into his neck. His cool skin provided brief momentary relief as the pressure in her body came to a rumbling boil, but the rush of heat returned just as quickly and fiercer than before.

She didn’t know why he hadn’t returned his fangs to her neck and now she desperately wanted them. A part of her was laughing at the contradiction; his fangs sinking into her often hurt, yet here and now as she was a shuddering mess she wanted nothing more than that sharp, bright pain. Shivers rippled through her body at the thought, muscles straining against his four fingers he kept fucking her with. Fuck, she realized. Did he want her to beg? To plead for him to ruin her further?

Well, if that’s what he wanted, she had no qualms about doing so.

Astarion was a little surprised when Alynea’s hand palmed at his forearm. He didn’t really expect her to be able to think coherently in the moment, given how uninhibited she was making such sweet noises for him. There was something pathetically desperate about the way she weakly pawed at him, unable to put any real strength into her grip. Her head shifted, shaking slightly as her lips moved close to his ear. Sucking in a sharp breath as her lips grazed his neck while her nails dug gently into his skin, he bit back a groan as her tongue rolled over his skin. “You little minx,” he growled quietly, the low register of his voice sending a chill through her.

“Astarion, please,” she mewled. “Please… I need your fangs in me, I’m- I’m so close…” He stiffened a little at that, his own erection that was hidden by the pillow she sat on twitching at her pleas. He hummed, craning his neck down to the exposed skin. “My, my, who would’ve thought our fearless sorceress would be brought to her knees like this,” he crowed. “Moaning and crying like this, begging for me.” In the back of his mind Astarion was gleeful. He knew she was being too loud at this point; Wyll in his tent could probably hear her halfway across the campsite. He knew that the wizard nearby could definitely hear her cries. Perhaps this would finally send the others the message he'd been trying to tell them: She’s mine. She was his to hold close, to nip on the neck and to pleasure.

“Please… I’ve been… been so good, for you,” she whined into his ear, each breathy gasp making him bite the inside of his cheek harder. “I’ve let you take so much… so much blood,” she whimpered. The salt of her sweat left a tang in his throat, lips pressed against her neck as she continued to moan. He could tell she was getting close, with the way she was grinding herself onto his fingers, her heartbeat pulsing through her whole body.

“Oh, fuck, don’t make me keep begging,” she whispered. There was a frantic tone in her voice as she shuddered, continuing to grind against him. “Please, oh gods, I’m so close, I want your fangs in me when I—Astarion, please,” she wailed, completely lost to the hope of staying silent. Was that a tear he spotted in the corner of her eye? He could almost laugh in disbelief, though he would not betray her feelings in that way, at least not in the moment. Planting a soft kiss to her jawline, his fingers tangled themselves into her silver hair. With the slightest bit of force, Astarion pulled her head fast against his shoulder to expose her neck as best as possible. Alynea was shaking with need, sweat glistening down her body as he heard her voice become strained.

She was such a pretty little thing. And she was such an exquisite treasure when she was laid out like this, wanton moans muffled against his body as her nails dug into his arms, her hips moving back and forth against his fingers that continued to push deep inside her. “Sweet thing, don’t cry,” he purred. He could see her chest fall a little at the reassurance, as if some relief had come from his words alone. The sound of her blood rushing echoed in his ears, heartbeat thudding wildly throughout her body as her breathing became even more labored. She was right at the edge now, he figured. They had been at this for over ten minutes and the slow build up was clearly agonizing for her, to be this close.

His fingers slowed for a moment, withdrawing most of the way out of her, his thumb pressing harder against her clit as she cried against him in protest. She was so close, teetering on the edge of her release, but he shushed her to soothe her begging as he planted one more gentle kiss on her neck. “You’re right, darling,” he whispered. “You’ve been a wonderful girl, such a good treat for me,” he muttered against her skin.

“Oh, fuck!” Alynea cried out against his neck as the white-hot pain lanced through her own, feeling his fingers thrust back into her with full force. Eyes squeezed shut, she couldn’t see the wild and unfocused look in his eyes as he began to drink. The familiar hazy sensation from blood loss washed over her with force as he drank deeply, swallowing down mouthfuls of her blood as he fucked her onto his hand.

It was all simply too much. The pressure in the bottom of her belly swelled to a feverish pitch, before it all exploded. She could faintly hear him grunt as her muscles clenched, her whole body seizing up as relief washed over her, ripping through and out her body forcefully. Her hips bucked hard against his hand, thighs shaking as they tried to press together. His fingers had slowed, but continued to gently fuck her through the high as she felt his fangs begin to retract, her hips beginning to calm down.

After a moment, his fangs finished retracting and Alynea’s gasps settled down to soft mumbles as he lapped at her neck, helping to close over the new marks left by his feeding. There was a groan from her throat as his fingers lazily withdrew from her, her body aching at the sudden loss. She heard him suck in a breath, seeing how the cushion she sat on was freshly wet as a creeping embarrassment grew in her chest.

He grinned at her, not a glint of shame in his eyes as he lifted his hand, dragging his tongue from his wrist to the top of his palm as she watched with a heavy blush. Then, he reached for his pack off to the side and tugged out a cloth. That was enough to erase any lingering worry she felt as her breathing even out. After a moment, she shivered as he wiped her down as well before he placed the rag off to the side to be forgotten. Astarion sat quietly, seemingly unsure of what to do next with the quivering mess in his lap. After a moment she shifted, twisting herself around and surprising him as her arms wrapped around his torso. “Did you enjoy that?” She whispered, head resting still on his shoulder.

Something lanced through him with those words. She asked so innocently, so sweetly, as if he hadn’t just made her lose her mind on his fingers. There was a tinge of authenticity to her tone, something that told him she wanted to know truly if he had enjoyed it. “Darling,” he purred. “You were marvelous.” That wasn’t a lie, he mused to himself. He had enjoyed it, watching her unravel because of his actions made something in him swell with satisfaction. Pride, even.

“The next time you’re so desperate as to keep me up all night listening to you,” he spoke softly, more gently. “Don’t torture yourself. Not when I can help.” She seemed to relax at his words, her eyes unfocused and hazy as her heartbeat began to slow. Exhaustion was calling to her, even as Astarion pulled away to grab another pillow. “You should head to your bedroll, sweet kitten,” he whispered. To his surprise though, she reached out weakly, fingers tangling with his own. “I don’t particularly… care what the others have to say,” she murmured. She was falling into her trance now, voice heavy with exhaustion. “So… let me stay with you tonight here. …Please?”

Again, something in the way she spoke shot right through him. The intimacy of her fingers entwined with his made a strange sensation flood over his face. Although her eyes had closed, he said nothing, only nodding. Pulling a blanket over her shoulder and covering her half naked form, he laid her down on his bedroll. He had never done this part of sex, he thought to himself. Though she didn’t seem to be asking for much. Perhaps she just wanted to stay where a bedroll had already been warmed, instead of making the trudge back to her own tent.

In the morning, Alynea would be slow to wake. When she did, she reached for the amulet Astarion had swiped in the grove, her skin shimmering as the lesser restoration spell shook the sleep from her eyes. To her back was the pale elf, still shirtless from the night before, though he had made distance between them overnight. She blushed when she sniffed the air, heavy with the smell of sex, the smell of her. Yawning, she adjusted her nightgown as Astarion began to shift, waking from his own trance.

Red eyes met silver, blinking silently. Sheepishly, she smiled at him. “Good morning." A slight smile ghosted across his face before vanishing as he sat up, reaching for his blouse. “Sleep well, darling?” He asked. She nodded, reaching up to trace at the nicks left on her neck. She flinched a little when pressing on one of them; the tissue was sore. She looked over to him, whose gaze had also settled on it. Astarion smirked at her, looking down as he laced up his blouse. “My apologies, darling. It seems the bruising is quite... intense this time.”

When she finally left his tent, she cringed internally as she briefly met Wyll’s gaze across from her tent as she slipped inside, hastily changing out of her disheveled nightshirt. She knew the boy had harbored a crush on her since his childhood, and some part of her felt bad knowing he probably heard her cries last night. Likewise, Gale hadn’t come out of his tent yet either. She felt her face flush at the thought of her friend lying in his bedroll, forced to listen as she had wailed so openly for Astarion, moaning his name, begging him to undo her.

Later, the women who had their tents on the other side of the campsite would ask why the men were so quiet. Gale, ever the gentleman, had the grace to brush it off as being exhausted from a bad sleep while Wyll said nothing, staring down intently at his food. Astarion however, had rolled his eyes, scoffing something about humans and their need for sleep. Karlach guffawed at that, pointing out that it was no secret that Alynea had slipped out of his tent this morning and not her own, her neck covered in bruises. True to her word, when Astarion glanced over at the elf, she was chewing on a strip of bacon as she peered over a spell scroll totally unbothered. When she looked up to see the party’s eyes on her, she blinked, swallowing before saying the simplest, sweetest thing he had heard from her yet.

“Yeah, I did. He was good.”

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