#The chalice of blood is dinner

[uroborosymphony]

5

5 - your bedroom at 5 am. Liminal Space - Still accepting.

1861. Sixty years have passed since the beginning of the Great War against the Witches. Across the realms, her armies of vampires and ghouls were casting nothing but death and desolation down this path of revenge and insanity. All orders were executed under Calista's rage. A rage that was endless and only grew deeper as more and more battles were won by her loyal creatures of terror. Her goal remained : to find a very specific bloodline of witches, the ones who were responsible of awakening the lamia inside of her back in the year 1456, and therefore, killing the human side within her. It was that power she was hungry for, a power she intended to steal and to own, a power she wanted to use to change the rules of the world of the night, to free its creeatures and by the end of her path, to end herself, to free her soul from immortality. On the field, at night, as her soldiers were resting and regenerating after a battle, the lamia who did not need any rest, usually enjoyed the calmness in her apartments. Her rooms were a guarded sanctuary for her to study every the field in order to think ahead for the next one, strategies she would discuss with her council tomorrow in the early morning. On that night, it was different however as her days of glory were little by little declining. Today's battle was another lost one. The palms of her hands were down the table of wood in the middle of her bedroom, eyes fixated on maps, plans and recollection of today's disaster. In her red gown of silk, she was far from the military apparel of Commandant she was wearing on the top of the hill, her sword in a hand. Rare were the presences authorized in her bedroom. Vine was one of them. As it has now been years he accepted her request for help, to remain by her side and offer support from the underworld, he became her closest ally, despite her not holding much trust in nothing but herself. The curtains were floating through the wide opened windows on the moon. The lamia looks above her shoulder, catching a glimpse of the man who joined her in her walls, her eyes then going back to the map. "This is the third battle I am losing, Earl." She speaks to him. "I have spent the night studying their attack, their defense, every single sword strike, every single HEAD choped down, every single drop of blood spilled on the soil. Something have changed, their behaviour of the battle field, their strategy. The bloody whitches were not supposed to defeat us, not Here in Khangai, not now. The mountains have always been the optimum, perfect envionment for our armies to hold advantage over these mediocre creatures, it has shown in our glorious past." A long sigh escapes from her lips, eyes closed, back bent. "If we carry on like this, I am going to lose the war." The lamia speaks, away from her usual confidence in her victories. "Hell." She let out of frustation, slamming down the palms of her hands, then bringing them to her face, her fingers running up, through her hair, holding a pressure against her skull, seizing her hair as she's on the verge of pulling out, a slow rage dancing under her skin. "Something have changed.

WHAT CHANGED?!

She shouts in anger. "I cannot see it. I can't FUCKING see it." In frustration, she pushes away the plans along with her chalice of blood off the table with the back of her hand, causing each element to hit the wodden floor in a violent sound.

[nebulaafterdark]

Sooner Or Late

Aegon Targaryen ii x Velaryon(Strong)!Reader

Summary: Y/N flees to the north before the start of the war. When it is over, Aegon will stop at nothing to get her back. Based off this request 18+ ONLY implied dubcon, mental illness & violence

Long before the dragons dance, Y/N is promised to Aegon. As a result, Rhaenyra sends her only daughter to the North in hopes of securing an alliance and to keep her half brother at bay.

His desire for the princess Y/N is deprived, even Alicent could not comprehend it. In the years Y/N is gone, Aegon yearns for her, a longing set deep into his bones.

Y/N finds real love, without sharp edges. His name is Jonathan Stark, after whom their son is named. His body now hangs like a trophy in Aegon’s garden.

The war brought one tragedy after another. Her mother and three, if not four, of her brothers were slain.

As for the greens, only Aegon and Alicent remain.

Y/N was taken back to King’s Landing, upon Aegon’s victory. She is to be his prize. As a warm welcome, he strung up her husband and allowed her to watch the light fade from his eyes.

Jon is spared the sight of his father’s remains, shielding his eyes with his mother’s dress as she whispers to him.

“I love you more than anything in this world.” She tells him, “no matter what becomes of me, you mustn’t be afraid. You must be strong.”

His hold on her tightens as they are forced into the throne room to meet the king. A man his mother has no love for. The man who killed his father.

“Ahh, good, you’re here.” Aegon grins, rising from his perch. “We need to prepare you for dinner.” The front of his robes are stained with blood.

Her husband’s blood.

“I will admit, I was not expecting two guests. Luckily, the coronation will not take place until the morrow. Which gives us time to fit robes for our boy.” The King smiles at Jonathan.

Y/N clutches her son closer as he begins to cry. “Shh.”

“Tell me now, dearest, what is his name?”

“His name is Jonathan.”

“Jonathan.” Aegon looks to the boy, clinging to his mother. “A fine name for a prince.”

“T-thank you, your grace, but I am not a prince.” The boy sniffles.

Aegon bends forward to his eye level. “You are now. In one day’s time, your mother will be crowned queen of the seven kingdoms and you our heir. Now that you are here we will be a proper family.”

“I had a family.” Jonathan reminds him.

Y/N tucks the boy farther against her side.

Aegon sighs, standing to face Y/N. “There, there, my darling.” He dries her tears with a blunt swipe of his hand.

“Please don’t hurt him, he doesn’t understand.”

“I am not going harm him.” Aegon scoffs. “He grew inside your womb, same as our children will.”

“Ours?” Y/N breathes, clutching her son’s hand. Aegon has well and truly lost his mind.

“I’m going to be your father now.” Aegon tells Jonathan. “There will be no more talk of the man who tried to steal your mother from me. Do you understand?”

Jonathan nods, against his mother’s dress.

“Good,” Aegon inhales deeply, wrapping them both in his arms. “Welcome home.”

————————————————————————

“Why are you doing this, Aegon?” Y/N asks, staring out the window to the garden.

“You were promised to me.” He tosses his chalice against the wall, stumbling toward her. “You will marry me. You will love no one but me! That is why Stark is dead, that is why his body will hang until only his bones remain.”

“How can you be so cruel?” Y/N cries, wrapping both arms tightly around herself.

“This is a kindness, my dearest love.” Aegon says draping his arms over hers, “in time you will see. You’ve lost your way. But you will learn, I will teach you.”

She has to get away. “Please-”

He sneers. “You will do a fair share of begging in our lives together, there is no need to start prematurely.”

“What do you want?”

Has he not made it abundantly clear? “You.”

“I am only a woman. You understand that, do you not?” Y/N scoffs. “There is nothing I can give you another cannot. Why chase me? Why hunt me down when you could’ve had anyone?”

“I realize we have our differences, but there is no other woman capable of evoking such passion in my heart. I love you, I loathe you. You frustrate and entice me.” He nips at her neck. “It was always going to be you, sooner or late.”

“I had a life, Aegon.”

“Now you will have a new life, with me.”

————————————————————————

As days pass, Y/N allows her mind to wander. To escape the vessel in which it’s held; far enough that she doesn’t feel. In time, it begins drifting farther and farther out to sea.

Aegon plays with Jonathan, lifting him high on his shoulders, the way her husband used to.

Jonathan takes a liking to him. Anytime he asks about his father, he is met with a sigh.

“Do you see that pretender anywhere around here?”

Jon shakes his head.

“And you never will.” Aegon snickers. “There is no need to keep asking, as you know it upsets me.”

The boy lowers his eyes, “yes, father.”

“You are a Targaryen. Not a Stark.” Aegon taps his chin, “all of this will be yours one day.”

Aegon is a madman, but he does seem to care for them, in his own demented way.

Y/N loathes herself for even thinking it.

A few weeks after, her belly begins to round with Aegon’s child. Y/N nearly forgets why she is here. Why she has to float away.

Aegon is all but tethered to the tiny bump, kissing it each day as it grows.

Jonathan is the only reason Y/N holds onto hope. Though sometimes, she can hear his father calling from the garden.

Aegon is speaking to her then, plush lips moving over perfect teeth.

It catches her off guard, the look of him. A fallen angel, cast out by the gods. So like her mother. Y/N desperately misses her mother.

Aegon smiles as she caresses the side of his face, ignoring her distant gaze. He knew she would come round, eventually.

“Why do you think my mother hasn’t come to see me?” Y/N asks, with wide, sad eyes.

Oh…you poor, poor, thing. Aegon kisses her outstretched hand. She does not remember, nor does it matter. It’s best not to upset her. “I am sure she will turn up sooner or late, my dearest love.”

She believes him, she has to.

Part 2

Aegon Taglist: @niyahnotnia @narwhal-swimmingintheocean

[lilislegacy]

Okay, I’ve been thinking about something lately

All the time I see people make statements about Percy that start with “Percy would never…”

Some examples I’ve seen: “percy would never kill someone/something in front of his mom” “percy would never yell at someone he loves” “percy would never get drunk” “percy would never let his child go to camp-half blood”

Now if you passionately believe one of those, hear me out. I’m not necessarily saying I disagree!

I’m saying�� who would have ever thought Percy would torture a goddess and choke her on her own poison? And…. enjoy doing it? If someone had said that on tumblr pre-HoH, every single comment and reblog would have been “PERCY WOULD NEVER!!” I mean, who would have thought Percy would do a million things he’s done? He’s done some very not so ‘silly little guy’ stuff. He is an extremely complex character. In his own head and to some people, he’s sweet and fun and silly, but to many people he’s reckless and scary and dangerous. Some people see him as someone who’s very gentle and relaxed, but some people see him as someone who’s quick to get very angry and cause destruction. And the truth is, he’s all of it. It depends on his mood. Consistency does not apply to him in many aspects. He has consistent traits, like loyalty, humor, and bravery, but his actual actions and reactions are NOT consistent. I understand why we think Percy would never do certain things. We think we know based off of his past and his history with his mom, or with Gabe, or with Luke. And I’m not saying I think he would do those things, but unless he specifically states it, we can NOT, ever, infer what Percy Jackson might or might not do.

Like for instance, the drinking thing. I am not saying percy would be a big drinker, if one at all. And he probably does have an aversion to the smell of beer because of how the apartment used to smell when he was young. But we have no evidence that Percy associates all alcohol with Gabe. Alcoholic drinks aren’t just foul smelling hard liquors. There are a million different forms that you can consume alcohol in - some of which don’t even smell like alcohol, and barely taste like it. And in The Chalice of the Gods, it’s said that Sally drinks a glass of wine every night. And Percy thinks Sally hangs the freaking moon. So if his mom drinks, he definitely doesn’t believe that alcoholic beverages = the enemy. And here’s the thing, if Annabeth and Piper and Leo were all drinking and having a good time, like college students do, and they go “Hey Percy, come sit and have a drink with us!” there’s a very good chance that he’s so comfortable with his best friends, and just wants to let loose and be a college kid, that he wouldn’t even think about Gabe. He’d just be like “Sounds fun! Count me in!” But I don’t know. That’s the point. I don’t know. Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. I truly think it could go either way. And even if he does drink, maybe he never - not even once - gets drunk. Maybe he’d drink in college and as a young adult, but when he becomes a father one day, he decides he doesn’t want his children to ever smell so much as a drop of alcohol on his breath, and therefore completely stops drinking. Or maybe he doesn’t ever like it, even in college. Or maybe he’s like his mom, and he and Annabeth just have a glass of wine with dinner. Who knows?

Not us. That’s what I’m saying. WE don’t know.

I’m not saying we can’t have headcanons based on what we know about him. I have a million. But the point is, I feel like we can’t try to pretend like we actually know what Percy wouldn’t do. As a fandom, we analyze him and his choices WAY more than he ever thinks about a single choice. He definitely does not think about his life and his actions as much as we do. (I’m not saying that he’s dumb or doesn’t contemplate his life and his actions, but he doesn’t nearly do it to the degree that we do.) Us, we pretend like it’s simple math. (Our first mistake, since math is consistent and full of rules, which is the exact opposite of Percy’s character.) We go “okay luke did this and gabe did this so therefore percy would never do this.” But Percy doesn’t think that way most of the time, especially not in heat of the moment matters. The only thing we 100% know about Percy is that he will always be loyal to his loved ones. But even then, we don’t know what that loyalty will look like. Is it sacrificing himself for someone? Is it murdering the enemy? Is it manipulating someone else? Percy lives in the moment. He doesn’t often think too much before he acts. He just acts. Whether it’s in a life of death situation, or his after school activity for the day. He is unpredictable, like the ocean. It’s one of his defining traits.

Honestly, I think that’s why annabeth is so drawn to him. With everyone else, she can read them super easily and know their next move. But with Percy, she has no idea. Which is frustrating to her, but also exciting. It’s a big part of her initial attraction to him. It’s also why many of us like him so much. We don’t know what’s coming next, and we never know what he will do in a situation. Like, how could we possibly know what he would or wouldn’t do when HE doesn’t even know? Half the time I don’t think Rick himself even knows.

We become so sure that Percy wouldn’t do something because we understand his character so well, right? But I think the truth is, the minute we become certain about what Percy would or wouldn’t do, is the minute we don’t understand his character at all.

Thank you for reading my analysis of Percy on why we can’t reliably analyze Percy

[yandere-sins]

Yan-Poll #27

[Continuation of Poll #26]

"Both?!" they gasped in unison, the werewolf equally as astonished as the vampire was amused.

"That is unheard of," the vampire noted, but a smile played around their lips as if the idea was almost as enticing to them as you were. "But having two dinners is better than one."

"Watch it," the werewolf growled back at his fellow monster, pulling you tighter against his chest. "No one gets to suck my blood, and hell will freeze over before I share this human with the likes of you."

"Or you could let me leave...?"

Their annoying bickering, mixed with growls and condescending chuckles, ceased instantly as you spoke up, all eyes falling on you. Hugging your arms tightly around yourself, you used the motion to get some distance from the beast hovering around you, shielding you away possessively from the vampire that kept a considerable yet welcome distance.

Asking for your freedom didn't turn out as intended, as you soon found yourself sitting on a soft couch, wringing your hands while the two monsters were at each other's throats. Seeing how you had no intentions of being an obedient meal, they relocated you to the old mansion, which turned out to be the vampire's lair. It made the werewolf antsy; the hairs on his neck always raised as he growled at the statues and grumbled over the creaking floorboards.

"Here you go, Darling," the vampire chimed, handing you a golden chalice, something you had only ever seen as a Halloween decoration or a prop in a movie. In the candlelight, it was hard to decide whether this was wine or, well, blood, so you gave it a tentative sniff.

"What is it?" the werewolf growled, suddenly on high alert as he approached you swiftly, sticking his nose right against your face to sniff it.

"Pomegranate," the vampire chuckled. "Not to be inhospitable, but it wouldn't do anything for your cursed blood. Luckily, I'm not picky."

Growling, the two went back to exchanging hostile banter, and you considered your situation as you took a small sip from the chalice. After being repelled at first by the sourness slipping over your tongue, you at least had to admit it was some fruit juice, as the vampire had said. Despite having a split opinion about it, you realized how thirsty you were as you chugged it down.

"Have one more," the vampire offered, suddenly appearing next to you with a pitcher, refilling the goblet, and winking at you.

The situation was more than strange as you felt both cared for and like a pig waiting to be slaughtered without ever expecting it. You eyed the boarded-up windows behind mostly drawn curtains, biting your lip unhappily, and tried to remember the way back to the entrance you had been carried through, wondering if they'd ever be distracted enough for you to slip out. The goal was clear, and although they had yet to hurt you—except for the werewolf's claws scratching you while he carried you—you didn't trust them.

"Real food is what they need!" the werewolf barked, ripping your chalice from your hand and throwing it across the room, staining both the wall and the floor red.

"That's antic," the vampire replied pointedly. "And I don't have food. The human is food. Go fetch some food for them, puppy-boy, so I can have a late-night snack, how about it?"

"Over my dead fur."

"Now we're speaking the same language."

Fangs were bared, like a competition of pointy teeth, lips pulled taught as the mood seemed to tip over, and your heart pounded loudly in your chest as you realized you didn't want to be at the mercy of the victor of the battle between these two. You had to do something, but unexpectedly, it was not up to you this time.

"Get them some food, bloodsucker, or I will serve your head on one of those silver platters."

"How about I give them a bath first? You could need one, too—no one would want to eat from a sweaty, dirty neck."

"I'll tear you limb from limb if you take them out of my sight. They'll submit to my decisions for them, not your tricks."

"Don't you need to prove you're such a good mate first by providing for them before they submit to your... less-than-sophisticated desires? Go hunt them some venison, and in the meantime, I'll have them squeaky clean and bound to a bed in twenty, no, ten minutes, and that's that."

The roar in the werewolf's chest turned louder and louder, the warning loud and clear, while you couldn't think of anything more abhorrent than both of these creature's intentions they had for you.

"Uhm...!" you cut in, feeling like you needed to put a stop to it if you wanted to neither be flayed nor submit to anyone or anything for that matter.

Both shifted their attention to you, and the vampire was the first to lean back, crossing their arms. "Fine," they sighed dramatically. "Since we stuck to that silly idea of letting them choose, why not let the human also decide what they want."

They turned towards you, staring at you unusually coldly with their eyes so full of swiveling red. It was impossible to look away as you watched them, your heart pounding out of your chest and your fingers gripping the cushions you sat on, muscles flinching as if to get up and run over to the vampire right away. Flately, yet firm, they prompted you, "Food or bath?"

"Don't," the werewolf hissed at the other monster in the room before turning toward you and demanding your attention by clasping a paw over your eyes. You gasped as you realized you must have fallen into a trance, and the werewolf enveloped the upper part of your head with his elongated palm to prevent you from looking at the vampire. "Have some shame," he growled, and you felt your stomach churn as you realized you were about to offer yourself to the vampire.

"Never," they chuckled. "You're just jealous that the human prefers this," they paused, and you assumed they were pointing at themselves. "Over this."

The werewolf growled but remained surprisingly calm even though the vampire's insult wasn't lost on you either. "Choose," the werewolf muttered in your direction. "And make better choices than what the bloodsucker assumes."

A bath was nice, cleaning off some of the dirt from camping and tending to the scratches while also preparing to escape these monsters. Maybe you'd find an alternative way out if you saw more of the mansion? Then again, you didn't want to make yourself more delectable for the vampire, even if you agreed that the werewolf could benefit from a bath, too.

You certainly weren't that hungry, but given how far you were from the next city, if you managed to escape, you needed all the strength you could get. Who knew how long you'd be out there, running and hiding, unable to find a reliable food source? And if you convinced the werewolf to let you trail along while hunting for food, you would be one step closer to freedom, learning about the woods around the mansion. The vampire wouldn't tag along... right?

The ball had been played back to you, all nerves raw from the tension and uncertainty while you had to make yet another decision on their demand. They were waiting, their impatience palpable.

[carolmunson]

blood machine.

emperor geta x senator's daughter!reader songspiration: in keeping secrets of the silent earth 3 | coheed & cambria

did not once plan to write for this guy but here we are. also like, is it historically accurate? no. like, not even a little. (hell is mentioned and technically hell wasn't 'a place' until 400 BC but like WHATEVER.) am i making a semi effort? sorta kinda. have i been a little stoned every time i've worked on this? well, yes.

summary: when what was supposed to be a diplomatic dinner before a much bigger and lively feast becomes a marriage offer, all of the wine you drank turns to ash in your mouth. haters to haters, bay-bee. tw: 18+, drinking but like -- idk it's ancient rome, tension, fighting, some mild body shaming (??), a literal threat of domestic violence but again it's ancient rome so like i don't think they cared, two stupid little bitches who hate each other. mentions of war and ultimate distaste for the poor. reader kind of has lady macbeth vibes. my little evil queen.

Wine is poured, golden chalices exalted. You are a vision and he is a toad looking creature of a man that only his mother could love. Not quite his brother, never quite measuring up the same way -- always trying to puff his chest. It was easy to tease him, ego easy to bruise -- little brother. You’d spent time in your childhood tagging along with your brother and the other kids to taunt him, pathetic and whimpering. 'Tale teller!' you'd jeer, every time he'd run off to his mother to blubber over how mean you all were. And you were mean.

But people grow, as they do. And so did you -- still mean, but in a different way. Listening to meetings, reading maps, keeping tabs on new republics, on potential uprising. The poor -- the fucking poor. Finding new ways to keep them occupied so that they'd stop trying to find ways to be powerful. Powerful like you. Powerful like the man at the head of the table with a plum to his lips. And as it has been said, a man in possession of a good fortune and power, must be in need of a wife. It became clear when you arrived that this was not a business dinner before a grand feast, your parents simply forgot to mention what this was really about. Your best linens, your hair coiffed, your best jewelry, you should have known it had been a ruse the moment you got there. His home on Palatine just sparkling the way the gold on your fingers did, candles in the halls and stairways glittering when they hit the rubies and pearls on your chest and ears. When your father veers the conversation from politics and business to marriage you both choke, stern eyes glued to your mother's painted face. A business dinner where you are currency -- more than worthy. Just a few months shy of being eligible when Caracalla was, regrettably, forced to marry Flavia at the last moment. It would've been nice to have the gang together again in some capacity. Could've bullied the toad to assasinating himself if you were lucky enough. Total power. Complete upheaval. The more you thought about it, the more of it your craved. The pit in your stomach grew, if it wasn't with his brother -- even though you bore no attraction -- there was not a point at all. Geta didn't think nearly as critically, didn't hit hard enough, didn't strategize correctly. You'd never even seen him pick up a sword -- but then again, that made sense. You very rarely spent time in his palace, much prefering the festivities of Caracalla's close by.

You listen while your mother goes on and on about his grace, tongue dipped in honey while she blabbers. She mentions how handsome he is, his valiance in leadership, how honorable he's become as he's taken the place of his late father -- you can't help yourself but laugh. The giggle echos and bounces through the high ceilings, floating against the archways, getting caught in the drapery by the open hall. His eyes flick to you over his goblet, catching in the candle light, an aggravated sneer plaguing his face. He looks like a pig when he does that, you think to yourself.

You know that business, for the most part, is a man's game. But it does not deter you from doing your best to try and wager yourself out of this. Ideas drip into your mind while the drone of the conversation turns to fuzz in the background. How can you sell that this is a bad idea? It will bring less publicity, less of a threat, less resposibility if married to someone with equal nobility. Certainly not an emperor. Especially not one like this. So petulant, so competitive, so eager for a war he does not know how to plan, so temperamental, so weak, so conniving, so consumed with the colosseum that he doesn't think of what should be done around him. It's his voice that brings you back to attention.

"And why is it she hasn't been taken for a wife then, at this age?" he asks, brow quirking in your direction. You let out of huff of offense while he sips his wine, metal clinking as he places it back down. A smirk flits across his features at the remark, "Is something wrong with her?"

Your father, sweating with embarrassment, looks over at you and back at the emperor, "Well she, she's of course beautiful." Geta winces, cocking his head to the side with a shrug. Your father sighs, desperate to try to find a better angle, "She um, she -- she has great wits, Ceasar, unmatched. She knows her duties as a wife, but -- a great thinker. She could -- she could be helpful!" "Wits," he mumbles sourly under his breath before leaning back leisurely in his chair, "Great thinker? Very surprising." "August--" your father starts. "Co--" you correct over a sip of wine, "Co-Augustus."

Geta tosses you another sour look, tongue running over his teeth before clicking it behind his lips. You shrug while swallowing. "Semantics, Publius," you wave a hand at him. A hush falls over the room as his gaze snaps up at you, blanching at the disrespect of being called by his first name. Your mother hides her face in her napkin with a groan. Your father leans his temple against his fingers, eyes closed in frustration. "Mind how you address me," Geta corrects with a stern pull to his lips, eyes glittering with rage. Your eyes catch over the mountains of food before you, holding your glass out as one of his servants pours you another glass of wine. "Is that not what your mother calls you?" your voice feathery, but certain. A vein begins to raise and pulse in his neck while his shoulders round forward.

"Please apologize, dear," your mother mutters, putting the napkin back on the table, "Tell -- tell the emperor what it would mean, to be -- to be wed to someone of such calibur."

Your eyes stay on his, challenging him while your mother begs you to say something to make amends. Another sip of wine passes your lips, "No, shan't."

Your mother scolds you, your full name escaping her with embarrassment tainting her tongue. Sweat beads at your father's forehead while he changes the subject, doing aything to try to keep his good favor with both sides of the imperatorship.

You grin into your goblet at the sight of Geta's face -- reddened with anger and frustration at the brazen disrespect. But it was fine to continue to be an enemy if it meant you would leave these regal walls and never have to step foot in them again. And if you did, it would be as another senator's wife, visiting his brother in another house where you'll laugh and drink wine and cheer when he's killed.

Even his posture is revolting, hunched over while he listens to your father speak. Now going on and on about paper work that doesn't interest you if it doesn't have a say on who is next on the list to conquer. Your eyes glaze over in boredom while pomergranate, honey pudding, and dates are placed on the table. Rose wine replaces the red to sweeten the tongue -- you're sure your parents wished it were true.

It's not very long after dessert is served that your parents start again.

"As you know, she does come from a family of very fertile women," your father encourages. You quickly swallow the bite of date you'd taken to interrupt, nearly choking, "Excuse me, I'm not sure this is appropriate dinner conversation."

Geta looks at you while you speak, scanning you and then lingering on the dessert in your hand, "Her hips are quite sizeable -- big enough to bear multiple childen, that's certain. Is that her only sell?"

Anger bubbles under your chest, but warning looks from both of your parents keeps your sharp tongue between your lips. The grip on your goblet tightens, jaw clenching while your pass another sip through gritted teeth. You let a seething breath out through your nose. "As I tried to explain before," your father continues, "She is very on the pulse in terms of the political climate and, and, and great with strategy." "I'm not looking for a wife who tries to strategize for me--" he responds coolly. "From how the empire has not expanded since your father's death I would guess that perhaps you should be," you snap back smartly. His posture straightens, chains and medallions across his chest glinting in the candle light. The room quiets itself again, only the sound of untensils and cups being put down or collected filling the dead air. The soft scrape of metal, the rustle of linens while servants and guards alike avert their gaze downward.

"Leave us," he states, voice pungent with authority. You stretch your neck on both sides while the servants depart, already bored with the back and forth. Already moved on from the eventual scolding and potential exile that won't get put into motion because you are simply too friendly with the rest of the upcoming generals and politicians. One rogue idiot who barely has the power his brother has, that his father never trained into him, could not dole a punishment that is worth your genuine fear.

You sigh, hearing the staff make their way down the long stone corridors into the grand halls to prepare for a more formal party with other higher status families. More likely a collection of offerings for him to choose from, other parents trying to arrange a marriage with the empire's most powerful and eligible bachelor. It would be one of the few times the brothers would have to engage with each other, which you're sure put Geta more on edge than normal.

"Senator, please take your wife to the grand hall to be seated," he commands, his voice lower, delving darker. The vein in his neck continues to pulse, forearms straining against the golden cuffs over his wrists, "The guards will accompany you."

You watch as your parents rise, bowing their heads before following the guards out of the room and through the blood red drapery hung from gilded valances. Geta's eyes stay hardened on you, and yours him, while you rise as well, taking a few steps around the large wooden table toward the exit. "Not you," he says, not turning to face you, "You will stay." "It is not appropriate for me to be unaccopanied in the pres--" "Do not speak," he huffs, hand coming up to silence you, "Your voice grates on me." "Then you can imagine what your own voice does, Augustus," you say without thinking, letting the insults flow out of you like the fountain water in the courtyards. He pushes away from the table, steadily walking towards you with enough vigor that the bottom of his cape starts to billow behind him. On his way, he pulls a sword from a guard's holster, dragging it so the tip grinds against the stone, making your jaw clench at the shrill sound.

"What happens to those who speak against me?" he asks, steps clicking against the floor from the studs on the bottom of his sandals. He begins to stalk around you, circling while he waits for an answer. "Execution," you respond, keeping your eyes on the drapery just twenty feet ahead of you. "What else?" he asks, you can feel his breath behind you, the whining grind of the sword against the stone making your shoulders tense. "Exile," you answer, a laugh bubbling out of you, "But I can't imagine your brother agreeing to either of those. You'd really banish me, Publius? Because I was a little mean to you?" When he appears in front of you again, your lips stretch into a sickeningly sweet smile, sarcasm staining your tone, "But we're such old friends."

He cocks his head to the side, taking a step closer with the sword between you, "Oh, I wouldn't do that to you."

He leans forward, enough that you can smell the rose wine on his breath. His voice quiet and menacing, "Though -- it could be that the senator said something to offend me tonight at dinner. It could be that perhaps he -- spoke poorly of my dear brother or my late father. Something just dastardly enough to sour my brother's respect for him." "And you expect Caracalla to believe that?" "In what way does it benefit me to lie about it?" he challenges, "And even more so -- with your father exiled, where does that leave you?"

You swallow thickly, not giving him the satisfaction of replying while your look into his now wild brown eyes. Flashing with mania and endless possibility.

"A peasant," he spits.

"If it keeps me out of these halls I should be lucky, no?" you fire back, looking at him from under furrow brows. He continues to circle you, dragging the sword again. The click, click, click of his shoes keeping time in your head. "I'm sure my brother would be happy to keep you as a pet in the meantime," he laughs to himself, "Or we could put you in the colosseum, you think you'd fare well?" "Better than you could, that's certain," you cross your arms over your chest, "Could never stand up and fight like a man, even as a kid. Your father would be embarrassed."

The grinding gets louder as he presses harder down, causing small sparks to fly from the edge of the sword.

"If you were to be chosen, would ever even attempt to learn respect?" he asks sharply, "Or would it have to be beaten into you?" You snort, "At least you're the funnier brother, you have that going for you." You can see him out of your periphery, the way he pulls his cheeks in, the roll of his shoulders -- he's losing patience. "What, would you prefer I called you Geta? Augustus? Ceasar?" your eyes roll. A soft cackle comes from his through, canines showing in a gleeful smile, "No, no -- from you? I'd much prefer something more respectful." Click, click, click. The grind of the sword. The rose on his breath. "Dominus," he nods with the threat, "Dominus et Deus."

"You disgust me," you respond quickly. "As a husband and as emperor is that not my title, already?" he shrugs, looking at you like it's obvious.

"You are nobodies Lord and God, you are a petulant -- sniveling -- repulsive little brother who is only where he is by being lucky to be born," you glower.

"You still see me as a child, femina," he tuts, "I promise you, what ever Caracalla has told you is a tapestry of made up stories. You could hang it on the tallest arch and it would hit the floor ten times over."

"I do see just a whining child before me," you hiss, "I'm sure you'll run to your mother after this, too."

His chuckle turns to a low, dark laugh from deep in his chest. It crawls up your spine and rings in your ears, mixing with the grating 'shhhhhhinnnngggg' of the sword on the ground.

"If it were fate that there was union between us," he asks from behind you, "What would you say to that?"

You look straight ahead, hearing the click of his shoes. The heat of the torches on the walls billowing onto your face while you keep your eyes on the drapery, still closed -- still keeping you here.

"It would be a fate worse than the hottest hell," you confess, your voice not wavering.

The whine of the sword stops, sheathed into his belt. The click of his shoes halts.

Quiet.

Rose wine on his breath, you feel it on your skin now, his chest against your back while he closes the space between you. A hand reaches up to push the hair from your neck, the other gripping the fat of your hip to pull you ruthlessly against him in a thud. Your eyes shut, bile crawling up your throat in disgust. His nose coasts against the shell of your ear, making you tilt your head away while goosebumps rise on your arms. Through a knowing grin he whispers, the words burrowing deep in your chest in loathing and a glimmer of fear: "I pray every moment of it burns you."

[sserpente]

A/N: This is short and silly and I enjoyed every second of writing it.

Words: 685 Warnings: none

You sighed as you let your head fall back to admire the stars. Thousands of piercing little lights dotting the night sky. It was rather beautiful, and for the first time ever since you had gotten into this mess (and a tadpole had gotten into you), you felt… content.

Perhaps it was because despite all this—you let your gaze wander over the campsite—fate decided to give something back. Someone. Your eyes found Astarion, brooding over one of the books you had recently picked up. Gods, you longed to take a bite right out of him the way he stood there in those tight and dark trousers and his white cotton shirt. It was quite incredible this handsome man… vampire spawn… liked you back. Not only that but you had mutated into his… lifeline, so to speak. Absentmindedly, you brought your hand to your neck, fingertips ghosting over the two puncture wounds his fangs had left behind last night. It had become a pleasurable and enjoyable ritual for you both now.

You’d have dinner with the others and at night, once everyone else was asleep, Astarion would get his fill and have supper for himself.

Another sigh. Dinner had been quite amazing and filling today. Gale had volunteered to cook after you found a crate full of abandoned supplies. Potato chips, carrot soup, garlic bread, and even lasagne… a chef would have slapped his palm against his forehead at the combination of all of these things for one evening but alas… you hadn’t eaten this much in over a week.

You were practically drunk on a full belly and that was before having a glass of wine already. Speaking of which… grabbing your empty glass, you got up from your bedroll, sauntering over to Astarion’s tent.

His head lifted as soon as he sensed you—and you actually liked to think that he could smell you, your blood, before he could hear or see you. A slight smile played on his lips when your eyes locked and he shut the book in his hands, putting it aside.

��Have a glass with me?” you offered, tilting your head as you waved the chalice in the air.

“Oh? Are we celebrating something, darling?”

“No… I’m just in a really good mood today.”

Astarion smirked in response and reached for the bottle of elven wine on the small table next to his tent.

“Well, given the current state of things, I’ll drink to that,” he purred, filling both your glasses. You clinked them, each taking a big sip before the vampire spawn took yours from you and set them both aside along with the bottle.

“Now would you say… you’re also in the mood for a bit of fun tonight?”

You grinned when he pulled you close, his face only inches from yours. “I thought you’d never ask.”

You closed your eyes, allowing him to lean forward and capture your lips in a hungry kiss.

“Ow! Gods, damn it!”

All of a sudden, as if stung by an adder, Astarion released you, half-blowing raspberries and cursing as he coughed as if you had poisoned him.

“What… are you alright? What happened? Oh… oh gods!” Realisation hit you only a second after.

“Oh no… Gale made garlic bread tonight! I completely forgot you can’t… oh, Astarion, I am so sorry. Let me have a look, is it bad?”

“I’m fine! It’s not going to kill me, it just… burns. Gods!” A few more curses followed as he brought his fingertips to his lips, assessing the damage done.

“I’ll go rinse my mouth, alright? I’ll be right back.”

The sound of acknowledgment he made was hardly an answer. It was enough for you to turn back around though, your cheeks hurting from how hard you were holding back a grin.

“It could be worse… I mean… I could have put my lips elsewhere.”

“Very funny, darling.” Still, there was a hint of amusement swinging in his voice and you certainly couldn’t help the little chuckle forcing its way out of your throat. He had to admit… it was hilarious.

A/N: I'm on my second playthrough as Durge right now and I realised one thing about myself: As much as I love villains and misunderstood bad guys, I'm really bad at being evil. 😂 I feel soo bad every time I make a mean decision, hahaha!

[a-spawn-on-my-lawn]

date with astarion hc 😆

thinking about spawn astarion trying to be romantic. this man has been forced to stay in a fucked up palace for 200 years; only leaving it at night to seduce people in the shabbiest taverns and brothels.

he's not so much into details, he never had to think about taking his love to a date, because there was no one he loved and vice versa.

this man has no idea about what a "romantic date" is supposed to be, even if we consider that "romantic" is probably subjective, but you get the gist.

so suppose Wyll is not around the corner so he can ask him for help, what is he gonna do? what would he come up with?

He'd probably make a checklist.

Romance, that has something to do with flowers, doesn't it??(ew, flowers, they are only good for poisions!). But he'd bite the bullet for you, so... he knows there is a woman at the graveyard who sells flowers, how handy is that? he gets you a spray of flowers (that is supposed to be for a funeral.)

Flowers ✅

Now he really needs a nice location. That location should probably be shadowy and also provide some privacy for sure, he can't have any prying eyes near him when he's having a date with you. Thank the gods, there's an old crypt nearby, of course it is locked but what is he a skilled lockpicker for? yes it's perfect. no one is going to disturb them or make any weird remarks about him drinking a chalice of blood for dinner. There will be enough space to have a picnic. Maybe even a table. And possibly there's some loot left to find on top. Wouldn't it be extra romantic to find you a nice necklace in a coffin? it definetly would.

Romantic location ✅

Next one: Food. Astarion suddenly asks himself what you like to eat most. He figures he never paid attention to that. He's not into insignificant details, so he has no idea. He needs to get you something to eat and to drink for a dinner date, that's for sure! Drink: No problem, wine, lots thereof. Food? Needs to be handy and easy to transport. Food is food. He's going to stuff anything into his bag he gets his hands on: raw potatoes, carrots, sausages, pieces of cheese, a melon, other fruit, bread...

Food for his date ✅

And of course some food for himself, a generous bottle of some yummy blood. Ofc he counts on you letting him have a nibble.

Food for him ✅

Is there anything left? Oh, of course. A romantic dinner requires one (1) candle.

A candle ✅

The most important asset is of course

Astarion ✅

He's ready. 🥰

Ok, he's also slighly nervous about you enjoying the evening. But the better part of him is convinced you'll LOVE it.

(I would! :p)

[dhampling]

sylvan gn!reader, 2.8k

THIS IS IT! THE UNICORN FIC! ALSO COINCIDENTALLY A 300 FOLLOWER CELEBRATION PIECE! THANK YOU!!! based on THIS ask, where a chance series of encounters in youth come together on one night, where everything just clicks for Astarion and his unicorn. this has plagued my brain. this is all i know now. i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it. wc: 2.8k c/w: descriptions of mutilation. fluff. reader WAS a unicorn. yippee.

A bed of burning coals. Belly on a smooth stone slab. 

Low candlelight as Cazador works, each measured smite into the milky flesh of Astarion’s back feels akin to a dull goring; blood a balm of cooling as it spills. 

A mouldering steak.

With each biting shovel of the gouging blade he knows this is a horribly permanent form of disfigurement. 

The pale face in the very periphery of his waning vision, flickering often to look at some tome of reference before conferring with Dufay in frequent sharp whispers. 

He wipes the skin to clear his canvas after each twist of his tool. A searing rag. He can feel the fluff, the grit, as it settles deep into the exposed sticky blazing valleys between his shoulder blades. He feels the birth of rancid infection. The prickle of each and every prick along his tendons that the debris sets alight. 

He knows little else in this moment. 

He knows his limbs are useless in tight leather binds, but that this isn’t a case of reprimand as a flaying or a visit to the kennels may be. He’s been good this month. He hasn’t pushed his luck, nor toed the line. He hasn’t even seen Godey in a four tenday. 

He knows that the gods can’t hear him down here, wherever here is. He was mercifully sedated at one point, but now all that remained were the paralytic properties of whatever was in the chalice presented oh-so-mightily to him at dinner. That his foetid, mortified carcass won’t allow him to howl, or whine, or scream. 

He thinks that he had a similar tool to this when he was young.

He remembers the cool blunt edge in the kitchens and running the tip of his small thumb along it. Feeling it in his pocket, warmed by the heat of his still-breathing body. Sitting in the forest just the other side of the fence with a small wicker basket of apples beside him. Woven blanket underneath linen tunic, woollen overcoat despite the early Kythorn sun; juices running down his little chin as he looked up at the birds singing through the canopy of trees. 

He then remembers his mother’s beckon call, leaving the cores to rot on the peaty floor; seeing the yellowing flesh dotted with twigs and brown leaves, glistening still.

-

“Are you coming?” He whispers sharply, head peering around the yawning mouth of your tent. 

You stretch and roll your wrists, freeing your eyes of sleep with a soft rub.

“Hm?”

Astarion clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. You look at him in a daze. 

He bristles in the post-gloaming purple dusk, your amber candlelight bringing his face warmth as his eyes scan your face. Behind him you can see a tapestry of stars starting to form in the sky. 

His head shakes a little. Claps once. Incredulous.

Oh.

“Overslept.” You mumble. He sighs.

“Gods.’

Pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

‘You have five minutes before I pull you out of this foetid little pit, whatever state you’re in.”

He turns on his heel.

“Is that a threat?” You shout after him.

His head ducks quickly back in.

“A promise. Just so we’re clear.”

A nap in the thulsun heat. A day of rest. Astarion ‘knock, knock’-ing on your tent flap as you read and slinking in like a cat, perching precariously on the chair you use to throw your unwashed armour onto after battle. Several quips about the smell. You threw a pillow at him. Hard. He repostured and continued on breezily.

He’d ‘gotten wind’ of a gathering happening on the beach twenty minutes from camp. Scavengers finishing up at the Nautiloid wreckage throwing some debauched farewell to the Ravaged Beach before some bastardised mercenary force comes in to begin clean up. All the good stuff now gone, but plenty of wine; and, obviously, an opportunity for ‘a little bit of fun’.

He’d blinked at you coquettishly, leaning on the back of the chair, daring you to ask just how he’d gotten wind of such an event. 

It’s rare you’ve bounced off another with such ease since your change. You’re too intelligent for his seduction techniques - the ones you hear him rehearsing quietly to himself from his tent each evening - to work the simple way he intends. That doesn’t mean the pale elf has had no effect on you, however.

You take comfort in knowing exactly how you’ll find him every time you look, and he’ll always be ever so pleased to hear that you have been looking. 

A wink. A flash of those porcelain white fangs. 

An invite to your bedroll for the most sordid of midnight snacks. 

Chatter between friends, an ever-present whiff of flirtation; the quirk of a moonlit lip and the pleasure of mutual relief in the dead of night. 

You fumble around the darkened tent in underwear searching for your discarded camp clothes as his fire-lit silhouette lingers outside.

-

Astarion thinks about the apples from time to time.

Tough, yet yielding. Biting. Sweet flesh bursting in season, ripe and white. Scraps of red skin stuck between hungry teeth. Seeds in their hard little hollows, stalks with small dry leaves. The way the juice ran so freely down his chin in the light of the sun and dampened the back of his hand as he’d wiped it away.

His full wicker basket empty by afternoon. 

Highsun courtyard feasts. He remembers the animals; his mother joking with beaming eyes and a wine-dipped cheer about his ‘druidic potential’ as she held him close, hand on his head, the other on his chest, he stood against her legs as she wittered. Time spent watching for an opportunity to slip through the gate and sit in silence with the birds.

Cazador trenches into his back deeper this time. What Astarion assumes must be blood spatters into his hair with the force of flying blue jay shit, and he’d know. 

He remembers the first time he saw the unicorns in the forest, how bewildered he felt. Startling white in such vivid contrast to the surrounding browns and greens. 

They weren’t skittish like the deer were, nor could they have been ‘lost property’ like the horses who often roamed by. The kobolds were mean to him on more than one occasion and the boars who passed were simple creatures. 

As a decisive yank is made and the gouging tool changes direction, fully embedded in the flesh it tears, he thinks about the smallest one. 

-

Despite being fraught with innuendo and obvious peacocking, Astarion’s company is a reassuring distraction from your current tadpole predicament. A parody of traditional pursuit wrapped in genuine affection. He knows he doesn’t have to bring the bravado, because you’ll play along regardless. 

And this eventide, alongside the fallen Nautiloid; he glows.

Skin soaked in the deep gloaming ambers and yellows of the campfire. Laugh of treacle, like a dozing highsun; a dawn chant on Lathander’s day - he tips his head back in a cotton lull and the quiet threat of his smile brimming through his sharp incisors devastates you. 

You watch on from the open mouth of a scavenger tent astride a pile of pillows and blankets, surrounded in distant light and pilfered goods. A warm breeze carries the firesmoke and to your side is a newfound silver chalice full to the brim with heady Arabellan Dry. 

He looks every part the favourite of the gods. 

Sways gently in his seat. Imbibes generously. Lifts his arms wide in gesticulation with oft-rotating conversational partners and tells stories in hushed tones with the most salacious quirk threatening his brow.

Occasionally throughout your jaunt, you’ll wonder if he should be holding your mind like this. 

Then his eyes meet yours.

Gods.

It feels like they all watch as he moves to you. Adonis in the flesh; effusive as his fingers circle the rim of his glass and he sinks to crossed legs beside you. Face by face. 

“I am so fucking bored.” He mutters. Smiles widely at a passing new acquaintance before sighing a grumble.

“Which one was ‘bored’ again?” You peer mockingly into the crowds, searching with a hand resting atop your tired brow. 

He elbows you. Hard.

“You sound remarkably sour, pet.”

“I’m not sour. I’ve had a beautiful evening” You sip. A gentle breeze rolls over you. 

Astarion lolls his head back a little.

“Beautiful wasn’t really the plan though, was it?”

You turn to him. Narrow your eyes just the smallest bit.  

Astarion tilts back and looks to the sky. He opens his mouth as if to speak. Closes it just as fast.

“What?”

You picture him falling in love with every single one he’d spoken to on the beach this evening; lifting locks of hair around nimbly twirling fingers and pulling another warm body closer. Tilting his head downwards, eyes remaining forward; struggling for words in covetous gasps. Seduction. 

A small laugh. Gods.

“Beautiful. Fucking a stranger in a beach cove isn’t necessarily what I’d call beautiful, dearest.”

“That was your plan?”

“Wasn’t it yours?”

You stop for a good moment. Astarion clicks his tongue in thought. Blinks with the urgency of dripping treacle.

-

Gods. The memory alone would be enough to bring a smile to his face, and he remembers it so very vividly. 

The apples. A baby unicorn. 

One late Elient afternoon, the first time any of them had approached. His fingers stickied with juice. It didn’t appear to be cautious by any discernible means, refusing the peel he’d hesitantly offered far out on the flat of his palm.

Little thing. Just about his size, he thinks; and he was always small. 

He remembers sniffing with a cold and haphazardly wiping his sticky fingers on the front of his coat. Reaching out so it could smell him.

Chewing open-mouthed, eyes closed, smoothing his face with the back of his hand.

They’d fall about together on feeble legs, his flailing arms and gentle nudges. Days on days spent venturing into the forest where it’d be waiting for him in the same clearing as always.

He remembers easing into the apple flesh with the tool edge and gently wiggling it into the crisp white to ensure a deep enough pit. Skimming imperfect rounds of the skin. Bouncing the resulting red spiral between his thumb and forefinger. 

Cazador reaches for the dagger. A hundred-thousand molten pins.

-

The moon overhead. Unwavering in clarity. It almost feels like you’re on the precipice of a different world. 

“You’re weird, you know.’ Astarion breaks his silence. The revellers continue to drink, to dance and talk clumsily around you.

Your eyes meet his. He wavers on the edge of certainty, but the performative lowering of his lids shows you he isn’t too sure. There’s a front to the nonchalance. 

‘What are you?”

“Hm?”

“Fun. I said there’d be fun. You aren’t partaking.’ He takes a sip and swills it around his mouth whilst collecting his thoughts. The dossier. Racking through pages in his brain.

‘I can’t be completely sure, but I’ve met a lot of humans in my life. Seduced them. Given and taken like a market teller.’

His hands move as he speaks, a considered pattern of gesticulation. 

‘And you simply… you’re above it all. You don’t even smell human. What are you?”

There it is. If you weren’t inebriated you’d be tempted to laugh him off. 

Tonight, however; your bones are thoroughly wine-sodden. 

Your companion has a twinkle in his eye. A beach of prospective lovers and he has collapsed at your side in respite. If he persecutes you as they would then you’ll die with his face the last thing you see. It doesn’t feel like a bad compromise.

“Not human.” You confirm, looking at your fingernails with a pert nod.

He laughs in a slight of vindication. 

“Try me.” 

“Sylvan.”

You can’t be sure if it’s from embarrassment or underlying fear that your head falls into your sweaty hands. Astarion’s snide streak plays at the fray of your mind.

“What? Half wood-elf or something?” 

He sips. 

“Unicorn.” You lift your fingers and flutter them around the sides of your head meekly. 

Splutters. 

“Explains why there are none roaming the actual woods anymore, I suppose.”

He’s taken it surprisingly well, all things considered. You aren’t sure what you’d expected. A minute of silence. The lazy roll of waves along the shore.

“What do I smell like?”

Maybe he’s wary of the driftwood stake near your hand. 

“Apples. People don’t smell like apples. Usually sweat. Or perfume.’ He runs his tongue over his teeth and sniffs. 

‘Not apples. I should’ve -”

Apples. A softness in the way he says it, you note. Favoured fruit in the allotments running the edge of the forests.

‘I’ve not had an apple in so long.”

He finishes with a wistful smile, topping off the wine in hand and refilling it with a swift glug. 

“Do you miss them?” 

“Apples? I-’

The cogs turn slowly - he wets his bottom lip and looks to the sky once more. His brow furrows as you watch him think.  

‘I used to sit in the forest, just around the back of the garden wall. I was about- I’d have been about up to here?’ He lifts his arm to just above where his sitting head rests.

‘I was tiny. All day long. Peeling the skin, gnawing away. Ironic.”

Pauses as if in remembrance of something. Grimaces.

You smile fondly and reach for his arm. You’re willing to entertain the line of dialogue. It distracts from the situation and he seems open to indulging in it.

“Funny.”

He scoffs and taps your hand softly before taking it in his. Cool fingers lock around yours. 

“How so?” 

“Gods, a long time ago now - there was a boy I met who did the same thing. Fascinated by them. Would sit and peel them with a little tool. Strange thing.”

You take a sip as you imitate the focus of the young thing, pretending to work tunnels into the cooling air with your near-empty chalice.

Astarion whips his head to face yours.

“Two hundred years ago?” 

“Why?’

He’s watching you as if you’re holding something very fragile in your faux-gouging fingers.

‘I suppose so? Round about then. Bit longer, maybe two hundred and th-”

“Me. It was me.”

Your eyes meet.

It’s the kind of moment you’ve read about in your downtime, the way the clock stops. Everything feels silent. The sea stops rolling soft on the shore, the voices around you are naught above a whisper; the glass in the hand not clutching yours set firmly on the sand as he shuffles to face you head on.

Apples. 

You watch his eyes soften wholly. Not a single ounce of guard; no sense of hesitation. Two glimmering rubies in the moonlight.

“His eyes weren’t red.” You smile.

It takes a moment for him to react. He’s studying your face reverently, with newfound interest; mapping each of the lines and blemishes with a hand hovering over your cheek. 

And then he laughs. The most beautiful sound in all the realms, melodic. 

“They weren’t.’

He points to the scarred fang marks above his sagging collar.

‘I was also alive at that point.’

Astarion takes a few comfortable minutes to look at you as he strokes over your hand with his thumb. You’ve spent enough of the past few weeks looking over him to know him almost by heart but you’ll indulge with the context of the revelation before you. 

“Look at us now, then.” 

Your voice cracks. You didn’t realise the sheer size of the lump in your throat.

“I -’

He presses his free hand to your cheek as he did when you were both young. Soft. Jowls ablaze at his wine-sticky touch. 

The sincerity in his gaze is brutal. If you weren’t so deeply enamoured you might just vomit.

‘The longest night of my life, I thought of you. The apples. How -’

Astarion takes a moment to survey you. You obviously look nothing like you did back then, aside from the brightest eyes he’s ever seen in all two hundred and thirty nine years of life and the same softness in how they revere him. 

‘How you never came back. I waited.’

It’s then that you crumble. 

‘How happy I knew I’d be when you did return.”

It’s cataclysmic, the way he talks. The last person who was kind to you and he thought you’d left him by choice this whole time. Remembering you in his darkest moments. All you’ve both suffered and here you are, on this rancid beach in the middle of nowhere; your hand safe in his.

“It wasn’t by choice. Never.”

The look on his face suggests he’s toying with the idea of playing the fair maiden, but he sees the way you crack and almost takes to tears himself.

“Well. You’re here now, and we have a lot of lost time to make up for. It helps that I was already fond of you, of course.”

He brushes the hair from your face and plants a deep kiss on your forehead as you bring your arms around his waist, hesitantly.

It’s a start. 

One you’d never have seen coming when waking aboard the crashed nautiloid in front of you; but glorious nonetheless.

[peachy-skies-writings]

hello ! Tysm for the Chance :) i would Love to See any Kind of Angst/fluff headcanon with astarion x Male!reader (rogue) <3

No problem, thanks for trusting me with this!

I've split into two - one for spawn and one for ascended. Hope that's okay? Thought it was best to get both angst and fluff in one :D Set post-game :)

I had an idea for Astarion that doesn't quite work as a headcanon so I'm going to write as a lil fanfic. It'll probably be out later this week/early next week! Please keep an eye out! Thanks for the inspo!!

Hope you like it!

Dinner Date with Astarion Headcanons

Spawn!Astarion

Astarion make a big deal out of your anniversary every year and plan a dinner. You were the first man he could ever remember loving and he was going to show you exactly how much you meant to him, every revolution around the sun.

The table would be set out relatively simply, but with elegant touches you’d expect from Astarion. No tablecloth but soft napkins placed on the side of your cutlery. And, it wouldn’t be Astarion without a fancy wine glass.

He’d make you a meal, or at least attempt - it’s hard when he can’t taste things properly as a vampire. He’d definitely ask Wyll, Karlach, or (begrudgingly) Gale to help. Whatever he knew was your favourite.

He’d usher whoever helped him with the food out before you sat down, to make sure it was a private moment between the both of you. He’d hold your hand over the table and let you eat as he sips from his chalice.

Ascended!Astarion

He’d make a huge deal about his ascension date and host a dinner party every year to commemorate the date.

The table would be set out lavishly, velvet and silk tablecloths, bright vermillion colours. The finest china and tableware. Not that either of you were eating, with Astarion turning you into his spawn. You’d be dressed in the finest silk and cashmere with a silk neckerchief wrapped around your neck, hiding your bitemarks.

He obviously wouldn’t be making his own blood or hunting his own. As his love, you wouldn’t be expected to either. He gets first bite though. No matter what.

Are there guests or are they food? I’ll leave that up to you.

[justporo]

This started as a comment on the last domestic headcanon posts, so here you go...

Day in the life of an ascended vampire lord (Astarion)

Wakes up at 11 or something because last night's debauchery went on until like 6 in the morning

Gets dressed in new clothes and throws the old ones away

Has the blood of some virgins for a quick and healthy breakfast

Has his portrait painted (yes, every day!)

Then stares directly into the sun just because he can

Works on some witty insults because everyone else is a cretin

Then there's some quick brooding he has scheduled so he sits on his throne, has some wine from a pure gold chalice for lunch and works on deepening the crease between his brows

Gaslights some people into becoming his loyal servants in the afternoon (while sitting on his throne, one leg up over the side)

Gets dressed in some other outfit because the old one got boring

Soaks in a tub while letting himself be sung about by bards and complimented as his pre-dinner affirmations

Some more delectable necks for vamp dinner

Lays around on a chaise longue half naked as an evening pastime with naked dancers all around

Quick orgy in between

Beauty sleep to keep him fresh and world-endingly beautiful

[moonshine999]

Top 15 Helaegon scenes (that we will probably never see)

Note that these are my opinions and preferences and if you don’t agree with them, just ignore it and scroll away 

As much as I love these two and team green in general, it is obvious that the writers of hotd clearly have a bias towards team black. ( That especially sucks when you consider the fact that the team green castings are utter perfection ) But with what they have done in s1, I highly doubt s2 is going to give the greens anything and instead just make them comically evil and rush their plot lines and what not

So this is basically a list of scenes I would have loved to see for Helaegon in both seasons (I may do the other characters as well) 

The list is organised from most likely to happen/ to have happened (it won’t/wouldn’t have but I need a system) i.e. 15 and least likely to happen / to have happened i.e. 1 

15.a scene after blood & cheese

🕯️him approaching her after/during the funeral 

🕯️them trying to not cry in front of the other but all in vain

🕯️them seeking comfort with each other (even if doesn’t last long)

14.hurt/comfort conversation/ argument about Aegon’s drinking and whoring 

🕯️could tie into no.13 

🕯️them arguing at the top of their lungs 

🕯️or having a conversation through tears 

13.a heartfelt conversation about how they are handling being king and queen

🕯️them talking about the pressure

🕯️how they are not ready for it/cut out for it

🕯️them promising each other that they’ll look out for the other and keep their family safe 

12.them at the green counsel together 

🕯️just to watch them glance at each other when a counsel member says something stupid/questionable/ about their kids or them

🕯️them holding hands when tough news is presented 

🕯️them listening intently whenever the other speaks 

11.dragon riding 

🕯️(flashback) Aegon asking her if she would like to go dragon riding with him as she has just claimed dreamfyre 

🕯️them flying around king’s landing with their kids saddled in on their dragons 

10.family dinner

🕯️just the greens having dinner together to welcome daeron and/or gwayne 

🕯️them keeping a close eye on their kids but slowly letting their guard down when they see how comfortable they are with their uncle

🕯️them being the older sibling menaces they are and teasing the hells out of Aemond and Daeron 

🕯️Helaena having to leave early as the kids want only her to get them to bed and Aegon bringing desert to her in their room

09.their younger versions interacting with Rhaenyra 

🕯️either separately or together 

🕯️Helaena being closed off at firsts but then they start discussing all sorts of things from bugs to jewellery to how both of them loved to hear stories from Alicent 

🕯️Aegon and Rhaenyra initially wanting to keep away from each other but they have a small talk before his wedding about Helaena, their dragons and their father before they are rudely interrupted by either daemon or Otto or both. 

08.scenes with their kids 

🕯️Helaena comforting Jaehaerys after someone made a comment about his fingers

🕯️Aegon having some self reflection after Jaehaera says they threatened to rape her (obviously in the show, would not have included the rapist thing if I was writing it but if they wanted to “redeem” him, this is the best solution imo)

🕯️them trying to decide what to name maelor along with the twins 

07.Helaena’s pregnancy 

🕯️either with maelor or a 4th child (according to some leaks) 

🕯️Criston whispering to Aegon during a counsel that it’s a boy/girl 

🕯️him looking around the arguing members and quietly slipping out of the room before rushing to his wife 

06.dance/ballroom scene 

🕯️after the jace debacle, his insecurities skyrocket 

🕯️just him getting fully intoxicated by his wife as they dance 

🕯️them laughing as they spin around 

🕯️them getting applause and cheers as they make their way to the floor 

05.them gifting each other stuff 

🕯️necklaces, brooches for not being around as often 

🕯️chalices with various dragon imagery for his nameday 

🕯️her stitching his favourite flower onto his nightshirt

🕯️them getting their kids to help when they want to surprise the other with something 

04.(flashback) where they get into trouble and collectively decide to blame Aemond 

🕯️Alicent interrogating the shit out of them 

🕯️one look and they were at the library reading mythology about the Seven and the last person they saw at the crime scene was Aemond 

🕯️Alicent gives a disappointed sigh and they are both dismissed and as they walk away- a casual “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?” from the other side of the door 

03.wedding flashback

🕯️Both are initially against it, they think of it as a punishment 

🕯️but a talk with their mother or half-sister makes them understand that this is for the betterment of the family  

🕯️they dance together, they talk shit about what the lords and ladies are wearing, they soften up at their mother’s wide smile 

🕯️Perhaps their father is smiling too. They can’t tell. But right now it doesn’t matter, they don’t care.

🕯️Aegon wearing white with gold details and a gold cloak with his hair tied up

🕯️Helaena wearing white with silver details and blue jewels on her dress and her crown 

02.bathtub scene 

🕯️domestic helaegon all day EVERYDAY 

🕯️her cleaning him up with his burns

🕯️he starts crying but they work through it together until it’s over 

🕯️him cleaning her during her pregnancy

🕯️them giggling like their kids 

🕯️them helping each other get dressed afterwards (like just imagine them in what seems to be a hug while he laces up her dress and she pins in his cloak) 

01. A sex scene 

🕯️enough said really.

Alright I hope you liked it

Since the writers for hotd won’t, send me the number and I’ll write a drabble 

[cissa-calls]

Countdown to the Darkhold Diaries: Day 572

Wanda: “Can you get the glasses out for dinner?”

Agatha: “Of course!” *pulls out fine goblets with engraved tunes and jewels inlaid*

Wanda: “I meant the water glasses…”

Y/N, entering the room: “Ooo the chalices tonight?? Are we drinking the blood of our vanquished enemies again??”

Wanda: *Intense stare of horror but also curiosity*

[the-astral-sea]

Bite marks and bruises (Raphael x fem!Durge)

I have this vision, this fantasy, that the only one who could keep Raphael on his toes and charm him is a pureblood Bhaalspawn. Their similar, chaotic and absolutely twisted personalities would clash yet work incredibly well together.

OC named Dolly, a pureblood Bhaalspawn, the last of her name. She is a high elf sorceress but it doesn’t come up much if at all. Imagine her how you want!

18+ TW: kidnapping? slight torture, death, threats, intimidation, adult content. Really cute vibes between Raphael and Dolly though. Sexual tension. Smutty. I absolutely love how this story ended up.

“Againagainagainagain!” Dolly cried out manically, garrotting a disheveled man and forcing him to walk slowly across a floor of conjured spikes, relishing in his screams and pleads for mercy.

She had caught him peeping through the doors of a brothel, muttering to himself about how the girls were not worthy of his coin, but worthy of his attention. Had she been a normal citizen, she would have simply reported him to the Lady of the house and had him kicked out of the establishment, but Dolly was far from a normal citizen. Bhaal’s blood coursed through her veins and urged her to enact justice in a far more brutal fashion - especially to those she deemed unfit for society. It was no more than a normal night for her, seducing men like this, leading them to her chambers and carrying out her twisted will in a gory and gruesome manner. His cries echoed throughout her chamber; it was music to her ears. “You! You were a very naughty boy. Now crawl.” She demanded gleefully, tightening his leash to force him on all fours as the spikes rendered his kneecaps useless, causing him to then fall flat on the ground, pierced by a hundred hungry pikes. As he lay there, bleeding out, Dolly felt a wave of satisfaction wash over her, a smile tugging at the sides of her mouth as she admired her work with a contented sigh. Bhaal would be exceptionally proud of her artistry today. The way she made this pervert suffer was beauty in its purest form.

Feeling warm and achieved, she gracefully moved to her desk where an unopened bottle of mead sat awaiting her touch. An expensive bottle of exceptional quality and age, stolen from the room of one of her previous victims as a kind of reward for herself. She opened it in a state of reverie, leaning back on her quilted chair as she poured the sweet, indulgent liquid into a silver chalice. Notes of honey and thyme tickled her senses as she inhaled the nectar, “mmmm, why thank you whats-his-name” she mumbled to herself as she took a sip of the drink with her eyes closed peacefully. The taste was as delicious as the smell, coating her tongue in a myriad of rich flavours that could only be compared to heaven in a bottle.

As she opened her eyes to read the label on the bottle, she realised that she was no longer in the familiar comfort of her room. The usual pleasant smell of blood and incense was replaced by the aroma of brimstone, old parchment and cherries. Her desk had been replaced by a large imposing dinner table, littered with a multitude of fruits and desserts. Although unfamiliar to her, she quickly deducted that this must be somewhere in the Hells. Where else could be so inviting, yet so unsettling? And smell so weird? “You could have at least brought my mead here” she shouted, her unshakeable voice bouncing off the high ceilings. Dolly was genuinely annoyed that whoever transported her here hadn’t given her that luxury after all the hard work she’d done today. In a huff, she stood up, kicking the chair back as she began to examine what other alcohol she could snag as she waited for her captor to appear, no doubt in her mind that they would make a massive entrance in attempt to intimidate her. Unfortunate for them, Dolly was not easily influenced, and took it upon herself to look over the drinks curiously, sitting right on the middle of the table as she selected a vintage red wine, tugging at the cork with her teeth.

It was really wedged in there and her frustration grew at the situation she found herself in. “Come onnn” she pleaded to the bottle as if it could hear, pulling at the cork again with her teeth. Just as she lost patience and was about to smash the bottle on the ground, the large ornate doors swung open, revealing a very angry looking Devil. His skin was red like blood, her favourite colour. His wings, scaled and bat-like, spanned the entirety of the door frame. His horns, curled and shiny, made his imposing form reach around 7 foot. Dolly felt her cheeks flush, not out of fear, but out of desire. Although she had never met Raphael in the flesh, she immediately recognised his presence from tales she had heard in dodgy taverns and books she had read.

“What’s this? A mouse in my hou-” he began with a booming voice of authority but was rudely cut off by Doll, “yeah yeah. Mice, cats, fucking doves or whatever. Can you open this?” She enquired, holding out the bottle she had selected from his table. He momentarily appeared taken aback, staring curiously at this elf, this killer, sat crossed legged in the middle of his table trying to tug open his finest cabernet. A mischievous look crossed his face as he attempted to continue, aware that his ignorance of her request would only piss her off more. “In my house. Where the hopeless reside, you will abide by my rules. Behave. Are you not wondering why I have brought you here?” His voice was low and charming, inquisitive and intrigued. “Judging by the set up, it looks like a dinner date. It’s rude to keep a lady waiting, you know” Dolly winked, completely unphased by his theatrics as she motioned to the bottle once again. The devils jaw tensed at her complete lack of regard for his dominance. Usually, mortals would be trembling in fear, sat shaking in their chair as they revered him with terrified eyes. But not Dolly. No, she was like naughty pet climbing on the furniture with no regard for anyone but herself.

It was clear that Raphael was seething yet he remained visibly composed. Making it too obvious that she had already gotten under his skin would give her pleasure, and he did not want to give her the satisfaction. With elegance, he sauntered over to where she sat and uncorked the bottle with ease, pouring them both a large glass, a twinkle in his eye as he spoke calmly and unaffected by his bubbling anger. “You know, you have cost me greatly with your little… display of the macabre… earlier this evening” he hummed, “the man you were so quick and eager to kill was about to sign a contract with me, he was of great influence and would’ve been a valuable asset to my will” his hand tightened around his drink as he spoke, a subtle sign hinting at just how unhappy he was in this moment. Dolly performed a sympathetic look, pouting solemnly at the devil between sips of wine with a hand pressed to her heart.

“Maybe you should make your future partners wear a big glowing sign that reads ‘do not touch, property of hell’ or a ridiculous hat that’s reminiscent of your horns?” She suggested, tilting her head in feign seriousness.

Unable to hold his rage inside for a moment longer, Raphael threw his cup down and grabbed Dolly by the throat, his long fingers wrapping around the circumference with ease and his clawed fingers digging into her flesh. He expected her to drop her charade, convinced that truly she could not be this unhinged. Surely it was just an act. He wanted to see her apologetic, scared and trembling, but instead she let out a soft moan. This reaction took him by surprise and he loosened his grip, shoving her aside before letting go completely. A giggle escaped her mouth, which then turned into uncontrollable laughter. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist” she managed to choke out between fits of laughter whilst nonchalantly kicking her legs as they now dangled off the side of the table, the plates that were once there now sprawled out on the floor. Once she had settled down, her tone shifted to one of seriousness for the first time since their conversation started, “Honestly, I’m sorry for ruining your chances of making a deal with that man. I’m a bhaalspawn babe, killing people is just what I do.”

Raphael’s demeanour changed at the words ‘bhaalspawn’. Suddenly it made sense as to why she was so fearless, so carefree and wild. This wasn’t just any killer, this was the daughter of Bhaal himself. Renown for killing her siblings to gain favour, known across all realms for her talent and terror. ‘Mistress of the night’ some called her: she moved in shadows, never caught, rarely seen. There was probably just as many scary stories told about her as there was him. His lips curved into a devilish grin at the revelation. It was reassuring to know that he hadn’t lost his edge, she was simply just unbothered by it. As was her nature.

“Ah, the infamous Dolly? Had I known it was you, I might not have dragged you here after all” he chuckled. His large frame turned to face her and he offered out a hand, helping her down from the table to lead into a different area of the huge house. The walls were a deep red, spanning high to meet the ornate golden ceiling. Windows larger than the two of them combined, revealing the stretching planes of the Hells beyond. Rosewood floors and intricate rugs lay atop them. Beautiful opulent chests, large paintings, and chaise lounges decorated the area. Dolly looked around in awe, casually holding onto the Devil’s forearm like it was the most normal thing in the world. He guided her to a balcony where two velvet chairs and a small round table stood between them, gesturing for her to take a seat so they could continue their conversation in a more intimate atmosphere.

“Now, I don’t usually let people off easily when they so savagely brutalise my potential clients” he began, voice laced with disapproval, “but for you” he spoke again, a slightly softer tone than before that made Dolly’s eyes light up, “I will make an exception”.

“So, no riddles about mice, cats and doves?” She smiled, pushing the boundaries a little bit. After all, who would she be if she didn’t continue to annoy him ever so slightly?

“Where did you get doves from? I don’t believe I have ever mentioned doves” he stated with an uncharacteristic smile. It wasn’t a manipulative smile, or one that held any mischief or malice, he just found her strangely intriguing and slightly odd. Everything she’d said since entering his house of hope had kept him on his toes and yet… for some reason he found it endearing. It was unfamiliar to him but not unwelcome - to find such interest in someone other than himself.

“Oh… anyways, I have a feeling you aren’t just letting me off the hook? That’s not what you do” her questioning sent his mind into a spiral. He genuinely was planning on dropping the whole thing, but this presented an opportunity for more and he couldn’t turn that down. “Right you are” he leaned back in his chair, pouring them both another drink and turning his head to smile at Dolly. “It’s not a deal. There will be no contract. Just an offer, a business proposal, if anything.” The words were spoken with an undercurrent of imperilment and Dolly narrowed her eyes as she awaited his next words. “I’ve heard of your exploits for many moons, but to see the way you performed today was a treat. I caught the tail end of the whole ordeal before transporting you here. It should’ve been obvious then that you were Bhaals revered baby. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t catch on sooner.” The admission dripped off his tongue like honey, “How would you feel about joining me? I make contracts; you have fun with those who don’t comply?” His offer sparked a flame within Dolly. With Raphael at her side, the whole world could be her playground, she could go anywhere, do anything. “I must admit the offer is tempting. So what’s the catch?” She enquired, sensing that there was more to this than he was letting on. He didn’t need the help, he had been killing and cutting deals for centuries. There was something deeper at work here. This was personal to him.

“What a clever little dove you are” he hummed, causing Dolly’s cheeks to shift to rosey hue at the new nickname. “I admit it. I have grown bored of working alone, living here with nobody to challenge me or stimulate my mind. It’s monotonous, and I am anything but” his words were laced with danger and lust, eyeing her like a five course meal, undressing her with his eyes. He held all the cards. Dolly knew this and she did not like it. She knew that his offer came with the expectation of agreement, it was closer to a demand than a real choice. There was no doubt that at this point, he wouldn’t let her leave until she gave in. How dare he turn her into a blushing mess, foaming at the mouth at the promise of murderous exploits beyond comprehension. Her silence was deafening as she stood up from where she sat, offhandedly strolling back inside the house of hope at a slow, suggestive pace. Within moments Raphael was on his feet trailing behind her expectantly. Although she had her back to him, she could sense his growing frustration at her lack of response, a teasing smile forming on her face with every ghostly step. She was toying with him just to see his reaction. If he couldn’t handle her misbehaviour now, how would he cope later down the line?

The pair walked silently through the halls for a few moments, her steps zig zagging just to see if he would mimic them, which he did. Raphael knew what she was doing, but he was enjoying the challenge her presence demanded. Dolly circled around to sit back down on the balcony outside, making sure to seat herself at the chair her red bodied acquaintance was on moments before. “What was that?” He sighed, taking the opposite seat.

“What was what?”

“The adventure you just took me on in my own home”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about”

“You’re infuriating, little dove”

“Thankyou.”

The pair sat there with Raphael’s offer hanging heavy in the air. There was no longer the expectation for an immediate answer after Dolly’s playful reaction forced patience. More drinks began to flow and so did the conversation. In no time at all they were onto the next bottle, sharing stories of past revelry and horror, Dolly’s giggles awoke something in Raphael that he had never felt or experienced before, his deeply buried human side rearing it’s long neglected head at her enthusiasm. The more she spoke, the more the devil appreciated her deranged sense of humour, “There was this farming family, who lived just outside of Baldurs Gate, that had been knowingly selling diseased lamb meat to poor families and making them sick” she mused, drawing Raphael into the story, “so I get hired as a farm hand right? I polymorph his wife and children into sheep, mark them for culling, and I’ll never forget the look on his face as their mangled bodies fell out of the mincer. He only realised what had happened once he found a toe and a wedding ring! That was all that was left” she howled with laughter. Raphael chuckled to himself at the depravity of it all, fixated by how sick she was. By now he was utterly besotted with her, silently hoping that she would agree to his request willingly. He couldn’t help but notice the way her hair cascaded down her shoulders so fluidly, how her eyes radiated warmth despite being the most cold blooded killer he’d ever met, the way her smile made dimples appear in her cheeks. She was an image of delight. Lost in thought staring at her, he was only brought back to reality when she spoke again. “As lovely as it is out here, I wish I could put my feet up”. As quick as the words left her mouth he snapped his fingers, an eternal debtor crawling on their hands and knees ready to be used as a footstool. “Aw, how sweet” Dolly smiled, taking the opportunity to use them accordingly with a contented exhale.

Hours passed in merry and flirty conversation, wine still being shared between them in a constant steady flow. Eventually, Raphael noticed the ‘footstool’ peeking up Dolly’s dress, “my my, you fool. Don’t you know what this Little Dove does to creatures like you?” He tutted, but Dolly cut him off before he could take the exchange further. “Hm I don’t mind, the poor thing can look and toss and turn all night thinking about it” she sighed dismissively, waving her free hand. Raphael, however, was not satisfied with this response, “No. Nobody in this house of hope should be seeing what’s underneath those pretty little garments of yours” he hissed, “except for me, of course”. This statement made Doll’s heart flutter in her chest, her desire for him deepening at the very suggestion. The so called ‘footstool’ let out a whimper as Raphael stole the luxury of his sight, blinding him for the rest of eternity in one swift motion. To Dolly, it was one of the most romantic acts she’d ever witnessed. “Who’s to say you’ll be seeing me out of my ‘pretty little garments’ hm?” She teased, blowing Raphael a kiss with a wink. “Will I not be?” He chuckled, anticipating a cocky response but being met with an unexpected sincerity as his little dove brought her glossy lips up to his ear, leaning across the table to give a clear shot of her cleavage that made him stir. “You will if you play your cards right” she purred, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple before retreating back to her normal sitting position. Momentarily, the devil was tongue tied. He’d never been lost for words before, for a second he thought he might be dying. For some reason, the only words he could muster were “do you like art?” He kicked himself at his sudden awkwardness, trying to regain composure as he continued “I saw you admiring my paintings earlier. If you like art, I have a whole gallery waiting to be explored. Some of the pieces are nearly as beautiful as you”. Good save. He could finally breathe again. He held out his arm, an invitation for Dolly to hold it like she had done before, an invitation she gladly accepted as they leisurely began to stroll to the gallery, passing a multitude of lost souls along the way. His arms were firm and hot to the touch, and she was close enough to smell the brimstone, musk and cherry scent on his infernal skin. The aroma of cherries overpowered her senses, she wondered if he tasted like them too. Not that she was going to bite him of course, though the thought did cross her mind, and she was curious to see if licking up his cock would be a fruity treat. She shook off the sin quickly, but not quick enough for it to pass by Raphael undetected. “Shouldn’t you be admiring the artwork, Little Dove?” He smirked. “I thought I was” she retorted innocently.

Wandering around the gallery was a spectacle of flashy paintings, iconic sculptures that had mysteriously ‘vanished’ decades ago, classic weapons used in historical battles. It was truly a sight to behold, a luxurious experience reserved only for those held in high regard by the charming devil. If this was his way of wooing Dolly, it was certainly working, especially when she saw an organised pile of bones labelled ‘Mistress of The Night’s first kill: the remains’, as she looked upon it she felt a sense of nostalgia and turned her head to look over at Raphael, a hint of bashfulness upon his sharp features as if he had forgotten it was there. “Didn’t realise you were a fan” she giggled, finishing off the last of her wine and stepping over to him with reverent ardour that made him visibly loosen. “I’d kiss you if I could reach” she quipped, their height difference making it impossible for their heads to align even when Dolly stood on her tippy toes. Without a word the towering devil in front of her got down on one knee in one graceful motion and pulled her into a deep, hungry kiss. Tongues fighting for dominance and the taste of alcohol strong on their lips. The flavour lingered long after they parted, sending waves of desire coursing through them both at a dangerous velocity. They stared into one another’s eyes for a moment longer than necessary, their need to explore each other unspoken yet painfully apparent. Dolly grabbed his head and dragged him down for another kiss, this one even hungrier and messier than before as she let out a soft moan against his lips, silently begging for him to take her there and then. He was no mind reader, but he knew exactly what she was thinking because he was thinking it too, his desire for her had long since reached its boiling point. The hours of shared laughter echoed in his head as he replayed every interaction again and again. If he didn’t act now he felt as if he would explode. In an elegant swoop, Raphael lifted Dolly up, her arms comfortably looping around his neck like they’d done this a million times before. He marched her over to the bedroom, ordering Haarlep to entertain himself elsewhere with a deep, commanding tone.

The succubus abided with a curious look in its eye. The master of the house didn’t entertain guests this way, he got Haarlep to entertain them instead. Raphael never slept with anyone except himself. But truth be told the devil had grown bored of it, he just hadn’t liked anyone else enough to change that. He therefore put in minimal effort, often leading to Haarlep calling him a bad lay when in reality he was just lazy. Sleeping with Haarlep was just self pleasure with extra steps, he thought. Tonight, it was time for someone new. Someone he hoped would join him time and time again. Someone of which he could never bore of.

“I will not lie to you. It’s been a while since I’ve touched the flesh of a real woman” he stated matter of factly, not as a display of shyness but as if to explain his slight uncoordination in regards to Doll’s lack of tail, wings and horns. She sat on the edge of the bed as Raphael unlaced her dress extremely carefully, his claws only catching her back when it was intentional. Every touch made her melt under the warmth of his skin, every slow movement of his hands undressing her felt like foreplay in itself. The fabric fell off her body delicately, revealing a figure made for the indulgence of Gods, or Devils in this case. She spun around to face him, his expression a picture of pure joy as he took in the view, pupils blown like a drug trip. His breathing hitched as she crawled her way up the bed, pushing him down backwards to sit straddling his big, muscular frame. Her hands shook with excitement as he began unbuttoning his shirt, then the rest of his clothes, removing the pieces one by one until he lay bare beneath her. Cock already solid. Begging to be used.

“I’ve never lay with a devil before, can I use your horns like handlebars while I ride you?” She asked expectantly, her request making Raphael’s eyes widen in anticipation. “You most certainly can and should”.

They went at it for hours, cumming over and over again in unison, their thirst for one anothers bodies seemingly unquenchable. That was, until Dolly physically couldn’t it handle anymore. She had taken him roughly and deeply, and felt hollowed out by the end of their final session. Her body now decorated in bite marks and bruises.

“Oh dear, what a mess we’ve made of you my Little Dove” his words were velvety and smooth, spoken between kisses trailing from her shoulder to temple. “I simply can’t let you sleep like this” his words brushed over her as he got up from the bed, carrying her exhausted frame over to a large bath in the centre of the room where he slowly lowered both of their beaten bodies. As the water touched her skin she felt the familiar tingle of healing magic, a much welcomed relief to her aching bones. “Fuck that feels good” she breathed, settling in to Raphaels arms with no difficulty at all. Much to her surprise, aftercare was second nature to him, proudly caressing her as he worked soap around her limbs, allowing her to completely relax as he took control of the moment. The entire night had been astonishing, a tale bards would sing about for eons to come if they heard of it. Two heartless beings, well and truly intoxicated by one another’s existence. Twin flames burning like hellfire.

Raphael noticed Dolly nearly drift off into a deep meditation at his touch, a fact that made his once stone heart pound like a war drum in his chest. “Come, let us rest” he lulled, guiding her out of the bath and drying her off, the temptation to once again have his way with her bubbling beneath the surface as he moved. He told himself that there would be other nights to enjoy such pleasures, but truthfully he was still unsure if she would agree to work with him. A possibility that stung deep inside his core, but one he would reluctantly accept if that was her wish. Dolly smiled up at him as he carried her to the bed again, placing her onto the soft feathered mattresses like she was the most precious thing in existence. He wondered if anyone had ever seen this side of her before, he was certain that nobody had seen this side of him. She was a brutal, relentless murder machine, yet here she lay angelic. He climbed in next to her, enveloping her in his colossal wings, craving to feel every part of her body against his hot flesh.

“I think I’m going to enjoy our partnership” she confessed barely above a whisper, half conscious as sleep welcomed her in. Raphael’s sharp toothed smile immediately lit up his face hearing these words, but he could not express his true feeling of conquest without threatening to disturb her peaceful form. Instead, he simply let out a low growl and pulled her even closer, revelling in the feeling of acceptance and relief, breathing in her scent like a drug.

🍒 I fucking LOVED writing this! Let me know if you want more Raphael or a part 2 please 🍒

[echo-goes-mmm]

Moonflower #3

Masterpost

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Warnings: fear of non-con (brief) 

He was already awake when the knock came. Kit opened the door.

“Her Majesty wishes you to join her for dinner,” said the servant.

“Yes, sir.” Kit closed the door behind him. A guard was posted nearby, and how long had he been there?

He followed the servant, keeping his eyes down. There were so many people in the halls, and all the eyes on him made him feel even smaller than usual.

It was a good thing he had time to nap, because the walk was long. He couldn’t keep track of all the turns and staircases.

Eventually they came to a large room with a long table, not unlike the ones at revels. But instead of being laden with food and wine, it was very nearly empty. Only a white lace tablecloth and a candelabra at the very end, along with two place settings. 

Mistress was sitting at the head, and she gestured for him to sit at her right.

He obeyed.

“I thought we’d start off simple, with four courses.”

Kit didn’t understand what she was talking about, but he nodded along.

“This is your soup spoon” she pointed, “and then we move to the salad fork. Followed by the entree utensils, and then dessert.” Oh. Four dishes. That made sense.

“Yes, Mistress.” he looked down at the cutlery on the table. Silver, by the looks of it. 

“If you forget which one to use, just work your way in. Any questions?” He better ask, so he wouldn’t get punished so badly when he messed up.

“What if I can’t remember which one I just used?” If four courses was simple, what was complicated?

“You leave the utensils on the plate, and the servants will take it away when you’re finished. Now, do as I do.”

Kit copied the way she unfolded her cloth napkin, placing it just as she did.

Two servants came through the doors from what smelled like the kitchen. One with a crystal pitcher of water and the other with a bottle of wine.

“Tonight we have butternut squash soup, a seasonal salad with a honey vinaigrette, balsamic glazed lamb shank with white bean purée, and a honey yogurt panna cotta with blood orange sauce.” rattled off the servant while she poured them water. 

Shit. There was honey in two of the four planned dishes. Were they trying to get him drunk?

“Chef has picked out a white wine with notes of pear.” The servant with the wine uncorked the bottle, and held it near Iris for her to sniff. 

“Excellent. Thank you, Percy.” Percy poured her a glass, and turned to Kit.

“Wine?” he asked.

They didn’t know. Kit glanced at the queen, who was swirling her glass. He nodded, unsure if it would offend her to decline. 

He’d just have to avoid the honey as much as possible, and drink the wine. It smelled… alright. Almost like faerie wine if he ignored the bitter acrid scent.

Maybe it tasted better than it smelled.

The servants left, leaving the pitcher, and he hesitantly took a sip of water. Blessed water, clean and cool.

Kit avoided gulping it down, as it was clear this was an etiquette lesson, and making a fool of his mistress would have terrible consequences.

Instead, he sipped it slowly before putting the chalice back in its exact place. Not a hair off.

Percy came back, two steaming bowls of soup perfectly balanced on his tray. He placed each one in front of them, Iris first, and then him before leaving.

“I informed the chef to make all of your food without salt, and in copper pans instead of steel,” said the queen. 

“Thank you, Mistress.”

“Iris, when it's just us.”

“Yes, Iris.”

The soup was delicious. Kit wasn’t much of a cook himself; preferring to hunt and forage over the effort of building a fire and such. Of course, at this point any meal would taste fantastic. He copied the specific way she ate, keeping the spoon from clinking against the delicate china.

Soon they were finished, and Percy whisked away the bowls and replaced them with the next course.

“You don’t speak much, do you?”

Kit hesitated. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Queen Iris picked up her salad fork. “Do I frighten you?”

“Yes.” What was the point of all this? What did she want from him that required intimate knowledge of forks?

He took a bite of the salad; he no longer cared about the honey.

“I don’t mean to,” she said. “Really, I don’t.” There was that casualness again, but she was stiff. Like the servants were listening in and she didn’t want to be caught.

“Okay.” 

She smiled at him, and then suddenly smoothed her expression, reaching for her wine.

Was it an accident, or more manipulation? Either way, the result was the same. If she was kind to him to achieve her own ends, that was still kindness. He’d take it, and use it to his ends.

“What do you want with me?” Kit asked.

“We’ll discuss that later, when we're alone.”

His insides squirmed at the potential implications, and he ate to cover his discomfort. The honey was getting to him a little, more than it would if he weren’t so sick. 

Percy brought in the lamb. “Would you care for more wine, your grace?”

“Ah, no thank you Percy.”

Percy turned to Kit, and he shook his head. He hadn’t touched his wine glass yet.

The lamb was tender and made his mouth water in between bites.

“Your chef is very good,” he said, surprising himself. Damn honey.

“Isn’t she?” said Iris, her posture relaxing. “I’m quite fond of her. Between you and me, I think she’s trying to impress you.”

“Oh?” 

“Lamb is usually for special occasions or on request.” 

“She doesn’t need to do that. I don- didn’t- often cook anyway.” 

“Well don’t tell Christine that. I could do with a little spoiling.” winked Iris.

Dessert came too soon, with more honey on his plate. Kit already felt a little flush. He couldn’t afford to be rude, so he took a small bite of the dessert. The taste of oranges blossomed on his tongue, the perfect balance of tart and sweet.

Just for a moment, it reminded him of home.

The honey relaxed him, tension leaving his shoulders and flowing out of him. His head was pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.

Luckily for him, the mortal wine seemed to have the same effect on his mistress.

They finished the meal, and the queen stood. “Come,” she said. “We’ll talk more in my rooms.”

taglist: @paintedpigeon1

[under-the-aspen-tree]

A Moth To You (Chapter 4 - Spiders and Snakes) Aegon II Targaryen x (Bastard Velaryon) Reader

Series Summary: After a year travelling abroad, you have been called home to Kingslanding by your mother, Rhaenyra. Turns out your family has grown in your time apart. Word Count: 2.8k

Your mind was swirled with wine by the time you got back to your apartments, hot and exhausted. Your meal had taken three courses, and you were unable to leave until Alicent deemed it so. The dinner was not long by any means, but you were tired, embarrassed, and entirely furious by the time you stormed out. Jace had offered you his guidance to your chambers, but you had brushed him off politely, telling him you would like a moment of solitude. It seemed he more than understood, likely having needed to cool down himself.

You were decisively less gentle with your handmaidens when they came rushing to your doors to unpin your hair and prepare you for bed. 

"I can do both just fine, thank you," You had told them through gritted teeth. You couldn't be absolutely certain, but you had a notion that they had dressed you purposefully. You had given the girls full reigns over your appearance tonight, worrying your time away from court had you at a disadvantage with the trends of Westeros. Green was a clear sign across the Seven Kingdoms; War with Oldtown. Regardless of their disposition, whether the decision had been biased or not, you did not trust the girls in your service any longer. You had managed just fine in your time away, and you would continue to do so.

As soon as you entered your rooms, you tore the retched dress off and stood in only your undergarments for a while, drinking wine from a chalice left in your chambers in your absence. The embers had long gone out, and Kingslanding's nights neft a cool chill in the air, but your own shame and fury warmed you from the inside out. When you looked upon yourself in the mirror, you saw a woman half mad, with wild eyes and red cheeks in her nakedness.

It should have shaken you, how much a single night in Westeros had undone you. During your year away you had been carefree and gentle, always a laugh away from delighted. Now, after a single night in these lands, you were furious and ashamed. You could not leave the night as it was.

Perhaps it was how much you had to drink, though you felt tipsy more than you did drunk, but you made quick work of finding a dress from your wardrobe; silver as the moon, and cool against your skin. You left your hair pinned and slipped from your chambers during the hour of the bat, blood cold as ice and heart hammering against your chest. You would put this to right, damned be your manners.

The hallways of the Red Keep were silent as a mouse, only the distant twitters of mice reaching your ears. The occasional guard roamed past your vision, but you paid them no heed. You were well within your rights to walk these walls, you were a Princess, no matter how long you had spent in distant lands.

You came to his chamber doors quicker than imagined, having walked there without so much as a second thought given to directions. Though your brain was slightly muddled by time and drink, your bones knew where to go, and your legs where to take them. With no guards in view, you resigned yourself to knocking, knowing that the men of the realm often kept weaponry in their possession, and would not take kindly to an uninvited guest at such an hour.

Aegon came to the door quickly, hair dishevelled and a scowl upon his face at being disturbed, but it disappeared upon meeting your eyes. His expression melted into one of confusion, then of cockiness as his violet eyes travelled from your own to the silver of your dress swaying in the breeze from the windows. Saying not a word, still drinking in your appearance, he opened the door.

You had never been inside the Prince's chambers, only to stand beside them in your youth, though you were certain they were only this tidy due to the help of a serving girl. The bed was a pristine white and gold, his curtains not yet drawn. Beside them stood a lavish table of deep oak, two plush chairs, and a vase of wine between them. The fire was but a pit of embers; It seemed that Aegon, too, preferred the cold tonight.

You could scarcely keep your words within, whirling before Aegon had even gotten the door closed, looking up at him with glimmering ashes in your eyes.

"I have not been back a day and you are already conducting yourself in such a manner." Your voice was a snarl, completely unlike that which you spoke at the table, a manner entirely unladylike. If Aegon was shocked at your change in tone, he did not show it, sneering at you as he cocked his head.

"And what manner would that be?" He drawled, shifting as strands of silver swept across his eyes. A pale hand came up to push them back. His hair had defied the oils he had used to keep it at bay, and wavy locks layered about his face.

"A vile one." Your voice was a low hiss, spitting out the words with fire on your tongue. Aegon grinned, flashing pearly white teeth, though the cracks in his lips were stained an Arbour red.

"Your family has welcomed you to Kingslanding, must I share in the same festivities?"

"No, I would even prefer if you didn't," Your words were scalding, and you were brought into an even greater fury as Aegon crossed past you slowly. His shirt was unbuttoned by a few notches, his belt discarded beside the bed. "But to conduct yourself in such a shameful manner, to-to dishonour my brothers and I-"

"Dishonour you?" Aegon turned for a moment, looming above you, looking down from those lilac eyes with a near-sarcastic smile gracing his lips. "Why, Princess, I only spoke the truth."

Your fingers trembled from where you held them at your sides, blood running cold as ice at his words. Your vision was as red as the glimmering ashes in his heath, your words pure steel. "You are a blasphemy to the face of the Targaryen name."

"As are you."

His own voice was equally cold, drained of the amusement still held beneath his eyes. His hand now played upon his chalice, fingers skirting the rim of the silver cup. "Do not forget yourself in this matter, (Y/N), your ferocity only proves it." You stepped after him, furious at his attempts at being casual at such a time. "You are truly your father's daughter."

His lips moved to the syllables, but you heard only one. Bastard. You had skirted the words for a year, been adored for a month; Lords and Ladies had not dared to utter it in your presence. The time spent had left you proud and quick to tempter. Heat rose up your neck, and you understood suddenly why Luke had lifted a blade against Aemond all those years ago in Driftmark.

"I dare you to say that again." There was pure fire in your eyes now as you spoke. The fire of the Targaryens and the brutal, crashing waves of the Velaryons. You could not have it said otherwise. You were a Valyrian pure, Blood of The Dragon, a beast in disguise. 

"A year apart and you are still so much like your brothers." Aegon laughed, throwing himself back into his chair as he pulled his chalice to his lips, skirting the cold edge along soft flesh. The action gave you goosebumps, as though you were intruding upon a tender moment. You were reminded strangely of the Valyrian traditions, of slicing open the mouth with Dragonstone and sharing your blood with another, "A shame truly. I meant what I said you to this evening, green really is your colour."

It had left you tired, this meeting, this bizarre likeness brought to mind. Suddenly, you were not sure why you stood here, forcing an argument when you could have gone to bed and dwelled on your thoughts. Perhaps his cruel words had sobered you.

"Why do you hate me so?" You finally mustered, weaker than you meant to be. Aegon downed his cup and went to refill it, ignoring your moment of weakness and, in doing so, the dragon was awoken

once more. This hot and cold, this ridiculous game of chess, left you confused and hurt and angry to your very core. In a second of thoughtlessness, of pride, you staggered forward and ripped the cup from his hand, relishing in the look of pure shock on his face as cool wine slipped down your fingers. Finally, an emotion beyond arrogance or mindless cruelty. 

It was not long you held your victory though, for Aegon's face morphed from shock to complete fury in a blink. You had never seen that look on his face but for once, and even then it was not so terrifying. His lilac eyes melted into cold, sharp steel as he threw his hand against the table, standing so quickly you stumbled back. His hands came down hard upon your shoulder and wrist, your vision blurring as he spun you with strength you did not perceive him to have. The chalice fell tumbling from your grip as your arm hit the wall, stinging ferociously as the silver twanged against the floor. Wine exploded from the cup, staining the silver of your gown and the black of his boots as it spilt dark red against the stone ground.

"I don't hate you, Princess." 

Aegon's words were seething and you were suddenly terrified. You had not realised how much he had grown until now. A year ago his growth spurt had not yet hit, and you rejoiced in the opportunity to look down at the Prince. Now, he utterly devoured you. His frame was looming, his face nearly pressed against yours as he glared down with nothing but distaste. You tried to cower further into the wall, but the cold, jagged stone was relentless against your back.

"I abhor you."

His grip was crushing against your bones and you were doing all that you could not to yelp in pain. His arms were shaking with the force he used to keep you in place, or perhaps his anger, but his face was utterly calm. You had jested in days past that Aegon and his brother were nothing but green boys, drunk on power and prestige, but this man was utterly terrifying. Tears danced in your eyes, emotions swirling in your chest and stomach and throat; loathing, disgrace, humiliation, fear. With the last of your strength, you pushed back with all your might, though you knew it was not your own strength, but the Prince relenting in his grip, that had him stumbling back. 

Your steps were so quick you were almost in a run by the time you hit the door, palms slamming into the wood as you did your best to disguise your tears. Aegon did not move from his place, content with the distance you put between you both, but picked up his fallen cup and sat back down against his chair, refilling his wine. You could not leave like this, disgraced from his chambers as he sat cooly with his drinks. You said the first thing that came to mind.

"It would do you well to remember whose mother and brother are heirs to the iron throne." Your voice betrayed your previous terror, still shaking and jumping with the notch in your throat. It burned hot against your flesh.

"Go back to Pentos, Princess. It suits you better." You slammed the door before he could do so much as look at you, brushing angry tears from your cheeks as your wet gown dragged against the floor.

An hour had passed and you had still not returned to your chambers, having found a quiet place in the Red Keep. Your skin burned against the cold of the night, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion, and yet you did not seek rest. Your heart had not yet calmed, still beating ferociously within your chest as you started at the grounds in your silence. It was peaceful here, at this hour, deep and blue and quiet. It left you to your thoughts and, if you closed your eyes, you could almost imagine a colder night in Pentos. Even in the moonlight, it was still warm there, but it stilled your mind to pretend for a moment. You had wandered to halls for a while, hoping the walk would leave you time to debate your thoughts, but the endless stream of guards had you seeking solitude. So now you stood, overlooking a balcony that beheld the gardens on a floor that housed nobody, wishing you were anybody but yourself.

"I trust you are enjoying your time spent back here." You did not hear the man approaching, but Daemon's voice was as cold as the night and relieving to your ponderous mind.

Your voice was scratchy from a while of crying, and you had to cough to sound somewhat like yourself, refusing to look his way lest he see the red that marked your eyes. "As well as I can be."

"Yes, it really is a shit hole, isn't it?" His words startled you into a giggle, ever a reprieve in the misery of Kingslanding. You had forgotten his rash manners at court. It was what you liked about Daemon, his unwillingness to exert himself for others, to abide by the rules. He was utterly himself and your mother had always loved him for it. 

You were both quiet for a moment, enjoying the peace of this tranquil spot you had found, before you ignored your years of lessons in etiquette for a second time this night, speaking from your own heart. Perhaps this year apart had made you selfish.

"If tensions are so high, why not leave as mother did after Joffreys birth?" You questioned, turning to look at him. His white gold hair blew in the gentle breeze of the gardens and you noticed a cup gleaming in the moonlight in his hand. He looked down, contemplating for a moment, before speaking.

"The Kingdom is too unstable. If we were to abandon our positions in Kingslanding your mother's birthright could slip through the cracks."

You nodded, sighing through your nose as you bit the corner of the cheek, wishing for a cup of your own. "By cracks you mean the queen," You assumed. Daemon hummed in response, swirling his wine for a moment before throwing it down into the darkness below you. 'A waste,' you thought, bitterly.

"You're a smart girl." He said, finally turning to look at you through eyes that were almost an icy blue, if not for the flecks of Valyrian purple. "You have managed to wrap the seven kingdoms around your finger, you have friends in the right places- more so than your mother, and more than our benevolent Queen." He said the title with a sneer, rolling his shoulders as he stepped away from the balcony. "Be weary, Princess. You wield more power than you know."

You scrunched your nose at the thought, thinking of the weight behind his words. He most likely spoke of you as a bargaining chip, to be married off at your mother's or the king's will to unite the Targaryens with one house or another. You knew the day had awaited you, but when you thought of marriage you imagined the steel ferocity of Cregan Stark, or the soft eyes of Illestrio, miles away in Pentos. 

"Spiders and snakes lay in wait around us, tread lightly," Daemon confused you now, eliciting a frown. It was the second time this eve you had thought of that phrase. "They will bite at your ankles at the first opportunity."

He made a point of looking down at your skirts, where the wine had dried into a running red stain at the hem of your dress, and your cheeks flushed. He gave you no time to defend yourself though, and it seemed he did not expect it of you, as he walked into the darkness of the corridors that brought him back to his chambers. 

You leaned back against the balcony for a moment, but the silence suddenly felt lonely without his presence, and your spine stung against the cold stone where Aegon's jagged walls had bitten into your flesh only an hour ago. When you left to return to your chambers and threw your silver dress to the floor to join the green, you could not see the wine any longer. It was the thought of blood on your silks that had you shivering naked in your bed, the blood that came with a snake's poisoned bite.

[dollivication]

CULT LEADER V MAKING U DRINK HIS BLOOD!1!!! hes.. hes into a bit of cannibalism too.. its like peak intimacy to him… pls i need ur thoughts on this one hes sick icky and REALLY crazy i need him so bad ૮꒰◞ ˕ ◟ ྀི꒱ა light gore nsfwish v i lovyu

— 🍓

cw…!! dr,., drink the blood chalice,,,

IM FUCKINH CRYINH but on a realer note i dew think he tends to spread the influence of “eating/drinking your loved ones” because it “connects two souls” or “makes you become one”.. laik yes king encourage cannibalism and bloodshed!!!

that being said hes a firm believer of his own teachings LMFAO… so i’m afraid the pic is /srs because this Freak wil have yu drink his blood from those historic gothic looking chalices… most likely even licks any residue off your lips,..

for cannibalism.. okay please stand by as i infodump like a little nerd….. it’s a traditional belief in some places that the left arm is closest to the heart… laik even inuHhH ancient egpyt this belief existed, where they thought a vein in the fourth left finger linked to the heart. it was called the vena amoris. that sillay myth is why we put wedding rings on that specific finger :3

SO i would laik to think v would focus on feeding you bits of his left arm instead of any other body part.. it’s as romantic as you can get, as intimate as humanly possible! and naturally he would do the same to you! cutting off tiny pieces of yur left arm to consume with a glass of your blood on the side<3

don’t eva join no cult, let alone v’s… the girl dinners are human flesh and blood i fear (◞‸◟)