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kallie-den · 20 days ago

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Faithful to the Source Material

Laura and Carmen turn the tables on their homophobic bully by hypnotizing her to act like the lesbian vampire she’s dressed up as for Halloween… but will things get out of hand?

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Vicky had gone all-out with her Halloween costume. From the bottom of her heart, Laura detested the bully, but she had to hand it to her for that.

Vicky wasn’t one to half-commit. She had even dyed her hair jet black to match her gothic, lacy, corseted dress—complete with high collar, chest cut-out, and long, flowing sleeves—and the black gemstones in her earrings and on her necklace. Her makeup was just as on-point; deathly pale powder, not just on her face but all the way down her neck and across her chest, plus viciously dark, shadowy eyes, carefully accentuated cheekbone shadows, and rich, crimson lipstick. She was even wearing deep red color contacts. But the cherry on top of the cake was, of course, her fangs. Laura knew they had to be fake, but they certainly looked real enough when the way Vicky’s malevolent smirk pulled back her lips made them visible.

She really did make for a perfect vampire.

It was the best Halloween costume Laura and her girlfriend, Carmen, had seen all night. It was striking and gorgeous, and high-quality enough to almost seem real without sacrificing that fun hint of Halloween tackiness. And as much as it pained Laura to admit it, the vampire getup made Vicky look unbelievably, irresistibly hot.

It was just such a shame that Vicky was a mean, bullying, irredeemable, homophobic piece of shit.

And that she had decided to spend her Halloween ruining Laura and Carmen’s night.

“Wow,” Vicky drawled, as she stood in the doorway and regarded Laura and Carmen with a sadistic, disgusted glare. “I didn’t realize they let dykes into this party.”

Laura flinched. She loved that word, and hated the way Vicky made it sound like something shameful.

“Christ, Vicky,” Carmen groaned, a furious scowl on her face. “You know it’s not nineteen-fifty anymore, right? Just leave us alone.”

“I’d love to,” Vicky retorted. “But if someone doesn’t keep you freaks in your place, the whole sorority house is gonna end up smelling like rug-muncher. Ew.”

Laura surreptitiously tugged at Carmen’s sleeve. “Maybe we should just go?” she whispered.

Of the two of them, Carmen had always been the most inclined to actually stand up to Vicky and her bigotry. Laura wished she found it as easy to be so brave—but tonight, in particular, she’d been hoping for nothing more than a fun, relaxed, festive night with her girlfriend. Now that it had already been ruined, she couldn’t find it in herself to want to stay.

It was especially discouraging that this was exactly what Laura had worried would happen when the two of them had made up their minds to go to that year’s big sorority Halloween party. It was sure to be a blast—but Vicky was sure to be there. She was in the sorority, after all. In the end, Carmen had persuaded Lauren that the sorority house would be huge and packed, and that Vicky would have better things to do. Besides, what other time of year did you get to enjoy dressing up as creeps and ghouls?

Apparently, they wouldn’t get to enjoy it at this time of year either.

When she had accidentally locked eyes with Vicky across the room, Laura had immediately dragged Carmen upstairs to one of the private bedrooms reserved for hook-ups, hoping that Vicky would soon lose track of them and forget about them. No such luck. She’d tracked them upstairs like a bloodhound—and here they were.

“What are you two lesbos supposed to be dressed as, anyway?” Vicky snorted, stepping into the bedroom. “A nerd, and… a cartoon mom?”

“A… huh?” Carmen blinked, incredulous. “I’m a mad scientist. I figured it was pretty obvious.”

It was. Laura’s girlfriend was wearing a distinctly singed white lab coat, with big eye-protection goggles up on her forehead, her hair wild, and an assortment of measuring instruments and test tubes placed carefully throughout the costume. Personally, Laura was having a great time seeing her psychology student girlfriend really lean into the vibe.

“And I’m the bride of Frankenstein,” Laura put in. She thought she’d done pretty well with her costume—not just the dress and face paint, but the hair too.

“OK.” Vicky stared at her like she’d just told her that the sky was orange. “So… why the stupid hair?”

Laura blinked. “Like… the movie?”

Vicky just went on staring, nonplussed.

“Look,” Carmen said, standing up from the bed the two lesbians had been perched on. “Can’t you just leave us alone, Vicky? Just for one night? This is ridiculous.”

Their college was in a pretty conservative state; finding people who were bothered by Laura and Carmen’s sexualities and their relationship wasn’t all that hard. But mostly, those small-minded idiots restrained themselves to some mean looks and the silent treatment. Only Vicky had made it her business to follow the two of them wherever they went and make their lives miserable. It was as if nothing made her happier. At least this time she didn’t have her usual gaggle of followers along for the ride.

“Oh, trust me, I have plenty better things to do.” Vicky folded her arms and smirked. “But I just had to see how the two of you decided to fuck up Halloween. I guess it really is true what they say: dykes have no style.”

For some reason, the comments about their costumes were what was causing Laura’s temper to flare. “Oh yeah?” she shot back. “And what about you? A slutty vampire? Jeez, how creative!”

Vicky bristled but didn’t lose her cool. “Vampires are iconic,” she retorted smugly. “They never go out of fashion. Nobody needs to guess what I am. Vampires are peak Halloween. Peak horror. Everybody knows that.”

“Ugh. What do you know?” Laura replied furiously. She and Carmen both loved horror—and she knew perfectly well that Vicky didn’t. She was nothing more than a poser. To her, Halloween was nothing more than an excuse to dress up in a way that had the frat boys drooling over her even more than usual. “About lesbians, about Halloween, about vampires—or about anything else.”

“Vampires drink blood, they can’t go out in the sun, and they’re scared of crosses.” Vicky counted her points off on her fingers as she made them. “It’s not that hard, genius.”

“Actually,” Carmen put in. “There’s a lot more to vampires than just that. A whole lot of folklore that most people don’t know the first thing about.”

Laura threw her a look. Unusually, Carmen didn’t sound mad. She sounded like she was up to something.

“Whatever.” Vicky shrugged. “That sounds boring. This is a party, you know? I guess dykes don’t know how to have fun either.”

“It’s actually a lot more interesting than you might think,” Carmen continued. The hairs on the back of Laura’s head stood up when she recognized the tone of voice her girlfriend was slipping into. “Modern vampires are based on legends, and the roots of those legends still shape our modern perceptions. For example, you know the count from Sesame Street? His obsession with numbers is actually rooted in vampire folklore.”

“Huh.” The look on Vicky’s face was still utterly hostile but it was clear that despite herself, she was interested. It helped, of course, that Carmen’s voice was so easy to listen to.

“You see, according to folklore,” Carmen went on, “vampires feel compelled to count things. A traditional way to ward off a vampire was to scatter grains around the entrance of a house. The vampire would need to count them all before entering, and would end up burning up when the sun rose.”

“That’s stupid,” Vicky said guardedly.

“Maybe,” Carmen admitted, smiling. “But I wonder if it would work on you. After all, you’re clearly so in character.”

Vicky scoffed. “Of course it wouldn’t. That’s really stupid.”

“You’d be surprised,” Carmen told her with provocative confidence. “Take it from me, as a psych student: the urge to count is already natural and sometimes, the way we dress can deeply influence our thoughts and behaviors. I bet you wouldn’t be able to resist.”

“You bet, huh?” Vicky suddenly grinned. “Fine. OK. Sure. Let’s bet. Try out your stupid anti-vampire trick on me. If it works, I’ll give you a pass for the night. If it doesn’t, the two of you lesbos have to leave us normal people to party in peace.”

“You’re on,” Carmen was grinning too. “Should be easy for you. All you have to do is keep your head.”

“Bring it!” Vicky said savagely.

Laura wasn’t surprised she was taking the challenge. Vicky was just that arrogant. She was surprised, however, by what Carmen was trying to pull.

“Babe,” she said quietly. “You sure about this?”

Carmen just winked at her. Laura couldn’t help but find that hot.

“OK, let’s do it like this,” Carmen said to Vicky. “Both of us are going to count—you under your breath, me out loud. I’ll count the Fibonacci sequence. You count back from a hundred in threes.”

“The what sequence?” Vicky demanded impatiently.

Carmen sighed. “You know, each number the sum of the previous two? Like… zero, one, one, two, three, five?”

“More nerd shit?” Vicky sneered. “Fine. Back from a hundred in threes sounds easy. I’m a business major, you know. We do a lot with numbers. How do I win?”

“Easy,” Carmen told her. “All you have to do is make it to zero without being distracted by my count.”

Vicky’s grin widened, showing her fake fangs. “Sounds like you’re practically handing me the win! Well, I won’t complain about the chance to kick a couple of loser dykes out of my sorority house. Fine.”

“Laura,” Carmen said. “Why don’t you count us in?”

Laura was already shivering with anticipation. She knew what was happening. And she knew Carmen was going to win.

“Three,” she counted. “Two. One. Go.”

Immediately, Vicky’s lips started mouthing as she counted out: ‘a hundred, ninety-seven, ninety-four.’ She was moving fast but not rushing; pacing herself, so she didn’t make a mistake. After a moment, Carmen started counting too.

“Zero,” she said, her voice suddenly and unexpectedly soft and song-like. “One. One. Two. Three. Five. You know, the sequence always catches me out a little at first. It’s tricky to remember how it starts. Zero, then one—but one plus zero is one, so there’s another one. And then two, of course. One plus one.”

Vicky’s brow furrowed. Already, her counting was slowing down as her numbers became mixed up with the flow of Carmen’s words.

“Sorry, I’m just rambling,” Carmen assured her. “Silly of me. I’m just giving you extra time, aren’t I?”

Laura couldn’t keep the smile off her face. Vicky clearly suspected Carmen was trying to throw her off. Laura knew her girlfriend was intent on something far more fun.

Hypnotizing her.

It was one of Carmen’s passions, born out of her enduring interest in human psychology. Hypnosis had begun as her research subject and progressed to something she and Laura were exploring privately. Just thinking about some of the creative bedroom uses they’d found for hypnosis made Laura’s cheeks burn. And she knew neither of them had been able to help fantasizing about using hypnosis to give bigots like Vicky their comeuppance.

Now, Carmen was finally giving it a shot.

“Eight,” Carmen counted. Her voice was all but irresistible. Laura knew that from experience. She was struggling not to dip into a trance herself. “Thirteen. Twenty-one. Isn’t it funny, how quickly it starts ramping up? Suddenly, the simple addition is getting a little trickier. Isn’t it hard not to wonder about what comes next, Vicky?”

Vicky was slowly blinking as she fought to concentrate. It was clear that she was torn between wanting to tell Carmen to shut up and wanting to try to ignore her completely. Caught on the horns of that dilemma, Vicky was unable to stop herself from following along with Carmen’s count. From doing the very same math Carmen was distracting her with.

“Thirty-four,” Carmen went on. Her voice was perfectly, irresistibly hypnotic. “Fifty-five. Eighty-nine. A hundred and forty-four. Isn’t it crazy how it jumps up into three digits? It almost doubles in just one go. Of course, really, it’s not crazy at all. It’s just the sequence following its own simple rule. Completely predictable. Completely natural.”

Vicky was starting to lose her place. Laura could see it. She was in the seventies, but her lip movements as she counted were growing less and less certain. She couldn’t help listening to Carmen.

“Of course, your sequence isn’t like that at all,” Carmen added. “It’s nice and regular—and it goes down, instead of up. That’s important, isn’t it? Down, down, down. Not adding. Subtracting. Getting close and closer to zero, with every number you count.”

“I…” Vicky breathed, before she could stop herself. Then, she simply froze.

“Lost your place?” Carmen suggested. “That’s OK. You can find it again, right? Or maybe you can even start over from scratch. All you need to do is keep going down. Two-hundred and thirty-three. Three-hundred and seventy-seven. Isn’t that a fun pattern? What comes next, Vicky?”

Strangely, Vicky no longer seemed to be struggling to concentrate. It was like the fight had gone out of her. Her lips were still moving, but they formed nothing but weak, addled gasps that went nowhere.

“You don’t know, do you?” Carmen offered. “The numbers are getting higher and lower and longer and shorter, and you’ve lost track. Why don’t you count along with me instead? Six-hundred and ten. Nine-hundred and eighty-seven. Aren’t these numbers getting large?”

Laura couldn’t help but shiver at the way Vicky’s lips started moving purposefully again—only this time, she was following Carmen’s sequence instead of her own, long-forgotten count.

“Oops,” Carmen smirked. “Look at you. You’re going the wrong way, Vicky. You’re all turned around. All confused. Don’t you remember what you’re supposed to be doing?”

Vicky’s brow furrowed. It was like she was trying to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. She was on the verge of falling.

“Why don’t you just relax, instead?” Carmen whispered seductively. “Give up. Relax. It’s only natural, Vicky. When we get overwhelmed, we just want to relax, instead. To let the numbers fade away. To forget our silly little game and just let yourself… drop.”

She imbued that last word with a singular, forceful intonation, and it seemed to hit Vicky like a physical blow. She swayed for a moment before her shoulders slumped and her head dropped down to her chest.

Hypnotized.

“Oh my god,” Laura said in a hushed, excited voice, after a moment of disbelieving silence. “Did it work?”

“Yeah,” Carmen replied, her excitement barely constrained. “Yeah, it did.”

“She’s in a trance,” Laura stated. “We… we could do anything with her.”

“We sure could,” Carmen agreed.

They exchanged looks.

“It would be wrong,” Laura asserted quickly.

“Would it?” Carmen mused.

“Yes!” Laura told her, trying to make herself believe. “I mean… uh… consent, right? Like between us, or in your experiments, or…” She looked at Vicky again. Their bully wasn’t moving. “I… I can’t believe it was that easy.”

“Guess she’s not such a skeptic after all,” Carmen said.

“Huh?”

“Hypnosis is all about the power of belief,” Carmen explained. “Sure, there’s a bunch of psychological tricks—but at the end of the day, belief is what matters most. It’s surprisingly easy to hypnotize someone who truly believes in it.”

“Right…” Laura swallowed. “We should probably wake her up.”

“We will,” Carmen decided. “Eventually.

“Babe…” Laura warned.

“C’mon,” Carmen wheedled. “We’ll just have a little bit of fun. What’s the harm? It’ll be embarrassing for her, at the worst. Doesn’t she deserve at least that?”

Laura couldn’t find it in herself to deny it. “So… what did you have in mind?”

“I think Vicky needs some help finding her Halloween spirit,” Carmen answered a touch menacingly.

Against her better judgment, Laura giggled. “Yeah?”

Carmen took a step toward Vicky and addressed her in a firm, clear voice. “Vicky, listen to me. In a few moments, I’m going to wake you up, and until I say ‘drop’ again, you’re going to be able to think and move and act just like normal. The only difference is that you’re going to realize that, on Halloween, it’s extremely important that you’re completely in character as a vampire, and that all your behavior is perfectly faithful to the source material. Understand?”

“Yes,” Vicky replied. Laura shivered at the utter lack of emotion in her voice.

“Perfect.” Carmen licked her lips. “Then… one, two, three, wake!”

Vicky lifted her head and her eyes flickered open—and at once, she was transformed.

“Well, well, well,” she purred, with an air of menacing theatricality. “What do we have here? A couple of delicious mortals with which I can sate my thirst!”

As one, both Laura and Carmen burst into laughter.

It was, above all, the contrast. Vicky was the kind of girl who would never, ever have allowed herself to commit to the bit so earnestly. But here she was, throwing herself into the role of a silly, campy, evil vampire with shameless abandon; stalking around the sorority house bedroom and leering at the two of them with an arrogant, ravenous glare.

“You laugh,” Vicky hissed, posing and preening like a dark queen. “But soon you shall know the terror of the vampire’s bite!”

Laura’s laughter redoubled. “Oh my god, babe!” she wheezed. “She really went all the way with it, huh?”

“I didn’t realize she had it in her,” Carmen cackled.

Vicky bared her fangs and let out a much louder hiss. “I loathe to stain my fangs with your degenerate filth!” she declared, lifting her hands with her fingers spread apart like talons. “But it will be my pleasure to rid my unholy domain of your stench.”

Laura quickly stopped laughing. “Wow,” she remarked, a touch impressed. “Even as a vampire, she’s completely homophobic.”

“Why don’t we fix that?” Carmen winked at her.

“How dare you!”

Vicky rounded on Carmen and lunged toward her, mouth open, as if to sink her fake, plastic fangs into her neck. But before she could, Carmen started to speak:

“Vicky! Three, two, one… drop.”

At the word ‘drop,’ Vicky slumped once more. In an instant, all that vampiric theatricality was gone, leaving her nothing more than a blank, hypnotized vessel.

Laura hated finding Vicky attractive, in any context. But seeing her like this really was driving her crazy.

“Dropping nice and deep,” Carmen soothed. “Now, Vicky: remember what I told you about being faithful to the source material? You might not know this, but some of the earliest modern literature surrounding vampires—especially female vampires—is actually about lesbians.”

Vicky seemed to stir for a moment, brow furrowing.

“Oh yes,” Carmen lectured. “The book ‘Carmilla’, for instance. It’s a seminal text, truly. You can’t help but be inspired by it.”

“Can’t…” Vicky echoed, her voice a ghost of itself. “Help…”

“That’s right,” Carmen assured her. “You can’t help it. You need to be a lesbian vampire.”

“L… les… bi…?” Now Vicky was really stirring. Her shoulders tensed, and Laura thought for sure that she was on the cusp of waking. “N-no… that’s… ugh.”

“Just think about it,” Carmen urged softly. “It’s not that you’re a lesbian, Vicky. You’re just pretending. Just dressing up. Isn’t that what Halloween’s all about?”

“I… s’pose,” Vicky murmured—a touch suspiciously, but her stirrings were subsiding.

“Of course,” Carmen agreed. “It just makes sense to pretend on Halloween. To pretend to be whatever you’re dressed up as. And since you’re dressed up as a lesbian vampire, that’s what you’ll pretend to be.”

“Yeah…” Vicky slumped again. “Pretend. Lesbian.”

“Uh-huh.” Carmen was determined to press her advantage. “It’s acting, basically. But here’s the thing about acting, Vicky: the best kind is method acting. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s when you totally embrace the role you’re playing, inside and out. It’s when you truly feel it. Right?”

“Right,” Vicky echoed slowly. Her resistance was gone. She was a prisoner of Carmen’s words.

“So,” Carmen concluded. “When I wake you up again, you’ll be a lesbian vampire inside and out. You’ll feel that way. You’ll act that way. You’ll be perfectly faithful to the ideal. Understand?”

“Yes.” Again, Vicky’s voice was devoid of all feeling.

“Perfect.” Carmen took a beat to exchange eager, excited looks with Laura. “Then: one, two, three, wake!”

This time, when Vicky looked open and opened her eyes, Laura and Carmen found themselves in the presence of a very, very different kind of vampire.

“My, my,” Vicky drawled, glancing between Laura and Carmen. “This ought to be a truly delicious night.”

This time, as she started walking around the room, she moved with a distinctly seductive gait, chest held high and hips swaying with each step. Her eyes roamed ravenously over the two lesbians’ bodies, and her voice was thick with a hunger that was as much lust as thirst.

Laura and Carmen started laughing even harder than before.

“Oh my god,” Laura howled, wiping tears from her eyes. “If she could see herself…”

“Told you this was a good idea,” Carmen cackled. She was laughing so hard, she had to rest a hand on a nearby dresser for support.

Surprisingly, Vicky laughed lightly along with them. “You two make a delectable couple,” she declared. “Such complimentary flavors… I can’t wait to savor the taste.”

She opened her mouth, brandishing her cheap, plastic fangs, and then, as she locked eyes with Laura, extended her tongue and stroked it carefully across both pointed tips.

Laura stopped laughing, and a familiar shiver raced down her spine.

She was finding this way, way too hot.

Vicky was hot. As much as Laura wanted to recoil from the thought, there was no use denying it. She had a killer body, and the flashy, gothic vampire getup she was wearing was devastatingly attuned to Laura’s tastes. Normally, the fact that she was a bigot and a bully was more than enough to put Laura off—but now that she was a lesbian vampire, she wasn’t sure she could resist her.

“Tell me, Laura.” As if sensing her weakness, Vicky advanced on her. “Have you ever yearned to be devoured?”

“I… um…” Suddenly, Laura found herself sweating bullets—and she was the one Carmen was giggling at. “That’s… n-no…”

"It sounds perplexing, no?” Vicky was alarmingly close to her now. “But let me let you in on a little secret, mortal: there’s a thrill to be had in being prey.”

The intense, menacing theatricality she poured into that last word made Laura shudder. Carmen was still giggling behind her hand, but Laura could no longer see the funny side. She was too busy wondering how Vicky had figured out that she was the bottom in the relationship.

“Ah, I can see you already feel it.” Before Laura knew what was happening, Vicky had slipped around behind her and was pressed up against her back, the hypnotized girl’s hand cradling her waist. “I can feel your heart beating, Laura. Pumping your veins full of hot, red crimson. Isn’t it intoxicating?”

“Um!” Laura squeaked. She was melting like putty, and it was deathly embarrassing. The worst part was that Vicky was right. She could feel it too. Her heart was pounding with thrilling arousal. “C-Carmen?”

“Shush now,” Vicky whispered. “Her next. We can make it a girls’ night. But you first. I can’t wait to taste every part of you.”

Hearing those words in Vicky’s voice, of all people’s, was doing a number on Laura. It was more than she could handle—especially when Vicky reached up and tipped her unresisting head to one side, and bent in until Laura could feel her breath on her neck.

“C-C-Carmen!” Laura squeaked. She couldn’t take any more of this—and she could tell Vicky wasn’t going to stop.

“OK, OK,” Carmen swiftly stepped in before Vicky’s fangs could meet Laura’s skin. “Vicky. Three, two, one, drop.”

Laura felt the hand on her waist fall away, and she was finally able to slip free of Vicky’s grasp. When she turned to look at the bully, the light in her eyes was gone. Just like before, she was hypnotized.

“O-oh my god,” Laura panted. “That was… uh… um…”

“Hot?” Carmen supplied mischievously.

“Embarrassing!” Laura corrected, blushing fiercely. “I mean, I… that was… with Vicky? No. Nuh-uh. No way.”

“I dunno.” Carmen was still smirking. “It would have been an experience, that’s for sure. And face it: you were into it.”

Laura averted her eyes. “L-let’s just wake her up, yeah? We’ve had our fun.”

“Aw.” Carmen pouted. She looked great when she did that. “No, c’mon. We’re only just getting started. Look, I admit that one got a little out of hand. How about we turn the temperature down a bit?”

“Carmen…” Laura said reprovingly, although she could already feel herself swaying.

“C’mon, babe,” Carmen pleaded. “This is once in a lifetime.”

Laura couldn’t keep the smile from her face. Saying ‘yes’ to her girlfriend was such a delight.

“Fine!” she threw up her hands. “What did you have in mind?”

“Vicky,” Carmen said, addressing the hypnotized bully. “You’re doing good. You’re doing very well, so just keep dropping for me, OK?”

Not a stir. She was completely gone. Laura was in awe of how totally Vicky had fallen under Carmen’s hypnotic power.

“Now, there’s something else you need to start thinking about,” Carmen told Vicky. “You’re a great lesbian vampire, but if you really want to be faithful to the source material, we need to start thinking about where vampires are from. Where is that, Vicky?”

“Trans… Transylvania?” Vicky supplied after a moment, in that distant, empty, trance-voice of hers.

“That’s exactly right,” Carmen agreed. “And Transylvania is in Romania. Eastern Europe. So this time, when I wake you up, you’re going to make sure you have an appropriate accent. Understand?”

“Yes,” Vicky responded.

“Uh… wait,” Laura bleated, eyes suddenly wide. “H-hold on, Carmen, that’s-“

“Oh, it’s just a bit of fun,” Carmen scoffed, before turning back to Vicky. “One, two, three, wake!”

Before Laura could figure out how to stop her, Vicky was already opening her eyes and slipping back into the haughty, preening vampire pose she’d previously been strutting around in. Only this time, when she opened her mouth, her voice was even more ridiculous than before:

“Vell, vell, vell,” Vicky drawled, in a cheesy but surprisingly close approximation of an Eastern European accent. “Vhat a pleasure it is, to zee that ze blossoms of ze new world are so ripe and so lovely.”

Immediately, Carmen bent double and started laughing so hard she almost choked. Laura couldn’t blame her. That way that Vicky, of all people, was throwing herself into the accent was beyond ridiculous. Anyone would have been laughing.

But not her. Instead, beads of sweat were forming on Laura’s forehead.

“My dears,” Vicky said, once again drawing close to Laura. “Von’t you let try a bite?”

Laura tried her very hardest not to let it show—but when Vicky slipped her hand around her waist again, the combination of her natural beauty, her unbelievable costume, and the honeyed, lilting accent pouring out of her mouth, Laura couldn’t help but let out a shrill, needy gasp.

Carmen seized upon it mercilessly.

“Oh my god, babe,” she laughed. “That does it for you?”

“It’s…” Laura whimpered. Her face was burning up. “I-I just have a thing for accents.”

“Vonderful,” Vicky cooed. Eager to torment her, she put her lips as close as she could to Laura’s ear and spoke to her in a sinister, syrupy whisper. “Then, let me speak to you of ze poetry of ze night, and have you vall into my unholy embrace.”

As cheesy as the line was, it had Laura squeezing her legs together with need. It didn’t help that Carmen was also staring at her, and the wicked, malicious look on her girlfriend’s face was equal to the one hypnotically plastered on Vicky’s.

“P-please,” Laura found herself saying, as the fetishistic allure of her situation momentarily overtook her sense of restraint.

“As you vish,” Vicky intoned mockingly.

And bit down on Laura’s neck.

Laura moaned and saw white. Until she felt Vicky’s tongue on her skin, she hadn’t realized quite how turned-on she’d become. But hypnotism, vampires, accents—she had kinks for all of them, and the intoxicating combination had gotten all the way under her skin. Above all, the fact that it was Vicky was getting to her—their homophobic, sorority girl bully, turned silly, seductive, sapphic vampire. It was too much. Even the pain felt good, when Vicky bit down on Laura as if her plastic fangs could actually pierce skin.

“Three, two, one, drop.”

Laura almost resented it, when Carmen used the hypnotic trigger to drop Vicky back into a trance. Still, as the pleasure receded, she acknowledged that it was probably a good thing Carmen had put a stop to matters before anything got truly out of hand.

Then she learned that Carmen intended exactly the opposite.

"Vicky,” Carmen began. “We’ve already established that I know much, much more about vampires than you. Haven’t we?”

“Yes,” Vicky intoned emptily.

“Carmen?” Laura whispered. Her legs were still jelly. She couldn’t move.

“Then you should listen to me about vampires, no matter how absurd what I tell you might seem, should you?” Carmen told Vicky, ignoring her girlfriend.

“Yes.”

“That’s right. And with that in mind, I have something very important to tell you about lesbian vampires. They don’t drink blood. They eat pussy.”

As Laura gasped in shock, Vicky started to twitch violently. “But… ugh… that… gross,” she whined sleepily.

“That doesn’t matter,” Carmen insisted swiftly. “Performers do all kinds of things they’d normally consider gross if it’s for a performance, don’t they?”

“I… suppose…” Vicky was clearly repulsed by the notion, but Carmen’s soft words and confident demeanor were quickly soothing her.

“This is no different,” Carmen told her. “Eating pussy is no different.”

“No…” Vicky was fighting to shake her head. “But…”

“Repeat after me,” Carmen insisted. “Lesbian vampires eat pussy.”

“Lesbian… vampires…” Vicky’s reluctance was obvious—but she was giving in. “E… eat…”

“Lesbian vampires eat pussy.”

“L… Les…” The fight went out of her. Any hint of disgust or disobedience disappeared from her voice, leaving her blank and willing once more. “Lesbian vampires eat pussy.”

“Great.” Carmen licked her lips. “One, two, three-“

“Wait!” Laura blurted out. She was still flushed and flustered beyond belief, but she had to say something. “C-Carmen, we can’t!”

“You want to,” Carmen pointed out.

“I don-“ Laura looked away. “T-that’s not the point. It’s wrong. It’s evil.”

“It’s Halloween, baby,” Carmen winked. “It’s the time of year that evil wins. How about you just sit back and enjoy it?”

Laura wasn’t sure how to convince her. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to. The grin on Carmen’s face was infectious. And when were they going to get another chance to get even with Vicky?

“One,” Carmen counted, sensing Laura’s capitulation. “Two. Three. Wake.”

When Vicky’s eyes opened once more, she had the same hungry look on her face, the same preening, arrogant bearing, and the same ridiculous accent. The only difference was that she wasn’t staring at Laura’s neck anymore.

She was staring between her legs.

“Mortal!” Vicky declared, lapping at her fangs with her tongue. “I vant to drink your cunt! And it is time for ze unholy feast to begin.”

Even Laura had to giggle at how stupid the line was. But her laughter soon turned to needy moaning when Vicky surged forward and sank to her knees, flashing Laura a saucy look before flipping up the hem of her dress and burying her face between her thighs.

When Laura felt Vicky’s tongue touch her cunt, her legs turned to jelly so completely, she had to lean back against a nearby wall for support.

Given that Vicky was completely straight, it was a little ridiculous that she was so good at this.

Perhaps it was simply her naked enthusiasm. Vicky was eating Laura out like her life depended on it. Like every single drop of wetness that touched her lips was the nectar of the gods. She was voracious. A predator tearing into her fallen quarry. Laura had never experienced anything quite like it. It was totally different from the slow, detached, teasing way Carmen usually ate her out. For a queen bitch like Vicky and for the vampire persona she was acting out, the blatant neediness was surprising.

Carmen clearly agreed.

“Three. Two. One. Drop.”

Laura whined loudly when she felt Vicky’s tongue go still.

“C-Carmen!” she complained. “N-not fair.”

“Sorry, babe,” her girlfriend giggled. “I just know how you like it, and I know you’ll enjoy this even more if you get put in your place properly.”

Laura whined louder still. “B-but,” she protested. “It’s Vicky!”

Carmen winked at her. “Exactly.”

The hot flush of shame and arousal that washed over Laura completely robbed her of her words. In the face of her silence, Carmen turned to address the hypnotized bully.

“Remember, Vicky,” Carmen encouraged. “Vampires aren’t just lesbians. Aren’t just blood- I mean, pussy-licking predators. They’re dominant. Powerful. Godlike, even.”

“Dominant,” Vicky echoed, rocking back on her knees. “Powerful. Godlike.”

“Exactly,” Carmen agreed. “Vampires are so arrogant and prideful. They’re always in charge. Even when they’re taking what they need from someone, they never let anybody forget that they’re far, far more powerful than the mere mortals they feed on.”

“More… powerful,” Vicky said slowly.

“Perfect,” Carmen whispered.

Laura swallowed nervously. They had already seen how completely Vicky took to whatever suggestions she was fed. She couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Carmen was about to create a monster.

Carmen, though, pressed on without a second thought. “One. Two. Three. Wake.”

When Vicky opened her eyes, Laura braced herself for the worst. She wasn’t disappointed. In a single, graceful motion, Vicky rose to her feet—and then disdainfully threw Laura off-balance and sent her sprawling onto the bed. Laura let out a surprised yelp but, like a mouse caught in the jaws of a cat, found herself helpless to move or resist. In an instant, Vicky was upon her, spreading her legs apart and lowering her face toward Laura’s dripping cunt with a merciless look on her face.

“Oh, babe,” Carmen giggled, from behind the hypnotized bully. “You’re in for a treat. I can just tell she’s going to ruin you.”

Laura whimpered in delicious anticipation at the tease. Vicky, though, had a very different reaction. She seemed to freeze up for a moment—and then, curiously, she started backing off. Slowly, Vicky lifted herself off the bed and turned her attention away from Laura.

To Carmen.

Carmen cocked an amused eyebrow as Vicky regarded her with a disdainful glare. That only seemed to light a fire inside her.

“Oh, I zee,” Vicky mused, in that ridiculous accent. “Perhaps you, mortal, vill be my first meal.”

“I will, huh?” Carmen could barely contain her laughter. “God. Who knew I’d have Vicky, of all people, begging to lick my cunt on Halloween?”

“Beg?” Vicky let out a humorless laugh. “No. No, I do not beg. I simply take.”

“Uh-huh,” Carmen scoffed. “And how do you propose to do that?”

From where she was lying sprawled on the bed, Laura could just about see the slow, calculating grin as it spread across Vicky’s face.

“Look,” Vicky said in a very slow, deep voice, after several long moments. “Look into my eyes. Deep into my eyes.”

Laughter erupted from Carmen. “Oh my god. Oh, you cannot be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” Vicky warned. “You vill look into my eyes. Deep into my eyes. You cannot resist ze eyes of ze vampire.”

As she drew out each word, her accent became more ludicrous than ever. Laura wasn’t laughing, though. She was still too stunned by this turn of events—and besides, when her voice was this slow and soft, there was something oddly compelling about the way Vicky was speaking.

"Fine, fine,” Carmen said, rolling her eyes before meeting Vicky’s gaze. “I’m looking. Deep into your eyes.” She started mimicking Vicky’s accent. “I cannot resist ze eyes of ze vampire.”

“Very good,” Vicky cooed. “That’s right. You cannot resist. The eyes of ze vampire hold power over you. Look into my deep, crimson eyes. Let yourself be ensnared by ze red glow.”

She spoke with absolute confidence. It was as if there was no doubt in her mind that she would be able to hypnotize Carmen. The look of dismissive amusement on Carmen’s face remained, but she kept humoring Vicky.

“You know, those color contacts are actually pretty good,” Carmen remarked, after a moment. She was leaning in, looking carefully. “Almost real. Really rich, deep shade of red.”

Vicky looked faintly baffled by the reference to contacts, but she pressed on without comment. “Rich. Deep. Impossible to resist,” the hypnotized bully drawled. “You feel yourself fascinated by them. Drawn into them. Captivated by them.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Carmen mocked, as she held Vicky’s gaze. “Fascinated. Drawn. Captivated.”

“You cannot look away.”

“I cannot look away.”

“You veel yourself slipping into a trance for my eyes.”

“I…” Carmen twitched uncertainly. It was like she was trying to pull away—but couldn’t. “I feel myself… slipping into a trance?”

Laura’s blood suddenly ran cold.

“Zat’s right,” Vicky said, in a throaty, predatory purr. “I zee that you, mortal, are skilled in ze art of mesmerism. But your foolish mind games are nothing compared to ze vampire’s might. Your knowledge will only be your undoing.”

Laura recalled what Carmen had told her earlier. The more you believed in hypnosis, the more effective it was. And Carmen most certainly believed.

Oh no.

“Falling into my eyes,” Vicky menaced. “Lost forever in my eyes.

“Falling…” Carmen echoed. “Lost…”

The look of bemused disbelief on Carmen’s face had relaxed into a vacant, slack-jawed, captivated grin. Laura had never seen anything like it. Carmen was usually always so focused. So dominant. Seeing her like this was terrifying.

Even if it was also extremely, wildly hot.

“C-Carmen!” Laura called out. She needed to put a stop to this. She needed to make sure Vicky didn’t get any further out of hand. “Wake u-“

“Quiet, girl!” Vicky hissed. Her voice was like the crack of a whip. Still light-headed and weak from her earlier treatment, Laura found herself instinctively lapsing into silence. She couldn’t quite bring herself to disobey Vicky.

“L-Laura…” Carmen blinked slowly. “I was… what was I… were you…?”

“Hush now,” Vicky soothed, slipping back effortlessly into her seductive, hypnotic patter. “Remember. Looking only at me. Only into my eyes. Into ze vampire’s eyes. Letting ze vampire’s eyes consume you.”

“I…” A shiver raced down Laura’s spine as she saw her girlfriend try to look over at her—and fail. “But you’re… not… uh…” Carmen made one last effort to rally herself. “Vicky. Three… two…”

“Shush,” Vicky said swiftly. She reached out and placed one of her fingertips on Carmen’s lips. That was all it took to silence her. “None of that, now. So hard to speak. So easy to look into my eyes instead.”

“So…” Carmen bleated. Her resistance was gone. There was nothing in her eyes. “Hard… easy…”

“Zat’s right,” Vicky purred. “And you should not call me like that, from now on. You shall address me as Victoria.” She licked her lips. “Mistress Victoria.”

“Yes… Mistress Victoria,” Carmen replied mindlessly.

Laura’s entire body throbbed. This was so wrong. This was so hot. It was completely out of control. They had created a monster, and Carmen was no longer capable of putting on the brakes.

“Very good,” Vicky told her. “Now, my thrall. On ze bed. With your beloved. Present yourself to me. I wish to feast.”

“Yes, Mistress Victoria.”

Slowly, robotically, Carmen clambered onto the bed next to Laura and reclined into her back. With Laura still powerless to intervene, Carmen obediently reached down and unbuttoned her slacks, shucking out of her pants and her boxers to expose her pussy to the air. Vicky’s eyes widened, and she licked her lips once more.

“Delicious,” she purred, mounting the bed and lowering her head between Vicky’s thighs. Before she began to eat her out, she turned her head to glance at Laura. “You vill be next,” the hypnotized bully vowed. “And zen ze rest of the pretty young mortals in this sorority house. And then… who knows.”

Laura was left stunned and dizzy as she contemplated that, and then increasingly shocked and aroused as Vicky started licking and lapping at Carmen’s cunt. Carmen had always been the dominant partner in their relationship. A giver, not a receiver. But not anymore. For Vicky, she was nothing more than a weak, prone, mewling submissive.

It was one of the hottest things Laura had ever seen.

She couldn’t help but anticipate her turn with a certain growing eagerness. Laura wasn’t sure when Vicky might come to her senses, if ever, and she wasn’t sure what would happen when Vicky tried to seduce some of the other girls at the Halloween party. It could go badly, although Laura couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, Vicky would manage to pull it off. That would be quite something.

And above all, she found herself thinking: no matter how events played out, Vicky was much, much better this way than she had ever been before.

---

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 1 year ago

Text

Comet Donati [Chapter 3: Steal My Girl]

A/N: Hello lovely readers! Thank you so so so much for the love this fic has received. I wanted to give you a heads up that I will be co-leading a field trip to Japan from July 4th-14th and will therefore have much less time to write. HOPEFULLY I won’t have to skip a Sunday update, but I wanted to make you aware just in case. I hope you enjoy Chapter 3!!! 💜

Series Summary: Sex, drugs, boy bands. You are a kinda-therapist recruited (via nepotism) to help Comet Donati through a recent crisis. Things are casual with Aegon, very not-casual with Aemond. Loosely inspired by One Direction.

Chapter Warnings: Language, references to sexual content (18+), drugs, alcohol, smoking, mental health struggles, Aegon-induced chaos, ANGST, Iceland, you cannot escape the Cookie Monster pajama pants.

Selected Chapter Quote: “So what, you don’t like me anymore?”

Word count: 8.3k (wtf I need to chill).

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @doingfondue @catalina-howard @randomdragonfires @myspotofcraziness @arcielee @fan-goddess @talesofoldandnew @marvelescvpe @tinykryptonitewerewolf @mariahossain @chainsawsangel @darkenchantress @not-a-glad-gladiator @gemini-mama @trifoliumviridi @herfantasyworldd @babyblue711 @namelesslosers @thelittleswanao3 @daenysx @moonlightfoxx @libroparaiso @burningcoffeetimetravel-fics @mizfortuna @florent1s @heimtathurs @bhanclegane @poohxlove @narwhal-swimmingintheocean @heavenly1927 @mariahossain @echos-muses @padfooteyes @minttea07

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

Athens, Madrid, Porto, Vienna, Stockholm, and now: descending into Reykjavik through clouds like iron. The North Atlantic is an endless sheen of cold overcast blue, a mirror of the sky. The earth is rocky and anemic. There are no jewel tones here, no sapphires or emeralds or aquamarines or fire opals or topazes. It is impossible to look down at Iceland, this dominion of impassionate jaggedness, and not think of how the Vikings had to reap their treasures from every other corner of Europe, silver and gold and glass and slaves piled into ships to be rowed back to the hostile earth they clung to, perhaps just to prove they could.

Across the aisle of the private jet—more like a penthouse than a plane, posh neutral colors and hand-stitched leather—Luke is showing Aemond his latest lyrics, loops of silver on matte black pages. They’re good, from what you’ve heard. They’re really good. And that tells you what kind of person Aemond truly is as he helps Luke polish rocks into gemstones. Anybody can soften the blow of mediocrity. It takes courage to build ladders for people who might one day outclimb you.

Daeron is playing his Nintendo 64, which is hooked up to a 98-inch flat screen tv; Mario is leaping through paintings into worlds of lava, ice, sentient ticking bombs. Criston is answering emails. Cregan is sprawled across a couch with his sunglasses on, presumably sound asleep. Jace is leering at you, dark hair hanging in his face and slurping a Vesper.

You ask him half-mocking: “What tattoo are you going to get for Reykjavik?”

He yanks off his sequined red blazer—nothing underneath, as usual—and twists around to show you the puffin on his left shoulder blade. Comet, at some point in time that preceded you, has already been to Iceland. “Cute, right? Wanna pet it?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m sorry I asked.”

He grins. “No you’re not.”

Aegon kicks the back of Jace’s chair. He’s scribbling some notes of his own, which is unusual. In place of a spiral notebook with onyx pages, Aegon is writing on crinkled Starbucks receipts with a Sharpie. He’s wearing his favorite aviator sunglasses, khaki cargo pants, an excessively bright cyan tank top, and matching Crocs.

Baela stares blankly out the window for a few seconds—like she’s buffering, a lagging connection—and then she looks to you hopefully. “Shopping when we land?”

“Does Iceland have shops…?”

“Probably more than Kansas,” Aemond says, then smiles mischieviously.

“Missouri,” you fling back. He returns his attention to Luke.

“They totally have shops in Iceland,” Baela assures you.

“Then I am amenable. I need more concert outfits.” You mostly wear your boy band t-shirts from home, which has become a joke: One Direction, Backstreet Boys, New Kids On The Block, NSYNC, the Jonas Brothers, Boyz II Men, 98 Degrees, BTS…but never Comet Donati. Anyone but them. Aegon calls you a traitor. Aemond teases, smirks, tries to hide how much he watches you the same way people contemplate art on museum walls, a little confounded, a little entranced.

“Rhaena?” Baela says. “Hello? Hello? Hola? Bonjour? Rhaena?”

Rhaena startles, peering up from her novel: Jurassic Park. Once upon a time, as you’ve learned, she had planned to study paleontology. She wants to be alone in the middle of a field someplace digging up bones. Well, no great tragedy there; one is never too old to be a paleontologist. She can take off five years, or ten years, or twenty, or thirty to see Luke through his touring days and then pick back up her own ambitions like keys left on a hook. But Baela gave up a ballet scholarship to follow Jace across the globe, puddle to puddle, land to land, and in your albeit limited understanding, ballerinas age in something like dog years. Their career is a brilliant, lightning-brief flash and then long, anonymous decades running out their mortal clock as choreographers, backup dancers, personal trainers, instructors for blue-blooded five-year-olds. Baela won’t be able to reclaim that dream for much longer. It might be too late already. She is out of practice; but she misses ballet. When Jace is being snide or oblivious, you’ve seen her gazing out windows—Escalades, hotels, jets—wondering if it was all worth it. You gut yourself for someone and they don’t even have the courtesy to put up a gravestone. It’s only natural to develop a propensity to haunt.

“What?” Rhaena asks.

“Shopping. This afternoon. Interested?”

Rhaena’s eyes go wide. She fidgets: closing and then opening her book, touching a hand to her earrings, delicate strings of small silver hearts. “Um…I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Oh, not this again,” Baela groans.

“Just go without me. Bring me back something, you know what I like.”

“What’s the problem?” You are investigative but not accusatory. The tone is essential.

“She’s scared of store employees,” Baela says.

“Well you don’t have to make it sound like that—!”

“What’s so scary about store employees?” you ask Rhaena, calm, cool, collected, nonjudgmental. Aemond glances over, as he often does when you’re working, like he can’t get enough of watching that switch flip, when you slink covertly into therapist mode like a water moccasin weaves through swamps, subtle ripples in the muddied water and vigilant eyes.

“I just hate it when people are watching me,” Rhaena says, twirling an earring. “They’re always waiting right by the door—especially at the posh places like the ones Baela goes to—and they want to know what I’m shopping for, and they want to make suggestions, and they follow me to the fitting room and ask what I like and what I don’t. And I can’t get rid of them! Even if I’m like ‘Just looking, thanks!’ they’ll circle back every five minutes to check on me. I can’t stand it. I get so frazzled I can’t decide how I really feel about a skirt or dress or whatever because I’m too busy trying to make conversation with someone I don’t want to talk to anyway. I end up with a headache and a shopping bag full of regrets. I’d rather click a button on my MacBook Air and save myself the suffering.”

You nod sagely. “What is it about talking to the employees that stresses you out so much?”

“I don’t want to say or do the wrong thing. I don’t want to cause problems.”

“But it’s not like you’re going to do anything they haven’t experienced before. They see hundreds, maybe even thousands of customers a month. And even if you did something ridiculously, dementedly embarrassing, like…um…hey, Aegon, what’s the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever done while clothes shopping?”

“I fell asleep in a fitting room. I pissed on the floor. I set something on fire. I vandalized One Direction merchandise.”

“No, there was that other time,” Daeron says. Mario is swimming through rings of underwater coins; they chime gleefully as he collects them.

“What other time?” Aegon says.

Daeron grins. “Come on. You know.”

Aegon remembers. “Oh yeah. Once I bit a girl’s feet until I accidentally ripped off part of a toenail and she bled everywhere. But that wasn’t my fault. She was begging for it. It was consensual.”

Criston, not looking away from his emails, says: “And that’s why Aegon is now banned from all Michael Kors locations for life.”

“Right.” You turn back to Rhaena. “So you would never do anything that deranged. But even if somehow you did, what’s the actual worst-case scenario? What, realistically, could happen as a result?”

Rhaena considers this. “The employees will think I’m weird, I guess.”

“So what you’re so concerned about is that the store employees—who are literally paid to be inconvenienced by you—might think you’re weird? Which they’ll remember for, what, maybe an hour before some other customer gives them a more memorable calamity to focus on? You don’t think they’re more annoyed by purse-dog-toting heiresses screeching at them or cokeheads pissing on their floors?”

“Rude,” Aegon says.

Rhaena smiles guiltily. “I mean, when you put it that way, it does sound stupid.”

“Not stupid,” you insist. “Just out of proportion.”

“Okay,” Rhaena says. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself. “Okay. I guess I’ll go shopping.”

“Yes!” Baela cheers, already scrolling through Reykjavik shops on her iPhone.

“Hey, Stargirl,” Aegon says, and then hurls something at you like a frisbee. It’s an Amex Black Card.

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “What’s my budget?”

“No budget. As long as it’s slutty.”

“I will buy nothing but cardigans and mom jeans.” You crane your neck to peek at his receipts. The black Sharpie squiggles aren’t words; they’re shapes, pictures. “What are you drawing?”

“New merch designs!” Aegon holds up the receipts so you can see.

“Circles…?”

He is somewhat wounded. “Donuts!”

You don’t even know where to begin. “Why donuts, Aegon?”

“Because that’s his code word for doing lines in the bathroom,” Criston says.

“No!” Aegon objects. “Because Donati sounds like donuts! So we could have all these mini donuts, print them on hats or shirts or whatever, and then in the frosting where the sprinkles would be we can put tiny stars, suns, moons, planets, galaxies…and comets, obviously.”

Jace scoffs. “I think you spend a little too much time thinking about donuts.”

Aegon goes quiet. So does everyone else. Gazes flit nervously around the cabin. The only sounds are the roar of the jet and Mario 64, although Daeron has turned his back on the cheerful Italian protagonist and is looking pensively over his shoulder at Jace. Aegon resumes sketching his cosmic Sharpie donuts, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Hey,” you say to Jace, and then once you have his attention, wicked dark eyes: “Shut the fuck up.”

“What?”

“It’s a great idea. It’s a really adorable idea, actually. Let’s see you come up with something better. Go on, whenever you’re ready. I’m waiting. I’m still waiting. But you’re not much of an ideas guy, are you, Jace? Fortunately, you’ve always had other people around to pull that weight.”

Jace opens his mouth to say something, then snaps it shut as Cregan stands up. He towers over you both, as tall as Aemond but more muscly all over, in the chest and the shoulders and the legs. He lowers his sunglasses to show his eyes: greyish, cold, flinty. He glares at Jace, and then at you, and then at Jace again. Jace holds up both hands, showing his palms. You bow your head in capitulation. Cregan lies back down on the couch and repositions his sunglasses just as the pilot turns on the fasten seatbelts signs. As you click yours into place, you exchange a glance with Aemond across the aisle. He is smiling, foxlike and approving, as if he can’t wait to see what else you have left to show him.

“So!” Baela says. “Guess who found a shop in Reykjavik that sells Gucci!”

The jet glides through mist and fog to make a rather bumpy landing at Keflavik International Airport, fighting against gusts of wind coming in off the North Atlantic Ocean, the same water that swallowed the Titanic, the Faucett Peru Boeing 727, the Free Life hot air balloon, whaling vessels and Viking longships, countless cruisers and destroyers and submarines that blasted holes into each other during the world wars. As the band prepares to disembark, Aemond reaches into the front pocket of his shirt—black, with white circling koi fish—and slides out a pair of sunglasses. He doesn’t like wearing them. They limit his vision even more than it already is. But he never walks into an airport without sunglasses on, you’ve discovered. Just in case paparazzi are there snapping photos.

“You don’t have to do that,” you tell Aemond.

He gestures to his scar and his blind eye, a pale cloudy blue. “I’ve thought about just getting it cut out. But then I’d have to worry about shoving in a fake one.”

“I think it’s kind of beautiful,” you say. “It reminds me of Neptune or something.”

And the look he gives you, the look, like he’s never heard anything like this before, like he didn’t know that words could fit together in that order. You hold out your hand to him. He lays the sunglasses in your palm. You put them on, grinning up at him.

“Now I’m the one who looks like a multi-millionaire popstar.”

“Hey, we match!” Aegon says as he follows you and Aemond out of the jet, massaging your shoulders and clopping noisily in his Crocs.

There are paparazzi at the airport, but only two of them, young men in black hoodies who dart around loosing flashes into the stuffy, aggressively heated air. Jace, Baela, Daeron, and Aegon beam and wave, radiant, magnetic, born celebrities. Rhaena smiles politely but hides behind Luke. Cregan saunters and smolders, knowing exactly what his devotees expect from him. Criston and the security guards are loaded up with suitcases like pack mules. The paparazzi don’t pay much attention to Aemond—a former heartthrob, a cracked relic, a fossil or a ruin—but one of them snaps a few pictures of him. Aemond turns his face so they’ll get his good side, his unmarred side…and then he grabs for your hand. You try not to reveal how ecstatic you are, how wildly, uncoolly, over-the-moon thrilled. Your expression might end up commemorated forever in a tabloid, after all.

Shopping in Reykjavik is mostly wool sweaters, hiking boots, and weather-proof jackets, but Baela leads you and Rhaena to a boutique that carries something more her speed: Gucci, Burberry, Balenciaga, Valentino, Saint Laurent. You and Baela try to distract the employees as much as possible; still, they find time to nettle Rhaena with those bothersome, predictable, unnecessary questions. She gets a little flustered, but she fights the instinct to run and hide, to allow herself to sink into a frenetic puddle of self-inquisition. You can almost see the words scrolling behind her dark gentle eyes like a news ticker: They get paid to help me. They aren’t going to remember any of this in a few hours. I’m not on a stage. I’m not being judged.

In the fitting room, you take two selfies to send to Aemond’s WhatsApp account: one in a flowing neon yellow gown, the other in a short, velvet, sparkly black dress embroidered with silver stars.

You ask: Day or night?

He answers before you’ve changed back into your jeans and pink Harry Styles hoodie. Night, obviously. And then he adds: Which constellation are you? Vulpecula the fox? Cygnus the swan?

“God, he’s such a dork,” you murmur to yourself, smiling. You have to think for a while before you reply. You don’t know many constellations; that makes it difficult to rattle off something witty. Then you are inspired. You type: Definitely not Virgo :)

He responds immediately: :)))))

“What does that mean?” you whisper to yourself in the solitude of the boxlike fitting room. “What the hell does that mean???” He spends nearly all of his time with you, but he rarely touches you. He’s never made a move. He’s never even kissed you. You wouldn’t mind if he did. No, fuck the coyness that women are supposed to cloak themselves in to preserve their worth. You’re waiting for him to kiss you like someone drowning waits for a gasp of air.

Despite Aemond’s vote, you can’t help yourself. You buy both dresses. You don’t look much like an Aegon Targaryen, but the cashier doesn’t seem too troubled by this. Baela and Rhaena are still trying on outfits, so you swing your bag around boredly and wander over to see what Criston is up to. At Aemond’s insistence, he accompanied you on this shopping expedition and left the rest of the security detail back at the Reykjavik EDITION, a luxury hotel overlooking the harbor. Criston is in the jewelry section and holding up a medallion necklace, rotating it to see how the light reflects off the speckling of tiny gemstones, the wise golden face. His own face is distant and melancholy.

“Oh, that’s lovely, Criston!” you say. “All those emeralds. Who’s pictured on it?”

“Saint Jude. Lost causes.”

Interesting. “Are you religious?”

“Not especially. But Alicent is.”

“Who…?”

Criston walks off to the cash register. You watch him go, curious and perplexed.

Back at the hotel, you enter your suite to find a blond Targaryen lounging in your bed…but perhaps not the right one. Aegon still has his Crocs on and is, for some reason, clutching a plushie puffin. He glances over at you, noting your shopping bag.

“Fashion show?” he says. “I hope it’s nothing but miniskirts and bikinis.”

“Don’t you have places to be? Substances to snort?”

“Cregan is currently trying to locate some.”

“That’s really not good for you. Physically or mentally. You might be addicted.”

He barks a laugh, like it’s absurd. “You can’t get addicted to coke, Stargirl.”

“You definitely can.”

He suddenly looks panicked, like he’s never considered this before.

“So.” You hesitate. “Aemond.”

“Yes, I’m familiar with the concept.”

“He’s insecure. Very insecure, though he’s learned how to hide it.”

Aegon throws and catches the puffin, bouncing it off the ceiling. “I wouldn’t disagree.”

“It goes deeper than the accident, I think. The scar, his eye, what happened with the band…that awakened it again. That freed something that he’d had locked away. But where did it start?”

Aegon stares up at the ceiling. He tosses the puffin a few more times, abusing it terribly. “Whoever you are when you’re in high school…that’s sort of who you are forever, you know? If you’re popular and beloved and understood, you carry a certain self-confidence into the rest of your life with you like a suitcase. It’s an assumption that people care about what you have to say. It’s a conviction of your own value. It’s a presupposition the world would have to wrestle away from you. But if you’re a loser in high school, that stays with you too. And it’s one hell of a heavy suitcase to lug around.”

You try to imagine seeing Aemond through eyes that aren’t awed, craving, quietly adoring. It’s simply not possible. “He was alone?” you ask softly, dreading the answer.

“I had friends. He had grudges.” Aegon’s mouth twists as he tries to stop it from trembling. “My father…”

“I know, Aegon.” Your voice is gentle. “You told me in Kansas City, that night at the bar. You don’t have to say it again.”

He is relieved. “Yeah. So people respond to that in different ways, right? I lived in the present. I talked to anybody who would listen to me, and I partied and I got high and I got laid, and I was the antithesis of the kind of son my father would have wanted just to spite him. Aemond escaped into the past. He read books, traced bloodlines, collected old obsolete things. Maybe that gave him hope that a better place was waiting for him out there somewhere, a better time. He got to be cool for three years. That’s it, and that’s all he’ll ever have. He was the one with vision. He said he was going to audition for The X Factor, and I only went with him to meet girls. Then he made it through the first round and I did too. And when they were going to cut us, he found Jace and Luke and Cregan and convinced everyone to start performing together. The show wanted to replace Luke, did you know that? They thought he was too boyish, too innocent. Aemond fought for him. And then Comet finished in second place, and all the sudden we were signed to a label, and we were selling millions of records and we were touring, and we were winning Grammys, and we were buying our parents and siblings houses…and two months after our third album came out, Aemond was maimed at the Budokan and it was time for him to get off the ride.”

You stare at Aegon, tremendously sad, not knowing what to say. Sometimes the right words don’t exist.

Aegon smirks. “He really likes you.”

“Maybe.” And then, with guileless vulnerability: “I hope so.”

“That’s dangerous.”

Your brow knits into fearful grooves. “Why?”

“I know how to enjoy something without owning it. I don’t think Aemond does.”

You don’t want to ask, but you have to. “What was Shelby like?”

Aegon considers this for a long time before he answers. “She was simultaneously too good for him and not good enough.”

Too gorgeous. Too cool. Too Pinterest-board perfect, airy like summer. But not deep. A river, a glimmer, but with no understanding of the abyss. You aren’t sure how you know that this is what Aegon means, but you do. You don’t want to think about Shelby anymore. You pivot. “So Aemond is the past and you’re the present. Who’s the future? Daeron?”

Aegon smiles, lazy and warm. “I think you’re the future.”

“Yeah right. Get your Crocs off my bed.”

He complies, groaning, flopping onto the floor gracelessly.

“Where’d you get the puffin?”

“Some Icelandic kid recognized me in the elevator. He wanted to give me a present. In return, I signed an autograph and got him and his dad front row seats to the show tomorrow. So I’d say it was a very favorable exchange for him.”

“You’re a saint,” you say, and then find yourself thinking randomly of Saint Jude again. Lost causes. Lost causes.

Aegon grins at you as he crawls to his feet and makes for the door. “Patron saint of mayhem.”

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re watching old Comet Donati performances on YouTube when the hotel fire alarm goes off. And it’s strange, because the unscarred, clear-eyed boy on the screen is Aemond but also isn’t him; he smiles more easily, he looks at people without suspicion, he is ebullient and confident and carefree like kids blowing bubbles on front porches. When you open your suite door, dressed in your favorite Cookie Monster pajama pants and an oversized New Kids On The Block t-shirt, Aemond is just arriving.

“Oh good,” he says. “You’re still awake.” And then he walks with you to the nearest stairwell.

Outside, the hotel guests are clustered together with their travel companions, shuddering under coats and sweaters and blankets clasped around their shoulders like capes. Even at the start of July, Iceland is cold: fifties during the day as Americans like you measure in Fahrenheit, forties at night, nearly always overcast. It’s 11 p.m., but the sun won’t set until midnight, and even then only for a few short hours; the sky is wearing the colors of dusk, lilac, rose pink, pale blue, fire and gold. You’re shivering, rubbing your bare forearms and feeling the goosebumps that have risen there like braille. Aemond tugs off his black and white Calvin Klein hoodie and offers it to you. As you pull it over your head, you breathe in the pieces of him that have snared in the fabric: smoke and cologne, gin and soap and the brine of the seaside air. Now wearing only his jeans and his koi fish shirt, Aemond lights a cigarette and gazes up at the hotel, postmodern angles and semi-transparent glass.

“No one’s going to give me a hoodie?” Aegon says, quaking in his cyan tank top. Criston reluctantly unzips his bomber jacket and hands it over.

“Did you do this?” Criston asks him, meaning the fire alarm.

“What?! No! No way, man! It wasn’t me!”

Criston turns to Cregan for confirmation. Cregan shrugs, ambiguous. “I knew it!” Criston exclaims. He is distraught.

Several fire engines arrive, red lights strobing, and firefighters enter the hotel to investigate. Baela and Jace are standing near each other but not speaking, arms crossed, faces tense. Luke, Rhaena, and Daeron are watching an episode of The Crown on Luke’s iPhone. Cregan lights a cigarette and manages to take two drags before Criston notices and lunges to bat it out of his hand.

“Stop it!” Criston orders. “You’ll ruin your voice!” Nobody tells Aemond not to smoke. His voice doesn’t matter anymore.

Aegon asks you, his hands buried in the pockets of Criston’s jacket: “Would you run into a burning building to save me?”

“Why would you be in a burning building?”

“That’s really not the point.”

“I’d think about it.”

Luke says, the glow of his iPhone dancing across his face: “Wow, Prince Charles is a bitch.”

“You’d think about it?” Aegon says to you. “You’d think about it?!”

“You have no excuse to be in a burning building. You have now experienced an evacuation, you know exactly how to leave a building successfully, if you’re still in it for some reason then that’s your problem.”

“You hear that, Criston?” Aegon says. “This is a good thing. Now everyone knows what to do if there’s a real fire! And we’re in hotels all the time, so this is super helpful!”

“Please shut up,” Criston begs.

“Hey Cregan, share with the class, what did you learn about fire safety from this fortuitous occasion?”

“I already knew what to do.”

Aegon is grinning. “Yeah? What’s that, Cregan?”

“Get in the shower and wait for the fire department to come rescue me.”

Everyone laughs—even Jace and Baela—and Cregan’s lips quirk up in one corner, the only hint that he is joking. A parade of firefighters exit the hotel. One of them is carrying a toaster. Black smoke pours out of the slits in the top.

She says something in Icelandic that you can’t understand, then repeats in English: “Who was trying to cook hotdogs in a toaster?”

The guests chatter incredulously among themselves: Who would do such a thing?

You, Aemond, Luke, Rhaena, Daeron, Cregan, Jace, Baela, and Criston are mindful to look anywhere except at Aegon. You gaze out at the horizon, the kaleidoscopic midnight sun. Aegon peers down at his Crocs, hair tangled and blue eyes wide.

“Very well,” the firefighter with the toaster says, a little smugly. “We will consult with the hotel staff and see which guest was registered to that room.”

“Goddammit!” Criston hisses, and shoves by the band to go meet the firefighters. You can’t hear what’s being said, but his hands move in exaggerated gestures of humiliation, apology, restitution. Fortunately, the Icelandic people seem to be forgiving.

Daeron turns to Aegon. All he says is: “Why?”

“I couldn’t figure out the buttons on the stove!”

Criston comes trudging back to the band. Guests are being admitted into the hotel to return to their drinks, their television shows and mystery novels, their families, their lovers, their beds. “Alright, it’s taken care of. Go to your rooms. All of you, right now, go.”

No one has the heart to argue with him; he looks half-broken already. Everybody disperses. You and Aemond end up alone together as the elevator zooms to the fifth floor. He takes his small, square metal lighter out of his jeans pocket and toys with it, repeatedly flicking the lid open and then shutting it again.

You point to it. “Vintage lighter. Vintage bike. And yet you write with glittery gel pens instead of quills and ink. Poser.”

“I like old things,” he says, smiling. “I think history is important.”

And you hear Aegon’s words like an echo: That’s dangerous. You start pulling off Aemond’s hoodie to give it back to him.

“No,” he says, sounding pleased. “You keep it.” So you do, finding excuses to bring the sleeves close to your face—touching your hair, your lips, your eyelashes—so you can inhale him.

Aemond leaves you at the door of your suite, but you don’t go inside. You wait for another five minutes until Criston steps out of an elevator and into the hallway, alone and agitated. Still, he has concern to spare for you.

“You okay? Locked yourself out?”

“No. I was just hoping to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.” Criston is tired, but his eyes, dark like fertile earth, are attentive.

“When Aemond was hurt…when the label yanked him out of Comet…no one fought for him?”

“Luke did,” Criston says.

And then he continues down the hall, shoulders low, a man troubled by both the past and the future.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Blue Lagoon is like Aemond’s sightless left eye: a milky blue, opaque, something you could drown in. The band spends several hours splashing and wading in water warmer than the blood in your veins. The white silica mud that forms the floor is soft beneath your bare feet, squishing between your toes; people spread it over their skin like a skin shedding its scales in reverse. Criston orders strawberry-banana smoothies from the in-water bar, trying to distract Aegon and Jace from the beer and the wine. Currently, Comet’s most worrisome performers are locked in combat: Daeron is on Aegon’s shoulders, Luke on Jace’s, entangled in a spirited chicken fight. This is much preferable to their first choice, Marco Polo, which led to Jace ‘accidentally’—and repeatedly—bumping into various early-twenties female tourists, whereupon he would inevitably profusely apologize, introduce himself, and pose for selfies, beads of turbid mineral water dripping from his curls. Cregan has drifted to the other side of the lagoon, floating on his back and basking beneath the overcast midday sun.

“I can’t believe they made everyone shower naked before getting in here,” Rhaena says, drinking her smoothie, submerged in rippling blue up to her collarbones. She had nearly refused to go through with it—I’ll wait in the car! I’ll be fine! I’ll just watch The Crown on my phone for three hours!—until you and Baela offered to hold up your towels to shield her from view and insisted that none of the other guests (all female, as the showers are sorted by gender) were paying attention. Nudity is not a big deal in Iceland. It’s quite a far cry from Missouri.

“You gotta honor the local culture, babe.” Baela flashes Rhaena a teasing grin. “Scandinavians are super progressive. No shame about bodies or relationships. Very sex-positive.”

“Well Jace is certainly blending in.”

Now Baela isn’t grinning anymore. She frowns broodingly out over the lagoon. Rhaena, regretting that she said it but knowing it can’t be taken back, noisily slurps at her smoothie even when it’s gone. You and Aemond exchange an uncomfortable glance. Baela has never broached the topic of her relationship with you, but you know it’s coming. You can sometimes see her working up the nerve like a bucket filling with water, drop by drop.

You change the subject. “See, Rhaena? The naked shower thing wasn’t even that bad. It was over in two minutes, and absolutely nobody was judging you. And if you hadn’t done it, you would have missed out on this amazing experience!”

“You weren’t nervous?” she asks you. “Not at all?”

“I little bit, yeah. Of course. I’m an American.” Everyone chuckles. “But logically, I knew no one would really be watching me. I’m not that interesting. And also…I wasn’t truly naked.”

“Huh…?”

You wiggle your eyebrows and, smiling radiantly, spin around and point to the black-ink tattoo between your shoulder blades, underscored by the straps of your swimsuit that cross just below it: a comet with a streaming tail, lyrics that Aemond dreamed up in a kinder world. Rhaena laughs.

“Oh, right, of course.”

“You are obsessed with that thing!” Baela says, but she sounds relatively happy again.

“It’s true. I am. I admit it.” Sometimes you find yourself staring at it in hotel bathroom mirrors still foggy with steam, wiping away condensation to marvel at the irrevocable ways in which Aemond has marked you, ways you are thankful cannot be erased. When you wear anything that reveals your upper back like a spilled secret, you often catch Aemond gazing at it too. Now he reaches over and skims a fingerprint along the circle that his lyrics form around the comet:

I’ll come back for you if it kills me

Comets clip by again after eons and so can I

There’s a jolt down your spine like lightning, but more eager than jarring. All other thoughts vanish from you. You look over at Aemond, and he looks back, his lips slightly parted, his right eye beckoning to you. And you know it will be good with him, if it happens, when it happens. It will be more than good. It will be laced with an intensity, with a dire breed of necessity that you’ve never tasted before. All at once, you and Aemond realize what you’ve done and drift away from each other again, weakening gravity, elliptical orbits.

“No shame, guys,” Baela quips, raising her smoothie glass in a toast. “Sex-positive, remember?”

After the 45-minute drive back to Reykjavik, and after the concert, the band coalesces in Jace’s suite. There aren’t many hangers-on for this stop of the tour; Reykjavik is isolated and peaceful and not particularly desirable for friends of convenience who are more interested in clubbing and drugs than camaraderie. You wouldn’t trade nights like this for anything in the world.

Aemond is reading off his latest notes, white ink on black paper, stars on the backdrop of the universe. A Benson & Hedges cigarette smolders between two fingers on his left hand. Smoke curls up around his face. “Aegon, you were three steps behind the choreography for basically the entire show.”

“Yeah, that was on purpose.”

“It wasn’t,” Aemond counters, but he can’t help but smile.

“Women love a tragic disaster of a man who is screaming to be fixed.”

“Daeron,” Aemond continues. “I really like that hair flip you’ve started doing…”

Aegon is knocking back dark glass bottles of Gædingur Stout and slurring, very drunk and sinking deeper by the minute. In the absence of coke, he has resorted to other crutches. You are squeezed between Aemond and Baela on one of the couches. And Aemond isn’t really touching you, but he also is: the delicious subtle pressure of his thigh against yours, occasional nudges of his elbow, ostensibly unintentional grazes of knuckles and palms. He’s drinking his usual, a Bramble, and so are you, swirls of slow-moving pink like drops of blood in open water. And you think in a hazy bliss like listening to ground-level conversations from the bottom of a swimming pool: Tonight, tonight, tonight, he’s going to come back to my room with me tonight.

“Oh great,” you mumble as you check your Facebook messages on your iPhone.

“What’s wrong?” Rhaena asks. She’s nestled against Luke on the opposite couch, twirling locks of his hair around her benign, delicate fingers. Jace is sitting beside Luke, drinking a Vesper and trying not to make eye contact with Baela. Daeron is in the fuzzy white sheepskin lounge chair, Cregan perched on a bar stool, Criston standing watchfully with a vivid green bottle of Perrier in one hand. When he briefly steps out onto the balcony to take a call from the label, you can hear only the most dim, indistinct murmurings through the thick tinted glass, sounds but not words. Aegon is sitting—and occasionally crawling around—on the floor. The Backstreet Boys’ I Want It That Way is playing.

“I’m subletting my apartment in Kansas City and there is a strict no pet policy. But my neighbors snitched on the new tenant and apparently she’s got a Flemish Giant rabbit living there with her.”

“Not even a normal rabbit,” Baela muses. “A giant rabbit.”

You sigh. “All the rugs are going to be chewed up by the time I get back.” And Aemond glances over anxiously, like he doesn’t want any reminders that you won’t always be around.

“What’s your apartment like?” he says.

“Old. Vintage. Most of it hasn’t been updated since the 1950s. You’d appreciate it, actually. It would match your aesthetic.”

“Maybe I’ll have to see it sometime.”

You smirk at him, flirtatious, baiting, the silver stars on your dress reflecting golden lamplight. “Maybe. If I invite you.”

He leans in to whisper so only you can hear: “You will.”

“I think I’d be a landlord if I wasn’t famous,” Jace says, nursing his Vesper meditatively like an aspiring philosopher. “I’d just sit back and collect the checks as they rolled in. And you get to raise the rent every year.”

“Yeah, that sounds like you,” Aegon says, grinning up at him saccharinely.

“What would you be, Stargirl?” Jace asks; and you realize you hate the sound of him using Aegon’s name for you.

“I mean, a therapist.” And everyone laughs, even Criston.

Jace flushes, brushing his curls back from his face with one hand. “Oh yeah. Clearly.”

You look to Aemond. “You’d be a historian or an archivist or something.”

“Or a writer,” Luke says.

“Maybe,” Aemond agrees, a tad uncomfortable with the attention. “Or an animal activist, maybe. I’d like to do some sort of good in the world.”

Aegon shouts, far more loudly than necessary: “What would you be, Criston?”

“Thousands of miles away from you.” More laughter, riotous; but Criston is smiling a little.

“What about you, Cregan?” Jace asks. “What would you want to be if Comet didn’t exist?”

Cregan downs a shot of Absolut Vodka. “A plastic surgeon.”

“What? Why?”

Cregan shrugs. “You get to see tits all the time.”

There are scandalized squeals and guffaws. Baela says: “I would not let you anywhere near my tits.”

“And not just tits!” Daeron adds brightly. “Don’t they do, what’s it called, vaginal rejuvenation?”

Cregan points at him with his empty shot glass. “Exactly.”

“Oh God, that sounds painful.” Rhaena hides her face behind a flute of champagne.

“Yeah,” you say. “I don’t think I’m interested.”

Aegon snorts, drips of Gaedingur Stout flying from his nose. “Like you’d ever need it. You’ve got a pornstar pussy, fucking gorgeous.”

A hush sweeps through the room like a dust storm. Baffled glances dart around wildly. Immediately, Aegon realizes his mistake. He gazes up at you from the floor with large, glazed, drunken blue eyes that glisten with apology. You gape back, half-furious and half-petrified.

“Wait, what?” Aemond says. Ashes build on his cigarette, forgotten.

“Oh, wow.” Jace gestures from you to Aegon. “You guys…you guys have…?”

“It was once, a long time ago,” you say quickly. “Like, a really long time ago. Over a year ago.”

Aegon is trying to help. “Ages ago. Ancient history.”

“Where? In Kansas City?!” Baela gasps, stunned.

Aegon tells her: “You remember that bar we all went to after the show, right? The one on the roof?”

Baela is blinking at you, not comprehending. “You hooked up with him? In a bar?! Aegon?!”

“Um, yeah.”

Jace brays out a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn, Stargirl. I thought you had better taste than that.”

You feel like you’re fighting for your life. You feel like you can’t breathe. “It really wasn’t serious…” Not the sex part, anyway.

“No, no, it totally wasn’t,” Aegon agrees gamely. “It was like, what? How long were we in that bathroom? Maybe ten minutes total?”

Daeron is giggling. “Bruh, stop roasting yourself!”

As the chatter flies, you hide your face in your hands; beneath your palms, your cheeks are hot. You can feel Aemond pulling away from you, spaces opening up between your thighs and shoulders and arms like the ever-expanding void of the universe. When you steal a glimpse of him through the cracks in your fingers, he is staring down at the floor. He is silent, but you can see the thoughts—the images—riddling him like bullets. You can see him filling up with them like a punctured ship fills with seawater. He smokes until his cigarette is gone, and then immediately lights another.

Luke is the one to mercifully intercede. “Hey, Criston, where are we going next?”

“Uh,” Criston says, trying not to gawk at you or Aegon. “Let me think. Uh. Oh, right. Paris.”

Jace cackles. “The city of love! How appropriate!”

Criston ignores him. “You have some press interviews and then you’re doing two shows at the Accor Arena on July 7th and 8th…”

Aemond gulps down the rest of his Bramble and then walks out onto the balcony, closing the sliding glass door behind him.

“Fuck,” Aegon sighs miserably, then guzzles his Gaedingur Stout.

You bolt off the couch and go after Aemond. The heavy sliding glass door growls as you roll it open and then shut it again. Outside, Reykjavik is cold and windswept. The midnight sun is aflame. It’s still too bright to see the Northern Lights; even if they were there, you would have no way of knowing. Aemond is smoking with his back to you. He’s looking out over the boats bobbing in the harbor, sunbeams glinting on the crests of waves. Flapping gulls swoop and scream.

You say cuttingly, like a surgeon slicing away malignancies: “So what, you don’t like me anymore?”

Aemond flicks ashes over the balcony railing. “I just think I understand you better.”

“What does that mean?”

He whirls to you and says pointedly: “Why are you here?”

A disorienting question. Too easy. “I followed you out onto the balcony.”

“No, here with the band, here in Reykjavik, why are you here?”

You know how the truth sounds, but you can’t rewrite it. “Because Aegon asked me to be.”

“Because he asked you to come fix me, right?” Aemond demands. “To crack open my skull and stir things around until I’m okay with the fact that my life ended seven months ago.”

“No!” you shout into the wind. “I mean, yes, he thought I’d be able to help you, to help Comet, but that’s not what this is about for me anymore—”

“Why would I believe you? You’re a liar, you’re a confirmed liar, why would I believe a single goddamn word of what you have to say?!”

“I didn’t lie to you!”

“Friends!” Aemond roars. He doesn’t touch you, but his rage is horrifying, ageless and deep like lava bubbling beneath tectonic plates. “You said you and Aegon were friends!”

“We are friends—”

“No, you’re not. You met him, you fucked him, and then when he invited you to join the tour you dropped everything to do it, why, because you still want him? And I’m the charity case? Or I was just next in line? Maybe you were planning to work your way through the whole band. Who’s next, Jace? I don’t think he’d object.”

“No—!”

“You and Aegon. And you didn’t even have the guts to tell me.”

“Because I didn’t want to have this conversation, the one where you eviscerate me for something that happened before I even met you!”

“You chose him,” Aemond says, venomous. “At the bar in Kansas City, you chose him.”

“What?! Aemond, I don’t even remember seeing you, I don’t think you were there at all—”

“I was there.” He glares at you, thunderstorms, tornadoes, the earth splitting in two. “Last June. Rooftop bar. String lights. View of the river. I remember it, I was there.”

“Well then you didn’t notice me either and you probably spent the whole night with Pilates princess, Malibu Barbie Shelby, so what’s the fucking point?!”

He glowers at the horizon. Iceland DOES have jewel tones, you think erratically. But they only come out at night, like owls or bats. “It’s different.”

“It’s not different! You’re so convinced people don’t like you that you do insane, irrational things that make people not like you! It’s a self-fulfilling prophecy! It’s a fucking circle, you idiot!”

“I’ve had enough psychoanalysis, thanks.”

“No, you could use some more of it, you could use a lot more, you have so many demons it’s like Paranormal Activity in your brain, they’re in there all day tearing things off the walls and kicking over chairs and sabotaging anything you dare to care about and you let them!”

He turns away from you. “Just go the fuck back to Kansas.”

“I’m from Missouri!”

Aemond pitches the end of his cigarette over the balcony. His good eye flicks to the sliding glass door. The curtains rustle as the faces that hovered there just seconds ago disappear back into the suite. Very muffled through the thick glass, you can hear Criston chastising people.

You ask Aemond, embers in your throat: “This is really something you consider unforgiveable?”

He shakes his head, mournful, violently disappointed. “You’re just a groupie. You’re just a slut.”

Slut. It’s not the word, it’s the way he said it, with dismissiveness, with condemnation, the same way men love to use it as a blade to carve off every other piece of you—kindness, coldness, ferocity, loyalty, wit, passion, talent, triumphs, failures, ghosts—until that one little word is all that’s left. You’re dismantled into a clutter of loose bolts and bent nails. You’re a beef cow that was led into the maze of a gnashing, metal-and-blood processing plant and came out the other side a brainless, raw-pink patty just the right size to fit in a Big Mac box, something to be consumed but not remembered. “What did you say to me?”

He’s staring out into the twilight sky, both hands on the balcony railing. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe I…”

“Are you kidding me?! I can’t believe I got your lyrics tattooed on my fucking back, what am I supposed to do about that now, rip my own skin off?!”

“So get it covered up. I’m sure Aegon would be thrilled to help you choose a new design, or Jace, or Cregan, or Daeron, or whoever.”

“You know what I think?” you say, caustic like acid.

“Don’t say it,” he threatens, low and dark.

“I think you haven’t fucked anyone since the accident, and you’re terrified to. But you shouldn’t be, Aemond. Because there’s nothing wrong with you. There has never been anything wrong with you.”

But he doesn’t hear that part. He only hears the first thing, what you never should have said at all. It’s true, but that doesn’t mean you should have said it. “I hate you,” he says softly, and you can’t think of a reply. The space between you fills up with wind, cold, dying sunlight. Aemond looks at the sliding glass door. “I don’t want to go back in there.”

“Well, we’re five stories off the ground, so you’ll probably have to.”

He studies the series of balconies that run along this side of the hotel, each separated by perhaps three feet of open air. Then he starts climbing over the metal railing.

“Aemond, don’t!”

But it’s too late. Fortunately, he has long limbs. He scrambles onto the next balcony, and then the one after that, and then one more, until he reaches the balcony for his own suite. He tries the sliding glass door—locked—and then sits down to wait for someone to open it. You go back inside Jace’s suite, where everyone pretends to have been talking about something other than you.

“Where’s Aemond?” Criston says, alarmed.

“He’s on the balcony of his suite. You should go let him in.”

“What?!” Criston yells, and then sprints out into the hallway.

You flee too. Both Baela and Aegon try to stop you, try to talk to you. They’re asking what Aemond said. They’re asking if you’re okay. You tell them you’re fine and that you want to be left alone. They argue. You insist. You walk back to your own room and start packing.

Your suitcase fills up with crumpled clothes and souvenirs: a Colosseum pencil sharpener from Rome, a tiny alabaster Apollo from Athens, a Spanish fighting bull refrigerator magnet from Madrid, handmade soap from Porto, a bar of chocolate from Vienna, a moose snow globe from Stockholm, a silica mud mask from the Blue Lagoon, a tiny stuffed comet that Rhaena crocheted for you. You reach back to touch your fingertips to the comet tattooed over your spine, tears biting in your eyes. If I had told him from the start, would that have made a difference? If I had met him first, would we have had a chance? You are gathering up your makeup when you hear a knock on the doorframe.

Cregan lurks there. When he speaks, he sounds startled; he sounds afraid. “You can’t leave.”

“I’ve literally never had a conversation with you, so thanks for the input but I’m still going.”

“No,” he says, persistent. “You can’t leave.”

“Aemond doesn’t want me here.” Your voice is fragile, shattering. “I can’t help him anymore.”

“It’s not just about Aemond. It’s about everyone. They’re all fucked up. They all need you.”

You stare at Cregan, not understanding. “I really don’t think I’m equipped for this.”

He fixes his cool greyish eyes on you. He is harsh but somehow not unkind. “You would never be able to comprehend where I came from. I’m not going back to that. The band has given me everything. I’m not going to let anyone take that away from me. You have to stay. You have to fix Comet. You can’t leave.”

He watches you, and you watch him, and you aren’t sure who has the upper hand here, who is the predator and who is the prey. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe everyone is a patchwork of strengths and deficits, fields of gold strewn with landmines.

At last, you relent. And Cregan doesn’t vanish until you’ve begun taking your souvenirs out of your suitcase and placing each of them—carefully, reverently—back on your nightstand where they were before.

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