#kill the pig spill his blood

[just-some-random-blogger]

Snow Angel

Aemond's Version

I'll angel in the snow until I'm worthy but if it kills me, I tried.

Gwyane's Version ❄ Daemon's Version ❄ Aegon's Version ❄ Aemond's Version ❄ Jacaerys' Version ❄ Cregan's Version ❄ Criston's Version

Aemond Targaryen x Targaryen!Reader | 800< | cw: fem!reader, twin!reader, targcest, canon divergence, angst, violence, blood, war, death, typos, etc.

A/N: renee rapp my beloved. aemond and jacaerys' version go hand in hand

You were the blood in his veins. You were the half of him that shined. You were everything good about the him. He despised you for it.

You were the understanding he never got, the confidence he wished he had. You were the inspiration of laughter and the admiration of all. While in the womb, you robbed him of all the characteristics he wished he had, and he never forgave you for doing so.

So, when tensions were high, and the call of war was nigh, he knew it was his moment to prove himself, to everyone, to himself, to the council... to you.

He'd long forgotten when, was it when he saw you laughing with those bastard Strong boys, or was it when he'd been mockingly gifted a pig by his own brother, but he'd convinced himself that he would have to slay dragons in order to have you. It was no longer a metaphor but something that very well happen, something real and life threatening.

He'd held himself into an impossible standard, along the way, unknowingly done the same to you.

While he was so wrapped up in his self-mandated torment, he gazed upon you only with his missing eye, unable to see how much you wished to free him from his internal conflict. Yet every time you reached a hand out to him, he met you with scorn, taking out his anger on you. You felt the only way you could ever get through to him was to make yourself useful.

You did not care for politics. You did not care to make the Iron Throne your seat at the table. You wanted nothing to do with the burden your festered father left. But you did want to avoid war, as you saw how it hurt your sister, your mother, your people. Aemond saw the way you influenced your brother away from war as a sign of weakness, seven hells, as another slight against him. You were choosing to spare the enemy because of his wretched nephew, Jacaerys, who had always held your affections.

And when you walked in on him and Criston during their late night conspiring, you only further stoked his ire.

Dare you come to his quarters in nothing but a nightgown and a robe?

"Princess," Criston stands to attention.

You cross your arms. It makes Aemond clench his jaw.

"I need to speak with my brother in private."

Aemond stares at you. Cristion turns to him, expecting some sort of response. He gets none, and so he decides to simply nod and leave, "of course."

Once he is gone, the prince finally speaks, "have you come to whore yourself out to me?"

You ignore his insult, "I've come to speak to you. This is the only hour you'll speak to me."

"Wrong," he snaps, "even now, I do not wish to. Leave me."

"Aemond," you mutter, "I only wish to help-"

"And who told you I need help from a woman?"

This is your final straw.

His eye widens at the way you fall apart in your hands. You sob, tears spilling into your palms. It had been long since he saw sorrow cloud your face, the last time being when Jacaerys and his family left King's Landing, Jacaerys, who you chose to speak your woes to instead of him.

He stands and cautiously walks towards you.

"I will never be good enough for you, will I?"

His face falls, "what?"

You shake your head and step back, "no matter what I can think of, it will not be worthy of your attention because I thought of it."

He is unable to speak, unable to move as you flee him.

His mind is heavy with your words as he flies on Vhagar the next day. He was told a dragon was spotted pressing close to King's Landing and took it upon himself to patrol the area.

You can imagine his surprise, no, his delight, when he saw the creature, when he recognized the dragon Vermax, saddled by his rider.

He did not hesitate. He commanded Vhagar to scorch him, gritting his teeth when they escaped.

He pursued them, eager to seek rid himself of his sole competitor.

But then a loud screech was heard from behind and Vhagar's tail was knocked, making her flight unsteady.

Two dragons? An organized attack. Fine, Vhagar is large enough to take two dragonlings at once.

Aemond ascends, looking for his opponents from the height. He spots Vermax' green scales from afar. He hears the second dragon before seeing it come closer. He gives the command and Vhagar breathes fire before Aemond even identified who she attacked.

But then that creature makes a sound, and his mouth parts at the familiar screech. You circle around him, screaming something he cannot make out.

You choose the bastard over him?

He turns to Jacaerys. Vhagar flies over to attack.

He doesn't remember what happened after he gave the order. He was so single minded in his fury that the only thing that snapped him out of his trance was the sound of your scream and the sight of your dragon attempting to escape Vhagar's clamped jaw.

It was too late when he made Vhagar let go. You fell from the height and he could only watch. Not even Vermax coming to your aid could save you.

[leviathanleva]

Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

........................

[Graphic Description of Gore]

[6.1k words] 🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼 Chapter 3 "The Vault"

The flickering ceiling lamps only exacerbated the grim atmosphere, but they did slightly help with finding your way. They also hid the majority of the massacre, but you weren’t blind to the horrific scenes of vault dwellers strewn up and skinned and prepared for processing. You’d wretched and convulsed at the sight, clutching at the wall for support and fighting back tears of terror, and if it hadn’t been for your empty stomach you would have most likely thrown up all over the ghoul’s boots. There was so much food around and the raiders still chose their twisted ways and treated the corpses of their victims, human beings, as cattle in need of rationing and preparation. It was engraved in them, you guessed, after living so long in an apocalyptic, hellish world, eating people was as natural to them as breathing. You tried to justify their actions even if they made no sense, but after seeing cut-open bellies and spilled intestines and dribbling blood as the corpses were hung to drain, you couldn’t.

No matter how difficult a life, nothing could pardon such barbaric actions, not when the cans of cram and sacks of tatoes were right there. The raiders didn’t kill and butcher out of need, they did it out of pleasure, they drew with blood on the walls, bludgeoned flesh and bone to a pulp, stripped skin bare, and let bodies dangle like slaughtered pigs.

The more gore was presented to you on a rusty platter, the smaller your pool of empathy became until there was nothing but the screaming aftermath of gunshots sounding right above your head. You still jittered, but didn’t flinch anymore, he had you, you were safe with him. His boots echoed with menace through the corridors, beckoning the raiders to their end, while your delicate bare feet glided over grime and glass and chaos.

He used you as bait once the raiders were close enough to spot you, your history with them causing a sudden urge in them to let go of their logic and self-preservation and charge headfirst into a shotgun barrel. You would have minded, but he was death incarnate with a weapon, and you were so set on restoring the sanctity of your vault, your home, that you were ready to do just about anything. He killed until there was nobody else with a heartbeat except you and him. He killed so casually, that you almost believed it to be normal.

Once his end of the bargain was done, you started searching, straining both mind and vision for that particular room with a false bookcase. You guided him past the vegetable field, through the cafeteria, and rushed past the school because there were too many bodies piled up for you to stomach. He followed with minor protests, but mostly kept quiet and alert, acting as a guard hound while you pursued the location of the emergency storage. It was only when you ended up in the residential wing with a confused noise that he spoke up.

“You’re lost, Darlin’, admit it.”

You shot him an angsty look over your shoulder, arm outstretched in front of you as the white flashlight installed in the Pip-boy illuminated the vault hallway. When you enter the first home, just the structure of it is enough to tell that you’ve got the wrong place, you scowl, but trudge further inside anyway.

“I’m not lost.” you retort, refusing to let his remarks leave a stain on your photographic memory, and pace around the tiny complex. “It should be in this wing, I just need to find the right room.”

“Whatever you say…” he hums in mock and purses his lips, then opens the metal door wider before stepping in after you. He lets you explore, his eyes skimming with disinterest over the homey aesthetic he was so alienated from that it didn’t even ring a bell of nostalgia. His sights lock on the fridge and his feet react faster than he’d thought possible. Bingo.

The self-powered beacons perched over the whey field creep through the windows and it’s enough light to scarcely brighten the complex. It would have been a haunting sight if the ghoul wasn’t with you and a timid part of your consciousness tapped at you, reminding you that he wasn’t going to be present for much longer. You hadn’t planned on dwelling on such a thought for long, but you had no clue what to do once he was gone. Left alone to fend for your life with no skills or experience aside from dry theory accumulated from years of reading, there wasn’t much you could do except live off the remnants of the vault and try to keep the garden alive.

How would you be rid of all the corpses though?

It would take years to restore everything, or at least the parts that were salvageable, you’d never be able to swap the broken windows or replace the shattered light bulbs.

You scurried off the nasty reality of your future and proceeded to kneel in front of a shoe cabinet. Your feet were irritably sore and in desperate need of protection so you sunk your arms to the elbows in the darkness, the flashlight distorting under the pile of slippers and sandals.

“You’re not mad, Mister?” you ask and turn back to find the ghoul waist-deep in the refrigerator, rummaging as a cacophony of clinking bottles and stuttering plates soundtrack his rampage. He looked almost domestic and you had to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from smiling. “Cuz I haven’t found the storage yet?”

He resurfaces at your question, a bowl of mashed tatoes and a platter of grilled cram cradled in his embrace, traces of soy milk stained his lips. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder and tossed the food on the kitchen counter before resting on his elbows while flicking his tongue.

“Plenty of Pip-boys layin’ around.” he shrugs simply and rips his glove off before sticking two thick fingers in the tatoes. “Can make a small fortune outta those.” he offers you a toothy grin before licking his fingers clean.

“Please use a fork, Sir.” you grimace at his tasteless display before turning back to your task at hand.

“Mind your business, Smooth-skin.” he grunts and sinks his teeth in a thick slice of cram, scarfing it down as if he’d not eaten in days. He scoffs at your faint giggle and waves you off, too high on the idea of a proper meal to care for your coquettish snip.

You continue to dig through the assortment of old shoes, relishing his vocal satisfaction as he feasts. He chews hastily, taking breaks every few bites to wash down the food with whatever juice or milk he blindly pawed at on the fridge door. After tossing away a pair of white fluffy slippers and jamming your hand against a leathery surface, you pull out a left-footed cargo boot. It’s stuck, tied by the laces to something crammed deeper in the cabinet and you feel your way until you find its twin. Once freed, you look them over with a tilted chin and a contemplative look.

They seemed remotely your size, with a pair of thick socks they’d probably fit perfectly and they were preserved and sturdy enough to withstand some broken glass.

“You think they’ll miss these?” you raise the boots in display and ask before thinking about how stupid your question was.

The boiled corn cob pauses just shy of his parted lips and he stares at you like you’d grown a second head. The silence that befalls is one of realization with a twinge of melancholy and you avert your eyes as your mouth twitches into a small frown. The shoes are lowered to your chest and you hold them close in wordless mourning, face dimming, shoulders lowering.

“Oh right…frick.”

“They’re dead, Sweetheart.” he speaks softly, a hint of pity hidden beneath the layer of rasp. “Don’t think they’ll miss anythin’ anymore.”

In truth, you didn’t mourn the rest of the vault dwellers. They were strangers who’d shared the same living facility as you, there was no attachment there except for baseline human empathy. What you grieved over was your sanity, the solitude you’d be subjugated to and you’d grown accustomed to being alone, but after knowing the atrocities that had occurred and the reasoning for your lonesome existence, you doubted things would go well. You’d be forced to fend for yourself and there was no guarantee that another wave of intruders wouldn’t end up on your doorstep.

You picked at the soles of the boots absentmindedly, ignorant to the sympathetic stare targeting the back of your head.

You weren’t accustomed to caring for your needs, having been coercively babied all your life and lacking basic skills. The only bond you’d ever had was with your father and the knowledge that you’d eventually stumble upon his corpse riddled you in goosebumps. You dreaded that sight, eyes dampening at just the thought and mind failing to even picture such a sickening image.

You drag an arm over your drippy nose, sniffle and stand.

“Need socks.” was all you managed before hurrying to the bedside closet at the other end of the complex, hiding behind a wall and out of the ghoul’s prying gaze.

This was fine. You’d figure it out as you went. There was no point in worrying over things that haven’t happened yet, right?

You shone your flashlight into the closet's depths after flinging it open, searching for a ball of stretchy material, anything that remotely resembled a pair of socks. Shuffling came from the kitchen area, a throaty grunt, a few clanks, and the shattering of porcelain. Paying no mind to the ghoul’s ruckus, you sift through the clothing hangers, stopping only when an intricate floral pattern catches your eye. You tug at the cloth, pulling it off the bar and hooking a finger around the clothing hanger before straightening it out.

A dress, pretty and frilly at the bottom, littered with small hand-sewn red blooms, sparkling white and in pristine condition. It reminisced of better times when people reigned over a peaceful and bountiful land, when radiation existed only in the confines of nuclear factories and cannibalism was scarce and very taboo. Your dull expression softens with a doting smile as you coo over your new fit before tossing it on the bed.

Your search continues shortly after, rummaging and scanning, digging deeper until you find a small raft overflowing with undergarments. A pair of black tights and heavy woolen socks later, you pass an anxious glance at the edge of the wall separating you from your overly grumpy bodyguard before tugging the straps of your dress off your shoulders.

“What the hell are you doing in there!?”

“I’m changing!” you rush to answer, shimmying out of your dirty, torn attire before sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling the socks over your feet. After taking note of the now gooey gash on your ankle, you decide to postpone wearing tights until it’s been cleaned and bandaged. You swallow back a lump of anxiety and make disinfecting the wound your top priority…once you find the storage unit that is.

“Hurry up!”

Once the boots were secured, you neatly tied them up and scurried to slip on the new dress in case the ghoul decided he’d had enough of waiting and barged over in his typical unruly fashion. It fit you so well, but there was no time to enjoy yourself, you tossed the tights over the junction of your elbow and patted down the frilly edges grazing your knees.

The world came crashing when the zipper got stuck.

“Freaking fiddle sticks…”

You tried and failed to resolve the dilemma, patting blindly at your upper back, reaching over your shoulder, and coiling an arm behind your waist. Even when your fingers did manage to find the zipper again, it was jammed and no amount of vigorous tugging helped and you didn’t want to apply more force lest you cause a tear. A small whine, dainty and annoyed, bubbled in your throat and you hung your head back and stared up at the ceiling in despair. This had to be some sort of cruel joke, a jut at you for daring to find a sliver of happiness.

“Uh…Mister?” you call out, weak with embarrassment as you slowly succumb to the walk of shame. You round the corner slowly, apprehension in every step and boring a shameful visage. “I need help…please.”

Your lovely bounty hunter had sprawled out on the counter, his hands resting on his now full belly, one perched up knee swaying nonchalantly as his other leg kicked dangled leisurely in the air. His hat rested over his face, obscuring his vision as he breathed slowly, in utter bliss for the first time in a long while. The shotgun once secured on his back was tucked under his neck. The empty plates were carelessly chucked to the floor when he’d made room to lie down and now you knew what all that ruckus had been caused by.

It would have been quite the heartwarming sight if you weren’t currently wallowing in self-pity.

He rouses at your beckon, sitting up and readjusting his hat and giving you his best acid scowl for disrupting his peace. Then he notices your pained expression and skittish shifting and quirks a nonexistent brow.

“The hell’d you do?”

Ah yes, the sardonic question a parent would ask their misbehaved child after yet another minor disaster. That’s exactly what you need at the moment.

“I – ” your teeth grit, jaw tightening in discomfort. A sad puppy-eyed stare plastered on your droopy features as you stand next to the counter before reluctantly turning around and brushing your hair out of the way to expose your back. “ – It’s stuck…”

A snort of laughter fills the dim complex and you shrink in utter humiliation, fussing at his reaction like the wimpy thing you’ve been demoted to. He turns in his spot and his knees encase your frame as he slopes closer.

“Can’t even dress right.” his berating smirk nips at the back of your neck and earns a sigh of defeat.

Cooper Howard wasn’t a man to regret many things and he’d done enough awful deeds to have him kicked out of a church if he ever dared set foot in one. Not putting his glove back on, however, would be one of those regrets. When his disfigured fingers dipped beneath the hem of your dress to hold it steady as he worked the zipper free, he brushed against your skin and it was so soft that he nearly missed the feeling altogether. A pang of something awfully warm wrapped around his ribcage like a vine and he was so shaken to the core that he forgot he needed to breathe.

You felt like the past, all lovely and nice and tender, as if ripped from a time he struggled to recollect and let go of both, and you were thrust in his hands and he didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do with you. All charming smiles and sugary words and naivety that had him torn between hatred and incessant thirst for more of whatever it was you did to him. So addictive yet so detrimental.

He chalked it up to lust, a guttural craving any normal man would feel when presented with a cute little thing like you. But it wasn’t that at all. It had nothing to do with any carnal human craving.

You were a gateway to what he used to have, a walking memory of who he used to be.

It made sense if your story was true. Being tended to all your life while locked in a lab orchestrated to be your private room, it would leave anyone silk-skinned, bright-minded, and burden-free. But that didn’t ease him, it didn’t falter him from feeling like he was drowning.

You were the even tune of midnight jazz, a slice of hot apple pie, and a fresh cup of Joe on a Sunday afternoon; a little piece of heaven he’d never asked for and a cruel incarnation of damnation he’d always feared would catch up to him.

“Is it fixed?” you peep, saving him from the jaws of his mind, and look back, happily unaware of his self-destructive internal dialogue. The darkness hides the strain hovering over his distant gaze. “Did you manage?”

“ ‘Course I did.” he barks and is back to normal in an instant, pulling the zipper up before letting you go. “Done.”

He makes sure to secure his glove back on and cusses out the invasive thoughts.

“Thank you so much!” you grin with glee and throttle away like a victorious toddler. “How do I look?” you twirl with pizazz, then remember the tights dangling off your arm and bunch them up in one hand in case they took away from your dashing performance. “Don’t mind those.”

The ghoul scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief at how stupidly charming you are, and slides from the counter before reaching for his shotgun. You take his reaction as a good sign, satisfied with your new, clean look, and brush down the dress with the back of your hand.

“Les go.” he clicks his tongue at you, motioning with his head before fiddling to load his weapon. “Can gawk at yourself plenty when I’m gone.”

His remark receives no pushback. You follow suit, back into the benevolent corridor with hanging dead lamps, stepping carefully next to him with Pip-boy pointed straight ahead. It felt good to not have to constantly worry over a stray piece of debris catching on your feet anymore. Now your footsteps sang in tandem with your bounty hunter’s albeit much lighter and more frequent. With eyes darting from wall to wall, you peeked into each adjacent living complex. The sting in your ankle continued, snapping at your every move and your grip on the tights hardened. Your nails sank into the material for purchase as impatience nibbled at your nerves.

Apartment after apartment. Nothing even remotely resembled the room you were looking for, but it had to be here somewhere. The vault plans didn’t lie and neither did your memory.

You nearly tripped over a stray cable while ogling a bright pink suite layered with fuzzy rugs.

“You sure you ain’t just sendin’ us on a wild goose chase?” the ghoul asks while cracking open another steel door for you to inspect, then dips his hat and lilts “Ain’t gonna shoot you, Sweetheart. Don’t need to lie anymore.”

“I wasn’t lying, Mister.” you look up at him with hurt and he keens, blinking slowly at you and deciding to leave it at that.

Whether it was due to exhaustion or that look, he wasn’t sure.

If you were this set on proving to him there was a storage full of medical supplies and provisions he wasn’t going to stop you. There was plenty of food and drink to stay a while and his current bounty wasn’t notorious enough to top a fresh bed and a full meal. The caps weren’t worth it compared to what you’d offered him and he had enough vials to last him a while before any feral symptoms started poking through.

“It’s somewhere here, I know it is, these are just the wrong rooms. But the map showed it was in the living quarters to the north. It has to be a bigger space and with a bookcase in – ”

A hand clasped gently over your mouth, cutting your ramble short.

The ghoul grips your arm and shines the Pip-boy at the end of the hallway, the tense look on his face making your stomach knot. He takes one step forward, leaving you to linger behind him and you would’ve liked to believe it was to protect you, but it was most likely to get you out of the way.

You hear his gloved hold tighten around his shotgun and bite back the need to ask him what he’d picked up that you hadn’t. You never noticed the almost silent steps that had slowly crept closer and yelped when you were roughly tossed behind him as he spun around. The shot nearly left you deaf and the bloodied kukri barely missed your shoulder, having been a hair away from the strap of your dress.

You shriek along with the gargled gasp, latching onto the bounty hunter’s coat. The loud thump that followed made you duck and wrinkle your nose.

“Oh my jeez. Oh my God!” you glimpse from behind him reluctantly, forcing your tightly shut eyes open.

The raider twitched, clutching his blown-to-bits shoulder as a puddle of blood formed beneath him. He choked for air, coughing out a storm of crimson and it made your knees weak. The smell of gunpowder was sharp and overwhelming and your head spun with a nauseating speed.

“Guess I missed one.” the bounty hunter leers and the absolute insouciance at his actions sent a chill up your spine. He unclasps the hunting knife strapped to his belt and twirls it between his fingers, then tosses you a warning glance. “Look away, Sweetheart. Ain’t wastin’ another bullet on this shit.”

The heels of his boots clinked closer to the raider convulsing on the floor and with a shaky sniffle, you forced your legs to move. The pleas of a desperate man rendered defenseless and feeble, the churring taunts of his merciless killer who squatted over his prey with blade readied. A sickening noise punched you right in the gut, so raw and revolting that you covered your ears the moment you stumbled into another suite and slid down behind the front door. Clutching at the sides of your head, fingers curled and nails delved into your scalp to ground you, you died a little inside.

The reality of your existence, the consequences for being alive hit you full force, ripping you out of the tranquility that had befallen both you and the ghoul. Peace never lasted, and neither did joy, not in a world bathed in chaos and destruction.

The two curt knocks on the door made you flinch.

“Come on out, Scaredy cat.”

“I’ll – ” with a twisted tongue and a clenched throat, you murmur out words to keep him away because you didn’t want to see the blood he was wiping off his knife. “ – I’ll be right there. Just looking…for a false latch or something.”

What a horrible excuse…but he didn’t question it and you were so thankful.

His steps crinkle over broken glass and pieces of discarded metal plates. The tension lifts off your shoulders when he leaves with a grunt. You rub at your face with a timid breath, jaw easing as your lips part to accommodate your forceful inhales. The gloom of the apartment embraced you in your self-indulgent grovel.

To imagine someone lived here only a day ago was to concede to hysteria.

He saved your life again. And still, you were left shaken and bothered and speechless and burdened by what would have happened if he hadn’t been there to rip you away from death’s claws. The possibility of there being more raiders skulking about hadn’t been a thing until this one nearly chopped your arm off. Your arm was still there though, intact and function. All because of him. A dilapidated, volatile guardian angel that looked like a grilled chicken and sounded like a fizzled-out radio station and he meant more to you than anything ever had in your short, secluded life. What were you supposed to do without him when he finally left and you were sealed into a blood-soaked, corpse-ridden underground bunker with just your thoughts as company?

You slapped at your puffed-out cheeks ferociously.

This was fine.

It wasn’t fine, but there was nothing to be done, you’d work with what you had, you’d manage somehow. You had to.

The ghoul whistled you over, loud and clear enough for you to hear even while tucked away safely in your corner. Enough spiraling. You stood and with a determined huff, exited the complex only to see him standing in front of an open door with crossed arms and a tilted head. He noticed you from the corner of his eye and nudged his chin.

“This it?”

You poke your nose inside the spacious room.

It was the vault president’s office, completely untouched and eerily still, made to resemble the quarters of high-ranking officials from the olden days. Thin sheets of wood were plastered over the walls and the floor was carpeted and clean, the large windows overlooked the fields and dining area. An elegant leather chair was neatly set behind the paper-ridden desk in the center of the room, and yellowing files peak from every single drawer and bookcase. Everything seemed organized in spotless order, even the mugs on the coffee table were arranged corresponding to their color. There were so many paintings strewn about, past vault presidents, men and women in distinct white coats, same as the one your dad had always worn, supposedly scientists.

He leaned against the doorframe as you barged inside, watching your newfound zeal with a half-smile.

You pressed the tip of your middle finger to the wall and slowly extended your other arm at a precise angle, then moved it barely to the left. With a calculative spark imbued in your eyes, you take deliberate steps and move your stiff arms mechanically as you work out the location of the hidden storage. It looked ridiculous and you were well aware as you maneuvered about like a possessed puppet, but without any tools to point the way this was your only crutch.

“Three feet to the left, diagonal to the glass case with the cat sculpture. One step back and turn to what should be west. North should be to the right, then. And…”

“There.” you state once your hand points at a particularly overdecorated bookcase. “That’s it. Has to be.” you step towards it with determination, throwing away documents and an old plastic globe until there was enough space to grab at the shelves. It creaks when you give it a solid tug to test its stability. You bite your lip in contemplation before turning back to the ghoul. “Think you can move this, Mister?”

“You better be right, Sweetheart.” he tutted, but complied, pushing himself off the doorframe before joining you. He towers over you and rests his hands against the polished wood. “Move.”

You did as told and gave him some room.

He managed to slide his fingers against the back of the bookcase and spread out his legs before letting go of a throaty groan and pulling with all his strength. Your knee jittered with the need to step in and help, but you hesitated, succumbing to your manners and letting him do the heavy lifting. The last thing you wanted was to insult his capabilities or hurt his man-pride.

The case toppled with a thunderous crash and its contents spilled over the carpet, some trinkets bounced off your boot and rolled under the desk. The wooden planks that had been hidden behind it were slightly caved in compared to the rest. A thick carving resembling a door was engraved in them along with a small rectangular shape just a few inches to the side.

This was it.

“Hallelujah.” he chuckles and kneads his shoulder while flexing it, brows raised and eyes settled on the hidden entrance and glistening with wonder. “Guess you weren’t lyin’ after all.”

You clumsily step over the mountain of books and smashed wood, arms extended for balance until you’re close enough to press down on the rectangle. With a whirling hiss, the wood slides to the side and a hole perfectly shaped like a Pip-boy appears. You stuck your hand in without a second thought, beyond impatient and on the verge of crying because your ankle was burning so intensely you wanted to just rip it off.

The door gave way with a few audible clicks and the storage lit up instantly, you guessed the lamps didn’t depend on the vault’s fusion cores, another little trickery to keep this place hidden. The power management engineers would have most likely noticed the excess electricity being used for a room that wasn’t supposed to exist. A smart move and also for nothing, everyone was dead.

The cynic in you cackled.

You were quick to rip your hand free and enter, spotting the hefty array of medical supplies gathered over a metal cart, driven by pain and discomfort and lacking the self-control to keep it a secret any longer.

“Well, I’ll be…” the ghoul gapes at the overflowing storage, pleasantly surprised and nodding to himself. “Consider your debt repaid, Missy.” he plunges his knife into a sack of tatoes and promptly empties it.

His arm swipes over a metal shelf of stimpaks, greedily bunching them up and into the sack as he licks his teeth at the upcoming profit.

When you don’t reply to his remark he finally takes his gaze off the mounds of supplies and medicine and looks to you.

You’re a mussing mess, abrupt jitters causing bottles of pills and packages of bandages to pile at your feet as you scour for something specific. Initially, he opts to leave you be and focus on his own task, but when a disheartened noise slips past you he caves.

“The hell’s got you scramblin’ about like a cornered rat?”

You wince and turn back with a trembling frown. Your search had come out fruitless, the plan was spoiled at the absence of any antibiotics and you internally cursed for not stopping by the med-bay earlier and checking there first. Then again, you needed a key card and you weren’t fond of checking the pockets of decapitated vault residents just for that. But your open wound didn’t care for your antics. Now your ankle was probably red, still oozing and by how it rubbed against your sock, it was even more irritated and sickeningly sticky.

His stern look was relentless and you sucked in a breath before speaking.

“I can’t find any antibiotics…for my ankle.” you swallow a sob like a child caught red-handed trying to sneak past a broken vase. “The cockroaches – One of them bit me or cut me I think and… And it was fine at first, but then it started getting infected and I thought I’d find something here to help, but I don’t think only spirit will help so I thought antibiotics, but I can’t find any and it hurts so bad now – ”

You halted when his jaw stiffed and did nothing when he stomped close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. The sack was slumped by you and as he glared you simply averted your eyes to the floor.

“Sit.” he commands in a rigid tone, forcing you on your rump as the coldness of the tile floor seeps through your dress. “ ‘N take it off.” the tip of his boot nudges your foot before he tugs his pants up and squats in front of you with elbows resting on his thighs.

It’s only after you slip off your now-ruined sock that he cringes in annoyance and grabs your calf to turn it for a better view. Angry red outlined the open gash and the dead skin that still clung to it was soaked in colorless stickiness. He pressed on the side of the wound, shooting down your attempt at escaping with a scalding look, and more goo was excreted.

Radroaches were clean creatures, he’d seen them grooming themselves more than hunting for food. However, being mutated by radiation did tend to add some spice to their bites and you trudging around barefoot for a good full day had only added to the accelerated decay. Nasty little cut that was.

“Stupid git.” he hisses and stuffs a hand in the sack. “Nothen’ a lil stimpak can’t fix though. And lucky for you, we hit a goldmine.” the large syringe glints under the blaring white lights and he pushes at the base to snuff out any air bubbles before lowering it to your calf. “Now hold still.”

The sight of the needle makes you stiffen, a plethora of memories flashing past your widened eyes, and you’re overtaken by such a raw desire to get away that you nearly kick him off balance in your struggle.

Too many years stuffed full of constant medications and transfusions and scalpels and cuts and taking blood samples and fucking needles. All your life you’d suffered through nothing but medical treatments and the first day spent away from such hell had you realized just how traumatizing it had all been. Obligated to just take it because there was no alternative, you were never given a choice in the matter. You weren’t ready for this again, seeing that stupid needle so close to your skin made your heart drop in your stomach.

“Wait. Mister, wait. Wait!” you grab onto the metal bars of the cart as his grip on your calf tightens painfully.

“Quit fussin’!” he all but growls and pulls you back in place once you’d made some progress in slipping away. His tolerance for your display vaporizes when you land another inadvertent kick to his knee. He lets your calf go and reaches for the back of your head, grabbing onto a fistful of your hair and jostling you still. He’s right in your face and spitting acid. “What the hell’s wrong with you?!”

“The needle.” you hiccup and wrap your sweet little fingers around his forearm. Tears swell in your eyes from both pain and fear and it does something to him again, but he doesn’t relent. “The needle…I can’t – ” you whimper and plead, crumbling in his hold. “Please don’t, Mister…”

He’s taken aback. The menace drains from his gaunt features, baring snarl gone, and his grip on your hair loosens.

“You’re kiddin’ me.” his eyes roll from you to the stimpak as if you’d said the most mind-blowing bullshit he’d ever heard. He dangles the wretched thing in front of you, watching you follow it incessantly, not even blinking. “You’re scared o’ this?”

You make a noise of displeasure and avert your face when he brings the stimpak closer. For once his mocking laugh isn’t welcomed. When he’s assured you’re not just being a brat and actually hold a crippling distaste for the needle, the ghoul pulls away with a scoff.

He thinks, rubbing his knuckles against his jaw while you sit between his knees, immobilized by his grip.

“Well shit...” he lets you go and you bonelessly slump back into the cart.

He’s not one for comfort, doesn’t know what words to use to help you overcome your dilemma; he can’t just jam the stimpak in and risk striking a bone, can’t slide it in gently because you’ll go into another fit. He could just leave…

“Look at me.” he beckoned and snapped his fingers at you. When that didn’t work, he grabbed your face and squished your cheeks, forcing you to obey by giving you a sharp jerk. He leans close enough for you to feel his breath hit your nostrils and of course, it smells like cram. “I said look. At. Me.”

Your eyes go from dazed to bulging when you feel the needle press back against your calf. A pathetic ensemble of bleats accompanies your heaving chest and you hold onto his wrist like it’s the only thing keeping you from dying on the spot.

“Shhhh – shhhh – shhh, ‘s okay Sweetheart.” he hushes you with peculiar softness, stifling your meek complaints and scolding your eyes back to his own when he sees your attention dart down to your leg. You wince briefly at the prickle and his pinkie and ring finger leave your cheek and settle at the edge of your jaw, pressing down and rubbing ever so lightly. With an even push of his thumb, the syringe is emptied. “There you go…” he gives your cheek a good pat and leans away, resting on his knees. The pack of gauze you’d carelessly tossed away in your rampage was picked up and ripped open. “The good news is, you don’t need no stitches…but how d’ you intend to survive if you can’t even use a stimpak?”

“I’ll…” you smile in pain and it’s so crooked it rivals his. “I’ll figure it out.”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 4 >>>

🌼 Daisy Masterlist 🌼

Masterlist

Tag list: @bountydroid @judgementdays-girl

[frogchiro]

Please please I'm begging on my hands and knees for my slasher!Graves because I just read it and I'm so unwell about it 😩🙏🏻

I can totally see Slasher!Graves as a type of guy to kill any man who even tries to look at his pretty little darling. And I have feeling he definitely intimidates her on purpose just to see her squirm and shiver, watching her from the shadows and stealing her panties and whatnot ughhh

Oh he definitely does!! I mean, who wouldn't be intimidated by him. He much older, 40 already, not to mention that something in his blue eyes is just...off to you and he's an old perverted fuck to :((

When he found out that you were renting out a room on old Mrs. Marjorie's farm he had mixed feelings. Sure you could stay in that dingy old motel just outside the town but it was far away, not to mention not a suitable place at all for a young lady such as yourself.

Staying with old Marjorie was a frankly much better option since it was safe and you worked for a living on the old woman's farm which made Philip's heart stutter a little and cock harden, such a hardworking girl you are.

The one problem was Marjorie herself. She was an elderly woman but incredibly strong and resilient for her age, she owned a much smaller farm which mostly consisted of a peach orchard, a few chickens and two cows. She's widowed, never remarried and never had children and even with her strength and health of an ox he guesses she took you in as a helping hand, but the thing is...The old hag is for some reason very protective of you so Philip had to be extra careful whenever he wanted to interact with you, but truth be told you didn't make it any easier.

You were a skittish thing, shy and easily flustered too and when he swung by the orchard the first time, all big and burly and proud like a prized stallion he saw clear as day that you were intimidated by him which Graves ate.up.

Now whenever he sees you running errands in town or you're working on the farm he makes sure to "accidentally" just happen to run into you and ump his charm up to the heavens; lowering his voice into a seductive low gravely drawl, flexing his broad shoulders and well-build biceps under the plaid shirt he had on, moving his strong hips a little in a way that made you stutter and shiver. But he just can't help himself! It's only natural that a man like him would go wild for a lady like yourself, your pretty tits almost spilling over the neckline of your dress and Philip feels his blood rush to his cock, oh what he wouldn't do to that soft body of yours~

It's only when the old had calls you back into the house and sends a glare his way is the spell broken and Graves almost bares his sharp teeth in annoyance, if it was anyone else other than the woman they'd be rotting in the middle of his corn field getting torn by coyotes or long gone after a visit to the pig pen.

The only consolation are your cute frilly panties that he managed to snatch from the drying line outside, your sweet scent still lingering on them despite the sharp bit of the wash machine powder. It's on that evening when he sits naked in front of his fireplace back on the ranch, panties to his nose as he jerks his thick cock roughly when he decides that he needs to see you squirm more, even if that means you'll start seeing a dark figure just outside in Mrs Marjorie's orchard <3

[laincelebi]

Honestly the more I think a werewolf au for dandadan would work so well, especially if we take actual folklore as a base instead of the whole Hollywood stuff.

So the idea, okarun being cursed to be a werewolf maybe after losing his powers a werewolf attacking him.

Now what I have in mind, I think Brazilian werewolf legends could be used, as Japan has a huge Brazilian population, it would make sense to have a Brazilian werewolf in Japan XD.

So what would be the characteristics? One of the ways to become a werewolf is having werewolf blood spilled on you though there are other ways but I think this one would fit best.

Most legends werewolves don't become irrational beasts but once they sense fear they get into hunting mode as is irresistible, though they won't kill most of the time cause they still have their consciousness.

We have many types of werewolves in Brazil, many descriptions and how they work but one that I think fits is one that needs to run by 7 crossroads, 7 churches and 7 graveyards in one night ( sometimes it's just one of these) as they are said to be very fast. And they transform when they want or Thursdays or Fridays when it's forced, no moon influence.

Werewolves in Brazil usually don't have a tail and may have a pig nose or look like black dogs. With tall ears, some have long floopy ears. I think I would go with the tall ears for okarun.

Now what the story would be no idea lol I think it could be he trying to find a way to get rid of it while having to learn to deal with being a werewolf and how that would affect his relationship with momo. But I think it could give some fun situations

[horror130]

RUINED PROM

where did i get the idea: @slashme

The Black Phone x reader GN

Summary: Y/N decides to go to prom and is elected Prom Queen/king but it seems that not everything is perfect.

FINNEY BLAKE

⭐ Finn was happy that you won prom queen/king but a little upset that he didn't win and stayed by your side but still very happy for you.

⭐ when pig's blood is poured all over you finn feels mixed feelings of anger and sadness he can't believe that such a cruel thing was actually done to you.

⭐ Finn along with Gwen and Robin take you out of the prom and try to take you out of the spotlight.

⭐ the three take you to your house where Gwen helps you clean up, Finn tries to comfort you and make you forget about that terrible night and of course it doesn't work very well.

⭐ Finn is determined to find out who it was that pulled that horrible prank on you and á he finds out who it was he will make that person's life hell.

ROBIN ARELLANO

☀️ This boy is so proud of you.

☀️ A little jealous that he didn't get to be prom king with you but he's getting over it.

☀️ he gets furious when he sees the cruel prank they played on you and immediately runs towards you to get you out of that horrible place and take you back to his house.

☀️ he cleans you up himself and tries to cheer you up even though he knows that probably nothing will cheer you up for a while.

☀️Robin will ask Finn for help to find out who planned this stupid prank and when he finds out who it was, you can be sure that someone will end up in the hospital.

VANCE HOPPER

♠️ Vance didn't want to go to that prom he thinks those kind of parties are stupid, you had to beg Vance to go to the prom with you.

♠️ When pig's blood is spilled on you to say Vance is furious is an understatement, he doesn't think twice about coming to your rescue.

♠️ Vance picks you up bridal style and carries you offstage, he keeps yelling at people to get out of his way so he can get you out of that stupid ball.

♠️ Vance takes you to his house and as he cleans you up he makes a speech swearing that he's going to end the life of the person who played that "little prank" on you as a weird way of comforting you.

♠️ but Vance didn't lie about killing the person who put you through this humiliation he won't rest until he kills this asshole.

BRUCE YAMADA

⚾ Bruce earns the title of prom king with you so he was on your side when all the disaster struck.

⚾ He is shocked by what he saw and immediately takes you offstage.

⚾ Bruce takes you to his house he spends the night with you and tries in every way to comfort you and try to take your mind off this horrible event.

⚾ not long after Bruce discovers that it was his friends who pulled this horrible prank and it shocked him and made him feel a mixture of anger, sadness and guilt.

⚾ Bruce says that it was his friends who pulled that prank on their parents which made his friends get grounded and Bruce also reveals all the dirt on his friends thus ruining their reputations.

BILLY SHOWALTER

🐶 Billy was so happy you won the prom queen/king title only to be devastated about what happened to you later.

🐶 he got pissed VERY pissed off Billy immediately ran to get you off the stage and take you home.

🐶 Billy took you to his house where your mother could clean you up while Billy could think of possible suspects for pranking you.

🐶 when you're already clean Billy cuddles with you in your bed trying to comfort you.

🐶 Billy promised he would find out who did this to you and get revenge for you.

GRIFFIN STANGG (platonic)

🎈 well obviously Griffin didn't go to prom with you since the party is for high school students only, Griffin was at home watching movies.

🎈 when you entered your house Griffin ran towards you to greet you and ask why you had returned so early from the party and when he saw you covered in blood he was amazed.

🎈 for a moment Griffin was worried thinking you had had an accident, when you explained what happened Griffin was furious and sad for you.

🎈 your parents were working that night so Griffin helped you clean up he was the whole time trying to comfort you in every way possible.

🎈 Griffin was furious he was going to do anything to find out who played this prank on you so he can make that person's life hell.

[wild0moon]

eating up ur captain design............ /pos

can i ask how pico and captain met in your au (i think its an au anyway)?

very canon adjacent, but it's an au, yeah. my friend and i's funky little universe just to the left of canon where we take things too seriously, you feel me

short version: they happened to meet at a cop shop while pico was waiting for (yet another) police interrogation, weeks to a month after the events of pico's school. john took an interest in pico and offered, mostly as a joke, to teach pico how to handle a gun properly. what was supposed to be a one-off lesson for a quick bit of entertainment turned into regular practice sessions and accidental (but immediate) emotional attachment from both parties. whoops!

and if you'll indulge me, here's the long version, because it's been brewing in my brain recently and i guess my hand slipped

(WARNING: descriptions of and vague flashbacks to the events of pico's school)

💚💚💚💚💚

The police station was usually quiet at this time of day. Idle tapping of fingers against a keyboard, muffled sounds of cars passing outside or of people talking in another room, none obtrusive enough to disturb the thoughts swirling in his head.

Now though, he was entirely preoccupied by annoyance.

Shut up. Why are you so loud? If you don't like pigs, why did you even come in here?

Pico had seen the strange man in black from the corner of his eye, swaggering in like he owned the place, only to start chatting to the receptionist with all the warm familiarity of two former classmates who never really liked each other very much. Derisive whispers in Pico's head grew louder in concert with his rising stress, adding to the noise, birthing a cacophony he couldn't escape from.

The man went quiet, and for a brief moment, Pico was sure he felt eyes on him. His own gaze stayed firmly on his sneakers.

The receptionist finally piped up with something other than a disinterested hum. "That's, uh, that Pico kid. Pico Fulp?"

"Ohh, so you're the kid who shot up his school."

Pico's head snapped up.

In an instant, his vision was dyed red, blood running so hot it threatened to burn him up from the inside. He didn't know when he got to his feet, but he was already taking steps toward the man.

"It wasn't me!" he snarled, words bubbling up and bursting out before he could stop them. "It wasn't! Watch your fucking mouth or I'll break your jaw, you stupid—"

"I got it, kid, calm down," the man talked him down, in a far more stern tone than Pico had been ready for, stopping him in his tracks. Matter-of-factly, he added: "I don't care how tough you are, you've got another thing coming if you think you can break any bone in my body."

Pico grit his teeth, fists clenched at his sides.

The white-hot fire of rage burnt out almost as quickly as it ignited, his little body only growing colder as he actually looked at the man standing before him, red giving way to black and white.

Tall and broad-shouldered, wearing sunglasses so dark it was almost impossible to see the inscrutable eyes behind them. He was uniformed — the army, not the police. Which rank was the three stripes for? Was the 'Captain' on the tag his rank, or his name?

Pico dared to speak up again. "It wasn't me," he repeated, far softer than before.

Captain turned bodily to face him. "I heard you the first time. So, what did you actually do?"

He looked away again, wringing his freshly scarred hands. "I... I stopped it, sir. I killed the shooters."

The slight movement of Captain's eyebrows snared the corner of Pico's vision. "Really now?"

"I... I found a big gun in the janitor's closet, they must've stashed it in there," the words spilled forth, as if he were back in that vile interrogation room already. "So I took it, and I shot them. All of them. There were four, a-and I didn't even know what I was doing, I was scared out of my mind, I'd never held a gun before in my life, I don't know how I—"

"You've never used a gun, but you still managed to take down four armed threats all by yourself?" There was a note of interest in Captain's voice, despite him crossing his arms.

Pico swallowed thickly.

"Please leave me alone!"

"I was told to just scare you! I wasn't gonna kill you!"

"...Two of them weren't moving, sir. I'd disarmed them, and they were afraid..."

Captain hummed. "Right. And the other two?"

No answer. Memories of callous men in blue giving him withering looks or laughing in his face when he told the truth kept his jaw clamped shut.

Captain lifted his head, looking around the otherwise empty room. "Where are your parents?"

A half-hearted shrug. "They don't want anything to do with me right now, sir."

They never did in the first place.

The soldier's thick eyebrows furrowed, but for the life of him, Pico wasn't sure what it meant. The man was as easy to read as a book with all its pages glued together. That, or he was just illiterate.

"I probably only lived because we were all just kids who barely knew what we were doing," Pico found himself saying, as if he hadn't also slaughtered a giant alien that day — Cassandra had been young and inexperienced in her own way, too. "If something like that happened again, I… I dunno."

Captain said nothing, just staring down at him, seeming thoughtful.

Silence fell over the room for a long moment, disturbed faintly by the nasty voices Pico had learned only he could hear. When the man's voice broke through the murmurs again, it hardly sounded any kinder.

"Look, if I were you, I'd stop pissing myself and go get some actual experience under my belt."

"But—"

He wasn't done. "You know where the gun range is, right? The one five minutes north of here? Meet me there at thirteen-hundred tomorrow. Even a minute late and the offer expires, got it?"

…What?

Pico lifted his gaze to meet Captain's, incredulous. "You mean... But, why would you help me?"

It was Captain's turn to offer a lazy shrug. "I'm bored outta my skull, and this is the most entertainment I've gotten in months."

He said that, but he didn't look very amused. Besides, a soldier like him surely didn't have time to waste on such petty entertainment as watching a child grappling with fear. Pico tried scrutinizing the man's face for a moment longer, unsure what he was even searching for, but quickly found himself at a loss.

The easy answer was that it was a genuine offer to help, to teach him how to properly handle a firearm and put that aspect of his trepidation to rest. Pico wasn't sure if he believed that, but for some reason, he really hoped it was true. That would mean that Captain saw something in him, something more than the unfortunate kid and murderer that the other adults saw, something worth taking a chance on.

Nice. This man, a total stranger, was being nice.

When was the last time anyone said something nice to him?

(Weeks ago, in a sterile hospital room, two hands gently clasping one of his own, their owner smiling in spite of the anxiety behind those pretty black eyes, the sweetest voice Pico had ever heard telling him over and over how everything was going to be okay—)

Pico shook his head, as if he could physically clear the memory away.

He's gone now. Stop thinking about him.

By the time Pico dragged himself back to the present, Captain was already on the way out, muttering something about the stench of hogs. Pico watched him walk away, until he disappeared from view.

"Prick," the receptionist muttered, returning their attention to their computer.

With little else to do, Pico returned to his seat. His own thoughts quickly took center stage as usual, but they were different now, looking tentatively to the future, rather than the bloody memories that tugged insistently at his back.

It had been a while since he had something to look forward to.

[spookyycider]

Rabbit of Blood and Vengeance.

(Imagine being Billy’s wife, and defending yourself from ravenous wolves)

You looked innocent, fingers playing nervously with your necklace, looking around the room and refusing to meet anyone’s eye as you chewed your steak. And then goddamn Patrick leaned forward, his mouth stained with barbecue sauce, and his teeth crooked. He rested his hand your thigh. “Want a ride better than tha’ limo Russo took you in, right on my fat cock—“ he laughed, like a pig who’d had too much to eat and was rolling in his slop.

You paused, before you turned from the picture of innocence to a furious goddess of death. You grabbed the steak knife, and stabbed him in the throat, once, twice, three times. Blood sprayed your face, eyes lost to the thrill of the kill, lips curled unpleasantly.

Patrick gurgled, grasping onto your white blouse as he sunk to the floor, gurgling and choking, trying to get air, but all he could do was helplessly fill his lungs with more blood, and his coin collection spilled from his pocket all over the ugly hotel carpet in the banquet hall, red and black. And then he breathed his last.

You looked at the other men, face coated in blood, straightening up, and stabbing your steak with a fork, taking a bite out of it. Your steak knife stuck in Patrick’s throat. “You’re all going to behave now, right?’ Your eyes wide and doe looking, soft and innocent.

A rabbit ready to sink your teeth into their jugulars.

That was his wife.

x

I was in some kind of mood. :D This blog will be for miscellaneous things, and imagines. Not full chattered stories,

@e-dubbc11 @kayhi808 @bookloverfilmoholic @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @firequeensposts @firexfate @rosaleenablack @milea @thejanecampaign @idaofinfinity @briannareneea985 @tortilla-chips-and-allioli @cant-help-simping @danzer8705 @snowkestrel

[zeciex]

The Vow of Blood - 85

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: “You will be trapped by the obligations of love and duty, unable to escape the web of expectations others have woven around you,“ the witch said….

Chapter 85: The Red Dress

AO3 - Masterlist

In the grandeur of the throne room, wine poured freely and indulgently. 

Aemond presided over the festivities from the high table, his steely gaze watching the commotion with cold indifference. Tables had been meticulously arranged between the towering columns, each laden with a sumptuous array of dishes. The offerings included succulent dire boar, whole roasted pigs, tender oxen, and an array of birds, each accompanied with its own sauce. Alongside these meats were platters of steamed and roasted vegetables, and a rich selection of fruits, nuts, and berries. The heavy scent of the meat permeated the air, rich and overpowering, almost overwhelming the senses. The kitchens would have toiled ceaselessly, preparing the banquet, and it seemed Aegon had spared no expense.  

Perched prominently on the dias before the throne, the King’s table was a spectacle of lavishness, set apart in both stature and decoration. From his elevated position, Aemond observed the revelry below with a detached air. His brother had already abandoned the formality of their royal seating, mingling among friends with a wine goblet casually in hand, his laughter echoing through the hall. 

Aemond, however, remained seated, solitary at the expansive table. He gazed out over the dancers and the diners with an expression of utter disinterest. While the ostensible purpose of the feast might have been to honor him, Aemond was all too aware of his brother’s motives–it was an excuse cloaked in celebration, a veneer of honor that  thinly masked an indulgence in excess. The joy and revelry that animated the faces of the other guests seemed to him a stark contrast to the cool, calculated thoughts that swirled silently in his own mind. 

Turning his attention from the boisterous crowd, Aemond’s gaze climbed the imposing columns where the stern faces of past kings seemed to pass judgment on the festivities below. His eye settled on the visage of Aenys Targaryen, the eldest son of Aegon the conqueror and his successor. Aenys I had been a king as fragile in rule as he was in constitution, his reign notably brief and tumultuous. 

From the contemplative face of Aenys, Aemond’s gaze drifted to his half-brother, Maegor, whose countenance were rendered enigmatic, almost condemning, as they were deliberately shrouded by a sculpted hood. Maegor had seized the throne through sheer force, his ascent marked by the brutal elimination of his nephews, Aegon and Viserys, in an act of kinslaying. 

History had condemned the former king for his merciless brutality, naming him Maegor the Cruel. Even the significant achievements of his reign, such as quelling the uprising of the Faith Militant, were overshadowed by the dark stains of the blood he had shed.

They say that in the act of killing his nephews, he had cursed himself in the eyes of the gods and man. And so, he had met his end by the very thing he had spilled so much blood to secure–found lifeless and impaled on the swords that protruded ominously from the ground around the Iron Throne. 

Aemond’s gaze drifted from the obscured visage of Maegor the Cruel, feeling the weight of judgment searing against his skin. It emanated not only from the stern, silent kings immortalized in the stone who stood sentinel over the throne room but also from the living occupants within its walls. Though none openly condemned him, Aemond sensed their censure all the same. He was marked as the Kinslayer. Beneath their superficial smiles and trivial conversations, he detected the revulsion they harbored for him. The dual judgment–from both the dead and the living–cast a chilling pall over his presence among the revelers. 

He had always yearned to be admired–to be respected and revered. He had wanted to carve out a place for himself in the annals of history, to be remembered. He wanted to command the same respect and power as his uncle, Daemon, had before him, to be esteemed with the same reverence as the Rogue Prince. 

He had wanted to be something more. 

Yet, despite all his desires and efforts, all he would ever be now was Aemond the Kinslayer. In the eyes of the realm, and in the judgment of history itself, he would be cursed–as all kinslayers are–doomed to be remembered not for any good he might achieve, but solely for the blood on his hands. He came to the realization: he would never be respected through admiration or love, but perhaps he could command respect through fear. If the world was determined to call him a kinslayer, then perhaps he should fully embrace the monstrousness they expected of him. This dark acceptance crept into his thoughts. He would earn their fear. 

As the dancers wove their patterns across the dance floor, moving rhythmically to the jubilant music that filled the hall, a sense of dread crept up Aemond’s spine as something caught his attention, standing still amidst the revelry. For a fleeting instance, Lucerys stood there, his skin deadly pale and marred with chunks of flesh missing. He appeared sodden, as if pulled from the depths of a dark, watery grave, and then, as the dancers closed ranks, his apparition dissolved just as swiftly as it had appeared. 

With a clench of his jaw, Aemond averted his eye, his gaze falling to his own hand as it tapped an uneven, restless rhythm on the polished surface of the table. Each tap was drowned out in the clamor of the feast, his fingers marked by scrapes and cuts. His gaze lifted once more as he noticed his brother approaching, the rhythmic tapping of his fingers against the table ceasing for a moment, as Aegon climbed the steps to the dias. 

“Must you always wear such a gloomy expression,” Aegon chided, stopping on the opposite side of the table. His voice carried a mischievous lilt–bordering on mocking, as it always did. “You look as though someone has died–,” he said, reaching for the flagon of wine, pausing for a moment, and then added with a half-hearted shrug, “Well, I suppose someone has–but someone we actually cared about, that is.” 

The jest, light as it might have been intended, hung briefly in the air, prickling against Aemond’s patience. It was not mocking, but it was close to it. His expression darkened as Aegon carelessly filled his cup with wine, nearly spilling it in his overzealous pour before setting the flagon back on the table with a clunk. He chose to remain silent, his glower deepening as he observed his brother. 

Aegon, willfully ignoring the tension, casually lifted the goblet to his lips, taking a deliberate sip. He paused, wetting his lips as if to prepare for further conversation, though the hall was rife with servers and wine at every turn–clearly, his approach to the king’s table was not for lack of refreshments but rather to needle Aemond. 

“This entire spectacle is in your honor, brother,” Aegon proclaimed with a sweep of his hand, indicating the lavish spread and raucous festivity surrounding them, His smile was amused and slightly inebriated. “You might at least pretend to enjoy the effort I’ve put into this.”

Aemond responded with a cool detachment that barely masked his irritation. “I believe it was the Hand who made the arrangements for this.”

While Aegon might have commanded the feast into being and outlined his desires to his Hand, he certainly hadn’t been the one to arrange the details. If it had been left to Aegon’s own devices, Aemond mused, they would likely have found themselves dining in Flea Bottom at some brothel rather than the grandeur of the throne room. 

“On my orders–that is what the hand is for, isn’t it? What the King dreams, the Hand builds,” Aegon retorted dismissively, with a nonchalant wave of his hand as if to brush aside Aemond’s point. “At least enjoy the fruits of the Hand’s labor; this celebration is in your honor, after all. It is you we’re celebrating.”

“I am enjoying myself,” Aemond declared flatly, his voice devoid of emotion and betraying little sign of any true pleasure. 

Aegon’s eyebrow arched, his expression dripping with skepticism. “Then perhaps try showing it. We’re celebrating your victory!”

Aemond only glowered in response.

“Don’t tell me you regret killing the little bastard–”

“I don’t regret it,” Aemond interjected sharply, his voice steady and dripping with disdain. He fixed his brother with a cold, unwavering gaze. “The bastard got what he deserved. I fed him to my dragon, and I will feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well–she’s developed quite a taste for bastards now.”

Aegon’s response was a wide grin, a chuckle escaping him as he glanced around at the assembled nobility. It seemed many had overheard Aemond’s dark declaration. Good, he thought, they crave my cruelty, and they shall have it. He felt no remorse for the killing of Lucerys, nor would he ever concede that it had been anything but deliberate. He had killed him, and they condemned him for it. So be it; what was a little more damnation?

“Then what’s with the sour mood?” Aegon teased, leaning in slightly, his voice lowering as though to probe a more personal sore. “Is it your lovely little betrothed that grieves you?”

Aemond’s gaze narrowed sharply at his brother, his hand resting on the table curling into a fist. Blunt nails scraped over the polished wood, drawing inward until they dug into the flesh of his palm. He felt the ache of healing wounds pulling tight across the skin, felt the ghost of a sting. 

“Oh, it is,” Aegon cooed, his voice laced with a jeering edge as he observed Aemond’s clenched fist. “Seems you’re a bit… on edge, brother? I’d wager your impending nuptials will prove rather frosty. I’m genuinely surprised she hasn’t taken your head for killing her brother–such devotion, she must truly love you.”

Aemond tore his gaze away, the muscles in his jaw clenching as he struggled to maintain his composure. He swallowed hard, forcing down the surge of emotions that threatened to shatter the stoic, steely facade he had so meticulously constructed. Yet, despite his efforts, the insinuations felt like a dagger twisting in his gut, each word a cruel reminder of the tangled web of his actions and their consequences. 

Aegon, unfazed by Aemond’s clear attempt to end the conversation, leaned forward on the table with a crude smirk on his lips. “Once the festivities grow stale, we should head to the Street of Silk. Let’s truly celebrate your victory–with wine and women! Perhaps we’ll even find a girl who bears a striking resemblance to your soon-to-be wife, though decidedly more eager. We might even find one that is a bastard if that’s your preference–”

The cutlery rattled noisily on the table as Aemond slammed his fist down onto the polished wood, standing abruptly from his seat, the feet of the chair scraping noisily over the dias. A crack had appeared in his carefully maintained facade; he could feel it, a crack through which his anger seeped. It surged within him, a hot, seething burn in his chest, and at his fingertips. He wanted to reach across the table and throttle his brother right there. The restraint he usually exhibited was thinning, strained by the provocation of his brother and aided by the constant tension hidden just beneath the surface.  

Aegon merely leaned back, blinking slowly at his brother, the trace of an amused smirk still playing on his lips. Before Aemond could retort, the sudden announcement of a new arrival pierced the sounds of the revelry, halting the music and drawing all attention to the doors of the throne room. 

“Princess Daenera Velaryon of House Velaryon.”

A profound silence quickly blanketed the room, almost tangible in its intensity as the festive noises abruptly ceased. The quiet seemed to echo throughout the grand hall, marking the significance of her entry. 

As Daenera entered, the searing anger within Aemond extinguished, like flames doused by a downpour. The heat that had just moments ago licked at his chest and fingertips was replaced by a cold, heart-rending sensation. It was as if her mere presence shifted the air around him, replacing fury with a piercing chill. 

There she stood at the threshold of the throne room, her appearance striking even amidst the grandeur.

The gown she wore was a deep, unforgiving red–as though a bleeding wound set against her pale skin. She paused momentarily at the entrance, allowing the assembled crowd to take in her appearance. Then, gracefully lifting her skirts just slightly, she began her descent down the steps to the floor of the throne room.

The crowd instinctively parted for her, much like flesh yields to the keen edge of a blade. They moved aside, not merely in deference but as if in fear that even the slightest brush against her might stain them with her blood red grief. 

With each step she took towards the king’s table, Aemond felt his heart wrench painfully at the sight of her. Daenera carried herself with the poised grace of a drawn blade, her elegance belying the steel hidden beneath the porcelain mask she wore–a cold, measured expression painting her soft features. Yet, despite her composure, he could discern the signs of her suffering–the haunted look in her eyes, the shadows that hollowed her cheeks, and her lips, frayed and painted a vivid red to match her gown, spoke of silent torment rather than concealment. 

As she drew nearer, the intricate details of her dress became more apparent. Adorning the bodice was a metallic golden dragon, masterfully crafted from beaten gold to resemble the creature’s scales, hammered in such a way that it seemed to move with the play of light. The dragon’s head rested on her lower abdomen, with wings that extended upwards to her shoulders, giving the impression of watching the beast from above. The fabric of the gown was rich and heavy, cascading around her and flowing to the floor like a waterfall. Her sleeves, long and sweeping, brushed the ground with her movements, and the deep neckline revealed the delicate pallor of her bosom and the gentle curve of her collarbone. Around her neck was a small ribbon, adorned with rubies shaped like droplets–pouring forth as though her throat had been cut. 

There existed a savage kind of beauty in the collective yearning to witness her sorrow laid bare–the sorrow she wore like an open wound. The crowd seemed to feed off her desolation, as if her grief were a spectacle to be devoured, a feast for their insatiable appetite. The cruelty in their hunger was almost poetic, a macabre dance between the observed and the observers, that left both of them with little semblance of humanity left in them. 

While many among them harbored a measure of pity for her, the court thrived on the spectacle of seeing someone else fall.

But she did not fall, and she did not cower beneath their gazes, instead she held them–held them until it hurt. 

Her presence cast a pall over the festivities, as if she were a mirror reflecting the darker undertones of the celebration. Many around her shifted uneasily, their discomfort evident as they met her gaze—like errant children suddenly aware they were to be held accountable for their misdeeds.

Aemond, perhaps, felt the weight of her silent accusation more acutely than anyone else.

His fingers prickled with an overwhelming urge to shield her from the prying eyes of the crowd–to cover and protect her from their relentless scrutiny. Yet, he remained motionless, acutely aware that she would never allow such protection–not from him. After all, she had chosen to be there–to make a spectacle of herself. 

He swallowed hard, his clenched fists easing as his fingers lightly brushed the surface of the table, seeking a momentary anchor in the solid wood. His gaze remained fixed on her with searing intensity, yearning for her to meet his eye, yet dreading the accusation he might find in her stare. She had come to haunt him, her dress a vivid reminder of the blood he had shed when he had killed her brother–the same blood she now wore as fabric, wearing his crimson guilt as a reminder and as a rebellion on the nobles' complicity. 

Aemond saw it for what it was; a careful presentation. There was a certain fragility to her–the visible scrapes and cuts on her hands spoke of her grief and turmoil, echoing the sorrow that had once reverberated through the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast, and the hollow absence of her screams that seemed to linger thereafter. 

She dressed her wounds in finery–but there was still a wound, and it was still bleeding. 

Her attire was an ostentatious display, masterfully crafted and worn beautifully–pity me, it seemed to whisper. Look at me and see what has been wrought upon me, see how they deny me my grief. Pity me, for I am a sister bereft of a brother. Pity me, for I am a broken bird trapped within a cage. Yet, beneath the facade, a warning lingered–still, I possess claws. 

Aegon moved along the edge of the table to position himself in front of his seat. As she approached, he towered over her from his position on the dias.

The tension in the air thickened as Aemond watched her approach the dias where Aegon stood, his body tensing instinctively. The entire room seemed to hold its breath, all eyes riveted on her–they had all heard her screams, were aware of the havoc she had wreaked upon her room, and knew of how she had collapsed before the hearth, remaining there for days. Aemond had caught the whispers snaking through the halls of the Red Keep, heard the rumors that she had lost her sanity, that she had been confined for fear of what harm she might do to herself or others. It was said she had been sedated with milk-of-the-poppy, confined to her bed, and he had felt each rumor pierce him like needles under the skin, each one embedding itself a little deeper. 

But Aemond knew the deeper truth–that she was not mad or weak, but vengeful, and she now stood before them as a ghost come to haunt him.

Daenera’s piercing blue eyes met Aegon’s, holding his gaze with an intensity that belied her calm demeanor. Her gaze remained fixed on his brother as she stood defiantly, refusing to bow. Her spine was straight, her head held high in spite. With a clear and controlled voice that carried across the silence of the room, she spoke, “Forgive me, Your Grace, for my late arrival and for not offering the courtesy of a bow. As you may be aware, I have been well for the last few days and I was aware that a celebration was being held in honor of your brother’s accomplishments. I fear that should I bow, I might find myself unable to rise again.”

Aemond’s gaze shifted sharply from Daenera to Aegon. He noted the slight curl at the corner’s of Aegon’s mouth, which twisted into a petty and mocking smirk that suggested he might deny her the leniency she sought and instead force her to bow–and to publicly submit to his will. 

“Of course,” Aegon responded smoothly, his voice laced with feigned warmth. “We’ve all been privy to your… resilience in the face of your brother’s fate.” His smile then broadened, a glint of cruelty flickering in his eyes. “It is indeed a pleasant surprise that you’ve decided to join our celebration of your betrothed’s victory in battle.”

Daenera’s demeanor was disquieting, her expression meticulously composed, betraying no emotion, yet Aemond could see the intense hatred smoldering in her eyes–burning like a cold flame. 

“What a fine dress for a celebration,” Aegon commented, his voice carrying across the room, loud and taunting. He grinned widely, seeming to cast his gaze out over the crowd. 

Aemond’s fist clenched tighter, the skin stretched and tender from healing beginning to strain under the pressure. His heart pounded with apprehension as she watched a flicker of icy fire pass through Daenera’s eyes. 

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Daenera replied, eyes burning. “I would have chosen a more suitable dress for mourning my brother, but, unfortunately, all my black dresses have been removed and I am not afforded such courtesy.” 

Her voice, though light, carried a sad, fragile quality that resonated throughout the room–and it became clearer, then, why she had chosen that dress, and what she meant by it. 

Aegon paused, letting the silence swell before he added his voice to it. “And yet you stand among us,” he began, descending a step on the dais, still towering over her. His voice grew louder as he surveyed the crowd, saying, “It is indeed curious, how one so stricken with grief finds the strength to join us, dressed so… strikingly.” 

The insinuation lingered in the air, a silent accusation that cast a shadow of doubt over her mourning. Daenera held her head high, her spine straight as a sword as she bore the scrutiny of court, and yet, Aemond could see the way Aegon’s words crept under her skin, the way she drew in her breath and held it.

With a smirk twisting into a sardonic half-smile, Aegon cocked his head in a dismissive half-shrug and took another step down. “But we welcome you nonetheless to the celebration of your betrothed. He has won a great victory after all.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, his muscles clenching in visible tension.

Descending the final step, Aegon deliberately invaded her personal space, leaning towards her as she stood her ground. His voice then dropped to a low murmur, a tone intended only for Daenera–and Aemond–to hear. “One might question where the line is drawn between genuine sorrow and mere preformance… After all, how could a sister who truly loved her brother attend a celebration of his demise?”

Daenera’s eyes flared with a silent intensity, and Aemond could see the fissures forming in her stoic facade as her composure began to fracture under the strain. 

“Please, princess, take a seat and enjoy the revelry,” Aegon said, his voice smooth as he offered her a crude smile. He gestured towards Aemond and the empty seat beside him. 

Aemond’s gaze lingered on Daenera as she gave Aegon a nod of acknowledgement, her head bending slightly in feigned courtesy. 

As she started to move, Aegon called out with a flourish, “Music and more wine!” 

The musicians picked up their instruments, and the lively tunes filled the air once again, drawing out the brief silence. The room buzzed with renewed energy as conversations sparked up. 

Daenera made her way around the table, the heavy fabric of her gown rustling softly against the smooth stone floor as she ascended the dias. Throughout her approach, she avoided his gaze, denying him even the briefest connection. She moved with purpose, refusing him both the beauty of her eyes and the cruelty that might lurk within them.

Aemond clenched his jaw as Daenera settled into the seat beside him, willfully ignoring his presence. He drew in a sharp, agitated breath before himself sat down, the chair scraping loudly across the wood of the dias. Even though she was positioned on his blind side, her presence was felt, pressing into the edges of his perception like a shadow just out of sight. 

The closeness of her made his skin prickle, and he found himself casting a brief glance over the crowd. It was clear they had become the focal point of whispered discussions. 

“You should not be here,” Aemond murmured under his breath, his fingers beginning to tap restlessly on the table’s surface. It would have been better if she had stayed away. This was no place for her, nor was it a celebration he wanted her to witness. 

“Where else would I be,” Daenera responded, her voice cold as ice, slicing through the clamor of the feast. Aemonf felt the sharp sting of her focus on him, like the cold bite of a blade at his neck. He turned to face her, meeting her penetrating gaze. “But by your side,” she continued, her tone laced with bitterness, “as you are celebrated and honored for murdering my brother.”

Their gazes locked in a prolonged, tense silence, underscored by the lively melody that filled the hall. Around them, dancers moved rhythmically on the smooth stone floor, their steps resonating through the air, mingled with the constant hum of chatter. Aemond was the first to look away, swallowing hard as he felt her scorn burn against his skin. 

“I don’t want you here,” Aemond managed to say, his words forced through gritted teeth as he felt a constricting pressure in his chest, as if his ribs were digging into his lungs.

“Why?” Daenera questioned, her gaze sharp even if her voice wasn’t–it was almost soft. Almost. “Is it because I remind you of what you’ve done? Or is it because you fear what I might do, now that you’re being celebrated for murdering my brother?”

Aemond maintained his composure, tightly gripping the facade he presented to the world–cold as steel and just as biting. And yet, he yearned to keep her distant from the revelry–the curious glances darting her way, waiting and wanting to see her breath, the pervasive hum of celebration, and the mingled pity, mockery, and judgment that filled the air. More than anything, he wished to spare her the cruelty of witnessing her brother’s death being celebrated like this, with wine and food, with music and dancing, with laughter and happiness. He wanted to offer her the mercy of being removed from a scene where his sins were lauded. 

And, perhaps, it was as much for himself. 

“Mayhaps it is because you’ve come to realize the horror of what you’ve done, and are not ashamed–”

“I am not ashamed,” Aemond declared, his voice strained as he forced himself to meet her gaze once again. Why should he feel shame? Lucerys had gotten what he deserved. He did not have any regret for the act itself, only for the manner in which it had unfolded–a momentary loss of control. Yet as he faced her cold, accusing stare, he felt his heart tear itself open upon her eyes. 

“You should be, Kinslayer,” Daenera said–almost a sneer, but far too soft. She averted her gaze, and he noticed the slight shimmer of unshed tears, the way she blinked rapidly and the tightness around her mouth as she fought back her emotions–her mask cracked then, if only just a little, and through that crack tears seemed to pour. 

In that moment, despite everything, Aemond felt an overwhelming urge to reach out to her, to bridge the chasm of grief and guilt that lay between them. It itched beneath his skin, and he extended his hand across the smooth surface of the table before he clenched it shut again–finding a strange sort of comfort in the way the action pulled at his healing wounds. 

“How does it feel to get everything you’ve ever desired?” Daenera’s voice cut through the air, laden with resentment. Aemond turned to face her again, encountering the icy facade of that porcelain mask–deceptively soft yet harboring a beautifully sharp cruelty, like silk veiling a blade. “To finally achieve the revenge you’ve longed for. Does it bring you satisfaction? Has it made you whole?”

Aemond attempted to ease the tension in his jaw, but the effort was fleeting; almost immediately, he found himself clenching his teeth again, feeling the sting of her words like the kiss of steel. His fingers traced the table’s surface, blunt nails scraping across the wood grain, instinctively curling towards his palm where they fretfully picked at the scabbing wounds. 

No, it had not made him whole. It hadn’t restored his eye or reversed the injury inflicted by the injustice–it had not given him back that part of his soul that was taken when the maester had pulled out the remnants of his eye. Instead, his quest for vengeance–for regaining that part of him back–had exacted a heavier toll, allowing the festering darkness to bleed further into his soul. He acknowledged, without remorse or guilt, a grim satisfaction in Lucerys’ Velaryons death–it had been just. Yet, the tainted satisfaction was marred only by the manner of its execution: he regretted not the act itself but the loss of control that had defined it. 

And he regretted the pain it brought her. 

“You have your revenge now,” Daenera stated, her voice thick with bitterness as her fingers restlessly toyed with her fork. “You’ve got your war.” Her words were laden with disgust, scorn, and vitriol, trembling slightly as she spoke them, just loud enough for him to hear. “You’ve gained the power and renown you always desired–Aemond the Kinslayer. Now everyone will know your name. They all know what you’re capable of.” Then, she turned her gaze directly back to him, her eyes piercing. “Tell me, does it live up to your expectations?”

The monstrous darkness that had festered within Aemond since the day he lost his eye–that cruel beast that lurked beneath his skin–seemed to bare its teeth. He swallowed back the venomous words that threatened to spill from his lips, tainted with bitterness. 

“Even me, another piece of your conquest,” Daenera added with a scoff, her voice wrought with pain. Disbelief and bitterness twisted her features, furrowing her brow and pulling down the corners of her mouth–as though she was exasperated with herself for ever allowing herself to love him. 

The sight of her pain drove a blade deep into his gut, twisting agonizingly.

“Power, war, renown, and now me,” she said with an empty scoff. “Your prize. Is it everything you’ve ever dreamed of?”

Aemond’s posture remained as rigid and unforgiving as the blade of his sword, tension coiling between his shoulder blades. His muscles tightened beneath his skin as he turned to face her further, reaching out to cup the side of her face. His touch was possessive, fingers brushing against the small curls at the edge of her hair, her skin searing against his–he committed the sensation to memory, savoring it as solace for the long and lonely nights ahead. She stiffened under his grasp, her lips pressed tightly together, her eyes wide with a tumult of emotions–anger, resentment, hatred–and she leaned back slightly, though unable to escape his touch. 

A heavy silence stretched between them, laden with the weight of the response he owed her–a response that hung in the air, unspoken and resounding with a silent no.

However, Daenera seemed oblivious to the silent response conveyed by his demeanor. Her brows furrowed into a pained expression, her eyes rimmed with red and gleaming with unshed tears–tears that seemed to cling to her, always at the edge of being shed. It appeared she perceived only the answer she expected. 

Aemond’s voice, chilling and sharp, sliced through the air like a finely honed blade. Yet, underneath the surface, there was a slight tremor in his tone that betrayed how deeply she had managed to poison him. “I do not possess all that I desire…”

“Remove your hand,” Daenera demanded through clenched teeth, her voice sharp and cold. It was then that Aemond noticed she was gripping the fork tightly in her hand, the metal gleaming ominously in the dim light, her knuckles white with tension. “Or my dress won’t be the only thing that is red.”

Reluctantly, Aemond withdrew his hand. The touch of her skin lingered on his palm, sparking a mix of longing and regret, urging him to pull her closer once more. Yet, he restrained himself, curling his fingers into a fist and retreating to his own space. He redirected his attention to the dancers, watching them move rhythmically across the floor, their bodies synchronizing with the lively music. His gaze then drifted to his brother, Aegon, who stood at the end of a table, a wide grin on his face as he glanced over at Aemond and then returned to his conversation, his laughter shared by the friends gathered around him. 

Agitation smoldered within Aemond’s chest, a fire kindled by tension and conflict. 

Daenera loosened her grip on the fork and picked up a cup of water instead, lifting it to her lips. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, swept over the crowd before settling on Aegon. 

“You’ve already been branded a kinslayer,” she said, her voice steady and piercing as she met Aemond’s gaze with a challenging intensity. “Why not remove the final hindrance and claim what you truly desire?”

A humorless smile tugged at Aemond’s lips, devoid of any genuine amusement as Daenera’s words pricked at his ambition and sense of duty. His gaze lingered on his brother, who cast his arms wide as he spoke with his friends, his face split by a wide grin. It would be dishonest to claim he hadn’t entertained the thought during the darkest hours of night, when his mind wasn’t consumed by the thoughts of her. Yet, removing Aegon wouldn’t be as straightforward as merely executing him; it would brand him not only a kinslayer twice over but also a kingslayer. Moreover, Aegon wouldn’t be the only challenge he’d face. 

Despite being a thorn in his side, Aegon was still his brother. 

“There’s not just one hindrance to consider, as you well know,” Aemond responded, his voice low and measured, his fingers resuming their restless tapping on the table. 

Daenera’s reply was laced with a chilling tone, almost ringing with the iciness of her accusation, “And here I was, thinking you weren’t above the act of killing children.” 

His gaze shifted back to her, studying the unyielding coldness of her facade. He watched her for a long moment, feeling the tumultuous twist in his gut, the beast within him recoiling at her words. What she was insinuating was monstrous, even for him, and he didn’t believe for a second that she genuinely wished for him to follow through–not even she could harbor cruelty of that magnitude. She would never bring such horror upon Helaena, nor upon Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor. Yet, her mere suggestion frayed his restraint.

“I am not above killing bastard children,” Aemond retorted, his voice almost a sneer, heavy with disdain. 

Their gazes locked in a long, tense moment– a moment where the air between them seemed to thicken with unspoken words. Resentment and bitterness crackled silently, an almost tangible force, as they stared each other down. 

Their intense exchange was interrupted as Aegon sprang onto the dias with a flourish, snagging a knife from a nearby platter. He rapped it against his wine-filled challice, the sharp clink resonating above the din, commanding the silence from the gathered nobles. With a casual flick, he tossed the knife back onto the table, his movement exaggerated and theatrical. 

Drawing in a deep breath, he stood tall before the king’s table, his presence asserting dominance over the suddenly hushed room. His voice boomed, robust and clear, filling the expansive space. “As everyone here is undoubtedly aware, tonight we’ve come together to honor my brother’s triumph in the battle above Shipbreaker Bay!”

As Aemond reasserted his impassive demeanor, the cold detachment enveloped his face like a mask, seamless and impenetrable–he wore it like a second skin, natural and familiar from years of use. And he fixed a steely gaze on his brother’s back as Aegon held the court’s attention. 

“Much has been said in these past few days,” Aegon declared, mastering a steady, authoritative tone that resonated through the now silent hall. He briefly locked eyes with Aemond, giving him a knowing look before his gaze swept across the assembly. “But allow me to tell you the truth of what happened.”

Aemond caught the suppressed grins of Aegon’s closest friends–Ser Leron Estermont, Ser Martyn Reyne alongside his sister, Lady Cira Reyne, and Ser Wyllam Lefford. They seemed to relish in the theatrics of the moment. 

Agitation stirred beneath Aemond’s skin.

“My dear half-sister dispatched one of her bastards to remind Lord Borros Baratheon of a long-forgotten oath sworn when she was our father’s only child,” Aegon narrated with a calculated pause, allowing the weight of his words to permeate the room. “She sent a bastard boy to do a man’s job. The boy must have quivered in his boots at the mere sight of my brother.”

A ripple of amusement undulated through the crowd. Aemond clenched his jaw, and although Daenera was out of his sight, her presence was palpable, as if an extension of his own being. He sensed her anger emanating like heat from a blaze, tasted the bitterness that filled her mouth, and felt the sting of impending tears in her eyes. He couldn’t see her, but he could imagine it–could feel it. 

Aegon carried on, his voice resolute, carrying a sense of triumph and smug amusement, “The boy had been sent to persuade House Baratheon to usurp my crown, yet he arrived with nothing more than empty hands and stale words. Borros Baratheon would have sent the boy back to his mother the same as he had come had my brother not intervened.”

A breath slipped from Daenera’s lips–a fragile and pained exhale that seemed to tremble in the air, seeping beneath Aemond’s skin and hollowing him out from within. The hand that had previously tapped absently and restlessly against the table now curled into a tight fist, the wound’s on his palms threatening to split apart. He endured the heavy gazes of the court, feeling it prick along his skin with the same piercing iciness as the rain that had drenched him when he had pursued Lucerys through the storm–prickling against his skin as icy needles. 

“My brother, Aemond Targaryen, generously offered to spare the bastard’s life if he would forfeit an eye in payment for his own,” Aegon declared. As he spoke, Aemond felt a surge of memories pressing against the edges of his consciousness–the sharpness of the blade slicing through muscle and bone, the warmth of the blood cascading down his face and through his fingers, the piercing sting of the needle as it stitched the wound, and the persistent ache that lingered long after. The scar throbbed and itched, reminding him acutely of the sapphire that now filled the eye socket–feeling its etches within his skull, feeling its coldness against the tissue. His heart echoed the discordant rhythm it had pounded on the night he confronted Lucerys–when the boy had mocked him with a half-hearted apology, when the chase had driven them both through the tempest. 

Aegon’s voice carried on, laden with contempt, “A fair exchange for the agony my brother endured at his hand, I would think. Yet, the coward refused to settle his debt. He fled, tail between his legs, no doubt seeking the comforting folds of his whore of a mother’s skirts!”

Laughter swelled once more, filling the room as murmurs hummed among the guests. 

“Had the bastard merely settled his debt, my brother would have let him go,” Aegon proclaimed. Aemond wasn’t entirely convinced he would have done so, but the point was moot now–it didn’t matter, all that mattered was what had happened. “Instead, Aemond was compelled to exact justice on his own terms–he pursued the bastard and his dragon through the storm…” Aegon’s eyes flicked towards them, his expression sharpening, a growing smirk marring his face. “You killed the bastard, fed him to your dragon! What did you say, brother? You fed him to your dragon and you’ll feed the rest of them to Vhagar as well now that she has gotten a taste for bastards?”

Aemond heard the slide of her movement–could almost taste the steel she clutched–and as he turned his gaze towards her, his heart shuddered at the way her eyes were aflame, burning bright and cold, filled with sorrow and rage and a familiar desire for destruction. Despite the fire in her eyes, her expression remained nearly blank, her composure a finely crafted mask–slowly starting to crack under the strain of her emotions. His eye followed her movements down to her hand, which was clenched tightly around the knife on the table, her knuckles white from the grip, the tip of the blade quivering slightly. 

He moved subtly, placing a hand over hers to still it–knowing that she wanted to plunge the half-dull blade into his brother’s neck, or even his own. Her skin was cold beneath his touch, yet it burned against his skin all the same. Daenera neither flinched away from his touch, nor did her eyes move from his brother. As Aemond’s hand slid up to gently pry the knife from her grip, the moment the weapon slipped from her fingers, her own snapped down on his. He felt the sharp sting of her nails, felt the promise of bruising, and he welcomed it. 

Yet, despite the pain intended by her touch, it brought him an unexpected solace–her marks were a testament to her presence, and he found a twisted comfort in the pain, as long as she touched him. 

Aemond kept his face impassive–the usual sharp smirk on his lips, but his eye bore into his brother’s smirking visage with a glare sharp enough to cut.

Aegon, unfazed, turned back to the crowd, his voice carrying a cruel amusement. “With each passing tide, the rumors swell that our dear half-sister has lost her senses and is searching the coast of Shipbreaker Bay for her bastard’s remains… It appears she hasn’t realized that she ought to be searching a pile of shit just beyond the city walls if she wants to bury her son… but I suppose what Vhagar didn’t consume, the sea claimed. A bastard in life, a Velaryon in death…”

Laughter swelled around them, and Daenera's grip tightened on Aemond's hand, her nails digging in with such force that he was certain they would leave crescent-shaped indentations in his skin

“It’s a pity Vaemond Velaryon isn’t here to stake his claim on Driftmark. If only he had waited another week…” Aegon jeered. He then raised his chalice high, shifting the focus of the celebration. “To my brother, for his first victory in battle!” 

Aegon’s grin widened as he turned towards Aemond, lifting his chalice in a gesture of respect and honor. “You are the true blood of the dragon!”

Aemond responded to his brother’s toast, his fingers reluctantly uncurling to grasp his own chalice, lifting it in acknowledgement. 

With a wide grin, Aegon turned back to the assembled crowd, his brother booming with fervor, “Let this first blood of war serve as a warning to all who dare oppose us!”

As the hall erupted in cheers and chalices were hoisted high, Daenera’s fingers withdrew from Aemond’s hand, leaving behind a sharp sting from the emerging bruises and the residual heat of her touch. This sensation seeped into his veins, twisting in his gut, and he quickly gulped down his wine to wash away the bitter taste clinging to his tongue. The realization of how deeply he craved her touch–whether gentle or cruel–struck him as profoundly pathetic.

The music swelled once more, weaving through the renewed buzz of conversations as the celebration continued. Aegon swiftly drained his wine and placed his chalice aside, then strode along the table to position himself before Aemond and Daenera. With a slight tilt of his head and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth, he addressed them. “Princess, I’m delighted you could join us for this celebration. Your presence must be a great comfort to my brother, standing by his side as we honor his achievements. And again, brother, well done.”

Aegon flashed a quick wink at Aemond, then turned and strode confidently down the dias, rejoining his circle of friends. He was greeted with cheers and raucous laughter. Meanwhile, Aemond remained where he was, enveloped in a heavy, oppressive silence that lingered between him and Daenera. 

He felt a desperate urge to speak, to say anything–to apologize for his brother’s tactless words, to atone for his own harshness, to confess his love. Yet, when he opened his mouth, the only words that emerged were, “You shouldn’t have come.”

“No it is good that I came,” Daenera responded, her voice trembling yet icily calm, “I see things clearly now.”

Aemond’s gaze fixed on Daenera. Her composure had begun to fracture, the cracks in her facade widening, yet beneath the porcelain exterior, ice seemed to gleam. Her eyes, brimming with unshed tears, met his with burning intensity. She was devastatingly beautiful–like summer snow. 

She stood abruptly, the chair scraping noisily across the dias. Reacting instinctively, Aemond rose swiftly to his own feet, his chair skidding back, nearly toppling in his haste. 

“Will you excuse me,” Daenera said, her voice measured and cool, “I fear I have worn myself out.”

“Let me escort you to your chambers,” Aemond offered, his voice laden with a faint hope that she would accept, granting them a moment alone, away from prying eyes–where he might be honest and soft and pathetic. 

Daenera raised her hand, halting him with a gesture. “No, this feast is in your honor; you shouldn’t leave. I have Edelin, she will escort me back.”

With that, she turned and descended from the dias, her silhouette gliding behind the columns and melting into the shadows. She traced the periphery of the throne room, where she might be left in peace, making her way discreetly towards the doors. 

Aemond stood motionless, his gaze tracking Daenera until she vanished behind a column. He searched the shadows for her, eye darting between each pillar, catching only a fleeting glimpse of her as she slipped through the doors and into the hall beyond, disappearing from view. 

Aegon approached then, breaking Aemond’s reverie by clapping a hand firmly on his shoulder. “The feast is growing tedious. Let’s take our celebration to the Street of Silk, brother.”

[ainnur]

What Still Frozen AU Chapter 1: Ice Accident

@doctor--malpractice comment at my FrozenStar Duo post and ask what if Wukong take Bai He as his student. I can't help myself to create an AU and write it

Chapter 1: Ice Accident

Sumary: It's been a month after the whole LBD thing, everything should be back to normal right? But then Bai He discover something. She beg Wukong to help her with it.

I'm a not a writer I just wrote this for fun. Also my English is shit

TW: Blood, dead animal (just a little)

Chapter 1 : Ice Accident

................................................................................

"If she ever comeback will you kill me?"

"Yeah"

"Thank you"

................................................................................

She gone. Everything supposed to be normal right? Then why do she still feel like this? Still cold.....

Everything just feel wrong in some way. She was sitting in front fire camp after everything. A nice pig demon give bowl of noddle and GOD how good it taste! She was staving for more. When LBD use her, she doesn't eat, she doesn't have to. It's left Bai He weak, hungry and tired. Perfect for her to use.

Everyone just seem buzy with something. She eats her noddle quitly. Then she feel someone sitting next to me. It's Mokey King. A flash of memory come to her head and how she see the light. How the light burn but that's okay, she want it to burn her.

Destiny

She is sick of that word. It's true that's destiny can't be undone? From what happened, the answer is maybe to her

................................................................................

Bai He locked herself in room. Tears spilling in her cheek forming a waterfall. She looking at her hand with fear and disgust. She still can hear a person screaming in pain. A person that she hurted!

She didn't mean to! She doesn't even know what happened, everything just a blurd.

All she know is she was having a bad day. Really really bad day. Working at book shop wasn't always stressful. But there ONE customer who pissed her off. It's was that bad and Bai He was ready to trow hand at her. But the owner come to stop everything. Nana. She the owner and try to calm Bai He down by putting her hand on Bai He shoulder. Bad move. Without thinking and driving by anger, Bai He slaped her.

That when Bai He come to realize what happened. That slap wasn't a normal slap. Half of Nana face was covered with ice! Nana screamed because of pain. That ice was pirce through her face and everything look painful. Both blood and melted ice mixed and driped together on the floor making Bai He want to trow up right there.

Few customer rushed to Nana way wanting to help her. She was on floor holding her face, tried to bite tha pain so hard. She looking at Bai He unfocus. That took everything in Bai He to move legs and run. She run faster then she would ever would in her whole life. Did she just kill Nana? No. No, she still alive. Bai He didn't kill her right? Right? How could she know anyway, she ran away.

Everything just to much right now. Bai He breath become quick, her eyes unfocus and blurd by her tears. Her hand pulling her hair. She look like mess. She is a mess right now.

Then something trigger her. A meow for her cat, Bubble. Fuck!. Because of the trigger, she accidently shot ice at Bubble. The ice tear Bubble to two PART. Two fucking part. Upper body and down part. Blood and ice mix spreading in her room. She trow up looking at her cat that being cut. She killed Bubble.

Not even a second later, she hear a voice. The voice that she never wanted to hear for the rest of her life. But she guess destiny have other plan for her. How sickening is that?

The voice became louder. She can't actually her what the voice said but it's loud. Why can't she just go away?! Taking a few step back , Bai He back's hit something. It's was a mirror.

That when Bai He saw HER. She look like she wanna crawl out the mirror. Bai He didn't want that to happen. She won't let her control her AGAIN.

With anger she punch the mirror into pieces. A loud sound can be heared in the room. Guess the voice stop, huh.

Bai He take deep breath looking at her room. Everything in there just a mess like her. Bubble's body still there, both blood and ice all over her floor and let's not forget about the mirror. Blood dripping from both her hands. She have to admit that some part of her glad she punched the mirror.

She wasn't that stupid. She know she have left over ice power from LBD. The question is who's gonna help her? She need someone to teach her how CONTROL this stupid power or she will walking around killing people with ice.

Then she remember him and the promise they made. With rush she search for her phone and find someone numbers. After finding it she not wasting any time and click it. The phone ring for a bit before someone answer.

"Hey, MK"

[are-you-still-writing-that]

Yandere Alphabet: Illumi Zoldyck

He was kind of fun to write. HunterxHunter is a long love of mine, so to actually publish something for one of them, just feels amazing! (Though I´ve written ff before...)

Illumi Zoldyck

The first born son of the prestigious family of assassins. The guinea pig of his parents, who broke under their affection, who finds so little where he can possibly express himself in. Emotions beaten out of him, priorities set by his family. He is a dutiful son, but to be loved by him is a horror show. Something that creeps along, like the slow terror of a gothic horror novel. He truly combines innocently psychological horror with romance. Good luck, my dear

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

You are very much aware of the cold empty eyes following your every move. How they never seem to loose sight of you, tracking your every movement like a predator about to swallow you whole. He is smothering in his protective streak, that he shows towards his family. He keeps you close to the house, always under the careful eyes of his family and the staff. Every once in a while, he will try to make you forget, bringing you something you talked about. Showing, that not only is he watching your every step, he is also listening to your every word. Not a single action going unnoticed.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

He will know if someone is bothering you, no matter if you want him to know or not. He tends to be aware of your every movement, but also tracks your surroundings as well. His killing intent will leak from him, like an unstoppable wave, smothering and drowning every one, that dares to come to close to you. If his quiet warning is ignored, he can at least tell you that he tried, when he jams one of his needle behind an imbeciles eye. Not a single unnecessary drop of blood was spilled, as expected of him and deep inside of him a seed of pride will bloom.

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

He won´t see any sense in mocking you. Illumi has you exactly where he wants you to be, so why would he mock you? All is well in his books, so why bother with something, that seems so senseless to him. Instead, he will work on his next goal: Getting you comfortable in your new home and used to your new family. And even though, he doesn´t quite know how to achieve that part, he will still try. It shouldn´t be that hard, right? Though his frustration will rise, till he admits, that he was never taught this kind of skill. Maybe his grandfather will know how to help him. No matter what he won´t give up.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?

Now, that he has you, Illumi will just go with whatever happens. He doesn´t expect you to fall into his arms and suddenly love him or anything. Neither does he think, that you would suddenly be comfortable with his physical presence, and so he keeps his distance. Still, he likes to talk to you. Sometimes the whole room between you, even though it doesn´t make a difference to him, as he tries to be emotional vulnerable with you. Though, there is one thing, if he even so much as suspects you being a danger to yourself, he will take action. One of his needle pinched between his fingers, as gently inserts it. The order behind it clear: Stay alive

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

It is a bit awkward with him. He will sometimes just throw a sentence in the room, and you can swear you can hear crickets in that moment. The silence often so much louder, than the words. It is clear to you, that he no idea what he is doing, and you can sometimes see a pinch to his eyebrows, before he recounts his day with slow words. Completely stilted and his tone wooden. Still, you can recognize, that he is trying. When the silence rings too loud, and he can´t think of another approach he will ask you to talk instead, and reluctantly you will comply. Maybe it will have helped you in the future.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

When you start to act up, becoming aggressive with him and on one notable occasion even trying to act him, Illumi will be mostly confused. He doesn´t understand why you´re so lively all of the sudden, but declares it silently to be simply a mood of yours. His mother has the same ones, as do several of his younger brothers. He is sure, that sooner or later you will calm down again, and quite frankly simply lets you be. Surely, it will stop by itself.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

He doesn´t see his attempts at building a relationship with you, as a game. He also doesn´t want to use his darling to entertain him either. As ridiculous it may seem to you, he genuinely wants to have a bond with you. So he doesn´t play with you. But he also doesn´t see your escape attempts for what they are either. Most of the time, he will think, that you simply wanted to go out in the garden to take a walk, and will accompany you, before bringing you back to your room. Because of this simple reason none of your attempts will have any repercussions, even though some of the servants started to side-eye you by now.

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

It´s the way that he looks at you, that will frighten you the worst. His big empty eyes, just staring with you. You could swear, that these eyes of his would a corpse better, than a living and breathing man, but here he is. Eyes dead, unblinking for hours. You can feel him watching you, almost as if he touching you. When you wake up, and the first thing you get greeted by are these pools of black, that always make you feel as if he will swallow you whole. Him just casually leaning back, as if watching you sleep like this is normal. It´s unnerving, it drives you to anxiety with him.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

His wish towards the future are quite simple. He doesn´t have any responsibilities towards his family with you, considering that he isn´t the future head of the family. And this is exactly what he wants with you. Something, that has nothing to do with the family business. He wants your company more than anything. He wants you to be someone, that he can always return to. Maybe even be a reason to return at any cost? He wants to have something, that can be entirely his, outside of responsibilities. Outside of the family, even if it would always came first, but this is why he wants you to be family too, no?

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Illumi doesn´t get jealous at all. He has you already in his grasp, and there is no way that you could ever leave his reach. And the worse thing: He knows it. There is no doubt in his mind, when it comes to you leaving him. He knows, that it won´t happen. His confidence is somewhat helped along by his ignorance. He doesn´t understand most signals, either from you or others. The only thing, that will leave slightly irritated when you ignore him completely, but even then he will only huff and ignore the problem.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

He tends to be more open with you. Or well, at least he is trying. He will attempt to talk about his feelings with you, though it tends to go rather strange. He is most of the time unable to actually say outright what it is, that he is feeling. It will evolve in a way, that he will talk more about small physical sensations, that he is feeling or whatever thoughts are wandering around in his head. In general Illumi will try and attempt to simply share a bit of his life with you. It isn´t in an usual manner, but it is the only way that he knows how. And he tries so badly.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

He is someone, that will approach you. He can´t see the sense in dancing around you for long, and instead chooses the most direct approach. Illumi is very persistent, when it comes to inviting you, and he certainly isn´t someone, that tries to win you over with sweet words, as he is uncomfortably direct. While he certainly isn´t a smooth talker, he came with a plan. He makes it is mission, to figure some things out about you, before he starts interacting with you, and then he kinda, just overwhelms you. His profession certainly helps him, and if everything doesn´t work, he will simply take you with him.

Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

His true colours have a tendency to shine through clearly in his every action, even though he most often keeps a blank face. And even then, he will have more often than not sudden rather violent outbursts, where he just wants to hide you away, and hoard all your time for himself. He is incredibly controlling in those moments, as he tries to come to an understanding for what he is feeling. It will take quite a bit for him to calm down again, and to stop limiting your movements so much.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

He knows that he can´t hold you to the same standards as  his family, so tends to lock you away. Isolating you in the process. He won´t starve you, because he can never quite judge how much you can take. It is the same with pain, poison or anything else, that he was punished with as a child. He will maybe punish you with half of the lowest point of what is normal for the start of the training in his family, and even then he will hesitate, before going with the easier and safer option of simply locking you away.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

With him, his darling is cut off from society, as soon as he manages t get his hands on them. Though, it might never quite feel that way, as he brings you to his home. Kukuru Mountain is spacious, and you will have all the time in the world to find that out for yourself, as he does let you have free reign over where to go. It´s not like you could escape out the front door anyway. You can also interact freely with whoever you come across, while discovering as you are never quite in danger. After all, someone always has an eye on you.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

While he is clueless about how to interact with someone, that he wants to have intimacy and a deep understanding with, he is still kind. He knows, that hurting you would be counterproductive, and while he doesn´t quite catch that his presence itself, might be unnerving for some, it doesn´t really matter anyway. He is often busy with work, and so doesn´t even expect a relationship build on closeness to happen anytime soon. Not even as the months pass. He can be incredibly patient, and is more than happy, to simply have someone he can pass his thoughts onto. This makes him incredibly patient.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

If there is even a slight chance or hope of recovering his darling he would take it immediately. Even if it´s just to retrieve their dead body. He would want to recover, that small piece of you, that this world was left with. But in the end, he would never try again to open up to somebody else. He can´t really connect the idea of loving someone again, like he did. In his mind, you were simply special in that way. A once in a lifetime experience, that was taken from him. Whoever took you from him, would have hell to pay.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

Illumi can barely understand what he is feeling on a good day. Most days, those things still escape his notice. Guilt is one of the many emotions, he might never recognize, no matter how long he will try to understand himself. He might apologise to you, if he feels agreeable that day, if you ever scream a demand of doing so at him. But there is no feasible way, that he would ever feel guilty for what he did to you. It´s not that he doesn´t care, but in his opinion your life has only gotten better since meeting him, and that there is no need for him to feel any sort of misplaced guilt no matter what you say or how you act.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

He was raised to be an unfeeling assassin by his family. Nothing more than a puppet of the shadows. He was never supposed to be the heir in the first place, and as such he was replaceable. His parents could use him to truly figure out how to raise a child in their profession, and broke him in the process. So when he felt an unexplainable connection to you there was nothing that could have kept him away from you. Not what he was taught as a child or any other boundaries that were early on laid upon him. He felt like you were a part of him, and so he took it. To hold it close, to protect it from a cruel and dangerous world.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

It bothers him quite a bit to see you act like this. These are displays of emotions he has only previously seen on victims. Marks of his work, that were close to death and knew it. You are no where close to death. Especially if he can help it and has any say on it. He tries to explain to you that you are safe, but ultimately he will let it pass him by as he waits for you to return back to normal and understand what is happening. He would give you space if it was ever demanded by you. Secretly hoping, that it will help making you understand.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

He is rather cold and clinical in his approach to his darling. Every motion of his is rather mechanical, as if he keeps a tight control over the way he moves. The words, he speaks seem sometimes empty to you, as if he, just like his expressions, practised them countless time in a mirror. It is frightening, how many of his actions seem to be following a script only he can see. All the while, he doesn´t let a lot of his genuine emotions be seen through.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

His inability to work through his emotions can give you a lot of freedom, as he can´t quite tell what he is feeling and even less, what might be genuine on your side. Also, the fact that he knows that you weren´t raised like he was, under the same harsh circumstances, that he had to live trough, gives you another piece of peace. That he is aware of your differences from his can be mercilessly exploited by you, as he fears overstepping your limits. Though, with time this advantage will melt away, as he starts to slowly gauge where you are compared to him.

Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

He never intends to hurt you, but he will still inflict more pain, than he ever intended. He will damage you, while not being careful enough. His grip just a tad stronger, than he actually knows, and you just so much more fragile than he could ever expect. It will happen far too often in the beginning, when he is still trying to get used to you. When he is still completely unaware in the differences of strength and durability between the two of you. It will get easier, as he gets used to interacting with you, and slowly learns to actually not put too much pressure onto you. And once he has it, his control will never slip again. No matter how angry he will get, or how lost his mind becomes. He will never hurt you again. Never.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

While Illumi does like you quite a lot, and he can recognize the desire to stay by your side for as long as it is possible, it never becomes worship with him. It is something so much more intimate, than worship could ever be. He doesn´t put any kind of artificial borders around you. He doesn´t alienate you, with him putting on an unreachable pedestal. It wouldn´t do him any good, if he put more distance between the two of you, than there already is. He wants to be close to you, and so he makes sure, that he can actually be close to you.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

He snapped a long time ago. Long ago, before he ever even met you. Him loosing it, had absolutely nothing to do with you in particular, as it was simply that his control slipped. His fear of loosing something, that was already so precious to him, simply overwhelming him, as he takes you. Though, he will always take great care to never let his mask slip around you, to not scare you away even further. He will do, what he thinks to be necessary, for as long as he still feels like he has chance, to reach you in the end.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

He knows, that there is something wrong with him. Something, that got broken before he ever realized what it was, in his childhood. He knows, that he is the anomaly here, and that most people are like you. He knows all of this, and he doesn´t want that for you. Illumi likes, that you are aware of your own feelings, that you will never cut yourself on the broken parts of yourself unlike him. He wants you whole, because he just likes you the way you are. Also it is nice to have someone for once to be careful with, whom edges can´t scare him any further.

[whoishotteranimepolls]

Defend Your Blurbo Submission (this is LONG—1105 words, sorry!)

Dorsal Fin Appreciation or Lack Thereof

Hear me out y’all, but Arlong the Saw seriously needs more love in this fandom than he is getting. This is not a plea to the folks who don’t go feral at all for anyone in One Piece, this plea is for my fellow One Piece fans. Why so angry?

Out of all the villains in the entire franchise, and I am 100% ignoring the Live Action by Netflix—this is about OG canon Arlong from the anime (haven’t really read the manga yet), he seems to be the most hated. I have seen more genuine love and affection for Kleenex Boi Trebol than I have for He Carries Two Fish Sticks Everywhere He Goes Arlong.

Yes, he did conquer an island in the East Blue. Yes, he did extort money from the citizens monthly (effectively making him a loan shark). Yes, he took a young Nami and had her work for him, originally under horrible circumstances. And yes, he did kill Nami’s adoptive mother Bell-Mere. I feel like y’all shut him out of fandom love simply for killing Bell-Mere.

Out of all the villains that regularly see love, he killed a whopping one person. One.

He let Bell-Mere give parting words to her girls, he let her say goodbye, and he actually killed her rather quickly. He didn’t torture her, didn’t rape her, didn’t drag anything out. He stated that if you can’t pay, you die. He didn’t lie. She couldn’t pay so she died. Arlong is very cut-and-dry, you know exactly what you’re going to get with him.

Compare him to someone like Eustass Kid, who has killed way more innocent people than Arlong ever will. Kid got his bounty based on his egregiously high civilian casualty count. His big bad bounty came from innocent blood being spilled, that’s what makes Kid so damn dangerous to the government. Because let’s face it, he fails as much as Buggy does in the whole pirating thing. He took on Kaido at least once and lost and he took on Shanks twice and lost. He doesn’t win his pirate battles; he just wins at killing people who can’t defend themselves against him. And y’all eat him up like candy.

Arlong kills one backstory character and he’s the most hated man in One Piece. He’s better looking than Hody Jones and many other characters, he’s more humane than even he wants to admit, and he had great character development too.

He started off treating Nami like a slave or a pet and in ten years’ time grew to consider her a valued officer and crew mate. He wasn’t just fighting to keep his cartographer; he was fighting to keep the only female member of his pirate family from leaving.

Doflamingo killed his own father when he was a child, murdered his own brother, murdered countless other people, and overthrew a fucking country. And y’all drool over him like a stuck pig at a luau.

Arlong was a pretty solid pirate all things considered. He plundered consistently over the course of 10 years and built himself an empire on land rather than a fleet. He had a cunning plan. He had minions within the Marines (just as Doffy did with Vergo, but Arlong’s were actual marines), so he infiltrated through human frailty. He only committed one act of murder.

He had all the maps, a creature from the Grand Line and let’s not forget he and all but one of his crew were also from the Grand Line. He kicked ass. He even had convictions; he wasn’t all about himself. He cared about his own species, every single member of his crew, and he never turned on any of them. He did exploit a loophole with Nami but regarding his own people, he treasured all of them.

When they did something wrong or disagreed with him, he never harmed them. He didn’t treat them like shit. Their lives were precious to him. Hody Jones not only abused other fishmen/fishwomen, but he also flat out killed them. He murdered his own monarch and any fishman who didn’t agree with him 100% was killed. Arlong would fall on his own sword before even letting so much as the idea of killing any of his own kind cross his mind.

When Arlong did have disagreements with other fishmen, he just separated from them and went his own way. He never killed his own kind, wouldn’t dream of it. Arlong has lines in the sand that he will not cross, he has boundaries and respects them. Arlong actually has morals that he adheres to. Hody Jones is amoral, and Doffy isn’t far behind. Hell, Arlong has more solidified convictions and morals than Sakazuki, who like Hody, kills his own subordinates if they disagree with him.

Arlong really isn’t that villainous of a villain. In my opinion, he is a deeply traumatized person who never dealt with his trauma. He bottled it all up and is slowly consuming him. He’s damaging himself by doing that and he is able to be mislead by thinking he’s doing right and following solid ideals. He truly believes his species is superior and he truly believes that they need to rise up and take their freedom.

Now, he isn’t wrong. Fishmen are treated horribly and they do need to take their freedom, but treating humans the exact way they have been treated is also wrong. Arlong is so deeply wounded that he hasn’t figured that part out yet. He was starting to with Nami evolving in his crew. He even admitted to her intelligence and skill a few times, he was slowly starting to mend his ways when she left.

Arlong is deeply traumatized, misguided, but redeemable. And yet, no one gives him a chance. How can you all heap the love on civilian slaughterer Kid, pirate failure Buggy, snotastic Trebol, familicide Doffy, royal traitor Crocodile, domestic terrorist Sakazuki (because like me, some of y’all out there love him too), fish gutter Hody Jones, delulu “deity” Enel, lard ass Blackbeard, or giant psycho Kaido with the scrawny legs that shouldn’t be able to support him but y’all can’t find three nice things to say about Arlong the Saw and his glorious dorsal fin?

I mean come on! Have you seen that sexy dorsal fin of his? He’s tall, has luscious locks, teeth that regenerate, two fresh fish sticks in his pants, a cool ass sword, decent fashion sense, and he can breathe underwater which is just so cool.

Why must you hate him so? He’s not that bad all things considered.

Defend Your Blurbo #7

Please remember this post is about curiosity and genuine fandom discourse. Be kind with your answers because this is not a debate essay, this is a discussion between fans.

Well, in case anyone doesn't know who Arlong is, he's an early One Piece villain.

Now, this anon took a much different approach to the series than the others, so have fun with this and One Piece fandom. Defend your Blorbo

[socially-awkward-skeleton]

tagged by @mkdecimation this week (thank you <3)

got some more vampire au goodies for this week just in time for the temperature dropping here and the leaves changing color, it's very much spooky season for me already.

warnings for blood and gore descriptions, but mostly its just Price waxing poetic about his conflicted feelings over his hot vampire gf

It's not the first time he’s seen her in this state. Covered in blood that isn't her own, drenched to the point her clothes are a slick oil spill of black, the fibers so steeped in it they reflect the light. Her mouth drips red, crimson pouring down her chin. It’s always a startling realization to see her in her glory, a beast with prey, rending flesh from bone. The metallic tang of copper hits his nostrils and oozes down the back of his throat. It’s a stench he knows all too well, and not just because he’s involved with a vampire. It's a scent he carries with him. His hippocampus storing it. A reminder linked to memory, to emotion. Fear. Danger… The way she moans. He shakes his head, clearing the thoughts. Refocusing. 

The way she feeds in seclusion, hidden in the dark— this isn’t the way she treats him. There’s no romance here. The way she drinks from him is an act of bonding. Something tender, draped in all of the seductive elegance Rory had always carried with her. This— this is predatory. Violent. Cruel and crude as she satiates her most base need: to eat, to perpetuate her life. Even her undead one still requires sustenance.

That doesn't stop the disgust that burrows deep within him on a level he doesn’t quite understand. That primordial fear of the things in the shadows that go unseen, the reason why man sought fire in the dark. He’s learned not to let his emotions get the better of him when it matters, not to fall prey to instincts that went against his training, but witnessing the woman he loves turn into the very thing that parents have been checking under the bed and in closets for for centuries still needles in his brain.

She’s the top of the food chain, and he knows it.

The complete lack of humanity in her as she feeds on their enemies is a grotesque thing to witness. She had always been cold when it came to her kills, resolute with a trigger, never questioning her motivation to take a shot. Now, the weapon was removed from the equation. This was all just her. No switch flipped or order given. She was in her natural setting. 

Her long, sharp fangs descend and they don’t merely puncture small wounds into the artery to drink. Instead, she rips the layers of skin away with the frenzied delight of a child and a gift’s wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Giving into whatever it was that sustained her, whether disease or curse, he couldn’t be sure. No one did. It was just the truth of things. 

John lingers just out of sight, in the shadows watching, feeling like a voyeur as she grips at this stranger's dark hair, clawing at his scalp as she forces their head back and latches on with the same persistence as a leech. Her lips (the same one he’s fantasized about being on him) wrap around the throbbing pulse point, flooding her throat with their essence. Bleeding them like a stuck pig. Draining them until they're little more than a husk— as dry as the bloody desert. 

He grimaces at the spectacle. The body tossed away from her when done. Discarding the trash. A lesser life form that’s only use is to be fed upon after being a bullet sponge, fodder for some piece of filth they’ve been sent in to deal with.

Her hand drags over her lips as she smacks them and her tongue dips over plump lips, drenched in the color of life while she remains so plainly dead. Pale, pallid. Forever perfect like one of those stone angels guarding over tombs in a cemetery. 

A quiet groan of sated pleasure echoes in the silent room as she stands there, bodies strewn around her, and his breath hitches. He’s caught only the last dregs of her feast, her plate finally cleared. It’s clear Rory has a near insatiable hunger, an unquenchable thirst that constantly drives her, and he can only imagine the sheer will it must take her not to devour an entire base of soldiers when she’s stationed at one. She could do so far too easily. How she hasn’t lost control and torn his throat out yet, he can only imagine. The indomitable strength she carries was something he always recognized in her, it had never been more apparent than in this moment. She glances over her shoulder and the swirling depths of scarlet in her irises regard him as if he’s caught her in a lie, a secret, something that was never meant to be divulged to him. But there's no judgment in his stare, just the same unreadable gaze of a man who’s seen and done monstrous things-– 

Who was he to cast the first stone, after all?

tagging the cod list folks [opt in/out]

@taciturntraveller @writeforfandoms @imagoddamnonionmason @chadillacboseman @efingart

@alypink @roofgeese @harmonyowl @g0dspeeed @simplegenius042

@voidika @strangefable @direwombat @la-grosse-patate @josephseedismyfather

@statichvm @clicheantagonist @tommyarashikage @aceghosts @inafieldofdaisies

@raresvtm @cloudofbutterflies92 @justasmolbard @finding-comfort-in-rain

@imogenkol @cassietrn @carlosoliveiraa @confidentandgood

[juneknight]

Good Day

kink: hybristophilia

jake lockley/f!reader

About this: this one is a little special, as most sex takes place off screen. This version of Jake and his reader are due two sequels. ;)

*

Jake wakes you up with a kiss on the neck and the prettiest six words a girl could ever hope to hear: 

Nice day to rob a bank. 

It’s 1960 and summer in the Midwest, which means hot as hell. Jake’s car doesn’t have any AC, but neither of you mind. Sweat slicks on your arms and the metal door of the Fury scalds you whenever you try to rest your arm on the windowsill, but who fucking cares? Because it’s a great day to rob a bank!

Both of you had been watching the bag of bills in the trunk dwindle and dwindle as you crawled across the midwest. Every time you stopped at a gas station or a motel or a cheap little shop to buy supplies, you’d give him a glance, once that said: ‘is it time, J?’ But Jake’s face could be cooler than a glass of icy water, giving nothing away. You hadn’t known this was coming until an hour ago when he kissed you, rolled you over, and nailed you into the mattress. 

Jake knows you like surprises. 

“I don’t want no distractions this time,” he says around his cigarette. His hands are restless on the wheel, but you know it’s not nerves. If Jake’s robbed one bank, he’s robbed a thousand. No, this is adrenalin. It’s excitement. Jake’s got that cool face, but deep down you know how much this gets his blood running—just as much as it gets yours. 

“I didn’t mean to distract you,” you say primly, thinking about the last gig you both had pulled. It’s a bold faced lie. You had gotten down on your knees in the vault, put your hands behind your head and whipped up some fake tears as you begged him, Please don’t kill me, mister, I have a husband I need to go home to! Jake had just been spilling down your throat when you both heard the sirens wailing. It was a good thing Jake had outran the pigs before, or else you both might be sitting in separate jail cells. 

“Like hell you didn’t,” says Jake with a scowl. His hand reaches for your thigh, gripping it firmly. You let him up your skirt, and he sighs smoke when he finds out you aren’t wearing any panties. He mutters: “You’re gonna get us killed.”

“Doesn’t seem like a nice day to die,” you giggle. 

“No day is a good day to die, baby,” he says. “Every man’s gotta suck it up and bite the bullet eventually.”

But you were right—today wasn’t that day. By the time you both are burning rubber to get away, you have twelve thousand dollars in the trunk. You’d left all the pretty little bank tellers (and the bank president) trussed up like pigs in the vault. The cops could let them out. You and Jake had somewhere else to be! 

He pulls off abruptly into a road that goes from paved to gravel and gravel to dirt, puts you on the burning hood of the Plymouth, flips up your skirt and eats your pussy until you’re crying. It’s a great day for eating pussy—always is.

[angelsanarchy]

Alkaline: Euronymous x Y/N Series CH 13

Tagging: @ophelialaufey@madamemaximoff06@forever-not-gonna-sink@ajmiila02@liquidsmoothdomme@shady-the-simp @auggiethecreator @tempt-ress

Oystein couldn't shake what Y/n had said about his music. She actually liked it. She wanted to hear more of him playing and now she'll never agree to go to another show. He wanted to be pissed off. He wanted to blame Pelle or the rest of his friends, anyone but himself. He hated not being able to talk to Y/n, or see her out and about. She had changed her shifts at the shop so frequently now that he never knew when she was in and Hammeed wouldn't tell him when she was working. He just said that she's got "things".

"How can you go bigger though? I mean the pigs head and bleeding into the audience is insanity but what could possibly top that?" One of their friends asked.

"What if you start cutting the wrists of the people in the audience? That would be crazy!" Pelle frowned at the suggestion.

"Yeah I'm pretty sure legally we would have some problems. If they want to cut themselves during the show, that's one thing but Pelle needs to stick to slicing himself up." Hellhammer made a valid point.

"What about bringing more road kill to shows? Passing it around?" Pelle suggested earning a nod from Oystein.

"You sick fuck, I can barely stand the smell of you guys day to day. The venues we play would kick us out in a heartbeat." Oystein laughed seeing Pelle find realization in the fine they received for the last bag they left behind.

Oystein's stomach lurched when he saw Y/n walk into the bar with a girl and guy with her. He hadn't ever seen her with friends and he wanted to assume they were co-workers but his lack of knowing put him on edge. He let his hair fall in front of his face so he didn't make eye contact with her. She noticed them immediately and walked past them without a second glance. After awhile, Oystein didn't care if she caught him staring, he wanted to know who she was with and why this guy was talking so closely to her. He didn't take into account that it was loud in the bar and that there was another girl with them. All he could think about was her being talked up by some random guy who looked like the complete opposite of himself.

Eventually he stood up to try and move towards the bar and talk to her but one of their crew noticed her finally and stood up.

"EURO LOOK! It's the buzz kill from the show!" He shouted. Y/n rolled her eyes and the two with her looked concerned.

"Maybe we should ask her what she thinks would be more black metal, Dead slitting his throat onstage or drinking the blood of a crow?" Oystein didn't say anything. He figured she would just ignore the question but she propped her elbows on the bar and sipped a beer.

"I think it's about as fucking stupid as cutting himself on stage and bleeding out in a sandwich shop." Now she had the attention of everyone.

"We've already established that you have no idea what black metal truly is. We don't play love and light. We play death and destruction." Oystein knew everyone was looking to him for fight and she laughed at him.

"It's sad you really think a genre of music has to reach people by offing yourself. Hopefully you have a backup singers list." She was tipsy and he didn't want to challenge her but he was on the spot now.

"How could you possibly understand the pure unbridled disgust and debauchery that goes into our world. You live in a mundane existence working two jobs and spending your time with sheep. Dead's connection to the music is his life force spilling out of his veins, breathing in the rot of death and spewing it onto those who worship in the darkness." Oystein preached, riling his crew and holding Y/n's eyes as she finished her beer, listening to his rant and seeing straight through his bullshit.

"Really? My mundane life is a product of circumstances. We all can't be financially supported by our parents, Prince of Darkness." Y/n slammed her now empty beer bottle on the bar top

"Y/n don't." Her friend tried to pull her back as she approached Oystein and made sure to step right into his space, unafraid.

"If you truly believe the absolutely idiocy pouring out of your mouth, you have got serious problems." Oystein breathed in her scent trying not to feel anything but he can't shake it.

"I'll meet you guys outside." Y/n told her friends who quickly hurried past Oystein towards the door as she walked towards the bathroom. Oystein tried to get lost among the crowd so he could intercept her coming out of the bathroom and she wasn't expecting him to yank her by the arm into a phone stall.

"Get off of me! You don't get to touch me ever again." Y/n growled.

"What the fuck is your problem? You ditched me, remember? Why are you coming at me in front of them? What point are you trying to make?" Oystein argued.

"Your minions called me out. I didn't start this Euronymous." The way she said his name stung.

"You didn't have to take the bait." Oystein pressed making her laugh pushing past him to get away.

"Newsflash, when you act like an idiot in public, you get what you get. Maybe control your little followers and I won't have to make you feel inferior in front of them." Y/n was getting under his skin and she knew it. He pressed her roughly into the wall and she stared at him.

"Why do you want me to be an asshole to you? You walked away and I'm trying to deal with that-"

"You don't get to treat me like a disgusting, worthless insect. You and Pelle and the rest of those fucks might get away with this bullshit but I won't be quiet." She gritted her teeth so close to his chin, he had to actively fight the urge to kiss her.

"You know you aren't like everyone els-" She shoved Oystein's chest hard sending him stumbling back into the opposite wall with surprising strength.

"You don't want me to make a fool of you? Stay away from me. Stop asking about me, stop showing up at my job wanting to know my schedule, stop putting my name on your fucking grocery courier. Just...fuck off." She finally walked away leaving Oystein still leaning against the wall, feeling truly hurt by her words. He had told her that all she had to do was tell him to fuck off. He didn't want to believe she wanted him to actually leave her alone but she said the magic words. He just didn't expect it to feel so heartbreaking.

[thatcreepydoll]

i reimagined some of the lord of the flies boys as genshin impact characters! here’s a little analysis of their designs and such

ralph- hydro 4star catalyst. hydro characters are often seen as confident with a strong sense of justice and strong morality, but use that to mask their insecurities. i think this is perfect for ralph because of his leadership skills and abilities to stay sane. he is a catalyst with a conch on the front to represent the conch. his catchphrase, charge phrase, element phrase, hurt phrase and idle phrase are all taken as quotes from the book. his physical and element attacks are based around the conch while his charge is based off of his leadership

simon- electro 5star bow. electro characters are seen as outcasts who live in the clouds and therefore are rejected from society. this is perfect for simon, as that is exactly what happened to him. he was seen as odd and air-headed but is a sweet, protective soul. he has a bow because i think he wouldn’t want to get too close to his opponent when in a battle. his catchphrase is inspired by how the boys describe him. his idle phrase if taken straight from the book. his hurt phrase is to mimic how he tried to protect himself when hunted but he boys, or when getting hurt. the charge and element phrase are because they fit his personality.

jack- pyro 5star polearm. pyro characters are passionate, impulsive quick thinkers and are natural leaders with a commanding presence. this works well for jack because not only does it contrast ralph’s vision (whom is his rival) it matches his personality and resembles his list for fire and destruction. he got a polearm to represent his spear and authority. his catchphrase, charge phrase, hurt phrase, and element dialogue are all taken straight from the book. his physical attack references his spear, the element attack is a tribute to his love for hunting (think “kill the pig! slit her throat! spill her blood!”) and the charge is in honor of jacks love for fire

[thechaoticdruid]

HUNTED [2/2]

Pairing: Astarion x Named Tav (Winnie)

Plot: Astarion and Winnie find themselves up against a new enemy as they continue on their way to the githyanki creche. Feelings become more complicated, and lives are threatened.

Content/Warnings: Sexual content MDNI, dissociation, physical violence, nightmares about torture, Winnie and Astarion are bad at feelings, feral Astarion, death.

Part [1/2]

Winnie looked over Astarion's shoulder as her eyes met with a pair of demonic glowing red eyes. They were just about all she could see clearly in the shadows. Though there was this unfamiliar scent which wavered through her nostrils. A slight hint of vanilla. Astarion looked back, a bit in shock from the sudden interruption as his eyes took in the tiefling. His skin was a light pasty blue and he had long silky black hair which went below his shoulders. He was dressed in black leathers and had a couple piercings on his face. His tail was swatting quickly behind him, almost agitated.

“Do I have to repeat myself?” The tiefling hissed out, crossbow aimed at the vampire spawn’s head. 

“You know it's rather rude to interrupt a man during love making.”Astarion huffed, slowly pulling his weeping cock out of Winnie as he glared over at the tiefling man, adjusting his pants swiftly.

“Love making? That what you call draining innocent people dry?” The tiefling scoffed.

“You’ve got it all wrong! He wasn't going to hurt me!” Winnie exclaimed as she adjusted her dress.

“Don't be a fool. Hurting others is all these creatures know.” 

“Well, aren't you so very knowledgeable? I bet you just know everything about vampires don't you?” Astarion spoke sarcastically with a hint of venom. 

“I know enough to kill each one that crosses my path.” He said, preparing to fire at the vampire. “But unfortunately, this time I must make an exception. Now come quietly and I won't put a bolt in your skull.”

“And just exactly where would you be taking me?” Astarion raised an eyebrow. 

“To pay for your crimes.” The tiefling glared back at him darkly. “Someone wants to make sure you face justice and I've been hired to bring you in.”

“Okay that's enough. You aren't taking my friend anywhere, now put the crossbow down before you piss me off.” Winnie snarled, voice becoming more animal-like.

“I urge you to reconsider your friendship. This creature will only stab you in the back.” The dark-haired male kept his weapon pointed at Astarion, not daring to lower it. 

“Back. Off.” Winnie gave another warning.

“I'd hoped you'd see reason.” The tiefling frowned before suddenly turning his crossbow at Winnie and firing. 

“Winnie!” Astarion quickly moved and pushed the druid out of the way as the bolt suddenly hit him right in the shoulder.  Winnie’s eyes widened as she smelled Astarion’s blood. Her head whipped around to the tiefling as she growled out.

“You fucking cunt!” The druid dropped to the ground, body changing and growing as she wildshaped into her direwolf form. Her lips lifted up, showing off her sharp teeth as she lunged at the hunter, snarling loudly. The tiefling let out a cry as the direwolf bit into his shoulder, “gods damned pig!” He shouted as he began to punch her face. Winnie froze for a moment, his words echoing through her ears before suddenly she was knocked to the ground.

Astarion hissed as he grabbed a health potion from his pack before tearing out the bolt and drinking it. His wound healed up within moments while Winnie was still in a struggle with the tiefling hunter. He slammed his foot down on her head causing her to let out a pained high-pitch whine. 

“Ignis!” The pale elf quickly chucked a firebolt at the tiefling, the flames burning through his jacket and pack, causing the contents to spill out. Winnie then took the opportunity to bite into the tiefling’s leg, growling and tugging at his pants. Astarion took out a dagger from his pack before making a stab towards the hunter’s head.  The tiefling suddenly mouthed an incantation and before they knew it he was ten feet away, his shoulder and leg bleeding as he panted.  Winnie let out a loud howl to alert the others nearby.

“Gods damn it all.” The dark-haired male cursed before turning tail, making a run for it through the forest as the direwolf began chasing him down. Her claws kicked up dirt as she sprinted after him, quickly curving and zipping around trees.

At this point Winnie was ready to tear him to shreds, interrupting her and Astarion, threatening him and calling him a creature then injuring him. She'd had about enough of this guy. Eventually the tiefling had found himself between a wolfish druid and a cliff. Winnie charged forward, increasing her speed as she suddenly slammed into him, sending him flying off the edge.  

The druid stopped, panting as dim sun rays began to grace the surrounding area. It seemed dawn was right around the corner.

Winnie then proceeded to turn back to her human form, her dress was now torn on the side, exposing her up to her hip practically.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Winnie hurried back, passing the forest area where they'd been attacked as she noticed the tiefling hunter’s ruined pack lying on the ground.

“There you are. Where's the tiefling?” Astarion piped up as his eyes darted to Winnie.

“Dead. I pushed him off a cliff.” The chubby druid replied as she stretched her arms over her head. Her light pink eyes looked over towards the tiefling’s belongings with curiosity. 

“Thank goodness. The last thing I need is more monster hunters on my tail.” Astarion let out a sigh. The druid sniffed the charred backpack, picking up the faint hint of pomegranate and some kind of flower; she couldn't quite put her finger on it. She picked up the remnants of the pack, looking through the burn supplies. Holy water, garlic, a selunite pendant and an assortment of letters. The tiefling had come well prepared to hunt a vampire. Among the items were pieces of singed paper. They appeared to be letters, all titled to someone named Aetris. But what bothered Winnie was she couldn't find out who sent him and why. 

“What? What's with that look on your face?” Astarion asked.

“Nothing….We should probably get back to the others….Oh wait how's your shoulder?” Winnie asked as her eyes quickly darted to the vampire’s body. 

“I’ve taken care of it. No need to worry.” Astarion replied, “Now let's go.”

The two of them headed back to camp. About halfway there they were approached by a worried Wyll and Karlach who they immediately informed of the situation. As they arrived back at camp the others were packing everything up and preparing to leave. Winnie yawned, tired from the previous events and the fact that she had gotten any sleep the night before. 

“Why were you two sneaking off in the middle of the night anyway?” Shadowheart asked as Winnie gathered her things.

“I needed some herbs and he was hunting.” Winnie said plainly as she noticed a somewhat smug smirk appear on the vampire’s face momentarily.

“Well at least the two of you were able to fend off the attacker. Although are you sure he's dead?” Gale asked. 

“I shoved him off a cliff myself.” Winnie stated, stuffing everything into her pack before putting it on and preparing to leave. “There's no way he could have survived that fall.” 

“Be as it may, finding the creché still remains our priority. We cannot waste time searching for a corpse.” Lae’zel said firmly. “We must press on, immediately.” 

“Lae'zel is right. The tadpoles won't wait for us to dawdle about.”  

With everyone in agreement the party set off, traversing up the mountain side. Winnie kept her eyes and ears alert for any signs of danger, but as time went on she began to feel drowsy. Her lack of sleep was beginning to weigh on her, her eyes were beginning to hurt with strain but she endured it.  

Astarion seemed to be getting tenser the further they went. Winnie could see it in the way his eyes kept darting back and forth. Despite being assured that the hunter was dead, he still seemed very much on edge.  He likely believed Cazador was behind this. Cazador Szarr, a man Winnie had never met, yet she yearned to dismember him. The man who made Astarion what he is today.

Winnie thought back to the morning after her first night with Astarion. The horror she felt as she saw the scars on his back. Scars she later found out were carved by Astarion’s sire. She'd had to take a moment to compose herself and avoid gasping. The druid knew what it'd been like to be marked in such a way. The very discovery of his scars had brought back bad memories. Winnie avoided speaking to him about it until eventually she found him desperately tracing the scars, trying to find out what they meant.  She took note of how they were similar to the slave markings on Karlach and immediately came to the conclusion that it was written in infernal. However, whatever it said was a mystery to the both of them. Nevertheless, Winnie vowed to help Astarion find out. 

“Bloody hells!” Winnie then suddenly found herself yanked back before she was able to walk off a cliff.  “Are you blind or are you trying to get yourself killed?” Astarion hissed, looking down at Winnie, though his eyes softened when he noticed how dark the circles under her eyes had gotten. 

“Oh…Sorry I guess I'm just tired…” Winnie yawned slightly. The brunette-haired woman rubbed her eyes once again. Slowly they began to close.

“You definitely need some rest Winnie. Perhaps you could change into a cat and I could carry you for a while?” Gale suggested.  

“If that's the case I'll carry her. She'd be far more comfortable in my arms anyway.” Astarion gave Gale a smug look. 

“No one is carrying me. I'm just going to be more careful.” Winnie rolled her eyes. 

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

“Are you going to squeal for me, piglet? Squeal just like the rest of your pitiful circle?” A scalpel dragged across the fat of her belly. She gritted her teeth, eyes streaming tears, but she refused to scream.  She knew that was what he wanted. Her captor looked down at her with malicious red eyes. The young girl tried to focus on something else but the lifeless faces of those she once thought of as family were all staring back at her. Although most of their eyes had been carved out of their skulls. She flailed in her bonds, arms and legs spread apart as the blades danced upon her skin. Her flesh was the canvas while he was the artist. 

“Holding it all in won't change the fact that you were too weak to save them piggy. Just an ugly little swine that can't do anything right, but don't worry I can make you better…”  A red glow surrounded his fingertips. The druid's pink eyes widened in horror as his hand moved closer towards her chest.

“WAKE UP!” Astarion shook Winnie awake, staring over her with slight worry in his eyes. The druid jolted up in a cold sweat, heart pounding in her chest. Astarion let out a sigh, “finally I thought you'd be sniveling for hours.” 

The brunette haired woman was shaking, panting, everything that she'd dreamt felt so real. Her hands felt over her scars through her ragged green tunic. Pink orbs scanned the area. Astarion sat in front of her. The two of them were still inside the abandoned monastery’s cellar. The others were asleep in the room next door.  

“Bad dream, darling?” Astarion hummed, laying his head in his hand. 

“Yeah…” Winnie breathed out, a bead of sweat slowly sliding down her brown. “Something like that…”

“Considering you were a sobbing mess a few moments ago it must have been very bad…” 

“I don't want to talk about it.” Winnie said flatly before laying down and facing away from him. 

“I wasn't about to ask. I'm not that interested in your sob story, love. I'm more concerned with you waking the others up with your wailing.” 

“How sweet of you.” Winnie said sarcastically, rolling her eyes. She tried to return to sleep, but every time the druid closed her eyes she saw him staring back at her, laughing. Winnie bit her lip, sniffling quietly as the tears forced themselves out. It hadn't been this bad in a while. Not since she'd been kidnapped by the mind flayers. She had thought she'd done pretty well but gods the nightmares were getting worse. 

Winnie was eventually pulled out of her thoughts by a large wedge of cheese wrapped in a piece of cloth dropping beside her.  

“Eat.” He said simply. “You'll feel better.”

Winnie looked down at the food before grabbing hold of it and taking a bite. It only took a few moments before she'd completely devoured the wedge. 

“I…I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that.” Astarion looked off to the side as he choked out his apology. Seeing Winnie in that state. It reminded too much of himself. Of the nights he'd wake up terrified of what Cazador would do next. He didn't think much of the scars that decorated her body when they'd first laid together, assuming they were just battle scars the feisty druid received from various scuffles.

“It’s fine…” Winnie replied before looking down with a tired look.  “And thank you…That did help a little…”  She turned towards Astarion who scooted closer. Winnie looked him over, pink eyes lingering on his shoulder. “How’s your shoulder, Star?” 

“Your concern is adorable, but unnecessary. I'm quite difficult to kill and-” Before Astarion could finish Winnie pulled her shirt down, exposing her neck and shoulder. 

“You can feed on me…If you'd like…” Winnie murmured.

“Are you certain?” Astarion gulped, 

eyes immediately locking onto the pulsing vein on her neck. 

“Yes. I…I want to make sure you're fully healed. I know the tadpole keeps you from regenerating…” Winnie looked off to the side, cheeks turning pink.

“Thank you.” Astarion purred before moving behind Winnie. He pulled her into his lap which caused her to stiffen and move away. The pale elf blinked in confusion. “Is something wrong?” 

“I…I don't want to crush you….” The druid said with a look of embarrassment. “I'm too big to sit in your lap.” 

“Don't be ridiculous darling. Now come here.” Astarion patted his lap.  Winnie hesitantly scooted closer and allowed Astarion to pull her into his lap. “See, perfectly comfortable.” 

 She shivered, feeling his breath on her neck as he moved her hair to the side. One hand snaked around her waist. Winnie closed her eyes, trying her best to relax, though it was hard with the fact that he was about to sink his teeth into her flesh any moment.  Cool lips pressed against her neck, softly caressing the tender flesh. Her breath hitched and her heart sped up. Her hand slowly made its way to his, entertaining their fingers. 

“Hells…” Winnie gritted her teeth as she felt him bite down, sharp fangs puncturing her skin. 

“Mmmm….” Astarion moaned, sucking against her flesh as he held her against his body. Winnie never exactly knew how to describe the feeling of him feeding on her. It was often erotic. A bit frightening at times, but also intimate. A part of her even felt it was a way they bonded.  Eventually he pulled back and licked up any excess blood from the wound. 

 

“Star….” Winnie turned her head to look at him, feeling the burn sting of his bite lingering. His lips were stained red with her blood. She couldn't help but move in to close the gap between them, and taste her own blood. Astarion hummed against her mouth before tugging her bottom lips between his teeth and sliding his tongue into her mouth. His hand rubbed over her stomach before toying with the waistband of her pants, slipping his hand inside and teasing her clit. He slid his index finger back and forth over the sensitive nub, sending waves of pleasure through her lower regions. “Ahh…” She whimpers, pulling back and looking him in the eyes. There was this dazed look to him. As if he was off in his own world, looking through her and not at her.

‘This doesn't feel right….’

Winnie bit her lip and gently removed his hand from her drawers. The pale elf suddenly blinked before looking at her confused.

“Is something wrong? Did I hurt you?” Astarion asked, his voice almost cracking. 

“No…I….. It's just…” Winnie fumbled under her words. “Now doesn't feel like the right time…” She looked down and scooted off his lap. The dark haired druid took a deep breath before forcing a fake smile. “I think I need to get some water…But you should get some rest, I'll be back in a bit.” With that she pressed a quick kiss on his cheek and suddenly stumbled outside.  

‘I feel like such a horrible person. I've been using him to make myself feel better when clearly something's not right…’

Winnie leaned against the wall as she stood outside the monastery, slowly sliding down to sit on the ground. Her heart felt heavy as thoughts began to rush through her mind.  

‘I have to end things with him. We're so close to our cure anyway…. Tomorrow it'll be over and then we'll all go our separate ways…’

Winnie attempted to console herself with thoughts of returning home, but the more she pondered, the more she began to realize that being able to cure themselves tomorrow seemed too good to be true. Infected people were still heading to Moonrise Towers. Even if they were cured tomorrow she doubted this would be the end  of it.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

“Come on Winnie you said you'd do it!” Karlach exclaimed with a grin. Winnie eyed the roasted meat on a stick with an unsure look.

“I dunno Karls….It feels kinda fucked up. A kobold is a thinking creature.”  

“Well they attacked us first.” Shadowheart chimed in. “It's not like we hunted them or anything.” 

“Winnie! Winnie! Winnie!” Karlach cheered, pumping her fist up and down.

Winnie looked down at the meat before hesitantly taking a bite. A salty savory flavor graced her tastebuds as he teeth pierced through the tender meat. “Huh..Tastes like chicken..” She exclaimed before eating the rest of it.

“Gods I didn't think you'd actually do it!” Shadowheart grimaced.  Karlach busted out laughing at Shadowheart’s expression.

“It's actually not that bad.” Winnie hummed.

“Enough games! We need to get moving. The creché is within our reach!” Lae'zel announced as she appeared from around the corner. 

“Right, just let me get my things I suppose.” Winnie returned to where she placed her bedroll the night before and grabbed hold of her pack. The druid paused as she noticed something folded up on top of her blanket. 

It was the green dress she'd found days earlier, except now the tear she'd sustained from her fight with Aetris had been mended. It looked as if it was brand new. Winnie looked down at it with a puzzled expression before packing it into her bag along with her bedroll. She then swung her pack over her shoulder and exited the room, leaving the monastery cellar with the others. Her light pink eyes lingered over Astarion who was brushing his hair out. He looked very refreshed this morning. No doubt invigorated by Winnie’s blood. Winnie frowned as she remembered the events of last night.  She wasn't sure what to say to him. Ending this fling would probably be the best for both of them, but for some reason it made her chest feel tight.  

‘I have to do this.’

Winnie took a deep breath before opening her mouth to speak.

“Tskva! Enough chatter! Onward.” Lae'zel barked, stopping Winnie from speaking to Astarion. Winnie nodded before following after the others as they made their way deeper into the monastery. The voice of Winnie’s dream guardian began to make himself known within her thoughts, warning her about seeking out the Githyanki.  

‘I can handle them. I'm not a weak pup. If they attack I'll simply tear right through them.’

The druid replied to him, confident of her abilities.  Her eyes scanned the area as they stepped down a flight of stone steps and off into a corridor where Gith soldiers were standing guard. A gith female suddenly drew her blade and aimed it right in Winnie’s direction.

“Erm…Hi….” Winnie squeaked out and gave her a wave. 

“State your purpose, istik. Quickly!” 

“Stand down, Gish. Is it not Vlaakith’s command to welcome her faithful?” Lae'zel spoke up. 

“I expected no visitors, faithful or otherwise. Why have you come?” The githyanki stared at Winnie with an intense gaze.  

“Mindflayers infected us and my companion said someone here could cure us.” Winnie said simply. 

“You are infected? A ghaik thrall is something to be eradicated, not reasoned with!” 

“The faithful may be purified. That is Vlaakith's protocol.” Lae'zel replied sternly.

Winnie stood there awkwardly as the two gith glared each other down. 

“Chk very well, let the ghustil carry out your fate, but step carefully. Creché Y'llek watches you.” 

Winnie rolled her eyes at the githyanki. She'd never even heard of the githyanki before Lae'zel, but she hoped not every single one of them she came across was as vicious as these two. Surely there had to be a nice one or two? 

The group ventured carefully through the creché, suspicious eyes followed them every step. 

“You know I'm actually not crazy about wandering around a creché full of killer githyanki warriors. Especially with our little friends still tagging along.” Astarion whispered, gesturing to his head. 

Winnie felt an all too familiar squirm within her head. The tadpole was reminding her of its presence almost as if it was taunting her. Winnie growled slightly and rubbed her eyes.

“Just out of curiosity, dear. Are you doing alright? You left rather quickly last night and it got so very lonely without you in my arms.” Astarion practically cooed out the last part. 

“I’d rather focus on today's task if it's all the same to you.” Winnie attempted to shut him down. 

“You’re not getting bored of me are you?” Astarion frowned. If Winnie didn't know any better she would have believed that was a look of genuine sadness.

“No I…. I'm not! Astarion, being with you is amazing…but last night…Last night just didn't feel right.” Winnie explained as they entered a large room with a pool spread across it. Winnie stepped forward before suddenly being yanked back by Astarion. 

“Careful, there are traps all over this place.” Astarion exclaimed, pulling Winnie against his chest to keep her from tumbling into the pool below.

“What is this place?” The short druid asked, tilting her head in confusion.

“This is a hatchery. Where all the githyanki eggs are kept. Although the lack of eggs is peculiar.” Lae'zel exclaimed. 

“I don't see any eggs so far.” Winnie glanced around the pool. She sniffed the air, there was definitely something down there, but what? The brunette noticed one of the githyanki guards standing closer to the pool. 

“So ah….nice hatchery you got here….” Winnie began. “But I kinda expected there to be you know…eggs…”

“We don't share the creché’s business with outsiders. Be on your way istik.” The guard hissed, looking down at the stocky human with a glare. 

“Ah come on! You can tell me! I'm not gonna be here very long anyway. Besides, if I tried anything, surely a strong capable warrior like yourself could handle it!” Winnie said with a sweet smile.

 

[Charisma Persuasion Successful]

“All of creché Y'llek’s eggs have hatched, save for one. Ordinarily we'd destroy it after waiting so long, but the varsh insists on giving it more time.” 

“Is there something wrong with the egg?” 

“Could be. Usually if it hasn't hatched by now it's likely too weak to survive.”

The druid hummed to herself, pink eyes scanning the area before she wildshaped into a hummingbird and flew over the traps. As Winnie circled  over she noticed a lone githyanki looking over an egg that sat just at the edge of the pool.

Winnie dropped down beside the gith before returning to her normal human form. 

“Huh? They're letting istiks into the hatchery now?” 

“Hi! Names Winnie! I heard you’re having a bit of an egg problem?”

“The egg will hatch. It just needs more time.” 

“I thought you were supposed to destroy it if it didn't hatch soon enough? Sort of a culling the weak thing?” Winnie tilted her head curiously. 

“Just because it hasn't hatched yet doesn't mean it is weak. There could be greatness within that shell…” 

Winnie looked down, eyes glancing over the strange green egg.  For a moment an image of her childhood friend carrying a bird’s egg came to mind. Her gnomish companion had found the egg all alone after the mother had been killed, feathers and blood decorating the nest. The other apprentices had told her she should have just left the egg where she found it. That it wouldn't survive without its mother, but she kept it anyway and cared for the hatchling until it was old enough to fly on its own. 

“Come on, it's time to come out.” The varsh muttered under his breath. Winnie looked away from the egg before speaking up once more.

“You seem to care a great deal about this egg?” Winnie spoke up, taking note of the varsh’s hesitance to answer. “Is there any particular reason for this sentiment?”

[Charisma Persuasion Successful]

“Not every late hatchling is weak. I….was the last of my clutch to hatch. They wouldn't have killed me had my sa’varsh not given me a chance. This one deserves the same…. Although they might not have much time left.” His face darkened as he said the last part.

“What do you mean?” 

“The kith’rak will be back soon and if she sees the egg still hasn't hatched…Well then it will be over.” He explained. Winnie bit her lip in thought. It probably was a terrible idea, but leaving the egg to die just didn't feel right. She could always find a couple who couldn't have children and let them take the egg. Surely there had to be someone in Baldur's Gate or on the road there that would adopt it. 

“I can take the egg.” The Druid's words made the varsh have to do a double take.  

“You want to take the egg? And just What would you do with it?”

“I'd find someone who could care for the child. Someone better suited to childcare and if all else fails I suppose I'd raise it as my own.” 

“I suppose its nature will prevail even if it is raised amongst….lesser creatures. Very well, take these they will aid you in retrieving the egg.” He explained before handing Winnie a pair of boots.

Winnie looked at the boots before pulling them on and climbing over towards the egg. She gazed down at it, watching as she could see a shadow move within. Carefully she took it in her hands, marveling at the idea of holding new life in her hands before gently tucking it into her pack. Eventually she returned safely to her friends.

“There you are! We were worried about you, soldier! Where'd you go?” Karlach asked.

“Something ah…. caught my eye.” Winnie murmured before suddenly Lae'zel grabbed her pack and took out the egg. 

“You stole from the hatchery!?” She hissed.

“I didn't steal it. They gave it to me. The egg wasn't going to hatch soon enough so I asked to take it instead of letting them destroy it.” Winnie explained. Lae'zel relaxed as Winnie explained herself. The druid still had difficulty reading through the young gith’s stone faced expression.

“Great, now we can make an exceptional omelet.” Astarion chimed in with a shit eating grin. 

“No!” Winnie barked and held the egg close to her protectively.

“Touch that egg and I will drive my blade through your skull!” 

“Just a jest! Let's not act like animals.” Astarion put his hands up and took a step back. Winnie tucked the egg back into her pack safely.  

“You're not actually thinking about keeping that thing are you?” Astarion crossed his arms.

“I’ll hang on to it long enough to find someone more suited to care for it.” Winnie explained. 

“Alright but just so you know I'm not helping you if the little shit decides to hatch before you can get rid of it.” The fanged elf huffed out, scrunching his face up in disgust.

“That's fine. I wasn't going to ask you anyway. You'd be a horrible father.” Winnie said, rolling her eyes as she, Lae'zel and the others began to exit the hatchery.

“Excuse me!?” Astarion gasped dramatically, “I could be just as good a parent as any fool you  drag off the streets!” 

Winnie ignored him and began to head off with Lae'zel and the others. They left the hatchery and finally made their way to the infirmary, passing some rather rude gith children. Astarion pouted as he began to walk closer behind Winnie. 

The party entered the infirmary where a Gith woman in a lab coat appeared to be looking over a Mind Flayer parasite in a large test tube, murmuring to herself.  

“Ah…. Excuse me?” Winnie spoke up.

“Hm? I was not expecting visitors. Why have you come?”

“We seek the zaith'isk! Vlaakith's protocol demands-” Lae’zel began before the woman cut her off.

“I was not speaking to you.” 

“I heard you had a lot of experience with mind Flayer tadpoles. About how to extract them?” Winnie spoke in a softer tone than her companion.

“Curious. Do you mean to tell me you have someone infected amongst you?” She raised an eyebrow looking at the druid with an inquisitive gaze.  As the Gith sized her up, Winnie could feel that damn worm moving behind her eye. 

“Yes and with none of the usual systems.” Winnie said.

“Fascinating. You're infected yet fully conscious and aware of your infection. It appears either your tadpole is special or you are.” 

“Can you remove it?” The druid looked at her with round anxious eyes.

“I can. Approach the zaith’isk and take a seat. You will have your cure.” The woman gestured over to the strange alien device that looked more like a monster that would devour their brains than a cure for the infection.

“Finally. Clear the way istik, I shall be going first.” Lae'zel barked as she moved in front of the druid.

“I'm going first. It could be dangerous Lae'zel.” Winnie told her.

“You think I'm some weakling!? I have waited for you long enough. I will not be denied my purification any longer!” Lae'zel growled, glaring at the druid with an intense glare. 

“I am going first. Do not argue with me.”  Winnie said calmly and quietly looking back at the Gith with a glare just as intense.

Intimidation Successful

“Very well. You have proven your worth time and time again. You have nerves of steel, go ahead.” Lae'zel nodded, giving Winnie the okay.

Oak Father's balls, I thought I was about to piss myself…

Winnie let out a sigh of relief before making her way towards the zaith’isk, handing her pack to Shadowheart so nothing would happen to her egg before she took a long look at what they hoped would be the end to all their mind flayer problems.

She glanced back at Astarion as she began to have second thoughts. 

“After you my dear. I'm right behind you.” He said in a very fake sounding chipper tone. Winnie could clearly hear the nervousness and uncertainty in his voice.  She took a deep breath and sat down.

DON'T DO IT! 

Her guardian’s rang out in her head, but she ignored him. She was so close to being free from the worm that she couldn't second guess herself.

Winnie stayed in place as the stranger bug-like device sandwiched her head between its mandible appendages. A bright blue glow surrounded her as her ears were filled with a deep wet chittering.  

Then she could feel it. Moving, turning and twisting through her mind. The parasite squeaked and thrashed within her mind. It was hunting the little beast and gods did it hurt. 

“FUCK IT HURTS…” Winnie growled out, feeling as if her skull was slowly being cracked open.

“You can endure it!” Lae'zel shouted. Her voice sounded almost encouraging. Astarion began to bite down on his lip, red eyes looking over the human female in concern as the other murmured with worry for their leader’s safety. 

“AHHHHHH….” The pain only continued to tear through the druid’s head as the Zaith'isk searched for its prey. Winnie tried to get up, but her body was completely immobile. She couldn't help but scream out in agony, begging to be freed.

“She can't take it. Turn it off!” Astarion demanded. 

“Once begun the transformation must be complete.” The ghustil told him, her eyes not showing the slightest ounce of concern, only a hint of madness. Tears began to form in the corners of Winnie’s eyes as she let out a pained whimper, vision beginning to blur as the voices speaking became harder and harder to pinpoint.

“It's killing her!” Astarion hissed, glaring at Lae’zel with worry. The githyanki frowned. She could feel the agony Winnie was for going.

I will not let this happen to you! 

The voice of Winnie’s guardian rang out in her head and within moments there was an explosion.

The pain was gone, but so was the Zaith'isk. Bits of debris hit the walls as Winnie fell to the ground, tumbling over. Her head was still throbbing from the pain she went through.

“The Zaith'isk!? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!?!?” The ghustil screeched as Shadowheart quickly moved to examine the dazed druid. Astarion quickly moved behind Shadowheart and peeked out at Winnie, red eyes scanning her. Winnie had to take a moment to regain her composure. Her head was still spinning from the encounter.

“Wake up!” Astarion suddenly shook her.

“That is not helping Astarion.” Shadowheart rolled her eyes. Winnie blinked before getting up and rubbing her head. A familiar squirm tingled within the druid’s head. Even after all that, the tadpole still prevailed. 

“I have one willing supply of blood, forgive me for not wanting it to go to waste!” Astarion sassed before looking Winnie’s body over, his eyes were full of concern despite his words. 

“My life’s work is ruined! And yet you still live…and so does your tadpole.” The ghustil’s voice was shaking with rage and a slight hint of something unhinged. 

“The tadpole's gone. Dead as doornail. Seems this whole thing wasn't for nothing.” Winnie quickly spoke up, letting out a fake sigh of relief. 

“You're absolutely certain?” The disturbed githyanki looked back at the human with a maniac look in her eyes. 

“Absolutely, my mind has never felt clearer.” Winnie nodded with a smile, keeping direct eye contact with her until eventually the ghustil backed off. 

“Very well then. Your problem is solved. Leave me.” She replied in a bitter tone.

Winnie quickly moved to leave with the others. Astarion walked by her side 

 

“The Zaith'isk nearly killed you!” Lae'zel growled out. “I felt your torment. Someone must have tampered with it! Quickly we must report this to the kith’rak.” Lae'zel barked out before storming off. The rest of the group took a momentary pause. Winnie was still rubbing her head a little from the pain before she began to follow after the gith. 

“That was a complete disaster. You are alright, aren't you?” Astarion placed a hand on the small of Winnie’s back. 

“Yeah…I'll survive.” Winnie mumbled, feeling a bit tense at the vampire’s touch. The druid's feelings were still very conflicted after last night. 

“Good. Because I am not going to start following Lae'zel into whatever disaster she has planned next for us…” Astarion then cleared his throat a bit. “And I suppose your company would be sorely missed….” Astarion looked off with a cough. Winnie looked off in the other direction, her face turned a bit pink and her heart was pounding. Fuck…..She didn't know how to respond to that? Is that friendly? Romantic? Seductive!? 

She had to quickly change the subject! Her eyes quickly scanned over as she spotted a big portrait of a very regal and commanding looking githyanki.

“Hmm, would you look at that? She looks like a bit of an entitled prick to me.” Winnie stated, her pink eyes scanning the painting. Her quip elicited a giggle from the vampire. 

“Oh very true. And such poor taste in wardrobe. You’d think someone of her status would dress better than that, tut tut.” Astarion looked over the painting as the two engaged in a bit of catty banter. Winnie looked down and quickly noticed a paintbrush and can before immediately snatching up the brush. 

“Here this outta fix the old gal up!” Winnie remarked, painting a pair of horns on top of the gith’s head as she snickered. 

“Not bad…But it could be better.” Astarion purred out before taking another brush and adding some touch ups to Winnie’s masterpiece. As the two proceeded to ‘fix’ the portrait by adding a handlebar mustache and goatee Astarion’s cold knuckles lightly brushed against Winnie’s. Their eyes soon met as their mischief came to a halt. 

“Something caught your eye, darling?” The elven vampire’s words were soft, gentle even. 

“Maybeee” Winnie said in a teasing tone. The two of them chuckled, leaning towards the other as the paint brushes were discarded. At this moment Winnie’s plan to end things had been abandoned entirely. Despite trying her best to avoid it she realized she wanted him more than anything. She wanted to give him whatever he wanted, to be whatever he wanted her to be. Even if it cost her everything.

Unfortunately their private moment was cut short with a shout.

“WHO'S OVER THERE!?” The voice of a githyanki guard caused the two to pull away from one another before quickly fleeing the scene, leaving the guard to freak out upon seeing the vandalized portrait of none other than their beloved lich queen.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Upon attempting to alert the creché of a possible traitor things went horrible. Their group was sent to a githyanki inquisitor who'd apparently been searching for a little item that Winnie and Shadowheart happened to have in their possession. The artifact that had somehow been protecting them from turning into monstrous illithids, but now they had stood in front of a god queen who had demanded they hand it over.

Obviously Winnie rejected her demands ( she was rather rude and entitled after all.) and instead went inside the artifact to maybe free the person inside. She found herself standing before a silver haired tiefling male. Despite both Vlaakith and Lae'zel ordering her to kill the dream figure she conversed with him and learned that the lich queen had been lying to her people, that if the illithid empire ever were to return she wouldn't be able to defeat them. Winnie didn't care too much for otherworldly politics and was more concerned with keeping herself and the people she'd grown to care for alive. Deep in her gut she knew that trusting Lae'zel’s queen would be a grave mistake.

After speaking with her dream guardian the druid returned from the artifact known as the Astral Prism to receive a harsh scolding from a very conflicted Lae'zel.  Lae'zel needed time to think after the revelations that had just happened, but before they even had a moment of peace Vlaakith's forces were upon them. 

Winnie quickly led the others into a separate passage leading deeper into the monastery. The surrounding area began to get darker and darker, dulling Winnie’s line of vision. 

“You cannot run forever, hshar’lak!” One of the githyanki soldiers shouted as they charged after them.  Winnie turned back as they ran, using her druidic magic to summon thorny vines that bursted from the walls and tangled together, forming a sharp spiky barrier to keep the gith at bay.  The tunnels they traversed through were dark and cool. A slight breeze was coming from further inside.

“I can feel some air coming from somewhere. That has to be a way out…” Winnie murmured as she stepped carefully.  The druid's pink orbs glanced over as she noticed several different dark passage ways. There was however something off about one. A familiar scent of vanilla hit her nostrils but before she had time to process something reached out of the dark and grabbed her, pulling her into one of the tunnels. A blade immediately pressing against her throat.

“Hello again pig.” Hot breath hit the tip of her ear as a slightly familiar husky deep voice greeted her. It was the tiefling hunter. Aetris.

“I killed you.” Winnie growled slightly before being dragged off into the shadows. Back with the others, Karlach was the first to immediately notice her disappearance.

“Fangs, where's Winnie?” She asked, turning towards Astarion with a look of unease.

“How should I know!? I'm not her keeper.” The vampire snapped before his eyes scanned around for their leader. “I….. I'm not sure….”  The pale elf breathed in, trying to pinpoint the familiar smell of lavender and cherry blossoms that seemed to follow Winnie wherever she went. Her scent was nearby but it was joined by another. Astarion quickly cut off from the ground and darted into the tunnel where Winnie had been dragged off, Karlach trailing after him.

Winnie growled, a wolf-like snarl leaving her lips as her eyes burned into the side of Aetris’s face. Somehow the bastard had managed to survive the fall. 

“Next time you push someone off a cliff you might wanna make sure he doesn't have a potion of feather-fall in his back pocket.” Aetris spat, keeping Winnie in a headlock with a blade to her throat.  His tail reached into what appeared to be a new pack and took out a scroll of elemental familiar. As he spoke the incantation to activate the scroll as a huge rock elemental formed a few feet away eliciting a monstrous roar.

Winnie needed to think quickly. It was obvious he wanted to use her as bait to lure in Astarion. 

“Winnie!” Karlach charged out of the shadows with an ax barred in hand. An arrow shot behind her, flying over her horn and heading straight for the blue skinned tieflings face.

Aetris jerked out of the way, the blade separating from Winnie’s neck just long enough for her to pull out of his grasp and roll off onto the ground. Astarion appeared out of the shadows beside Karlach, his bow notched and ready.

“Darling, I thought you said you threw the bastard off a cliff!” Astarion complained.

“I DID!”  Winnie shouted before turning and shooting an ice knife right at Aetris who back flipped out of the way. “Fucker refuses to die.” 

Aetris's lips curled upwards into a smirk as he pulled a hand crossbow from his pack. 

“There's my prey.” 

Astarion bared his fangs. There was something unsettling lurking within the tiefling's demonic red eyes. 

“You've made a big mistake. No one fucks with my people understand!?” Karlach growled out, about to charge when the rock elemental blocked her path, headbutting into her. She regained her composure before slamming her battle axe into the rock monster’s face. 

“I don't consider corpses to be people I'm afraid.” The male tiefling scoffed before he chucked a bottle of liquid fire between Karlach and the rock elemental. 

Once he deemed Karlach too occupied to be a threat, Aetris took the opportunity to fire a shot at Astarion. The elf quickly moved to get out of the way, only to have the back of his doublet be snagged by the bolt, pinning him to the nearby wall.

“Flageo!” Winnie shouted as she summoned a thorn covered vine and lassoed it around the hunter’s leg pulling it back and trying to trip him up. Aetris was quick however and immediately grabbed his discarded dagger with his tail and sliced through the vine. Winnie drew her scimitars and charged at him, slicing a deep cut into his side before receiving a punch in the face. Aetris took the time he had to drop his crossbow and grab another blade from his pack to join the one he'd snatched up with his tail. He lunged at Winnie with his blades, forcing her to cross her own and block his next attack. The two of them traded blows back and forth, over and over, until Winnie took a swipe at the side of his face. 

“Fuck! He cursed, the pain from the attack allowed the druid to knock his blade from his hands, disarming him.

As the brunette haired woman prepared to make another strike Aetris cast shatter right into Winnie’s face. An intense thunderous noise suddenly filled her ears and launched her flying into a wall. 

Aetris then picked up his discarded crossbow before aiming it at the currently stunned human woman. 

“The only thing worse than vampires is the idiots who are dumb enough to think it's fine to fuck em.” He spat, beginning to circle around the dazed female. Blood dripped down from her forehead as she glanced up at him, baring her teeth and snarling like a beast. 

“You're willing to risk your life over some twisted disgusting fantasy.” The tiefling aimed his crossbow at her head. “It’s fucking pathetic.”

Aetris prepared to fire another bolt, his crossbow pointed right between Winnie’s eyes. Just as he was about to release the shot there was a stabbing pain in his neck. Astarion appeared behind him, his teeth tearing through the tiefling’s flesh and getting a mouthful of his delicious blood.  

It was sweet with a hint of something spicy. 

Aetris's eyes widened in shock as his blood was drained from his body. He tried to fight back, but every minute Astarion drank from him he felt himself becoming weaker and weaker. His arms were gripped tightly and his crossbow knocked from his grasp as the vampire kept draining more and more. Winnie glanced over at Astarion as her vision began to clear. His eyes were practically glowing with this feral hunger. There was a loud crunch of Karlach breaking through the rock elemental’s body as Aetris was dropped to the ground. The tiefling's eyes were blank as he laid there lifeless. Astarion panted slightly, shaking with an unhinged expression as blood dripped down his chin. Winnie stood up slowly, her body was still throbbing in pain from the impact. 

“Astarion.” She spoke up, calmly and carefully. The vampire blinked and looked back at her. 

“Gods, are you alright?” Astarion moved over to her side. 

“I will be…” She replied before looking back over towards the dead tiefling. “At least we're finished with this asshat for good.” Winnie looked over at Aetris before picking up a pebble and throwing it at him. Testing to make sure he was really dead this time. 

“He was surprisingly…delicious…” Astarion said with a breathy sigh. The flavor of the tiefling hunter’s blood still enamored his taste buds. The pale elf collected the stray blood off his face before sucking it off his fingers.

“Though I will admit, he was quite the slippery bastard. Not many people can survive being pushed off a cliff. I'm actually a bit impressed. And worried. If Cazador sent this wretch after me, who knows what he'll send next!?” The vampire began to look nervous. 

Winnie frowned at him before grabbing her scimitars and stabbing through the tiefling's back for good measure. 

“Then we'll kill them. Every last one until Cazador is the only one left. We’ll make him the cherry on top of the pile of corpses.” Winnie looked back at Astarion. He had a skeptical look at first before he grinned slightly. 

“That’s nothing more than wishful thinking I'm afraid, but I do admire your enthusiasm. Very cute.” Astarion bopped Winnie on the nose, making her pout. 

“Hey! Are you two gonna keep playing with the dickhead’s corpse or can we go meet up with the others? They're probably wondering what happened.” Karlach shouted as she stood over by the tunnel's entrance. 

“Right. We should keep moving.” Winnie nodded. The druid and the vampire were quick to follow after their friend.  Winnie glanced over at Astarion as they walked together. The three of them in silence.

“Thank you for saving me, Astarion.” Winnie spoke up, softly.

“Just a thank you? I think I deserve a reward for my heroic act, don't you?” Astarion said in a playful tone.  Winnie rolled her eyes before standing on her tiptoes and kissing him softly. Astarion smiled a bit and wrapped his arms around her. The two of them parted shortly after, Astarion keeping an arm around Winnie who looked away blushing darkly as her heart sped up.

~•~•~•~•~•~~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~••~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

“Gods dammit. I knew I shouldn't have tried to ask those frog people for directions!” A little high pitch raspy voice croaked out. A small blue kobold wearing a large backpack stepped out of a tunnel. His beady red eyes scanned his surroundings. The area was empty aside the trail of blood leading over to the corpse of a tiefling. “Hells….I know that bugger.” The little blue reptile quickly ran over towards the body. Puncture wounds were clear as day in his neck.

“Mr. Aetris…..How in the hells did you end up here?” The kobold looked over the wounds on his chest before he took out a glowing yellow scroll from his pack. “Hopefully I'm not too late…”

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This took way too long to get out! Sorry for not being very active on Tumblr. Life and writers block have really been kicking my ass! I really hope I can get back into the groove of writing and get content out sooner! Anyway, hope you enjoyed!

~Druid

Taglist: @paganwitchisis @vixstarria @kerwin290710 @anukulee @gobbodoggo