#she is worse than undead

[mournflame]

The thing is I wanna talk about horror elements of Jo’s character, but I have nothing new to say

[blujayonthewing]

man and the thing is if lisbet was Teetering On The Edge Of Darkness with any kind of actual consistency or substantial meaning beyond just 'whatever flavor of angst her player happens to be feeling this evening' it'd be so fucking great to play off of as aubree dedicates herself more strongly than ever to hope and redemption and kindness in the face of adversity and evil, but she's just kind of flipping a coin at any given moment on whether she's going to be Good or Unhinged and nobody's attempts to reach out to her have ever had any more than immediate momentary effect on her whatsoever and I have no reason to believe that there's anything more aubree can do or say that would change that

[somnoir]

Prodigal son beyond Time - part 2

Part 1 | Masterpost

Damian first met his great uncle Danyal when he is three years old. His mother says he's met him long ago, when he was but a babe with a memory too fuzzy to remember. But the man before him is his grandfather's favorite child. The son that scowls at his father as he cradled Damian in his arms.

"What have you done?" His uncle scowled, a gentle hand pressed against the back of Damian's head. "He's a child!"

"Danyal!"

"You weren't like this with me." Danyal spat, keeping Damian in his arms and pressing his lips towards his nephew's forehead. Damian notes how cold his uncle's skin felt like, but more welcoming than that of his grandfather's.

"Danyal, he is to be trained like a proper Al Ghul." Grandfather said, frowning at Danyal.

"You trained me like a proper Al Ghul when I was older than him!" Danyal immediately protested, "He's three!"

"Danyal—"

"Ukht, I understand that you wish the best for your son but this is not it." Danyal immediately said, looking apologetic for interrupting Talia, but went back to glaring at Ra's. "I've tried to tolerate the fact that you handle an assassin league, father but this? You taught me to be loyal to the family. You taught me to cherish the family, you're blood—why the fuck aren't you giving the others the same treatment you gave me?!"

"Because they are not you!"

Damian doesn't recall what truly happened that day, but he does remember how his uncle's eyes went from soft blues to the same shade that the Lazarus pits glowed.

Damian remembers everything going dark.

Damian grows up differently.

He continues on his training, but everything is kinder to him. The world is kinder when his uncle is home, having tea with grandfather and overseeing his training. Mother loves him and uncle Danyal the most, claiming that they are blessings to her life.

Grandfather is quieter nowadays, almost docile with his uncle around.

It's a little more peaceful. The assassin's continue to train, to fight. But their reign of terror fall upon those that are corrupt and destroying the world. It's one of the compromises uncle Danyal and grandfather have led too.

Damian grows up differently.

Damian's arrival to the Bats' lives was unprecedented and quite confusing. He was a child raised by assassins, a child raised to become the next leader of the league. But he was... Strange. Strange for that kind of standard. 

Damian was rather sociable, hostile but not downright murderous towards them. 

His uncle did make sure that he had friends in the league.

Ra's had been utterly ecstatic to find out that he had two more grandchildren while Talia was quite pleased to know that she had a niece and nephew. 

Damian had a pair of strange cousins who snuck him out of training to go watch the stars, often getting them scolded, but it was worth it. Dante was older than Damian by five years. He was what other would call an angsty teen with how he often rebelled against his father. Meanwhile, Janelle—preferebly Ellie—was only a year older than Damian himself. She was a mischievous person who made sure that everything around her was swallowed by her own chaos. So when he entered the manor, suddenly struck with the reality that he had multiple siblings instead of just one elder brother, Damian knew what to do. 

Murder was not the answer. 

But by the words of his gracious uncle and the wisdom of his excellent cousins: fight your siblings like a feral child but defend them by being even worse to others. 

So Damian's first act as Dick Grayson's younger brother was to bite him. 

The undead were restless, rising from their graves or haunting their own corpses. It wasn't something they usually dealt with, forced to call upon magicians. 

But even Constantine was bewildered by just how cursed Gotham's lands were. To bring back the dead. Jason was a miracle but this was like an abomination, a literal zombie. 

No one really knew how to properly deal with the dead...

Well...

"My uncle would be willing to provide his assistance in this matter." Damian piped up, examining the contained zombies from a safe distance. All eyes were quickly drawn to him, bewildered and questioning. 

"I hardly think that Dusan would be suitable for this." Bruce sighed. 

Damian scowled, "Not him. My grandfather's first-born is whom I speak off. He is knowledgeable in the occult arts of the dead." 

"Damian... Ra's Al Ghul only has one son." 

"Untrue. Grandfather's greatest pride was always my uncle. He is precious to grandfather and ensures that no one knows much off him. I expected you and Drake to be aware of the first born." 

Tim stiffened, "They weren't rumours?! Ra's actually has some cryptid son?" 

Bruce, who had heard of the old tales of the Demon head's beloved heir, had always thought they were stories to scare the assassins. He's never seen the man, nor has he found any evidence of him in the league. 

Jason finally started paying attention, "So the league's golden boy can help? Dami, I don't think Al Ghul will even let his favorite kid anywhere near us." 

"You underestimate my uncle's love for me."

"You met him?" Bruce quickly interjected. 

Jason shrugged, "He helped me out back then. Patched me up when the pit madness got worse and helped me manage it. But his face was usually covered and no one really knew his name."

"Aside from myself, grandfather, and my mother." 

Bruce frowned, "Nyssa and Dusan don't know their brother's name?" 

"Grandfather says that they do not have the privilege of knowing his name. Mother was the first of his other children to have met my uncle."

"And what about you? You won't give us his name?" 

Damian scowled, feeling rather displeased with his father's choice of words. "Names are powerful, father. My uncle taught me this when I was young." 

Constantine narrowed his eyes, "You're uncle some kind of fae, kid?" 

"Watch your mouth, hellblazer. He does not like you." Damian hissed, having heard all his uncle's rants about the Laughing Magician, especially whenever he'd just randomly pick up Talia and walk around Nanda Parbat like she was a kitten rather than a deadly assassin. "But I shall call upon my great uncle and ask him for assistance. This matter with the undead shall surely pique his interest."

"Tell the old man I said hi!" Jason cheerfully added, sounding quite pleased to hear about the mysterious uncle. 

"No." Damian blatantly denied. As much as he loves Todd (and he will never admit that), he was not going to let anyone threaten his status as his uncle's favorite child. Over his dead body. 

Damian was quick to walk away from all of them, quickly retrieving all the materials he'd need to summon his uncle. Dark green paint for the summing circle, five candles, and an astrology book. 

"Bats... Why the hell is your son performing a summoning ritual? For a ghost of the realms too." Constantine's tone was strained, clearly disturbed and wary of Damian's actions. 

"Damian." Bruce warned but Damian just waved him off. He watched as Jason started lighting up the candles, humming an unfamiliar tune. 

"D'you think the old man will help us?" 

"Of course! Uncle adores me." 

"You think he'll give me his name?"

"I will gut you, Todd." Damian immediately responded with the most nonchalant tone he could ever give. 

Jason shrugged, before taking a step back. 

"Damian! Whatever you're summoning—" 

"I'm summoning my uncle, father. He's the best person to go to with these issues." Damian insisted, before muttering something unintelligible under his breath.

Bruce was startled when Constantine grabbed him, eyes wide and rapidly turning pale. "Why the hell does your son know how to speak the language of the—"

Fire burst forth from the circle, slowly morphing into an icy blast. 

"Dead." Constantine's breath hitched, "Holy shit, your brat just summoned the ghost king." 

Bruce grabbed Damian the moment a hand emerged from the blast of cold. He shoved his on behind him, suddenly feeling frightened as his entire body felt goosebumps. Fuck. Did Damian really just perform a summoning ritual for such a powerful being? He never expected for Ra's to brainwash his son into believing that such a powerful thing—

"Nephew!" 

Bruce blinked, suddenly blinded by the light. 

"Uncle!" Damian escaped from his grasp, rushing into the circle. Constantine practically screamed once Damian ran into the arms of what was supposedly his uncle and the ghost king. 

In front of Bruce was the most gorgeous man he's ever met. 

The floating hair that reminded him of snow and the green eyes that were purer than the Lazarus pits. He couldn't help but swallow thickly, blinking. Damian was held up by the ghost king, allowing the boy to nuzzle into the crook of his neck. 

"Hello, dami (my blood)." The king cooed, his pronunciation of the nickname much different from the shortened version of Damian's name. "I was not expecting you to call me. What's happened, my dear?" 

Damian hummed, but before he could speak, he was immediately interrupted.

"Long time no see, old man!" Jason yelled, waving his arm as if he wasn't in the same room as the king. 

"Jason! Hello! How are you? The corrupted ecto hasn't returned, has it? If it has, just tell me. I'll schedule a check up with Frostbite." The king quickly fussed, not minding the way Damian was baring his teeth at Jason. "Damian, behave!" 

Damian just seemed to whine, refusing to behave and opting to pestering the king. 

"I'm good, uncle. Haven't gone out crazy since you took me to the doctor." Jason smiled, already ripping of his domino mask to show that his eyes were green tinged with blue, not glowing green like the pits. 

"Good, good. But I really must know why I've been called." The king softly said, directing his words to Damian who was already trying to wriggle our his grasp. Gently, the king settled Damian back on his feet. 

"Right. Uncle, my father, Batman. Father, this is my uncle." Damian introduced, his tone hurried and a bit hesitant. 

The king, Damian's uncle, smiled at Bruce. "Hello there, Mr. Wayne. I've wanted to meet you for a long time." The king hummed, "My name's Danny, but the Al Ghuls call me Danyal." 

"Uncle!" 

"Hush, hush, Damian. I can give my name to anyone I want. I don't suppose that your father is worthy of it."

Bruce really should be more concerned about the fact that the king knew his name. 

"But what of the others?" 

"Little one, I sent Nyssa and Dusan letters ages ago. But rest assured, dearest Talia is still the first to earn it." Danny—Danyal—the ghost king softly spoke and patted Damian's head. "And... Oh, it's you."

"Your majesty!" Constantine enthusiastically greeted while Danny scowled. 

"Tax evading bastard." Danny huffed, shaking his head before promptly ignoring the tax evading bastard in question. 

"Damian." 

"The dead are rising."

Danny blinked, blinked again, before he groaned and shook his head. 

"Okay, sorry. That seemed to be caused by an error on my side. Some prisoners of my realms started a riot and some of them managed to break out. Some have most likely decided to overshadow their old bodies." Danny sighed, "I'll have this taken care of. Apologies for the inconveniences."

"These... Zombies have been wrecking havoc across my city." Bruce frowned, "They've been harming people."

"Vengeful spirits do that. They're criminals meant to be in prison. It's rare for breakouts to happen, in all honesty." Danny paused, just long enough to run his fingers through Damian's hair. "But if you wish to take charge, by all means. These are corpses being possessed by their own spirits and... Well... They're out of their minds. Not really considered revenants since the possession isn't quite permanent." 

"Alright, Bats. We've gotta make a proper deal here. His Majesty was summoned so we've gotta offer him something—" 

"That's not necessary." Danny immediately waved Constantine away, evident displeasure from the man. "The sigil I gave Damian was just to call me to him. No need for an exchange."

"Seriously?" Constantine blurted out. 

Danny just shrugged, "He's family. And my favorite nephew." 

Damian smirked, absolutely smug. "I am your only nephew, uncle."

"Mm... Jason's also my nephew." Danny chuckled softly, easily stepping out of the circle and removing it from the floor—leaving not a single stain. "Now... Shall we deal with the dead?" 

Bruce Wayne has made many bad decisions in his life, especially when it came to his relationships. Damian's ghost king of an uncle might be one of them.

Masterpost

[ew-selfish-art]

Dp x Dc AU: It’s not the usual suspects trying to summon the undead this time, and it’s proving to be a massive headache for John Constantine. They seem...Competent. 

When John sniffed out a new plot to summon a ghost, he kind of laughed it off. Ghosts were not more than shades of the people/creatures they used to be, without all the right resources and enough buy in from the greater spirits of the Infinite Realms, most entities that came thought might scare some kids at a slumber party but that was at most. Plus, kids were scary resilient these days thanks to the internet, so really, John’s not worried. 

Then he hears about the gathering of artifacts and he has to care a little more. He learns that one Jasmine Fenton is involved and he’s... Surprised. She’s got a public record of dismissing her parent’s inventions and causing stirs at supernatural conventions (not to mention a great reputation as a research focused psychologist). Jasmine’s credit cards report a great deal of cash (refunded to her account by an unknown off-shore account) being taken out and her location is right next to the last place anyone could find a shard of the Crown. 

Yeah, that Crown. The Infinite, ancient blessed and deity cursed one. John had meant to get around to investigating if the shard of obsidian (fire forged) was legit, so he begins to set his sights on Jasmine for a ‘chat’. 

Then Sam Manson, a scary ass Heiress, pulls up in a limousine and all but kidnaps him and dumps him outside city limits. She tells him that he’s been cursed for the next 48 hours to stay out of their city- If he comes close, any plant will identify him in a heartbeat and come to life to kill him. (Fun fact: there are a goddamn lot of plants surrounding this stupid town, even the dandelions are forging knives to kill him.)

THEN worse, Red Robin gets on his ass about cybersecurity of all things. Turns out another player, identified by the moniker TooFineTooFurious has been tracking John’s phone and has been rummaging around official JLD documents- How was John supposed to know that keeping his passwords on the notes app could be hackable? Red Robin declares him incompetent and John can only sigh, crush his phone and move on. 

That all leads him to the summoning portal in front of him in this weird ghost themed high school gymnasium. It’s far too competent. It gives him goosebumps even before he can read out that they’re summoning the King of the Infinite Realms himself. John clicks the panic alarm on his JL communicator before engaging with the Trio before him. 

They’re not wearing any capes, no candles are lit, but this is the scariest cult he’s ever seen. Jasmine Fenton, ghost denier, Sam Manson, Heiress and Plant Witch (?), Some other dude with a beret and fucking DRONES (he considers this might be the man who hacked him). John pleads with them, they don’t know what they’re trying to do. Pariah Dark will kill them all, eat their entire planet for breakfast!! Everyone rolls their eyerolls at him, and he’s taken aback by their nonchalance. 

Plant guards grab him and a drone has a laser sight on his forehead. He fights but is subdued- They’re almost done chanting when Superman, Green Lantern, Red Robin and Cyborg all appear. Despite their disruption- the chanting ends with the green illumination of the circle. Despair fills the air. 

And then- Poof- a groaning young man appears. 

“Dudes you have no idea how unhelpful the Infi-map is sometimes. I was lost for like weeks and CW was being such a bitch ab- What. Wait, who are all- Holy shit did you guys summon the Justice League?” The Ghost King in full Regalia stared back at them in questioning concern. The three summoners start bitching  at the monarch and John... isn’t sure if this is going to be an interdimensional incident yet. 

[tiddygame]

ok look, my meds are making me feel Funky again but…

after soap is released from the hospital, he moves back in with his parents, everything already having been taken care of.

ghost moves in as well, but it’s a much slower and much more gradual affair.

sure, simon spent every second he could at johnnys side, but he still didn’t live there or anything. and he didn’t intend to leave his stuff behind, but he was called in for an emergency and didn’t have time to brush his teeth, much less gather his things.

and he was going to take his stuff back to his flat, but mrs. mactavish insisted that it wasn’t a problem and that it might be easier for him to just leave some stuff there for when it happens again.

and since johnny is… well… unwell, it might be a good idea to change his emergency contact too. and of course mrs and mr mactavish are more than happy to take care of it!

simon doesn’t even stop by his flat any more when he’s on leave, heading straight to the mactavish house as soon as he’s cut loose

johnny is getting better, slowly but surely. there are a lot of steps back and some days are a lot worse than others, but simon breaking several laws just to call him when he’s on a mission is a nice reminder that no, simon didn’t leave him, and is actively fighting to get discharged so they can be together.

johnny mentioned that sometimes listening to simon’s voice is the only thing that helps him sleep, so simon leaves voicemail after voicemail so that even when he can’t properly call him, he can still talk to johnny

.

mrs mactavish had been doing the laundry when they knock on the front door. she knew what it meant when the officers apologize as they remove their hats with a sorrowful look.

she was borderline hysterical, refusing to believe it. mr. mactavish tried to console her, but he wasn’t doing too great either.

they don’t know what to tell johnny. they can’t tell him. how could they? he was finally getting better and now they’re expected to tell him that those voicemails from simon are the only thing he has left?

they consider waiting until the funeral arrangements are being discussed, but they knew it wouldn’t end well. they figure brutal honesty was better than the betrayal he’d feel if they tried to keep it from him.

when they m tell him, he just laughs and says he’ll believe it when they recover the body.

his parents sigh, and nod. they figure it’s best to leave him be, at least until the funeral.

but lo and behold, barely a week later, simon appears on their porch late one night with his arm in a sling.

he was grumbling that being caught in a building collapse and missing exfil shouldnt be enough for him to be assumed dead, but is cut off when mrs mactavish hugs him.

he was surprised, just apologizing for making them deal with the whole dead/undead thing, but she was still crying and refusing to let him go.

he didn’t know what to do and just awkwardly returned the hug with one arm, patting her back as he tried to figure out what the hell was happening

it wasn’t until mr. mactavish pulled him into a hug as well, muttering something about how he’s glad simon is safe, calling him son, that he breaks.

he hadn’t had a family in so long and he doesn’t know what to do. but mrs mactavish does, saying that he must be hungry and getting him something to eat.

johnny just laughs, both at his parents for assuming he was wrong about the body recovery thing, and at simon for taking that long to realize that he’d been abducted adopted by the mactavish family, telling simon that his fate had been sealed the first time johnny brought him home

[mckinlily]

Imagine a world where Bruce Wayne did not become Batman. Instead, he is just a Normal Dude. Or as normal as a billionaire deeply dedicated philanthropy in a city as insane as Gotham can be.

Because make no mistake: just because Bruce is not Batman does not mean Gotham is not Gotham.

There are a few new players though—on the Rogues side.

Timothy Drake is the teen business tycoon of Drake Industries. Absent of the inspiration of Batman and the socialization and warmth of Dick Grayson, he is ruthless and logical to a fault in pursuit of his goals and just as viciously chaotic as the disaster little brother Jason knows.

In other words, he’s Gotham’s youngest supervillian. The only good news is his chosen nemesis is Lex Luthor. Maybe. Timothy doesn’t care much about collateral damage. It’s not his goal to harm civilians, but he certainly doesn’t include their safety as a priority in his convoluted schemes to mess with Luthor.

Talon is an undead murderer who slaughtered a huge swath the Gotham’s 1% five years ago and, despite being spotted many times since, has never been apprehended. He appears when he wants and disappears just as readily, and Gotham just has to accept there’s a killer stalking their streets and there’s nothing they can do about it. Sometimes Talon has been known to rescue people, especially, but it’s never clear how or why exactly Talon chooses who is victim verses aggressor. And the end is always brutal and bloody for those Talon deems aggressor.

Damian is still Bruce’s biological son and raised by Talia in the League of Assassins. But when he was left in Gotham and met his father, this Bruce was so baffled and thrown by a child assassin that Damian immediately takes as rejection and runs away. (He doesn’t even stay long enough for Bruce to be sure it wasn’t a hallucination or very strange dream).

Damian is almost immediately found and adopted by Talon, so now Gotham has TWO bird-themed killers liable to jump down on you from nowhere and for any reason.

Oh, and god help you if you so much as make Talon’s baby Owlet sad. If you’re lucky, it will be the last thing you do.

Barbara is an ordinary librarian…who can be hired as a mercenary hacker for the right price. The public isn’t afraid of her because they don’t know she exists. More than one politician or public figure has been ruined because of the blackmail she unearthed on them. But what side exactly is the police commissioner’s daughter on? And how much of Gotham does she have under thumb?

(Is she a secret ally and accessory to Timothy Drake’s many plots?)

Steph, thank god, is actually NOT a villain, super or otherwise. She’s the one vigilante attempting to help Gotham. Spoiler has connections among some of the caped community like Supergirl or Wonder Girl. But without Bat training or the police cooperation forged years ago by Batman, she’s mostly just striving to survive while taking on Gotham’s many, many gang. Make no mistake, she’s impressive. But desperate. Spoiler comes with guns and explosions. So. Many. Explosions. Gotham has never heard of the “no kill” rule. And likely never will.

(Cass also lives in Gotham. But no one will ever see her or even know she’s there.)

Jason….well. Baby Jason never stole any Batmobile tires and never was adopted by a strange but kind billionaire. He was never killed at 15.

He died in the winter before he turned 13.

And then one day, Adult Canon Jason gets thrown into this dimension. And somehow Gothan is WORSE?! How is that even possible? Also his siblings are running around being super villains and killing people? Bruce! Control your children!!

But this Bruce does not have children (he’s still mostly convinced Damian was a prank or hallucination). He is horrified by the idea of children fighting crime. He has absolutely no idea how to handle exceptionally talented chaos machines with too much passion and no sense of self preservation. And he’s frankly a little disturbed by Jason himself and his guns and refusal to “work within the system” and Jason nopes out of there so freaking fast.

Jason also, slowly, has to become okay with the realization that his siblings are not insane because they were made Robin. They became Robin because they were already insane. There was no way to create a normal human being out of any of them.

(Jason does not want to look too closely at what that says about him.)

In the end, Jason teams up with Steph. He connects her with Dick/Talon, who is more than happy to have a new Owlet to train and preen, and Damian only slightly stabs her. They manage to persuade/threaten Tim into caring enough to help get Jason back to his dimension with misuse of Drake Industry research equipment. Damian very much does stab Tim. Tim retaliates by locking Damian in an industrial freezer. Dick thinks they’re bonding. Jason introduces them to Babs, but frankly he has no idea what he’s hoping to achieve from this. Probably nothing good because Dick, despite being an under-socialized undead assassin with some weird mannerisms and ways of speaking, still manages to pull a woman way out his league like Barbie. And Babs seems to have no problem with the “murder” part that description.

Jason never realized how much Bruce’s strict moral code and “the Mission” were key to the rest of them becoming remotely positive influences in society. Or how little Bruce has to do with his siblings getting into dangerous, violent situation. He doesn’t like anything about it.

They work out how send Jason back, and he returns to his dimension with the feeling he’s just left Alternate Gotham to a gang of supervillains.

…at least they’re together?

And Talon Dick won’t let any of his new Owlets die and will rain bloody vengeance on anyone who tries. So that’s good. For them at least.

(Jason feels absurdly like he should be apologizing to this universe’s Bruce. Or. Someone. He doesn’t. But he feels like he should.)

Back at in his dimension and at the Batcave, Jason pauses and just stares at Batman for a very, very long time. Finally, he takes a deep breath and solemnly nods just once before taking off into the Manor for Alfred’s cookies.

Bruce has no idea what the fuck just happened.

[pursuitseternal]

“You had better tie me up, darling…” very nsfw (f*ck or die) update for Rogue Astarion in part 7 “Bites in the Night”

Astarion x F!Reader |E| 5.5K F*ck or Die Smut

Summary: He isn’t well… something he’s consumed… the blood of a Succubus in the heat of battle by mistake. He needs release… help… or else undead won’t be an accurate description of your vampire rogue any longer.

CW: rough sex, bondage, Sex Pollen Trope but blame those Succubi, feral rutting, blood kink (does that go without saying yet?), implied shared infection, tongue bath, raunchy and yet sweet confessions from his undead lips.

Read on AO3 | Series on AO3 | Master List

Better get your rope…

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

Sunset always brought the demons out to play… and this time it had been real. Everything about the Shadow Cursed Lands fit the name… but you had all made it at last to the Last Light Inn.

Not without blood spatter and slaughter, fear and relief once victory over the Hellspawn was won.

Now at last, you can take your rest. In peace.

Most of your companions still drink and eat to their heart’s content. Of course, not your Rogue. After the fight, he had looked… gaunt. Tired. You had promised to come and let him feed, but first you needed your fill. He had flashed his smile at you before heading up the creaking stairs.

That was an hour ago. Now, you make your way to those same stairs, only to catch Shadowheart hustling down with wide eyes, Gale looking much the same as he follows.

“Come with us,” they whisper, leading you up the stairs in a hurry.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, anxiety darking your tone.

“It’s Astarion, he’s… unwell.” Gale… always so vague and polite.

“He’s in a rut,” Shadowheart snips back, exactly. “Literally.”

“What?” you startle.

“During the fight, he must have bitten and drank Succubus blood.” Gale rubs his fingers at his temple. “He’s locked in his room, but I fear he will claw his way through the door until he finds… relief.”

“Sex, you mean?” you can’t help but correct him too.

“It’s bad,” Shadowheart presses her lips together. “The blood is ten times worse than the spittle. Like, if he doesn’t find relief soon he could expire. Again. It’ll last him a full day to work out of his system.”

Your eyes go wide, your stomach sinking as well as your jaw. “Isn’t there some countermeasure? Some spell or… or potion?”

Shadowheart opens her hands, a small scroll in it. “Not for him, but for…”

“Me…” you realize. Your body tingles with the idea, that heady mix of fear of death and thrill of fucking with him. It always swims in your system before you go to his bed, but this time. It feels… more… exhilarating. More deadly. Riskier.

“It’s a scroll of Greater Protection… just in case he gets carried away.” Gale’s face screws into a look of discomfort.

“Keep your cunny from giving out on you.” Shadowheart winks.

That sinches up the knots in your stomach now. And by the time your cleric recites the spell, the dust in the air swirling into your lungs, you know you can’t turn back. You can’t forsake him.

You take a breath once they both wish you good luck, reassurances that the spell should be enough to keep you safe… but that they would come running if needed. That’s when Shadowheart stops you one more time, behind Gale’s back. She makes her face shush you silently as she shoves something into your hands.

A coil of rope. It tingles… enchanted probably for extra strength… that it could hold a deranged, sex-crazed vampire if worse came to worse.

That’s when you head up another flight of stairs, your heart beating faster with each step. Especially as you hear the grunts and growls that crescendo as you reach the landing. It’s easy to tell which room is his, the light under the door burns bright… the sounds of his voice raw and feral…

You hover your hand over the knob, sensing the magic that’s sealed him in. But you stop… that sound inside, you can tell already how he’s plagued. Rough, wet, and fast. The slap of his own hand tending to his… need.

You swallow, the beating of his fist on his cock already making you wet. Hells below… if there wasn't part of you that was just… tantalized. A small part, mostly cloaked in that heady fear to preserve your life.

But you feared no danger. And you by now… he would listen.

Maybe.

One last squeeze of the chord in your hand, you gripped the charged metal of the door, throwing it open.

He is naked, sitting on the edge of the bed at the back of the little room. His teeth glint in the firelight, his ivory skin glowing with sweat. Gods, if he had blood in his body, you are sure he would be beet red. His profile cut like the masterpiece he was. His throat bobbing as he swallows, the muscles of his arm bulging as he pleasures himself at a terrifying pace.

The sound as you shut the door behind him finally draws his attention.

He is… wild. Feral. Eyes so dilated, you can barely make out the ring of scarlet in them. His face shines from his exertions, he growls… like an animal… the second he sets eyes on you. His nose sniffing so hard at your scent… you can watch it open and close.

“Out!” He snarls, rising to his feet. That’s when you take in the full extent of his… suffering. He’s so erect, bigger than you have ever seen him. Harder. Throbbing so hard you witness it… where it stands almost vertically. Those intricate veins that usually rise subtly from his length strain dark, a web over his pale skin. “I’ll not hurt you, darling. Not you. Get out! I won’t have you!” He snaps his jaws. Every muscle in his body straining as he stands in place.

As if he’s fighting with himself.

“You will have me,” you snap back. “You don’t have a choice, do you?”

“Of course I do!”

“Not if you want to keep yourself in this realm. Undead you might be, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you alive… undead…”

That made him smile. Dark, wicked and still slightly manic. But it was there.

His eyes rake down your body, devouring you as he dares to let himself take one step. His eyes fall to your hand, the tangle of rope hanging visibly at your side. “Seems someone had the wisdom to not to send you in here defenseless and you stink of protective magic. Good,” he shudders as he talks. That voice sounding hollow. Pressed. Barely above a snarl. “I haven’t said this to many… but you had better tie me up, darling…”

He groans, forcing his body to move stiffly to the bed. The wood frame creaks and cracks as he crawls in, his rigid frame laying down.

That erection makes your mouth water, despite the obvious agony your vampire is enduring. But you can’t help but be mesmerized by how tall it stands as he pants on the bed. You cross to him, he can’t look at you, holding his hands out for you to bind.

Your hands work quickly, securing his arms firmly together, wrapping them to the scrollwork of the headboard.

His breathing is rough, ragged. His body twitches, shuddering each time your fingers barely grazie his arms and wrists. “Please,” he groans. “If you’re going to do this, then by the hells do it!”

His eyes are wide as he strains to look at you.

Your body aches, sympathy pains twitch down your spine to watch him quivering on the sheets. Your skin feels hot, your own body breaking into a sweat. He’s licking his lips, “Gods, if you go any slower getting something on this cock of mine, I can’t promise your safety, darling…”

You reach for that straining length, the second you wrap your fingers around it, he throbs and groans and twitches. His hips bucking into your hand, legs propped up so he can fuck anything you can get around his cock. You beat against his thrusts, that hardness unrelenting even as you move quicker than you usually do. Looking into his face, you move even faster, his face contorted in agony, his teeth biting so hard into his lips he’s bleeding.

He thrusts and groans and cries as he comes. Spurts of his seed drip down his shaft, coating his already damp lap, trailing milky streams as far as his belly.

But his breathing eases for a moment, his muscles softening just a bit perceptively. And Astarion gives a single contented sigh. “All that with just your hand. You little minx… pacing yourself?” he purrs. “Won’t you at least kiss me hello?”

You give him a small grin, at least he sounds like himself. His eyes are a bit more focused, his voice a bit more silken.

What harm could one kiss do?

You lay alongside him, pressing your lips to his.

The moment you touch, you can feel it, the heat, the lust, and the agony roaring full force through his veins. He’s straining on his bonds, trying to claw you into him. His mouth consumes you, sucking your lips inside his mouth, drawing them deep enough for him to bite. The tang of blood covers your tongue. And his.

He’s frenzied for more, biting you again and again. Drinking the blood that leaks from your kiss. Then you feel it, his legs, untethered, grip around your waist, sliding you to cover his naked, throbbing body. “Astarion!” you cry, muffled by his mouth. But he has you pinned between his thighs. Not unlike that first day in the wreckage.

His erection presses into your belly, he’s grinding it against the linen of your shirt. Rough and aggressive. As if he means to tear a hole in the soft fabric. He keeps you there, humping and riding into your abdomen. Grinding against your mound. Sucking and drinking your kiss as long as you let him.

Not that you have much of a choice, caught in his legs. “Easy,” you breathe, managing to steal your mouth back for the moment. “Easy…” you soothe again, making your body bear down against where he dry fucks against you.

“There is nothing I have in mind to do to you that would be easy…” he hisses. His voice almost sounds… not of this realm. And you press out of the clutches of his fangs. But he just raises his head higher, eyes crazed at the sight of the wounds he’s made on your bleeding and split lips.

“Sorry,” you murmur as you catch his throat under your palm. “It’s for your own good.” You feel his breath rasp, the ragged swallows of spit under your palm.

“The minx has claws…” he growls as you keep his head down.

“Only when you make me use them, Astarion,” you smirk. “Now, if you can keep your mouth to yourself, I’d be more than happy to put mine to other uses.”

“Gods, yes,” he moans. “It’s unbearable, the lust, the need to drive into you. Please put me out of this agony, darling. Please…”

The second you wrap your lips around that fleshy, pulsing head, his cock twitches out of your reach. With a smile and a lick of your tongue, you grip his straining, iron length, holding it steady as you run from base to bulging tip. The bitter tang of his cum fills your mouth. Making you swallow. Making you realize just how used to it you will be before the day of this torment is through.

You manage to still him enough with his squirming and bucking to get your mouth around him. Gods, it’s like stone in your mouth, every vein dragging over your tongue and you suck. You manage to bob your head up and down, avoiding the way he’s thrusting to get more of him down your throat.

The noises from his throat sound pained… agonized panting for more. “That’s it…” he’s hissing as you swirl your tongue around that ridge of his head. “Gods, do that again.” You do, laughing in your throat as you run your tongue over that seeping slit in his tip… so tight as you lap the stains of his cum. You feel it under your hand that works the base of his cock, that thickening, quickening spasm.

He howls, jamming his length into your pursing lips. And this time, you let him. His seed spills down your throat, spurting over your tongue and dripping in your cheeks. More with every pulse as he slowly begins to still again.

One last suck, you swallow him down. Greedily. Wondering if that succubus magic isn’t somehow in your system too. It’s heady, intoxicating. The way he’s glaring at you with his flame-kissed, glistening sweaty face.

But for now, he’s calmer. For now. “Darling…” he’s sighing as he tries to ease into the bed. “You… didn’t have to do this, you know. It’s still such a risk… if I didn’t… care for you… who knows how much of your body would be in one piece when this finally passes.”

“Oh I’m sure I’d leave in one piece… but maybe mostly bloodless and unable to walk straight…” you laugh leaning over him, placing a kiss on his dampened lips.

He slips his tongue in right away, searching for the taste of him in your mouth. He growls again, that throbbing suffering of lust raging beneath his skin again. “I want to see you,” he snarls. “I want to take you naked this time, my pet.” You shiver at the echo of pure desire in his silken voice. As if it doesn’t always drip with seduction. This… you shiver. This was even more wild, unchecked, feral. The need to rut. To fuck.

He looks at you with those heavy-lidded eyes, so dark with his lust, his attraction for you, you feel your own arousal dripping between your thighs. He purrs,“I want to be inside you, darling…”

Your hands couldn’t tug your clothes off fast enough, cursing the practicality of breeches. At last, you stood as he wished. Bared. Ready.

You scramble on the bed, throwing your legs around him. He seems… steadier. Still harder than rock, but less desperate. He strains against his binds, wriggling his lean and wiry body beneath you. So beautiful, every etched line of his muscles, every rise of his stomach, every vein that protrudes in his arms.

You caress him, once on his chest. So damp with sweat. Running your tongue up the center of those muscles, he shivers. The salt of his body makes your mouth water again.

“Hells, are we sure you haven’t ingested the same as me, my sweet?” He croons with a soft little laugh. “Or is this just all for me, darling, to ease my suffering.”

“To keep you alive? I’d do so much more than just lick the sweat from your body,” you taunt back, your voice so low and sultry, you barely recognize it.

He flashes his fangs at you, licking his lips. “Like slipping that sweet cunt on me? Riding me until you are dripping again?”

Ugh… you moan. “Yes,” you pant, “like that.”

The moment he feels your drenched folds hover over his cock, he spears into you. He screams at your union. “Sweet hells,” he groans, voice rasping and sore. “Yes, darling, give me everything. I can take it all…”

You lean over him, your hair cascading down in a curtain as you splay your hands on either side of his head. Barely brushing against his damp, unruly silver locks. You give the smallest rise of your body, the steadiest drag of your walls around his cock. He cants his hips beneath you, timing just right to shove up into your cunt as you settle back down.

A chorus of groans escape you both. He’s sputtering, “Please, darling, again,” over and over. Each time you give him what he wants, only to have him careening up into you harder. Begging for you to go faster.

Soon, your pace is breakneck, your own body shimmering in sweat as you buck and writhe and groan.

His eyes never blinking, those dark black pupils are wide as he watches your face twisting as you chase your own climax, flickering to the swaying of your breasts as they slap together each time you fuck him. They dart to watch where you are joined, where his stiffening cock pierces between your thighs, drenched in his cum and your arousal with every loud, squelching slap you make.

He’s merciless, finally hitching his hips to drive the hardest into you yet. You feel it when he comes inside you now, the sheer volume of his spew, hot and dripping from inside those walls where he’s buried in deep. Your belly aches from where he’s hammering against the end of your channel. More cum with each twitching spurt you feel. He screams like one wounded, his orgasm drawn out as you chase your peak yet. But he’s panting beneath you, catching his breath as he licks his lips.

Even more limp this time.

You’re relieved in your heart, even if your loins ache from the friction, the need to still release your own bliss. His brows furrow, his lips pouting as he looks into your eyes. “I’m… I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be,” you gasp, even as your arms quiver and your thighs shake with the need to continue.

“No,” he squirms and tugs at the tethers. “Infernal rope. If you just let me free, I swear I’ll make it up to you…”

Your mouth waters. He would probably just find a way to break it or chew through that rope if he had to. A smirk plays across your lips, leaning forward to reach your knots. His cock slips out from inside you as you do, making him groan again.

The rope tugs apart in your fingers. Instantly his hands pull free, he shoves you over his face, so close already as you lean forward. He growls, his tongue slipping into your folds. His hands claw into your, gripping at the backs of your knees, spreading you wider as he eats into your cunt with all the hunger you feel raging in his body.

Starving, he feasts on you, and it takes all your strength to hold yourself up, hands splayed on the mattress over his head. That swirl of his tongue… that sucking of his lips on your clit, you already creep closer and closer to that swirl of heat simmering ready to consume you. It sweeps through you, cresting and tearing from your core up your spine.

And then, the world spins. His arms clutch around your legs, throwing you over. You're screaming, still spasming and clenching around nothing. Until your back is sprawled on the bed… until he’s shoved his cock into the last dregs of your orgasm. It makes you whimper his name once more, until you feel another spasm ripping through you.

Only this time, he’s pounding into you, thrust by thrust. Giving you something long and hard and cold splitting you in two as you go limp beneath him. His mouth descends on yours, sucking your breath from your body even as he traps your lips, your tongue with his own.

Manic, driven, he fucks you like one possessed, eyes wide as he finally pins you beneath him. Having his way with you as he chases that required release.

You lay back, still swollen and numb from your pleasure. But he is nowhere near close, not as his hands claw down your side, latching around your legs to make you wrap around his narrow waist. “Gods, you’re so tight, so wet… there have been none like you, darling. None I have wanted as badly as you.” He growls, fingers reaching around the backs of your ass, clamping into your cheeks. He raises you just enough to drag his length all the deeper. Making you keen and mewl and sputter incoherently.

Every nerve in your body hums, every patch of pleasure between your thighs feels him inside you. Gods, if it wasn’t for that scroll, you are certain you would pass out, lying there unconscious while he works this tainted blood from his own body.

By using yours.

By using you.

It makes you smile. Twisted and delighted to be so at his disposal. You were used to his fangs in your neck, his cock plowed into your cunt and his hips clenched between your thighs… but this…

This was intoxicating. Unbridled, unihibited fucking.

For his own sake of course.

That tainted blood and its magic being burned up with each time he filled you to bursting with his seed.

And as if his fixated eyes, hazy with his lust, can read your thoughts, he groans as he thrusts the harshest into you yet. So deep and hard and wild, you wriggle and claw against him as if you could shove him away from where he prods at the end of your cunt. But he only laughs. A laugh swallowed up as he is thrown off by another climax, another spilling of his cum that runs down your body and sticks to your skin. He pants as he looks straight into your face, manic and depraved.

“By the time this is through, your belly will swell from me, won’t it, darling? So filled with my cum, gods, you’ll be leaking for a week. For a fortnight.” He kisses into your neck, your body shivering at the chill of his breath on your skin. “And I’ll have the pleasure of smelling it, of remembering every time you took it so well, darling. I’m so very pleased…”

You look at him, half lidded and panting as he lifts his mouth from your flesh. “As I am…” you hum, running your hands up the ridges of his back, over those mysterious lines of Infernal, to thread your fingers into his damp silver hair.

He purrs as he kisses your lips, a sigh of his satisfaction as he tangles his tongue with yours. You taste yourself still in his mouth. Always so hungry, he is. It makes you wonder… “Aren't you going to beg me to feed, Astarion?”

“Hmm, if the offer is on the table, I’d love nothing more than to sup on… all… that you have to offer…”

He slowly slinks down your body. Your breath quickens, heart racing as he wraps his arms around the backs of your thighs. “Sweet hells, you're going to…”

The lap of his tongue up your seam again unravels you immediately. Your hands fly into his hair, pushing him away and pulling him deeper into your cunt with equal measure. You don’t know which you want more. He’s feeding on you, humming in delighted pleasure as he licks his cum from your folds, his eyes gazing up into your face as you pant and watch. Mesmerized by every dart and swirl of his pink tongue.

He licks his lips, “There is only one thing sweeter than the taste of us,” he purrs, low and deep in his throat, before he laps in a long, wet streak up your thigh. “Your blood, darling, my first living blood, and the last I ever want to drink in the realm…”

Your heart skips a beat, his words sweetening the pain of his bite into your thigh’s supple flesh. “Yes, love, yes,” you feel the wave of your joining… your connection by blood as you now fill him as he has filled you.

“That’s why I call you my sweet, you know… my little treat. None I have tasted… nothing comes close to how your blood sings in my veins like the way your body trembles beneath me.”

He bites you again and again up and down your thigh… little nips of his fangs, making blood drip down the softness of your skin as he licks every tiny trickle.

And all the while, he growls hungrily as he feeds.

It isn’t pain that fills you… not even pleasure. It is pure rapture. Pure bliss that rides up and down your spine. His fingers slowly, languorously curling into your folds, catching on that secret spot just inside that he knows so well.

“You’ve been so generous,” he purrs, letting the low rumbles of his voice shake into your already throbbing folds. “So good to help me through this. Giving me everything.” He glances up from between your thighs, pure wicked delight on his handsome face. “Well, I hope you haven’t given me everything. I think this tainted blood is going to take much, much more before it’s through…”

He pauses his sweet words to circle your clit, sucking it hard in time with the pulsing of those long, cold fingers inside you.

“You will come for me again, won’t you?”

You can’t even get a word in before he builds you to bursting. Driving you to shatter on his hand, under his mouth, as that voracious tongue laps at the arousal that spills from you. Your world spins, nothing but his touch on your skin, his fingers still clenched deep in your cunt.

You’re floating, limp as your muscles flood with warmth and pleasure. Steadied only by the bed at your back and the little sucks of his lips and the wet passes of his tongue over the blood on your thighs.

“Mmm,” he hums as he draws himself up to sit between your outstretched legs. “Every time with you is just perfect. And not just because it’s chasing the devil from my veins, you know…”

He shifts over you, dragging that heavy, cold, unyielding body across your skin. Making you shiver. Spasm. Making you reignite with desire for more of him again and again. That knee… that wicked, provocative knee… it creeps beneath yours to hook you, to spread you wide again as he glides his cock through the mess of your unions already drenching you.

“Seems you still have some of the devil in you, needing to be driven away, hmm?” you flirt, trying to maintain some composure, until he grinds against your already overstimulated folds, your aching clit, reducing you to nothing but moans and spasm.

And he laughs. “Why, my darling, it seems your body is as raging as mine.” His hands stroke against your cheek, fingers teasing their tips into your errant strands of hair that stick to your face. “Why, if I didn’t know better, I would have thought you were the one infected, if I didn’t still have this raging erection needing release…”

You catch him by surprise, buckling your knees around his waist, the wetness of your cunt almost drawing him inside you as you buck against him.

He groans, just a little thrust of his hips and he’s sheathed, so deep and already pulsing with that tainted, blinding need to fuck again.

You giggle, watching his eyes darken, his lids lowering to gaze with all the raging lust in his body upon the one he desires. The only one. As he is yours. You sigh, running your hands up those intricate scars of his back, “I am infected too, you know. Infected by my need for you, perhaps.”

His kiss descends to cover your lips, but it is one of tenderness. Longing. Unsated need softened by the affection that brims in the way he takes you this time.

He is slower, deliberate. Each thrust an offering of adoration for your body. Each drag of his cock inside your folds an expression of his gratitude, his devotion.

His proclamation that you are, in fact, perfect.

Your body rides his, melting into every motion your legs tight around his narrow waist, his arms slinking around your shoulders, pressing your face into the broadness of his shoulder. You gasp against his neck, wrapped in his pleasuring of you, as if you could pull him into your very being more.

That rhythm, that rocking, it begins to sweep you away, binding you to his body. Claiming you for his own. That same fever crawls in his veins as he clutches at you, that tempo increasing harsher. Faster. Until he’s groaning with all his feral drive again.

He pulls out from you, only to slam himself into your cunt, every inch of that long, pulsing length of his filling you to bursting.

He can’t take his eyes off you, raised up in his hands now. His crimson glare consumes your every reaction, every twitch and grin and grimace of painful bliss that he commands from you. Pummeling into you over and over again, your hands claw into his shoulders, slipping down his back to savor the feeling of every undulation of his hips into your core.

“So good… so perfect…” he purrs, ravenous in his gaze, “my only blood… my living blood…” the hard lines of his body ride over every nerve in yours. Your body burns. On fire. Consumed. His words tingle in your ear, caressing your heart that raps in your chest, pattering in time with his merciless thrusts.

It’s brutal, it’s unrelenting.

It’s wonderful. The sliding of his sweat soaked body over yours, your skin flaming and damp. “Hells,” you groan as that thick head of his cock presses and drags over that sweet spot in your channel. “Astarion…” you moan his name, almost incoherent aside from all he is.

“Mmmm darling,” he rasps, “no sweeter sound than my name on your lips… well,” he hums giving you thighs and extra hard slap that squelches with all your sweat and arousal, “aside from the way your body sounds as you take me over and over again so eagerly…”

Your eagerness peaks, your body ripping in two around the rapid plundering inside you. You sputter his name again, a moan that tears from your throat, a scream that makes his handsome face twisting in ecstasy as he rams hardest yet, pulsing and hitching and forcing his eyes to stare as you unravel. Sopping and drenched, the warmth of your fresh slick mingles with his, coating your thighs and his as it seeps from where you couple.

He groans, dropping his weight on you, blanketing you in his scent and sweat and panting frame. He places his damp forehead against your cheek, his cool breath making you shiver as he finally seems to relax. Even if his cock is still hardened and buried inside you.

You feel the rigid planes of his body slipping across yours with every one of your combined breaths. Signing in relief, you relish just how dirty you feel.

How dirty you’ve been.

“Once this has worked its way from your system, you will need to bathe me,” you pant. Your fingers linger and stray through the damp and sweaty curls of silver that stick to his face.

“That can be arranged…” those eyes, that face suddenly twisting again with all the depravity he still has simmering under his skin and in his mind. “Or would you settle for my tongue instead, darling?”

You shake your head, face bright, amused and skeptical. “As if you could accomplish that without bending me over in your state…”

“Mmmm,” he nuzzles against you, tilting his face to run the cold, damp pad of his tongue up your jaw. Laughing as you tremble. “You assume I could accomplish such a feat as resisting your charms without this suffering of tainted blood…”

He slips his cock from inside you, and you moan into his mouth, turning to bring that taunting smirk against your lips. Just for a moment kissing him, before he returns to lapping and caressing your sweat soaked cheek. You sigh with relief, stretching your legs, clenching them together to relieve the throbbing of your muscles.

And this was with that magical healing to sustain you.

You shake your head, in amused, affectionate irritation. Feeling his still erect cock beginning to rub against your hip. His tongue darts across your neck, the unvoiced question in the deliberate lapping and dragging of his fangs on your flushed and pulsing neck.

“For the love, please,” you pant, arching into him with your feverish body, your lust still matching his each time it rises, even as your muscles and marrow scream for reprieve. “Just a bit of rest, love, surely that tainted blood’s hold on you is lessened…”

“But what of your hold on me, hmm?” he rasps into the rapid pulse of your neck. “What if it’s not the succubus whose magic has consumed me, driven me mad and feral, making me no more than a rutting beast…” he gives that low throated giggle. “Your fault, you know, my sweet.”

You breathe heavily, aroused and exhausted in equal measure. “I take full blame,” you laugh weakly, “but it’s only because you’re so beautiful…”

“And witty… and passionate…” he adds a roll of his hips as he utters that last word, grinding that still hardened cock against your side.

“Just… a breath,” you plead. “Just a moment. You don’t seem to be so near death’s door now…”

“I’ll try not to take offense at that barb, given how good you’ve been and how much I’ve fucked you senseless,” he chides.

You laugh again, a bit of a whine in your voice. “Can’t you take care of just one by yourself…”

He murmurs in your ear. “Darling, I’ll take my pleasure from you in every way, in every hole, until this tainted blood is burned up in the blaze of my lust for you,” he groans, “or until I’ve completely exhausted you, leaving you spent and heaving. And then I’ll simply seek my own pleasure just at the sight of you sleeping.”

You stretch, clenching your whole body hoping for that release and rest. If he lets you have it for a moment. “Mmmm, well love, sounds like I’ll really need that bath in the morning any way you come at it…”

He giggles again. Naughty. Dirty. His hand now wrapped firmly around his cock, rubbing for himself, letting it beat against your skin softly. “Oh… I’ll come at it, don’t you fret… darling.”

[ineedmyknightcommander]

Fic: Brilliant Things

While Rook is trapped in the Fade prison, Johanna and Emmrich are forced to help each other overcome their own regrets. DRAGON AGE | EMMRICH & JOHANNA; EMMROOK | WORDS: 4,553 | RATED: G

(AO3 LINK)

It’s pathetic, really. Volkarin has always been a soft touch, but this snivelling is something else.

Despite her own prodigious knowledge of anatomy and the undead, Johanna had not known the human body capable of making such a hideous racket prior to the events of these past few days. Corpses do not weep, and even if they did, she hardly cares. 

The worst part isn’t even that she’s reduced to mere ornamentation in the already ostentatious study of one of Nevarra’s greatest necromancers, forced to watch him burn a hole in the floorboards with each anguished thump, thump, thump of his feet as he teeters at the edge of a nervous breakdown borne by the weight of his own misplaced compassion. No, this part was inevitable. Volkarin had always been destined to crack one day—she just wished she could have been the one to cause it.   

No, the absolute worst part, worse than having been denied the opportunity to gloat over her lifelong rival, is that despite the circumstances, the lovelorn fool’s dedication to his Watcher duties have been thorough to a fault. Johanna has of course tested the wards binding her soul to her remains multiple times; she’d been trying to escape before this most recent escalation in their circumstances, it would be downright idiotic not to try when facing down the end of the world as they know it. Especially while her only hope at salvation rubs his red-rimmed eyes and mutters inconsolably under his breath, unwilling to accept that it is in fact his infernal meddling which has doomed them all.  

It’s simple, really: if Volkarin had just stayed out of her way, left her alone, Johanna would still have her beautiful bone construct—the culmination of her life’s work—with which she would’ve had the power to raise an army of undead to defeat this so-called god, this Elgar’nan. 

But Volkarin had possessed the sheer nerve to outplay her at the most inopportune moment. Although she’s ordinarily capable of giving credit where it’s due, she cannot respect the lack of long-term strategy. Of all moments to finally locate his own backbone!  Volkarin had always been like that, though. Capable of surpassing his own self-imposed limitations given the correct impetus. What else could one expect from such a hot-headed, idealistic man as he. Ugh. And couple that all that with a new paramour, a bright-eyed young thing surely twenty years his junior, it’s no wonder Volkarin’s been distracted (but not distracted enough) of late. 

What needs to be done now is plainly obvious to Johanna, or indeed, anyone with half a functioning brain. For whatever reason, everyone in this crackpot team of would-be heroes that Volkarin has somehow gotten himself mixed up in relies on Rook, even though Johanna’s not sure what the impudent whelp brings to the team, other than a tendency to meddle which rivals even Volkarin’s. And as the group’s resident expert on the Fade, Volkarin is the most well-placed to tear a hole in reality itself to locate his misplaced lover. Even Johanna can see that would make for a most romantic story indeed, and she doesn’t even read that sort of dreck.

But it’s clear to Johanna that Volkarin is functioning at perhaps one-tenth of his usual operating capacity, compromised as he is by needless sentimentality. Of course, the type of man who would sacrifice not only his lifelong dream—immortality itself!— for a mere wisp, of all things, would struggle without the guidance of a more indomitable hand.

And in Rook’s absence, the task falls to Johanna. Unfortunately. Here she’d hoped her days of solving Emmrich Volkarin’s problems for him were over, but no matter. Unlike Volkarin, Johanna Hezenkoss does not shy away from necessary evils. 

As always, she chooses her words carefully, delicately balancing dramatic effect and efficiency.

“You know this is entirely your fault, don’t you?” 

Volkarin stops dead in his tracks as though she’d just punched him. The respite from his infernal pacing is most pleasant indeed, and she’s elated by the knowledge she can still instil such a reaction in him even while bereft of limbs.

Expression jumping from shock to outrage and then, most curiously, to acceptance, Volkarin raises two fingers to rub at his temples, quietly answering, “I know.” 

Johanna’s mandibles clench tightly and it is only with some difficulty that she manages to relax them. For Volkarin to admit his failings so readily, the situation must be worse than she had feared. “And what do you have to say for yourself?” she asks instead. The last thing she needs him to know is that she’s worried. 

Volkarin averts his gaze as he hunches into himself. She remembers the stance well from his days as a young child at the Necropolis. “I should have confessed the truth to Rook while I had the chance,” he admits in the most mournful, pitiful tone that makes even Johanna feel sorry for him as much as it makes her want to vomit, if she were still capable of such a thing. 

While it’s not quite the answer she’d hoped for—then again, Volkarin would never debase himself by offering her a proper apology for everything he’d put her through—it’s one Johanna can work with nonetheless.  Doing her best approximation of a tongue-clicking noise, she replies, “Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on that argument you had with your paramour.” 

As planned, the words bait him back into action with a sputter. Back straightening and fingers curling into the palms of his ungloved and unadorned hands, he snaps, “Still hung up on—” before cutting himself off and pinching the bridge of his nose as he breathes deeply to regulate his emotions, the same exercises they’d been taught as apprentices. Johanna had never cared much for them. 

The next words that come out of Volkarin’s mouth throw her for a loop. “Have you ever been in love, Johanna?”

One of the downsides of no longer having muscles or tendons is the inability to answer questions through exaggerated facial expressions alone. As much as it pains her to lend legitimacy to this line of inquiry, there’s a frightening intensity in his eyes suggestive of a commitment to this topic of conversation. She suspects he won’t accept a total deflection, or worse, that such an attempt might set off his moping again.

That still doesn’t mean it’s any of his blasted business. The time to be asking these types of questions was thirty years ago, not now. “I’m familiar with the concept,” she says acridly, hoping it’s enough to satisfy his curiosity before swiftly adding, “Not that I see how it’s of any relevance.”

Of course, Volkarin simply can’t leave it there. Instead, his lips purse, the look he now fixes Johanna with one of mixed pity and disappointment.

Infuriating man, to think such condescension could possibly affect her!

“Then you would know what it feels like,” he continues quietly, “to leave such matters unresolved with no resolution.”

Of course he would turn it around on her: a most pathetic and transparent attempt to make this an exercise in ‘practicing empathy’ instead of learning to properly communicate himself. She deftly avoids the obvious trap, cutting to the chase instead.

“You’re an idiot,” she states cleanly, simply. There’s a lack of malice in her words that surprises even her.

Volkarin must sense it too, because even though his body visibly tenses at the accusation, his reaction is short-lived. Instead, he allows his shoulders to slump—terrible posture, really—before running a hand through his tousled hair, the action accentuating the dark circles beneath his eyes. Finally, he sighs, a little huff of intermingled acceptance and defeat. Pinching the bridge of his nose once more, he answers, “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain yourself, Johanna.”

Now she’s really concerned, and even more adamant about not admitting it. Esteemed Professor Volkarin, inviting her to lecture? She’d never thought she’d see the day. Preening nonetheless, she doesn’t bother to disguise the elation from her voice as she points out the obvious. “Your paramour is trapped physically in the Fade, correct?”

Volkarin blinks; it’s too difficult for Johanna to distinguish whether he’s simply concentrating or staving off a fresh wave of tears, so she doesn’t bother.

“Correct,” he answers, fingers rubbing at his chin now, itching at the three-day-old growth which is a sight bewildering to even Johanna.

She does her best to continue ignoring the absurdity of it all as she continues.  “And my understanding is that you are indeed Professor Volkarin of the Mourn Watch, one of Thedas’s leading experts on the properties of said Fade, are you not?”

The masseter muscle in Volkarin’s jaw twitches. “I don’t see where you’re going with this.”

“You always did lack a certain vision,” she says with a sigh which could be described as downright nostalgic. “I simply ask, what would happen were the situation reversed? If you were the one trapped in the Fade?”

Volkarin’s face softens, lips twisted into a smile so besotted it sickens her. “Rook would stop at nothing less than breaking into the Fade barehanded.” Johanna watches him expectantly as his eyes widen in realisation and he mutters, “Oh. Oh dear.”

It would, of course, be too much to hope for him to actually admit that she had a point, that she was in fact, entirely correct as always.  “You always did give up far too easily,” she admonishes instead. “I’m frankly astonished you ever got anything done without me.”

Not only does he have to the gall to ignore her reprimand, he even adds to her immense displeasure by resuming his infernal pacing. There he goes, thump, thump, thump against the floorboards again. All take and no give, just as always.

A newfound wave of frustration pulses through Johanna’s consciousness and she’s hardly a patient person to begin with. “You know, when I told you this situation was entirely your fault, I wasn’t talking about the missteps you’ve made in your pathetic love life.” There’s a new vigour—an urgency—to his steps when he finally deigns to face her. His hands together with frenetic energy. “Johanna, this is hardly the time. There’s so much to set in motion—”

No. Absolutely not.

She refuses to be overlooked again.

Shouting over him, she demands to be heard. “YOU. RUINED. EVERYTHING.”

But Volkarin still won’t be diverted and waves a hand as though before himself as though to dismiss her accusations. What’s downright infuriating is the confirmation that this infatuation with some youth he’s known for less than six months means more to him than all the years they’d spent working together. He pulls books off their shelves with alarming velocity, muttering titles under his breath that Johanna can’t quite decipher.

Never one to back down from a challenge, Johanna tries again. “If only there was more at stake than locating your lost paramour,” she hedges.

Volkarin continues to ignore her, but she can see his hands shake.

She makes another attempt, but this time she doesn’t even bother to disguise any lingering traces of bitterness evident in her voice. Not that she had been holding back on purpose, of course. It’s simply a most peculiar situation in which they find themselves. “If only you had an old friend with practical experience in creating receptive Fade eddies.”

A sharp intake of breath. Aha! A reaction! He doesn’t look at her yet. “What do you suggest?”

She’s not going to let him off that easily. “I don’t know. I didn’t realise you were seeking my opinion on the matter.”

“Johanna.” He finally turns from the bookshelf, pushing back unruly locks of hair from his forehead. “I could not have expressed myself any more clearly.” “Only because I had to do nearly all the work of leading you there!” she snaps back in return. Despite her gnawing frustration, there’s comfort in the familiarity of their conflict, the back-and-forth, the diametric oppositions of their world views.

Johanna will never, ever admit it aloud, but she has missed him. Not that it means she wants to spend the rest of his life trapped in his study, mind you.

But still, better this than death, better this than the cowardice Volkarin had embraced with open arms. For all that the good professor harps on about morality, of propriety, of decorum, of kindness, the real difference between them is that Volkarin is little more than a persnickety academic, but Johanna is the true innovator. An inventor. Her experiments speak for themselves. Yes, her aptitude for the more experiential aspects of their art had resulted in her current predicament, but failure is only ever a temporary setback, so long as the fundamental nature of existence remains intact.

And right now, that can't be relied upon. Elgar’nan had changed the trajectory of the moon itself! Even Johanna balks at such audacity.

It's only then that she realises Volkarin has been silent too long, which is entirely suspicious for a man who so adores the sound of his own voice. But at least he isn’t snivelling again. No, instead his forehead is furrowed deep in thought, fingers scratching at his chin once more.

“Careful,” she warns.

Volkarin blinks, his attention snapping back to her. “What is it?”

“You’ll hurt yourself, thinking that hard about it.”

Strangely, he begins to smile. Maddening man! “I suppose it would be too much to hope for you to simply help me out of mere goodwill.”

Something about his tone and his expression manages to get under her skin even though she no longer has any. “Obviously. You know me better than that.”

“But you are considering offering lending your knowledge to our cause due to the mutually-aligned nature of our interests.” “I would’ve used less words,” she answers in agreement. He holds up an index finger as though about to lecture, but it’s evident in his posture that he’s barely able to restrain himself from pacing again. That he does manage to do so is a point in his favour, for now. “You’ve certainly made clear your opinion on my relationship with Rook.” When she opens her mouth to interject, he raises the other fingers on his hand, and despite herself, Johanna falls silent and allows him to continue. “Which brings me to the realisation your motive was to provide a distraction from my grief so I could recalibrate and continue on the necessary work that must be done in Rook’s … absence.”

While she’s glad to hear Volkarin’s voice tremble as he dances around the topic of the void Rook has left in his otherwise obviously miserable life, the fact that it even does so still rankles her. Even more frustrating is Volkarin ascribing emotions and feelings to her that she does not possess, as though he’s some sort of Chantry sister instead of a powerful necromancer.  “I just wanted to stop the racket,” she snaps.   

“Be that as it may, I couldn’t help but notice your choice of topic.” He sighs again, an exhalation of air that’s heavier than any of the noises she’s heard him make throughout their entire conversation. His shoulders slump. It makes her wish she could slap him with a ruler.

“For what it’s worth,” he continues, “I am sorry. Sorry lichdom failed you. Sorry you were unable to reach out to me. I amespecially sorry you felt the need to conquer the capital in order to attract my attention.” When he lifts his gaze to look at her properly, she is surprised to find his eyes glittering with a mischief that makes her feel thirty years younger. “Forgive me, but I am unaccustomed to receiving overtures of friendship disguised as attempted acts of war.” 

She has told herself many times over the years that she has always hated him. She wants to continue hating him the same way she has survived these last decades in his absence. But in this moment, something within her breaks. Perhaps it’s the way they’re hovering on the precipice of the end of the world, or maybe it’s even the way Volkarin’s eyes resemble a baby labrador’s. 

As it turns out, even she is not entirely immune to the proximity of Emmrich Volkarin’s moral fortitude. Everything according to the Mourn Watch’s plan, no doubt. Oh, she’s not an idiot: she knows why it’s his office in which she has been assigned to complete this part of her penance, even if Volkarin pretends they’re still figuring out the details. All these years of exile but still trapped by the consequences of oaths she had made when she had been much younger and more naïve.  

The realisation should really disgust her but she finds herself devoid of her usual anger and envy, bitterness and rage. She realises, too late, what it is that has broken inside her: the dam that had kept any other most inconvenient emotions at bay.  

A wave of vulnerability crashes over her and she is powerless to stop it. Her next words slip out of her before she’s even had time to think.

“You abandoned me.” Once spoken aloud, she wishes for nothing more than the ability to take the words back, if only to stop Volkarin staring at her like she’s just kicked him. The flame of hatred she holds for him at her core begins to flicker back to life.  

“Johanna, I….”

“Don’t you dare apologise to me!” she screams. Maker, she’d throttle him if she could. Discrete emotions become increasingly difficult to identify, she only knows that she’s been knocked off course and discombobulated despite only trying to help for once. She feels seven years old again, lost and scared in the chambers of the Grand Necropolis, hating all these stuffy mages and their prim propriety, hating the newfound knowledge that such arcane energies filled her veins as well. The only friendly face a shy boy not much older than herself, and she’d helped him out of his shell with her façade of fearlessness.

And in turn, she had watched as he had become one of them.

“You don’t understand,” she hisses. She chances a look directly at his eyes again. He’s patient. Waiting. Despite it all, he wants to understand. Damn him.  

But whether Johanna is capable of letting herself be understood is shakier ground, part of a vast expanse of uncharted territory that lies between them.

Putting it as bluntly as she can, she simply states, “Your parents died. Your parents loved you.”

Volkarin steeples his hands together, comprehension dawning on his features despite what continues to be left unsaid between them. “Ah. I—you never did tell me how you came to live at the Grand Necropolis.”

She scoffs. “What was there to tell? It’s only the same tale from all over Thedas. Parents have child. Parents don’t want a child with magic. Pah!” A surge of resentment swells within her. Why is she talking about this? Why is she talking about this with him? She hasn’t so much as thought about this in years. It hardly matters now. Just look at everything she’s achieved! She’s fifty-one years young and she’s going to live forever.

The thoughtful expression has returned to Volkarin’s face, and she’s grateful to find herself capable of hating it again. “You told me you were born near Perendale.” Why does he even remember that? Regretting ever telling him anything about herself, she answers, “I don’t see how that’s relevant.” Next he was going to be asking her whether she had ever been in love again. Why did he always insist on meddling in matters that didn’t concern him!

“That’s no insignificant distance to travel, especially with a young child in tow.”

“As though you’re an expert on travelling with young children,” she answers hotly, before recalling that pet skeleton of his. The way he doted on it, Johanna would be unsurprised to discover that Volkarin had indeed mistaken it for a real boy.  Very magnanimously, she decides against saying this part aloud.

She just wishes Volkarin would let the topic drop. In the past, she’d always retreated whenever he had threatened to dismantle her walls and bluster with his disaffecting sincerity and dogged determination.

But now, she is at his mercy. And she knows—better than anyone—that despite his spotty track record at seeing through his commitments, Volkarin is nothing if not thorough.  He’s an indecisive man, not a slothful one.

“I simply believe most parents do their best with the resources available to them.” He scratches at the side of his nose. “Most people do, in fact. Even if we cannot, at times, predict the consequences of our actions.” At this, he fixes her with a downright professorial stare.

“I am grateful I wasn’t snatched up by templars,” she begrudgingly admits. “I could have been sent to Kirkwall.”

The corner of Volkarin’s lips twitch. “Perish the thought. I do profess my gratitude that the Mourn Watch was able to take me into their care.”

It’s only when Johanna remains silent that Volkarin appears to realise his mistake. “Ah. Of course. They never did truly appreciate you.”

Volkarin’s words sound downright strange to her until she’s able to identify the anomaly: the phrasing is hers, not his. She continues to say nothing, entirely too suspicious of where he’s beginning to go with this. “And although I wouldn’t, as you said, dare apologise to you, I do want you to know I am aware that it was wrong of me not to speak in your defense when it came to the growing number of censures that had been amassed against you, even though your experiments benefitted my research. If I could redo that time in our lives again, I would have severed our partnership earlier and provided you a proper explanation of my decisions. “I suppose I assumed you would come around to my position on the matter. But I dare say you thought the same as well.” She watches the smooth column of his throat as he swallows nervously. “There was so much I was willing to overlook until I thought the price too high to pay. Naturally, recent events and conversations have elucidated to me that we have vastly different thresholds for such matters.” To say she is stunned is an understatement: that she has allowed him to prattle for this long without interruption is testimony to this fact. But it is even more stunning that to receive a proper explanation for the events that have haunted her for decades from the most conflict-avoidant man she has ever known. Other partnerships are unlikely to be repaired by an admission that they should have separated sooner, but nothing had ever been what one would call normal when it came to the two of them.

As much as it displeases her to admit it, Johanna is certain that Volkarin’s capacity to deliver his soliloquy was driven by Rook’s influence. What other force in this world but love would be strong enough to push a man like Volkarin to the brink of foolhardy bravery?

And while the thought is still annoying, it doesn’t sting as much as it once had.  

Thus, it is with nostalgia and not bitterness that she remarks, “We could have done brilliant things together, Emmrich.”

Her use of his first name does not go unnoticed. How could it? His eyebrows raise so high they nearly disappear into his receded hairline. “You haven’t called me that in over thirty years,” he protests.

“And it’ll be thirty more until I use it again,” she insists in return. “Just tell me the truth. Was there ever a moment in time when you appreciated the power and potential at our fingertips? That you thought we could have been the ones to rule this world?”

He averts his gaze. Grinds his teeth. “Yes,” he finally admits. “I saw it. But it would have never been worth the cost.” Johanna scoffs. “There’s always some crackpot trying to take over the world. It might as well have been us. We had the best chance of it. Both of us liches, our knowledge combined, my brilliance counterbalanced with your compassion… There was a reason I kept a bleeding heart like you as a partner for so many years. But I underestimated your sentimentality.” She wouldn’t be making that mistake again, that was for certain. Just look at the situation it had landed her in! She would simply have to figure out how to best wield it to her purposes while she remained trapped here. If Volkarin thought she wasn’t going to continue using every tool at her disposal to facilitate her great escape, then he was sorely mistaken.

“Yes,” Volkarin answers softly, crows’ feet at the corner of his eyes wrinkling as he gazes at her with discomfiting fondness. “I dare say you did. Just as I am guilty at times of underestimating your brilliance.” He swivels on the spot and Johanna is afraid he’s going to resume his pacing but the walk he has in mind for now is mercifully short, only over to the bowl on his desk where he’s deposited the majority of his grave gold.

“What are you doing?” she hisses, hating how urgent her voice sounds to her own consciousness. She always hates it when he behaves erratically.

“I was under the impression we had work to do, my dear.”

“Absolutely not.” Surely it hadn’t been so long he’d forgotten her utter loathing of pet names.

He laughs, then, long and rich. It is a definite improvement on the snivelling. “Force of habit. Won’t happen again,” he promises. “First things first. I do believe you had some knowledge to impart on the practical applications of receptive Fade eddies?”

“Getting ahead of yourself as always, Volkarin,” she says by way of reprimand. “You need a bath. I don’t have olfactory glands and even I can tell that you reek. And a shave.”

He rubs his hand against his chin again, eyes widening as though surprised to find it covered by hair. “Ah! Yes. Thank you.”

“Completely and utterly useless.” This time, she’s disgusted by the tenderness in her own voice. Oh, no, this won’t do at all. “While you’re at it,” she adds, determined to get their shared task back on track, “get the elf girl and your skeleton boy. We’ll need to replace the stolen dagger in order to kill a god. And I don’t know about you, but ancient elven gadgets are hardly my area of expertise.”

“Of course, I’ll speak with Bellara.” His brow furrows. “But why do you want Manfred?”

“Because I don’t have arms, you idiot.” It really does make building things more difficult. And she won’t even be able to inadvertently kill the wisp this time due to the aforementioned lack of limbs. It’ll work perfectly, really.

“Consider it done.”

Not having much other choice in the matter, Johanna watches as Volkarin gathers his bathing supplies and heads towards the door.

It is on the threshold that he pauses and looks back at her, his hazel eyes bright with fiery determination. “I’ve always appreciated you, Johanna Hezenkoss. Let us continue doing brilliant things together.”

And then he is gone, door to his study closing gently shut behind him.

[starshipsofstarlord]

lap girl (2)

summary. daryl needs comfort at the greene farm after he fails to find sophia again. luckily his girl is willing to give him exactly what he needs; her in his lap

warnings. fluff, angst mentions of daryl’s childhood abuse, mentions of death, swearing

divider credits. @cafekitsune

greene farm

It was a new place, and they didn’t belong, and were only welcome due to the miss-aim of Otis. If he had hadn’t ricocheted a bullet into Carl, then their group that had travelled from Atalanta to the CDC and then some, would never have found this little piece of solace. Daryl’s eyes squinted beneath the glaring sun as he sought out the figure that had brazen themself to be absorbed in the daylight, feeling safe since there were barbed fences separating them from the wilderness in which the dead freely roamed. Y/n was enjoying the quiet that surrounded her, sitting upon the blades of grass that handed no threat in her direction.

It was pleasant to see her so peaceful, she wasn’t running for her life, or scavenging for scraps to replenish her hunger, she was instead still, and content in being so. But feeling secure wasn’t enough; it wouldn’t last, it never did. They’d eventually be sent on their way back to the trailing lands that had lead them here in the first place. The road was cruel, and it would only get worse when winter devoured them with the hardships of its crisp air.

And Daryl resented the foreshadowed thought, as they would need more supplies and warm food, and a fire big enough to bring heat to them all. The embers would only attract the undead and threaten them with even more loss, and whilst Daryl wasn’t particularly fond of many people in the group, he had somehow integrated within its ties after Merle’s absence.

Merle had left him before, in the worst possible way - alone with their father William Dixon. He understood that his elder brother had wanted to escape from the abusive entrapment, and thus he had allowed Daryl to be single-handedly foreseen by their parent as a punching bag; and worse. He still had the scars that were far too prominent over his body, they were askew like lines in a map, permanent and hadn’t faded since the sharp indents that had once been bloody had healed.

He resonated in a ying and yang parallel with Carol, the mother of Carol. She was distraught with Sophia’s fleet, already grieving her loss when there was nothing sufficed to state that she was either dead or alive, and Daryl felt responsible to uncover the reality that encased the child, to bring comfort to not only her mourning mother, but the rest of the group. It was an unsure journey that he had already been scathed from, a bullet that only with luck grazed his temple, and an arrow that was plunged from the long fall into his side, but he needed to do this.

Daryl knew what it felt like to be alone when he had been of the same age as Sophia, however he had discovered a loophole through the tormenting years prior to the contagion that infected the human vessel; there was a girl. He had been instantaneously drawn to her, although at first he had wanted to keep his distance, he’d never allowed anyone close. But she made him see the sun shine in every smile that composed itself upon her face and each glimmer that reflected in her eyes.

She made him feel safe. And so here he was, seeking her out as the gauze remained attached to his head, and if anyone saw him he was sure he would look like a fool. The normally obscure and grouchy Daryl appeared giddy as he stepped towards his human lifeline, his footsteps uncoordinated as he felt the ache in his side brew.

At the sound of shuffling fabric behind her, y/n’s head whipped around, she knew better than to just assume that there was no danger that could appear out of nowhere. Even with the serene tranquility that was deranging her viewpoint from the world that had began feasting on itself, there was always the risk that getting too comfortable would end in death. And Daryl smirked at the sight of the blade that shone from the sun in her hand.

“Thought you were a walker you ass!” She exclaimed, her mouth widening in a teeth baring smile. Her blade was placed back in its hiding spot as she felt the need to aid Daryl in seating himself next to her, her palm remaining against his bare arm. “I kicked Andrea’s ass after her shit shot, told her to get Herschel check her eyesight.” Daryl shook his head lightly as to not cause any more disturbance to his injury, promptly nudging her with his shoulder as he allowed himself to laugh at her protective demeanour towards the blonde.

“Yer real funny sunshine.” His rare smile was prominent as he endearingly looked at his girl, wrapping his arm around the back of her relaxed shoulder blades as he brought her closer. But close was still not close enough. “C’mere.” Daryl agilely helped her climb onto his lap, the place he reserved solely for her, his rough yet tender hands remaining on her hips as he brought his face near to y/n’s, rubbing their noses together in a sweet eskimo kiss.

He was exhausted, and he felt like a failure, but she was the only comfort that he needed. Her form was facing his own, and she brushed her featherlight fingertips against his cheekbones, sparing a glare to the dressing. “We’ll find her.” She whispered gently, shutting her eyelids as she melted into him. “But for now you need to rest honey, I’m not having you wear yourself into the ground.” His head rested against her collarbone, inhaling her presence as he tried not to be frustrated with himself.

It wasn’t his fault that Sophia had ran for her life off of the highway, and he wasn’t guilt for being unable to find anything other than her stuffed toy. His hands ran up and down y/n’s back as he buried his head in the crook of her neck, finally taking a break from his daily searching. He just needed his girl planted in his lap, and all his qualms and insecurities became minor.

[azsazz]

Dead by Dawn (Part 18)

Azriel x Cassian x Reader

Summary: Zombie!AU: It’s been a while since the end of the world.

Warnings: Blood, gore, injury, graphic depictions of violence, poly!relationship, slow burn, undead, death

Word Count: 4328

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14) (Part 15) (Part 16) (Part 17)

_________________________________________

Day 195 Part 4

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

When you’ve successfully managed to empty the contents of your stomach, the first thing you notice is that your ears are ringing.

Everything slowly begins to creep back into focus. The warm hand on your back, running a soothing pattern up and down your spine. The soft voice murmuring at your side. The vomit pooling on the floor before you. And of course, the thing that’s causing your ears to ring in the first place: the screaming.

You don’t remember falling to your knees, but you’re here, and you sit back on your haunches slowly because your stomach is still roiling. You try to focus on the massacre happening around you.

Nesta’s screaming in the doorway. She looks like she’s actually going to kill you, which is probably why Eris is holding her back with an arm wrapped firmly around her waist. She has a crazed look on her face, silver eyes alight with a fear so deep that it reads like the rage of a thousand wars.

“She’s been bit!” Nesta screeches, clawing at Eris in a desperate attempt to reach for anyone she can get her hands on. His soft, consoling words in her ear are doing nothing to break past the white-hot rage burning across her features. “What did he do to her?”

“He didn’t do a damn thing but fall for your sister,” Cassian bites back, voice louder than necessary. You all know what happens when you love something in a world like this. It always gets ripped away, which is why you haven’t allowed yourself to think anything more about the two men you’ve been occupying your time with. “We don’t have time to waste, they need us out there searching for them.”

Azriel’s murmuring into the walkie-talkie, trying to discern where the hell Rhysand and Feyre might be, but after a few broken responses from your friends, they stop responding.

He turns to the rest of you with a solemn look. “Their walkie died.”

Fuck. This is worse than bad.

“We need to move,” Cassian says, tone pitched with a worry he’s failing to mask. He needs Rhysand alive like he needs Azriel alive, because without either of them, he wouldn’t want to be living in this godsforsaken planer either. “Where are our weapons? We’ll find them and bring them back.”

“That’s my sister. I’m going,” Nesta growls, and your heart pinches at the sight of the turmoil in Eris’ amber eyes because you feel the exact same as him.

“Then I’m going, too,” he murmurs, caressing Nesta’s cheek. She’s stopped fighting now, and you think you catch him brushing a tear from her face. You’re not sure how she hasn’t entirely broken down yet, knowing that both of her sisters have been bitten.

The pair share an embrace so tender you have to look away.

When they return their attention to your party, Nesta’s voice is firm, any traces of her anguish long forgotten, except in the way that her fingers are white knuckled around Eris’. “One of you stays here.”

“What? Why?” Cassian asks in disbelief.

“So we know this isn’t an ambush,” Eris provides, already double-checking the weapons attached to his hips. It’s a move so similar to Azriel that it stuns you until her words hit home.

“An ambush?” You blurt your confusion. Rage boils the blood in your veins. You refuse to lose another friend out there, not after how horrible the last time any of you split up is turning out to be. “This isn’t a fucking ambush, it’s your fucking sister!”

Your anger doesn’t land. Nesta’s glare punctures a hole in your chest and it’s suddenly difficult to breathe. “Exactly. It’s my sister. I will go and see to her. Your presence isn’t needed. You’ve already done enough.”

You want to crumple beneath the weight of her words. They hang thickly in the air, the only sound filling the suddenly eerie dining room is the soft crackling from the walkie-talkie. Rhysand and Feyre are waiting for reinforcements, there’s no time to wither into the ground and cry until the house is flooded.

“Every second we waste here is another second Feyre suffers,” Azriel spits, his hand clenching yours. Cassian’s body is warm at your front from where he’s stepped slightly in front of you at Nesta’s implied threat. “We need to go.”

But Nesta is even more hard-headed than her sister. “She stays.”

You don’t like the look on Azriel’s face when he turns to you. You’re already shaking your head when he tries to speak, but you’re quick to cut him off, your hysterics taking over your words.

“No,” your voice breaks, tears spilling down your cheeks. “No, Azriel. Please, I need to be there.” This might very well be the last time you see Feyre, and you need to be there for her.

“We need you to stay,” Azriel pleads. His hand is firm where your shoulder meets your neck and his hazel eyes are stern, but it isn’t difficult to read how terrified he is. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him so scared, not even when you’d first found each other and Cassian was on the brink of bleeding out. Maybe you hadn’t known him all that well at that point, but now, you know that his heart is much larger than you ever gave him credit for.

“No,” you protest, shaking your head, but you can tell that there’s no room for arguing this. He’s already running through ideas of how to save your friends in his head. “They’re my friends, too!”

“We need you safe.” We need you to survive.

You shake your head, fingers fisting into his shirt. Azriel ducks down and captures you in a kiss so desperate, filled with so much love and pleading and finality that you can’t raise your head when he pulls away from you and Cassian takes his place.

“Please…” It’s all you can do to beg, falling into Cassian’s strong arms, but at this point you know it’s futile. They’ll be going without you, and you’re to stay here so that Nesta and Eris know they won’t try anything. It’s smart, protecting themselves, but it doesn’t make you like them.

“I’m sorry,” Cassian whispers, cradling you in his arms and pressing light kisses to your hair while Eris doles out weapons to Azriel. Nesta watches with a menacing look on her face and arms crossed over her chest like she’d rather let the two men you’re falling for on a recon mission in the woods without any protection.

In this world, being bitten means you have hours. If Feyre isn’t already showing signs of the infection taking hold, she will be soon. Realization strikes you down like a fucking semi-truck, tightening your throat and prickling your eyes. Your best friend, the one that you’ve stuck with for the better part of the last year has been bitten, and you’re all arguing about playing savior.

Fuck. As much as you want to be out there finding your friend, one of you needs to stay. Because Azriel and Cassian want you safe, because Nesta and Eris are scared out of their minds, because if something goes wrong, there is nothing worth fighting for anymore, but if everything goes right, this place could be your haven.

You saw the way Cassian’s eyes lit at the mention of the underground bunkers, at the sight of the healthy greens on your plates. He’s been dreaming of a place like this, a place to take root and utilize the seeds he’d so carefully traveled with all this time. This place could be his playground, and you want nothing more than for him to have something positive to latch onto in a world of the undead.

And Azriel. Somewhere hiding behind the walls he’s so carefully constructed, he cares. He cares about finding someplace safe for everyone he loves to set up camp for a prolonged period. He’s tired of running, tired of searching for something that he’s given up hope on a long time ago. Everyone he cares about now is here, or almost here, and he doesn’t need the weight on his shoulders of searching for safety.

“Go,” you choke, clutching Cassian’s forearms so tightly your nails dig into his skin. His eyes flicker between yours, searching for any sliver of indignation. If you truly don’t want him to go, he won’t. There’s no predicting what will happen out there, and you’re just as important to him as the rest of his friends. “Go,” you urge again, softly. “Find them and bring them back.”

“Yes ma’am,” he agrees, before smashing his mouth against yours. It’s desperate, a promise of so much more, and then he’s pulling away and taking the knife Azriel’s handing him, and then they’re all out the door and you’re standing in the doorway of a silent home, with only the distant coughs coming from a bitten girl upstairs to keep you company while the men you’ve fallen completely in love with leave to save her bitten sister.

“We’re coming back to you,” he calls over his shoulder, determined.

It's all you can do to keep yourself together until they’re out of your line of sight.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Minutes pass. Then hours, and there’s no sign of your companions.

You try not to worry, but it’s inevitable. Cleaning up the abandoned dinner does nothing to ease your nerves. Snooping through cabinets and the pantry and the rest of the main floor does nothing to stop the haunting scenarios of everything that could go wrong from playing in your head. You eye the staircase leading upstairs, but knowing what’s up there, who’s up there, you refrain.

For now.

There is no peace in knowing that their group of four is searching for your lost friends. None of you hardly know Nesta and Eris, and as good as Azriel is at tracking, they have no clue where the hell Rhysand and Feyre are. They must be closer than you think, because they were in range of the walkie-talkies, but that could span for miles, and the sun is shining brightly through the large, front windows of the house. They have hours before night falls completely.

It's Lucien who finds you in the front room. You’ve barely moved from one of the large chairs you pulled in front of the window because you can’t find it in yourself to leave.

He takes the free one across the room, and it looks like he’s sat there many times, pondering Elain’s health.

He hasn’t been taking very good care of himself, either, from what you can tell. It looks like he hasn’t been far from her bedside in ages, his auburn hair is a tangled mess, and you know you’re no longer filling out your clothes the way you used to, but with the food you now know they have around here, you know he hasn’t been eating well.

“You’re the one that helped Cassian, right?” He asks, and your head snaps in his direction. How could he have known that? Cassian’s hardly limping these days at all, but it’s the desperation in Lucien’s eyes that keeps you from shifting further into your seat. He blushes at your surprise, a sheepish look overtaking his handsome features. “I noticed the wound on his leg. I was hoping that you would be the one to have fixed it.”

“Why would you hope that I was the one to fix it?” You all but whisper. Your heart is jackhammering in your chest, but Lucien doesn’t look like he’s going to attack. The only crazed thing about him is the circles under his eyes from lack of sleep, and the despair weighing his shoulders down.

“Because I want you to take a look at Elain.”

His words make the earth shift.

“She’s bitten,” you breathe. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”

“Please,” he begs, “I just—I can’t give up on her yet.”

The utter rawness in his tone, the way he’s looking at you like you’re the one who could save the woman he loves…it’s too much to say no. You know that if it were Azriel or Cassian, or when Feyre arrives, you’d be doing anything that you can to help.

You nod, and Lucien’s shoulders drop so hard that you think he might faint. You refrain from telling him that what you’d done to Cassian was done in haste, that you really don’t know all that much about treating wounds or diagnosing zombie bites, only things that you’d picked up from your mother after her long shifts at the hospital when she’d come home exhausted and grumbling about her work.

She had been one of the first to go, hoping to help people get through the infection.

It’s the least you can do.

You follow Lucien up the carpeted staircase. It has an intricate design, crimson leaves and brunt oranges tangled together. It matches the color of the walls, the creamy trim lining the top and bottom. This would have been a mighty fine house to grow up in, you think as you follow him across the hall, past photographs of several young boys, all with the same-colored hair. There are several frames missing from the sunspots on the wallpaper.

You hesitate at the door Lucien slowly opens, suddenly nervous. You hadn’t caught much of a glimpse of the middle Archeron sister, from what you had seen, she hadn’t looked good.

“Come, please,” Lucien says, opening the door wider and gestures you inside.

Azriel and Cassian would be furious with you if they knew you were about to put yourself within inches of someone who’s potentially infected, but they’re the ones who left you here, so you follow Lucien inside.

The room is warm and damp, dusty, like the curtains haven’t been pulled back in ages. It’s dark, but you can still make out the lump in the middle of the large bed, the indent on the sheets from where Lucien must lie beside her, holding her through this pain.

You move closer to the bed, blinking the light from your eyes when Lucien lights a battery-powered lamp on the table beside the bed.

Your breath catches in your throat.

She looks worse in the dark than she had in the dining room downstairs, but maybe it’s because you stand closer now. With the lamplight shadowing her face, her cheeks and eyes look even more sunken, what you imagine were once pink, plump lips are chapped and dry to the bone.

“Has she been eating? Drinking?” You blurt, already concerned for the girl. Normally, you’re weary of strangers, and you don’t know if it’s because she’s Feyre’s sister or she looks like she’s fighting through hell to stay alive from this bite, but the urge to help her in any way that you can is great.

“She eats bites, at most,” Lucien offers sadly. There’s a plate on the bedside table with a can you’re all too familiar eating from. “Soft things she’s able to get down. And I have to drip water in her mouth while she’s sleeping because that’s what she does most.” You can hear the sadness in his voice, the thickness of his throat when he speaks. He stares at Elain with so much devastation in his eyes that it’s difficult to look at.

You focus on the girl in the bed instead. Her breath is a brittle rattle in her chest, but Elain looks at peace. At least, while she’s sleeping.

“How long has she been like this?” You ask, silently asking if you can touch her. Lucien nods wearily, allowing you to get to work. You gently move the damp compress from her head to press the back of your hand to her forehead. She’s warm, cheeks a ruddy red that is the only sign of life against her pale skin.

Elain’s lashes flutter when you touch her, mumbling something uncoherent under her breath, but doesn’t wake.

“Weeks now,” Lucien admits, worried. “I’d say nearly four.”

Four weeks ago. Your stomach curdles, even though it’s empty. She’s been like this for four weeks.

“Where is the bite?”

Lucien doesn’t look like he wants to show it to you. Reluctantly, he carefully removes Elain’s arm from beneath the thick blankets and pulls up the sleeve to the loose-fitting shirt she’s resting in.

When he removes the wrap around the wound, you can’t help but gasp, stepping closer out of a horrific curiosity. Sure, you’ve seen zombie bites before, but you’ve never seen something quite like this.

 The bite is near her elbow. It’s red and raw, and the wounds haven’t seemed to heal all that much in four weeks, but it’s not…decaying either. Her veins are blackened where the infection has leeched into her blood. They crawl halfway up her arm, and almost to her fingertips, where they disappear.

“We tied a tourniquet around her arm when she was first bitten,” Lucien explains, swallowing thickly. His fingers caress her arm, careful to avoid the plague-looking bite. “They say that the infection takes hold within hours, and when the electricity was still running, it was said that the longest surviving bitten person lasted twelve…” He trails off, and you can’t help but notice the soft glint to his eyes, the upturned corners of his mouth as he stares down at the woman he loves. When his gaze finds yours again, there’s a strength to his tone. “Elain hasn’t showed any progressing signs, and it’s been weeks.”

“Just because it’s been weeks doesn’t mean that it won’t happen,” you say, and you hate that you have to. Her case is convincing, but not all infections progress as rapidly or as violently within each person. It’s a case-by-case basis, though most tend not to last more than a few hours. You must admit, Elain is doing well.

Lucien doesn’t say anything in response, and you know he’s choosing not to believe it. You don’t want to believe it either, especially for Feyre’s sake, but you need to be realistic right now, things don’t last forever.

“We should clean the wound,” you continue. You want to help Lucien and Elain, you truly do, so you’ll do what you can. “It’s looking a little…”

“Festered?” Lucien offers with a soft smile.

You can hardly manage one back. “Yeah.”

“There’s a bag of supplies on the bathroom counter,” Lucien nods toward the ensuite. “There’s disinfectant, though I don’t know how well it will work because it’s been expired for months. You can look through the rest, see if there’s anything else that might be of help.”

You nod, removing yourself from their sight. You take another flashlight that Lucien hands you, and when the door closes behind you, you release a harsh breath that you didn’t know you were holding.

Elain doesn’t look like she’s in good shape, but the wound doesn’t seem to be spreading, and if she had a fever, it’s broken since then. You remind yourself to ask Lucien about it when you return to the bedside, but for now you take the time to scour the bag of medical supplies they’ve seemed to haphazardly throw together.

In it you find fresh bandages and the peroxide Lucien mentioned was in there. There’s about a half bottle left, and you don’t like the looks of that, but you can use it sparingly. You find painkillers, though you don’t expect Elain to wake for long enough to swallow them down.

“Has she been coughing a lot?” You ask when you return. Lucien sits on the bed beside Elain, gently stroking her hair. Her injured arm is propped in his lap, and he watches you carefully as you take the empty spot on the sheets, setting your supplies down.

“Not as much as when it began,” he answers.

“And has there been any mucus?”

“Yeah.”

“What color?”

He grimaces, and your muscles tense, awaiting his response. “Black, to begin. Now it’s cleared up. Almost clear.”

That’s a good sign, you think.

The peroxide bubbles softly, cleaning the wound. For the most part, it seems to be fine, and as much as you’d like to poke and prod at it, you don’t want to disturb what seems to be a peaceful sleep for Elain.

Which is perfect, because the door to the house crashes open downstairs and shouting ensues.

You and Lucien startle, both jumping from the bed. He’s already reaching for the knife at his hip, but when a shout drifts up the stairs, he relaxes slightly.

“Lucien?”

He looks at you. “I think they found your friend.”

Your heart rate skyrockets, and it’s all you can do to give him final instruction before you’re bolting from the room. “Dab this on the wound before you wrap it with fresh gauze.”

You’re not all that sure you want to see the condition Feyre is in, but your legs don’t stop moving. You skip the steps down the stairs and go crashing into the dining room where Rhys is gently laying your best friend down on the table.

Everything seems to come to a screeching halt.

Eris is by the front door, locking it shut. He’s looking in your direction frantically, probably wondering why his brother hasn’t called back to him. You barely notice him brushing past you as he makes his way upstairs.

Your eyes are locked on her.

Nesta and Cassian are shouting at one another while Azriel helps hold Feyre to the table. Rhys looks like a mess, tears streaming down his cheeks, and the sight breaks your heart. It gets your feet moving, and you almost slam into him as you make it to Feyre’s side.

The bite is deep and raw, new. You can’t help but compare it to Elain’s, and unfortunately, Feyre’s looks much worse. Elain’s was a clean bite, like as soon as the zombie broke flesh, its jaw had unhinged. Feyre’s looks like the undead bit into her and latched on like a feral beast, almost ripping an entire chunk out of the back of her forearm.

Rhys shouts your name and you jump, turning to him. His cheeks are stained with tears, his voice is a ragged mess from the crying a pleading. “Please, you have to help her,” he says frantically, “You have to save her.”

And fuck, if that isn’t a heavy weight to put on your shoulders.

You spring into action. As soon as Eris reenters the room, you’re screaming for him to get all the supplies that he can find that might help. He follows your direction, sprinting back up the stairs. Next, you shout the same thing to Cassian, telling him to fetch your bag from downstairs.

Feyre’s a moaning mess. She’s sweating profusely, hair matter to her head as she writhes on the table. Her fingers claw into the wood as she moans in pain and your heart breaks for her.

“It’s okay, Fey,” you say, brushing some of the sweat from her head. Fuck, her skin is on fire. Her frantic eyes meet yours and she’s groaning your name, pupils consuming the blue of her eyes. “I’m going to help you.”

Cassian makes it back first and you ask him to dig out the painkillers. “You have to swallow these,” you tell Feyre, who’s quickly fading into unconsciousness. You wonder how long she’s been awake.

Rhys takes over as Cassian pins her injured arm down, trying to coax her into swallowing the painkillers. From across the table, Azriel watches on, but his face shows nothing. He’s watching you, you realize, watching you do what he knows you do best. Nesta stands beside him, ready to assist in any way that she can now that she’s not bickering with Cassian.

“How long ago was she bitten?” You ask Rhys, who’s petting Feyre’s hair gently. He’s murmuring to her softly, something about keeping her eyes on him, but he lifts his gaze to meet yours when he answers.

“A few hours ago. Maybe three.”

How did you not realize how long it’s been since they’ve been gone? The sun has fully set and darkness pours in through the windows. You don’t have the time to wonder if any zombies have followed them back.

“Okay,” you breathe, taking in the state of the wound. It’s bleeding, oozing black blood that’s beginning to creep up her arm in the same way as her sisters. There’s a poorly made tourniquet fastened around her bicep, and that’s the first thing you fix.

Eris arrives with the bottle of peroxide you used upstairs and his arms chock full of supplies. This place is a haven, alright, and you’re more than thankful you might have the supplies you need to help your friend.

You uncap the bottle and douse it onto Feyre’s arm. She moans as the liquid works its magic, trying to clean the wound. You repeat this step until the bubbles that fizzle off the wound are no longer muddy with black.

There’s not much that you can do, you’re afraid. From what you’ve seen, the infection needs to run its course. She’ll be in pain for now, but there’s nothing you can truly do for your friend.

Which is probably why Rhysand begins freaking out when you pull out the gauze to wrap her wound in.

“That’s it?” He shouts, rounding the table. Fury is written on his face like a tattoo. Feyre’s slipped into a less than peaceful unconsciousness, whimpering and twitching. “That’s all you’re going to do for her?”

Cassian leaves his post at Feyre’s arm to stop his friend.

“There’s nothing I can do, Rhys,” you reply just as sadly. You hold your breath, unsure if you should speak what’s really on your mind, but with the way Rhysand is struggling against Cassian, you blurt, “I think the cure is in their blood,” and the room plunges into silence.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

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[klaus-littlestwolf]

All the Time in the World-Sub!Aemond x Vampire

Warning:Vampires in this story-which means a heavy description of blood and death before turning into one. If you are uncomfortable with depictions of a bloody murder scene or someone choking on blood this story is not for you. This is also a Sub!Aemond in case that wasn’t clear, how could he have grown up with such a strong, sweet vampire women and not fallen in love with her?

There will also be mentions of SA and Aemond’s first experience in the brothel and how his mate deals with that once she finds out.

DD:DNE

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Y/n had been protecting the Red Keep and the Royal Family inside of it since Viserys was a baby and before Daemon was even born. Both boys were very close to the vampire since their own mother died when they were 3 and 7, Daemon clinging to her skirts until his father deemed it “inappropriate” which she found funny. To this day the man still had a sad little crush on her despite his 2 past wives and obvious lust for his niece.

Viserys kept her around when he became King, being fond of the women and knowing that she would never do anything but protect his family. She never could have foreseen one of the Kings children being her mate, though she hid it very well knowing that she could never leave now even if she actually wanted to. No need to let them know that, can’t let humans have the upper hand. Historically that hasn’t gone well for supernatural species.

Aemond, as a human, couldn’t feel the bond (though he would-should he become a vampire) but he was desperately in love with her anyway. Y/n suspected it had something to do with Alicent being a terrible mother to her children and Aemond’s “Mommy Issues” but also the fact that she was the one who comforted him every time his elder brother and nephews ridiculed him once again for his lack of dragon. Y/n didn’t want to make the young boy attached to her but she hated seeing her small mate in pain and every time she was forced to hear his cries her undead heart cracked once again.

The older he got the more distance she attempted to maintain, especially after the Queen made it clear that she did not appreciate her son growing attached to a “monster”. However the night that Aemond lost his eye, she may as well have broadcast how protective of the Targaryen Prince she really was…she practically did.

Y/n was awoken in her bed to the sound of knights running up the corridor and even worse than that, the heavy, delicious scent of her mates blood, quite a lot of it. When she sped down the halls and into the room she was stunned to find a Maester stitching up Aemond’s face. Luke had what appeared to be a broken nose and all of the children besides Aegon and Helaena were disheveled, though the only one bleeding copious amounts of blood was for some reason her mate.

“What happened?!” She demanded, storming in towards the scene, noting that the Maester was stitching up a missing eye (while said eye sat in a bloody dish).

“Y/n!” Aemond exclaimed, reaching his hand out for her comfort, comfort that he had not received in months since his mother insisted she avoid her son at all costs several months before. This time however, Y/n couldn’t have done it if she had wanted to and Aemond felt at least some form of relief from his favorite persons touch again.

“Oh sweet boy! What’s happened to you?!” She cooed, knowing the needy boy just craved affection and that now more than any other day, he needed it. His mother was in no place to comfort her son as she was snapping at anyone in the vicinity, angry at everyone it seemed.

“I claimed a dragon…” he mumbled into her ear as she hugged him, careful not to touch the injured side of his face. “I rode Vhagar…they said I stole her and attacked me. I admit I didn’t say the nicest things but they all attacked me and Luke…there was sand in my eyes and then he…” He was trying not to cry desperately, not wanting to seem weak in front of this women that was the epitome of strength, and that he was desperately in love with but she held him tighter and he allowed himself to cry for several moments until the doors opened and everyone else began arriving-Corlys and Rhaenys, the King himself who was looking rougher and smelling more and more of death every day in Y/n’s eyes (the scent of his blood was completely revolting), and finally Rhaenyra and…Daemon? Together? Y/n found that interesting…but not shocking.

“It’s alright sweet boy, breathe. It is alright to cry if that is what you need, if our bodies weren’t meant to cry then they wouldn’t be able to, now would they?” This made the boy smile slightly, though he winced in pain as soon as he did as his face moved.

Aemond held tightly to her hand as Alicent shouted at everyone and Rhaenyra tried to justify her sons actions. The King demanded Aemond tell him where he had heard Jace and Luke being called ‘bastards’ and he quickly blamed Aegon who made it clear that everyone in the room knew. “Could any word, any insult of any kind justify having your eye carved from your head? He was called a foul word and so he sliced his Uncles face with a blade he brought to an ambush, 4 on 1 which was clearly the intention. How is being called a bastard-which shouldn’t matter if it is not true- worth this?” Y/n questioned, everyone instantly shocked as most had never heard her say more than 5 words at once.

“It is treason!” Rhaenyra snapped.

“Oh, come off it! A word is not fucking treason, trying to murder a Prince however, now that is treason, a crime which Lucerys has clearly committed. If anyone should be sharply questioned it should be him.” Once again, everyone was stunned including Aemond who was looking up at Y/n as if she hung the stars in the sky herself just for him.

“Enough! The matter is finished! I will have No More of this infighting!” The King snapped, Aemond once again holding tight to Y/n who stroked his hair softly, everyone shuffling off to bed once Alicent had ‘calmed down’.

“Can you heal him?” The mother asked Y/n as they stood at Aemond’s bedside, the boy looking up at her hopefully.

“I can heal the injury, yes but I cannot grow body parts back, the scar will remain no matter what I do…I’m sorry sweet boy.” Aemond held her hand firmly as his mother huffed angrily, storming off to find the Maester once her son had gulped down the milk of the poppy.

“It is not your fault…it is Luke’s. And he will pay for making me a monster, I swear to the Gods he will!” Y/n’s eyes widened and she forced Aemond to look at her.

“You are not a monster! You are scarred, that is all. Plenty of men have scars and many women find them attractive. One day you will meet a wonderful noble lady and she will love you for everything that you are, sweet boy.”

“Do you?” Aemond asked and she looked at him curiously. “Do you like men with scars?”

“Oh…yes. It shows women how strong he is, that he will be good at protecting them and their family…sadly I will never have that. However, just like you will meet a wonderful lady, I will find myself a vampire to be with one day…I’m sure...” She said it even though she didn’t believe a word she was saying.

“I want to be a vampire some day. You could turn me and I could stay with you forever!” He smiled, pulling her to lay down beside him in the large bed, his mind clearly becoming foggy thanks to the milk of the poppy. She hesitated but it felt nice to be close to her mate, to know after he had been injured so grievously that he was completely safe in her arms as he rested his head on her shoulder. “We can go anywhere we want now that I have Vhagar, nothing would be able to stop us.”

“Never sweet boy…you sleep now. Have sweet dreams.” She encouraged but he was already asleep, his face nestled into her neck in a vulnerable position she would only ever trust her mate to be in.

About a year after that Y/n was sent to Dragonstone by the King. There had been an attempt on Rhaenyra’s life and he wanted the Vampire to protect his daughter and her family.

Aemond protested loudly but it did nothing and she was still “made” to go. Y/n didn’t do anything she didn’t want to but she wanted to make sure that Aemond had time and space to grow into the perfect man she knew he would, one who was attracted to more women than just her and would be happy in his marriage. She couldn’t force him into this mating bond-she wouldn’t! Y/n also did not appreciate the idea of a man telling her what to do, male vampire mates are dominant and aggressive in a way humans cannot even fathom, which is why she avoids males and mated pairs like the plague.

They had fallen out of contact after Aemond had turned 13 and she knew he had found…other interests. A 13 year old boy does not want to write letters to a grown women while he can be pursuing girls his own age. It still hurt however and she knew, as they traveled back to Kings Landing because Corlys could not keep himself from nearly getting killed, that she needed to stay away from Aemond.

It was much easier said than done.

Jace and Luke had dragged Y/n with them to the training yard, a place they never spent much time at on Dragonstone as they believed they had not only their dragons but a vampire to protect them.

She stood back as they reminisced over their good times in the yard, though she would not call being really bad at everything “good times”. Her attention was only drawn when she smelled him, his scent having evolved over the years. It was stronger now, more manly and…heavy. Y/n was instantly obsessed with it and quickly needed to control herself, clamping down on her instincts as strongly as she could-her instinct right now being to shove a bloody wrist into his mouth and change him, leaving him with no choice but her-she refused to do that no matter how tempting it was. She had always felt drawn to Aemond as her mate, however she severely underestimated how intense being physically attracted to him would be for the first time now that he was grown.

‘Nephews. Have you come to train?’ He asked the boys who stiffened, moving back towards her to ensure their safety. ‘Hello darling…you haven’t changed a bit!’ He grinned, stepping closer before she stepped back.

‘You have my Prince…you are grown. You should get back to your training session, I would not want to cause a distraction.’

Okay, so maybe she was a bit upset that he stopped writing her, but honestly it had hurt her feelings. Just because she’s a vampire does not mean that she has no feelings, she had feelings and they’re so much stronger than any normal human could possibly imagine. She walked back into the castle being followed by Rhaenyra’s idiot sons that she dubbed such as they did not like to work for things that they knew would be theirs. Does anyone think that Luke will be fighting for his own inheritance? Of course not, his mother will do it for him like every other day.

Y/n was given her own room and she quickly found it, grabbing herself some peasant clothes and making her way back out of the Keep and into the streets.

She found herself a meal in the form of 2 would be rapists and sent the woman (unharmed but for some torn clothes) on her way while she ate her meal. Their blood was laced with horrible ale, making Y/n resent getting accustomed to fine wine and delicious human food.

‘Are you enjoying yourself, my love?’ She spun around to see her mate under a cloak, hiding his hair and eye patch.

‘Have you lost your mind?!’ She snapped. ‘What are you doing here?!’

‘I wanted to see you. You would not speak to me and I-‘

‘If you remember correctly my Prince, you would not speak to me! You stopped writing, I have just continued the level of communication that you wanted and now it is time to get the Prince of the Realm back home! Start walking!’ She growled, pushing him forward before storming back towards the Red Keep, having her elbow grabbed and being shoved against a wall while thinking about how lucky he should consider himself, he would be the only person she ever allowed to do such a thing.

‘Please stop this, I am sorry Y/n! Truly sorry, you cannot possibly-‘

‘Understand?’ She cut him off. ‘I have been alive for a very long time Aemond-longer than you ever will-do-‘

‘I Was Ashamed!’ He raged, eyes hard as he looked down at her from where he stood, nearly a foot taller than her now. ‘My brother took me to a brothel and I…I was ashamed of what happened to me!’

In that moment Y/n felt her heart crack in 2, her mate had been hurt, had been assaulted and it had been his own brothers fault. ‘Aemond…why would you not just tell me? I would never judge you for that sweet boy, that is not your fault! Just because most men think with their cocks, it doesn’t mean you need to enjoy everything and someone forcing you is not okay!’ She pulled him down to her and hugged him firmly, allowing him to cling to her as she knew he had missed. ‘Take me to this brothel Aemond. Now.’ She demanded, taking his hand in hers and pulling him towards the silk street.

‘No! I don’t want you anywhere near there, those men-‘

‘Will have their heads popped like zits if they touch either one of us. Now point it out! Or do you want me to get upset with you-‘

‘No! No, no. It’s over there.’ He mumbled, pointing at a building that definitely looked like a brothel.

‘Now, you point these ladies out to me. How many of them touched you?’ His face turned a deep shade of red that disappeared under his cloak and she was curious to see how far it went.

‘Y/n, I don’t…2 of them.’ He realized that she was going to get her answers one way or another and it would just be easier to give them to her. ‘Her.’ He spoke silently as a women opened the door, her eyes lighting up as she saw him.

‘It’s been a long time…my my, how you’ve grown.’ She flirted and Y/n felt her fangs growing from her gums.

‘Hello. This is a tad embarrassing to admit but my man and I are having some…troubles…in the bed chamber and I had hoped the women that were so good to him before would be willing to…teach me how to please him? I can pay you both handsomely.’ She promised and the woman’s eyes lit up, taking her hand and pulling her inside.

‘What are you doing?’ Aemond whispered, leaning down to her and keeping his hands on her waist protectively which the beastial part of her vampire brain loved.

‘No one hurts my sweet boy and lives. I would have killed them a long time ago if you had just told me the truth, no more secrets.’ They were escorted into a separate area with a large bed in the middle, curtains being drawn shut behind and Aemond’s hands clamped down on Y/n’s waist tighter than she believes he meant to. ‘You’re safe with me Aemond, I will never let anyone hurt you again.’ She promised, taking his face into her hands and making sure he saw how serious she was before he suddenly connected their lips together roughly.

He was awkward and didn’t quite know what he was doing so instead of pushing him away and make him feel rejected, she grabbed the back of his neck and took control of the kiss which had him whimpering, clinging to her waist before a throat cleared. ‘Oh wow, you were right Sylvie…not such a little thing anymore, are you?’ The new women in the room giggled and it took everything to keep her vampire visage from showing.

‘Why don’t you go ahead and get undressed and we’ll get started.’ Sylvie told the vampire and she nodded, pushing Aemond to sit.

‘You just relax sweet boy, I’m going to take care of the ones that hurt you. I promise.’ She ignored the clear tent in his pants before unlacing her dress, pulling it down her body and dropping her small clothes as well to leave her completely bare. There is something to be said about the feeling of feeding (especially messily) when you can get it all over your skin. It makes a vampire feel…free.

‘Leona can get him ready for you, you come here for me.’ Sylvie instructed but Y/n grabbed Leona’s hand tightly before she touched Aemond.

‘No. This is about teaching me, only I touch him, he is mine.’ She tried to keep the growl from her voice but she knew that she had failed as they looked quite startled.

‘Of course! It is your coin, whatever you desire.’ With that Sylvie turned to undress and Y/n grabbed Leona by the throat.

The ship ride had been long and annoying, full of nothing to eat considering the royal family would never offer up their own blood for their protector-why would they?

‘You will not scream, not make a sound. You will not flee…I’m going to save you for last. You seem like you’ll taste better…cleaner.’ She compelled and Leona looked terrified but had no choice but to stay in the bed as Y/n turned back to Sylvie. When she looked back the vampire grabbed ahold of her throat and cut off her scream at seeing her true face. ‘It’s terrifying to look at, isn’t it? Even the whole of the royal family hasn’t seen what I truly look like. It’s meant to make preys final moments terrifying you see…fear makes the blood…exquisite.’ She laughed, watching the women gasp for air as she tried to claw at her face resulting in fangs sinking into her hand and taking off 2 fingers which dropped onto the bed, her screams unable to come out as she held Sylvie’s airway so firmly. ‘You hurt my boy.’ Y/n growled, pinning her down to the bed, blood now covering her bare torso as she continued trying to push her away with her 3 fingered hand. ‘His elder brother told you to and so you didn’t care how he felt…did you ask if he wanted you to fuck him?’ She was gapping like a fish out of water, clawing at porcelain skin. ‘Answer Me!’ She roared and Sylvie flinched, shaking her head as best she could. ‘No, of course not. Why would you? You had gotten your money and every boy wants to fuck any women any time, don’t they? Yeah? Horseshit! Men can be assaulted just like girls and you assaulted him…admittedly no one would have cared if it wasn’t for me. But I do, I care very much. And I’m going to kill you both for it.’

Tears leaked from her eyes as claws dug into her shoulder, ripping down her chest and gashing her open, more dark blood spraying all over the bed. ‘Y/n? You don’t have to-‘

‘Maybe you should wait outside sweet boy, this could be too much for you.’ She told him before releasing the woman’s throat and burying sharp fangs into her neck, downing the rest of her blood-though she was much too weak to make a sound now.

As Y/n was distracted she did not notice the other girl having pulled a dagger from behind the pillows, but Aemond did. He grabbed her before she could touch the vampire woman and fought with her for a second before the blade was thrust up and buried into his throat. It was only when she smelled his distinct scent that she turned to find him bleeding from a gaping hole in his neck prompting her to punch the girl in the side of the head, her collapsing unconscious instantly before she caught Aemond who tried to stumble back, holding his throat tightly.

He opened his mouth, blood spewing from his neck as he tried to make a sound. ‘Scared…’ he choked, coughing blood all over his mouth and chin.

‘Shh, don’t talk sweet boy, it’s okay. Just drink, I need you to swallow for me quickly before you die! Just drink, it’s alright, I’m right here’’ She insisted, ripping open the veins in her wrist roughly and shoving it into his mouth. He painfully swallowed as she instructed, his bloody hand reaching up to touch her face as he was seeing her vampire visage for the first time. He didn’t look afraid as he touched her, fingers trailing the dark veins under her eyes before his hand fell and she realized his eye had gone glassy and his heart had stopped.

Fuck!

She removed his cloak and weapons from him but left his clothes on, mate or not she did not want to make him uncomfortable in anyway, before settling him on the clean pillows off to the side of the large bed. The younger girl woke up before Aemond and Y/n compelled her quickly, wiping off the bits of blood that had landed on her before having her leave the bed and fetch them the things they would need.

It was about an hour before he opened his eye, just as she started getting worried that he hadn’t actually injested any of her blood. He groaned as he sat up, stretching before his body froze, nostrils flaring and eyes shooting open to lock onto her with a truly wild look in them. ‘Calm down Aemond, you’re going to behave! You need to feed before anything else or you will die again and this one will be permanent.’ He gave no indication that he understood her as he watched her take hold of the girl and drag her over to him, slicing into her neck with a claw. ‘Drink sweet boy, now!’ His eyes widened a bit, stunned by her demands and she could understand why as he did what she said, draining the whore quickly.

Male vampires are dominant creatures-Aemond is not. Not really anyway. Now his natural instincts and feelings are battling with his new ones, though Y/n knew that she could fix that just fine. ‘Y/n, you-‘

‘I know. I tried to keep you from this, I shouldn’t have brought you here and I’m sorry-‘ he lunged forward, shoving her back onto the bed and growling, nuzzling his face into her throat.

‘I was meant to be with you, I always knew it…but you tried to keep me away? You didn’t want me to-‘

‘I wanted you to live a normal life, Aemond! A happy life where you could have a wife and children of your own, I can never give that to you!’ She snarled, flipping them both over and pinning him this time. ‘I didn’t get to choose this life! This was done to me, no one gets a choice! I just…I didn’t want to force this Hell on you just because I was greedy. I love you sweet boy, I always have. Admittedly you made it a bit more challenging to stay away from you by growing up.’ She teased making him smile. ‘I can still teach you how to act, you can be a Prince as you’re supposed to be. Children won’t be possible any longer but a marriage-‘

‘A marriage to anyone but you is out of the question and I would be happy to be the one to tell my Grandsire…mine!’ He snarled, pressing his lips to hers again much harder this time.

‘Stop! Stop-Not here! Not in this place so full of horrid memories for you sweet boy-‘ he snarled instantly making her growl and cut him off. ‘You are and always will be my sweet boy, being a vampire does not change that. It’s what you want and it’s what I want. Might as well just get used to it now…then again, you don’t have much time. We need to get back to the Keep.’ She knew that they needed to hurry to make the succession hearing on time, she’ll just have to keep Aemond extra close to ensure he doesn’t get too…excited.

Though training a baby vampire hadn’t been on her to do list anytime soon…historically, they’re not very well behaved children.

Y/n stood beside Aemond in the hall to ensure he did not lose himself if someone started bleeding. Rhaenyra and Daemon gave her odd looks but she tried to ignore it, instead listening to Vaemond argue for why he should take over Driftmark instead of Luke.

Rhaenyra had only just started arguing for her son when the doors opened and a guard introduced the King prompting her to pull Aemond behind her now, nearly shoving Aegon off his feet in her rush. ‘Hold your breath!’ She demanded and he looked at her confused. ‘You will not handle the smell of your father well at all, hold your-‘ at that moment Y/n was overwhelmed with the stench of foul death and Aemond gagged.

‘What is that?!’ He whisper shouted down at her, Aegon now locked onto their conversation and trying to catch up through his near constant drunken haze.

‘That is the scent of death, his blood is practically toxic and it is so much worse than last time, he’s literally decaying-oh God!’ She shoved down the bile that rose in her throat and held her breath as Aemond did.

‘Wait-are you…?’ Aegon questioned prompting Aemond to glare and pull her closer possessively. ‘Holy Shit! I knew it would happen, I knew it! Hey, I want to be a vampire as well-‘

‘You by my side for eternity? I can think of nothing worse.’ Aemond responded before they all quieted down, the King panting heavily as he questioned why people were discussing a settled succession. ‘Oh dear, he’s going to get himself killed.’ Her mate chuckled while Vaemond was calling Rhaenyra’s boys bastards.

‘Yes, maybe we should-Dammit Daemon!’ Y/n hissed, the top half of a Vaemond’s head splattering against the floor in a bloody mess, his tongue hanging out of what used to be his face, blood spraying out of the now flat surface that was previously his skull. She grabbed ahold of Aemond before he lunged and Aegon moved to grab his other arm as well (which while it was appreciated and a nice sentiment of wanting to protect his little brother, would only end up with his bones being snapped if Aemond grabbed or pulled him too hard).

‘Y/n…my old friend…what…is the problem?’ Viserys questioned, his voice laced with pain.

‘No problem at all my King, the Prince is just feeling a bit under the weather. I shall escort him back to his chambers-‘

‘It seems to be a tad more than that.’ Daemon teased though his tone held anger as well prompting Aemond to growl, not liking any man anywhere to speak to his mate like that.

‘You seem to know the answer already Daemon, yet you tease like an idiot. Maybe you could handle him yourself, yes?’ She wondered, releasing her iron grip and watching her mate rocket into the warrior Prince who instantly fought as hard as he could but could not even move a muscle as his nephew pinned him to the floor.

Just as he was about to dig his fangs in she grabbed ahold of the back of his neck and pulled him back. ‘Mate! You heard him, he-‘

‘I know, and yet you’re going to release him anyway…Now!’ She demanded and he detached himself from his Uncle.

‘You’ve turned my son into a-‘ as if Aemond was prepared for exactly what his mother was going to say he cut her off quickly.

‘She saved me mother! I had a dagger shoved into my throat and my mate saved my life! You will not speak to her like that, no one will, or I will ensure you never speak again!’ He threatened.

‘Apologies my Queen, he is as of yet unable to control his rage, controlling any emotion takes time. We will work on it.’ She swore, pulling him back to the other side of the room. ‘Though I do recommend controlling your sons, Princess. If they antagonize him like they normally do I cannot ensure their safety, therefore you must ensure that they behave themselves.’ Rhaenyra looked at Y/n completely stunned before she turned back to the King, Aemond now turning his attention to the blood pooling all over the floor. ‘I will take him to the Black Cells and allow him to gorge himself before dinner tonight, he will be in complete control by then…probably…’

The King looked curious but clearly unable to do much anymore, the pain being too much. ‘Go.’ He waved them off and Y/n grabbed ahold of her mate and pulled him from the hall.

‘I do not like the way he looks at you.’ Aemond speaks as they descend into the dungeons.

‘Your father? He is nothing more than a dear friend, though watching his life has been a disappointment, I had always expected him to be a much better father-‘

‘No! Daemon! He leers at you and I do not appreciate-‘

‘Enough Aemond. You need to take control of your emotions instead of letting them control you! You will not make it as a vampire if you cannot control your anger. I will help you, and I do not expect you to thrive the first night, but you need to try. Now, 3 should be plenty. Eat.’

Aemond paused a moment, looking over the now confused men in the cell, only moving to grab one of them when he lunged for Y/n. He was determined to be strong enough to protect her, no matter how hard he had to work. Hard work had never been a problem for Aemond, he was no stranger to it.

‘Slow down.’ Y/n instructed and he fought hard with himself to unlock his jaw and pull away from his meal, eyes looking back up at her and seeing perfectly in the dark Black Cells for the first time in his life. He can also see why you would want it so dark, it is absolutely disgusting down here, and the rats are huge. ‘Take a breath and savor it, notice how it makes your body feel. When you get used to how it makes you feel you’ll know when you’re full, there will always be a part of you that is thirsty for more so you need to know when enough is enough.’ She ran her fingers through his hair as she spoke and he began drinking slower, noticing how he could feel the strength returning to his body as if turning had physically drained all muscle from his body. As he continued swallowing the burning in his throat lessened more and more until it was just an ache.

Aemond drained all 3 men slowly, adoring the affection that his mate was bestowing upon him.

‘You did so good baby, listening so well…I think you deserve a treat, don’t you?’ The one eyed Prince nodded immediately, not willing to turn down a reward from his mate. ‘Good Boy…’ she coo’ed, kneeling beside him and pulling him to lay back against her body. He watched as she buried her teeth into her wrist before bringing it to his mouth. ‘Drink sweet boy, let your mate make you feel so good…’

He paused for a second, confused about what the difference could possibly be between the blood he’d had and his mates blood but he trusted her none the less and bit down into her wrist. The rush of pleasure up his spine was unlike anything Aemond had ever felt in his life. She tasted like bliss and his head filled with a pleasurable buzzing that had him moaning into her flesh.

‘That’s it baby. It’s all yours.’

‘Mmnngh!’ His…she was his…finally after all this time, Y/n belonged to Aemond and no one would ever steal her away. He pulled back, turning around to see her kneeling behind him with a smile on her face.

‘I didn’t expect you to finish that quickly, was-Oh!’ She grunted as he jumped onto her, laying her back over the dead bodies before burying his face into her neck and biting into her again. ‘Such a needy little thing!’ She growled, biting into his neck next, tearing off his shirt as she did. Aemond wasted no time in returning the favor, ripping at her dress and tearing it from her body, finally feeling her skin against his which was warmer than he ever dreamed now that he is just as cold as she is. ‘Are you sure you want to do this now? I want you to be ready, you never have to-‘ he cut her off, pressing his lips to hers hard and tearing his pants open to press himself against her warmth. He could not suppress the moan that built in his throat and while any other time he would feel embarrassed about how needy it sounded, he could not find it in himself to give a fuck at that moment.

‘I’ve always felt safe with you. You could never hurt me.’ He said it with such surety that Y/n didn’t question him anymore, just wrapped her legs around his waist as he pushed his way inside of her, growling into her neck at the warm, tight feeling around his cock. ‘So fucking perfect…fuck!’ Aemond cursed, moving quickly, his hips thrusting up into her at a speed that no normal human could even hope to achieve.

‘Fuck! That’s it sweet boy, take what you need.’ Her soft moans encouraged him to keep going and he wrapped his arms around her tightly, pulling her to his chest and holding her against him as he thrust up into her body. He couldn’t hide the purr that came from his chest as he felt her clinging to him tightly, her claws digging into his back deliciously.

‘Feel so good…so tight! Oh fuck!’ He grunted, knowing he was going to cum way too quickly but unable to stop himself.

‘It’s okay sweet boy, cum for me, fill me up.’ As if her permission was everything he needed he felt as if his body exploded in euphoria as he came. He dug his fangs into her neck and her sweet blood made his head fuzzy as he filled his mate as much as he was able.

When he was finally able to think clearly again he could feel her brushing her fingers through his hair gently which produced a soft purr from his chest that he couldn’t decide if he liked or not. ‘I’m sorry…’

‘No baby, there’s no need to be sorry. You did everything just right, everyone finishes early their first time and you’re a new vampire, everything feels a million times better. That’s not your fault-‘

‘But you didn’t…I want to make you feel good too.’ He admitted and immediately loved the smile it produced on her face.

‘There’s plenty of time for that. You’re a vampire now sweet boy, your stamina is 10x stronger. I will show you what to do, no man just knows how to make a girl cum without being taught, don’t ever think you’ve done something wrong. Okay? You and I have eternity now…though I would appreciate a bed before we do anything else? I can get behind fucking on top of a fresh kill but this dungeon is gross.’ Aemond couldn’t help his chuckle at that, lifting his mate back up and using his torn shirt to cover her nudity before moving to take her to his bed chamber. The rush he got through his body as he ran there felt like he had left his internal organs behind as he caught himself on the door making Y/n giggle. ‘You’ll get used to that, I promise.’

‘I don’t believe you on that one.’ He teased, shutting his door and locking it to ensure no one could get in. ‘I really hope you weren’t looking forward to that dinner tonight, because I’m not letting you out of this bed before dawn.’

‘Is that so?’ She teased before he tossed her onto the soft mattress, pinning her back down playfully.

‘It is my love. You are all mine for the rest of the night.’

‘I’m all yours for the rest of forever sweet boy, we have all the time in the world.’

Aemond Targaryen Masterlist

[1427]

would you? (pt. 2)

Negan x Reader

Summary: Your mom died when you were 15, your Aunt Lucille was given custody even though she was battling cancer. When the world gets upended and Lucille dies, Negan is all you have, but he isn’t cut out to be a parent. When he becomes the leader of the Saviors and takes residence in the Sanctuary he’s almost a stranger. No one wants anything to do with you because you’re Negan’s “daughter”. So when you confront Negan about needing company, he obliges. You don’t realize that the feelings you’re developing are inappropriate, but Negan does.

Setting: Height of the Saviors era Sanctuary, Negan’s bedroom. 

Warnings: SMUT, age-gap (reader is 18, Negan is early/mid 40’s), virgin!reader, manipulation, guardian!negan (technically it’s Uncle!Negan and it IS mentioned explicitly), oral (f receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, stocking!kink, innocence/corruption!kink, reader is described several times as a doll/toy, read at your own risk ok

Word count: 3.3k

A/n: uhm, my heart was racing the entire time I was writing this please read at your own risk fr

// Part 1 //

masterlist

18+ mdni

I was just bending over to grab my pencil, coach. 

For a while, you don’t bring up what happened that night. Going to lunch like everything’s normal. Negan is even more disturbed by this than he was by your innocent flirting. You don’t bring it up, but you’re different. Reminding him of some of his former students. The girls with obvious crushes - ones they were trying to hide but actively weren’t. They’d do things that could easily be explained away. 

Sorry, I only packed these shorts today. I didn’t realize they were against dress code. 

It was easy to not look then, to hardly be affected by silly teenage girls who had no idea what they were doing. He could go to the teachers lounge and flirt with the TA’s if he was really looking for someone younger. But younger isn’t necessarily what Negan liked. ‘Innocent’ wasn’t something he thought he could get into. But with you? He had all control, every single aspect of your life was in his hands - and he knows he fucked up. He knows he fucked you up… but he’d gone and fucked himself up too. Finding himself wanting to teach you everything. So caught up in the knowledge of how bad you want him makes him feel like a king - moreso than any amount of wives. You only wanted him. You only knew him.

Oblivious to Negan’s dirty secret and because he’d threatened to stop seeing you if you continued this flirting behavior you stick with subtle stuff. Wearing even lower cut shirts, mini-skirts and stockings. And sure, the stockings had holes in them. But Negan liked that even more than if they hadn’t. It let him imagine you weren’t this pristine untouched thing. He wasn’t sure which was worse; fantasizing about you as this perfect little doll that’s never been held by anyone, that doesn’t know anything about a man’s body or as this thing he’d corrupted. Giving you romance novels? What an amateur mistake on a colossal scale. 

When you started wearing skirts he could smell you. Your wet cunt, sweet and unmistakable, every single time you walked into his bedroom for lunch. He tries to ignore it, tells the kitchen to make more pungent food, wears cologne, but it doesn’t matter - he could pick your scent out of a line-up of the undead, having had weeks to memorize it. 

Negan’s cologne only makes you more wet for him. You can barely make it through lunch anymore. Trying your best to keep up with the conversation that you’re almost positive he’s phoning in as well, but it’s not easy when all you can think about is him stuffing you full on the bed that sits a dozen feet away. You’re desperate to make a move and terrified that any move you make will disrupt everything. 

You scour your books for some kind of clue on what to do next, how to make it impossible for him to say no - but there’s no obvious answer. With no experience to tell you that Negan was losing his goddamn mind waiting for you to make a move or proposition so that he could oblige it. 

He gets sick of waiting. Sick of drinking down his disgust with himself. It only makes the fantasies more vivid. Almost tangible and right there. All he really had to do? Touch you. And he knows it. 

He’d stopped getting you gifts and novels after that night, but today? Today he had something real fuckin’ special. 

You’re sitting across from him eating… only desserts? Weird choice, but still delicious. “What’s the occasion?” You ask, taking a bite of the strawberry shortcake set out in front of you. 

“Do I need a special occasion to treat my favorite girl?” He says it so casually, but he’s never said anything like that to you before. 

“Okay,” you breathe out a chuckle, “who are you and what have you done with my uncle?” 

“Woah now, ‘Uncle’?” The title made him visibly uncomfortable, but not because he didn’t like it. He was too far gone with you, and now anything that made it more taboo just spurred his hunger further. 

You breathe in deeply, as if you’d just confessed to something. Simply put, you had. He knows how bad you want it. He can smell it on you, and you didn’t care he was your family. Not even just your almost supposed ‘guardian’, no. You saw him as your uncle and you still wanted it. Bad. “Yeah, you are my uncle, aren’t you?” 

“That makes you my niece.” He says it like it’s news. Not understanding that he’s trying to gauge your reaction. 

For some reason, it makes your heart pound. Your ears get hot, and that same smile you’d tried to will away that night he’d forced a confession out of you (in the form of a moan at his touch) blossoms on your face. Pink cheeked and starry eyed, “It does,” you nod, you really don’t know any better, “Anyway, what’s all this about?” 

Negan scrambles for an answer that isn’t the one he can’t say out loud, “Missed your birthday, wanted to… make it up to you.” His voice is low, droning, and it makes you shift in your seat, crossing your legs. Negan notices and smirks at your body giving you away. You’re so easy. 

“Oh… thanks.” You take another bite of the shortcake before moving your fork to his plate to take a bite of chocolate cake. He lets you, he’s been letting you get away with so much more disrespect than he’d ever allow from anyone else. Telling himself that no teenager shouldn’t be getting away with little stuff like that, but really it’s because he likes it. He wishes you would take more control, and just ask him already. He’d wished for weeks that you would press yourself up against him like you had before he’d made you aware of your own feelings for him. And he hates that he told you that you weren’t allowed. That it was wrong. Because it is, but he doesn’t care anymore. 

He’s sick of waiting for you to understand how to make a move, “I got you a little something too.”

It’s almost unbelievable that he’d gotten this for you. One of the saviors had tried to smuggle it to keep for himself, and once Negan saw it… he couldn’t think of something better for you. “Now close your eyes,” he purrs. 

You slam your eyes shut and put out your hands eager to receive another gift. Feeling a hard plastic case being slipped into your fingers, “Now open them.” 

It was a… you had no idea. Looking up at him in confusion you’re met with a look of complete and total satisfaction from Negan. Smiling wide at your reaction. “What is it?” You whisper, smiling back. 

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll show you.” And he winks. He fucking winks. You’re a mess. You’re putty. You have no idea what this little pink egg shaped thing is, enclosed in the plastic balanced in your hands, but you know it’s something… different. He can tell you still have no clue what it is, what it’s for, but he sits and waits for your thanks. 

You can feel it, your legs tremble as you’re about to stand up but you stop yourself. You’re not supposed to flirt with him. And he told you that that’s what hugging him is. At least when you do it. You look to him, chewing on your lip, you want to feel him pressed against you so bad it’s making your knee bounce in anxious anticipation. You think about the fact that if you were hugging him you’d be able to smell his cologne even stronger, maybe you could even get away with kissing him on the cheek. After all, you could just blame it on the gift again. 

He’s just sitting there, leaned back in his chair, staring toward the window. It would be so easy to just… you get up and crash down into his lap. Draping your arms around him, pulling your face into the crook of his neck like you always do. This time is different, like everything else has been different since that night. You can’t will yourself to move. Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze travels upward. All you can see is his neck, his chin still pointed away like he’s trying to hold himself together. You feel a guilt creeping into your periphery but it’s drowned out by the heat between your legs. Without even realizing you’re doing it, you plant your lips on his neck. 

He’s quick to react, his hand coming to grip your thigh just as instinctually as you had kissed him. Negan is sick of waiting, he was not built for this. “Do you want me to show you how to use your gift?” 

You’re melting, all your senses dizzy with his hand so firmly on your leg. Feeling his calloused palm through the tears in your stockings, your skin prickles. He puts his one arm underneath your legs and the other under your arms and picks you up, placing you gently back down in his chair. The suspense courses through you, tightening and moving to your limbs. The personification and embodiment of an exclamation point, you’re trembling as he stalks around the room. Taking the still unopened gift off of the table, you hear the click of the knife from behind you as he paces. He’s cutting into it as he leans down and breathes in your ear, “If you want me to stop, you tell me to stop, okay?” 

You nod in response, trying to swallow the knot in your throat.  He keeps talking, walking around to face you again as he gets the small mysterious device free from its packaging. “I fucked up with you,” you can tell he’s going to start monologuing like he always does, building up the anticipation you already can’t take. Your hands pulling at the hem of your skirt because you don’t know what else to do with them. “I want you to know that I know I’ve made mistakes. I’ve really really fucked up your pretty little head.” As he speaks he moves back around behind you. Cheeks flushing at the compliment. He’d called you pretty. 

“But don’t worry, kid,” his voice in your ear feels like his stubble beneath your lips that you’ve imagined so many times, “I’m gonna fix you right up.”

His hand glides down your chest from above you and your body dramatically arches into his touch. Shivering as he moves his way down to one leg, pulling on your stocking to maneuver the limb onto the arm-rest. He does the same with the other, as if you’re some doll he’s positioning. You’re putty, not a single ounce of resistance inside of you. He moves his hand to lift up your skirt, letting it fall to your stomach. Unable to look at yourself in such a provocative position you close your eyes. 

“Holy shit, girl.” Negan’s smile devours him as he takes it all in. You’re not wearing underwear underneath your stockings, something he was absolutely not expecting. Your pretty pussy all smashed up against the mesh, your juices seeping through. In the light it almost sparkles. He’s never seen a damn thing like it. He hadn’t even done anything yet, and you were a shaking mess in his chair. Waiting so patiently for him to fix you. 

He had planned on putting the little vibrator against the fabric of your panties and stockings, and while he still could… he can’t stop himself from putting his warm hand between your legs instead. He doesn’t want to stop himself, he wasn’t built for that. Fuck the piece of shit vibrator and fuck all of his stupid fucking plans to take this slow. No, he knows what you really need. Him. 

His big hand comes to rest on top of your mound, pressing his fingers flat against the wet fabric of your stockings hard. The pressure.. the warmth.. your hands immediately shoot up from your sides grabbing his forearm as you gasp at the feeling. Pulling yourself even more flush against him, any piece of him you can get. 

You’re shaking, Negan can’t think straight. All plans out the window, that smell, he needs to taste you. He rubs his whole hand, all four warm fingers, against the sopping fabric in circles for only a few seconds before bringing his hand up to his nose and taking a deep breath in of your scent. (He won’t lick you from his fingers, that’s somehow beneath him.)

You whimper under his touch and whine when he pulls away, but you don’t move other than to put your arms flat against the armrests of the chair. He was going to fix you, right? So you submit, not really even understanding how to react to any of this. 

His dick is so hard against the fabric of his pants that it hurts. He tries to readjust, but it only makes him groan. Your neck cranes at the noise, but before you can get a look he’s in front of you, pulling up on the mesh directly above your heat, taking the knife he’d still been holding and cutting into it. The sound of the stockings tearing only makes Negan’s dick harder, revealing your glistening cunt like unwrapping a fucking present. Just for him, all for him. He did this… all of it. 

He rips the fabric more before pulling your hips closer to the edge of the chair and kneeling down on one knee. His face buries against you with a haste you weren’t expecting, your body shooting up at the feeling. So sharp and too much, you squirm against his tongue but he keeps you still. Growling into your cunt, “I said I’m going to take care of you, doll, so you have to let me.  Stop. Moving. Just…” his tone softens, and he kisses you sweetly on your hood, “relax.” 

Negan dives back in more gently this time, taking in the taste of you slowly. Drinking from you, he’s never tasted anything so sweet. So pristine. His tongue swathing in large laps against your lips, you’re trying your best to relax but your orgasm builds faster than you can tolerate. It felt like fucking magic, filling you with stars that buzzed all the colors of the rainbow. He flicks his tongue between your folds, directly onto that spot and your orgasm shoots through you like a bullet. From your core to the top of your head, no orgasm you’d ever had had felt like that. It left you wanting, it wasn’t enough. Your walls pulsate, gushing thick white perfect ecstasy into Negan’s mouth. He snickers against you, his nose resting gently on your still quivering clit. 

He doesn’t want to wait - picking you up like you weigh absolutely nothing, bringing you and your dizzy head to lay gently on his satin sheets. Bliss; and yet, you yearned. 

Inside. 

Your whole body shouting, the personification and embodiment of a fucking exclamation point. His belt clacks against your sensitive folds as he races to get himself inside.

And then, all of a sudden and just like that - you’re whole. His lips smashing into yours in a desperate need to claim every part of you. 

When he’d imagined it in his head you were naked, all skin and blush and like sweet honey coating his senses. It was all different, but he didn’t mind you like this. Clothing soaked with sweat and your own sweet nectar; he felt like he was in high school and he’s taking your virginity underneath the bleachers. All limbs and throbbing need and no time, no breath to waste.

 He kisses you deep and rough until you can’t breathe and you pull away, still adjusting to his size which you imagine is large from the discomfort inside of you, snaring itself into your vision like white flashes of electricity.

His first few labored thrusts hurt like you imagined it would, though it’s not like anything you’ve felt before. The burn of your walls stretching over him makes your breath hitch sharply in your throat, “That’s a good girl,” he purrs in your ear as he pulls out and slams into you harder. Tears sting your eyes as you nod into his shoulder, silently willing him to keep going. Don’t stop. He couldn’t stop even if you’d asked him too, your pussy is too wet, too hungry and swallowing him whole. He knows what you need, he can tell, even if you couldn’t. You need this. 

Negan is seeing fucking stars, your hole stretching so perfectly around him like it never needed anything more, “Fu-uck,” he’s not going to last 5 minutes. He leans back, taking your hips and pulling them off of the bed to stay attached to his while he fucks you like that. Your shoulders still down against the bed, you’d never read about a position like this and it hurts but you like it. Your eyes traveling down his body as he buries himself slowly into you. All the way to the hilt, and that’s when you see it.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, causing him to look down and see what was going on but he had already pulled back. 

“Hm?” His tone is amused. 

“Do it again,” you whine. He smirks a brilliant flash of white teeth, before his face completely falters at the sight when he presses himself all the way into you again. Both of your eyes wide as the outline of his cock protrudes from your belly. 

“Jesus,” his voice is loud, it seems to vibrate your brain against your skull. He draws himself out of you and shoves back in - more unceremoniously than previous. He’d been trying his best to not hurt you, to take it as slow as he could manage; but seeing his hard length poke out of your body was too divine, way too fucking hot for him to not lose any semblance of control he’d had. 

Negan drowns you out, your loud screams, your hands clawing at his forearms, as he rails into you. Eyes fixed on your stomach as he watches; he doesn’t even realize you’re cumming until your hips shake violently in his grip. Your walls clench so tight his cock is pushed out. Negan clicks his tongue, as if you’d done something wrong. Moving himself in position back on top of you, his elbows coming to rest above your shoulders, his whole being swallowing you up. Your arms and legs wrap around him to try and still your shaking body as he ruts up and into you like a wild animal, his breathing jagged, his movements much less languid. Rough and desperate and all consuming. 

Using your body like a toy to get himself off, he’s hardly paying attention anymore. Grunting curses that you’re trying to memorize through a hazy veil of satisfaction.

He’s. Falling. Apart.  

And it’s wet and hot and so deep inside you that you can feel it in your fucking throat. You scream, loud, as he empties himself inside you.

Quickly, too quickly, he pulls himself out. He wants to watch his seed spill out and onto the gray sheets. You’d said you fucking sucked at painting, but Negan thinks this is the most beautiful piece of art he’s ever fucking seen. His cum dripping out of your freshly and newly used pussy in soft glistening strings to pool underneath of you, the white in stark contrast to the dark fabric is something real fuckin’ special. 

He’s smiling, kneeling above you with his hands on your stockinged knees as he watches between your legs. You’re in another world, on another planet and lost in your senses. It was everything you’d dreamed it’d be. Heaven. 

Negan had every intention on this being a one time thing. After all, hysteria was curable - but as he lays back on the bed to catch his breath he’s already caught dreaming about you in every position, any way he can place you. His perfect little toy, all just for him. Only his. 

[hpgal]

DC x DP : Those Glowing Green Eyes

CW: Blood, Gunshot Wounds, Violence

TLDR: Danny is on the run from the GIW and ends up in Gotham heavily injured where he gets found by a gun wielding vigilante.

Word Count: 2313

Everything hurts.

But when did it not?

But this time it wasn’t just injury number 67942 causing these aches and pains, though it did contribute to it. The mental anguish of being ran out of my own home and turned away by those I loved. Because I was a ghost. That pain was worse than the wound in my side.

Now the GIW is chasing me across the country and my last scuffle with them left me hurt worse than ever. They’ve been pushing hard this time around, new toys, more numbers. It was ridiculous. Seeing my own family there made me hesitate when they jumped me too. I didn’t react, just stared in horror as my own mother aimed a gun at me and my own father cheered her on.

Despite it all, I am still convinced there is hope. That there was. But when she pulled that trigger, all hope was gone. 

Now, that leads me to the present. Somehow I escaped and now was walking around with a gunshot wound in my side, a bum wrist and I think a head wound in an unknown city. Thank The Ancients for the luck I had with a portal to The Ghost Zone being nearby. I fell through it but had to immediately find another door to the mortal realm when I saw Vlad nearby, who has also been hunting me since this began. 

So here I am, in a dark, dank city. The ectoplasm here is toxic as hell and tastes like multiple smokers' houses smashed together and death. Night was falling and it got cold here fast. That could just be my core or it could be that I am slowly bleeding out. That was unclear at the moment.

Either way, I walked the street looking for shelter, mostly ignored by others or simply stared at. Honestly, I did not mind, I didn’t want the attention. Even with the toxic ectoplasm here I could heal up quickly and bounce back to the Ghost Zone to expel the toxicity of it with the help of the feeder ghosts and be good as new. It was abundant here, not nearly as much as Amity Park but it was a close second. That little fact told me this city reeked of death which meant it was probably also dangerous.

Maybe once this whole my parents and the government trying to murder me passes, I could come back here and purge the toxic ectoplasm as Ghost King. Because that is the only thing left for me to do, become Ghost King since my human life seems to be over. I have no clue what there is left for me to do with everyone I loved and the U.S Government wanting me dead

Too bad I can’t fully exercise that power of King until I come of age next year. I could’ve resolved this and just hid in the Ghost Zone for the rest of my undead life. Vlad wouldn’t be able to touch me then. Curse my stupid half alive and half dead existence, no other ghost would’ve had to wait but the council likes to be a pain in my ass. Probably in spite of Clockwork in all honesty, I half joke to myself.

My mind reels as I think about home, my friends, even Vlad. All of them had turned overnight. Even Jazz, though she showed hesitancy at every turn. Their eyes seemed to have a tinge of red when I saw them attack me for the first time, reminding me of Freakshow and his mind control abilities. That was the only thing I could justify holding out hope. But I didn’t see that in my moms eyes this time when she shot me.

Even Vlad switched from the whole crazed rich fruit-loop routine of trying to make me his son to attempts on my life. By the Ancients, if he were there this last attack and not in the Ghost Zone, I would’ve been dead. I had no doubts about it. It was pure luck that he didn't notice me in the zone.

I grimace as I continue walking, holding my side, warm blood seeping through my white shirt and the bandages I put on it already. My vision and mind feel foggy as I turn a corner, instantly clearing for a moment when my ghost sense activates, sending a shiver down my spine, hair standing on the back of my neck.

Now?

Really?

I nearly groan both in pain and frustration at this change. I look around pissed off only to find a guy in a red helmet across the street. My entire being on edge as I see him. He didn’t look like a ghost but he gave the impression of having an association with ghosts. He had higher ectoplasm in his body than normal. Even more so than most Amity Park citizens. For a second I thought I saw the flicker of a core but just as quickly as I saw it, it goes away. 

Could he possibly be possessed?

The gears turn in my head as everything screams at me that he is bad news regardless. The moment this masked man steps towards me, I muster all the energy I can and start to run, my decision being made. There was no way I could fight in this condition. Every inch of my body, my muscles scream at me for this. My side burns and my vision is blurry at best.

I risk a glance back to see him following and pick up speed. Grateful for my inhuman abilities still being of use despite my injured state. It’d be easy to go ghost or phase through a wall on a normal day but this was not normal, even for me. There are so many ways I could lose this guy but no, I keep running, oblivious to anything except the urge to escape this new, unknown threat.

Him following me all but confirms my suspicions that he is bad news. I mean I saw those guns on his side. They could be loaded with anti-ghost bullets. I’ve been shot once today, I do not plan on doing that again. Ever. He has to be a hired gun by the GIW is the only explanation to this.

At some point in the chase, I look back to see he is managing to keep up with me, which in hindsight made so much sense with my injuries. I turn right only to find this was the wrong choice. Because of course that would be my luck today. I screech to a halt, nearly crashing to meet the dead end head on, a brick wall separating me from escaping. I lean against the wall in frustration before turning to see if he was in the alley yet.

I could just phase- ”Demon brat what have I told you about stepping in my turf?” Damnit.

I am so tired. I am trapped. I am injured. This day just freaking sucks.

I glare at him with as much intensity I can muster. If only I could use my powers, scare him away. Now that he was closer it was clear he was a human who experienced death. Not a ghost. Not a halfa like him, just a human. But if he did that then the GIW would be sure to find me again in no time. And the stranger called me a demon brat. That has to be some sort of slur to ghosts, although I am not familiar with slurs for ghosts. Is that even a thing?

I shake the thought away and focus on him. I look him up and down, taking in his appearance and movements, ready to fight back.

Despite the mask covering his face, I could feel this stranger looking at him up and down despite it being dark. Maybe his mask had some sort of night vision built into it. He was assessing and judging him. And I was doing the same to him between the glares, my superhuman night vision letting me miss nothing in this dark space.

He looked like what I imagined a human vigilante would look like. Except 10 times scarier like he wouldn’t care if he helped civilians or not. Maybe this guy was just here for an adrenaline rush or some other bullshit reason a normal human would act like this. The red mask was intimidating, he was well built and tense, ready to pounce on him like I was on him. Except he wasn’t fighting death itself right now so he for sure would win without me using powers. Maybe he is a hired gun by the GIW with how he is sizing me up.

The vigilante takes a step towards me, “Woah, woah, you're bleeding.” he seems to hesitate but I glare back up to him like a feral animal. This had to be a trick right? The care and concern in his voice wasn’t real.

I backed up against the cool brick wall behind me, sinking into a low stance, ready to jump and fight back. I let the wall support me where it could and where it couldn't, I sucked it up with gritted teeth. I had faced worse before. If I died here I’d probably become a full ghost anyways so I could haunt his ass for the rest of his life, exercising the full power of Ghost King just to be petty for the inconvenience. Serves him right for the scary vigilante routine. Too bad for him, I am scarier and I would not fall for cheap tricks.

I try to make myself as intimidating as possible. Hell, the blood seeping from my head and how ready I was to fight probably made me look like a feral, wounded, animal right now. I mean that is what everyone else thought I was anyways, right? I bare my teeth at him, my canines most definitely unnaturally pointed.

“Seriously, kid? Two can play this game.” The man takes a step closer, I watch, calculating. 

Then his eyes glowed green.

At least that had to be what happened under the mask. I felt the surge of ectoplasm being used when it happened and I snarl at him in response. This would be a harder fight than I thought. How did I miss the ectoplasm tainting him, enhancing him this way? The fact he could willingly do it meant he was trained and well versed in his abilities.

Well shit.

He seems taken aback at my response, not expecting me to not be frightened. Well tough luck buddy. “I can do that too.” I say with venom dripping off my tongue between gritted teeth, not willing to let this guy get the best of me.

I look up at what I presume are his eyes based on his mask and allow my own eyes to flare neon green, brighter than his. A show of power and dominance that some ghosts use to avoid a fight. Maybe I could avoid this fight entirely if he had the innate understanding many liminal beings had when experiencing this with or without knowing what it means. Either way it was clear he knew something.

“I have been hunted, shot, maimed, and tortured by much, much worse.” I threaten. “You do not scare me. And I sure as hell am not going to go down to a nobody like you.” My vision  continues to blur and darken at the edges as the adrenaline from the chase starts to wear down, the rapid heart rate pumping my blood much faster than I need it to be to prevent blood loss as more blood seeps from my wounds. That little trick took more energy from me than I anticipated.

The unknown man looks at me, his body language indicating he was confused and concerned. I nearly wanted to laugh but I needed all the energy in case I had to fight. “Shit.. you’re not Demon Brat. Kid,” he starts, his body relaxing ever so slightly, “you need help, let me help you.”

The man takes another step forward, holstering a pistol. When did he draw that to begin with?

I flash my eyes again, a bit weaker this time as I feel my legs start to buckle under me. No. Not now. I can’t go down now. Panic welling up inside me as I growl at him and try to steady myself against the wall.

“Go away,” I muster, throat dry, “this isn’t your problem.” I manage to say as my last attempts to get him to screw off.

The man takes another step towards him, now in arms reach, “Look, I know a doctor who might be able to help you. She-” I stumble a bit and he reaches out ready to catch me, still keeping from touching me, “Shit- kid. She won’t turn you away. She can help. She doesn’t share the identity of her patients. She treats the Bats. You can trust her if not me”

My body shakes at his words. Or maybe I was shaking the entire time. God it was so cold now. Almost as cold as being dead for real. And man do I have experience with that. My entire body felt so heavy and aches everywhere. It was almost peaceful, in a way. Except I hated how dark my vision had gotten and blurred.

Something about how he speaks and acts, I decide in my haste, wanting to not die a second time to trust him. My body relaxes, no longer ready to fight him. Was it a bad idea? Probably but I did not want to die in an alley this time. My vision darkens and the last thing I remember is falling into his arms as my answer to him.

Please help me, stranger.

--------

A/N: This was a fic I planned on writing but got burnt out after writing the first chapter so I figured I'd post it here, maybe it'll motivate me to continue it.

[writers-potion]

Plot Templates for Dark Fiction

MC hears about danger and mocks it as unreal, and ses out to prove that it's not real. He enlists the helps of a loyal but reluctant friend/servant/colleague/lover. -> Things get stranger and they fall into real danger -> MC fights the threat, narrowly getting away with his life. -> The danger gets even worse -> The threat is defeated, and the friend often pays a terrible price.

A danger threats the MC's community and he is the only one who can defeat it -> First Failure -> Second Failure -> She learns something important, and wins.

MC wants to belong to a community (secret society, gang, etc.) -> He works to convince the others that he is worthy of being a member -> He is granted initiation -> He works harder to be taken into the Inner Circle -> He realizes that the community is evil -> Will he go ahead or back out? (A) End with the realization (B) His conscience wins and he sacrifices himself (C) He decides to go ahead, enjoying the evil.

He devotes himself to fighting the evil -> She makes sacrifices for the good -> She realizes that what she has fought for is actually evil, and the people around her were right.

An innocent MC observes the actions of others -> The reader picks up on the subtext that there's something evil while the MC goes around, naive.

MC is urged by a friend not to pursue a dangerous venture -> The venture turns out to be harder than it seemed -> He barely escapes from the danger and seeks help -> Help does not arrive and the MC fights against the menace -> the friend/traitor falls into their own trap they've laid for the MC

Newly dead MC wakes undead as a ghost/zombie/vampire -> He has unfinished business to conclude and sets out for his mission -> He meets unexpected obstacles in the world of the undead -> He realizes something new and forfeits the initial mission

MC is obsessed hunting a monster/evil creature -> He nearly dies but prevails -> He takes a trophy home but realizes that the monster had got to his family first -> His triumph becomes meaningless

MC believes that an evil creature/monster is actually innocent -> She sets out to win its trust and tames it -> She succeeds and lets her guard down -> The monster attacks her

MC wants to overcome a personal fear -> He succeeds after many attempts -> He realizes that in this instance he should have listened to his instincts - he has become an easy victim

MC is a semi-sympathetic character whom the reader can understand, but not quite like -> He obsessively plots to get the justice/love he thinks he deserves -> He realies he has falledn into his won trap/walked into a rival's similar trap -> He tries desperately to escape -> MC dies knowing that he obsessions have brought his own demise.

MC is a righteous character -> She lands in a situation with only two options, which are immoral.

MC plots to bring the downfall of another character -> He is betrayed by his most trusted friend

MC schemes to trap another person -> She realizes too late that she has been outsmarted/fallen into her own trap

These are some common plot progressions, so feel free to explore with other types!

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

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[tealvenetianmask]

Ghostfuckers theory: Blitz doesn’t actually get possessed, at least not in the way we've been thinking.

Blitz and Millie are BOTH seeing each other harmed and corrupted and threatening because the John Waters villain is making them hallucinate and attack each other’s insecurities. 

When we see Millie with glass in her eye in the trailer, she’s coming toward the camera  menacingly and pretty much stating Blitz’s worst fears about himself ("you always take from those around you and leave them worse and more broken than you found them"). So I think we’re seeing what Blitz is seeing.  

When we see Blitz looking possessed, the camera is behind Millie, so maybe we’re seeing what she sees. Maybe when he speaks, which we don't hear in the trailer, he says something that's at the core of Millie's fears. 

So when they fight in the present (I still think that the other fight in different outfits is a flashback from when they first met), they EACH think that they’re fighting a possessed and possibly undead version of their friend, when in reality they’re both hallucinating and in serious danger. 

[notaplaceofhonour]

imagine being an employee at S-Mart, and your coworker that everyone is like 87% certain went insane & killed a bunch of his friends & gf, is just chilling, talking up customers with wild stories about saving a fantasy kingdom from the undead. it’s a little annoying that he’s slacking off while you have to pick up the slack, but you’ve learned with this guy it’s more trouble than it’s worth to complain.

he tells the same story to every single girl that comes in, and every single time he acts like it’s something the girl he’s talking to should actually be impressed by—as if it’s something that actually happened. and you can’t tell if he’s joking around and just committing to the bit really hard as some weird form of flirting, or if he really is crazy enough to believe every word of what he’s saying. but bizarrely it’s working for him? she seems into it somehow?

and you’re not sure what to think. should you be worried for this girl? he can be incredibly charming, but he’s just a complete & total weirdo (and sometimes he really creeps you out).

like you remember this one time he literally told you he hacked up his girlfriend—an actual missing person that he is THE top suspect in the disappearance of—with a chainsaw attached to his hand. but he said it like he’s some kind of pulp fiction action hero, and (again) you can’t tell if he’s joking? (who would joke about something like that? who would just casually admit to that if they actually did it?) it’s so bizarre you tell yourself you have to have imagined it.

but there’s other stuff too. he refuses to wear just a normal prosthetic hand to work—he has like a whole medieval ass gauntlet for a hand?? clearly he’s read way too many comic books, and has a really demented sense of humor, but you’ve worked with this guy enough to know he’s a total incompetent loser. there’s no way he’s actually dangerous, right? he’s just a bit weird, that’s all…

and as you’re trying to figure all this out there’s this lady on bath salts that comes out of nowhere and she’s jumping around the place like she’s yoda, growling and yelling about how she’s going to swallow people’s souls and attacking people?? and to make matters worse your crazy ass coworker breaks a gun out of the display case and starts jumping on carts shooting at her??? and then the next day you come into work and have to just check people out at the register with this guy like nothing happened???????