#tw eternal damnation

[wildfeather5002]

I hate it when xtians reduce my religious trauma to "a religious person said something mean to you once so now you're mad at religion".

Like, shut the fuck up. My trauma isn't just someone being a little rude to me once, it was systematic, deliberate manipulation with the threat of possible eternity of suffering in Hell if I didn't obey religious rules and "keep Christ in my heart". It was "Nonbelievers burn in a lake of eternal fire. Tell your friends to convert to our faith or they'll be damned for eternity".

I have suffered from anxiety, ocd and other mental health issues for several fucking years because of this shit. I've suppressed my sexuality and felt terrible guilt just for the 'sin' of having sexual thoughts. I've feared for my loved one's souls, genuinely believing they would go to Hell for simply not being xtians and that I'd never see them again in the afterlife.

These beliefs are sick and twisted. What I went through was sick and twisted.

I seriously don't know what to say to you if you still think telling anyone, let alone a child, that they're going to be damned for eternity if they disobey 'God's word' is totally fine and not abusive.

Know your fucking place and stop speaking over trauma survivors who have been hurt by your shitty religion.

[psychicthepsychic-daily]

sorry for low effort post, may the spirit rest in hate (-ing sim)

[wildfeather5002]

I'd personally just get rid of the concept of eternal damnation, anti-lgbtq and anti-sexuality beliefs instead of the entire religion. But I totally get where you're coming from. This shitty religion has caused more than enough suffering for me.

right wingers aren’t “pretending to be christian” lol if anything they’re more historically consistent with christianity than the “nice” “progressive” christians that people are constantly trying to get you to believe are the typical christians, which is laughably untrue. christianity is a genocidal theological cancer and has been for its entire history and i will accept nothing less than its total eradication.

[expectiations]

"I would rather end my own life than betray Angelica." – John Francis

[wewatchyoujuno]

saw an honest-to-god post of someone bragging about actually having sex with their blood-related sister in real life with multiple people congratulating them in the reblogs actually some of you guys really don't deserve to flourish and be happy actually i think some of you guys should die and go to hell today

[party-snake]

No refunds~

Sebastian x Fem! Reader

Minors DNI, This one's long but it does have smut in it. :)

Tw: Smut (obvi), crying, praise, slight degrading, cockwarming

❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀--❀

Being forced to kill The Saboteur was not the situation you would expect to find yourself in. To put it simply, Sebastian was a huge pain in the ass for everyone at Urbanshade. From causing the lockdown to releasing all those monsters. That's why you were sent down to kill him.

The higher ups had disguised you as a prisoner, yearning for her freedom. They said you were a convincing actor, thus was the perfect woman for the job. Only armed with a gun, you made your way through the facility.

'This thing can't be that hard to kill.' You made your way through the doors, each step nervous. Strangely, no monsters appeared to try and kill you. Not even those wall dwellers the prisoners described. To be honest, you kinda felt bad for them.

Trapped in an eternal damnation, dying an infinite number of times before they succeeded. Seemed like hell to you. And if you truely being honest, you didn't wanna kill Sebastian either. An innocent guy convicted and experimented on. You had to find a way out of this.

You approached door '053' sliding the thin blue keycard into the slot. It slid open with a beep, and a light illuminated a small vent on the wall. Walking a few steps in, it flew open and slid into the abyss. "Stranger, over here." A deep voice called out to you. This had to be your target.

Army crawling your way through the vent was uncomfortable to say the least. It made you claustrophobic with all the dust. It obviously hadn't been cleaned in a while. You crawled out the other side a got up, coughing and dusting off your pants.

"Ah, fresh meat. Welcome! My name is Sebastian. Don't worry i'm not going to hurt you." He flicked on his angler light and smiled down at you, clasping his hands together. "I'm here to help you acutally. I've set up a shop for you. You can just pick the items off my tail." He pointed to the large sacks strapped to his snake tail, "As long as you have enough data of course."

You unzipped your suit silently and pulled out a small file. He smile never fading. You looked down and flipped it open, holding it up so both the page and Sebastian were visible. Perfect match. You put the file back.

You sigh and grap at your gun holster, slipping the weapon out of it's holder and aiming right between his eyes. But he didn't flinch. "No need to be hostile friend. I'm here to help." Your hands seemed shakey, mostly from being nervous. "I'm sorry, I have to do this. They're making me."

He looked down at the gun. "Hm, those bastards finally want me dead, hm?" You nod slowly. "Let me guess," He clears his throat and says in his best announcer voice, "Failure to terminate the target will result in immediate execution. Correct?" You nod again, your shakey hands make the gun feel like it's made of lead.

"You can put that down. It's not going to do much." He leans down and moves your aim with a hand. You flinch, closing your eyes. "I'm not going to kill you. And you don't want to kill me, right?" You open your eyes and meet his. "No..." You mumble.

He chuckles, "No need to be so scared hun. I'm not going to hurt you." You lower the gun and put it back in it's holster. "There we go." Two hands wrap around your waist and lift you up, bringing you on his lap. He gently rubs your back, the action soothing you more than you care to admit.

You sniffle quietly as tears start coming. And once they come, they don't stop. You lean into his chest and just sob. "I'm just... so scared." You whimper out. He nods, listening silently. "I-I don't want to die. But I don't want to kill you either." He removes your diving kit, and uses a screw driver to deactivate your RGP device. A hand comes to hold you against his chest as he undos his belts holding his supplies.

"I'll find a way for us to survive. I promise. But you'll have to wait. Those assholes can't kill you." He holds the device in a claw and smirks. You return his smirk with a soft smile. His other hand comes up and wipes your tears away. "There's just one thing you have to do for me. Okay?" You nod.

"I need supplies to sell to prisoners. However it is... difficult, to get those supplies because of my size. I would like you to go out and collect those items for me." He then holds your chin in his hand. "If your lucky, you may get a reward." Blush creeps up your cheeks from you shoulders, and you look away.

"What about the monsters?" He frowns lightly "They don't attack me because I freed them. It doesn't help that your wearing a prison uniform." He taps a claw on his chin in thought. "How about you show them the card I used? I still have it." His hand digs into his coat pocket and fishes out the card. "They will think that you helped. And thus won't kill you. Sound fair?"

You stare at the keycard and nod. "Okay." You swing your legs over and hop of him. "Go get em' tiger." He chuckles. You smile and crawl out of the vent. Standing back up and looking at the keycard, you notice little specs of blood overlaying the gold. You grimice and wipe of the blood with your suit.

'What the hell happened here?'

Your suit allowed you to carry a multitude of stuff without slowing your movements. Your footsteps echo around the hall as you make your way back to Sebastian. The door opens and then you see it. A shark with hundreds of green eyes. It's pull is intoxicating, your head seems to move on it's own, forcing you to look at the shark and you panic.

The card. The card! You fumble for it, putting a hand over your eyes. The shark's smile is engraved in your brain. You fish in your pocket and pull it out, showing it to the shark. The pull stops as soon as it came.

Bit by bit, your hand comes away from your face. "Oh. I'm sorry. I thought you were human. I thought you were here to hurt me again." A honey sweet voice rings out from beyond the glass. You gasp lightly. "I would never hurt you." The shark's smile widens.

"I like you. You are like Sebastian. Sorry for trying to hurt you." It's eyes scan over your features. "It's okay. What's your name?" You smile at her. "My name? I don't know... The scientists call me Eyefestation. You can call me that." You nod. "Okay. Bye." She smiles and swims away.

A shiver runs up your spine as you continue staring out the glass. Shaking your head and slapping your cheeks, you continue on back to Sebastian. Door '052' greets you in red writing and you smile, oddly looking foward to seeing the fish again.

You army crawl your way in the vent again and stand up, looking at his cyan eyes in the dark. "Ah. Your back. I was beginning to think you'd died or something." He pulls on the angler light, and it flickers on. It casts his face in a pretty warm glow, showing off his dark freckles.

You were basically gawking at him, looking over his pretty face. "You gonna get staring at me or are you going to show me what you got?" He chuckles. You shake your head again and empty your pockets of supplies. He peers down, crossing his arms. "Hm. Pretty good." You look up at him expectingly. "What, you want your reward?" He smiles, showing off his teeth.

You blush and look away, nodding slightly. He laughs. "Of course." Playfully rolling his eyes -at least to the best of his ability-. He gathers the supplies and places them on the shelves on the side of the room. "All right then. On your knees for me." You're taken aback slightly, but do as your told. "Good girl." He slithers behind you, putting a hand to your back and forcing you on all fours.

"Heh, you like this don't you? Dirty girl." You blush. The sound of rustling comes from behind you as he takes off his coat, folding it and laying it down infront of you. Your fingers brush over the leather and you smile faintly. "May I?" You feel his claw tap your suit.

"Mhm." You nod. "Good girl." He uses and hand to hold you flush against his pelvis, unzipping your suit. A white shirt and a bra lay underneath. He makes quick work of those, slipping off your shirt and unclipping your bra swiftly. His touch returns to your chest and he pinches your nipple, massaging your breast in his hand.

"Good girl." You whimper quietly and hold onto his arm. The heat from your cheeks spreads to between your legs. He leans you down on your arms, hand exploring your ass and clothed slit. "I need your permission sweetheart." He traces the elastic of your pants.

"Please." You whimper pathetically. "Such a good girl, begging for me." He pulls down your pants and underwear, letting them pool at your knees. He spreads open your folds and chuckles. "You really like this, hm?" You hide your face in your arms.

He smiles and starts rubbing your clit, circling the sensitive bud with a claw. Pleasure racks up your spine and you whimper. His touch is rough, pushing you into the floor. He slowly enters your hole, your walls clenching around him. "S-Seb." He groans. "Yes?" He draws out the word. "You like this?" You huff and moan into his jacket. a small 'mhm' is heard, muffled by the leather.

A second claw joins the first, and your back arches, your toes curling. Another hand grabs your waist as he speeds up his pace slightly. A knot forms in your belly, your moans becoming more audible to him. His pinky reaches lower and rubs your clit again, bringing you to your climax.

This one felt different however, more wet. You suddenly realized you were squirting on him. "You really must've liked that. Heh." He brings his finger to his mouth and sucks your slick off of them. "Delicious." He groans. He pant into the jacket and grip it tightly. "Tired already? We're not done sweetheart. After all... You did so good for me~"

You huff and he chuckles. His first hand retreats and is replaced by a writhing tentacle. He ruts against your clit and you whine. You feel his hot breath on your neck as he leans down, "You gonna take it like a good girl?" You nod. His cock adjusts, circling your hole. "Good girls get rewards."

He suddenly thrusts into you and your eyes roll back into your head. He spears you open on him, his other hand wraps around your chest and brings you flush to him. "Be nice and loud for me, okay?" He hilts inside of you and you whine. He pulls out slowly, the emptiness inside you slowly being filled by him. Just him.

His other hands come to the floor and he roughly thrusts back in, the lewd slap of his pelvis on your ass making you blush more. "There we go. Just let go for me, hm?" You moan pathetically into his grip. His cock hitting all the right spots inside of you. "So tight for me. All for me." He growls in your ear and you cry out.

Your slick coats him, making it easier for him to slide in and out of you. He groans, claws scrapping against the floor. His tail slaps against wall with a large thump. You look over but he redirects your gaze, using a hand to make you look at him. "Eyes on me sweetheart." He huffs out.

His cocks spurts a bit and you clench around him. "So good. Such a good girl." He rambles and trails down to your neck, biting down hard with his sharp teeth. Your mouth drops open in a silent cry. He pushes you back onto him roughly, his cock reaching the spot that makes you scream. Your orgasm washings over you with deafening force.

"Hn. Almost there. You're doing so good." Overstimulation crashing down on you suddenly and you fall limp onto the floor. He growls and pushes into you, filling you completely. It's quiet for a bit, the only sound being your whimpers and pants mixed with his.

He shifts a bit and rests against the wall, lifting you up and twisting you around. You're set down on his cock again and moan. "Seb-" He leans down and kisses you, his tongue filling your mouth. You moan against him and he pulls away. "Shh darling, no need to say anything." His signature smirk returns and you smile.

"There we go. Good girl." Exhaustion creeps up on you, sleep pulling you deep into it's clutches. "Sleepy? Go ahead." He grabs his jacket and lays it over you, the warmth pulling you into a deep sleep.

Raugh. Finally done. Sorry if it's shit. I'm tired. :P



[lordprettyflackotara]

sharp fangs || sam & colby || part two

SMUT MINORS DNI 18+. sam and colby are vamps hehe🧛🏼‍♀️. TW: SMUT WITH PLOT. this fic contains blood, brief gore, murder but like it’s justified tbh. mainly you just have two vampire bfs obsessed with you lol. made this shit extra long. ps: part three will not take as long i promise. enjoy my beloved readers. MWAH <3

Sam and Colby absolutely adored you. You were the apple of their eye, the air that made them feel like they could breathe again. They couldn’t get enough of you, making a conscious effort to spend every moment they could with you. When you were away they’d clean your apartment. (Or snoop through your things.) When you went to sleep at night they’d take shifts watching over you while the other went out to hunt.

You were so darling while you slept, the contentment and peace on your face the sight of a lifetime to them. In all of their long years they had didn’t think they’d allow themselves to get attached to another human. After the first two hundred years they saw all of their companions die, leaving them alone with just one another. All of their past lovers met the same inevitable demise, death becoming an old friend of theirs.

The routine was beginning to become old, the two deciding interacting with humans was pointless. Humans were so fragile, so unfortunately disposable. Whoever they chose to get attached to could get hit by a bus and die, or catch a simple cold and it’d end the same. They shared the same fears with you, which they tried to repel by watching over you so heavily. You liked it in an odd way, having your two best friends become angels watching over you. Both Sam and Colby only shared two fears. They feared the day you’d unexpectedly die from a tragic occurrence. Turning you into one of them was out of the question, your soul deserving better than eternal damnation.

The only thing they feared more, was when you truly saw them for what they were. They knew everything about them was appealing to you. Their looks, their voice, even down to their scent. They believed you truly cared for them, but they weren’t convinced you actually comprehended how terrifying they could be. How savage and ruthless they could become. They feared once you realized this, a look of genuine horror spread across your face, you’d wish them away. Forever.

Often times they tried to ignore this fear. After all, right now you were standing in between them, asking them questions about being a vampire. Your fingers were intertwined with Sam’s, Colby’s arm lazily hanging over your shoulders. “Coffins?” You asked. Colby chuckled, an ice cold winter breeze flying past the three of you. “Did we bring coffins when we moved in?” He asked. You rolled your eyes, hoping the boys didn’t notice your visible shivering. They did.

It wasn’t unusual for the three of you to go out for a snack late at night, the empty streets allowing Sam and Colby to be visible without disguises or questions. “Alright alright. How about garlic? I may be Italian, you never know,” You asked. Sam had given you his jacket a few minutes ago, your lips still turning more white by the second. How had they not thought this through better? As the blonde looked down at your eyes, the soft doe kind that made their frozen hearts flutter, he remembered. Right, that’s why.

“Human food doesn’t bother us. You can make as much garlic bread to your hearts content,” Sam replied, placing a small kiss to the side of your head. Small snowflakes had entangled themselves in your hair, Sam’s lips forming a frown. You were willing to make yourself this cold and potentially sick for a twinkie? The three of you finally approached the tiny store, Colby handing you a wad of cash. “Jesus Christ, a twinkie does not cost more than a hundred dollars Colbs,” You gasped, looking at the wad of crisp and shiny hundred dollar bills. “I read about inflation all the time. Just get a few snacks so you won’t have to nearly freeze to death for a twinkie,” He insisted.

You smiled softly, placing a kiss on Colby’s cheek. “Alright i’ll be back,” You say, before dipping into the grocery store. Sam and Colby preferred to stand outside, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention. “We didn’t have twinkies in our time right?” Colby asked. Sam let out a chuckle. “Dude we were actively there for the salem witch trials. We absolutely did not have twinkies,” He answered. Colby teasingly elbowed him, the two leaning against the brick wall outside of the store.

“Just double checking. Couldn’t recall if we were around to try those hyped up little rolls,” Colby told him. It was odd when they thought about it, how long they had roamed the earth. It was always just the two of them during life and then resurrection. They couldn’t help but feel like you were the final piece to the puzzle, the third to the trio. Yet they feared how long they’d actually have with you. Especially when you opted to eat twinkies a majority of the time instead of actual food. (Colby had agreed to learn how to cook just to get you to eat better.)

Sam’s ears twitched for a split second, the sound of footsteps flooding them. He looked around, both him and Colby as still as statues. “You hear that?” He asked the brunette. Colby nodded, equally as on alert. The weather was undoubtedly freezing. No economic crisis was occurring, there would be no reason for a regular human to be roaming the streets this late at night. “I’ll go check it out. Stay with her and i’ll meet you guys back at the apartment,” Colby huffed, dashing off into the night. The ringing of the bell attached to the store door rang, your happy face emerging into sight. You had already broken into one of your twinkies, taking a big bite. You went to hand Sam the wad of cash, before searching for Colby.

“Where’s Colby?” You asked, wiping the white cream off of your bottom lip. Sam’s mind briefly went to filth, before resuming to the matter at hand. He didn’t want to worry you, but he also didn’t want to lie. Since they had met you they had agreed to not lie, the truth something you’d have to handle if you wanted them around. “He’s off investigating something he heard. He’ll meet us back at the apartment,” Sam explained. You laced your fingers with Sam’s, allowing the blonde to walk you across the street. “You think it’s another one of your kind?” You asked, taking another bite of your twinkie.

Sam purposefully kept you on the side away from the road, ensuring no car would hit you if it came brawling your way. Especially with the icy roads, Sam knew human drivers would be unpredictable. (Big shocker: he wasn’t a fan of automobiles when they came out.) “I doubt it. This is our territory now. Our scent is everywhere,” Sam reassured you. You shoved the empty wrapper in your pocket, leaning on Sam for support as he walked you home. His body was cold and statue like, yet you found comfort the more you touched him.

The three of you didn’t want to make things confusing after you all met. After all, the sex was just supposed to be a one time thing. A peace offering in the boys minds. That’s what it was supposed to be. Yet the memory constantly lingering in the forefront of all of yours minds. There was a not so subtle craving that you all wanted it to happen again, the timing just not seemingly right. Sam and Colby didn’t believe in rushing things, even if you didn’t have all the time in the world as they did. Snow crushed underneath your sets of footsteps, Sam’s hearing acutely on alert for intruders.

Yet he couldn’t find it within himself to hear anything over the soothing sound of your heartbeat. It was music to his ears, the sound gratifying to him. It was so soothing in fact, it was distracting. This distraction created the perfect element of surprise for a man in a ski mask to emerge from the alleyway shadows, grabbing you. “Sam!” You screeched, thrashing against the criminals grasp. Sam was forced to let go of your hand, knowing he’d accidentally tear it off if he held onto you and played tug of war against the criminal. Sam could hear it now, the disgusting blood flowing through the lowlifes veins. He had been so blinded by how ethereal your presence was and now he was paying the price.

The flash of a blade sent Sam into an angry frenzy, baring his fangs at the attacker. “Sam! Help me! Colby!” You screamed, your voice echoing off of the alleyway walls. In the blink of an eye Colby was on the attacker, biting into the side of his neck. The grasp on you was released, your body falling to the ground. You quickly turned around, moving backwards on the icy sidewalk. Colby wasn’t feeding onto your attacker, his gaze was much more intense than that. Much more unhinged. He yanked his head backwards, tearing his throat apart. You barely had time to blink before Sam was on the other side of the attacker, copying Colby’s actions.

Clumps of flesh hit the ground, streams of blood flowing everywhere that you looked. Your attacker was long dead, your heart thumping so loud you thought it may burst out of your chest. You continued to back away, your back hitting a street lamp as you watched Sam and Colby. Any mortality they had, any sense of pride or self control had been washed away by the biggest wave. Neither of them were hungry, the taste of the attackers blood sickening. They received no satisfaction from feeding on him, their animalistic craving ordering them to tear the threat apart.

So they did, the man’s neck now a pile of unidentifiable blood and flesh. You swallowed, staring at your best friends. The ones who did your laundry and watched sitcoms shows with you. The ones who looked over you every single moment of the day, even when you didn’t want them to. The same ones who had once fucked you merciless, your life never having been the same afterwards. Blood coated both of their hands, the same crimson paint dripping down their chins and necks. Sam’s maroon sweater was now soaked, Colby’s leather jacket stained with splatters.

Sam dropped the attacker first, his eyes darting around in search of you. You were a pitiful sight, one Sam wished he didn’t have to see. You were on the ground, your back hugging the closest streetlight. Your hands were buried into handfuls of snow, your fingers turning red from the cold. Your eyes were widen, your gaze refusing to stray from him and Colby. Sam swallowed, the rancid taste of the attackers blood still coating his tongue. He walked in front of you, crouching down to your eye level. “I’m so, so sorry,” He whispered. You looked terrified, surely of them. Sam was very sure, his eyes soaking in what he figured to be the last time he’d see you.

Colby quickly joined his side, the corpse abandoned behind them. You had never seen so much blood before, the color seemingly everywhere you looked. “It’s going to be okay, I promise,” Colby cooed. He brought his hand up to your cheek, lovingly stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. The blood was staining your skin, the feeling unnatural and making you slightly uneasy. Yet, when you looked at the two killers in front of you, you felt nothing but pure awe. Sam was trying to find the words to say to you, expecting the worst. Colby didn’t seem to have the same thoughts as him, which only made the situation ten times worse.

“I-I-I-” You began stuttering, unable to form a coherent sentence. How could you do it? How could you ever thank them? They saved your life. The faint sound of sirens interrupted the conversation, the boys heads turning to the left at the same time. “Sorry princess the conversation is going to have to wait. Let’s get you home,” Colby said, scooping you into his arms. You curled up against his chest, the stench of blood flooding your nostrils as you nuzzled against his shirt.

\/

The boys had gotten you inside safely, setting you down on the couch gently. “Do you need anything? Water? Food?” Colby asked. There were only a handful of things a human could need, surely there were maybe five max. In his mind at least. Sam’s mind was soaring in the other direction, his mouth running dry. You shook your head no, meeting their gaze. “Thank you,” You said. Sam blinked a few times, trying to ensure he heard you correctly. “We’d do anything for you,” Colby answered, crouching in front of you. The blonde braced himself, sure this was the end.

“I’m sorry I didn’t do my best to protect you. I know what you’re doing to do and I just have to say that I-” Sam began, your widened eyes stopped him. Fuck, you really had no idea the power you had over them. The three forbidden words were on the tip of his tongue, the ones that would only make this harder. You quickly rose to your feet, cupping his face into your hands. Gratitude had washed over you, your body demanding to give them a reward. You couldn’t deny that although unsettling, the sight of them covered in your attackers remains made your heart skip a beat.

“I wanna thank both of you, for saving my life,” You say, looking up into Sam’s red orbs. A thousand thoughts ran through the blondes head, many of them thinking they had broke your sanity or something along those lines. “Are you not scared?” Colby asked, approaching you from behind and resting his hands around your waist. You shook your head no. “You both won’t hurt me,” You answered. Sam’s eyebrows furrowed. “You don’t know that. You saw what we did. We ripped his throat apart. Tore him to shreds,” Sam huffed, “What exactly makes you so confident we wouldn’t do that to you?”

His words were hurtful, even if they did hit the hammer on the nail. “You did that to protect me. I know you. I know you both. You won’t hurt me,” You answered again, more confident this time. Colby exchanged a look with Sam, the gears in his brain finally turning the same way his were. “I think what Sam is trying to say is that what you just saw was a lot to process. It is for us, which means it has to mean even more to a human-” He began, your sharp eyes turning around to meet his. Your eyes were shooting daggers, a look Colby knew to not threaten. “Enough with the whole ‘weak human’ bullshit. I may not be immortal but I have a brain you know,” You snapped.

Yeah, Sam had came to the conclusion that they broke you.

“And what does your brain tell you about what you just saw? About the two blood soaked demons that are standing in your living room?” Sam questioned. Your facial expression softened, your eyes resuming their doe like fashion. “They’re telling me that you’re both vampires. Vampires with habits and tendencies I anticipated. Ones that don’t scare me,” You answered. Why didn’t they understand? Could they understand?

Your words seemed so sincere, both boys back on you. It was Colby in front of you this time, Sam’s chest pressing against your back. “We are so sorry you had to see that,” Colby told you. He grabbed your chin, guiding you to look up at him. They could hear your heart skip a beat, the blood smudging against your soft skin. “It’s okay. If it makes you guys feel better, you both look awfully hot covered in blood like this,” You say, biting your bottom lip. Sam pressed himself against your ass, his hands traveling up to your breast.

“Really, is that so?” Colby hummed, smirking down at you. He centered his thumb on your bottom lip, pulling it down teasingly. “In that case, let us show you how sorry we really are,” Sam murmured into your ear, pressing a kiss against your earlobe. You groaned, his large hands kneading at your breast. “Open your mouth princess,” Colby muttered. You did so, flattening out your tongue on display. The brunette could feel himself getting hard, watching you eagerly suck his thumb as he put it into your mouth. The taste of blood coated your tongue, your pupils dilating as you looked into Colby’s eyes.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking perfect,” Colby praised. He removed his thumb from your eager mouth, replacing it with his lips. His taste made you feel drunk, your body becoming putty in between the boys as Sam tweaked your nipples. He chuckled darkly into your neck as they hardened under his ice cold fingertips. “Always so eager,” Sam murmured, sucking hickies onto your neck. He could feel your veins, hearing the blood flow through your delicate body. Colby’s tongue slid into your mouth, the brunette careful to not nip you with his fangs. Your desperation only made them harder, your sinful noises only becoming louder.

“Fuck, i’ve missed this,” Colby panted, pulling away from your lips. A thin string of saliva hung between both of your lips, your lips now swollen. “We’ve missed this,” Sam corrected, working on his third hickey. Colby dropped to his knees, eager to please you. “Let me taste you, fucking please, just wanna make tonight up to you,” Colby pleaded, his desperation washing over him. You could feel Sam’s hips roll against yours teasingly, ripping a groan out of your throat. “Answer him baby,” Sam encouraged, the smell of your arousal flooding his nose. You licked your lips, your balance unsteady.

Sam’s large hands kept you in place, his assault on your throat relentless. “Please, do whatever you want to me,” You whined, raking your fingers through Colby’s hair. The brunette quickly pulled down your skirt and stockings, accidentally tearing them in the process. “We’ll buy you new ones,” He muttered, bringing your panties down to your ankles. Your slick was drenched for them, Colby’s eyes blown with lust as he admired your cunt. This is all he could think about since the last time he saw you like this, so wet and desperate.

“Go on baby, use Colby’s tongue the way you need,” Sam said encouragingly. You pulled him towards you by his hair, his eager tongue lapping up your juices. Your knees almost buckled, Sam quick to keep you in place. The blonde was having a hard time restraining himself, your blood calling to him. Your smell was always so delightful and it only became more so when you were a moaning mess. “Sammy,” You whined, using your spare hand to grab his wrist. Colby’s lips sucked at your clit, making it harder to form coherent sentences.

“Yes baby?”

“Drink from me,” You panted, grinding against Colby’s face. Sam blinked, unable to deny or question your request. Your blood was sweeter than any others he had tasted, his body always yearning to have another taste of you. He slowly sank his sharp fangs into you, the piercing pain subsiding into a blinding euphoria. “Oh my God,” You whined, clawing at Colby’s hair. His large hands were keeping your thighs pried open, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as Sam drank from your neck like a starving man. “Thats it princess, keep using me. Make yourself cum on my tongue,” Colby ordered, the sight of you crumbling enough to make him want to cream his pants.

Sam managed to pull himself off of you, panting as he did so. Your blood was so intoxicating, so addicting. It’s like you were made for them. He lapped at your neck, cleaning your wound as you felt a familiar knot form in your stomach. “Fuck fuck fuck,” You whimpered. Sam slithered one of his hands around your waist to keep you upright, using the other to guide your head to turn. He brought his lips to yours, swallowing each noise you made with his mouth. You could taste your own blood, the metallic taste sending you over the edge. You pulled at Colby’s roots are you came, your vision clouded with stars.

Colby emerged from between your thighs, bruises of where his hands had held your thighs apart already forming. Sam picked you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. You smashed your lips against his, the boys bringing you to your bedroom. Your back hit your plush mattress, the boys switching positions. Colby stood in between your legs, undoing his belt. “You sure you can handle me princess? I won’t go easy on you like Sam,” He smirked, causing Sam to roll his eyes. You nodded eagerly, reaching behind you to undo Sam’s belt.

“I’m not just a human Colbs. I can handle whatever you throw at me,” You say, as cocky as you can muster. The boys exchanged mischievous looks, their cocks throbbing with excitement. You laid your head back, quickly helping Sam take off his pants. You could feel your core throbbing with desire, Colby making himself right at home in between your legs. He rubbed his tip up and down your folds, soaking in the feeling. You stuck your tongue for Sam, eagerly awaiting his cock. The mere sight of it was making your mouth water.

“You have no idea how long i’ve been waiting to fuck you,” Colby confessed, pushing himself inside of you. You moaned, your noises being muffled by Sam’s cock as he placed it inside of your mouth. The vibrations sent a chill down his spine, your name falling off of his lips. “Fucking hell, you’ve got to try her mouth,” Sam groaned, pushing himself down your throat deeper. Colby grinned as he bottomed out, your walls milking his cock.

“Trust me I remember, everything about her is a slice of heaven,” He replied, gripping your waist harshly. He began to move slowly, slithering one of his hands down to your clit. Your thighs trembled at the extra stimulation, Colby’s thrust speeding up rapidly. Both boys seemed to be in a state of heat, their hips moving faster than you could keep up. “You’re so pretty like this,” Sam praised, watching the shape of his cock go up and down your throat. Colby bit his bottom lip, his sinful noises threatening to spill out at a rapid rate.

“You’re taking me so well. Like you were made for me,” Colby grunted. He drew faster circles around your clit, your waterline flooding with tears as Sam’s cock abused the back of your throat. They were merciless, hell bent on making you cum whilst chasing their own highs. “Made for us,” Sam corrected, his orgasm coming quickly. He pulled himself out of your throat, watching as you stuck your tongue out, desperately trying to lick the underside of his cock. He jerked his shaft above you, depositing his seed directly into your mouth.

“You’re so fucking hot, my fucking God,” Sam panted, watching you eagerly swallow his cum. Your mouth was free to moan now, your mascara smudged and tears peaking at the corner of your eyes. “Just like that, please, feels so good Colbs,” You babbled. Colby grabbed both of your legs, throwing them over his shoulders. He felt impossibly deeper, his cock abusing your g spot as it pleased. “You’re fucking milking me princess, it’s like you want me to cum inside of you,” Colby moaned, his thrust relentless.

Sam snickered as he lowered himself near your ear. “You’d like that wouldn’t you? To be bred by him? By both of us? Such a dirty girl, wanting to be bred by demons,” Sam snickered, licking the side of your neck. You could feel yourself getting closer to your orgasm, your body beginning to tremble. “Shit, i’m gonna cum,” You warned. One of your hands found Sam’s squeezing it tightly as you felt your orgasm wash over you. He now felt what Colby felt before, the butterflies swarming around his stomach at the romantic gesture.

Colby’s hips stuttered, his thrust coming to a halt as he came inside of you. He slowly pulled out of you, collapsing on the other side of the bed. The rooms sounds consisted of your rapid breathing and heartbeat, for Sam and Colby at least. Colby stroked your hair as you calmed down, Sam’s hand never straying from yours.

“Hey guys?” You hummed. Sam could’ve jumped on his feet right then and there. Anything you needed. Anything you wanted. He’d eagerly walk to the ends of the earth to get it for you. “Yeah?” He replied, awaiting your orders. You giggled, looking over at him.

“Wanna have a round two?”

[hana-no-seiiki]

ARDENT EXALTATION, ETERNAL DAMNATION

⟣┄─ ˑ 𝐈. ✧ yandere worshipper! x secret god! reader (ft. yan! god oc)

inspired by my bootiful @sagesskies n baldur’s gate shar/shadowheart

synopsis: if there was one main rule under your creed, it was for your name and titles thereof to never be spoken. but for this worshipper, it’s all that leaves his lips.

tw/cw: yandere & religious themes. yun sadist hours writing. reader calls oc their child but it’s not incest yall ples. character deaths.

TO WORSHIP YOU WAS THE GREATEST HONOR ONE COULD RECEIVE. An honor never to be shared nor declared. Selfishness and secrecy were the traits you valued in your followers. You simply felt that flaunting your presence to be superfluous, if not arrogant — thoughtless. A flaw you often saw in other gods that you wished not to have in yourself.

But of course, you were not perfect. No matter how much you may wished to be, even gods had their failures and oversights.

Once such oversight was Ynaël. The Prodigy, Priest of the Night, and your favorite.

He was immaculate. A perfect example of what it meant to worship you. He dedicated his voice, body, and soul only to you. No one knew his name but yourself. No one else knew he even existed. Those that did were sundered from existence, or lived in the afterlife.

You had only the highest of expectations for your child. He had an outstanding beginning. Unprecedented in your long, well hidden line of followers. You called for his name often. Assisted him in the ways you could as a deity in his adventures. Even allowing him to lay with you underneath the stars as mortals and your more carnal siblings did with their creations.

But as mortal beings and gods alike were, when faced with such high praise, it was inevitable for hubris to fester and slowly creep up on him.

He overstepped.

Sharing his devout adoration to his companions. Showering you with praise as he fought. Spreading your transcendent name throughout the very soil he stepped upon, and the crevices of bodies he’d desecrate.

What more was that he was proud of his accomplishments. You deserved to be known. To be remembered and immortalized. To share the spotlight your fellow celestial beings had. Was it not only right that you praise him even more?

But then, he could feel your presence slowly dimming in its luminance.

You never had a temple built to your name, so he could only ponder at night when everyone else had gone off to sleep or have fun underneath the sheets to wonder why you’ve seemingly left him. Was he too harsh? You were known for valuing mercy and forgiveness, the ability to show compassion even to the most tainted beings. Besides, you would never just leave him behind.

Frustrated with your lack of response to his calls, he sets upon a goal to build you a place for worship. One that was overdue in its establishment, in his opinion.

It took many, many agonizing years without a single word from you, but it was finally complete.

He takes a moment to gaze at the statue of your magnificent form he place behind the altar, soon to be covered with sacrifices and blessings. Anything you’d ask for, just as long as you bless him once more with yourself.

But instead, he is greeted by another presence.

A presence very similar to yours. Yet much, much more powerful.

Their voice almost tore Ynaël’s ears wide open in its magnitude.

“You killed them, you — a worthless scum of a mortal.”

Killed whom? Throughout his years working on your temple he had taken no life. He wanted everything to be completed as soon as possible. He had no time for any sorts of conquests.

“Meet your maker.”

©️ hana.no.seiiki - yun | 2024

— to be continued

[wildfeather5002]

Right-wing conservatives keep saying that telling a nonbeliever they're going to hell if they don't 'repent' is totally okay, because "religious people have the right to express their opinions and beliefs even if it offends others".

But if you have the nerve to say eternal damnation is manipulative, abusive and a morally bankrupt concept, conservatives will freak out and accuse you of "going against their freedom of speech".

The amount of hypocrisy among right-wing religious conservatives is fucking nauseating.

[wildfeather5002]

Oh, that sounds very reasonable! I strongly disagree with the notion that nonbelievers, lgbtq people, 'heretics' etc. will go to Hell or let alone be damned for eternity. Eternal damnation is just ridiculous and cartoonishly evil concept, since no mortal being can cause such pain and destruction that it would warrant eternal punishment. I'm so glad that christians (& religious people in general) like you exist! Most christians I've met online & irl have sadly been right wing lgbt-phobic conservatives who preach about eternal suffering to anyone who has even slightly different beliefs than them.

Thank you for answering my questions and have a blessed day/night! 💜✨

Hi! :)

Since you're a progressive christian, I wanted to ask you what you think about eternal damnation (or Hell) as a concept? Is believing in Hell a part of your faith personally? if it is, how does it work (who goes there and why people go there)? As a fellow spiritual & God-believing person (not a christian though, I lean towards religious pluralism), I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Hi! Thank you for asking :) It's a complicated question, and my view on the question of Hell is also complicated. I'm still figuring out what exactly I believe about it, and of course I'm only one person and one with no theological training so I may be wrong on any number of counts, so I'm afraid my answer may not be very satisfying. But I'll try my best!

(Bear in mind of course that these are only my beliefs and ideas)

Firstly, I think the Bible is fairly clear that the segregation of souls' location based on virtue does not occur until Judgement Day and the Second Coming of Christ. A place called Sheol, or its Greek name Hades, is present throughout the Bible, and is less a place like Hell and more simply the realm of the dead. Sheol is also referred to as the depths or the bowels of the Earth. I assume this is where we go while awaiting Judgement Day, although I don't know whether to interpret it as a literal spiritual realm or rather bodies returning to the earth (though I tend to lean towards the latter personally). I think our bodies return to the earth, "dust to dust". What happens to our souls during this time I'm not sure, although I think maybe they rest with Christ until Judgement in a kind of dormant state.

Then after an unknowable time Christ raises the dead and all humans are judged. At this point I do believe in some form of Hell, but I think a person would have to be unquestionably evil to be sent there. Those that commit murder, torture, r*pe, and things of that severity. I do believe in damnation, but not an eternal one.

I'm quite inspired by Saint Julian of Norwich and I believe that her divine revelation was true. I believe all things will one day be reconciled to God. All living things are of God and I don't believe any living being can remain separated from Him forever. I personally think that a person's soul that has been marred by true evil will be wiped clean before being returned to God.

So those are my thoughts! I personally believe that judgement and damnation are necessary, but ultimately, "all shall be well".

[sarafinamk]

Fallen Angel (Smiling Critters Space Riders AU Reader Insert) Part 1

Summary: You failed as the Prototype's "archangel," and this is your punishment; being left to die while at the mercy of your enemies.

(This is my contribution to the Smiling Critters Space Riders Au. Please check out the talented @onyxonline for more context. I hope y'all enjoy.)

TW: Blood, Injury, Near Death, Imprisonment, Trauma, Death Implications, War, Witchcraft, Religious Trauma, Religious Imagery and Symbolism, Religious Cults, Religious Worship, Slight cursing

----------

You had one job: lead your people to victory. You are a warrior, a healer, a messenger. You are an archangel that needs to spread the word of the Prototype by any means necessary. You need to do your part to save the souls tainted by the condemned ways of the heretics. That’s why you’re here in the first place. Instead, you failed…

It's hard to say how long your mind has been hazy for. All you know is that it burns so much. Fiery hot and raging cold sensations dance and mingle around your body especially where blood was pouring out. The feeling of liquid invading and burning your lungs worsens the more you try to gasp for air. Flashes of light won’t stop assaulting your eyes even as spots of darkness slowing dance their way into your vision. As you close your eyes and try to ignore the sharp tingling in your eyes, one thought stands out among the rest.

‘So, this is what damnation feels like…’

A blurry orange figure looms above you followed by a red and a blue one. They shield you from the harsh light, prompting you to slightly open your eyes. More figures loom around you. All the sounds echoing around you are drowned out by the blood rushing in your ears. You suppose that this is a fitting punishment. You failed your people, yourself, and the Prototype. And now they have come to take you away, to give you your just deserved judgement. The thought alone is enough to make you whimper as your body curls around itself protectively. You try so hard to ignore the inferno now growing where your wounds are. This proves to be futile as hands pin you down, preventing you from curling in on yourself. The sounds grow more urgent, louder even. You couldn’t resist their grips anyways. You should’ve known it was futile to fight the inevitable. As blackness conquers the last of your vision, you pray that you will be granted mercy. You pray that your sins will be forgiven. You pray that your dedication to your duties will lead you to the happiness you have been promised. You pray that you have done enough to grant you eternal happiness. And you pray that you will continue to do good in the next life you are given…

----------

The team has been waiting outside the operation room for hours. Bubba and Bobby wasted no time getting you into operation considering your critical condition. Dogday has been pacing nonstop since getting you onto their ship. He was the one who insisted on taking you with them despite the protests from his teammates. Memories, emotions, and questions spiraled around and around his head, never giving him a second to rest. You’ve caused a lot of damage to not only his team but other parts of the galaxy. Dogday, however, being the sunny, kind-hearted leader he is will be damned if he just left another victim of the Prototype to die. Given the state of your injuries, unfortunately, the chances of your surviving in the long run are slim to none. That was stated by Bubba himself. Regardless, they still had to try, at least.

The canine knew that part of it was wishful thinking from Bubba and a couple others. Dogday can’t say he blames them for disliking the idea of helping one of the Space Riders’ most dangerous enemies. Leaving you to suffer the consequences of your actions means one less enemy to worry about. No one knows how or why you became the Prototype’s archangel apart from your Divinity powers. And maybe Catnap is right about the fact that Dogday’s heart is too forgiving for his own good. It’s just that that thought of leaving you, lying down, alone, and bleeding on the battlefield doesn’t sit right with him. That is not what the Space Riders is supposed to represent. They’re meant to give victims of the Prototype a second chance at life.

If you survive… maybe he and his friends could give you that chance. He hopes, at least. You could help a lot of people and use your powers for good. The riders could have a powerful friend and ally by their side. You could protect them like how you always protected your troops and the Prototype in past battles. You could have people to turn to and not leave you to die alone in the battle the moment things spiral downhill.

Dogday isn’t entirely naïve, though. Even if you survive, and you do agree to change your ways, there will be a lot of obstacles in your path. The obvious one was getting backlash from the Commander and members of HQ. The riders would have to disclose that they are hospitalizing one the most wanted enemies in the galaxy sooner or later. Given everything you’ve done, people are going to demand justice. Some will want to draw blood in the name of vengeance. Dogday would rather not risk that possibility. Maybe he and Bubba could find a way to convince the Commander and the Council to let you serve your sentence here under the riders’ supervision while you are being treated.

Time was passing so agonizingly slowly compared to Dogday’s thoughts. He wishes he could get some news on your condition now. At the very least, a slow update would suffice. Anything would do to finally put his aching head to rest. As if the heavens finally decided to answer him, the doors finally opened. Everyone, asleep or otherwise perks up hearing Bobby approaching. Her eyes droop, but her small, satisfied smile told everyone what they needed to know. Dogday breathes out a sigh of relief. You still need to be monitored for the time being. The surgery may have been successful, but that doesn’t mean it will be a guaranteed smooth sailing recovery. There are still a lot of risks that need to be accounted for at this time. The Space Riders rescued you in time, and that thought is enough to finally put the canine’s whirlwind of thoughts to rest. Dogday can now focus on the next priority; figuring out a way to disclose the recent events to the people of HQ.

[thisuserislilsilly]

Summary: A dreadnought looks back on his life, on the 2nd Legion and on his Primarch.

Pairing: None

Genre: Angst holy heck there is angst

TW: Dreadnought death :<

Goblin tag squad: @finchly-tintinnabulation @cardinalcanis @artemisareia

@echo-of-damnation @meervalv0 @jaghatai-khock

@druidwolf21

In silence

It has been too long since I have felt something akin to touch in my body, and I know this is just a byproduct of my systems shutting down, of everything else giving up but my spirit.

I had not seen the shot that took me down, it is my shame and my fault for I was focused on getting my brothers out of that kill zone before it was bombarded to the Warp and back. It went through my chassis and burst something within me; my systems faltered, my "hands" for a moment stopped triggering the weapons of vengeance I have wielded for longer than I had memory of them. My second death approaches gently, like a lovers touch before eternal slumber.

"Leave me...here...regroup with the others" I hear myself speaking to him, to that little brother that has been with me since I had been entombed in this sacred sarcophagus. I have watched over him like a big brother oversees the growth of his younger sibling, to have been close to him and being taken care of by him is an honor too big for me to even accept in its fullest ways

There are warning flaring up on my visor, the constant sounds of failure and emergency protocols activating, but none of that worries me now. I can only focus on the skies, the war torn, grayed and beautiful skies up above us, who have witnessed every last second of our war against the enemy. They do not remind me of my home, because it has never existed, I was never born into a planet with skies or earth or sounds of life and tranquility; the Void was always my home, the busy life inside a fleet was my mother and the cool steel of it's walls my father.

Father. I have fought with him side by side for millennia, both when I had a real body and too in this metal flesh. If my younger self would had known what had awaited him in the Crusade of our Emperor and what would had happened afterwards with him and the Legion he was a part of...would I had been so eager to be a Mute? Would that child had done his very best in all the tests and all the exercises to be worth the honor of elevating his soul and duty to the greatness of the Astartes? One part of me doubts it, doubts I would had been strong enough to know the hardships we would had endured, but as I recall the tender yet firm gaze of the Hollowgrace as it settled on my bruised but proud little form I know there was no other fate for me other than live and die for him.

As my vision falters, as my little brother groans in silent defeat over what little can be done for me I feel...a warmth, a calm I had not felt since so many sun's ago; my battered body cannot even move in the slightest to either side to see the presence close to us, but I have known my Liege too well to not recognize him.

"Your Hollowgrace" My voice is weak, it glitches and dims in volume

"Lakros" I know him, he is smiling to me still "Come to me"

"Sire" If only could I extend my hand to him, if I could show him the gratitude that has filled my heart for all of what he has done for me

In silence I came and in silence I shall go.

He sees me, he knows what I try to say, there are no more attempts to communicate it, there are no words in spoken language that are enough for what I feel for him. I take the vow of silence, the Vanrakfia-Shul, and I do not feel cold anymore, neither do I feel any regrets for the life I have lived and the wars I have fought, the foes I have slaughtered and the allies and brothers I have saved. My vision shuts itself completely while my heartbeat slows announcing the final bells on my life, yet I am proud of it, I happily receive it in the bliss only the Hollowgrace has been able to provide me.

[chronicbeans]

Hazbin Hotel Rewrite - Worldbuilding

A reminder to everyone that I made this for FUN. I'm putting the critical tags in for those who don't like hearing rewrites and criticism of the show (which I also put in to explain why I make the changes I do).

This post is mainly about some worldbuilding changes. These include things such as how sins work, what sins are, an extra... dimension...? Reality...? Whatever Heaven, Earth, and Hell are considered to be, there's another area just for God's and Goddesses (you heard me right, there's more than just the Christian God here).

TW: Criticism of Hazbin Hotel, Criticism of Religion is Mentioned (as I feel that's what Hazbin is Trying to do but Failing), Some Parts of Lore is Purposefully Confusing Because the People in Charge Have no Idea What's Happening

The world(s) of Hazbin Hotel is going to be changed to more accurately fit what I got the vibe it was trying to do - critique Christianity's ideas of sin and redemption. However, I feel like it fails in many departments simply due to the lack of worldbuilding revolving around it. For one, what if you aren't a Christian or don't believe in the Abrahamic God in general? What is considered a sin? What isn't a sin? How does redemption work? And on a side note, how did Alastor's use of (offensively shown and represented) Voudou actually work if, supposedly, Christianity is the "correct" religion of this universe and we can guess that Voudou isn't due to no mentions of it being so?

I have something that could possibly clear up some of those things, and while it probably creates some plot wholes of it's own, it still fills the very majority ones available: All religions are true and real, meaning all Gods, Goddesses, Saints, and anything in-between are true too. The only reason why Heaven and Hell are the afterlife at the moment is because Christianity is the most common religion in the world, and because most people are expecting to go to Heaven or Hell when dying, they decided to make that the afterlife until another religion becomes the biggest. When that happens, they'll change it to whatever that religion believes the afterlife to be.

This can help with the critique of sins that I mentioned. See, in this world, because all religions are technically true, the Gods/Goddesses themselves don't know. It's become a clusterfuck that they cannot keep track of, so they have decided that whatever you believe causes eternal damnation will be a sin for you. Which, in turn, causes no one to really know what a sin is. One person got into Hell for just committing suicide, which they believed was an unforgivable sin, while someone else got into Heaven despite doing so because they didn't believe it to be a sin at all.

This can also explain how Adam got into Heaven despite not knowing what he did to get in - he is full of himself and believed he did no wrong, and none of his actions in life were things he believed were sinful. And now that he's aware that all religions are technically true, and that everything is confusing because of it, he doesn't know how to answer the question in a way that isn't even more confusing. The whole "All Religions are True" thing is confusing, which is the entire point of it.

This can also allow people to still act in ways that could be critiqued. In Hell, critiquing anybody is still hypocritical, but when you believe your own sins were not as bad as another's, it wouldn't be surprising if you decide to criticize them for that. Meanwhile, that person may not have even been in Hell for that action because they didn't believe it to be a sin. The same goes for Heaven, where people who have a holier than thou attitude may criticize others in Heaven for actions they deemed sinful in life, while that person, again, didn't see their actions as sinful.

Essentially, sin is whatever you want it to be, which makes it practically meaningless to have those rules in the first place and pointless to judge others based on it.

This would also explain Alastor's powers (which in my own rewrite will be reworked and all of the offensive stuff cut out for obvious reasons, but for the purposes of explaining this rewrite I shall mention). Because Voudou is a true religion, the powers and rituals would still hold the powers they do. The same would go with any other religion, as well, even the religions made as a criticism of certain teachings. Even Pastafarianism, aka The Church of The Flying Spaghetti Monster, which was created to critique the teachings of intelligent design as an alternative to evolution, has a place among the other Gods/Goddesses. Why? Because there are people who claim to believe in it.

Speaking of places, the place where the Gods/Goddesses and Saints all stay is called The Waiting Room. It's where they wait for their turns to control the afterlife and be the most common religion. The only ones not present at the moment are the Abrahamic God and Christian Saints, as they are in Heaven keeping things running. The Waiting Room is where you can find many religious figures simply hanging out and chatting to each other respectfully and on good terms, which is a stark contrast to how many religious zealots on Earth treat others with differing beliefs. This is the place where you can walk in and see Baron Samedi hanging out at the bar with Hades, the both of them complaining to each other about how the humans are depicting them so negatively in modern media despite them not really being bad people. Then, you can look to your right and see Shiva and Vishnu fighting on whether to demolish a broken piece of furniture or to try to fix it.

I am not entirely certain yet, but it may take the form of a small world with the religious figures staying in a large hotel. In that way, it can mirror the Hazbin Hotel. While the Abrahamic God and Heaven may not approve of the idea of the Hazbin Hotel, some within The Waiting Room might approve of it. However, since they are not part of the most common religion and have no big power over what goes on in Heaven or Hell unless it involves their religion specifically, they don't have much sway.

If I'll ever make designs for the other religion's figures, I'm not sure. I don't want to accidentally mess them up, so the most I might do is make a design I had in mind for the Von Eldritch family member tricking Alastor into thinking he is Baron Samedi, which is just the Von Eldritch member dressing up in an outfit based on the popular depictions of him. Which some might see as offhandedly designing a part of Baron Samedi. However, if I were to ever write down a chapter or something involving them, I'll try to base their personalities off their depictions in their original folklore/history.

[theoi-crow]

TW: religious trauma, threat mention, weapons mention, child neglect, homophobia, abuse, coercion and religious PTSD.

Why fearing a deity keeps me from developing a genuine relationship with that same deity.

I grew up Catholic and one of the first things my mother taught me was the concept of Heaven and Hell. Essentially after death one gets judged based on the actions they took while they were still living and is either rewarded with heaven or punished with hell. It was a simple concept to understand but it brought up a question that ultimately made me leave the religion.

Do I genuinely love God or am I afraid of his wrath? (Like a held hostage who is coerced into choosing options that won't upset my captor out of fear of his retaliation)

Even the reward of eternal bliss felt like it was designed to lessen the threat of eternal damnation as a consolation prize for all those years of panic attacks and anxiety over the thought of being sent to Hell. I always hoped for a third milder option that allowed me the freedom to develop a genuine relationship with God without said god having to rely on coercion. I wanted to experience an honest relationship without a weapon pressed against my back in case I made the wrong move or asked the wrong question.

Due to this looming threat, the relationship I had with God felt transactional and lacked genuine affection because I knew God's love for me was conditional and depended on me following arbitrary rules from a book written by a lot of different people (each author having their own agenda different from the rest so they were constantly contradicting each other because the different entries were written in different time periods and places with vastly different political movements specific to their locations and situations but were combined together, like a mass Tumblr post with over 50 blogs that don't all agree on what the rules should be).

The many rules always made me feel like Alice playing a game with the Queen of Hearts with rules that were unclear and no one was interested in explaining them to me until I did something they didn't like and were able to find something in the book that condemned me for it.

Having to adhere to these rules in order for me to be rewarded and not punished felt like a relationship between a gay child and homophobic parents that expected said child to act a certain way. If that child obeyed, they were rewarded with affection and approval, but if said child didn't, they were kicked out and forced to fend for themselves against a world that wasn't built to protect and help gay children. Being Christian felt like I had a leash around my neck being held by an entity that constantly told me he loved me, so long as I did what I was told.

I didn't think it was possible to love a deity without fearing them until I met my gods.

According to the ancient Greeks: Once a human dies they go to Hades. Unless they make some kind of undeniable mark in the world everyone goes to Hades.

If you were a famous and exceptional human that changed the world in a positive way you'd go to Elysium but you purposefully had to do something so extraordinary your legacy and name became well known because according to the Elysium wiki, in the beginning "only mortals related to the gods and other heroes could be admitted past the river Styx. Later, the conception of who could enter was expanded to include those chosen by the gods, the righteous, and the heroic." (LINK) The ancient Greeks believed the gods were in charge of giving people fame because those who were famous were often related to the gods (for example: people believed Pythagoras (the one that the Pythagorean theorem is named after) was either the son of Apollo, or Apollo himself: (LINK)

Tartarus is strictly for gods and humans can't go there but the worst humans are still punished by Hades as shown in the myths of Sisyphus (LINK) and Tantalus (LINK) but you have to royally eff up. You have to do it on purpose like enacting laws that target vulnerable people (both Sisyphus and Tantalus were kings and politically involved) or commiting mass genocide as examples of the severity I'm talking about. These are crimes against humanity you cannot accidentally do, they involve terrible deeds that are premeditated with the intent of destroying the lives of innocent people.

But if my main problem is the concept of Heaven/Hell, why am I bringing up Elysium, Hades and Tartarus, concepts that influenced how Heaven and Hell work? (LINK)

Because unless you choose to dedicate your life, time and energy and become famous for making an undeniable mark in history (an effort that isn't just you doing normal good deeds or making mistakes you later regret but actually dedicating your life and becoming well known for your efforts like activist Greta Thunberg, or purposefully hurting innocent people like serial killer Ted Bundy) everyone else goes to Hades and I love that because when I work with my gods I may not get automatic access to Elysium but there is no threat of eternal punishment either.

Which means I interact with my gods because I want to!

Not because I'll be rewarded or punished but because I want to interact with them and develop a genuine connection with them! There's no condition of me needing to convert others, in fact I don't even have to tell people I believe in them! (the gods understand the world can be a dangerous place for their followers due to the many religious wars and religious politicians in power).

I'm not required to talk about them! I'm not even required to keep this blog but I do it because I genuinely love them and I love talking about them! I've even changed majors mid semester in order to dedicate my life to learning about them. I'm studying to become an archeologist who specializes in the ancient Greek religion in order to make that information more accessible to Hellenic Polytheists and anyone else interested in the gods. I don't do it so the gods will reward me because I don't need them to, they will be just as happy if I delete this blog, quit my career and go about my day living my life. I do it because I love learning about the gods and I want to share the information I learned in case it helps those that are interested learn more about their gods too!

I've even made it my mission on Tumblr to share what I've learned about the gods to hopefully help others connect with their gods more easily especially for those who are having trouble connecting with them. And this was all unprompted. The gods literally had nothing to do with this. It was my own choice because there is a specific god I sometimes have trouble connecting with due to varying factors and it makes me feel awful when I can't connect with him, especially when I need his guidance the most so I want to help others avoid experiencing that feeling by letting them know they're not alone and helping them figure out what's blocking their connection because it can be a miserable experience.

My favorite part about a lack of reward and punishment is having the confidence to say I seek the gods because I want to seek the gods.

I walk with the gods because I want to walk with the gods. This is my will, my choice, and mine alone. No one is forcing me to do it and there isn't some big prize at the end if I do, I can stop anytime I want and nothing will happen. I have made an independent choice to seek the gods, meet them and got to know them and I can genuinely say I love them more than I ever thought was possible. I do.

I love my gods.

[eviesqueezie]

(idk if i’m supposed to put a tw for this but just know it talks a lot about sinning and religion so pls be careful guys!!)

curly, watching as ponyboy climbs the tallest tree in the lot with his switchblade between his teeth and his busted up converse untied, thinks about the church he went to when he was younger.

the candles glowed in the dimly lit room, reflecting and bouncing off the stained glass windows, shining colourful rainbows across the hall in a sense of sick mockery compared to what they were preaching.

he would always sit in the third row, held down and scolded by his mother when he fidgeted, with angela resting on tim’s hip next to him. his mother would always take an extra gulp of the communion wine, glaring at the pastor as he passed them. no coins clattered into the already rusting metal bowl as he walked by their retched excuse for a family, barely staying afloat by themselves after their most recent step father had disappeared.

ponyboy lifts himself onto a thick branch, pulling out his switchblade and wrapping his hands around the wood before gesturing with his head for curly to follow.

as curly sits, leaning into the embrace of the boy next to him, he thinks about what his mother would say. what his pastor or his priest would say as he laughs with ponyboy, smiling when he smiles and letting his eyes flicker down to his lips.

they would tell him in blunt words, that curly had always feared up until now, that he would be cast down to the pits of hell. cursed a life of misery and eternal damnation.

but he’s already had a life of misery, still has no idea what damnation means and hasn’t stepped in a church in five years.

if what he does in his back bedroom, what he does when he’s hidden away with ponyboy, makes him a sinner. then loving him must be the greatest sin of all.

[zeciex]

A Vow of Blood - 82

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

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

Chapter 82: The Coward's Heart

AO3 - Masterlist

TW: Self-harming tendencies/suicidal ideation. 15K Words

As Aemond traversed the shadowy expanse of the throne room, he felt the oppressive gaze of the past kings tracking his every step. Their faces, emerging from the enveloping darkness, seemed to scrutinize him, their eyes a silent jury casting judgment. This phantom court stirred a deep-rooted dread within him, a chilling sensation that something menacing was skirting the fringes of his awareness. It felt like an icy claw were delicately poised at the edge of his mind, ready to tear through the veil of his thoughts. 

Aemond’s gaze was drawn to one of the statues, its face not just obscured by the surrounding darkness but intentionally concealed beneath a hood carved from stone. It was a deliberate mark of shame, an eternal condemnation of a king whose reign was stained with terror and bloodshed. A kinslayer who had sealed his own damnation in the eyes of both gods and men–and whose death was delivered by the very thing he had killed so many for. 

Shadows stretched across the vast expanse of the stone floor, clawing up the walls and deepening the sense of dread that filled the room. The sparse torches along the walls flickered against the encroaching darkness, their flames casting a weak, trembling light that struggled to penetrate the overwhelming gloom. And somewhere in the distance, outside in the obsidian sky, thunder rolled ominously, each boom seeming to herald the feeling of impending doom. 

His gaze settled on the Iron Throne, its silhouette menacing in the flickering torchlight. Shadows coiled around the jagged steel, which thrust upward from the stone floor like a cluster of fangs poised to pierce flesh. The throne loomed ominously, each twisted metal bar and sharp edge appearing to twitch in the dim light, as if alive and eager for the taste of blood. 

A chill ran down Aemond’s spine, the fine hairs at the nape of his neck standing on end as a disquieting rustle filled the throne room. It sounded like the billowing of sails or the beating of wings against the wind, the sound echoing through the darkness.

Whirling towards the source of the noise, Aemond narrowed his eye, attempting to penetrate the shadows. The darkness around him seemed to pulse, its movements malevolent and fluid, echoing an unnerving rhythm that seemed almost alive. His hand instinctively found the hilt of his dagger, gripping it tightly, ready to confront whatever might emerge from the consuming blackness. 

“Who’s there?” Aemond demanded, his voice cutting through the creeping silence. His challenge hung in the air, unanswered, until the room seemed to shudder under the sudden crack of thunder outside. The windows vibrated as if in response to his query, the glass humming with the force of the storm, threatening to break inside. Rain pelted the panes relentlessly, as if the heavens themselves were enraged, the wind wailing as it swept across the castle’s ancient stones. 

In the moment, nestled between the crack of thunder and the flash of lightning, a cruel laughter unfolded–its sound twisting through the air with a malicious glee that seemed almost tangible. The eerie laughter seemed to swirl around him, carried by the shifting shadows that danced and deepened, clawing against the dimming light. It echoed through the vast, darkened hall, reverberating off the stone walls and filling the space with an oppressive sense of dread. 

“Show yourself!” Aemond demanded, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. His heart hammered against his ribs as his eye darted through the thickening shadows, seeking the origin of that sinister cackle.

“Vengeance hungers,” a voice murmured from the darkness, chilling and cruel. “You have fed the beast; now, it shall feast upon you.”

Suddenly, a pale hand appeared, pressing against the cold stone of a nearby column. Thunder boomed overhead like a war drum, and a sharp flash of lightning momentarily illuminated the room, casting ghostly shadows that flickered and danced. In the brief light, the hand vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Aemond staring at the empty space where it had been, the sound of crashing waves blending ominously with the storm’s wrath outside the windows. 

“Show yourself, you coward!” Aemond shouted into the darkness, his voice tinged with venom as his gaze darted through the encroaching shadows. He felt the chill run down his spine, an ominous sensation akin to a cold draft sweeping across his neck. The sound of crashing waves melded with the howling wind, intensifying around him like the beating of distant wings. 

Whirling around, his fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, seeking solace in the familiar weight of the weapon. Nothing. There was nothing.

And then…

“I am right here, uncle,” the chilling reply came. “The object of your ire…”

Aemond spun towards the voice, his eye locking onto the figure standing at the base of the Iron Throne’s steps. Lucerys’s figure emerged from the shadows, framed by the menacing blades of the throne that jutted out like fangs of a monstrous beast. His skin was deathly pale, almost merging with the dark, shifting shadows that surrounded him, but his eyes shone with a malevolent gleam, bright against the gloom. 

Aemond’s heart plummeted as Lucerys appeared before him, his voice a tremor of disbelief, “You’re dead.”

Lucerys responded with a smile, chilling and distorted, that seemed to make the surrounding shadows stir menacingly. As his smile receded, the shadows dispersed slightly, revealing more of his youthful features–his thick curls a testament to his bastardry. He cocked his head, mimicking the inquisitive tilt his sister often used when observing Aemond. 

The gesture twisted a knot in Aemond’s stomach. His voice came out flat and hard–a dry accusation, “Have you come to haunt me then?”

“A man unburdened by guilt wouldn’t be haunted by his actions,” Lucerys answered, his voice calm and eerily confident as he took a step closer.

Aemond instinctively retreated, pulling his dagger halfway out of its sheath, a clear threat, yet Lucerys advanced without apparent fear. 

“I bear no guilt,” he spat, firm in his conviction–he refused to be swayed by guilt; in his eyes, the death of Lucerys was nothing more than the scales of justice finding their rightful balance. 

“Are you so sure?” Lucerys challenged, his voice a whisper against the howl of the wind outside. 

“You got what you deserved.”

“You lost an eye, I lost my life,” Lucerys remarked calmly, his gaze piercing “Does that seem fair to you?”

Aemond’s response was cold and immediate. “You know nothing of what is fair.”

The thunderous crash of rain against the windows set a dramatic backdrop as Lucerys’ voice hummed through the growing chaos, “I thought you said it was a fair exchange. An eye for a dragon. And yet, you demand more–you claim I owed a debt.”

Aemond’s fury surged like the storm outside. With a fierce step forward, a single drop of rain struck his face, as he thundered, “It wasn’t a fair exchange!”

He closed the distance between them, his voice echoing off the stone walls. Lucerys watched him with a disquieting calmness, his gaze unwavering as Aemond vented, “I never should have paid a price for claiming what was free to claim! Vhagar chose me, and accepted my claim! You took my eye for that–how was that fair?”

“You think it was fair, killing me?” Lucerys’ question sliced through the din of the storm. “You think it was justice, killing me?”

“It was justice,” Aemond sneered, his voice filled with conviction. As his words hung in the air, the thunder boomed menacingly above, the storm’s fury echoing through the high arched ceilings of the throne room. 

For a fleeting second, a lightning flash illuminated his figure, revealing a grotesque visage–eyes hollow, flesh torn, limbs missing, his dark hair matted against his ghostly pale skin, as if ravaged by the grave. The horrific image vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the lingering shadow of his figure in the dim light. 

Another flash of lighting briefly lit up the throne room, casting stark, flickering shadows across the vast stone walls and the Iron Throne itself. But as quickly as it exploded, darkness swallowed everything again. Silence pervaded, oppressive and thick. Lucerys was gone–vanished as if he had never been there to begin with. Aemond stood alone amid the chilling darkness, his heart racing, the echoes of Lucerys’ voice lingering like a cold draft that slipped through the crevices of the ancient walls. Rain slipped down his back, sending a shiver through him as he searched the dark corners of the room, his heart pounding with a mix of anger and dread.

“You hunted me down like an animal,” Lucerys’ voice echoed suddenly, disembodied and haunting, swirling around Aemond in the tempestuous darkness. 

Lightning flashed violently, slicing through the thick, clouded darkness, casting intermittent, ghostly illuminations on the solemn faces of the kings who had ruled before–each one silent and judgmentail in their eternal watch. 

Aemond whirled around, his hand instinctively drawing his dagger entirely. As he drew the blade, lightning illuminated the steel, casting sharp glares that flickered menacingly in the gloom. The subsequent clap of thunder was so loud it seemed to shake the very walls of the throne room, its vibrations resonating deep within Aemond’s chest. 

“You could have ended it by giving me your eye!” He roared above the storm’s wrath. “I wouldn’t have pursued you if you had paid your debt!”

Lucerys’ form reappeared amidst the jagged swords of the Iron Throne, a specter bathed in the transient light. Rain plastered his dark hair against his forehead, his cheeks flushed with a vitality that belied his ghostly nature. 

“Even an eye wouldn’t have quenched your thirst for vengeance,” he retorted, his voice cutting through the rumbling echoes. “You wanted more than reparation–you wanted my life. Your chase wasn’t for justice; it was a hunt for blood.”

Aemond’s chest heaved, breaths ragged as the storm raged around him. “No–”

“You pursued me relentlessly!” Lucerys berated him. “You sought my death! You did this!”

Aemond’s anger flared, and he jabbed the dagger towards him accusingly, “You attacked me first!”

Lucerys moved among the Iron Throne’s menacing blades, his voice sharp as he countered, “I was defending myself. You were the hunter, and I the unwilling prey. To you, it was a game, a cruel hunt. I was nothing but a terrified child–”

“So was I!” Aemond’s voice broke, raw with past grievances and present turmoil. 

Lucerys met his gaze, the rain streaming down around them, his expression chillingly composed. “But you are a boy no longer. Nor am I.”

In the wake of another blinding flash of lightning, Lucerys vanished, his presence dissipating yet lingering palpably in the air. The storm continued to unleash its fury around Aemond, who turned slowly, his gaze piercing through the shadows and the pouring rain, searching for any sign of the boy he had condemned. Aemond stood alone yet he felt watched, haunted not just by the ghost of Lucerys but by the weight of his own actions, now irrevocably defining his path forward. 

“You taunted me,” Aemond declared, his voice thick with accusation. “You humiliated me.” His fingers tightened on the blade, rage flaring within him, a familiar and relentless flame fueled by years of resentment. “You and your cohorts ambushed me–you attacked me, gouged out my eye. I thought only to claim a dragon, to claim something for myself for once, and you punished me for it.” A bitter sneer twisted his features as the rain streamed down his face, soaking his hair. “Do you have any understanding of how I’ve suffered? The relentless pain? The insults? The humiliation?” Aemond spat. “I wear the constant reminder of it on my face!” He paused, his gaze sweeping the gloomy expanse of the throne room, haunted by shadows. “No matter my learnings, no matter the knowledge I acquire, no matter how I refine my swordsmanship or compose myself, I remain trapped in that moment–that profound injustice.”

Lucerys’ ghostly voice broke through, soft yet insistent. “I apologized–”

“That’s not enough!” Aemond spun, his blade slicing through the air. It would never be enough–not for what he did to him, not for all he’s suffered and faced because of it. He glimpsed flickers of movement just out of sight, always skirting the edge of his vision, taunting him. “It will never be enough!”

“And so, you killed me.”

“I wanted you to feel as helpless–as utterly powerless–as I did,” Aemond growled lowly. 

“You’re a coward,” Lucerys’s retort was sharp, his voice like a blade skittering across stone. “You wanted me dead.”

“Yes, I wanted you dead!” Aemond’s response was a roar, his voice rising with his fury. “I wanted you to fucking die for what you did to me.”

Lucerys’s words came with a chilling calm, his voice seemingly echoing around the throne room. As he spoke, a macabre trickle of water and blood seemed to pour from his mouth, pooling ominously on the floor. “Vhagar was merely an instrument of your deepest wishes. She exacted the vengeance you were too cowardly to claim yourself. This was never about justice–it was always about your need for revenge.”

Aemond clenched his jaw, the harsh truth reverberating around him as he swung his blade through the chilling air, desperate to silence the specter. “Yes, It was revenge.”

“And yet, you remain too much of a coward to face the consequences of your own cruelty,” Lucerys concluded, his tone dripping with disdain. “You understood the consequences when you demanded my eye, and yet, you pursued it relentlessly.”

His form blurred slightly in the shadows, his voice rising over the sound of the storm. “You chased me through the tempest, fueled by nothing but rage and a desire for vengeance. You know full well the devastation my death will bring upon her, and yet you’re too cowardly to confront the aftermath…”

Aemond’s voice was thick with scorn as he responded to Lucerys, clinging to his justification amid the swirling accusations. “I granted her the mercy of one more night believing you were alive.”

His words were laced with forced conviction as he struggled with the reality of his actions. His sneer masked a deep-seated fear, the acknowledgement of his cowardice for not facing her immediately. Each word was a feeble shield against the truth that Lucerys laid bare–the truth of his own weakness. 

“You’re a hypocrite, Aemond ‘One-Eye.’ You are pathetic and weak.” The voice of the boy he murdered echoed in the darkness–chasing after him as he spun trying to confront the boy, haunting him. “You are a coward and a kinslayer.”

A guttural growl erupted from Aemond as he continued his frenzied spinning, his blade cleaving through the empty air where Lucerys had just been–a ghostly figure always out of reach, his form dissipating like mist before he could ever really catch a glimpse of him. Each accusation from Lucerys bore into him, the words burrowing deep, festering like barbs under his skin. With every slash and turn, the inner beast of wrath within him thrashed against his ribs, desperate to break free.

“That’s all you’ll ever be,” Lucerys’s voice haunted the cold air, reverberating off the stone walls. “That lonely little boy–without a dragon, without a rightful place in this world, destined to walk this path alone.”

Bitterness coiled around Aemond’s throat like a serpent, the inner beast clawing at his heart, ripping through the old wounds of feeling lesser, sidelines, mocked, and lonely. Anguish from his youth surged, fueling his rage. 

“And you are a fucking bastard that got what he deserved,” Aemond hurled back venomously, his boots thudding against the stone as he pivoted, his dagger slicing through the relentless downpour. 

“Could she ever truly love you after what you’ve done?” Lucerys’s words sliced deeper, making Aemond’s breath hitch, his heart tearing into pieces. “How could she ever look upon you and see anything but the monster you are? How could she ever take your bloodstained hands–that crimson guilt–and place it tenderly upon her face?”

A chill ran through Aemond, the weight of Lucerys’s words sinking deep, twisting together resentment and fear into a choking tangle that felt as if it might rip his heart apart. A bitter, piercing ache swelled in the back of this throat, like swallowing jagged shards of sapphire–each as large and merciless as the one filling his eye socket–scraping painfully against the tender flesh as they embedded themselves deep within him. 

A deep, menacing growl erupted from Aemond’s throat as he roared, “Come out and face me!”

“Why should I, when you can’t even face her?” Lucerys’s voice slithered through the air, dripping with taunt. “You’re terrified of what she’ll see in you. Afraid of the revulsion in her gaze. Afraid she’ll recoil from you.”

Aemond’s sneer deepened as he lunged at the disembodied voice, his blade slicing through the thick air. 

Lucerys’s words continued to lash at him, relentless as the storm within the walls. “You once vowed to destroy her–to ruin her… How right you were…”

Aemond’s fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, his movements driven by a visceral rage–a visceral fear–as he lunged forward, aiming to strike the ghost that tormented him. The blade cut through the air, diving upwards–

And suddenly the relentless rain ceased. 

Her eyes, as blue as cornflowers, widened in utter shock–those beautiful eyes now clouded with pain. His gaze dropped sharply to the dagger, its cruel blade buried mercilessly in her flesh just below her ribs, angled upwards in a brutal attempt to pierce the heart. The steel shone ominously, slick with crimson, as it protruded from her, a silent testament to the violence it had wrought. 

Daenera gasped, a small cry escaping her lips as she staggered backwards, pulling herself free from the cold embrace of the steel. Her hand trembled as it reached to touch the crimson that stained her, her expression transforming into one of confusion and betrayal as she looked up at Aemond, her eyes searching for his explanation. 

The sound of the dagger hitting the floor reverberated through the throne room, its clatter loud in the sudden stillness as the storm’s rage subsided and the echoes of thunder faded into a heavy silence. Aemond, gripped by a sudden surge of desperation, lunged forward to catch her as she stumbled backwards. Her descent was abruptly halted by steps leading to the throne, just short of the menacing swords jutting from the cold stone. 

He dropped to his knees beside her, his hand–stained with her blood–pressing desperately against the wound in an effort to slow the bleed. Her eyes, widened with shock and fear, locked onto his. 

“A–Aemond?” Her gasp was faint, her hand weakly clutching his, her nails scraping against his skin, clawing with fading strength, as if trying to push him away–as if trying to pull him closer. 

“Please,” Aemond’s voice broke, trembling as rainwater trickled from his brow, dripping off his nose to mingle with the tears on her cheek. “I didn’t mean to do this–I never intended…I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen. I love you, please believe me.”

 Desperation tore through him, a silent, inward plea for a different outcome, for anything but this calamity–He could endure her anger and withstand her hatred, but the sight of her suffering was unbearable. His hands shook as he tried to stem the warm flow of life slipping between his fingers.

A cruel laugh sounded, “My apology wasn't enough, why should yours be?”

Tears burned in Aemond’s eyes–tears that had always remained unshed.

“Everything you touch, you destroy,” Lucerys’s voice echoed with chilling disdain, as he appeared beside him, sitting cruelly upon the throne, accusing and untouched by the storm–dry and boyish looking, eyes dark and cold. “You are a monster. A kinslayer. Damned. Cursed. You don’t know what love is.” His whisper was venomous, almost intimate. “She could never love you. You will never hear the words you so desperately want fall from her lips. She will always see you as nothing more than the monster who killed her brother.”

Aemond broke the eerie silence, calling out in anguish as he cradled her closer, drawing her onto his lap. His plea was frantic, carrying across the stormy silence. “Help! Someone, please! Save her!”

“What is a little more blood?” Lucerys hummed, rising from the throne, that damned seat seeming to crown him with its iron teeth. 

Aemond tenderly brushed Daenera’s hair back from her face, feeling her body grow disturbingly still in his arms. His heart seemed to cease beating, mirroring the slow stillness of hers. Desperation laced his whisper,” No, no, no, Daenera. Ñuha jorrāelagon. Please, I didn’t mean to–don’t leave me…”

He caressed her face gently, wiping away the tears that mingled with his own, pressing his forehead against hers, begging for her to stay. When he finally pulled back, her eyes stared back at him, empty and void of the spirit that had once burned brightly within them. 

“Perhaps it is a mercy,” Lucerys’s chilling voice sliced through the thick air as he stepped forward into view, his appearance more ghastly than before. Soaked and grotesque, his gray skin a patchwork of missing flesh, leaving chilling trails of water on the otherwise dry floor .“For both of you. Her without the sting of betrayal, and you without a heart. To end her would be a kindness.”

Aemond sneered at the apparition of the dead boy, clutching Daenera tightly, as though by sheer force of will, he could keep her from fading into eternity. “Lucerys wouldn’t say that.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Lucerys agreed, his voice low and haunting. “He won’t be saying anything ever again.”

Crouching to meet Aemond’s eye, Lucerys stare was icy and relentless. “You set this in motion. An eye for an eye. Blood for blood. A life for a life. Vengeance hungers, and now it shall feast.”

A horrifying scream shattered the silence of the throne room–

Aemond’s eye snapped open, his heart hammering against his ribs, a painful throb that resonated in his ears. The scar on his face felt as though it were aflame, and the wetness on his cheeks–tears he hadn’t realized he’d shed–stung bitterly. Confused, he ran his fingers across his damp face, shocked to find them slick with tears–tears he had never allowed himself in his worst moments of pain or fury. 

Glancing out the window, he noticed the sun perched high in the sky, much later in the day than he anticipated. It was nearing noon. 

Then, another scream, raw and harrowing, echoed down the hallway, dragging over the stone with the harsh grating of steel against rock. It was a scream drenched in despair, a scream he recognized all too well. His stomach dropped, a sense of dread coiling tightly around his heart as he realized what had happened.

Aemond surged from his bed, his movements rushed and ungainly as if his limbs were still entwined in the remnants of sleep. His body felt sluggish and unwieldy, muscles sore and protesting from the relentless hours atop dragonback in the recent days. His body was tense and fraught, a testament to the prolonged vigilance he had maintained–even in his sleep. Grasping a fresh pair of trousers, he shed the ones worn through the night, dressing swiftly. He yanked a new shirt over his head, roughly shoving it into the waist of his trousers, and then wrestled his feet into his boots.

The haunting echoes of her cries lingered in his ears, raw and piteous like those of a wounded animal. The remnants of his nightmare clung to him, seeming to claw at the edges of his being and at the fringes of his consciousness–prickling at the very tip of his fingers. They slowed the world around him as he fought through a fog, each movement and thought muddled as if he were pushing through water. 

With a swift–deliberate–motion, he cinched his belt around his waist, and ran his fingers through his tangled, unruly hair. There was no time for his usual grooming rituals, no moment spared for vanity as he pushed through the chamber doors into the corridor beyond. 

As Aemond advanced towards her chambers, the cries and clamor of destruction grew more distinct and harrowing. With each step, his heartbeat thundered unevenly in his chest–forceful and strained–echoing his mounting dread. He had justified his actions as a mercy, allowing her one more night of peace, shielded from the grim news of her brother's death and his role in it. Yet, the ghostly accusations of Lucerys haunted him, murmuring accusations of cowardice that gnawed at him.

The air was filled with her screams, each one piercing the false serenity he had tried to preserve. These sounds, stark and vivid in the daylight, tore through the veneer of clam, imbuing the air with a palpable despair that belied the brightness of the day. Her cries resonated through the corridor, each one a sharp reminder of the heavy costs–both of his duty and his thirst for vengeance. 

As Aemond strode down the hall, he was acutely aware that the news of Lucerys’s death had leaked into the realm, just as he had anticipated. He disregarded the judgmental stares directed at him, letting the whispers and mutters of ‘kinslayer’ burrow under his skin.

So what if he was? It was not anywhere near the worst he had done. 

Aemond approached Daenera’s chambers to find a small, agitated assembly gathered outside. Lady Mertha was briskly brushing off her skirts, while a young maid and a guard stood by, their expressions drawn in shock and apprehension. The chamber doors barely contained the chaos within: the sound of objects crashing to the ground, steel scraping across the floor, and items being hurled against the walls and shattering. Amidst this tumult, Daenera’s screams of rage and torment resounded, interspersed with guttural snarls and growls as she wreaked havoc within. 

“She is behaving like a rapid animal,” Lady Mertha hissed venomously, her face contorted in a scowl of disdain. “Were she truly one, she would be put down–”

“Prince Aemond,” the young maid interrupted, her voice trembling as she noted his approach, drawing the attention of the others to his presence. 

Lady Mertha’s eyes snapped to Aemond, her mouth briefly parting in a gesture to speak before halting as her gaze inadvertently drifted to one side of his face. Aemond caught the fleeting expressions of shock, revulsion, and discomfort flit across their faces as they struggled, and failed, to avoid staring at the sapphire filling his eye socket and the jagged scar tissue surrounding it. He realized then, that in his haste, he had forgotten to wear his eyepatch, revealing the unsettling replacement that often drew such reactions. 

“The girl has lost her senses,” Mertha declared sharply, her voice thick with scorn as she gestured towards the door, then clutched her reddened cheek, which showed the beginnings of a slight swelling. “She struck me and threw me out! Look at what that wretched girl did to me! And now she’s gone completely mad–”

“You told her?” Aemond interrupted abruptly, his voice heavy with anger. The irritation surged within his chest, and a dreadful anxiety coiled in his stomach, fraying at his patience. He was indifferent to the fact that Daenera had struck Mertha; he was almost certain that Mertha had made herself deserving of it. What truly irked him was the contemptuous tone Mertha used to describe Daenera.

“No, my prince,” the young maid replied hastily, her body tensing visibly as Aemond’s gaze fell upon her. She flinched again as another crash sounded from within the chamber, her youthful face creased with worry. “We haven’t told her–we were told you would–”

Her words were abruptly overshadowed by the sound of glass shattering, followed by a furious roar that melded a growl, a hiss, and a guttural scream into a single horrifying outcry.

“The princess insisted on one of her daily walks,” Mertha assumed, her mouth tightening with disapproval. “We intended to visit the Sept, but the Lord Confessor approached us before we could get there…”

Aemond’s hands clenched into tight fists at his sides, and he gritted his teeth forcefully averting his gaze as he fought the urge to turn on his heels and seek out that cripple, Larys Strong, to pummel him half to death with his own cane. Larys should have known better than to be the bearer of such news; he should have understood that Aemond was to be the one to tell her–and that was precisely why he did it. 

It was far simpler for Aemond to cast blame on Larys for stepping in, rather than confront the truth that he himself had faltered. He had stood outside her doors the previous night, hesitating, too overwhelmed by his own cowardice to face her then.

He had called it mercy–intended it as such. But it was far from it. 

Now, as he stood there, the harsh truth of his own failure gnawed at him.

“The wretched girl will destroy everything. We should send for more guards to help with subduing her,” Mertha declared harshly, looking towards the one guard there. “She should be confined to a more secure place where she can’t wreak such destruction.”

“No,” Aemond interjected sharply before the guard could leave, his gaze fixed on Mertha with an intensity that bordered on steel. “You will summon a master, and you will stay here. I will see to her.”

He did not linger for her to acknowledge his command. Striding forward, Aemond reached the doors to Daenera’s chambers. His hand hesitated momentarily on the doorknob, bracing himself for the scene that awaited him inside. The chaos had given way to an eerie silence, more daunting than the sound of her prior outbursts.

A cold shiver of dread washed over him, mingling with a deep-seated fear of what he might discover. Clenching his jaw, he took a steadying breath and pushed the door open, stepping inside and shutting the world out behind him.

The devastation within her chambers were staggering, resembling the aftermath of a storm–a storm similar to the one he had flown through when he had pursued her brother with a heart full of rage and a taste of retribution on his tongue. It mirrored the storm that had plagued his nightmare, the very one that had seemed to have spilled into the throne room, echoing thunderously between the columns and under the arched ceilings–now it seemed to have poured in here as well. 

With a sinking heart, Aemond observed the path of destruction. Shelves had been upended, their contents strewn across the floor. Every surface had been swept clean, its former decorations now shattered remnants at his feet. Tapestries that had once adorned the walls were now torn and tattered, lying in disarray. Feathers were scattered like a macabre snowfall, and the crunch of broken glass and porcelain shards under his boots punctuated his every step as he ventured deeper into the chaos with apprehension twisting in his stomach. 

A dreadful sense of foreboding coiled around Aemond’s heart as his eye finally settled on her, her figure nearly obscured by the settee placed before the hearth in a small sitting area. 

There she sat, arms wrapped around her knees, her gaze fixed intently on the dancing flames. Her hair cascading wildly around her form–a dark shroud that contrasted sharply with the bright light pouring in through the windows. In that light, she appeared diminutive and fragile, utterly consumed by the depths of her despair–her eyes empty and unseeing.  

With cautious steps, Aemond moved through the chaotic remnants of her fury, the crunch of broken objects under his boots echoing in the quiet room. His gaze remained on her, unwavering even as he treaded over the debris. He did not sidestep the scattered ruins; instead, he walked straight through them, forging a direct path to her. His heart pounded within his chest, each beat echoing a painful rhythm that seemed to amplify his trepidation. 

As he drew closer, he noticed the disturbing smears of blood on her hands, which streaked up her arms and marred her pale skin, tainting the white chemise she wore. He approached her cautiously, as one might approach a startled animal, careful and with bated breath, wary that any abrupt movement might send her spiraling into further despair or provoke a sudden outburst. 

The sight of the blood unnervingly echoed the visions of his nightmare–the horrifying moment when her blue eyes had widened in shock, the ease with which his blade had plunged into her flesh without any resistance, the way she had gasped and stumbled backward, removing herself from the cold steel as blood blossomed like a terrible flower. He could almost feel the warmth of her blood on his hands again, that all too familiar stickiness–could almost feel the dead weight of her body in his arms.

Aemond crouched down beside her, bringing himself to her level. As he did, his mouth became dry, his throat constricting with emotion. Yet, he summoned a tenderness that ached in its depths, and he whispered her name, his voice dreading through the heavy silence like a delicate whisper. “Daenera…”

She did not react to her name, her gaze fixed on the flames before her. Her body remained still, save for the subtle tensing of her muscles. As the orange light flickered in the blue of her eyes–like a burning sun against a night sky–Aemond felt a falter in his heart, a deep, unsettling stir of emotions. 

“Daenera…” Aemond murmured again, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair behind her ear, an attempt to coax her back from the distant recesses of her mind. Her lips parted slightly in a soft exhale, her face turning a little before her eyes finally followed, meeting his. 

Carefully, he cradled her head, his touch tender, meant to offer some measure of comfort–if he could even do that. He couldn’t discern whether it was for her benefit or his own, but Aemond felt that familiar prickle in his fingertips when he touched her, a fluttering of weakness in his heart that made the darker part of him want to withdraw solely because it was all too much–because it made him vulnerable to whatever poison she may impart him with. 

Daenera neither withdrew from his touch nor leaned into it as she usually did. Instead, she remained unnervingly still, her eyes red and puffy from tears, the tracks of her weeping still etched clearly on her cheeks.

Aemond held her as if she were something delicate and precious–and by the gods, she was. He held her the way one would hold a bird with broken wings, gently. And he felt that horrible beast within him clawing at his chest–felt that awful need for her that softened his heart, making him weak and more susceptible to the savage grip of his inner turmoil, threatening to rip it apart. 

“Tell me,” she murmured hoarsely, her voice raw and scratchy from crying. A tremor passed through her lips, the corner of which turned downward even as she fought to suppress it. “Tell me it isn’t true…”

Aemond maintained a carefully neutral expression, fearing that any crack in his composure, any slip of the mask, might worsen the situation. Her words pierced him like a slow, excruciating blade, weaving through his defenses and aiming straight for his heart. 

Unable to provide the comfort or the denials she desperately sought, he remained silent, his expression enough to reveal the grim truth. It was clear in his eye–he had done it. And he knew she’d see it on his face. 

“Tell me it isn’t true,” she implored him, her voice thick with desperation as she begged for him to lie to her. “Tell me that what they said isn’t true–that you didn’t do it.”

Her head shook slowly in disbelief, her eyebrows arching in an expression of utter devastation. Yet, she seemed to cling to a sliver of hope, a desperate plea for him to refute the truth. 

“It’s true,” Aemond confessed, his voice soft yet laced with the rawness of an open wound–bleeding with honesty. He could not bring himself to lie, not when no falsehood could adequately shield her from the truth of what he had done. 

Brutal honesty was the only offering he had left for her–and that had no mercy at all.

A choked sob ripped through Daenera’s throat, and she turned her face away from him, as if to shield him from the devastation that his confession swept over her. Yet, even in her attempt to hide, he saw the clear signs of her anguish–the way her shoulders trembled, the way her hand twisted and clutched at the fabric over her heart as if trying to reach in and hold her breaking heart together. 

When she faced him again, her eyes blazed with accusation and pain. “What happened?!”

Aemond welcomed her scorn like a sinner might accept his penance. He would have gladly knelt before her and begged for forgiveness if he believed it would relieve her of her grief. Yet, he knew that forgiveness would not come from her–not justly so–and he could not bring himself to ask for it.

Forgiveness seemed like a double-edged sword–it would be selfish of him to seek it, fully aware that granting such absolution was beyond her heart to forgive. By even contemplating absolution, he would only cut himself open–would only leave him to bleed.  

His action had been those of monstrous retribution, and monsters, by their very nature, did not seek forgiveness for their deeds. Instead, they swallowed the decay of their actions and carried the burden silently, festering within them like a relentless rot. 

“How could you do this? Why would you do this?!” Daenera’s voice crackled with fury as she sneered at him, her features contorting with scorn. Abruptly, her hand shot out, seizing him by the shirt with such force that Aemond nearly lost his balance. She clung to him desperately–as though fearing he would slip away like smoke between her fingers–her grip anchoring him in place as a vicious snarl parted her lips.

Through the storm of her anger, Aemond couldn’t help but think she looked beautiful–her eyes ablaze with fury, lips curled as if ready to rip his throat out with her teeth, tears streaking down her anguished face, her eyebrows arched in a poignant mixture of sorrow and rage. She looked both devastated and hauntingly beautiful–a vision he knew would torment her to his dying days. 

“Why would you do this?” She repeated, her voice teetering on the edge between a soft demand and a raw accusation. “How could you do this?” As her voice broke, her eyebrows knitted together, and a steely hardness settled into her gaze as she hissed, “You killed him.”

Aemond had to look away, unable to withstand the sting of her hatred as it slipped beneath his armor and cut into the tender flesh beneath. He swallowed hard, gritting his teeth, before forcing himself to meet her gaze once more. Her eyes searched his face incredulously, flickering across his features as if trying to pry open his expression and expose the truths hidden within–even those he refused to face himself.

The urge to reach out to her prickled at his fingertips. He longed to cup her face in his hands, to gently wipe away her tears–or even taste them if she would permit it. He yearned to press his lips to hers, to feel their dry, soft touch, and to bury his face in the crook of her neck, losing himself in the warmth and scent of her. More than anything, he wanted to lay his head against her chest, to listen to her heartbeat–strong and steady, so alive and vibrant, unlike the lifeless echo in his nightmares. 

And yet, Aemond wanted nothing more than to rid himself of such vulnerabilities–knowing that they would only expose and cut him open, making him more susceptible to a world that regarded him with disdain. 

With a sudden, forceful shove, Daenera sent him staggering backward. He lost his balance, tumbling to the ground and bracing himself with his hands on the cold stone floor. He winced as shards of glass embedded into his palms with a sharp sting. Righting himself, he met her gaze once more, finding horror etched across her features as she stared back at him with a mix of revulsion and disbelief–and utter betrayal. 

“I presented your brother with a choice,” he began, his voice even and collected, though he tasted the bitterness of his words on his tongue. “I demanded he put out his eye as payment for mine–that he repay the debt he owed.”

As he spoke that familiar bitterness surged within him, the ache of a festering wound that no act of retribution could ever hope to heal. 

Killing Lucerys had not restored Aemond’s eye; instead, it had taken something deeper from him–leaving him as incomplete as before, perhaps even more so. This only deepened that festering resentment. If only Lucerys had complied, had cut out his eye as demanded, Aemond wouldn’t have pursued him. He wouldn’t have killed him, and he wouldn’t be tormented by this festering, weeping wound within him that no act of vengeance could heal. 

Yet, a cruel, boyish voice whispered from the dark recesses of his mind, mocking his justification. Even an eye wouldn’t have quenched your thirst for vengeance.

A pain that began as a mere prickle wove its way through Aemond’s scar, burrowing deep into the socket, settling somewhere behind the sapphire. It curled cruelly within his eye, intensifying into a searing agony that forced him to grit his teeth. This pain, both familiar and merciless, was unknown to Lucerys; he had never felt how it honed Aemond into a sharp, cold blade, how it made him cruel and unforgiving–how it had planted a seed of a beast within him that yearned to destroy and lay ruin to everything around him. 

“He refused–” Aemond ground out through clenched teeth, swallowing thickly as he was cut off. 

“He was a child,” Daenera spat, her voice thick with accusation–he felt it sting along the curve of his scar, felt it like a slap to the face. The corners of her lips pulled downward, her head shaking slightly as a pained expression crossed her face. “He was only a child.”

“So was I,” Aemond replied, his voice maintaining a strange evenness despite the surge of that familiar, burning resentment curling within his chest like a serpent poised to strike. He felt the relentless beast within him pace, its claws scraping at his resolve, the urge to lash out growing stronger. And even then, his voice came out soft, almost sad. “Everyone seems to forget that I, too, was a child when he gouged out my eye.”

Why was it always him who had to rise above? Aemond’s thoughts churned with these questions, his frustration palpable. When would it be his turn to receive justice? Why was he expected to endure suffering while the one who had wronged him had remained unpunished?

“Your brother permanently disfigured me,” Aemond stated, his voice growing cold and hard, as he felt the flames of that burning resentment lick at his heart. “And for years, he faced no consequences for his actions–years during which the injustice remained unpunished.”

His pursuit to right the wrong done to him had been an attempt to balance the scales. Yet, those scales had bent under the weight of his will, tipping more towards vengeance than justice–but it had been meant to be justice.

“For years, I’ve endured insults and humiliation, years of enduring pain and torment because of what he did… You may think he only took my eye, but he took so much more than that.”

Every slight and affront had only fueled the festering darkness within Aemond–he absorbed each stinging comment, endured each humiliation with a stoic mask. He had borne the excruciating pain, experienced every invasive treatment, he had weathered it all, and for what? For the wrong to remain unpunished? 

“I wanted him to understand the full extent of what he did to me, and so I demanded his eye in return,” Aemond rationalized.

It seemed only fair, didn’t it?

He had been told by Viserys to let it go, to forgive and forget the harm that had been inflicted upon him without any real remedy–there had been no apology or acknowledgement of the wrongs that had been done to him, so how could he ever let it go? How could he ever forgive? How could he accept an apology when his assailant could never truly comprehend the depth of his suffering?

Daenera’s gaze fell on him with such despair that Aemond felt as if shards of ice were piercing his heart. Her eyebrows drew downward, intensifying the blaze in her blue eyes–a blaze that mirrored the flames dancing in the hearth but seemed to stem from a deeper, more ferocious inferno. 

“And that justified you taking his life?!” Daenera hissed, her voice dripping with disdain as her chapped lips were tightly drawn over her teeth and her brows furrowed deeper in rage. “He was defending his brother–protecting him from when you went to cave Jace’s head in with a fucking rock!”

Aemond wanted to say that he wouldn’t have killed Jace, but that would have been a lie. He didn’t know his true intentions when he had lifted that rock; all he knew was that he was defending himself after they had attacked him. Was there a part of him that, in that moment, had wanted Jace dead? Yes. But would he have gone through with it? He didn’t know, he hadn’t had the chance to decide. And they would never know. All Aemond knew was he had a right to defend himself.

Any sharp retorts that formed in the fire of his resentment, died on his tongue as he witnessed the despair on her face–her tears overflowing, tracing paths down her cheeks.

“Did you know,” she choked out, her voice trembling with emotion, “that he’d sneak into my bed at night, tormented by guilt for cutting out your eye? Even when it was in defense of his brother?”

Aemond stared at her, absorbing her words as if they were something rotten and poisonous. He had never witnessed any sign of guilt in the boy, never detected a trace of remorse for what he had done–and to hear now that Lucerys might have felt guilty only hardened something within him. He struggled with disbelief, finding it impossible to accept that the boy who had mocked him so brazenly would have felt guilty for what he had done.

No, Lucerys apology had been nothing more than mockery–just as he had mocked him with the pig. The apology had been insincere and hollow, devoid of any real acknowledgement or genuine remorse for the harm he had inflicted, for what he had done to Aemond–for what he had made him into. 

And Aemond refused to harbor any guilt for killing him. He refused.

Aemond’s gaze stayed fixed on her, observing the trembling of her lips and the tears that shimmered in her eyes. He saw something vicious stirring within the deep blue of her gaze, reminiscent of a storm brewing beneath the ocean’s surface. This tempest seemed poised to shred sails and splinter any ship upon its sea, dooming those onboard to the merciless whims of a hungry sea–and he was no different, he felt that he too would break apart on unforgiving waves. 

Her face twisted into a vicious sneer as she lashed out at him with piercing words. “If only he had aimed lower. If only he had slit your throat.”

Her words shot through the air like arrows, each one striking him with cruel, unyielding force. Aemond fought against the instinct to flinch, instead straightening his back to carry the weight of them. The beast within him stirred, provoked by the sting of her accusations. It clawed at his chest, urging him to retaliate, to inflict wounds as deep as those she had carved into him. Yet, he battled this urge, striving to maintain the mask of cold detachment he wore, restraining the tempestuous emotions that threatened to break free–to lay waste to all he held dear. 

Aemond resigned himself to her cruelty–after all, what else had he expected? Did he imagine she would take his bloodstained hands and gently place them upon her cheek? Did he hope she might caress his cheek and press her forehead to his, offering a moment of solace?”

As sharp as her rage felt as it slipped beneath his armor, he didn’t expect anything less. He would endure her cruelty, withstand her disdain, as long as she lived, as long as her heart continued to beat–however dissonant it was with his own.

“I never meant to kill him,” Aemond found himself murmuring, his voice not entirely his own. The confession emerged on its own, not entirely a conscious choice–they slipped from his lips like those of a sinner seeking absolution at the altar of the gods. 

Yet, he did not truly seek repentance, for he knew that there was none to be found. Indeed, he was a sinner, a monster–but a monster that was made, not born. And now, sitting before her, watching his words settle over her like snow upon a desolate landscape, he saw her eyes widen, tears flowing freely, her face painted with utter betrayal and despair. In that moment, he felt less a monster and more a boy–a boy who yearned to hold something gently but had never learned how. 

“I only meant to scare him,” Aemond confessed softly, his voice barely above a whisper as if fearing that his words might shatter her further. His heart thudded erratically within his chest, each beat a painful reminder of what he had done. He needed her to understand what had driven him, why he had lost control. “I wanted him to feel the same fear that I felt when you all ambushed me. I wanted him to feel as scared and powerless as I did when he cut out my eye…”

Truly, that had been his only intention, hadn’t it? Yet, that dreadful, boyish voice in the back of his mind clawed at his soul, demanding recognition of a darker truth. He had wanted Lucerys dead. And Lucerys had died. What more was there to say?

A pained expression etched itself across Daenera’s face–an expression wrought with despair, heartbreak, and betrayal. It distorted her features into a cruel mockery of their usual beauty, mirroring the haunting visage he had seen in his nightmare–when she had staggered away from him, her hand brushing against a fresh wound only to come away stained with blood, and she had collapsed, he had cradled her desperately, pleading with her not to leave him.

Yet, despite the torment reflected in her eyes, Aemond found himself unable to halt the harsh words that drove a blade into her heart. 

“So, I chased after him,” Aemond murmured, his voice sounding distant, even to his own ears–and so awfully cold. “So, I chased after him. I just wanted him to experience that fear and powerlessness… I never set out to kill him. I didn’t intend to–”

“You…” Her voice was clipped, and she drew in a desperate breath as if his words had stolen the air from her lungs. Her eyebrows knitted together in a mix of confusion and pain. “You never meant to kill him…”

Aemond closed his eye for a moment, unable to bear the sight of her pained expression–unable to watch as her gaze shifted from him, her confusion deepening. Slowly, that bewilderment transformed into disbelief. She inhaled sharply, her expression hardening into one of betrayal. Her hand rose to clutch at her chemise again, gripping it tightly. The fabric twisted under her grasp as if she were trying to reach inside her own chest to hold her breaking heart together with her own bare hand. 

“I lost control–” Aemond began, attempting to bridge the chasm that had opened between them, standing precariously on the edge of an abyss. “Arrax attacked Vhagar–”

“You chased after him,” Daenera interjected sharply, her voice tense like a bow pulled too tight, the wood cracking beneath the force of it. “You pursued him with your dragon. You.” Her words were edged with a fierce snarl, her teeth bared in a display of raw anger. “What did you think was going to happen?”

Again, each word struck him like an arrow, piercing through his armor and embedding itself into his flesh, tearing at him with a pain as vivid as when the blade had sliced through his eye. And yet, as he had when they had stitched his wounds, he endured it with a steely resolve. 

“Don’t you dare blame Arrax for trying to protect his rider. He would have sensed his fear,” Daenera sneered at him, her fingers digging into the flesh of her thighs, her anger palpable and ever so pointed. “I’ve witnessed the bonds they forge with their riders. It was your anger, your resentment that Vhagar reacted to. She would have felt your hatred, and she acted upon it–acted upon your desire for revenge. You didn’t lose control, Aemond, you wanted to kill him. The moment you choose to chase after him, you made your decision.”

Aemond watched her as her temper flared–watching her like one might watch an approaching storm, bracing for its inevitable impact. He knew what was coming, and in some dark part of himself, he welcomed it, ready to face the full force of her wrath. 

And the force of it, he felt as she shoved him roughly, her movements sudden as she shifted onto her knees heedless to the shards of glass on the floor. She straddled one of his outstretched legs, rose up in front of him with a sneer on her face. Aemond could smell almost her wrath emanating from her–a metallic tang of blood that clung to her skin and the heat of a crackling fire, and something else, something sweeter that seemed almost incongruent with the moment. 

“You killed him! You did,” She accused, the sharp sting of her nails digging into the skin of his shoulders, the muscles taut beneath the touch. 

Aemond tilted his head back to look up at her, her words slicing through him as sharply as the shards of glass that dug into the skin of his palms. He could feel the glass grinding between his hand and the stone floor beneath them. Swallowing thickly, his heart twisted painfully inside his chest, the taste of wrath and resentment lingering on his tongue. Inside, he felt the beast of his darker impulses strain against his control, threatening to break free under the weight of her words–it writhed to sink its claws into something, to tear at someone mercilessly, to ruin and destroy.

“You wanted him dead,” Daenera sneered, each word an indictment–a condemnation of his soul. “You wanted revenge. And now you’re too much of a coward to admit it–”

In that heated moment, Aemond cloud almost hear the crack of thunder and the echoes of Lucerys’s voice haunting the back of his mind, accusing him relentlessly; you hunted me down like an animal.

Even an eye wouldn’t have quenched your thirst for vengeance. 

You wanted more than reparations–you wanted my life.

You pursued me.

     You sought my death.

You are a coward.

      You wanted me dead. 

You are a coward.

     You’re a coward.

You’re a–

“Yes!” The word erupted from Aemond with the same ferocity as when Vhagar had burst forth from the stormcloud, her jaws clamping viciously around the boy and his dragon, consuming them whole. The beast within him bared its bloodied teeth at her, seeming to break free from any semblance of restraints. It unleashed itself upon her with the force of his words, raw and merciless. “I wanted him dead–I wanted revenge for what he did to me. I wanted to kill him for it… and I did. I killed him.”

How many times had Aemond imagined ending Lucerys’s life? How many years had he harbored such thoughts? How long had he contemplated it at night before falling asleep? For how long had he longed Lucerys’s death, foolishly believing it would make him whole again, that it would return that which he had lost?

But he wasn’t whole–and it seemed, he never would be. 

Instead, the act had taken even more from him. 

It left him feeling empty and disappointed, if not lost–and fearful, terribly, terribly fearful and alone.

Had he always been a monster?

Aemond had been the one to give chase through the storm, his desire for Lucerys’s death a smoldering ember that had perhaps ignited fully the moment he mounted Vhagar. The dragon had merely acted in accordance with her nature–responding to his own dark desires. Was this cruelty not embedded in his very nature? It seemed all he had ever known, all he could comprehend even now he couldn’t help but be cruel, couldn’t help but admit to it.

“I’m not sorry that he’s dead–”

In the brief space between heartbeats, in the mere blink of an eye, the chilling sound of steel being drawn slicked through the air between them like a discordant melody. He felt the cold press of metal against his throat, an eerie familiarity to its touch. It bit into his skin, not deeply enough to draw blood, but sufficiently to leave a stinging reminder of its presence. 

The sheer wrath and devastation etched across her face burned fiercer than any flame, her eyebrows furrowed deeply, the corners of her lips trembling, and as she towered over him, resembling a fiery goddess of fury and vengeance, her eyes blazing with a fierce intensity, he couldn’t help but find her strikingly beautiful–even with the blade pressed against his skin, even amidst the looming threat of retribution and bloodshed. It was a terrible realization, recognizing the beauty in devastation, finding allure in the midst of violence. 

Her lips trembled as they parted for a ragged breath, and his gaze was irresistibly drawn to them. Despite their dryness, they appeared incredibly soft. Her chest heaved, the fabric of her chemise hanging flatly around her, subtly revealing the familiar contours beneath–the gentle curves he knew so intimately, the fullness of her breasts, the softness of her skin that he had once felt against his own. 

To steady himself, he pressed his palms harder against the shards of glass beneath him, grinding them into the floor as he sought control over his frayed emotions.  

Aemond tilted his head back slightly more, bearing his neck to her. He felt the tremble in her fingers, the way her nails dug into his shoulders as if to steady herself. His eye locked onto hers as her expression shifted from a sneer to bewilderment, then hardened into determination. He felt the blade’s cold edge graze his sin; it burned, and a trickle of blood began to run down his neck. 

Aemond could see the conflict raging within her–the intense desire to slit his throat and exact her vengeance, to take his life as he had taken her brothers. This impulse to draw blood and finde justice in his suffering was palpable, tasted like copper on his tongue. Yet, alongside this raw, vengeful desire, he saw another force play within her, something equally as devastating but far more bittersweet. 

In that moment, a resigned thought crossed his mind; kill me now, as long as it is by your hands, and come find me in the seven hells.

Oh, how she had poisoned him. 

Love was a poison, wasn’t it? Terrible and devastating with its sweetness, and yet he had willingly drunk her poison, becoming hopelessly dependent on the taste of it. He would accept her poison in any form–on the edge of a blade, if not her lips.

“You’re a monster,” Daenera hissed, her voice laden with both accusation and a need to reaffirm the truth to herself as much as to him. “You’re a fucking kinslayer.”

Aemond made no attempt to deflect her condemnation. Instead, he allowed her words to pierce him like sharp claws, cutting through the armor he had constructed around himself. They tore into his flesh, cracking open his chest to lay bare his heart–vulnerable and pathetically soft–ready for her to devour. There was no denying the cruel truth; he was a kinslayer–a monster condemned by both the gods and man. He had become exactly what he had been shaped to be. 

If she despised him, every decision he made henceforth would be easier, he thought. Yet, buried deep within the shredded, tender confines of his heart, Aemond harbored that dreadful yearning for her love–a love for the connection that his actions had mercilessly severed. He was pathetically in love with her, and he loathed himself for it as intensely as he wished he could despise her for igniting such feelings. 

A monster shouldn’t know love, nor should it crave being loved. 

Yet, he did.

Just as he bore the constant pain within the scar over his eye, he would carry this–a scar upon his heart, an unhealable wound. He wondered whether this, too, might fester like the enduring resentment tied to the loss of his eye. 

Aemond let Daenera’s fury envelop him, hoping it might purge him of the sin of loving her or steel him against the hatred burning in her eyes. He would not deny her condemnation–he was a monster, he was a kinslayer. “I am.”

Despite his intentions, he found himself irresistibly drawn to her. Compelled by a force he could neither fully control nor understand, he reached out and placed his hand gently on her hip. He neither pulled her closer, as his heart desired, nor pushed her away, as his mind urged. His touch seemed to surprise her, causing a reflexive jerk that made the blade nick his skin, drawing a thin line of blood. 

The frown on Daenera’s face deepened, with a line etching itself between her brows, her eyes aflame with disgust and resentment. “I should fucking cut your throat and be done with you.”

Her sneer carried a profound bitterness that seemed to cling to her tongue as much as it did his, and there was a palpable agony in the way the corners of her lips trembled.

“You deserve it,” she hissed, pressing the blade further into his throat, her body weight bearing down on him as if to compel her own hand. “You fucking deserve it!”

Aemond bared his throat to her, a defiant challenge in his eye as he dared her to end the wretched existence she had forced upon him. “Do it.”

But she couldn’t bring herself to do it. 

And as if to twist the knife of their shared misery, he taunted her with that familiar ease of cruelty. “Make a kinslayer of the both of us.”

Her face contorted with a painful realization then, and she recoiled from his touch as though it had seared her skin. Scrambling back, she withdrew from him, settling onto the cold stone. 

Glass chimed against the floor, scattering from her bloodied and bruised knees, while the sound of steel scraping over stone filled the air as she curled in on herself. A scream erupted from her, tearing through the room and slicing through Aemond–a sound he knew would haunt him in the dead of night. It cut deeper into him, inflicting a wound more profound than the blade had ever delivered. 

She gasped for breath as if surfacing from underwater, as if she’d been drowning, and a strange emptiness settled over her. Her gaze dropped to the blade in her hand, and Aemond saw a flicker of something dark within her expression–a terrible resolve taking root. His heart plummeted as she lifted the blade to her own throat. Reacting instinctively, Aemond lunged towards her, wrapping his hand around hers to steady the blade and prevent her from doing any real damage. 

His heart pounded painfully and erratically within his chest, his brows furrowing deeply as he stared at her with indignant fury. The mere thought that she might consider harming herself–that she might slit her own throat and bleed out in his arms while he desperately pleaded for her to stay with him–enraged him. 

Daenera’s hand clamped down on his wrist as he attempted to pull the blade away from her neck. Her nails dug into his flesh, painfully prying her hand from his grasp. Her skin, already marked by scrapes, suffered further as the shards of glass embedded in his skin caused superficial wounds on hers. 

With force, she pressed the hilt of the blade into his hand, making his fingers curl around it. The glass dug deeper into his skin as she cruelly guided his hand–and the blade–back to her throat, pressing it against the delicate column of her neck. A trickle of blood emerged where the blade nicked her skin, streaming down her neck as she struggled to hold his hand there, while he fought to pull it away without hurting her. 

Deliberately, she tilted her head back, exposing more of her neck to the blade, and challenged him with a haunting demand, “Murder me like you murdered my brother.”

Aemond’s breath caught, halting as he stared at her. His heart ceased beating for a moment, then began to pound painfully against his ribs, threatening to cut itself open on her words. Fear clawed at the back of his throat, his gaze locked on her, utterly dismayed by the cold expression on her face. 

“Go on,” Daenera said flatly, her voice void of emotion,” murder me like you murdered my brother…”

Aemond’s head shook in disbelief, dread filling his veins. 

“Kill me,” she urged “You wanted to kill bastards. Slay me as you did my brother, Kinslayer.” Her grip tightened on his hand, her movements forcing the blade to nick her skin further. “Murder me like you murdered my brother!”

“I can’t!” Aemond’s voice erupted furiously. The admission felt as if it had been wrenched from the depths of his soul–against his will. Part of him longed to be rid of this agonizing, pathetic weakness she had kindled within him–a part of him wished to rid himself of her as if it might purge the tortuous ache pulsating in his heart, the yearning for her love that itched in his veins. 

“Don’t you see?” His voice cracked, laden with desperation. Couldn’t she see what she has done to him? Couldn’t she see how she possessed his heart, defying all reason? Couldn’t she see the extent to which she had poisoned him? “I love you.”

Her eyes widened, a flicker of shock passing through them, and he felt the pressure on his throat lessen as his confession hung in the air between them. Her brows furrowed, her head shaking slightly in disbelief, and then her features twisted into something cold and vicious. 

His heart beat furiously against his ribs, enveloped in dread–and terror, it seeped into his blood and poured into his body like poison. He knew his admission was cruel, but she needed to know–needed to understand the depths of his turmoil. 

“Daenera,” Aemond barely managed to utter, her name escaping his lips as a desperate plea, imploring her not to force his hand, “Please, let go of the blade…”

His voice was thick with emotion, each word soaked in a mixture of fear and plea, begging her to step back from the dark precipice she teetered upon–the narrow point of a knife's edge. 

A trickle of blood etched another path down her neck, meandering over her collarbone to disappear beneath the edge of her chemise, staining the fabric. His gaze followed the crimson line, then lifted to meet her eyes–cold and vengeful, a sneer curving her lips. “Kill me now, Aemond. Or I swear, I will take from you that which you have taken from me.”

Aemond recognized the venom in her threat– a dark, binding vow of vengeance. He saw within her the same festering darkness that had driven him, the relentless force that had propelled him to chase her brother through the storm in search of something darker than justice. 

Blood for blood. 

A brother for a brother.

The threat against his family–against his brothers–should have instinctively driven him to press the blade tighter to her throat. The need to defend and protect his family was deeply ingrained in him, both an inherited duty and a learned one. Yet, he found himself unable to do so. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. 

Her voice was as chillingly cold as the look in her eyes, her words delivered with an almost gentle cadence, “It would be a mercy, wouldn’t it? What is a little more blood on your hands?”

A crack of thunder echoed from the dark recesses of his mind, sending a shiver of dread up his spine. For a fleeting moment, something ghastly caught in the gleam of the blade–a spectral image with pallid skin, dark hair plastered wetly to its forehead, milky eyes, and patches of flesh missing. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, yet the whisper of that voice lingered hauntinly in the back of his mind; what is a little more blood? Perhaps it was a mercy. For the both of you. For her without the sting of betrayal, and you without a heart. To end her would be a kindness. 

With a furious sneer, Aemond wrenched himself away from her, forcefully pulling the blade back from her neck. In his abrupt movement, the blade grazed her skin slightly, a trickle of blood marking the path down her neck. The blade clattered harshly against the stone floor as he pinned it down with his hand, struggling to hold himself upright. The sting of glass embedded in his skin had become a distant sensation, overwhelmed by the surge of anger and bitterness that consumed him. 

How could she ask this of him? How could she even harbor such a desire?

It was cruel. She was cruel. 

Daenera released a humorless chuckle, her head shaking as a smile played across her face–a smile that pain and betrayal quickly twisted into something grim and mocking. “I will make you regret this.”

Aemond closed his eye, feeling her words sear into his very bones. He swallowed hard, struggling to contain the tumult of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him, fighting to control the devastation that echoed through his heart. 

“I will make you regret letting me live,” she vowed, her voice steely. “I will take from you that which you’ve taken from me.”

Aemond rose to his feet and sheathed the blade. His response was a solemn acknowledgement, laden with the weight of inevitably, “I know.”

He observed as the fiery intensity in her eyes slowly extinguished, replaced by a colder, more distant expression. Her gaze shifted from him to the flames crackling in the hearth, dismissing his presence and letting a heavy silence envelop the room. She sat before the fire like a specter, her skin pale, marred with scrapes and bruises, and her chemise stained with smears and dots of blood. 

An intense urge to reach out to her prickled at his fingertips–to brush her hair back, to assess and soothe her wounds, to clean her hands of glass and blood. But he knew he couldn’t offer such comfort, and even if he could, she wouldn’t accept it. 

As he turned to leave, her voice halted him–small and strained, it carried an anguish that seemed to rise above the destruction on the floor, crawling up his spine and clawing into his very being. 

“I love you too,” Her words, barely more than a whisper, resonated with a poignant intensity that pierced the thickening silence. 

His heart stilled, and he turned back to her. Pain prickled behind his eye as his throat constricted, suffocating his breath. His chest tightened painfully as he absorbed the words he had yearned to hear–words that had always seemed just beyond his grasp.

She could never love you, Lucerys had taunted. You will never hear the words you so desperately want to fall from her lips.

Yet, here they were.

And how terrible it was. 

These were the words Aemond had always longed to hear from her, but receiving them now, amidst the ruins of their love, felt almost unbearable–it was almost better not to have heard them at all. 

“I loved you. How terrible is that?” She continued, her voice heavy with pain. “I hate myself for loving you. I wish I didn’t…”

Aemond clenched his teeth and balled his hands into fists, finding a twisted comfort in the pain that bit into his them. Any physical pain was preferable, easier to endure than the raw emotional torment her words inflicted–and yet, he remained still, heart bared for her to sink her teeth into. 

“You made me love you, and you killed my brother…” A sob shook her as she inhaled sharply, her breath ragged, tears streaming down her cheeks. “And still, there’s some terrible part of me that loves you, as if it’s yet to understand what you’ve done…”

Despite the warmth of the sunlight streaming in from the windows and the heat emanating from the fire in the hearth, a chill coursed through Aemond’s veins, the weight of her words chilling him to the core. 

“What does that make me?” She asked with a quivering voice. “To still love the man who murdered my brother? Does that make me a monster too, or just a fool–a stupid, naive fool?” The words were laced with contempt. “You are a kinslayer… and I…”

It was almost unbearable to hear–too overwhelming as she offered him the very words he had longed for, only to snatch them away again, like some capricious and cruel god. He loves her–he had loved her when he had demanded her brother’s eye. He had loved her as he pursued him through the storm. He had loved her even as Vhagar had closed her jaws around the boy, swallowing him whole. He had loved her when he had become a kinslayer. His love persisted, tainted with blood on his hands and a beast raging in his chest. 

Yet, now that love would never suffice.

Love would not redeem a monster, and he was undeniably that–a monster. 

But still, he loved her.

Desperately.

Painfully. 

Monstrously. 

He loved her, deeply and irrevocably. 

“You didn’t even have the courage to tell me yourself–to face me as you ripped my heart to pieces with your vengeance,” Daenera said, her voice laden with accusation and heartbreak. 

“I meant to grant you one more night with your brother still alive,” Aemond said, maintaining an even tone despite the strain of the words catching in his throat, threatening to turn into something entirely different. He swallowed hard, pushing down both the words and the swell of emotions they brought, forcing them down beneath the surface of his cool composure. 

“What you meant doesn’t mean anything,” Daenera said coolly, her tone dismissive and edged with bitterness. “It doesn’t matter now. The only thing that matters is what you’ve done… You are a coward… And I, the fool that loved you.”

Daenera curled in on herself like a withering flower, her face buried in her knees as she closed herself off to the world around her. 

Aemond swallowed thickly, sensing a hot trickle down his cheek. Reach up, he brushed it away with a finger, his frown deepening as he looked down at the mixture of water and blood from a cut on his finger, the stinging sensation sharp. He quickly wiped his face with his sleeve, a surge of disdain for his own perceived weakness washing over him. 

He had cried out years ago when the blade had sliced through his eye, when the hot blood scorched down his face. Since then,  he hadn’t shed a single tear–not through the countless stitches, not through the painful procedures to remove scar tissue, not even when he had replaced his eye with a sapphire. Since then, he had not allowed himself the release of tears. 

And now, the prickle of tears burned behind his eyes–both the real and the sapphire one. He swallowed them bitterly, finding within himself a gentleness he didn’t feel moments before. “Let the maester tend to your wounds.”

Then, turning away, Aemond moved through the destruction and stepped out into the hall. There, he was met by Lady Mertha, impatiently wringing her hands, the other serving girl, and Maester Orwyle. 

“Mother have mercy, what has she done to you?!” Lady Mertha exclaimed, her voice laced with shock as she took in his disheveled and wounded appearance. “That wretched girl is more animal than human. First, she strikes me and forces me out, then she thrashes the place, and now she’s attacked you! The girl has lost her senses. We must confine her somewhere more secure where she can’t harm anyone–or herself–”

“You will not move her,” Aemond interjected sharply, his voice icy as he glared at Lady Mertha, a blaze of annoyance and anger burning within him.

“But, my prince, she poses a threat to everyone around her!”

“You will do as I command,” Aemond snapped, his patience worn thin. “Clean her room, tend to her needs, and keep her comfortable. She is a princess and soon to be my wife. Is that understood, Lady Mertha?”

Lady Mertha clenched her teeth, her frustration evident, but she acquiesced with a curt nod. “Yes, my prince.”

Turning his attention to Maester Orwyle, Aemond cordered, “See to her wounds.”

“You should have someone look at yours as well–” Maester Orwyle started to suggest, but Aemond cut him off by turning and walking away. 

As he stormed in, the room’s tension spiked; the servant tending to the water basin startled visibly at his tempestuous entrance. The servant’s eyes widened, a flash of fear passing over his face as he hastily made his way out of the room, avoiding any confrontation with Aemond who was too consumed with his own turmoil. 

Aemond paced his room, his heart seething with a tumult of rage and bitterness, the pain of a fresh wound on his heart throbbing deep within. It felt as though Daenera had ruthlessly laid him open, her hands cruelly digging into his chest to wrench at a heart he had believed had turned into stone when he had killed Lucerys. Yet, to his dismay, he found it still tender, easily shaped and squeezed by her will.

What a cruel and burdensome affliction it was to own a heart, Aemond thought bitterly. And how terrible it was that it remained irrevocably bound to her.  

Aemond despised the vulnerability Daenera had exposed in him. He believed he shouldn’t be tormented by conflict over Lucerys’s death. He shouldn’t feel the desire to fall to his knees before her, like a penitent sinner begging for absolution, nor should he crave punishment from her hands as a means of purging his sins. Yet, the shameful truth was that he would crawl to her if she merely hinted at the desire. 

This realization gnawed at him, branding him as both pathetic and weak in his own eyes.

In a surge of frustration, Aemond grabbed the water basin and hurled it to the floor. The metal clanged against the stone, water splashing out in a reckless display. It was a childish outburst, he knew, and it filled him with shame. 

Just then, a soft voice called out, “Aemond.”

He turned, weary and tense, to see Helaena standing in the doorway. Her presence, poised and concerned, momentarily stilled the room. Her expression softened as if she understood the turmoil he was in, and she quickly instructed someone outside.

“Bring me a new basin of water and some cloth.” She then stepped inside, moving gracefully to the table and taking a seat before turning her gaze upon him with an expectant expression, her eyes then subtly gesturing towards the chair opposite her, inviting him to sit. 

Aemond felt his rage twisting within his chest, threatening to become something pitifully weak. He shifted on his feet, swallowing back the sharp retorts teetering on the tip of his tongue, words that would undoubtedly wound her if he spoke. He craved solitude, yearning to stew in his misery and rage–and sadness–alone. 

Despite his reluctance, he moved to the table and took a seat across from Helaena just as a servant entered, setting down a bowl of water and some fresh cloth next to a small jaw and a pair of pinchers that Helaena had brought with her. She placed her hand openly on the table, her gesture expectant, silently prompting him to offer his own hand to her to tend to his wounds. 

He almost wished she wouldn’t. 

“She hates me,” Aemond confessed in a raw, low voice once the servant had departed, somehow needing to tell someone. His words carried the weight of his turmoil, hanging softly in the quiet room. 

Reluctantly, Aemond extended his hand, placing it in Helaena’s open palm. His hand was a testament to ruination: blood smeared across his skin, some cuts superficial, other’s deeper. Jagged shards of glass were embedded in the flesh of his palm, particularly in the softer, more vulnerable areas devoid of calluses. 

“Love and hate are two sides of the same coin,” Helaena murmured contemplatively as she picked up the pincers to gently remove the glass from his palm. She worked with precision and attentiveness, much like she would when handling one of her insect specimens. “One is rarely without the other.”

Aemond clenched his teeth, bracing himself as she carefully extracted one of the larger shards embedded in his flesh. His heart thudded painfully against his chest, each beat a heavy discordant trump that felt disjointed from its usual rhythm. The sound of glass clinking as she dropped the shard into a small blow next to the water basin punctuated the heavy silence that filled the room. 

“You’ve always been better at enduring physical pain than emotional,” Helaena observed quietly, her brow furrowed in concentration as she worked to remove a stubborn piece of glass from his palm. Each failed attempt caused a sharp sting, aggravating the wound further, yet the pain in his palm was bearable–a mere discomfort to the deeper, more insidious pain lurking at the edges of his mind. 

“Do you regret it?” Helaena asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she successfully gripped the stubborn piece of glass. With precise movements, she extracted it, letting it fall into the bowl with a tiny clink. She then washed the pincers clean of blood before returning to his palm to remove another shard. 

“I have nothing to regret,” Aemond replied, his voice flat and devoid of emotion–echoing with the hollow numbness that began to settle within him. “He deserved to die for what he did to me.”

Helaena’s eyes lifted to meet his for a moment, her expression a mixture of incredulity and a deep, sorrowful understanding. 

“I regret the pain it is causing her,” Aemond continued, his voice low, almost blending with the subtle sounds of the hearth as he braced against the pinch of the pincers on his skin. “I never meant to…”

His words trailed off, faltering as he grappled with the contradiction. How could he claim he never meant to hurt her when he so clearly desired her brother’s death? He was acutely aware of the pain it would inflict on her; he knew the depths of grief it would cause. Though he had sought revenge, perhaps he had not envisioned the consequences unfolding exactly as they had–not as a chaotic, uncontrollable act, but the intent had always been clear in his mind. He had always wanted her brother dead, and that desire for vengeance had driven him. What was left to him now?

“He was her brother,” Helaena murmured gently, her tone soft but carrying an underlying weight. 

“I’m not sorry he’s dead,” Aemond admitted, his gaze fixed on the blood that welled up on his palm as Helaena carefully removed another shard. She dabbed at the wound with a cloth, her touch gentle yet methodical. “I only… I only wish the circumstances had been different. Had I met him on the battlefield, had it been a matter of first blood already drawn…”

His voice trailed off as his throat tightened. He swallowed hard against the constriction, his teeth gritted as a wave of bitterness gripped his heart.

“Had it not made you a kinslayer,” Helaena concluded, her voice tinged with a melancholic sadness. Her touch remained gentle as she moistened a cloth and brought it to his palm, washing away the blood. She tended to his wounds with such care, as though she believed she could cleanse not only his skin but also wash away the deeper stains–the blood that would forever mark his hands, his name, and his soul. “There will be more kinslayers by the end of this war…”

“It’s different,” Aemond responded firmly. His expression hardened slightly. 

And it was different. They had been in the initial stages of war–a war waged with ravens and diplomacy, however foolish he thought it was, a time of making preparations and gathering allies. These beginning stages had come to an end when Vhagar’s maw had closed around the boy and his dragon, when Aemond had spilled the first true blood of the war–when he had earned the title of Kinslayer. 

“It is all I’ll ever be now,” Aemond muttered solemnly as Helaena continued to extract glass from his other hand. The bow beside them slowly filled with shards of bloody glass. “It is all I will ever be to her.”

Helaena hummed thoughtfully, her head tilting as she carefully removed another shard from his palm. “It is not all you’ll ever be. It is not the only thing you’ll ever be… You’re a kinslayer, and nothing will ever erase that stain, but you mustn’t let it define you. You mustn't allow it to be the only thing you are.”

“I’m a monster,” Aemond said, words laden with disgust.

“Are you truly a monster or a beast who obeys its own nature? Or a boy who is neither and both at the same time?” Helaena mused aloud, carefully removing the last shard of glass from his palm and gently cleansing it with water. “There is certainly a beast within you, as there is within all of us. We are all capable of monstrous deeds, but does that alone define us as monsters?” 

“I don’t have the answers to your questions,” Aemond replied wearily, his voice trailing off as he lacked the energy or inclination to engage in philosophical debates.

Meeting his gaze with her pale blue eyes, Helaena spoke in a voice that was both firm and gentle, “You have fed the beast, Aemond. Vengeance is insatiable, and once it has tasted blood, its appetite only grows. She, too, will feed it, offer it names and blood. Cursed twice over by deed and desire… There’s a debt to be paid…”

“The debt has been settled,” Aemond asserted, lifting his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, signaling his frustration and exhaustion. He was not in the headspace for her riddles. 

“Has it?” Helaena challenged softly, taking his hand and placing it back on the table. She then opened the lid of the small jaw, releasing a herbal aroma into the air that made his heart twist. “A son for an eye–is that a fair exchange?”

“It is,” Aemond responded sharply, his teeth clenched as he struggled to maintain the gentleness he always tried to extend to his sister, despite the irritation kindled by her probing words. 

“The seed grows strong; it will continue to grow until it breaks through the darkness into the light,” Helaena murmured softly, a sad frown marking her features. Her gaze remained fixed on his hand as she carefully applied a bit of cream to each wound. “It will flourish and grow–one turn, two turn, three–fueled by love and hope. And in its growth, it might offer reconciliation.” 

The cream, a concoction of Daenera’s making, delivered a wonderfully sharp sting that made him wish it was her applying it. 

“She’ll never forgive me for this,” Aemond said, his voice drawn out with weariness. 

“Do you seek her forgiveness?” Helaena challenged, securing the lid on the jaw before she began to wrap his hand in cloth. As she finished, her eyes met his once more, reflecting a sad yet understanding shade of blue. 

“How could she forgive you?” Helaena spoke gently, her words laden with empathy but unflinching in their honesty. “Forgiving you would be akin to condoning her brother’s death. You can’t ask that of her; it would be selfish and cruel. Seeking her forgiveness might ease your conscience, but it wouldn’t alleviate her pain but only deepen it. Don’t do that to her.”

Aemond’s heart wrenched painfully inside him, and he felt that all-too-familiar prickling behind his eyes and tightening at the top of his throat. Turning his gaze away, he curled his hand on the table, his jaw clenching as he gritted his teeth, struggling to swallow her words. 

With a soft sigh, Helaena stood up from her chair, her hands briefly running through his hair in a gentle, rare gesture of affection. Her touch, though fleeting, seemed to convey an understanding of his deep-seated pain–the heavy, insistent thud of his heart beating against his ribs. 

“Will you see her?” Aemond asked, forcing his gaze back to her. His company wouldn’t offer Daenera any comfort, but he hoped that his sisters might. 

Helaena offered a small, knowing smile as confirmation, then paused at the threshold, and gave him one last meaningful look before she disappeared through the door. “The council has called another meeting. You should attend.”

Aemond let out a weary sigh, forcibly pushing down the ache in his heart, transforming it into something cold and hardened. Methodically, he reassembled the mask of composure, resigning himself once more to the role he was expected to play.