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madelynraemunson · 10 months

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CALL ME WHAT YOU WANT 𓆩♡𓆪

(Book #1 of the Hellfire Gentlemen's Club series)

𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔 18+ plz

strip club owner!eddie x fem!exotic dancer! main character

Chapter 012: Vecna’s Curse

Eddie is scared to commit to you? That’s fine. You have a lap dance to treat Henry to anyway — in the infamous red set that EDDIE bought for you.

↳ chapters: 001, 002*, 003** , 004**, 005 , 006 , 007* , 008**, 009, 010, 011, 012* , 013** , 014**, 015, 016**, 017, 018, 019, 020*

somewhat smutty = * , smutty = **

word count: 4k words

NSFW — blindfold kink (*cough* henry), lap dance, grinding, moaning, henry is the whimpering type, shy girl using henry to get off, eddie’s RAGING jealousy

TAKE IT AWAY, JAMIE 🥁🙌🏼

I Put A Spell on You (Jamie’s Version)

“The hooded cultists chant…” Eddie narrates. “Hail Lord Vecna. Hail Lord Vecna. They turn to you, remove their hoods… you recognize most of them from Makbar. But there is one you do not recognize…”

— excerpt from Stranger Things 4: Chapter One: The Hellfire Club.

♡

Eddie is too busy playing D&D with the boys to have any idea what you're up to. It’s just what you wanted, though. Means everything is going according to plan.

“I put a spell on you, because you’re mine.”

Excitement brews within you as you slip on the red DEVIL WOMAN set from Nocturna. When you're done, Max helps to straighten your hair, maintaining it with a generous amount of hairspray, while Chrissy helps you set the final touches of your makeup into place.

"What's up with the blindfold?" Max inquires, nodding towards the piece of cloth tied around your wrist.

"Part of my act," you explain ominously. "I plan on using it on Henry for the first part of my set. He's a...sensitive guy, to say the least."

"You are way too good at this," your sister shakes her head in disbelief, brushing through your hair one last time.

"Intense emotions spark creativity," you shrug, admiring the vixen that is you in the vanity. "No man is leaving unscathed tonight."

It all rings true. Tonight, you have the power. And all of Hellfire is going to know it.

"Well you look absolutely soul-snatching," Chrissy hoots as she takes a good look at you. “You’re gonna have him on his knees.”

You bite your lip in anticipation. " Who? Eddie or Henry?"

"Both," she shrugs. "But since we're on that topic, I just know Eddie is going to come crawling back."

The three of you share a malicious giggle with one another, thinking about all the ways Eddie is going to crumble, seeing another man enjoy you in the set that he bought. He had his chance to commit to you, but now he has to face the consequences of what happens when he doesn't man up on time.

The dressing room door opens. By instinct, you turn to see who it is. In struts Nina, counting the dollar bills in her hands as she just emerged from doing her set at the tip rail.

"Oooh look at you go!" you whistle. "They're loving you out there, mama."

"I'm literally so shook," Nina raves, tucking her bills away into her bag. "This is my best night thus far."

When she's all squared away, Nina makes her way over to you and envelopes you in a warm hug. "You look so fucking sexy! Go kill it out there, girl."

You smile at the compliment, heart fluttering in a room full of girls' girls.

"Thank you, sweetheart," you respond to her, rubbing her back with the utmost adoration. "You too."

Chrissy helps you don your cloak, shielding you from giving away the trick you have up your sleeve. After one final check in the mirror, you're ready to put on a show.

"Ready," you announce with a mischievous grin.

“Go get him, tiger,” Chrissy pats your back.

“You better stop the things you do, I ain’t lyin’. No, I ain’t lyin’”

Your heels click with intention across the cool floor of the club as you strut towards your victim. He's smiling and laughing with all his friends, unsuspecting of the stake you're about to, figuratively, drive through his heart.

"Good game, gentlemen," Eddie concludes as he and the boys wrap up their campaign. "I’ll see you all next week for Rise of Kas. Try not to die in that one, yeah?"

You watch as the younger guys scatter to prep for the rush. Steve and Eddie stay behind to clean up the area. When Steve sees you, he offers you a tender side hug before issuing a kiss hello to your forehead.

"Hey you," Steve smiles.

"Hey," your eyes gleam up at him. "Didn't know you play D&D."

Eddie's eyes travel up to you the moment he hears your voice. He freezes in place the moment you meet his gaze. If he reacted this way to just you with your cloak on — exalting and apologetic — you can't even begin to imagine the look on his face when he sees what you have under it.

But until time brings you to that point, you settle for feigning dissastisfaction while he attempts to strike up a casual conversation.

"He doesn’t, I was just showing him the ropes,” Eddie chuckles, nervously resting his hands at his sides. “He’s doing great though.”

You nod absentmindedly, diverting your attention to Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington instead.

"You look beautiful, Hargrove," your boss attempts. "More than usual, I mean. Absolutely stunning.”

You can tell he’s already regretful about how he worded things a couple nights ago. The guilt on his face is like no other. But with the guilt comes those eyes. Those charming eyes that will get you to fold every time. Tonight is the exception.

"Thanks," you utter emptily to him.

"You got main stage tonight?"

"No, I've got a semi-private dance," you respond as-a-matter-of-factly.

"Semi-priv..." Eddie tries to figure it out. "What do you mean by that?"

"Hello, hello," a familiar voice greets you guys.

Right on schedule.

Henry makes his way over to you all with the biggest grin on his face. It's weird seeing him in outside clothes. He's dressed in a white t-shirt and black leather jacket, tight black jeans, and black combat boots. The blonde deity flashes you a seductive look.

"Days bleeding into one another again, Creel?" Eddie questions. "You're not on today, remember?"

"Oh yeah, I know," Henry shrugs. "I have a dance today with one of our special friends."

"Oh shit!" Eddie exclaims, going over to give him a celebratory fist bump. "Chrissy agreed to give you one?"

"No, not Chrissy," you chime in. "Me!"

Eddie's eyes widen. Steve's eyes widen.

"Holy shit!" Steve says. "Creel is actually getting a lap dance! That's so out of his comfort zone."

Steve's arms wrap around your waist as he pulls you in front of him. You feel his hardened cock sneak up against your ass.

"And from Shy Girl too?" Steve's voice deepens, rasp factor at an all time high. "You're in for a treat."

"Wouldn't expect any less," Henry blushes.

Henry’s voice is soft, but there’s a hunger in his gaze. Eddie tries to conceal how bothered he is. You see him frantically scanning the club for a sort of scapegoat, a way in delaying the nightmare that is about to ensue.

“Actually…” Eddie clears his throat. “Now that I think about it, we might get busy within the hour. You mind clocking in for a bit to help Jim out front?”

Henry cocks a puzzled brow. “Jim was playing Candy Crush when I dapped him up at the door. Mans is fine.”

“Yeah, the man is fine, Eddie,” you jeer. “And Henry’s been working sooo hard, it’s the least I can do for him.”

Your boss’s jaw clenches when he realizes his plan has fallen through. He’s got no scapegoat, you're dressed like revenge overdue, and his friends are insistent on watching this dance…

He’s screwed.

"If you insist," Eddie mutters sharply. “Tip her well, Creel.”

“Of course, man.”

Eddie excuses himself but remains in the area like a fly on the wall. He scrambles around, greeting regulars with a handshake and dusting off tables, anything to look busy and unbothered by the idea that his presence doesn't affect you the slightest.

But he is seething. Troubled. He can’t read you or your next move and it’s driving him mad.

While you coordinate your routine with the DJ, Argyle escapes from the kitchen. You hear him eagerly yelp when he discovers that Henry is getting a dance, followed by a determined, "I've gotta watch this".

And now that everything is going to plan, you take a moment to gather yourself backstage.

Before you head out, Nancy meets you by the curtains with extra bobby pins that you requested. You assume Chrissy spilled all the beans, judging by the words Nancy whispers in your ears before you head out,

“Give that man hell.”

(he sounds so much like jamie)

HELLFIRE: hell·fire

/ˈhelˌfī(ə)r/(noun): The torment and punishment of hell, envisaged as eternal fire.

"Alright, Shy Girl!" you hear Argyle shout from the pit of VECNA'S LAIR. "Henry is ready when you are."

You give the DJ a nod to start the song. Let the show begin.

“YOU put a spell on ME, I’m losing my mind”

You start your set at the pole, walking a slow circle around it before beginning your dance. Though a dance for Henry only, a crowd outside your immediate circle starts to gather around. Henry is sitting on Vecna's throne, watching inquisitively while you do your introduction. And Eddie follows suit, floating around like a lost puppy.

“You better stop these things. It’s a matter of TIME🕰️”

*DING* a grandfather clock chimes, a sound mixed in by the DJ as he makes the set his own.

The crowd cheers as you strut your sexy self down the stage, smirking to yourself as Henry timidly grips the armrests of Vecna's throne.

Your gaze pans to Eddie. You watch as guests attempt to have a conversation with him in the lair, but he is just not tuned into what they're saying.

Eddie is hypnotized by you, spellbound by a curse that he got himself tangled up in. Oh, how pitiful. To dig his own grave...

“Before I hunt you down..."

Poor Eddie. He has already lost.

"...grab your chin...and kiss your lips…”

You stroke Henry's face as you walk past him, stopping behind him close enough to see the goosebumps and baby hairs rising at the nape of his neck.

You tug on the corner of the blindfold and the knot undoes itself. Henry beams up at you with his eager ocean eyes as you hold the blindfold in your hands. You bend down behind him, exploring his chest with your delicate hands, before tying the blindfold snugly around his eyes.

You check in with your friend. “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m doing just fine,” Henry answers. “Thank you, Shy Girl.”

“Of course.”

“And you bring me back, I lay you down and grab your hips”

Eddie’s claimed a seat now, somewhere towards the back. Though it's harder to see him now, you just know he’s eyeing your technique intently, watching as you slither back to the front of Henry, stroking the bouncer’s face before lowering yourself onto his lap.

Henry’s breath trembles upon realization. He leans back and spreads himself across the chair so you can take up all the space that you needed to make him feel good.

He sucks in a breath.

“Breathe out, Henry…” you encourage him. “Steady breaths… there you go. Relax those shoulders now.”

Henry exhales, sinking his shoulders into flaccidity as he allows you to navigate his lap.

Eddie’s tapping his feet profusely, likely as an attempt to self-regulate. His folded palms rest below his chin as he studies you, attempting to construe whether or not this is something you are genuinely enjoying.

“And we lose all control. And before you know…”

And Eddie should know, that indeed, you are enjoying yourself… and Henry very much.

Henry's hands explore your ass now, and you use this position as leverage to grind yourself against him, your hips rotating to the shape of your stage name spelled out in cursive.

Shy Girl

A soft whimper escapes Henry’s lips as you grind, your ego inflating as he tosses his head back in pleasure.

“What’s the matter, baby boy?” you ask him. “Too much for you already?”

“No,” Henry smiles, seemingly up for a challenge. “I just wanna see your pretty face so bad.”

“Do you now?” you quip.

“Yes I do,” he nods. “Pretty please.”

“Well since you’re being so polite…”

“I put a spell on you, now you’re mine. I’ve got a hold on you, at least for the night.”

Your fingers return to the back of Henry’s neck to rid him of the blindfold you menacingly decided to tease him with. When it collapses, you meet Henry’s starstruck eyes, making sure they process you grinding your hips, exploring his chest, his shoulders, the sensitive parts of his earlobes.

“Fuuuck,” Henry whines. “How are you so good at this?”

“How are you such a good client?” you counter. “So well-behaved for me, Henry.”

Steve and Argyle make their way to either sides of him, showering you with dollar bills because Henry’s hands were occupied. They were exploring your thighs, hovering over your ass, rubbing your back while his mouth praises your every action, your every attribute, your everything.

“Goddd DAMN!” Argyle roars, incentivizing you further.

“What’d I tell you, Creel?” Steve smirks. “Ain’t she something?”

“Fuck yeah, she is,” Henry’s voice is but a barely audible gasp now. “And to think we’ve just scratched the surface.”

He tugs at your cloak pleadingly. You giggle at him, admiring his pretty puppy dog eyes that he’s put on for you.

“You know I can’t help myself when you ask tenderly if I’d dim the lights as your hand brushes me.”

Eddie glares sharply as he watches Henry continue to tug at the strings of your cloak, practically begging you to start stripping for him.

His misery is waiting behind that very garment.

“Wanna show me what’s underneath?” Henry incites.

The lights of VECNA’S LAIR begin to flicker and the classic yellow spotlight quickly changes to red. That’s your cue.

“Thought you’d never ask,” you giggle.

“And the floor swallows your clothes”

You undo the knot of your cloak that tied everything together. Slowly, to the beat of the song, the cloak slips off of you, revealing the beautiful red set.

“Oooh”s, “ahhh”s, and “wooo”s fill the air as the cloak sinks to the floor.

“And your silhouette puts on a show”

From the corner of your eye, you notice Eddie sit right up.

You try to figure out if he recognizes your set or not. But judging by his flustered face, and envious gaze, he sure does. There’s a pain in his eyes as his brows form a sullen arch. You watch as Eddie’s nostrils flare as he jams his fingers into his thighs, digging the balls of his feet into the floor in rout. He can hardly keep himself contained, he’s so angry.

And like a bull at a rodeo, Eddie sees red.

Meanwhile, Henry falls deeper into his state of arousal.

“Wow…” your patron beams. “That’s such a beautiful set, Shy Girl.”

You blush. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Henry insists. “It fits you perfectly. You did a good job.”

“Yeah,” you chime. Then your gaze travels to Eddie who is trying his hardest to conceal his jealousy. “I did do great, didn’t I?”

You allow Henry’s hands to explore all the set’s finest little details, from the little gems to the intricate seams. Henry traces your figure by following the pattern of the set, humming in pleasure to himself at the sight of you.

"That set is gorgeous, baby," Steve coos as he admires you from head to toe. "Did you pick that out yourself?"

“I can’t remember,” you turn to Steve as he rubs your shoulders. “It’s been collecting dust in my closet for a while so I figured I’d wear it today.”

“That was a good choice,” Steve’s voice deepens. “This is my favorite set on you so far.”

"Mm!" an unexpected moan escapes your mouth.

A crinkle in Henry’s pants from his thigh region rides up a nerve ending along your clit. Your mind short circuits from the sheer pleasure of it all.

Soon you forget about the lap dance and start subtly immersing yourself with friction, rubbing harder and harder against Henry’s tense quads as he lets you.

Aside from you, only Henry seems to know what’s going on.

He smirks, the most sinister grin you’ve never seen come from him before. “Find what you’re looking for?”

You nod rapidly, encouraging him to stay in place while you continue to pleasure yourself. He laughs to himself, watching you chase your high on top of him, knowing he's the one who has the reigns now.

“That’s right,” he fawns. “Take what you need from me, baby.”

"Yes Master," you say to him, knowing it's a kink of his. You feel him harden underneath you when he hears those words come out of your mouth.

Curious on whether or not he's still watching, you can’t help but get a glimpse of Eddie. And past the layers of all the strobe lights of VECNA’S LAIR, you meet his eyes.

“You put a spell on me. I’m LOSING my mind”

They’re twinkling. But not in the way you’d want. Soon Eddie's hand aggressively swoops across his eye, as he quickly wipes — what looks like — a teardrop away.

You continue to watch him as he excuses himself from the crowd, pulling his entire weight with him as he drags his feet towards his office.

It's enough to make your cold heart melt. When you see the way his shoulders sulk and how slow he seems to be walking in the busy atmosphere of Hellfire Gentlemen's Club, it dawns on you that you may have taken it too far.

Henry sees your eyes wandering, dwelling on Eddie as they become rather glazed themselves. He directs your focus back to him with his fingers at your chin.

“Why do you cry for him, Shy Girl?” Henry observes. It’s like he can read your mind. “After everything he’s done to you?"

You swallow hard as you struggle to find the words.

"...You give me fever, and drive me insane"

Fuck Eddie. Fuck Eddie. Fuck Eddie.

You've been hurt countless times but you still love with your heart on your sleeve. Why couldn't Eddie do the same?

Sure, his father was abusive and absent. Yours was too. Sure he found his mom dead at the hands of his father and drugs. That was also your childhood experience. Sure he had to grow up rather early just like you did, putting all his needs last while taking care of other family members because no one else would step up. And sure, the only woman he loved enough to marry framed him for a crime he didn't commit, with the idea of inheriting his assets on her mind. You've felt that used before too.

So what if all the people he's ever cared about stabbed him not only in the back, but in the front as well?

...just like you're doing right now.

It really dawns on you this time. You're not any better.

Fuck, you're an asshole. The answer is so clear to you now, you don't understand how you could have been so selfish before. You're both different sides of the same coin, it seems.

"Hm?” Henry tuts when you don't respond. "You think you need Eddie, but you don't. No, no... you don't."

Henry then starts to buck his own hips upwards, grinding along with you.

You feel guilty that Henry feels so good, taunting your clit mercilessly with just the fabric of his dark jeans alone. To distract yourself from all guilt crashing down on you, you start to envision that it's not Henry, but Eddie whose underneath you.

You miss Eddie. You really, really do. You miss his laugh, his random outbursts of energy. You miss how he instantly drew in a crowd no matter where he went. His presence was electricity, sending shockwaves down your body with the slightest skin-to-skin touch. You missed how his fingers felt pulsing in and out of you, curving themselves as he looks you dead in the eye because your pleasure was his utmost concern. You miss his periodic check-ins, how he wouldn't relax until you made it clear that you were okay. You miss how dirty and magical he made you feel, but ultimately how sexy and loved were and felt in his presence, even on the rocky days.

Fuck, Eddie.

"You keep me going in circles with potions and bottles... And I can't escape... I can't escape..."

Fuck, you fantasize. Eddie. Fuck, Eddie.

"I'm lost in your ways... I can't escape, baby."

There's a part in the song that gives you an 'out' from your routine. You wrap up your dance there, completing it with a tender kiss to Henry's cheek as he smiles up at you. The crowd goes wild, and Steve and Argyle continue to spoil you with ones, fives, and tens, enticed by how sultry you made everything look and feel with such little effort.

"Thank you, darling," Henry coos as he rubs your back one final time.

"Any time," you say to him. "I hope I helped alleviate some of your stress."

The boys help you collect your bills while people from all around swarm you with compliments. Eventually, Maxine and Chrissy make their way over to you, ambushing you with hugs and fangirling over your entire performance.

"You did amazing, sis!" Max squeals as she jumps up and down. "You should've seen the look on Eddie's face. Oh you so won!"

"Yeah..." you mumble absentmindedly as you search the club for Eddie. "Yay me..."

--------

It's the last call now before closing and you're helping everyone shut down their stations. You'd typically be back in the dressing room counting your bills by now, but the inner server in you can't help but stay behind.

"Hey!" Argyle speaks up. "Since all of us are off tonight, anyone wanna go barhopping?"

"I'm down!" Steve agrees. "Night's still young and that was the plan last time we were all together, yeah?"

"Shy Girl, you wanna come with?" Jonathan asks.

"Uh, I gotta count my tips and then get to bed," you say, turning the offer down. "I can close the register if you want, Jon so you can catch up with everybody."

"Oh really? Thanks!"

The group invites Max too, promising they would take good care of your little sister. Chrissy offers to be her DD, since she knows that Max drinks. All of you did, when you were her age.

"Please, sis?" Max begs. "All my discussion posts are done and I wanna turn up before midterms."

"Fine," you mutter, rolling your eyes. "But remember, if it smells weird or stinky..."

"Do not drinky..." Max rolls her eyes as she reaches to grab Chrissy by the hand. "Done deal. Thanks again!"

And soon the group vacates the area, leaving only you behind to shut the place down for the night.

When you're done closing out the register, you gather all your things to start packing up. Suddenly, you hear the locks to a distant door jingle and the doorknob turn slightly to doublecheck.

Eddie's still here.

You hear him start to make his way towards POTIONS, his worn out converse making quiet taps against the stone floor.

The natural light from the windows near the ceiling illuminates into the dark space, revealing Eddie's face and the pained expression that still rests upon it. His eyes are puffy, his demeanor hard to read.

You clear his throat at him.

"I thought you left."

"Nah," he shakes his head. "I like to stay behind for a bit sometimes. Make sure I got everything I need."

"I see..." is all you say.

"Told you that set would bring in a lot of tips."

"There you go again, being right about things," you say in a forfeiting tone.

"I'm not always right."

You can't look at him right now. Not when you've caused him so much distress and he's still choosing to speak to you. You gather your belongings and hold your head down in shame, excusing yourself from the narrative and Eddie's presence indefinitely.

"Whatever you say, Eds," you try to smile. "Goodnight."

Nervous now, you put your cloak back on and make your way out of the bar. You nod to Eddie goodnight and start towards your dressing room to prepare for your drive home.

However, it stuns you again as Eddie turns his heels and follows suit...trailing ever so closely behind you... to the dressing room as well.

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howyouloveyourdragon · 1 year

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Remnants

pronouns: she/her warnings: smut, use of the word ‘whore’, angst, disease, character death, fluff, infidelity, slowburn, classism at first (daemon is a shit) summary: They say that you never forget your first love but the vultures are prey to weakness and intend to infiltrate Daemon’s own desires to preserve his adere riñus (slippery girl). Some say the woman will forever remain in his conscience, guiding his bloodied sword and singing sweet lost lullabies to lay his rest. For it has been too long since the volatile dragon slept peaceful. A prince with more gold than he can keep. A prince who can demand whatever he wishes and command any army. And yet all he is left with…All he is left with are the remnants of her which he swore to cherish as religiously as he would an idol. A/N: reader has dark hair for a plot point to work but i think you can still ignore it if you want to :) dividers by: firefly-graphics wordcount: 6,797

There is nothing like a sunset that is more comforting to him and yet his comfort is limited. How he stares at the strewn stars like figments of grace and kind. How he stares each as though in the eye and recounts sonnets as they emit. How he begs and pleads for the Gods to last the warmth of sunlight just a little longer each time. And each time it fades. Each time his eyes grasp any trace of her to sew back into his mind after it has been torn from him with viscous delight. He should have known. The Gods do not listen to begging. Not even from Crown Princes. No matter how many bottles he shatters in the heat of his dreams. He likes to think that their love was red and as flowing as his ever-heating dragon’s blood. A Syrax in its own right. But there was no Goddess of ecstasy blessing them. No. It was a curse of bluebells and belonging to that of Gaelithox, surely to punish him for his foolishness. He looks up at the sky. The dark array of black and blue. Of silver specks and promising folds of purple. There is nothing like a sunrise better to send the Rogue Prince into a spiel of decay and sickness. The absurd golden bonds squeezing out another day like an artist with their last inch of oils. The crawling brightness that comes to threaten the moon. Abysmal lies sung to him as his brother attempts to push him into seeing beauty in all that inductees his churning stomach.

He wills the flowers to wither.

It was under the rising sun that Daemon had stumbled and forced his way out of the obnoxious hooting Street of Silk. Perhaps he had been desiring only ale or the rancid smell of sweat to intoxicate him. At just two and twenty, he had been visiting the volatile heap of taverns and brothels for the past eight years. It was religious in his dark desires. For dragons did not obey the whims of men and Daemon did not obey the whims of his brother nor father. And certainly not the whims of his wife. His nose turns up at the thought. Marriage would not contain him like they desired and yet still, he receives the constant demands to visit her. Of course he only intends to sink them in water until soft enough to shred, rejecting their presence all together. It would be easier to burn them but he does not think them worthy of his flame. His begrudging circle had even begun threatening to hail her to the Red Keep. To keep her in his presence all torturous times of the day. He knows his mother wouldn’t have let this happen, surely. Never would she sell him like prize cattle just to tame him. He is a dragon does not fuck plain featured sheep, he burns them but he would not devour them like his brother wished. His tastes were precise and he would not settle. He is a prince. He deserves nothing less than a woman matching his silver strands. Which is what he thinks of as he stumbles through the dark night struck streets, hopefully back to the castle gates at least. He despised people seeing him in such a state but he could usually hold his liquor better than tonight. And he assures himself that all will be well…until his cloak catches on a hook and he crashes to the floor in a surge of red blurred vision.

He blinks awake the next morrow with a pounding headache the size of Caraxes. A wince cracks at his muscles. Daemon grunts, a rough sting along his left cheekbone. A blur of dark hair and feminine presence has him assuming he had fallen asleep in the whorehouse again but instead his eyes flit across the plain room, brows pinching at the plain room. It is unfamiliar, he realises. His lips part in time for a resounding click of the unknown woman's fingers to snap him into alert. Anger swells in his chest but his limbs are weakened with exhaustion and ale. His sharp eyes choose to narrow instead as quickly as she takes a step. His brain swishes with questions. Where is he, why is he here and most importantly, who is this already insufferable cunt of a peasant? "You." He sneers, clicking his own fingers but she ignores him, returning to a small room he presumes to be a...kitchen? It is small and brown and littered with pans, some empty, some filled. "Tell me, who are you?" It is a demand. They both know it is a demand and yet it goes ignored. Rage firms his brittle state. "Answer your prince!" He stands on slightly shaky legs, uncaring to his indecent layer of clothing, or rather, lack of. His tunic...Where is his tunic? It isn't panic that raises the bile but it is discomfort. The odd woman merely chuckles at him. Anger flares once more. Daemon's swift hand snaps to his scabbard only to find it empty. "Relax, your highness," He doesn't like the mocking lilt seeping from her untrustworthy tongue. "it will be returned to you, I merely made certain you would not awaken with a missing appendage." His face scowls petulantly at her and he takes a step forward.

Daemon builds up his broad shoulders to square though he is not entirely a man full-grown yet and his boyish features attempt to harden. Intimidation is a powerful tool he knows. "You will hand me my possessions and I will take leave far from your slums or I will–" She spins around, facing him not with fear or mal-intent but with curiosity. Her sly smirk is the first thing he notices alongside her narrowed fox-like eyes. “Or what?” She returns, impishly .His mouth hangs. She had been washing one of her thick pans but now she has tucked the pathetic wet towel into her small apron and folds her arms. The pan is left forgotten on the side after a loud clang. She raises her brows. “Or what, your highness?” She repeats as though he is nothing more than the village idiot or town fool. Begrudgingly he has never felt more like a child, not even after marrying the bronze bitch. Daemon’s mouth moves but nothing comes out. She snorts. “Will you harm a sweet village girl? Add blood to your taxes? Ah, apologies, my lord, you are no foe of such demands, you are the taker.” The snide doesn’t pass him. “No girl is of worth to a Dragon.” He says, finally regaining composure. She doesn’t cower, she sneers. “In that we can agree.” Her voice, once mellifluous and playful, now turns cold. “Except the ones fucking dragons and I assure you, I have no intentions.” He swallows, noticing just how close they have approached once the hit of warm breath fans over his mouth which towers just above her. He ignores when his eyes flicker to her wet lips. How can a peasant look so nourished?

Daemon may ignore it but the peasant does not, her lips slowly curling upward smugly. She hums as she takes in his dilated pupils now wielding more than just rage. Slowly, her calloused hand begins to dip into her apron pocket. In a flash, his palm snatches her wrist and rips it out of reach. She blinks, slightly disoriented, but then raises her brows comically. “Do you not wish me to return your sword, my lord?” She lilts, Daemon’s face softens. “I am your prince, not your lord.” He snarls. Again, her sickening chuckles lift in the stale air. “You are an ingrate that we are all in service to, my prince. Do you wish for your dagger or not?” He hesitates. Who is to determine that she is not attempting to fool him? That she will not snipe his weapon and slice it through his throat; would she leave him bleeding on her floor or scatter him amongst the mongrels of flea bottom? Daemon casts his eyes at her apron. She sighs, allowing his thick fingers to swipe through the various utensils stashed away. The prince grunts when he makes contact with a blade, groaning behind his taut lips. He slides it out once he finds the hilt and dances it between his fingers like a peacock presents its feathers. A smirk twitches.

The peasant girl sighs, unamused as he watches the shining steel. “Do you intend to frolic through the streets and freeze?” She asks with a thin layer of mocking. His eyes narrow on the blade. “No,” He articulates in a frozen phrase. “You will lead me to the garments you have stolen from me and in return I shall allow your pitiful life to remain.” It isn’t a chuckle that escapes her this time but instead a snort. His nose wrinkles at the unabashed noise. “Will I?” She returns, biting the inside of her cheek. Daemon lets a glower settle, breath heaving at the disrespect. He clenches his jaw. “You will or you will taste your own blood.” Daemon spouts the words, attempting to poison her flesh, he can already imagine the boils that would litter her soft skin. The peasant merely winks. “It wouldn’t be for the first time but I am afraid that it would be in your best interests that you stay a moment more.” She sighs as though the fact physically pains her. A hand sneaks behind her back, which connects against the rough counter edge, and produces a small wooden bowl, heat emitting in steam from the top. “Would you not prefer to break your fast before you leave? A weak prince is not a wise one.”

He leans down, sneering. “I am not weak.” She leans up at him and tilts her head. “Then how do you know I was talking about you?” She pushes the strange broth to his chest and slips past him once his confusion lessens his hold on her other wrist. His head snaps to face her figure again. “You are an insinuating little tart.” Daemon comments but much less interrogative than before. He eyes the broth cautiously as he takes a seat at her short stocky table. His legs plead for freedom under the trapment. He ignores them. The girl glances him over and he can feel the scrutiny piercing his skin, ready to seep inside. Begrudgingly, the heir seats himself at the small table of her home and huffs like a petulant child. The threat of judgement crawls like an insect over his tense muscles, it feels like twenty-thousand little cockroaches are bumping one another from the inside of his skin. It begs to clamber into the strange peasant instead, what does a peasant fair against a prince? She must know that it would be further than a sin to place judgement on a Targaryen prince while she is nothing more than a lowly film of dirt atop his shoe; filth he is desperately trying to scrape off until his hands are raw and bloody.

His eyes take this moment to rake over and through her as she stumbles around the much too small hobble. Her hair reminds him of toiled waves, crashing messily and unkempt–even though it is tied up–against the harsh wind sneaking through her window. Her apron is dirtied and there is flour on her face. She looks every inch the commoner he despises. Because she thinks she’s better than him, he’s sure, he can see it in her smugness, her eagerness to keep him dependent on her already. She has a vile brown dress beneath it, his skin itches just looking at the rough worn-in cloth. The prince’s eyes trail to her bare feet, he winces but attempts to ignore it, glancing over the muddy wet end to the dress. He lets a sigh release and shakes his head, inspecting the rest of the abode. Just looking at her made him long to cleanse himself. Daemon’s nose turns up at the sight of a myriad of blue wilting flowers in the corner, well he supposes to her it is reminiscent of a myriad. Her. Why is it her mind, her thoughts, that he wants to explore like the depths of the great sea he has always been kept from? Then his eye catches on the deep red cloth that drapes along a lone wooden chair. His eyes narrow. Is it stolen? She doesn’t look as though she could afford such vibrancy. Or perhaps she is a whore and it was gifted by a client. That must be it. She’s a whore. Daemon clicks his tongue and looks down at the half-eaten broth. He stirs at the odd liquid, raising the too large spoon and pouring the broth back in the bowl before dipping it back in again. It takes all his willpower to stuff it into his cheeks and let it play on his tongue.

He swishes it across his taste buds. Daemon wants it to be foul, he wants it to reek of vomit-inducing grossness. It is a childish word but he is running out of insults. His hope also falls flat because for some reason it tastes good. It tastes better than any soup the high paid cooks have ever offered him, it tastes almost better than any rich meal he’s consumed. His eyes narrow. Is she a witch? Is this set to bewitch him or send him into sleep? No, it makes him feel much too energised. Then is it to gain his favour? Constituted to trick his submission? She will not achieve it, he refuses. He finishes the lukewarm meal while taking his time. He watches her hum and shimmy about the room, searching for something he does not know. He scans her curiously. “My garments.” He states in demand, standing and approaching her swiftly. She doesn’t react, doesn’t even stop humming. She moves about a few thick books, all handwritten and all with olden pages–yellow with use.

His fist rests sideways against the presumably oak bookcase so he can lean over her, forearm following suit. He wants it to reflect dominance but instead it twists his gut and warms his lower stomach. “You have something that belongs to me,” Daemon purrs. His eyes narrow. His free palm outstretches. “I want it back.” “I have more than one thing, milord.” The snark drips from her tongue with charisma he loathes. His jaw clenches at the forced display. “Then return them and I shall return this.” Her eyes snap up to him and frown at the sealed letter in his grasp. Daemon can see as the panic swells and tenses her muscles, he can see as she takes in an inhale sharper than Dark Sister, he can see as her eyes widen because Daemon is not merely a swordsman and soon-warrior; Daemon Targaryen is also an observer. The peasant girl swallows. “Very well.” She chokes out and he finds himself surprised to have won this game of cat and mouse. Of dragon and sheep. Almost disappointed. The prince nods and steps back but as she prepares to swipe it from his hands and pulls it back with a visibly pensive expression. “I will give it to you once you return my possessions.” Eyes meet and again, his gut twists. She tilts her head, guard seemingly lowered. “How curious,” She breathes out. Daemon’s brows knit. “What?” He questions. “You said possessions not belongings. Most would use the latter.”

When he eventually does return to the castle, fully clothed and prepared to sleep off the remainder of his disturbed night, He keeps a firm stance and intends to forget the strange day so far but his mind circles the events like a fly. Daemon growls as he shrugs off his shirt to replace it with one of pure white and tosses the prior into a drawer. He roughly grasps a red doublet in his hands and tugs it over. His breath comes out in grunts and curses until he is redressed. It is the same shade as the peasant girl’s cloth, of course it is. It was his favourite until today and now childishly, it feels tainted by the resurging memories of humiliation being sewn inside. His nose scrunches up, a grotesque taste rubbing against his tongue as he recalls one incident in particular. The prince, a man to be respected, can visualise as he was shoved to a thin mattress and tossed up the mix of bile and sickness from his stomach. All. Over. Her. Floorboards. Daemon winces and shakes his head, trying to shake the memory into the deepest depths of his subconscious, never to be seen again. He sighs and turns around, pausing when a slight fluttering falls as soft as a petal from his trouser. He frowns and peers down at the paper. There sits a thin parchment, not unlike the letter he had returned to the peasant girl. This one however is in cursive words much more eloquent than the past one and written in a phrasing he’s unsure of. He looks at the wax seal this time. It’s blue and the paper around it is curled. Daemon glances over the creases. Perhaps his business is not yet forgoing.

A moon passes before he finally returns through the winding streets, trying to recall the pattern in which he returned home, backward. Daemon finds himself humming a tune to which he should not be familiar with but it is the only thing that consumes his mind as he passes through the Street of Flour. Finally, he reaches a small doorway and raps at it. No one answers to which he sighs and takes a step back, peeking through the opening of his hooded cloak at the abundance of civilians. Daemon’s eyes dart amidst the unknown area and his feet follow, investigating a series of yells and glances one last time at the door. The street is in uneven bumps and the people there are clumped together as they holler and whistle. Daemon halts his tune and uses his substantial height to attempt to see over the large mass of bodies. He can barely make out the sight of steam and two large wooden stands. The hollers burst through his ears like pellets of rain, forceful and punishing as a storm.

Then a familiar voice is raised above the others, a mock resounding in his ears but with the playfulness and wit of a friend. His violet eyes snap up to find the woman haunting him. She’s laughing raucously, obnoxious and loud. Daemon’s lips slightly twitch at the teeth she bares. Again, his gut stirs. The heat becomes smothering but that doesn't stop him in his pursuit in finding the peasant girl who he now sees tossing around a pan filled with water and meat. From the brief glances he can snatch up, she’s almost finished while a man beside her is kneading a similar meat lined in fresh pink. Daemon pulls his lips taut, tensing as he watches the show. His little peasant seems to be enjoying herself. Witch, he thinks briefly but she doesn’t look like a witch and nor does she particularly sound like one. Are witches not supposed to be tantalising and hibernate an illusion of raw sex? Of primal appeal to tempt him? She doesn’t appear to be trying very hard. The flour is gone from her face now, he notes, but in its place lays a curved slice, colour as deep as that of Dornish wine. If she is a witch, would she not surely cover it? The hiss of her heated pan hisses throughout the street and Daemon finds himself surprised that no one has stolen from the small bag of coins in the centre.

A cacophony of enjoyment and not one has a trail of bitterness. He watches as the girl glides a hand around her neck to push back the hair escaping its tight wrap atop her head. Only joy amongst the miserable. Perhaps that should worry him but he is too enthralled in the display. The woman’s hair is tied high again but much clearer than the moon prior–the day he last saw her. She is still wearing the same rags but this time that revolting red cloth is wrapped around her shoulders like a shaul. Not a whore either then. A whore would not be parading her squeals for free and nor would she wish to wear rags when surely many men had solicited them. So she is not a witch and not a whore and yet he finds himself stalking after her presence like an injured pup. Daemon growls at the very thought. He is a prince. How many times must he remind himself? Princes do not chase after strange peasant girls. The scolding floats through the wind when the peasant girl cheers and hurls the pan down on the wooden market stand. Her opponent groans half-heartedly, grinning like a mad man as he stretches out his arms and embraces the girl, one rough large hand resting to cup the back of her head and his other reaching to slap her back like Daemon has seen other knights behave. But this is not a knight, this is a peasant. The fact twitches his nose in distaste. But so is she. A voice whispers in his ear, he swats it away, watching as the surrounding peasants cheer.

Daemon watches as the children let their little hands grasp the food and jump in bubbles of excitement. If he had a warmer heart, he may have found the sight sweet. But he does not, he has a mission to complete. He approaches the peasant girl with sly steps but she has already noticed him, how, he does not know. He steps behind her and opens his mouth but she beats him to it. “My prince,” She speaks with a burning smugness he doesn’t have to look at to be aware of. Against his better judgement, a sly smirk spreads across his pale lips. “You remembered.” He quips to which she hums in approval and folds her arms over her chest. “Unfortunately I did.” Daemon shifts in intrigue. He hesitates for the first sun of his existence. “I almost thought you wouldn’t bring it back.” She comments, amusement slipping in between her teeth. A snicker passes his mouth, a mouth rarely barred. “I had not imagined you would need use of such a thing left so easily misplaced.” Daemon’s hot words burrow through her ear, as determined as their wielder. She turns her head, baring her soft neck and piercing eyes to look up into his. The heir’s breath hitches.

“I misplaced nothing, my prince.” The peasant purrs boldly. The intimacy of a whisper drips from her like an aphrodisiac. Daemon grins. “Is it my name or merely my title that you know of?” He chuckles, a confident hand reaching wind at her waist. Her own hand cups it. “Of course, my Prince Daemon Targaryen.” He swallows and a shuddered chill draws down his back. “Might you tell your prince your own for adequate compensation?” She leans a little closer, only a breath apart and fanning across his twitching lips. She interrupts his thoughts by slapping his hand enough to stun him. “I shall not.” With him vulnerable, she twists away from him with cautious grace. “I like to leave my men wanting.” She calls with a growing impish grin. He surprises himself by returning the gesture, straightening his back as he does so and raising his brows. “And I am one of your men then?” He retorts easily and watches her sashay apart from him. Before she is too far, he pats down to find the letter in his pocket but already knows it has been swiped. Instead of berating his own foolishness, he smirks at the smart, slippery girl and steps away, sure to see her more in the growing time.

As the moons pass and his brother grows increasingly irate with him, Daemon Targaryen sneaks away into the night. He ignores the hailings of his Lady Bronze and replaces her calls with the sweet melodies his newfound companion intoxicates him with. The soothing lilt of her lullabies and the calm braids she strews across his hair. Daemon stands, now a man of 27 years, at her side. Y/n, she had told him. Her name was Y/n. She was of no surname and no wealth but she was beautiful and kind. She was fresh and witty and every inch the insinuating tart she had been the night they met. Her fingers stroke through his tangled mane with a snort before landing her hands, rough with work, on his shoulders. He leans back and flutters his eyes shut. With all the bread she has kneaded, this is not the first time he longs for her embrace. He hums in swift pleasure, reaching up to coil his fingers with hers. “How is sweet Rhaenyra?” Y/n asks, voice ripe with interest and honey as always…Only this time, there is something burrowed beneath, he can feel it. He can feel it better than he can sense Caraxes’ heartbeat. “She is well…Almost full grown already.” Daemon responds, his fingers lingering as they caress Y/n’s hand. Why does it feel so much frailer than it did before? “Are you hiding something from me? Are you aware that it is a crime to lie to your prince,” The joke falls flat as she leans forward and shakes her head, arms stretching across her lover’s chest. She doesn’t speak and he doesn’t pry but they are both aware of the deep mulberry bags beneath her eyes.

But Daemon has always been a man of actions and impulses and so, he lets instincts take over, leaning back his head to look at her. His hands both reach up to cup her face and descend it toward him with gentle prompt. “I brought something for you,” He breathes, twirling a strand of her hair around his fingertips. She tilts her head and tightens her lips. “Whatever for?” He lets a mischievous grin twist his mouth and stands, settling Y/n down in the chair instead. Daemon cups her cold hands in his warm ones and folds them in her lap. “Close your eyes.” She does so begrudgingly but she is long past arguing with him when he’s in his moods. She chuckles. “You told you there was nothing you required for your namesday and while I respect–” She interrupts him, groaning with amusement. “Because it is not a namesday, I will never know my namesday,” She chuckles but her tickling throat gives her away, choking the words out of her dry throat. Daemon hums lowly. “But it is the day that you were given shelter.” She rolls her eyes at the quip. “That place was hardly a shelter.” He leans down to kiss wetly along her jaw and up to her earlobe. “And yet it brought you to me, kept you safe and waiting.” She snorts and raises her brows, a pointed expression inching over her. “I was hardly waiting.” He chuckles this time and kisses up the column of her throat. As she begins to breathe out gentle moans, he takes her distracted presence to skillfully thread his hand over hers, sliding cold steel onto her finger. She gasps and flutters her eyes open to see his cocky smirk. “Well?” He asks and kisses the finger. He licks his lips and lets a shaky breath flow through him.

Y/n regains composure and stares at the ‘something’ he had brought her. She brings it to just in front of her sights and swallows. “Is-Is it…?” “Yes,” He whispers and looks at the carefully crafted jewellery too. “I want you to have a part of me, always. And in return…” He pauses and turns the ring around her finger slowly to reveal a carved dragon, its wings spread for flight. “I want all of you.” He slowly kneels in front of her. “I want you to marry me.” It’s instantaneous that her mouth parts and her eyes widen. “Daemon…” “That woman is not my wife.” He states coldly before warming at the sight of her softening brows. “You are my wife in body, in soul and I want so in law too.” He takes in a breath. “Please, do not this deny of me. “I told you I would give you everything and I intend to. “Your brother will never approve of it.” A growl ripples through his mouth. “I do not care, he has tried to be my dictator since we were children and now I am a man grown, I should be allowed to choose my own wife. To let her choose me. He has not yet had an heir, let me take you to Dragonstone.” He leans closer until only a single breath can part them. “Let me make you my wife in the ways of my ancestors.” Silence cups them in a bubble, so easily popped. Too easily popped…and yet, she turns the ring, roaming the dotted rubies that form the dragon’s eyes and in slow movement, she stares into violet irises as she kisses the dragon’s head. “Yes.” She whispers. “I will be your wife.”

He doesn’t take a moment more to grasp the sides of her face and kiss fervently at her soft pliant lips. She returns the force in tandem as the sun sets behind them. The golden rays darken in a way only the most beautiful of moments could demand. Daemon’s hand drops to scrunch at the material at her thigh, at the skirts of her dress. It is in moments that both his hands reach to pop and tear at the incriminating fabric, ripping away her bodice until he can paw at his prize like an animal starved. Her teeth sink into his lip and the wet resounding noises surface upon their lips. His breath grunts as hers quickens in high pitched desperation. Her own hands slash roughly at his doublet, shoving it away from him like a criminal. His hips grind against her in hard strokes, desperately trailing his kisses down her neck while she clutches and pulls at his long silver hair. A high moan tears from her mouth as he sucks his marks into her, the need for possession clawing at his veins. Her pearl throbs as she twists to plunge him onto the floor. She straddles his thighs and wraps her arms around his neck and pushes his face against her neck again. He growls and snaps off her smallclothes. “When we met,” He groans, eyes fluttering back. “I thought you were a whore.” A breathy cackle drips from her animalistic mouth. “I’m starting to rethink denouncing that. You are much, ah, much too talented to be a baker.” He moans and burrows his head into the pillows of her breasts, lips wrapping to suction once more, to claim. “And you,” She interrupts herself to moan, tossing her head back. “Are much too unkempt to be a prince.” He bucks his hips. “Tell me,” A shriek breaks as he tugs roughly at the pelvis of his own trousers, desperately trying to be rid of the material. “Tell me you’re mine, Rogue Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.” A gasp drips from his tongue while he finally gets a grip of his fabrics. He tosses her to lie on the floor, her back pressed against the wood. “Fuck, I’m yours,” He babbles like a hormonal desperate teenager. With thick hands grapple his own trousers and tears them off with haste. “All yours, only yours.”

He throbs as he kisses down her body, planting wet marks as violet as his eyes and crimson as his blood. He props up her right leg to drape over his shoulder and sucks at her thigh. His tongue probes at the flesh. His palms squeeze at her thighs as he slowly dips down between them and worships her mound in deep licks, drinking in the slick. He wants to drain it into a flask and carry it in his satchel. He wants to carry her around to sip from at any moment. He could die happily between her legs. Daemon Targaryen does not need wine or whore because she is his sin and he will anger the Gods happily if he can keep this temptress at his side. He pulls back to fan his breath along her throbbing cunny. Such a sweet filthy little thing, he thinks to himself, blowing down on it and revelling in her small jolt. His tongue drops to play with the bundled pearl, rolling it over the muscle and sending vibration as reward for every little moan that she lets pass. Her hands reach down and tug at his hair. “You should not have tempted me, adere riñus,” (slippery girl) His dark eyes level to meet hers. “I told you I want all of you and I intend to take it.” With an animalistic grin, his mouth descends once more to lap at her. Her back arches, grinding into him impatiently. “Be careful,” The woman pants. “Or I may start suspecting you to be a whore yourself.” He growls as she smirks and pushes up her body, slamming a forearm by her head and stretching her leg. She winces for a moment but recovers as his fingers replace his tongue. “A private whore then.” He speaks, removing his hand from her bud to palm at his length. “For a have already told you,” He grunts, chasing her mewls as he plunges into her entrance. “I am yours.” And so he pushes deeper, pushing roughly and lets his sweat pound into her flesh until they absorb one another.

Months have passed. He knows they have but he doesn’t feel it. All he can do is fight and slay and watch as men burn and bleed. So long it has been since he last saw his true wife, since he last kissed her lips. A comment in passing has devoured his entire mind. A half-hearted promise that he has clung to now is visible but only in part. He wants it now more than he has ever wanted anything. “Yes, well, you may marry her if the Stepstones are ever retaken.” A King will be true to his word and his brother has never proved untrustworthy but the phrase was meant in jest, he knows. However, Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince and man of twenty-eight years, will let himself be damned before he rejects the prospect. He will make his wifey his own if it is the very last thing he does. He has returned to his brother, a crown of bone within his grasp and presented it to him with but one request. He shall take his own wife and he shall take her at court for all to see. Before every lord, lady or royal proudly. For the first time, it isn’t frustration or malice in his brother’s gaze in response to his boldness. It is gentle and merciful. Because that is what it feels like to be gifted the honour of his adere riñus. It is mercy, it is a blessing, it is his salvation. It is the rise of his sun and the fall of his stars because he only needs one. He only needs one shining star to keep his moon afloat and begging.

Finally he can return home to her with more than a title and unfair vows. He can return with a heart full. Daemon’s hand twists at the wooden door he has slipped past so many times before but he freezes at the sight. An array of mess greets him and horror balls in his throat to gag him. His eyes snap at every corner, panic rising like the flow of sharp wind. His feet travel through the cluttered space, wariness biting at him but then he sees blood splatter on a cloth. It is as crimson as the shirt beneath his tunic and that alone makes him scream for her. Her name resounds through the open space and his legs run swiftly to the only other room there, the one where he had professed his devotion to her until the words bled out. He bursts the door open with the force of ten thousand men, the hinges yelling at him. He settles his sights on his weak love. She is shivering. With widened eyes and swiftly snaps to her side in one breath and kneels there, clutching her hands. “What is wrong, my love, who has hurt you?” The words are loud, demanding and cold. She almost doesn't respond and his heart stops. “I am well, husband.” She calls him such…She calls him such without even knowing the good news, the news he had only dreamed of whispering into your ear but not like this. Never like this. “My love, you are not.” Daemon chastises and fumbles with her bedsheets. He reaches to cup her cheek. “My love what has happened, has someone thieved you, please tell me what has happened.” She merely shakes her head. “I,” She coughs into her hand, rich thick blood dripping from it like a cursed potion. His face hardens but he lets her finish, lets the quiet remain. She’s trembling like a little lamb. “You knew that I was in an…unseemly state when you left. I am glad to have you return to me.” She has never spoken so proper, so rehearsed to him before. How long had he been blind? “I am taking you to a healer.” He snaps instantly and stands. She winces. “No,” She begs weakly. He shakes his head. “No, please, I do not wish for you to see me in this state.” “Shame is not for this time!” He yells. “I return home to my wife sickly and bedridden and you expect me to not alert a maester? Nonsense, you are coming willfully or I will make you.”

The nights are cold and they pass without progress as he lays by her side at all hours. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling. “It is in the sky that you are free,” She utters. “Caraxes will be missing you.” Daemon shakes his head and glides a hand up her waist. “And if I should fly him then I shall be missing you.” “He is an animal as wild as you, my love,” She berates with the softness of an angel. “And he will wait.” “And for how long? Until I am old in my grave.” “Do not say such things!” Daemon chastises. “It is mere truth, husband.” She sighs and curls his hair in her fingers. “He needs flight and so do you.” He doesn’t respond, his petulance growing.”I am not getting better.” She wags a finger in his face when he tries to argue. “I will continue not to but if you do this justice for me then I will grant you an army of love.” The mischief still holds on her tongue after all this time. The gentle mocking of his salvation and he smiles. He smiles as water pricks his eyes. He can’t speak. He won’t make it so, not if it is only going to claw at him.

Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches as the ivory moon lowers before him. He watches as gold forgives the darkness and they embrace. The twine of beauty and misery thread together in a beautiful seal. A seal of love and beauty. He twists a ring in his hand, one made of Valyrian steel and shattered promises. He sits upon a red cloth. Parchment is strapped to his thigh, awaiting acknowledgement, a web of bluebells encapsulates it. A letter of hopes, a letter of dreams unfulfilled. Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches the sun rise and with it, his future. He has felt his slippery girl slip from him and now it is time for him to breathe new air. He is only left with the remnants of her but that is enough for him to resume his newfound duty. A duty to her, to her memory and to her desires. As he watches the night close, he finally takes acceptance. He accepts peace. Her love is not red, it is not blue. It is in what she has left behind and it is in what she has gifted onto him. Finally he understands what she meant that fated day. She does not own him. He belongs to her.

Her love is her remnants. And he has an army of it.

Remnants Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @chompchompluke @eyelinerandcigarettes

HOTD Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @wrendermedone @hopelesswritergall @blackdreamspeaks @its-actually-minicika @gettheetoanunneryimmediatly @adelusionalwriter

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x fem!reader #daemon x you #daemon smut #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen x fem reader #daemon x reader #daemon x fem reader #hotd x reader #daemon targaryen x reader smut #daemon targaryen smut #daemon targaryen x fem smut #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen x reader angst #angst

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mosticonicbirdcallbracket · 1 year

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MOST ICONIC BIRD CALL BRACKET: ROUND ONE: BARN OWL vs. WOOD THRUSH

IN THE BLUE CORNER, we have a wrestler with eerie beauty and deadly grace, the silent assassin of the ring, the barn owl!

despite its soft plumage and its sweet, heart-shaped face, this is an opponent that demands respect. the barn owl is incredibly agile, able to fly silently through the air and strike its opponents with deadly precision. you might think that, like any owl, the barn owl will hoot - but if you run with that assumption, you'll be in for a nasty surprise when you hear that piercing, ear-shattering shriek.

IN THE RED CORNER, it's time to face the music. hailing from the lush forests of north america, it's the wood thrush!

this is a fierce opponent that's been training for this competition its entire life. this bird is able to sing not one, but two notes at the same time, giving its song an ethereal, flute-like quality. the wood thrush is here tonight to prove that it's not just a pretty face - this is a true championship contender. get ready, because the wood thrush is here to sing his way to victory!

#birds #barn owl #wood thrush #ornithology #bird calls

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jpitha · 4 months

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Between the Black and Grey 45

First / Previous / Next

The scream rang through the frigate. Northern ran down the hall and burst into Fen's room where she found her sitting up panting, covered in sweat.

"What is it? What happened?"

"T-The Nanites. They spoke to me." Fen tried to control her breathing, taking huge breaths and holding them for a moment, releasing them through her nose. "They said they're not going to devour our dimension, but they need to Gates to help search for a different one to devour."

"Devour?"

"They are a distributed intelligence inside the Nanites. They consume everything to make more of themselves. They said their own dimension was not like ours - fewer stars and planets - and they found a white hole to power themselves and the Gates, but now they need more energy." Fen continued to try and control her breathing, but she started panting instead. "Northern" she gasped.

Northern grabbed Fen and hugged her tightly. As she held her, Fen's breathing slowly recovered and tears started flowing down her cheeks. "What are we going to do?"

"The first thing we're going to do-" As she stood, Fen thought for a moment that Northern seemed taller. She exuded confidence that made Fen feel like she could fix things. "-is get out of here. No way we can stay here Helen and the Empire. The second thing we're going to do is go find Gord."

"But we don't know where he is."

"I've got an idea." Northern flashed a grin and winked as she strode out of the room. Fen sighed and flopped back onto the bed.

"Stormy! If you're not connected up to the ship, it's time. We're going.

"Going where, Northern?" Stormy's voice came from the PA.

"Tell you when we're out of here. Are we still on the Dreadnought's umbilical?" Northern sat in the center seat on the Command deck. Her fingers danced over the panels built into the arms of the chair. All over the ship, there were sounds of activity as the reactor came back online and other systems started to spin up.

"We are. I'm spoofing their sensors right now, so long as you keep the running lights off they won't know we're running hot until they come up to the airlock."

"Ideally, I want to be gone before they even know we left. What time is it on the ship?"

"Hour or so before lunch."

"Shit. That means Helen will probably be coming by soon."

"Speak of the devil-" Stormy took over one of the large screens on the command deck, and changed the view to an external camera. Helen Raaden was entering the hangar right then, flanked by a brace of guards, all armed with rifles. "Odd she should come armed like that on her own ship, isn't it?"

"Not if she wasn't going to let our friend have any chance of making her own decision." Northern tapped more on her pads, and the whining whirr of the slug thrower spinning out was heard. On the screen, Northern watched them all stop moving suddenly and the guards raise their rifles as they surrounded Helen.

"After careful consideration, we have decided to reject your offer, 'Admiral' Helen Raaden." Stormy said over the PA. "We are leaving."

Helen's eyes could melt a ship's hull. She started shouting at the guards and three of them peeled off and ran back the way they came while some of them opened fire on Stormy. The rounds plinking off the hull sounded like hail.

"Northern! They're bringing in the big guns. Unless we do something we're holed." Stormy's camera flicked, and Northern saw a large slug thrower unfolding from the ceiling of the hangar and swung towards them, it's double barrel staring at them menacingly.

"Shit shit shit!" Northern got up from her seat and ran over to a station in front of her. She reached deep underneath the workstation and manipulated a lever. A hooting, brassy alarm started up all over the ship and a binnacle rose out of the floor in front of the commander's seat. She ran back and as she sat, pedals unfolded and her seat belted her in tightly. "Stormy! You concentrate on countermeasures, I'm going to fly us out."

"You're putting me on manual? I knew you were odd Northern Lights, but I had no idea you took complete leave of your senses!"

"You worry about those slug throwers, Stormy Days, I'll worry about getting us out of the hangar in once piece." Northern grasped the two control sticks that stuck out from near the top of the binnacle and placed her feet on the pedals. With a twist of thrusters, Stormy lifted off the deck and started to slide slowly, wobbling slightly.

As she did so, nobody noticed Helen, but the cameras recorded it. As she stood there, shouting and ordering people around, the dust and debris in the hangar swirled around moving towards her. While she stood there, it formed up behind her making a set of gossamer wings that began to glow slightly.

Fen sat up sharply. She started to move awkwardly, in fits and starts, as if her limbs weren't entirely her own to control.

We tried to talk you into this Fen. We gave you every opportunity to go along with it. We would have given you anything you wanted, let you rule however you sought fit. But, you leave us no choice. You are Empress and you will rule.

"N-No." Fen's voice sounded weak, blurry. "S-stop. I don't want to do this."

The time for bargaining has long passed.

As the thrusters kicked in, Fen wobbled. Ship's gravity took over, and things were smooth quickly enough, but the Nanites noticed the change.

Too soon! We have to leave now.

Fen broke into a stiff legged run, and took off towards the airlock.

Back on the command deck, Northern struggled to control the ship while Stormy handled point defense. It seemed like for every gun they shot at, two more appeared. "Northern this isn't working. I'm going to try and blow a hole and get us out of here!"

"You're welcome to give it a shot Stormy, I'm out of ideas."

"Uh, Northern?" Zhe's head lifted from the console she was sitting at. "What about the wormhole generator?"

"What about it, Zhe? Is that broken now too?"

"No, but why don't we use it?"

"Inside the hangar? That's madness!"

"Why?"

"Because it would severely damage the-" Northern stopped and listened to what she was saying. "It would damage Helen's ship and help prevent them from chasing after us! Zhe, you're brilliant! Stormy, compute a link out of here. Doesn't matter where, we can link again once we're safe."

"On it Northern. Computing solution now."

Fen's body reached the airlock. As the ship was maneuvering, it was locked. Shaking, her hand went up to the unlock pad and she leaned in, using her shoulder to push hard on the pad. After a moment, the light turned green and both doors snapped open.

The noise was intense. The thrusters were loud enough on their own, but that combined with the chatter of the guns and the movement of the air and shouts from the crew made hearing anything impossible. Bending her knees down low to build energy, Fen sprang out of the airlock.

"Northern! I have a solution. Just let me know when to link."

"Do it now, Stormy!"

"Linking away in 3... 2..." Stormy gasped. "Northern! The ventral airlock! It's-"

As the wormhole opened and surrounded Stormy Days, the ship wasn't the only thing that linked away. The air, dust, floor of the hangar, some of the side plates also linked away. Everyone in the hanger was dazzled by the wormhole, and then deafened as the air stolen by Stormy Days rushed back in.

Everyone was knocked over by the force except Helen. If anyone was watching, they would have seen something like her wings swing in front of her to direct the force around her. As air rushed into the hangar to replace what Stormy had taken, sound returned to the large room. There were sirens and klaxons and other alarms sounding all at once.

Helen clicked her comm. "Silence those alarms. We know where the damage is. Get fire teams down to the hangar and run diagnostics on the reactors. I know they're under us. I need Medical too, we have injured. Bring stretchers."

"Yes, Admiral!" The voice on the other end was cool and professional. Helen nodded to herself. She tried to make sure she surrounded herself with cool and professional people. Ignoring her guards who were coming back to consciousness slowly, she strode over to the body laying on the floor near the crater left by Stormy's departure. She kneeled down. "Fen."

Fen's body rustled and she moaned and tried to push herself upright.

"Don't move Fen. I'm getting medical down here. We'll make sure you're all right."

"W-wha-"

"Shhhhh, shhhh." Helen stroked Fen's hair. It even felt like Melody's. She smiled to herself. Everything was coming together. Soon enough, they would be back on track. "We're going to make sure you're not injured, but the Nanites should have taken the majority of the impact for you. You'll be good as new in a few days, Empress."

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #sci fi writing #humans are space oddities #humans and aliens #jpitha #writing #humans and ai #humans are space capybaras #humans are space australians #Between the black and gray

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kkpwnall · 1 year

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if it wasn’t for bad luck i wouldn’t have luck at all

part one | rated t | 1270 words | cw: parental death

all my thanks and love to my beloved @fragilecapric0rnn for beta-reading 💜 you're a rockstar and your feedback was so so helpful

Eddie was born under a bad sign. That’s what his momma always used to say. Friday the 13th, and in October? He never really stood a chance and neither did anyone else he got close to. He was like a black cat walking across their path.

[ keep reading below, or read on ao3 ]

His momma was first, of course. Cursed by the fate of Eddie’s birth from the very beginning. And if he hadn’t dawdled on the way home from school that day, if he had gone straight home just like he’d promised, if he hadn’t stopped to pick a bouquet of ditch weed wildflowers for her and got distracted by caterpillars and rollie-pollies— Well, maybe he would’ve been able to tell the 911 operator she was still breathing when he found her.

His daddy was next, not much long after. Eddie worshiped him like a hero in one of his fantasy stories, the charming, devil-may-care, down on his luck protagonist who stole from the rich and gave to the needy. But the first time Floyd brought him out on a real job, just the two of them, when all Eddie had to do was hot wire the getaway car after he heard the signal (three hoots like a barn owl), Eddie panicked. Did he say barn owl or barred owl? Was that two hoots or three? Why did the wires all look the same in the dark?

When the police cars painted him in their flashing red and blue lights, he dropped the wire cutters and ran. Floyd went down in a hail of bullets behind the car Eddie had been trying to steal, and Wayne got his own life sentence when the State dropped Eddie on his doorstep.

Uncle Wayne got the worst of it, obviously. Working himself to the bone, nights and weekends, to put Eddie through school. Not to mention senior year for a second and third goddamn time.

It was too late by the time young Eddie figured it out. By the time he decided to keep everyone at arm’s length.

It’s safer that way, for everyone.

Chrissy was just the latest in a long line. And he’d only lowered his guard an inch, a millimeter, when he saw someone just as lonely and desperate for a friend. He’d only barely started to let himself have an inkling of what an actual friendship with her might be like when—

This is exactly why Eddie doesn’t have friends. He has minions. He has little lost sheepies, he has twerps and shrimps. And that’s it. That’s enough. It has to be enough.

But all that changes the day he dies.

Or maybe it’s the day he finally wakes up. His new birthday, welcomed to the world once again in a cold, bright, sterile hospital room.

And really, the way he sees it, it’s all Henderson’s fault.

The little shit wanders in every day at visiting hours and makes himself right at home. He props his cast up on Eddie’s bed, and steals the remote to change the channel on the ancient, minuscule tv over to cartoons, and then he just… camps out! All day!

The kid will not leave him alone, no matter how cold a shoulder Eddie tries to give him. He even broke down and explained everything to him. How he’s bad luck, he’s bad news. And people who get too close to him end up dead.

But maybe the painkillers they’ve got him on scrambled his brain as bad as the bats scrambled his guts, because Dustin steamrolls right over him.

“If curses were real, which they aren’t,” he posits in his professor voice, “Your dumb curse can’t try to kill me again. It already took a shot and it missed, and the worst I got was a busted ankle.”

Eddie opens his mouth to tell Dustin that’s not how curses work but—

“And what was its goal anyway? To get you alone and friendless, dead in a ditch? Well then, mission accomplished!”

Which is… weirdly comforting when he puts it like that.

Dustin brings with him a rotating cast of the rest of the fellowship. Eddie finally gets to meet Baby Byers and finds out he’s already been recruited to Hellfire before Eddie can even say hello.

More often than not, Steve tags along too since he’s already ferrying them all between the hospital and home. Usually after he’s spent some time with Red and the other kids in her room, he’ll drop by. To check on Dustin of course.

It’s not because he likes Eddie. Don’t be ridiculous. He doesn’t even know him.

All that… before… it was just some harmless flirting to keep himself from completely losing it while he was on the run from homicidal bible-thumpers. And Steve was just humoring him.

So he hides behind stupid flirtatious remarks, easy to brush off when it’s always undercut with sly winks and salacious expressions. Enough to keep everything surface level. Keep him at arms length.

It doesn’t matter that his eyes still seem to linger on Eddie, even when he hasn’t said anything for a while. Or that he brings Eddie extra pudding cups from the cafeteria. It doesn’t mean anything when he stands in the doorway trying to finish one last story or joke, until the kids almost literally have to drag him out when visiting hours are over.

Because it turns out Steve is an incorrigible gossip. And Eddie’s not about to be the one to corrige him. Not when he brings an extra dr. pepper for Eddie every time he stops by the vending machine for a coke and gleefully tells Eddie which of the doctors, nurses, and shady government agents are sleeping together.

A can of coke he taps on the lid with a peculiar rhythm before he cracks it, every time.

“What’s up with that?” Eddie finally has to ask one day, when it’s just the two of them and the Price is Right.

Steve hums this confused little sound at him, tilting his head with furrowed brows as he takes the first sip.

Eddie repeats the pattern, tapping it out on his own can.

Steve blinks a few times, first at Eddie, then at the can in his hand.

“I didn’t even realize I did that,” he huffs out a laugh. “It’s uh… something my grandpa taught me when I was a kid. Y’know just for luck.”

The blood in Eddie’s veins freezes and he’s stuck like that for a painfully long moment. Propped up against the lumpy hospital pillows with his mouth half open, staring at Steve.

“For luck.” he says flatly.

“Yeah, so the fizz doesn’t explode when you open it.”

“And has that ever happened to you?” Aiming for flirty, aiming for scathing, aiming for anything that’s not desperation.

“Well no,” Steve says with an easy shrug and a conspiratorial smile, “that’s why it’s lucky. It’s like picking up a coin that’s face-down on the sidewalk.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s face-up, darlin,” Eddie says coyly, like every alarm bell in his head isn’t ringing a deafening cacophony.

“Nah see, you gotta leave those ones for someone who really needs the luck.”

“But then you get the bad luck.”

“Nah, doesn’t work that way,” Steve says, and fucking winks at him.

Eddie wants to shake him. What is wrong with him? He’s got it all backwards and it’s dangerous. How is he walking around like this?

Whatever, it’s not his problem. Steve can do whatever Steve wants. Eddie doesn’t need to protect him from himself. It’s not like they’re friends. And really, that’s the best way to protect him.

[ part two ]

[ also on ao3 ]

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embyrinitalics · 2 months

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Hail, whump queen! Do you have any thoughts or head canons about the end of TotK?

Ah! You're too kind. 😌 Though I usually feel more like a whump jester than a whump queen. 😅

Mmkay, so. I have Complicated Feelings toward TotK. I had fun while playing it, but trying to reconcile it as a sequel to BotW left me with a bad aftertaste (WHERE IS KASS), and as a result I haven't spent a lot of time thinking about the story or the ending or what came afterwards.

But what I HAVE spent a lot of time thinking about is How The Heck Does TotK Make Any Sense, and I have a timey-wimey cockamamie theory at which you are all sure to HOOT.

You know how there was always a sky full of floating islands and this mind-bogglingly huge underworld above and below Hyrule for thousands of years and everyone just never noticed. That really bugged me from day one. And whenever it gets brought up people are always just like "Oh yeah, it was the Upheaval."

What is that even supposed to mean? Ganondorf lifted the castle into the air and now the sky is filled with islands and we have giant chasms leading to an underworld? How is "it was the Upheaval" an explanation of anything?

But then I was thinking about how the game begins with time travel, and how Zelda has always been fast and loose with their time travel rules, and how maybe "the Upheaval" is just what people call it because it's all they can see to blame it on, but what they're really referring to is "the moment Zelda went back in time."

There's a couple different time travel options, right? You have alternate timelines, like Ocarina of Time, where you create multiple branches when you go back and forth in time and change things. You have the Back to the Future type, where there's only one timeline, but only the time-traveler notices things have changed. You have Dr. Who, which has no rules whatsoever except for when it does.

Tears of the Kingdom presents itself as more of a predestination paradox type time travel, which is more Star Trek-y. Ganondorf recognizes Link and Zelda beneath the castle before she ever goes back in time and there is a mural of her turning into the Light Dragon in the catacombs, implying that she has already done what she's about to do. If that's so, then she and Mineru have also sent the islands into the sky in preparation for Link's future, and basically everything that he discovers after his awakening has been there all along, unbeknownst to everyone.

OR HAS IT?!?

I think the game isn't a predestination paradox at all. I think, prior to their jaunt beneath the castle, there are no islands in the sky, nor Dragon fly-through routes through Hyrule's underbelly, nor any of the new, inexplicable things that crop up between BotW and TotK.

I think that when Zelda traveled back in time, she altered history. During the events of BotW there were no sky islands and no Light Dragon and no geoglyphs. But unlike in Back to the Future, when Zelda alters history everyone is aware that things have changed. They just don't know why. They blame the "sudden appearance" of sky islands and a Light Dragon and geoglyphs and everything else on the strange event they could all see happen at Hyrule Castle: the Upheaval.

Now maybe I'm just a dumb-dumb and this was what we were supposed to think all along? But I didn't get that during my play-through. O_o

BUT WAIT, you may be thinking. If that's the case, how did Ganondorf recognize Link and Zelda beneath the castle in the intro, and how was there already a mural of her turning into the Light Dragon down there? And I'll give ya another one! How do we see the Light Dragon flying around the Great Sky Island when Link still has the decayed Master Sword in his possession?!

SO THIS IS THE HOOTABLE PART.

Things don't change when Zelda goes back in time. Things change when Zelda picks up the Secret Stone.

The stone itself is a magical magic-amplifying device, and rather than the instant Zelda warps backwards being the time-altering event, I think that it was the moment she touched (and "activated," if you will) the stone and it's timey-wimey powers that the timeline began altering.

At that point she is existing in a midst of a magically-created spacetime paradox bubble, wherein time no longer functions linearly for her. She exists as the princess beneath the castle, as the time traveler in the past, and as the dragon in the sky simultaneously. All of the events that are currently happening (from our perspective), have happened (in Hyrule's past), and will happen (in Link's future), are all swirling and altering the timeline at once. This is why Ganondorf already knows her name, and why she exists as the Light Dragon in the sky despite Link not having sent back the Master Sword yet.

BUT WAIT, you may exclaim. WHAT ABOUT THE MURAL.

Ok so. This is a cop out, but listen. We don't ACTUALLY see the contents of the mural. It's covered up until later. So. It might not have been an image of the Light Dragon at all. PERHAPS.

...

Look. I know this whole theory is riddled with holes and I don't think this is what the developers intended at all and I'm not even sure I really believe it myself. But if I had to write a fic and I needed the events I see in the game to make sense, this might be a route I would take. Just so my brain would stop hurting.

So! That's totally not what you asked but there you have it. 😂

Thanks for writing in!

#TotK #the upheaval #time travel #asks #thanks for the ask!#anon #thank you for coming to my ted talk #long post

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potatoyiart · 12 days

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Robot Prince of Auchtertool

asserting dominance over wizard rule

#gloryhammer #robot prince of auchtertool #zargothrax #hail hoots #blender #blender3d #3d model #3d art

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adrasteaeydiate · 2 years

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I used to think that what I want most now is a new Gloryhammer album and now I want a new Gloryhammer album and a new Wizardthrone album like RIGHT NOW because without their new music I'm about to rot ( and aggressive replying of Keeper of The Celestial Flame of Abernethy isn't enough 😭)

#Gloryhammer #wizardthrone #unicorns have wings squirrels have nuts GIVE ME A NEW ALBUM AND HAIL HOOTS

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666melvin666 · 1 year

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In the flickering candlelight, I cowered in the darkest corner of my small, humble home. My heart pounded like a drum, its beat echoing through the room as my trembling hands clutched the tattered shawl around me. The night was thick with an eerie silence, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl.

It had been a day like any other in Ruina, but as the sun dipped below the horizon, an unsettling feeling had crept upon me. I had heard the whispers, the stories passed down from our ancestors about King Vlad the Impaler, the immortal ruler who still walked among us. Those tales had always seemed like mere folklore until this night.

As I peered through the cracks of my window shutters, a chilling sight had frozen me in place—a figure draped in cloak, with eyes that glowed with an unholy fire. It was Vlad himself, prowling the streets in the cover of darkness, searching for something—or someone.

My breath hitched in my throat as his penetrating gaze seemed to pierce through the walls, straight into my trembling soul. Panic seized me, and I in fear had slammed the shutters closed, praying to the lord above he hadn't sensed my presence.

Now, in the confines of my home, I could hear the faint echoes of his footsteps outside, each one drawing closer, as if he was toying with me. I dared not make a sound, fearing that the slightest noise would betray my hiding place.

The night seemed to stretch on endlessly, and the darkness outside was impenetrable. My mind raced with questions—why was Vlad wandering the streets tonight? What sinister purpose brought him out from the depths of his foreboding castle?

My thoughts were interrupted by a faint creaking sound, and I hugged myself tighter. The door to my home was old and worn, and the noise could have been caused by the wind, or perhaps something more sinister—something that should not be named.

As I waited in fearful silence, my mind conjured vivid images of the horrors Vlad had inflicted upon those who had dared to cross him. In the days of old, our town of Ruina faced an imminent threat from the neighboring kingdom of Conbani. It was Vlad, a gallant and charismatic leader, who emerged as our champion. With his unparalleled strategic brilliance and unwavering dedication to our people, he led Ruina's forces into battle, driving back the invading armies of Conbani.

The victory was celebrated with jubilation. Vlad was hailed as a savior, a protector of Ruina. The townspeople adored him, and he ruled with fairness and compassion, earning the loyalty and admiration of his subjects.

But victory can be a double-edged sword. The horrors of war had left their mark on Vlad's soul, and the scars of the battlefield weighed heavily upon him. Unseen by the townspeople, the darkness within him began to grow.

In the aftermath of the war, Vlad's heart became consumed by a thirst for power. He reveled in the praise and admiration of his people, and the more they adored him, the more he craved their adulation. The hero of Ruina had tasted the nectar of victory, and it intoxicated him with a desire for more.

As the years passed, the change in Vlad became evident. He became distant, brooding in the solitude of his castle. His once benevolent gaze now held a sinister glint. Rumors began to circulate among the townspeople that Vlad had become obsessed with the idea of eternal life and immortality.

As Vlad's thirst for power grew, so did his cruelty. He began to exact brutal punishments on those who dared to oppose him or speak out against his rule. The dungeons that were once reserved for enemies of Ruina now housed those who questioned Vlad's authority, as well as innocent individuals accused of crimes they did not commit.

The townspeople lived in fear, their beloved hero now a despotic ruler, feared and dreaded by all. The darkness that had taken root within him had transformed him into a figure of nightmares, a shadow lurking in the corners of their lives.

The legends of Vlad's atrocities spread beyond the borders of Ruina, and neighboring kingdoms began to view him as a menace to be stopped. No longer a hero, Vlad was now a figure of malevolence, a twisted echo of the noble man he once was. The rumors about Vlad, our once-heroic king, had taken a sinister turn. Some claimed he was no longer human, that he had become a creature of darkness—a monster haunting the night.

Yet, I refused to let fear take hold of my heart. I remembered the days when Vlad had stood valiantly, defending our town from the invaders. The sight of his brave men charging forward, inspired by their leader's unwavering determination, was etched in my memory.

Those who spread these rumors must be plagued by paranoia, I reassured myself. The traumas of war and the burden of ruling could change a person, but transforming into a monstrous creature was beyond reason.

The thought of Vlad being a monster seemed preposterous, a story conjured by restless minds seeking explanations for the darkness that now lingered within our king. His eyes might have lost their once warm glint, but that did not make him a monster.

As the rumors swirled in the night, I clung to the memories of Vlad's past deeds—the way he had cared for our people and shown compassion in difficult times. Those were the actions of a human heart, not a monstrous one.

…Surely, he wasn’t out to harm his people? Those who he had protected from war. And as my mind wandered through the ridiculous rumors my heart sank when i saw that fiery gaze coming right from my window starring me directly in my eyes. I shrieked as the glass shattered landing upon the floor as he entered. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Gather 'round, adventurers, and lend your ears to Radford's tale of the once-thriving town of Ruina, now dubbed the haunted town.

In days of yore, Ruina was alive with joy and laughter. The townspeople reveled in my tavern, sharing tales of bravery and raising their spirits high. But alas, those vibrant days are but distant memories now. A mysterious plague struck Ruina, claiming the lives of its inhabitants, leaving the town eerily deserted.

The once-bustling streets are now hushed and abandoned, the homes empty and somber. No human soul lingers, only the lingering echoes of what once was. They say entering Ruina after nightfall is unwise, as wild animals now roam freely, claiming the town as their own.”

As the sun sets, the tavern's warm hearth becomes a refuge for shadows and whispers. Rumors speak of restless spirits wandering the empty lanes.

Many adventurers have sought to unravel the secrets hidden in the ruins of Ruina, hoping for answers or perhaps a treasure to be found. Yet, those who venture forth return with wide-eyed tales of terror, forever marked by what they've seen.

“So, dear adventurers, if you find yourselves curious enough to brave the darkness, heed my words: tread with caution, and keep a guiding light to pierce through the shadows. For the ghosts of Ruina may still wander, seeking peace or retribution from the living.”

As Radford tells this tale, I warn you not to dismiss it lightly. Though tinged with mystery, Ruina's haunting is not without its dangers. Nature itself has taken hold, embracing the abandoned town with untamed wilderness.

“Take heed, my friends, and contemplate before setting forth to Ruina after sundown. The haunted town holds more than meets the eye, and not all who venture within escape unscathed.” -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- As the sun began its descent beyond the horizon, casting long shadows upon the deserted streets of Ruina, the party of four adventurers continued their mischievous antics. Pocketing trinkets they deemed valuable and chuckling at the eerie atmosphere, they paid little heed to the warnings they had heard from Radford's tale.

As the darkness deepened and the stars emerged, a hush fell upon the group. The air around them felt heavy with an inexplicable sense of foreboding. One of the adventurers, with a nervous laugh, suggested they press on, eager to explore the haunted town under the cover of night.

They wandered through the empty houses, curiosity guiding their steps. The creaking floorboards and distant howls of animals echoed through the silence, giving the once lively town a haunting aura. Still, they laughed and teased one another, the eerie atmosphere doing little to dampen their spirits.

As they stumbled upon an ancient, overgrown garden, they couldn't resist the temptation to play a game of hide-and-seek among the statues that seemed to come alive in the moonlight. They laughed, calling out to one another, their playful echoes bouncing through the abandoned town.

Yet, as the night wore on, the laughter began to wane, replaced by a growing sense of unease. The shadows seemed to dance in the corners of their vision, playing tricks on their minds. The party's demeanor shifted from lightheartedness to cautiousness, but still, they pressed forward, hoping to unravel the mysteries of Ruina.

Their bravado, once unyielding, started to waver as the tales of restless spirits returned to haunt them. Each creak of a floorboard, each rustle of the wind, seemed to carry whispers of the town's tragic past. The adventurers exchanged uneasy glances, realizing that perhaps they had underestimated the true gravity of the haunted town.

As the moon reached its zenith, casting an eerie glow upon the decrepit castle at the heart of Ruina, the adventurers stood at its imposing entrance. Most of them were hesitant, their

earlier bravado giving way to anxiety. The tales of restless spirits and haunting echoes had taken root in their minds.

Amidst the hesitancy, their leader, a daring and bold Lady named Meli, stepped forward with a mischievous grin. "Come on, my friends," she called, his voice filled with a mix of excitement and bravado. "The spoils of this castle will make us the envy of all adventurers!"

Still, the group hesitated, exchanging wary glances. "Meli, are you sure about this?" one of them asked, eyes darting nervously to the shadowy entrance.

Meli chuckled, attempting to ease their fears. "Trust me, the tales are just stories to keep people away. Besides, where's the fun in being an adventurer if we let silly rumors scare us?"

Reluctantly, the others followed their leader inside, their footsteps echoing in the darkness. The castle's interior was a maze of crumbling walls and cobwebbed corridors. The eerie silence was broken only by the sound of their hearts pounding in their chests.

The further they ventured, the heavier the atmosphere became. The weight of the forgotten past pressed down on their shoulders. Each creak and groan of the old castle seemed to whisper of its once-grand existence.

Yet, they pressed on, undeterred. She chuckled nervously, attempting to mask his own anxiety with bravado. "Look at this place!" Leo exclaimed, waving his torch to illuminate the decaying tapestries and forgotten treasures. "Who would have thought such riches were hidden here?"

Some of the adventurers mustered nervous laughs, playing along with their friends show of confidence. Still, unease lingered, and they couldn't shake the feeling of being watched by unseen eyes.

As they roamed the dimly lit halls, the party suddenly paused, their eyes widening with excitement. "Look, there it is!" Tony whisperd, pointing at a locked chest at the end of a long corridor. "That's what we came for!"

But as he reached for the chest, the sound of a low, mournful moan echoed through the castle. The group froze, their eyes widening in fear.

"N-now, I'm sure that was just the wind," Meli stammered, her bravado faltering.

But before they could react, a chilling gust of wind extinguished their torches, plunging them into darkness. Panic gripped the adventurers, their breaths quickening.

"We should go! This was a bad idea!" Leo cried out.

Yet, Meli's voice broke through the darkness, determined. "No, we can't leave empty-handed now. We've come this far!"

Meli relit his torch, the flame flickering as she led the group onward. Her companions, though afraid, couldn't let their leader face the unknown alone. They gathered their courage and followed, huddled closely together as they searched for the chest.

As the adventurers drew closer to what they believed was the coveted treasure chest, they suddenly froze in their tracks, their torchlight revealing an unsettling sight—a wooden coffin adorned with ancient engravings and symbols.

Meli, trying to maintain his composure, let out a nervous laugh. "Well, well, it seems we've stumbled upon something even more intriguing than we anticipated," she said, her voice cracking ever so slightly.

But before she could say another word, the self-proclaimed scaredy-cat of the group, Tony, let out a blood-curdling scream. "No! I wanna go home!!!! This is insane! I don't want to do this anymore!!!" he shouted, his voice trembling with fear.

His reaction sent a ripple of unease through the rest of the group. The bravado that had once filled their hearts now waned, replaced by a nagging sense of dread. The torchlight seemed to flicker even more in response to the mounting tension.

Meli stepped forward, attempting to console Tony. "Easy there, buddy. It's probably just an old coffin left behind as a macabre decoration," she said, trying to sound reassuring despite the uncertainty gnawing at her too.

But Tony wasn't easily swayed. His eyes darted nervously from the coffin to the darkness surrounding them. "You don't get it! This place is haunted, and we're messing with things we shouldn't!" he exclaimed, his voice quivering with fear.

The other adventurers exchanged uneasy glances, silently admitting that Tony might be right. The atmosphere had shifted from a daring adventure to a terrifying ordeal, and none of them felt quite as brave as they had at the beginning of their escapade.

Meli sighed, realizing that their venture had taken a turn for the worse. "Alright, Tim, you're right. We've had our fun, but it's time to call it quits. Let's get out of here and head back to our camp," she said, her voice now tinged with a mix of relief and apprehension.

The group turned on their heels, hastening their retreat from the haunted castle.

The adventurers froze in their tracks as they came face to face with a mysterious figure standing in the hall, blocking their only way out of the castle. The torchlight flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls, making the encounter even more unsettling.

The figure remained still, cloaked in darkness, their features obscured. A sense of unease washed over the party as they exchanged uncertain glances.

"Holy shit, another person?" Meli finally managed to blurt out, her voice a mixture of surprise and relief. "Hey, can we help you?"

The figure didn't respond immediately, but their silence spoke volumes. The air seemed to grow colder, and an aura of otherworldly energy surrounded them.

Feeling a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest, Tony, the scaredy-cat of the group, took a step back, wanting to put as much distance between them and the mysterious stranger as possible.

Meli stepped forward, trying to break the tension. "We didn't mean to intrude. We were just exploring, you know, adventurers and all that. We didn't mean any harm," she said, her voice wavering ever so slightly. With a burst of supernatural speed, the figure lunged at Meli, its movements twisted and unnatural. Meli's instincts kicked in, and she managed to raise her arms in a futile attempt to defend himself, but it was too late. The entity's teeth closed around her throat with an icy chill, cutting off her breath and forcing her to her knees.

The other adventurers cried out in horror, their voices a chorus of fear and desperation as they watched their friend shrivle up and drain off life

And then, in a blink of an eye, the light faded from her eyes, and her body went limp in the entity's grasp.

Meli's lifeless form fell to the ground. BIG THANKS TO @toxic-bunnni for volunteering Meli as a victim! @bunnyfarmz (twitter) for volunteering Tony as a victim!

@_LeodoForro_ (twitter) for being a suprise victim XD you wanted to get eaten here ya go!

#spooky month #spooky month au #spooky month fantasy au #spookymonth #fantasy au #spooky month candy dealer #candy dealer #vlad the impaler

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moonflower91 · 1 year

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Battles Not Fought With Steel

summary: After years apart, Saerah meets her nephews again in the same training yard she once beat Jacerys with a wooden sword

It was just as she remembered it. Years before, she had once sat with her father and his Hand, Lord Strong, here at the balcony that overlooked the training grounds.

She'd been a girl then, eagerly licking up whatever attention Viserys deigned to give her. She pitied the girl she'd been, and in a way, was thankful that she saw her sire clearly now.

Slow and weak and blind to all but his own hopes and pride.

Father had often enjoyed watching his sons and grandsons train together, feeding into his own delusion that they would grow up as close, trusted companions, never seeing the tension growing steadily between them.

Part of his foolishness, part of his arrogance, to think that just because he was king and head of their family, that he could force goodwill to blossom between them.

Truth be told, Saerah had somewhat believed those delusions herself, if only to appease her father. Aegon's vicious laughter with Rhaenyra's sons had been rationalized as boyhood blusters. Saerah stealing and secretly destroying the Strong boys' most precious toys had been a childish cruelty, little else than the actions of a mean little girl. The Strong bastards’ taunting of their true born uncle had been brushed off with sneers that to make it heavier than teasing, was to be soft and weak.

Every act of animosity exchanged had been the things of childhood, though Saerah had never counted her nephews as friends for what they'd put Aemond through.

Even her elder brother Aegon, who had so often banded together with the Strong bastards in their endeavours to humiliate Aemond, grew rageful when one of them bested either he or Aemond on the training grounds. Jacerys and Lucerys might be his play things, his hooting shadows that laughed with him when Aemond was teased, but they were still bastards. To best a prince of trueborn blood was something even a fool such as Aegon could not abide.

Then, that night at Driftmark had divided House Targaryen in half. Childhood had died that night and none of the adults present had attempted to soothe the wounds. Instead, they'd severed the mangled bonds entirely.

Where once Saerah thought Lucerys loosing his eye would have been a fair justice, her own exile made her hate the little cretin that coward behind his whore mother, and an eye became too small a price to pay.

As a girl, she'd spent as much time with her father as she was allowed, glowing each time his affection turned to her, even for a brief moment.

Now, she stood at the wall alone, watching her nephews as they practiced their swordsmanship. It was the first she'd seen them in years, but she could recognize them in an instant.

She’d arrived on dragonback a few days prior, and had asked the servants where the unwelcomed host of pretend Valaeryons had wandered off to.

She noted the colors they wore--black and red, Targaryen colors, although they held the name Valaeryion. The two little idiots might as well confirm the rumor that the only royal blood they had came from their Targaryen mother, while the rest of them hailed from the smoking ruins of Harrenhal.

It was a while before Jacerys noticed her, when his eye caught hers as he murmured lowly to his younger brother. He’d a fine face, she had to admit. Harwin Strong had been fine too, before he was melted at Harrenhall.

It would only be proper to greet them. Perhaps it would add a bit more humiliation if she bid them welcome here in the filthy training yard than at the castle gates.

She turned and made her way down the stairs, her slippered feet grazing softly over the stone, heralding her descent with softness.

“Nephews.” She called softly once she reached the boys. Her eyes flashed towards little Luke and her grin widened to see how terrified she looked.

“Aunt.” Jacerys returned, his voice taught. “We missed you this morning.” He challenged.

“Ah, yes, I had other engagements. Helaena’s little ones are just darling, I could not pull myself away from them.”

“I assume you are making up for lost time after your years in Riverrun.”

“Highgarden, actually.”

“Have you found any willing suitors then, at Highgarden?”

Saerah’s brows furrowed. What did he care if she’d had any suitors? “A handful. But I set my sights closer to myself. And from the rumours I hear, one of Daemon’s ilk are like as not to be your bride, whenever your mother decides to cut the cord.”

The tips of his ears reddened and his jaw worked.

“My affairs are not your concern.”

Her mouth hardened. “And my marriage prospects are none of yours.”

“I will one day be king, of course they are of concern to me.”

“Do you honestly care who I take into my bed, Jacerys?” She asked, tilting her head. Then, a wicked thought occurred to her, and she stepped closer. “Is that what you imagine? Me naked, in my bed, contorting my body in all kinds of sinful ways, shaking, crying out with pleasure?”

Jace’s jaw clenched again. “Your attempts to goad me into some kind of argument are falling on disinterested ears, aunt.”

“Oh if I really wanted to provoke you, nephew, I’d take up a practice sword and throttle you once more.” Beside him, little Luke stepped back, but Jacerys, hardheaded and stubborn and proud as ever, refused to back away. Instead, he stared hard into Saerah’s lilac eyes, daring her to do just that. “But fear not. There’s no practice sword in sights. Your face is safe from my wrath. “

"That was years ago, aunt." Jace replied lowly, ears colouring red at the memory of when he'd been throttled by a little girl.

"I am sure the embarrassment still burns the same."

"As do your hands. Grandfather told me he had your hands lashed for the offence."

"Yes." She replied, biting her cheek as she cast her eyes towards the maid servants flittering about the edges of the yard. It was the one part of the memory that darkened her mood. "A fair exchange, I would say. My hands healed, your pride may not. Afterall, what future king wants the shame of being bested by a girl over his head.”

#house of the dragon #saerah targaryen #asoiaf #aemond targaryen x oc #aemond targaryen x reader #jacerys velaryon #lucerys valeryon

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frasier-crane-style · 2 months

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The Satan Sleuth by Michael Avallone

I'm two books into this series now. They have the advantage of being short, but also a number of flaws that detract from a reading experience that should be a pulpy good time.

The premise is sound: Playboy wunderkind Philip St. George has his wife killed in a Manson-style slaying. He instantly becomes a vigilante against Satanism. Although not literally Satanism, but more all varieties of seventies, In Search Of... weirdness. You know, ESP, Stonehenge, the Loch Ness Monster, the Bermuda Triangle. Anything that might catch Leonard Nimoy's attention, he's on it. His wife wasn't even killed by sincere Satanists, but more crazed hippies who say "Hail Satan!" in the same way Metallica might.

Amusingly, Philip is characterized somewhere between James Bond, Doc Savage, Batman, the Saint, and only a little bit the Executioner. The narrative constantly goes on about how he's a man among men, good at everything, physically perfect, his wife was the hottest thing on two legs, and so forth. By the end of the book, he's straight-up being compared to Jesus Christ. It's a hoot. Shades of Rick Dagless M.D. from Darkplace.

He starts calling himself the Dragon Killer, but then I guess he doesn't find that name dorky enough, because he switches to the Satan Sleuth. Yes, he actually calls himself that. And he doesn't actually believe in Satan, so it's a pretty far reach for a name that, y'know, blows.

These books are pretty thinly plotted. The killers in the first book turn out to be hiding out not far from Philip's mansion and they decide to head back to his mansion, allowing him to pick them off one by one. And in the second book, he's trying to find a werewolf, which amounts to stumbling across someone the werewolf has killed, then following the werewolf's tracks to its lair.

Well, I don't think anyone picks up a book called The Satan Sleuth expecting a Robert Ludlum novel. The real issue to me is the prose. As short as these books are, they feel incredibly padded out. Every sentence is textually underlined and circled, repeated ad nauseum, draining all the propulsion out of the storytelling. Avallone never uses one sentence when he can use three and a dozen adjectives. I'll quote an excerpt to show my point:

St. George had far more curiosity than the average man. He had had that long before the tragedy of Dorothea Daley, when he always wanted to know what was on the other side of the mountain—and now that he had dedicated himself to something greater than his own life and safety, that curiosity had to be satisfied. It must be satisfied, at all costs. Most especially if he wanted to end the Fletcherville reign of terror and bring to earth the monster stalking its terrain, terrorizing and killing its populace—as well as any drifters who wandered into the vicinity. All innocently to meet death. Man or monster—he would learn that, too. It was the work, the task, the career he had sworn himself to. Forever. Until his own ultimate end, whenever that might be. Philip St. George's coming of age had simply been a matter of the savage murder of his wife, Dorothea Daley St. George. His life had begun from that day forward—christened in blood. Which was why, he, one of the richest young men in the world, was now sitting on a rumpled, four-postered bed in a meaningless little town in the middle of nowhere, fiddling with a soaked-through black Bible, disguised as a dull-faced salesman, instead of yachting off Majorca or dawdling with bikini-bare, bronze-skinned beauties on the French Riviera. Or clipping coupons in the London Hilton. He had turned his back on that world. Without regret, without fanfare, without a look back to see if he had missed anything. Fletcherville had become important to him. The people of Fletcherville, specifically. People, particularly. All people. Mankind, everywhere. Vulnerable mankind, so often victimized by hocus-pocus and the blinding magic tricks of their own fears, obsessions, and prejudices. Prey to the voodoo, hoodoo, mumbo-jumbo of cant, strange beliefs, false doctrines, which supposedly led to another god, some other truer god. All the fake astrology, phony mystic, Satanism-inspired behavior that evoked lunatic cultism of all kinds and yet brought nothing but ultimate failure, hypocrisy, lies, and more often sickness, brain decay, and—death. All those who used the occult and mysticism as a personal source of profit and gain or simply for the sheer cruelty and viciousness of it—those were the enemies of Philip St. George, quondam playboy-adventurer-explorer. The man who had grown up, almost overnght, to become a crusader with his own very special crusade. Those who used the Devil to mask their enterprises would have to pay the piper for the dance they called for. And that piper was Philip St. George, The Satan Sleuth. What other kind of man would have waited three long, crawling hours for the wet pages of an ancient Bible to dry? To become of use.

Narration by Mojo Jojo.

This kind of navel-gazing goes on for pages on end, grinding the plot to a crawl and making me want to shake the author and go "GET ON WITH IT!" At one point, the big fighting climax pauses so that we can follow an FBI agent realizing the Satan Sleuth is real. It leeched a lot of the campy fun out of the reading for me.

Now, I used Kindle Unlimited to read these, so I feel I got my money's worth, but Amazon is charging an unbelievable five bucks a pop for these ebooks, each of which hover around 150 pages. For my money, not a good bargain.

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absolutebl · 2 years

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This Week in BL - a new #1 for me from Thailand

Nov 2022 Wk 4

Being a highly subjective assessment of one tiny corner of the interwebs. Organized by which ones (in each category) I’m enjoying the most.

Ongoing Series - Thai

609 Bedtime Story (Fri WeTV) 1&2 of 11 - Apparently VIPs get the next episode early. So I watched both. It’s a good story and a great set up and it opens with one of my favorite under appreciated Thai actors: Plustor (as Vee) in a side bartender romance with younger Game. Sunshine bisexual himbo + older tsundere = YES! Gimme! Main character, Mum, is your bog-standard player. (I weirdly love how they translate clubs & bars as “pub” in Thailand - and yes, I get that it ties to the history of the area.) Kinda fun street fight. NO SINGING. Game is BL’s new bisexual king! I will brook no arguments on this matter. Omg kisses already? This is a well paced story! OhmFluke man, can’t knock the visuals, their eye connection and sympathetic chemistry work is good. I never believe they wanna bone but I do believe them falling in love. ALL HAIL QUEEN MINT.

Between Us (Sun iQIYI) 4 of 12 - This is such a fantastic show. I’m so glad they got OhmFluke back to play sides and support roles, it’s really making the found family aspect shine, especially in contrast to Win’s real family. This one is very complicated and deep and kind of modern. Very much the opposite of UWMA but in a good way. WATCH ALONG HERE.

My School President (Fri YT) 1 of 10 - it’s Love Sick + Korea and Japan's influence. Yes, we’ve seen it all before, but this is me: I never met a high school BL I didn’t want to grant a fair shake. At the very start we get self with a whistle and NO SINGING. Yay! Fantastic beginning. Our tiny music club president/idiot is definitely giving me Noh vibes & our suave student president definitely giving me Phun vibes - bonus this time no girlfriends! It moves this out of Love Sick arena, which was all chaos bisexuals, and into just completely gay. I’m happy with that and I like the dancing and the marriage on his mind. New candidates for one braincell friendship group from GMMTV (they love this archetype). Tinn is already pining and so completely gone. On a completely different aside, I really want a lesbian romance between Gun’s maa and the principle. I have a tiny ship sailing off to one side.

Ai Long Nhai (Mon iQIYI)10 of 12 - holy crumbs outta nowhere, Batman. Lots of relationship chat not enough shirtlessness, but since I’ve been binging Oh! My Sunshine Showering Night it’s no problemo. Also yes, Nahi does look and act a lot like Joanan, Ai totally ended up dating his mother.

Remember Me (Sun Gaga) 8 of 12 - Champ’s storyline is dull, although I like the actor. Yay, JaFirst got together!! Cute line, “can we skip being friends and just be in love instead?” LOVE THEM. Please can we take Mean out of that wig now? Why are the straight’s so boring? The Name stuff continues to upset me.

I Will Knock You (Fri Gaga) 3 of 12 - When these two are sweet together, they are really very sweet and I actually kind of like it. I think Noey uses ter because he’s younger, and doesn’t want to use phi.

Ongoing Series - Not Thai

My Tooth Your Love (Taiwan Fri Viki) 9 of 12 - while 609 and Between Us are v good, this is currently my favorite BL airing by a mile. The conversation between the young one and the bar owner made me hoot with laughter. “Are you trying to speak the language of adults?” probably one of the BL’s best put-downs. All the dialogue really: “Are you gonna make him tie himself in a red bow and send himself to you?“ “That’s nice. Can I choose another color?” It’s so fucking cute. The courting with food, and everybody taking photographs of how happy the dentist is. I can’t even with this show. Add the cutest smiles kisses, this is GREAT. I did in fact clap.

Choco Milk Shake (Korea Strongberry Tues YT) 9 of 11 - Man, this show really makes me laugh so hard. Especially the cat character. I love how they called out the fact that they actually have customers for a change. Jealous Milk made me cackle so hard it scared the actual cat on my lap. How are they going to end this happy? In Strongberry we trust. Just repeat the mantra ABL, just keep repeating it.

Eternal Yesterday AKA Eien no Kino (Japan Thurs Gaga) 7 of 8 - It takes me a lot to work up the courage to watch this show on Fridays. It’s so sad and traumatizing. But it’s also so good I can’t stop. I have to watch Tooth on either side of it to comfort myself. All that to say, it’s as we all expect: Michan is holding so hard onto Koichi that he has anchored him from death through shear force of will. Also… SWITCHES? Although, does it count if it’s necrophilia? Asking for a friend.

Oh! My Assistant (Korea Thurs Viki) 1-2 of 8 - This has a very JBL feel (including the title), don’t get mad if I get confused. Anygay, this is a very silly show that acts like it comes from a very silly yaoi. Out gay younger seme (we stan) pretending to be tsundere is smitten by chaos bi uke puppy. And they gave us a very interesting new take on crash into me. It’s racy but in that way Korean does racy, like Love & Leashes. Cheeky racy.

Happy Ending Romance (Korea Thurs Gaga) 3-4 of 8 - This is such a complicated show about profession, ego, reputation, safety, and trust, but not much about romance. Maybe it’s because I’m so used to Leo portraying evil (see most of his guest MV’s and half of VIXX’s) but I can’t trust his character, and I’m not sure if I’m meant to. Is that the romance? Or is this a romance about an editor’s love for a writer’s work? Or for the writer himself? And is there a difference? Meanwhile, I’m getting a bad feeling about the ending of this one. And yet... How much did I love the dialogue around love and possession? So much.

It’s Airing But I’m Not Watching It

War of Y (Thai Gaga) 20 eps - it’s just all too much for me.

2 Moons 3 (Thai Mon ??) 10 eps - Possibly a future binge watch. Rumor is it’s banal.

Love Bill (Vietnam Sat YT) - Bah Vinh is back but I’m too distracted. Also there’s a lot of fund raising stuff going on. I’ll wait and binge.

The Star Always Follow You (Vietnam YT) - same Team RL peeps we have seen before (Sunshine, Stupid)

Till the World Ends (Thai YT) 10 eps - ?

Why You... Y Me? (Thai Weds YT) 10 eps - It's not primarily a BL, but another meta show about BL shipping, with side BLs. @heretherebedork is watching it, ask them about it.