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ππ―π¦π°π’ π«π¬π΄ πΆπ’ πππ―π«π¦π°π₯π’π‘ πΆπ’ π‘π’ππ‘ π΄π₯π¬ πΆπ’π± π©π¦π³π’
βif you and i are both still alive and miserable,
i propose we begin to hunt each other for sportβ
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[ Aemond hums — agreeably snarky — as he bites into his plum. As with anything here, the flavor is less than desirable. Sad, nearly flavorless, still somehow tart. He sets it down on an empty platter. ]
Demonstrate for us. [ The young prince agreeing with the elder one, in so many words. Not without the regal haughtiness as one might be instructing a fool to dance for a court's pleasure. He does look a bit like one, after all. ] Since you're so inclined.
[ To which the man underneath the great sorcerer's hat cracks a smile out of the corner of his mouth and asks the tarnished party to follow him.
The halls remain silent as they were the night after the slaughter. No indication of who has or has not returned, would seem to imply at least some of the felled guards have resumed their postings. Heads turn silently under the creaking of plate and helm to watch them as they pass.
The end of their journey resides in a meager chapel long abandoned. Dusty pews and a lesser statue of Marika looking over them in glazed judgement. Just the faintest of glow rests in the center of the aisle like a flame without a candle.]
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And of course it's another fucking sept. What's wrong with these people. (Just wait until he hears the whole history of Marika vanquishing the race of dragonlords that ruled the Lands Between before she was imbued with divinity.) He's plainly unimpressed as he trails behind Rogier and Aemond, taking stock of everything with a critical, skeptical gaze. ]
'Grace', [ he says, his voice dry with disrespect. ] Does your god truly welcome her own replacement? Do traps not exist in this realm?
[ Little things skitter and retreat in the rafters, startled by speech when footsteps had not disturbed them. Rogier is somewhat incredulous about this challenge, explaining that it's the various powers of nature β that include the Greater Will, sure β allowing them to shift around, not Marika.
Her statuettes being all about the place and facilitating things are just a coincidence, Daemon's sure. Mmhm. ]
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He shares not Daemon's disdain would suggest he is more amicable to the ways and means in which the faith of this world is entwined with the living. Perhaps it is because Daemon has not died in this realm or felt what it is like to be awakened again by the light of the Erdtree.
At least, that is what the young prince tries to make of it. Even then, he doubts if even that could change his uncle's mind. For someone who is so difficult to kill, yet somehow continues to walk around as if he is willing to die — it would seem to be the natural way to walk this world. Unfortunately, he's pretty sure Daemon has always been this way. Erdtree or no.
Rogier proceeds with his tutorial, in the face of two incredibly incredulous outsiders. Requesting a hand from them each in order to facilitate the transcending from one realm to the next.
Aemond scoffs, it feels like they're being set up to fall prey to a cheap trap. Maybe the Roundtable Hold existed inside the hearts of the friends they made along the way. Though nevertheless takes a step forward to lay his hand upon the sorcerer's white glove.
As soon as Daemon may do the same, the decrepit little sept crumbling around them is gone in a blink.]
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He reaches out a hand to join with his nephew's, and the sorcerer's. Serpent-quick, his hand shifts, they moveβ
When all three materialize in the Roundtable Hold, Daemon is already jerking Rogier forward. It sends the man offbalance and stumbling towards him, and Daemon darts his other hand up to grab him by his collar. What starts as a sound of awkward apology quickly shifts to alarm when it's clear Daemon did it on purpose, and is even now taking a step back and hauling the man with him, one hand at his throat, the other keeping him from grabbing his sword.
Other people are noticing. ]
Interesting, [ he says, around shouts of protest. ] It worked.
[ As if he was going to just go into that blindly without the potential for a hostage if needed. And now, jeez, everyone is so riled up, maybe if they'd?? Relax?? He'd just let Rogier go??? ]
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There is a split second between fading from a crumbling sept and emerging in the golden glow of the great round table. Looming statues illuminated by the phantasmal light of grace floating in the center.
They are not aligned in their thinking, but Aemond's hand is at the hilt of his sword the moment Daemon snaps forward in his periphery. By the time the chairs are scattering the stone floor — a variety of armored warriors taking to the offensive — the young prince has his blade drawn and high at the closest throat to approach them.]
Of course it fucking worked.
[ Aemond grumbles, speaking to Daemon through his blinded side, trusts that Rogier is still firmly in his grasp and the standoff is still on.
With blades being equally drawn against them, only halted as a voice pipes up behind the crowd somewhere he cannot see. Explaining firmly the agreements upon the Hold to not shed brethren blood under their metaphysical roof. Should they lay down their arms, they would find it safe there. Or they should take their rabble outside (wherever outside ends up being) and take care of it there.
Their choice.]
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You put your faith so blindly in these people? [ His voice pitches lower, speaking his native tongue. How's your High Valyrian, kiddo? ] In this magic that isn't ours, in this land that's taken us.
[ Speaking to Aemond, while still holding fast to Rogier, whose free hand is flailed out to forestall his companions from reacting. Daemon is only restraining him, no blade of his own out yet (despite the younger one's escalation, which his uncle finds funny).
Perhaps someone's ears prick to hear something that sounds like the dragonlord glyphs of old made alive. Perhaps it goes unnoticed, irrelevant. Either way, Daemon keeps his gaze fixed on his captive, whose face is finally clearly visible up this close, stupid hat knocked askew. Not a bad looking man. Daemon speaks quietly to him after a moment, deliberately private; no harm in being a little mysterious. For fun. He and Aemond are not a team, after all.
Things continue to be tense, until suddenly, they're not. Rogier steps away, no harm done, and for a brief heartbeat before he sweeps his hat back on, there's the sense that his face has gone red.
He's also holding a spoon.
Daemon raises both hands, and smiles. ]
That was very dramatic of all of you. We were only speaking.
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[ Aemond's High Valyrian is perfectly fine, thanks for asking. It reflects the contradicting nature as he holds up half the room at sword-point. Ready to see through whatever trouble Daemon was capable of cooking up at a moment's notice. Without knowing what it even was.
They're not a team, not even slightly. Whatever goes on behind his back is none of his business. Whatever he sees when he turns once the tension breaks the surface goes unchecked. Tipping his blade back into his scabbard as he steps away into the space made for them.
Well, it's not the most awkward introduction he's ever witnessed. It's up there. Rogier is swift at composing himself to explain, though Aemond surmises that the hat is doing a bit of the work for him. He recounts for them their small achievement as though it is levying their passage.
The crowd is tepid and uncertain as to what their doors have been opened to. It feels a bit like the first day in a training yard, waving around a shitty wooden stick when everyone else swings their steel.
The only one to change their tune is the one who spoke before. Clearly a figure of seniority among the tarnished, at least in this realm. The only one to grant their welcome to the Roundtable Hold and the expectation that comes with the invitation to use it. ]
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(Daemon is still an asshole.)
Awkwardness is for everyone else. Daemon stands there, utterly unfazed, no doubt further annoying the others with his audacity to feel no shame at his own poor behavior. Setting the tone. He doesn't want to be welcomed, or to be seen as a fledgling in need of guidance; he wants hostility and distrust, he wants people to leave him the fuck alone.
Negativity is honest. He wants to see them without pretense.
His voice is smooth and gracious when he speaks to the tarnished who nuts up and talks to them, faint smirk tucked into one corner of his mouth the whole time. It's all very interesting, but he's never been much of a joiner. These assorted cunts aren't Valyrian sealords. They're desperate failed men all grasping for the same escape hatch, and this brotherhood will crumble, one way or another. They will betray each other or they will buckle in sentimentality.
Maybe they'll have food that sucks less, though. Daemon incline his head, accepting an invite for a tour. Probably this will not include seeing the Two Fingers so early, which is a shame, as Daemon would have Opinions. ]
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Though, Aemond is not immune to the temptation spun by this brotherhood and the order they look to. It speaks to the young lonely boy who still tastes for some sort of belonging. It's a safe and familiar cage of destined duty that would distract him from the venom and despair eating away at his heart.
Even so, he would agree with his uncle that it is strange and destined to fail. The fact that it still exists only solidifies that they have failed to get any sort of progress. What good is that to any of them? Why help one another at all?
They take their little tour. Daemon is robbed of his ability to make any fingering jokes this time.
What they are introduced to is the central, windowless labyrinth lit only by candles, hearths, and grace. The Hold was clearly made in mind to accommodate a far larger number than who is all present. They are repeatedly reminded to clean up after themselves when clearly that has not been the case for who knows how long. So much so, Aemond nearly trips over a pot or a stack of books creeping in under his blind side throughout their wandering.
Most of the company have retreated back to their places now it seems neither of the newcomers are here to begin a slaughter, but the ice is thin — thanks to the elder prince's antics. ]
Why play nice at all? [ Aemond utters from just over Daemon's shoulder as they are guided through halls of quarters.
Their tarnished guide prattling on ahead, too involved with what they're talking about to really pay attention to the two princes trailing behind them. ]
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[ Taking the piss out of himself. (Then again, you never know. Maybe a lonely widow would come in swinging.)
It's not the most dreary keep he's ever been in. And it has security going for itβ at least superficially. Still standing despite their insubordinate aims. He wonders who the initial engineer is, and what their stated reasons are; more, what their hidden reasons are. Who benefits? Who stands quietly at the center, an idealist or a strategist?
Hmph. ]
With who, you? [ Daemon is a little over-quick in High Valyrian, sometimes. A habit picked up from Rhaenyra, all her mumbled rs and smushed words. She sped through to sound yet more mysterious as she got older, and he would mimic her to tease her. Now it's thoughtless.
Anyway. Just pulling Aemond's pigtails for a second. ]
This appears to be a valuable resource towards understanding this world and our appearance in it, even if their goal is childish.
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A blur of High Valyrian is still rough terrain on untrained ears. The prince's delay could be construed as struggle to understand it, but it could also just be belligerence. Toddling behind in his silence at the back of the tour train, he fleeces a book off a passing table into his hands. His stroll does not slow as he tabs through a droll compendium of the Caelid Wilds recorded by a fine pen.
They had all learned it as children as a part of their training in the Dragonpit, but beyond that he may have been the only sibling to continue his study. Most of his practice came from engaging with the keepers, who only spoke in the mother tongue. They never tried to correct his pronunciation beyond the commands one uses to speak to their dragons. It's more than his father ever bothered, who only ever responded back in common.]
What was your record for banishment from the Red Keep again? [Comparatively, his speech is stiff despite the determination to barrel through the words in some semblance of fluency. At the very least, his tone correctly reflects the casual flippancy of a statement one might make to step on the heels of another. He leaves his finger stuffed in the middle of the book as he resumes holding his hands behind his back.]
A day? Three? I heard at my sister's first wedding, it not lasted the night.
[He knows the circumstances are different. It's hard to ignore the reputation after a stint like the one they just left behind. Rogue prince rogueing and all that. ]
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Daemon considers shoving Aemond into a wall and getting into a fight just here, in a hallway.
It'd be funny.
Instead, serenely, ] If anything's worth doing it's worth holding the record.
[ Including getting banished. But Daemon thinks he's technically tied with Maegor, alas. ]
I wasn't banished, after her wedding. I chose to leave Westeros.
[ Viserys never actually followed through on anything even though his marriage to Laena was unsanctioned. What was he going to do, banish them to Essos? Too late. Surely his small council seethed, but even then, Viserys was simply too avoidant to do anything about it. (Maybe, if his brother asked him to return, he would have. But they'll never know.) ]
You learned the same lesson I did, you just took a different path. You gained no more recognition through obedience than I did from deviation. That must be very frustrating.
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He had been so proud to have claimed Vhagar. He wanted to see the look on Father's face when he told him that he had claimed the biggest and oldest dragon. Not some skinny, weak drake from Dragonstone his father had dared him to claim if he was brave enough. If he was to be brave, it couldn't just be any dragon. It had to be the best. Whatever pride he could have reaped was gone with the loss of his eye. Instead he only saw wroth and disdain. Disappointment.
It was frustrating. It it is frustrating to be reminded of it. Nearly every moment in his uncle's company.
Aemond scoffs, and says nothing more. Silence spreads among the collateral of their footsteps tapping against stone.
Their guide pauses between two open doors positioned opposite of one another, both leaking with a warm glow into a rather unremarkable hallway decorated in the banners of the Golden Order.
As he turns, to introduce them to their quarters Aemond is already leaping forward — meaty history book wielded in both of his hands lifted high above him — striking Daemon over the back of his head as hard as he possibly can.]
aemond, wheezelol
Because he does get him. WHAM, the book connects and Daemon staggers and their guide shouts in alarm. It's not like a mummer's puppet play, he does not keel over unconscious, he merely has his ears ringing and the kind of impact burn that lets him know he'll have a headache for two days. He's swearing luridly with a paradoxical rasp of laughter in his voice as the native tarnished man rounds on Aemond, hollering about behaving, bringing the sound of clanging armor to all ears present as others are roused to the commotionβ ]
Oh, let him off, [ the elder prince says, despite being bent at a funny angle still, one hand at the back of his head. Fuck, that hurt. Crosstalk, clangclangclang of a knight coming down the corridor after them, muddled chaos in a tight space. ]
He's just sore over figuring out his life was meaningless. But we've all been there, haven't we, gentlemen.
[ If it had been the side of a sword, Daemon would be headless right now. Alas. Still talking. ]
he has a feral quota to meet
Click-clacking of both knights rush at him from both sides. He lowers the book until the weight of it flies out of his hand onto the ground. Swaggering away from where Daemon remains in a small step or two. Absolutely burgeoning with smugness.
Well. Until his uncle opens his mouth again.
A moment passes where Aemond might actually do nothing.
Abruptlyβ the young prince's hand touches his sword handle, triggering a wall of hands restraining him as he takes flight. The low, riling growl that seethes out of him is mostly drowned out as multiple people are yelling in his face to just calm down. Aemond's knees wobble in some staggering dance with whomever has his arms drawn back. The guide once again asking him if he can comply, his one eye remains trained on Daemon over a stupidly ornate pauldron. Fucker.]
You might want to put him somewhere else, [ the prince pipes up with a mild restraint before swallowing it down. ] — so I don't kill him in his sleep.
he is valid and daemon deserves it
It is funny, though.
The miniature pile-on doesn't seem to concern Daemon as he straightens up properly, not bothering to hide his wince. Despite it, there's no mistaking the look in his eyes: though Aemond got a stellar and comical hit in, he hasn't managed to get under his uncle's skin. Daemon has learned to eat his own emotions, and it's been many years since he's flown off the handle for anything less thanβ
(Well. Doesn't matter any more. Rhaenyra and her insecurities are far away. Wearing her rightful crown. He will hope eternal, no matter how they ended, that she's able to maintain her throne without him enforcing her will.) ]
Your sorcerer had the wrong impression of us, [ he chuckles, addressing the beleaguered knights. ] But we'll keep peace. I will, anyway. Hopefully you have enough of a buffer between chambers so I don't have to sleep with one eye open.
[ A pause, as if he's going to say something else, and then he makes a faux-apologetic face and closes his mouth.
He doesn't have to say the one eye joke out loud, does he? ]
spins the wheel of scathing remarks
The young prince's rage isn't even white hot, but it is simmering. Sharpness cutting into his jaw as it winds and swallows down what he consciously knows is a reckless mistake. To get himself banished, after all of that, isn't worth getting a second pot shot in.
And though it doesn't need to be said, Daemon's implication is enough for a lapse in consideration. So original of him. Groundbreaking.
The creaking of gauntlets and plates strain against the smallest lurch forward. It would seem he's not fighting to get free. Aemond relaxes then, steadily releasing his steam in one long breath that fetters out into a bitter chuckle.Good one. ]
I've no issue with the rule of this hold. [ His hands raise to show his peace to show his cooperation before yanking himself loose. Immediately he tends to the straightening of his coat and easing a step further back. ]
Though if you do find him gone, consider it no fault but his own. He only yearns for his brother's hands around his throat and seems to forgotten how to ask nicely.
way harsh tai
A retort fills his lungs but dies behind his teeth. Aemond should take care when speaking of brothers. He traverses thin hypocritical ice.
Daemon looks at his nephew with a particular temperature in his eyes. Obvious that something has landed, though what it's elicited is harder to divineβ angry, predatory, a mixture? He offers no further verbal clues. He'd feel gratified by a full blown fight here, but he doesn't want to give Aemond the satisfaction of having set him off.
Not yet, anyway. There may come a time (perhaps soon) where he decides it's just as gratifying for himself to give in and take a fucking swing. There's something delightful about it, in a twisted way, to be on the receiving end of his own brand of instigation.
Instead of any of that: ]
He's had a long day.
[ Gracious. ]
Of course, we both have. Why don't you continue with my nephew, I'm happy to wait.
[ Go ahead and have first crack at picking a room, kiddo. Uncle Fuckface will hang out and twiddle his thumbs in the meantime. ]
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What's this about not giving Aemond the satisfaction? His uncle's expression is not easy to divine, but it is something; something is better than nothing. All considering, that quip was a shot in the dark (at best, a shot in dim light). Very different relationships had with his brothers compared to Daemon and his father. Some things just tend to ring truer than others. Turns out he was right.
To watch the temper bloom across Daemon's face tells him all he needs to know. As composed as he remains, the look shoots a chill down Aemond's spine. Should he be scared? Thrilled? Concerned?
There is something dark reflected in the young prince's obvious delight as he relishes his very small victory — having found a rugged path to getting under his uncle's skin. He barely smiles, taunting as he had drawn the ire of the fallen star beast. Daring it to come try to strike.
Their gallery is obliquely aware that it would be wise to heed the elder prince's suggestion. Any moment longer spent shared in this cramped hallway could spell disaster. A little nudge and belated agreement break up the veil of tension settled over their cohort. The young prince drops his gaze without a word to turn around to allow his escort lead him the way.
Have fun, fuckface.
The hold is expansive enough with its pinwheel of wings. Something suitable is found where they feel confident enough to leave him alone. Anticipating him following through on his very threatening sounding warning, a pass through the hold's central chamber is required. Though, there's no need for Aemond to get his hands dirty now. He had gotten in the last word (the better last word anyway). Nor does he expect Daemon to stoop to disturbing the peace this time. Much like the night before, that would mean proving something right.
The room he is given was meant for two. The secondary bed lies barren of blankets and covered in books by the last occupant. It's not as nice as the lord and lady's keep. The linens are more ragged, fixtures dusty, rug faded with constant treading. The reading is good enough to occupy him, if only for a time.]
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Daemon visits his room, and he minds his manners. The jagged edges beneath his polite smiles seem very apparent to some and completely invisible to others; more of a mix than he's used to, but that's fine. (He has no choice but to accept it all as fine.)
Days in the Lands Between are vague, no matter how pitch black nights are. They are even more vague here. He occupies himself and it could be for hours, or fucking weeks. He talks, he collects, he finds out precisely where his nephew's quarters are. For safety, you see. Wouldn't want to go wandering into the wrong neighborhood. Of course, of course, very understandable and proactive. (His nephew, he said?) (They seem royal, you know how those cunts are.) (Yes, well.)
There is a man poring over scrolls and books who is interested in the language they spoke to each other upon their arrival; Daemon is coy. There is a witch dealing in fucking corpses; Daemon is sympathetic. All manner of oddities, blacksmiths, gamblers, would-be heroes, a man who dies before his eyes, sitting in a corner and turning to golden dust. He buys a potion for a promise, and drinks it.
A funny tale. Sipping dreams. It'll be on his mouth for a whileβ
Knock knock.
No armor, his hair down, black linen and leather. Daemon is leaning against the stone relief that decorates the door to Aemond's chamber. He looks very placid. ]
I thought you might like to get it out of your system.
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It's impossible to tell what time had passed before Daemon came around to haunting his doorway. At some point he had tried to sleep. One futile task handed over to another, letting his guard slip perpetually down. Daemon finds him with his arms rested on open knees in a chair beside the fire, book pried open between his hands.
It is unexpected.
And like the tragic piece of prey he is, Aemond freezes with one eye fixed at the wall before him. Very, very briefly before tipping his book on the Stormlords of Stormhill (dry stuff, more limbs than expected) shut between his hands.]
Killing you? [Aemond regards him as he sits up to rise out of his chair. Book ditched in a measured toss onto a footstool. Cheeky, but in a way where it's still kind of not a joke.
By the look of it, would not be Daemon's intent to get even for his baby concussion. It's difficult to pin what the prince expects to what he actually sees in Daemon. Only that he appears far less patronizing than Aemond would now come to expect from him by now. It is mildly disarming.]
Was that your actual thought?
[ How merciful of him. Still a cheeky little shit, but a softer one. Ambling a step or two into the center of the room. It's the only armor he has left. At least when it blows up in his face, he'll feel less like a fool. There is an earnest curiousness to how he says it. If one listens hard enough. Don't put this all on him. He didn't start this.]
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A shame that context looms so large.
He steps inside, unavoidably predatory despite the casual way he's put himself together. There's just always something like that about Daemonβ even in domestic situations, he has an air of recently retrained wild animal about him. This place is no exception, and though he's treating this mysterious castle like he's at home on Dragonstone carrying on practically in socked feet, he is still approaching an opponent in his own bolthole without fear. Inherently threatening. But Aemond's got a book on hand, so. ]
Do you want to try?
[ Killing him. Might be fun.
Still no fear as he draws close, and closer, right in Aemond's face if his nephew doesn't shy away. He doesn't think he will, though. He thinks the younger prince will stubbornly hold his ground even if he thinks Daemon might attack him.
The door is closed behind him. He reaches out to grasp Aemond by his hip and jerk him forward, chest to chest. ]
Well?
[ He kisses him. ]
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The coin could have landed either way on his showing up. He had baited him and managed to pierce something underneath Daemon's cooled surface in the process. Naturally, Aemond expects retaliation. He expects violence because that is almost all he knows and it's what he might have done. No matter how assuming the predatory sauntering, and the lapsed demeanor, there is no reason to trust Daemon. There is all the reason to expect him to turn and strike at the very last moment.
All that context looming should count for something. Yet, the moment comes, and all it would seem by the sharp incline of breath that rips through the young prince's nose indicates that he's wrong.
It all sort of collapses inward — dragged in like the starfallen beast's well of violet gravity. Aemond couldn't stop himself from meeting Daemon's mouth. Welcomed to a feeling that is not unfamiliar, even if he couldn't ever pin it before. A pull that comes from somewhere very deep.
Almost as soon as it begins, Aemond is reaching for him. His fist curling into black linen would almost seem to lock him into it, pushing back against his mouth. The other pinches Daemon's jaw firmly between finger and thumb, abruptly wrenching the kiss apart with a rattling grip.
He's still angry, it floods back to the surface of him like a tide. Heat and feeling palpable in the small breath of space he's put between them. He refuses to back down and yet he cannot allow himself to move forward. Suspended in a state of lingering that may very well cause him to implode.
Does he want to try? Almost as though Daemon already knows he still can't fucking do it. It's infuriating. What's almost more infuriating is that he has absolutely nothing to say for himself. ]
Fuck you.
[ More of a whisper than a hiss, but it comes from the heart. Almost as angry as it is weary, because he is conceding. With all due respect, it is exhausting having to feel everything all the time. ]
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Fuck you, in his own way. ]
I know. [ Close against Aemond's mouth. He knows, he knows about everything; it is exhausting, it is maddening. ] Let it pass through you for a moment.
[ They are all meant for this, all of them of their blood; Aegon the Conqueror only truly found it in his bastard half-brother, Viserys found it in his cousin, maybe Aemond found it in his sister, or displaced the boiling call of blood onto his mother, who even now might be throwing herself out of a window or kowtowing to Rhaenyra.
Has Daemon ever really found it? He still doesn't know. He loved Laena, he loved Rhaenyra, he loved Viserys.
Close, closer, and he kisses his nephew again, pushing past the sharp grab of his fingers. ]
Make me bleed this way, if you have to, [ is breathed against his mouth. Hands curl closer. He doesn't budge.
(Daemon doesn't know what the potion will to, if anything. To him or to Aemond. He felt dizzy for a few moments, then nothing; perhaps they will see something shared, perhaps it will be nothing, perhaps they'll both go mad with a curse.) ]
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All he's wanted is for Daemon to burn too. To see in him something equally unbridled, to incur the wrath Aemond has so earned. He has earned nothing else. Certainly, nothing as nice as this feels.
It is impossible to separate everything, he cannot do as he is told. Daemon's body is warm and flush with his, unyielding and welcoming. He allows himself to sink into it. One quiet shuddered breath caught up in the slight part before their kiss. The sharpness of his fingers slip away, entangling themselves in the soft curled hair along the nape of Daemon's neck.
Contrary to all, this time his return is a steadier welcoming.
Sabotage is a fleeting thought as he places the indelicate taste on Daemon's tongue as he pushes deeper into his mouth. The herbs of this land are still largely foreign. They taste nothing of the brews and tonics that Alys once had given him to aid his sleep. Perhaps it's a poison, perhaps it's only a tonic Daemon took to ease his ailing headache. Presently, he doesn't care what it makes of either of them.
If there is an effect, he cannot parse it between everything else firing off. Which of it (if not all of it) makes the young prince feel heady. Between the grief, the guilt, the anger, and the desire, the call of their blood thrums behind it all. If set free, it would try to claw itself a frenzy to become one again.
He had never heeded it before, he had never even gotten the chance. Now after scouring a foreign land and a place that no longer knows time, it takes everything else left in him not to be immediately baited by ravenousness.]
i prewrote that in a word doc and still made all those typos lmao fml
rip. meanwhile i just continue to write with -0 chill and vomit a wall of feelings
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1 very horny tag sponsored by a rewatch of saltburn, yw
yeehaw festive boners βοΈ wrote this listening to mariah carey btw
thx for the xmas scheming and xmas dick ππ€
this tag isn't late either i definitely didn't forget how to rp
β₯ may next weeks trailer drop invigorate u
trailer helps, no longer having pneumonia helps,,,
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