The Witch of hopelessness

As she looked up, her heart pounding in her chest, she met the unsettling gaze of Aemond. His sapphire eye glinted with a piercing vigour, contrasting starkly against the shadows cast by the stormy sky. She fought to suppress a shiver of fear that threatened to overwhelm her, forcing herself to stay steady in front of the imposing figure, the weight of his presence making the air feel thick and charged.

“What is your name, girl?” Aemond snapped,

“Who’s asking?” she snapped back,

“Do not make me ask again,” he warned her, “Now, reveal to me your name or I will reveal to you the flame of my dragon.”

“Y/n,” she spat,

“Y/n.” he nodded, “And tell me, Y/n, where did Prince Daemon and his large army of rivermen go?”

“I do not know,”

“No?”

“No.”

“Do not lie to me, girl.”

“I am not lying!” she protested, “I do not know, they were here a day ago and now they are gone.”

“Do you think I am a fool?”

“No, I-”

“My scouts confirmed Daemon was gathering an army,” He growled, grabbing her by the neck,

“Huu-” she gasped, her hands grabbing at his wrist,

“Tell me, Y/n.” He barked, “How did Prince Daemon Targaryen, his dragon Caraxes, all the lords of the Riverlands, and all the levies of the Riverlords just disappear into thin air?” He asked,

“I. Don’t. Know,” she choked out,

He released her neck, sending her tumbling to the ground once again. “Don’t you? Perhaps the feel of a Valyrian blade might bring your memory to the surface.”

“I swear… I don’t know.” She sighed,

“Very well,” he sighed, “send men in every direction, there must be a sign somewhere of where this army vanished to.” He commanded, “And you.” He gripped her by her hair,

“Yes?” she spat,

“Go and find the nicest chamber, build a warm fire, a soft bed, and a hot bath. And be waiting for me there, naked,” he commanded, going to turn back to his men.

“And if I refuse?” she threatened,

He stopped and turned back to her, “If you refuse, I will come find you and drag you there myself. Understand Y/n?”

“Yes…” she sighed,

“Understand!” he asked, holding his knife to her neck,

“Yes, Prince Aemond,” she answered,

"Finally," he breathed, his voice low and rough in a way that sent heat straight to your core. His fingers tangled in your hair, tugging your head back. "I've been going out of my mind."

You opened your mouth to reply, but he silenced you with a kiss, all tongue and teeth. No softness. No slow build. Just raw hunger that had been bottled up for weeks of studying and stress. His hips ground against yours, and you felt exactly how desperate he was through the layers of fabric.

Your hands found his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his school uniform, pulling him closer. The kiss was messy, wet, and perfect—a collision of need and relief. His tongue swept into your mouth, and you moaned against him, your fingers curling into his shirt.

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your jaw, biting gently at the sensitive spot below your ear. "You have no idea," he muttered against your skin, "how many times I thought about this during that fucking exam."

"Tell me," you gasped as his hand slid up your thigh, bunching your skirt.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, a strand of his ponytail escaping to frame his face. "I thought about bending you over the desk right there in the middle of the test. Making you forget every question."

His words sent a shiver through you. "Then do it."

His hand slipped under your skirt, finding you already slick through your underwear. He let out a low, appreciative sound. "You're so wet. For me."

"Jamil—"

He cut you off with another kiss, deeper this time, while his fingers hooked into your panties and pulled them down your thighs. You stepped out of them, and he shoved them into his pocket without breaking the kiss. His hand returned, two fingers sliding into you without warning.

You cried out against his lips.

"That's it," he murmured, pumping his fingers in a rhythm that was almost punishing. "Let it out. All that stress. I'm going to fuck it out of you."

Your legs were already trembling. He worked you open, adding a third finger, stretching you while his thumb pressed against your clit. You were panting, barely able to stand, your forehead pressed to his.

"Please," you whimpered.

He pulled his fingers out, and you heard him unbuckling his belt, the zipper lowering. The sound of him stroking himself in the quiet closet made your breath hitch. Then he nudged your thighs apart with his knee, and the blunt head of his cock pressed against your entrance.

"Look at me," he ordered.

You did. Your eyes met his, and he thrust into you in one hard, smooth motion.

A choked cry escaped your throat as he filled you completely. He didn't wait, didn't give you time to adjust. He started moving immediately, each thrust hard and deep, driving you into the wall. The cheap shelves behind you rattled with the rhythm.

His hand came up around your throat—not choking, but a firm grip that grounded you, that told you exactly who was in control. "You take me so well," he said, his voice strained. "Made for me."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, and he adjusted his angle, hitting deeper. Stars flickered at the edges of your vision. His pace was relentless, a steady pounding that built the pressure inside you with every stroke.

But then something shifted.

He slowed, just slightly, and his hand left your throat. Both his palms found your face, cupping your cheeks, and he kissed you again—but this time it was different. Softer. Almost tender. His tongue moved against yours with a heat that was still hungry, but now there was emotion bleeding through.

You kissed him back with the same intensity, your fingers threading through his hair, loosening his ponytail until his hair fell around his face. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard.

"I needed this," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I needed you."

"Then have me," you answered.

He kissed you again, deep and languid, and then he began to move once more. The rough pace returned, but now it was layered with those moments of kissing, of mouths meeting in the middle of the fucking, your lips never far from his.

The sounds he made—low grunts and groans that vibrated against your mouth—only pushed you higher. You were close, so close, and he could feel it.

"Come for me," he ordered against your lips. "Now.”

Your climax crashed over you without warning, a wave that stole your breath. You clenched around him, crying out into his mouth as he kissed you through it. He followed seconds later, a sharp thrust burying him deep as he spilled inside you, his body shuddering with the release of something far more than physical.

For a long moment, you stayed like that—breathing, tangled, his forehead against yours. The dust motes danced in the dim light. The world outside the closet didn't exist.

Finally, he pulled out slowly, and you whimpered at the loss. He laughed softly, a genuine laugh that made your heart ache.

"Same time next semester?" he asked, helping you straighten your skirt.

You smiled, leaning in to steal one more kiss. "I'm holding you to that."

You remembered those years with a clarity that still ached. The hours spent at Valarr's side. The way your heart had leapt when he sought you out, when he smiled at you, when he trusted you with his fears and his uncertainties. You had thought, foolishly, desperately, that proximity would breed something more. That devotion would be rewarded. That he would look at you one day and see what had always been there, waiting.

He had not.

Aerion was wrong about one thing, at least. Valarr had not deflowered you. He had not even come close. There had been only one kiss, years ago, when you had wondered aloud what it felt like and he had offered to show you.

"To satisfy your curiosity," he had said. "And soothe your fears. That is all."

That was all. A single kiss, chaste and brief, and you had spent years afterwards lying awake at night wondering if he had ever wanted to kiss you again. If he had ever thought about it. If it had meant anything at all.

"What a dreadful waste."

Aerion's voice cut through your thoughts, and you realized he had been watching your face.

"All those years," he continued, shaking his head slowly. His tone sharpened with something that might have been disgust, though it was not directed at you. "Wouldn't you rather have fun with me?"

Before you could answer, he dragged his tongue along your parted mouth, an obscene gesture, and then pulled back entirely. The loss of warmth was jarring.

You heard the click of the lock.

He had crossed the room while you were still in a daze, and now he stood by the door with his hand still on the bolt, surveying the chamber with a new expression. Thoughtful. Calculating. The look of a man who had just conceived of something and was already deciding how to execute it.

"Change," he said.

You blinked. "…what?"

He was already moving toward your trunks and flipping them open. He rummaged through the folded gowns with the carelessness of a man who had never had to pack his own belongings in his life, tossing aside silks and velvets until he found what he was looking for.

"Put this on." He straightened, holding up a dress. It was the plainest thing you owned, wool, not silk, a muted grey-brown. Serviceable. Unremarkable. He found a cloak as well, dark and heavy, and thrust it toward you. "Quickly."

"Aerion..."

"I have decided," he said, as though that explained everything, "to show you something you have not seen before."

"What would that be?"

His mouth curved. "A life outside these walls."

You stared at him. "You are mad."

"Possibly." He did not seem troubled by the assessment. "But you are going to put on that dress and that cloak, and you are going to come with me, and for one night you are going to see what it is like to not be a lady in a cage."

"A cage I am only still in because of you," you pointed out.

"Yes," he agreed, entirely unrepentant. "So you may consider this my penance. Now change. Unless you would prefer I stay and watch?"

You snatched the dress from his hands and pointed toward the door. "Turn around."

He turned, though not before you caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes.

You changed quickly, pulled the cloak around your shoulders and drew the hood over your hair. The woman who looked back at you from the mirror was not a Baratheon lady. She was not a prince's betrothed. She was simply a woman in a plain dress, indistinguishable from a hundred others in the city below.

Aerion turned back at the sound of your movement, and his eyes swept over you with an approval that made something in your stomach tighten.

"Passable," he said. "Come."

He did not take your hand. He simply opened the door and waited, and after a moment's hesitation, you followed.

The passages he led you through were not the ones you knew. They were narrower, darker, clearly meant for servants or for those who did not wish to be seen. Aerion moved through them with the ease of long familiarity, and you wondered, not for the first time, what sort of prince spent so much time in hidden corridors.

The city beyond the Red Keep was another world entirely.

You had seen it before, of course: from windows, from carriages, from the high walls that separated royalty from rabble, but you had never walked through it. Not like this. Not on foot, with the press of bodies around you and the smell of cooking meat and unwashed skin and something sour that might have been spilled ale.

The market was still alive even at this hour, torches flickering in iron sconces, vendors calling out prices in voices hoarse from use. Aerion guided you through the crowd with a hand at the small of your back, a light pressure that steered you away from the worst of the press without ever seeming to direct you.

"Keep your hood up," he murmured against your hair. "Your face is too memorable."

You did not know whether that was a compliment or a warning.

He bought you food from a stall, fried and greasy dough, wrapped in paper that grew translucent with oil, and laughed when you hesitated to eat it.

"It will not kill you," he said. "Probably."

You ate it. It was, against all expectation, delicious.

He showed you the stall where a woman sold ribbons dyed in colors so vivid they seemed to glow in the torchlight. You saw the corner where a man with no teeth told fortunes for a copper penny, and the alley where a boy no older than ten was teaching a dog to dance on its hind legs. The blacksmith's forge, dark now but still radiating heat, the weaver's shop with its shuttered windows, and the fountain in the small square where the water ran clean and cold.

You stopped when you saw the play.

It was being performed on a makeshift stage at the edge of the market, boards laid across barrels, a painted curtain fluttering behind the players. The actors were not skilled, their voices too loud, their gestures too broad, but there was an energy to the performance that drew you in. You grabbed Aerion's sleeve without thinking and pulled him toward the crowd that had gathered.

He came willingly, standing close behind you as you watched.

The play, as it turned out, was not the sort of thing performed in the Red Keep.

It was vulgar. Obscenely, unapologetically vulgar. The plot, such as it was, seemed to revolve around a milkmaid, a travelling merchant, and a donkey, and the jokes grew progressively filthier with each passing minute. The crowd around you roared with laughter. You scrunched up your face.

You turned sharply, intending to leave, and found Aerion already watching you. He had not been watching the play at all. His grin was half-hidden against your hair, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, and when he saw your expression he only laughed harder.

"Not to your taste?" he murmured.

"You knew what this was."

"I had my suspicions." He tugged on your hand, drawing you away from the crowd. "Come. Before the donkey returns for the second act. It does not improve."

You were laughing by the time you reached the Red Keep.

You could not remember when the laughter had started, somewhere between the market and the gates, somewhere between the grease-stained paper crumpled in your hand and the way Aerion had nearly slipped on a pile of something unspeakable in the alley, but it had not stopped. Your sides ached with it. Your cheeks hurt. Aerion was no better, his composure utterly shattered, his hair disheveled from where you had shoved him in retaliation for a joke you refused to repeat.

The laughter died the moment you stepped through the doors.

Maekar Targaryen was waiting.

Beside him stood Baelor Breakspear, his expression troubled but composed, and beside Baelor...Valarr.

Your stomach dropped.

"Where," Maekar said, his voice carrying the particular calm of a man who was restraining himself only with great effort, "have you been?"

Aerion straightened, the last traces of mirth fading from his face. "Sightseeing."

"Sightseeing."

"The city is quite lovely at night, father. You should try it sometime."

"Do not play games with me, boy." Maekar's gaze moved to you, taking in the plain dress, the cloak. "You took your betrothed out into the streets. Alone. At night. Unchaperoned. Without guards. Without so much as a word to anyone."

"We did nothing inappropriate," Aerion said, and there was an edge creeping into his voice now. "We merely walked. I only wished to show her the city, she obliged me."

"She wished..." Maekar cut himself off, visibly struggling for control. "You are a prince of the blood. She is a lady of a great house, newly betrothed, and you thought it appropriate to drag her through the filth of the city like a common..."

"Like a what?" Aerion's voice sharpened dangerously.

Baelor raised a hand, stepping between them with the practiced ease of a man who had spent years mediating Targaryen tempers. "Enough. The question is not what was done, but what will be perceived. Aerion, you must understand how this looks. An unchaperoned outing, in secret, at night...it invites speculation. It invites scandal."

"There is no scandal," Aerion said flatly. "There is only a man showing his betrothed the city she will one day help rule."

"And there will be time enough for that after the wedding," Maekar snapped. "When she is your wife, not your..."

He stopped. The word hung unspoken in the air, and you felt your face heat for an entirely different reason.

"She is my betrothed," Aerion said, very quietly. "And I will thank you not to imply otherwise."

Valarr spoke for the first time.

"This is reckless, even for you." His voice was controlled, but there was something simmering beneath it, something that made Aerion's head turn slowly toward him. "She deserves better than to be dragged into your whims."

"Who asked your opinion?" Aerion's hostility flared so suddenly that even Baelor looked taken aback. "Who asked you to weigh in on this, cousin? You, who could not be bothered to notice her when she was right in front of you? You, who..."

"Aerion." Baelor's voice was sharp now. "That is enough."

"Is it? Because I find myself quite interested in why Valarr has suddenly developed such a concern for my betrothed's welfare. A year ago he could not see her beside himself. Now he cannot stop looking."

Valarr's jaw tightened. "I have always cared for her."

"Have you?" Aerion tilted his head, and his smile was not pleasant. "How convenient that you discovered this only after she was no longer available."

"Enough!"

This time it was Lyonel Baratheon who spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a war horn. He had been standing near the back of the hall, silent until now, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes moved between Aerion and Valarr with a calculation that made you nervous.

"You," he said, pointing at Aerion, "will learn to control your tongue and your impulses, or I will teach you myself. I have no objection to a man showing his betrothed the city. I have done worse in my youth, and I will not play the hypocrite. But I do object to a man whose every action threatens to dishonor my niece and my house through sheer carelessness."

Aerion opened his mouth, saw the look in Lyonel's eyes, and closed it again.

"You will not be alone with her without a witness until the wedding," Maekar said, seizing the opening. "That is not a request. It is a command. I will not have this alliance jeopardized by your inability to exercise restraint."

"Father..."

"You are dismissed."

Aerion stood motionless for a long moment. Then he turned, and his eyes met yours. There was frustration, defiance, and something else that you could not quite name, and then he bowed, stiffly, and strode from the hall.

You did not watch him go. You did not look at Valarr, though you could feel his gaze on you like a weight. You simply inclined your head to Maekar, to Baelor, to your uncle, and retreated to your chambers with as much dignity as you could muster.

You barely slept.

The morning came gray and cold, and you rose with the first light, your head aching from too little rest and too much wine the night before. Your maids had not yet arrived. The castle was quiet.

You did not hear him enter.

One moment you were alone, standing before the mirror in your shift, and the next his arms were around you from behind, his mouth pressing hot against the curve of your neck.

"Aerion..." you gasped, trying to twist away. "The command...there must be a witness..."

"There is no one here to witness the lack of witness," he murmured against your skin, "and I will be gone before anyone knows I was here. Turn around."

You turned.

He kissed you.

This time, you kissed him back.

Your hands rose to grip the front of his tunic, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. Your mouth moved against his with an enthusiasm that surprised you both. The taste of him was familiar now, and you chased it, rising onto your toes to press closer, closer, until there was no space left between your bodies.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, his breathing uneven. He looked at you for a long moment.

"Well," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your swollen lower lip. "That is more like it."

Then he was gone, slipping through the door as silently as he had come, leaving you standing alone in the morning light with your heart pounding and your lips still tingling.

part 5: pending...

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The wedding was a punishment in and of itself. Aerion couldn’t wipe off that sneer in his face. He seemed somewhat satisfied with how beautiful you looked at that moment. But everyone from his family to the court can tell this whole match - this wedding - you - have slighted him and there is nothing you can do to not feel so small against him. Even as you share a dance, there is no warmth, just duty. 

The bedding was extremely painful. Made you almost wish you weren’t a maiden; there was no time for you to undress with the prince laying you on the soft mattress. Climbing on top of you, his breath reeking of wine. He tugged down his pants, lifting your gown; there was no gentleness as he thrusted in and out of you. You couldn’t muffle your sobs, hand reaching to grab his arm to anchor yourself. And when the deed was done, you just stared up at the ceiling, unable to hear the words he spoke to you before leaving.

The night was a haze with all the days blurring together. Aerion had kept his distance since, it’s not long before you felt like a ghost wandering the halls. Newlyweds were the talk of the court, whispers were exchanged of the sad bride you were becoming; gossip you pretend doesn't bother you. It didn’t help that your husband would just walk in front of you, taking quick steps, and at first you tried to keep up with him, but your sore legs served as a reminder, so you remained far behind. Breakfast and supper were spent by yourself in silence, unless his family took pity on you and invited you to sit with them. 

You have learned to put up with your husband, a fate you didn’t anticipate, but what else were you to do but tolerate it. Even when Aerion wasn’t angry, it always seems as if he’s mocking you. Lessons didn’t elude you, as your septa taught you; you were polite, courteous, laughing when it called for it, even tried to ask of his family’s history, anything to make the marriage more bearable. 

Your husband still visited your chamber and you knew exactly what he wanted. Who were you to deny him? You could only cling to his shoulders as he thrusts into you. Times he would push your nightwear up, exposing your nips to the cold air, whimpering when his fingers touched and squeezed your breasts. His pace all the brutal, but with each visit, the pain eases and your sobs slowly turn into moans as you learn to enjoy it.

Aerion has good days, they are rare, but you learned to cherish them when they came. One could swear he enjoys hearing himself talk. You learned not to contradict him, for your husband is a man built with pride that when you gently corrected him; a misplaced name or he confused a minor house. The prince will snap at you and you’ll be given the cold shoulder for the rest of the day. If there is a crowd, he’ll even make a joke at your expense. 

Every word felt like walking across glass. He is not a fool; Aerion knows every second that passes is you trying so desperately to please him. How your sweet words feed a little more and more into his vanity and when you call him my prince, something in him twitches. It all pleases him in ways he doesn’t fully understand, even in a twisted sense, arouses him. He knows you have no family nearby to protect you, no allies to speak for you, only the Targaryen prince who no one dares to defy. 

Your husband who once looked at you as if you were nothing more than the air he breathed has begun to be seen more often. The quiet hours you had grown accustomed to are now shadowed by his presence. He would ask of the book you're reading that seems to preoccupy you so much, only to hum dully in response. And when you are allowed at court, able to finally exchange pleasantries with the other ladies. Your husband can’t help to corner you as soon as you take your leave, asking what has you in such good spirits. There is tiny amusement in seeing his brows furrow when you say it’s just idle talk.

Visits to your bedchambers have become so frequent, you grew to expect it. Acting gullible to his gaze while you arrange your hair in front of the mirror, pretending not to know what he’s here for either. You’ve grown shameful in how you seem to look forward to it.

It was all for duty, your only worth was to give him heir. But surely duty isn’t running through his head as you feel so good, your tight cunt squeezing his cock. It’s like it was made for him and only him. He says. And as you wrapped in the sheets, covered in sweat; you hum as he speaks on the weather, some foolish gossip he heard or an upcoming tourney. He stays the night, snoring softly beside you. 

There are other nights where your husband visits because he’s restless, complaining of his family or whichever lord happened to offend him that day. He lets you pour his wine as he rambles on. He would dare not say he simply came seeking your company. His eyes follow as you light the candles, he comments on it, of course, asking why don’t you leave it to your servants instead, not long before you feel the familiar tug at the laces of your night dress. Demanding you undress and you know better than to refuse.

Sometimes he asks if you miss your family. When you admit you do, confusion flicks across his face. You have risen in station, married to a Targaryen prince; a maiden’s every dream. Aerion finds himself more annoyed than he should whenever you mention how you miss your home.

You belong to him now, your place remains by his. It doesn’t matter how tedious or late such events are. You remember all too well how furious he was when he asked where you were and he was informed you had returned to your chambers, too tired to stay. Aerion bursted into your place later in the night, blaming you for his foul mood, he had to entertain some drunk old fool all alone. As long as he is there, you must accompany him, is that not what wives do for their husbands.

Just like his love, Aerion must be the most jealous man you have ever crossed paths with. There can be no reasonings; it’s like wildfire, it spreads and there’s nothing you can do but wait for it to die down. You are stuck in its path, having to just endure it.

When tournaments are held, you are seated among the royal family watching your husband. There is no definitive proof but you feel his gaze flicker at you through the steel of his helm. And there is the semblance of proof, when he lifts his visor and you’re met with a smug smile meant only for you.

Before the tournament begins or after it, he demands you to be in his tent. He acts like he doesn’t need your praise or sweet words of encouragement. When it’s all over, he comes to you still in armor, the smell of blood, sweat and dirt clinging to him. The dirt of the field stains your gown when he pulls you close, insisting you should celebrate his victory, his mouth clashing into yours.

You’ll never forget the day when one simply asked for your favor. He was a boy from some minor house. And even if your husband was in denial of any feeling of attachment he had towards you. The mere act was seen as an insult, you pitied the boy long before and the gods must have been cruel to make him face your husband next. When Aerion struck, he didn’t target the shield but rather the legs of the horse. The boy was flinged from his horse landing face first into the ground, you gasped along with the crowd. Even from a distance, you can see the boy’s face all bloody and mangled as they dragged him away.

Aerion’s jealousy has become the talk across king’s landing, yet no one dares to say it out loud. A glance from another man across supper will have him feel a sick rage of jealousy. Tightening his hold on the goblet and you feign as you can’t feel his other hand gripping your thigh beneath the table. He’ll even squeeze your fingers a little too tightly when he thinks you’ve spoken to some other lady-in-waiting for far too long. The only reason his wrath is so restrained is due to his father. 

Aerion pretends he is above it all, acting indifferent but it burns in his eyes. His jealousy sometimes can seem ridiculous even childish yet you are always there to reassure him. Yes, Lord Tyrell made you laugh, but no one can ever be as charming as him. Yes, you spoke with lady Royce for a while, but no one is more of a pleasant company than him. You’re even careful not to clap too eagerly to another during tourneys, according to your husband, none of them could perform as well as he does. 

Your servants have gotten used to lowering their eyes when entering your chambers. The prince has become a common sight,  laying beside you, chest bare, an arm draped around you and hair tangled. If you shift, he stirs as well. An unfortunate lesson was taught when you left your husband waking up alone, for you were informed your maid ran out in tears; met with a foul mood Aerion during breakfast time. 

Aerion also being drunk is another common sight. He is far more affectionate, clinging to you. Yet you are still careful, his temper is still unpredictable, his jealousy if even possible is more intense, and his words are much harsh. Sometimes he looks at you, almost like he is bewitched, brushing your hair aside so he can take a better look.

Aerion cannot not touch you now. A hand will trail up your arm or toy with a strand of your hair yet in the same breath, Aerion insists he has no care for you. He’ll not hold your hand even when he wants you to follow, gripping your wrist instead. Do not try pushing his hand away unless you want a furious Aerion. His affection is, in many cases, rough. Gripping your face when he wants your attention or when he’s kissing you. The servants try not to stare when they are dressing you and see the hickies and bites laid across your skin.

Aerion would rather face a terrible death than admit he seeks your approval. He’ll tell stories or a jest and his head turns you, waiting for your laugh or nod. Aerion also surprisingly knows when something is wrong, it can’t be because he watches you so often. He knows how you twist your ring when you’re anxious or how you seem more lost in thought when nervous. He’ll ask, sounding more irritated than concerned. Aerion wishes to fix it, but his version of doing so is finding someone to blame for it then taking it out on them. 

Silence treatment is a death wish. It didn’t matter what Aerion did. Using silence as your weapon will drive this man mad. You remember all too well when he threw a cup at the wall right beside your head when you refused to answer him. Aerion didn’t apologize, he never does. He simply moved on with the day, as if nothing had happened. 

Aerion loves to spoil you. Dressed in his house colors, your dresses sewed with silks, hair pinned with adorned clasps. The first gift was a necklace with a dragon pendant, his sigil. He jests the gifts made you less plain beside him, yet his eyes linger with hunger whenever you wore them. But heaven forbid you wear anything from your own house or worse, do the offense of wearing someone else’s gift. No he doesn’t care if it was a family gift, he’ll throw it out the window or in the open sea without you knowing. 

And yet, with all of this. Aerion swears it’s not love. He is too proud for that. Love is a weakness. Love is for fools and singers. He can easily replace you. Find another lady from wherever who can do the simplest task of warming his bed and bearing him heirs. Yet Aerion finds himself noticing how your eyes twinkle in the moonlight, what rings you like to fiddle with when you are nervous, and your soft scent of lavender that lingers even when you leave. 

There was a time when fever struck. It seemed simple at first. Aeron didn’t even seem all that concerned, but when you became bedridden, and there was a slim chance of you not making it out – Aerion began to panic. He was truly unruly, the maesters were threatened while they worked, the servants were accused of poisoning you. There was such a scene, Maekar himself was forced to intervene, forcing his son from your bedside so the maesters could actually do their work. Dragons do not die of weakness, he kept telling himself. You must not. You will not. And when the fever finally broke, the realm seemed to let out a sigh of relief. Maekar was even unsure if you had tamed his son or drawn him deeper into madness. 

There is no separating you and Aerion. What began as a cold, loveless marriage had turned into something you are unsure what to call. For now, the man, the prince you married will never claim he loves you, and he’ll always remain cruel. But you know he would kill for you. He will force a lord into his knees if he was to make a joke of your expense. He not only wants you, desires you, but he needs you, like the flower needs the rain. You must only say the word and he’ll fulfill it and maybe that is all what a person wants. And with nothing else to do, you have grown to also care and love this cruel man. 

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Noticing the frozen, awkward pose of the girl in front of him, the boy blinked his eyes multiple times. Judging by the downturned ears and drooping tail, he figured she must be embarrassed. At that realization, the previous fear he felt washed away and was instead replaced with concern.

"Ah, miss, are you hungry?"

"No!"

Before he could even say 'Wait!' or offer some bread from the basket, the girl ran away with her tail tucked between the legs (literally). The boy was left there, all alone, with his hand still stretched towards the direction she ran off to.

"That's the way to my grandmother's house…"

The little wolf ran and ran, not knowing and not caring where she was headed to. All she knew was that she messed up!

A true predator never shows weakness.

A true predator hunts without fear.

A true predator takes what they want, whenever they want.

At least, that's what her family taught her. And goodness, that was not a behavior befitting a predator! Darn it, she's already hungry as it is. Where is she getting food now?!

Ugh, if that hunter ever finds out, he'll just make fun of me again!

Flashes of mint green hair, red eyes, and a twirling knife appeared in her head. Just thinking of him makes her shudder from head to toe— and not the good kind. At this point, he's more of a predator than she is.

Well, at least he gives me food sometimes…

The wolf shrugged her head in an attempt to forget the man and accidentally bumped into a tree. In the speed she was going at, it hurt like hell!

Ouch! My nose! Wait, where am I?

Clutching her nose in pain (thank goodness it's not broken, else her brothers and that hunter would make fun of her, ugh!), she looked around the clearing, noticing a lone house smack dab in the middle. From the distance and recently rammed-into-the-tree nose, she couldn't get a clear whiff, but could still catch a few traces of the scent of bread. The fresh, warm, comforting smell of bread.

The girl snooped closer and closer to the house, looking around every so often for signs of others. Fortunately, no one else seemed to be around. And so, she creeped nearer and nearer, guided by the smell of food and the low grumble of a hungry stomach. The closer she got, the stronger the cozy, homely scent of sugar and butter invited her in until finally, she reached the door. By instinct, she raised her hand to knock before remembering the mantra her family always lived by.

A true predator takes what they want, whenever they want.

The girl contemplated for some time and was conflicted until another low growl erupted from her stomach. At that, she came to a choice. Rather than knock, she slammed opened the door (caught it right before it banged against the wall), entered the kitchen confidently (tip-toeing in), and ravaged the kitchen (ate enough bread to last a day or two without taking too much). With each bite, bursts of sweetness flooded her tongue, fluffy tail and relaxed ears twitching in delight. The girl ate a feast with abandon (normal amount), savoring every crumb.

Finally satisfied and feeling guilty, she slowly tiptoed back towards the door to leave. However, right as she reached the entrance, a yawn erupted from her mouth. After eating so much, her entire body was wrapped in post-meal fatigue. Looking outside, she didn't recognize what part of the forest this was. And sneaking around the house, there doesn't seem to be anyone here. Perhaps she can take a quick nap here?

In her happiness at finding temporary lodging and finally having her fill, the wolf strode straight towards the bed and claimed it as her own. As she laid down and embraced the softness of the mattress, drifting into dreamland, she failed to notice a trembling figure hiding right inside the closet. Had she been more aware, she'd notice the figure and recognize her resemblance to the Little Red Cap she encountered a while ago. And had she been more aware, she wouldn't have slept for such a long time that the hunter with the exact same mint green hair and red eyes she was thinking of would appear in the house she broke into.

"Mika, is this the wolf you were talking about?"

"Ah, well, yes, that's right! But she's harmless. Grandma, are you okay?"

"Oh dear, the lass scared me! I thought I was going to be eaten! But the poor girl only ate some of our pantry stock before sleeping in my bed, so it seems she was just hungry."

The three conversed in hushed voices right outside the bedroom, the door wide-open as they glanced at the wolf 'napping' inside. She was snuggled to the pillow, ears down to the side and tail drooping down. With the content grin on her face, it was easy to guess she was extremely relaxed right now — not what you'd expect from a member of the wolf clan.

"Hehe, bread… noooo, don't go away…! Let me eat you… so yummy~"

"[Name] seems to be enjoying herself. I wonder what she's dreaming of?"

"You know this wolf, Mr. Lohen?"

Mika tilted his head in confusion. A wolf and a hunter knowing each other? Now that's unexpected. Though, on second thought, knowing Lohen, that isn't really unusual. 

"She's my lover."

"Oh, I see— HUH?!"

What?! A wolf. And a hunter. Lovers. What? What?? What?!

Mika's mouth was completely agape, unable to make even a single coherent noise from the shock. On the other hand, his grandmother just stared back-and-forth between the two — the unusual wolf girl and the unusual hunter — hand right to her mouth. Lohen didn't seem to care at all about their reactions as he merely stepped into the room and gently took the sleeping girl into his arms. With one hand supporting her back and the other under her knees, he carried her close to him and proceeded to leave the two shocked people behind.

"Mr. Lohen—!"

"Shh~"

At the door, Lohen glanced back at Mika and then back to the sleeping girl. 

"She's asleep. I'm taking her back home. You won't tell anyone about this, right?"

Mika could only watch in silence as Lohen exited and closed the door behind him with his foot. 

A wolf and a hunter, together? What is this?!

In her dreams, the little wolf ran around the forest full of bread and other delicious pastries. The trees bore not fruit but sweet delights. There were waffle-trees, loaf-trees, bun-trees, and even pretzel-trees! The little wolf ran and ran, grabbing whatever she could and eating to her heart's content. Everywhere the eyes could see were trees full of food, and that alone was enough for her to call this paradise. However, as the dream progressed, the little wolf's ears suddenly perked up as it caught the sound of a branch snapping in two. She's alone — she should be alone — so who's out there?

"Who's there?!"

Rather than an answer, a familiar giggle came from the treelines. She couldn't pinpoint where it came from, only that it's near. The little wolf immediately stood up — though not before grabbing whatever she could in her hands — and scanned the surroundings.

Have the trees always been this close? Why do they seem to surround her like a circle when everything was normal just a while ago?

"Answer me, you coward! Who's there?!"

"Boo~"

A loud squeal came out of her mouth as a warm puff of air brushed carressed her ear. Startled, the little wolf didn't even dare look behind her and immediately bolted away. No matter how much or how fast she ran, the giggles and laughters never faded— rather, they only seemed to get closer and closer.

"Hic! Go away…! Let me eat… in peace…."

"Are you dreaming of me?"

Lohen stared at the sleeping girl in his bed. The moment he put her down, he took off his gloves and started unbuttoning the collar of her shirt. His eyes rose from her chest to her face upon hearing the mumbled words, thinking she woke up, but it seemed she was only sleeptalking. From the furrowed eyebrows and downturned lips yet closed eyes, it looked to be an unpleasant dream.

"Hm, what dream would you have if I touched you like this?"

"Urgh…"

Lohen continued to unbutton her blouse until the sight of her white bra greeted his face. Taking it off in practiced motion, the man took one breast to his mouth while a hand fondled the other. While his tongue swirled around and sucked on the areola of the right, his fingers teased and rubbed the left one. Slurping sounds and mumbled groans and moans filled the entire room.

"Mhm…"

"Next one, then? Didn't know you were so greedy, [Name]."

A loud pop! could be heard as he released the breast on his mouth and moved to the other. He continued the same motions but this time, his gaze was glued to the sleeping girl's face. With each reaction, Lohen moved in accordance, watching which ones pleased her the most. When the wolf unconsciously squeezed her thighs closed, Lohen's gaze dropped to her bottoms.

"You're already wet, little wolf? Aww, but we just started~"

A pooling wetness started to form on her bottoms. Tsking, Lohen took it off in one go— as if he'd already done this multiple times.

"Poor girl~ It's okay. Let me take care of you."

Lohen took off everything; both hers and his. His hands travelled all over her body — from the valley of her breasts, to the sides of her waist, and to the twitching nub below. His hands glided over her body like a feather, leaving a tickle that elicited a twitch from the slumbering girl. Settled in the crook of her neck, Lohen pressed wet kisses while rubbing her lower lips. After deeming it wet enough, he pulled away his sticky hand and repositioned himself above her. He slapped his dick against her clit, snickering when her hips unconsciously bucked upwards.

"You want it that much? Alright. Who am I to deny my little wolf?"

Slowly, he sank inside her velvet walls. It pulsed around his shaft, catching the veins in a familiar warmth. Lohen snapped his hips, gripping her waist in a tight hold. With each thrust, a shudder runs through his body. Perhaps knowing how much of a deep sleeper the girl is, he moved hard, fast, and deep and like there's no tomorrow. He took her in different positions— face down and ass up; on the side with one leg up; laying completely flat on her stomach; and more. With each round, he came inside, pulling her hips flush against his before moving again.

The rays of the morning sun lit up the room as the chirping of birds could be heard from outside. Groggy, [Name] opened her eyes to an unfamiliar ceiling. Her body felt so heavy, especially her stomach. How much did she eat…?

Wait. 

This isn't the room I slept in.

Panic flooded her even more once the grogginess left and was replaced with anxiety. Why was her body so, so heavy? Why is it so sore down there? Why does this place feel so familiar yet also unfamiliar at the same time? Where is she?!

"You're awake?"

"Lo… hen…?"

The scent of bread flooded the room as Lohen, the hunter who annoys her daily — the one she can't bear to ignore because he's practically her biggest source of food — entered the room with a plate of various food. However, rather than make her stomach rumble, it made her gut tighten.

"What… did… you do... to me…?"

"You’re hungry. Here, eat. You need food."

"Don't—"

—Nevermind. She took back what she said. A grumbling sound came from her stomach at yet another inappropriate time. Lohen merely raised his eyebrow, sitting on the bed beside her and placing the plate between them.

"Eat."

"…Why? You're so… uh, er, nice…?"

Lohen chuckled but didn't answer, choosing to watch the little wolf stuff her face with the food instead. She looked so cute like this, sitting in his bed, in his room, in his house. After a few moments, he finally responded.

"Are you curious why?"

The girl stopped eating for one second, looking at him with wary eyes, before continuing to eat again. However, the words that came right out of his mouth spit the food out of hers immediately.

"Because a man has to take care of his wife, now that they're a family."

To be blunt, Vil wasn’t your type. He was cold to those he deemed fledglings, abrasive in her care however well meaning, and so demanding of perfection that couldn’t exist. His smug smile, the way in which he’d frequently pose his hand like he was waving away common muck, how privileged he acted demanding everyone to a perfection out of touch for so many. It was aggravating. How could someone so easily flip a switch between a charming seductress queen with a vision to a demeaning degrading thorn. How could he claim to be the fairest one of all when he dismissed all the smiles that Neige was able to bring forth? How could he be the fairest when forced a rigid mold of elegance, rearranging flesh to fit shapes it wasn’t meant to be in. Crippling mobility for the sake of aesthetics, that couldn’t be normal. That couldn’t be healthy for anyone involved, especially him.

At first it appeared he didn’t notice you, you were just one of many over enthusiastic underclassmen he’d had to deal with, or at least that’s the impression that stained itself into your retinas. It didn’t bother you, you weren’t there to appease someone’s own sensibilities, you were just trying to be yourself, as corny as it sounded. Over time there were changes, as you hit your sophomore year and she hit her junior one there were changes. Perhaps your defiance had stood out as the nail to be hammered, perhaps your specific hue of vibrancy was too clashing. You noticed how now his gaze would harden ever so slightly when he captured Rook and you enjoying yourselves together. How he scrutinized every wrinkle, every crease, every cute stylistic choice you had made more so than even than the freshman he had begun to groom for Housewarden position next year. He observed further and further, as if trying to pry into your flesh and burrow there.

Once you heard him utter how you were “an idol’s worst nightmare for damage control,” but still he couldn’t help but linger around you. You. The first person to be called upon for any sorts of domestic labor: clothing repairs, dusting, vacuuming, cutlery polishing— it was ridiculous. A smile and an almost infantilizing head pat your only reward. You had attempted to ask once on why of all you people were chosen for such a role, he laughed. Clearly you were the most efficient out of all these spudlings, that was what was said at least. Whenever chores were knocked out he’d glow, praising your being to set an example for all those that would lag behind. Compliments would further be whispered into the shell of your ear, you couldn’t help remain confused. She was hot, then cold, then ever so warm again. Was it to try and pull something from you? He didn’t affect you, she couldn’t affect you. Weren’t you mesmerized by his presence? Why didn’t you adore him?

Most flocked to his feet as if he were a god, kneeling and slobbering just to catch a glimpse. Warm spotlights lighting her every feature; every dip and curved dome, but most important of all, highlighting what wasn’t there. He would praise the loyal follower on occasion, and bless those under his domain with the tools necessary to cultivate their own sense of beauty, that of course just so long as it wasn’t his. Not you. You would never be caught dead at his altar, stubbornly insistent in your faith in that damn boy, the rival he had spent his entire life in the shadow of. Why was that, was he losing his touch? No, that couldn’t be right, he still had the entire dorm underneath his own spell. If it wasn’t him, then it was you. You had to be the defunct thing here. The dorm known to strive for excellence couldn’t have any defects, now could we?

It was important to keep a close watchful eye on someone with your character, to make sure you didn’t create discordance within the regiments each student is perfecting. Ensuring that every potato under his care could eventually blossom into something as beautiful as he appears, nothing else.

On one particular night she couldn’t sleep, thoughts of you swirled like a horrid persistent fog. It was of no use, as much as he implemented every technique for sleep possible, it evaded evermore. If sleep was impossible, might as well do something productive, robes were adjusted briefly to be appropriate just in case anyone else was lurking and spotted him. One step, two steps, down the winding stone stairwell, his pen acting as enough light to safely descend. Laughter, light, at the bottom of the stairwell he found those things slipping through the crack of Pomefiore’s basement, how peculiar indeed. Opening it had only revealed a small group of his dorm mates all huddled around in a circle, that sickening baby blue color surrounding them. Neige, his mind registered the name coming from your lips, adoring in their praise. Only Rook’s piercing gaze noticed him standing at the door way, his own vice-dorm leader enraptured in this encounter. Heads turned snapping as she cleared her throat, looking of aghast horror filled all eyes except for Rook’s, and infuriatingly enough, yours. The gall, the audacity, questioning the group he discovered that the club meetings took place every second Sunday of the month, every second Sunday since your freshman orientation. A year and counting you had begun these secret meetings, a year and counting he had failed to notice. It made his blood run cold.

How dare you. How dare you massacre this precious dorm with that accursed naive boy’s name. The boy who had spent half as much time as him working on the craft, a fraction of the time preparing on the stage sidelines but yet got to bask in the warm glow of the spotlights up until the end. You loved a boy who wasn’t even aware of your existence, devoted yourself to an altar so already polished and taken care of, what more could you offer that shining statue? Couldn’t you see he was right here? That cracks were slowly forming at his finger tips threatening to fracture further? You truly were such an oblivious thing, such an ignorant thing. Ignorance needed punishment, but not any would suffice. An idea, a wicked idea. She let out a wicked laugh for a bit before having to catch himself, his ugliness wouldn’t be anymore exposed than it was already. How fitting that you would be part of the take down of the idol you so adored.

Your so called punishment wasn’t too bad, forcibly moving into a haunted decrepit mansion to assist Vil aside. The Prefect of Ramshackled that had supposedly come from another world was nice enough. They acted as the group’s manager for the VDC in totality, running trivial errands and mediating in group disputes— how you could relate. Nevertheless your sole purpose here was to tend to the beautiful queen who was so particular about nearly every detail. The brand of water, what towels were and weren’t allowed to touch his skin, the pressure and exact location of massages she required. Hair, makeup, clothes, all things you were required to help him with now. Shaken awake at the crack of every dawn to help him with his after-run-morning shower, drying his hair not too slowly but not harshly either, then braiding the silky strands into the small ponytail in the middle back of his head.

The cramped guest room Vil took, though it was the best out of the current available ones, was still full of various boxes by the vanity. It must’ve previously been covered head to toe in dust, the corners still had a thick layer of it while the rest of the box remained relatively clean. Rushed cleaning, was the Prefect of this dorm even expecting guests? Were they given decent time to prepare? A noise of the throat came from his majesty, whose hair you still had in hand at the moment, clearing your previous thoughts. Right, makeup. Inching closer to the blonde was the only way to properly apply the different shades of products, because of the lack of room mentioned previously. So close, close enough to where the warmth of his breath would land like feathers on your skin. Violet eyes would glow as brilliantly as the most well maintained gems, a smug smile on his lips every time you pulled away finished with his face, this time was no exception.

Sometimes when he was particularly preoccupied with running through something: every mistake in their choreography, neat notes looped with you were summoned to help with dressing. Truly an attendant to their master, thank the sevens it would only last a few more weeks. Buttoning down his grey NRC uniform undershirt, fixing the golden buttons through the holes in her purple vest, trying to avoid any more contact than necessary. Though occasionally your fingers would brush his skin, and you could feel his breath hitch ever so slightly, eyes intensifying in their glare. You reacted with the same detached professionalism you always had towards him. Why, why wouldn’t you let yourself love him?

Days had come and gone, turning into weeks, then a month. Wake up, morning run, getting properly ready for the day with your assistance, classes, homework, dorm affairs, practice, food, nightly routine— then falling asleep in the same cheap mattress knowing you were just a room away physically but light years apart emotionally. Knowing that that boy still had the world dazzled by him, knowing your heart was still preoccupied by your sycophantic love for him. How could you? After all that she did, for his fans, for her dorm, even for you the ever stubborn tumor— tuber that grew more and inside his brain. Didn’t you see that this was the best outcome for you? That you’d shine more brilliantly than you ever could have before underneath her wing instead of that sentient pile jar of honey’s? It was fine, it was fine. Practice harder, smile more charmingly, apply products so perfectly that it could hide every single fault within his own psyche, you’d love him now, right?

Finally, it was the day of the event they had long been building up to, the cultural fair, the Song and Dance Championship itself. Preparations were run, they had rehearsed over everything a million times by now, hoping to reach something truly beautiful, something absolutely beautiful. Better late than never, the Ramshackled Prefect and you had arrived, to the annoying pestering of some staff member with cracked lips and dehydrated skin. The cameraman had touched you— hand on your shoulder about to usher the both of you out when he stepped in.

“Excuse me but those spudlings are part of my production team. If you had half a brain you would’ve noticed their staff passes,” she glared at the man, arm snaking around your waist pulling you closer to his side, the cameraman’s hand now pulled out of reach. Fingers looped and twirled around the cheap polyester ribbon of the VDC pass around your neck, being held up delicately for inspection. Flicking his eyes between him, the prefect, and you there was an apologetic bow and reassurance uttered from the man’s crinkly lips. ‘Calm yourself’ he removed his hand from around you, and walked off to speak with the rest of the crew.

“Vi?” that voice, that agitating voice again. It was easy enough to converse with the boy, speaking words layered thick with double meanings and of passive aggressive tone. Finally, they were all called up, finally he could wipe that oblivious smile off of Neige's face.

Rehearse, perfection, smile, all thoughts that ran through his head as he stepped onto the stage, the stage that he belonged on. Five six seven eight, the music began, his voice cut as clear as a ray of piercing light coming from the clouds. Move after move he executed everything sharply, perfectly, beautifully. He caught you from the corner of his eye— You weren’t even paying attention, just laughing over some dumb joke that the Ramshackled Prefect had uttered. A twinkle in your eyes and smile painted your face, you looked happier than you had within the whole month than he had spent with you. The brief rehearsal had ended, various different workers for the TV station had crawled around him like maggots to flesh. Speaking her praise, clamoring questions, smile, that was all he could do as he answered each question with practiced grace, practiced confidence. Looking over the footage the dance was perfect, flawless— you. What were you doing over there by Neige, you smiled so brightly, he returned it in kind. ‘They know, they know I’m a horrible person and that’s why they won’t love me,’ the thought echoed in his mind. Buzzed around it returning again and again like the unwanted pest it was. Even as he checked his account, filled with all the praise in the world, it couldn’t be enough to fill that gaping maw. You had bid that boy farewell shortly before Neige and his crew called up to the stage. Of course Neige replied in sing-song tone, quickly bounding off as if his joy was limitless, was effortless.

The performance, it was sloppy by every metric, harmonies clashing against themselves in different sections, the arrangement itself so musically simple. But he had won. Neige had won and the competition hadn’t even officially started yet. Something so innocent yet calculated in its appeal, how could they win now? How could he prove his beauty, his craft, his excellence. Was he forever dammed to be in the shadows of someone who was once so far behind him? Someone who had lacked the upbringing he had, someone who had come from nothing yet so brilliantly shinned as if it was just destiny? He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe. He needed to leave, to go somewhere— anywhere where he wouldn’t be seen, where he could break down into pieces slowly by himself. Then he saw you. You were smiling again. Him, you, laughing. Blurred, colors melted into one another as hurried clicks of his heels echoed through the hallways. A door, not his own. A knock, it opened. You, him, in the same room, joking, merrily, happily, comfortably even. A question. A smile, the best one he could muster. “We didn't get much of a chance to talk before rehearsal. I was hoping we might chat a bit more now,” a glance. You sat there, confusion evident. You knew, how could you not have? He was alone, beside you, small talk was made. Hollowed praise thrown back and forth. Then, a question, “Say, Neige. Are you thirsty at all? I brought you some apple juice specifically for you,” stay out of this, please. Don’t interfere, but from your eyes he could gears slowly turning. “I've been quite taken with this brand recently.” An exchange, a thanks. A sip, just about to be taken before you, of course you, of course you did— she was stupid to think you wouldn’t have.

“Mind if I take a sip? I’m awfully parched as of now, I can grab you another one though!” Confusion, from that boy. you snatched the bottle. A yell, from different direction by familiar voice. Rook, of course it would be Rook. After a brief analysis of the situation it seemed Rook had quickly ushered off that boy in cautioned and final tone. A drip dripping sensation ran from the back of his throat. She had wanted to scream, but instead stood there petrified, you looked at him glare in your eyes. A head tilt backwards, you were going to drink it. This wasn’t how it was supposed to work out, not at all. Just when he was about to stretch out an arm, to try and prevent you, a person he was now realizing he adored, from drinking the culmination of his hideousness— SLAM. A flurry of white crashed into you and pushed his hand. Shouts, yelling, words, the word why hanging in the air drip drip dripping. Like a poison, like the glass that shattered onto the floor. The liquid hateful curse gushing out to bubbling puddle, before evaporating artificially into a purple misty gas.

He laughs, it’s a cold laugh, a tired laugh, an almost resigned laugh. “That's what I want to know. More than the rest of you, even, more than any fan ever could,”pity, looks of pity. Oh how she hated pity. “But you see, I've come to a realization. That I! Can never! Win! Never can beat him! And that's why… I'm going… TO HANDLE NEIGE MYSELF!” he could feel his skin slowly unraveling from the rest of his body, peeling off to reveal his rotten interior. Horrified, everyone’s eyes were boring into her like needles. Your eyes were boring into him like a thousand rusted lances, he wasn’t evil! She wasn’t a bad person—

“Please… Don’t look at me with those eyes, those eyes that grow cold only for me. Don’t look at me like I’m a heartless monster, DON’T LOOK AT ME!” he screamed throat burning as a bubbling black fluid escaped. A laugh cold cruel laugh escaped, “I want to be the fairest one of all, so why am I so...so...ugly? Ugly?! UGLY?!” Shouts echoed from every direction in the room, pleads— all frantic in nature. He saw you, your face aghast and coughing from the purple mist that swirled around you, you tried to reason— even in that sweet tone that was never once directed at him. Even in your fear, your suffocation, your blood rushing out from your face, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes, you were beautiful. Beautiful…

“Yes, of course. If I just melt everyone else into a hideous mess... Then I'll be the fairest one of all, won't I? I’ll be beautiful enough for you surely,” it was the last statement uttered from her lips before his vision went black, before he had succumbed to the inky abyssal blot completely.