#amoral combat

[solodiosbasta1]

“Todos los días hay combates en nuestro corazón, enseña San Agustín. Cada hombre en su alma, lucha contra un ejército. Los enemigos son la soberbia, la avaricia, la gula, la sensualidad, la pereza... Y es difícil, -añade el santo- que estos ataques no nos produzcan alguna herida”.

(Comentario al Salmo 99).

#combate espiritual #alma #lucha #jesús #cristo #jesucristo #dios #dios es amor #santidad #santos #fe #frases de santos

[aboysan]

carlos sword y las 13 canciones - Capítulo 21: Somos hermanos (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1402324895-carlos-sword-y-las-13-canciones-cap%C3%ADtulo-21-somos?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=ABOY-123 Carlos sword despertó en un mundo único como estuviera en su alma, así empieza su nueva aventura después de conocer y ayudar su nueva familia los sword. Ahora su nueva misión es encontrar 13 canciones que se esconde en diferentes almas de diversas personas, así mantener el equilibrio en su mundo y derrotar la corrupción. Esta historia será mi primera historia oficial que escribo y espero que le guste.

#amistad #amor #combates #misterio #musica #aventura #books #wattpad #amreading

[lqveharrington]

Movie Night | M.M.

summary: you and miles having a movie date night <3

pairing: earth 1610!miles morales x fem!reader

warnings: (not proof read !!) making out, loads of fluff, no use of y/n, mama rio scolding the shit outta her son toward the end (trust me, it could’ve been more)

————

“I hate the way you talk to me and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much that it makes me sick..." The Morales’ television played 10 Things I Hate About You for the young couple watching the movie. You were watching intently, head resting atop of Miles’ chest while messing with the loose string on his shirt. Miles, on the other hand, chose to watch you and pay no attention to the movie you so desperately wanted to watch.

He had been watching you for most of the film, only returning his attention back to the movie when you flashed your eyes up at him.

“Miles, I can feel your stare.” You sigh, adjusting your head to rest your chin on his chest, staring back up at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, mi vida.” He rubbed your back, “¿No se me permite mirar a mi hermosa amor?”

You scrunch your nose at the loss of understanding a different language. “Miles,” You gently smack his chest, “I understood amor.”

Miles squeezed your waist, “You’re adorable, you know that?’

Grumbling, you look at the screen again, hiding your red cheeks. “Just watch the movie, Morales.”

“Are we back on last name basis again? I thought we were past that.” He shifted to see your faux pouty face. “Aw.”

“Shut up.” You scoot up and bury your head in his neck, refusing to meet his eyes.

He let out a soft laugh, leaning his head back, “Why’re you hiding, mami?”

“You are so insufferable.” Your voice came out muffled. “You and your many, many nicknames.”

“You love my nicknames for you.” Miles continued to rub your back. “And you know I never say anything bad about you in Spanish.”

“What did you say then?”

He chuckled at you, “I said, Am I not allowed to look at my beautiful love?”

You push up on your elbows at the words, “You romanticist.”

“You love me.” He gave you a small smirk, cupping your cheek.

“Do I?” You melt into his hand. He raised his eyebrow at you.

“You know what? Yeah, I do.”

Miles gently brought your face closer to his, pulling you into a soft, needed kiss. You smile into his kiss, moving in sync with his own motions. The movie playing faded into white noise as you both made out, somehow switching positions, moving Miles on top of you.

“Miles,” You separated for a brief moment, needing to breathe. “What time is it?”

“Time is relative.” He pecked your lips, “So, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Ha ha.” You rolled your eyes but ended up being lip locked with your boyfriend again.

He had you trapped with his body, one hand by the curve of your waist and the other now by your neck. You, in a similar way, had your hands interlocked behind his neck pulling him impossibly closer.

However, the both of you being preoccupied, you didn’t realize that Miles’ parents had gotten home from their date night.

“MILES GONZALO MORALES. ¡SERA MEJOR BÁJATE DE ELLA, JOVEN!” Rio shoved her bag into a chair, hands on her hips.

“Shit!” Miles fell to the floor, accidently taking you down with him.

“Hey! Don’t use that language here.” Jeff scolded his son.

You stared at Miles and you both knew what was going to happen.

“We’re screwed.”

————

© lqveharrington — all rights reserved. do not copy, translate or share my work on other media platforms.

#across the spiderverse #into the spider verse #spider man: across the spider verse #spiderman #miles morales x reader #miles molares #earth 1610 miles morales x reader #earth 1610 miles morales #miles morales x reader fluff #miles morales x reader angst #fluff #august’s works 🫧

[multifariousqueer]

earth 42 miles smut hcs😩

Ofc!!!

A/n: I’m finally feeding y’all with this one. I might’ve cooked with this. As always lmk if you have any requests

Warnings: smut, f!ngering, cunnilingus, m@sturbation, !mpact play(love taps), hickeys, etc

Earth 42!Miles Smut head cannons

Honestly man, Miles 42 is relatively gentle but he’s not going the extra mile like our Miles

his fav position is definitely backshots; he likes to see your ass bounce

pulls your hair. like he wraps your braids/locs around his fist and pulls as he hits it

Smacks your ass a lot and if you’re wearing panties during it, he’ll grab them

Definitely fucks hard; like look at him, he looks like he snaps his hips at a fast pace

This man is highly skilled in combat so I feel like he is pretty flexible

Makes you call him Papi during it

Will speed up if you tell him to slow down

I feel like he has a lot of pent up aggression so I think he would channel it into sex

Loves a good blowjob, titjob, or if you just jerk it for him

“Mmmmmm shiiiitttt right there, Mami"

He likes to cum inside so he wears condoms but he doesn’t sweat it if he can’t get one

Will cum on your face 100%. He loves seeing you stick your tongue out while you milk him

Speaking of Milking, I feel like while our Miles has a thing for breeding, I don’t really see Miles 42 having one. He seems like he wants to be clean about it

Will jerk off to pics of you in certain positions, outfits, settings, etc.

Puts on Music during it and matches his thrusts to it

Will rub your clit if you ask for it or if he’s feeling it

Curses under his breath when he first puts it in

“Shit, Mami. Eres tan apretada” “Thank you, Papi"

Will mark you up with hickeys and love bites so everyone knows you’re his.

I feel like he is a good size(6.5)

Will fuck you just about anywhere

Doesn’t use toys like that until you got him a vibrating cock ring, then he went nuts

“Damn, ma. I don’t know how I lived without this"

Cuddles with you after and if you’re sore, he will get you anything you need

Makes out with you during it

I feel like his foreplay is just a lot of kissing and touching. Like running his fingers along your panties and snapping your waistband while talking you through it

“Mmmmm Mi princesa are you soaked?” “Fuck, Papi I need you” “Show me how bad you need me"

Will kiss your panties to tease you

Grabs your face in one hand

Likes to finger you if you can’t do it immediately. Like if you’re cuddling at home, he will kiss your shoulders and neck while rubbing you through your panties.

"I’m gonna cum, mi amor” “Do it, Mami. Show me how much you’re enjoying it"

loves fondling while making out with you

Grunts and groans a lot

Will draw his eyebrows when he cuts instead of making a show out of it

Rubs your stomach and mumbles about making you a Mami for real

#mcu fanfiction #miles morales headcannons #miles x reader #miles morales x y/n #miles morales x reader #miles morales #miles morales smut #earth42!miles smut #earth 42 #earth42!miles #spider man: across the spider verse #across the spiderverse fanart #across the spiderverse #across the spiderverse spoilers #spiderman #spiderverse #into the spider verse #for you

[thydungeongal]

Reminded of this ask and specifically the phrasing "narrative cruft."

Folks, I'm something of a fan of RPGs. I think RPGs are a pretty neat marriage of narrative and gameplay. I think the two are pretty neatly intertwined. If the fiction and mechanics of an RPG are in tune, I would hesitate to call the fiction "narrative cruft." It would do a huge disservice to the game.

So what is being called "narrative cruft" here? I can't say for sure but I believe the source of this ask was the recently resurfaced really smart post by yours truly where I talk about how trying to reframe the action of D&D (killing creatures and taking their stuff either as amoral tomb robbers or basically a posse of vigilantes under the blessing of those in power) as somehow aspirational may be a lost cause and how people would do a lot better to just accept the gameplay of D&D for what it is because the game itself will suffer for attempts to turn it into something it very much isn't.

Here's the thing though: D&D is very much a game about dungeons and also dragons. And I feel a lot of modern D&D players already reject that premise. Simply looking at what D&D, by its rules, says:

All characters will have to take part in some degree of resource management. At the very least they will have to track hit points throughout the day. Depending on edition and class they will have to take part in managing class-based resources. Even equipment is often consumable.

When it comes to resource management during the gameplay these games are the most opinionated about (combat and exploration) depletion of resources is very much the name of the game. You can, throughout the day, recover some resources, but often at the cost of another. Characters will generally not be gaining more resources throughout the day.

Looking at the types of creatures that are represented as adversaries in the game, most of them occupy the fictional space of "the dungeons," a type of nebulous mishmash of underground complexes, often implying some kind of underworld, or the wilderness.

I won't go further than that but these three things are actually pretty harmonious with the traditional gameplay of Town -> Wilderness -> Dungeon that is pretty much part of the game's DNA. Even D&D 5e is at its core still a dungeon game. It is very opinionated about things like "the adventuring day."

This is no coincidence. D&D is very much a resource management game, a "trying to survive in a hostile space while your resources get depleted" game. The interplay of having to make meaningful decisions between when to move out of the dungeon and back into civilization to rest and recuperate is an important part of the game. The game itself tells you this by asking the GM to take the shape of the adventuring day as a whole into account as a consideration in adventure design.

And there's a lot to criticize there: some people don't want to engage with that gameplay loop. Thankfully there are games other than D&D out there! Some people may see the gameplay loop as problematic. True, and I do think that the division of the world into effectively conflict zones and "civilization" is deeply ideological, but it's as txttletale said in that post of hers that my post was a reaction to: you can either take the media at its own word ("for the duration of Return of the King we are monarchists") or twist yourself into a pretzel shape trying to argue that the things that the text itself says about the world and game it is trying to get across aren't actually meaningful and no no the core gameplay of D&D is clearly about a plucky little found family just doing goodness.

Anyway, the way I personally reconcile is by not bringing moralism into it. At least in my opinion, "Amoral tomb robbers" and "sell-swords working for the highest bidder" are infinitely preferable to any of the ways that try to frame the action of D&D as somehow heroic, because now that there is no attempt to sell it as somehow aspirational we can actually have a discussion, during gameplay, about how the way of things in the fictional setting of the game are actually kinda fucked up.

Also if I wanted a queer take on dungeon fantasy I would play a game built with that as part of the text from the ground up, like Dungeon Bitches, and even Dungeon Bitches doesn't try to frame its dungeon-crawling disaster lesbians as somehow aspirational: they are fucked up women in a fucked up situation forced into a lifestyle that is violent and dangerous because they have chosen it over the comforts of a civilization that often doesn't treat women and especially queer women well.

[esmedelacroix]

"And the way you read my mind,"

husband!miguel x f!reader ♡

10 Things I Hate About You ← mini-series masterlist

"I hate your big dumb combat boots," ← previous part

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Your relationship with your father was not exactly the best. It definitely got better as you aged, but it's always awful whenever you and your father have a disagreement.

You had been on edge all day and Miguel got called into work all day. You felt like you couldn't lean on him when he was so busy. On top of that, he was feeling a bit stressed because of the recent influx of anomalies.

The cherry on top was that the two of you had Mayday's birthday party today. You love Mayday but this was probably the worst time for you to have a gathering to go to and pretend to be okay at.

The party was being held on the rooftop of the Spider Society. Like most of the other birthday parties. Miguel was already there so you drive over yourself. You played happy songs in the car trying to lift your spirits. Going up the elevator you took deep breaths and tried to calm yourself down so you wouldn’t cry during a birthday party.

Once you made it to the top floor you were greeted by Peter B who gave you an enthusiastic welcome hug. "Thanks so much for coming to celebrate our little angel," he said as he took your gift off your hands.

You caught sight of Miguel and gave him a little wave and smile before being bombarded by 20 different people saying hello. After you conversed with almost every single Spider person imaginable you pushed past crowds of people looking for Miguel.

You suddenly felt a familiar large hand wrap around your wrist from behind and pull you into a corner. "I didn't even know this place existed," you chuckled.

He didn't respond. He simply placed his index finger under your chin and tilted your head up so you would look into his eyes. "What's wrong?" he asked softly.

How?! How could he already tell just by seeing me interact with other people? No one ever knows when I'm struggling, except for him. You thought to yourself as your fake smile faded into a frown.

"¿Está todo bien, mi amor?[Is everything okay, my love?]" he asked as he cupped your cheeks with his hands.

That's what set off the waterworks. You know those moments when you are so upset that just a simple "Are you okay?" sets you off? This was one of those moments. Tears trickled down your cheeks and you hugged Miguel crying into his chest.

He simply patted your hair silently and allowed you to let go and let your feelings out. He held you close rubbing small comforting circles into your back. This was one of the signs that Miguel was your person. He knew exactly what to do to make you feel better. Like he knew what was on your mind.

The two of you ended up excusing yourselves from the celebration. He took you home so you could talk about what was going on. Miguel wasn't a huge fan of your father so when you revealed that you crying because of him, he was enraged. How could he not be when the first thing you had ever told him about your father was, "He was the first man to ever break my heart,"

That night your father may or may not have received a seething phone call from Miguel after you fell asleep. Which may or may not have been the reason as to why he called you apologizing profusely the next morning.

. . .

next part → "I hate you so much it makes me sick,"

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taglist: @lilscast @lazyjellyfish300 @safixiovi @saaaaaaaaaaaamiiiiiiiiiiira

#miguel o hara #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x you #miguel o'hara x you #astv miguel #across the spiderverse #spiderman 2099 x reader #spider man atsv #spiderman into the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #astv x reader #miguel fanfic #miguel o #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o hara fluff #miguel spiderverse #miguel spiderman #atsv miguel #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel imagine #spiderman 2099 #miguel o hara x reader #miguel fluff

[artbyblastweave]

Recently a post has been doing the rounds about military propaganda in the latest COD, yea yeah, sky’s blue, fork in kitchen, et al et al. This got me thinking about the shooters I actually play, and one thing that strikes me about the multiplayer shooters I play is that a lot of them dodge that same major discourse bullet by expressly grounding themselves in amorality and Kafka-esque dysfunction- a structural fingerwag towards their own content, acting as a paradoxical green-light to enjoy the game with no sense of moral injury. And there’s a big example of one that didn’t do this that kinda winds up with egg on its face as a result. 

To start with, I’m thinking about Team Fortress 2. The original Team Fortress, inasmuch as it’s possible for a game where you shoot each other with real firearms to be apolitical, was fairly apolitical. The soldiers had no markers of identity beyond their arbitrary team affiliation; the fighting was over no discernable real-life resource or point of political tension; the environments were decontextualized labs and facilities. It was platonic violence. 

Team Fortress 2 rolls around. Now that the general novelty of a 3d multiplayer class shooter has eroded, development stalls out on the following aesthetic problem; you can’t have semi-realistic militaristic character models rocket-jumping themselves across the map in the early 2000s. The cartoonishness is too dissonant when you’ve got similar semi-realistic militaristic characters in much more “grounded” games. Eventually they resolve this by taking the other tack, leaning into the cartoonishness, crafting character models so completely bombastic and over the top that no action taken in gameplay, no matter how absurd, will ever feel dissonant. This philosophy extends into the map design; the environments are farcical. Military instillations built mere yards from each other, with paper-thin pretenses of being civilian facilities despite the constant gun battles occurring inside. It’s self parody. And when the game extends to the point of having lore and worldbuilding, the idiocy becomes diegetic. This is a conflict fought on the behalf of idiots, by idiots, over idiot-goals, in spaces designed by idiots. It’s completely amoral, but it’s also contained amorality, since the fighting doesn’t spill out of these Helleresque Designated Pointless Fight Zones- and that leaves the mercs sympathetic enough that you can play them as protagonists in stories that take place “off-the-clock” without a ton of tonal dissonance. I can’t stress enough that the TF2 protagonists are amoral PMCs who work for callous megacorps. In a vacuum, this is not a well-regarded Kind Of Guy around here. There is some implementation of this broad concept that would invite a shitload of discourse that I’ve never seen materialize!

A lot of hero-or-character-based multiplayer games do this, abandoning any pretense of player heroism or productivity in the conceit in a way that shields them from a lot of moral and logical criticisms. Apex Legends and Monday Night Combat are explicitly in-universe bloodsports. Atlas Reactor and Rogue Company are cyberpunk corp-on-corp warfare. Dirty Bomb is about loosely affiliated mercenaries picking over the remains of an evacuated city. I think that Valorant is PMCs in a resource war (Not completely sure on this one.) The never-released Battlecry was expressly tied to actual nation-states, an alternate history where great powers fight wars via singularly-powerful champions instead of via traditional warfare. And in Battleborn the PCs were a hastily-assembled coalition of smaller hastily-assembled coalitions, which means that it makes perfect sense that any combination of these people might be fighting alongside or against each other, at any given time.

Here we see commonalities. Amoral participants. Larger governing bodies delineating clear fight zones centered on specific, if deliberately silly or petty, goals. Most crucially, PCs that are very loosely affiliated with each other, such that you’d see them in different configurations, fight to fight, day to day, as they’re contracted or shuffled around by the powers that be.

You know a game that doesn’t do any of this? Overwatch. 

Overwatch gets 80% of the way to being a superhero universe; it falls short primarily because Blizzard chose not to explicitly market it as such, but it’s got everything short of the purposeful brand designation- powered heroes, super science, codenames, Faceless Hydraesque terrorist groups with shadowy, powered enforcers. There are specific allegiances implied by this; specific policy and interpersonal goals implied by this that aren’t really reflected in six-on-six grudge matches in a smattering of inexplicably depopulated civilian environments. There are roughly half-a-dozen villains associated with Talon, four or five independent villainous mercenaries, and everyone else is a would-be superhero. Why is most of the core roster of the world’s premier superhero team performing some kind of terror attack in London? Why is a woman who murdered a civil rights leader trying to stop them, with the help of two avowed anti-Omnic mercenaries and three Omnics? Why did a cryogenics researcher weaponize her tech and come along for the ride? Why are a dozen envoys from tech conglomerates, grassroots movements, and paramilitary defense forces throwing down over a Gazebo in a charming Greek resort? Fuck if I know. Fuck if the writers know!

So, to round it out, I think that there’s a structural difficulty for multiplayer shooters to stand for something, or advance a philosophy, or whatever. The smart ones embrace this by shielding themselves in ablative nihilism, preemptively deflecting criticism by painting the gameplay as hollow and barbaric, but fun! But Overwatch- Overwatch 2′s tagline is “Get back in the fight.” What Fight? Why? Against Who? Call Of Duty might be a horrific mouthpiece for militarism and imperialism, but when it valorizes the military, it’s at least picking a side! Overwatch is just so strange to me because it’s somehow got the worst of both worlds- it uses these heroic, aspirational language and visuals to hype up a gameplay loop that’s ultimately the exact same kind of cynical, aimless abattoir as the games that are smart enough to explicitly be about amoral paid killers!

#thoughts #meta #I don't think any of this is new #but it occurred to me #video games #media analysis #team fortress 2 #tf2

[flowerandblood]

The Man with the Deep Scar

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: mention and description of the murder of multiple people, descriptions of wounds, virgnity loss, smut, angst, violence, suicide attempt, trauma, mourning ]

[ description: After she is attacked in a fair by a strange man and narrowly avoids death, her father the king decides that from now on she will be watched over by one of his ‘ghosts’, a assassin acting on his orders, wearing a black mask. The man follows her like a shadow, accompanied by their past, which keeps her awake at night. Gothic horror love story, angst, sexual tension, very dark Aemond. ]

This story is several requests combined into one: sworn protector x female; Amor x Psyche; Phantom of the Opera! Aemond x female. I took the liberty of creating a completely new story from this, having only elements of each of these requests.

Series & Characters Moodboard Lady Walford Moodboard Gothic & Horror Sensual Moodboard

Part 1 - The Man with the Black Mask | Part 2 - The Man with the Empty Heart | Part 3 - The Man with the Lost Soul | Part 4 - The Man with the Cold Mouth | Part 6 - The Man with the One Eye | Part 7 - The Man with the Golden Gift | Part 8 - The Man in the Black Crown | Part 9 - The Man with the Bloody Sword | Part 10 - The Man in the Black Gloves | Part 11 - The Man in the Death Cloak | Part 12 - The Man with the Pearly Hair | Part 13 - The Man with the Fiery Gaze

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

For as long as he could remember, their father had taken no interest in them, preferring his first-born daughter to his second wife's children. He hated her with all his heart, jealous that although he read extensively and was so skilled in hand-to-hand combat, the King only focused his attention on her.

He lived in a constant conviction of defeat − his grandfather incited his mother against his father by saying that if it went on like this it would be Rheanyra who would be chosen by him as heir to the throne, not Aegon, her first-born son.

The tension inside the fortress and their internal strife meant that they failed to see the threat that lurked outside. Discontent among their people was growing due to poor crops and famine − although the King showed concern about the whole situation, his grandfather, Otto reassured him that he had everything under control.

He only recognised how serious the situation was when it became apparent that an army was gathering near the city walls − the lords on whom gigantic taxes had been imposed demanded that the King abdicate and a new ruler be chosen from among the nobles.

House Targaryen had ruled the kingdom for centuries and his father had no intention of giving up the crown to anyone just because they willed it; he called all the lords rising against him traitors, demanding their heads.

However, when it became apparent that the most powerful of the lords, his father's former ally and friend, Lord Walford had risen against them at the head of a rebellion, taking their stronghold by storm, all was lost.

Hearing the sounds of battle and screams he ran to his mother's chamber wanting to make sure she was safe − she was packing up in a hurry and when she saw him she grabbed him by his arms and shook him.

"There is a passage under my bed to an underground shelter. You must press with your little finger the mechanism which is hidden in a small hole under the wooden panels. You and Daeron are to hide there, go get him at once." She ordered in a trembling voice, sweat droplets on her face.

He wanted to defy her, horrified by her condition, feeling that even though he was only twelve years old he was already a man, that he would not hide like a coward but would fight to defend her.

However, he decided that it was indeed necessary to hide Daeron somewhere and was already about to leave her chamber when Lord Walfrod's soldiers suddenly rushed in, their armour and swords all filthy with blood.

He only had time to scream when the blade of one of them swung and drove into his face − he fell to the floor with a loud whine, catching himself on his cheek, completely losing sight of his left eye.

He began to waddle across the floor in front of him towards the bed − he heard his mother screaming but didn't turn to look at her, terrified, thinking only of the fact that he didn't want to die, that he was scared, that he wanted to hide, his heart pounding like mad.

He managed with a shaking hand to find the hole she was saying about − when he slipped his little finger into it something clicked and the flap lifted. He crawled quickly down and closed it behind him, breathing loudly, panting all over, the voices above him muffled and indistinct.

The corridor he was in was very cramped, consisting only of a steep staircase leading down and walls all around him − with one hand he clutched at the painfully burning wound, feeling the warm blood run down his fingers, and with his other hand he began to slide down into complete darkness. He finally reached a sort of enclosed, stone-cold room.

He fell to his knees and wept loudly, his nose all stuffed up from tears − he felt sticky from his own wetness and blood. He was terrified, but most of all he could not forgive himself for running away like a coward, for leaving his beloved mother to die, Daeron and everyone else, for hiding instead of dying with them with honour.

He lay down on the stone floor and stayed like that, listening to the sounds of battle and screams, until there was complete, empty silence. The pain he felt on his left cheek was unbearable and he thought that although he had avoided a quick death, he would die here slowly, forgotten and abandoned.

He decided that he would rather bleed out or die of thirst and hunger than go out and give himself up to these traitors.

Staying in that dark, cold pit, he lost track of time − he didn't know if days or hours had passed. All he could think about was that the ache in his skull was unbearable, his wound oozed and smelled bad, his stomach twisted with pain, his lips dried with thirst.

He felt that he had fallen asleep only to wake up and cry loudly, wishing for nothing more than to find that his mother had survived, to return with his father and brother at the head of a great army and come to his aid.

He imagined that the wooden flap opened and his queen-mother appeared in it like an angel in a pillar of blinding light, that he threw himself into her arms with relief, hearing her tender reassurances that all was well now.

He shuddered when he heard the screech of wood and the sound of a trapdoor opening, the pillar of light coming from the side of the room almost blinding him and he had to take a few steps backwards, pushing against the wall, his heart pounding like mad.

"Is someone there? I can hear you crying. Let me help you, please, speak up." He heard a soft, feminine whisper echoing through the room − he felt a tightness in his throat recognising instantly that it wasn't his mother's voice.

What if it was a trick?

If there were guards with her, if they were about to come down and kill him?

"I will spend tonight with the King in his chamber. I will order my guards to rest and not watch over my rooms. I will leave the flap open for you to leave, on my bed you will find a hooded cloak, a sack of food and coins. Leave the keep through the kitchen rooms in the cellars. My servant will be waiting for you and lead you out. She will hand you over to your mother's friend, Ser Criston."

She said quickly and closed the trapdoor with a quiet creak of wood, the room again surrounded by complete darkness. He breathed loudly, hearing only the rapid beating of his own heart.

Should he believe her or not?

What if she was lying?

What if they were going to torture him?

He clamped his eyelids shut, feeling a terrible pain in his skull and decided that he couldn't take it any longer, that he wanted it all to be over.

He walked back and forth across the dark room, feeling a sudden rush of energy and adrenaline, the blood bubbling strongly in his veins. He jumped back when he heard the creak of wood, followed by someone's footsteps and the sound of a door closing.

There was complete silence.

He swallowed loudly; over these few days his eyesight had completely adapted to the darkness, so he confidently found the steps of the stairs with his hands and slowly began to climb up. He slid out from under the bed and listened for any sounds, however, there seemed to be no one in the room.

He crawled out from under the bed and stood up on trembling legs, looking around quickly but saw no one − on the bedding in fact lay a small cloak, a pouch of coins and a little bag of apples and bread. He took it all, quickly putting the cloak on, pulling the hood over his head and left the chamber, looking around in a panic, his wound hurt more than usual, all swollen and throbbing.

He knew the map of the fortress by heart and indeed had not encountered any guards on his way, so he ran towards the kitchen rooms and stopped, frightened, when he came across a woman. She looked at him horrified and almost screamed seeing his face, turning her head quickly, disgust and disbelief in her gaze − he stood in front of her wondering if she was going to start shouting.

"− gods, so it's true − poor child − come, we don't have much time −" She whispered looking around and grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the servants' passage − they walked through the cramped, dark corridors, he could hear rats running past them, his heart pounding like mad.

After a while they reached a small wooden door, apparently intended for deliveries from merchants − the woman opened it and waved to a man dressed in a cloak, a hood over his head, he was standing next to a large cart harnessed to two horses, covered with a large sheet.

"− I got him − quickly −" She whispered to him, the man stepped forward to meet her, a sigh of disbelief escaping his lips when he recognised in him Ser Criston Cole, her mother's sworn protector.

"− thanks be to the gods − your merits will not be forgotten, woman − come, my Prince, we have no time −" He said impatiently, and he moved swiftly after him, jumping on the cart. Criston covered him with a sheet and after a moment he felt a tug − they moved off and he drew a loud breath, laying down on the wood beneath his feet.

He had escaped.

This woman had really helped him.

When his emotions wore off he immediately devoured the piece of bread and apple that the woman had bagged for him, feeling immensely relieved, no longer even thinking about the pain, just that he had survived.

He hoped Criston would take him back to his family, to those who had survived the massacre, that he would see his mother again soon.

As they stopped he heard Criston's voice speaking to someone, and then the sheet lifted, Cole and a man who looked like a monk stared at him in disbelief.

"− good gods −" Muttered a plump priest in a grey habit girded with a simple rope. "− what have they done to him? −"

First they bathed him and changed him into new robes, and then they took him to the medic despite his pleas that he wanted to see his mother and siblings first. Cole stood over him as they waited for the monk to attend to his wound, his face pale.

"− I'm so sorry, my Prince −" He said low, his voice trembling slightly, but he didn't need to say anything more. He felt a squeeze in his stomach, a burning wetness gathered under the eyelid of his healthy eye. He wept like a child even though he wanted to act like a man.

He thought that he had only survived because he was a coward.

When the medic arrived and saw the state he was in, he prayed first and said that it was a miracle that the infection had not killed him, that the wound needed to be decontaminated immediately and the eye had to be taken out.

A stick was placed in his mouth on which he was told to bite his teeth, having previously been given a huge amount of poppy milk and spirit to ease the pain, however, what he felt when his blade penetrated his skin and began to burn and cut away the dead, rotting tissue seemed like pure hell to him.

He fainted after a few minutes of writhing like an animal and muffled screaming, Criston was unable to look at it and walked out. He was left alone and thought that this was his punishment that was waiting for him from now on, punishment for his cowardice, punishment for not being able to behave like a man.

Darkness and loneliness.

He would not allow anyone to light the candles in his cell, which had previously belonged to some other monk, feeling wonderfully invisible there.

When he covered the small window at night with a thick black cloth he was once again in complete darkness, just as he had been when he had spent those few days that seemed to last indefinitely under his mother's chamber.

Criston had told him that his mother had died after several swords had repeatedly pierced her body, his father old and infirm to the point that he, like Aegon, Helaena and Daeron, had had their throats cut in their beds.

The whole attack had been premeditated − Lord Walford had pretended to be a friend of his father-king to the end, and now, from what he understood, he had been chosen from among these fucking traitors to be King and take his place on the throne.

Cole assured him that there were still individuals in the realm and lords who remained loyal to him, who wanted justice and the return of House Targaryen to the throne, who would support him if he wished to regain the crown.

He practised hand-to-hand combat with him every day in the great vaults of the men's monastery. Even though the new king's soldiers repeatedly searched the entire building, thinking rightly that they might have been hiding the prince out of sheer compassion, each time the monks warned them off and gave them time to find another refuge quickly.

He lived only for the thought of doing to the family of the new king what he had done to him.

He knew that he had time, that he could not rush, that this matter had to be carefully considered.

They met in secret in one of the strongholds of his father's former vassal, Lord Malet, who received him with great honours, gathering all his supporters there.

They discussed what to do, having an army smaller and less well supplied than the royal one, unable to act openly, treating the news that the prince was alive as something that could not come to light.

"I have my man in the King's closest guard; he is one of his ghosts. I pay him fairly for any information, he could bring someone else in there. Some spy. We would set up an ambush on one of the already existing ones, similar in size and weight − they wear the same clothes, if his behaviour did not arouse anyone's suspicion, no one would know." He said with conviction, and he licked his lower lip at the thought that popped into his head.

"I'll take his place." He said coolly, looking at the map of the fortress spread out before him on the large table, the lords looked at each other in surprise.

"What do you mean, my Prince? It's dangerous, it puts our whole plan in danger!" Exclaimed one of them, clearly horrified by his proposal − he chuckled under his breath, several of the men swallowing loudly, apparently wondering if he was still remaining in his senses.

"I am very familiar with this fortress and its customs, I will be able to keep up with what is going on there. When what we're speaking about becomes a reality, I need to be on the ground, taking charge and the throne right away." Said matter-of-factly, Criston grunted, looking at him uncertainly.

"This plan has some chance of success, but it would be best if you were not in front of the King himself, as he might order you to remove your mask in his presence. We cannot allow that to happen. It would be best if you served his son or daughter." He said looking around at the assembled crowd, the men looked at each other.

"We can arrange to ambush her at the fair. My ghost told me that she often sneaks past her guards without their knowledge. If someone attacks her, the King will reinforce her guard, perhaps appointing one of his ghosts to the task. When we find out whom, my man will kill him, and you, my Prince, will take his place."

He recognised that, although it was madness, it had a chance of success, and nothing pleased his heart more than the thought that he would be able to take the life of the man who had destroyed his family with his own hands when the time was right.

To his delight, it turned out that the lord's plan had worked and he had indeed appointed one of his closest guards as her protector. The man was killed later that evening, and he and Criston, under cover of darkness, made their way to the fortress from the side of a forgotten passageway that led out into the woods which had once been used to return from hunting.

One of the ghosts, with the help of a servant who was also involved in their conspiracy, dragged the murdered man out of the castle, and he immediately changed into his clothes.

Although they were a tad too tight, when he put on his mask he felt wonderfully peaceful − the darkness and silence that enveloped him made him feel again as he did when only blackness surrounded him.

Solitude.

The ghost explained the exact rules to him again and informed him where there was a place where he could sleep and rest, although, he said, he didn't think he would ever have the opportunity to use it − they only ate at night and usually slept standing or sitting up.

They parted in one of the passageways, and he moved with a confident stride down the corridor he knew well towards the chamber that had once belonged to his sister, and in which now slept this little whore. He saw the disturbed looks of the guards from afar and smiled at the thought that he would soon kill them all.

They needed to smuggle as many of their men and as many weapons into the fortress as possible.

"You may leave. From now on, the Princess is under my protection." He said coldly, one of the men snorted loudly, angry, he could smell the strong odour of alcohol from him.

"You are not a King, by what right do you command us?" He asked resentfully and he chuckled with amusement − he saw that the man looked at him uncertainly, with fear from which he felt pleasure and heat in his chest.

"Shall I inform the King that not only are you incapable of guarding his daughter, but you refuse to obey his orders?"

The man growled something under his breath, speaking of his insolence, walking away with his companion with a loud clang of their armour.

He hummed under his breath as he stepped against the wall facing her door, the door to his sister's chamber, and thought of Helaena, of how gentle and sensitive a person she was, of how she despaired even when one of them accidentally trampled a spider or a slug.

He thought of how she lay alone, terrified, dying slowly, coughing up her own blood, and felt a pain in his heart, swallowing loudly, his heart pounding hard.

He was comforted when the torches around him burned out and he was left at last in complete darkness − he closed his eyes and decided to rest, work out his plan in his head and wait patiently.

He shuddered and opened his eyelids, startled when he heard the loud creak of a door − a figure appeared in it illuminated only by the soft light of a candle, her large eyes looking at him with uncertainty and terror.

His jaw clenched in rage when he involuntarily thought she was beautiful, though he wished she would turn out to be a disgusting, ugly girl that no one would ever want.

However, he could not say anything about her appearance other than that her face was pleasantly fair, smooth and slender, her nose shapely and slightly rounded, her eyes sparkling, surrounded by a veil of long lashes, her long, slightly wavy hair and eyebrows seemed to him as dark as the night itself.

They stared at each other for a long moment without speaking.

"What's your name?" She asked suddenly, uncertainly, softly, with a kind of innocent curiosity from which he felt like laughing.

He didn't answer.

You are a mere whore, he thought with amusement, who wallows in riches filthy from my sister's blood.

"How am I supposed to address you if I don't know what your name is?" She asked, surprised by his lack of answer, but he just looked at her, wondering how she was going to force him to speak to her at all.

Ghosts could only speak with the King.

"Should I complain to the King about you not answering my questions?" She asked with a note of threat in her voice from which he clenched his teeth, letting the air out loudly through his nose, trying to calm himself, thinking only of the fact that meeting the King was the last thing he wanted.

He couldn't allow himself to order him to take off his mask.

"Call me any name you see fit." He answered her coolly, tired of her refusing to leave him alone. She shook her head as if she didn't understand the meaning of the words he spoke to her.

"Shall I name you?" She muttered in disbelief and he turned his head to the side, rolling his eyes, feeling that he was losing patience.

"Yes. My Princess." He said roughly and coolly, adding the last two words quickly, reminding himself that he had to title her in that disgusting way.

For now.

She stared at him for a long moment with those big eyes of hers and swallowed loudly, something on her face that looked like she had made her decision.

"Vhagar."

He felt a shudder when she said this − he remembered a book he had read when he was a small child about a great, terrible dragon that devoured people and burned entire cities.

Could it be that she had read it too?

"I will always treat you with respect and I will never make you do anything to humiliate you or offend your good name." She said with some kind of pain and regret, as if she sympathised with him − he felt his jaw clench tightly, felt for some reason a tightness in his throat at her words.

After a moment, the door closed behind her and he let out a loud breath, swallowing hard, wondering how he was going to stand it all.

However, it turned out that his suffering was rewarded, because already at supper the next day he heard some interesting information about where they were looking for his body, that the case had still not been abandoned.

He wrote a letter to Criston later that night informing him to leave some false trail in the city's vaults, his old child's robes or anything that would help them think they were on the right trail, which he passed on to a trusted servant aware of everything.

Everything was going according to plan until that little whore took him to see her mother.

As soon as he crossed the threshold of her chamber and heard her voice he recognised her and felt a squeeze in his throat, standing at the door, not knowing where to look, his heart pounding like mad.

The new King had locked his wife in the tower like some kind of animal.

He shuddered when he felt her gaze on him, her lips slightly parted, as if she really had seen a ghost.

"The gods are gracious." She whispered in a trembling voice − he felt a sting in his heart at the thought that he was only alive because of her.

"What?" Her daughter asked quietly, as if she didn't understand what her mother had just said, but she wasn't listening, staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and relief.

"You came for me like a death? Have you come to relieve my suffering at last?" She asked in a trembling voice shivering all over, pale and thin − he felt his lips involuntarily clench, his eyebrows twisted in pain, his heart pounding like mad.

"Mother, he is a guardian, he will not hurt you. He will protect us."

"Don't take her away. Have mercy on her and my son, they didn't know." She whispered pleadingly and he clenched his eyelids, thinking with rage and despair that Daeron and Helaena were innocent too.

"Stop, please. Please. You need to rest, mother. You need to eat and rest. I'll bring you some new books next time, all right?"

As they walked back downstairs he was completely immersed in his thoughts and wondered how it was possible that she recognised him. He shuddered, coming back down to earth when he heard her daughter's voice − she was leaning against a pillar with no strength, as if she was about to collapse to the ground.

"Kill me."

His healthy eye looked at her open wide in complete shock, he couldn't believe she had said that out loud.

Did she really mean it?

Involuntarily, his hand slid down to the dagger he had hidden under his cloak, he tightened his fingers on its hilt.

"Please, kill me." She whispered − he could feel his hand clamped on the weapon trembling all over, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his bones would break, his heart pounding like mad.

Don't take her away.

Have mercy on her and my son.

He swallowed loudly, thinking with pain that he would be just.

One mercy for one mercy.

His hand let go of the hilt, and she moved abruptly ahead, as if awakened from sleep, and spoke no more to him.

As soon as the door to his sister's chamber closed behind her, one of the ghosts came up to him and told him that he would replace him because the King wanted to speak to him. He nodded his head, tense, praying to the gods not to make him take off his mask.

He would have to kill him then, and he wanted to wait a little while, until they were better prepared.

He repeated to himself that he had to be patient.

That since he had endured so many years, he would endure a few more weeks as well.

He entered the chamber that had belonged to his father, originally in Targaryen red, now all in shades of blue − Lord Walford looked up at him from the book he had just read.

"Come closer." He said coldly, and he wordlessly obeyed his order, looking ahead indifferently with his hands clasped behind him.

"Did my daughter visit her mother today?" He asked, flipping the page with an aggressive, quick gesture that he noticed out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes."

The king hummed under his breath, stretching out comfortably in his richly decorated wooden chair.

"What did they discuss?" She asked lowly, and he licked his lips, wondering what he should say.

There were guards all around them, they could overhear their conversation, he couldn't come off as a liar in front of him.

He had to stick to his role.

"The Queen expressed disappointment that the young Prince was not visiting her. She also raised concerns that I was the personification of death, had come to bring her relief and take her life. She told me to spare her daughter and son because they did not know anything." He recited in a cold, dispassionate tone − the King sighed heavily, running his hand over his face.

"She has completely lost her mind. She keeps poisoning my poor daughter's head." He muttered, looking ahead with indifferent, enraged gaze.

"Take care of her."

He looked at him in disbelief, unsure if he had understood correctly what he expected of him.

"What do you mean, my King?" He asked lowly, uttering the last words with great difficulty. The man looked at him and licked his lower lip with impatience.

"It should look like she took her own life. Preferably a hanging. That will look the most natural. As long as she lives, our family will never move on."

Walking down the corridor towards the staircase to the chamber in which the Queen was being held, he took two vessels from his pocket, which he had kept for himself in case of need.

He walked all the way up, noticing that there were no guards or servants around, the door to her chamber open − she was sitting on her bed with her hands in her lap and looking towards him smiling, as if waiting for him.

"At last." She said softly, her skinny face as if it had taken on a flush. "I was hoping to see you one day. Believe me, there has not been a day in which I have not prayed for you."

He looked at her impassively feeling a tightness in his gut, playing between his fingers with the glass little bottle he held in his hand.

"You know what I came for." He said matter-of-factly, and she nodded and laughed lightly.

"I've waited a long time for this. For freedom." She replied − suddenly it seemed to him that she was completely sober and awake, that she had known perfectly well all this time what was happening to her.

She was waiting for him to come back and kill her.

He thought with surprise that something moved him at that thought.

"I have a proposition for you, my Lady." He said finally − she looked at him sleepily, wrinkling her brows.

"I will spare your daughter and your son if I gain your family's support in taking the throne." He said lowly, raising a hand with a small vial in front of him, waving it in front of her.

"Black Tears. That is the name of what I now hold in my hands. A few drops are enough to fall into a deep sleep − a person's heart beats slower, their pulse cannot be felt. However, if one drinks too much, one may not wake up again. Do you understand?" He asked coldly − she looked at the liquid and then at him, disbelief in her gaze.

"I'll help you escape."

When it was all over he informed the King that according to his will his spouse was dead. He came to her in his own person and sat down beside her on the bed, touching her cheek.

"Did she suffer?" He asked as if in pain, thought for a moment that he regretted his decision.

"No. She just fell asleep."

The King ordered that her body be prepared respectfully for burial and that he contact the prior of the monastery on his behalf to conduct the ceremony.

This is what he had been waiting for.

"She is alive. Move her to the monastery and inform her family what her king-husband wanted to do. Criston will give her an infusion that will wake her up. It is best if she vomits a few times, she may also have a fever and be weakened." He said to the man who had been like a second father to him during his years of solitude.

The monk looked at him in horror, both of them standing over her body in the small castle chapel that had once belonged to his mother.

"− you risk a lot −" He said, afraid to use his title aloud − he hummed under his breath, looking at her indifferently.

"− I am paying my debt − you always told me that a just King must be merciful − did you not? −" He asked coldly, the man swallowed loudly and looked again at the body of the sleeping Queen.

"We must change the body and put it in the coffin at once. Tell the King that there are nasty marks on the Queen's body, probably indicative of the injection of poison. He will then not allow the lid to be opened and will order a burial as soon as possible." He said indifferently and walked away, leaving the monk with his words.

When he returned he headed for the King's chamber and announced to him that everything was ready for a quick, trouble-free burial. The King showed satisfaction at the speed of his work and praised his organisational skills, glad that his face was obscured by a mask so that he could not see how wide his smile was.

Your end is coming, he thought with amusement.

"Summon my daughter." He said, putting a bite of roast into his mouth.

He wasn't surprised by the Princess's reaction to what her father had said, he wasn't surprised that she didn't believe it, that she ran towards the chamber where she had spoken to her mother only hours before.

He moved quickly after her, seeing that she was in complete hysterics, and thought that she looked just like he had when her father's soldiers had entered his mother's chamber.

"You fucking bastard!" She shouted wrestling with him desperately, trying to hit him with a candlestick, but he caught her easily, her wrists slender and petite − he thought if he put any more strength into his grip he would break her bones.

"− tell me where she is − please −" She mumbled looking at him pleadingly, the candlestick fell out of her hand with a loud clink of steel against the stone floor.

She was despairing, her face all red from tears, her lips puffed up and glistening − he thought there was something beautiful, noble in her suffering.

"− please − please, Vhagar, I don't want her to be alone −" She whined, and he swallowed loudly at the thought that her father hadn't told her everything, that she thought her mother was still alive.

"It's too late. She didn’t suffer."

She spilled into his hands, what he had told her was too much for her mind and heart − she fainted from grief and pain and he caught her in his arms at the last moment.

He picked her up and started down the stairs with her, her head resting against his chest − he thought she was incredibly light and soft, her pleasant scent filling his entire lungs.

He carried her to her chamber and laid her limp body on her bed. He sat down in the chair beside her, spreading himself out comfortably, taking satisfaction for some reason that he could shamelessly look at her from so close.

Her shoulders were bare − the sleeve of her gown slipped off one of them, exposing her naked skin in a way that was inappropriate to say the least.

He had spent eight years of his life within the walls of a men's monastery, devoting himself to training, reading and prayer − the last thing he thought about when dreaming of reclaiming his rightful throne were women and the frailties of the human body.

He shuddered when her body moved − her eyelids parted suddenly, her vision hazy and dreamy, the darkness clearly startling her and it took her a moment to realise where she was and what had happened.

Her face finally turned towards him and she froze, her eyes opened wide in horror, her lips began to tremble − he felt like he saw a flash of a tear run down her cheeks.

"You were supposed to protect her." She uttered in pain. He looked at her with an indifferent expression on his face wondering if she would have thrown herself at his neck if she had found out he had helped her mother escape.

"I did." He saw that she furrowed her brow, furious, so he continued, wanting her to understand exactly what order her father had given him.

"I showed her mercy. Your father the king wanted me to make it look like she took her own life. I gave her poison, after which she just fell asleep, although he suggested hanging. He thought it would look more...natural."

He saw that her eyebrows arched in pain and regret − she pressed her lips together and closed her eyelids, turning on her side, curling up like a small child and huddling in her furs, seeking refuge in the warm fabric.

"When will it be made official?" She asked trying to feign calm, her voice trembling however, betraying her pain and suffering.

"Tomorrow morning the kKng will convene a gathering and announce the sorrowful news."

She raised her gaze to him, he felt something change in the expression on her face − she was thinking hard about something.

"Do you still have that poison?" She whispered and he felt his heart begin to pump the blood faster through his veins − he pressed his lips together and swallowed loudly, wondering if she was really planning to do what he suspected her of doing.

"…yes."

He looked at her in disbelief as she held out her slim, smooth hand to him, trembling slightly, hanging in the air.

"Have mercy on me too." She said softly, pleadingly, warmly − he hesitated, unsure of what he should do.

He had promised her mother he wouldn't kill her with his own hands, but he hadn't said he would stop her from committing suicide.

He got up slowly from his seat with a loud creak of the old wood and pulled out a small vial of leftover poison, enough to kill her. He walked over to her and handed it to her, looking at her with some kind of wide-eyed excitement, wondering what she would do.

He thought she was only pretending, that she wanted to arouse his pity, that she hoped he would stop her at the last moment.

"Is it going to be painful?" She asked in a trembling voice, looking at him helplessly, his heart pounding like mad − he could feel the cold sweat running down the back of his neck.

"No. You'll just fall asleep." He replied softly, and she sighed quietly, as if relieved, startling him when she opened the vial in a perfectly confident motion and immediately tilted its entire contents down her throat.

She swallowed loudly and looked at him with big eyes, horrified as he was by what she had done, by the knowledge that she was going to die, and lay back, tears of sadness, grief and fear running down the sides of her face.

She looked like a small child.

"Will you stay with me?" She asked in a trembling voice filled with despair and sorrow − he felt his heart sting, only realising a moment later that he was breathing heavily through his mouth.

"Yes." He whispered, noticed how involuntarily her head slowly slid to the side, her eyelids closed, her lips slightly parted.

She did it.

She couldn't take it and took her own life.

He went to her, pulling the black leather glove from his hand and touched her neck. He pressed his lips together, still sensing her pulse, wondering strenuously whether to let her die.

If it turned out that the King's daughter on his watch had died, he would have to kill him outright.

They weren't ready yet, they needed the support of her mother's family.

He clamped his eyelids shut and sighed heavily, taking her hair from her face with his fingers and swallowed loudly at the thought that her skin was incredibly warm and soft − he ran his fingertips over it for a moment as if it were a sheet of water before he reached into his coat pocket and took out a second vial.

He took the cork out of it, caught her cheeks in his hand and poured its contents down her throat, lifting her so that she didn't suffocate, her body began to shake.

She snorted loudly and squeezed him tightly − he reached quickly for the bowl of fruit standing next to her bed and dumped it on the stone floor, placing it under her mouth before her body shook with convulsions.

"Come on, you have to get it out of your body. Yes, there we go." He whispered as she began to vomit − he looked at her and thought with surprise that for some reason he felt relieved.

She was merely a tool in her father's hands, just like him, surrounded only by a terrifying, cruel, cold darkness.

He thought with some kind of pain, watching her as she fell asleep, shivering with fever and fatigue, that she was as alone as he was. He covered her with thick furs and lasted by her side all night without a wink, wanting to be sure she was still alive.

He was shocked to see that the next day, despite her fever, she got up as if nothing had happened, ordered her servants to help her dress in a black gown even though her father had not yet declared mourning.

Her expression of defiance, her expression of strength.

She was so pale that when he saw her walking in a small procession behind the coffin, he thought she really did look like a ghost − he had the feeling she was about to collapse, yet she walked ahead, her gaze distant, cool and empty.

He watched as she smiled at her father, as she pretended in front of him only to see complete emptiness appear on her face when he disappeared from her sight, a coldness in her gaze from which for some reason he felt a pleasant tickle in his fingertips.

"It's time to go back." He said finally snapping her out of her lethargy. She walked over to the grave where she believed her mother rested and placed her hand on it, tired and filled with pain.

"No. I won't leave her alone this time."

He looked at her impassively, for some reason feeling that he understood her, that like him she blamed herself for not protecting her mother.

They had both lost them at the hands of the same man.

"She's free now." He said calmly.

It wasn't a lie.

He had never lied to her.

She looked at him in a way that made him lift his chin higher, challenging her. She approached him slowly, her face enveloped in a black veil seemed even more mysterious and disturbingly beautiful to him, as if she were not human, her shape seemed slightly blurred to him, as if she did not really exist.

He drew in a loud breath when he felt her hand on his chest, her lips placing a kiss on the cold mask that covered his face in the place below where his cheek had been. He looked at her in disbelief as her hand stroked his mask, smelling the pleasant scent of her skin, a mixture of lavender and chamomile.

"This is my expression of gratitude for your dedication to the affairs of our family." She said with feigned tenderness, her puffy lips slightly parted, her gaze indifferent, sharp, dark. He felt a throbbing inside his breeches and swallowed loudly, embarrassed and horrified by his body's reaction.

He thought, following her back towards the keep, that they were the same.

That as King he would need a Queen, a woman who would give him offspring and extend his line.

What would unite the realm more than the marriage of two conflicted sides, bringing peace and order at last?

He thought about it watching her while she was bathing, when she let him stay, saying he could watch − he was completely hard at the thought that when it was all over he would take her for himself, that this warm, soft body with pleasant, girlish shapes that peered through from under her wet chemise would be his alone.

He thought of this only to clench his hands around her neck a moment later, watching her terrified face trying helplessly to catch its breath after thinking horrified that she had ruined everything.

She had found the passage.

Why, why couldn't she just leave it all?

Why was she forcing him to do this when only he could give her freedom of life or death?

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against hers − he let out a growl of rage and let her go, heard her draw in the air loudly as she looked at him with a gaze full of terror and disbelief, her lips swollen and red from the blood that, through the adrenaline, flowed quickly through her veins.

She was beautiful.

He sighed heavily, involuntarily clinging to her − she trembled all over trying to push him away, but he was stronger than her. He began to rub against her body with his swollen cock and parted his lips, feeling his manhood respond with a strong pulsing, wave after wave of hot, tickling pleasure flowed through his lower abdomen.

"You are my curse. My ruin." He exhaled, looking closely at her face, her dark, wonderfully long eyelashes surrounded her eyes, staring at him with disbelief, fear and something that made him hot, her eyebrows arched in indecision, her full, moist lips parted slightly − he thought he would have killed for the chance to taste them. "My doom."

He shuddered and lost his breath for a moment when he felt her hands let go of his chest and slide down to his hips, her thighs spread out in front of him, her fingers tightening on his flesh, pressing him tighter against her − she sighed quietly beneath him, breathing louder and louder.

"− destroy me − leave me with nothing −" She whispered; he felt a powerful shudder run through him and he thought it was over, that he had to do it, that he had to feel her.

He didn't believe it when he felt her own hands help him untie and slide down his breeches, he didn't care if she changed her mind − he wanted her and took her. He forced his way inside her with difficulty, her fleshy walls clenching against him, resisting him, a whimper of discomfort escaping her lips.

He was panting and moaning along with her, sliding into her with effort all the way in, with a natural, subconscious movement beginning to root into her, delighted at how tight and warm she was, how with each thrust of his hips he slid into her with increasing ease, his movements accompanied by the loud click of her moisture.

She was wet.

"− good gods, you are fucking enjoying this −" He muttered with a sneer and groaned low, feeling her clench tightly around his manhood − he began to slam into her harder and faster, feeling that something was happening to him, some kind of tension was rising and rising, he felt like his cock was about to explode.

And then it happened.

He came inside her, for the first time in his life he experienced fulfilment and it was so stupefying and pleasurable that for a moment he was just panting with his eyes closed, rooting into her again and again, trying to prolong it, listening to her mewling of pleasure, her cheeks wonderfully pink, her gaze misty, her lips parted sweetly.

He stared at her thinking about the fact that he had filled her to the brim with his seed, that he felt fulfilled as a man, as a lover, as a husband, as a King, as anyone he wanted to be.

He had taken for himself the woman he desired and filled her with himself.

Was there anything more natural?

However, he quickly regained his sobriety of mind as did she − they pulled away from each other, terrified. He slid out of her and she moved away quickly, covering her thighs, panting loudly, looking at him in horror, clearly thinking he was still going to try to kill her.

He reached up quickly and tied his breeches, looking at her in disbelief, his manhood still all wet from her juices, from what had flowed out of her after she had reached her peak with him deep inside her.

He looked at her and thought only of the fact that he had never experienced something so pleasurable before in his life.

That through his seed she could soon carry his child in her womb.

That she would become his Queen.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

#aemond fic #aemond fanfiction #aemond targaryen #aemond x oc #hotd aemond #ewan mitchell #ewan mitchell fanfic #aemond #aemond kinslayer #prince aemond #aemond one eye #dark aemond smut #aemond smut #aemond targaryen smut #ewan mitchell smut #dark aemond #dark aemond targaryen #modern dark aemond #dark aemond angst #dark aesthetic #horror fanfiction #hotd fanfiction #hotd fanfic #hotd fic #aemond targaryen angst #aemond angst #hotd angst #angst #ewan mitchell fandom #aemond fandom

[johannesviii]

hello! i know a lot about magic and doctor who but not a lot of how to explain either. i'd like to hear your thoughts on "the master, multiplied" because i can't be the only one who thinks this card is absurdly funny and a great depiction of simm!master. thank you :)

It is absurdly funny

The fun actually starts with the colors of that card, cause this version of the Master is aligned with black mana (death, decay, power, amorality, etc) and red mana (fire, chaos, impulsiveness, freedom, etc) which, in Magic gameplay, is a color pairing which screams "unhinged self-destructive bastard"

He's legendary, which means you can't have more than one of him on the battlefield at the same time, theoretically

HOWEVER

The guy has an ability saying that as long as he's on the battlefield, that rule doesn't apply to copies you make of "legendary" guys like him, and another ability saying you can't sacrifice (kill your own creatures) or exile (remove something from the game) the copies you've made of said legendary guys like him

AND THEN HE HAS "MYRIAD"

Myriad is only useful when you play against several people. It means that when you attack an opponent with a creature which has Myriad written on it, instead you create copies of that creature for each other opponent. So you have a bunch of identical creatures attacking everything in sight, and the copies are exiled (removed from the game) at the end of combat.

EXCEPT THEY AREN'T

BECAUSE OF THAT GUY'S OTHER ABILITIES

So every time you attack, the guy copies himself exponentially to attack every fucking opponent in sight like a pack of screaming feral crackheads

so yeah that shit is hysterical thanks for asking

#magic the gathering #doctor who #the master

[kiefbowl]

as a younger woman, growing into her consciousness, realizing abortion was necessary for women's health and not evil, I did have hang-ups about feeling "good" about it, seemed we had to have a reverence for the unfortunate reality of it, that it "made sense" people feel weird about it.

what took me to the point of realizing actually, abortion is great and we should all love it and champion it, is realizing there is no reason not to treat it as an amoral choice. No morality need be attached to the decision. We don't have to understand the internal lives of every woman who gets an abortion. I understand why pro-choice rhetoric leans on stories to pull on our heartstrings, make us aware of the tragedy of difficult choices and horrible illnesses and mothers struggling to take care of their children, the idea that "every abortion is a moral abortion", but I think it can do a disservice to abortion to lean too heavy on this rhetoric.

Abortion is medically necessary because women shouldn't be forced to experience pregnancy, that's it. Men cause pregnancy, but women experience it. It's long, it takes resources from the body, it's often painful, puts women at risk of huge complications, medical misogyny can make pregnancy care and labor care excruciating, and at the end of it a new infant human is brought into the world that needs to be taken care of immediately with intense effort, and then the care never stops. Why should women have to do that just because a man decided to ejaculate inside of her? I don't care where she came from, I don't care what she knows, I don't care what she believes, I don't care how she spends her time. Frankly, it's not my business. She's making a medical decision, she's making a life decision. She doesn't have to articulate any "correct" opinions on the matter to anyone.

Might as well ask the morality of getting an MRI scan or setting a bone. Imagine if men could ejaculate cancer in us, we'd be asking if it's morally incorrect for women to seek out medical care to combat it.

[m4ctavish]

Masterlist!

!REQUEST GUIDELINES!

romantic and platonic relationships can be differentiated by : romantic ex. simon “ghost” riley/gn! reader & platonic ex. simon “ghost” riley and gn! reader

simon “ghost” riley.

* wind down. (fluff)

* general headcanons. (fluff)

* you and i. (angst)

* short stack. (fluff)

* in the eyes of jealousy. (pt. 1) (pt. 2)

* heartbeat. (angst)

* little one. (angst? dad! ghost)

* youth. (fluff. dad! ghost)

* combat medic. (fluff??)

* the apprentice. (mentor! ghost) (pt.2 is a wip)

* intimacy. (fluff)

* romantic headcanons. (fluff)

* mask on, mask off. (fluff)

john “soap” mactavish.

* wind down. (fluff)

* general headcanons. (fluff)

* in the eyes of jealousy. (jealousy? lol)

* romantic headcanons. (fluff)

* mask on, mask off. (fluff)

alejandro vargas.

* oye mi amor. (fluff)

* marry me? (fluff)

* in sickness and health. (fluff)

* general headcanons. (fluff)

* 141. (pt. 1)

john price.

* wash away. (fluff!)

* general headcanons. (fluff!)

* romantic headcanons. (fluff)

kyle “gaz” garrick.

* general headcanons. (fluff)

* romantic headcanons. (fluff)

könig.

* general headcanons. (fluff)

philip graves.

* romantic headcanons. (fluff)

#john soap mactavish x reader #soap mactavish x reader #john price x reader #captain price x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #john soap mactavish x you #simon riley x you #masterlist #m4ctavish does things #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #captain price x you #john price x you #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #gaz garrick x reader #gaz garrick x you #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick x you #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig x you #alejandro vargas x reader #alejandro vargas x you #colonel vargas x reader #colonel vargas x you #philip graves x reader

[average-hua-cheng-fan]

on hua cheng's morality and self esteem

on my first read of the book, i was actually convinced that hua cheng was this amoral asshole but that's just what he WANTS you to think. hua cheng actually cares a lot about ghost city (founded to combat the injustice of ghost persecution btw), he just downplays his achievements in front of xie lian because he doesn't want to 'trick' him into liking him. he also sees any accomplishments as a direct result of dianxia's influence so it would be wrong to take credit for them. perhaps hundreds of years of playing the part of the terrible calamity skewed his perception of himself even further.

in his introduction in heaven, they say how he would "Sometimes... carry out a massacre in cold blood, and sometimes he would do odd acts of kindness" (page 157, book 1) which makes me wonder what heaven defines as "cold blood." he visibly dislikes the man who bet his daughter's life and mentions killing several tyrants. in creating e'ming, he nearly destroyed himself in order to save those mortals. on the casino in ghost city, "If I don’t control a place like this, then someone else will. I’d rather that person be me." (page 107, book 2.) he has a very strong sense of justice that he hides under 3 million layers of arrogance.

xie lian gets the ability to tell if he is lying early in the book and sees him for who he really is. they're very similar in that they have this drive to do good in the world but think about it and go about it in very different ways. hua cheng even mentions that it doesn't matter how you go about saving the common people, and that xie lian over-complicates what is right and wrong and should do what he wants... but he wouldn't turn that logic on himself :/

anyway

**this is my reading btw if anybody wants to have a discussion im 100% down

#this started out as a joke about how i sometimes have very coherent analysis about him and sometimes i can only go hrgrhrghrgr #but i have too many thoughts about him. plus i'm working on a characterization reference guide and reread books 1 and 2 yesterday #so my head's full of textual evidence✨ #on your first read of an mxtx book you fall for the parts the characters are playing. on the second read you get knocked out #from how well put together and connected everything is. and on the third read your third eye opens #tgcf #i speak #hua cheng #xie lian #hualian #tgcf meta #meta #tgcf analysis

[aboysan]

carlos sword y las 13 canciones - Capítulo 9: batalla psíquica (on Wattpad) https://www.wattpad.com/1360501284-carlos-sword-y-las-13-canciones-cap%C3%ADtulo-9-batalla?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=ABOY-123&wp_originator=Wb81qmHPbvGhRiGeFsg2p2uX0cp99V8DHdugYnj7iCgnMn8rQ8coP9bu%2BJdcuUzfLL8kCkcLvOPKnSYZfSOV3cZOtDpeBrgXhqMWw%2BBXfAK7BVVTF854FnstiMeZkT42 carlos sword desperto en un mundo unico como estuviera en su alma, asi empienza su nueva aventura despues de conocer y ayudar su nueva famlia los sword. ahora su nueva mision es encontrar 13 canciones que se esconde en diferentes almas de diversas personas, asi maneter el eliquilibrio en su mundo y derrotar la corrupcion. esta historias sera mi primera historia oficial que escribo y espero que le guste.

#amistad #amor #combates #misterio #musica #aventura #books #wattpad #amreading

[kon-igi]

LA FESTA DEL PAPÀ È DIVISIVA

Ma oramai non credo che esistano argomenti di condivisione comune sui quali poter fare affermazioni nette e aspettarsi che tutti siano d'accordo.

Il cielo è blu? Ma va'... il cielo è celeste! No, guarda che è nero ed è un fenomeno di rifrazione dei raggi solari sull'atmosfera. Ti sbagli, è giallo! Sì, però togliti quel sacchetto dell'Esselunga dalla testa. Basta! Il cielo è marrone con radici che penzolano. Zitto tu che sei morto!

La scelta del giorno della festa del papà, poi, coincide con quel santo del calendario che credo abbia avuto il peggiore martirio fra tutti, cornuto, mazziato e ringrazia pure. Cioè, come papà sfigato il primo posto se lo prende di sicuro Darth Vader ma perlomeno aveva una spada laser e il suo arco di redenzione è stato più appassionante.

Insomma, la festa del papà è divisiva per due ragioni, una sociale e l'altra personale.

Da una parte, è una ghiotta occasione perché alcuni frignino che non esistono più i papà di una volta, tutti pipa e cinghiate, e che anzi, se andiamo avanti così non esisterano più nemmeno gli uomini, dall'altra è che al netto di tutto, i padri molte volte più che festeggiati spesso vanno perdonati.

Adesso come adesso, i papà sul mercato sono figli o nipoti del patriarcato, nel senso che difficilmente non avranno assorbito per osmosi familiare e sociale l'idea di quello che deve essere il ruolo di un genitore maschio all'interno della famiglia.

In sintesi il pater familias.

[maledetto genitivo ellenico ma sono cose mie]

Quando io e la mia compagna dobbiamo fare cose importanti che implichini decisioni tecniche, burocratiche, meccaniche, matematiche o notarili, il mio gesto preferito è questo

perché tutte le volte il venditore di auto parla rivolgendosi a me che distinguo le macchine solo per il colore, l'avvocato quando io risolverei tutto con il trial by combat e la commercialista dove io opterei per il baratto.

Io sarei il pater familias, quindi automaticamente il detentore delle decisioni familiari e è invece è la mia compagna quella che prende le migliori, senza spargimenti di sangue o una pila di conchiglie che l'enel non accetta come forma di pagamento.

Sì, vabbè... non sa accendere la motosega o da che parte si impugna un coltello da lanciare e se proprio dobbiamo dirla tutta non riesce neanche ad accendere il fuoco nel camino (cosa che le rimprovero sempre ricordandole che erano le vestali ad accudire il Fuoco Sacro del focolare domestico). Poi però c'è quell'altra che disegna tubi e motori idraulici usando termini strani tipo 'valvola di massima' o 'dislocamento positivo' e quell'altra ancora che snocciola a memoria le caratteristiche di ogni macchina o moto e parla per due ore di maderizzazione e di vendemmia in neve carbonica.

Questo per dire che i ruoli sono solo ruoli ed è solo questione di abitudine... le abitudini cambiano e ci si abitua al nuovo.

Quindi buona festa a quella persona alla quale dovrebbe essere solo chiesto, dopo la fornitura di migliaia di gameti scodinzolanti, di amare in modo vasto e profondo chi non ha mai chiesto di essere portato su questa spaventosa e bella terra, ricordando che amore non è mai possesso, conferma od orgoglio.

L'amore per i propri figli è essere partecipe della gioia che abbiamo insegnato loro a conquistarsi da soli.

E per concludere, si può essere padre amorevole pure senza aver mai partecipato con un singolo spermatozoo.

[ghulehunknown]

Tangled Sheets

Papa of Choice x GN!Reader

Day 8 of KINKTOBER is here! 🎃

**WARNING - EXPLICIT, NSFW**

Also available on AO3!

“Tangled Sheets”

Papa of Choice x GN!Reader

Summary: The morning after sleeping with Papa, he teases you just a little bit more…

CW/Tags: gender neutral reader, gender neutral genitalia terms, papa of your choice (you get to imagine your favorite!), nipple play, fingering, oral sex - rimming, light spanking, masturbation

Word Count: 985

You wake up the next morning wrapped in sheets, upon a plush bed. You smile to yourself, recounting how you and Papa messed up the bedsheets last night and into the early hours of the morning. The sunlight spills into the room, through the cracks between the black out curtains, a pool of it hitting you and highlighting your face.

Papa comes back into the room with a cup of warm herbal tea to combat the chilly autumn morning air.

“Sì, it’s that awkward time of year when they do not know whether to keep the heat on or the air conditioning,” he says, leaning in to give you a smooch on the cheek and handing you the tea. “Careful, caro/cara, it’s hot.” He’s wearing a soft almost floor length robe that has his initials emblazoned over his chest.

“Grazie Papa,” you say, looking at him and sipping carefully. Mm, the warm cinnamon notes hit just right this morning. You lean in to kiss him, smelling his aftershave and feeling his smooth skin as you hold his face in your free hand. You smell cinnamon on him too; he must have been up much earlier than you and made tea for himself as well.

He glances over your naked body while rubbing your chin. “What would you like to do today?”

“Hmmm,” you ponder. “Lay in bed all day with you?” You smirk as you lay your mug down on the bedside table then slink back in bed under the covers where it’s warm.

“Ah, where has mi amore gone?” he feigns surprise as you cover yourself completely with the sheets. He stands up and you hear him pace around the room a time or two. “A shame…I was hoping to fuck them awake…”

You exhale sharply, not daring to laugh out loud. Suddenly, he pulls the sheets off you in one go, the chilly air hitting you immediately. You let out a yelp and try to cover yourself from the cold, but to no avail.

“Ah ah ahh,” he teases, throwing the sheet and blankets to the side and trapping you in bed, his hand on either side of your face. He kisses you roughly, his teeth grazing your lips. He pulls away, biting your bottom lip and pulling on it before releasing it and letting it snap back.

“Papa, I’m cold!” you rebel, reaching for the blankets - but he grabs your wrists and shuts you up with another kiss.

“Sì, I can tell tesoro,” he remarks, looking down at your hardened nipples and giving them a pinch. He dips down to bite at one, pulling it again like he did with your lip, eliciting another yelp from you.

In another act of rebellion, you turn around on your stomach when he tries to kiss you again. “Mm-mn!” you say, the pillows muffling you.

“I will just have to kiss something else,” he says teasingly. Then he grabs your waist and pulls your rear up to his lips in one swift motion.

“Ah -!” you cry out in surprise, his tongue tickling you in between your cheeks, licking you from your core to your lower back.

He kisses your supple ass, massaging your cheeks and spanking them a few times. He laughs each time you cry out in response, groaning each time he sees the ripple effect his handprint leaves on your flesh. He kisses your lower back - in the dimples above your rear and where your stomach meets your hips - his breath trailing across your skin raising the tiny hairs all over your body. He kisses all over you, making his way south.

He grabs ahold of your waist again, forcing your ass up higher in the air and shoving your head down on the mattress. He strokes your behind gently, kissing you while trailing his fingers towards your entrance. You can practically feel your heartbeat in your throat.

He inserts two fingers inside you, your walls still wet from the middle of the night’s last fuck and his saliva. You moan while he pumps in and out slowly. “So tight, tesoro,” he languishes, almost whining. “I have to taste you.”

With that, you feel his nose poke in between your cheeks, his soft lips kissing you. Instinctively you clench your ass cheeks together, and you feel him remove his fingers from inside you and spread you apart with both hands to gain easy access. His tongue brushes along your core, sweeping your entire length. The tip of his tongue explores you deeper, slipping inside you. Your body finally relaxes and you quit tensing your muscles, melting under his touch.

He steadies himself on your hip - nails digging into your ass - stroking your swollen flesh in front with his other hand, while he continues servicing you from behind with his mouth. “Mmmn,” he moans into you as you hear the familiar sound of him palming his erection, rubbing himself faster as he continues touching you between your legs.

“Oh fuck!” you gasp into the pillows, biting your forearm as he kneads your flesh faster. Fuck, all these sensations are building up your orgasm faster than you’d anticipated - fuck -

“Satanas!” he groans, pulling away from your rear as he pumps himself to completion, his hand faltering at your core as he shakes for a moment. A few splashes of his cum land on the back of your thighs.

Then he dives back into you, licking your entrance as he caresses your front faster and faster until your own orgasm spills all over the mattress too. “Moan tesoro, louder!” he coaxes you, relishing in hearing how good he makes you feel.

Once your breathing returns to normal, he collapses on top of your back, clasping your hands in his. “Bravo/a ragazzo/a,” he praises you through neck kisses. You smile and bury your face in the pillows, hoping he won’t notice how hard you’re blushing.

Italian to English Translation

- caro/cara (dear)

- mi amore (my love)

- tesoro (treasure)

- Bravo ragazzo/brava ragazza (good boy/good girl)

#the band ghost #ghost bc #copia is my husband #ghost band smut #papa emeritus iv #papa emeritus x reader #copia emeritus #ghost band fanfic #papa copia #terzo #terzo fanfiction #terzo x reader #terzo emeritus #primo emeritus #primo x reader #papa secondo #secondo emeritus #secondo x reader #papa emeritus iv x reader #papa emeritus i x reader #papa emeritus smut #papa emeritus ii x reader #papa emeritus iii x reader #nihil emeritus #papa nihil #kinktober 2023 #gender neutral reader

[pjmslave]

***WARNING*** this becomes quite intense and heartless. Consume at your own risk.

Dalek Invasion “Fall BACK! For GOD’S SAKE, FALL BACK!” Private Dirk Schmitt heard in his ear piece. He had never heard Sargeant Montgomery scream hysterically. And Sarg had been screaming this into his left ear for at least five minutes now. The reason was obvious. It only took a quick glance at the alley way in front of him. The alley way was littered with his fallen comrades. There were not dead, but they were destine for a fate worth than death. At least that is what the rumors said.

The rumors said if you fall in combat with the enemy then you come back to fight as the enemy. Because of these rumors, Dirk had tried desperately to pull Malcome, his best friend, with him as he retreated. Dirk had tried to shake Malcome awake, but he had failed. Malcome had remained completely dead weight. Dirk had finally decided that trying to save Malcome meant that he would be shot down as Malcome was. Now Malcome was well behind the front wave of enemy troopers.

While another members in his company was laying down cover fire, Dirk moved to a position behind the next trash skip in the alley way. Not that cover fired meant anything in this fight. The enemy troopers were impervious to their bullets. The enemy troopers appeared to have some kind of energy field that stopped their bullets a good two meters in front of their skirmish line. Regardless, Dirk took up the job of sending a wave of cover fire down the alley way while his other mates retreated back towards the main street.

While sending as many bullets down the alley way as he could, Dirk got a look at the troopers advancing towards him. Each and every one of them appeared to stand more than two meters tall. Each were heavily muscled. Dirk thought out loud, “Damn, my professional body building mates would be jealous of their muscles.” They all were covered in what appeared to be a heavy black rubberized one piece suit that started just below their jaw lines until it disappeared into their knee high heavy leather boots. On top of this base layer of clothing was what appeared to be various hard plastic body armor. This amor was black with colorized lines just at the sternum. The colorized line was the only variation among the opposing troops. Some lines were a deep blue. Others were bright yellow. Others were bright red. Occasionally, Dirk would see trooper with a dark green strip, but those mainly were deep behind the enemy front line.

There was additional armor below their waist with shielding on the front of their lower extremities with a black plastic knee cap. Same with their arms. Except Dirk noted their lower left arms were covered with the various style of weaponry they were using. Group Red and Group Yellow’s weapons started at just below their left elbow. It covered their left hand completely if they still had a left hand. It then had a long slender stick capped in a red or yellow ball.

Dirk noted that each time one of these troopers unleashed the power of their weapon, their left arm pushed back at least a half meter. Because of this, Dirk surmised the energy bolts that shot out of the tip of this weapon must have packed a huge punch for anyone struck by the bolt. It was obvious to Dirk that these bolts were intended for single targets. It was the troopers with the blue strip that were the most dangerous. The energy bolts that shot out of their left arm spread out as it moved down the alley way. Anyone caught in this growing energy field fell where they were.

As he discovered with his best mate, Malcom, those that were hit by the blue energy field were not dead. They became incapable of movement. Any movement. They froze and toppled over. Their body completely fixed in the position they were in when they were hit. Dirk was certain that this method of capture caused many broken bones as the now paralyzed person toppled to the ground. The capture party would still breathe though. At least Malcome continued to breathe after being hit by the blue energy field. Even though Dirk was not absolutely sure, he did think individuals caught in the blue energy field remained conscious.

Dirk could not think of a more horrible way to go. To be reduced to just a body on the ground, waiting to be harvested by the troopers that had a green strip. Dirk had seen what the green troopers did to his pals. The left appendage appeared to be of a medical derivation. The green troopers would inject something into the necks of a body on the ground. Dirk was not sure what this did to his mates, but it could not be good. All Dirk saw was the body relaxing and then his mates, one by one, would let out a scream that sounded as if their body was being pulled apart bone by bone.

After they stopped screaming, Dirk would then watch each of his mates return to a standing position only to dissolve in a field of red light. Dirk could not even begin to imagine what it would feel like to just ‘dissolve’ to nothing. He did know being dissolve was something he did not want to experience.

“Right side, cover fire. Left side fall back!” Dirk wondered why they were even doing the cover fire. It was a waste of bullets. The enemy troopers did not appear to be slowed down by his or his pal’s bullet barrage. Their speed was more of component of just how many of his friends that had fallen. Dirk felt sorry for each and every one of them. They did not deserve to be dissolved. They did not deserve to be sent into a combat situation against troopers who were so much more advanced.

Dirk heard the other side of the alley start with the cover fire. He turned to his left. He had just started to stand up to sprint when his body was caught in a field of blue energy. As he fell forward onto his knees, he heard in his left ear, “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! They got Dirk. Fuck this shit! EVERYBODY RUN! EVERY MAN FOR HIMSELF!”

Dirk did not see the result of this order. He slowly toppled onto his right buttocks then onto his back. He could see the cloudless sky beyond that top of the building around him. He thought to himself how beautiful the sky was today. “Such a beautiful day.” Dirk thought to himself. He might have said it outload, but he knew he was now paralyzed. Dirk did not notice that he remained in the semi-crouched position as he rolled onto his back. His entire focus was on the beautiful blue sky. Dirk wondered why he had not notice just how beautiful the sky was today.

As Dirk was taking in the sky, multiple blue energy fields were shot down the alley way. Dirk only noticed them as they changed the blue color of the sky. He did not notice the reports of who was falling to the blue energy flooded his left ear. Names were being announced. Dirk found that while he heard the names they did not exactly register in his mind. Nor did it register when the dialogue ceased in his left ear.

Dirk saw the front of the enemy’s skirmish line pass him. A few minutes later one of the enemy troopers with a green strip down his chest plate moved into his eye sight. Dirk’s eye took in the slender needle attached to the end of the trooper’s left arm. Dirk’s mind felt the prick of the needle into the left side of his neck. Dirk remained focused on the sky until he felt his brain catch fire. Dirk has never felt anything so painful. Dirk heard someone screaming. Dirk took a deep breath. During this moment, Dirk noticed the screaming stopped. When Dirk started to breathe out, Dirk heard the screaming restart. Even with this evidence Dirk never realized it was he that was screaming.

When the fire that was in his brain began to dissipate, Dirk recognized the trooper who was tending to him. It was Corpsman Rodriguez, Jaimie to his friends. Corpsman Rodriguez had came with him from the U.S. of A. to assist in the fight against the invaders from space. He had been provided a position in The Royal Army Medical Corps while Derik was provided a billet in His Majesty's Armed Forces. He had been to see Corpsman Rodriquez multiple times. One time on the down-low to stitch up a nasty cut he had gotten while pub hopping. He liked Rodriguez. Well, he had like him. Now he was an enemy trooper that had injected some mind altering substance into his body.

Derik noted the lack of recognition on Rodriguez’s face. He wondered what had been done to Rodrigeuz. He wondered if the same would be done to him or would he just dissolve in a red light like the rest of his mates. Before Derik could arrive at a conclusion another enemy trooper marked with green slipped something onto his head. This head gear covered his ears and his eyes. The sounds of the on-going battle faded. It was replaced with white noise entering his ears and a kaleidoscope-like display into his eyes.

Derik was unsure where the need to stand originated, but he pushed his body up to a standing body. Without even thinking about it, he felt his body snap to attention. Moments later, he was engulfed in a red field. Derik managed a sigh. He was to be ‘dissolved.’ At least he gave ALL to the defense of his planet…

Derik did not loose consciousness. He found he had just moved to another location. The white noise sounds and the kaleidoscope-like display continued. His mind became confused. Thoughts. Images. Feelings. Everything in his mind felt foreign. Even his body felt foreign. It was all as if his body and mind, even his soul, was now owned by someone…or something else. Derik began to feel he was no longer in control. He was being dominated by a powerful person…thing. A force he knew would subjugate every sub atomic particle in his body and mind.

Derik felt his left arm curl upwards. He focused on his left hand for a moment. He was confused. He had flesh and blood fingers. Flesh and blood hand. Flesh and blood wrist. He knew this was not correct. A Dalek slave’s left appendage was made from a powerful death ray. Dalek Earth Slave Two Three Two Five Zero One, code named Dalek Slave Derik left appendage was a death ray. Dalek Slave Derik exterminated all that opposed the will of the Dalek Supreme. This was Dalek Slave Derik’s purpose.

Dalek Slave Derik felt its mouth exclaim “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” Dalek Slave Derik felt its exterminate appendage move into position. It felt the commands to exterminate flow from its brain to the exterminate appendage. It felt the appendage fire its exterminating charge as the appendage was forced back with each charge it expended. Dalek Slave Derik saw images of inferior humans dissolve in the energy beam that consumed their bodies. Dalek Slave Derik felt waves of pleasure as it fulfilled the command given by the Dalek Supreme.

Dalek Slave Derik heard a query. “What is it?”

“It is a Dalek Slave!”

“What is its purpose?”

“Obey the Daleks.” “Serve the Daleks. “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!” “Exterminate!”

Dalek Slave Derik caught a glimpse of itself as it was being marched to a new location. He looked identical to the other Dalek slaves. Knee high leather boots. Heavy rubber black under layer from its knee high boots to its chin level. Black plastic armor covered most of this rubberized under layer. A red strip on its front. It also knew there was a red strip down its back so it could be easily identified as an exterminating Dalek slave. Its left arm in the up position. A death ray attached where its left hand had once been.

Dalek Supreme picked Dalek Slave Derik’s targets. Generally, humans who would not offer any benefit to the Dalek Supreme’s plans for domination of this pitiful planet. Humans that could not or would not serve the Dalek Supreme well. Injured humans. Small humans. Old humans. Dalek Slave Derik was incapable of remorse. It served the Dalek Supreme without question. Its minimal thoughts programmed by Dalek Supreme. Dalek Supreme required strong humans to serve the Daleks.

The humans that were not exterminated were processed by the green back Dalek slaves. Medical slaves. Dalek Slave Jaimie began the processing on one human into a Dalek Slave, then he moved to the next human to be processed. He, too, obeyed his programming without remorse. Dalek Slave Jamie knew what was done to his brain. The robotization was quick and highly efficient. The human was placed into the processing chamber. Its scalp was surgically removed. It was then duplicated and then the human scalp was discarded. The duplicated scalp was made of a high durable clear plastic. From this plastic scalp a hundred billion almost microscopic wires hung down. Once these wires contacted the human brain, the bore deep into the target brain making a connection with all the brain cells of the brain.

Once the human brain had been fully wired to the Dalek command and control system, the wires either forced control of the brain cell to which they were attached, or quickly exterminated the brain cell. Within the span of eight minutes, a human became fully robotized with little of its former personality left. Not quite a new individual, but very close. And so subjugated by the Dalek’s command and control system. There was no attempt to escape by this point as the very concept of escape had been detected and then deleted from their slave programming. The emotional center as well was detected then deleted.

The Dalek Supreme absorbed the data HE was being given. The military was on the run along with all the humans on this out cropping into the Thames. The mass of humanity was moving north away from the Dalek controlled area. It did not matter. It had been expected. The Dalek Supreme split his forces into three groups. One would move slowly north. One would cross the river to the outcropping of land into the Thames to the east. And the third, with the assistance of their robotized humans, would begin to build a processing center unlike anything this puny planet had ever seen. Eight Billion potential Robomen and unprocessed slaves to be used and abused. The Dalek Supreme estimated that two billion could be robotized. This was all that was necessary to subjugate the planet. What happened to the rest of the population was not worth considering. They would either serve the Dalek Supreme or not. Their choice. Of course if they choose not to they would be exterminated.