#emilia: full of rage

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter two: crimes of passion

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter One

🩸Full Chapter List (Coming Soon)

🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Astarion determines what spell struck his consort.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“‘I truly loved her,’ the vampire admitted quietly, pain showing on its normally stoic face…But then it seemed to rally its strength, and its chill gaze nailed me to my chair. 

‘I misjudged her totally,’ the vampire continued, its voice now virtually emotionless. ‘...And do you know? I think the pain I felt was greater than hers.’”

-Van Richten's Guide to Vampires

“W-who are you?” Naomi stammers. 

She lies stiff as a corpse in his Astarion’s arms. Mindlessly, his fingers stroke her bloodied hair from her face. His brow knits in disbelief. “What did you just say?” 

Fear floods her wide eyes. Astarion feels it wrapped tight as a noose around his neck. It seeps into the straining threads of their bond, starting a slow drip of his own trepidation. 

His spawn, Emilia, staggers into the throne room, chest heaving. “Master -- the spell, it--”

“Which spell?” He says, his tone cutting. “What was that? What did the wretch do to her?”

His burning stare shifts to the culprit in question. Or rather, what’s left of them. Sand spills from the sleeves of the crumpled, lifeless robe. It’s all that remains of the wizard who cast ill will upon his consort. 

Rage scorches Astarion’s stomach, flaring with his nostrils. They sting with the acrid stench of ash and stale magic. Pieces of parchment smolder nearby -- bits of the spell scroll. Under his eye, Emilia stoops to salvage them, snuffing the flames with the heel of her shoe.

Instinct tells him his other spawn still lives. He’s acutely aware of Zylar’s unconscious shape sprawled in his periphery. A cursory glance at the human shows no wounds, and no sign of a weapon drawn. It makes Astarion’s lip curl with disdain. Did the Fist lift even a finger to defend his mistress?

What answers might Astarion find, prying the nails free of those same fingers?

“What did you do to me, vampire?!” Naomi spits.

Astarion’s stomach plummets, dropping with his dumbfounded gaze. His consort glares back at him, defiant, her own fangs bared. A cold, strangled laugh bursts from Astarion’s lips. “What an utterly ludicrous thing to say!”

“What I meant to say before, Master,” Emilia interjects hesitantly, “is that she may not be herself. I’ll need a few moments to work out the specific spell. But that kind of magic isn’t meant to harm anyone physically. It was meant to ail her mind.”

Astarion’s laugh twists into a simmering snarl. The elf flinches, but says nothing further as she kneels nearby, stretches out her hands, and begins the incantation for identify. Her dark hair shifts to hide her expression, but Astarion’s sure he sees her trembling. No matter. There’s only one other person in this room who does matter.

“My poor, poor consort,” he hums, soft and cloying, mulling over the stricken state of her mind. 

His own thoughts snag on the thorn-sharp fear turning their link into a prickling, untenable tether. Tenderly, he reaches out to graze her consciousness the same way he might tuck her hair behind her ear. But the surface of her thoughts is scalding. He bites back a hiss, recoiling from the connection. 

They’ve had ill feelings before. They’ve shared rage, aired grievances, vented disappointments. All of it dissolves in the balm of their bond. Through it, he feeds her consolation. Comfort. And in the same manner, she soothes the fleeting but many frustrations of the most powerful vampire the world has ever known.

At times, she’s been reluctant. At others, he’s been stubborn. But sooner or later, with or without coaxing, they both succumb to the salve that is each other. 

Coaxing it is, then. Her mind hurts. Astarion can feel the throb of the pain echo back inside his own skull. His presence in hers must feel like pressing into the wound. If only she could grit her teeth past the ache long enough to feel the healing he could bring. 

Be brave for me, darling. He thrusts the thought towards her, a sweat sprouting on his brow with the effort. It bobs back against his will, repelled towards him as the like ends of magnets would be.

 Naomi’s eyes flit to the wizard, narrowing, before boring into his again. 

“Don’t you fret,” he coos, a tight smile upon his face. “We’ll have you sorted in--”

BANG.

Thunder drums against his heart, bounding erratically against his ribs, cracking against the back of his head. The noise and pain of it is brief, but the shock sticks like a knife. The whole room shudders with the impact, gritty trails of debris pattering down the sides of the wide pillars.

Incredulous, Astarion cranes his neck upwards, peering down his own heaving chest and splayed legs. Naomi’s palm is still outstretched, still pulsing with the booming magic that sent him reeling. Her jaw sets with steely determination. His hangs slack as he blinks back at her.

“Darling,” he huffs, propping himself upright, “There’s no need for--”

The air warps before his eyes. Reedy noise bursts in his ears before it’s swallowed by a swelling, resounding--

BANG.

The nearest pillar splits in the center, marble breaking as easy as tree bark. The crack races from the floor to the ceiling. A looming shadow falls across his face. Astarion rolls from it. Stone slams the throne room floor like an angry fist. The pillar shatters to rubble before his eyes.

“Oh, gods below!” He snaps, scrambling to his feet. He dusts his trousers off irritably. 

What the fuck is she even casting with, anyways?

Ah. He catches the glint of it, on the ground, strewn among the rock: the little gilded harmonica, set with onyx inlay, glittering with diamonds. A trinket some might call priceless. Something small and subtle enough, she could keep it on her person always. He’d given it to her so she could always have the full might of her magic within reach at a moment’s notice.

She must’ve dropped it when she released the spell. She must’ve been staggered by her own strength. Astarion clicks his tongue. Poor, poor Naomi.

Her eyes meet his, and then dart to the harmonica. She lunges. He’s faster. If he didn’t feel so deeply for her plight, he might’ve relished her helpless gasp. Her implement crunches to pieces beneath his heel.

“Don’t you worry, dear,” he sneers. “You’ll have another. Once you’ve come to your senses.”

Naomi recoils, glassy-eyed, sniffling. Astarion sighs tightly, averting his gaze. Still, the sound of her crying needles him relentlessly. Emilia ogles them both, her mouth agape, and her hands far too still for casting.

“What spell is this?!” He demands. “Dominate monster?”

He’s seen such spells turn friends into foes before. He’s used similar tricks to turn a fight in his favor. Something caused Naomi to cast harm his way. Her mind must be ill, indeed. She’d never do something so stupid, otherwise.

The notion stokes the building ire in his belly. Someone meant to play a trick on him. Someone meant to kill his consort in the process. More the fool them. He would never harm a hair on her head. 

“By your bond, she’s immune to anyone’s will but yours,” Emilia says gravely. “It’s not a domination spell.”

“What the fuck does that mean?!” Naomi sputters.

Astarion speaks past her. “What spell is it, then?!”

Emilia blanches. “I-I don’t know yet master, I--”

“Then stop gawking and finish what you started!” 

Metal scrapes over stone. Astarion’s attention jerks towards the snapping fireplace. A pitying smile lifts his lips.

He moves in a blur and arrives before Naomi can brandish the iron stoker she snatched. For a moment, his fingers close, warm around her cold ones. At once, her grip retracts, the flickering flames dancings in her glare.

He cocks his head. “And what do you think you’ll do with that, hm?”

Her throat bobs. Astarion tenses, watching her lips quiver. But no song spills out, and no spell with it. Instead, she darts towards the open doors.

It’s no matter at all to reach them first.  The doors close with a thud like distant thunder. A loose piece of marble drops from the ceiling in its wake, crashing among the other rubble. Naomi flinches with the impact. As he nears her, she flees again. This time, she scurries towards the credenza in the curtained alcove, seizing a bronze candelabra in a vice grip and wielding it in front of her.

“Cute,” he trills. She glowers under the praise.

Astarion follows at a slow stroll, hands behind his back as he takes long, wandering steps after her. Naomi’s chest heaves with every click of his heel against the marble. He imagines if she still had a heartbeat, it would match his movements like a metronome.

She’s a sight to see, even in this state. She’d gotten dressed, sometime between when he left her at the piano, and when he found her in distress. It’s a shame, really; now, her dress is in a state, too. 

Her black skirt hangs in tatters, the golden hem torn. Blood dries in inky trails down her face, marring the freckles that powder her lilac skin, smearing over the trio of birds tattooed on her left cheek. Ragged waves of white spill free from her braided bun. Her eyes sear like red coals, her pearly fangs bared. In the same room where she slayed a man only hours before, she’s reduced to a bristling, angry alley cat.

It’s the sort of caricature the cattle think of when they picture a vampire’s bride: a pretty, promising thing, plucked from the vine of life, sullied with violence, and enslaved to indelible hunger.

Sand pops beneath his shoes. Astarion comes to an abrupt halt, still several feet away from his bride. He peers down at where he stepped, gaze skimming the glittering flecks dotting the floor. There’s another small pile of sand just a few steps away, far from where the wizard disintegrated.

Did you fight back, my darling? Astarion’s throat thickens. If she did, she still failed.

“Who are you?” She barks again, her throat hoarse. “What do you want with me?!”

Astarion turns towards her slowly, a sudden weight in his jaw, his feet anchored in place. Their bond is a knotted bramble in his chest. Her questions, her distance, her bewilderment -- it all sinks in like thorns.

“Master -- Master!” Emilia shouts.

“Yes?” He says sluggishly, as if surfacing from a deep dream.

“It’s her memory. They’ve modified her memory!”

“I can see that now. How long does it last?”

“Until it’s dispelled. But--”

“Do it now,” he snarls. He can’t suppress his own shudder at the sound, not when it makes Naomi shiver before his eyes.

“I-I can’t! I’ve already tried, the spell is too strong!”

“Try again!”

“You’re not casting anything,” Naomi shouts, voice wavering. “Not until you tell me what’s happening!”

“Of course, my love,” his voice melts at once, his hands open at his sides. Astarion dares a step towards her, and then another. Naomi tracks him warily, as any prey would a predator.

They can’t take her. Not from him. All else is immaterial. Temporary. Her wishes will be sated, her memories restored. But she herself can never be stolen from her sire.

She can never not know of him!

Astarion grits his teeth and braves the bond again. He speaks aloud as if it’s a spell. An incantation that will make way for him in her head, and wake remembrance in her heart. 

“Naomi, my dearest one, it’s all right. You’ve been hurt. But you’re home. And I’m here. I’ll see to you. Just as I always do.”

Like a moth to a flame, she’s drawn to the sound of her own name in his mouth. Her shoulders ease by only an inch. An inch is all he needs; he can turn to mist at a moment’s notice, and slip between the slightest gap. In his mind, he does so now, seeping harmlessly through the prickle of her unease, stroking petal-soft through her thoughts, and filling them with words of soothing.

In the flesh, he stands before her, riding through the ache that comes with the sight of her tears. She blinks back at him, quivering. That simply won’t do. He reaches out a tentative hand towards her cheek.

When they touch at last, he thinks of the melody she played for him just this morning. The smooth crest of the piano, silky like the feel of her skin beneath his. The song poured through her fingertips effortlessly. Just like the effortless, instinctual comfort of his caress. 

Her music is a thread; he lets it weave from his memories through her mind, reeling them together again. Naomi can tame raw magic into songs with her hands, her mouth. Astarion knows only one instrument. She can make the sweetest sounds from just the barest brush of his lips to her ear. But the one he lets filter through her mind now is the soft, contented hum that lives in her head when her hand is in his. When they’re together. Home.

Happy.

He lets the bliss swirl within him, flowing over so it can fill her, too. He’s so taken by the tide of it, he nearly misses the flash before his eyes. 

Dread presses down on him on all sides, sharp and sudden like discordant keys. Her mind tears free of his. The music cuts. Astarion drifts, breathless, weightless, shapeless. 

Mist.

He materializes again, his hand withdrawn to the fresh, hairline slice across his own cheek. A single drop of blood gleams from his finger when he pulls it away. He turns it over, studying the little ruby bead in disbelief.

The candelabra clangs at Naomi’s feet. She’s traded it for his own dagger, stolen from his side as he provided comfort at hers. It’s the same twined blade he’d taken from his own sire: Rhapsody.

“MASTER!” Emilia cries.

Astarion’s head jerks up in time to see the flare of Emilia’s firebolt ripping towards Naomi. Orange light bathes her skin. He smells it as it singes, even before the impact. 

He can feel it scald, as if his own insides are aflame.

“NO!” He roars, lunging towards Emilia. “You vile little--”

A dash of silver whips through the fire like rogue lightning. 

Emilia gags, staggering backward with the dagger’s impact. Blood spurts from her throat in a feeble fountain. Her knees buckle, and then she wilts over, choking as Astarion watches.

Knife-throwing was never Naomi’s forte. Stealing them was. And stabbing with them, sure. But not throwing. He taught her that trick. Before Astarion, she could hardly hit a tree from mere feet away with a thrown blade. Before him, she never would’ve lodged Rhapsody directly into the heart of a vampire spawn at such distance and disadvantage.

He made her swifter. Sharper. Stronger. And set her above all others he made after her.

 He turns towards his panting, panicked bride. Naomi scrambles backwards frantically, seizing the candelabra again in a white-knuckled fist. Her eyes are mirrors of terror. 

He can tell from the look of her, she didn’t know. Didn’t think. It was instinct. She doesn’t remember learning, but her body does. Some locked door, in the back of her mind, houses all the violence she has at her fingertips.

Behind him, Emilia dies a quick death, if a lonely one. He’s certain when it happens, in the same way he knows Zylar yet lives. The master she reaches for saves no sympathy for her.

And even for Naomi, he’s reaching his limits. It takes a concentrated effort to force his tone steady.

“I rather wish you hadn’t done that, dear,” Astarion bites out. 

Naomi clutches her cheek with a muted whimper, the steam still furling through her fingers from the burn.

His eyes widen, the leash on his rage loosening. “You’re hurt!”

He can’t have that. He won’t have that. He has minimal magic in his arsenal, now that his wizard lies slain by his lover.  Which means, for the moment, whatever meddling happened to her memory will remain.

Even if Zylar were to suddenly wake, perhaps Naomi would simply slay him, too. Perhaps Zylar would be stupid enough to harm her as Emilia had, from some misguided, masochistic instinct to play as Astarion’s protector. The thought alone makes his stomach roil. 

What a waste.

Already, Naomi strings a breathless song beneath her lips, one he hasn’t heard her murmur since their days on the road with tadpoles in tow. She’s not as strong of a caster without her instrument implements, but she’ll fight until she can’t. He knows this. He knows that steely, stubborn glint in her eye. 

She’ll kill his other spawn, his servants, whoever tries to stop her. She can’t kill Astarion. She’ll hurt herself trying. More than she’s already hurt.

He can’t have that.

Astarion takes a step towards her, heartbeat slamming his ribs hard enough to crack a mere mortal’s. He never told her he could do this. He tried to bury it somewhere she’d never see, but Naomi always had a talent for resurrection. 

Relentlessly, she warmed every cobwebbed and shadowed recess of his mind. Woke his secrets out of the soil, and kept them as her own. He didn’t want her to know he could. Didn’t want her to know he’d never do it.

If you have to, I’ll understand, she’d said one day, unprompted. I trust you. 

He’ll never forget it. They laid sprawled in the gardens, twined in each other, like the ivy wrapped so tightly on the trellises. Astarion with his fingers wound in her hair, Naomi plucking a rose free of its petals, one by one.

I had to, he’ll say, someday, perhaps in just a short few, when this temporary mess is all over. You were hurt. You would’ve hurt yourself. I wouldn’t have it. I’d never hurt you. I lov--

His mouth opens, closes, and opens once more. He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “Naomi…”

He hates that he sounds like a fragile spawn again. Something small and sniveling. He hates the word he says instead of the three that dance along the tip of his tongue. He’s rarely said what he longs to aloud. She’s always known it anyway, as well as the back of her hand.

But now, she stares at him scared, as if he’s a stranger. As if he’s a mere monster. As if she isn’t one, too. 

There’s only one word for it.

“...Stop.”

She does at once.

He expected to see the compulsion ripple through her, to hear her gasp before his command took hold, or see the realization snap through her eyes. He doesn’t. His will is instant. The only gasp he hears is his own ragged burst of breath.

The lesser spawn always chafe under his orders. A wince. A hiss. An eye roll. A token display of defiance before total acquiescence. 

Not her. Naomi trusts him. Perhaps that trust still lives in her bones like marrow, even as her mind is void of it. She is a stunning statue at the heart of their throne room, blood and rubble and destruction strewn around her. If it weren’t for the fear frozen in her eyes, skewering him like shards of ice, she’d be perfect.

Astarion stumbles towards her, his forehead coming to rest against her unmoving brow. This time, the chill of her touch offers him no comfort. Instead, he feels the threads of his thoughts slipping, like the weight of her hand leaving his to hang empty. 

The bond doesn’t feel like brambles any longer. At least the sting was a feeling. Instead, it dangles loose within him, over a plummet of unknown, unfathomable depths.

“Rest, my sweet,” he whispers. His voice cracks like glass through the middle.  “This will all be over soon. Everything will be as it was. You’ll see.”

Naomi’s eyes flutter shut as her body drops slack into his waiting arms. The candelabra slides from her limp grip and clatters against the marble. Abruptly, the room is quiet. A grave silence takes his hall. For a few moments, he simply stares at the woman dangling in his grasp. As if, any moment now, she’ll wake as easily as she fell into trance, and pull him from this nightmare, too.

Footsteps barrel down the corridor towards the throne room. The sound shatters that last, fragile hope he clung to. By the time Claude arrives on the threshold, panting with a sweat upon his brow, Astarion feels about ready to break the gnome in front of him just as viciously.

“My Lord,” Claude spews breathlessly,  “the patriars, they-- oh, oh my. Emilia! And the mistress! Is she--?”

“She’ll be fine!” Astarion screeches.

Movement catches his eye -- not Claude cowering, as he should, but Zylar, finally stirring in his periphery. Rage rips through him anew. Astarion rounds on the dazed spawn without hesitation.

“Get. Up.”

Zylar lurches upright like a puppet on a string. For an instant, his head lolls back before it jerks forward with a sickening pop. His eyes are heavy with sleep, unfocused even as the rest of his body reacts, at once, to Astarion’s orders.

Astarion doesn’t hesitate to deliver the next one.

“Go to the overlook. Lock yourself in. Throw the key into the pit.”

Like the shock of cold water, the command rouses Zylar into wide-eyed panic.

“Master--wait -- no! Not that place! I didn’t--”

Astarion’s eyes narrow to slits.

Zylar squirms and sputters and writhes. Suddenly, he straightens, as if he traded his spine for a steel rod. He marches forward, militaristic, and leaves the room without further protest.

“And you,” Astarion sighs, eyes flitting to the gnome ogling him from the doorway. “Go dig yourself a grave.”

He doesn’t bother compelling Claude; the man has always chased this carrot of his own volition.  There’s no doubt in Astarion’s mind Claude will remain a weak, insufferable little cretin so long as he survives. 

But he’ll be a loyal one. And loyalty is something Astarion is suddenly short of.

The day has left Astarion with an ill consort. A dead spawn. Another that’s ineffective at best, traitorous at worst. And a room full of fucking patriars to coddle. He’ll have to return to them soon. He scowls as he peers down at the blood flecking his fine shoes. He’ll need to clean himself up, first.

He steps over Emilia’s seeping corpse, climbs to his own throne, and deposits Naomi there with the utmost care. He lets her head lie against the armrest, legs dangling over the other, while her own seat remains vacant as it always is. As he draws back, Astarion stifles the foreign urge to rub the strange, permeating pain throbbing through his temples. The past hour has been one headache upon another. On a normal day, Claude would be one of them.

It hasn’t been a normal day.

The gnome practically wriggles with glee. “M-Master, you m-mean--?”

“If I didn’t,” Astarion sneers, “I wouldn’t have said it.”

“Thank you, Master! Thank yo-- I-- oh!”

Astarion heard the old crone coming far sooner than Claude did. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Later, he could come up with some excuse the other patriars would believe as to why she left their meeting early.

Thessa Gray was the only one of them that had the gall to demand explanation when Astarion left them so suddenly. The tiefling’s carmine complexion is grayed with age. On a normal day, she’d be too old, too ornery for Astarion to even consider, and nevermind the complications that come with making spawn out of such a notable matriarch right under Duke Ravengard’s nose.

But she’s a sorcerer of some renown. Emilia couldn’t dispel the ill effect on Naomi’s memory. Perhaps Thessa Gray can.

Whatever the tiefling  expected to find when she followed him, it wasn’t this. 

“What in the hells happened here?!” Thessa gasps, a hand flying across her heart.

Astarion can hear it hammering out its last beats at breakneck speed.

“Claude,” Astarion says, wetting his lips. “Dig two graves, won’t you?”

A/N: Naomi is really out of commission for five seconds and Astarion immediately starts turning the town. 🤭

The first bit of this fic focuses more heavily on Astarion POV by virtue of Naomi having A Time, but we will be getting into her POV next chapter. I don’t know if it will end up as an even split or not, but the POV frequencies will fluctuate with the plot.

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you let me know you did. 💜

And HUGE thank you to so many Tumblr moots and discord friends who have supported me along the way in drafting this one. 💜

[orlissa]

So we still have a little over 1,5 months left of this year, but the lovely @readthelastpaage asked me what were the best books I read/translated this year, so... here you go. I left out my rereads and highlighted the ones I translated in blue. It's a... pretty mixed bag, I think.

R.F. Kuang: Yellowface After Athena (young and brilliant Chinese-American author) dies in an absurd accident, her “friend” June (struggling white author) steals her nearly finished manuscript, works it over, and publishes it under her own name. Chilling tale about guilt and the publishing industry ensues.

Rebecca Ross: Ruthless Vows I needed to includes this because of reasons. The second of Divine Rivals, a story of two, well, rivals falling in love through letters sent by a magic typewriter, while the war of the gods rages around them. Simply beautiful.

Jeff Bishop: A Heavy Dose of Allison Tandy High school senior Cam dated Allison Tandy, the girl he is still obsessed with, for years before they broke up just before new year’s. Three months later Allison was in a car crash and has been in a coma ever since. Only when Cam gets some heavy painkillers after his knee surgery, he starts seeing Allison, and the girl is determined to get him to move on. Is it just the drugs, or does Allison really appear to him?

Naomi Alderman: The Power When girls suddenly start developing shocking (literally) powers worldwide, the order of the world and gender relations start to change. Not necessarily for the better. Chilling dystopic observation of gender dynamics.

Emilia Hart: Weyward Stories of personal trauma and abuse through three women and several centuries, with a touch of magic. Brilliant book, but beware, there are a lot of triggering stuff her (detailed description of domestic abuse, rape, basically at home abortion…)

Lora Beth Johnson: Goddess in the Machine/Devil in the Device Andra, along with her whole family, was meant to be one of the million people to colonize a new planet, but when she comes out of stasis, she is all alone in a strange new place, where the remains of technology are hailed as magic and she is believed to be a goddess. The language of this duology is insane–the author basically came up with a whole new dialect.

Jennifer Lynn Barnes: The Inheritance Games series When financially struggling Avery is informed that a Texan billionaire left all of his fortune to her, instead of his family–with whom now she needs to live together for a year–, she suddenly finds herself surrounded by dysfunctional family dynamics, heaps and heaps of dirty secret, and a bunch of puzzles and mysteries. I read the whole series this year, and although I’m not yet totally on board with The Grandest Game, this series is just fabulous.

Jodi Taylor: Just One Damned Thing After Another First book in chronicles is the St. Mary’s institute, where historians travel back in time to study the important (and not so important) event of history. British humor, some darker themes, and a bunch of chaotic energy.

Margaret Rogerson: Sorcery of Thorns I won’t be able to give a proper summary here, but books and magic and demons and adventure and books and romance, oh my. Or Elizabeth, who spent her whole life in a library full of magical books that might attack you at any moment, gets tangled up in a scheme that might bring on the end of the world. Which she and her allies need to prevent, obviously. There is also a sequel novella, which is mostly just a fluffy epilogue, but it’s just so nice.

Holly Jackson: A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder British teenager Pip needs to do a special project for her last year of high school, and she chooses to examine the effects of a murder that happened in her sleepy little town a few years back – only what she really wants is to find the real killer, because she’s convinced that the police got the wrong guy. I absolutely loved the whole mystery and the multimedia nature of the book. (I know that there is apparently a version of this where it all takes place in America, which that sounds odd to me? It was so quintessentially British.)

Hannah Bonam-Young: Out on a Limb Win was born with an underdeveloped hand, but she doesn’t let is to slow her down. However, after she gets into a one-night stand with Bo, who lost a leg to cancer, at their mutual friends’ Halloween party, she ends up pregnant, so she and Bo decide to give this whole co-parenting thing a chance. Just a really nice feel-good romance story, made even more authentic by the fact that the author has the same hand issue as Win.

Taylor Jenkins Reid: Daisy Jones & the Six Story of a fictional seventies rock band told through a series of interviews done decades after the events. Intriguing tale of music, drugs, and personal dynamics.

Hannah Grace: Daydream I know that Hannah Grace’s work is kinda controversial (some love it, some think it trash), but I’ll always defend her, because of her works are very much pro-mental health and pro-cutting out toxic pieces of shit out of your life. And she is getting better with each book and she really did find something with this one. Sweet slow-burn romance with heavy emphasis on mental health.

Kristen Ciccarelli: Heartless Hunter This is what I’m reading/translating now, and although I’m only halfway through, I’m in absolutely brainrot over this. In a world where witches once reigned and now are being hunted, Rune, shallow socialite by day, secret witch saving vigilante by night, decides to try and seduce witch hunter Gideon to get some information out of him – only Gideon pretty much has the same plans to prove that Rune is that witch saving vigilante he’s been hunting.

[tc-doherty]

Book One | Chapter Twenty-Four

Index | First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Tag list: @bloodlessheirbyjacques @magefaery @did-i-do-this-write @marrowwife

@muddshadow @outpost51 @full-on-sam @bluberimufim

@unclear-contributions @talesfromtheunknowable @guessillcallitart @flowerprose

@ashirisu @xarrixii @the-letterbox-archives

(ask to be added)

The rain hit right before lunch. Unlike the previous storm which blew itself out relatively quickly, this was a serious thunderstorm. It raged outside for hours, each flash of lightning throwing the summer palace momentarily into sharp relief, each peal of thunder making the windows rattle slightly in their frames. Lunch was a subdued affair, staccato bursts of conversation held between the thunder.

Since the storm showed no desire to abate by the time lunch was finished, it was another day of indoor entertainments.

The group moved as a whole to another sitting room – different than the one in which they had recited songs and poems. It too had a fire merrily crackling in the grate but instead of rows of seating, this room had multiple small tables.

"Ah, games," Felisjyta said to Patrice. "They did this the other night too, when you were outside."

Patrice had seen humans playing games of cards or dice a few times, but she had never paid too much attention to them. Now she looked around the room with interest. Some tables had sets of cards, and some sets of dice, and some had carved wooden boards. Felisjyta was drifting towards one of the latter. Patrice went along with her. As she didn't know any of them, which table they sat at mattered very little.

Most people were more decisive, moving towards one game or another trying to claim a seat. The sounds of rustling silk and of chairs being moved was easy enough to ignore under the ever present sound of rain pounding on the roof. The room had clearly been picked because it was to the lee of the house for the storm, but that did little to deafen the noise of it.

Patrice took a seat at the table and stared down at the board. The middle of it was a square, with four extensions poking out of it, one on each side. It was made of carved and decorated wood, with one row of tiles making up the square and two rows making up each of the extensions. The various tiles had different designs, and while it was quite beautiful to look at, Patrice had no idea as to how it could be a game.

"So," she said, "how does it work?"

Felisjyta took a seat across from her. "It's actually pretty easy," she said. "You pick a color of pieces and the goal is to get your pieces from the starting position all the way around the board and safely off the board before any other players. Rolling the dice tells you how many squares you can move, and these different designs mean different things. On this tile you can roll again, and on this tile you can't be knocked off by any other players. Any other tiles are fair game, if your roll leads you to land on the same tile as another player, that player's piece gets sent back to the beginning."

"Indeed, that doesn't seem too hard."

A voice said, "Actually, the strategy behind it can get quite tricky."

Patrice looked up to see Princess Emilia and Lord Mikael standing there. He smiled at her. "Mind if we join you?"

Patrice glanced at Felisjyta who shook her head. "Feel free! After all, this game can be played with two, three, or four players."

Patrice was, in truth, fascinated. Dragons had games too, but they were either physical or verbal. They did not make playing cards or tile games or dice, or come up with any strange rules.

There were four colors of pieces to choose from. Felisjyta took green, Patrice took blue, Princess Emilia took red, and Lord Mikael took yellow. After that they took turns rolling the dice, and the player with the highest role was able to start first. It ended up being Princess Emilia. The game was on in earnest.

As they played, Patrice found that the game was both easier and harder than it sounded. It was easy enough to get her pieces on the board and start moving them around, but even as Mikael had hinted at, the strategy of getting them all away around the board and back to the safe area could be quite difficult. Patrice wasn't really used to counting and planning in this fashion, and against three people who all knew how to play the game she found herself often at a disadvantage. But she got stronger as they went along, even though she still trailed decidedly in last place.

Surprisingly, the game could actually be quite tense and exhilarating and even as the player doing the worst, she found that she was having quite a good time. It was also a quiet experience, since it was being played in a friendly fashion. Other than the occasional laughter and joking curse, mostly it was just the muted clicking of the pieces on the board and the clatter of the dice being rolled.

Not all tables were so calm. At one point during the evening, the noblewoman accompanying Sir Karles threw down her cards and stormed out of the room in a fit of temper over some move or another. Karles had to hurry after her to try to soothe her ruffled temper. Lady Katerina, seated at a table containing a different board game, also forgot herself and accused her older brother Vincent of cheating. Rozhalea's laughter did nothing to make Katerina feel better and she too left – and could not be persuaded to return. Even aside from those extreme examples, the other tables played their games against the backdrop of bragging and curses.

"I am glad," Patrice said after the second of these displays happened, "that you picked such a quiet game."

Felisjyta shrugged. "As it happens, it's the only game here I know how to play. We play the same game in Serze."

"Really?" Emilia asked.

Felisjyta gave her a look. "We do have personal possessions in Serze, you know, and craftspeople, and markets, and cities too."

Emilia flushed. "I didn't mean-"

"Sure you did." Felisjyta sighed. "You shouldn't pay such close attention to what Rozhalea has to say about Serze, I'm sure she's been quite disparaging."

Mikael rolled and moved his pieces before continuing the conversation. "And why would that be?"

"I don't need to get into all the details of Serzek politics or how things came to be," said Felisjyta. "But it was quite a shock for her to go from a high ranking, pampered ambassador's daughter in Aurhan to a low status orphan in Serze. She never adapted to the way we live. Not to mention, Rozhalea has never accepted being second best to anyone."

"I see," said Emilia.

"But you should take anything she complains about with a grain of salt. Although we do travel during the year, we spend several months in each place and most clans only have three or four semi-permanent encampments. We take all of our things with us when we travel and although we do tend to have less possessions than people like you who live in the same place all year, we're still fond of things and indulgences. Our cultures are different but we’re still humans, after all."

"I didn't mean to offend you, I apologize," Emilia said. "I suppose Rozhalea simply rubbed me the wrong way slightly."

"She does have that effect on people," Patrice said.

Felisjyta laughed at that. “Now, now. She can be quite charming too. Luvtal is an elected position after all.” With her laughter, the slight tension that had built up dissipated. They resumed playing the game, although Felisjyta and Emilia fell into an interesting discussion of cultural differences between the two countries, leaving the other two players behind.

Mikael looked over at Patrice, "Are you having a good time?" He asked.

"I am," Patrice said, and was not very surprised to find that it was true. There was so much life and enjoyment just in little moments like this, things that attracted her far more than the glitzy, showy life of court. These moments of community and camaraderie were truly the best parts of humanity, she thought. Each time Patrice became annoyed with humans, there was always some small thing like this that calmed her down and brought back her interest. "As two of our opponents are distracted, do you think you could give me a brief lesson in strategy?"

Mikael laughed. "I would be happy to."

Patrice rubbed her fingers along the smooth surface of the mourning stone and listened attentively to the tips he gave her.

Life in the summer court quickly fell into a comfortable pattern.

Patrice's practices with Felisjyta and Errys remain uninterrupted, aside from the first disastrous introduction of Katerina. As the rotation of activities and conversation moved around her, Patrice found that she understood more and more each day – and she made roads towards becoming friends with not only the odd knight or two, but also other, more typical nobles.

For the first three weeks, the only dark spot was the delivery of the letters. Each time she sent a reply to the knights remembering some other person had looked at her askance or some other such thing, the answers came back negative. That person was in the court that day. Or their house had been searched, discreetly, and nothing had turned up. Those on the list who had looked at books about dragons were likewise crossed off, one by one.

Her mother's cloak remained at large and, seemingly, not in New Iber at all. It was as if it had simply vanished into thin air. There were nights when worrying over that fact kept Patrice awake for hours, or haunted her dreams, and only a sense of obligation to her friends kept her from fleeing humans entirely. And there were some days when she managed to forget or push her worry aside completely, but it always came back when the letters arrived.

As time passed, Patrice grew more worried, but Felisjyta and Errys less.

"If nothing has been done by now," Errys said multiple times, "then probably nothing will be done. It was probably just a prank and it'll turn up later."

Felisjyta was of a similar mind.

Patrice only wished she could be as confident as the two of them. The stories she learned as a child, so many stories, about what happened to dragons who lost their cloaks, prevented it. Even if it wasn't her cloak, even if none of those things could be done to her, somebody had wanted to. And that was a problem.

It was not until the fourth week that the more or less peaceful retreat to the countryside was broken by the determined beat of hooves on the cobblestone. From their tiled grove, Patrice and the two knights had a clear view of the road leading to the palace, and the four riders making their way to it with apparent haste.

"Is there a problem, do you think?" Patrice asked. Neither Errys nor Felisjyta had any answers for her. They were as new to this life as she was.

"Why don't we go find out?" Felisjyta asked. She leaned her practice sword against the stone bench and offered her arm to Patrice, as she so often did. "At the very least we'll get another chance to laugh at how strange these Runerians are."

Patrice laughed and Errys gave a mock sigh. She put her hands on her hips and scolded them. "You can't do all your bonding on making fun of other people. Sooner or later you'll run out of the insults, and then where will you be?"

"Oh," Patrice said, "I'm quite certain we can find something when that day comes."

With one last burst of laughter, the three of them hurried back to the palace in order to be there when the news arrived.

The horses clattered up to the front entrance within the half hour, the riders travel worn and dust covered but still ready to report. Three of the knights were people Patrice recognized only vaguely from the tournament, but the fourth knight was Petrich. While the Runerian knights made their report to the queen and king-consort, Petrich spoke low and urgently to his duchess. The next person he talked to was Patrice who, along with the others, had retreated to a respectful distance to give the rulers any privacy they might need. Of course, Patrice was more than capable of hearing what was being said but she tried not to listen to it.

Petrich loomed over her, his red head several inches above Patrice's own, and quite a bit more than that over his fellow countrywoman.

He bowed. "Lady Dragon, have you been well?"

She inclined her head to him. "Well enough," she said. "What have you been doing over the last month?"

He laughed, a rich, booming sound, and gestured to his dust covered appearance. "Working, of course! I did not get a pass to idle the season away like some." He gazed at Felisjyta as he said it, though his tone made it clear it was not meant as an insult. Felisjyta stuck her tongue out at him and he chuckled again before continuing. "The duchess, as always, has many tasks that must be done in her name."

The queen interrupted any further conversation. Raising her voice so she could be heard through the entirety of the dining hall she said, "You'll stay the night of course. We wouldn't dream of sending our hard-working knights back on the road without proper feeding and rest. And it is nearly time for lunch. Please take a moment to clean off from your travels and join us back here. The butler will show you to your rooms."

While the four knights attended to their appearance, the dining room was a busy place. Servants came with four extra chairs and place settings. The table was rearranged not only to make room for the extra diners – which could be done without making anything too cramped, but also changing the seating arrangements to get them somewhat favorable seats.

The three Serzeks were seated together, so Patrice found herself separated from Felisjyta, and from Errys as well – the latter having been pushed down towards the far end of the table away from the queen and king-consort. Her relationship with most members of the royal family over the past several weeks had been cordial, if a bit distant, but it only made sense that she would be the first one shunted off to the end if someone else needed a better position at the table.

Patrice instead was seated between Sir Karles and Duke Marcus, with one of the new arrivals directly across from her. Lunch, she thought, was bound to be interesting.

The four extra guests brought some much-needed variety to the group. Conversation around the table was livelier than it had been for days, peppered with accounts of things going on in the city and at the estates of those nobles not fortunate enough to warrant an invitation to the summer palace.

The knight sitting across from Patrice, a very young man named Ericks, seemed nervous to be seated with her. Time and time again his conversation faltered and his eyes would dart in her direction. Patrice tried not to do anything that he might consider alarming, but he apparently thought everything from her shifting in her seat to buttering a piece of bread was alarming. In the end, she stopped trying at all and left the effort for Duke Marcus to make.

After a few false starts they hit upon the subject of hunting dogs, a subject that Sir Karles also had at least a passing interest in. Caught once again in the middle of a conversation utterly unrelated to her, Patrice looked at her friends.

Errys was holding up well enough, talking with another of the knights, a Dame Rachael.

Felisjyta was having a worse time of it, besieged on either side by Petrich and Rozhalea, both of whom uttered urgent sentences in Serzek. Even with Patrice's hearing it was hard to understand what was being said over all the other conversations going around her, but she caught snippets.

Rozhalea said, "-and it's for the good of Serze, you wouldn't want to betray your country would you?"

Petrich followed right on the end of that with, "Comport yourself like a true knight, Felisjyta."

Rozhalea smiled. "She's too traditional not to follow the will of her luvtal isn't that right?" She asked in a sickly sweet tone of voice.

"You aren't my luvtal anymore, Rozhalea. You think you can rule in Serze from a throne in Runeria?"

After that, the conversation dropped too low for Patrice to hear, though the expressions of all three were fairly black with barely suppressed anger.

She was not the only one who noticed the apparent argument happening between the foreigners. Patrice saw the queen look over several times, as did the king-consort and Lord Vincent. Most of the other guests glanced toward the drama at least once. Rozhalea ignored the lack of privacy and did not stop until she evidently said her piece. Even after she had stopped speaking, that part of the table remained tense.

Once everyone had stopped even picking at the food on their plates, the queen stood and spoke, as was usual. "I fear keeping everyone indoors on such a warm day might cause tempers to flare. I think an outdoor activity would be for the best."

Princess Emilia spoke. "How about a walk in the forest? It's just the thing to take a soothing walk after a large meal."

That suggestion was greeted with murmurs of approval and the scraping of many chairs as the guests stood up from the lunch table.

Index | First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[hide-in-imagination]

Hi!! I hope you're feeling better! So... I guess you are never gonna write that Pregnancy AU.... May I ask how that one would play out?

Hii!!

I am so sorry, but yeah, I don't think I'll ever have the time😅

So this is basically the plotline: Simón and Ámbar managed to have a short relationship in Season 2 before he found the handkerchief and everything went to hell. It wasn't a long relationship, mind you, but it was, like, two months or something like that, and in that time, they got intimate with each other (bc in this AU neither of them were virgins, so it was easier for them to just let their raging hormones go).

Anyway, eventually Simón found the handkerchief and they had an ugly break up just like in the show. Ámbar still took revenge on the Roller Team by joining the Sliders and stealing the choreography, she befriended Emilia during the month and a half in Cancún, and then everyone went back to Buenos Aires and Ámbar is now wearing full black, just like in the show.

Except, she's been feeling kind of weird lately and it only gets worse once she's back at her house. She thinks it might be stress or sadness because it's not even her house anymore and she's surrounded by annoying people and her godmother abandoned her. The flicker of an idea was in the back of her mind but she didn't want to believe that because why would she? Simón and her always used protection, so there was no way. (And her luck was already bad enough, so there was no way. Life couldn't hate her that much.)

But as time went by and her period didn't come and she was vomiting frequently, she just had to make sure. So she takes some tests some day that no one else is at the house, just for extra privacy, (I believe I wrote this in a oneshot? I don't remember) and... they're positive.

Ámbar doesn't take it well, for obvious reasons. She's extremely angry at Simón for not noticing that some condom broke because that was the only way this happened. She immediately thinks of getting an abortion bc why the hell would she have this baby? She's too young, Simón doesn't love her, no one loves her, Sharon abandoned her, she can't just further ruin her life, she can't.

Except then she remembers that she is adopted. She remembers that someone didn't want her and gave her away, and she just... can't do that to another person. This baby is not at fault for anything. Every child should be loved at least by their mother.

So, she decides to keep it. She is Ámbar Smith, she can do anything and triumph, so she will have this baby and do just that.

But, of course, that brings the problem that she has to tell Simón, because, even if they had a horrible falling out and she doubted he would want to be involved (hell, she didn't even know if she would want him to be involved) he deserved to know.

Keep in mind, this is not like in canon Season 3 where Simón had a magical change of heart and started flirting with Ámbar immediately at the beginning of the season. In here, things are strained between them. Simón had a lot of time to think in Cancún, so sure, he's not as angry with Ámbar as he originally was, he does feel a little bad for how he ended things with her, but he's not sorry he did end up things because Ámbar did a lot of bad stuff, and she was continuing to do bad stuff, with no apparent remorse, so he couldn't be with someone like that (no matter how much he still has feelings for her and sometimes longs for the old days in which they were together and happy.) He has noticed that Ámbar hasn't been feeling well lately, and against all reason, he's a little worried, but he's not going to ask; it's none of his business anymore.

So, Simón doesn't believe Ámbar at first when she tells him she's pregnant and the baby is his. After all, how could it be his? They used protection every time, and he tells her that, to which Ámbar replies that condoms are only 99% effective, they can break, but Simón, rightfully scared shitless at the possibility and also not trusting Ámbar one bit, doesn't believe they could be that unlucky and accuses her, instead, of sleeping with some other guy in Cancún and now trying to latch this baby onto him.

Ámbar is rightfully outraged and hurt, but mostly outraged, because "Why the fuck would I be telling you this if you weren't the father? Do you think I want you in my life after how you threw me away? If I could choose literally any other guy on the planet, I would!!" And "Lovely to know that you not only think of me as a liar but also as someone who just sleeps with anyone. Thank you very much, Simón. You know what? Think whatever you want. I'll take care of it on my own. Forget I said anything."

(Of course, that 'I'll take care of it' could very much mean 'I'll get rid of it', Simón has no idea she has decided to keep it, so there's that.)

Eventually, (and it doesn't take that long, really) Simón comes around because Ámbar's logic does make sense (Why would she tell him of all people when they broke up horribly? It had to be true) and also because, well, Ámbar looked sincere (he ignores the voices in his head calling him stupid for trusting her) and condoms aren't perfect, and he wants to believe that what they had really did mean something, and they created something beautiful together as proof of that, even if the magic of those days is dead now.

So he appeals to Ámbar, tries to tell her that he wants to be part of it, but Ámbar is shutting him out because she's mad as hell at him (and maybe she's mad at a lot of other things and projecting that onto him as well, but fuck him, he got her pregnant at 18)

Eventually, they have a deep conversation and decide to do this together, even if they're not together anymore. (I wrote a oneshot about this, it starts as a fight but it deescalates.) So, Simón supports her in every way that he can, goes to the doctor's appointments (if Ámbar lets him tag along), reads info on the internet, pretty much gives up on his music dreams because he needs a better job if he wants to help Ámbar take care of the baby, etc.

(When Ámbar finds out about this, she tells him to not drop everything for her, that she has money, that Luna already promised to give half the fortune to her to support the baby, but Simón is not convinced. He has to do something. He is half-responsible for that baby and Ámbar is already doing everything by carrying it to full term, how can he not contribute with something?)

Btw, telling both their families is a whole mess, but eventually, they all come around because they're good people. (Some relatives of Simón do say that he should marry her because it's the responsible thing to do, but they're old-fashioned, and Ámbar wouldn't want to marry him even if he asked. ......right?)

So, the pregnancy moves forward, making them share little moments together like the ultrasounds, feeling when the baby starts kicking, learning the gender (It's a girl!!), and both talking and singing to it because they learn that she can hear them and they want her to know her mommy's and daddy's voices. ("We'll probably make a lot of mistakes, little one, but we promise to do our best for you.")

Throughout all this, Ámbar mellows out because, she's a mother now, all those petty rivalries and revenge plans are not important anymore, her baby is, and she wants to be a good example for her, she doesn't want her to go through what she did.

And Simón was always soft, but he softens even more when Ámbar stops being hostile towards everyone and instead starts acting like the Ámbar he fell in love with. Plus, she looks absolutely radiant. Whoever came up with the term 'baby glow' was 100% correct-- She's never been more beautiful.

By the second semester, the attraction between the two is all alive and kicking again (and was it ever really gone?) and around month 5 they end up kissing because they just couldn't not to. But it's not as simple as that because now they have a baby to think about. They can't just try and date again, that already didn't work once, and they had enough problems and things to deal with now to add a blooming exes-to-lovers relationship to the mix.

So they don't get back together... yet. The feelings are there, the attraction is there-- Hell, they kiss sometimes because it feels right and as long as it's just some innocent kisses, there's no problem, right? (It does get heated sometimes- But is still just kisses!) They agree that it's just not the time to rekindle this thing between them. They should wait until the baby is born, see if after months of sleepless nights and changing diapers and stress taking care of it they still have feelings for each other, and if so, then it could be smart to try again.

Except-- FUCK THAT, because they love each other, Simón loves her, and Ámbar could die in the delivery, and then what? They were never together because of fear? Who cares if it might not work out, no one ever knew that for sure, and it was precisely because of their baby that they should try. She deserved a whole family instead of a fragmented one, didn't she?

Simón conveys all of this to Ámbar, speaks about hope and believing in love and about how in love with her he is and how much he loves their daughter already, and how he just doesn't want to wait to be with her and start their life together.

It's all so beautiful and emotional that Ámbar's eyes water and... Oh. Her water broke.

Oh Shit.

oH SHIT!

So, anyway, they rush to the hospital (don't worry, the baby was close enough to full-term that it's not really dangerous, it's fine) and Ámbar has the delivery (she curses everything and everyone while Simón tells her she's strong and she can do this!) and, eventually, their beautiful daughter is born.

They both cry. Well, and the baby too, of course, so that makes three.

In the end, it all works out; They're together, their daughter is (demanding, exhausting, overwhelming) healthy and beautiful and they love her so much, everyone dotes on her (Simón moved into the mansion for the time being, and Ámbar's whole family is there to help them raise their daughter, so it's not so hard), Simón and Ámbar's relationship seems to be working even with all the stress (they support each other, so that helps them bond), oh, and the Roller Band does get a record deal (BECAUSE THEY DESERVE IT, THEY BASICALLY HAD IT WITH VIDIA, YOU CAN NOT TAKE THAT AWAY FROM THEM.)

*Cough* So, happy ending to everyone! Eventually, Ámbar finds the time to go to university (I'll let you choose what she studies), and once she graduates, Simón proposes to her, she says yes, and they live happily ever after with their lovely daughter <3 (And if there's another little one on the way after the honey moon, well... 🤫 Don't tell them yet, it's a surprise.)

[reneesbooks]

wip intro/masterpost - the raedoran cycle

hi hello here it is. my baby.

genre: fantasy

pov: third person limited, with various narrators throughout

status: a series of 4 novels/stories, in various states of drafting

summary: in one night, Raedora is thrown into chaos. the royal librarian murders the queen and her youngest daughter with magic and flees, leaving behind the king and the crown princess to pick up the pieces. the princess spirals slowly into madness as her sworn shield tries to save her, terrified of her dead sister's prophecy.

two thieves in the capital set their sights on the crown jewels after attending the queen's coronation. but when one gets a little too reckless and catches the attention of the Mad Dog of Morbhard, their plans quickly go off the rails.

when their parents are killed in the Dragon Purges, two shapeshifters must hide amongst their killers to survive. one, a talented healer, tries to build a life that will be safe for them, but her little brother has his sights set on avenging their parents by murdering the queen that ordered their deaths.

a young witch is raised alone by her father, always in hiding, with strange dreams and visions of the future. when he dies of an illness even her magic can't heal, she must strike out on her own, searching for answers to the prophecy that has followed her for her whole life.

tag: the raedoran cycle

so originally this was one novel following multiple characters, but thanks to a minor plot bunny that greatly spiraled out of control (lacuna) it has become something much more. many of the four novels' events occur simultaneously, with their stories overlapping and intertwining as the character's lives do the same.

the knight of lacuna lake

Keelan: baby boy war criminal. he narrates the story as he tries to save Maura from herself.

Maura: the golden queen of Raedora. she lost half her family in 1 night and handed it incredibly well all things considered (no she didn't)

status: first draft finished(!!), shelved while it marinates and i work on the rest of the cycle. likely going to come back and edit it at some point but for now it is what it is

tag: lacuna

the thieves of morbhard

Arthur: master lockpick and ball of anxiety. he narrates his attempts to get Jack to notice him while also trying to steal the crown jewels.

Jack: cursed damned street rat. born on the night of the triple new moon and condemned to a life on the streets, he's got his sights set on stealing enough to get both him and Arthur out of Morbhard for good.

status: just barely starting to draft. fully outlined.

tag: thieves

the dragons of kiltide

Emilia: the only voice of reason around here. a talented healer fighting to protect her baby brother from both the persecution they face in their homeland and the Purges that killed their parents.

Fabin: teenage ball of rage. his parents died in front of him when he was 13 and he has been supremely chill about it since then and doesn't everybody sleep with their sword under their bed?

status: outlining with the occasional scene.

tag: dragons

the witch of the west

Birdie: a talented witch born under and blessed by the full silver moon. raised by her father in the woods after fleeing the witch trials, she is determined to understand and fulfill her prophecy. her strange dreams of dragons, thieves, and knights lead her to a search for the people who she believes will help her in her journey.

status: it's complicated. this where all the original material lives for the most part so it's outlined(sort of??) and i've been writing scenes for it but idk what the actual timeline of events is and i've changed a LOT since i started. so it's a frankendraft mess. we'll get there eventually.

tag: the witch

and that's it! that's my baby! i think about Them a lot these days.

taglist: ask to be added <3 @k--havok @theharpywrites

links:

lacuna wip intro/masterpost

salt and brine (in the same world but not necessarily relevant)

i will add more as things get posted but for now you can find everything for each story/character through the linked tags up above. i am always available to scream about my children :)

[danganronpasurvivoraskblog]

The End of the Ultimate Hope: Part 2.

*pant!* *pant!* *pant!*

*Makoto is heavily outmatched by the duo of Celeste and Tsumugi, especially in the dark setting, but no matter what, he refuses to give up or run away, spurred on by the thought of causing the two of them immeasurable pain.

Erase me...Yeah, right... As if!

I'm the Ultimate Hope! Good fucking luck trying to wear me down!

*SMACK!*

GAGH!

*BANG!*

AGH!

*Makoto gets hit in the shin with something hard and topples. He quickly rolls out of the way to avoid being shot at subsequently!

You know...the fact that you keep having to repeat that fact makes me think otherwise...You're disappointing Makoto...

Stop hiding behind my FRIENDS FACES!

*He throws a punch, but Tsumugi disappears into blackness again. Instead, his fist just collides with an invisible wall which he assumes is Celeste's dress.

Oh please...as if you have any right to call us your friends anymore...!

Grrrgh! RAAGH!

*He tries again. Same result.

Byakuya: In fact, I'm pretty sure because of what we've done...We'd all hate you Makoto...

And Mukuro would hate you too...

DON'T YOU DARE SAY HER NAME! UUGH!

*Makoto chases Tsumugi through the darkness, but gets tripped up again. He looks up to see Tsumugi learing down at him.

Ultimate Hope? Hero? Give me a break, you DROPPED US down an elevator shaft!

Yeah, well, apparently so did Uchui! And we did it for the same reason! To PROTECT THEM!

*WOOOSH!*

Since when was it up to you to decide what's best for us?

*WOOOSH!*

You're NOT special Makoto...You had ONE good moment in your life during the killing game, but what else did you do during it? You couldn't protect Sayaka, nor could you stop any of the murders! If you're really the hero you think you are, why don't you show it!?

RAAGGH!

*He once again tries to throw a punch, but Tsumugi jumps back and shifts again.

I was the BEST and most amazing the Future Foundation ever had to offer, but I gave up my life, so YOU could thrive! USELESS, PATHETIC MAKOTO got a chance to live a full life!

*WOOOSH!*

That's all we ever do, and it's why you keep us around! You protect our lives so that we may become sacrifices for yours! So that YOU can be happy!

THAT'S BULLSHIT!

*Makoto leaps up and attacks again, but this time, Tsumugi catches his fist. His punch is heavy though, and she's slightly faltered by it.

Everything I have ever done is for the express purpose of saving this world, and protecting the friends and family that I love! EVERYTHING comes from that want!

Well, you have done a MARVELOUS job, haven't you?

*WHAM!*

Ugh!

*Tsumugi throws a punch back, then starts darting between the shelves, rapidly shifting as she does.

You couldn't save me...!

*WOOSH!*

You COULDN'T stop me!

*WOOSH!*

Where were YOU when Jabberwock Island got destroyed!?

*WOOSH!*

Where were you when my friends were being kidnapped!?

*WOOSH!*

Nagito: Were you there when I attacked Kyoto and left Hajime Hinata to die!? NO!

*WOOSH!*

Did you stop Emilia Feng!? Did you even TRY to stop Kuripa Kurafto!? NO! You turned on ME! YOUR OWN SISTER!

SHUT THE FUCK UP! NONE OF THAT IS TRUE!

*CRAAASH!* *SMAASSH!* *BAAANG!* *CRAAASH!*

*Makoto, in a blind rage and panic, starts destroying the shelves around him, but this doesn't help an awful lot. Tsumugi just continues her tormenting.

[123pixieaod]

Hunger Games AU

Part 2 :)

(((Tw: HG levels of violence)))

Part 1!

When he wakes, it is dark and he's alone. The cave casts shadows over him, crevices carefully constructed to hide the hundreds of cameras tracking his movements. Keep them entertained, Sebastian had told him. How's this for amusement? Watching a man wither away to nothing, forgotten by his teammate.

Daniel whimpers. It's embarrassing, the way the sound echos, emphasising his isolation, his weakness. His shoulder aches as if there's a fire raging under the skin. Someone, it must've been Max, left a full water bottle and small pile of nuts beside him. Daniel stares at the offering. He wonders if his fever has finally broken, or if this is simply a brief respite, the calm before the storm washes through him once more. He stretches out a hand, pallor and thin. Movements stiff and aching. He tries to keep his injured shoulder as still as possible, but the reverberation of movement makes the joint burn even stronger. Max had cleaned it as best as he could, helping Daniel wash it upstream in the river, and then bound it with the sleeves ripped from his shirt. Distantly, Daniel knows he should try to change the bandages, wash the inflamed skin again.

He imagines it. Teeth wounds punctured into him, skin red and angry and growing with infection.

He makes himself chew and swallow a handful of the nuts, even though they taste like dust in his mouth. He closes his eyes, forcing them down as he thinks of Max carefully gathering for him, brow pinched in the way it does when he's especially concentrated.

"Eat up," the Orange Lady singsongs. "Come on, I know you must be hungry, my sweetness!"

"I never got to get married", the girl from 12 says wistfully.

"I can't believe I died for you," the boy from 10 says.

"I hope they skin you alive, " the boy from 2 hisses. The girl from 5 starts to chock. Daniel squeezes his eyes shut again.

-

Max is married. His wife lives with him in the almost desolate Victors estate, in the house next to Daniel's. She's a few years older than him, but nothing scandalous. Daughter of the two local teachers, the elderst of a bunch of two girls and five boys. Straight dark hair, pale skin, and eyes of electric blue. She's pretty, but in the way a daisy is pretty, or a bow is pretty. Not hot; not desirable; not sexy. She's the perfect wife for a victor like Max, the exact fit to smooth out all his edges, to soften him to the public gaze. Daniel knows because he picked her himself.

Max hadn't wanted a wife. He'd shouted and he'd stormed away and he had ruined more than a few ceramic plates against the wall, but Daniel was firm. Choose a wife to marry as soon as he turns sixteen, or Daniel would choose for him. Max had refused. Daniel has chosen Emilia.

He thinks he picked well. Sebastian gets on well with her anyway. She pops by, offers to water his dying flowers, or makes some poppy bread for him. Every Wednesday, she goes into the poor streets in town, giving away fresh vegetables and new clothes. She keeps Max's home clean, she feeds his cats for him, she weats pretty dresses and always smiles. She doesn't really interact with Daniel, but he doesn't care. He prefers it, this strange situation they have where they both pretend the other doesn't exist. Max the only commonality in their lives. But she's very good. A good wife. Daniel chose well for Max.

Even still. It doesn't change the fact that they sleep in separate bedrooms.

Max plays with his wedding ring when he gets nervous. Daniel will stare, watching his pale fingers twist the golden band,around and around and around. Daniel keeps his fingers bare. There's no point.

It worked, anyway. Max became known as the most successful victor in history, the 13 year old who killed over half the contestants and had the game finished in under 3 days. Brutal, but secretly tender. Married to his childhood sweetheart, a woman too sweet for her own good. A perfect match. Nobody would dare break them up, ruin the image of youthful, pure romance.

-

Max always catches any bugs that get into the house. Daniel will watch him cup his pale fingers around the spider, the action achingly soft.

"Why do to do that?" He asks, but only after he's been drinking.

"Do what?" Max replies quietly, preoccupied with getting them outside.

"That," Daniel says, watching him open the door with his elbow, pale fingers bled grey in the moonlight. The golden ring goes silver, like old women's hair twined around his finger.

He's in the cave. He's lying on his back, shivering,  infection eating his shoulder alive. He's alone. Max is in his kitchen, saving a spider. Movements gentle, body soft in a way only Daniel gets to see.

"Because it's only right," Max says quietly, shutting the night out as he closes the door.

Daniel wants to remind Max he killed 12 children in the space of 3 days. Max looks over, expression open and soft. Belly up, vulnerable without even knowing it.

Why don't they haunt you? He wants to ask.

We do,they whisper back. He's just better at ignoring our cries than you are.

.

"How did you manage that poppet?" The Orange Lady asks with a giggle. She finished every sentence with a giggle, even when she was doing something like describing someone's death.

"The guy from distract 5 bit him," boy from 10 says.

"He has drank too much sea water,  he was crazy," boy from 2 adds.

"He tried to eat Daniel, " girl from 12 says softly. "Max killed him quick, but not before he had bitten into Daniel's shoulder and took a whole chunk off it away."

"Sounds like something I would do," the Orange Lady giggles. The girl from 5 keeps chocking

Daniel, Max says, demanding his attention. Daniel turns, finding him standing very still, hands cupped.

Max cradles a moth in his hands. Daniel, he repeats, only now his tone is soft. I can feel her wings against my palms. Here. He comes over, directing Daniel to hold out his hands, place them over Max's cupped ones.

Max, Daniel replies. I can't, my shoulder.

Max just shakes his head, telling Daniel to do it. Daniel does, and then Max slowly opens his hands. Daniel closes his, his own hands now a prison.

Can you feel it Daniel? Max asks, eyes bright. Wings beat against his palm and fingers, delicate and soft. It's like he's holding a heart.

He nods, and Max beams, gently placing his hands on top of Daniel's. They're warm but toughened, skin thick with calluses. Daniel thinks of the hardness they're capable of, the brutality they've wrung out on others. So gentle now, so loving.

You can feel it, the wings? Max asks again. Daniel nods.

Yes, Max, I can feel the wings.

Part 3!

[hellsbellschime]

how much do you think Emilia is a part of Dany's popularity or do you think its more reverse that Dany made Emilia so beloved? im inclined to think its a mix of both but Emilia def brought something special that drove her character to be so popular even over others in the cast that played fan favorites.

I agree, personally I loved Emilia's performance and she really nailed what I think is most important about Dany, she could alternate between sympathy and icy rage well. Plus, she's absurdly, inhumanly stunning in general, and especially so when done up in full Dany regalia. And I mean, generally speaking, even though GoT flopped her ending as hard as possible, they did do a great job building her up into a character that was easy to love, she was portrayed as beautiful and badass and morally righteous, and she had dragons, it's not exactly a tough sell.

[whateverthedragonswant]

8x01 - The Fire Is Shown When Sansa Doesn't Respond Well to Dany's Compliment

If you look at this scene:

You'll notice that there is a grate burning next to the open gate when Jon rides into the courtyard. It's low to the ground, not really a huge flame, and there's some smoke coming from it.

Guess where Jon, Dany, and Dany's retinue stops? Right in front of it. Jon doesn't stay for too long, though; he rushes right over to Bran.

Not only is that very telling, but we don't see it too often; our attention is not meant to be called to that fact too much in face of what's going on in the scene. (meaning it's in the background and it's telling us not too subtly what is going on but we should be paying attention to the event of the scene more) Even when the camera shows us Dany and Jorah standing in front of the fire as they watch Jon speaking with the Starks.

When Dany comes forward to be introduced, when the camera is on Dany complimenting Sansa, we see Jorah's torso behind Dany.

It's only when Sansa answers "Winterfell is yours, Your Grace" that we then see the flames behind Dany.

The Bran interrupts.

And also another important bit of framing to note:

Not only is this particular shot important to pay attention to (with Kit's performance, meaning when Dany moves a bit closer to face Sansa after she has already come up to Jon's side, Jon himself moves closer in Sansa's direction; it's subtle but it's there; so not only is he moving away from Dany in this half-step but also closer to Sansa, which is important for what this framing represents & what comes later in the episode with Dany threatening Sansa to Jon) but notice what is behind Dany and Jon. A grate full of firewood that has not been yet lit.

While we saw in this season the fireplaces being used to show us the fire raging within Dany (and how she was going to use it later on in the season), Jon's fear (8x05), and how people were always trying to turn Dany away from it (Jorah in 8x02, Jon in 8x04), they're also showing us in this shot Jon purposefully in the middle between Dany and Sansa. The fact that they chose to show us this important prop behind this purposeful blocking of this shot and scene tells us everything.

Jon is a Targaryen but the fire is not lit behind him. He is not the same as Dany. This is cemented by them choosing to show us the lit fire behind Dany in the moment Sansa offends her by not thanking her for her surface compliment. By Kit's (and Emilia's) subtle movements in this shot, it's cemented that Jon is purposefully putting himself in between the two ladies.

Even from this one shot and one moment in the show, it's apparent that Jon is protecting Sansa, because Sansa is the one that Dany feels threatened by the most in Winterfell. And Sansa is the one Jon will need to choose to protect later in 8x06.

Bonus:

Kit and Emilia masterfully played even this part of the scene (with the grate between them, still unlit):

Dany has just been told Viserion is now the Night King's and we see this devastates her. In this shot, Dany turns in Jon's direction, not completely, not even really looking at him, but the moment she does, Jon then turns to look at Sansa for confirmation.

They literally chose subtle body movements to show how Jon responded every single time Dany attempted to close the distance between them, even unintentionally. His focus was on his family and the mission at hand. Even during a split second reaction like this one.

And it makes perfect sense why the next time we see Sansa, Jon, and Dany, we see this:

Jon is in between Dany and Sansa again. Jon and Sansa are on the same page, focusing on preparations for the upcoming battle and leading the North through it. (which is why we get Sansa talking about what she did when hearing the Wall fell and ordering Ned Umber to bring his people to Winterfell & Jon telling the Maester to send ravens to the Night's Watch telling them to come to Winterfell) We see Dany is turned towards the fireplace, the only one standing away from everyone else. She is not facing her people but the fire. She only comes to sit down at the table, facing everyone, when Ned Umber calls her his queen and apologizes.

[mediaevalmusereads]

Weyward. By Emilia Hart. St. Martin's, 2023.

Rating: 3/5 stars

Genre: historical fiction, magical realism

Part of a Series? No

Summary: 2019: Under cover of darkness, Kate flees London for ramshackle Weyward Cottage, inherited from a great aunt she barely remembers. With its tumbling ivy and overgrown garden, the cottage is worlds away from the abusive partner who tormented Kate. But she begins to suspect that her great aunt had a secret. One that lurks in the bones of the cottage, hidden ever since the witch-hunts of the 17th century.

1619: Altha is awaiting trial for the murder of a local farmer who was stampeded to death by his herd. As a girl, Altha’s mother taught her their magic, a kind not rooted in spell casting but in a deep knowledge of the natural world. But unusual women have always been deemed dangerous, and as the evidence for witchcraft is set out against Altha, she knows it will take all of her powers to maintain her freedom.

1942: As World War II rages, Violet is trapped in her family's grand, crumbling estate. Straitjacketed by societal convention, she longs for the robust education her brother receives––and for her mother, long deceased, who was rumored to have gone mad before her death. The only traces Violet has of her are a locket bearing the initial W and the word weyward scratched into the baseboard of her bedroom.

Weaving together the stories of three extraordinary women across five centuries, Emilia Hart's Weyward is an enthralling novel of female resilience and the transformative power of the natural world.

***Full review below.***

Content Warnings: domestic violence and abuse (physical, verbal, emotional, financial, and reproductive), blood, self-harm, racism, rape and impregnation of a teenager, suicidal ideation, abortion

Overview: I didn't know much about this book going in, but I do remember seeing it on display at my local bookstore, so I figured I'd give it a go. The premise itself seemed like something I'd be into: multiple generations of women, nature, magic, and the power of female resilience. Unfortunately, I didn't find the execution as inspiring as I'd hoped. In my opinion, this book struggles with a little bit of everything (plot, prose, and character), though as a whole, it wasn't so poorly done that I would say the author is dropping the ball. Rather, this book has a strong premise but struggles to engage with the reader, so for that reason, it gets 3 stars from me.

Writing: While I did like Hart's use of figurative language and the ease at which sentences flowed into one another, I had a hard time connecting with the prose because, in my opinion, it's just a tad overwritten. Hart doesn't leave much room for the reader to infer things, and both emotions and interpretations are told to us rather than shown. As a result, the pace of this book can feel rather slow, especially in the beginning when we're being instructed how to interpret things.

Moreover, I didn't quite enjoy the way the chapters were organized. This book is divided into 3 perspectives, with each chapter switching between protagonists Violet, Altha, and Kate. In my opinion, the chapters were a bit too short and were cut off prematurely; it felt like Hart was trying to create suspense, but rather than feeling intrigued, I felt frustrated. Perhaps this could have been alleviated if each chapter had a stronger point that led into the next POV; for example, there's one chapter that is dedicated entirely to Altha entering the city for her murder trial, and the whole chapter is devoted to describing the journey, only to be cut off awkwardly at the thought of an unknown character named Grace. To make the chapter stronger, I would have loved to read more about the rural/urban juxtaposition within Altha's POV, and have that relate to the rural/urban juxtaposition that Kate experiences when she flees to the Weyward cabin. Granted, there may be a little of that, but if it does exist, it doesn't feel intentional on Hart's part.

Plot: The plot of this book follows three women from the Weyward family line: Altha (a woman on trial for murder and witchcraft in 1629), Violet (a viscount's daughter coming of age in 1942), and Kate (a woman fleeing an abusive relationship in 2019). The three storylines explore female resilience as each character struggles to assert agency in the face of patriarchy.

Personally, I felt that each storyline was a little dull. Hart seemed to be trying to create suspense and unease by teasing that the women are somehow related and that their bloodline has some eerie natural power. I put things together faster than our protagonists, and the relationship between them wasn't necessarily new or presented in a way that made things feel fresh. On top of that, rather than exploring the character's emotions and inner lives, I felt like I was being asked to take them for granted and focus on the more mundane actions. For example, Kate leaves her abusive ex at the beginning of the book only to spend the rest of her arc doing mundane things. Altha is incredibly passive for the first half of her story, as we are stuck watching the trial rather than seeing her do much of her own will. Violet is a tad more interesting in that she spends a lot of time trying to learn more about her deceased mother while also trying to avoid the wrath of her abusive father, but even her arc felt a little slow at times.

I think what bothered me the most about the plot was that the book as a whole was supposed to be about "resilience," but most of what happens isn't particularly inspiring. It's not that I wanted big, overt displays of heroism, but I felt like the quiet moments of heroism were buried under the attempts at suspense.

Lastly, I felt like the magical realism was incredibly underutilized. Hart establishes that the Weyward women have a special connection to nature, but thematically, I didn't feel like there was a strong connection between nature and feminine agency. Ecofeminism is a popular topic in current critical discourse, and integrating it into this book would have elevated it immensely. Instead, it felt like nature was a background character, only popping up when convenient.

Characters: This book contains a number of characters, but for this review, I will focus on the three POV protagonists.

Altha, the healer/witch living in 1619, felt rather passive, especially during the trial. When we meet her, she has already been arrested, and I felt like we didn't get to know her until after the trial. As a result, I had a hard time being invested in her fate. Even when we learned more about her, there wasn't much that set her apart from other healers/witches I've read, so I found her arc to be hard to care about.

Violet, the viscount's daughter living in 1942, was a bit more interesting in that she was striving for things. Violet not only dreams of being an entomologist, but she also desperately wants to know more about her deceased mother. The most interesting parts of her arc were when she was actively trying to seek out information, and I liked that despite the hold her father has on her, she was always trying to assert herself and find her own power. There were times when her arc slowed down, so it wasn't perfect, but I found Violet to be the most interesting of the three women.

Kate, the woman living in 2019, had some quiet moments of agency, but overall, I felt like I was watching her going about her new life in a small village. Kate leaves her abusive boyfriend at the start of the novel and hides out at Weyward Cottage - the hovel that belonged to her great aunt. I enjoyed the moments when Kate did things like cut her hair and change her wardrobe; those felt powerful and meaningful, like she was finally freeing herself from her boyfriend's grasp. But most of her arc seemed to just be about her doing mundane things, and I wished more time was spent on exploring Kate's healing process.

TL;DR: Weyward is a novel with a good premise, but ultimately doesn't present readers with anything new or interesting. Between a prose style that relies too much on telling, a plot that forges "resilience" in favor of brutality, and characters without much agency or goals that they strive after, this book is a disappointing attempt to portray female power.

[buriedunderneath]

❝ HELL IS EMPTY AND ALL THE DEVILS ARE HERE. ❞

 ⸻  ᚠᚱᛟᛗ  ⸻  kat mcnamara. cisfemale. she/her. ⸻  i saw EMILIA FINLEY around THE TOWN, you know? the  TWENTY EIGHT years old that was driving from BROOKLYN when they saw the tree on the road. FINN has been here for ONE DAY and i think they were LAW STUDENT before they got stuck in the town. with the way things are now, they are now struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy and  seek a way out without losing themselves or dying.  lets hope you at least survive the night. ⸻ hermy, she/her,  29, n/a triggers.  .  ⸻

GENERAL   INFORMATION.  ⸻

full   name: emilia finley.

nickname(s): finn.

age: twenty-eight.

gender   identity: cisfemale, she/her.

orientation: heterosexual.

place   of   birth: brooklyn, new york.

date   of   birth: july 11th, 1995.

former   occupation: law student and law intern.

3   positive traits: clever, resourceful, caring.

3   negative traits: stubborn, snobbish, cold.

moral alignment: lawful neutral.

faceclaim: katherine mcnamara.

TOWN   INFORMATION.  ⸻

current   residency : town.

current   occupation: waitress at the diner.

BIOGRAPHY   YOUR   CHARACTER'S   BACKGROUND.  ⸻

tldr is that EMILIA FINLEY grew up on the upper west side of manhattan, new york, into a family full of lawyers. her grandfather made partner at the upper east side law firm that later became known as watson, wilks and finley, a prominent law firm that dealt with crime on all scales. her father works full time as lead lawyer, and growing up, finn was always interested in the world of law.

growing up as the SECOND oldest of her family, finn was always the one to go to for advice, for stabilization. her logic and resourceful nature something that was very much needed within the finley household. when finn was about sixteen years old, her mother got into a bad motor vehicle accident - with her father driving. her father was, privately and to no one's knowledge in the world besides his own family - a functioning alcoholic unlike any other.

her mother became wheelchair bound and because her finn's extreme law connections, no one was ever the wiser on what happened that night in the accident, and the family doesn't speak of it. however, finn's older brother and younger sister both know that happened that night, and it tore her father apart.

the family never truly recovered after that - and finn never really did either. she felt a traumatic hatred for her father, who he had become, and took up being her mother's caregiver as much as she could with her brother being away at school. her mother never blamed a single soul for what happened to her, but it only fueled finn's rage even more each day - thus getting her law degree.

her brother and sister always wanted something else for themselves, but finn wanted the same career path as her father, almost out of spite, so she could become bigger and better than him - take over the law firm and shove him out. call it revenge for what he did - although he always knew how badly he screwed up that night. apologies were enough for finn and she studied her ass off.

in law school, finn studied most nights - but one night she was dragged out by her friends to the bar and met easton james. she wasn't opened very much to meeting anyone, but when they started speaking, it became clear that they liked one another. he could keep up with her wit, and keep up with her work ethic, as he was studying to become a doctor. the two of them had much in common and eventually moved in together, living in brooklyn.

COMING INTO THE TOWN !

being an intern now at her father's law firm, working most nights and living a good life with her boyfriend, the two had decided to take a little summer vacation.

finn was insistent on the fact that she had to finish up a case file and so she knew easton went ahead with friends - and she was meant to catch up with him later. driving into the TOWN, after having not heard from easton for a full day - it is at first mystifying to her.

as a very SANE and logical person, finn didn't know what she was in for - assuming this was all a bad dream, that she'd wake up back in brooklyn, but it wasn't anything but. truly, she tried her phone first, but nothing worked - nothing at all, until it all slowly became clear to her. she wasn't getting out.

horrified, broken hearted by it all, finn has only had a day to adjust to this life, trying to distract herself the best she can, but she still is trying to take a logical approach to things - serve at the diner, go on the most normal she can, but she puts on a brave face.

who will take care of her mother, who will get back to easton, who will she become within the confines of a world that she doesn't quite understand?

[watermelonlovershigh]

Can I please request a Reggio Emilia blurb full of fluff and dad-to-be Harry comforting the missus with cuddles? Lambert styles her in a custom made shimmery cocktail dress to match with her husband. She is more emotional than her mother-in-law due to the raging of hormones within her body. Only their friends and family know about the unnoticeable bump, home to their unborn daughter. During the show, backstage and at the hotel while they shower and get ready for sleep she would be inconsolable 🥺🤧

---

i would but i don’t really write fics where the main character is a specific person. i’m usually vague on who or what she looks like so you as a reader can picture her as you’d like. but i know there are many writers who do this type of writing. maybe ask one of them.

[fkevin073]

i almost cried reading the last chapter! you captured the grief of alysanne very strongly :( and knowing that jace died in your story exactly how he dies in canon, oww, that hurt.

alysanne is giving daenerys parallels and i love it!! i hope she burns everything and kill aegon, she has every right lmao! and aemond should be in her side, yes, is his brother but jace wanted peace and he got kill…

i hope alys is at least a little happy in the end, and if she stays queen, it would be nice if she had a children named jacaerys or rhaenyra :(

Jace is my best boi so I just know his death is gonna DECIMATE me when it happens in the show I swear to god. but thank you!! alysanne loves Jace a whole lot, and even though it might not be exactly how he wanted her to, it was very powerful. she also has a lot of guilt regarding his death.

Jace and her also shared a very unique burden regarding their younger siblings. they knew fully the truth about Harwin Strong, and it's something they could only talk about with each other. she doesn't have that support anymore. and there's a tensions about that with aemond, even.

I wouldn't call myself a Dany Stan by any means, but Emilia's acting in season 8 when she went mad gave me chills. ugh, so good. but yeah, the only thing keeping alysanne from falling apart is rage. Like her and Jace talked about earlier on in the story, there is such a thing as too much loss for them. they're obviously devastated and furious about their mother and visenya's death, but there's a sense of stability still. being able to remain objective.

alysanne doesn't have that anymore. she's responding in the language the other side has clung to despite how Jace tried for peace. I think for Aemond the fact that Aegon also betrayed the promise he made him cemented his decision to support her full on.

and ahh! the name of any potential children alysanne and aemond have (providing they survive the war lmao) is something that has been troubling me for a while. I've talked about past ideas I had for if alysanne and Jace had kids and their names, but for aemond and alysanne it's infinitely more complicated in a way, because they both lose people in the war. their ghosts are a lot more prominent.

anyway, thanks so much for this ask!! too kind.

[ruiination]

@unrealization (Ram):

The attack came without warning. From the perspective of Ram, anyway. She did what she could. She was too weak to really take part in the fighting. She helped the few people that were in her reach. The children from the village were hidden, along with Emilia in a separate location. She had only moments locked the future ruler in the hidden room. She had protested, but Roswaal-sama’s orders were absolute.

His name clung to her mind like a leaf of spinach between her teeth. The attack came without warning, but not for him. He had the witch’s book. He probably knew what would happen before he left. Despite that, he still went away. Ram was less than surprised, but trying to fully understand his sick mind was exhausting.

Rem was fighting the cultists outside, and Ram was exhausted just thinking about it. Her whole body ached. Despite the chaos, exhaustion was all she felt. Her mind was free of laughing Oni gods, or the thirst for battle. Rem was a tactical advantage, but the strategy fell to Ram. How would they survive? All their lives were in her frail hands. Roswaal-sama likely would not be returning. Rem could not fight forever. Emilia seemed determined to stay in harm’s way.

Everything was going against them, but Ram was as cunning as she was beautiful. Besides, she had to live up to Rem’s expectations.

As she made her way toward the foyer, the hall came to a sudden fork. She was moving as quickly as she could while conserving her energy. More of a light jog than a full sprint. For now, she had to reach the courtyard. The innocent children hidden in the garden shed would need to be taken to the secret escape tunnel with Emilia. At the very least, their presence might compel the half-elf to finally move. Then she would be free to help Rem with the intruders. The maids would not abandon the house. Right before the fork, her vision suddenly went black. In fact, all her senses were momentarily numb. She was sure a yelp of surprise and frustration must have sprung from her lips.

When the spell finally cleared, she felt the cold steel of a dagger at her throat. A grinning cultist mere inches from her face. Something about him was immediately disgusting. His sneering, perverse expression unmistakable from that of a ravenous animal. It was only natural that a few of them would have gotten into the house, but his presence made her worry for her sister. She felt for her, and her energy was there. As raw and furious as it had ever been. Her fiery gaze settled on the intruder.

“Welcome to Mathers Manor,” She said coldly, “I’m afraid my master is away and thus, not receiving guests.”

She swallowed harshly, feeling the sharp edge of his blade digging into her soft flesh. She hoped to tear him apart quickly so she could conserve enough energy to help Rem. Her next words where firm, smoldering with rage at the violation of her house.

“You need to leave. Now.”

"Aw, and after I came all this way?" Subaru's voice dripped with malice. They both knew he wasn't here for Roswaal. Why would he bother with worthless NPCs like that? He was after the only other person worth his time. And even now, the maids were trying to stop him. Wouldn't it be easier to just give in?

Ah... But isn't think what NPCs do? It's useless to try to consider logic or motivations. They were nothing to him. Worthless pieces for him to discard. Just like everyone but her. He could still remember the pain of his last death. No matter how many times he died, he never got used to it. And it was this girl that had killed him. After he had been so close. A phantom pain of his broken arm returned to him, so he tightens grip on his dagger.

"But honestly, Pink-chan... I'm way more interested in the princess you have here." He pressed the blade to her throat, enough to tear the skin but no further. Not fatal but enough to let beads of blood begin to spill on pale skin.

It felt nice to be able to harm her. If he had her, the other maid would cave. He knew that had to be the secret trick to this whole mess. Regardless, he had all of time to keep trying. This was his first try in this specific route. Even if she slipped away, he would always win. That was the strength of the hero of the story.

"If you give the half-elf to me, I'll leave and everyone else will too. You and the others don't have to die." It hurt to not use a name for her, but he had to keep his calm. If she sensed even a hint of weakness, it would be over. These maids were the kind good at combat. Though... was this one? Aside from a sneak attack, she never actually helped the other one fight.

"Do you think you can beat a Sin Archbishop, Pink-chan?"

[midnghtspecial]

𝙸𝚃  𝙼𝚄𝚂𝚃  𝙱𝙴  𝙴𝚇𝙷𝙰𝚄𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶  ,  𝙰𝙻𝚆𝙰𝚈𝚂  𝚁𝙾𝙾𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙶  𝙵𝙾𝚁  𝚃𝙷𝙴  𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙸  𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙾  . lady  selsa  lannister  of  casterly  rock  .

🜲       ⸻      ·   。…     [  emilia clarke  /  thirty  /  cis woman  /  she  or  her  ]  in  the  conflict  between  lions  and  men,  selsa  lannister  begins  their  first  steps  up  the  ladder  in  the  game  of  thrones.  known  to  be  alluring  and  ambitious,  their  rumored  callous  and  unfeeling  tendencies  might  prove  to  be  their  unmaking.  the  court  bards  play  upon  themes  of  white snow hardened to ice , the silent scream delivered to a silken pillow , womanhood is close to godhood  when  composing  a  tune  for  them.  while  they  are  the  lady  of  casterly  rock,  it  is  said  that  their  loyalties  lie  with  house  lannister.  only  time  will  tell  if  the  tides  shift  favorably  for  them  or  if  the  climb  is  too  hazardous  for  even  the  most  sure - footed.          ⸻  lo  /  29  /  gmt  /  she  or  her.

𝙱𝙰𝚂𝙸𝙲𝚂

full name: selsa lannister

age: 30

gender / pronouns: cis woman , she  /  her

orientation: bisexual

cccupation: lady of casterly rock

𝙿𝙷𝚈𝚂𝙸𝙲𝙰𝙻 𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙽𝙲𝙴

eye colour: blue

hair colour: silver

build: petite

height: 5′2″

distinctive features: white hair

face claim: emilia clarke

𝙱𝙸𝙾𝙶𝚁𝙰𝙿𝙷𝚈

there  was  a  time  when  life  didn't  feel  so  exhausting  for  you  .  you  recall  flowers  in  your  hair  ,  a  girlish  laugh  and  flushed  cheeks  .  who  could  blame  you  for  ,  at  times  ,  wishing  to  return  to  that  —  but  there  is  no  power  in  childhood  .  it  is  known  how  deeply  you  crave  it  ,  how  it  comes  from  a  place  of  utter  powerlessness  ,  an  incessant  and  unyielding  need  to  prove  yourself  .

there  is  weight  in  your  name  ,  you  carry  it  like  a  shield  for  you  are  not  permitted  a  sword  to  grace  your  pale  hands  .  is  this  why  you  have  evaded  marriage  ,  children  all  the  way  into  your  adult  life  ?  is  it  the  simple  knowledge  that  your  wealth  will  carry  you  through  a  comfortable  life  ?  you  do  not  think  you  will  be  so  lucky  ,  not  for  much  longer  .

your  past  is  a  thing  you  think  not  of  —  it  is  lonely  ,  quiet  ,  it  is  full  of  a  feeling  of  trying  .  you  try  to  be  good  enough  for  a  family  of  lions  ,  one  in  which  you  feel  like  a  snake  .  something  slippery  ,  slimy  .  you  felt  a  ghost  of  casterly  rock  and  at  times  ,  you  still  do  .

you  yearn  for  acceptance  ,  for  a  gaze  to  land  upon  you  and  find  something  worth  looking  at  .  you  wish  for  the  fire  in  the  pit  of  your  stomach  to  alight  and  swallow  you  whole  .  you  are  full  of  rage  .  rage  for  the  life  of  a  woman  ,  rage  for  your  life  does  not  feel  like  your  own  .  a  ticking  time  bomb  ,  awaiting  explosion  ,  a  ring  on  your  finger  and  a  spouse  to  call  your  own  .  you  do  not  want  this  .  you  want  more  from  life  .  you  want  ,  you  want  ,  you  want  .  but  women  are  not  allowed  to  want  .

[dashedwithromance]

Secret Moments In A Crowded Room - Princewitch

okay so DISCLAIMER im scared to post this because we’ve never really seen romantic wrath before so idk if people might think this is OOC but i wanted princewitch fluff desperately and cant wait til october. inspired by the teaser quote she released yesterday and ‘dress’ by taylor swift

-

The ball raged on around her, dancers swirling around impossibly fast, flashes of fabric catching the light of the serpent scones. On and on, all without her. Her husband sat to her right on his larger throne, staring into nothing. They had exchanged all of five words that evening.

She did not blame her husband for his coldness, not truly. If their positions were switched, and she had been forced to marry a random demon while still loving and grieving her murdered spouse, she doubted whether she would even manage civility. Pride continued his business, barely taking notice of his young wife, and she was glad, of that, at least. If he’d wanted her... a shudder snaked down her spine, curling in her gut. Her mind still echoed with the unnatural violation of Lust’s magic, and the thought of another demon prince perusing her like that was foul. There was only one prince she wanted, and his sin was wrath.

Dancing in Hell was nothing like she’d seen on the streets of Palermo. Nothing like the carefree dancing of Vittoria, so full of light and life and love that nothing seemed to touch her. Here, movements entwined with danger, every dance a flirtation with living death. People danced with weapons, exchanging daggers and rondels and rapiers like secret lovers. Jewelled garrottes hung around every neck, poisonous pearls glittering in various ornate hairstyles. An unholy masquerade indeed.

Her own mask was a fine decoration of gold and jewels. Metallic serpents entwined across the mosaic-like surface, darker cracks embedded across it. The mask had arrived one evening at her rooms, wrapped in luscious velvet. No letter accompanied it, the only sign of the sender being a golden snake that slithered up her arm before dissolving into sparks. The decoration matched her dress, a similar mosaic of black silk, lace, and golden serpents. Truly befitting a queen.

Fury burned through her as she watched the revellers pass her by. They danced without a care, members of the seven houses intermingling freely. She wanted to scream and shatter the very throne she sat on. How dare they dance as if mere months ago, one of their own had not been taking the hearts of witches? As if she did not sit on a dead witch’s throne? A witch who still had not found justice, who’s body had been ripped to shreds in the cruellest way imaginable?

“Careful, little queen.” Pride’s voice rumbled in her ear. He still did not look at her, but leaned closer to whisper, “Lest the people learn your ungrateful thoughts.”

Closing her eyes to avoid murdering the demon she’d married, she took a deep breath. The air smelt like fire and spirits and the sweat of colliding bodies. Suddenly, the sight of it all disgusted her. The dancing, the drinking, the living, all of it. Selfish, she knew – others were allowed to live despite Vittoria being denied the very same. But she couldn’t help it. She longed for nothing more than her sister to live, even if it meant sacrificing her life to the demon beside her. There was nothing to be done, however. Her sister was lost forever.

The night dwindled on, interrupted by the occasional violent thought towards her situation. Though, as contrary as it sounded, not all was dark about her time in Hell. She had one bright spot, one flame in the dark. Something she kept locked against her chest for fear of discovery.

Casting her eye across the room, she caught the gaze of the hidden secret. Prince Wrath leaned against the wall from across the room, his eyes flickering as they locked with hers. He was dressed in a sinfully beautiful suit, a pattern of golden serpents slithering up the fabric from the floor. The snakes seemed alive in the firelight. Perhaps they were. A smug sense of satisfaction ebbed through her when she realised they matched. No one else would notice – serpents weren’t exactly an uncommon motif in Hell – but they knew, and it was comfort enough. With a movement, so small she nearly missed it, he tilted his head towards the exit.

A thrill raced through her, paired with genuine, loving excitement. They had not been alone in much too long.

Things had not always been so relaxed between her and the prince of Wrath. Her first few weeks in Hell had been spent furiously glaring in his direction. He’d given her the ultimate cold shoulder until she’d nearly burned from it. She’d been full of fury at his leaving her – at the humiliation she felt from having the human audacity to trust a demon. One day, when they crossed each other in a hallway heading to court, her temper had bubbled to boiling.

She remembered yanking him into a nearby room – he let her, she realised now – and yelled at him for the cruelty of leaving her alone. Of giving her hope and wrenching it away, like a child suddenly filled with jealously over a shared toy.

The sheer incredulity on his face was the first indication she was mistaken. He laughed, a sardonic sound coated in disbelief.

“I left you?” His voice was low. The walls around them seemed to thrum in response to his deadly power.

“I left you?” He repeated, “I gave you all the tools to summon me, witch, and you refused. Too good for my help, perhaps.  I have no more responsibilities to you. Our deal is done.”

Wrath turned to leave, but by some miracle, she managed to dart in front of him. Her body was pressed against the door, the cold stone mixing with the heat she felt roaring off him. Emilia should’ve been afraid, should’ve been trembling in her gifted boots at the sight of him, but she wasn’t. Why, she couldn’t quite tell.

His gaze burned into hers, but her own was just as powerful.

“I tried everything to summon you after what Envy did, and you didn’t come.” She hissed. The wrath of a prince was one thing, but hell hath no fury like a witch scorned. “You left me. I was foolish enough to believe you would ca- that you would come for me once, but I will not be fooled twice.”

The look he gave her was indiscernible. Equal parts rage mixed with... something lighter. If anyone else looked at her like that, she would’ve described it as hopeful. But demons did not hope, no more than they loved.

He was scanning her face with the focus of a battle-hardened warrior. Whatever it was he found made him take a step back.

“What did you do wrong?” He muttered, almost to himself.

“I did nothing wrong,” She couldn’t help but fire back, “I did everything correctly – even used the ring you left for me in the drawer.”

At that, he stilled. Stilled and stopped breathing entirely.

Then, as if talking to someone who’d sustained a head injury, he said, “I didn’t leave you a ring. I left you my house seal, solid gold, of course, but no ring.” He went on to describe where he’d left it – the top drawer beside her bed – but she already knew.

The conclusion settled in her stomach like a stone. Another feeling, one she didn’t let herself scrutinise, unfurled within her.

“Someone didn’t want me to summon you.”

“Close. Someone wanted you to think I wouldn’t come.”

A question hung in the air, so loud neither could bring themselves to give it voice.

Would you have come, Prince Wrath? Would you have come to my aid when I needed you most? When I needed to know you were alright?

Keeping those treacherous thoughts under lock and key, she focused on another facet of the curious mystery.

“Who would it benefit? And who would’ve known what to switch – the house was warded, was it not?”

Silence from her princely counterpart.  

“Would the wards collapse with your ‘death’?”

The look on his face told her all she needed to know. Someone had stolen into the house and replaced the seal with a ring to deliberately throw off their efforts. Which meant-

He hadn’t abandoned her at all. Given her the cold shoulder, yes, when he believed she’d forgotten all about him.

What a hellish mess this all was.

From that moment on, the demon and the witch had become begrudging allies once more. Wrath had been furious one of his brothers would dare interfere with his affairs, and she needed an ally, desperately. While it rubbed against her pride to accept help, she knew it would’ve been foolish to refuse. She would be a vengeful queen, but even queens needed council.

Their alliance had turned to friendship, then burst into royal flames as they look the leap to lovers. In the candlelight of a stolen moment, Wrath had held her with more care than she’d known possible. Still Wrath, still echoing that immense power of his, but softer, somehow. Not gentle, not truly, but tender. It was not love, but it was fire and anger and care all pieced together in a ball of desire.  

Which led her to that moment, as she stole away from her husband’s masquerade ball. She had stayed long enough, and the party celebrated nothing of importance. Rather a show of unity between her and Pride, a display of wealth and power.

As she left the throne room she realised she had no idea where her prince had gone. Back to his rooms? No, they avoided meeting there. Being caught together in casual rooms could be explained away as strategic briefings, but being caught in the bedroom of her husband’s brother... did not leave for much escape room.

Just as she was about to curse his name, a snake slithered around her ankle, causing her to start. Was that Wrath’s laugh, she heard? Looking to her feet, the snake stared back up at her, its golden eyes winking in the candlelight of the hallway.

Of course. Wrath and his dramatics.  

The snake made its way down the hallway, keeping close to the wall to be inconspicuous. It led her to an offshoot of the main hallway, then came to a halt at the final door. The serpent dissolved into golden sparks as they reached their destination. She knocked quietly before letting herself in.

Wrath lay stretched out across a dark velvet lounge, watching her entrance. His mask dangled lazily from his fingers, the ribbon used to tie it brushing across the floor. His shirt was unbuttoned halfway, a toned chest peeking out from the fabric.

Deadly, dangerously beautiful.

And hers.

“You look exquisite,” He strode across the room before taking her in his arms. His hands quickly untied her mask before tossing it to the floor with haste. He took in her form for a moment, then tilted his face down to capture her lips with his own.

No matter how many moments they stole, it was never enough.

His kiss was liquid fire igniting the flame of her desire. One hand rested against her back, with the other cupping her face. She gasped against his mouth, revelling in how desperately hard his body felt against hers. Greedy hands slipped up his chest to unbutton the rest of his shirt. Pulling the material away, Emilia broke the kiss for a single second to gaze at her lover.

Smooth, tanned skin met her eyes, followed by a swift appreciation of the hard strength that lay beneath his trousers. He laughed as he caught her gaze, knowing exactly what she was admiring.

He kissed her again, this time grabbing the backs of her thighs and lifting her up. Her legs wrapped around his waist. The taste of him- Taste was her speciality, but there were no words to describe how perfectly Wrath kissed her.

After too long and never long enough, the lovers parted for breath. He still held her against his chest. In this position, she was the perfect height to rest her head in the crook of his neck. Their breathing echoed through the room in perfect harmony.

She could feel every rise and fall of his powerful, tattooed chest. Such lethal power contained within his body, yet he held her with all the tenderness the world could offer.

“You know,” He mused, “We never got to dance.”

“Are you asking?” A sly smile in his direction.

“Yes. Witch, will you dance with me.” He said witch the way men said love. She looked down at him, grinning.

“No. I can’t dance.”

He laughed. Such a bright sound for one bathed in darkness.

“Liar.”

“Fine. I don’t dance, because I’m awful at it.”

A teasing hand ran down her back.

“I’ll teach you.” At her raised brows, he continued with, “A queen must use every skill in her arsenal.”

Lowering her to the ground, he held out his hands for her to grasp.

“Place your right hand in mine, and left against my shoulder.” Even through the fabric of his shirt, she could feel the heat roaring off him. When she did as he instructed, he pulled their bodies together until not even an inch separated them. Emilia was fairly certain this wasn’t part of the dance, but she wasn’t going to interrupt. She quite liked this position, pressed against the prince of Wrath, his breath rustling her hair. His hand settled against her spine.

“This next bit is the most important, do you hear? It is crucial even that beginners like yourself get this right.” He teased, and she scowled back at him, though they both knew it was merely in jest.

“Tilt your chin up so you can gaze adoringly into my eyes.” He grinned down her scowl. “I want you to focus on how handsome I am, how talented, and forget everything else. Except how much you want to kiss me.”

She couldn’t help herself, she laughed. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Perhaps.” His voice turned low and seductive as his hand slid down her spine, drawing her a little closer. “But you’re waltzing like a goddess now.” As he spoke, they started to move. Slowly, he stepped back and followed. To the side, and she followed again. On and on, their little box pattern continued, until Wrath picked up the paced and spun her around.

A gasp left her lips at the movement, but before she could overthink and stumble, he caught her once more with a smile.

“Who are you, and what have you done with the moodiest prince of Hell?”

He shook his head at her words, huffing a laugh as he did. She felt the truth bloom in his chest, he didn’t have to say it. These borrowed moments, these secret trysts... it was happiness, rare as it was, that fluttered between them. They both knew it couldn’t last, but for now, it was real. In that moment, it was all that mattered.

“Teasing witch,” He murmured, and kissed her. Kissed her as if they were not members of two rival houses, as if she was not an unwilling wife to his bastardly brother, as if there were not a chasm of reasons to keep them apart. Tomorrow would bring hellfire, and perhaps regret, but tonight was theirs.

They kissed until night dwindled away into day, and their secret was no longer safe. With the promise of “soon” and an unspoken “I miss you”, Wrath kissed her once more before exiting her side.

The queen of Hell picked up her mask from where it had been tossed across the floor, and stood still for a moment, taking a deep breath. The moment had passed, and she was no longer just Emilia, a powerhouse in her own right, and friend and lover of Wrath’s.

She was the Wicked Kingdom’s vengeful queen, and she would find her happiness once more, or burn the world trying.

-

let me know if you wanted to be added to my KOTW tag list!

tags: @shadowturtlesstuff @otome-azarada @chococannolii @beccalovesbooksstuff @duchess-of-nothing-and-nowhere @caseyannblog @constantwriter85 @fleawithadegree @athousandsilversuns @emiliadicarlos @silversublime @watch-the-pen @sleeping-and-books @demirunner