#magic ward of if you work with me you can't see this ~~~~ | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lizzyiii · 21 days ago

Note

Hey girl hey. Hope you are still alive and life is treating you well. Just checking in.

you're so sweet for this omg. so ive graduated from high school, have this whole summer, but I can't really enjoy it since a broke girl's got to work. got my very first job and it's sooo draining, but I've got to get that bag

Sevenmas

pairing | aemond x wife!reader

word count | 9.2k words

summary | amid the haunting ruins of harrenhal, aemond's pregnant wife senses the looming threat of alys rivers, a witch whose presence fuels her nightmares and aemond's growing distance.

determined to protect her husband and unborn child, she delves into the secrets of warding magic, reclaiming her bond with aemond as she invites him back into her bed and vows to stand against the witch’s dark influence.

tags | 18+ (MDNI), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, pregnancy, magic, fluff, soft aemond, hubby aemond

a/n | it's summer, the heat is evident, yet I've only been at work or home. I needdd to leave my house!

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

My Dearest Babe,

It has been a full moon since your father and I arrived at these dreary halls of Harrenhal. It is bleak here, cold and damp, and the walls seem to hold the whispers of the dead.

I have not known a single night’s rest since we set foot in this cursed place. My sleep grew all the more restless when your father saw fit to move me into a separate chamber.

Harrenhal weighs heavily upon him. It has changed him in ways I cannot yet understand. He walks the halls as if hunted, and I see the shadows of his unrest in his eyes.

Each night, his dreams twist into dark things—visions that wrench him from sleep, leaving him gasping as though clawing his way back to wakefulness. He grows ever more volatile, as if the very stones of Harrenhal press upon his mind, threatening to drive him to madness.

One night, he woke from a nightmare so violent, I feared for him. I reached out to calm him, but he struck out, not knowing it was I. I do not hold it against him—he was deep within whatever horror plagued him.

But he looked upon the bruise on my wrist with such anguish, fearing for my health and yours. It was then he resolved to put me in another room, to shield us both from his torments.

Yet, my sleep has only worsened since he made this change. This keep holds no comfort, only shadows and sighs, and I feel that something - someone - wicked watches us, waiting.

The sixth day of Sevenmas dawned in Harrenhal, a day to honor the Crone, she who carried the lantern of wisdom and foresight. How you longed for that guidance now, caught in the maze of cold stone walls and shadows that seemed to stretch into eternity.

The ancient keep, with its crumbling towers and halls seeped in ghosts of past horrors, gnawed at your spirit with every passing hour.

The days bled together, each as gray and listless as the last. Time itself felt suspended, and there was little to fill it but your prayers to the Seven and the slow, meticulous pull of thread and needle.

Embroidery was meant to calm the mind, but here it became another way for your thoughts to spiral into dark corners. How could you not let them when the halls echoed with whispers not your own and the air felt thick, laden with something unseen yet suffocating?

Your husband, Aemond, the prince with a fire in his blood and the shadow of the conqueror in his step, had become a stranger cloaked in duty.

Since Rhaenyra had laid siege to King's Landing, his days were consumed with strategy, flame-bright eyes scanning maps and murmuring with commanders until dawn kissed the horizon.

You would catch glimpses of him, his presence fierce and distant, a sword poised to strike. And still, there was one tether left—he would always return to break his fast with you, no matter the hour, as if the morning meal was a sacred pact he refused to break.

This shared ritual was a brief light in the gloom, a moment where his brow would smooth, and he would offer a small nod, as if to say, I am still here.

Yet even then, the weight of Harrenhal seemed to press upon him, creasing the corner of his eye and stealing the little warmth from his voice.

You wished for the strength of the Crone’s wisdom, to find words that could soothe whatever haunted him, whatever pulled him into those long, silent stretches where he barely met your gaze.

And so, with the sun’s first pale rays stretching over the stone battlements, you whispered a prayer to the Crone. Let me see what he cannot. Let me guard us in ways unseen.

There was another shadow cast over your time at Harrenhal, one that gnawed at your peace like a hound at a bone. Within the first week of your arrival, an attempt on Aemond’s life had been made, a sloppy affair that left more questions than answers.

Yet the mere notion of betrayal and blood sharpened Aemond’s already fierce nature into something perilously close to madness.

In his rage and paranoia, he swept through Harrenhal like a storm, burning and executing every male Strong—lords and bastards alike, sparing none.

The aftermath left the keep haunted by its own silence, populated mostly by women and children who dared not cross his path. Yet among the survivors, there was one who set your skin crawling like no other: Alys Rivers, the bastard daughter of Lionel Strong.

Her gaze, dark and knowing, seemed to pierce through you whenever it drifted your way. The keep’s old women, those who lingered in the kitchens and halls, were full of whispers, speaking in hushed tones about Alys and the tales that clung to her like a shroud.

They claimed she was a wet nurse with no babes of her own, that her cradle stayed empty because she offered her children to dark gods, drawing power from their sacrifices.

The word witch passed between toothless mouths with reverence and fear, a name that conjured images of blood and whispered spells in the dead of night.

You would catch Alys watching Aemond from the shadowed corners of the great hall, her green eyes glistening like the polished scales of a serpent.

There was something about the way she looked at him, a gaze that lingered too long, with a subtle curl to her lips that suggested she saw beyond what others did. Each time, a cold knot formed in your stomach, winding tighter with each day.

Aemond, for his part, seemed oblivious—or perhaps unwilling—to acknowledge her attention. He stalked the halls of Harrenhal like a restless dragon, his eyes always aflame with thoughts of war and vengeance.

But you, kept to the fringes and left with little to occupy your time, had learned to listen. You had overheard more than once the old wives’ tales, how the stones of Harrenhal bore witness to strange sights in the dark of night.

The morning light struggled to filter through the narrow, soot-streaked windows of Harrenhal’s great hall, casting long, somber shadows across the cold stone floor.

You sat at the grand table, an expanse of dark oak that seemed almost too vast with just the two of you seated at its head.

The hall’s emptiness swallowed the small noises of clinking silver and the rustle of fabric, leaving only the low crackle of a distant fire to break the silence.

You glanced at Aemond, his face severe and sharp as ever, eyes narrowed and distant as he picked at the bread before him. His hair, pale as moonlight, spilled over his shoulders, catching the dim glow of morning like polished silver.

You traced the line of his jaw with your gaze, noting the tautness there, the slight twitch that spoke of restless thoughts.

In truth, you did not know this man well—your husband, your prince, and yet a stranger in so many ways.

It had only been moons since you first met, and within days, the marriage vows were spoken, the ink on the alliance barely dry before you found yourself bound to him in name and in fate.

Your father’s fleet had been your dowry, a formidable power that the Greens could not afford to spurn. You understood your role, the politics and power that tethered you to Aemond, but understanding him was another matter entirely.

His silences were as deep and dark as the Blackwater, and he carried an anger that smoldered beneath his skin, an unquenchable flame that whispered of vengeance and old wounds.

But despite the cold armor of his demeanor, Aemond had never raised his voice nor his hand to you. He moved with a kind of carefulness in your presence, a restraint that bordered on gentleness.

He treated you with a respect that was rare among men of power, where wives were often little more than pawns on a board.

And though it was likely due to the child you carried beneath your heart, it kindled a small warmth within you to think that he had not left you behind when he marched to Harrenhal.

Instead, he had commanded that you come with him, a choice that puzzled you even as it comforted you.

Harrenhal was a desolate place, steeped in old, cracked stone and a history that groaned beneath every step. You despised it, with its drafty halls and the air that always seemed to taste of ashes.

Yet sitting here, across from Aemond as the thin light etched sharp lines across his face, you felt a reluctant flicker of gratitude.

The silence between you was not companionable, but it was not cruel either. It was a space where the two of you existed, tethered by duty and an unspoken understanding.

Your gaze lifted from your untouched plate to meet his. “You barely ate anything,” you ventured softly, the words almost swallowed by the great hall’s vastness.

Aemond’s eye flickered to you, just a moment of acknowledgment, before drifting back to the distant, unfocused point beyond the hall’s great hearth. “I have much on my mind,” he replied, his voice low and guarded, as always.

You lowered your gaze, the golden glint of your cup catching the flicker of the fire as you turned it in your hands. “Today is the day of the Crone,” you murmured, the soft words drifting into the vast emptiness of the hall.

Aemond’s eye settled on you again, this time with a sharper intensity, as if he were trying to read the thoughts that played behind your eyes. The violet of his gaze, stark and unyielding, seemed to see through flesh and bone.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks but pushed on, lifting your head with a tentative, almost sheepish smile.

“I have been holding small celebratory suppers in my chambers for each of the Seven,” you said, the words trembling on the cusp of hope. “Perhaps you would join me tonight?”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable, carved from the same marble as the gods whose names you spoke. He was silent, his lips pressed into a thin line as he measured the request. You held your breath, bracing for the sting of rejection, but after a moment, he inclined his head with a slow, deliberate nod.

“I shall see if I am free to attend later, wife,” he replied, each syllable precise, as if spoken under a watchful eye.

A smile unfurled across your face, a small, fragile bloom that brightened the somber air. You nodded, your gratitude silent but deeply felt, and returned your attention to the meal before you.

The hall fell back into its familiar hush, but the silence seemed gentler, softened by the promise—no matter how uncertain—that he might sit with you as the evening drew near.

Throughout the day, you moved with a purpose that had been absent for some time. Excitement flickered within you, casting a rare warmth over the bleakness of Harrenhal’s cold stone walls.

You spent more time preparing yourself than you had in weeks, choosing a gown of deep violet, the color rich and regal, one you knew would match Aemond’s eye.

Your hands worked carefully as you braided your hair, fingers weaving strands with practiced precision. You wound the braids into a half-up style, securing them with thin silver pins, and threaded small pearls between the coils, their soft luster catching the waning light that seeped through the chamber’s narrow window slits.

As the sun dipped lower, you prepared the chamber for supper, eager to cast away the dreariness of Harrenhal’s stone embrace. The table, though small, was set with care.

You placed a modest arrangement of primroses at its center, their pale petals lending a touch of softness to the somber room.

Candles, thick and tapered, were placed with a meticulous eye, their wicks waiting to be lit and offer a warm glow that would banish the shadows lurking in the corners.

Tonight was meant to honor the Crone, a day of wisdom and reflection, yet you could not help but hope for something more—a chance to share a moment, however fleeting, with the man you called husband.

The hours had been long since you’d known any touch of intimacy, any whisper of companionship. The prospect of Aemond joining you, even for a brief supper, was enough to make your heart beat with anticipation.

Time stretched on, heavy and unyielding, as you sat alone at the small table in your chambers, a solitary figure in a room filled with muted light. The food before you, once steaming and fragrant, had grown cold, the sheen of oil on the meats congealing in the chill air.

The candles you had lit earlier had burned down to stubs, their light dwindling as shadows crept up the walls.

The fire in the hearth, once crackling with warmth, had reduced itself to a bed of glowing embers, the last vestiges of heat sputtering as they surrendered to the draft that snaked through the stones.

Your heart, which had quickened with hope earlier in the day, now felt leaden with disappointment. The silence pressed in around you, each passing moment a reminder that Aemond would not come. The anticipation that had kept your spirits aloft now left a hollow ache in its absence.

Pushing your untouched plate away, you rose from the table, your movements deliberate as anger stirred in your chest. It was not the hot, reckless kind, but the slow-burning indignation that came when expectation was met with silence.

You wrapped your cloak around your shoulders and slipped into the dim corridor, determined to find him, to seek an answer rather than stew in this quiet, stinging rejection.

Harrenhal’s halls were a maze of stone and shadow, empty and vast, with only the sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the cold. The castle held a thousand whispered secrets, and tonight, it seemed eager to keep its prince among them.

You turned corners and climbed staircases, the flicker of dying torches casting your shadow long against the walls, until the familiar paths grew strange and your resolve wavered.

Finally, as you entered a lesser hall that stretched toward a wing of old chambers, you spotted movement—a maidservant carrying linens, her head bent as if afraid to be seen. Relief mixed with frustration as you quickened your step.

“Excuse me,” you called out, your voice sharper than intended.

The servant started, nearly dropping her burden before bowing her head hastily, eyes fixed to the floor. It was a common sight in Harrenhal, the way they kept their gaze averted in your presence.

Word of your husband’s fierce reputation as Prince Regent and Kinslayer had traveled swiftly, and it seemed they feared that to slight you was to invite his wrath upon them.

With a lifted chin and a tone that brooked no disobedience, you asked, “Where is my husband?”

Before the maid could stammer out an answer, another voice cut through the dim hallway—a voice that chilled the blood in your veins and haunted your sleep with its whispers.

“I fear the prince is still occupied in the council chamber, my lady,” said Alys Rivers, her tone smooth and deceptively courteous, like the edge of a blade.

You turned slowly, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but a knowing smirk pulled at her lips as she regarded you, taking in the sight of your tense shoulders, the protective way your hand drifted instinctively to your rounded stomach.

There was no warmth in her expression, only the sly amusement of a cat toying with a bird that dared to stray too far from its nest.

Your nostrils flared, and you straightened your back, eyes narrowing as you corrected her in a low, simmering murmur, “Princess.”

Alys tilted her head, feigning surprise, though her eyes betrayed nothing but a cold mirth. “Pardon me,” she said, her gaze sliding deliberately to your abdomen before flicking back up to meet yours, daring you to react.

“I am not your lady,” you hissed, “I am your princess.”

With a final, steely glare, you turned on your heel, the folds of your violet gown sweeping the floor as you made your way back through the shadowed hallways, heart pounding beneath your ribs.

The silence of Harrenhal enveloped you once more, and you did not pause until you reached the safety of your chambers, locking the door behind you and pressing your back against the cool, unyielding wood.

The echo of Alys’s smirk lingered in your mind, but you would not let her see your fear. Not tonight. Not ever.

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and primal, as the pain surged through you, tearing its way up your spine and scattering your senses. It felt as though your very body was being split apart, the agony sharper and deeper than any blade.

“Keep pushing, my princess; the babe is almost here,” urged the midwife, her voice steady but relentless.

You clenched your jaw, wanting to curse her, to scream at her to hold her tongue, but the pain stole all words from you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

It was a torment that came in relentless waves, each cresting higher than the last, only to drag you under when you thought you could surface for air. The burning, the stretching—unbearable, blinding.

“I cannot,” you sobbed, tears mingling with the sweat that drenched your brow. “Please… I can't,” you pleaded, your voice broken and desperate.

The pain surged again, stealing the air from your lungs, and then you felt it—a firm, familiar hand pressed gently to your cheek. Through the haze of pain, you turned your head, and your vision cleared just enough to see the sharp lines of Aemond’s face.

His single violet eye was intent, fierce, a rare expression of vulnerability breaking through his stoic mask. Relief, so profound it was nearly painful, swelled in your chest.

“Aemond,” you gasped, his name a lifeline, an anchor in the storm.

Husbands were not meant to be present for the birth, tradition forbade it. But he was there, and you did not care for any rule or rite that would keep him away.

“Just a few more pushes, my love,” he murmured, his voice low, a thread of steel woven through the gentleness.

You nodded weakly, mustering what remained of your strength. A deep groan escaped you as you pushed once more, the room spinning around you. The midwife’s voice rose above the roaring in your ears.

“The babe is crowning, my lady.”

But the tone was wrong. Too familiar, too cold. Alarm jolted you to consciousness, and you struggled to prop yourself on trembling elbows. Your eyes darted to the space at the foot of the birthing bed, and dread coiled tight in your gut.

There, in the dim light of the chamber, knelt Alys Rivers. Her dark hair framed eyes as green and sharp as glass, eyes that glimmered with a knowing, malevolent gleam. A smile curled at the corners of her lips as she met your gaze.

“No, no!” you screamed, panic twisting your voice. “Get away from me!”

With a surge of fear-driven strength, you tried to kick her away, your limbs thrashing wildly, but Aemond’s hands clamped down on you, firm and unyielding. “Calm yourself,” he commanded, his voice cool, steady as stone.

Alys turned her gaze up to him, a shadow of mock sympathy curving her lips. “You must choose, my prince,” she intoned, each word dripping with false solemnity. “The babe, or your wife.”

A sob wrenched from your chest as you felt your breath come in sharp, shallow gasps. “No. No!” The pain was drowned beneath the torrent of fear that flooded you.

Desperately, you looked up at Aemond, seeking the warmth, the fierce protection that once resided in his eye. But what you found was a gaze distant and unreadable, as though he stood apart, watching from some cold, unreachable place. His jaw tightened. “Save the babe.”

Time seemed to fracture around you. His words, so final, crashed over you like a wave of ice. Your eyes widened, disbelieving, as rough handmaids or shadows, you could not tell—pressed you back, holding you firm as you struggled.

“Let me go! Let me go!” you screamed, your voice raw with betrayal and terror, limbs straining against the iron grip that pinned you.

Pain cleaved through you, and you felt the weight of the babe shift within. But your focus broke as Alys moved, no longer at the foot of the bed but gliding closer, the flicker of torchlight catching on the edge of a cruel, glinting blade.

The chamber seemed to darken around her, the faint cries of the midwives fading into an ominous silence. And all you could see were those green eyes, bearing down on you like a curse whispered in the dark.

You jolted upright, heart pounding and breath ragged, the remnants of your nightmare clinging to your skin like a shroud. A trembling hand reached up to brush the tears from your cheeks, the dampness proof of the terror that had gripped you in sleep.

Your eyes drifted down, catching the soft curve of your swollen belly under the covers, rising and falling with your shallow breaths. A shaky sigh escaped your lips, a bitter mix of relief and unease.

The babe was still safe within you—at least for now. You pressed your palm over it, as if to reassure yourself of its presence.

Beyond the thin light filtering through the shuttered window, the sky remained cloaked in the indigo of night.

The stillness told you it was not yet dawn, that liminal time when dreams and waking often blurred. But sleep would not find you again; not after that vision, nor for many nights to come, you were sure.

The memory of Aemond's cold, detached gaze as he spoke words that sealed your fate in your dream clung to you. It pierced deeper than any blade, a wound festering with fear and doubt.

Yet you forced yourself to swallow the sharp sting of betrayal, directing your thoughts toward another source of your unease—Alys Rivers.

The whispers, the eyes that followed, the dark air that seemed to shift when she was near. Your fears, your husband’s torment, the sense of something wicked gnawing at Harrenhal’s bones—it all traced back to her.

Resolve steeled your spine. You pushed back the covers and rose, the weight of your pregnancy making the motion slower, more deliberate.

Wrapping yourself in a heavy fur cloak, you reached for the candelabra on the nightstand. Its small flame sputtered in protest before catching steady, casting long shadows that danced upon the walls.

The corridors of Harrenhal, once alive with whispered conversations and the hurried footfalls of servants, now loomed around you in cold, watchful silence. The draft that crept through the ancient stones nipped at your cheeks and sent a shiver down your spine.

Clutching the fur tighter against your body, you moved forward, the warm light in your grasp flickering as it met the draft.

The silence was thick, broken only by the soft rustle of your cloak and the creak of old floorboards beneath your weight.

At last, you reached the great doors of the library, their dark wood carved with sigils long forgotten and gnarled from centuries of use. Setting the candelabra down, you pushed against one of the doors, muscles straining with the effort.

It groaned open, the sound reverberating through the stillness and sending a cold gust rushing past you. Picking up the candelabra, you stepped inside and let the heavy door drift shut behind you with a thud.

The scent of old parchment and dust surrounded you, familiar and oddly comforting. Shelves stretched high, towering sentinels filled with the stories of old and the wisdom of those long gone.

On other nights, you would have lost yourself in the tales that wove through these tomes—myths and sagas that spoke of courage and triumph. But tonight, solace was not what you sought.

You moved through the rows with purpose, eyes scanning the spines until they found those few volumes that hinted at the arcane.

The lore of witches, their dark arts, the means by which they could twist men’s dreams and cloud their minds—it all lay within reach, hidden among dusty pages that no one dared speak of.

You placed the candelabra down, its light casting a golden glow that flickered across the cracked leather and faded titles.

With trembling hands, you opened the first book, its binding stiff with age. The parchment crackled as you turned the pages, your eyes drinking in the inked words.

If there was any way to guard yourself, to protect Aemond from the shadows that had seeped into your lives, you would find it here. No longer would you be haunted by that witch’s knowing gaze or the dread that coiled tight in your belly.

With each turn of the page, the flickering glow of the candelabra cast dancing shapes upon the stone walls, warding off the chill that seeped through Harrenhal’s blackened stones.

The words spoke of charms and tokens, of age-old rituals whispered by the smallfolk who feared the unseen.

Marking doors with protective sigils or crosses to ward off malevolent forces. The purifying strength of salt, said to bar dark spirits and their ilk. Rowan wood, revered for its protective properties, best used when tied with crimson thread to seal its potency.

The hours crept by, measured by the slow guttering of candle wax. You read, forgetting the passage of time as the nightmare’s claws loosened their grip on your heart.

Knowledge was your weapon now, and you wielded it with the silent promise that neither you nor Aemond would fall victim to powers unknown.

The day’s first light spilled through the high, narrow windows, a pale and hesitant glow that bled into the room and painted the bookshelves in muted gold.

It was the day of the Stranger, seldom celebrated, yet you paid it no heed. Lost in the pages, you missed the bells that tolled the hour and forgot the warmth of your usual morning meal shared with Aemond.

When at last you closed the final volume, a resolve settled in your chest, resolute and unyielding. You would need these items—symbols of protection—and that meant venturing beyond the castle’s shadowed halls and out into the market.

The fur-lined cloak wrapped snug around you, guarding against the bitter drafts that swept through the corridors as you made your way back to your chambers.

As you reached the windows, a rare sight unfolded before your eyes—snow, soft and unrelenting, blanketing the bleak spires of Harrenhal.

Snow was a rarity in King’s Landing, seldom seen during your girlhood there. For a moment, untouched by fear or doubt, you felt the stir of childish wonder rise within you.

Three knights of the Kingsguard, their white cloaks pristine even in the snow, flanked you as you ventured to the market. The square bustled despite the cold, vendors calling out their wares with voices hoarse from the chill. Your list of protective items, hastily scrawled in the early hours, guided your every step.

Surprisingly, the rowan wood was easy to find, its branches bundled tightly with red thread as per custom.

Charms of polished crystal and talismans wrought from iron and bronze were procured with little effort, their sellers eager to part with them for a handful of silver stags.

The murmured blessings from the old crones at their stalls made the hair on the back of your neck prickle, but you pressed on, their eyes shadowed with both reverence and suspicion.

By the time the sun began its descent, casting a gilded glow over the snow-draped stones of Harrenhal, your arms were laden with your newfound protections. You returned to your chambers with purpose, setting to work immediately.

With meticulous care, you bound the red thread around the twigs of rowan wood and placed them above each entrance.

Salt, precious and fine, was spread across the thresholds, each grain catching the firelight like scattered stars.

With charcoal from your writing desk, you etched intricate symbols—wards against dark magics—onto the cold, unyielding stone walls.

But it was not just your own safety you sought to secure. For Aemond, you had combed the market for a piece both practical and protective. After much haggling, you procured a leather eyepatch, supple and black, unmarred by wear.

Returning to your chamber, you carefully stitched shards of black tourmaline into its edge, each piece glinting with a subtle, protective gleam. Your needlework was steady, each pull of the thread imbued with silent prayers.

Lost in your task, you barely noted the soft knock at your door or the maidservant who entered, setting a tray of supper on the table near the hearth.

The aroma of roasted fowl and warm bread wafted through the chamber, but your focus remained fixed.

As you worked by the fire's glow, the shadows that had haunted your waking hours seemed to lessen, replaced by the steady rhythm of thread and needle, and the quiet resolve that this time, you would be ready.

You were so absorbed in your needlework, fingers deftly stitching the dark crystals onto a supple leather patch, that the sudden clearing of a throat startled you. Your gaze snapped up, eyes wide with surprise as they met the cool, familiar face of Aemond Targaryen.

“Husband,” you said, breathless as you hastily hid the finished eye patch beneath a velvet pillow. Rising to your feet, you inclined your head, though your heart thudded with residual tension.

He stood tall and imposing in the dim glow, the silver-white of his hair catching the light like a crown. For a moment, the room felt smaller, as if the walls themselves pressed in with the weight of his presence.

“What brings you here?” you asked, voice touched with confusion and a hint of sharpness. Exhaustion dulled your sense of propriety, leaving the question more pointed than intended.

Aemond’s lone violet eye narrowed, an unreadable glimmer within its depths. “To have supper with you,” he replied, as if such a thing were the most natural answer in the realm.

Your eyes flickered to the table, where two silver plates now sat, the steam rising lazily from the dishes set by the silent servant moments before.

You pressed your lips into a thin line and sighed, murmuring, “I believe my invitation was for yesterday.”

A shadow of regret crossed his face, so brief that another might have missed it, but you saw. As you moved past him to take your seat, you caught the soft murmur that slipped from his lips, “I deserved that.”

Aemond followed and took his place across from you, the creak of the chair echoing in the quiet chamber. For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearthfire. His gaze settled on you, sharp and searching.

“I have not seen you at all today,” he said at last, the words carrying a hint of something that might have been longing, tempered by pride.

Your eyes dropped to your hands, fingers fiddling absently with the edge of your gown. Remorse pricked at your heart—you had broken your shared morning ritual, the one part of the day reserved just for the two of you.

“I was very busy,” you replied softly, the excuse feeling thin on your tongue.

Aemond’s expression remained unreadable as he tilted his head slightly. “I heard. Visits to the market square,” he said.

You hesitated, holding back the details of the charms, the salt, the ancient warding sigils you had traced with trembling hands. He would only deem you foolish or worse, mad.

“I needed fresh air.”

His eye narrowed, a flicker of displeasure passing over his sharp features. “It is too dangerous for one in your condition to wander beyond these walls,” he said, the admonishment clear, though his tone held an undercurrent of concern.

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with defiance. “That is why I took three of your White Cloaks,” you retorted, the fire in your voice matching the spark in his eye.

For a heartbeat, the tension crackled between you, the weight of unsaid words pressing down like a heavy cloak. Then, Aemond’s lips quirked, almost imperceptibly, as if some silent battle had been waged and resolved within him.

“Good,” he said at last, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “You are no fool, wife.”

The tautness in the room eased, and though unspoken, an accord was reached.

Aemond leaned forward, and placed a carved wooden box on the table between you. “I’ve brought you something,” he said, his voice a measured calm, yet there was an undercurrent of something softer. “An apology for last night.”

Your brows knit together, skepticism clear in your eyes. “My forgiveness cannot be bought with trinkets, husband,” you said, your tone edged with defiance. Yet even as you spoke, curiosity stirred within you.

One of his silver brows arched at your remark, and a small smile ghosted his lips. “Let us see if it is worthy,” you murmured, reluctant to give ground but unable to hide the intrigue that tugged at you.

With a careful hand, Aemond lifted the lid of the box, revealing a necklace of silver and sapphire. The deep blue stone glimmered like the sea under moonlight, capturing the room’s faint candle glow.

Your breath stilled for a moment, eyes tracing the intricate work of the silver links, each carved to mimic dragon scales.

Your fingertips brushed over the gem, the cool surface grounding you as warmth bloomed in your chest. Unbidden, a soft smile tugged at your lips, an expression so rare that even you felt its presence.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered, your voice softened by genuine gratitude.

Aemond’s face shifted, pride flickering across his sharp features. There was something triumphant in his half-smirk that you could not allow him to savor unchallenged. You rose from your seat, skirts rustling as you moved.

“I, too, have a gift for you,” you said, your tone now light with a note of playfulness.

“Oh?” he replied, one silver eyebrow lifting in surprise, though the glint in his lone violet eye revealed his interest.

“Mm,” you hummed, stepping to the chaise where a small cushion lay. Your fingers slipped beneath it, retrieving the item hidden there. Turning back to him, a touch of shyness colored your expression, a rare sight that softened the lines of your face.

With both hands, you presented him with an eye patch, the black leather supple and embroidered with fine strands of broken tourmaline crystals, catching the dim light with a subtle shimmer.

Aemond took it, surprise giving way to careful scrutiny. His fingers traced the delicate work, the weight of the crystals and their arrangement thoughtful.

“Black tourmaline,” you said quietly, watching his gaze flick between you and the patch. “It is said to have powerful protective qualities.”

You hesitated, unwilling to speak of how it was also believed to ward against dark energies and unseen dangers—of how it might shield him from threats both known and hidden.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. Aemond’s mouth quirked into a faint smile, rare and genuine. “Thank you, wife. 'Tis a very thoughtful gift,” he said, voice low and sincere.

A moment passed, and you froze in silent shock as Aemond reached up to remove the eye patch he wore. Of course, you had seen what lay beneath—the striking sapphire set into the hollow of his missing eye—but Aemond was never keen on showing it.

In King’s Landing, he would only take it off moments before sleep and replace it the moment he awoke.

Before he could put on the new eye patch, you placed a hand over his arm. “You know you don’t have to wear it around me, yes? I have no issue with it, and you should not either.”

Aemond stared at you for a long moment, his nostrils flaring slightly. For a heartbeat, you feared you had overstepped, but then he nodded, leaving both eye patches on the table.

A small, victorious smile touched your lips as you felt the weight of this unspoken understanding between you. “Allow me to have the maids bring us some dessert,” you said, the tension lifting.

Aemond nodded, his gaze lingering on you as you turned to the doors.

Stepping into the corridor, you quickly found a maid and requested something sweet to be brought to your chambers. When you returned, your heart faltered at the sight before you. Aemond stood at your desk, his tall frame hunched slightly as he leaned over an open book—your journal.

Panic surged within you, and you strode forward, slamming the book shut with a sharp motion. “What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice sharper than intended, eyes wide with both shock and alarm.

Aemond straightened, holding the closed journal in his hand. His expression was unreadable, though his eye bore into you with quiet intensity. “What is this?” he asked evenly, tilting the book slightly for emphasis.

“My private journal,” you answered quickly, reaching for it, but he lifted it just out of your grasp, his superior height giving him the advantage. “Give it back, husband. It is mine.”

Aemond’s voice was steady but carried an undertone of something raw, almost fragile. “Then why,” he began, his eye fixed on you, ignoring your protests, “do you write to our babe?” There was an ache in his tone, a depth of emotion he hadn’t yet voiced.

The question caught you unprepared, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your skirts, and your shoulders sagged as you avoided his penetrating gaze. “In case,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips.

“In case of what?” he pressed, his voice low and edged with a demand for understanding.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could uncover your secrets by sheer will. Unable to face him, you closed your eyes and let out a shaky sigh. “In case I’m not there,” you admitted at last, the words barely audible, like a confession carried on the wind.

Aemond’s brows drew together, confusion shadowing his features. “What do you mean if you’re not—” He stopped mid-sentence, his breath catching as realization dawned. The tension in his posture shifted, his shoulders falling ever so slightly. “…There.”

His sharp features softened, a rare vulnerability settling over his face. “Women do survive the childbed,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, as though he feared the weight of his words might shatter you.

“Not every time,” you countered, your tone edged with resignation. “And there’s also… that choice.” Your voice broke on the last word, and you felt the tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire. Then, with a tenderness that made your heart ache, Aemond reached out and cupped your cheek.

His touch was warm, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as he tilted your face toward him, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“There can be more babes,” he said softly, his words a promise etched with fierce determination, “but there is only one you.”

His eye, a storm of violet and sapphire, held yours with such intensity that you felt as though he was laying his very soul bare. A tear escaped and traced down your cheek, but Aemond caught it with his thumb, his touch steady, grounding you in the moment.

“I would not choose otherwise,” he said firmly, the weight of his vow lingering in the air between you. “Not for all the heirs in the realm.”

Your lips trembled as you whispered, “You swear?”

“I swear it,” he replied, his voice low and resolute. “I will not lose my wife.”

The ache in your chest eased slightly, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a shield. You placed your hand over his, pressing it gently against your cheek.

With a soft breath, you tilted your head upward, letting your lips meet his in a gentle caress. The kiss was tender at first, a quiet exchange of affection that carried the weight of your unspoken fears and his unyielding promise.

Aemond responded eagerly, his lips pressing more firmly against yours as his hand slid from your cheek to cradle the nape of your neck.

His other hand found your waist, gripping you firmly as he pulled you closer, as if the mere thought of distance was unbearable. His tongue brushed against your lips, seeking entrance, and you granted it willingly.

As his tongue met yours, the kiss deepened, a slow, fervent dance that sent warmth coursing through your veins. A soft moan escaped your lips, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten in response, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown.

Your hands moved up his chest, tracing the hard planes of muscle beneath his tunic, before curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself.

The world around you faded, leaving only the press of his body against yours, the taste of him on your lips, and the heat that built between you like the fire crackling in the hearth.

When the kiss broke, it was with a reluctance that lingered in the air between you. Your breaths came in shallow pants as you gazed up at him through hooded lashes, the corners of your lips curving into a teasing smile.

“My love,” you purred, your voice sultry and laced with affection, “you’ve left me wanting… again.”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, the stormy hue of his violet eye smoldering with barely restrained desire. “Have I now?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Then it seems I must remedy that, wife.”

You guided his hands lower, to the swell of your belly, then further down to the hem of your nightgown. “Will you show me how much you desire me?” you asked, your voice a sultry whisper. “Make me forget everything but the feel of you inside me...”

A low growl rumbled in Aemond's throat as his hands moved beneath your gown, fingers tracing the curves of your swollen belly before dipping lower to find the damp heat of your core.

“You have no idea how often I dreamt of this,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Of burying myself deep within you, feeling your walls clench around me...”

With a swift motion, he lifted the hem of your nightgown and pulled it over your head, throwing it aside, revealing your naked form.

His gaze devoured every inch of you, from the full breasts that rose and fell with each ragged breath, to the soft, rounded hips and the glistening folds of your sex.

“Tell me what you want, my queen,” he commanded, his voice husky with desire.

A shiver ran through you at Aemond's bold appraisal, your nipples hardening into tight peaks as his hungry gaze seared your skin. You reached for the fastenings of his breeches, your fingers fumbling with urgency to free his straining erection.

“I want you,” you murmured, your voice low, thick with a desire that lingered like a soft melody in the air. Your eyes never left his, the depth of your longing laid bare in the way your breath hitched.

Aemond’s violet gaze darkened, the flicker of a smirk ghosting his lips. His head tilted ever so slightly, a predator’s grace, as though savoring your words before acting upon them.

You took a step back, your movements slow and deliberate, your footsteps light against the floor as you inched toward the bed. The flicker of the firelight cast a warm glow across the room, the shadows dancing across the carved posts of the bed.

As you reached its edge, you let yourself fall gracefully onto the soft mattress, your body sinking into the luxurious furs and silks. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you gazed at him through lowered lashes, a sly smile curving your lips.

“You beckon me so boldly,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet drawl, the faintest edge of amusement laced within it. “Have a care, wife, for I am not a man to resist such temptation.”

Aemond watched, transfixed, as you sank onto the bed, the mattress creaking under your weight. His cock throbbed in time with his racing heart, the tip already glistening with precum.

He shed his clothes the rest of the way, letting them fall carelessly to the floor as he stalked towards you, muscles rippling with each step. By the time he reached the bed, he was fully erect, his shaft jutting proudly from a nest of silver curls.

Lying beside you, he reached out to cup your breast, thumbing the sensitive peak before leaning in to capture your mouth in another searing kiss.

His free hand trailed over your round stomach, pausing to tease the edge of your slit before delving deeper, fingers probing your slick folds.

“You're so wet for me already.”

You gasped into the kiss as Aemond's fingers found your entrance, your hips bucking instinctively to meet his touch. “Please,” you whimpered, breaking away from his mouth to gaze up at him with pleading eyes. “I need you inside me. Fill me up, make me yours again.”

As if sensing your desperation, Aemond positioned himself between your thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently at your opening. With a deep groan, he thrust forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

You cried out at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure-pain crashed over you. It took a moment for your body to adjust, to relax and welcome the thick length filling you so completely.

Aemond's breath hitched as he bottomed out inside you, your velvety walls gripping him like a vice. For a moment, he simply savored the exquisite sensation, reveling in the tight heat enveloping his throbbing cock.

Then, with a slow, deliberate withdrawal, he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a relentless pace.

The bed frame creaked ominously beneath the force of his thrusts, but Aemond paid it no mind, lost in the primal rhythm of rutting his mate.

“Yes, just like that,” he growled, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. “Take my cock, my queen.”

You wrapped your legs around Aemond's waist, heels digging into his firm behind as he pounded into you with wild abandon.

Each brutal thrust sent shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, your inner walls fluttering wildly around his pistoning shaft.

“Aemond!” You wailed, your nails raking down his back as you met his ferocious pace.

The obscene slap of flesh against flesh filled the room, punctuated by my wanton cries and Aemond's guttural grunts. You could feel the pressure building within you, coiling tighter and tighter like a spring ready to snap.

Suddenly, you were hurtling over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name as your cunt clenched rhythmically around him, milking his cock for all it was worth.

Aemond's eye rolled back in his head as your velvet sheath spasmed around him, your climax triggering his own. With a hoarse groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came undone, his seed erupting in thick, pulsing jets.

He continued to thrust through the aftershocks, prolonging your shared bliss until he was spent, collapsing beside you with a grunt. For a long moment, the two of you lay entwined, chests heaving as you struggled to catch your breath.

The chamber was awash with the warmth of the firelight and the quiet hum of your contentment. As you lay entwined, your bodies barely a breath apart, your gaze lingered on Aemond’s face.

His sharp features, so often hardened by duty and war, were softened now, his violet eye fixed on you with a tenderness rarely seen.

Your noses brushed lightly, a quiet intimacy, as his hand rested possessively over your waist while yours splayed across his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

Almost as if drawn by a spell, he leaned forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to your lips, a gesture so gentle it felt like a whispered promise. When he pulled away, he settled back onto the pillow beside you, his arm still wrapped protectively around you.

You shifted, nestling closer, your head finding solace in the crook of his neck. Your hand lay over his heart, its steady rise and fall a soothing cadence that began to lull you into slumber.

His breathing slowed, each exhale a soft brush against your hair, and soon, the quiet comfort of his presence drew you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But the peace did not last.

You jolted awake, startled by the sudden thrashing of Aemond’s body beside you. His face, so serene moments ago, was now contorted in anguish, his brow slick with sweat.

His breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, and his hands clenched the sheets as if warding off some unseen terror.

Your heart clenched at the sight. He had spoken little of his nightmares, but you knew they haunted him—a torment born of battles fought, losses endured, and burdens carried.

Pushing yourself up, you moved with as much haste as your swollen belly would allow, the weight of your pregnancy slowing you only slightly.

Grabbing the robe draped over the chair, you wrapped it around yourself, its soft fabric barely warding off the chill of the room as you padded toward the small table where you had placed your new goods.

Your hands rummaged through the items with purpose, your fingers finally curling around a small vial. You held it up, peering at its contents even in the dim light. The faint, familiar scent already began to calm your racing heart.

Lavender oil.

You returned to the bed, the vial clutched firmly in your grasp. As you sat beside him, Aemond's thrashing began to subside, though his breaths were still ragged, and his jaw clenched tightly.

Carefully, you uncorked the vial, the soothing aroma of lavender wafting into the room. You poured a small amount onto your hands, warming the oil between your palms before leaning over him.

With gentle, deliberate movements, you began to anoint his temples, your touch light yet firm as you traced small, calming circles.

The oil left a faint sheen on his skin, its scent filling the space between you. "Aemond," you whispered softly, your voice low and steady, a tether pulling him back from the depths of his nightmare.

His breathing began to slow, the tension in his body easing under your ministrations. You moved to his wrists, massaging the oil into his pulse points, your hands steady despite the ache blooming in your lower back.

“You are safe,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear. “I am here.”

You whispered a silent prayer under your breath, invoking the gods for protection and peace. Your gaze stayed fixed on him, your heart clenching as you watched his features begin to soften, the tension melting away.

You held your breath, waiting. When his form finally stilled, his breathing evening out, you let out a soft sigh of relief. The lavender and your quiet vigil had worked.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon you, and you slid back into bed beside him, pulling the covers over the both of you. But just as you were about to lay your head against Aemond’s chest, you froze.

A chill ran down your spine, and the hairs on your arms stood on end as an inexplicable sensation swept over you.

You were being watched.

Your eyes darted to the chamber doors, which you now noticed were slightly ajar. Beyond them, barely visible in the darkness, you caught the faint glimmer of glowing green eyes.

Your heart raced, a primal fear coursing through you. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with an unseen presence.

But you steadied yourself, your breathing slowing as you reminded yourself of the protections you had set in place earlier that day.

You had taken every precaution, warding the chamber with runes and incantations, ensuring that no ill intent could cross its threshold. Alys Rivers might wield her strange gifts, but she would not claim Aemond—not without a fight.

With a courage you hadn’t known you possessed, you tightened your arms around Aemond’s sleeping form, drawing strength from the warmth of his body against yours. Lifting your chin, you stared directly into the glowing eyes, refusing to show weakness.

“I won’t let you have him,” you whispered fiercely, your voice a low, steady vow. “Not without a fight, witch.”

For a moment, the air seemed to hold its breath. The green eyes lingered for a moment longer, unblinking and cold, before retreating into the darkness.

Only when the oppressive feeling lifted did you allow yourself to exhale. A trembling sigh escaped your lips as you lowered your head, nestling into Aemond’s chest. His heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear, became a soothing rhythm, lulling you out of your fear.

As the night enveloped you once more, you clung to him, your resolve unshaken. Whatever forces sought to disturb your peace, you would face them.

For Aemond, for your babe, for the family you were building together—you would fight.

Hope You Enjoyed!

#aemond targaryen x reader #house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd aemond #aemond one eye #aemond x you #aemond targaryen smut

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theostrophywife · 1 year ago

Text

little dove.

pairing: tom riddle x reader.

song inspiration: if u think i'm pretty by artemas.

author's note: can't believe this is my first tom fic, but please know that this man awakens the feral, unhinged side of me. let me slytherin to your chamber of secrets and ride that basilisk tommy 😏

This was a stupid, idiotic, and terrible idea.

Unfortunately for you, those were the conditions in which Harry and Ron worked best under. In your defense, you tried to talk them out of the prank, but the boys were determined to leave their mark. You suppose you could’ve told Hermione, but you didn’t want to interrupt her date with Draco. When it came to talking sense into their thick skulls, you were completely and utterly alone.

After much argument, you finally accepted that you weren’t going to get anywhere with Harry and Ron. The only thing you could do was supervise their reckless pursuits and minimize the damage as much as possible. So here you were, sneaking into the dungeons under the cover of darkness.

“This will be the best seventh year prank yet,” Ron whispered as he trailed close behind. “Fred and George are going to be so jealous.”

“If we don’t die from the cold first,” Harry quipped sarcastically, slightly shivering underneath the invisibility cloak draped over the three of you. “The Slytherins really take the whole cold-blooded thing quite literally, don’t they?”

You huffed in response, trying your best to muffle your steps. “Can we please focus on not getting caught? We need to be in and out of the dungeons before the prefects start their patrols.”

The boys nodded as you inched further into the serpent’s nest. Luckily, the corridor that housed Professor Snape’s office was empty. You held your breath as you began to unravel the wards protecting the entrance. You had to give it to him, Snape was incredibly thorough when it came to his security measures. Good thing you were an expert on unlocking charms.

With a final flick of your wand, the door gave way and creaked open. Ron and Harry wore matching grins as the three of you spilled into the office. Closing the door behind you, Harry’s green eyes crinkled with mischief.

“Let’s get started.”

Surprisingly, Harry and Ron’s half-arsed plan was actually coming together. The three of you worked in silence, the boys handing you paints and supplies at the snap of your fingers. After a few more strokes, you flicked your paintbrush over the wall and cocked your head to examine your work. Nearly every single surface of Professor Snape’s office was covered in your illustrations—technically vandalism according to wizarding law.

The drawings, imbued with the same magic that powered the moving portraits, depicted caricatures of Professor Snape, all of which scurried like rats along the walls, hurtling globs of paint at one another. The head of Slytherin house was going to have a fit when he saw what you’d done to his office. You almost wished you could be there in the morning to witness the look on Snape’s face when he uncovered your masterpiece.

“Bloody brilliant!” Ron exclaimed, grinning from ear to ear as he packed up the paints and brushes. “You’ve really outdone yourself, Y/N.”

Harry chuckled and nudged your shoulder. “See? You do have a taste for trouble, after all.”

You rolled your eyes fondly. “Yeah, yeah. Now help me clean up so we can go.”

As you carefully wiped the office of any trace of the three of you, Harry suddenly stopped dead in his tracks. You looked up, ready to scold him for idling, but fell silent when you saw the panicked expression on his face.

“What is it?” you asked quietly.

Harry held up his hand and slowly opened the door, peeking out into the darkness. A muffled clicking that sounded an awful lot like footsteps echoed from the corridor. “Do you hear that?”

Ron cursed lowly. “The prefects must’ve started their rounds early.”

You peered over Harry’s shoulder and felt the color drain from your face. “It’s not the prefects,” you said, swallowing thickly. “It’s the Head Boy.”

Both the boys swore under their breaths. You steeled yourself, knowing that panic was not going to get you anywhere. As quietly as possible, you retrieved Harry’s cloak and beckoned the boys underneath it.

“We’re so fucked,” Ron mumbled.

“No, we’re not,” you chided sternly. “Get under the cloak and don’t make a sound.”

Harry scooted in beside you, clutching the invisible fabric over his shoulders. “Do you have a plan?”

You nodded. “Run like hell and don’t get caught.”

“That’s a bloody terrible plan!” said Ron.

With a glare, you tugged the redhead underneath the cloak. “Then please, let us hear your brilliant idea, Ronald.” Ron stayed quiet, his freckled face etched with fear. “That’s what I thought. Now stay close and for Merlin’s sake, try not to stomp around like a damned erumpent.”

Stupid.

Idiotic.

Terrible.

Every ounce of apprehension you felt earlier that night came rushing back as the three of you cowered in the darkness. It was pitch-black in the corridor, but you didn’t dare cast lumos for fear of getting caught. Thankfully, a small light up ahead provided you with a vague sense of direction. You remembered passing the lit emerald sconce on the way down. All you had to do was get back to the entrance without running into the head boy.

The glimmer of hope became clearer and clearer as you neared the stairs that would lead you out of the dungeons. You were so close. Barely a few metres away from freedom.

Just as you thought you were safe, Ron knocked into a table, sending one of the snake sculptures guarding the alcove to the common room tumbling. The marble cracked against the concrete, breaking into a million pieces just like your hope of escaping.

“Run!” you huffed, urging the boys to go on.

A solid plan if you hadn’t been nearly blind in the dark. You could hear the shuffling of footsteps beside you. Three sets belonging to you, Harry, and Ron, while an unknown fourth inched closer and closer. Whoever it was wasn’t running, but they were definitely in pursuit.

You stumbled through the dark, nearly tripping over your own feet. From up ahead, you could hear Harry and Ron urging you on. As you broke into a sprint, paints and brushes came spilling out of your satchel. Under any other circumstance, you would’ve abandoned your art supplies, but leaving them behind would fully incriminate the three of you. In the time it took to pick up the damning evidence, you stopped hearing your friend’s voices.

It would’ve worried you, but in all honesty, you were relieved. If you could no longer hear the boys, then that meant they made it safely out of the serpent’s nest. A feat in itself given their track record. Those two couldn’t be inconspicuous if they tried. Without the need to worry for them, you were confident that you’d be able to slip out undetected.

In hindsight, you were perhaps a tad bit overconfident. You were great at sneaking around, but apparently not good enough to slip the head boy’s notice. As soon as you started to creep past the dormitories, you ran into a wall that hadn’t been there before.

Except it wasn’t a wall.

It was a strong, firm chest. A chest that belonged to none other than Tom Riddle.

Leave it to your terrible luck to run straight into the arms of the scariest boy in the castle.

Determined not to cower, you lifted your chin defiantly and faced Tom head on. “Head Boy,” you greeted in acknowledgment.

Emerald eyes unflinchingly surveyed you, that intense green stare sweeping from the top of your head to the bottom of your feet. Beneath the faint glow of the Black Lake pouring in through the stained glass windows, you could’ve easily mistaken Tom Riddle for an angel. He looked like an illustration straight out of the Sistine Chapel. Beautiful, intricate, perfect.

Yet utterly terrifying.

Danger prickled at your skin as Tom’s lips curved into a sinister smirk. “My, my, what do we have here? A little dove out of her cage.”

You bristled as he brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his voice a seductive caress. It was low, husky, and a little rough around the edges. Just like its speaker. Tom plucked a paintbrush out of your satchel and examined it between his fingers. “I saw what you did to Snape’s office. Quite artistic, aren’t you?”

A part of you considered denying it, but it would’ve been a futile attempt. There was paint splattered all over your skirt and flecks of it were already drying on your skin. Tom had quite literally caught you red handed. The only thing you could do was to own up to it and face whatever consequences came as a result of your foolish actions.

“Are you going to turn me in to the headmaster?”

Tom shook his head, his brown wavy hair falling over one eye. “Not until I catch your two helpers.”

Panic seized your body. It may be too late for you, but Tom hadn’t seen either Harry or Ron. There was a chance they could come out of this unscathed.

“I was alone,” you declared with your chin held high. “There was no one else with me.”

Anger contorted Tom’s handsome features. Those emerald eyes lit up in flames as he backed you into a wall, bracketing each side of your head with his arms as he leaned down. You tried not to cower under the intensity of his stare, but gods was it hard. Tom towered a good foot over you and as if that weren’t intimidating enough, he also blocked every possibility of escape with his body.

“Don’t lie to me, little dove,” Tom growled, tilting your chin up with one hand. “I heard three sets of footsteps running through the corridor.”

You swallowed thickly, praying to Merlin to grant you the ability to flawlessly lie your arse off. “I swear, it was just me. No one else. I did it all by myself.”

Tom hummed as if unconvinced. “Well, you’re certainly on your own now. Your idiotic friends left you down in the dungeons all alone. Don’t you know that dangerous things lurk in the dark around here, Y/N?”

“Like I said, I was alone.”

“So it appears,” Tom said, flashing you a smile that told you he was the most dangerous thing lurking in the dungeons. “Poor little dove wandering the serpent’s nest all on her own. Hasn’t anyone told you that us Slytherins have teeth?”

“Why?” In an idiotic surge of courage, the words slipped out of your mouth before you could pull them back in. “Do you plan on biting me, Tom?”

Tom grabbed your jaw roughly, making you whimper in surprise. “Insolent girl. You’ll learn your lesson soon enough.”

Without warning, he grabbed you by the elbow and started dragging you down the corridor. At first, you were certain that Tom was taking you to Dumbledore’s office, but as the minutes ticked by, you realized that you were going in the opposite direction. If anything, he was leading you right into the heart of the dungeons.

Tom’s grip tightened to the point of pain as he guided you up a set of twin staircases, practically flying up the steps on the right side, which you assumed led to the dormitories. It had a similar layout to the Gryffindor common room, except instead of leading into the towers, the narrow hallway opened into an intricate maze in the lower levels of the castle.

Nestled into the underbelly of Hogwarts was a large, dark room that was surrounded by more stained glass walls that looked out into the Black Lake. A school of fish swam by as Tom ushered you through the door, which he promptly locked behind him with a series of complicated spells you had no hope of deciphering.

You were trapped. Alone in a room. With Tom Riddle.

Upon closer inspection, you surmised that this had to be his private suite. It was twice as large as your dorm back in the towers and extremely private. A luxury that only the Head Boy and Head Girl enjoyed.

“You’ve been very bad, little dove,” Tom reprimanded. "You deserve to be punished, but I’ll tell you what. Give up the names of your accomplices and I might find it in my heart to go easy on you.”

His drawling voice echoed in the bedroom as he leaned back against his desk, twirling his wand between his fingers. The look he leveled at you is enough to awaken your fear. Plus another emotion that you couldn’t quite place your finger on.

Merlin, Tom was sizing you up like he was the lion and you were the helpless deer frolicking through the meadow. You steeled yourself and doubled down on your lies.

“There was no one else, Tom.”

He smirked as though you’d given him the answer he’d hoped to hear. Tom stopped twirling his wand, tucking it away in his back pocket as he stalked over to you. “Very well, then. I suppose you’ll just have to endure their punishments too.”

You swallowed past the lump in your throat. It occurred to you that while you had your wand, you were completely and utterly defenseless against Tom. It should’ve scared you shitless, but instead you felt a strange sort of thrill as he came closer. “What…what sort of punishment?”

A smirk curved at his lips as he fisted your hair between his fingers and tilted your head back to meet his gaze. “I think you know, babydoll.”

Heat ignited in your veins as your tongue darted out to sweep across your bottom lip. “This is crazy,” you whispered. “Shouldn’t you be telling Dumbledore? Snape? Someone in charge?”

“I’m the one in charge,” Tom growled as he shoved you against his bookshelf. Your back hit solid wood, disturbing the neatly organized tomes behind you. “You snuck into my dungeons, under my watch, and defaced my home. I will dole out your punishment as I see fit.”

“And if I refuse?” You asked, hoping that you emulated the bravery that your house was infamous for.

Tom pressed his body against yours, leaving barely a hairsbreadth between you as he flashed you a feral smile. “It’s laughable that you still think you have a choice.”

“I could scream bloody murder. Wake the entire castle up and alert everyone that you're holding a fellow student against her will."

“You could,” Tom mused as amusement flickered in his eyes. “But we both know you won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“You’d never risk such a scandalous act to go on your record. First vandalizing Professor Snape’s office, then sneaking into the Head Boy’s dorm after curfew? You’re on a downward spiral, aren’t you, little dove?”

“I didn’t sneak into your dorm. You dragged me in here.”

“Please,” Tom said with a scoff. “Let’s not pretend that you don’t want to be here. I’ve been watching you, you know. The perfect little Gryffindor good girl. You think you have everyone fooled, but not me.” You groaned as he pinned your hips in place, sliding his thigh between your legs.

“You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me in class? Bending over in that tiny little skirt of yours hoping I’ll glance your way? Leaving the buttons to your blouse undone so you can give me a view of that lacy red bra? Biting your lip when you’re thinking dirty thoughts about me in class?”

You flushed at his spot on assessment. Tom might be right on the mark, but you weren’t about to admit that to him. Not when your pride was on the line. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dirty little liar.” Tom whispered against the shell of your ear. “You know, your mental shields are impressive, but it’s like you can’t help yourself when I’m around. You’re practically broadcasting your filthy fantasies every time we’re in the same room.”

Fuck.

This was bad.

This was really fucking bad.

How many times had you sat in class staring at Tom while thinking the filthiest, dirtiest thoughts about him? Tom bending you over a desk. Tom slipping his fingers under your skirt. Tom making you scream with his head between your thighs.

All this time, he had complete access to those dirty daydreams.

“That’s right, doll. You may be a powerful occlumens, but you’re no match for my legilimency.” He chuckled darkly, caressing your jaw.

A heavy pressure weighed down the constraints of your defenses as Tom poked around in your mind, teasing and taunting as a lover would. The act of him prodding around in your subconscious was oddly sensual, mixing pain and pleasure together as he waited for you to yield.

There’s no use hiding now, Tom whispered into your subconscious. I’ve already seen inside your mind, doll. And your thoughts are just as fucking filthy as mine.

Glimpses of your deepest, darkest fantasies flashed through your mind. The images were a never ending rolodex of filth and smut. Tom fucking you like his perfect little slut. Tom panting above you as he spread your legs. Tom working you with his fingers until you were a sobbing, whimpering mess.

He was right. You were shameless.

But so was he. A new image of you on your knees while Tom unbuckled his belt, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip as you stared up expectantly took center stage. Since it was from his point of view, you could only assume that he was showing you one of his fantasies. It was oddly satisfying. Tom was basking in the depravity with you, sharing his equally fucked up thoughts.

“Tom…” you breathed, leaning into his touch as he continued to pin you against the wooden bookshelf.

“Not Tom,” he grunted gruffly. “You’ll address me properly from now on, little dove.”

This was so fucked up and yet so hot at the same time. You were so turned on you could hardly speak. “Yes, sir.”

“That’s better, doll.” Tom declared with a smirk. “Now that I’ve been inside of your head, I plan on being inside you in every other way as well. Starting with that pretty little mouth of yours. On your knees, little dove.”

A strange sense of deja vu washed over you as you knelt onto the floor. The concrete nipped at your knees, but you welcomed the pain. It kept you centered as your body buzzed with anticipation. You watched as Tom unbuckled his belt, deft fingers slowly sliding his boxers down as he gripped himself with one hand.

With a smirk, Tom brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, looking down at you with lust blown eyes. “Open wide, babydoll.”

Tom pumped himself slowly. The sight of his cock made your mouth water, your head spinning and dizzy with desire as you tried to calculate how you were going to take all of him. The tip of his cock glistened with precum as he rubbed over it. Tom was thick, long, and absolutely delicious. You groaned as he rubbed his head over your lips, the salty taste of his arousal resting on your tongue.

“I won’t ask again,” Tom warned. “Be a good girl and open your mouth. I’ll make you regret it if you don’t.”

“Yes, sir.”

A satisfied smile graced his handsome face before he shoved his way in. Your lips parted for him, opening your mouth wider as you accommodated his size. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You nodded obediently, eyes filling with tears as you took Tom all the way back. He fisted your hair in one hand and rocked against your mouth, hitting the back of your throat. A garbled sound crawled out of your chest, but it was soon silenced with Tom’s impatient thrusts.

“Fuck,” Tom cursed. “So wet and warm. Such a perfect little throat. What a pity that I’m about to ruin it.”

Ruin was an understatement. Tom fucked your throat with precise thrusts, angling deeper and deeper and groaning as you gagged on his cock. He was so deep that you could feel him bruising your tonsils. The more he abused your throat, the wetter your pussy got. You were practically soaked as you moaned on his cock, sucking your cheeks in and bobbing your head up and down to take more of him.

“Such pretty noises,” Tom said, his fingers curling through your hair to the point of pain. He tugged at your scalp, forcing you to meet his eyes as you sucked him off. “If your mouth feels this good around my cock, then I can’t even imagine what your cunt will feel like.”

You groaned in pleasure, making Tom’s eye roll back from the vibrations. Controlled, compulsive, and perfectly composed Tom Riddle was fading before you, replaced by a man driven only by his base desires. He was an animal lost to lust and so were you.

Tom squeezed your throat, groaning when he felt himself moving beneath his grip. “Your throat was made to be fucked, doll. You like that, don’t you? You love it when I’m rough.”

You struggled to nod in acknowledgement, saliva sloppily collecting in the corner of your mouth as you continued to let him use you for his own pleasure. Tom chuckled at your pathetic attempt to respond. “Don’t bother answering, little dove. You won’t be able to speak when I’m done with you anyways.”

The filth flowing effortlessly from his mouth made you clench your thighs together. Tom threw his head back, those pretty curls tousled and plastered against his sweat soaked skin. A moan tore through his chest as he got closer and closer, fucking into your mouth with reckless abandon. He chased after his orgasm, shuddering as he spurted hot ribbons down your throat.

“Fuck. You see what you do to me? Swallow, doll. Every single fucking drop.”

The fantasies that you’ve been harboring for the past few years finally came to fruition, but none of it came close to reality. Tom was a fucking god. A masterpiece coming undone above you. You’ve never seen such a beautiful sight. All the artwork in the world would’ve paled in comparison to witnessing Tom Riddle at his most vulnerable.

In awe and wonder, you looked up at him with mascara streaked eyes, tears and saliva staining your face. Tom hauled you to your feet and claimed you with his mouth. The taste of him was still on your lips, but Tom didn’t seem to mind as he parted your lips with his tongue. The kiss was neither sweet nor innocent. It was dark and dangerous and there was an edge of possessiveness in the way he demanded your submission. Almost like he was marking his territory.

Tongues, teeth, and lips met with a clash as Tom carried you over to his desk. His books and journals clattered to the ground as his teeth grazed the column of your throat. The taste of him was intoxicating and you licked, sucked, and nipped at every inch of skin he allowed access to. You gasped into his mouth as Tom parted your legs, not bothering to warn you as he palmed your soaked panties.

Your core clenched as he slipped a finger inside of your pussy. A squelching sound filled the room as Tom added another digit, pumping you full and fucking you with his middle and pointer fingers as you begged for more. He knew exactly what he was doing. Tom studied you like one of his books, with meticulous precision and alarming intensity, pouring all of his efforts and attention into making your body sing.

It wasn’t long before that familiar warmth singed your veins, your moans growing louder and more desperate as you clawed at Tom’s back. You were so, so close. You were practically riding his hand as he brought you closer to the precipice. Just when you were about to come, Tom pulled away and denied you the orgasm.

“Don’t be mistaken, doll. This is still a punishment.” Tom said as you whined from the loss. He silenced your complaints by bending you over his desk.

“Tom, please—“ You clawed at the wood as he lined up and filled you with one sharp thrust. “Oh my fucking gods.”

Tom gripped your hips, the slap of his skin against yours echoing in the room as he fucked you from behind. He was relentless, thrusting in and out and arching your back while he railed the absolute life out of you. It wasn’t long before you were getting close again. The sharp angles of his thrusts had him hitting all the right spots, making your knees weak and your pussy sensitive from the roughness of his actions. Sensing that you were close, he rutted into you, letting that tension uncoil before ripping the orgasm away from you once more. You whined, fresh tears soaking your cheeks as you chased after that high.

“Like I said, this is still a punishment,” Tom taunted, slowing his thrusts to a snail’s pace. “That’s two orgasms I’ve taken from you, which leaves you with two more. Four for every wall you defaced. It should be twelve, given that you had help, but I’m in a forgiving mood. I think I’ll just spank the other eight out of you instead.”

With your head bowed, you wiped the tears off of your cheeks and braced yourself. You knew that he was telling the truth. To Tom, this was mercy. You should’ve found it sadistic, but you fucking loved it. Maybe you were a masochist. Whatever the case may be, it seemed like the two of you were a match made in heaven.

“I’ll be good,” you whispered hoarsely. Your throat was still raw and sore from earlier. “I’ll happily take the punishment. I promise I’ll be good, sir.”

Tom chuckled darkly, relishing in your submission. His hand came down with a hard smack against your right ass cheek, making you jolt from the contact. Before you could recover, he repeated the action on the left.

“That’s two,” Tom said proudly. “Can you count out the rest, babydoll?”

You nodded, biting down on your bottom lip every time his large hand came down on your ass. His rings bit into the soft flesh of your skin, but it was a delicious sort of pain. One that you could easily become addicted to.

Three. Tom tugged at your hair.

Four. Teeth nipped at your shoulder.

Five. Fingers curled around your throat.

Six. Hips slammed against you.

Seven. Lips trailed down your spine.

Eight. Moans echoed in your ears.

When Tom slipped his fingers down to your clit, your eyes rolled back so hard that you saw fucking heaven. “It’s not a punishment if you’re enjoying yourself so much, little dove. I can feel you creaming my cock. You look so innocent, but you’re just a filthy fucking slut for me, aren’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

“So. Fucking. Perfect.”

Tom emphasized each word with a thrust and worked your clit faster and faster, bringing you to the edge. This time, he didn’t pull back. Tom let the orgasm build until it threatened to wipe you out entirely. White hot heat coursed through your veins as stars exploded behind your eyes. You whimpered through the intensity of the orgasm. After being denied four times, the pleasure ripped through your body so fiercely that you nearly blacked out.

“Fuck, let me fill you up,” Tom growled. “Take it, doll. I want you dripping with my cum.”

“Yes, yes, oh gods. Please cum inside of me, sir.”

Tom released a guttural grunt, gripping your hips in place as he filled you to the brim. Nothing in the world compared to the sensation of Tom filling you with his warm, wet cum. You glanced behind you and found him staring intently as he slipped out of you, stuffing his cum back into your pussy as it dripped down your folds. You bit your lip, utterly aroused by how fucking sexy this man was.

His gaze met yours, a proud smile curving against his lips as he swept you off your feet and into his arms. “I think I’ll keep you, little dove.”

#i welcome him would open arms and open legs #tom riddle #tom riddle smut #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle fic

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horatiocomehome · 3 months ago

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"Blood magic" as it exists in most generic fantasy settings is so boring and stupid. "ohhhh it's so evil because it needs blooood they're sacrificing virgins it's so inherently evilllll" like okay what if the blood is ethically obtained? What's the problem? "ohh but the magic itself is tainted and makes you evil plus they're wearing black robes" yeah and so is every edgy teenage warlock so what

to ME blood magic should be taboo because it's the ultimate dangerous magic. The normal mage has to throw a fuckoff huge fireball costing 100 magic points to kill another mage in a duel and even then 90% of the time the other mage throws up a simple barrier spell and blocks it.

BLOOD MAGIC is dangerous because a blood mage can just cast "scab level 1" for 2 magic points and now you've got a blood clot in your brain and you have a stroke. BOOM you've lost consciousness. A few minutes later? Permanent brain damage or death.

You think you're the shit? Can block any spell? No you can't because level 1 blood mage apprentice over here can give you a stroke from across the battlefield. You never saw it coming. There was no mega laser blast to deflect. The spell cost them 3 magic points because they cast it from 500 feet away. Instant. Silent. Deadly.

Give me blood magic that's taboo because it's the ultimate magic weapon!! Give me mages that need to hunt down blood mages whenever there's a whisper of them because they're so dangerous!

well then you ask, if they're so dangerous can't they kill all the mage hunters with a thought?

And that's where the wards against blood magic come in! Everyone has at least simple ones, and higher level mages will customize theirs to make them harder to get through.

Of course, that starts an arms race so now blood mages have to get through your wards before they can cast Instant Death.

Now, as anyone who's watched lockpicking lawyer knows, any lock can be picked given enough effort. And no mage wants to block themselves off from magic entirely, because then they can't teleport or fly or heal or make their eyes glow. So of course, a blood mage can get through a ward if they try.

BUT. If a blood mage is trying to get through your ward, right, you can feel them doing it! And that gives you a precious few seconds to FUCK YOU MEGA BOLT them. And that levels the playing field, makes it about who can work faster.

THAT'S the level of thought I want to see for blood magic. Not this "ohhh but they're cultists so of course they're evil and their magic is evil" lazy stuff.

#reading eragon at a young age and the way mage duels work in that permanently effected my ideas on magic can you tell #worldbuilding #from my very own mouth

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numberonetrashwitch · 1 year ago

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Some observations about Baldurs Gate 3 that hit too close to home.

After another few runs i will probably just make an in-Depth Character Analysis for every character simply because they are good reflections of actual trauma-manifestations and how abuse can manifest in people. They are also so well written that it serves a narrative purpose to explore all the material that is out there about them. I am also personally cursed with actual medically-relevant levels of Empathy and Hyperfixation; so writing this helps me put a pin in it and move on.

But so far here are my highlights

(SPOILERS and obviously content warning bc these are deep)

before you ask; i have almost 300h in this game.

You have to convince Shadowheart to eat the Noblestalk. She actually stells you she rather get her memories back from Shar but when you hit the persuasion or intimidation (what the fuck) check to get her to eat it she'll tell you about her childhood friend. Not her name, not her parents but her best firend. Possibly because she has had a closer bond to that person after being abducted and indoctrinated. With her believing herself to be an orphan, she would've looked elsewhere for comfort and sought out her own family, this is why she falls hard and heavy for Shar and builds the backbone of her indoctrination. She is literally ripped out of her home & given a new identity to server her from all she has known. Religious indoctrination, Gaslighting, Abduction, being forced to let go of your personality are her main themes.

There is a scene out there floating around in which you see Astarions pespective of the night when he bites Tav for the first time, in his meditations he is confronted with the rules Cazador put on him, including that he can't eat intelligent creatures, can't be away from Cazador unless allowed to, has to obey every command and that they are should know that they are property. Which in turn means that Astarion literally didn't just have any autonomy, he was objectified (and not just through seductive/sexual measures) and that is really the crux to understanding why he doesn't believe in kindness, but rather shows self-serving behavior in most cases. Since we know that Astarion was extremely young for an elf before he died and became immortal (literally stopping the aging /maturing process) it is also very telling that Cazador constantly calls him brat, boy or other very juvanile names, refering to them as a family... well it is also the story of a very controlling parent. Themes of (Bodily) autonomy, infantilization ( & puer aeternus, forever-child), slavery, depersonalisation, corruption of life and torture to break someone.

Gale isn't just a guy hung up on his Ex, but also a victim of abuse. In this case a power imbalance none of us can fathom; She is described as being a jealous goddess and rules over the domain of mysteries and magic. So with Gale being a Wizard, she is literally his boss. He admits that he was foolish enough to aspire to be an equal to her, but she is so jealous that she tells him he can't really be worthy as long as he takes breath. She could just take his powers away and be done with it, that would be more than enough punishment for a guy who literally made Mystra and her domain his life's purpose, but she rather makes him do it himself. Add to that, that she literally only tells him this after years of self-isolation (after he put down so many wards that he could've blown up a whole army as he says if you click the right dialogue) to really fuck him up well. He also talks about death pretty much constantly, not surprising giving your situation, but he will tell you that he will kill himself at several points in the game, for instance after he comes clear about his nethrese orb. Themes of romantic abuse, power-imbalance, toxic work enviorment, self-isolating behavior, suicidal ideation

Wyll ... well from the looks of it he is the most well adjusted of all the companions (my opinion) but he has something that i'd describe as the "eldest daughter"-syndrome, more commonly known as parentification. This pattern usually occurs within single-household parents and is commonly described as a parent looking to their child for emotional or practical support, rather than providing it to their kid. We meet Ulder and see that he talks over Wyll a lot, not listening but expecting him to follow the standard he sets for him. That is also why Wyll repeats his fathers words like gospel (because this is what, in his mind, fullfills the expectations bestowed upon him) and why he loves fairytales / bard tales so much (because they are an ecapist view of the job he set out to do) Ulder literally exiled his teenage son because Wyll did the only thing he could to save an entire city, by sacrificing himself. Thats a lot to expect from a 17 year old - even more so, he doesn't stop with the heroics. He expects himself, as a human who hasn't even reached the age of 30 to hold up to mystical creatures such as Astarion or Karlach, or even Gale who is a accomplished Wizard. Themes of parentification, escapism, self-harming through putting himself in danger, chronic-self-sacrifice

In plain words; Gortash, Karlach's Idol sold her to a Devil. But add to that that she must have been pretty young when she was sold (late teens to early twenties possibly) and being that if you play as a Tiefling, you face a lot of predjudice she was likely forced into that position as well. Starstruck she was, with a juvenile naitivy that Gortash used. Appropriately, as he is the chosen of Bane the god of "tyrannical oppression, terror, and hate, known across Faerûn as the face of pure evil through malevolent despotism" (Source: Forgotten-Realms Wiki / Bane) So she pretty much was raised in a toxic enviorment, which forced her to become a killing-machine, first figuretively, then with the extraction of her heart, literally. Themes of slavery, oppression, misuse of trust, being taken advantage by a more powerful/older(?) person, being drafted.

Jaheira - to be honest, you need to know the lore of the previous baldurs gate games or just listen to her dialouge, ask her all the questions. She is a war-veteran against Bhaal, the good of ritual murder, and has a long history of fighting to achieve some sort of balance of power. She lost her husband and several close people all to this, or any other war, but due to her wisdom and strength people look to her for guidance. Themes of: Survivors Guilt.

Halsin - he is really closed off at first but then just casually hits you with "i was captured in the underdark and spent 3 years chained to a bedroom wall by a pair of drows who used me as they pleased". He is reprimanded by some of his druids for leaving the grove as soon as opportunity struck, just to get back and leave the next day, and if you talk to him about his position in the grove he is actually very forthcomming. He actively holds himself back; indulging in simple hobbies because he knows what lies within his heart. He is afraid of himself and his potential (canonnically he can't control his wildshape, which is very weird for an ARCH-druid) Themes of: impostor syndrome, avoidant-based self-harm, sexual opression, loss of control, emotional regulation.

Lae'zel is a very tragic case, and one that closely resembles the stories of Shadowheart and Karlach. Her entire existence is based upon a matriachial war society allowing her to live if she proves she can be of use and that in a culture which only values brutality, dominance & service. All of that culimating in her finding out that her oh-so-beloved Queen is actually just an imposter, and that everything she has lived for up to that point is merely political propaganda created to make her, and the rest of her entire species, willing pawns in a war that has no longer bearing on their survival alone, but is fought to justify Vlaakith's (the reigning monarchs) personal ambitions. Not only is she forced to reconcile that she is turned into the thing that controlled her kind for hundreds of years, that the only cure she knows of would kill her and then on top of that, that her hopes and dreams were lies and that she is now the Nr 1 enemy of the person she has served with all her being. themes of: oppression, propaganda, casual violence, objectification, child-warfare, eternal warfare

Minthara in short, her story is about being shamed for growing up in the same scenario that Lae'zel grew up in. Lolth, the god of the Lolth-sworn drows is a crazy queen who values scheming & backstabbing so much and is so volatile that you can't know what to expect of your deeds (and i mean it; there were people who were appraised by her for scheming against her, but also those who were killed. It's almost random.) She considers Lolth to be cruel and abandoned her for the Absolute, only to then be used and abused the same way Lae'zel has. Not with promises, but erasing her memory and exposing her perceived weakness. Themes of: casual violence, violent culture, her own ambition colliding with her desire to be safe, being a pawn in a larger game.

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mcuamerica · 6 months ago

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Him | Eris x Fem!Reader

Summary: You might hate the High Lord of Autumn, but what happens when you get hurt in the middle of the Winter Court? requested by anon here

Warnings: 18+ only, canon level violence, almost drowning, mention of death, let me know if anything was forgotten...

Word Count: 1.5k

Disclaimer: I do not own SJM’s characters, only the ones I create for the purpose of this story. This is a work of fiction. I do not give permission to repost my work on any other platform or medium. Please be respectful.

Eris Masterlist

graphics from @saradika-graphics

You hated the cold. You hated the Winter Court. And most importantly, you hated him. With his annoyingly red, perfect, stupid hair. With his amber eyes that burned with fire when he talked. With his deep, grating, gruff voice. With his ability to stay warm and melt snow around him but not you.

But of course, Rhys chose you to go on this mission with him. Because of course they needed a spell-cleaving fairy from Day to unlock the wards. And short of asking Helion Spell-Cleaver himself, they didn't have many options. Neither Rhys nor Feyre could get through the wards, so here you were. In the Winter Court. With the newly appointed High Lord of Autumn. Who not even a year ago killed his own father.

"If you don't stop talking, I might just rip your throat out." You growled, flexing your hand to show your long, sharp nails.

"Good thing we're close, I won't have to suffer with your brooding silence anymore." Eris retorted, causing you to roll your eyes. "Come now, dear, into the Cave of Wonders..." He joked.

Just when you were about to turn around and leave him for dead, you sensed the glamour in front of you. "Stop." You said, reaching out to grab Eris's arm.

He let out a low growl at your touch, yanking his arm out of your grasp. "I can see it," he said.

You bit back your response and looked towards the glamour, taking a deep breath as you let your magic trail along it, testing it. Once you found no traps, you tore it down.

What was revealed was a large lake, covered in ice of course, and on the other side was the cave you were looking for. The one containing a very important artifact that Rhys needed. Kallias gave him permission to get it, but said he would need to do it himself. He wasn't stupid enough to venture into this part of his territory. From entering the Winter Court with Eris, you encountered three different creatures that all were difficult to kill. But, to your dismay and luck, you had a High Lord with fire powers traveling with you. And with your slow healing abilities, he was able to take care of them himself. Which he so lovingly pointed out every chance he got.

Eris might be good at defending the two of you, but he was an idiot on many other fronts. The Autumn Court High Lord seemed to not now anything about surviving or moving in the cold. Which was evident when he stepped onto the ice. Which immediately cracked under his feet. And he kept walking.

"Eris, if you keep going, you're going to fall into the lake." You said, waiting on the edge.

"It's fine. If it gives, I'll winnow." He said, shrugging his shoulders. Another thing you hated about him, his idiotic arrogance.

"You can't winnow here, Eris." You called out the further he got away. "Can't you feel it with your magic? It's stifled." You said.

"I'm almost across. Come on. It's fine." He said.

You let out a huff and let him get across before you tentatively took a step on the lake. You watched as it help steady and no more cracks formed before taking more steps towards the other side. Towards the insufferable male gazing at you.

“If I could break through these wards I would. But you’re supposed to be the best spell cleaver out there and you’re scared of ice.” He mocked.

“I’m not scared of ice.” You said, looking up at him. “Unlike you, I’m smart. And I know that a lake covered in ice that you can see through is more likely to crack when someone is atop it.”

“I was fine… maybe I can get through these wards.” He said, turning towards the cave.

“Eris, don’t!” You yelled out, feeling the way the magic ripples, retracted as he flung out his fire. You felt the ice beneath you crack. Before you could even blink, you were in the freezing water. Even worse, the ice magically closed on top of you. You banged on the ice, flinging your magic out as much as you could bear. Your magic was meant for warding. For blocking out and breaking other magic. Not for shattering solid ice. You heard a shudder on the ice and saw that burning fire break through it. But it didn’t consume you in the water. Instead, there was a perfect hole in the ice. As you breathed back in air, you grabbed the hand that was reached out to you.

Pulling you out, Eris swore. You were much paler than normal, probably due to the freezing water he causes you to fall into.

“I’m sorry-“ he started.

“Don’t even.” You gritted out, your body shaking. He reached out to keep you warm but you batted his hand away. “I need to fix what you messed up.” You said. You walked to the other side with ease, the ice working to repair the hole Eris’s fire dealt or.

You held your hand up as you took a deep breath, pushing the cold aside as you tested the wards. Just when you thought it was impossible, you found it. Found the small crack that allowed you to shatter the first set of wards easily. Only to reveal another set.

After venturing further into the cave, and getting through five sets of wards, you were getting drained. The pool of magic inside of you was faltering to a small puddle. Not to mention, the further you went in, the colder it got.

You were shaking, and Eris only watched as you got deeper into the cave, shivering. You were getting paler by the second, stumbling over your steps.

“We can rest here.” He said, grabbing your shoulder. He knew something was wrong when you didn’t shrug him off. Or come back with a witty retort. “(Y/N)? We’re going to stop here.” He said.

At that, you turned around and vomited right next to his feet. Luckily avoiding his boots. When you looked up, you looked like you were dying.

He pulled you towards the wall, sitting you down quickly as he probed your body with his magic. Shit. You were dying.

"(Y/N), look at me." Eris said, cupping your cheek to face him. Your eyes were slightly glazed over when you grabbed his wrist.

"Let me go." You murmured. At least you weren't completely out of it.

"You're dying. There must have been something in that water." He said. To any regular fae, it was probably fine to be submerged in it. But for your slow healing abilities, it was clearly deadly. That combined with draining your magic.

"You did this." You muttered, eyes fluttering shut.

"Let me help you." He whispered.

You let out a grumble but nodded. "Fine." You said, not wanting to die alone in a cave.

Eris's warm magic flowed through your veins, warming your core. His magic worked to heal you as best as it could. While he couldn't completely reverse the effects, he could get most of the poisoned water out from your body. When you stopped shaking violently and only did it every few seconds, he stopped his pursuit.

The wards now locked the two of you inside the cave. Since you weren't in any shape to work your magic until it refilled, Eris got to work on laying out the blankets and sleeping pads. The hope was that you didn't have to use them and get done with the mission within a day, but clearly it was going to take longer.

You were conscious enough to lay down on the pad and pull the blanket over you. Since starting a fire would lure unwanted creatures, and most likely suffocate you both, Eris didn't start one. "I can keep you warm." He said.

You moved your head to face him, a scowl on your face. "You're the reason I'm still freezing... You think I want you to touch me?" You asked.

"I don't think you want it. But you need it. If your temperature continues to fall you won't make it out of here." He said.

You huffed, turning your body so your back faced him. "Fine. Whatever." You said.

A small smirk came to his face at the victory. He scooted closer to you, an arm wrapping around your waist. His magic radiated from his body, warming you to the point where you were not only warm, but hot. "Okay, no need to go so hard." You said.

"Isn't that how you like it?" He teased. You only growled in response. He sensed you drifting off to sleep as your breaths slowed down. When he was confident you were warm and comfortable, he allowed himself to pull back ever so slightly. His magic continued to keep the two of your warm, but Eris knew he didn't actually have to hold you. He could send heat over to you from across the room. But wasn't this so much better?

A/N: Hope you enjoyed!

#acotar #katie writes #eris vanserra #eris x reader #eris acotar #acotar fic #acotar spoilers #eris fic

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windvexer · 5 months ago

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Lowering Wards: Steps for new and established spells

"Lowering" a ward means to temporarily pause some or all of its protective effects, usually to make way for other magical actions or divination; "lowering the draw-bridge." Here, a ward is any protective spell.

Although these steps will work for just about any spell. An alternate title for this post is, basic spell administration: managing your spells after they've been cast.

The whole caboodle is deceptively easy. No need to over think it.

Lowering any wards, even for spells not established with convenient lowering in mind

SELECT WHICH EFFECTS SHOULD BE PAUSED. Hypothetically, a ward with multiple effects can have some effects paused, while others are ongoing (*this is highly variable and really depends on how the spell was built).

But technically, if you have a ward that's A) no magic can come into my house, and B) no energies of ill-will can come into my house, you may be able to allow magic to come into your house while a friend sends a positive spell your way, while still filtering out ill-will.

In my experience, protection loopholes are a bit of a beast, and if your magic starts behaving weirdly, or won't work, or friends can't magic on you like they can for others, check out to see if you've sealed yourself in a labyrinth of protective measures.

Sometimes you'll want to pause all effects - that's fine too. Just have in mind what you want to have happen.

IMO, an excellent way to deal with this step is to just state what it is you want the ward to allow for.

"Let this Discord friend do a reading for me."

"Make way for this spirit to leave the house."

Etc.

TAKE ANY BASIC STEP TO MANAGE YOUR MAGIC.

Enter, or at least brush up against, magical mindspace.

Find the spell - this is easier if its attached to a physical object, which just means finding the object.

While in magical mindspace and interacting with the reality that your spell exists, do any of the following:

Just tell it what you'd like it to temporarily do

Put a black cloth over the spell vessel with intent that it be paused

Hide it away in a drawer, or turn it so that it's "facing" a corner

Draw some sort of stopping symbol on top of it (pentagram or an X work well)

Put the ward close to an energy battery and have it take a break and go out for lunch

Any action that, for you, makes sense to represent a "pause, time-out" instruction

WHEN READY, PUT THE WARD BACK UP. Take away the black cloth, put the ward back in its proper position, "wipe away" the blocking symbol. Especially communicate through magical speech, thought, writing, signing, etc., that the ward is to resume its normal mode of behavior.

For those curious about sorcerous theory, reading on a ward before and after you raise and lower it can offer helpful feedback

Of course, that stuff might not work well, so making a ward with an eye for pausing it is a good idea

Spellcrafting can get complex and there could be any number of reasons why a ward created to be a permanent wall doesn't have convenient, easily-workable drawbridges.

Building a ward with drawbridges is easy. First, decide how you want the drawbridge to work.

You can design a ward where one effect ("no ill-energy") is always active, while another is meant to be raised and lowered ("no outside magic.")

You can design a ward with a skeleton key, where all of the doorways are unlocked at once

You can design wards in such a way that outsiders may be able to obtain the key and unlock them (like, a passcode and energy signature you share with others), or you can design them in such a way that only you can unlock them (like, requiring you yourself to draw a symbol over them in the physical realm)

Etc.

One example of an unlocking action is tapping on the spell vessel three times and saying, "stand down until sunset* so [specific thing the ward is blocking] can occur."

*For the forgetful, giving the spell a timeframe is useful.

When casting the spell, whenever the time feels right, go into a portion where you 'teach' the spell how to listen for your instructions to lower defenses, and how it should operate when this occurs. ("Never stay unlocked beyond the next twilight; the guards named No Bane are eternal, but the guards named No Spying sometimes lie down to rest.")

You can always go back and "open up" old spells to modify loopholes and improve unlocking mechanisms

My paradigm allows for certain things:

Most spells are not so much mindless machines but rather are more like garden plots, or animals. They may be bad at performing a certain thing the first time you ask them to, but over multiple lessons, even a very stubborn spell might learn a new trick.

Therefore, it can take time to teach a spell how to do something new that it wasn't designed to do.

Learning can be improved by holding a formal class. This is the equivalent of taking the spell back into spellcasting space and partially re-casting new magic on top of the old base.

The gist of re-forging an old spell is to carefully outline what you want to change, remove, and add. Using your preferred spellcasting or ritual format, connect with the spell and provide new parameters.

I find this process to be different than casting an entirely new spell, so I think it's normal if it all seems a bit different.

Provide the spell with more energy, tie off the ritual as normal, and deploy the spell immediately or give it a little time to firm up, as you prefer.

#protection #wards #spellcrafting

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glitter-stained · 11 days ago

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On villains with tragic backstories

Sometimes I'm like "is it really psychophobic, maybe i'm reaching, the character did say that they're not actually crazy they just like killing people" and then the narrative will hit me with "some terrible, dark horrors have happened in your past and this is why you are killing people but it's not too late to get admitted in a psych ward" and I wanna throw the comic through the window and myself with it.

The "mentally ill villain" trope isn't just saying that the villain is crazy or giving them hallucinations. If you're giving a villain a tragic backstory, and that backstory has caused them severe suffering the memory of which is still painful to the day, and the story expects you to believe that the villain's horrible behaviour is explained by the fact that this suffering broke something in them... It's worth examining if you're not just vilifying or demonizing mental illness on accident.

The issue isn't that your villain can't have a tragic backstory, or that the tragic backstory can't explain their actions: the issue is when the suffering itself is treated as a sufficient cause for the behaviour. Say a character was raised and abused by a cult that taught them killing puppies is good and then they kill puppies: not psychophobic. Say a character who used to love puppies was kidnapped and tortured by some guy just for the fun of hurting someone, no brainwashing or anything just pain, and then they get out and kill puppies because of the torture: psychophobic. There's a missing link in the reasoning here, a question of "what about this event taught/brought the person to the conclusion that it was a good idea to kill puppies or gave them a desire to?" The psychophobia is insidious, hiding in the implication that the trauma (because this is what it's really all about) is what made them kill puppies. Sometimes, people with trauma kill puppies. But killing puppies (or exploding buildings with children in it, or shooting someone in the spine, or severing heads and putting them in a duffle bag, or, or, or) is not and has never been a symptom of ASD*, PTSD, CPTSD, BPD, DID, DDD or any other trauma-induced disorder. It's a good idea to verbalise the logic, emotions, needs and desire that motivate your villain and where they stem from, to avoid falling into the trap that thinking their trauma, because of the magnitude of the empathy it's meant to generate for the character, is enough of an explanation for their behaviour. A villain being sympathetic because of their backstory doesn't mean that their actions are necessarily coherent.

On top of that, it's important to take in account other factors such as the original background of the character, their vulnerabilities, their age (super important when writing childhood/teenage trauma/young villains!), but also their ethnicity, gender etc etc. This is important for realism and accuracy, because trauma is neither a magical button that creates heroes nor sociopaths, but also because psychophobia interacts so easily with other forms of discrimination slipping through the cracks. Now that you've identified that your woc character becoming a manipulative, sociopathic "crazy ex" because of her trauma was not just a consequence of her trauma but the interaction between the trauma and personal factors, what are those implicit factors that contribute to make her manipulative, obsessed with her ex, etc.? And now that you've extracted them explicitly, like a zip file, can you examine them to see how many of these personal characteristics have to do with her being a woman of colour?

I hope it's clear that I'm not telling you what to write- I think imposing the idea that villains can't be poc, or queer, or working class, or disabled, or mentally ill, etc. is harmful, because it reduces potential representation, it's based on the assumption that I know what you're gonna write and it's gonna be fundamentally ableist, and it puts this pressure on fictional characters to be perfect icons of representation rather than actual characters with depth and personality (kinda like thinking you can't write a female character who cries because it implies women are weak). This is just to encourage you to be mindful about what you're doing when writing that tragic backstory, because it's not necessarily what we think about when we talk about mental illness, and it's important to analyse what you're writing with a measure of introspection: why am I writing this? What does this imply about the character? What's my reasoning for this character's reasoning?

I have zero issue with a mentally ill character kicking a puppy as long as the narrative isn't trying to tell me that it's a symptom of mental illness to kick puppies. But of course, perhaps the story could also be a critique of those stories about mentally ill people kicking puppies, and the satyre is flying way over my head; or perhaps there will be a secret plot-twist that happens after I stopped reading that explained why the character was kicking puppies, perhaps the book was an attempt at guiding and manipulating the reader into realising the flaws in that reasoning on their own, or perhaps it was a metaphor for something else entirely, etc, etc. I don't know. The point is, write whatever you want; but write it self-aware.

*in this context, ASD meaning Acute Stress Disorder

Two examples of comics I think do it pretty well:

> Arkham Knight Genesis: for all its flaws (i didn't really like this one), I think it does a pretty decent job of getting us to understand how Jason got where he is, that it wasn't just "tortured until evil", all the reasons for his resentment, all the brainwashing and manipulation are pretty explicit. Kind of an "easy mode" because the plot revolves around brainwashing, but solid on that front.

> Red Hood Lost Days: this one I'm more mitigated because there's this whole "pit madness/the pit made him a psychopath" thing Winick introduced to limit the damage of previous runs (and rightfully so imo, Pit Madness is a much better explanation for some of Jason's most batshit ooc runs than just trauma), but there are some pretty solid elements, especially when you know earlier comics. I'm thinking specifically about when Jason says something around the lines of "you murder people; i put down a lizard", as a direct echo to Judy's "I put down a mad dog", that's one of my favourite comic lines ever, I cheered seeing that parallel like yes, I can see the reasoning, I understand where you learned the lesson and what the thought process is and I support it.

#dc #dc critical #dc comics #writing #writing tips #writing advice #psychophobia #jason todd #red hood #batman #arkham knight genesis #arkham knight #red hood lost days

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shanastoryteller · 1 year ago

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HAPPY HALLOWEEN GRANDMA!! You already know what I want, nay, what I crave when the days get shorter and the only thing that brings me any solace is my favorite rarepare. Please, Tonks x Percy siat - specifically something abouth Tonks telling Percy about her powers maybe, just an incredibly intimate scene please and thank you 😩🧡

The first time Percy rushes to the St. Mungo's on the heal of a battle and bursts into Tonk's room, he doesn't understand why he'd needed to threaten his way in in the first place. She's stripped to her underwear and looks perfectly fine.

But there are three healers surrounding her and completely ignoring him. "Time?" the oldest asks, her hair pure white and her face a layer of wrinkles.

Tonks closes her eyes. "Eighty seconds."

"External first," she says briskly. "It doesn't do us any good if you bleed out."

She breathes out.

Then blood floods across her body, soaking the bed instantly as wounds big and small erupt over her skin. In some places he sees flashes of what he thinks are bone.

Tonks doesn't scream as magic starts flying, and he doesn't either, keeping himself plastered to the wall.

"Internal," the healer says.

What little of her skin he can see beneath the blood pales and they're casting more healing spells, longer and more complicated the any he's heard before.

"Head," she says. "Go slow."

Tonks swallows and then there's another rush of blood as her eyes roll and she passes out and all three of the healers are flinging spells with a speed and intensity he didn't know was possible.

He's almost grateful that he can't see what injury they're treating.

Then the other two step back and the old healer casts a diagnostic spell that Percy tries to interpret and can't. Her shoulders drop and she says, "Good," casting a scourgify to take care of the blood and pulling the blanket over her with a flick of her wand.

She turns, noticing Percy for the first time. Instead of anger, she just raises an eyebrow. "You're the boyfriend, then?"

He really hates what that implies about how often Tonks needs to be treated by healer quite this talented. "Is she going to be okay?"

His stomach had twisted itself in nots but it finally starts ease when she gives a short nod. "We'll let her get some rest and keep her overnight from observation." She tilts her head to the side. "I'd kick you out, citing the no visitors policy for this ward, but you're already here. Seems like a big of wasted effort."

"A bit," he agrees, pulling a chair next to Tonks's bedside and collapsing into it. "Thank you."

Tonks wakes up slowly, feeling the hospital sheets that she hates with the smell she can't stand and she's already trying to figure out how she can get herself released early without bringing Nanu's wrath down on her.

She pushes herself upright - or tries to. She can't mover her arm.

She looks down, alarmed, but her arm is just being used as a pillow.

By Percy, who's asleep and hunched over her bed. Percy, who needed to be coaxed and cajoled into leaving his desk for so much as a tea is here. He doesn't even have any scrolls or work spready out. She wouldn't blame him if he didn't, but he's just here, and from the way his clothing's rumpled he's been here for a while.

Tonks's heart feels so full.

She's going to marry him.

He only just accepted that they were dating, so she'll give him some time before introducing the concept of marriage, but she knows. This man is going to be her husband someday.

#hi!#prompt answers #prompts are closed #asks #lance-with-a-chance-of-anxiety #harry potter #siat #and that's it for halloween prompts! hooray!

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howtofightwrite · 10 months ago

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I've got a world-building/combat question. I have these two warring nations in my setting, both medieval-ish tech levels. One of them figures out how to make magical flying craft that are basically WWI airplanes. The other country invents dragon riders in response. Since then, they've been at war for ~60 years. I'm trying to figure out how the heck an air force would alter medieval combat strategies. If you've any suggestions, I'd appreciate it

The first, and biggest world building problem is that magic is part of your overall tech level. Ironically, Diskworld is an excellent example of how magical technology can basically function as an alternate path for social and technical development, though, honestly, a lot of high-magic settings tend to have tech leakage from magic.

One of the more common examples that comes to mind are “magical radios.” Either it's an enchanted device that allows person to person communication, or it's direct telepathic communication, but whatever it is, it serves a fundamentally similar role to a handheld radio, or (depending on how it works) a phone. The thing is, it's functionally a magical replacement, and it would affect society in much the same way those technologies have.

This is a long way to say, if your magical combat technology has WWI-grade planes, there is a very real possibility that a lot of your warfare is also going to be at a similar magi-tech level, if not more advanced. Having written that, I'm reminded of The Red Star comic series; though, that has a heavy Soviet aesthetic, and is not-at-all medieval.

Again, it doesn't really matter if you have fully-automatic firearms, or if you have a bolt thrower that conjures and propels crystals at hyper-sonic speeds into your foes. If they have a similar rate of fire, and similar accuracy, the meaningful change is texture. Your characters might see tiny crystal fragments shattered on the floor, or embedded into walls, instead of bullet holes. There may be no smell, or conjuring the crystals might leave a different odor. A handheld lightning projector might leave scorch marks, and a scent of ozone, for instance.

Magic might also factor into armor and defenses. If you can use a magical ward to dispel conjured objects, that might be extremely useful for fortifying specific targets against incoming conjured attacks, but it would likely be wholly ineffective against the lightning projector, or some other kind of directed energy beam weapon.

“Inventing,” dragon riding as a response to someone else making a magical airship, does strike me as an odd cause-and-effect. If dragon riding was that easy, it would seem likely that someone would have militarized them long before that point. Inventing flying objects that could function as a hard counter to dragons feels a little more natural. Or, magical, AA installations. Though, this is something that could probably be finessed, if you're really committed to the setup. It's also worth remembering that air superiority is an extremely potent advantage, even if you're not sure what to do with it, meaning that if one side suddenly had fliers, and the other side couldn't come up with a counter in short order, they'd be picked apart, and the war wouldn't have this 60 year timescale.

If it seems like I went to ranged weapons very quickly, there's a simple reason. You can't joust from a plane. Your options are to either propel objects at people, or drop things on them from above. Dragons also (usually) have the option to breathe fire on them. Now, firearms did exist in the late medieval era. So, that's not that far out of range. I'm less sure of the invention of bombs. At least, of the variety you could deliver to your enemy on the battlefield. Though, it occurs to me, you could probably use a catapult or trebuchet to deliver an explosive payload, if the explosives were stable enough to survive launch, but sensitive enough to detonate on impact. (Of course, if you have some kind of magically primed explosive, that stays stable until it is ejected from the catapult, and then explodes on impact, that would work.)

Looping back to the timescale again, this would require some pretty potent defensive capabilities. A dragon, with the ability to breathe fire, and the capacity for strategic thinking, could easily starve out an entire kingdom, simply by making a habit of torching all the cropland it could find. It doesn't, particularly matter if it gets all the food, so long as it torches a meaningful percentage of the available crops. When you have farmers going hungry, you're going to see food production dipping, exacerbating the problem. When you have soldiers going hungry, they're not going to be able to fight as effectively. When you have the peasantry going hungry, you're going to see civil unrest, and probably rebellions coming for their lord's head. You can't wage a war against a hostile nation under those circumstances. (In fact, there were multiple peasant revolts during the Hundred Years War, which basically stalled out France's ability to fight. England also suffered multiple peasant uprisings at roughly the same time. Though, those were motivated by taxation, which ends in a similar place.)

A related concept that's somewhat hinted above, is that wars are expensive, and both France and England found themselves facing uprisings because of taxation needed to support the ongoing war. (The irony being that both nations encountered this at roughly the same point in history. Roughly 40 years into the war.) A war that's been going for 60 years will likely have ravaged the economies of the involved nations. This isn't necessarily something that your characters would be aware of, unless you expand the context to show non-wartime economies.

The simplest explanation for why this happens is that any money you spend prosecuting the war are products that you never see returning value from. The money itself doesn't leave the economy, but the natural resources, and labor required, are expended non-productively (from the perspective of economic growth.) So, if you have a peacetime merchant, they're moving money around, but they're paying for their goods, and then those goods are going to consumers, who may also be contributing to economic activity with those goods (this even applies for food, you can think of that as a necessary component to any productive activity.) If you're a wartime merchant, selling weapons to the military, you are contributing to economic activity when you buy the weapons, but when they're sold to the crown, that's no longer productive. Those weapons leave the economy and never return. Worse, any soldiers who are permanently wounded, or killed, are also removed from the economy. Over time, this can destroy the most prosperous of nations. (To be clear, this is more advanced economic analysis than anyone in the middle ages would have had. So, the idea that wars are expensive was understood, but the exact reasons it slowed the economy were not.) And, this kind of thinking is another form of technological advancement. Ideas for understanding complex systems have become more intricate and detailed over time. While it's not the concept of, “invention,” that you might be used to, it is a similar form of progress.

So, how would this look in your world? There's a lot of potential consequences, most of which are not contradictory.

An impoverished lower-class is very likely. Whether that includes wounded veterans or not is a little more up in the air, though after 60 years, military pensioners, and those who suffered life-altering injuries on the battlefield are likely to be a common sight, either on the street or in the poverty line. (Especially if the crown is willing to enforce drafts and conscription.) At this point, that might be a very real possibility.

A struggling aristocracy is also likely, with former major power players who've declined into poverty. This might take the form of borderline abandoned estates that have been taken over by the crown or squatters. (Probably not both at the same time.)

Serious inflation is likely (and could be why formerly stable guild members, merchants, and even some of the aristocracy might now find themselves struggling.) I realize this point isn't something most really think of when you're trying to write a fantasy world, but it's worth considering. More likely this will be seen in food prices having increased over time. So the major symptoms you'd likely see would be decaying structures that no one has the resources to maintain, rising food prices, and generalized poverty. Even in a fairly magically advanced setting, a lot of these things would, likely, still happen. Of course, if the dragons have been used to destroy the agricultural base, things would be even worse in that nation. To be clear, food and taxation riots are not off the table there.

This is sort of a non-sequitur, but if you have a setting with classic transmutation (lead, or other base metals, into gold), you would actually see inflation with every batch of transmuted gold hitting the market. It's sort of an amusing note on the fantasy of being able to produce as much money as you want, but ultimately, it's actually harmful from a macroeconomic perspective. (Basically, the same reason counterfeiting is a problem.) Though, it is a possible hook for criminal groups in one of those nations, producing counterfeit gold via transmutation.

There's also a real world example from 2020, where a jewelry company had fabricated “fake,” gold bars as collateral to secure loans. In total, they claimed to have 83 tons of gold used to obtain loans worth over 2.8 billion dollars, from 14 different creditors. Except, when they defaulted on those loans, and were forced to hand over the gold, it was discovered that these were in fact gold plated copper bars.

I realize the question was about the flying forces specifically, but so long as that advantage is dealt with quickly, and neither side is able to monopolize air superiority, that's not going to change nearly as much as having that level of magical advancement would on its own, and of course, the general consequences of having a war that's been going on for long enough that multiple generations have died on the battlefield. That's going to a bigger effect on your world as a whole.

-Starke

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#writing reference #writing advice #writing tips #how to fight write #starke answers #Starke is not a real economist

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ghouljams · 1 month ago

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Heya Ghoul... I have a question.

How do you tell if you've been like... affected by something? My ex practices Wiccan stuff and she is very obsessive and still texts my old number and like... yeah, I'm worried about her doing something. We were together roughly two years and she's still trying to contact me after a year of no contact and she's saying how like I'm her soulmate and stuff and I'm just... not into her at all anymore. Like she gave me emotional trauma and stuff, almost convinced me to move up to where she is (long distance, manipulative) and I'm not comfortable going out of state right now because that's a huge reset I don't want to do again...

Not to ramble here too much, I'm sorry if it's too weird or something so feel free to ignore this, but I really don't know who to ask in terms of the practice. I'm also not really sure how to bring up the topic of spells or hexes or whatever, I'm not trying to be dismissive in any way but it's like talking about just feels stifling and awkward. We (ex and I) never really talked about her practices and stuff, but sometimes she'd talk about a ritual she did or wanted to do, or spell jars she wanted to make... I never really learned how to talk about it, either, in general so maybe it just feels weird because it's foreign. I don't doubt it exists, but it's not something I understand very well.

I didn't intend to dump this on you but I did so in sorry about that. Thank you for reading, I hope you have a great day.

Hello hello you have come to the right witch.

First of all FUCK WICCA that shit is just magic stollen from other religions and closed practices, plus it was created by some random white dude in like the 80s so it's not even this deeply ancient practice that people think it is.

Anyway Wiccans also have this whole thing about "do no harm" but lemme tell you something, i am not Wiccan and I will do harm. So here's what you're gonna do.

We're going to start with a cleanse. I like doing a Limpia, since that's the most hands on and accessible.

You're gonna get an egg and rub that Thang all over your body. I mean all over, and try to focus on "cleaning" yourself off with it. Be careful not to break it but make sure you rub it over the top of your head, sole of your feet, stomach/heart/hands, you wanna get anything you think feels bad. Then we're gonna crack the egg into a glass of water.

Now you can read the egg and see if she's actually hexed you, but for your purposes it doesn't matter because even if she hasn't we're gonna throw some salt, ceyanne/chili powder/red pepper flakes, and some garlic into that water. Then you're gonna toss the whole thing down the toilet, close the lid and flush it.

Cleanse done.

Next your gonna take a jar or a bag and you're gonna put anything sharp that you have in your house and you're willing to get rid of into it. Nails, thorns, thumb tacks, needles, pins, toss it in there. If you're using a jar add some vinegar, if your using a bag don't. Then we're doing hot stuff again: chili powder, red pepper flakes, anything spicy goes in your ward. Add some salt. Spit in it. Write a warning on a piece of paper "anyone who sends harm my way will get it back 3 fold" and shove it in there. Then bury that thing. Preferably you do this at the edge of your property but if you can't bury anything out it over your door.

Done.

Other witches get real fancy with their wards but I'm lazy and most people don't have a ton of fancy witchcraft stuff, so we work with what we've got.

Otherwise. Idk magic isn't real, the worst she can do is just like keep trying to contact you and being annoying. She'll get bored eventually and move on to tormenting someone else, but if she does send anything your way or you feel like you're not acting like yourself, do a cleanse.

#ghoul speaks #witchcraft

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victoriadallonfan · 3 months ago

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Alien vs Predator vs Parahumans

So, recently, I decided to check out Alien vs Avengers because that art is gorgeous and I was curious about how an author could write a xenomorph outbreak in the Marvel Universe, and what wacky interplays they can do with various aliens, superpowers, and magical stuff.

It was... disappointing. Not to go all power levels on us, but it had Hulk struggle with a single drone and Spider-Man be caught off guard by a face hugger. And randomly immune to magic.

Not great.

So I got to thinking... what would be a cool way to handle Alien, Predator, and the Parahumans franchise?

Spoilers beneath the cut for Ward Spoilers

I think the one that gives the least amount of headaches would be post-Ward, so I'll be going off that timeframe.

They way I envision it, is that Weyland-Yutani (Or just Weyland at this point I suppose) is a wealthy organization focusing on colonizing other Earths, seemingly working with the Wardens, Auzure, and Mortari in helping refugees and allied colonies to have viable successes.

They aren't squeaky clean, obviously, but all their marks against them seem small potatoes when the city of Perpetuity had to deal with winter, anti-parahumans, Shin and Cheit terrorists, supervillains, the Machine Army, and Titans over the course of Ward itself.

So the company grows in power and influence, eventually funding a colony they call Jericho on a pretty barren Earth, claiming to use it as a test bed for more hostile environment technology. Not many people give the useless rock and it's colony much of a glance, beyond noting the oddity of 2000 residents going over there.

Quite a lot for merely scientist and personnel families, but again, bigger issues.

During the epilogue of Ward, the Majors are made up of Sveta (Coach/Mentor), Victoria (assistant coach/mentor), Withdrawal, Caryatid, Finale, and Limerick. The team as a whole has made waves with their travels across the multiverse, protecting colonies from supervillains, monsters, and natural disasters.

With Victoria flying off to Japan to help with the cape resurrection project, The Majors are content with doing a final lap of known colonies when Withdrawal picks up an SOS from Jericho on his scanner, only for the signal to cut out.

Curious, the team heads out to the portal leading to the colony... and are met with Weyland Yutani security and a Project Executive, who greet the heroes with artificial cheeriness ("Server malfunction, you know how the tech acts with these wacky powers!" "Oh the armed security? Well, you know, can't be too careful with the wildlife and all that supervillain nonsense." "Oh, you want to check in with the colony? Uhhh, wow, hm, I'll need to bump it up to my bosses boss - paperwork am I right - and I'll need to see about permits and gosh- Oh, what was that? You... You know the Mayor personally? Oh you're going to call her to grease the wheels? Well, you know what, I don't want to bother her with such a small issue so how about you stick around and you don't tell on me that I'm looking the other way a bit wink wink hahahaaaa.....")

The tension is not quite high, but everyone feels a bit on edge with each other as they go through the portal. The security team leader explains the colony is actually several miles away from the portal to better work with the natural earths hostile environment, so it's not uncommon for some issues to come up and these check-ups are mandatory (though it's clear she's upset that the Executive is on the ground here with his own goons). The Majors aren't quite used to the military types beyond Limerick, but they do their best to try and bond with the group.

Tensions don't lessen when radio contact continues to be unreciprocated by the colony as they drive in, though it's still explained away with bad reception from the harsh Earth.

This quickly changes when the colony is abandoned. A ghost town. Ruined cars are in the street, windows busted and interiors ruined by the harsh conditions of Earth. Shell casings randomly across the colony, along with discarded guns.

Checking the databases finds that the records - all of them - have been deleted.

Yeah, this is a problem now.

There's more tension, more arguments about what happened and what to do, but the Executive eventually reveals that there is technically another site further off in the distance: an archeological dig site for what they thought were past Earth inhabitants.

The group heads there and finds the dig site ruined, thrashed apart at the opening of a massive tunnel leading into the earth below.

The story from there follows the Majors and WY team exploring the cave and running into the Xenomorphs, the cave morphing and activating various traps or leading into biomes that make no sense for existing underground.

Meanwhile, a trio of young predators are being led to the ritual site by an Elder, and find these superpowered humans to be the perfect chance to hunt new prey....

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wheredidhiseyebrowsgo · 1 year ago

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Hey!! I’m really hoping you or your followers can help me find a sterek fic. Literally the only scene I can remember is stiles going down to the basement of a library that Laura manages and he was warned to stay away from the locked area that is essentially the Beacon Hills restricted section but bc he’s stiles he obvs didn’t listen and the gate/door had protective wards so it shocked stiles and sent him flying back. Stiles either worked at the library as well or was just a patron. I think Lydia worked there too? Or maybe Isaac?? I think they find out later on that stiles is magic. Oh and I believe there’s a bulletin board in the library that has flyers that are magicked bc they have hidden messages and magical requests in them that only the supernatural can see. I’m really hoping im not confusing that last bit with another fic. Thank you!!!!!!!!!!

I know this one too!

What I Did On My Summer Vacation by grimm

(4/4 I 118,749 I Explicit I Sterek)

There's something weird about Beacon Hills that Stiles can't quite put his finger on. The way everyone in town knows his name the day he arrives. The way they insist the melancholic howling that echoes through the forest every night is just a dog. The way his dad denies getting a dog, even though Stiles comes home to find one sprawled across his bed, some big black thing whose eyes gleam red in the right light. The way that massive oak tree out in the woods vibrates under his touch, pulsing with sickly life.

There's something weird going on in this town, and Stiles is determined to get to the bottom of it.

#teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #feral!derek #magic!stiles #sheriff knows #anon #lost fic

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sweet-s0rr0w · 6 days ago

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⭐️🎄 Merry Christmas and happy holidays! 🎄⭐️

How do you think drarry celebrate the winter season? ♥️

Ah, Merry Christmas to you too, and thank you for the ask, which really made me smile :) I came up with about a dozen different replies, then thought the most fun way to answer would be to have a think about some of the Drarrys from my fics, and what they'd be doing over the festive period!

Drarry from Nor All That Glisters spend Christmas in Europe, or possibly up in Durham seeing Lee, who's off at uni doing Chemistry. Sometimes Harry has to work, and Draco spends a few days at the Manor, helping his mum with cutting back the Shrivelfigs, and renewing all her anti-frost charms. They'll get to the Burrow at some point, though probably on one of the quieter days; the holiday season's not the easiest for Draco, and though he'd never say it (and it's probably in his head - the Felix negative after-effects should be long worn off by now ofc), he still sometimes feels a little out of place amongst Harry's closest friends. Harry though, Draco never doubts.

Kept in Cages Drarry are in Kenya, of course, and it's Erumpent mating season, so there's plenty of work to be done keeping the local Muggles from being accidentally trampled/exploded, and fending off poachers, and not much time for festivities. I expect they do manage to do a Christmas lunch of a sort, though, with Christmas music, and probably some crackers that Ron's sent over (the kind that go bang, for the non-Brits), and green beans rather than Brussels Sprouts.

Among the Elements Drarry are definitely at the Burrow, where Scorpius is thoroughly spoiled by Molly and Narcissa both. Scorp's doing brilliantly; at three years old he's still a little dot, but bright as a button, and knows exactly how to get his way. Ron and Hermione are expecting their first now, and Draco can't help feeling nervous at the sight of her barely-visible bump, thinking about everything that happened. He doesn't say anything to Harry, who he knows is one day hoping for a sibling for Scorp, but he's not quite sure yet if that worry will ever go away.

And Waking Up Slow Drarry are at Narcissa's of course, for their three hundred and something-th Christmas dinner of the year! They try to make the real one a little more special, which usually means that Harry does end up dancing; he's getting pretty good at it now, if he does say so himself! Draco's shop reopens between Boxing Day and New Year (there's a little trade from the tourists visiting Bath over Christmas), and then they'll be locking up (and set some surreptitious warding spells) and heading off by Portkey for some sun and a well-deserved rest. They're friends with a few magical families in the local area now, and they'll all take turns to go see Narcissa while Drarry are away.

This was so much fun I cannot! Thank you so much!

Me, I've had a manic Christmas hosting many people and ferrying my children hither and thither, and staring longingly at all the brilliant works that are appearing in my ao3 inbox. I'm looking forward to finally sitting down and catching up on: soft by @garagepaperback, Falter by @skeptiquex, Better not pout by @maesterchill, The Chosen Bun by @hoko-onchi-writes... and finishing off my Christmas re-read of O Come, All Ye Faithful by @toomuchplor!

I'm actually going to tag a few friends to see if they're interested in doing this too: @tackytigerfic, @epitomereally, @fluxweeed, @citrusses, @the-starryknight, @wolfpants, @lqtraintracks, @oknowkiss (plus all tagged above ofc, and anyone else who fancies!!) - any updates from any of your Drarrys, and what they might be up to this holiday time?

#drarry #asks #i'm avoiding relatives #can you tell?

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hollowed-theory-hall · 6 months ago

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Just how powerful was Dumbledore, exactly? Was he so powerful that normal magical rules/laws don’t apply to him (at times), or was he powerful but not above anything; he was just a very skilled wizard?

Also, do you think Harry is as powerful as Dumbledore or could be if he practiced? And do you think Harry is above your average kind of wizard, as in, he might not be that powerful yet, but he definitely has done the impossible and broken some magical laws?

Btw, when I say magical laws, I mean the laws in which a spell (or something magical) should work and is designed to work. So with Harry, I’m asking if he excels at doing magic in a way that wasn’t supposed to happen and that should’ve probably been impossible to do. If any of that makes sense.

I think I mentioned Harry not always obeying the laws of magic here, here, and here. Basically, he is incredibly magically powerful by sheer raw magical talent. He can just, kinda bend spells to work to suit his needs (Levitation charm to ward off projectiles, a Stinging Hex to get out of Snape's Legilemancy attack, Shield Charm/Disarming Charm to though an opponent back, whatever he does against the Imperius Curse, etc). This is something I think is incredibly rare and saved for very few wizards and witches but not necessarily for the reasons you might think.

I mentioned here how I believe magic works. And in general, intention is more important than anything else, it means that a strong enough will and a clear enough intention in your mind is enough to bend the laws of magic. But all wizards are essentially being conditioned into not casting with just their intention because of how risky it is. If you don't use incantations, runes, or potions to dictate to your magic what to do, your magic is likely to be unpredictable. Just like we see with accidental underage magic.

So, while how much you can push magic and what you can accomplish like that is dictated by your power levels, anyone could theoretically bend spells to their whims. Assuming they are willing to be a little unpredictable and have a strong enough force of will.

And while I think Dumbledore is exceptionally talented and powerful I think, in his case, a lot of what makes him as formidable as he is comes down to skill and knowledge. Dumbledore is the brightest wizard of his age the same way Hermione is the brightest witch of her age.

Hermione is undoubtedly talented and gifted in magic, getting spells correctly first in the class more often than not. This she does along with very intensive study of basically any area of magic she can. But, unlike Harry, she can't disobey the laws of magic, not because she doesn't have the magical power, but because she doesn't have the will.

Hermione is rigid, controlled, and by-the-book in her magic, the thought of working magic differently from how the books say it works wouldn't even cross her mind. She just doesn't have that kind of intuitive magic the way Harry does, and she's aware of it:

“Harry — you’re a great wizard, you know.” “I’m not as good as you,” said Harry, very embarrassed, as she let go of him. “Me!” said Hermione. “Books! And cleverness! There are more important things — friendship and bravery and — oh Harry — be careful!”

(PS, 206-207)

Yes, she mentions friendship and bravery, but I think even this early on Hermione noticed Harry has an intuitive grasp on magic she doesn't. Even when he isn't aware of it.

Dumbledore, with all his silly antics later in life, I think is much more like Hermione in his approach to magic, at least he used to be. I believe most of his life Dumbledore approached magic in this more controlled and structured way. From what we hear from him, it appears he didn't have much faith in Divination (one of the least controlled, most freeform fields of magic) until he witnessed a prophecy firsthand, again, very much like Hermione:

“I did,” said Dumbledore. “On a cold, wet night sixteen years ago, in a room above the bar at the Hog’s Head Inn. I had gone there to see an applicant for the post of Divination teacher, though it was against my inclination to allow the subject of Divination to continue at all. The applicant, however, was the great-great-granddaughter of a very famous, very gifted Seer, and I thought it common politeness to meet her. I was disappointed. It seemed to me that she had not a trace of the gift herself. I told her, courteously I hope, that I did not think she would be suitable for the post. I turned to leave.”

(OotP, 840)

I think, after Trewlany's prophecy and especially after Lily's sacrificial magic he started rethinking of the nature of magic and how spells can be cast by just one's intention. I believe he researched the subject greatly in the years leading up to the books, and during them, but I don't think he ever shook his earlier approach fully. Especially when you consider what happened to Ariana. Ariana's magic was uncontrolled and based on intention alone that she couldn't grasp and Dumbledore saw this kind of magic destroy his family firsthand. I think Dumbledore would've been very wary of trying out such magic himself. The spells and magic we see Dumbledore cast and work with are based on study and knowledge even when he looks for traces of magic in the locket's cave, it doesn't feel like mere intuition to me, but like something he learned to do, something he put the effort into studying:

Dumbledore was standing in the middle of the cave, his wand held high as he turned slowly on the spot, examining the walls and ceiling. “Yes, this is the place,” said Dumbledore. “How can you tell?” Harry spoke in a whisper. “It has known magic,” said Dumbledore simply. Harry could not tell whether the shivers he was experiencing were due to his spine-deep coldness or to the same awareness of enchantments. He watched as Dumbledore continued to revolve on the spot, evidently concentrating on things Harry could not see.

(HBP, 557-558)

This above scene kinda illustrates the difference I'm talking about between Harry's intuitive approach and Dumbledore's learned skill. Dumbledore, who learned and studied how to sense traces of magic, lifts his wand, casting wandlessly to pick up the traces and learn more about them. Harry, on the other hand, feels a spine-deep cold that he associates with his awareness of magic. Because Harry describes magic feeling in various ways throughout the books, even magic just washing over him momentarily, so Harry just expects to feel enchantments this way. Unfortunately, we don't know if other wizards feel magic the way Harry does, but it shows the way he approaches magic, how he just expects to be able to sense enchantments Dumbledore needs to put active effort into locating because that's how he learned to do it.

Now, I think Dumbledore has a strong enough force of will (and he's definitely powerful enough) to cast magic with his intention alone, I just think he learned to be so incredibly well-controlled with his magic that it isn't really going to happen.

#harry potter #hp #hp meta #asks #holly parker #albus dumbledore #harry james potter #hermione granger #hp magical theory

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daydreaming-nerd · 6 months ago

Text

Young Love and Old Money (Cassian x Female! Reader) Part 15

Young Love and Old Money Masterlist

AN: I'm sorry I haven't been writing a bunch lately. I've been going through a pretty big transitional period in my life and it has my mental health in the absolute shitter. Please be patient I promise I'm writing whenever I can. Love you all I hope you enjoy the second-to-last chapter of this series.

Summary: She was the most beautiful woman in Prythian, sister to the High Lord of Night, and now she is the soon-to-be wife of Eris Vanserra. Despite her many titles and her aura of unattainability, Cassian can't help but fall deeply in love with the princess of the Night Court. But will it be enough to stop her impending wedding to a man who is sure to destroy her from the inside out?

Warnings: jealous cassian, angst but fluffy at the end

Word Count: 6,517

It’s been three weeks since we went to Hybern and I hadn’t left the cell.

The first time I woke up Rhys had to come into the cell and cleave into my mind to make me sleep. Thankfully the burn marks on his hands and wrists are fully healed now. Feyre is in the Spring Court acting as our spy and when he’s not talking to her, Rhys is down here with me and Cassian.

Cassian hadn't left my side for a moment since I woke. He had a small cot placed outside my cell so that I wouldn’t have to sleep down here alone. Despite my protests he wouldn't leave to see Madja, he made her come here in this dark, dingy place. I had yet to touch anyone, even him, and it was starting to weigh on me. It was as if my skin turned colder in the absence of him, of anyone. I had taken for granted all the times I hugged my brother around the neck or sparred with Azriel. Not fully appreciated waking up in Cassian’s arms and being engulfed in his embrace when he came home sweaty and stinking from training.

But it wasn’t just me who was suffering from lack of touch. Cassian was a broken male. Many times he fought with Rhys and I to simply be allowed in the cell with me, but both of us declined. While Cassian was a strong male, Rhys had magic that could help protect him. If something happened he wouldn’t be gravely injured. Cassian argued and argued with the two of us for days. He only gave up when I told him I couldn’t live with myself if I had hurt him. I asked him to imagine the situation in reverse.

Rhys and Amren have been working tirelessly to teach me how to control my power. Even Cassain pitched in, teaching me the breathing techniques of Valkyries to keep my emotions calm when things seemed lost. I had made progress, but with the wards on the cell it was hard to measure the true extent of my control. The flame that danced on my skin was more of a flicker now, but who knew if that was the wards doing or my own.

“Keep pressing your power down into that well, what does it look like? What does it feel like?” Rhysand coached me.

We had found that the best way for me to put a damper on my power was to put it somewhere else. To seal it off from the rest of me in a way. Putting it in a vault and locking the door was effective until my emotions came into play, then Cassian’s breathing techniques worked their own magic.

“Good, good! You’re doing fantastic!” Rhys praised his voice the most enthusiastic it had been in a while.

I opened my eyes to see the flames on my skin extinguished, though I could feel them simmering under the surface, waiting to ignite once more. It hadn’t been the first time I was able to control my power, I had been doing well for the past week. Rhys figured I would do better if I let some of it out, like a cauldron that needed to boil over in order to simmer down. But I couldn’t do that here.

“How do you feel?” Rhys asked again, stepping closer to me.

“I feel more me now, not that I really know what that means anymore,” I say looking at my hands just waiting for them to ignite again.

Rhys takes my hands in his own, his wards up to keep from being singed. I look up to see his eyes sparkling, the happiest he’s been in a while, a smile lighting up his face.

“I think you’re ready to leave the cell,” he smiles and I hear Cassian remove his arms from the bars of the cell where he always rested them.

“Rhys I don’t know,” I shake my head as he holds my hands tighter.

“Well I do, you’re ready y/n and I can’t stand to see you in this cell any longer,” he pleads with me.

My eyes flit to my mate, who waits dutifully on the other side of the bars. His knuckles white from where he grips the iron. Like he was praying I’d cross that threshold just so I could be in the same room as him. It was that pain, that longing in his hazel eyes, that prompted me to nod my head yes.

“Thank the cauldron,” Rhys sighed in relief, bringing me towards the door. “Now the wards won’t be there to help you keep your power down, you’ll have to focus just as hard as you have been.”

The second my feet step over the threshold I feel it. The wards felt like a heavy blanket placed on top of me, without them I felt like I was laid bare. The violet flames under my skin flickered a bit but went out as soon as I pushed them back into that vault that kept us all from being burnt to a crisp.

Once I feel that vault door seal itself shut I look up to see Cassian staring at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. His eyes hold hope, and longing, and unmistakable sadness. My mate, my Cassian. Just three feet away from me.

I reach for him, feeling the need to comfort him but the second I do I stop myself and look down at my hands. There are no flames, but the simmering remains, icey and hot all at once. My hands clench into fists as I feel the pain in my chest. My eyes meet Cassian’s glassed over hazel ones and I feel the last piece of me break.

“I can’t- I can’t hold you,” I say, my voice breaking mid sentence. How long would it be till I could touch my mate again? Would I ever touch him again?

“It’s okay, I can still feel you, in here,” Cassian says, placing a hand over his chest and tugging on the bond so I could feel it.

I feel my throat bob as tears prick my eyes, suddenly it’s harder to breathe and flames ignite at my fingertips. My tears evaporate as they fall down my face and suddenly the room is caving in.

“Princess you need to breathe,” Cassian coos, placing his hand on my shoulder, the hiss of burning flesh echoes through the room as my mate rips his hands away from me and cradles his burnt hand. “FUCK!” he shouts.

“Cassian I-” my words get caught in my throat. “I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to.” I say moving towards him, but Rhys steps in front of me.

“y/n stop, you’re burning up. Let it wash over you, like a wave washing over a rock.” he says calmly.

I take a deep breath in through my nose and out through my mouth. I picture my power being shoved back in that vault, I imagine a wave of calm washing over me like a warm blanket. Only when I hear my heartbeat slow do I open my eyes. The flames have danced out again.

“That was incredible, you did that without the wards and without my help,” Rhys smiles proudly. “Today feels like a setback but you’ve made more progress than you know.”

I nod and turn my attention to Cassian who still holds his hand, “Cass I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to-”

“Shh princess, I know you didn’t mean to. I should’ve been more careful.” he says warmly, thankfully he doesn’t reach for me again.

“He’ll be okay, from the amount of times I’ve been burned Madja has the healing process down to a science,” Rhys chuckles trying to lighten the mood.

I wish his words were enough. I just burned my mate while he was trying to help him, and what’s worse, I couldn’t even hold him. I couldn’t comfort him, or ‘kiss it better’ or even inspect the injury. It was like every bone in my body wanted to see if he was alright and I couldn’t.

“I can put some wards on your bedroom, they won’t be as strong as down here but they will help,” Rhys assures me.

My mind wanders to my room. I had been sleeping in Cassian’s room for forever now, it was our room. But I couldn't sleep next to him anymore. Those days were gone.

“Put the wards on my old room, not Cassian’s,” I say calmly, averting my eyes to the stone floor.

“Like hell you’re sleeping in there,” Cassian grumbles. “You’re sleeping with me, in our bed, in our room.”

“Cass I can’t and you know it,” I say a little harsher than I should. I shudder a sigh and continue, “Look at what just happened, I won’t hurt you again, I refuse to.”

“She’s right Cassian, she could have a nightmare or a flare up in the night. Trust me when I say that little burn you got was nothing compared to her full power.” Rhysand says, knowing that there needs to be another voice of reason.

Cassain purses his lips, “Fine, then I’ll sleep in the reading chair next to your bed.” he says.

“No it’s not comfortable, you don’t have to do that,” I pleaded with him.

Cassian goes to argue but Rhys steps in, “I can have a bed moved into your room sister. Cassian can be close to you and he will be far enough away that he won’t be roasted alive.”

I nod solemnly, I still don’t like the idea of my mate being anywhere near me at the moment, especially after what just happened. But I knew that if I didn’t let him sleep in the room with me that he would sleep in the hall outside, and that wouldn’t do either. And besides, who knew how long things would be this way…

One month later…

Things are getting better. However I have yet to touch anyone but Rhys.

With my brother's help, I’ve gained more control over my power. We discovered that releasing it makes it easier to manage. When I depleted my reserves, there was less to burn off. However, the problem was that my reserves kept growing every day, as if I were gaining more and more power continuously.

There was no telling if it would ever stop growing and even more alarming, we didn’t know what would happen if I burnt out.

On top of that came new revelations. It seemed my power was more linked to the Night Court than we initially thought. I could now manipulate darkness and winnow just like Rhys could. Turns out winnowing was incredibly handy, especially since Cassian couldn’t fly me anywhere anymore.

Rhys and I worked everyday to let out some power. He taught me how to control my fire, how to aim it, and wield it as the weapon it was. It was during one of these very lessons that he got the news that Feyre had finally returned to us.

The reunion was teary and beautiful as I watched my brother and his mate embrace so warmly on the floor of the townhouse. Though, there was a certain pang in my heart knowing I couldn’t hold my own mate that way. I looked up at Cassian from across the room to find him already staring at me. I pursed my lips and looked away, trying my best to keep myself from crying.

“Oh y/n!” Feyre smiles and begins to run over and embrace me but Rhyand catches her around her middle.

“Feyre no!” he shouts, a male clearly worried for his mate.

His booming voice made me curl in a little on myself as Cassian took a protective step towards me, eyeing both of them.

“I’m sorry Feyre, but I can’t touch you. I can’t touch anyone actually, even Cassian.” I say sadly the shame washing over me like the tide.

“W-what? Why?” she asks from where she stands a safe distance away in my brother's arms.

I let out a breath, “When I went into the cauldron I changed, power awakened inside of me and I can’t control it. I’ve burnt Rhys about a hundred times now.” I sigh, knowing the last thing she wants to hear is how I’ve harmed her mate.

She turns and slaps Rhys across the chest, “I knew you were lying! I could feel the heat down the bond! Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks.

My brother chuckles at his applauded mate, clearly just happy that she’s finally back in his arms. “You had enough to worry about already, and besides I had it under control. Y/n is doing much better now.” he assures Feyre.

“As I live and breathe,” croons a voice that I hadn’t heard in years.

My eyes flit to behind Feyre, where Lucien Vanserra stands, his eyes raking over me. I knew him when we were young and Rhys and Tamling were still friends. I was always fond of the male, and his flirtatious ways. Rhys used to call us childhood sweethearts, though we were never anything more than good friends.

“Lucien-fucking-Vanserra,” I laugh as Lucein prowls towards me.

“It can’t be? Is that the precious Jewel of Prythian?” he jests. “If I had known I’d be seeing you I would’ve brought flowers. I think I recall the Spring Courts peonies being your favorite?” he smirks, cocking an eyebrow.

“You’re a terrible guest Vanserra, we should throw you out,” I laughed, shaking my head at the silver tongued fox.

“Then allow me to gift you this instead,” he drawls before reaching for my hand.

“Lucien I wouldn’t” warns Rhys but it’s already too late.

The fox ignites flames across his fingers and picks up my hand. He doesn’t hiss or even flinch as he brings my hand to his mouth and kisses it in greeting. His eyes of gold and russet burning into mine.

Cassian growls in warning at the sight of the Autumn Court prince touching me, but if Lucien cares or is even afraid he doesn’t let it show. Instead he flips my hand over so my palm is facing up, using his free hand to graze over the skin of my palm down to my forearm.

“Her power is not like mine,” he says to no one in particular. “It feels darker and perhaps stronger.”

“But you can touch her?” Amren questions watching Lucien inspect my hand.

“Of course I can touch her,” he smirks, winking at me. “My flames burn at the same temperature as hers. I don’t feel anything but her lovely skin.”

“That’s enough,” Cassain growls, stepping forward a bit.

Lucien’s eyes turn to the general, nothing but sheer amusement in them.

“Yes, yes, Feyre told me that The Jewel was spoken fort now,” Lucien tuts releasing my hand. “Forgive me for trying to ignite old flames.” he chuckles, turning away.

Rhys and Feyre promptly excuse themselves and we all take it as our queue to get lost, clearing the room at lightning speed. I walked out of the house with Cassian in tow, and I could practically feel his anger radiating behind me.

Since going into the cauldron things between Cassian and I had been, well… different. We were so physical before I was cursed with a power I couldn’t control. Always holding hands or cuddling whenever we could. It cleaved a hole in our relationship we couldn't find a way to replace.

While we still spent every waking moment together, we talked less. I missed the conversations we used to have about books or training (which I had kept up on in my own time). However, I knew that my new powers were a lifestyle change for him too. It felt like grieving who I once used to be, who I may never be again.

Part of me wondered if we would survive this “new me”. Cassian fell in love with me when I was weak and meager, he might not like this new me. This female he had to walk on eggshells around. What I did know was this, he had to adjust in his own way, and I would stand by him through whatever that process was for him.

I thought I could keep quiet about his intense brooding, until he grunted once more. I stopped and turned around to face him. My neck craned up to where his jaw ticked in frustration.

“You sound pretty angry back there big guy,” I tease, trying to keep the mood light.

“I haven’t been able to touch you in almost two months and Lucien Vanserra walks in and holds your hand like it’s no big deal,” he grumbles looking off to the side.

If things were the way they used to be I would be turning his chin to meet my gaze.

“Maybe he can help Cass,” I say softly, trying to give him something to root for.

“Yeah, yeah, but I’m always going to be upset he was the first one to touch you,” he says, lip curling into a half smile as if he realizes how ridiculous he’s being.

“Rhys says I’m doing better, and I feel better too.” I tell him. “Better days could just be around the corner.”

Cassain lets my words hang in the air a bit and I can practically see the wheels in his head churning, like he’s waging a war against his thoughts and instincts.

“Can we- can we try again?” he asks hopelessly.

Cass had been asking me the same thing for the past few weeks. He wanted to try and touch me, just for a moment. The male just wanted to hold my hand. But I told him no every time, for every time he asked I could hear the singing of his flesh and see him cradling a burnt hand. Like a bad nightmare on a loop.

“Cass no I won’t hurt you,” I say firmly, taking a step back from him just in case he got any ideas.

“Baby please, I just want to hold you again. I just want to feel my mate.” he begs and my heart shatters.

“I’m sorry Cass, but I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt you again.” I say sadly, casting my head down. “We just have to hope that things get better tomorrow.”

Cassian goes to brush a hair out of my face and when he realizes he can’t he clenches his hand into a fist and clenches his jaw. And so the invisible wall that had been built between us raises again, and I feel that pang in my chest that, just. Won’t. Go. Away.

“What do you mean that was pretty close?” I cry looking at the scorched bit of grass next to the large rock I was supposed to hit.

“Pretty close could be the difference between hitting Hybern and hitting me in the heat of battle sister,” Rhys chortles.

We had been at it for hours today. After the week-long disappearance of him and Feyre he had finally come back to the real world to help me control my magic.

My well of power was turning shallow after hours of practice and my aim was starting to get sloppy. Which of course was dangerous for all involved, but mostly for the spring grass on the secluded hill we were on.

“Keep trying,” Rhys urges me from the boulder he sits on. I’m sure the thing had a permanent imprint of his ass by now.

“I can’t!” I say frustrated, running my hands through my hair. “I can’t break into people's minds, I can’t shapeshift.”

Rhys cocks and eyebrow and gracefully stands from the rock walking over to me.

“You wouldn’t know, you haven’t tried,” he says, summoning a kernel of his magic to rest in the palm of his hand, pure violet light. I do the same, but like always, it only manifests as violet flame. “Your power resembles mine, I can feel the traces of it that you carry. Try shapeshifting, amuse me sister.”

I look up at him with a sour face, “Into what? It’s not that simple.” I scoff, my brother always made magic seem so carefree, I was jealous of how easy he made it all look.

Rhys smirks and the snap of leather rings in my ears. The shit eating grin he wears as his wings spread out, basking in the sun makes my blood boil. Rhys was always a show off, especially when he was trying to push all my buttons.

“Maybe we’re the same, you are half Illyrian, even though you never got the wing gene.” he says, stretching his wings like he might stretch his arms when he first woke up in the morning.

“Rhys,” I grit out. He was toying with me, trying to poke fun at me so I might aim better or spew some more fire.

“Oh come on, humor your big brother.” he laughs. “Picture them in your mind, what do they look like?”

I let out a huff and rolled my eyes, and despite my better judgment I scrunch up my face and let my eyelids flutter shut. I try to picture what I might look like with wings, the same way I used to do when I was a little girl. I used to imagine myself flying around with my brother and his friends, going to far away places, anywhere but the townhouse I was raised in and caged in.

Weight crashes over me and when I open my eyes Rhys stands there with a smug grin on his face. His eyes gleamed with that ‘I told you so’ look only a big brother could possess. I dare to shift my shoulder blade behind me, and then there they are… that weight on my back that feels all too comfortable, like it was always meant to be there.

“Ha ha!” Rhys laughs, pumping his fists in the air.

Before I can protest he’s running over to pull me into a hug and ruffle up my hair with his knuckles.

“Look at that! My baby sister has wings!” he smiles, his eyes taking in the sight of them as they light up brighter than I had ever seen before.

I curl my back muscles so that my right wing comes in front of me. They look just like Rhys’, except unscarred from years of battle and much smaller, even smaller than Feyre’s. But the weight of them was perfect, like they were made for me.

“You’ve been training with Cassian haven’t you?” he asks, circling me as if he is taking in my posture and the muscles of my back.

“Yeah I have, why?” I ask, watching as his gaze rakes over my wings.

Even when I was in the cell I worked hard to continue doing the exercises that Cassin has taught me. It was hard to be cooped up in there all the time. While I trained and motivated I was able to escape if only for a little bit.

“Because the drills he has you running? They’re the same ones they put us through when we were young. They’re meant to strengthen our backs so we might carry our wings,” he explains, coming back to stand in front of me. “And by the looks of it you bear yours quite well.”

I look at my wings and flex them a bit. My brother was right, I was carrying my wings like they were second nature. My back didn’t scream from the pain, instead it almost seemed to welcome their weight. However, it was another change I would have to get used to. Unrelenting power, winnowing, not being able to touch my mate, and now wings?

I shook my head and thought for a moment. I was a completely unrecognizable person now. Far from the person Cassian fell in love with. My mind drifted back to the talk we had the other day, how I could feel the distance between us. I wondered if maybe this new me wasn’t one that he wanted. Wondered if perhaps he had preferred me to be nothing more than a princess… his mate. And now the wings? Could I possibly change any more?

“Do you think Cassian will care?” I ask softly bracing myself for any answer my brother might provide. “I mean I’ve changed so much, and he married me without wings and now all the sudden-”

“Sister,” Rhys says, grasping my arms to stop me from speaking. “Cassian is going to love your wings. He’s going to drool all over my carpets when he sees them.”

“Yeah but-”

My words get caught in my throat as I feel my brother's fingers digging into my arms. Into my skin. My eyes turn down to where he grasps my bare forearms. No wards, no magic, just him and me. Rhys was touching me. And he was unburnt.

“You-you’re touching me,” I breathe, grasping his forearms back.

“I had a suspicion that if you deplenished that well of power enough that I would be able to touch you. Looks like I was right,” he smiles.

I throw my arms around his neck and pull him into a soul crushing hug. It had been so long since I had been hugged or held or touched in any way. I didn’t know how badly it would burden my soul, not to feel my brothers warm hugs or my mates lingering touches. But here I was, happy and whole again.

When I pull back there are tears in both of our eyes. Tears of hope. Hope that I might make it through whatever this power was that sought to bring me down, hope that I could make a difference in the upcoming war, and hope that when all this was over, I might have a normal life.

“I think there’s someone who is desperately wanting to see you right now,” he smiles as a tear rolls down his face.

The townhouse is quiet when we walk in, both of us wingless and searching for one person… Cassian. Of course we knew he would be here, he was always here when Rhys and I went to train. Pacing and patiently waiting for me to return with some hope, some kernel of a possibility that I might be able to touch him or hold his hand that day.

That’s where we found him, wearing a hole in Rhysand’s beloved carpet waiting for any semblance of good news.

“Hey, how was training today?” he asked from where he stood a good few feet away.

“It went well,” I say timidly. Despite my brother's assurance I was still scared of what Cass might have to say about my new changes.

“It went well, that’s all you have to say? It went well,” Rhys protests from where he leans against his desk, arms crossed and looking every bit of the swaggering High Lord he was painted to be.

“Rhys,” I growl under my breath, he had promised not to butt in if I let him see Cassian’s reaction to his winged mate.

Rhys holds his hands up in mock surrender before signaling that he’s going to shut up now and enjoy the show.

I sigh and prepare myself for the worst, “Rhys and I discovered yet another new aspect of my power,” I say, looking to Cassian whose face is nothing but apprehensive, like he won’t let himself get his hopes up.

“And it’s a physical manifestation of sorts, one I’m not sure how you’ll react to,” I continue wearily.

Cassian relaxes a bit, “You’re my mate, and you always will be. You could sprout a tail and I would still love you.” he chuckles.

“I don’t know Cass, this one is pretty unforgivable,” Rhys teases, breaking his promise once again.

I shoot him a pointed glare that tells him he’s run out of warnings and he closes his mouth again. I take a deep breath in, visualizing my wings just like Rhys had instructed me and when I breathe out again I can feel their comforting weight.

When I open my eyes I find Cassian standing slack jawed in the middle of the room, Rhys’ booming laugh echoing off the walls at his usually composed brother's appearance. I can’t help but let my lip turn up at Rhys’s good humor, it was nice to have him break the tension.

“Y-You have wings?” Cassian sputters out taking a step closer to me.

“I’ve always been half Illyrian just like Rhys, but I never had the magic to shift into wings like he did. Now I do,” I explained to him.

“How could you for one moment think I wouldn’t be overjoyed by this?” he laughs stepping closer so that he’s towering over me. The movement feels so natural, the position feels so us.

I smile softly, my cheeks no doubt flushing under his lovesick gaze. My hand reaches out to touch him, like it had so many times before, but this time I don’t stop myself as I slowly go to touch his cheek.

As my fingers get closer he flinches ever so slightly, I can tell it’s a knee jerk reaction from being burnt, but my gaze never falters. Not as my fingers brush over the stubble of his unshaved jaw, and my palm comes to cup his face.

The tension in his body releases and his eyes flutter closed for a brief moment. He opens them and a tear falls down his face as he lets out a ragged breath.

“I can feel you,” he breathes out and I feel a piece of my soul come back to me.

I shudder a breath as I realize I’m crying too, “I can feel you,” I cry putting my other hand on his cheek.

“We…well I, figured out that her power is a well, when it’s near empty she doesn’t burn,” Rhys smiles from the corner of the room.

Cassian’s hands encircle my waist as he pulls me to his chest. I breathe in his scent, cedar and leather, and thank the mother that I can be in his arms again.

“What happens if she burns out? Uses all her power?” Cassian asks, already looking towards the future while I was still taking in the moment we had now.

Rhys sighs and shakes his head, “I’m not sure what happens. But I’m not willing to test her limits to find out, not when the possibility could be losing her forever.” he says sadly.

Cassian nods, I can tell that the answer Rhys gave him didn’t sit right with him. That he wanted to know more, wanted to make sure that very real possibility of losing me wouldn’t happen anytime soon. But then he tilted my chin up to meet his gaze and I could tell that he had decided that this moment was more important.

“You’re so cold,” he breathes. “But you’re still you. You still feel like you.”

“Oh Cass,” I laugh, throwing my arms around his neck.

His arms encircled me pulling me to him in a soul crushing hug, no doubt releasing all the tension between us that had been building for nearly two months now. I can’t help but let out a sob at the feeling of being in his arms again. At some point I feel us both hit the floor as we hold each other.

Cassian pulls back to brush the hair from my face, a movement I know he missed doing. Both of our faces streaked in tears but I didn’t care.

“Let’s go home,” he says softly. “To our room and our bed, so I can show you how much I’ve missed you, my beautiful mate.” he says.

I wasn’t able to fly myself to the House of Wind, despite having wings of my own now I had no clue how to even begin to fly. But Cassian didn’t mind carrying me, hells I didn’t mind either. For the first time in a long time we felt like us.

I lie on my stomach cradling a pillow as the sheets drape around my bare skin. Cassian lies next to me, propped up on his elbow as he runs a finger up and down my back, like even a simple touch like this meant the world to him. I know it did to me.

We had been at it for hours, I had to take a couple breaks to release my flames on the balcony but somehow the display of my power only seemed to turn Cassian on more. It wasn’t until now that we were truly spent and basking in the glow of just lying in our bed together.

“Show me again,” he muses, placing a kiss on my shoulder.

I knew what he meant. He had asked to see my wings a million times already. The first time he wanted to touch them, feel every inch of them. He opted to show me how sensitive they could be and I was greedily taking every touch he gave them. If I had known how easily affected his wings were I would’ve been far more careful when I washed them.

I roll my eyes and muster a kernel of power to summon my wings. His eyes light up immediately as he runs a hand down the leathery material. The hair on my skin raised and I couldn’t help but smile at the tenderness. My feared general admires my wings like they were expensive art.

“Beautiful,” he smiles, kissing the edge near him. “My mate is so beautiful”

I hum in delight as he repeats the phrase, fearsome general indeed. I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful he looked in this moment. How long had it been since I saw him bare? His sculpted muscles that make him look like a god. Hair falling from where it was tied at the nape of his neck, face worn from coupling but still aglow with love? It had been so long. I could’ve stayed there forever.

“Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to fly,” he tells me softly, still brushing his hand over my wings and down my spine.

“Rhys says he wants Azriel to teach me since he also learned later in life.” I reply, my voice tired as the late hours creep in.

Cassian shakes his head, “No, you’re my mate. I’ll teach you.” he said in a tone that left no room for arguing.

“Rhys didn’t teach Feyre how to fly,” I pointed out with a smug smile. I knew how important it was to him that he be the one to teach me, but it was fun to push his buttons like this.

“Yes and because of that Azriel pushed Feyre off a cliff as a flying lesson,” he chuckled.

I remember the day my brother's mate came home with twigs in her hair, we all made fun of her then. Now I fear I will be living the same fate.

“But she did in fact learn how to fly,” I say, needing to push his buttons one last time.

“The answer is no princess,” he grumbles, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Besides I feel like I just got you back.”

I sighed knowing the feeling all too well. While Cassian and I weren’t apart physically it felt like it. Sure I saw him every single day, and he slept in a bed next to mine, but we weren’t the same.

“I know how you feel,” I say, reaching out my hand to stroke his cheek, his eyes fluttering for a moment as if savoring the feeling.

He was silent for a moment, the air between us thick with things we never talked about. Hybern, the Cauldron, the war. It was something we should’ve talked about weeks ago. But if I had to talk about watching him die and not be able to hold him after? I don’t think I could do that. Clearly he felt the same.

“When you went into the Cauldron,” he said, drifting off as if recalling the horrid event. “I thought you were dead. I thought I was sitting there watching you die.”

My breath caught in my throat as I watched him come to terms with his thoughts, his emotions.

“I- there are no words to describe how it felt. To sit there and watch you die and not do anything about it. It was a mercy that I lost consciousness,” he continues. “When I woke up I thought you were gone. I thought I had woken up to a world where you weren’t alive anymore. Worst of all I thought they had left your body in that horrible place. That I wouldn’t be able to hold you one last time, even in death.”

“Cass-” I start to comfort him but he cuts me off.

“Azriel said you were here and that you were breathing and I nearly cried with happiness. But then I saw you in that cell, cold and on the dirty floor. I just wanted to hold you and…god, I wasn’t sure if we were ever going to be able to do this again.” he says, voice filled with emotion as he strokes my cheek.

“It’s not going to be easy Cass, the road going forward. There will be war and ruin, but I know that we can get through it. We’re going to be okay,” I smile cupping the hand he has rested on my cheek.

He smiles down and pulls me to him so that I’m laying on his chest. “We’re going to be okay,” he repeats back.

I had laid on his chest like this a hundred times before, but now it meant more. I sigh, breathing him in, enjoying the feel of his skin under my cheek once more. He was very adamant that this be the way I sleep tonight even though I was scared.

“But Cass what if I burn you in the middle of the night-”

“No. You will sleep in our bed, in my arms and that’s final.”

I didn’t argue with him after that.

As if on queue the second I feel myself drifting into sleep Cassian shakes my shoulder a bit.

“Princess you’re heating up a bit,” he whispers in my ear.

We found that whenever my skin started getting hot that my power started to grow, when I expelled the excess my skin turned cold. A welcome meter of where I was at, but good lord I simply wanted to rest.

“Ugh, I’ll go light something on fire,” I groan, pulling myself from the bed and tossing Cassian’s shirt over my head.

It was going to be a long road back to normalcy, if there could even be a “normal” after this. But I wasn’t walking the path alone, I never would be.

Last chapter coming soon….

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