#Stone-Wielder | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

shebunie · 4 months

Note

HIIIIII! could you do a mizu x reader when reader teases mizu so much that mizu snaps and erm...things get suggestive or just plain smut IDK 🙏🏽

𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭

𝗠𝗶𝘇𝘂 𝘅 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: 𝟭𝟴+, 𝗻𝘀𝗳𝘄, 𝘀𝗺𝘂𝘁, 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗱𝗲𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗸, 𝘁𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗹 (𝗿! 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝗶𝗲𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴), 𝗲𝗱𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗯𝗲𝗴𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝘀𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴, 𝗶 𝗻𝗲𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗼 𝗯𝗮𝗱, 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝘆𝗲𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗳-𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟮.𝟲𝗸 𝐀/𝐍: 𝗛𝗶 <𝟯, 𝗮𝗺𝗶𝘀𝗵𝘂, 𝗜 𝗺𝗶𝘀𝘀 𝗺𝗶𝘇𝘂, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗺𝘆 𝗽𝗮𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝘀𝘂𝗰𝗰𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗳𝘂𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗱𝗲𝗳𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱! 𝗠𝘆 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗯𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝘁�� 𝗻𝗼𝗿𝗺𝗮𝗹 𝗼𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗜 𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗶𝗿𝗹 𝘀𝘁𝘂𝗳𝗳. 𝗛𝗢𝗢𝗥𝗔𝗬 𝗙𝗢𝗥 𝗕𝗘𝗦 𝗦𝟮!

"I don’t want company."

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow across the tranquil landscape. Mizu, the stoic yet skilled samurai, sat beneath a cherry blossom tree, taking a moment of relaxation from her travels. Her sword rested beside her, reflecting the fading sunlight. However, her solitude was soon interrupted by your arrival.

You, an adventurous and cheeky soul, approached her with a mischievous glint in your eyes. "I couldn't resist the allure of a lone samurai beneath the cherry blossoms," you declared, a playful grin tugging at the corners of your lips.

“What's gotten you so grumpy?”

Mizu's piercing gaze met yours, her expression unwavering. "I said, I don’t want company," she replied, a hint of irritation in her tone.

Undeterred, you plopped down beside her, ignoring her warning. "Oh, come on, Mizu! Even a samurai needs a break. Plus, it's a crime to waste such a beautiful evening in solitude," you teased, leaning closer to her.

She sighed, realizing that you were not easily deterred. "I value my solitude. It sharpens my focus and keeps me attuned to the world around me," Mizu explained, attempting to maintain her composure.

You chuckled, tracing patterns on the grass with your fingers. "I get that, I do. But even the mighty Mizu needs a break from being a stone-cold warrior sometimes. Don't you ever get tired of all that serious stuff?"

Mizu's stoic facade cracked ever so slightly as she shot you a sideways glance. "I don't get tired. I endure," she retorted.

Your grin widened, clearly enjoying her reactions. "Endure, huh? Well, how about enduring some good company for a change? It might be just what you need."

A subtle tension hung in the air as Mizu's patience wore thin. "I've endured many challenges and adversaries. Dealing with you might be the most formidable one yet," she remarked, a flicker of amusement in her eyes.

A hand to your mouth, feigning shock enveloped your features, “Of course, you seem to be the only one who can handle it anyway.”

Each remark a playful jab, and each counter a carefully calculated response. The verbal sparring evolved into a dance of wit and charm. Mizu found herself caught in the web of your playful teasing, her steely resolve slowly giving way to the unexpected allure of your company.

As the moon began to rise, casting a silvery glow on the landscape, you decided to up the ante. "You know, Mizu, beneath that tough exterior, I bet there's a samurai with a heart that longs for a little excitement," you mused, a sly grin playing on your lips.

Mizu raised an eyebrow, a mixture of curiosity and defiance in her gaze. "I have no interest in power or money. I have no interest in being happy. Only satisfied."

“And what if I told you that a bit of someone, might just be the key to satisfaction?”

You leaned in, your voice a soft whisper against the gentle rustling of the cherry blossoms as you lifted a finger to trace along the jaw of the wielder. The strand of her hair followed the breeze, your eyes traced along the bridge of her nose, down to her upturned lips.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking at you.” you voiced, Mizu couldn't help but feel a strange mixture of discomfort and curiosity. Your presence, initially an unwelcome intrusion, now presented a challenge that intrigued her. She shifted uncomfortably under your gaze, trying to maintain her composure.

"I prefer to be unseen," Mizu remarked, her tone stern, but a glimmer of uncertainty lingered in her eyes.

You chuckled softly, the mischievous glint in your eyes undiminished. "But you look so pretty like this. Do I make you nervous?”

Mizu, unaccustomed to such flattery, found herself at a loss for words. The air around you two was charged with a newfound tension, a delicate balance between the solitude she sought and the unexpected charm you brought. The cherry blossoms overhead seemed to sway in approval, as if nature itself acknowledged the subtle shift in the atmosphere.

Your soft fingers that lingered on her face, held her chin and gently turned her gaze to you. The moon illuminated the scene, casting shadows that played on your features, giving you an almost ethereal quality.

For a moment, Mizu's stoic exterior wavered. She glanced away, the touch of your finger on her skin tingled, breaking eye contact, and the moonlight revealed a hint of vulnerability. "Empty flattery won't change my resolve," she declared, her voice a mixture of defiance and self-assurance.

But you were undeterred, your playful demeanour persisting. "Who said anything about changing your resolve? I just thought you could use a break from it every now and then," you replied shifting your focus on the sword between you, ever so carefully gliding your fingers along the hilt.

Mizu's internal struggle played out on her face, a silent battle between the disciplined warrior and the unforeseen allure of your company.

“You look troubled,” the sultry tone of your voice called her out. Mizu let out a sigh, her resistance crumbling like a dam giving way to the persistent flow of water. The tension in her shoulders eased, and she found herself drawn into the magnetic field of your presence. "I am not troubled, I just don't want to be bothered," she insisted, though her gaze betrayed a conflict within.

Your fingers continued to dance along the intricate details of her sword, a silent acknowledgement of the craftsmanship that mirrored the complexities of Mizu herself. A sigh escaped your soft lips, “Then I’ll leave you to it.” Standing from your position, smoothing down your kimono as you turned around to leave the stoic wielder alone with the presence of the moonlit sakura’s

Mizu, unable to fully articulate the conflicting emotions within her, found herself reacting on an impulse she didn't quite understand. Her hand, the same one that had just moments ago wielded a sword with precision and control, now held onto the delicate fabric of your sleeve. Eyes, usually sharp and focused, betrayed a mix of uncertainty and something else—an unspoken acknowledgement of a connection.

You turned to look at her, surprise evident in your eyes. The air crackled with tension as Mizu's gaze held yours, the silent exchange conveying more than words ever could. In that brief moment, the boundaries that she had meticulously built around herself began to blur. She pulled you to sit on her lap.

"I didn't ask for this," Mizu grumbled, attempting to salvage some semblance of control over the situation.

With a playful smirk, you retorted, "Well, you did say you endure, right? Consider this endurance training for, an unexpected guest." Snaking your arms around her neck, the subtle touch of your fingers on the back of her neck sent shivers down her spine.

Long slender fingers gripped your face, squishing your cheeks and making you form a pout, “This persistent attitude of yours reminds me of someone,” Mizu’s patience ran thin on your teasing, a frown etched on her face while she squinted her eyes.

You couldn't help but laugh at her attempt to regain control, your pout turning into a playful grin. "Oh, really? And who might that be?" you asked, your voice a melodic muffled blend of amusement and curiosity.

“Just like Taigen when we were children,” her grip on your plush face remained, a different glint evident in her cerulean eyes, “A fucking brat.” Pushing you down on the soft grass, as she hovered above you, her weight supported by her strong arms.

The world seemed to slow down as Mizu's unexpected move left you breathless. The scent of cherry blossoms lingered in the air, and the moonlight painted a surreal backdrop for the unfolding moment. The playful banter had given way to a charged atmosphere, and the tension between you two became palpable.

Mizu's gaze bore into yours, a mixture of intensity and a flicker of something more. The fingers that had gripped your face now traced a delicate path down your neck, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. The weight of her body pressed against yours, and a primal energy passed between you, unspoken yet undeniable.

“I can be a brat.”

The soft rustling of the leaves overhead seemed to echo the beating of your hearts as Mizu's lips, once firm and resolute, hovered tantalizingly close to yours. Her eyes, usually guarded, now betrayed a vulnerability that mirrored your own.

"Oh, I know you can," Mizu declared, her voice low and commanding, fingers gently traced along the collar of your kimono, a feather-light touch that sent shivers down your spine.

"You’ll do as I say," she asked, her tone firm. "no defiance, no resistance. just complete submission." Undoing the ties of her makeshift belt with one hand as the other gathered your wrists, slowly and deliberately tying it together, ensuring you're completely at her mercy.

Mizu can see the anticipation in your eyes, the desire to be dominated and brought to your limits. “Keep those wrists exactly where they are," she commanded, voice leaving no room for negotiation.

"I want to see just how well you can follow orders." She proceeded to explore your body with rough fingertips, caressing and teasing every inch of your exposed skin.

You closed your legs together, “I don't think I follow orders that well,” feeling every tantalizing touch of the samurai, goosebumps rising from your skin as your breath wavered.

Looking at the wielders eyes, a mischievous glint danced in her gaze. "Oh, we'll see about that," she purred, her fingers tracing a slow path up your inner thigh. "Resistance can be quite entertaining."

As she leaned in, her warm breath grazed your ear. "Perhaps I'll have to find more creative ways to make you obey," she teased, her fingers lightly dancing along your collarbone. "You won't be closing those legs for long."

“come on my love speak up, what do you want? you want me to fuck you open for all of them to see?" Mizu whispered, leaning down to press a kiss on your forehead. She cocked her head to the side, your gaping lips brushing her earlobe as another whine escaped your throat. You whimper, the sudden feeling of her soft lips kissing your body never failing to make you feel crazy.

Mizu’s fingers drift down, fiddling with the hem of your garment before teasing you from the outside. Her boney fingers lightly ran over your underwear, soaking cunt leaking through the fabric.

Whines and begs slipping from your mouth, pleas for her to touch you. But, she stops, looking you dead in the eyes, “what do you want? say it, use your words.” She demands, watching you so closely you could come just from her gaze.

“Please, mizu.. I want you to touch me.”

Mizu's smirk widened as she leaned in, her fingers tracing a teasing path up your arm. "Well," she purred, "you have to be more specific than that."

Your breath caught in your throat, the anticipation thick in the air. "I want..." you stammered, struggling to form coherent words. Mizu's eyes never left yours, her confidence almost maddening.

"I want your hands on me," you finally managed to express, your voice a mix of need and frustration. Mizu's laughter echoed in the room, low and sultry.

"Such a good start," she whispered, her touch now dancing along your waist. "But you can do better. Tell me exactly where you want me to touch you."

The room seemed to shrink as you gathered your thoughts, desire and embarrassment wrestling within you. "I want your lips on mine," you admitted, your cheeks flushing with a mix of arousal and vulnerability.

Mizu's gaze intensified, a hunger evident in her eyes. "And?" she urged, her fingers lingering on the edge of your anticipation.

"Everywhere," you confessed, feeling the weight of your desire in the pit of your stomach. "I want to feel you everywhere."

Her giggle filled the room again, this time a bit softer. "Now we're getting somewhere," she murmured, closing the gap between you.

“Here?” you whine at her words, nodding. “Why are you nodding? I said to use your words.” She growled, her brows furrowing.

“I want you to touch my pussy, mizu.” you moaned out, enough to satisfy her.

“On your hands and knees,” Nimble fingers tease and twist your panties until they’re pooling around your ankles. Breath becomes heavier as she starts to kiss a pathway down the length of your back. You give in to her urges; head tipping back as her mouth glides over the plush of your behind.

Mizu kneels between your legs, sinking her teeth into your ass and moaning in unison with you. Your back arches at the feeling, presenting your cunt for her to feast.

“Pretty girl,” Mizu growls, hands palming your ass, spreading you further apart, “with the prettiest pussy, fuck-”

She delves in. Shiny tongue weaving between webbed folds. She groans, going for a second taste, a longer lick. Mizu slurps at your cunt, the loud, lewd sound causing you to shiver, top half of your body lowering against the tatami floors. The cold sends a jolt through your already perky nipples, and you squirm.

“Sweeter than sugar,” Mizu licks her lips, eyes memorising the sight of your wet cunt, puffy and pulsing for her - diving back in, her tongue and lips explore you.

Kissing your puffy clit, causing an erotic moan to leap from your swollen lips. She sucks on your aching clit, flicking the talented tip of her tongue in intricate patterns that have your thighs quivering against her flushing cheeks.

Mizu’s tongue worked its usual magic; sucking, kissing, rolling— your eyes began to water, the feeling of her inside you causing your build-up to come much faster than usual.

Indents of your teeth scatter across your hand and arm after having to bite into yourself to stay quiet. It was the crack of dawn after all. So, you continue to release muffled moans against your skin, eyes squeezing shut in concentration- but fuck Mizu knows what she’s doing with her tongue.

“Mmhm,” Mizu groans, face smushing into your cunt. Her ego swells with every, jolt of your hips as her tongue catches the perfect spot in each swirl. The way she moved had you crying like a little girl; red-faced and sobbing, begging her to let you cum. “what do you want, again?”

“Please, please mizu, please let me cum. I’ll be good, I promise.”

She’s about to make you cum faster and harder than you ever had in your life. She can sense it in the pulsing of your clit, feel it in the tremble of your legs. God, she wants to beg.

Feeling you slip over the edge and moaning into you. To catch every essence of your release, she switches to long yet fast licks up and down the length of you; from your buzzing clit, over your clenching hole.

“Mizu, fuck, oh my-” Your tied hands search for her, finding purchase grasping dark long tresses, “I’m-”

A calloused hand lands on your soft supple skin with a smack. The corner of her lips curls up into a grin when your body jolts, soft whines slipping past your lips.

“We’re done when I say we’re done or has the whore forgotten the endurance training she proposed?” The insult had your tummy flipping and cunt clenching, and of course Mizu noticed. She took no time slipping her middle finger inside you, your walls sucking her in desperately.

Leaning over your body, her perky breast mushed against your arching back as her free hand tightly pulled your hair.

“Mizu!” you squeak, clit throbbing, the roughness of her fingers rubbing against the walls of your cunt. “Please—” you whimpered, tear droplets rolling down your cheeks.

“Shut up.” She grunted out, long and slender fingers increasing their pace, pounding that spongy taste of heaven inside you, over and over again.

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azrielsdove · 4 months

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Hi!! I was hoping I could request something for Azriel or Cassian. I saw this post somewhere about someone being super calm and content in prison, maybe she was taken along with the home carver because of her powers. I’m thinking she is kinda like an old god but instead her powers feed off sacrifice and while she doesn’t want that life, she’s too powerful to be free until Feyre/Rhys lets her out because Feyre thinks she won’t hurt anyone. Then she can find her mate with Az or Cass?? And it’s revealed that she hates her powers because the person has to matter to her for the sacrifice/power. and she could’ve been part of the war that Mor fought in and went kinda crazy after because she lost that person but is fine now that it’s been so long.

You can change whatever if you end up doing it, I just thought it was a cool concept. It also does not have to be that detailed lol but thank you if you do it!!

Old God: Cassian x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Some Alcohol

***

“No, Feyre. It’s too dangerous.” Rhys didn’t look up from the paperwork on his desk while he spoke.

“Have you gone down there recently? She is kind, Rhys. You said to not trust the Bone Carver as well, and look how beneficial he was to us!” Feyre was pacing angrily around the room, having formed an attachment to the Death Wielder.

“We were in war, that was a dire situation. You want to release her for no other reason than you think she won’t harm anyone.” Rhys ran a hand over his face, looking up to his mate. “The beings in the Prison are there for a reason, Feyre. We can not go around releasing whoever we please without justification.”

Feyre huffed, crossing her arms and facing her husband. “You should go speak to her, Rhys. Understand what I mean. Amren came from the Prison, did she not?”

“Amren is different.”

“How?!” Feyre did not like arguing with her mate, but something was telling her it was wrong to keep the so-called old god down there. Especially after the war, after the Bone Carver sacrificed himself to fight for them. She knew the Prison held some of the nastiest beings Prythian had to offer, and that trusting any of them was a risk. Yet something was different about this one, she just knew it.

“Amren got herself out of the Prison. You have no idea how powerful the Death Wielder is. She is unlike anything you have ever seen.” Rhys stood from his desk, crossing the room to hold Feyre’s hands in his own. “It is too risky.”

“So if the Death Wielder got herself out, that would be fine?” Feyre shot at him, upset that he wasn’t agreeing with her.

“That’s not what i’m saying.”

“That’s what you’re insinuating! She isn’t what you think. Please, Rhys, just go talk to her.” Feyre pleaded, holding tight onto his hands. He sighed, reaching up to brush a piece of her hair back.

“Alright. I will go tomorrow evening, and if what you say proves true we can further discuss a release.”

***

Rhys did not enjoy coming to the Prison. He especially did not enjoy coming here to meet with you.

Unfortunately, he would do anything to make his mate happy.

He reached the door to your cell, placing his hand on the heavy stone. He breathed in deeply as he stepped forward, walking through the door like it didn’t exist. He looked around the room, shocked at how bright it was.

“High Lord,” you spoke, standing to greet him. “What brings you down?”

Rhys carefully looked at you, watching for any signs of a trick. “The High Lady requests to have you released. Do you know why she would ask such a thing?”

You gave a small smile, having grown quite fond of Feyre. “She visits me rather often, your mate. Brings me things,” you gestured to the faelights above you, the warm pillows and blankets on the floor. “She is different than any other. Full of hurt, yes, but an undying hope runs through her veins.”

“Are you coming to care for her?” The question was an accusation, thinly veiled anger behind his words.

“If you are asking if I plan to sacrifice her to escape, High Lord, then you would be mistaken. You should know better than anyone that I do not revel in my power.” There was an infinite sadness in your voice, an age-old pain.

“How am I to trust you?”

You shrugged. “I wouldn’t expect you to. We saw what happened with the war 500 years ago, what I had to do to save so many. Those kind of choices do not come without consequences, High Lord.”

Rhysand pondered over your words, violet eyes reading every movement you made. “You sacrificed the love of your life to save everyone. That is not something to be frowned upon.”

You gave a sad smile. “Yet here I am, locked in this pit of despair with the worst Prythian has to offer. Do not credit me, High Lord. I was willing to let the world suffer. He convinced me to do it, to use him to activate my power. I did not wish to do so.”

Rhys hummed, seeming to understand the level of devotion you held for your old lover. “I could understand. I would do anything to protect Feyre. Do you understand what I mean?”

You did. He would not allow your release from this prison, not even if you may be a harmless being these days. He would rather you suffer needlessly down here for millennia than risk anything harming his mate.

***

Feyre was angry. No, she was furious. Rhys had informed her that he would not be releasing the Death Wielder, even if he had picked up nothing bad in their meeting. She left his office without speaking, upset that he was being so difficult.

However, Feyre was not so naive as to not think her husband would try to stop her. She had planned for this. After all, he had made her High Lady, his equal. She had every right to make the call herself.

She found Cassian easily, purchasing donuts at one of the bakeries in Velaris. “I need your help.” Feyre was straight to the point, eyeing her friend as he stopped mid-bite.

“Uh, okay?” He said, placing his donuts back into their bag. “With what?”

“I need you to take me to the Prison.”

He laughed.

Feyre scowled, glaring at the General. “I’m being serious, Cassian.” She stood tall, letting power radiate from her. “As your High Lady, I command it.”

His laughter ceased, face growing serious. “As you wish, then.” Cassian knew better than to question her any further.

***

The pair stood outside the gates of the Prison, the ominous darkness beckoning them in. “May I ask who we are here to see?” Cassian pried, wanting to be prepared for what they would encounter.

“The Death Wielder.” Feyre didn’t give him a chance to protest, marching down into the endless dark. Cassian followed dutifully, wondering why his High Lady was so determined to meet with her. Feyre pushed in without hesitation when they reached the door to her cell. Cassian went after, growing more curious by the second.

“High Lady,” you greeted, welcoming the female you almost considered a friend. Not that many had ever gotten close enough to you for such a title. Feyre greeted you by your name, something very few had ever called you. “The High Lord was here as well, i’m sure you know.”

You could feel the simmer of displeasure come from the High Lady. “Yes. I’ve chosen to disregard his opinion on this matter. I do not think it is right to keep you down here.”

You gave a soft smile, lightly surveying the room that had caged you for so long. “Ah, but this is my home now, isn’t it? Where I came from has long been gone, anyone I ever knew with it. What else is there for me? It is no harm to keep me here, truly.”

Feyre huffed, seemingly having an argument in her head. “I will never force you to leave, you know that. I simply believe there is more for you out there, out in my home.”

You moved closer to the young female, inspired by her endless hope for all that is good. “Who is to say your people would allow me to walk among them? The old gods are not favored in your time, especially not one who’s known for Death.” It was then that you noticed her companion, the long haired male standing in the shadows. You cocked your head, surveying him curiously. Something about him was…different than any others you had met.

“This is Cassian,” Feyre introduced, waving him forward. He came into the light, nodding his head to you.

“Cassian,” you mused, tasting the name on your tongue. You observed his armor, his wings, the strong power radiating from him. “The General. How do you feel about your High Lady’s idea?”

He seemed shocked that you would ask for his opinion, looking carefully between you and Feyre. “I trust what my High Lady thinks best.”

“The diplomatic answer,” you hummed, moving to look at him closer. “That is not what I asked. What would you, as an innocent in this world, think of someone like me wandering through your city?”

He blinked at you before clearing his throat. “I would not consider myself an innocent. If the High Lady deemed you safe, I would trust her. As would many in this court.”

You waved your hand dismissively. “You are all innocents to me.” You turned back to Feyre, a smile ghosting your lips. “Very well, High Lady. If you deem it fit, I will accept the release you are granting me.”

***

You stood with the General on the outskirts of Velaris, feeling uncomfortable for the first time in a long time. You had grown content in the Prison, safe from your power. Your deadly, terrible power.

“What would you like to do?” He was watching you, hand on one of his many blades. You felt vulnerable by that action, a reminder that you will always be perceived as Death herself.

“I do not know.” Your voice was quiet, a weakness pulling through that you did not enjoy. You were easily the most powerful being here, there was no reason to feel so small. Cassian noticed the change in you, the contrast from the ancient confidence he encountered in the Prison.

“Hey,” he soothed, releasing the hold on his weapons, “no one has to know who you are.” You wanted to give him a thankful smile, but the darkness in your mind was clouding around you.

“No,” you whispered, “they’ll know. Perhaps this was a mistake.” You turned to face the mountains behind you, feeling the dirt beneath your feet. It had been so long since you had seen the outside, since the fresh air had touched your skin. You startled when you felt gentle fingers around your wrist, whipping your head around to meet the kind eyes of the General.

“Come with me. My own friend Amren is like you, and she lives here happily.” There was a calm in his voice that washed away any apprehension you felt, something about him making you feel like you could trust what he said. “Stay with me.”

Your heart ticked at his words as he pulled you down to the glittering city below.

***

You had spent a few weeks with Cassian, learning all Velaris had to offer. The High Lord had come to find the two of you early on, angry that you allowed his wife to set you free.

“She is the High Lady, her word is as equal as yours, is it not?” You had asked, pointing out his hypocrisy. He had grumbled at your words, but allowed you to continue on.

“As long as you are with Cassian, I will accept that you roam free. Do not make me regret this,” he had threatened, still not trusting you.

You couldn’t blame him.

You knew he had an underlying fear that you were growing too close to Feyre, that you may grow close to Cassian. You didn’t know how to explain that you would never use them to activate your power, that you would never allow anyone to become that special to you again.

Unfortunately, you were growing worried yourself. Cassian drew you into him, a simmering desire to learn everything there was to know about the male. His stories captivated you, his jokes made you laugh in ways you never had. He pulled out the true version of you, the being beneath the danger.

You needed to stop this.

Cassian had a little cabin on the edge of the city, a cozy place he had leant to you. He stayed with you most nights, sleeping on the couch while you took the bed. You knew it was due to his High Lord commanding it, but a part of you wished he was staying for you. That he enjoyed being around you as much as you did around him.

“We are going out tonight,” he informed you, tossing a dress onto the bed. You looked up at him in shock, unsure if he was joking or not. “It is time you let loose a little, enjoy yourself.” There was a teasing smile on his lips, a brightness in his eyes. You pulled the blood-red fabric to you, fingers trailing over the delicate fabric. You had never ‘gone out.’

“I don’t,” you started, looking up to him, “I’ve never, I, what if I embarrass you?” You tripped over your words, heat rising in your cheeks.

He gave a reassuring, slightly cocky smile. “You can’t be any worse than Az, trust me.”

***

You were nervous standing outside Rita’s, a cold intruder on a warm night. You hadn’t yet been around so many fae in such a tight setting, the worry that they would notice who you were drowning your mind. You tugged the bottom of your dress down a little, fidgeting with the hem. “Stop,” Cassian chided, grabbing your hand in his. “It’s going to be fine.”

He dragged you up the steps into the bustling bar, making his way through the crowd to a table in the back. His friends were all there, the High Lords stare cold as he noticed your hand in Cassian’s. You quickly pulled away from him, ignoring the look he sent you. He slid into the booth and you sat next to him, careful to keep your distance.

“Drinks?” The stunning blonde you immediately recognized asked, a knowing look in her eyes.

“She needs something strong, Mor.” Cassian answered for you, a laugh in his voice. You nodded in confirmation to the Morrigan, the sight of her bringing up memories of the war all those centuries ago. You were going to need several strong drinks.

“So, Death Wielder, how have you enjoyed your time in my court?” Rhysand asked, your title coming out like an insult.

“It is a very beautiful place, High Lord,” you answered honestly, having grown to quite enjoy the city.

“Hmm.” He leaned across the table, hands clasping in front of him. “And how have you been enjoying my brother?” You looked at him with wide eyes, taken aback by his accusation.

“That’s quite enough, Rhys. We are here to have a nice night, not interrogate our guests.” Feyre cut in, shooting you an apologetic look. Rhys mumbled something about not trusting you as he sat back in his seat.

Cassians hand found your knee, thumb rubbing soft circles into your skin. “Don’t listen to him,” he said, loud enough for High Lord to hear. “He doesn’t think I can handle myself around you.”

You flushed at his words, feelings running through you that you hadn’t felt in centuries. You were thankful that Mor chose that moment to return, gladly taking your drink from her. You busied yourself with it, allowing normal conversation to resume around the table.

Cassian did not move his hand.

You were feeling a pleasant buzz from the drink, a state of relaxation coming over you. You found yourself giggling at something Cassian said, leaning further into him. He smiled back at you, his hand sliding a little higher as your dress began to ride up. For the first time in 500 years, you were able to feel a sense of happiness.

“Better be careful, General,” came a slurring voice, all eyes turning to the fae that had approached the table. “Death here will be quick to sacrifice you next. You should know better than anyone that she lures her lovers into traps, killing them to make her power stronger.” You froze in place, terror spreading through your body.

Cassian moved the hand from your knee, a split-second heartbreak occurring inside you before you felt his arm wrap around your shoulders. “Maybe you shouldn’t speak on what you don’t know.” His voice was hard, causing the other male to take a step back. “Do you wish to continue telling me about things that you think I, General of the Night Court Armies, do not already know? Do you truly believe you know more than me?” The male slunk back, angry and embarrassed.

“Don’t say we didn’t try to warn you.” He shot out before disappearing into the crowd, leaving a thick silence over the group. You took the opportunity to slide out of the booth, taking off for the door. You heard a faint call of your name, along with Rhysand calling his brother back to the table. You pushed out of the building, sucking in deep mouthfuls of air. A horrible choking sensation was taking over your throat and lungs, a full panic controlling your body. You stumbled down the street, blind to the concerned expressions of the passerby.

You needed to go. You couldn’t stay here any longer, you couldn’t risk Rhysand putting you back in the Prison now that you knew free life again. You ripped the heels off your feet, discarding them where they landed. You began running, bare feet slapping the pavement below. You felt the skin tear as you ran, too soft for the rough ground.

You didn’t care.

You ran all the way to the cabin, lungs burning. You grabbed your few meager possessions, mostly clothes Cassian had bought you. You stuffed them into a small bag, not noticing the tears running down your face until they splashed onto the fabric. When was the last time you cried?

Loud, shaking sobs overtook your body. You sunk to the ground by the bed, curling your arms around your knees and burying your head. How could you be so stupid? You knew better than to fall for him, for anyone. You cursed yourself, the crushing weight of despair becoming too much to handle. You felt tendrils of your power come out, wrapping themselves around your skin. It burned where they touched, an anguished scream tearing from you.

A voice was yelling your name, holding tight to your arms. You cried harder, certain that the burning of your power must be hurting them too. “Leave me!” You screamed, the pain of the last 500 years ripping from your body. The voice calling for you was growing hectic, desperate. You couldn’t focus on anything except the tendrils of power on you, certain they were melting the skin off your bones.

You felt arms cradle your body, lifting you off the ground. You knew you were suddenly outside, a sensation like flying taking over. The wind was harsh against you, a welcome cold to the burning power suffocating you. You felt a jolt as whoever was carrying you hit the ground, more voices joining in the chaos. You heard one stick out above the rest, and then an endless darkness took over your mind.

***

Your head was heavy, your body was sore, and your throat was terribly dry. You pried your eyes open, wincing at the daylight flooding the room. You blinked a few times, looking around at what you could see. You didn’t recognize anything about the bedroom, but you did know the large male passed out in the chair next to the bed.

Cassian.

He shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here. You needed to get out, get away from him. You forced yourself up, crying out in pain as you did. He shot up out of the chair and was at your side in a second. “No, lay back down,” he commanded, pushing you down gently.

“I need to go,” you croaked out, voice hoarse.

“Why do you think that?” He asked, looking at you like he already knew the answer.

You felt tears prick the corner of your eyes. “I don’t want to put you in danger.”

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close to his chest. “Never,” he whispered into your hair, “will you hurt me.”

You couldn’t help the tears spilling out as you clutched onto his arms, wanting to stay here forever. “I killed him,” you sobbed, holding tighter onto Cassian.

“You didn’t,” he argued, “he sacrificed himself. For you, for all of Prythian and beyond. If we had lost that war, none of us would be here. He knew you didn’t want to do it, that you wouldn’t do it. He made that choice, not you.” You cried, shaking in his arms at the memory of your past love. He had been your heart, your soul. You will never forget the pain and anguish that came from losing him, all so you could use your power to its full extent.

A curse, your power was. Only able to be used if someone you loved died. Died for the sake of the power. You despised it, you despised the title it had earned you. Death Wielder. You had never wanted to be that, to become a horror story. To be classified as an ‘old god’, a force to be reckoned with. You had been a gentle spirit before the discovery of your power, before you were told how to use it.

You shook your head. “I won’t risk it, Cass. What if war comes again?”

“If it does, you will be better trained. Rhys has been doing some research while you were out, talking to some of the other High Lords. They believe your power is misunderstood.” You stilled, pulling back to look at him.

“Misunderstood?”

He nodded. “He believes you can access it without a sacrifice. With the way it was acting when I found you that night, I think he may be right.”

You remembered the horrible pain of your power then, looking down at your arms. You were surprised to see they were bare, no damage from the force of whatever you released. “It hurt me,” you said slowly, eyes moving back up to Cassian’s.

“He believes with proper training it won’t hurt. All we can do is try.” He raised a hand to your face, thumb brushing away the remaining tears. “I don’t think I can live without you.” Your breath caught at the honesty in his words.

“I don’t think I can live without you either,” you said, voice barely a whisper. His gaze flicked from your eyes to your lips, a heavy tension growing in the air.

“Please, may I kiss you?” He asked, voice soft.

You nodded.

He leaned down, cupping your face as his lips touched yours. The kiss was slow, hesitant. You hadn’t kissed anyone in over five centuries, certain you would be abysmal. Cassian lead you perfectly, bringing your head up to create a better angle. You sighed softly, lips parting just enough for his tongue to delve in. He took his time learning every inch he could reach, kissing you breathless and then some.

You pulled apart, gasping for air. Your eyes caught his blow-out ones, and a string of gold erupted between the two of you. Mate, mate, mate, sang around your head, everything except Cassian disappearing. You could tell he felt it too, hands tightening on you. He came closer again, lightly kissing your lips.

“Mine, aren’t you?” He said. You smiled, a real, true smile. You kissed him again, hands sliding under his shirt, needing to touch him.

“Yours, always.”

***

I hope I was able to pull off what you wanted!! It took me a while to figure out how to write this. Please let me know what you think <3

#acotar x reader #cassian x reader #cassian x y/n #cassian x you #acotar x y/n #acotar x you #acotar #cassian #old god #requests

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elains · 2 months

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Azriel's association with Enalius, what it means for his arc and Illyria

This is something me and my friends have talked about off tumblr, but I wanted to write my own post about it and gather my thoughts. But here, I'll discuss a bit Azriel's character and how the revelations we witness in House of Flame and Shadow will be important to his character. (+ a little bit of Emerie).

What do we know about Enalius? From ACOSF, Emerie provides us with a little exposition when they are in the Rite, when the Pass of Enalius is brought up:

Long ago—so long ago they don’t even have a precise date for it—a great war was fought between the Fae and the ancient beings who oppressed them. One of its key battles was here, in these mountains. Our forces were battered and outnumbered, and for some reason, the enemy was desperate to reach the stone at the top of Ramiel. We were never taught the reason why; I think it’s been forgotten. But a young Illyrian warrior named Enalius held the line against the enemy soldiers for days.

Now, from the Crescent City crossover, we learned that Truth-teller and Gwydion are twin blades. They are a pair. According to the Silene History Lesson, the dagger used to belong to her father's (Fionn's) dear friend, slain during the war. A bit later, when they find Vesperus, she confirms that this friend was Enalius:

The Asteri’s eyes flared with recognition at the long blade. “Did Fionn send you, then? To slay me in my sleep? Or was it that traitor Enalius? I see that you bear his dagger—as his emissary? Or his assassin?”

Immediately before that, she also confirms that the Asteri crafted (which can either mean created, shaped forged, but we are going with created) the Illyrians:

The Asteri’s blue eyes lowered to the dagger. “You dare draw a weapon before me? Against those who crafted you, soldier, from night and pain?”

From everything, we can conclude this: Enalius was the original wielder of Truth-teller before Fionn and Theia, a dear friend to Fionn, and someone who pulled the ultimate sacrifice to keep the Asteri/Daglan from reaching the top of Ramiel. He was a traitor to the Asteri, a rebel against his masters and everything they stood for.

Enalius is the hero most Illyrians strive to mimic, the legendary figure who they all hope to one day surpass. He's a symbol of their people, even if so much about him has been forgotten — the fact that he had a dagger, Fionn's friendship, what the battle was for, maybe even how he was as a person. Brave, for sure. Willing to die for the cause.

And it's Azriel who bears his dagger. Azriel, who has such a complicated relationship with his Illyrian heritage and loaths it - and by extension, himself - is the one with this enormous legacy right at this hand. And this matters.

Still in ACOSF, we have Rhys talking with Cassian and wanting him to play Courtier, the following exchange then follows:

“What, we’re doing some role reversal? Az gets to lead the Illyrians now?” “Don’t play stupid,” Rhys said coolly. Cassian rolled his eyes. But they both knew Azriel would sooner disband and destroy Illyria than help it. Convincing their brother that the Illyrians were a people worth saving was still a battle amongst the three of them.

Azriel hates the Illyrians for what happened to him and his mother and his dislike for them is, to a degree, understandable. The thing is that Azriel, no matter how much he loaths it, is Illyrian. Maybe he's more than that (as it's pointed that Az is different in a lot of ways and Bryce wonders if he is Starborn), but at heart, he's Illyrian. Siphons, leathers, fighting, being Carynthian, his wings, his scabbard and the dagger it holds.

It was healthy, perhaps, for Az to sometimes remember where he'd come from. He still wore the Illyrian leathers. Had not tried to get the tattoos removed. Some part of him was Illyrian still. Always would be. Even if he wished to forget it.

Being Illyrian is part of who he is and his deep hatred for them only fuel his self-loathing. He would like to set himself apart, but he is not.

We can actually draw a direct parallel between Azriel and Bryce with how they regard the Fae vs the Illyrians. Bryce loathes the Fae and for most of HoFaS, she believes they are evil, corrupt, power-hungry and quite generally, not worth saving. She would leave them all to burn. Sound familiar?

And Bryce is wrong. Sathia challenges her notion, pointing out that she's laying judgement to all fae and that is hardly fair. What the one who don't deserve it? Herself, yes, but Flynn, Declan, and Ruhn himself? Do they deserve to burn too? Bryce herself acknowledges this:

Urd had sent her there to see, even in the small fraction of their world that she’d witnessed, that Fae existed who were kind and brave. She might have had to betray Nesta and Azriel, trick them … but she knew that at their cores, they were good people. The Fae of Midgard were capable of more. Ruhn proved it. Flynn and Dec proved it. Even Sathia proved it, in the short time Bryce had known her.

And this part here sums up quite neatly:

Fire met starlight met shadows, and Bryce loosed herself on the world. It ended today. Here. Now. This had nothing to do with the Asteri, or Midgard. The Fae had festered under leaders like these males, but her people could be so much more.

There are Illyrians who are kind and brave and break the mold. We see this with Emerie, who is also a woman. We see that with Balthazar, Cassian. The main point stands, though, that you cannot judge or condemn an entire race for the bad apples.

Azriel is wrong, just as Bryce was wrong, and his journey will be also to realise that his people are worth saving. They were created of night and pain (words that Azriel embodies, being a master of shadows and a torturer), but that is not everything they need to be. They can be more than soldiers. They can thrive.

And I believe this was something Enalius himself came to the believe, long ago. His people deserved more than to be slaves to the Asteri, forced to give them their power when need be, bred to live and die for them. They could be more. And Enalius died to free his people from their chains.

Is Azriel Enalius's blooded descendant? I'm not sure, but he doesn't need to be. Azriel is Enalius successor because he will finish what was started. He'll uncover the secrets of the past, what his people were in truth, what Enalius rebelled for, what he stood for, what the Blood Rite truly means - which he only got a glimpse of.

And this is where I think Emerie will also come in. She's s one of ACOSF most relevant characters and the first female Illyrian to be Carynthian. I think Emerie will also become an inspirational figure to the Illyrian women, another of these what they coud be. What they can be. And more importantly and that is just a theory, what they were.

Orestes was a warrior. What if so was Carynth and she was woman? The name always struck me as similar to Carina, which is the name of a constellation and commonly used by women. It would be ironic and another shaking revelation to the Illyrians that Carynth, for whom their greatest warriors are named after, was a woman.

Does that mean all Illyrian women must become Valkyries? No, but some might wish to follow this path whilst their society takes its time to catch up. They already shook the status quo and with Nesta poised to have a big role (andthe Valkyries along her), they will continue to do so.

Azriel will uncovered the lost history of Vesperus offered him all the clues he needed to start looking. His journey to find out this secrets will lead to him facing his own demons, confronting his loathing for his people and, in doing so, he will make peace with himself.

#hofas spoilers #azriel #shout out to yaz for helping me fish the quotes #my meta #acotar #acosf #emerie #illyria

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cloudyswritings · 4 months

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More vessel biology headcanons?

Vessels are actually really, really good at burrowing. It’s probably how so many escaped the abyss after they got sealed. They got it from both parents, and the void. Which per my silly little brain, can old be contained in round glass.

the void basically erodes/decays things in fast forward otherwise?

Vessels all have one major flaw or imperfection the void couldn’t remove, THKs was either a desire for perfection or being able to make familial bonds.

Ghosts flaw is an endless well of willpower. They will never, ever, stop. They inherited from their mothers conceptual side, because their will is the slow burrowing of roots through stone and the deceptively gentle trickle of water on metal. Greenpath vessels was a sense of adventure/desire to explore. And the nosk vessels all had a sense of longing for companionship which led to their deaths.

The vessels also seem to have physical flaws too? Like structurally I mean. The prime example is THKs missing arm, in the pure vessel boss fight that same arm is what they use for the void tendrils attack and by the time we fight them in the egg it’s entirely rotted off. I think it honestly was never as strong or stable as the other arm and was bound to be lost eventually. Broken Vessels flaw would be their third horn(the one that’s broken off).

Vessels actually do still have some of their own light, you can see this in game actually—even without the lantern you give off a subtle glow. I think that some vessels actually retained some of the godly light and status they otherwise would have had, only a little though.

The above idea comes from my headcanon that Wyrms specifically are really resistant to void as far as gods go, because they always dig deep and far and in that sometimes burrow into pockets of void far below the surface. They need to be able to survive contact with it in the short term at least. This nature would explain how some vessels retain minute traces of light, and why the pale king was the one actually standing at the mouth of the abyss waiting for vessels.

given time, soul, and light a vessel can grow to enormous sizes- or eventually metamorphose into a wyrm proper. Albeit one still tarnished by the void

in fact I wonder if any of the seeds/eggs dropped into the abyss hatched young Wyrms instead of vessels? Maybe they escaped or something? I don’t think this is likely but it’s a cool idea.

vessels are deceptively light, as in like hornet could carry THK on her back if she needed to- they’re literally hollow in a way

Void and water don’t mix, it’s like oil and water. That’s why we float in the blue lake.

The void itself might be the remnants of an ancient sea that covered the world beyond Hallownest before the age of bright gods. It would explain the trilobite creature we see in deepnest and the way the abyss and the rest of Hallownest appear to be made of fossilized shells. Plus if it’s the remnants of the sea then it could be something like a microbial mat that’s really toxic to life? Like maybe it’s a magic microbial soup? Magic microbial goop even. Vessels are goop.

Vessels are really really strong compared to other ways of containing things, like THK held the radiance for a long ass time. If a vessel tried to contain a weaker god they’d probably just be able to tbh. Like anything weaker than the nightmare heart if probably fair game for yoinking.

Vessels also sometimes inherit the hunger of Wyrms, and looking into their eyes gives the sensation of falling into the maw of some great beast. Godseaker did call Little Ghost a wielder of nail and eater of soul

Vessels are also really susceptible to outside influences, kinda like evee if they were Pokémon. This is how Ghost can use so many charms at once but also why said charms can change them so easily.

Theoretically a vessel raised by or containing a god could take on some of their traits-either by force or by accident.

Unrelatedly THK has a voice to cry out with…

I think radiance may have eventually tried turning them into something more like Grimm is for the heart, a body for her to use and a mind thoroughly broken to her will.

after-all she shines brightest against the darkness…

If they could eat, Vessels would have a truly remarkable number of tastebuds, because Wyrms will eat anything and I feel like the white lady has ways to “taste” the soil to see if it’s nutrient rich and has fertilizer.

man I’m just realizing, vessels would like some weird food, they’d definitely eat dirt

THK crunching on crystals?? Likely

Finally the horns of vessels are actually their “branches” and will keep growing indefinitely unless trimmed or broken periodically, this comes from both parents. Wyrms need to constantly replace burrowing teeth and Roots are beings of constant growth and pruning.

#wow that was long #hollow knight #hk vessels #speculative biology #headcanon #pure vessel #little ghost #hk pale king #what do you think?

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milliesdiary · 1 year

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𝐁𝐄𝐍𝐓, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍

𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭; you and aemond targaryen grew up together. as a pair of royal children, you shared smiles, feasts, and hushed talks of duties — until a physical altercation changed your relationship forever. after six years, you find that the young boy has become a fiery man and your betrothed. seeing each other again is difficult, but dealing with old feelings is harder.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠; aemond targaryen x princess!reader

𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬; arranged marriage, descriptions of past violence (physical fight between young aemond and reader)

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞; to be as inclusive as possible, i do not mention the reader’s parents’ descent. i also do not specify the reader’s skin tone, body type, eye/hair color, or hair texture (braids are used but they contribute to most hotd hairstyles). enjoy!

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭; pic 1 — pic 2 — pic 3

“𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐊, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐑.”

Those were your father’s words when you asked why you had to marry Aemond Targaryen.

Perhaps it was to be expected. As the daughter of a king in Westeros, you found that power was a constant battle to be fought and that you would not be shielded from the crossfire. In order to ensure a stable, unchallenged reign, you were to be wed to another child of royal descent — which meant being auctioned off to the most powerful house your father could get in touch with.

It also meant being fucked, then laying in a birthing bed and living a life of what you considered to be imprisonment. And due to your family’s faithful history with the Targaryens, the wielders of dragons, and the king’s desire for ancestral power, for elite grandchildren... it shouldn’t really be a surprise, should it?

You don't wish to argue with your father, but you don't want your frustration to go unnoticed either. Although your feelings have no real impact at the end of the day, there is value in them. They matter.

But why him?

You may have dreamt of being married to a charismatic Baratheon or a seductive Velaryon. Someone who would pledge to take you on a tour of the realm's most intricate castles and verdant gardens, stealing kisses and embraces.

Things cannot be so simple, can they?

You begged to call off your betrothal to Aemond, claiming that you would not get along, though your mother seemed to think otherwise with her rekindled political ties to the Targaryens. It was no use. Your parents had their minds set.

This is the world you are condemned to, in which, despite yourself, you must somehow live.

And now you are expected to meet your old friend after all these years, after that terrifying, horrific night. The night Aemond stole Vhagar, how he was beaten, how you contributed, how he left scarred for life.

The memory is still fresh in your mind. Six years ago.

One night, long after dusk, you heard arguing in the dragon pit. Curious, you approached the scene only to find Aemond in a stand-off with his nephews and nieces. He spoke of treacherous things, but was effectively shut down by Baela and Rhaena’s assaults.

It wasn’t long before Jace and Luke both engaged in the conflict. They could not be stopped. Violent, uncontrollable rage could be heard in the loud cracks of knuckles meeting flesh and bone. Jace attacked Aemond at some point — a terrible idea — because Aemond took a swipe at him and sent him into the dirt, leaving you just... standing in shock, fear, mouth agape.

When Aemond grabbed Luke by the front of his tunic and prepared to bash his face in with a stone, you were no longer frozen. An anger brash and hot consumed you, and before you knew it, you reacted on impulse.

You ran over and pushed Aemond in the chest, effectively launching him to the ground. The boy looked up in shock to see who appeared; you remember watching the look of surprise on his face, and then the betrayal that flashed across his eyes. Before he could even speak, you had him pinned to the dirt and slammed your fist into the bridge of his nose.

His head snapped back up to look at you after that. For a moment, he stared at you wide-eyed, before his face screwed into an expression of rage. It must had been a mix of fury and instinct, because Aemond retaliated.

Quickly, he shoved you off of him and threw a punch your way. The harsh force of it struck your cheek, painful, hard enough that you heard something crack. You were knocked over and ended up with your face pressed against the sandy pit.

You can’t recall what happened after that. There was a bunch of screaming, and then the rushed footsteps of guards who had heard the commotion. Someone had gripped your shoulders to urge you to your feet, and you almost fell forward again when everything blurred into blotches of red. The rest of the night was almost traumatic with the Queen challenging Rhaenyra, and your parents vowing to never bring you back to House Targaryen again.

The greed for power over the years must have revoked that plan.

You’re still not ready — not ready to confront the reality of what has become of your friendship. It hurts to even think of Aemond being impassive toward you, as you’re sure you will be to him.

You’re not even sure what he looks like now, but you have heard stories of the man he has become.

He doesn’t need a weapon anymore. He is a weapon.

Which begs the question: how much change can a person endure before turning into someone else completely, before it is almost considered murder?

You feel sorry for the rest of castle servants and commoners; they didn’t get to experience him the way you did. They didn’t get to see what you saw when you were with him. Gods, he was perfect.

Although it was probably your parents and the Queen who encouraged you and Aemond to meet all those years ago, they were delighted to learn that you were friends. Your father had just been crowned king, and it was necessary to meet the other Houses in the realm after doing such. You and Aemond just seemed to click after that.

You two had identical souls, the only children who understood one another in a life that ate people alive. He never teased you for hating the duties that came with being a princess, and you never teased him for not having a dragon. When you were unified, you were more powerful.

It’s funny how things can turn out.

Now, because the marriage in King’s Landing is next moon, you will be attending a feast tonight to see your betrothed: sitting at the same table as Aemond to dine, speaking about marriage, engaging in talks of bearing children.

It’s all too much.

Enduring change can hurt. It's frightening and adds to the lengthy array of things that make you scared. But that does not mean that it should be deemed unnecessary or ignored. You understand that.

Still, you curse this life as you step out of the carriage and onto the land of Dragonstone, peering up at the palace ahead of you. You curse it to hell.

The second you step into the Targaryen household, you realize that you are not really sure what to expect. It has been so many years. You are not prepared for this, not in the slightest.

And you certainly aren’t prepared to have the Queen greet you at the palace door instead of the knights.

It seems like a decade since you last saw her in the flesh as opposed to your memories. Her face is the exact same somehow, as if she had long conquered the battle of aging, and her brown hair is sweeped into a wavy half-up style. The emerald dress she wears sparkles with sequins, draping over her beautifully and accentuating the strings of gold jewlery along her neck. A small smile upturns the corner of her lips, and she seems pleased. Sympathetic.

It must appear that you’re somewhere far away in thought — which is relatively true, you suppose — because Alicent says your name in greeting to grasp your attention. With a smile, you dip your head in a bow.

“Your Grace.”

Alicent lets out a breath of... is it relief? She moves toward you quickly, enveloping you into a bear hug. You let her. You know what she’s trying to do.

She’s trying to reduce the rift that has grown over the years of being kept at a distance. Her embrace is a white flag, a message of peace, a silent apology. It’s successful.

“You have grown into a fine woman, my dear,” Alicent says softly into your shoulder.

The words conjure a strange knot in your chest; they hurt, but not out of hate or animosity. They hurt because they make you nostalgic, make you realize how much you missed House Targaryen. Your eyes prickle with the onset of almost-tears which you blink away rapidly.

And you reckon that today, in spite of Alicent's weight in your arms, you're going to have to consider what you want regarding the future. Talk about it with Aemond.

This is not about your mother, father, or the current state of your House anymore. This concerns you and your future husband.

Alicent pulls away after a few long moments, setting her hands upon your shoulders as she looks you up and down. “Your gown is lovely,” she says fondly, the statement lilted by her accent. “It suits you. Your House has always been exceptional when it comes to fashion.”

She’s right about that; your hand-maidens have always been sure to dress you beautifully. Today was no exception.

You’re wearing a silky fitted dress, made with an airy chiffon that fades from a silvery white to a dark, shadowy hem. Sparkling silver vine details adorn the chest, drawing attention to your breasts, along with a gem-stone belt that hugs your waist. A white cape is fastened around your shoulders, accentuating the graceful flow of the gown and nearly sweeping the floor. The necklace hanging from your throat gleams — a moonstone gem — and although it’s gorgeous, your hair almost always gets tangled in it. To prevent it from happening, your servants have started pulling your hair back into a half-up dutch braid crown, not a single strand out of place. It takes hours, but the end result is worth it.

You’re practically glowing.

You offer her a kind smile as you see her eyes light up. Your stomach churns and the nape of your neck prickles, but this woman has the same open expression that Aemond had when you first met him. It brings you a jittery sort of optimism.

“Thank you,” you say bashfully, dipping your head in thanks. Alicent then beckons over your father from where he stands behind you, two armored-knights stationed by his side.

“It has been too long, Your Grace,” your father says, plastering a polite smile onto his aged face. Alicent returns it with one of her own.

“It has,” she agrees. “The King would dearly desire to be here, but he regrettably cannot due to his health.” She must not be willing to say much else on the topic, because her face drops. She turns on a heel to face the hallway then, holding her arm out for you to grab. “Shall we proceed to the feast?”

Upon entering the dining room, it’s exactly how you remembered it to be.

Warm light fills the space; swathes of bronze and gold from the setting sun dip through the windows on one side, illuminating every crevice of the room. The food is already splayed out along the table, where Halaena and Aegon sit in their respective chairs. Aegon gives you a perverted look over, seemingly surprised at how much you’ve changed. If he senses your disgust, he doesn't express it. He’d likely find delight in it anyway.

On the contrary, Halaena beams and jumps up to give you a massive hug. It fills you with such a great warmth. You’ve missed this. She was always like a sister to you.

Halaena comments on your dress and makes a pathetic attempt to mold her joyful smile into something more polite by saying, "You look beautiful, Princess."

Of course, she fails horribly, and you compliment her back. She pulls away with a giggle and loops her arm around yours to lead you to a seat — and then you see him.

There, Aemond is seated at the end of the table, leaning back in the chair with practiced poise. Cool, composed, unmoving.

You lock eyes.

Aemond’s hair is his crowning glory; diamond-white, perfectly straight, and soft as sin as it sweeps along the edge of his jaw. The long strands drape over his broad shoulders, a stark contrast against the black high-neck tunic he’s wearing. Silver buckles pull the leather taught across his wide chest, definitely tailored to fit his well-built frame.

And his face... Gods, his face. It looks so much more different than you could have ever imagined.

He has the type of profile that marble sculptors carve: a razor-sharp jawline and high cheekbones, lips drawn into a serious expression and one eye a gleaming blue. The other is covered by an eyepatch, and you have to swallow the lump in your throat when you see the deep-set scar that stretches along his face.

You understand it now: the Gods didn't drive away darkness when light was made. Instead they created the color obsidian, ravens, and a person known as Aemond Targaryen. A wild, fiery man sculpted from the elements.

Aemond stares on back, and you can see how he takes a heavy breath. His eye scans you up and down, studying the silk gown, your braided hair, and every curve of your body. For a brief moment, he focuses on your breasts — almost as if he’s realized you’ve grown into a beautiful woman: more mature, more composed, fertile and ready for the taking. Something dark rests in the twist of his lips before he brings his attention back onto your face. Your cheeks feel impossibly hot.

It looks like he wants to say something, but bites it back with a slight nod of his head in greeting.

The earth seems to pause and cease its spinning. Your heart slams frantically against your ribcage, like a pendulum or a hare trapped in a cage, lungs refusing to completely submit to your breathing. Slowly, you tread over to the chair adjacent to him and sit down in it.

He feels the shift in the atmosphere too. Same place. Same family. Different you.

“Princess,” Aemond finally says. His voice is so much deeper now, smooth and rich with that accent of his. It has your stomach flipping.

You take a slow breath and urge yourself to glance at him, because you know you'll hate yourself later if you don't. You will stare into that intense eye of his, even if it kills you. You’re sick of all your regrets.

“My Prince,” you respond, trying to control the tremor in your voice by busying yourself with your fork. If Aemond notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “It has been awhile.”

Aemond hums in acknowledgement. “You are surprised by what you see, I presume.”

"And why do you say that?"

“You were staring,” Aemond says coolly. You can feel a heat climb up your cheeks — was it that obvious? “Though I cannot say I blame you,” he adds, finally picking up his utensils and cutting into his meat with a fork and knife.

"You are rather confident, My Prince," you murmur under a breath. “Have you not gained restraint over the years?”

"That is a virtue I am hardly accused of possessing. Don't pout, Princess, it ruins the shape of that pretty mouth.”

You remain silent, blinking at Aemond dumbly while trying to think of a response. He must be able to tell of your embarrassment, because his eye gleams with a feeling too intense to be stated in words. The best word to describe it is pride. Stupid pride.

“We are not married,” you respond in a rush. “Yet you speak dangerously.”

Aemond only stares at you, analyzing your expression, the ends of his lips slightly curled. You take the moment of silence to stuff your mouth with the delicious food in front of you, trying your hardest not to glance back up at him.

The clock is ticking. When will the shouting start, you wonder. How long before there are tears, recriminations, and pain?

A part of you wants to talk about the fun you and him had as kids, but you would feel guilty for bringing it up. Who’s to say that Aemond thinks fondly of those times anymore? Have the good memories been tarnished by the bad? Are they now piles of debris, comprised of grit, black dust, and ever-vanishing with time?

Does he even want to talk about the past at all? You could explain your viewpoint, how you reacted on fear, anger, and impulse that night — and he does deserve to know, because if you were in his place, you would care. You would care to know why the one person you trusted contributed to your downfall.

But … but now is not the right time. Not when your father is indulging in a chat with the Queen, or when Halaena is enjoying her food as Aegon drowns himself in wine. Especially during a supper that is supposed to be joyful and unmarked by the shadows of what’s happened.

Some things are better left unsaid.

So you remain quiet, attempting to listen in on any conversation available.

“Tell me; how do you feel about the betrothal?” Aemond suddenly asks. It takes you aback.

You work up the confidence to look at him again, searching for anything concrete, but all you see are ripples of emotions you don't understand. Swallowing thickly, you bring your attention to your goblet and press the metal to your lips, sipping down some wine. You’re going to need it.

“It was to be expected,” is all you say. Setting your cup down, you clear your throat. “And what are your thoughts?”

Aemond says nothing right away, placing his cutlery onto his plate as his face melts back into a cool expression. You steel yourself for whatever retort he may toss at you.

It doesn’t come.

Instead, his tone is steady when he speaks again. “Marrying you is my duty, Princess. I do not intend to stray from it."

“Well then.” You give him a polite nod. “Your family is very lucky to have someone so dedicated to the cause.”

“I take it that you understand your duty as well,” he says. “And it’s significance.”

“Of course. I’ll do what must be done.”

You watch the bob of Aemond’s throat as he swallows. He looks off into the fireplace that sits across the room, seemingly in thought. Just when you think he’s done talking to you for the night, he speaks, voice almost musical.

“Did you perhaps find a man of interest over the years?”

It’s a question that has your mind reeling and both eyes flying up to him. He’s not looking at you though; his stare remains on the dancing flames, expression scarily neutral. Despite that, you can see the distaste on his lips.

“W-why?” you ask, before steeling your surprise and resorting to humor. “Afraid I might replace you?”

“It is a fair question,” Aemond states. The man leans further back in his chair, the wood squeaking under his weight as he presses for an answer. “I would prefer to know if my wife will be engaging in secret escapades with a low-born.”

Truthfully, you don’t know what to say. Aemond asking about your past love life wasn’t on the agenda for today.

You debate telling him that you still thought about him all these years. That you never thought of another man, or searched for a suitor. Yet the words stick in your throat, and the thought of his handsome face screwing up in protest makes you sick.

The silence urges Aemond to spare a glance your way. His stare alone could have you on your knees, dark and vindictive; you see the spirit of the dragon in his blood, and imagine that’s why you always found him — find him — so much more magnetic than anyone else.

You change the subject.

“Once we marry, you are to be associated with my House forever.” Before he can question the switch in topic, you quickly add, “It will not be good for your image. I love my parents, but they only think about status these days. People may think you are marrying me for strength. To gain power.”

Aemond seems to mull this over. If he agrees, you wouldn’t know; he has trained his face to remain neutral. It tells you nothing. “Then let it be.”

You tilt your head at him now, a slight frown blooming upon your mouth. “So I am to marry a prince who does not pay any mind to what his subjects think of him?”

“A tragedy that is,” Aemond says sarcastically. He crosses his legs and rests an arm on the table, staring down at you from the bridge of his nose. “I am grateful that our roles are not switched, for I would have dove headfirst into the Dragon Pit had I been in your place.”

“You should have your tongue removed for that,” you say boldy, half-joking.

"My body is yours. Do what you will.”

You’re honestly surprised at his answer. It’s not supposed to be dirty, no, but there is hidden intent behind it. It plants some interesting images in your head. Aemond’s cold eye is still on you now, chilly and unrelenting. You are vaguely aware of how he taps his fingers along the wood of the table, awaiting your reply.

“Do not say such things,” you almost stutter. “Your name cannot protect you forever.”

“The name you will be taking?”

Your mouth slightly agape, you can only stare at him. Aemond turns his attention back to his food, lifting his cup to his mouth; but before he takes a drink, you catch his gaze flit over to meet yours. It almost looks like he’s fighting a smirk, the way his lower lip seems to quiver.

It feels like he’s taunting you. Testing you. You don’t like it, not at all. And even still… it reminds you of the days you used to gently tease each other. A fond memory.

You can’t bring yourself to actually be mad.

“Does something humor you, My Prince?” you ask anyway, egged on by him. You try to sound upset, but fall short; a tinge of glee laces your tone.

“Hmm,” Aemond quietly hums, setting his goblet down. You think you can see the ghost of a smile on his face: barely there, almost invisible. “Not a thing.”

Much to your delight, the dinner went well. Better than expected.

You had engaged in conversation with Halaena after awhile, listening to her stories of the bugs she has caught over the years and what they do. In return, you tell her of the things you have done which she listens to with an unbridled joy and sparkling eyes.

Aemond had watched everything in silence. Not an angry sort of quiet, but one where there are no words that have to be said. If anything, he seemed sort of pleased with how well you and his beloved sister were getting along.

Now it was late, with the sky having melted into a navy-black, pitted with the dappled light of stars and wisps of clouds. You have been thinking of Aemond ever since you made it back to your chambers earlier, changing into your night gown and undoing the braid in your hair. Although you tried your best to repress the gnawing feeling, there was one thing you knew you must do.

You need to talk to Aemond.

There is no dodging the elephant in the room. You need to sort out boundaries, talk about the wedding, children.

So, gathering as much courage you could possibly muster, you slip out of your bedroom and pad down the corridors. One thing you notice is that the Red Keep is remarkably calm at night compared to how active it is during the daylight hours. Tranquil, almost. The only noise you hear are the echoes of your feet on the stone floors.

You reach the entrance of Aemond’s chamber quickly, remembering exactly where it was from when you were kids. Taking a deep breath, you rap your knuckles on the wooden door.

You wonder how much courage it will take to engage in casual conversation with Aemond again, something that has never given you trouble with him as a child. A worry you experienced with other people but not with him. Never with him. When will you be able to speak to him about normal things?

Nothing happens for a couple moments. But just when you are about to knock again, the door swings open to reveal Aemond on the other side.

There’s no more of that boyish charm.

Aemond holds himself taller now; his shoulders look broader, his back looks straighter, and his head is held higher. He appears serious, yet also perplexed, probably wondering why exactly you are showing up to greet him in the middle of the night. He must notice that you are in your night clothes, judging by how his attention turns to the flow of your silk gown. “Trouble sleeping, Princess?”

“Do you … wish to discuss some things?” you suggest gently, which brings Aemond’s eye from your body and onto your face again.

“It is unavoidable, is it not?”

“Yes,” you agree. Aemond hums.

He opens the door wide then, gesturing with a hand for you to walk in.

Walking into his room slowly, he closes the door behind you before standing beside the fireplace, clearly falling deep in thought. A part of you wants to give up and abandon ship, but before you can even take a single step, Aemond turns his head to meet your eyes.

You offer him a rare smile which he responds to with a look of suspicion, clearly picking up on your agenda for coming here. “You wish to speak about the wedding, I presume,” he finally says. You nod.

“Humor me, then, Princess. What will you need in this marriage?”

“It’s not what I need,” you tell him softly, crossing your arms over your chest in thought, thumbs stroking at smooth fabric. “It’s what I want. For the future.”

“And what would that be?” Aemond replies, the fireplace’s flames painting swirls of orange and yellow upon the razor-edged plains of his face.

“I want to have freedom. I do not wish to be condemned to the palace all day. I also want to keep our children out of as many political affairs as possible. The court is no place for kids.”

“Already pondering the idea of children?” Aemond taunts.

It’s a struggle for you to keep your composure at that. You’re actually a bit embarrassed. "If we are to be wed, we are expected to produce as many children as possible. To spread the Targaryen name. It is not abnormal to plan these sort of things out.”

“Perhaps,” Aemond states simply. “I admire your resolve, Princess, but you speak of something that cannot be done.”

You try to ward a potential frown from spoiling your face. “You are the Prince. I am sure you can figure out something. Or are you not as clever as I have heard?”

Aemond gives a small smirk. His tone conveys some form of appreciation which makes you feel proud. “You have high expectations of me, then.”

“I suppose,” you admit.

“I have the same high expectations for you.”

You fight back the shyness that his statement causes, but you doubt you’re as successful in appearing deadpan like him. “And?”

“And,” Aemond continues lowly, “You have upheld them and more.”

You nearly choke, both surprised and flattered by the answer. Aemond can tell; he has a dark amusement in his profile, which you flick your gaze down to avoid. It is hard to ignore him for long though: Gods, he's just so gorgeous.

He’s the balance between elegance and danger. Distant because of his righteousness, and having such a moral fortitude that he is beautiful in a seductive and forbidden way.

You curse him. Curse him for having hair as fair as snow and eyes the shade of Lobelia flowers. Curse him for having the grace of a panther and skillful, slender hands.

That’s when you get the feeling that Aemond is just waiting for the right moment to unload what's been going on in his life. You beat him to it.

“How have you been?” you murmur. It seems to catch him by surprise with the way his lips slightly part and his brow softens into a straight line. He pauses and turns beside the fireplace, one hand propped against the stone.

When Aemond says nothing, you add more boldly, “Did you miss me, My Prince?”

He glances over his shoulder then and just stares, soaking in every piece of you he can. Each feature of his face is adorned with conviction. Your skin begins to tingle, goosebumps dancing along your spine, radiating outward to your exposed arms with a hair-raising energy.

“You ruined me,” is all he says.

You notice that he's trying to withdraw from the situation — not physically because he's firmly planted in place — but rather by burying any emotional aspects of himself. His face is awash with frustration, distress, and contempt.

“I have done nothing to you, My Prince,” you defend.

Aemond’s eye swivels to you slowly. That once-familiar stare is suddenly unnerving, forcing your breath to halt in your throat and your body to freeze like a frightened animal. You are ready. You know what he is going to say. But it still rips into you and burns as fiercely as barbed wire coiled around your heart, twisted until the organ may burst.

“You betrayed me.”

“I did not,” you say, voice shaking. “You were out of line. You stole Vhagar and proceeded to toss insults around. Hurt your nephews and nieces.”

“I was doing what must be done. The Valeryans had their chance to claim Vhagar,” Aemond retorts. “Is it my fault that they waited so long? That my nephews are not proud of their name?”

“Everyone was angry because the second you got a dragon, you acted like you were better than them. You humiliated them. And now?” You take one heaving breath, your entire body trembling. “People are afraid of you. I have heard the rumors of how you can be when you train with others. It’s not training with you. If you had a sharper edge to your sword, they would be attending their own funeral; you know it, I know it, they know it. You bully others just like you were. Does that make you proud?”

For the first time since you’ve reunited, you glimpse a hint of hostility in Aemond’s eye. He is obviously making an effort to appear composed and unbothered to impress you. But you’ve hit a nerve and his gaze hardens to glare daggers at you.

“So that is all?” Aemond proclaims harshly. His tone is wolfish now. “You have come here to remind me of my proclaimed wrong-doings? To spit in my face everything you have been wanting to say all these years?”

“When did you become so bitter? So hateful?” You stare at him wildly, profile twisted into something turbulent. “I was just protecting the people I consider my family!”

It must trigger something in Aemond. The words knock down those walls of his, burst the damn, sending that fury inside him whirling, coaxing him to raise his voice and finally yell:

“I was your family!”

The only way to express the sensation that explodes inside your chest is to imagine walking slowly on a broken window. So slowly that you can feel every bit of glass pierce and glide upward into the heel of your foot, each step digging red, horrific lines into your skin.

The tempest in your soul has officially burnt out.

And here, with your blood thundering through your body and drumming an even rhythm upon his, Aemond is just a boy. A vulnerable boy that could be stopped by a sharp enough blade, as long as its your hand on the hilt.

Those words Aemond said — they were ones of anger, yet none had the intent to injure or bruise. You should know how approach him, except you don’t. You need to say something that can release you from the desolate and ominous silence that fills the room.

“I’m sorry,” you eventually whisper.

You expect Aemond to retaliate. To fight back, defend his honor. He doesn’t though. Instead, he fixes his gaze onto your profile and speaks.

“I used to think the Targaryen name was descending into one ruled by hatred. I presumed it was our doing, that the blood feud ruined all that was honorable,” Aemond says gravely. “But I have been hateful for a long time.”

You know what he means.

His nephews. The ordeal with the pig. Being dragonless and teased by his peers for it. Feeling like the odd one out, overlooked by others by his incompetent brother’s potential future reign. It all invoked an anger in him that he buried — until it was dug up by family and unleashed one night, black-red and hot and stinging.

But it’s not the complete truth.

“You weren’t hateful,” you say slowly. “Not to me.”

It’s scary: you expected that to spark something inside of him, to wither the hurricane brewing. But Aemond is so calm in the throes of shock that it's as though any breeze would be nothing more than a breath whispering over him. There is no tremor in his jaw, no twitching in his shoulders, and not a single tear on his ivory cheeks. Nobody blinks.

You told yourself that no words could heal the broken trust between you. Despite that, they continue to tumble out. “I understand if we cannot go back to the way it was before. That’s alright … well, it’s not, but I understand why. I really do. And—”

“Who am I to you after so many years?”

You don't immediately understand what Aemond asked, and it takes a moment for it to process. But then you do realize, and it comes with a painful stab in the chest and a wince, because Aemond thinks you loathe him, and he shouldn’t … he shouldn’t be thinking like that because it could not be further from the truth.

You really want to have a break down. Not one that has you going mad, throwing shit and screaming, but perhaps a cry with panting breaths and shivering and a few tears. One that is completely internal and rips you apart from the inside out.

When you look up, Aemond is directly in front of you. He had bridged the gap at some point. You just keep staring and staring — because there is nothing else you can do but ogle him as if he were the most extraordinary thing you have ever seen. Finally, you speak.

“You’re Aemond,” comes your response. Small, meek. “You’re Aemond.”

The middle of your core stings then, like the fireworks that laid dormant there had finally been set aflame, torching every artery — as if the weight of the man’s stare was too much, as if being looked at by Aemond was unbearable.

And it is, you suppose. But not in a bad way; unbearable in that you wanted him. You wanted to meld your friendship so bad that it hurt. You're preoccupied with the way your subconscious shouts the truth: you adore him endlessly.

You cannot hold back anymore.

You kiss Aemond Targaryen with everything you have, drenching every worry of yours and love for him onto his lips, knowing that you … you are acting appropriately this time. This feels good. This is right.

Aemond releases a low, deep grunt as a surprised response, urging you on. You kiss him fiercely, to taste the warmth of his mouth, and feel stars erupt and dissipate behind your closed eyes. He swallows down the desperate sigh that spills out of your mouth as you steady his pointed jaw with both of your hands.

There’s the ridge of his scar under your thumb, the drumming of the blood in your jugular, and the softness of his platinum hair as you move to twine your fingers in it. There’s the sweep of his hands — sliding over your hips, waist, ribs — soothing burning skin as he reels you closer against him.

It feels like an eternity before your lips separate with the slightest sound. You rest your hands on Aemond’s wide shoulders, pressing your foreheads together between trembling exhalations.

“I could never hate you,” you assure, squeezing the leather of his tunic in your hands as your noses brush together. Aemond has a palm on the nape of your neck, holding you in place with the heaving rise and fall of his chest, gazing at you like you’re something celestial. His one eye, so intense and blue and electric.

You don’t want to let go. Not when the edges of Aemond’s lips coyly turn upward and he tilts his head to kiss your neck quietly, followed by more kisses that are sprinkled across your collarbone like a vow or a promise. You let out a shaky sigh and he finally pulls back, his voice deep and rich but soft. So, so soft.

“Ride Vhagar with me. See what it means to be with a Targaryen.”

You look up at him in surprise. “Right now?”

“Tomorrow,” he corrects.

“I have never ridden a dragon—”

“And?”

“I do not know how.”

“No one knows how to ride a dragon until they ride a dragon.”

Your expression must soften, because Aemond’s does in return. There’s a few seconds where neither of you say anything, until his calloused fingers come to settle on your cheek.

“I will see you tomorrow at dawn, Princess.”

At a loss for words, you offer him a weak nod, breath coming out as a stutter. Aemond trains his eye on you, searching for a single bit of protest. When he comes up empty, he leans down to whisper close to your lips, hot breath puffing along your chin. “Be ready for me.”

In that beautiful, terrifying moment, there’s an epiphany. A realization.

An understanding that maybe... just maybe ... this can be fixed. This rift, these burnt bridges of the past. You can see the yearning in Aemond too: he wants the same thing.

It can be mended. Your friendship, your trust, your love — the feelings are still there between the two of you.

Bent, but not broken.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #hotd fic #hotd aemond #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond oneshot #aemond targaryen one shot #millie’s works — 📓

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evermore-grimoire · 1 year

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The Evermore Grimoire: Magic Powers

Alchemy is the unique power to manipulate alchemy and alchemical processes. Those that wield it can create, shape and manipulate alchemy, the mystic and scientific pursuit of the power of the ‘Philosopher's Stone’ and ‘Universal Panacea’ (medicine). This includes focusing on Elemental Transmutation by changing a substance and rearrange the atoms of a structure ranging from transforming base materials (e.g. lead or iron) into purer materials (e.g. silver or gold). Wielders can also permanently change the state of matter such as making glass malleable or more durable. They also know how to create potions (for rejuvenation and immortality) and magical items (e.g. wands, staffs and weapons) although these are generally for practical use. Practitioners of this magic/science are also known as Alchemists.

#Super Powers #WitchesEdit #WitchEdit #FantasyEdit #Alchemy #Alchemist #Magic #My Edit

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skyloftian-nutcase · 5 months

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Y'ALL I had the most wretched train of thought

(spoilers for totk; also I haven’t fought Ganondorf yet so no spoilers in the notes pls!)

The Zonai existed during Skyward Sword, even predating the game. The people of Skyloft and the Zonai have had a few run-ins, some peaceful and others not. At one point, prior to improving their technology, the Zonai tried to steal loftwings to better travel to different sky islands. Least to say, Skyloftians did not like that. They have an uneasy peace and keep their distance far from each other by the time of Skyward Sword, but Link and Zelda are familiar with their existence.

When the cloud barrier disappears, it allows the Zonai to go back to the Surface as much as it does the Skyloftians. It takes them a few years to manage it and establish a settlement, and they eventually run back into the Skyloftians on the Surface. Link and Zelda are married with kids by now, and Zelda is the leader of the Hylian settlement. The Zonai discover that Link is responsible for the cloud barrier's disappearance (Zelda is proud of Link for defeating Demise so she'll let him take all the credit; also, she doesn't need nor want to tell a ton of people she's a goddess reincarnate, especially to a tribe her people have historically not had the best relationship with).

In thanks, the Zonai give Link a gift: a Secret Stone.

The Zonai tell Link that this special magical stone is one of several that are gifts from the goddesses. The Zonai do not know all their properties, only that they enhance whatever abilities the user has. Link figures this will enhance his fighting prowess, and though he is appreciative of the gift, he doesn't think it'll make much of a difference to him.

And then the nightmares come.

Link starts getting nightmares of varying scenarios. A knight fighting a giant monster, facing down an army of mechanical beasts. A child struck down by a demon king. A man with a fairy fighting a demonic beast. Link sees his children, he sees what Hyrule grows to, he sees Demise come again and again, and he sees the Heroes who have to fight him.

Demise's dying words weren't a hateful monologue spat out in spite. They were a promise, a curse.

With this knowledge, Link goes to Zelda, and the two try everything they can to figure out how to stop this. The visions drive Link to near insanity, preventing him from gettin more than one to two hours of sleep for weeks. Zelda goes to the Zonai to ask more about the Secret Stones (she wants to give it back, honestly, but is afraid that it would be viewed as a rejection of the gift, and given the history of conflict between their tribes, she doesn't want to go that route). The Zonai know very little of the stones, though, and Zelda doesn't get much. Link, on the other hand, learns about them from the dragon servants of Hylia. He is told that the stone, when combined with its user, can make the wielder immortal.

Link doesn't care about immortality. But he does care about stopping the demon king, in every era, in every place, in every time. He does care about protecting his descendants, his people, the whole world.

The dragons warn him that he will never be the same, that he may never actually be able to interact with his family again.

After months of haunting visions of destruction and death and pain, he finds himself willing to make that sacrifice. If it means he can protect Zelda and his children, he'll do it.

So one night, he flies on his loftwing to an island in the sky. He hugs his loftwing and kisses him goodbye. He begs his companion to look after his family. Zelda's loftwing arrives, alone. The two birds fly in circles around Link, stirring up a wind as he stares at the Secret Stone held delicately between his index finger and thumb, held just above eye level before he squeezes it in his palm.

And he swallows it.

On the Surface, Zelda drops the glass she's holding. In the sky, a dragon screams.

The Zonai learn what happens when one consumes a Secret Stone.

And the Spirit Dragon is born.

#this is what happens when I listen to dramatic music #while thinking about Breath of the Sky #and therefore thinking about Skyward Sword Link #and him intermingling with botw/totk lore and stuff #tears of the kingdom spoilers #totk spoilers #I suppose after several generations is when Sonia and Rauru get together #Zelda learns about draconification because of her ancient ancestor #Whenever the Hero is born the Spirit Dragon appears and sheds a single tear #skyward sword #skyward sword link #ss link #legend of zelda

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obscuritory · 1 year

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Realmz is a Macintosh RPG from 1994 that has a ton of content packed inside. It comes with one built-in scenario that doesn't have a main quest line so much as it does a dozen separate oversized sidequests, as well as a bunch of extra scenarios you could buy separately. There's hundreds of items included in Realmz, and I'm not sure how many of them are actually used in the base game, whether they were included for the add-on scenarios, or whether they were just added in the hopes that they'd be used in the future.

The creators of Realmz clearly had fun coming up with all the extra items. Especially all the flavor text! ESPECIALLY for all the cursed items. Here's some of my favorites, taken from the Realmz Character Editor. It was really hard to narrow these down (Reproduced as they were written with typos.)

Broadsword +2 A weapon fit for a lord. This weapon will bring many a jealous stare.

Scimitar of Trickery -2 A foul curse brought upon by an evil druid so long ago. Even the gods do not remember why.

Mace of Destruction +3 This weapon is extremly powerful and has always been in the hands of evil. Until now!

Morning Star of Pain -2 Aaagh! Sharp pains shoot through your arms as you try to bring this weapon to bear. What diabolical force created this?

Flail of Devilish Dare +4 Woe be the netherbeast to confront a foe who brandishes this weapon.

Tip Sword of Stench -2 The olfactory emissions produced by this item cause its wielder to choke and gag whenever need is greatest.

Sword of the Omen -3 This small blade brings visions of horrible destruction. Before the end of the first new moon they invariable come true.

Battleaxe of Death -2 Faaaughh!! What sick wizardry is this? It inflicts damage on the wrong side!

Bow of Thumbs -3 A criminal creation is this. Somewhere a vile wizard laughs.

Bow of Shalomar This mystical weapon was though to have been lost when the golden elves were banished from the Realmz. That does not now seem to be the case.

Throwing Hammer +3 If a hammer could swat a fly on the wall at a hundred paces, this hammer would be the one to do it.

Cobra Strike +4 Though it is disgusting to look upon, it is a mighty weapon in battle.

Firestorm Invented by a senile fire giant who was attempting to construct a interior heating system, firestorm arrows will blanket an area with flames that persist up to five rounds.

Cheters Blade +8 This weapon was once the weapon of Cheter. Cheter was an aid to Charon, ferryman over the river Styx. Cheter was slain while fighting at Charons side battling a powerful demon wishing to cross Styx without paying.

Leather of Darkness -2 Spawned from the pits of hell itself! Woe is the adventurer who mistakes this for a suit of armor.

Armor of Imprisonment -3 This suit looks innocent enough until you try it on. What twisted wizard created such poison as this?

Gauntlets +24 These gauntlets radiate so that none but the moronic will deny the power of their bearer.

Gauntlets of The Void Contemplate what is worst in men, and you will find a portrait of he who created this filth. Baaahhh! They hurt even to look at!

Cloak of Darkness -3 Many have considered the possible good that could have been done with the huge amounts of raw power used to create this cursed cloak.

Salt Table Salt, useful for curing meat and perhaps throwing in the face of enemies.

Gauntlets of Pain -2 This foul curse is considered one of the most painful. One will never play the flute again if worn too long.

Hellsbane +11 Created by Chetnyet the Brave in his quest to rid Hell of all devilkin. Such a fool who believes that hell can fall to the likes of just one man.

Necklace of Shackles -5 At first this necklace appears to be valuable. Hmmmmmph!!!

Shadow Mask A perminent smell of rot pervades this mask. Though it smells disgusting, it's benefits are vast.

Staff of the Ages Can turn any creature into a statue of stone. The mind is not destroyed and the cursed creature often goes mad from boredom over the centuries.

Mystic Luck Stone +20 This unique item is a true wonder. Taken from the dead body of a Vex Witch by "Bolo the Angry". A powerful ogre who found the witch dead of natual causes.

#realmz #RPG #Macintosh #gaming

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intimidatingpuffinstudios · 1 month

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Games by Intimidating Puffin Studios

The Soul Stone War

The Soul Stone War 2

Beyond The Mist: Beginnings

#the soul stone war #tssw #beyond the mist #btm #interactive fiction #intimidating puffin studios

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hybryda · 3 months

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First are the past Champions... I still have to get Link's champion tunic so here he is, together with Zelda in some Royal garb. We have 2 for sure adults here, not so bad.

Next is current Champions sort of? We have one confirmed adult, one child and I consider both Yunobo and Sidon young adults. So technically 3 adults! Getting better : D

Time for past Sages, or wielders of Secret Stones + Link in Charged set to match them all.Could be 6 or 7 Adults. Like I'm not sure about Ruta, Zora Sage but the rest? Clearly Adults

And lastly, current Sages. One granny and 2 adults and 3 young adults. Though I always think as Mineru being the main caretaker of the group X"D No wonder she left after X"D Teba was probably also glad he was replaced with Tulin. Too old for this X"D ___

So here You have it, promised high comparisons between races :>

#legend of zelda #tears of the kingdom #breath of the wild #and I'm not tagging everyone #totk spoilers

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daechwitatamic · 4 months

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Of Ruin: Chapter 5 || KTH

(banner by @/itaeewon)

Of Ruin (Masterpost)

Rating: NSFW - minors dni Genre: vampire!au magic!au royalty!au, s2l, slow burn, eventual smut, angst and fluff

Summary: Taehyung of House Rune, Prince of Infracticus has been cursed. You’re the human world’s leading curse-breaker. It should be simple. But unraveling the curse becomes the least of your problems in the face of a world on the brink of civil war… and the love you start to feel for the prince.

A/N: Thank you endlessly to @/sailoryooons for betaing!!! 💕

Section Warnings: language probably, tense situations with dangerous vampires, angst ig?

wc: 4.6k

Midmorning finds you and Namjoon seated on the stone floor around the low center table of your main room. The table is littered with papers and open books, pens and half-full coffee cups. Your previous argument forgotten, you’ve spent the morning productively and companionably.

On the paper closest to you, you’ve made a list of all the threads of the curse that you’re confident are present, the same ones you’d discussed with Prince Taehyung in this very room yesterday. On Namjoon’s side of the table is a list of possible threads - things you’re unsure about, things you’re considering, things that are possible but thus far unproven.

On the paper beside yours, you’ve begun listing options to counter each of these threads. There’s always more than one way. The key to a countercurse is to first determine each thread that must be countered, and then find the exact correct counter for each one.

It isn’t even a matter of countering each individual strand - there are elements of finding the least-common-denominator, in a way: you need the best thing that will counter as many as possible at once.

One thread might be best countered by a certain incantation, but if a different one will counter three threads, then it’s the better choice.

Once you know what incantations and magical elements you need to include in the counter, you can begin to decide how best to weave them together and cast them effectively into a countercurse.

“We counter the infliction of pain with healing,” you mutter, tapping your pen against the paper. You look at Namjoon, thinking hard. “Do you think we could tap into the prince’s healing abilities for that?”

Namjoon’s eyes widen and he scrambles for his own pen, starting to write quickly before he can lose the train of thought. “Yes,” he answers you as he writes. “Yes, that’s brilliant. Instead of weaving in our own healing spell, we can pull his ability to the surface - it’s much cleaner that way.”

“I was also thinking about this…” you muse, glancing up to see that Namjoon is following. “I know this might sound silly, but… I was thinking about the creation myth? The Hunter and the Highest, do you know it?”

He looks confused, but nods. “Who doesn’t?”

“The myth serves as an explanatory tale,” you say, accidentally slipping into professor-mode, “regarding how the Infracti changed from just monster.”

“They were traded humanity,” Namjoon says, trying to remember the story.

“Traded, gifted - yeah. The magic-wielders gave them humanity. So, I’m wondering… if that’s what we’re meant to do now, with the countercurse. Return his humanity.”

Namjoon thinks on this. “That’ll be a hell of a thread for us to create,” he muses, and you have to agree.

You’re interrupted by a knock on the door, and Dansoo approaches, looking down at where you and Namjoon are seated on the floor. You look up at him expectantly, your hand frozen mid-air, still clutching your pen.

“Her Majesty the Queen has requested your company,” the Infracti says to you, tone cold. He’s probably still pissed that you escaped the other night.

You look down at yourself - you’re in sweatpants and a t-shirt, feet in fuzzy socks.

“Can I, uh… get changed first?” you ask, gulping.

The Infracti man looks over you, lip curling just a touch. “I would recommend that, yes,” he says flatly.

“Okay,” you say, nodding. “Please wait for me outside. I’ll come out when I’m ready.”

“Do be quick,” he says, casting you a sharp side-eye as he turns to return to the corridor.

Namjoon looks up at you. “Do you think she wants both of us?”

You let out a wild laugh, anxiety already starting to worm its way through your system. “I don’t care if she doesn’t,” you say. “Please come with me. She scares me.”

Namjoon smiles at this. “I’d be honored,” he jokes, and heads to his room to - you assume - get more presentable as well.

You hurry to change, choosing something that you hope toes the correct side of the fancy-or-professional line. Once you’re done, you meet Namjoon back in the main room.

“Ready?” he asks, and you nod. He lets you lead the way into the hall, and Dansoo leads you both deep into the palace into a wing you haven’t seen before.

You notice something you haven’t seen before in your time in Infracticus - as you get further and further down this particular corridor… it gets brighter, sunlight filtering through stained-glass windows on the doors at the end of the hall.

“Are we going outside?” you ask, peering over the Infracti’s shoulder, trying to peek through the more opaque pieces of glass.

You’ve read about the physical characteristics of Infracticus, written papers about them, given lectures about them. But nothing prepares you for the momentarily blinding brightness of unfiltered sunshine, or the sudden melody of birdsong as you step out of the palace into Infracticus proper.

Your trip to the ocean’s edge last night doesn’t count; it was too dark to see a thing. Now, in bright sunlight, you’re breathless, taking in the beauty around you.

You must have come out the opposite side of the palace, because the ocean isn’t visible, nor does it even smell particularly salty here. Instead, a mountain looms to your left, the summit cut off from view by sandstone palace walls. Trees line a distant stream that runs nearly black, like ink. And the sky - the sky ranges from periwinkle to deep violet.

A light laugh breaks you from your reverie and you feel your face heat in embarrassment. The stone pathway you stand on ends before you with a roofed gazebo that seems to jut out over the valley below. Seated at the table, the Queen has been watching you stand in frozen wonder, staring in awe at the sky she has known for over a thousand years.

“God,” Namjoon mutters beside you, and you know he’s feeling the same thing you are.

It’s beautiful, you mean to say. Instead, you utter, “It’s purple.”

“I remember my first time going above,” she tells you, as you remember your feet and make your way closer. You can’t keep your eyes off the sky for more than a second. You feel like you’re inside a painting. “I felt the same way about the blue.”

“I read so much about it,” you tell her. “But nothing could describe this.”

“It pleases me that you find beauty in Infracticus,” she says.

“It’d be impossible not to find beauty here,” you breathe, turning further still to try and see more. “Could I go out there? With the prince, maybe? Do you think he’d take me, if I asked?”

The Queen purses her lips and says, “I imagine after you break the curse for him, the prince would do nearly anything you asked of him.”

This reminder of your purpose here sobers you. You find yourself forgetting, yet again, that you aren’t here just to experience Infracticus.

“Please join me, both of you,” the Queen says, opening a hand towards the empty chair across from her. There are a variety of pastries and fruits on the table, and you can tell that a small section of them aren’t bloodfood, but human food. There’s also a set of some sort of chess-like board game, the pieces intricately carved like tiny works of careful art. “My son said you were eager to see more of Infracticus. I thought it might help ease your restlessness to come outside. These are my private quarters, so no one will stumble upon us here.”

Prince Taehyung had said he wouldn’t tell on you; he must have mentioned that you were wanting to look around. Hopefully he left out that you’d tried, and been caught.

“Have you played before?” she asks, watching as you delicately take the seat she’d offered and pick up a piece to examine it.

Namjoon shakes his head, peering closer. “It’s not chess?” he asks, eyeing the different pieces for differences.

“I’ve played, but only with humans,” you tell her, turning the piece over in your hands. “It’s similar to chess, but the pieces and their movements are different.”

“Would you join me for a game?” she asks lightly.

You look at her over the top of the piece in your hand. If you’re right, and you aren’t completely sure, the piece is called the Seer. Behind it, the Queen watches you. Her eyes are inhuman, all black, and you find them hard to read. Her mouth quirks like she’s considering a smile, but you can’t discern if there is any true warmth behind it.

She’s beautiful. She’s frightening.

“Yes, of course,” you answer. “But you may need to help remind me of the rules.”

She gives a slightly bigger smile and begins to set the board up, and you replace the Seer where you think it goes. She gives you a pleased nod.

“I know it’s only been a day, but I wanted to inquire about your progress,” she tells you as she places the last piece, the single Bloodletter, on its spot.

She moves her first piece and sits back, waiting for your answer to both her question and her movement.

“We’ve identified many strands of the original curse,” you tell her, turning your shoulders to indicate inclusion of Namjoon, who sits in the chair beside you, watching the game board intently. It wouldn’t surprise you if he knew the rules by heart at the end of one game. “But certainly not all of them.”

You move a Mason piece, and then add, “There’s more we need to investigate. I need to spend more time with the prince, and perhaps run a few rituals to suss out what we can’t find through questioning.”

The Queen accepts this, nodding, and the game continues, pieces beginning to fill the middle space of the board. She asks a few follow-up questions about the threads you’ve determined, about what might help you discover the rest.

You don’t want to go over the prince’s head to his mother, even though you firmly believe that seeing him while the curse is active will be paramount to your work. You’d rather change his mind yourself, rather than risk making him upset with you.

You eye the board as you answer, weighing your options. You could move a Mortal, which would be a very safe movement and wouldn’t earn you much. You could let your Mason take a hit, which would open a path for your Seer. Or, you could take on the Bloodletter with your Priestess - which would give you a clear and unblockable shot at taking the Queen’s Thief.

Do you dare actually take one of her pieces, before she’s taken one of yours? It wouldn’t win you the game, but it would certainly make this an actual competition.

“I see the move you see,” she says evenly, her voice cool and still. “If I wanted to win without a challenge, I’d simply play against my staff.”

You smile at this, caught. “As you wish,” you tell her, and the Priestess takes the Bloodletter, the piece being placed to the side of the board, belonging to both and neither of you. On your next turn, as you’d arranged, you reach to take her Thief.

The piece burns your fingers and nearly slips from your grasp as you jolt with surprise and pain; you sit forward in your seat and use both hands to catch the piece before it can hit the board and scatter the others.

Cradled between your hands, the Thief glows - brighter and brighter, the color starting out orange and shifting quickly to yellow and then blue. It no longer burns where it touches you, but you set it down gently anyway, your hands starting to shake.

The fingers that were burnt seem to pulse, the pain stabbing and unrelenting. You hold up the hand that stings, eyeing your injured fingertips, looking for evidence of the burn. There is none, but the smarting continues, keeping time with your quickened heartbeat. The blue light fades from the Thief as it lays still and unassuming, sideways on the tabletop.

You do not reach for it again.

Behind you, Namjoon whispers your name. You don’t turn, instead locking your eyes on the Queen, whose face stays as impassive and unreadable as ever.

“I would really like,” you say, your voice low and trembling, an animal caught in a trap for the second time in as many days, “to know what just happened to me.”

The Queen lazily lifts her hand and an Infracti woman appears at her side. “Fetch my son, would you?” she says, and then reaches to move one of her Mortals as if nothing had happened.

When you don’t take your turn, she looks at you with those fathomless black eyes. “Does it still hurt?” she asks innocently.

It does, but less than at first. Mostly, you’re suddenly terrified, hands still shaking so badly you don’t think you could grasp another game piece without dropping it. You’re reminded that you are alone here - that you cannot and should not completely trust a single Infracti, that every single one of them sees you as dinner to be toyed with before eating.

You should have known the game was more than a game. You should have known a request for your company was anything but.

“That was a magical reaction,” you say bluntly, feeling something harden behind your ribcage, armor sliding into place and latches snapping shut. “I’m very curious as to the specifics.”

Beside you, Namjoon has shifted into your line of sight, in your periphery. You can’t afford to turn and meet his eyes right now. You can’t afford to look frightened.

The Queen is spared from answering you as Prince Taehyung strides up the walkway, brow furrowed.

He takes in the scene in seconds - Namjoon’s hand hovering near you, alarmed like a mother hen; the Queen’s expression gone defensively haughty; and you - clutching your burned fingers, trying to fight against the frightened tears that threaten to give away your terror.

He lets out an exasperated growl. “Mother,” he scolds, and then drops to kneel beside your seat. “May I heal that?” he asks you, expression open and apologetic. Your stupid heart dares to flutter - weakly, but there. The little ways he cares for you are enough to make you forget that he’s royalty - plus, inhuman.

It’s easier to forget when he’s made his eyes look human again today, as he had yesterday and the day before.

You nod mutely, letting him take your hand in his. He passes his thumb over the pad of each burned fingertip, and you feel the sting of the burn slip away, as you had imagined the whole thing.

“Thank you,” you whisper, keeping your eyes on him. His presence tethers you, is the only thing that allows you to feel safe. You want to hide behind him, make him stand between you and every scary thing here.

He stands again, but keeps your hand lightly in his own. He faces his mother, frowning again. “Well?” he demands. “Did you get the answer you wanted?”

The Queen sets her jaw in response.

Prince Taehyung scoffs and continues. “Do remember, Mother, that our guest could decide she doesn’t want to be here anymore. She could go right back to the human world and never look back. I certainly don’t want that - do you?”

You know he means for the sake of breaking the curse, but you can’t help but feel a rush of… something - gratitude? pleasure? - at his words.

“Come,” he says to you, giving your hand a light tug. “Mother’s played enough games for the day.”

You follow immediately, hearing the heavy steps behind you to indicate that Namjoon isn’t far behind. As Prince Taehyung nears the doors that lead back inside the palace, the Queen calls after him.

“It turned blue, Taehyung,” the Queen’s voice calls. “Almost instantly.”

Prince Taehyung doesn’t indicate that he’s heard, doesn’t even turn his head. He simply leads you inside without looking back.

In the safety of the palace, you feel yourself calming, no longer feeling like the Queen is simply playing with her food - with you.

Prince Taehyung doesn’t speak to you until he’s led you both in your own main room, latching the door shut behind Namjoon, who takes up the rear.

He sighs apologetically, his head hanging a little. “I cannot seem to keep you out of trouble,” he laments.

“Was I supposed to refuse her request?” you say hotly, feeling suddenly defensive.

“Of course not,” he soothes. “I’m sorry my mother tried to scare you half to death. Is the pain gone? Are you better?”

“I feel better,” you tell him. “But… what did she do? What does that mean, it turned blue?”

He shakes his head, frustrated. “That’s an indicator of your magical quotient,” he explains. He’s frowning deeply, and your mind is whirring fast trying to fit pieces of information together. “She was… measuring your ability. Blue is… well, it’s quite high.”

Beside you, Namjoon makes a strangled noise, like he’s choked on his own breath.

He’s done the math faster than you.

“My magical quotient?” you repeat. “But I’m human. My magical quotient is zero, unless I’m casting - and that’s borrowed magic.”

“A human,” Namjoon murmurs to you, shifting protectively closer, “would have held nothing but a wooden game piece. There would have been no glow at all.”

Your eyes dart around the room for answers that aren’t there. Your head spins. You can’t even begin to process this - that you may be inherently magical - because still pressing is the question:

“Why did she want to know that?” you ask, your voice a bit like a gasp. Both men in the room are looking at you carefully. You’re a wild animal in a trap again. Again.

You want to go home, you want it to stop. You want to feel safe, and you haven’t since the Infracti two days ago had cornered you at the top of the stairs.

“I don’t know,” the prince admits, twisting his mouth to the side. “But I assure you, I know my mother well. Her intentions would not be to hurt you, or to frighten you. Even though it seems she did both.”

You shake your head, overwhelmed. “My parents were human,” you whisper. “What does this mean? Am I a -?”

You can’t make yourself say witch. This is too much. It’s too much.

Prince Taehyung reaches out a hand like he wants to comfort you, but thinks better of it and lets it rest at his own side again. “It happens that way sometimes,” he says gently. “You really didn’t know?”

You turn and look at Namjoon a little wildly.

“Don’t look at me,” he laughs, holding up his hands. “I just met you.”

“Dr. Kim?” you press. “He never -?”

“If he had suspicions, he never told me,” Namjoon tells you seriously. “Though it does explain your… aptitude.”

Something inside you feels like it’s sinking. “I thought I was just… well-studied,” you admit to no one. You feel weirdly like you’re grieving - like you’ve lost something instead of gained it.

You feel wilder still, less calm by the second. You need to get away from them both - their gazes too heavy.

The prince shifts his weight uneasily. “I have to leave you now,” he says, and he sounds regretful. “But I’ll come check on you - rather, on your progress - after the court families leave this evening.”

He waits; you don’t reply. You’re reeling too fast - you can’t fake normalcy, not right now.

“That’s fine,” Namjoon says, looking sideways at you cautiously, like he’s waiting for you to explode. “We’ll try to get some work done this afternoon.”

Prince Taehyung nods in thanks and heads for the door. Before pulling it shut, he pauses, and somehow his eyes meet yours. The look he gives you borders on pitying, but stops shy of it. Instead, you read something understanding and sorrowful, like he’d rather stay. You wish he would.

“I’ll check on you later,” he repeats softly, just for you.

You manage to nod. The door closes.

Namjoon looks from the door to you and then back again, like he’s starting to put pieces together of a puzzle you didn’t know you were part of.

“I think I need to be by myself for a little bit,” you manage to say, your voice flat and hollow even to your own ears. You close yourself in your own bedroom, change robotically into sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, climb onto your bed and roll to face the wall.

You’re feeling so much - too much, all contradictory and all overpowering and none of it mixing well together. You’re been foolish here, and you’re embarrassed. You feel unsafe. You feel afraid. You feel angry. You feel doubtful about the curse. You feel doubtful about your partnership with Namjoon. You still, despite everything that’s happened, feel eagerness to experience more of this place. You feel excitement at spending more time with Prince Taehyung, which is the stupidest part of all of this. You feel idiotic that you hadn’t known you have your own magic for almost thirty years. You feel bereft that what you’d thought was grit and hard work was actually unearned, inherent ability. You feel grief at losing your humanity.

It’s too much, and you’re a simple creature. It all furrows into one thought, and you repeat it to yourself over and over as your blue-grey walls blur before you: I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home, I want to go home.

You repeat it until, eyes puffy and nose stuffy, you drop helplessly into sleep.

—

When Taehyung enters the dining room, where his parents are already seated, it is with the energy of a stormcloud descending on a picnic. His father seems downright jolly, bristling with good cheer as Taehyung stalks his way towards them, scowling.

“Whatever are you so worked up about?” The Queen asks, peering carefully at him, as if she herself hadn’t just tried to scare away his best chance of a cure.

“The stunt you pulled this afternoon,” Taehyung says honestly, leaning his long legs against the sturdy wooden table and eyeing them both, arms crossed over his chest. He addresses his father, asking, “Did she tell you? That she tried to send the curse-breaker running? What would the plan be, if she left? I’d stay like this forever?”

They both ignore most of this outburst, exchanging a mildly amused look. Taehyung’s irritation digs its teeth in a little harder, pushes him closer to snapping.

“Well?” he demands.

“Your mother told me she tested the girl’s magical quotient,” the King admits, still smiling slyly at his wife. “Did she tell you? It glowed blue?”

“Who cares?” Taehyung bites out. “Beyond that she can use her innate magical abilities to cure me, which is all I care about.”

“That’s just the problem,” the Queen says with a sigh. “You’re failing to see the bigger picture, as usual, my dear.”

Taehyung grits his teeth. Six hundred years of their bullshit have been too many. “Enlighten me then,” he growls.

The King raises an eyebrow, looks at him appraisingly. “Do you think I forgot about our little deal?”

Our little deal. As if it was just a laugh, to him.

Taehyung finds himself scowling again. “Of course not. But I did think we could afford to shift our focus just a bit until the curse is broken.”

Their little deal, to Taehyung, was anything but little. And his side of the bargain, his price to pay, was to start meeting suitors, and to give them a fair shot.

And he had - suitor after suitor, some human but most Infracti, some common but most from court, some clever or funny but most just… lacking.

“You promised to give her a chance,” the King had complained when Taehyung had refused to meet one particular Infracti for a second date.

“I am,” Taehyung had groused, aggravated but trapped. “Pick a better selection, that’s all I can tell you.”

“You need to think more like a prince and less like a -”

Well, Taehyung doesn’t need to remember the rest of that sentence. It wasn’t very kingly.

“What exactly does that mean?” Taehyung had challenged. It was a dangerous game, pushing back against his father. If their agreement crumbled, there was an awful lot at stake. He’s got to remember that this game affects more than himself and his pride.

“Think more about what she can do for the bloodline and less about if she gives you butterflies,” the King had snapped, eyes narrowed. Taehyung had slammed the door on his way out that day.

“I believe we were shifting focus,” the Queen says, something softer in her tone, finally. “But I saw you two together, and wondered…”

Taehyung bristles, feeling weirdly protective of the little witch (apparently) who’d been brought here to fix him. “You saw us together and wondered what else you could get from her?”

The King laughs. “What are you angry for? We were curious about her - couldn’t you feel her magic?”

Taehyung grimaces. At first, he couldn’t. For your entire first meeting, he hadn’t felt a thing.

He’d felt it, finally, when he’d found you in danger. You hadn’t thought to use it, but your magic had been screaming, so loudly that Taehyung had heard it before he could hear your heart beating. In your distress, your magical signature had risen to the surface, singing just under your skin, summoned by and answering the magic that was inherent in him, in all Infracti. They knew each other, these two magics, and they called like-to-like.

He’d known it was strong. He hadn’t known what to do with it, so he’d ignored it, had put the information away for another time.

It hadn’t occurred to him that others - his parents especially - might notice, might have their own questions they wanted answers to.

“I felt it,” he admits, voice low and defensive.

“She has the potential to be quite powerful, if she learned. Imagine adding that kind of raw ability to our bloodline,” the King says, serious for the first time.

Taehyung doesn’t answer. He’s busy remembering his deal with his father, his agreement to marry - for the sake of the bloodline.

He’s thinking about all the suitors he hadn’t cared about at all.

He’s thinking of waking up morning after morning exhausted, his muscles weak from hours of throwing his poor, battered body against the door, his eyes heavy from lack of sleep, his throat raw from growling like the animal he is, deep down.

He’s thinking about the look of relief you’d sent him when you spotted him behind your attacker, and again when he’d appeared at the veranda this afternoon. Like you trust him, like you knew even if everyone else was a danger, he wasn’t. Like you believed in him, and no one else, to be more than a monster. Lately, he’s felt like the monster is winning, and being seen as more feels… as necessary as oxygen.

“Of course we want her to end the curse above all else,” the Queen says gently, watching her son’s eyes go unfocused as he loses himself in his thoughts. “But when that’s done… maybe her time in Infracticus doesn’t need to be. Consider it.”

“I’m considering,” Taehyung concedes, moving to take his seat. The King beams, but Taehyung talks over him. “But you two need to watch your step with her. If you scare her away, she won’t end the curse - and then no one will marry me.”

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thank you for reading!!! <3

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m1d-45 · 1 year

Text

reverse isekai but it’s me at 6:45 pm in a car

-> warnings: spoilers for inazuma archon quest, depictions of modern organized religion(none are specified, none are in great detail, but talks of restrictions within those are mentioned. it’s only one paragraph but still), this is unedited and with zero (0) plot to it :))

-> lowercase intended

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky

your world is loud.

from the moment the favored could see it, this was clear. it was loud, filling with screaming machinery that left trails of dust and buildings so tall it made their neck hurt to view.

it was bright, with lights that shone through the darkest of nights, reflecting off glass and the speeding machines and reflecting reflecting reflecting back into eyes to sting. your sun is so harsh, so unpleasant and overbearing, hot instead of warm and burning instead of soothing.

it’s cluttered, wires suspending from towers and running along your roads. glittering signs point out things they can’t read, the sacred script only giving them a headache. at night, they can find no comfort in the stars, something that sends them into a panic the first time they see it. it’s not clouds, it’s not anything worldly blocking their view, it’s that they’re gone, the ones they can see washed out and faded. they wonder how anybody can live like this, and if you blessed them with a night sky of such beauty because yours was so…

they can recognize some of it, the plants and trees and flowers, wild or not, call to them in recognition, but so much is frighteningly new. the style of the clothing, the kinds of jewelry on the people you pass. try as they might, they can’t locate a single vision anywhere, not even on you. they wonder if people hide them, like during the vision hunt decree, but even at home you don’t reach for it, you start fires with odd devices and plants grow slowly, the air and stone unmoving to your desires. you spill drinks. you freeze water using more strange machinery.

it’s so strange, because they can feel your world brim with elemental energy. their vision beams, shining so brightly with all of the potential suspended in your world. no matter how poor their elemental sight, your world glows, the air itself carrying a blue tinge. they try, in a world without visions, to use theirs, and their power springs in an instant to their fingertips. it dances across their hands, enveloping when they barely intended for a small spark, a small flame jumping across the dry grass of unspent energy in your world. they extinguish it quickly, tightening their hand into a fist to stamp it out before they damage something, and something like awe shines in their eyes. there’s so much, their vision so eagerly lapping it up, and you.. don’t use it?

you have machines for everything, devices to harness the wind and waves, boats to travel across water at impossible speeds, strange flying machines that you can hear from the ground, mere specks in the sky, and yet… you have yet to capture them in their most essential forms. you speak of elements, sometimes, but you use different names and there seems to be many, many more. you say that the air holds ‘nitrogen’, that you seal things with foil of ‘aluminum’, and you even say that water itself is composed of ‘hydrogen’ and ‘oxygen’, something that they struggle to understand. how can water be made of something else? how can hydro users bend more than one thing to their will? how can anemo wielders command such a broad spectrum of things? you speak of other elements in the earth, and though some are familiar, such as iron and gold, others’ names hold no meaning. you say potassium is in fruit, that there’s multicolored rocks called bismuth and poisonous liquids named mercury. you say that there’s 118 elements, when all they’ve known is 7.

it takes them a while to come to terms with that one, and even then they settle on it being inherently outside of their understanding. after all, they are in a world crafted by a god.

speaking of..

there are multiple religions in your world?

and it’s not as if they’re different ways or interpretations of the same god, no, it’s entirely different ones. not in the ways of teyvat, where everybody’s aware of all seven and follows the one of their nation, not even that much. they’re wildly different, with different policies and ways of worship, some with multiple gods and others with just one. some are strict, ways of lifestyle chosen and laid out, whilst others are lax. and even within the same religion, it varies from one place of worship to another? somehow? some religions specify clothing, disallowing certain parts of the body to be exposed- which they can understand to an extent. it’s when they learn of religions that police love, ones that write in harsh lines where and when and who somebody can love, that they need to take a step away.

so many parts of your world are confusing. so bright, flashy, new, rumbling in the walls and barreling down the roads with nothing but a scream to warn. lights are everywhere, every sign and post and building vying for your attention. this they could understand, as who wouldn’t wish to be the object of your interest, but the most dizzying fact that they learn during their stay is that you are no different than anybody else. everybody is subject to these sights, everybody is pulled in by a particular shade or cut of cloth, everybody is startled by the bright lights and loud announcements. everybody. you’re lost in the ocean of people so different and yet endlessly identical, nobody’s eyes lingering on you or calling your name specifically. when you step into a crowd, nobody notices you, save for the select, precious few to whom you are known. you have to carve out a place in your world, go out of your way to make sure your name, your face, your interests are kept in somebody’s mind, and even then people dare to forget.

that’s the worst of all. overwhelming lights, sounds, smells: nothing. it makes sense that they’d be out of their depth in a world built for the divine. but to know that you’re not receiving any of the recognition you deserve, to know that nobody thinks highly of your work in teyvat, to know that you were kind enough descend and build yourself a new life amongst the world, and to share your creation across said world, only for nobody to appreciate it. nobody thinks twice. people dare to complain over something you’ve hand-crafted, over something that, even after completion, you revisited with a traveller, doing your best to save one sibling and fix the problems that had cropped up in your wake. you’ve done so much, you’ve cared after it so lovingly, and you boosted the power of some of those you granted a vision to. as somebody who had experienced this love first hand, the favored could not find the words to express their anger at the situation. your world was wrong, it was cruel, and though they found beauty in the most hidden of places, it didn’t change the fact that it didn’t love you.

it only strengthened their desire to take you back to teyvat, where you would be truly loved.

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