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modern-inheritance · 2 months ago

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Modern Inheritance: Keeper (Immediate Post-Galbatorix time period)

(A/N: This was just going to be a few ideas slapped together, and then it turned into...this...big thing. I don't feel like do a lot of notes right now, but be warned, there's going to be a bunch of new concepts tossed out there, and there are some instances of wound description. There will be other stories from this time period at a later date, but for now, take this.

Arya and Glenwing are informed by others that Islanzadí was gravely wounded by Barst after the citadel has fallen. While Glen tends to her mother, Arya waits outside the tent and grapples with the prospect of losing her remaining parent only a handful of years after reconciling with her. And then a particular bird drops from the damn sky.)

~~~ MODERN INHERITANCE: KEEPER

Everything here smelled of blood.

Arya braced her hands on her knees, forcing herself out of Trancing. The half-sleep state had snuck up on her mind despite the stress and chaos of healers and doctors and medics rushing too and fro across the churned up soil.

Apparently preparing for the end of all things after over seventy years of conflict, navigating a trap-laden fortress of a castle, being nearly talked to death by a megalomaniac, watching the love of one's life fight their half brother, and then fighting and taking down a dragon larger than what large could even define could make the unfortunate person experiencing such a day quite exhausted.

Shaking off the last traces, Arya leaned back in the folding chair and strained to hear anything past the canvas of the tent at her back.

Nothing. Warded.

When the healers had finally slowed and led them to the tent the elven Queen had been evacuated to, both her daughter and Glenwing had pushed to enter. Glen had only made it a single step inside, his head just past the tent flaps, when he had thrown his dented metal arm back and shoved Arya away.

“Stay out.”

“The fuck do you mean–”

“Arya, stay out.” Glen took her by the armored shoulders and walked her three paces back, almost into the frantic flow of medical personnel constantly surging between the tents. “You don’t need to see her like this, and I can’t focus if you’re in there and can’t compartmentalize. She needs the best right now, alright? And she would never forgive me if I let you see her in this state.”

His eyes were bright, hard chips of liquid gold burning from the inside. “Please. Stay out unless we call you.” Glen gave her arms a quick squeeze. “We– I – will do everything we can. But if it’s clear, then…”

Arya reached up and seized his wrists before leaning forward. He joined her out of instinct and long built trust, their foreheads pressed together in a moment of quiet.

“Just keep fighting. Don’t waste time with me, just fight to the end.” She wasn’t shaking, but her eyes were closed. “Please.”

“I understand.”

With that Glen slipped away into the tent.

And so Arya sat on one of the rickety folding chairs outside the tent. She had spent some time pacing until the thin layer of muck made of dirt and blood binding together in a paste coated her boots. After that she sat again and now found herself shaking off the half sleep state, still waiting, still out of the loop.

That’s when she heard it.

Arya bolted to her feet, head snapping up. That call. Among the cacophony of the camp, the pitched struggles still being fought in pockets out on the plains of Ilirea, the screeching and screaming and croaking of hundreds of thousands of carrion birds. One stood out, one piercing, warbling cry, keening and slicing through the cacophony.

Heart pounding, eyes glued to the dust and haze above, Arya began to run.

‘Not another one. Not today. Not here.’

Slipping between soldiers, leaping over supplies. A white speck the only thing that had her attention, the only thing important in that moment. The white dot wobbled and grew, following her as best it could on turbulent, low winds from the fires until the young elf burst through into a tiny clearing. Barely the size of three tents crammed together, a single piece of open land not flooded with people or bodies or equipment. Some long buried boulder or mass of roots sloped the ground up a foot higher than the rest, leaving the patch unusable except for a measly breath of fresh air.

Without a single thought beyond the damn determination to keep one more member of her dwindling family alive, Arya slammed a foot down as she crossed the threshold and leapt into the open air. Throwing her weight, twisting, she opened her arms.

“Blagden!”

Bloodied wings went limp, surrendering to exhaustion and long-stalled pain. With a morose crackling croak, Blagden, white raven of the Knotted Throne, plummeted from the sky like a rock straight into Arya’s chest.

Arya folded herself around the wounded bird and hit the ground with a solid whumph. The shock half absorbed by her armor vibrated her sternum and yet she refused to let it transfer to Blagden’s broken body, coughing as the air drove from her lungs.

“I have you.” The words were a wheeze. “You’re safe, Blagden.”

She could feel the rapid beating of the raven’s heart through the fingers holding him to her chest, his lungs heaving. His right wing was crooked even as it lay open, feathers tickling her neck. Sticky gore clung to his talons, strips of flesh still tangled in the shaggy fluff of his ruffled throat.

Careful, supporting his broken wing, Arya rose up to a crouch. “Don’t you dare give out, you damn bird.” Blagden merely grumbled in response, a short hiss of pain when the woman shifted to kneel and rest his body on her lap. “Shh, okay, just…fuck, okay, I’m going to…I’m going to heal your wing, alright?”

Arya reached out with her mind, ironclad barriers encasing the mental tendril. Her brows lowered, exhaustion creeping in again with just the minor exertion, when she encountered wards around the raven. Some were familiar, the spicy richness of sandalwood and sparking ozone so distinctly her mother’s magic that it made her heart twinge with a renewed fear of loss, but the other was…different. Like…like the cool, smooth, immovable stone carvings in Tronjheim, but half blanketed with soft moss. Crackling campfires, smokey and oddly similar to her own strains, the feeling of music without the sound, a sudden flash of flat stones skipping across a pristine lake–

It took everything she had left for Arya not to hug Blagden to her chest as the raven’s mind brushed her own and the image of her face above him, lightning brow tipping down, determination set at her lips, morphed into a face she only ever saw in hazy Recall dreams of years long past. In fairths and pictures and the few aching memories shared.

‘Da.’

“I won’t break them.” For the first time that day, tears dropped from Arya’s eyes. They wet Blagden’s feathers, rolling light streaks through the collected soot. “He stays with you. I promise.”

Glenwing was always healing any injured bird that he came across. He left the windows of their flat open most nights, an open invitation to any feathered friend to come rest out of the elements. Arya herself had helped on occasion, Fäolin lending his hand all those years ago when a third set of steady fingers were needed to help calm a nippy eagle or cradle a jackdaw deadset on flying before it was ready.

It was with those memories in mind pushing aside her parents, Arya found the gaps in the wards. Energy, warm and buzzing, trickled from the fingertips gingerly holding Blagden still. Apologies, something so unfamiliar between them, poured from her lips as the bird thrashed and cried out with harsh squawks as the hollow flight bones realigned like broken straws. They fused together smooth and strengthened, the energy moving on to fix bruised muscle, torn tendons and ligaments stressed beyond their limit from his flight–

And then the magic snapped like rotten rope, a surge from within the white raven’s own mind lashing out like steel blades to sever the connection. The mental ricochet felt like it slapped straight to the center of Arya’s forehead, a sting and a throb of a promised headache pulsing to the surface as she cursed and curled forward, catching herself on a hand before she completely folded in and smothered the ungrateful feathered wretch.

“Blagden, I’m trying to–”

It was almost pathetic, really. The way the bird flipped and flopped off her lap and managed to stagger to his feet with his undamaged wing outstretched. “A Queen’s touch only may apply! Only she will make me fly!” He hissed, loud and threatening, as Arya reached for him again. “Touch again and learn it well! Your bite’s not the only one to give hell!”

That ripped a broken, choked laugh from Arya’s throat.

It was all too much.

The laughter, so incredulous and disbelieving at the gall this spicy raven always had boiling in his feathered body, transformed to ragged, gasping sobs. Fuck, why did she feel so small again? After everything that day, after confronting Galbatorix himself with Eragon, Saphira, Elva, Nasuada, Murtagh and Thorn? All of them little pieces in that mad king’s sick game, their lives and struggles all turned to seemingly useless specks of dust before his discovery and manipulations. After standing, blood cold, staring up at an ice blue eye with nothing in it but malice and hatred for all things and so…so much larger than she had thought possible, only to later meld minds with the smaller of its kin, Thorn and Saphira both, and feel dragonfire bathe her skin before making that fated leap to end its miserable existence…

Not once had she felt small.

It was here, kneeling on a torn up knoll with her sobs drowned out by the keening, wailing and screams of the wounded, the dying, the mourning, the lost and the found, being confronted by this damn two foot tall menace of feather and saucy tongue refusing to be healed by anyone but her mother, who lay, likely dying in a tent some distance away…it was here that Arya suddenly felt seven years old again.

So small. Barely a foot taller than the raven himself. The same raven that had perched on her father’s casket until it had lowered at the base of the ancient tree and had sung for days on end, mourning the man who had made him as he was. The friend he had become.

And now. Now he might sing again. Sing for her mother as they wrapped her body for the long journey back. Cry his funeral tune for days more. Clawing at her ears, piercing the bittersweet veil of the ended war. Reminding, for days and days and weeks and months that her mother was dead, as dead and gone as her father.

The feeling had her crying harder, the images of that casket long buried dragged up to dance with her new fears. Islanzadí, dying? How was it not impossible? How was there even such a chance? After so long at war, witnessing and experiencing and feeling it all in every shape and form and in every role of soldier, leader, wounded, captive, saboteur, assassin, bodyguard. The mourning mate and the warrior lover side by side with the man she loved the day one died and the day one triumphed.

She knew people died. She knew elves were not invincible, had screamed that fact at the Lords of House with her scars laid bare and her rage boiling. How dare they think that elves, hidden as they were, were untouchable, invincible, when Glenwing had his arm taken, when Fäolin didn’t even have life anymore, after her heart just about stopped too many times to count, actually gave out more than once?

But…but Islanzadí…she wasn’t an elf. She was their Queen. Her mother. And after Da, Arya should have known, did know, that the quietly whispered promises to a tiny child at night that they would never, ever leave her were lies to make her and them feel better…. But how could Islanzadí die?

Burning anger followed close behind. Arya struggled to stop her chest from heaving, teeth set, ragged near squeals of air pushing forward and back against them as her body clawed for the chance to submit to the emotions. She scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of scuffed palms, dirt and avian blood smearing at her cheeks.

Galbatorix may be dead, yes. The promise she made to Brom all those years ago finally fulfilled, yes. But damn it all to whatever emptiness awaited the lost souls of the blood soaked war now ended–

‘I still have work to do. Now is not the time for tears and a fucking breakdown!’

“Right–right now–” Arya hiccuped, trying desperately to get tears off her cheeks with the rough straps at her shoulder. Their presence was a dim and hollow reminder, one that should have been bringing fiery hope but now felt heavy. The dragon egg, tucked at the small of her back in the hastily emptied and secured medic’s kit Glen had repurposed for her on the fly as they ran, was free. Her mother would have been overjoyed.

If she lived to see it.

“Right now, I’m the–the best you–you’ve got.”

Vision blurred, tears and dirt and blood clinging to her eyelashes, Arya dug into one of the side pouches on her leg and scrambled her fingers around until they met wax paper. She tore the packet out and ripped the paper away, the large muslin sheet flapping out like a flag. Swallowing a fresh wave of tears, the elf tied to opposing corners in a knot behind her neck and slipped her arm through the loop.

“Get in.” Still rough with contained sobs, but firm and carrying at least a hint of her mother’s command, Arya opened the makeshift sling slightly. “Get in and I’ll take you to her. You can’t…you can’t balance right with your wing like that.”

When Blagden did not move, wing still limp at his side, Arya reached out her fist. “She needs us.”

The white raven lifted his head, ruff rising. “Paths entwine, root and vine.” With a bit of a wobble, Blagden strutted forward and hobbled up onto the offered perch and allowed her to transfer him into the cloth’s embrace. “Our strength grows with your blood and mine.”

And that was how it came to this. Arya, sitting again outside the warded tent, eerie false silence as the world faded in and out around her. A bloodied white raven nestled in a sling against her chest, looking almost comical were it not for their surroundings.

Blagden had allowed her to carefully wrap his wing with strips of the muslin. He kept his promise of a painful nip as well, squalling his indignation at being restrained when Arya stopped him from marching into the tent like some knee-high, feathered general checking on his second-in-command. The puncture to the back of her hand burned, but it was a welcome distraction in the chaos.

The raven eventually settled. He slept now, head tucked into the cloth, talons flexing in his fever dreams. Arya gently rubbed her fingertips at the crown of his head, the spot he ‘loved a good tickle,’ as Islanzadí always said despite the halfhearted grumbling Blagden always made at such a description. His feathers were already wrecked, and she didn’t want to risk stripping them of even more of their precious oils by stroking his back.

Time passed, though Arya could not tell how long. The smoke from the raging fires and lingering dust of the king’s explosion nearly blotted out the sun, robbing her of any sense of time yet again.

A battle frazzled elf carrying a large crate of fortified nectar bottles hurried by, hastily placing two of the six bottle carry cases down at Arya’s feet. In a flash she caught his arm as he made to pull away, stopping him dead. His features, splattered with mud and flecks of blood, were hazily familiar, but Arya couldn’t spare the energy to find his name in the moment.

“How long–” Arya fumbled, at a loss for a point that she could draw reference from that the man would also know. She went with the first thing that came to mind despite the excess it would add. “How long since the explosion?”

The elf yanked his arm free, already moving on with the barest glance at a scratched timepiece hung around his neck. “About four hours. If you can stand, grab a crate from block eight and start passing these out to healers and the wounded!” And then he was gone, his call to action trailing into the masses of people looking for loved ones or tending to the injured.

‘Four…four hours?’

Just four hours?

The tent flap suddenly slapped against the middle support, one of the occupants stumbling out into the grey light. Arya bolted to her feet and caught Glen around the shoulders as he nearly pitched into the dirt.

“Easy! I got you, I got you.” The man feebly clung to his CO’s forearm, legs unsteady. He could feel himself being guided back, collapsing into one of the folding chairs hastily set up outside the hundreds upon hundreds of healing tents. “Sit.”

Glen raised his bleary gaze to Arya’s face. He had to tell her. “Arya–”

“Shh.” There was an unmistakable tremor in her voice. “Here, drink this. It’s got the powder in it.” Something pressed first to his palm and then his lips as it was raised to his mouth. “Just…take a minute.”

Sweet, thick nectar slid down the medic’s parched throat. The gritty feeling of fortification powder did little to dissuade him once the liquid touched his tongue. He leaned back, dizzy, draining the bottle before tearing it away with a ragged gasp of air. “Arya–”

“No.” Arya’s voice lacked any bite. It cracked at the edge of the word. Through his steadying vision he could see the shine of tears clinging to her lashes, the pallor of her face beneath grime and streaks of blood. And yet…as always…the fire in her eyes. Different from any time he had seen it before, but still there. “Glen, I can’t…I can’t hear what you’re going to say right now. Just…take your time. Let me take care of you. Please?”

Numb. Exhausted. Blood, blood so akin to hers, caking the joints and creases and crevices of his prosthetic. Tightening and tangled in the fine hairs on his remaining forearm, flakes of it falling from his knuckles as he gripped his knees.

Glenwing nodded, and, feeling every one of his hundred and twenty six years, slumped back in the rickety chair’s embrace.

When he was next aware of his surroundings, cool water was pressed against his arm. Arya knelt before him, her face hidden by the bow of her head as she gently scrubbed away her mother’s blood from his skin. A clean bucket of soapy water was at her knee, several soiled rags in a rough hewn bowl beside it. His prosthetic wasn’t gleaming, but it was as clean as battlefield washing could get it without removing the plates.

Bandages, soft gauze and clips keeping pads in place, had replaced his left pauldron above the prosthetic. Tape over his right ribs. The slight tug of three stitches, her knots feeling as perfect as he had taught her, over his right eyebrow. Wounds he hadn’t felt, dressed and tended.

Arya’s voice was a shivering murmur, the woman still trying so hard to contain the tangled emotions at war in her chest. “I hope you…don’t mind some company.” She squeezed out the washcloth and used a mug to pour fresh water onto the fabric to avoid spoiling the bucket. “He’s cranky.”

Still bleary, Glen tilted his head down further and found a haphazard pile of feathers nestled in his lap. Blagden let out a half croak of protest, his bandaged wing flopping as he tried to make clear his displeasure. There was blood soaked into the white flight edges, soot turning his startlingly bright form a dingy grey.

“I healed his wing.” The tremor in Arya’s tone rose for a moment. She turned Glen’s hand over, began clearing the grime from his palm with shaking fingers. “He…he won’t let me do anything besides the bones.” Another fresh wash of clear water. “He wants her.”

Droplets of blood-tinged suds dripped from Glenwing’s fingertips. As his CO pulled away again, wringing out the rag a third time, he caught her wrist.

Still armored. The moisture made the aramid weave glitter.

“Arya.”

“Don’t.”

Carefully shifting a grumbling Blagden to the crook of his metallic arm, Glen gently seized Arya’s elbow and stood. She followed his motion out of ingrained instinct, trying to steady him, grasping his forearm.

The exhausted medic barely wavered, however. “Arya, look at me.” The younger elf refused, shoulders rigid, teeth set and face obscured by the wild, singed fringes of her hair. Glen gave her no choice, his heart bubbling as he cupped her jaw and turned her back. “Arya, listen.”

His palm was wet. Not from the water, but from the tears cutting streaks through the soot and blood on Arya’s skin as she finally looked at him.

“Glen, please.” He could feel her shaking. She was begging him, pleading. “Please, I can’t…I can’t take this right now.”

Damn it. She really always expected the worst. It’s what made her so fierce, always made her come up swinging. But right now was not a time that required fight. Not from her, at least.

“Arya.” Glenwing gently squeezed his war sister’s cheek. No, they weren’t war siblings anymore. She was his sister now, forever and always. Kid sister, who he would watch over and take care of just as much as she watched over and took care of him. And right now, he could ease her pain in a way she needed more desperately than any time before.

“Arya, your mum is alive.”

The green eyed soldier stared at him. Stopped breathing.

“Islanzadí’s alive, Ari. She’s stabilizing.”

A strangled noise, half released pain, half relief, and all bewilderment at the revelation, clawed its way from Arya’s throat. And then she tipped forward and fell against Glenwing’s shoulder, arms almost limp from the shock of it hanging around his body and let out a sob that he could feel deep in his chest.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you.” Careful of the raven cradled in his arm, Glen followed his sister to the ground as her knees gave, holding her to his chest with a hand on her back. “It’s alright, Ari.”

He let her sob into his half-removed armor, cheek pressed to the side of her head as he stroked her unraveling braid and squeezed as tight as he dared. All the while he spoke, repeating himself over and over. Trying to prepare her for the inevitable.

“Arya, she’s alive, but she’s still hurt. We had to stabilize her fast. The only way we could was to take her arm at the shoulder.”

The feeling of muscle, pulverized, shredded, slippery arteries threatening to retract into flesh, all giving way under scalpel blade and held in place by unforgiving clamps made his throat convulse. A piece of a person separated, so clearly removed, across the tent. The white, purplish hue to the hand, so clearly lacking any bloodflow.

Deep, deep in his mind, Glenwing wondered if that was how his hand had looked to the healers that night now years in the past.

And then he shook himself and focused on the present, the woman shivering against him, thanks tumbling from her lips only half intelligible.

“She’s still weak. We’re putting her in the Dream State for a few days. The healers are going to keep working, they’re doing everything they can to preserve nerves and repair her collarbone and ribs, but it’s slow going, okay? She’s alive, and she’s stabilizing. That’s the important part right now.”

A few more long moments passed, the two of them clinging to each other, before Arya pulled away and rubbed her eyes dry with a scarred wrist. “Can…can I see her?”

Glenwing gave his sister a gentle smile and wiped away the last of her tears with his thumb. “Let them keep working, okay? She’s still in rough shape, and like I said, she’ll kill me if she learns I let you see her like that.”

A small nod and shaky breath in and out. “Okay.” Her smile was bright, eyes still shining, but there was that fire, that spark of hope and tenacity in the face of everything around them. “Thank you.”

They both slumped into the folding chairs, Glen passing Blagden off to Arya. He didn’t comment when she half wrestled, half shoved him into a bloodied sling across her chest. Just grinned and touched the back of her hand.

“Now. It’s my turn.” The exhausted medic lolled his head to the side, eyes flicking over his CO’s battered and burnt armor, catching on open spaces where pieces had cracked or fallen away during the pitched throne room battle. “Will you let me take care of you?”

Arya let out a soft laugh. “Don’t you dare go trying to heal anything. I’m alright. Just bruised and banged up a bit.”

Glenwing’s golden eyes were hard when Arya looked to him, pulled by his hand on her shoulder. “You don’t feel that?”

“What, you grabbing me? Of course I do.”

“Arya,” He chose his words carefully. “You look to have a lot of burns on your right side. Just from what I can see.”

Arya blinked. ‘Burns?’ She turned her gaze downward, following where Glen had indicated with his own eyes.

Most of the armor pieces on her right arm were gone. A few measly shards of spidersilk aramid hung limply at the connection points, edges and fragments sharp as glass. The undersuit was…adhered. In some places. In others it had burned away entirely, the tissue beneath bright cherry pink in rippling flares while shiny tissue spidered out around them.

Glen grabbed her hand, fingers interlacing with hers, when she went to twist the limb to further examine the damage. “Take it easy, don’t move too much.”

“Bit late for that.” Arya stared. What the hell had happened? She had barely fought at all, Eragon and Murtagh taking the brunt of the close quarters combat on themselves while Saphira and Thorn had rushed–

��Oh.”

“Oh?” Glenwing looked up from carefully wetting pieces of the adhered undersuit with the remaining water from the bucket. Arya had fallen silent for several minutes, eyes glassed and far off, when he began working on getting her free from the charred remains of her armor. He wasn’t exactly surprised at her muted pain reception, adrenaline still pumping even now in his own body, likely covering the pain of any of the injuries she had wrapped while he Tranced outside the tent. But Arya always hated burns, and always made that fact known whenever she had one.

Arya stared down at her skin as the last strip of undersuit was gently worked off her right arm. Tongues of flame stood embedded in her flesh, licking up her forearm, thankfully missing her joint and skating up to her shoulder like liquid dragonfire had become one with her body.

“Shruikan breathed fire on me.” She cocked her head. The patterns were honestly quite pretty the longer she looked at them, raw flesh aside.

Glen reached to the back of his webbing, servos and mechanical joints whirring to manipulate his arm in ways a normal limb could not naturally bend. Burn ointment. Lidocaine ointment. Gauze. “Mm-hm.” He began smearing a mix of the medicines over the burns, quietly thanking whatever the hell may be out there, real or imagined, that the pain was yet to begin. These would not feel good when Arya finally registered the full extent of their spread.

“I had to go through it.” Even through the numbness of shock and exhaustion, Arya couldn’t suppress a sigh at the cooling feeling creeping over her skin. “Wouldn’t have been able to kill him if Saphira and Thorn hadn’t helped me.”

“That was nice of them.” Loose wrapping. Give it a little bit of air, space for any swelling. Once they both had rested they would reassess. Crazy as she was, Glen had no doubt Arya was going to pester him to let her keep some of the burns as scars. And it was only right, after all, having earned them by killing–

“Wait, what?”

Blagden’s ruffled head appeared above the edge of the sash. “Be kind, rewind! The thread of fate is confused this time!”

Both Arya and Glenwing stopped their motions and stared down at the beleaguered raven.

And then pointedly ignored his quip.

“I think the thermal shock is what exploded the armor.” Arya reached up and massaged the right side of her neck. Tiny scratches made themselves known under her fingertips where splinters of the aramid had sliced microtears in her skin. “Explains why my neck itches like mad here.”

“No, wait, hold on!” Glen grabbed her hand and pulled it down. “You killed Shruikan?”

“Saphira and Thorn did all the work getting his head down. And they came up with the plan.” A ghost of a grin touched Arya’s lips at the mention of Murtagh’s partner. “Thorn’s got a very kind consciousness. He’s confused, but he’s very sweet.”

Glenwing stared. As surreptitiously as he could, he used a free finger to palpate her wrist, checking her blood pressure in the most rudimentary way possible. “Ari, slow down a second, okay? You killed Shruikan?”

“I didn’t want to kill him.” The mumble would have alarmed him further had he not seen the bright green fire in her eyes, no hint of any muddling beyond that of exhaustion. “But Eragon and Saphira told us what Elva felt. There could be no saving him. And he was going to kill Saphira and Thorn and everyone else if I didn’t take the opening, so…” She shivered, and Blagden burrowed his head deeper into the sling. “I…I gave him rest. We could give him that much, after what Galbatorix put him through.”

Arya took a steadying breath again and shot Glen a wan smile from beneath troubled brows. “I hated that damn spear.”

Glenwing squeezed her hand. “He’s not being used anymore. That was the best thing for him.”

“True. But it still feels…wrong. To kill a dragon.”

“I know.”

The conversation lapsed, Glen focusing on the extent of Arya’s burns while the woman leaned her head on his shoulder, eyes closed. The few minutes of Trancing here and there was doing wonders for the both of them, bringing the world back to clarity.

As he tucked the final tail of the bandage and sealed it with a clip, Arya raised her head and blinked away waking dreams.

“All good?”

The medic grinned and rubbed his sister’s head roughly. “Good as it’ll get for now.” He ducked a halfhearted swat and tapped his forehead to hers. He had seen the flicker of her eyes towards the tent, the glimmer of ache. “Do you want to go find Eragon and Saphira? Or Brom? Waiting is going to be more difficult than doing.” His voice was soft.

Arya stretched and winced as the movement sparked pain along the wrapped burns, quickly soothed by the numbing ointment encasing them. “No. No, they’re all needed elsewhere. Eragon’s working on the citadel wounded, and Saphira’s doing evac. Brom’s–” She paused, a whipcrack tendril of thought finding the old Rider among the thousands upon thousands in the camp. “He’s helping Jörmundur.” She looked past the tents arrayed before them, where the elven command center was nestled in the distance. “If you’re clearing me, then I think I need to find Däthedr. He’d have taken command.”

Glen raised an eyebrow. Of course she’d try to dive into work. In all honesty, he was itching to get back into some normalcy, as odd as their normal was. Taking stock and helping the wounded after a pitched battle always gave him a sense of strange calm, as if the differences made both on and off the field were evening out in alignment.

Motion caught his eye, snapping his attention to the throng flowing back and forth in the makeshift alley. People were parting, moving to the sides as if a force of nature split their river.

He tapped the uninjured back of Arya’s right hand, tried again when he touched the nerve-severed portion by accident, and pointed. “I think Däthedr’s already found you.”

The Queen’s aforementioned second was breezing up the muddied lane, the handful of the Lords of House that had not been left behind to tend to Du Weldenvarden fast on his heels.

Both Glen and Arya pushed themselves up to standing as they neared. Däthedr dismissed their tired salutes with an equally tired wave of his hand, bandages already smeared with dust from the thickened air flashing at his forearm. “Enough of that. I think we can forgo our culture’s formalities at a time like this. It is good to see you both made it out of the citadel.”

“It’s good to see the lot of you in one piece as well, sir.” Arya gave her mother’s advisor a half smile, one that wobbled at the edges when she straightened and gestured toward the tent at their backs. “If you’ve come about the Queen–”

“Finli has already informed me that Islanzadí lives.” Däthedr’s eyes softened, and, maybe with as much surprise to himself as Glen saw on the faces of the Lords of House, the elder elf stepped forward and gently hugged the woman before him. He pulled back after a moment and cleared his throat awkwardly, as if suddenly realizing that the lot of them were in public. “I wish I could say I am here solely to provide support, but time and power moves quickly. We are here to speak on official matters.”

“I’m sorry, but you can’t.” Glen stepped forward to be shoulder to shoulder with his still somewhat bewildered CO. The hug seemed to have caught her off guard just as much as the others, completely unused to the calm and collected Däthedr of all people giving in to what equated to an emotional outburst. It didn’t help that Blagden, woken by the movement and determined to take part in official duties, had begun clambering out of the sling and up her cracked cuirass, using beak and claw to haul himself to a wavering perch on her left shoulder. “Queen Islanzadí is still being tended to, and she is to be put into the Dream State to heal for the next two days at least. With all due respect, I’m afraid you’re going to have to handle the politics on your own.”

Däthedr nodded, head dipping lower than usual. “Understood. We are not here to speak with Islanzadí, but to speak with Arya, and, by extension of your role, you, Glenwing.” He returned his attention to Arya, who seemed to have shaken off her shock, if not the raven clinging to her pauldron. “Nasuada, Eragon, Saphira, Brom and the other leaders are gathering at dusk. The choice of the Broddring ruler is to be made. Our own ruler must attend.”

Arya blinked, then pinched the bridge of her nose, elbow braced against the back of her scarred right wrist where the bandages did not reach. That headache that Blagden’s earlier snap had started was beginning to bloom between her eyes. “Right.” The word came as a barely contained sigh. Really? Now? “Regency. You need my okay to go ahead with electing the Keeper.”

“Keeper?” Glen’s hand at the small of her back was a brief touch, probably invisible to the gathering of elf lords and ladies in its speed. The message was clear, an offering of physical support if she needed it. The question he voiced, while genuine, a subtle way to allow her to catch her metaphorical breath.

It made her grin inwardly. Maybe he should go into politics.

“Keeper of the Knotted Throne.” Her responding quick tap of her knuckles to his assured him she was fine. “It’s basically a regent, put in place when our ruler is incapacitated until the king or Queen is able to resume duties fully, until they die, or until they pass the throne on to someone else.” Arya dropped her hand and squared her shoulders, ignoring Blagden’s half startled ‘whoop’ at the movement as she fixed her gaze on Däthedr. “They need my permission to put a Keeper in place since I’m the Queen’s next of kin. The Right of Blood, remember? They’re trying to see if I’ll push a claim.”

“Ah.” Glenwing tilted his head slightly. He had only heard Arya invoke Right of Blood a handful of times, all within the last few years, and only within Eragon and Saphira’s band of protectors. Blödhgarm was a reasonable man, and his thinking frequently aligned with Arya’s when it came to commanding the spellcasters that were technically under Eragon and Saphira’s control.

But cultural standards and hierarchy frequently tied his hands when it came to a few points of contention, and Arya had found her Right of Blood, given by her status as Islanzadí’s daughter and her military rank, allowed them to circumvent such blocks. When Arya spoke with the Right invoked, she spoke with the Queen’s authority, a temporary power but a very high one indeed.

Her use of it during the fateful meeting after Nasuada’s failed kidnapping had been what revealed her parentage to Nasuada and Orrin, and while a rather heated debate on the differences between nobles and primagenature monarchy for humans and elves had followed, the Right had been useful in the end.

Again, Däthedr bowed his head. Arya’s lips tightened slightly at the lower than normal dip, recognizing it for what it was. Deference. “Yes. We need your permission to name a Keeper.” There was no wary light in his eyes when he met her gaze, just honest exhaustion and a will to find a raft of normalcy in the new storm of uncertainty.

She could put this in his hands. Her Da had put his faith in him, and so did her Mum. He would not lead the Lords of House to a weak leader, and he would not allow them to manipulate his nomination, nor the Keeper’s judgment.

Arya sighed again, and this time made no attempt to hide it. She was sore, and she was tired. The sooner she and Glen got to work, the sooner she could forget those facts. Forget that her mother was laying in the tent behind her, arm gone, fighting it out in the Dream State.

“Alright. I put aside my claim through Right of Blood. You know her better than most, Däthedr.” She nodded firmly. “I trust you’ll find the right person to fill the role, one that the Queen will approve of.”

In the back of the gathered lords, a few shifted slightly. Whether they thought Arya would have pressed claim or were miffed she had so clearly appointed Däthedr to lead the search was unclear.

“Thank you. However, I’m happy to report that the choice has already been made now that you have given your consent.” Däthedr gestured toward Islanzadí’s tent. “Queen Islanzadí thought it wise to set in place a…living will of sorts. There were…” He paused, grey eyes flicking to the preening Blagden almost too quickly to notice. “Some fears that Islanzadí could be gravely injured or killed on this day. The nomination for Keeper of the Throne was chosen well in advance, as well as Islanzadí’s nomination for her successor should she be killed.” He swept his outstretched hand back, indicating the gathered Lords. “The Lords of House agreed then, and still do now, with the nomination. All that is left is to present the title to them.”

Arya opened her mouth to speak, but Blagden beat her to it. The white raven lifted his head, ruff proudly raised, and uttered a sharp croak.

“Wyrda!”

Arya scowled at him from the corner of her eye, voice harsh. “Cram it!” How a raven managed enough expression to look offended, Arya had no idea. He took the chance to nip her ear, growling softly. “Knock it off!”

Once the feathered terror had taken a few shuffles away from the side of her head, Arya put her hands on her hips, left palm settling on the guard of her father’s blade. A flicker of thought at the sword’s name, amusingly kinned to Blagden’s call, flitted through her mind before it was gone again.

“That makes this far easier. I’ll leave it to you and the Lords of House to alert the Keeper and prep them if they accept.” She shrugged. Entertaining the idea that the nominee, hand picked by her mother, would refuse the position was a nauseating prospect, but if chaos was what awaited them, then they may as well meet it head on. “If they refuse the position, just let me know when you come up with another one and I’ll do this song and dance again.”

Arya tilted her head towards Glenwing. “We’re going to head for block eight. Help where we can.”

“Very well.” Däthedr suddenly planted his staff in the mud and squared his shoulders.

“Arya Shadeslayer of House Tialdarí, of House Varden. You have been chosen by Islanzadí Dröttning, Queen of the elven nation, to assume the mantle of Keeper of the Knotted Throne, and to rule as Queen Regent until Queen Islanzadí is fit to resume her duties or pass them on.”

Däthedr’s voice rang clear in the crowded space, unmistakable power bonded to the truth of the Ancient Language. “The Lords of House are in agreement and stand united with Queen Islanzadí’s choice, made in sane mind and with due diligence done as required by our laws. This nomination is unanimous.”

Däthedr locked his grey gaze to Arya’s burning green.

“Do you accept this title, position, and the responsibilities it entails?”

It felt as though the entire camp had gone silent.

People in the lane stopped and stared, frozen by the authority lent by Däthedr’s voice. Though many had not understood the words, the overall feeling was clear. Something was about to change, a ripple through the fabric of the world ready to race out to enact it.

This was history.

…Odd how making history still felt fresh during such an already historic day.

And as the last of the sounds of Däthedr’s words rang, even time held its breath.

Arya stared back into Däthedr’s eyes.

And managed only a single croaked, dumbfounded word:

“Huh?”

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dravencroft · 7 months ago

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You know me more than I care to admit.

Jack Vessalius and Oswald/Glen Baskerville from Pandora Hearts.

#dravensart #Pandora Hearts #Pandora Hearts fanart #PH fanart #Jack Vessalius #Glen Baskerville #Oswald Baskerville #Jun Mochizuki #digital art #PH fanart?? from me?? in the year 2k24???#it's more likely than you think #listen. I basically based my entire style on PH illustrations back then #I just wanted to see how it had evolved in all these years ;o;#also special mention for Bunny Oz in the corner and Raven's feathers in the other corner!

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lookslikethatsallthetimewehave · 5 months ago

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A list of Poptropica characters who hated life at some point? :D

Top 30 Poptropicans who hated their life at some point.

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eggsandwafflez · 1 year ago

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Even better. Peter David wrote the story bible for the show.

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aeralux · 6 days ago

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"Spellbound" - Daemon Targaryen

Daemon Targaryen x Witch!Reader

Summary: A witch doesn't cower to anyone... except maybe a dragon. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. Harrenhal seems to be riddled with darkness and mysteries, after all.

Warnings: SMUT (18+); rough sex; oral (f!receiving); fingering; foul language; talks of magick and its use; technically infidelity on Daemon's part; loss of virginity; mention of blood

Words: 8.3k

Notes: No description of the reader, except for dark hair. Takes place in Harrenhal when Daemon is staying there. I tried to be as accurate to Westeros lore as I could, I literally spent hours on their wiki, so I hope it shows through :)

𐔌 . ⋮ aera .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

Harrenhal was a ghastly place. It had the biggest castle of all of Westeros. The castle had five dizzying towers, with equally monstrous curtain walls. The walls were incredibly thick, and its rooms were built on a scale that would be more comfortable for giants than humans—said to be haunted and eerie.

Perfect for sorceresses and sorcerers alike, the city had a coven of Witches who collectively went by the name "Wives of the Gods Eye." The name was an ode to Gods Eye, the largest lake of the Seven Kingdoms, located south of Harrenhal.

In the embrace of warm sunlight, the water of the Gods Eye shimmers in vibrant shades of blue and green, casting a magical glow. Yet, as winter blankets the land, its surface transforms into a steely grey, reminiscent of the coldest metal. Majestic black swans glide gracefully across the water. Just a short distance away, a winding lake road meanders near the storied Harrenhal, leading through a patchwork of rolling hills, sparkling streams, and golden sunlit fields. As one journeys further south, the landscape gives way to dense, shadowy forests, creating a clear contrast.

The lake, with its murky depths, bore a name of divine beings, yet here, amidst the towering pines and shivering mists, there existed no gods. Only monsters lurked in the shadows, and witches wove their secrets beneath the pale moonlight. As for you, you were a bastard of Pinkmaiden, an unwelcome child of a place that should have offered a home. At the young age of six, you were sent to Harrenhal, a castle steeped in blood and betrayal, to serve the lords and ladies of House Strong as one of the laundresses. The ancient stones watched over you with cold indifference, whispering the secrets of many who had come before.

Your raven-black hair flowed like a dark river down your back, framing your face and matching nicely with your unsettling eyes, which shimmered like a stormy sea. These features marked you as different, a reminder of your uncertain heritage. It was not long before the Lady of Harrenhal, with her porcelain skin and sharp gaze, grew wary of your presence. On the eve of your sixteenth birthday, she cast you out, her disdain cutting deeper than any blade.

Alone and bereft, you wandered the wilderness, uncertainty gnawing at your heart. But fortune smiled upon you when the coven of witches found you, their cloaks billowing like dark wings against the whispering wind. They took you in, offering a refuge far removed from the stone walls of Harrenhal. In their hidden glen, where wildflowers crowded beneath the trees, they made you feel cherished for the first time.

Nowadays, for most, magic is a little-understood force in the world. It has been so long since magic was truly potent that most understanding now exists only in superstition and rituals of questionable validity. But with them, you understood, the doubts of others have no claim.

"You are special," they insisted, words dripping with ancient wisdom. "You possess something otherworldly." Their voices wrapped around you like a warm embrace. For the first time, you believed there was a purpose to your existence—a spark that set you apart from common folk, a thread woven from the fabric of something otherworldly.

Under their solemn guidance, you began to practice the mysterious arts. You learned to mix herbs and roots, crafting potions that glinted with promise and danger. Each incantation you whispered held power, resonating with the essence of the world around you. The witching nights became your solace, and as you delved deeper into their teachings, the women of the coven began to call you their newest daughter—their black swan. In that embrace, you found your wings, soaring above the harsh reality that had sought to bind you.

There, in the shadows of Harrenhal, you discovered your true calling and uncovered your hidden talent: Glamour magic. The few ladies of the coven from Asshai welcomed you into their fold. Asshai, a mysterious and ancient port city nestled in the far southeast of Essos, was unlike any place in Westeros, you gathered from their stories. There, the Ash River wound its way through the land, flowing into the vast expanse of the Jade Sea, where the waters sparkled under the sun like jewels.

As you sat among the flickering candles in their dimly lit chamber, they taught you ancient spells in their native tongue. Words danced on your lips like whispers in the wind, each incantation holding power and mystique. They guided you in prayer, teaching you how to bow your head before the Red God, channelling your intentions through sacred rituals. The air was thick with incense, and the flickering shadows brought to life the stories of ages past, filling your heart with a sense of wonder and purpose.

When the wise ladies of the coven, cloaked in shadows and steeped in ancient lore, deemed you ready to embrace your destiny, they presented you with a striking necklace carved from deep black obsidian. Its surface shimmered like a starless night sky, reflecting the flickering flames of the hearth where your journey began. Though the obsidian was traditionally used to forge weapons of war, the coven believed it resonated with your spirit, a perfect talisman for what lay ahead.

As you clasped the necklace around your neck, it transformed into your glamor, an enchanting charm that bestowed upon you the power to weave illusions. With it, the magic could shift the perceptions of those around you, allowing you to appear as someone—or something—entirely different. While the shape of the necklace remained unchanged, the world could see whatever you wished it to see, bending reality to your will.

The true strength of glamors lies in their connection to the wearer. Each illusion from the obsidian was ingrained with a piece of you, making them far more potent than mere tricks of light. As you wore the necklace, you felt it pulse gently against your skin, a current of magic entwining your fate with ancient spells. The coven’s trust in you burned bright like the embers of a dying fire.

In the realm where shadows danced and whispers echoed, the obsidian necklace became more than just an accessory; it was an extension of your very being, a bridge between the world you knew and the numerous possibilities.

Through the fogs surrounding Harrenhal and its haunting towers, a figure emerged one day that would change the course of history. Daemon Targaryen, the rogue prince, found himself in the ancient fortress where magic lingered in the air, where witches snarled their secrets beneath the pale moonlight, and where even the strongest of men lost their minds to visions that tormented them.

The arrival of the Targaryen prince foreshadowed the beginning of the violent conflict known as the Dance of the Dragons, igniting the flames of war. The first target being Harrenhal. Daemon Targaryen, fierce and determined, led the charge to seize this shadowy castle for his wife, Rhaenyra. In his mind, it would become a stronghold for loyal supporters rising in the Riverlands.

Chaos erupted in the region, the air thick with tension and fear hanging heavily over the lords and common folk. Yet amidst this turmoil, you stood resolute, encouraged by the words of an elder from your coven, whose foresight promised their safety in these troubled times.

With unwavering determination, you journeyed to the godswood of Harrenhal, walking along the clear, winding stream that wandered gently through the emerald shrubberies. The ancient weirwood, with its deformed roots and an angry face carved into its bark, awaited you at the heart of the woods. Its pale leaves trembled softly in the breeze, whispering secrets of generations past.

Above you, birds flitted through the branches, their songs mingling with the rustling leaves, while bats emerged as shadows against the dusky sky, patrolling for their evening meal. A sly cat sneaked near the godswood's stone wall, its eyes glinting like lanterns in the twilight. In this serene moment, you felt a peculiar kinship with the creatures of the wood, convinced that you were not alone.

With reverence, you placed your offering between the twisted roots of the ancient tree, murmuring a quick prayer. You believed in many deities, each an important part of your life, hoping that at least one would consider your call. After all, in these dark times, hope was a precious thing.

Before your journey back, you felt a tug in your heart to pay a quick visit to Alys. The kind healer lady was one of the rare souls who did not cast disdainful glances at you during your time in the castle. Known by others as the “witch queen,” Alys saw past the uncanny aura that surrounded you. She had grown fond of you, despite the brooding darkness that seemed to dance in your eyes, and she understood that your best path was far from these stone walls. You stood out too much among the lords and ladies, a vision amidst the living.

Like a creeping shadow, you slipped through the secret passage, the cool air brushing against your skin as you navigated the hidden corridors. The echoes of your footsteps were muffled by the cold, damp stones, as you moved with practised ease to avoid the lurking guards. You knew better than to provoke their watchful eyes.

Upon entering Alys's chamber, you were greeted by a familiar sight—her collection of potions and drying herbs adorned the shelves, a simple yet charming chaos that spoke of her craft. The room held a soft scent of lavender and something earthy, an aroma that always brought you comfort. You wandered over to the table, intrigued by the array of glass bottles filled with vivid liquids.

But the serenity shattered in an instant, as a cold steel blade pressed against your throat, sending a chill cascading down your spine. A sharp gasp escaped your lips, mingling with the tension in the air. Your heart raced, pounding against your ribcage as panic surged. Who could it be, a figure lurking in the shadows, ready to end your life? The world around you faded into silence, but your senses heightened, honed by years of uncertainty. At that moment, you wondered if your last moments would be in the castle that had been both shelter and prison.

You couldn't see the face of your attacker, but you could feel the presence looming over you, the weight of their body pressing you forward. The blade dug into your skin, drawing a thin line of blood that trickled down your neck. You swallowed hard, fighting back the fear that threatened to overwhelm you.

"Who are you?" a low and menacing voice demanded. And what are you doing here?"

The voice was unfamiliar to you, but there was a certain authority in it that sent a chill down your spine. You knew that whoever this person was, they meant business.

You tried to turn your head, to catch a glimpse of your attacker, but the blade pressed harder against your throat, making you wince in pain. "Please," you managed to choke out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I mean no harm."

The figure behind you let out a harsh laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "No harm? You sneak into the healer's chambers like a thief in the night, and you claim to mean no harm?"

You felt a tear slip down your cheek, mingling with the blood on your skin. "I'm not a thief," you said, your voice trembling. "I'm a friend of Alys. I came to see her, to...to say hello."

The blade pressed harder against your throat, making you gasp in pain. "Hello?" the voice repeated, a note of suspicion in it. "Somehow I doubt you, little witch."

You knew then that your attacker was well aware of your true nature, of the magic that coursed through your veins. You thought of the obsidian necklace around your neck, the glamor that disguised you as a simple servant girl. But you knew that even that powerful magic would be no match for the Valyrian steel pressed against your throat.

Your heart pounded against your ribs as you struggled to steady your breathing. The cold steel pressed harder against your throat, sending a jolt of pain through your body. You tried to swallow, but your mouth was dry, and your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth.

"I swear, it's true," you managed to choke out, your voice trembling with fear. "I didn't know anyone would be here. I thought...I thought Alys would be alone."

You could feel your attacker's warm breath on the back of your neck, their presence looming over you like a dark shadow. You wanted to turn and face them, to see the face of the one who held your life in their hands, but the blade kept you still.

"Please," you whispered, tears stinging your eyes. "Don't hurt me. I'm not here to cause any trouble. I just...I just wanted to see her"

Your hands shook at your sides, the obsidian necklace hidden beneath your simple servant's gown a cold weight against your skin. You knew that your glamor was useless now, that your true nature had been discovered. But you couldn't let them know about the coven, about the power that you possessed.

You closed your eyes, bracing yourself for the pain that was sure to come. You had survived so much in your short life and had endured so much hardship and betrayal. But in that moment, faced with the cold steel of a stranger's blade, you felt more vulnerable than ever.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "I didn't mean any harm."

You waited for the blade to slice through your skin, for the blood to pour from the wound. But it never came. Instead, you felt the pressure of the blade lessen, the cold steel sliding away from your throat.

Slowly, you turned your head, your eyes widening as you saw the face of the one who had held your life in their hands. It was a man, tall and broad-shouldered, with hair the colour of spun silver and eyes as violet as an iris. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a legend, a true son of Valyria.

Daemon's violet eyes narrowed as he studied the young woman before him, his gaze sharp and piercing. He could see the fear in your eyes, the way your body trembled beneath his touch, but he also sensed something else—a flicker of something dark and dangerous lurking just beneath the surface. He knew a witch when he saw one, and you were no ordinary servant.

"A friend of Alys's, you say?" he growled, his voice low and menacing. "And yet you seem to know your way around this castle better than most. Tell me, little witch, what exactly are you doing here?"

He kept the blade pressed against your throat, not enough to draw blood, but enough to keep you still. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath the cold steel and could see the way your pulse fluttered. He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear.

"I've dealt with your kind before," he whispered, his voice a low rumble. "I know the tricks you play, the illusions you weave. But trust me, little one, you'll find no mercy here."

Daemon's eyes flicked down to the necklace hidden beneath your gown, a flicker of recognition sparking in their depths. He had seen such trinkets before. But this one was different—there was a power to it that even he could sense, a dark and ancient magic that thrummed through the air like a heartbeat.

"What's this?" he demanded, his fingers brushing against the hidden amulet. "Some kind of charm, is it? A trinket to hide your true face from the world?"

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "I can smell the magic on you, little witch. It clings to your skin like perfume. The same foul odour that clings to the healer."

Daemon's hand slid down from your throat to your collarbone, his fingers tracing the curve of your flesh beneath the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel the heat of your skin beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

You took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to steady the trembling of your hands as you met Daemon's piercing violet gaze. With a steady motion, you reached behind your neck and unclasped the necklace, letting the heavy amulet drop into your palm. There was no point in trying to hide your identity any longer. Your true face coming to light.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as you revealed the truth of your identity, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger. He could see the fear in your eyes, but also the aggressiveness, the spark of something wild and untamed that called to him like a siren's song.

"I am a witch, yes," you admitted in a hushed whisper, your heart pounding so hard you feared he could hear it. "But I speak the truth, your grace. I did not know anyone would be here."

You couldn't help but notice his rugged handsomeness as you spoke, the strong lines of his jaw and the way his muscles rippled beneath the thin linen of his tunic. You quickly averted your gaze, not wanting him to see the effect he was having on you.

"I'm from the coven called the Wives of the Gods Eye," you continued, voice barely above a whisper. "We practice the old ways, the magic that was once forbidden. I simply came here seeking some herbs."

You met his eyes once more, defiance mingling with the apprehension. "I meant you no harm, my lord. I swear it on my life."

"A witch of the old ways, are you?" he purred, his hand sliding up from your collarbone to cup your chin, tilting your face towards his. "How very interesting. And here I thought Alys was the only one in this godforsaken castle who dabbled in the dark arts."

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he spoke. "You say you seek herbs, little witch, but what say you to a bargain? Your secrets for my protection."

Daemon's hand slid down to your neck, his fingers wrapping around your throat in a loose grip. He could feel your pulse fluttering beneath his touch, could see the way your body trembled at his proximity.

"I could use a witch of your talents in my service," he murmured, his voice low and seductive.

You stepped back, your hand brushing against the dagger beneath your skirts. "I am not some whore," you hissed, your voice low and dangerous. "I do not offer my services to any man, least of all one who would threaten me with a blade."

You met his gaze, your own eyes blazing with defiance. "You would be wise to let me leave at once, your grace. I have no quarrel with you, but I will not be cowed by threats or promises of power."

Turning on your heel, you strode to the shelves, your movements quick and precise. You grabbed a bottle of dried hemlock, the bitter scent filling your nostrils. You turned back to face him, the vial clutched in your hand like a weapon.

"I a daughter of the Gods Eye. I bow to no man, not even a prince of the realm."

You lifted your chin, your dark hair falling in waves around your face. "Now, I will ask you once more. Let me pass, or face the consequences of crossing a witch."

Your hand tightened on the hemlock, the glass cold against your skin. You could feel the rage thrumming through your veins.

"Choose wisely, your grace."

He had dealt with witches before and had watched as they danced and writhed beneath his touch. In pain and pleasure.

But this one was different. This one had a fire in her eyes that couldn't be tamed, a defiance that only fuelled his dark desires.

"A daughter of the Gods Eye, are you?" he growled, his hand tightening around the hilt of his dagger. "How very bold of you, little witch. To stand before a prince of the realm and threaten him with your petty magic."

He took a step forward, his eyes locked on the vial of hemlock clutched in your hand. "You think that trinket will save you? That your gods will protect you from the wrath of a dragon?"

Your breath hitched as Daemon closed the distance between you, his presence overwhelming your senses. The threats rolling off his tongue made your head spin, a dizzying combination of fear and thrill coursing through your veins. You had never met a man who could match the fire in your blood, his very existence seems to challenge you at every turn.

Daemon's lips curled into a cruel smile, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr. "I have seen the faces of men and women as they begged for mercy, only to be denied. And I have drunk the blood of my enemies, their cries of agony echoing in my ears like a symphony."

"I could hurt you," he growled, his voice a low rumble. "I could crack you like this vial in my hand, leaving you a broken shell of the proud sorceress you once were."

"What do you want?" You gritted out through clenched teeth, hating the way your body reacted to his proximity. Your legs felt weak, your knees threatening to buckle as he loomed over you, his eyes burning into yours.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin at the challenge in your voice, his eyes glinting with a predatory hunger that made your blood run cold. He could see the way your body trembled beneath his gaze, could feel the heat of your skin even from a distance.

Stop it, you scolded yourself. He's just a man. Don't let him get under your skin.

But even as you tried to regain your composure, you could feel the power emanating from him like a physical force. It was intoxicating and dangerous, and you knew that if you weren't careful, you could easily lose yourself in the reckless temptation.

"What do I want?" he purred, his voice low and seductive. "Why, I want what all men want, little witch. Power. Control. To bend others to my will."

He took a step closer, his hand reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your cheek, his touch searing your skin like a brand.

"But with you, I want something more," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. "I want to break you. To shatter that defiant spirit of yours and make you mine."

You could feel the heat of his skin against yours, could smell the musk of his scent, and for a moment, you were tempted to give in to the desire coursing through your veins.

But you were not some simpering maiden to be seduced by a pretty face and a silver tongue.

Daemon's hand slid down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck in a loose grip.

"I could take you now," he growled, his lips brushing against your jawline. "I could pin you to the floor and claim you, make you scream my name until your voice is hoarse."

His other hand slid down your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip through the thin fabric of your gown. "But where's the fun in that? No, I'll take my time with you, little witch. I'll make you beg for my touch, for the sweet release only I can give you."

Daemon's eyes locked with yours, his gaze intense and unwavering. "So what will it be, my sweet? Will you submit to me willingly, or will I have to break you first?"

"You think you can break me?" You said, my voice steady and clear. "That you can tame my soul with your pretty words and your empty promises?"

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing against his ear. "I have faced far worse than you, Daemon Targaryen. I have stared into the abyss and emerged unscathed. Your threats mean nothing to me."

Your hand slid up his chest, your fingers curling around the chain of the dragon necklace that hung from his neck. You could feel the heat of the metal against your skin, looking at him with a scowl on your face.

"But if you truly want to test yourself against me, my lord," you teased, your voice low and enchanting. "If you think you have what it takes to claim me as your own... by all means, try."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your challenge, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He could feel the heat of your body against his, could smell the scent of your skin, sweet and intoxicating.

"You play a dangerous game, little witch," he purred, his hand tightening around your throat. "To challenge a dragon is to invite its wrath."

His other hand slid down your back, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. He could feel the heat of your body, could sense the power that coursed through your veins.

"But I like a woman with spirit," he murmured, his lips brushing against your ear. "It makes the eventual submission all the sweeter."

Daemon's hand slid up your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast through the thin fabric of your gown. He could feel your nipple harden beneath his touch, could see the way your body responded to his ministrations.

"I will have you, little witch," he growled, his voice low and seductive. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul. And when I am done with you, you will beg for more."

You roll your eyes at Daemon's sweet words, his attempts at seduction falling flat. He thinks he can have you with just a few pretty lies? How naive.

"You tempt me, my prince," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "But I'm no easy conquest. Besides, Alys will be back soon. I bet she won't be happy to see an old man taking advantage of her friend." You smirk cruelly, enjoying the way his eyes narrow at your words.

You try to pull away from him, but his grip on your throat tightens, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I could seriously hurt you, you know," you snarl, your eyes flashing with a dangerous light. "Don't underestimate me."

Daemon's eyes flashed with a dangerous light at your words, a low growl rumbling in his chest. In one swift motion, he slammed you against the wall, his body pinning you in place.

"Enough of your games, little witch," he snarled, his hand tightening around your throat. "You think you can toy with me, challenge me, and walk away unscathed?"

His free hand slid down your body, his fingers tearing at the fabric of your gown with a sharp, ripping sound. Buttons scattered across the floor as he bared your skin to his hungry gaze.

Shock and fury flash through you as Daemon rips open your dress, baring your breasts to his hungry gaze. You stare at him, completely still as a statue from utter disbelief, your breath coming in heavy gasps that make your breasts heave with each inhale.

"I will have you," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "I will claim you as my own, body and soul."

Daemon's hand slid down your body, his fingers tracing the curve of your breast, teasing your nipple into a hardened peak. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his touch.

"I can feel your desire, little witch," he purred, his lips brushing against your ear. "Your body betrays you, even as you try to resist. I will make you mine, in every way possible."

"W-wait," you try to say, but your voice comes out breathy and weak as his fingers roll your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body. Your eyes roll back and a soft moan escapes your parted lips.

What is happening? How did this get so out of control? You think to yourself, your mind spinning from the onslaught of sensation. You can't believe this is happening, that you are letting a man you barely know take such liberties with your body.

Daemon's lips curled into a wicked grin as he saw the effect his touch was having on you, your body arching into his hand like a cat in heat. He could feel the heat of your skin, the way your body trembled beneath his ministrations.

His hand slid down to your thigh, his fingers slipping beneath the hem of your ripped gown to caress the soft skin of your leg. He could feel the heat of your body.

"But first, I think I'll taste you," he growled, his hand sliding higher, higher until his fingers brushed against the slick, heated flesh of your core.

Even as you try to formulate a protest, your body betrays you, arching into his touch, craving more of the delicious pleasure he's igniting within you. No, I can't let this happen. I have to stop him.

But the words never leave your lips, lost in a moan as Daemon's hand slides lower, teasing you in places you have only touched in secret, in the dark of night. You are lost in a haze of sensation, your body responding to his touch despite your mind's protests.

"That's it, little witch," he purred, his fingers pinching and tugging at your nipple. "Give in to the pleasure. Let yourself feel the ecstasy only I can give you."

He could feel the wetness of your arousal, could smell the musky scent of your desire.

"You're already so wet for me," he growled, his fingers brushing against your slick folds. "Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind tries to deny it."

Daemon's fingers slid higher, teasing your entrance with a feather-light touch. Your walls clenched around his fingers, begging for more.

You couldn't think straight, your mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. It was wrong to crave a man you had just met, especially one who had threatened your life moments ago. But the way his fingers teased your most intimate places sent waves of pleasure through your body.

You had heard the other women of your coven speak of lovemaking, their descriptions painting it as a powerful form of magic. Perhaps you could harness this power, and use it to your advantage as Daemon desired to use you for his own pleasure.

Your hips rolled against his hand, seeking more friction. You bit your lip to stifle the moans that threatened to spill from your lips, determined to maintain some facade of control. But deep down, you knew you were in danger of losing yourself to the sensations he was eliciting.

Daemon's eyes glinted with triumph as he felt your hips roll against his hand, your body betraying your true desires. He could see the conflict in your eyes, the way you bit your lip to stifle your moans, and it only served to fuel his own dark lust.

"You can't hide from me, little witch," he growled, his fingers teasing your slick folds. "I can feel how much you want this, how much you crave my touch."

He pressed two fingers inside you, his thumb circling your clit with a maddening rhythm.

You let out a loud, uncontrollable moan as Daemon's fingers delved deep into your untouched walls, his touch igniting a fire within you. Your juices flowed freely, coating his hand as ecstasy consumed your entire being.

Your body writhed against the cold stone wall, your hips bucking shamelessly against his skilled fingers as he finger-fucked you with reckless abandon. Waves of pleasure crashed over you with each thrust, your breasts heaving as he groped and kneaded them roughly.

"Your body is mine now," Daemon snarled, plunging his fingers deeper into your slick heat. He curled them just right, stroking that sensitive spot within you that made your vision go white. "You'll scream my name until your throat is raw. You'll beg for my cock like a bitch in heat."

His other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place as he finger-fucked you with ruthless intensity. Your cries of pleasure echoed off the stone walls, mingling with the lewd squelching sounds of his fingers pounding into your drenched cunt.

"That's it, take it," Daemon growled, his lips latching onto a pert nipple. He sucked hard, grazing the bud with his teeth as his fingers ruthlessly stroked your g-spot. "Come for me, little witch. Let me feel you spasm on my fingers."

He could feel your walls fluttering around his digits, your body teetering on the brink of climax. With a final, brutal thrust, he sent you careening over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy filled the room as your pussy clenched down on his fingers, your release dripping down his fingers.

Daemon lapped at your neck, tasting the salt of your sweat. He continued pumping his fingers through your climax, prolonging your pleasure until you were boneless and mewling.

"Good girl," he purred, finally withdrawing his soaked fingers. He brought them to your lips, smearing your essence across them. "Clean them."

Your eyes fluttered open, glazed with post-orgasmic bliss. You hesitated only a moment before parting your lips, allowing him to push his fingers into your mouth. The musky taste of your arousal coated your tongue, and you couldn't help but moan around his digits.

He grins wickedly as you lap at his fingers provocatively, cleaning your essence from them. As his fingers are clean, he lowers himself to the floor, kneeling before you, as to worship you.

You gasp as Daemon sinks to his knees before you, his dark eyes fuming with raw desire. Your heart races, your pulse pounding in your ears as he settles between your trembling thighs. The heat of his breath on your most sensitive flesh sends electric shocks of pleasure straight to your core.

Dazed and off-balance, you instinctively reach out, fisting your hands in his hair for support. Your legs still feel like jelly from your earth-shattering climax moments before.

A bewildered expression crosses your face as he grins up at you, his tongue snaking out to drag along your dripping slit. You cry out, your head slamming back against the cold stone wall as ecstasy crashes over you in relentless waves.

"Mmmm, you taste divine," Daemon purrs, his hot breath fanning over your slick folds. He laps at your essence like a man starved, his tongue delving deep to drink from your most intimate well.

You can only moan brokenly, your head thrashing from side to side as he feasts upon your quivering flesh. His tongue is pure sin, licking and suckling at your clit with unholy skill.

"Good girl," he growls, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure through your core. "Ride my face. Grind that pretty cunt against my tongue."

Lost to the all-consuming pleasure, you do as he commands, rolling your hips shamelessly against his mouth. Your thighs clench around his head, trapping him in place as you fuck his face with feral ease.

His lips close around your clit, suckling the sensitive bud as he thrusts two fingers into your dripping channel. They curl just right, stroking that secret spot within you that makes you see stars.

"Fuck, you're so tight," Daemon groans, pumping his fingers in and out of your fluttering walls.

You can only whimper in response, your body tensing as another climax builds at the base of your spine. It coils tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment.

Daemon's tongue delved deep, lapping at your dripping essence with a hunger that bordered on feral. He groaned against your slick flesh, the vibrations sending shockwaves of pleasure racing through your body.

He focused his attention on your clit, the tip of his tongue flicking the sensitive bud with rapid, teasing strokes. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you like a man starved.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. The public nature of your coupling only served to heighten the forbidden thrill, the rush of being taken in a place where anyone could stumble upon you.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of your thighs as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. He could feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his probing tongue as he brought you to the brink of climax once more.

With one final, hard suck, he sent you spiralling over the edge. Your scream of ecstasy echoed off the stone walls as your pussy clenched around his tongue, your release gushing into his eager mouth.

Daemon lapped at your spasming cunt, prolonging your pleasure as he drank down every last drop of your sweet nectar. He continued his ministrations until your body went limp, your cries turning to whimpers as the waves of pleasure subsided.

Finally, he pulled back, his lips and chin glistening with your juices. He stood, a wicked grin on his face as he towered over your prone form.

"You taste divine, little witch," he purred, his hand sliding up your body to cup your breast. He pinched your nipple, rolling the hardened peak between his fingers. "I could feast on your cunt for hours and never grow tired."

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, "But I'm not nearly done with you yet..."

Lifting you up with ease, Daemon tosses you onto the creaky bed, your body bouncing on the worn mattress. You cry out in surprise, your heart pounding as you take in his towering form looming over you. His eyes burn with a hunger that gives you chills.

"Daemon, please," you plead, your voice trembling. Your core aches, still throbbing from the intense climaxes he's wrought from your untouched body. You are no experienced harlot, but an untouched maiden, and you fear you are not ready for the sheer size of him.

Daemon's large hands grip your ankles, spreading your legs wide as he settles between your thighs.

Daemon's eyes raked over your trembling form, taking in the sight of you spread out before him like a feast. His cock throbbed with need, straining against the confines of his breeches as he drank in the sight of your swollen, glistening folds.

His hands moved with urgent purpose, his fingers making quick work of the laces of his breeches. He shoved the garment down his legs, kicking it aside with a careless motion. His cock sprang free, the thick shaft jutting out proudly from a nest of dark curls.

He rubbed his cock against your slick entrance, teasing you with the promise of his hard length. You could feel it throbbing against your sensitive flesh, hot and hard and ready to claim you utterly.

"Please," you whimpered, your body trembling with need. "I... I've never... I don't know if I can take you."

A cruel smile twisted Daemon's lips as he heard your plea.

"Please be gentle," you whisper, looking up at him with wide, vulnerable eyes.

Daemon's expression softens for a moment, a flicker of something akin to tenderness crossing his features. His hand reaches up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip.

"Shh, little witch," he murmurs, his voice surprisingly mild. "I'll make it good for you. I promise."

With that, he leans down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. His tongue delves into your mouth, claiming you, staking his claim over you.

As he kisses you deeply, you feel the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. Slowly, incredibly slowly, he begins to push forward, stretching you open around his thick girth.

A sharp gasp escapes you, breaking the kiss as he breaches your barrier. Pain and pleasure mingle together, your untouched walls struggling to accommodate his size.

"Fuck, you're tight," he groans, his hips grinding against yours. He gives you a moment to adjust, his hands roaming your body possessively. "Such a perfect little cunt, made just for me."

He starts to move, pulling out slowly before slamming back in. The rhythm is brutal, each thrust hitting that spot deep inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyelids.

You cried out, your back arching off the bed as pain and pleasure crashed over you in equal measure. He stretched you wide, his thick length filling you in a way you never thought possible. Your walls stretched and clenched around him, your slick arousal easing the way as he claimed you over and over again.

"Fuck!" Daemon snarls, his eyes rolling back at the tight, wet heat of your virgin walls.

Daemon sets a brutal pace, pounding into you with animalistic hunger. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, holding you in place as he ruts into your willing body.

"Take it," he growls, his voice strained with pleasure, his hips snapping against yours with ruthless force.

The bed creaked beneath you, the sound mingling with your moans and his grunts as he took you, his cock sawing in and out of your dripping cunt. Your legs wrapped around his waist, your nails raking down his back, leaving red marks and bloody imprints.

Daemon's brutal thrusts tore through you, each one sending shockwaves of pain and pleasure coursing through your body. You screamed, your voice hoarse and ragged as he pounded into your virgin cunt. Tears streamed down your face, your nails raking down his back as you clung to him desperately.

He had taken something sacred from you, your maidenhead, and you knew your souls were now tied. The ritual of first blood, unplanned as it was, had sealed your fates together. And with a dragon as your first, the power you could now wield...

You threw your head back, your moans echoing off the stone walls as he fucked you with complete disregard. Your hips bucked to meet his thrusts, the pain giving way to a pleasure you had never known before. You were lost to the sensation, your body consumed by the feel of him inside you.

Daemon's eyes darkened at the sight of your tears, a predatory grin spreading across his face. He could feel your walls clenching around him, gripping his cock like a vice as he claimed you over and over again.

He angled his hips, hitting that sweet spot deep inside you with each brutal thrust. His hands roamed your body, groping and squeezing, leaving bruises in their wake.

"That's it," he growled, his voice rough with pleasure. "Take my cock like the little slut you are. Fucking mine now, aren't you? Your cunt belongs to me."

You met his thrusts with your own, your hips rising to meet him as he drove into you over and over again. The bed groaned beneath you, the frame creaking threateningly as he took you with unrestrained lust.

You felt your peak nearing, your entire body on fire as Daemon pounded into you with unrestrained fury. You brought his neck to your teeth, biting down hard enough to draw a few drops of blood. The copper taste flooded your mouth, bitter and metallic as you licked the crimson liquid from your lips.

"Now you have bled for me too," you whispered ominously, your voice thick with lust and dark magic.

But before you could reach your peak, you quickly reached for your enchanted necklace, clutching it in your hand. The ancient magics within pulsed to life, amplifying the power of this ritual tenfold.

Power surged through you, your cunt squeezing tight around Daemon's cock as you came. Your eyes rolled back, your body convulsing as wave after wave of ecstasy crashed over you. Dark energy swirled around you, the air crackling with stifled energy.

"Mine," you whispered, your voice echoing with unexpected dominance. "You are mine now, Daemon Targaryen. Entwined by blood and pleasure."

Daemon's eyes flew open in surprise, his mouth falling open as he felt the surge of dark witchcraft. But it was too late - the ritual was complete.

Daemon froze, his cock buried deep inside your still-spasming cunt. He stared down at you, his eyes wide with shock and a hint of fear.

He groaned, his hips stuttering as your cunt clenched around him like a vice. The dark magic amplified every sensation, every touch, every thrust. It was overwhelming and intoxicating, and he never wanted it to end.

"Fuck," he gasped, his voice strained with anger and pleasure. "What did you do?"

But even as he asked, he knew. You had bound him to you, claimed him in a way that went beyond the physical.

He thrust into you one last time, his cock erupting deep inside you as he came.

He tried to pull out, to break the connection, but your walls clenched around him, refusing to let him go. Panic flashed across his face as he realized the implications of what you'd done.

"You... you she-devil," he snarled, his hands tightening on your hips. "Did you plan this? To trick me, to bind me to you?"

You just grinned, a vicious, seductive curve of your lips. You could feel his fear, his anger, but beneath it all was a flicker of arousal. The power you now held over him was intoxicating.

"Shh," you cooed, your fingers trailing down his chest. "Don't fight it. We are one now."

You roll your hips, your walls clenching around his softening cock. He groans, his hips bucking unconsciously into yours.

You gasped as the obsidian stone of your necklace pulsed warmly against your throat. The maleficent force surged through your veins, your eyes rolling back in ecstasy. "Yes!" You cried out, the power exhilarating in your veins.

Your eyes, nearly black now, held his gaze as you sneered cruelly.

Daemon collapsed on top of you, his chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. His softening cock slipped from your abused cunt, a trickle of his seed leaking out to pool on the tattered sheets beneath you.

For a moment, neither of you moved, your bodies still intertwined as you both tried to process what had just happened. The energy that had swirled around you during your climax still lingered in the air, making the hairs on Daemon's arms stand on end.

Slowly, he lifted his head, his dark eyes searching your face. He looked confused as he took in your triumphant grin and the blackness of your eyes.

"What... what did you do to me?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

You smiled at him, your eyes gleaming with malice. "I didn't do anything to you. I had no desire to harm you, as I stated before," you answered truthfully. "Did you know that the moment when one reaches orgasm is the most intense and the most powerful experience a human can have in life? For in that moment, the soul suddenly opens to the divine realm and the breath of God is infused. I needed another to reach divinity."

You rose from the bed, slipping your ripped dress back on and throwing a cloak over yourself. "I simply used you... as you have done to many women in your life, I'm sure. Do not fret, my prince," you smirked.

Daemon stared up at you, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and a hint of grudging admiration. He pushed himself up to sit, his naked body on full display as he tried to make sense of what had just happened.

"Used me?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "I've never been used like this before."

He stood, his cock already starting to harden again at the sight of you, despite his anger. He took a step towards you, his hand reaching out as if to grab you, but he stopped himself.

"What are you?" he demanded, his eyes raking over your form. "What kind of witch are you?"

He snatched up his discarded breeches, roughly pulling them on, his mind reeling from the events of the past hour.

"I should kill you for this," he growled, but there was no real heat behind his words. He knew he couldn't, not now. Not with the bond between you, however unexpected it may be.

"What do you want from me now?" He asked, rage clearly visible in his eyes.

You sauntered over to Daemon, your hips swaying seductively. The rip in your dress left little to the imagination, your full breasts on display for his hungry gaze. You could see the desire warring with the anger in his eyes as you approached.

"Nothing anymore, my prince," you purred, your voice like honey. "My powers have been amplified. I owe you a debt of gratitude for that."

You traced a finger along his jawline, feeling the prickle of his stubble. "Though I wouldn't mind having you take me again. I doubt I'll find another man as virile as you in all of Westeros."

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "You've awakened something in me, Daemon Targaryen. A hunger I never knew I could satisfy."

Your hand slid down his chest, your nails raking lightly over his skin. "I am yours. And I suspect you are mine as well."

You pulled back, your eyes locking with his. "What say you, my dragon?"

Daemon's breath hitched as you touched him, his body responding instantly to your proximity despite his anger. He grabbed your wrist, his grip tight enough to bruise as he glared down at you.

He pulled you closer, his other hand gripping your hip. "You want to be taken again?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. "I'll fucking ruin you."

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maria-from-ga · 1 year ago

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I can't believe Teen Titans is officially 20 years old today. My favorite animated show and one of the best imo. It got me through a lot of shit & means the world to me

Starfire- the Heart

My favorite character on Teen Titans, and still my favorite hero.

A joyful person who loved the world around despite its cruelty. An immigrant who loved her culture yet always struggled w/ her sense of place and being an outsider like me. Her journey becoming more sure of herself & her place & an advocate for other outsiders like Red Star is beautiful one.

Cyborg- The Lynchpin

A extroverted, disabled black hero who had a deep internal struggle to accept that his disability doesn't contradict, but strengthens his humanity

His main arc on what it means to be a 'man' - that he doesn’t have to prove anything to anyone but instead be sure of himself. As a black hero, his defiance being rewarded, not shamed, resulting in victory in the end is still one of my favorites TT03 arcs

Raven- The Inspiration

When I was younger, I was embarrassed to admit how much I was like Raven bc I hated feeling like a closed-off outcast.

But now understanding Raven as a closed-off person who hid her emotions in spite of how she cared (which was the most out of anyone) to protect everyone. Who constantly fought for good despite being deemed a curse bc she hoped for better- Raven is an inspiration

Her journey to accept her emotions & forge her own destiny and not give into despair is one of the best arcs in all animation

Beast Boy, the Wild Card

To be honest, I despise his immaturity when I was younger.

Now I know he was just a kid trying to be happy despite his hardships (like terrible parentals & Terra).

His season of growing up, learning to let go, and building a team of underrated/inexperienced heroes like himself to defeat Brotherhood of Evil against all odds when all hope was lost was peak

Robin- the Leader

Finally, the Boy Wonder, what else is there to say?

A character so flawed, struggling w/ anger, darkness, and obsessiveness, but will go to war for his friends, & sacrifice all for those he loved.

Learning to let people in and that he can be more than hero. Best Robin adaptation we have seen.

Not just the core 5, but the entire Titans family was amazing. Characters who left an impact despite limited screentime. Más y Menos, Thunder and Lightning, Titans East, Speedy, Hotspot, Kole, and too many to name. With the best Bumblebee we have ever had in any media.

Thank you so much to Glen Murakami, David Slack, Amy Wolfram, Sam Register, Derrick Wyatt (RIP), Scott Menville, Hynden Walch, Khary Payton, Tara Strong, Greg Cipes, and so many countless others in the cast & crew for giving this to me and so many others.

Forever grateful for the Titans' stories & memories & for Robin, Cyborg, Starfire, Raven, and Beast Boy

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whosafraidoflittleoldme17 · 2 months ago

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Scott Lang (MCU)

Thalia Grace (PJO/HOO/TOA)

Scott Summers (X-Men)

Katniss Everdeen (THG)

Eddie Munson (Stranger Things)

Mindy Meeks-Martin (Scream)

Glen Stubbins (OMITB)

Trevor Spengler (Ghostbusters)

Ronan Lynch (TRC)

Nikolai Lantsov (Shadow and Bone)

Yes I put 2 Paul Rudd Characters deal with It and idk who to tag so if you see this

➺ 𝒓𝓾𝓵𝓮𝓼: list your ten favorite characters from ten separate fandoms, then tag ten people!

tagged by the amazing @ranbling

i can’t remember half the fandoms im in now lmao

worst wolverine (dp&w coz i think its evolved into its own thing - i wanna tie him with deadpool 😭)

john munch (law and order: svu)

ninth doctor (doctor who)

evan buckley (911)

jason todd (dc)

fennec shand (book of boba fett/star wars)

spider-man (marvel)

steve harrington (stranger things)

sherlock (sherlock bbc)

dean winchester (spn)

@puzzled-on-main @making-this-my-main @theseusoffline @the-biggest-dick-in-the-world @jason-peter-todd-harper @lordhavemercyyyyy @mailmango @queermentaldisaster @wo-verine @sugashook @cleaverqueer

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daisystwistedgarden · 4 months ago

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a/n: watched sleeping beauty for the first time today and had this idea

you've met him before.

you can feel it coming-- only once, the first time, had you ever been caught off guard. you always find yourself in the same forest clearing. the small chitters of animals accompany the gently sway of the trees. the sky is sunny, but you can never quite see the sun from where you stand. wandering too far into the hazy gray ether on the edge of the open glade led your feet back to the same spot where you found yourself originally.

the birds sing their song. you, too, find yourself humming along. the words are foreign to your mind, but not your tongue, as you utter a tune too familiar to be unknown entirely.

i know you, i walked with you once upon a dream...

you tend to busy yourself with whatever seems most enticing. boredom seldom finds you here, regardless of how many times you open your eyes to find the same tree line sprawled out before you. the animals here do not seem to fear you as they would in the world you know-- instead, they weave between your steps and follow your movements with a grace too easy to be natural. fear seldom finds you here, either.

i know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam...

your voice continues to carry through the trees, no matter how quiet you find your words. neither do they seem to waver when you realize you're not truly alone.

yet I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem...

most days, he joins you in ways that keep him hidden from your sight. a deep baritone voice melds with yours as you recite lyrics you can't quite predict-- a figure's shadow lingers just foggy edge of the glen. vivid green eyes peer from between the leaves of a nearby treetop while you crouch to pluck ripe berries fresh from the bush. you're always careful to watch for the thorns you can't see. on the days you find yourself swept up in some invisible music, captured in an aimless waltz, you feel a presence behind you guiding you through the steps with a poise ingrained in each blade of grass, each pleasant breeze and each leaf clinging to every branch.

the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. the strange baritone is closer now. smooth. too smooth. an icy cold blooms across the side of your neck, glacial in the same way the palms of your hands begin to stiffen from an unfamiliar drop in temperature. you turn to look behind you and catch a glint of silky raven hair and a sallow, sickly flash of skin fading into something dark and tall reaching towards the sky.

you awaken out of breath, heart pounding as you stare into the darkness. your bedsheets feel cold, almost untouched, around your body. the fan in the corner hums its same tune night after night. everything is as it should be.

from the window, you spot a pair of glowing green eyes. swirling, vivid, hypnotizing you to rise from the safety of your bed and march towards the unknown. yet... it's not quite unfamiliar, is it? no, you know those eyes. you've seen them before.

once upon a dream.

#disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twst imagines #malleus draconia #twst malleus #twst malleus x reader #malleus draconia x reader

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ivys-garden · 1 year ago

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My head cannon endings for all the Hilda cast post finale (Spoilers for season 3)

Astrid

She remains in her home, never moving away. However she makes sure to visit Hilda often, which has become easier now that she's learned to fly again. She also doesn't get to lonely as she invites the Pooka to like with her and helps him practice shape shifting. When she dies she is buried where the fairy mound once was to be closer to her family.

Raven

He travels the world but always returns to Trollburg, on cold winter nights he joins Hilda and her family for tea and games, maybe the yule lads join in too. On his travels he spreads the story on Hilda far and wide even long after she's gone.

Tryla & Baba

They remain at the mountain most days but do ecompany Hilda on adventures during her weekly visit. They still live there long after everyone else is gone, telling tales of Hilda to the next hundreds of generations of trolls.

Anders

He continues living in Trollburg, working on wall and city maintenance with the bellkeeper. He never gets back together with Johana but he does try and be a better dad to Hilda, including taking her on that camping trip.

Johana

Begins selling her paintings to people, she also starts painting things from her and Hilda's adventures, including the Fae Ilse, which she still thinks about often. When she dies Hilda burries her at the fairy mound with Auntie Astrid, but she keeps a lock of her hair in a locket. One day, in the far future when Hilda has finally moved on she hangs that locket at the remains of the cabin.

Tontu

Just keeps doing what he does mostly. Going on adventures with Hilda occasionally but mostly keeping to himself. He remains in the house for a long time, even after Hilda had died.

Alfur

Keeps writing reports for the northern counties but he also begins working with Gerda and the safety patrol, his days are busy but that's how he likes them. When he dies, if elfs even do, he would be given a funeral pyre by the lost clan and Hilda returns to the northern counties to scatter his ashes.

Louise

Would go on many more adventures with the trio and would start to develop a crush on David, one that David would reciprocate. She would eventually become a wildlife photographer.

David

Started researching entomology and now runs an insect focused wildlife centre near the sparrow scout building, enjoying a more peaceful and quiet life than most of his friends. He also assists the linworm in a construction of a new garden on sparrow scout property, sometimes the two of them and Louise have tea together. He was the first to die out of the four and was buried in Trollburgs graveyard, later Louise would be buried with him when she died.

Frida

Finished her training and became a fully fledged witch. She would take over running the Trollburg library from Kaisa after Kaisa was appointed to the witch council. When they were teenagers she and Hilda started dating but they never decided to get married.

Hilda

She still goes on adventures in her teenage years, it wouldn't be Hilda if she didn't. She and Johanna also practised flying with their fae magic. She always makes sure to keep in touch with Astrid and Victoria. She continues to paint and make music and becomes a freelance artist like her mum. Twig also grows big enough to ride when he gets older. She lived in her apartment in Trollburg until her death. She and Frida were buried together at the overgrown remains of the cabin

Woodman

He's still there, deep in the woods. even after everyone else has long since died, perhaps he tells the tales of a mysterious blue haired friend to spirits to the passersby.

Or perhaps he would tell you that if you walk deep enough into the woods, you could find an old forest glen where a cabin once was, and you can speak to her spirit yourself

#hilda the show #hilda the series #hilda netflix #hilda #hilda david #hilda frida #hilda johanna #hilda alfur #hilda twig #hilda tontu #hilda anders #hilda astrid #hilda louise #frilda #louivid

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chicinsilk · 2 years ago

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US Vogue 1, January 1957

Patsy Pulitzer wears the copy of a Chanel suit by Davidow in navy blue and white tweed in British wool over a jersey blouse, Deitsch bag. Leather gloves by Superb. Bally calf leather shoes. Stockings Glen Raven "Bisque". Hairdressing online, no matter what - kept that way by Breck Hair Set Mist.

Patsy Pulitzer porte la copie d'un tailleur Chanel par Davidow en tweed bleu marine et blanc en laine britannique sur un chemisier en jersey, sac Deitsch. Gants en cuir par Superb. Chaussures en cuir de veau Bally. Bas Glen Raven "Bisque". Coiffure en ligne, quoi qu'il advienne - maintenu ainsi par Breck Hair Set Mist.

Photo Frances McLaughlin

vogue archive

#us vogue #january 1957 #fashion 50s #1957 #chanel suit #tailleur chanel #davidow #chanel copy #copie chanel #tweed suit #tailleur en tweed #deitsch #superb #glen raven #patsy pulitzer #frances mclaughlin gill

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docgold13 · 8 months ago

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Heroes & Villains The DC Animated Universe - Paper Cut-Out Portraits and Profiles

Elseworlds Addendum - The Teen Titans!

When there’s trouble you know who to call? The Teen Titans, of course!

Robin was joined by Raven, Starfire, Cyborg and Beast Boy for an always-fun animated series that ran adjacent to the DCAU in a similar yet separate continuity. Great stories, a neat anime-influenced style and the catchiest of theme-songs this side of ‘Sanford and Son,’ Teen Titans was just a fantastic series.

Although it stood fine on its own, there were plenty of fans (this author included) who would have loved to have seen a Justice League/Titans cross-over. Sadly it was not to be, yet it is still fun to image what it might have been like.

The show premiered on Cartoon Network on July 19th, 2003 and ran for five seasons with a animated feature movie, ‘Teen Titans: Trouble in Tokyo.’ Created by Glen Murakami, Teen Titans’ voice cast was composed of Scott Menville, Hynden Walch, Tara Strong, Khary Payton and Greg Cipes.

#Teen Titans #DCAU #Raven #Starfire #Cyborg #Beast Boy #cut-outs #paper art

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modern-inheritance · 2 months ago

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Glen: I think he missed you.

Blagden: Such lack of wit is hard to miss, though fond of the arguments such as this.

Arya: You’re just here because I’m the only one who knows where the dried meat stash is, you twat.

Blagden: Shame on your own biology.

Arya: Did you just call me a pus–

#eragon #inheritance cycle #the cyclists #modern inheritance #the inheritance cycle #ket's modern inheritance cycle #the world of eragon #arya #arya drottningu #trauma twins #Glen #glenwing #blagden the raven #Blagden #blagden is a lil shit and we love him #modern inheritance stories

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planet-mabel · 5 months ago

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junior storm-chaser - tyler owens

an: i just watched twisters in theaters and it made me want to change my major to meteorology... hello I love glen powell

THIS IS MY FIRST FIC IM POSTING my teeth are chattering my knees are knocking I'm scared bro anywayssss hope you enjoy reading!!! this is a lot longer that I thought it would be LOL :')

summary: meeting tyler owens in a bar and taking a ride in his truck to see a tornado! light flirting, a bit of language. lmk if y'all want more, i'd be happy to :)

wc: 1.7k

what i was listening to:

I pull my car into the dusty parking lot of the nearest building with a public restroom, relief flooding through me as I finally come to a stop. Stepping out of the truck, I stretch my tired back and reach for my phone to figure out my current location.

Muttering to myself, I realize I'm in Oklahoma and start making my way toward the entrance. The sign reads 'Smokey's Bar & Grill,' and after pushing through the front door, I quickly scan the room for the restroom sign. Spotting a family bathroom with a functional lock, I silently thank my lucky stars and hurry inside to take care of business. I take a moment to collect myself, surveying my appearance in the mirror as I clean up. My clothes are rumpled, and my baby hairs cling to my forehead in the August humidity. I contemplate the reason I took this trucking job — the desire to travel more — but find myself stuck in remote towns in the middle of nowhere. After drying my hands, I exit the bathroom and move through the restaurant with purpose, but a sudden thirst leads me to the bar.

Sitting down, I order a Coke and take in the near-empty bar, finding comfort in its slightly worn appearance. I exchange a five-dollar bill with the bartender, who slides me my drink, and take a sip while glancing at the football game playing on the TV above the bar. Suddenly, a voice startles me from behind.

"You a Ravens fan?" The unexpected question comes from a tall, tan, and built man standing before me, a cowboy hat perched on his head. I find myself momentarily lost as I take in his presence and then shake his hand as he introduces himself as Tyler Owens.

"I'm Y/N," I reply, the mild amusement evident in my voice. "I don't know much about football, just killing time." I offer a soft chuckle before turning my attention back to the TV for a moment. He smiles softly and speaks again.

"Are you from around here?" he asks in a deep, husky voice. I shake my head and turn my attention back to him as he takes a seat next to me at the bar.

"No, I'm just visiting," I reply. He raises his eyebrows at my response.

"Where are you from? Anywhere's got to be better than here." He chuckles and gestures toward the vast, desolate landscape visible through the window.

"I know. I ended up here because I took a trucking job. I only took it because I thought it would take me to some interesting places, but here I am, in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere." I shrug as I see him chuckle softly.

"You got that right," he replies.

"Hey, what do you do for work?" I asked, thinking he seemed harmless and wanting a break from driving.

"I'm a storm chaser," he replied seriously. I struggled to suppress a laugh.

"Really?" I said, trying not to sound amused. "That's your job?" It was hard not to find the situation entertaining, but I did my best to keep a straight face.

"Yes, is that funny to you, Y/N?" he chuckled, clearly enjoying the conversation.

"I just... do you actually make money from that?" I asked, intrigued.

"I stream it on YouTube and make quite a bit," he said, shrugging confidently. I raised my hands in surrender.

"Okay then, that's great," I chuckled softly, taking a sip of my drink and feeling captivated. "Was that flashy red truck parked outside yours?"

"Sure thing," he confirmed, tipping his hat and smiling gently as he looked out the window. "It's getting a bit cloudy now, want to go for a drive?" I glanced out the window and noticed the swirling clouds in the distance. I chewed on my lip as I pondered the idea.

“I mean, I really should be heading out.” I looked back at him, trying to gauge his reaction as I continued to bite my lower lip. He feigned offense when he shifted his gaze from the window to my face, scoffing and placing a hand over his heart.

"Come on, Y/N, I thought we were having a good time." He chuckled and stood up from his seat, heading towards the door. “Do as you wish!” he called back to me, twirling the keys to his truck on his index finger. I watched him leave with a smirk, thinking of all the potential mishaps. There was a plethora of them, but I decided to get up from my spot at the bar and jog up to him.

“Not so quick, Mr. Owens. I’m coming with you.” I caught up to him outside and he opened the passenger door of his truck for me.

“M’lady.” He tipped his hat to me and gestured towards the car as he held the door. I gave him a mock curtsey and climbed into his truck.

As he settled into the driver's seat of the truck, he reached for his seatbelt and fastened it securely, then touched the weather tracker screen on the dashboard. I noticed him concentrating intently, and a playful smile crossed his face when he caught me observing him.

"Seatbelt," he said, gesturing towards the clip on my seat. I blinked, momentarily entranced by his movements, before quickly reaching for my own seatbelt.

"Right, sorry," I replied. He chuckled and the car roared to life as he backed out of the dirt parking lot. He pulls onto the road and glances at the storm tracker. He follows the GPS to the red area on the weather map.

As we drove, Tyler asked me, "You ever done this before?" I shook my head in response.

"No, nothing of the sort," I replied. I gazed out the windshield and noticed how the clouds outside began to swirl and form a cone on the road ahead of us. At that moment, I remembered all the headlines I'd read about tornadoes in Oklahoma.

"Holy shit, are we going into a tornado? Is that what you meant by 'storm chasing'?" I asked, my eyes fixed on the spiraling clouds in our path.

He chuckled softly and said, "Watch your language! We're not going inside the tornado, at least not right now. We're just going to check it out." He glanced back at the dashboard to check the tracker. "It doesn't look like there's any civilization in its path... so we can just have fun with this one." With a smirk, he revved up the car. I clutched my seatbelt as he drove us further into the tornado’s path.

"Do you do this often?" I asked, starting to feel anxious. He glanced at me, picking up on my concern, and gave my thigh a reassuring pat.

"Every day, it's literally my job," he said, trying to ease my worries. "You're in good hands, Y/N." He squeezed my thigh before returning his attention to the road ahead. I nod, still not convinced as we speed towards the roaring clouds.

He brings the car to a sudden stop once we're within range and steps out. Hustling around to the passenger side, he opens the door and extends a helping hand to assist me out. Taking his hand, I step out of the car and gaze in awe at the tornado just a few miles ahead. It's a small tornado, but there's something about it that captivates me, freezing me in place. I'm so engrossed that I barely notice his large hand gently resting on the small of my back, steadying me against the swirling winds as we watch the tornado.

The tornado dissipates quickly, eventually disappearing into nothingness. "How does that happen? How does it just stop like that?" I inquire as we return to his red pick-up.

"There are a few different explanations," he responds as he starts the car. "I reckon this one might have faded out due to a downdraft. There must have been a change in the atmosphere that altered the conditions, causing it to lose its strength." I nod quietly as I fasten my seatbelt.

"Do you usually do this on your own?" he shook his head, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"No, I'm not that tough," he chuckled softly. "I'm flattered though. I've got a crew that comes with me and films my stuff. They help me track and plan." As we started down the road back to the bar where my car was parked, I nodded in understanding.

"Oh, yeah. Makes sense," I replied, stealing a glance at him and taking in his rugged features. He caught me staring as we pulled into the dusty parking lot.

"See something you like, Y/N?" he chuckled softly as he put the car in park, and I rolled my eyes playfully.

"Oh, please," I giggled softly as I unbuckled my seatbelt and placed a hand on the door.

"No, no, no, I'll get that." With a gentle smile, he walked around the car to my side and opened the door for me, gesturing for me to step out. I chuckled softly as I landed with a thud from the tall bed of the truck.

"Thank you," I said, giving him an appreciative nod.

"Anytime," he replied, flashing a warm smile as he slammed the truck door shut. "Look at you," he gestured towards me, "You're a junior storm-chaser. You're a natural." I grinned up at him, playing along.

"I sure am," I replied, meeting his gaze before reaching into my pocket to grab my car keys.

"Well..." he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a piece of paper and a pen. After scribbling something down, he handed it to me. "Call me if you ever want to see another twister." I looked down at the paper and saw what appeared to be his phone number scrawled on the scrap.

"Will do," I said softly, stuffing the paper into the pocket of my jeans and unlocking the car with a 'beep.' "See ya, Owens." With that, I strolled back to my truck, climbed into the driver's seat, and started the car. Tyler gave me a salute as I pulled out of the parking lot. I responded with a nod before driving away, smiling to myself as I drove down the road.

#twisters #twisters 2024 #tyler owens #twisters fanfic #tyler owens x reader #glen powell #Spotify

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