#heir to the horde

[thasdorah]

sometimes i think about how anduin not being king should realistically put the void elves in a... difficult position. it's not like alleria has ties to any other alliance leaders, and some of the most significant (like jaina) actively dislike and distrust her in a way that would 100% extend to the ren'dorei. anduin gave them a place in stormwind, but anduin is not around anymore. kinda feels like the clock should be ticking for someone to want to kick them out.

[peachdues]

THE WIND AND MOON

PROLOGUE ♢ SANEMI SHINAZUGAWA X LUNAR PILLAR!READER

A/N: oh boy! The fic that started it all is back in progress (with a slight title change).

This will be a slightly canon-divergent AU, wherein Lunar Breathing is inherited and there's actually some power involved with the breathing techniques as a whole (as opposed to the styles just being nice sword movements with illustrations lmao).

Reader will be Sanemi's tsuguko for a time, and she will eventually become a Hashira. This is their story.

This will be a multi-part fic. Be warned: the Reader is a very morally gray character (but we love her for it).

@ghost-1-y thank you for reminding me of my love for this fic.

Massive CW: 18+, canon-typical violence, graphic violence, gore, child death, and implied S/A. Smut to come. MDNI.

Sanemi was there that day; the day she became part of the Corps.

The day her world ended.

It was fucking freezing that morning. The sky was a muted gray as snow drifted down from the heavens in wet, fat clumps. It had started sometime the previous night, and by the morning, the village had been covered in its thick blanket.

The carnage, however, was fresh, and so the snow was not white.

Only an hour had passed since the watery gray light of dawn bled into the sky from the east, when Sanemi’s crow swooped low over his head, tugging frantically at his hair. Beside him, the Flame Pillar ducked as his own crow joined the panic.

“Northeast! Northeast! Right at the base of the mountain! A horde of demons attacked the village!” They cried in tandem.

Not just one. A horde. A swarm of demons had descended upon a moderately populated merchant village, tearing it and its people to shreds. 

Both the Wind and Flame Pillars furiously made their way northeast, one of the crows bleating that Tengen and Iguro were also en route. As they ran, the birds alternated in snaring what little information they had of the village, and what had prompted the attack. 

It was because of her; or rather, her family.

The head of the village was a merchant known for his imports from the West. His success meant the village prospered as a whole, and it was popular for its numerous small shops and tea houses which lined the streets, always crowded with locals and travelers alike. 

Demons had no use for money or exotic baubles; but Muzan Kibutsuji had a keen interest in obliterating Lunar Breathing from the world.

So he had. 

The very merchant whose business prowess bolstered the local economy with his imports was directly descended from the clan which had created Lunar Breathing, Breath of Sun’s powerful, dark twin. The merchant was the youngest and only living relative of the aging head of the Lunar Clan, a retired Hashira who’d never taken a wife. But unlike the other breathing techniques, Lunar Breathing was an inherited talent, and without an heir, there would be no one to continue the great family’s legacy. 

That burden was thus placed on the surviving eldest child of the merchant whose village both Sanemi and his comrade now rushed to.

There had been an elder son, Rengoku’s crow revealed, but he had died a few years prior from illness. And so, the merchant’s middle child was made the new heir, tasked with the mission of becoming a demon slayer so that she could continue on the Lunar Breathing tradition. 

Her.

There was no word as to whether she had been present for the attack. Final Selection ended only a few days prior, and it was entirely possible that she either had been killed on the Mountain, or that she was still making her way back to the village, unaware that no one would be there to welcome her home.

There was certainly no greeting for the Pillars when they finally arrived at the mountain’s base. The village was eerily silent as Sanemi and Rengoku crossed over the small bridge abutting its ravine; still. Dawn had given way to a dark gray sky, and visibility was not ideal.

Not that it would’ve taken much effort to see the blood and gore that littered the village’s once lively streets.

“What on earth?” The Sound Pillar’s familiar voice broke the silence, as he and Iguro approached their comrades from the Eastern gate of the village. Behind them, trailed a group of nearly thirty Kakushi. 

The Hashira slowly took in the nightmare around them, stunned into horrified silence as they beheld the level of destruction which had befallen the village just hours before.

“Kakushi. Spread out. Look for any survivors. They may be buried or hiding.” Rengoku’s voice was steady but uncharacteristically grave, his face stony and hard. “Shinuzagawa, we should make our way to the Lunar Merchant’s estate. We need to send word to the Clan head right away if-“

“You didn’t hear?” Iguro interjected. “The head of the Lunar House is dead.” Though the lower half of his face was covered, the anguish on the Serpent Pillar’s face was evident. “That’s where Uzui and I just came from. He was ripped to shreds.”

“Fuck,” Sanemi hissed, a toxic mixture of anger, guilt  roiling in his gut. An entire clan — and entire village— had been decimated in a matter of hours, and no one had been able to protect them.

They hadn’t been able to protect them. 

“Have we any word on the Lunar heir?” Rengoku asked quietly. Iguro and Uzui shook their heads. “Then she likely is lost, too.” The Flame Pillar turned back to Sanemi, his face a mirror of his own. “Let’s go.”

The snow and wind picked up just as the two swordsmen approached the Lunar Merchant’s manor, obscuring part of the wreckage before them. From the corner of his eye, Sanemi swore he spied movement out of the back corner of the estate, but when he turned to examine it, all was still.

Beflre he could inquire further, a sharp gasp to his right snapped his attention back to the Pillar at his side. But Rengoku was not looking at him; rather, he was staring directly ahead, right to the courtyard of the manor.

“Heavens above,” the Flame Hashira whispered. 

Sanemi followed his gaze through what had been once-proud iron gates, though only half of it remained hinged. The other had been ripped from its stone setting, twisted by some unfathomable strength and thrown carelessly to the side. Just past the gate, Sanemi beheld a single, bloodied arm. 

His heart dropped sickeningly to his stomach at what lay beyond it; for there was not an inch of ground that hadn’t been saturated with blood and bits of gore.  

Chunks of flesh and torn limbs bearing harsh jagged teeth marks were strewn across the snowy garden. Broken glass and wood from the manor littered the ground, and the few walls that remained standing had been showered in a thick coat of crimson.

But the carnage did not end with the massacre on the courtyard. Sanemi forced himself to look upon the half-severed bodies of those who’d been stuck to the sloped roofing  of the Manor, as though some demon had plucked fleeing humans from the yard to feast on them mid-air, adorning the handsome estate with a shower of bloodied entrails. 

He did not notice the small group of Kakushi that had arrived at the Manor until he heard their gasps and cries of horror. Behind him, Sanemi heard one or two begin to retch, unable to stomach the carnage before them.

“Move!” Sanemi barked, his voice scratchy over the lump forming in his throat. “Fucking look for survivors! Anyone!”

A few paces ahead, Rengoku called up to the crows checking above. “Do you have a description of the heir?”

“She is around eighteen, Lord Rengoku!”

Not helpful, given that most of the bodies around them were unrecognizable. But it was something. 

Rengoku turned back to Sanemi. “I will check inside the house. You!” Rengoku called to a small group of three Kakushi nearby, “With me!”

Sanemi continued to make his way through the debris and body parts in the courtyard, lifting stone and wood in hope that he might find someone — anyone — who had managed to hide. Yet that hope dimmed with every stone he turned, as he found only the scraps of the people who’d once called the Manor home.

He came across a large chunk of curved, chiseled stone that was half-embedded into the soft ground below. Grunting, Sanemi heaved the rock aside, thinking it was perhaps part of some fountain or statue.

His stomach lurched as the stone toppled heavily over. For there, crushed beneath the weight of the rock, was the small body of a child, severed completely at the torso. Her two halves lay next to one another, a ragged seam torn between the two as though pulled apart by force.

Sanemi felt the bile rise in his throat as his gaze fell upon the child’s face, utterly frozen in fear. Though death had snuffed out the light of life from her eyes, it had done nothing to conceal the terror she’d felt in her last moments, the girl’s mouth stretched wide, fixed in her final scream. 

She was no older than ten. 

He could not help it. Sanemi turned away from the grisly sight and vomited into the snow, every inch of him trembling. He wretched until his stomach was empty and his throat burned from the acid and strain of his dry-heaving. 

With great effort, he managed to straighten, his breath short and choppy. But he forced his legs to carry him forward, though any hope that they would find the Lunar Heir or any survivor grew dimmer by the second.

Even as Hashira, Sanemi knew he’d never seen wreckage quite like this.

He neared the center of the courtyard, and halted before a large, circular stone inset that had been smashed to gravel, leaving only a single, large piece of rounded stone wall standing.

Found the fountain, Sanemi thought bitterly. Another sharp, icy gust of wind whipped its way through the courtyard, disturbing the little bit of snow that wasn’t packed down with the carnage. But the wind also stirred up something else, something dark and wispy. 

Had the Wind Pillar’s lilac gaze been focused anywhere but that piece of stone, he would have missed it softly fluttering up before disappearing beneath the lip of the fountain. 

Lips mashed into a tight line, Sanemi moved to examine the other side of the broken stone. As he did so, Rengoku reappeared on the outer steps of the engawa surrounding the Manor, a frown etched deeply on his face.

“Shinazugawa, something is off. The demons’ presence is obvious, but the house looks like it was ransacked— jewels, silks, valuables, all strewn about. Some of it seems to be missing —“

“I found her.” Sanemi bit out, gruffly. “The heir.”

It was her hair, Sanemi realized. Her hair was what had been disturbed by the wind, a few strands having drifted up before settling back down upon the bloodied shoulder of the lifeless girl collapsed before the fountain.

Had there not been a thick spread of red-stained snow and earth beneath her, Sanemi almost would have thought she’d been sleeping. Her face was almost devoid of any injury, save for a few fresh scratches along her jaw and temple. Her eyes were closed, long dark lashes tickling a soft, and unblemished cheek, as pale and smooth as the Moon. And there was a serenity to her expression, a calmness that posed a stark contrast to the chaos and horror which surrounded her.

The rest of her had not been left untouched. Sanemi noted that while she appeared to have maintained her limbs, her back was soaked in blood, no doubt the source of the large stain beneath her. Grimly, he noted that her blood still oozed from an unknown wound between her shoulders. Her left arm was stretched out before her, wrist bent at an unnatural angle, its skin mottled from a mixture of the cold and an attempt to bruise before her blood had ceased flowing in her veins. 

Beneath the torn and bloodied haori around her shoulders, were a pair of pants and a fitted, long sleeved top which had clearly seen better days. Her clothes hosted various tears and stains, and she was so caked in blood and mud that it was difficult to further discern her body’s condition.

The crows had said the Lunar Heir was around eighteen years of age, but as Sanemi stared at her lifeless form, all he could think about was how small she looked; how young she’d been, when she lost her life to the brutality of demons.

The thought made his blood run cold.

“No doubt this is her,” Rengoku said heavily, nodding at wounds Sanemi had not noticed on her hands. Squinting, the Wind Pillar spied bruises and cuts in various stages of healing dotting her knuckles and fingers. 

He suspected more lay beneath her soiled clothing.

“Final selection wounds,” the Flame Pillar confirmed. “She must have just returned from the mountain when the attack began. Perhaps she even stumbled into the middle of it.” Rengoku shook his head. “She didn’t stand a chance.”

It was well known that even if one survived final selection, they would likely descend the mountain with some degree of injury. Seven nights without access to shelter, food, or water was difficult enough, but the added danger of starving demons almost guaranteed that one would not emerge unscathed.

She must have been wounded, and severely enough to slow her return home by a few days. Even if she had the skill to hold her own against the swarm of demons that had attacked her village, whatever injuries she sustained during final selection likely sealed her fate.

Sanemi swore, looking over the last of the Lunar Breathing Clan, the acrid bite of guilt and pity seeping hotly into his veins. The poor girl survived the controlled horrors of final selection only to meet an even more grisly end at her home — where she was supposed to be safe. 

Cruelty; utter cruelty, and a damn tragedy.

“She will get a Slayer’s burial, in the Master’s garden.” Rengoku declared firmly, raising his voice so the nearby Kakushi would hear. “She passed Final Selection; she’s one of us.”

“No,” Sanemi said, voice hoarse. “Bury her here with her family.” His eyes returned to the girl’s face, an inexplicable bitterness coating his tongue. “She fought to return to them; let her be with them.”

He lifted his eyes back up to the ochre gaze of the Flame Pillar. Rengoku stared at him for a long moment, before nodding, turning back to the Kakushi. “You heard Shinazugawa. Let’s give them all a proper burial.”

The Kakushi began to move, thorough and efficient even among the horror around them. Sanemi readied himself to assist, moving to stand when his eyes snagged on the girl’s torso, his gaze drawn to the sizeable swath of smooth skin that was exposed to the icy bite of the snow. His frown deepened as he took note of the odd way that her clothes sat around her exposed abdomen. The girl was half laid on her side, but the front of her shirt was bunched and twisted together, like it had been gathered and shoved out of the way. 

His eyes lowered a fraction to the front of the girl’s pants. At first glance, all seemend normal, her trousers fitted at her hips, but that was precisely what caught his eye. The waistband on the girl’s pants slotted across her lower hips, not higher up on her waist as it should have been. One side was noticeably lower than the other, almost as though they’d nearly been tugged off.

Almost as if-

Sanemi felt the hairs on his body rise. Looking over the girl once more, he noted the suspicious lack of claw marks and bite marks to her body; the way that she seemed intact, compared to the bodies of her friends and family scattered in pieces around her.

And her blood — her blood appeared more fresh than what was caked in the snow around them, as though she’d been attacked right before the Corps arrived at the manor’s gate.

“Rengoku,” Sanemi said sharply, and the Flame Hashira was back at his side in an instant. Sanemi jutted his chin toward the girl’s body and Rengoku followed his gaze. He could see the gears turning in his comrade’s head, the owlish Slayer steadily taking note of the odd skew of her clothes and her lack of demon-like injuries.

“How many demons do you know that try to-,” Sanemi ground his teeth at the word that came to mind, his blood boiling hot. “Have their way with victims before eating them?”

“Not many,” Rengoku conceded darkly, a similar anger simmering in his eyes. “Though not unheard of. It is… rare. Most can’t resist their hunger.” 

He fell silent for a moment, contemplating.

“Didn’t you say the house had looked ransacked?” Sanemi turned his gaze away from the girl and towards the broken doors of the manor.

Rengoku’s eyes widened. “Yes. As if someone came in and grabbed anything they could.”

Sanemi nodded. “Bandits. Probably heard about the attack and got excited to loot. Found a body that wasn’t completely torn apart by demons and tried to take advantage.” 

Rather than bile, Sanemi felt anger, hot and lethal, threatening to spill out of him. 

If he found them, they would receive no mercy, human or not.

Rengoku exhaled sharply through his nose, a weariness clouding over his features.  “Though I don’t suppose we can really know for sure. There isn’t enough left of anyone else to compare.”

Rengoku clasped his hands in front of himself, and he closed his eyes, offering a small prayer for the girl. “Whatever happened to her, she’s gone now. Let us ensure she can rest.” 

He turned to head back to where the Kakushi had begun digging graves for the deceased, leaving Sanemi alone once more.

He’d stared the spot where the girl’s body had lain long after a pair of Kakushi gently removed her to ready her for her burial, watching with hollow eyes and a hollow heart as the one of them — a female — tenderly brushed the girl’s hair from her face and straightened her haori. They’d crossed her arms over her middle and gingerly carried her to join the remains of her family.

Hers was the last of the graves to be prepared. The Kakushi were just beginning to pack the mud and snow over her body when one of them collapsed from exhaustion. The group resolved to take a small water break before finishing, and neither Shinazugawa nor Rengoku had the desire to object. 

After all, digging nearly twenty graves was no easy task.

Both Hashira assisted with the effort, and their combined strength and stamina had streamlined the task considerably. While the Kakushi rested, Rengoku departed for the front gates to update Uzui and Iguro, who’d been dealing with the wreckage within the village, assisted by reinforcements of both Kakushi and lower rank slayers called in to assist with the clean up and burial.

In total, over two hundred graves were dug, and not a single survivor had been found.

It was a heavy day — perhaps one of the darkest in the Corp’s history, and its crowning poisoned jewel was the eradication of one of the oldest breathing styles.The news that there was one less defense against the demons was not a welcome one. 

Sanemi had gone to the other side of the courtyard, away from the voices and graves and rising stink of death. Out of sight from any prying eyes, he found a tree and shoved his fist through it, clear to the other side. Splinters of bark exploded around his arm and bit into the skin around his knuckles and palm, but Sanemi could not find it in himself to care; he sought only to break through the silent numbness threatening to consume him.

Because he’d taken refuge on the other side of the courtyard, away from the new burial site, Sanemi did not see the hand and arm that shoved through the pile of earth resting atop the last grave. He did not see clawed fingers sinking into the mud and snow, desperately seeking purchase as the body attached to the arm hauled itself — herself — from beneath the earth, the remnants of her grave skittering to the side as she heaved her body out.

Sanemi did hear the terrified shriek of the Kakushi, and immediately he drew his sword. In the distance, he could hear Rengoku roaring orders at the terrified attendants, though he could not discern the specifics. 

The Wind Pillar came into view of the gravesite right as the girl spilled out from the hole in the ground, using her bare hands to pull herself forward as the rest of her body remained limp.

Sanemi Shinazugawa was not a pious man; in fact, he considered himself rather skeptical of the idea of faith. If there were truly any gods out there, then Sanemi wanted nothing to do with them. They chose to let chaos and devastation run rampant. They chose to let demons exists.

But hell apparently had frozen over, and Sanemi found himself offering a prayer for the girl’s forgiveness as he prepared to behead her demonized form. He hoped she would understand; after all, she’d  joined the Corps intending to rid of the world of the very thing she’d now become.

It was what he hoped one his his fellow Hashira would do for him, if he ever found himself in that situation.

As the Swordsman cocked his blade, ready to strike the crawling demon from behind, Rengoku cried out. “Shinazugawa, NO!”

Sanemi stuttered,  his arm in mid-swing as he neared the demon’s neck. A flash of violet and white shot towards him, and a piercing shriek of metal tore through the sky as Uzui’s blade parried his, the force of the clash knocking him out of the air. A frustrated grunt echoed from his chest, and with great effort, Sanemi twisted mid-air to avoid falling flat on his ass, just barely managing to land swiftly on the balls of his feet.

“What the fuck,-“ His vicious snarl faltered at the expression on the Flame Hashira’s face, frozen and gaping. In that moment, Sanemi’s ears picked up on the faint thumping of a heart beating rapidly and unevenly below him. His nose suddenly burned with the strong scent of iron. The stench of blood so metallic that it could not have been anything but fresh. 

Ears ringing, the Wind Pillar shoved past his stupefied comrades. Only when he was face to face with her did Sanemi finally understand why the Flame Pillar had been so desperate to stop his sword from hitting its mark. 

The three Hashira were not looking at a newly turned and bloodthirsty demon. Instead, dragging her way across the bloodstained, muddied snow, was the Lunar Heir, deathly pale and trembling.. 

The girl whose death they feared doomed the Lunar Breathing House had clawed her way out from her grave with nothing but her hands and sheer will. She’d not been dead, after all.

Slowly, so slowly, her eyes lifted to glare up at the one standing directly before her. Though she strained to raise her head more than half an inch, her silver eyes met Sanemi’s lavender gaze, and a violent chill shot up his spine as he beheld what simmered within them.

Defiance. 

Pain. 

Rage. So, so much rage, relentless and raw. And so very human.

She reached another quivering hand out before her to further drag herself away from her tomb. A thin sheen of sweat coated her pallid skin, and fresh crimson began to seep into the snow beneath her. 

Sanemi’s eyes flit to the stain on her back, where fresh blood oozed from the deep wound.

She was panting, clearly fighting every urge in her body to give in, to let death beckon her back into its sweet embrace.

“I-I’m not dead!” She grit out in between shallow, uneven breaths, her jaw clenched tightly enough to crack her teeth. 

The three Hashira remained dumb and silent for half a heartbeat before-

“What are you all standing there for?” Uzui bellowed. “Help her!” 

The Kakushi sputtered into action, several of them crouching down around the girl to aid her. 

“Don’t touch me!” She screamed, eyes screwed shut and her head bowed defensively over her hands as she clenched her fists into the earth. The Kakushi fell back, looking anxiously to the Pillars to await further orders, but even they were at a loss. After several, harsh breaths through her nose, the Lunar Heir turned her face up, her gaze clashing with Sanemi’s once more.

He recognized the fear in her eyes, visceral and deep. Whatever she’d experienced over the last few hours had overtaken all her senses. She had no logic, no ability to rationalize that she was among other humans, among comrades. 

Instead, all that drove her now was the primal instinct to survive.

And to her, they were another threat.

She continued to try and crawl away from them, but her movements grew even shakier, more unstable, as the blood loss combined with her physical exhaustion. Rengoku caught his comrades’ eyes, waiting to confirm their next move. 

A quick shared nod sent Sanemi stepping quietly into her blindspot. Swiftly, the Wind Pillar struck the pressure point on the back of the woman’s neck with his hand, and she crumpled against the ground, unconscious and still. Gingerly, Sanemi lifted her over his shoulder, mindful of the open wound on her back. 

Once she was secured, the Hashira and their Kakushi began their frantic sprint toward the Butterfly Mansion.

COMMENTS/LIKES/REBLOGS ALWAYS APPRECIATED!

[eegnm]

Lets give it up for: 🐂⚔️Max of Verstappen House, Son of Jos the Unburnt, Rightful Heir of The Red Bull Horde⚔️🐂

@dzala-va medieval au is breathtaking bro

[atlabeth]

can i request a bridgerton au fic with nikolai? (i was reading not so simple earlier and was thinking about nikolai and now i can’t get the idea out of my head lol) maybe the reader isn’t the diamond of the season, so she has no idea why nikolai (A PRINCE!!) wants to court her

sweet relief

pairing: nikolai lantsov x fem!reader (bridgerton au!!!)

summary: you meet a striking stranger at your first ball, only to discover he is not a stranger at all.

a/n: thank you so much for requesting this man it was so much fun to write i got carried away!!! i hate nikolai and his charming self so much

wc: 3k

warning(s): none that i can think of ??

Nikolai is bored. 

In truth, he does not fully know why he is here. Vasily has already been declared as the catch of the season, and the heir to the throne is much more valuable than the second son. But he is back in London after years spent traveling—not in search of a wife, he might add, to the chagrin of his mother—and he supposes that is cause for some interest. 

In the most basic sense of the word, Nikolai is also a prince, though he hardly has claim to the title. Not with the rumors of his true parentage floating about. 

If he was lucky, he figured he’d find some fun around Mayfair. If he was unlucky, he will be forced to deal with swarms of eager debutantes and even more eager mamas. 

And at this ball, Nikolai has realized that he is unlucky. 

He’s already had to fight off a horde of eligible ladies and their mothers, and explain ten times over that he is not here to participate in the season, he is just here to visit family. He doesn’t think they’ve heard a single word he’s said. They only see the lack of a ring on his finger. 

It is why he has found himself in some corner of the ball, a glass of champagne—that he wished was brandy—held loosely in his hand as he tuned out the idle musings of the men he’d somehow ended up around. His eyes dart around the ballroom, looking for anything even remotely interesting to get him through this night. 

He catches a glimpse of a pair walking through the doors, a mother and a daughter that he recognizes as a debutante from earlier in the day, but before he is granted the chance for further inquisition, his thoughts are interrupted. 

“Your Highness,” someone says, and his attention is drawn from his glass to not just one, but three pairs of mothers and mares, surely trying to vye for his hand. “It is an honor to meet you.” 

“I was unaware of my popularity,” Nikolai says wryly, looking at each of the women in turn. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” 

“The pleasure is all ours,” another mother says brightly, and he sees her nudge her daughter. “If I may introduce my daughter, Miss Eleanor Woodbridge?” 

Nikolai bows his head in greeting, and she curtsies. When Miss Woodbridge speaks, her head is still bowed. “It is an honor to meet you, Your Highness.” 

“So I’ve already heard,” he remarks.

Her cheeks flush bright red as she stands back up, and the next mother begins to introduce her daughter, and then the next—a Miss Evelyn Frances and a Miss Anna Huntsbury. 

Nikolai ends up in a dance with Miss Huntsbury at the nudging of her mother, and though it is perfectly pleasant, he can’t fully enjoy it with all of the eyes on him.

It is not as if he doesn’t enjoy attention. He is perfectly fine with being the center of attention, with being adored by women, with dancing and balls and all sorts of revelry. 

But this— especially after his travels to other countries, away from good society and the expectations of nobles— is so unbelievably predictable. All of these mothers attempting to find their daughter a husband, only interested in Nikolai because of a title he likely won’t earn. He doubts a single one cares of the man behind the Lantsov brand. 

But a second prince is better than no prince at all, and thus the moment he is off the dance floor, he is once again swarmed by women. 

He allows an inward sigh as he plasters on a smile. 

It is going to be a very long night. 

-

You are inexplicably nervous. 

You’ve just debuted and you are already in attendance of a ball. God, why must they hold the season’s first ball the night of all the debuts? You haven’t even had the afternoon to soak everything in—to truly absorb the fact that you must search for a husband—as your mother and lady’s maid spent every moment ensuring you were the image of perfection for tonight. 

In your mother’s opinion, they succeeded. But you already feel as if you are suffocating in your gown.

You are not the diamond, but in truth, you are thankful for it. There is already a huge weight on your shoulders to make a match—you could not imagine having the queen’s eye on you the entire time. You wished luck to Miss Jasmine, both that she could avoid horrendous suitors and the queen’s ire. 

Your mother says your name softly as you cross the threshold into the ballroom, immediately overtaken by the dancing and the musicians and glittering jewels. “Are you alright?” 

You shake your head rapidly. “No, Mother, I do not think I am alright. I am at my first ball of the season and I believe I may pass out.” 

She breathes a loose laugh as she shakes her head as well. “You’ve nothing to be nervous about. You will shine just as you always have, my love. I’ve no doubt that a suitor will see that.”

“That is what I am afraid of,” you huff. “I’ve equal fear both of finding a husband and not finding one. How is one meant to dread both of their options?” 

“You’ve nothing to be nervous about, and nothing to be afraid of,” she repeats, “and certainly nothing to dread. I’m sure by the end of the night, you will have suitors lining up for a chance at your affections.” 

You truly doubt that, but you do not voice anymore of your concerns. Your mother has already done you a favor working through so many of them with you—the least you can do is smile prettily and dance a time or two. 

And you do. More than you imagined—your mother sends you away to fetch glasses of lemonade after a few minutes of idle chatter, and after you’ve poured the first glass you are approached by your first suitor. 

Lord Kenneth Barham, son of the Earl Pritchard. You’ve no idea what a man of title is doing around you, but he is agreeable and kind throughout your first dance. Had you the ability, you would have stayed by his side for the rest of the night only so you could avoid the rest of your expected debutante duties. 

But you do not, and so after a respectful if not slightly boring conversation between the two of you and your mother, he parts ways with the promise to call on you. You are not granted reprieve, to your mother’s delight, and it is not until a near full hour of dancing that you are able to get away. 

You slip away while your mother is busy discussing things with the Baron Ashford and his son, and you have never been so thankful for the outdoors when the cool air hits your skin. 

You let out a long, deep breath as you attempt to calm yourself. Things are going well, much better than you expected—you are already expecting five gentlemen to call on you by the morrow, three of which are titled. 

But you are not even halfway through the ball, and you are already exhausted. Your feet ache and you’ve grown weary of the weight of jewelry on your head and wrists and neck. You’ve truly no idea how you are meant to make it through the entirety of the season, if it is like this. 

“I apologize, my lady. I was unaware there was another out here.” 

You turn around and hold back a sigh. Even in your attempts to be alone, men still find you. 

“I do not have a claim to these gardens,” you say wryly. “You are free to roam.” 

He chuckles as he nods, and he takes another few steps towards you. “I wish not to roam—just to take after you and wrestle out a moment for myself in this schedule.” 

“Then you have picked a wonderful spot,” you say with a nod. “I will give you time to enjoy it on your own.” 

You start on your way, but he steps in your way. “There is no need, my lady. I already rather enjoy your company.” 

You raise your eyebrows. “You have been in it for but a moment.” 

“And what a lovely moment it has been,” he says. 

Normally, irritation would have won over by now. You should not be out here with a man unchaperoned, and you truly just want to be alone for a moment—you’ve a myriad of reasons to stick to your bearings and leave. 

But you have to admit, he is agreeable. His blonde hair is artfully styled, he’s dressed rather finely, and his hazel eyes seem to twinkle as he looks at you with a smile.

“...Alright,” you say, and you decide to stay in place for now. “Have you a name, good sir?”

“You can call me Lord Sturmhond,” he says. 

You raise an eyebrow. “I apologize, my lord. I’ve not yet heard of you.” 

“That just means I am all the more able to make a good impression,” he says, his smile only growing. “Which is rather imperative with a lady such as yourself.” 

You feel your cheeks grow warm, and you bite back a smile of your own. “You are quite the charmer. It could be quite scandalous for us to be found alone.” 

“You needn’t worry,” Lord Sturmhond says. “I doubt anyone will leave the ballroom. They are all too focused on the visiting princes.” 

Your eyes widen. “There are princes here?” 

“The Lantsovs,” he nods, and this time his eyebrows rise. “Had you not heard?” 

“...My mother may have told me, but it would not come as a shock if I neglected to listen,” you say sheepishly. You let out a deep sigh as you wring your gloved hands together. “I should be all the more thankful to be out here with you, then. The only thing to come of my meeting a prince would be disaster.” 

“Oh, I surely doubt it,” Lord Sturmhond says. “I enjoy your presence, and I enjoy your conversation. I believe the princes would feel the same.” 

“You flatter me, my lord, but I am in doubt.” Your gaze drifts off to the sky as you take a moment to appreciate the stars. “Truthfully, I am out here because I am overwhelmed. I’ve spent the hour dancing and in conversation with various men, and already I have had to venture out here for reprieve.” 

“All of this takes practice,” he says. “It is an unreasonable expectation for debutantes to be thrust into the season and perform perfectly. None of this is a light matter, and yet it is treated as one.” 

You sigh. “I just cannot imagine doing this for so many more months. It is going to be a very long season.” 

Lord Sturmhond chuckles. “I have thought the exact same thing tonight, my lady.” 

You find yourself smiling, freer and more genuine than anything you’d mustered earlier in the night. The other men you’d met were fortunately kind, but you just felt… different out here, with him. 

There were no eyes on you, meaning you did not need to act the pinnacle of propriety. That must have been the difference—not the man himself. 

In the distance, you can hear the changing melody of the strings, signaling the start of a new dance. Your eyes fall to your dance card, and as you read the last few names, you remember you still owe three more dances. You bite back a very unladylike curse. 

“I apologize, my lord,” you say, hurrying through a curtsy as you begin to back your way towards the ball. “I really must be going. My mother will have my head should I stay out here any longer.” 

“I understand.” Lord Sturmhond catches up to you in a few quick strides and he takes your hand, stopping you in your tracks. Your breath catches as he presses a kiss to the back of your hand, and your heart hammers in your chest even with the barrier of your glove. 

“It was a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” His hazel eyes are nothing less than enchanting as they focus entirely on you, and had you any less sense, you could easily find yourself talking away the hours of the night with him. “Have confidence. I am sure this night will go your way should you wish it.” 

“It was a pleasure to meet you as well, my lord,” you say. “I hope it is not too forward of me to wish on our meeting again.” 

“Do not worry,” he says. “We will.” 

You open your mouth to ask him how he can be so sure, but the strings grow louder and you huff a sigh. In lieu of another goodbye, you nod and grin at the lord before you rush back indoors. 

Your mother doesn’t berate you when you appear by her side again, so you were not gone for too long. You get through your next three dances, and your last suitor is just leaving when your mother jabs you in the side. 

“Darling, the queen is coming our way,” she whispers. “And she has the Lantsov princes with her.” 

You nearly collapse just at that combination of words, but you hold fast—quite literally, as your hold tightens on your mother’s arm. You are thankful to the Lord Sturmhond for alerting you to the presence of princes tonight, for your shock would be exponential without it. 

“Why are they coming our way?” you ask. 

“They have been making the rounds together,” she says. “Straighten your back.” 

You do, and then you nearly collapse yet again when your eyes meet those of one prince. 

Those gorgeous hazel eyes stare back at yours—you know yours are as wide as dinner plates, despite your attempts to hold back—and he gives you that same damned smile, bowing his head ever so slightly as if to acknowledge your meeting. 

You met the prince. 

You told the prince of all your worries. 

You were kissed on the hand by the prince. 

You only hear your mother saying your name when she nudges your shoulder, snapping you out of your reverie. You blink and look at her, then to the queen.

“Your Majesty,” you rush out, ducking into your best bow, “Your Highnesses. It is an honor to make your acquaintance.”  

The queen greets you and your mother with your surname, and though all your attention is on her, you can still feel the prince looking at you. 

“Have you met my sons, Vasily and Nikolai?” she asks. 

Vasily bows politely, respectful but reserved. “A pleasure, my lady.” 

You curtsy in return, and your Lord Sturmhond steps forward. You are thankful, at least, to put a name to the lying face. 

“It is a pleasure to meet such a beauty,” Nikolai says. He takes your hand and bows down to press a kiss to it, and your skin burns from his touch just as it did out in the gardens. He does not let go when he straightens, instead looking to your mother. “I do not wish to end our meeting prematurely, but I would love to have this dance.” 

“Of course!” your mother exclaims. “It would be her honor, Your Highness.” 

Nikolai nods and smiles, looking back to you for your permission. You nod as well through your haze, and he leads you out to the dance floor. It takes a moment for you to fully come back into yourself, and it only occurs once he has laid his hands in the correct position. His feather light touch is like lightning. 

“I did tell you we would meet again,” Prince Nikolai says, that sure smile on his lips yet again. Had it not been for your years of dance lessons, your weakened knees would not be enough to carry you through this waltz. “Did I not?” 

“...You did,” you say. “But you did not tell me you were a prince.” 

“I find it invites unnecessary pressure,” he says. “Did you not enjoy our time together?” 

“...I did,” you say again, unsure of your words. 

“And I am proven right in your manner,” the prince says. “You spoke so easily in the gardens, and now you seem to be putting thought into each syllable.” 

“You— you are a prince,” you repeat, your still-lingering shock making you speak plainer than you intend. “Of course I am putting thought into my words.” 

“You needn’t worry around me,” Nikolai says. “I am just another man in London.” 

“You are a prince.” 

“As we have established,” he nods, and when you let out a light huff he grins. “You have a lovely smile.” 

“As do you,” you say, and you shake your head. “I cannot believe you allowed me to make a fool of myself out there.” 

Nikolai frowns. “However did you make yourself a fool?” 

“You allowed me to ramble!” you exclaim. “I told you of my worries, of being overwhelmed, of all my thoughts—” 

“And what is the problem with that?” he asks. 

“It is unseemly to complain to a prince,” you insist. 

“We see our meeting quite differently, then,” he says. “For I left it with a most favorable image of you, and a wish to see you again.” He cocks his head. “Did you not leave with the same?” 

“...I did,” you say after a moment. 

Your conversation stalls for a moment as you part from each other, following the steps of the dance, before joining back again. His hand is sure in yours, startling but welcome warmth. 

“Then I do not see the issue,” the prince says. 

“You have made this night all the longer,” you intone. “Your attention makes me something of a target among the ladies of the ton.” 

“Do not worry,” he says, that irritatingly pretty smile aimed at you yet again. “I believe we can get through it together.” 

“Together?” you ask. 

“You wished to meet again,” Nikolai says. “I plan to grant that wish several times over.” 

“...I would like that,” you admit, feeling your cheeks heat under his gaze.

“And just to think,” he says, amused, “you said your meeting with a prince would be a disaster.” 

[bridenore]

HD longer fics recs : 80k to 90k words

Here are a few recs for fics ranging between 90k and 100k words.

You can see my recs for fics that have more than 200k here, between 150k and 200k here, between 125k and 150k here, between 100k and 125k here and between 90k and 100k here.

Azoth by @lol-zeitgeistic [88k]

Now that Harry is back at Hogwarts with Hermione for eighth year, he realises that something’s missing from his life, and it either has to do with Ron, his boggart, Snape, or Malfoy. Furthermore, what, exactly, does it mean when one’s life is defined by the desire to simultaneously impress and annoy a portrait? Harry has no idea; he’s too busy trying not to be in love with Malfoy to care.

the call of sweet things by @softlystarstruck [88k]

Draco’s happy with his quiet, lonely life in Woolbury, spending his days working at Pen Pals and keeping his already tidy flat spotless. But when Harry Potter shows up with pink hair and secrets about his magic, Draco’s carefully upheld balance falls apart. He doesn’t quite know how he ends up decorating Harry’s cottage, drinking unreasonable amounts of cocoa, and laughing more than he’s laughed in years, but it’s Christmas, after all– and he finally has a chance to set things right.

Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love by aibidil [80k]

In which a group of wizards’ rights activists goes on the offensive after a prohibition against love potions, forcing the magical world to confront the horror of magic’s role in sexual assault and the murky   legal nature of consent. Ron, Hermione, Harry, and Draco are swept   together to solve the case, and in the process they’re made to confront their own love and lust—with and without potions.

Criminal by @the-sinking-ship [83k]

Things were going just fine for Draco Malfoy. He successfully conned and counted cards across Europe and America, amassing a small fortune, along with a lengthy rap sheet. That was until he made the grave mistake of returning to England for a high stakes card game and got himself caught – by Harry Potter no less. Now, Draco is stuck in England under Auror Potter’s guard with no friends, no distractions, and no escape. How the hell will he pass the time? And since when did Potter get so bloody fit?

Dear Cousin, Love Regulus by @xx-thedarklord-xx [86k]

As the sole Malfoy heir, Draco understood that his path was set long before his birth; who to be, how to act and what his choices should be. What he had not counted on was the power of outside influences. Letters from his deceased cousin caused him to realize that he did have choices, starting with the choice to be someone else, to be who he wanted to be. The road to self-discovery was difficult and navigating that path in the shadow of Harry Potter was its own challenge but maybe, just maybe, his friends would help him along the way. And he would owe it all to Regulus Black.

Heaven Through a Window by JocundaSykes [81k]

Life is going swimmingly for Draco: he’s a respected Healer, his son is excellent in every way, and none of his patients have died recently. Then he gets landed with Perfect Potter and his hordes of stupid friends. It’s intolerable. But the more time Draco spends with the lonely boy from Surrey, the more he believes that there might be a hero within us all.

If the Fates Allow by Saras_Girl [80k]

What’s that crackling in the walls? Harry has no clue at all. He’ll eat some cake and drink some wine Because he is completely FINE. –A story about life’s disregard for our plans. [2017 advent story]

In Free Fall by @kbrick [81k]

Draco Malfoy is a serious university student whose idea of a good time is translating Ancient Greek texts and having game night with his small circle of friends. Harry Potter is a hard-partying adrenaline junkie who’s happiest when he’s leaping from an airplane or hurtling over a waterfall in a kayak. They have nothing in common. But when they reconnect in the Muggle world, curiosity prompts them to strike up a deal. Draco will show Harry what it’s like to be a swotty overachiever and Harry will show Draco what it’s like to live life dangerously. It’ll be fun, and really, what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like Draco’s going to fall in love with the guy or anything.

In Pieces by @dysonrules [85k]

Harry returns to Hogwarts as the new DADA instructor, only to find his teaching efforts thwarted by a very familiar ghost.

Knead by laughingd0g [83k]

This is not a story about Harry renovating Grimmauld Place. This is a story about coffee shops and brewpubs, about Ginny and Luna on a farm with creatures, about magical Oregon, coastal road trips, flying, friendship, and Draco Malfoy’s lean arms.

The Light More Beautiful by @firethesound [81k]

Thirteen years after Draco accepts Potter’s help escaping the horror of his sixth year, he returns to England where he makes the unfortunate discovery that Potter is still as obnoxious as ever. And worse, more than a decade overseas hasn’t been enough to dim Draco’s obsession with him.

Loverboys by @corvuscrowned [84k]

As post-war violence and tensions rise, it seems as if there’s no hope to unify the wizarding world. Except, maybe, a manufactured relationship between resident Saviour Harry Potter and known purveyor of the Dark Arts Draco Malfoy. (The fact that they detest each other is beside the point.) But as Draco’s unrelenting mind games begin to wear him down, Harry has to remind himself that it’s all fake. The relationship is fake. The affection is fake. The pet names, the romance — even the engagement photos are fake. But there’s something in Draco’s kiss that might just be real.

Martyred by @doingthechachaslide [82k]

Harry Potter only wants one thing: to take care of the people he loves. After Teddy’s abrupt departure from his role as Andromeda’s caretaker, Harry decides it’s finally time to step up and handle the job himself. Castoff Manor, an old Black family estate, has never seemed as sinister as the stories make it sound, but it’s there that Harry stumbles upon ghosts, haunting family secrets, and a familiar, snarky blond gardener hell-bent on chasing him out. Maybe if Harry sticks around long enough, he’ll finally learn why all of Andromeda’s previous caretakers have fled without looking back.

Merlin, Give Me Strength by Aelys_Althea [86k]

Draco retreated after the war. Despite the Wizarding world turning a smiling, forgiving face to any and all with a black name and stained reputation, he wanted none of it. All Draco wanted was to be left alone. Unfortunately for him, Harry Potter doesn’t want to leave him alone. And more than that, he finds himself with the most unlikely of house guests that he just can’t seem to rid himself of. Why is life never simple?

Merlin Works in Mysterious Ways by @lordhellebore [82k]

When Harry is forced to form a Blood Bond with Draco Malfoy under threat of death, he thinks his future will consist of a cold home and sexual frustration. But when a group of left-over Death Eaters decides to stir trouble, their lives change completely – and it takes them both some years to figure out whether it’s for better or for worse.

The Nightmare Club by Elle Gray [85k]

Hermione and Ron are going back to Hogwarts to do N.E.W.T.s, Ginny isn’t. Harry hasn’t decided, until he has, in front of the Wizengamot and now he’s responsible for Malfoy as well. A tale of enemies who learn to get along, get it wrong and get it on. Everything is purple, some things are on fire and no-one is sleeping properly. But don’t worry, there’s tea!

On the Last Day of Our World by Sansa [84k]

During a detention, Harry and Draco get locked in a strange room together overnight. When they escape the next morning, they discover they are alone. Love, angst and adventure abound as they struggle to survive in an empty world.

red and green are complimentary colours by  ace_0fhearts [88k]

After the war Hermione manages to convince Harry to go back to Hogwarts for his eighth year. Expecting an uneventful year of classes and rooming with the other Gryffindor boys, he’s surprised when McGonagall tells him he’ll be sharing a room with Draco Malfoy. Now Harry has to get through a year of arguments and awkward silences. Or he would, if Malfoy would stop ignoring him and moping around the castle alone. Or: Draco and Harry fall in love through sleepless nights and late night quidditch games

Reparo by amalin [84k]

Voldemort’s final defeat does not mean Harry Potter’s troubles are over; far from it. In the aftermath of war, he returns to a Hogwarts that is fractured and divided, but this is no break that can be fixed with a spell. New owls, fading scars, surprising alliances—and along the way, the hardest task of all, to live with it. 

The Stars Have Courage by @fantalf [85k]

Draco can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t move. He can’t hear anything besides the buzzing in his ears. The walls are closing in. The world becomes smaller, narrowing itself to the pain in his chest, and it becomes the only thing that makes sense. He tries to cry. Maybe he is crying, but there are no tears anymore. Luna’s words echo endlessly in his brain. Harry doesn’t remember. Harry doesn’t love Draco. Repeating ceaselessly. Infinite, Harry used to say. No. No. No. Draco can’t lose him again. But he doesn’t know who you are now. He doesn’t love you. He hates you. You are no one. His world turns into an overwhelming pain. And that pain is all that he is. — Draco waited five long years to watch his husband wake up from a coma. He’s not ready to meet a Harry with no memory of anything that happened after he died at The Battle of Hogwarts, twelve years ago.

Things That Change by eutichydes [84k]

After Hogwarts, everything changes.

This Year’s Love by trishjames [84k]

This year’s love had better last, heaven knows it’s high time when you try to make lovers from friends. But Harry Potter realises time and time again that it’s simply not possible for him. And then along comes Draco Malfoy— the ultimate foe on the mend. Whatever will become of them? A story about love.

Variation by @lower-east-side [87k]

After suffering enormous losses, Draco Malfoy must now struggle to define his place in the post-war world. Through dashed hopes and changing fortunes, Draco carves out a new niche for himself. But adapting to life with Harry Potter may be the biggest challenge of all.

I hope you enjoy these stories as much as I did!

[sharksnshakes]

Hi I'm doing this on anon bcs I'm embarassed of how fast i'm asking this lmao butttttttt

...will you write a part two to the tim drake x reader?

PLS I BEG

You have a crush on Tim... and to your surprise, getting his attention won't be nearly as hard as you thought. But he keeps reminding you of Red Robin? That can't be right.

AN; part one can be found here. not sure where i'm going with this yet BUT expect a part three. and maybe something else with kon. in my titans era

Wordcount; 1.1k

TW; some cursing, mentions of drinking, making out (you'll see)

As luck would have it, you're at the same hole-in-the-wall bar the next weekend. Red Robin sighting aside, cheap drinks are cheap drinks, and now you're crowded around a rickety table with the same friends as last time. Plus Tim.

A week's worth of deliberation has lead you to the conclusion that you have honest to God romantic feelings for him. Sure, Red Robin turned your head, but chances are slim to none that you'll ever see the dark haired vigilante again. Even if you did, you know nothing about his personal life! You don't even know his name! How could a relationship possibly work out?

You're doubling down your efforts, which is why you're wedged up against Tim's side, nursing a cool drink in your hands and refusing to feel bashful about the outfit you've got on tonight. Tim never goes out, ergo, he's only ever seen you in the baggy sweats and oversized tees you show up to lecture in. It's the perfect opportunity for you to dress up and flaunt your assets. If it worked on Robin, it'll work on Tim.

Right?

"Havin' fun?" You ask, glancing over at him.

Tim looks out of place, to put it mildly. He is the heir to Wayne Enterprises, after all, and you love him dearly, but his vintage sneakers and expensive-smelling cologne don't exactly fit in with the sweaty crowd of coeds.

"I think so?"

You smother a laugh. "Hey, at least you're not holed up in your apartment cramming for another test."

Tim frowns gently. "Yeah. You're right."

It feels like his comment holds some second meaning that's flying right over your head. You'd ask him about it, but before you get the chance, one of your mutual friends is grabbing you both by the wrists and dragging you into the makeshift dance floor.

After about fifteen minutes of bouncing and singing and laughing, the fragrant smoke and crush of bodies start to get to you. The music's pounding. The air is heavy. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the uncomfortable, oppressive feeling away.

"Hey." Tim appears at your side. He's got a steadying hand on your shoulder and his lips are practically on your ear. "Y'okay?"

If you weren't short of breath before, you definitely are now.

"Need some air," you shout back, fighting to be heard over the speakers. "I'll be back in a minute."

Tim's hand stays on your shoulder. "Let me come with you."

You want to tell him he doesn't have to. This is his first night out in ages, and the last thing you want to do is throw a wrench in it by dragging him outside; when you look at his face, though, there's genuine concern and care in his eyes. You nod.

"Lead the way," Tim shouts, and you reach for his hand as you push through the crowd. His fingers wrap firmly around yours, steady but not overbearing, and a horde of butterflies descend on your stomach.

Tim doesn't drop your hand until you're outside, sucking in the nighttime air. It's sticky and humid outside, a thunderstorm can be heard in the distance, but it's heavenly compared to inside.

You pace up and down the alleyway for a moment. Just like last week, there's nobody out here but you and the dumpster. And Tim.

Involuntarily, you glance up at the rooftops that loom above.

"I saw Red Robin here last week," you say absentmindedly, turning back to look at Tim.

"Oh really?" He clears his throat, following your gaze. "Was he, like... up there?"

"You don't seem particularly excited."

"Well, I mean... it's just Red Robin?"

You gape at him. "Just Red Robin? Tim, he's cool as fuck."

"He's literally just another Robin. There's been, what, like... five?"

"Three," you correct, walking back over to Tim, "And he's literally a superhero."

"Sidekick."

You laugh out loud. "What, you got beef with him?"

"No," Tim protests, a flush crawling up his cheeks. "He's just no Batman, is all."

"He's not supposed to be Batman. That's his whole thing. He's Robin, and he's cool as fuck," you reply, leaving no room for argument. You lean against the brick wall, gazing up at the clouded sky. "...Think he's out there somewhere?"

"Maybe."

You glance at Tim, but he's already staring at you.

"You look... really pretty tonight," he murmurs.

Your cheeks prickle with heat. "Thanks. You, ah, look good too."

At that moment, it hits you that you're alone with Tim Drake Wayne, the guy you're pining over, and that he's just called you pretty. A smile tugs as your lips. Red Robin hit on you in this very alleyway, and now Tim is hitting on you, too, and your confidence surges.

"Um, actually," you say, looking at Tim, "There's something I've been meaning to tell you--"

BANG!

A gasp dies in your throat as a couple stumbles through the back door. They're attached at the lips and deserving of an NC-17 rating. Your shock is quickly replaced with amusement (and, albeit, a healthy level of disgust) and you laugh in shock, your heart still pounding in your throat. The door rattles on its hinges, freshly scraped up from being slammed against the wall.

"Holy shit," you exhale. Only then do you notice that Tim pushed you behind him: an arm is protectively flung out in front of you, the other hand is pulling something out of his pocket. His thumb and forefinger are pinched around a small, sharp-looking object--it's black, it glints in the light, you don't know what it is. He stuffs it back into his jeans, huffing out a sigh of relief.

"Hey, you okay?" Tim asks, turning back around to face you.

"Fine." You nod. "Startled... but, uh, fine."

"Good," he says, eyes still tracking the couple. "Anyways. You were saying?"

There's a muffled moan from the other end of the alley.

"Another time," you say, grabbing Tim and pulling him inside before either of you see more than you want to.

As you rejoin the group, you wonder distantly what he was holding. A knife, maybe? But Tim's dead last on your list of people who'd walk around Gotham carrying a weapon. Then again, his net worth is staggeringly high, so maybe he does carry something...?

If you didn't know better, you'd say he acted like a vigilante.

You're not sure what to think.

But the bar's loud music leaves no room for thought, and you push your musings to the back of your mind. You're having fun with your friends, Tim called you pretty, and you just had the shit scared out of you by strangers--tonight's been eventful as is, so it looks like your detective work will just have to wait.

[horizon-verizon]

People often say Daenerys won’t get any support because she’s the Mad King’s daughter, but this ignores the enduring support for the Targaryens that persists throughout Westeros. There’s a significant base of loyalists and general sympathy for House Targaryen, especially as discontent grows among the smallfolk. In regions like the Riverlands and King’s Landing, dissatisfaction with the Baratheons, Lannisters, Tullys, and even the Starks has grown. The Faith has also grown dissatisfied. Tywin’s men have burned septs, and the capital is reeling from starvation and chaos. The Lannisters’ repeated crimes against both the gods and the people have only made matters worse. While much of this frustration stems from the chaos of recent wars and misrule, it also traces back to the flaws in Robert’s reign. Smallfolks even look back on Aerys with a degree of nostalgia and a sense of favor.

She looked about to see that no guards were near, and spat three times. "There's for the Tullys, and there's for the Lannisters, and there's for the Starks." "It's a sin and a shame," an old man hissed. "When the old king was still alive, he'd not have stood for this." "King Robert?" Arya asked, forgetting herself. "King Aerys, gods grace him," the old man said, too loudly. A guard came sauntering over to shut them up. The old man lost both his teeth, and there was no more talk that night. (ACOK, Arya VI)

This kind of sentiment isn’t new—it’s been a risk since the start of the series. The Targaryens gaining support once they start looking like a viable option has always been part of the story. Even Robert Baratheon, at his strongest, feared this possibility:

"Perhaps. There are ships to be had in the Free Cities, though. I tell you, Ned, I do not like this marriage. There are still those in the Seven Kingdoms who call me Usurper. Do you forget how many houses fought for Targaryen in the war? They bide their time for now, but give them half a chance, they will murder me in my bed, and my sons with me. If the beggar king crosses with a Dothraki horde at his back, the traitors will join him." (AGOT, Eddard II)

Robert’s paranoia underscores the enduring loyalty of Targaryen supporters, many of whom remained dormant, waiting for the right moment to rise again. This fear was not unfounded. Daenerys has everything she needs to rally support: she’s Aerys’s daughter, Viserys’s heir, the mother of dragons, the Queen of Meereen, and she has an army. The stage is perfectly set for the Targaryens to look like the answer everyone’s been waiting for.

Yes, exactly, I agree. A lot of people let the show dictate how they will see the series itself go and use the excuse of GRRM not finishing the books, when they ignore or don't know how to comprehend the clues or suggestions of the text to even try to deviate from their first or early impressions. And/or they are already sexist or have biases they haven't and/or are unwilling to confront, so they are eager to evaluate situations without using the actual text. Annoying.

[roselibrary]

𝐅𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐧𝐞 || 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞

Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon! Reader

Trigger Warnings: murder, targcest, eventual dark!aemond, yandere!aemond, obsessive behaviour, typical targ madness

Summary: Aemond would have his sea-nymph one way or another.

Requests are open!

Summer blossomed like the pink buds on a cherry tree coming to life the day the young Prince Aemond realised his affection for his niece. She had ensnared his soul and enraptured his heart like the vines of ivy devouring the exterior of a Keep. Silver locks and lilac spun eyes that beheld all the secrets in the world, it seemed. Soft-tanned skin – a perfect blend of her mother and father though the same could not be said for those she called brothers – that beamed soft gold in the light of the sun and lips that looked as if only the sweetest of fruits had kissed them. Her hair shone pearlescent in a similar fashion to the decorations often found woven into her curly smooth locks. They fascinated him; the way the peals glimmered in the light and emerged from her curls like the foam atop a crashing wave.

More Velaryon than Targaryen in truth was she. She, too, had no dragon to call her own but instead proclaimed the sea as her abode and its treasures her horde. He wished to be considered a valuable item amongst those she already kept. Soft-spoken and gentle in nature she was her mother's pride and joy – the image of her grandmother they deemed the sea nymph. Sometimes, he wondered if she could grow a tail much like the mystical mermaid on the sigil of House Manderly and if she could, would she finally join her beloved sea and leave them all to wither on land? Those thoughts never brought him any comfort. Instead, he remained grateful that for as much as she wished to join the sea in all ways; she simply was unable to.

He often prayed to the gods in thanks for her inability to simply vanish on the waves.

It became lonely, living in such cold solitude, after a while and none could deny the younger prince led a cold, solitary life. His other kin shone so brightly, vivaciously and with such vitality that it was easy for him to fall into the shadows, the darkness, and the madness. He was a scarred second son of a King who did not even deem his firstborn son his heir. Aemond believed deeply in tradition and the stability such a thing brought to the realm; he could not fathom his elder half-sister bringing chaos with her untraditional succession claim. His sister would openly have a bastard follow her on the throne. Perhaps that’s where his true sentiments lay; he did not despise his sister for being a woman with a powerful agency, or even for being the heir to the throne, but for what would come after his sister's succession. What precedent would it set if bastards could inherit before trueborn children? What chaos would that sow within the realm? Aemond was a man of routine, tradition, and unrelenting stability all of which Rhaenyra was inherently posed to ruin.

Aemond didn’t wish to see his little sea nymph fall with her mother, as she undoubtedly would, due to her unending loyalty and devotion to her catastrophic family. His Gentle Dragon had no qualms openly expressing her love and devotion to the young men that would steal her birthright; it was bad enough the elder prince Jacaerys would steal her place upon the iron throne but downright insulting that, the younger than she, Lucerys would steal the birthright of her father from her person by claiming Driftmark. Aemond wished to see her claim her rightful place as the heiress of Driftmark as the only trueborn child of its heir, however, he would not want to see her seated atop the iron throne.

The monolithic, fearsome work of art did not suit the gentle and ever-changing disposition that she carried with her. Unmoving iron and sharp-edged swords should be nowhere near the supple curves and smooth skin lining her form, instead – if it were not for his no-good elder brother – he would sit upon the iron-casted seat of death in her place. He would be her King and she, his Queen. He had only to find a way to keep her with him permanently.  

Perhaps his father's addled mind and desperation for peace would smile fortuitously upon the one-eyed prince, for once.

It had been many a year since his eyes last wandered upon the form of his beloved sea nymph – a name he only acknowledged in his mind's depths. The realm’s Gentle Dragon had returned to Kings Landing alongside the rest of her kin when protests were raised on the legitimacy of her younger brother's claim to Driftmark. Something many deemed rightfully hers. She glowed effervescent in her Velaryon blue and soft violet threaded gown the silk gently forming the curves of her body and flowing down the lengths of her arms and back. It seemed the dress also recognised the girl's call of the sea for it moulded like waves and rippled in each minuscule movement of her own. The train of the gown followed behind her like the sea lapping at the sand of the beach never quite reaching as far in as it wished.

She stood beside her mother with her head held high in pride as her uncle all but disparaged what remained of her mother's good name - if anything was left of it to begin with. It had delighted him to see the Strong princelings debased in such a public manner and their mother alongside them. He enjoyed much less the disparagement of the Crown Princess’s only daughter and the belief that she would fall to the same whims her mother had and beget only bastards for her future husband. No, that did not please the prince at all. He had observed and planned and waited patiently for many a year to gain his nymph and she would give him no bastards – he knew she wouldn’t. His nymph was too intelligent, dutiful, and self-aware of the consequences of such a thing to attempt such a crime.

Still, his blood boiled, and his hands clenched behind his back. It took an effort to keep his stoicism about his person in the face of his ever-present wrath but within a second his wrath was replaced with bewildered wonderment. Gone was Ser Vaemond’s head; instead the figure of his uncle stood tall, proud, and nonchalant in the face of such grotesque violence. Aemond felt the stirrings of admiration and conflict within his chest at such a sight. This man, his uncle, was a threat, an obstacle, his biggest unrelenting guard towards what Aemond had deemed his. All the realms knew of how Daemon favoured his girls over his boys, and none could deny how he had claimed the Gentle Dragon as much his own as his other brown-skinned, silver-haired darlings. He clenched his jaw. It seemed he would need to confide with another of his aspirations if he wanted to succeed where others had failed.

As if the man could hear the thoughts echoing in the princeling's brain the Rogue turned and leered. Aemond could see the taunt within his gaze, the dare for him to be as foolish as the man who kept his tongue but lost his head.

He could hear the whisper Daemon Targaryen’s eyes conveyed.

“Claim her, if you're bold enough.”

Just as he proved to his father when he claimed Vhagar; Aemond would once more prove that he was, indeed, bold enough.

[novaursa]

Legacy (sisters)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the north and the south

- Next part: drawing the lines

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril

Tywin Lannister and Jon Snow sat opposite each other at the long table in the Great Hall of Dragonstone. A week of heated discussions and negotiations had brought them here, to a moment where a tentative agreement seemed within reach. The hall’s stone walls absorbed the low hum of voices as you sat at Tywin’s right hand, your presence a quiet but steadying force in the midst of it all. Davos Seaworth stood behind Jon, his weathered face calm but watchful.

The Painted Table between them was scattered with maps, letters, and reports, each detailing threats and opportunities. Tywin’s eyes fixed on Jon, who met his gaze with equal intensity.

“You’ve made your demands clear,” Tywin said, his tone measured. “Justice for your family, recognition of the North’s independence, and preparation for the so-called Long Night. You’ll find I am not a man who agrees lightly to terms that serve others more than myself.”

Jon leaned forward slightly, his voice calm but firm. “You’ve seen the signs. Your wife has told you of what’s coming, and I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The dead are marching beyond the Wall, and if we don’t prepare, it won’t matter who sits on the Iron Throne or which house rules the North. The living will fall.”

Tywin’s expression remained inscrutable. “You speak of an enemy that has not yet crossed into the realm. Meanwhile, a very real threat sails toward us from Essos. Daenerys Targaryen, has aligned herself with the Ironborn—a fractured fleet, perhaps, but still formidable. She comes with the Dothraki, a horde of savages, and the Unsullied, disciplined but foreign. She believes her claim to the throne outweighs that of my grandson, King Tommen, or indeed, my own children.”

Your breath caught at Tywin’s words, but you said nothing, your mind reeling with the weight of the situation. Jon’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he absorbed Tywin’s dismissal of the Northern threat.

“You’d place her above your wife?” Jon asked sharply. “Above the mother of your sons?”

Tywin’s gaze flicked to you briefly, his expression unreadable. “Do not presume to lecture me on loyalty or duty, boy. My wife is of Valyrian blood, the mother of my heirs. Her claim to the throne is stronger than her sister’s, but this does not negate the danger Daenerys poses. She comes as a foreign invader, not as a queen to unite Westeros.”

“She comes with dragons,” Jon countered. “And you’ve seen what dragons can do.”

At this, Tywin leaned back in his chair, his lips pressing into a thin line. “And I also know how to harness that power, as you’ve seen here on Dragonstone. Do not mistake me for a fool, Snow. I’ve considered every possibility, and while your warnings of the dead may hold some truth, they are not my immediate concern.”

You placed a hand gently on Tywin’s arm, your voice calm but firm. “Jon isn’t asking you to ignore Daenerys. He’s asking you to consider the larger picture. If we’re divided, we’ll fall—to her, to the dead, to any threat that comes our way. The North needs the South, and the South needs the North. We can’t afford to be enemies.”

Tywin’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at you, though his tone remained cold. “Unity is a fine ideal, but it must be built on terms that serve both sides. Snow demands recognition of the North’s independence—what assurances do I have that he won’t sever ties entirely when it suits him?”

Jon’s eyes flashed with determination. “You have my word. The North will fight alongside the South against whatever comes. We’ll defend this realm, and we’ll remember who stood with us. But if you refuse to acknowledge the North’s sovereignty, you’ll leave us no choice but to stand alone.”

Tywin’s mind worked quickly. After a moment, he spoke, his tone clipped and decisive. “Very well. The North will remain autonomous in its governance, but it will not sever its ties to the Iron Throne. You will recognize Tommen as king, and you will not see again to crown yourself or any other Stark.”

Jon hesitated, glancing at you before nodding slowly. “Agreed.”

Tywin continued, his gaze hard. “In return, you will provide men and resources to defend the realm against Daenerys’s invasion. If your warnings of the dead prove true, you will lead the North’s forces in that fight as well.”

Jon’s voice was steady as he replied. “The North will do its part. But know this—if you focus all your attention on Daenerys and ignore the threat beyond the Wall, you’ll lose more than this war. You’ll lose everything.”

Tywin said nothing for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the Painted Table. Finally, he stood, signaling the end of the discussion. “Then we have an accord. Prepare your men, Snow. The battles ahead will test us all.”

Jon rose as well, his expression grim but resolute. “And the living will need every advantage.”

As Tywin left the room, you stayed behind with Jon. His shoulders were tense, his face etched with frustration. “He doesn’t understand,” Jon said quietly. “Not yet.”

“He will,” you replied, your voice soft but confident. “Tywin Lannister is not a man who ignores proof. He’ll see the truth when the time comes.”

Jon nodded, though his doubt was evident. “Let’s just hope it’s not too late.” The alliance between the North and South was fragile, but it was a start. And in a world on the brink of chaos, even the smallest hope could spark a flame.

The deck of the flagship swayed gently beneath Daenerys Targaryen as the winds carried the scent of salt and promise across the Narrow Sea. The rhythmic crash of waves against the hull provided a steady backdrop to the flurry of activity as her Unsullied soldiers, Dothraki, and sailors moved purposefully to prepare for their departure. Sails bearing the sigil of the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen were being unfurled, their black and crimson hues stark against the endless expanse of blue.

Daenerys stood at the ship’s prow, her silver hair catching the sunlight as she gazed toward the horizon. Her dragons, Drogon and Rhaegal, circled overhead, their shadows passing over the fleet below. Their roars echoed across the sea, a reminder of her power—a power she intended to unleash upon Westeros.

Behind her, Tyrion Lannister approached, his footsteps light but deliberate. He came to a stop beside her, his gaze following hers toward the unseen shores of Westeros. After a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice tinged with caution.

“You know this won’t be the welcoming parade you might imagine,” he said, his tone diplomatic but firm.

Daenerys turned to him, her violet eyes narrowing slightly. “And why is that, Lord Tyrion? Westeros has suffered under unworthy rulers for years. They will welcome the rightful queen.”

Tyrion tilted his head, his expression both patient and resigned. “You forget, Your Grace, that Westeros has already had its fill of dragons. Your sister’s dragon, Viserion, has become a familiar sight. By all reports, the realm has grown accustomed to her presence, and to her rule alongside Tywin Lannister.”

Daenerys frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Viserion may be hers now, but that dragon was once mine. And my sister will see that this is our chance—our chance to bring justice to our family and take back the throne that was stolen from us.”

Tyrion’s brow arched slightly, his skepticism clear. “Justice is a noble goal, but Westeros doesn’t see you as a liberator. Not yet. You’re arriving with a Dothraki horde and an army of Unsullied. To the lords and ladies of Westeros, you’ll appear as a foreign invader, not a rightful queen.”

Daenerys’s eyes flashed with determination. “Then I will show them who I am. I will free them from their chains, just as I did in Meereen and Astapor.”

“And you’ll burn half the realm in the process,” Tyrion said bluntly, earning a sharp glare from Daenerys. He sighed, stepping closer to the rail. “Your Grace, I am not doubting your abilities or your claim. But the noble houses of Westeros are fickle creatures. They won’t bow simply because you have dragons. They’ll see you as a threat to their power, especially if you come with foreign armies at your back.”

Daenerys’s gaze softened slightly as she studied Tyrion. “And what do you suggest, Hand of the Queen? That I abandon my armies and fly to Dragonstone alone?”

Tyrion shook his head. “No. I suggest you tread carefully. Your sister is a key figure in this. By all accounts, she is loved by the people, respected by the lords. If you can convince her to stand with you, to lend you her voice, it could change everything.”

Daenerys’s expression turned thoughtful as she looked out at the sea once more. “She will listen to me,” she said with quiet conviction. “She understands what was taken from our family. She knows the pain of betrayal, of loss. Together, we can restore the Targaryen name to its rightful place.”

Tyrion studied her for a moment before speaking, his tone laced with both hope and caution. “I hope you’re right. But don’t underestimate her ties to Tywin Lannister. Whatever her reasons for marrying him, she’s a part of his house now. And Tywin doesn’t let go of his allies—or his assets—easily.”

Daenerys’s gaze hardened. “She’s not an asset. She’s my sister. And I won’t fight her. If she stands with me, there will be no need for war.”

Tyrion exhaled softly, his gaze drifting to the dragons overhead. “Let’s hope she sees it that way. Because if she doesn’t… this could be the bloodiest campaign Westeros has ever seen.”

Daenerys turned to him, her voice steely. “I will take back the Iron Throne, Tyrion. With or without her. But I would rather have her by my side.”

Tyrion nodded, though his expression remained guarded. “Then let’s make sure she knows that when you arrive.”

The moon hung low over the Narrow Sea, its pale light reflecting off the gentle waves as the fleet sailed steadily toward Westeros. Daenerys Targaryen sat alone in her cabin, the sound of Drogon and Rhaegal’s distant roars echoing faintly through the night. A single candle flickered on the small table before her, its light illuminating the old and weathered maps spread across its surface.

Her fingers traced the outlines of Westeros, stopping at Dragonstone, then moving north toward the Eyrie, and finally to Winterfell. Her mind, however, was far from strategies and conquest. It wandered instead to the stories her brother Viserys had told her so many years ago.

Viserys had rarely spoken of their family with affection. His words were usually cruel, laden with bitterness for what they had lost. But when he spoke of their eldest sister—the sister Daenerys had never met—there had been a rare softness in his tone, an almost desperate longing that had always struck Daenerys as unusual.

She closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair, and the memories came unbidden.

“She was beautiful,” Viserys had said one night as they sat by the fire, huddled together in a dilapidated inn somewhere in the Free Cities. His voice was quieter than usual, almost reverent. “Hair like yours. Violet eyes. Everyone said she looked like Mother.”

Daenerys, barely seven at the time, had tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “What was her name again?”

“Y/N,” Viserys replied, his lips curving faintly. “The Flame of House Targaryen, they called her. Father’s favorite child… until she wasn’t.”

Daenerys frowned, her small hands tugging at the hem of her tunic. “Why wasn’t she his favorite anymore?”

Viserys’s expression darkened, the fleeting warmth in his gaze replaced by a familiar bitterness. “Because Father went mad, that’s why. He saw enemies everywhere—even in her. She was sent away before Robert’s rebellion could touch her. Willem said it was to protect her, but I think it was for something else.”

“Where did she go?” Daenerys asked, her voice small.

“To the North,” Viserys answered, his tone heavy with disdain. “To Winterfell, of all places. They struck some deal with the Starks. She was meant to be a ward, but it was more like a hostage. The Starks shielded her from Robert’s wrath after the rebellion ended.”

Daenerys’s brow furrowed. “Didn’t they love her?”

Viserys scoffed. “The Starks? Love a Targaryen? Don’t be foolish, Daenerys. They kept her safe because it suited them. But she… she was different. She thrived there, somehow. Made herself at home among wolves.”

His words hung in the air, and Daenerys had hesitated before asking, “Did you miss her?”

Viserys’s eyes had flashed with something unreadable—pride, sorrow, perhaps even guilt. “Of course, I missed her. She was my sister. Our sister. She held me once, you know. When I was very little. I barely remember it, but… it’s one of the only good memories I have of Father’s court.”

His voice had grown softer, his gaze distant as though he were speaking more to himself than to her. “She sang to me. A Valyrian lullaby. I don’t remember the words, only the sound of her voice. It was… soft. Gentle. Like Mother’s.”

Daenerys had been quiet, unsure of what to say. It was rare for Viserys to speak so vulnerably, and she hadn’t wanted to break the fragile moment.

“Do you think she would have loved me?” she had asked after a long silence.

Viserys’s expression had softened, and he had reached out to place a hand on her shoulder. “She would have adored you,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with longing. “She would have fought for you, protected you. She was strong like that.”

The memory faded, and Daenerys opened her eyes, her chest tight with emotion. She stared at the map before her, her fingers tracing the path to Dragonstone once more.

Viserys had clung to those faint memories of their sister, holding onto them like a drowning man clutching driftwood. He had seen her as a symbol of what their family could have been, what it should have been. And now, Daenerys would finally meet her—this sister who had lived through the rebellion, who had found strength among wolves, who had become a mother and a queen in her own right.

But would she stand with her?

Daenerys’s gaze hardened, her resolve solidifying. She would remind her sister of their shared blood, of their shared loss. Together, they would reclaim what was rightfully theirs.

Still, a whisper of doubt lingered in her mind, a quiet voice echoing Tyrion’s warnings. What if her sister saw things differently? What if she had truly become a Lannister in more than name?

Daenerys shook the thought away, her hand clenching into a fist. “She will stand with me,” she said aloud, as though speaking the words would make them true. “She must.”

The distant roar of her dragons was her only answer as the ship continued its journey toward destiny. The past was a weight she carried, but the future was a fire she intended to ignite.

The flagship of Daenerys Targaryen’s fleet cut gracefully through the calm waters surrounding Dragonstone, the rhythmic crash of waves against its hull echoing faintly over the expanse. Overhead, Drogon and Rhaegal soared majestically, their vast wings slicing through the air with powerful strokes. Their roars resonated across the sea, a declaration of their presence and their queen’s arrival.

Daenerys stood at the prow, her hair billowing in the wind, her eyes fixed on the rocky shore of Dragonstone. The castle loomed in the distance, its jagged towers like dark sentinels against the cloudy sky. Yet her gaze was drawn to the figure perched atop one of the cliffs near the shore—a massive cream-and-gold dragon with scales that gleamed like molten gold under the overcast light.

Viserion.

Daenerys’s breath caught as she beheld the dragon she once thought lost to her. But something was different. The she-dragon’s body was clad in intricate armor, the likes of which Daenerys had never seen before. The Lannister colors of crimson and gold adorned the plates, which were meticulously crafted to fit the dragon’s form.

The armor’s design was a marvel of engineering and craftsmanship. Interlocking plates of burnished steel and gold covered Viserion’s neck and shoulders, the joints flexible enough to allow full range of motion while providing impenetrable protection. Her chest and underbelly were shielded by overlapping scales of reinforced metal, forged to mimic the natural texture of her hide. Along her spine, a row of serrated ridges glinted menacingly, each tip fashioned into sharp points, discouraging any would-be attackers from climbing her back.

The armor extended down her legs, ending in polished steel greaves that encased her talons. The claws themselves were tipped with blackened steel, honed to razor-sharp perfection. Even her tail was armored, with segmented plates running along its length, ending in a deadly spike that could skewer any opponent foolish enough to get too close. The entire ensemble was both practical and imposing, a testament to Tywin Lannister’s meticulous attention to detail and strategic foresight.

Daenerys’s heart sank as she noticed the dragon’s posture. Viserion was not relaxed, nor was she welcoming. Her wings were partially unfurled, the tips trembling with agitation. Her tail lashed against the rocks, sending small pebbles scattering, and her golden eyes were fixed on the approaching ship with a look that could only be described as suspicious. The low, guttural growl that emanated from her throat sent shivers down the spines of everyone aboard.

“She doesn’t look happy to see us,” Missandei observed quietly, her gaze fixed on the armored dragon.

Tyrion, standing beside her, gave a dry chuckle. “No, she doesn’t. But then again, family reunions are rarely pleasant—especially this one.” His eyes scanned the delegation waiting on the shore, his tone turning sardonic. “And speaking of awkward reunions… look who’s decided to personally welcome us.”

Daenerys followed his gaze and spotted Tywin Lannister, unmistakable in his own crimson-and-gold armor, standing at the head of a Lannister delegation. His posture was rigid, his presence commanding even from a distance. His green eyes were fixed on the approaching ship, and though his expression betrayed nothing, there was an air of readiness about him, as if he anticipated a storm.

Beside Tywin stood Jaime Lannister. Behind them, a line of armored soldiers stood at attention, their faces impassive but their weapons ready. The Lannister lion banners fluttered in the wind, a reminder of the power and wealth that Tywin wielded.

Missandei frowned, her voice low. “They come prepared for a fight.”

Tyrion shrugged, though his eyes never left his father. “That’s Tywin for you. Always calculating, always cautious. He doesn’t trust anyone—not even his own blood.”

Daenerys’s jaw tightened, her hands gripping the rail as she watched the scene unfold. “He doesn’t need to trust me,” she said firmly. “He needs to listen.”

Tyrion glanced at her, his expression skeptical. “He’s not exactly known for his willingness to listen. And you’re arriving with dragons and a fleet full of foreign armies. To him, you’re the embodiment of every threat he’s ever prepared for.”

Daenerys’s gaze remained fixed on Viserion, her voice soft but resolute. “Viserion will remember me. She’ll know I’m her queen.”

Tyrion’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I hope you’re right. Because if she doesn’t…” He gestured to the armored dragon. “I don’t think she’s wearing that armor just for show.”

Drogon and Rhaegal let out simultaneous roars, their massive forms circling overhead as they took note of Viserion. But the she-dragon was unmoved. Instead, her growls deepened, and her tail lashed with greater force, sending a clear warning. She lowered her head slightly, her golden eyes narrowing as she tracked the approaching ship.

“She’s agitated,” Missandei murmured, her concern evident. “She doesn’t recognize Drogon or Rhaegal as kin anymore.”

Tyrion sighed, his voice laced with dry humor. “Welcome to Westeros, Your Grace. Home of suspicion, hostility, and deeply complicated family dynamics.”

Daenerys ignored him, her focus entirely on Viserion. Her heart ached at the sight of the dragon, once hers, now clad in the colors of a family that had brought so much pain to her house. But she would not falter. She would remind the dragon—and her sister—of who she was and what they shared.

The ship slowed as it neared the shore, the waves lapping gently against the hull. The Lannister delegation stood their ground, unmoving, their presence a wall of unspoken defiance.

Daenerys’s expression hardened, her resolve burning brighter than ever. This was her moment. The pieces were in place, and now the game would begin.

The flagship docked, the gangplank lowered with a creak. But before Daenerys stepped off, she allowed herself one final glance at Viserion. The dragon’s growl rumbled through the air, low and menacing, and Daenerys knew without a doubt—this was going to be the most dangerous negotiation of her life.

The gangplank creaked underfoot as Daenerys Targaryen descended onto the rocky shores of Dragonstone, her boots striking the ground with deliberate force. Behind her, Missandei, Tyrion Lannister, and a small contingent of her loyal Unsullied followed. The banners of House Targaryen snapped in the sea breeze, though they paled in the presence of the Lannister lion banners adorning the walls of her ancestral home.

The delegation waiting to greet them was as imposing as it was calculated. At the forefront stood Tywin Lannister, clad in polished armor, his keen eyes assessing her every move with an air of cool authority. Beside him was Jaime Lannister, his gilded hand glinting in the sunlight, his expression unreadable but no less intimidating. Around them, rows of Lannister soldiers stood at attention, their faces blank but their weapons gleaming.

Missandei stepped forward, her voice steady and formal. “You stand in the presence of Daenerys Stormborn, of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains.”

The titles echoed across the rocky beach, but Tywin’s expression didn’t change. He remained silent, his eyes fixed on Daenerys as though she were merely another piece in a game he had already mastered.

Tyrion, ever the contrast to his father, stepped forward with a smirk that barely masked his animosity. “Father,” he said, his tone light but edged with sarcasm, “I must say, your hospitality never ceases to amaze. A Lannister welcoming another Targaryen to her own home—it’s almost poetic.”

Tywin’s eyes flicked to Tyrion, his voice low and measured. “Spare me your wit, Tyrion. You are here as a bystander, nothing more.”

Daenerys took a step closer, her eyes blazing as they shifted between Tywin and Jaime. The sight of the two men—one who had orchestrated her family’s downfall, the other who had murdered her father—stirred a fire within her that was hard to suppress. “You,” she said, her voice laced with venom as her gaze locked on Tywin. “The man who betrayed my house, my father. The man who shattered the Targaryen dynasty.”

Tywin met her glare with an unsettling calm, his voice devoid of emotion. “Your father shattered his own dynasty long before I played my part, girl. And as for betrayal—loyalty to a mad king is not a virtue.”

Daenerys’s fists clenched at her sides, but before she could retort, Tyrion stepped between them, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Now, now,” he said, his tone light but insistent. “Let’s not turn this into a battlefield. After all, we’re all connected now, aren’t we? By blood, by bonds. My dear aunt,” he said, gesturing to Daenerys, “and my dear father, united through the jewel of this dynasty: Lady Y/N and her sons.”

Tywin’s expression hardened, though his composure never faltered. “Spare me your theatrics, Tyrion. This is no family reunion.”

Daenerys’s eyes flashed, and she took another step forward, her voice unwavering. “I did not come here to bandy words with a man who has brought ruin to my family. I came to speak with my sister.”

Tywin’s gaze bore into her, his tone as cutting as steel. “Your sister will see you when it is appropriate. Until then, you and your entourage will be escorted inside under heavy guard.”

Daenerys stiffened, her pride bristling at the command. “This is my ancestral home. I will not be treated as a prisoner.”

Tywin’s lip curled faintly, the closest thing to a smile he would allow. “You will be treated with the caution befitting your arrival. You come as a foreign invader, with dragons and armies at your back. If you expected open arms, you have miscalculated.”

Tyrion stepped in again, his voice tinged with urgency. “Perhaps we could all take a moment to remember the bigger picture here. The realm is on the brink of collapse—dragons, wars, winters, and all that. Maybe we shouldn’t start this family meeting with threats.”

Jaime’s voice broke through for the first time, calm but carrying a hint of curiosity. “It’s not every day we see a girl disembark with such confidence. I’d almost forgotten Targaryens had a flair for dramatics, Y/N rarely uses it.”

Daenerys’s glare shifted to Jaime. “And it’s not every day I stand before the man that murdered my father.”

Jaime’s face tightened, but he said nothing. Tywin, however, stepped forward, his presence commanding as he addressed Daenerys directly. “If you wish to speak with your sister, you will do so under my terms. Disregard that, and you will not step inside this keep.”

Daenerys’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded curtly. “Then lead the way.”

Tywin motioned to the soldiers, who formed a protective line around Daenerys and her delegation. Tyrion lingered by her side, his expression thoughtful. “This is off to a fine start,” he muttered, earning a sharp glance from Daenerys.

As they moved toward the castle, Daenerys cast one final glance over her shoulder at Viserion, who watched from her perch with a low growl, her armor glinting in the light. But Daenerys would not back down. Not now. Not ever.

The Great Hall of Dragonstone was bathed in the amber glow of firelight, its ancient stone walls towering and imposing. The carved dragons that adorned the pillars seemed to loom larger in the flickering shadows, their fiery gazes mirroring the dread in the air. Daenerys Targaryen, flanked by Missandei, Tyrion Lannister, and a small contingent of her loyal Unsullied, stepped into the hall with deliberate grace, her eyes scanning the space with equal parts determination and wariness.

At the far end of the room, Varys, the Master of Whisperers, stood near the Painted Table, his hands folded neatly before him. A faint smile played on his lips, his watchful gaze sweeping over Daenerys and her entourage. His expression bordered on amusement, though it was tempered by his usual inscrutability.

Tyrion caught the look and quipped under his breath, loud enough for Varys to hear, “You look far too pleased with yourself, Varys. Have you missed me that much?”

Varys’s lips twitched as he turned his attention to Tyrion. “Always a pleasure to see you, my lord. Though I must admit, I find the situation more fascinating than amusing.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Of course you do. This must be a feast for your endless curiosity.”

Before Varys could respond, Tywin Lannister, standing near the head of the hall, cleared his throat. The sound silenced the murmurs and brought all attention to him. “Enough,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “We have no time for your games, Varys.”

Varys inclined his head slightly, his tone unbothered. “Games, my lord? I merely appreciate the gravity of this moment.” His gaze flicked to Daenerys. “A reunion long overdue, I believe.”

Daenerys’s expression remained impassive, though her posture stiffened slightly. “And where is my sister?” she asked, her voice steady but laced with impatience.

Varys turned back to Tywin, his voice calm. “Ser Barristan Selmy is escorting her here as we speak. She will join us shortly.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though he gave a curt nod. The hall fell into a tense silence as all eyes turned toward the heavy doors at the end of the chamber.

Moments later, the doors creaked open, and the sound of measured footsteps echoed through the hall. You stepped inside, your silver hair catching the firelight as you moved with quiet confidence. At your side, Ser Barristan Selmy walked with his usual air of calm authority, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.

Daenerys’s breath hitched as she saw you for the first time. The woman before her was undeniably Targaryen—silver hair, violet eyes, the unmistakable features of Valyrian descent. But there was something more, something distinctly your own. Your expression held a softness, a quiet warmth that seemed at odds with the guarded look in your eyes.

For a moment, Daenerys could only stare, her thoughts racing. This was the sister she had heard about in whispers, the one Viserys had spoken of with equal parts bitterness and longing. You were older, wiser, shaped by experiences Daenerys could only imagine.

You stopped a few paces from the gathering, your gaze sweeping over Daenerys and her entourage before settling on her. A faint smile touched your lips, though it was tempered by caution. “Daenerys,” you said softly, your voice steady but tinged with emotion. “We finally meet.”

Daenerys took a step forward, her own expression softening. “You’re… different from what I imagined.”

Your smile grew faintly wry. “And what did you imagine?”

“Someone like Viserys,” Daenerys admitted, her voice quiet. “But you’re not.”

Your gaze darkened slightly at the mention of Viserys, though you kept your tone light. “No, I suppose I’m not.”

Tyrion, ever the mediator, stepped forward with a flourish. “Well, this is positively heartwarming. The Targaryen sisters, reunited at last. It’s enough to bring a tear to the eye, isn’t it, Varys?”

Varys arched a brow but said nothing, his gaze shifting between you and Daenerys with quiet interest.

Tywin, however, was less amused. “Enough of this,” he said coldly. He turned his sharp gaze on Daenerys. “You wanted to meet your sister. Now you have. If there is more to discuss, we will do so on terms that serve the realm.”

Daenerys bristled at his tone but forced herself to remain quiet.

You placed a hand on Tywin’s arm, your touch light but firm. “Let us speak, Tywin. There is much to say.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, but he nodded curtly, stepping back to allow the sisters to move closer. You turned your full attention to Daenerys, your expression softening once more.

“Come,” you said gently. “Let’s talk.”

The tension in the Great Hall of Dragonstone grew thicker as the gathered parties settled into place. Daenerys, standing with her delegation, exuded an air of resolve, but the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes was unmistakable. Tywin Lannister sat at the head of the Painted Table, his gaze flicking between the two sisters like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. You sat beside him, your expression calm but unreadable.

Daenerys inhaled deeply before stepping forward, addressing you directly. “I have come here to seek your support, sister. Together, we can reclaim what was stolen from our family. The Iron Throne belongs to House Targaryen.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his disapproval clear. His eyes narrowed as he leaned slightly forward, but he said nothing, allowing you to respond.

You turned your gaze to Daenerys, your voice steady as you asked, “Why?”

Daenerys blinked, slightly taken aback. “Why?” she echoed, as though the question itself was absurd.

“Yes, why?” you pressed, leaning forward slightly. “Why do you want the Iron Throne? What is it that drives you to seek it?”

Daenerys’s posture stiffened, and for a moment, she seemed at a loss for words. She glanced briefly at Tyrion, who remained silent, watching the exchange with a mix of curiosity and caution. Finally, Daenerys straightened her shoulders and replied with conviction, “Because it is my birthright. Our family ruled Westeros for three hundred years. The throne was taken from us by traitors and usurpers. I was born to sit on it.”

You regarded her quietly, the weight of her words hanging in the air. Then, with a calm but firm voice, you replied, “You are mistaken.”

Daenerys frowned, visibly thrown off by your response. “Mistaken? How can I be mistaken? I am one of the last Targaryen born of our father’s line.”

You raised a brow, your tone unyielding. “By that logic, the claim does not belong to you. It belongs to me as the eldest surviving child of Aerys II, or to my sons, who follow me in the line of succession. Even if you pressed your claim further, the lords of Westeros would never accept you as their queen.”

Daenerys’s expression faltered, her lips parting as though to argue, but no words came immediately. Tyrion stepped forward, his tone light but edged with caution. “Siblings arguing about succession—a tale as old as the Iron Throne itself. But perhaps we should focus less on who deserves it and more on why it matters.”

Daenerys shot him a glance but turned her focus back to you, her voice more measured now. “I do not claim to be the heir above you, but you have not pressed your claim. You have allowed the realm to be ruled by Lannisters and usurpers. Do you not see what the Iron Throne represents? It is the heart of Westeros, the seat of power. If we do not reclaim it, who will?”

Your expression remained calm, though a flicker of something—pain, perhaps—crossed your eyes. “And what will you do with it, Daenerys? Will you sit upon that throne surrounded by the ashes of what you burned to claim it? Will you rule a kingdom of fear and fire, as our father tried to do?”

Daenerys bristled, her tone sharp. “I am not our father. I am not the Mad King. I seek to bring peace, justice, and freedom to the realm.”

You leaned back slightly, studying her intently. “Freedom… from what? From whom? You arrive on Westeros’s shores with foreign armies and dragons, demanding allegiance. The lords and smallfolk will see you not as a liberator, but as an invader.”

Daenerys’s voice rose slightly, her frustration evident. “You sound like Tyrion. He warned me of this, but what choice do I have? Should I stand aside while others rule a throne that should be ours?”

Your voice dropped, quiet but cutting. “The Iron Throne is cursed, Daenerys. It has brought ruin to everyone who sought it, everyone who sat upon it. Our father went mad clinging to its power. Our brother Rhaegar lost his life and his family for it. I lost everything to it.”

Daenerys stared at you, her breath catching at the raw emotion in your words. She tried to speak, but you raised a hand to stop her.

“I have spent my life cleaning up the ashes left by our father’s reign,” you continued, your tone heavy with conviction. “I have seen what the pursuit of that throne costs. And I will not see my sons burned for a seat of melted swords.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Even Tyrion seemed at a loss for words, his usual quips silenced by the gravity of the moment.

Daenerys’s voice was quieter now, almost pleading. “Sister, we could change things. Together, we could break the cycle of suffering.”

You regarded her for a long moment, your gaze softening but remaining firm. “Perhaps we can. But not by chasing a throne that has destroyed so many before us.”

Tywin, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, finally spoke, his voice calm but menacing. “This conversation is over for today. You will be escorted to your chambers. We will speak further when the time is right.”

Daenerys hesitated but nodded, her jaw tight as she stepped back. Tyrion placed a hand on her arm, guiding her toward the exit.

As she left the hall, her mind churned with frustration and doubt. The sister she had imagined for so long was not the ally she had hoped for. But Daenerys Targaryen was not one to give up easily.

And neither, it seemed, was her sister.

[vigilskeep]

"House Aeducan traces its ancestry back to the Paragon Aeducan, the greatest warrior in Orzammar's history, who led the dwarven armies against the darkspawn horde during the First Blight and saving the empire from annihilation. Endrin was only the second child of King Ansgar Aeducan but became heir to the throne when he convinced his elder brother to fight in a Proving against a convicted murderer, thus resulting in his brother's death. According to Bhelen, Endrin was responsible for the poison found on the murderer's blade.[2]"

Was looking up dwarf daddy dearest and????

literally every monarch ever in the history of time has been like, thank god i’ve finally killed my murderous treacherous siblings and gotten my father out of the way and taken the throne. nothing can go wrong now. wait what are my heirs doing. what the fuck. how dare they. who could have predicted this

[moongreenlight]

Ptolemaea P. 1- Huntsman!Ghost x Runaway Princess!Reader

CW: BRIEF mentions of animal death, description of gore and violence, noncon implied. No smut yet.

Your kingdom was once powerful, revered by others for its political prowess and strong army, but it does not have the sway it once did. Hordes of wealth dwindled into something unrecognizable. Subjects growing poorer and more restless with only wormy apples and stinking meat and moth-eaten fabrics to barter at the market. War raging to the East, word of civil unrest in the West. Your father was left with few other options than to auction off what little possessions of worth he had left.

He was given four daughters, you, the youngest and the last to be married off. Sold like swine to the highest bidder with no consideration for character or condition.

All your other sisters went gracefully save for a few tearful goodbyes in the privacy of their quarters. Bowed heads pushed together, shaking hands clutching and grabbing at others for stability. Weeping softly for the loss of company, for the fate that awaited them, for the mystery of when you’d be reunited. Four, then three, then two, now one.

You’d been trussed up in your best dresses and jewelry. Made a spectacle of for a few days as suitors came and went from the great hall. Slobbering their way through promises of riches or alliance or armies in an attempt to win your father’s favor.

Their eyes were wild and hungry when they threw spare glances at you. Lecherous smiles showed sharp, clenched teeth. And each offer of an extra five men to an army or hundred gold pieces more than the last brought you closer to being shoved to their chests. A twine-wrapped packet of mutton scraps tossed to a pack of starving dogs.

It was a heavy feeling, sinking ever deeper as each new suitor strutted down the long walk toward you. Peacocking and vying for favor. You imagined it felt like watching the executioner approach the stand while you waited with your head laid on the chopping block.

You’d read your sister’s letters after they left. Poured over every word and learned of their new realities. Their dogs and horses slaughtered, gowns burned, all former possessions seized and thrown to the river to be replaced with tokens of their new kingdoms. Branded over their old marks like cattle in a trade. You noticed that as the weeks and months drew by, the letters became more and more censored. Stopped detailing the further horrors and discomforts they faced at the hands of their husband and opted to regale you with detailed descriptions of their gardens or their plans for children.

The same wretched sickness you felt when you read the letters ate its way into your belly as you watched the funeral procession of suitors and remembered the way your sisters’ neat, loopy writing slowly turned into something rushed and sloppy. You imagined the way it would happen to you.

Perfect cursive lettering that had been learned to you for years by a sour schoolmarm that rapped your knuckles with a ruler when you dawdled during your lessons shoved from your mind to make room for brainwashing. You sat on your hands and dug your nails into your palms until they bent backward to keep your attention away from the scream packing itself into your chest.

You were promised to a king from the South. Some larger country near the capitol that wielded far more power than your kingdom, even at its pinnacle. The new king brought to you from across the channel because of his surliness. You’d heard stories of him whispered among the maids. He was cruel and choleric by all accounts. Not to mention fat and old and ugly and impatient to produce an heir. Made it all but impossible for him to find a bride.

He brought lavish gifts with him to sway the vote. Chestfuls of diamonds and precious stones and gold that his men laid at your father’s feet. Thick furs, expensive perfumes, and silks in colors you’d only ever heard of for your mother. A new dress in his kingdom’s colors for you.

You were escorted from the room by your father’s guard when he began negotiating a deal with the new king. You’d tried to sink your slippers into the stone, tried to kick and scream your desperation for your father to reconsider. But you were thrown from the room. Dragged out under the armpits by knights whose armor shone so brightly you were able to see your teary, crumpled form on the floor reflected in their chest plates before the heavy door was snapped shut on your nose.

You heard your maids and the castle guards whispering after the new king left. Saw your mother gracefully swipe away a single tear after dinner when she kissed you goodnight. The new king’s guard would be by early the next morning to snatch you up. The narrative you knew to be true only confirmed further by gossip. Two or three days of showboating, a decision made, negotiations, and then the next sunrise another sister is plucked up.

So you waited until darkness was cast over the castle. Until you were certain your maids and the guards at your door had gone to their own quarters for a few hours rest. You made your escape barefoot and in your thin nightdress. Stole one of your mother’s new fur cloaks to help protect yourself from the bitter cold that had settled over the land. Padded down the winding halls and staircases until you were able to slip through the grand double doors of the front. Evaded the indolent guards that were no doubt sneaking a smoke or a nap in the garden and moved quickly down the path to the stables. Tacked your horse with a knight’s saddle and took off into the night.

It took no more than four hours for the castle to know of your absence. Your maid had gone to wake you up in the wee hours of the morning, pack a bag before you were picked up by your new husband, and all but flew to your father’s quarters to alert him of your empty bed. It wasn’t half six before both your father’s and the new king’s men were set out on the land in search of you. Horses and hounds kicking frost off the lawn as the sun rose.

You managed three days without capture. Traveled through the skirts of the forest. Slept for a few hours at a time huddled close to the belly of your horse wrapped in your fur cloak. Ventured into small villages and cities to see if you couldn’t convince a vendor to spare you a cup of soup or a stale loaf of bread. Heard snippets of the news of the nearest kingdom who’d lost their last princess and tucked your chin close to your chest on your ride out.

The deep woods were unforgiving. Thin, winding paths that connected kingdoms littered with wolves and marauders and hunters. It was safer to stick to the edges where trees were younger and light could still filter in. Moving West as long as you could with no real plan as to what the permanence of your situation could look like. Maybe find a city far enough away from your kingdom to settle. It was a half-cooked idea from the beginning, you knew that. Born out of fear and anxiety and bull-headedness. Freedom without direction was better than being forced into the arms of a man that would sooner cage you like an animal than see you leave.

So you followed the wood and the few slow-flowing creeks that were not dammed by slush or ice. Kept your head on a swivel and your guard up. Anyone you ran into was presumed foe, so you set a punishing pace to minimize the chance of an encounter.

–

It was an act of desperation when your father called on a huntsman. Needy for the power trade tied to the contract of your marriage and looking to stop the simmering of his people under him from boiling over. His guards had returned in couples every few hours to give him bad news. They’d sent ravens to ally cities asking them to look for you and still they’ve come up empty.

Ghost refused to meet with your father or the new king directly. Sent a tawny hawk with a scroll tied to its leg that detailed the conditions of his employment. Your father promised anything for the return of his youngest princess. The new king offered obscene riches and painted whores. And privately, in a post script penned in tiny font on the back of the scroll, he promised an opportunity for Ghost to lay with you after you’d produced an heir.

Ghost sent his hawk back a few hours later. His letter was short, only responding to your father like he couldn’t be arsed with the superficial promises of the new king. He requests ten gold pieces, some of your perfume, and a cutting of fabric from one of your dirtied gowns.

–

It’s the eve of your fourth day out before you run into trouble. Great plumes of thick black smoke alert you to either a brush fire or a village close off your side and it drives you further into the forest. You move slowly through the dusk, even slower as the light stops being able to filter through the dense leaves and branches. The ground is lost to darkness, and you’d already made the mistake of trying to stumble your way over the uneven terrain barefoot, so you opt to stay on your horse’s back until you find a clearing to settle in.

In the blanketed silence of the wood, it was easy to remember how alone you were. How defenseless. You cursed yourself every night for not swiping a kitchen knife or a hunting blade so that you had some security. Not that either would have done you much good, but it would have served to give you some peace of mind.

You were torn from your thoughts when you heard heavy footfalls in a thicket a few yards in front of you. Snapping of felled branches, two low voices carried to you on a breath of wind. You stopped your horse and tried to lay down close to its back, tuck your head in behind its big neck. You held your breath as the voices grew closer, tried to will your shivering muscles to still. But your horse is a massive beast; stark white and practically spotlighted by the faint light of the moon. It did nothing to hide you.

You weren’t sure if the men were poachers or thieves or member’s of the guard patrolling the area for you. It really didn’t matter because everything happened so fast. There was the distinctive thwack of an arrow burying itself in the tree just next to you. Bark exploded out like a bomb, grazing your cheek and spooking your horse. Somewhere in the chaos of the shouting of the men, and the hurried sounds of boots trampling crisp leaves and your lame sounding yelp of surprise, you were thrown from your horse. Sent crashing to the ground and landing so hard on your back that it knocked the wind out of you and left your vision spotted.

You would have cried out if you had any air left in your lungs. Your chest was burning. Legs weak and awkward from hours on hours of riding. All you could do was scramble back. Bury your fingers deep as you could into the semi-frozen earth and try to drag yourself away. Gasping for air, blinking away the flashes and pops of darkness that camouflaged your assailants.

You hit something hard, knocked your head on it in your rush and nearly went unconscious. It made your ears ring, adding yet another layer of distortion to your senses. A tree, probably. Or a boulder. You recoiled, pulling your knees to your chest and trying to make yourself small under the mass. Tried to make out where the footsteps and the muffled shouting were coming from. Your shaking hands felt clumsily along the ground, looking for anything you could use to defend yourself. A rock, a stick, a hard clump of mud.

There was a flurry of movement from a few yards in front of you, specifics of limbs or bodies lost to the inky darkness. And then your hands found something large and warm. Disturbingly so. Maybe a rodent or a stray animal caught in the crossfire. It takes two hands to lift the thing. You bring it closer to see if swinging the carcass of what could have been a hefty pest would provide you any defense.

Not an opossum or a raccoon struck down by an arrow. Not quite. It’s the head of a man. His face stuck eternally in a look of putrid shock. Mouth gaped wide, eyes bugging out, eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He’s got a decent stump of what used to be his neck. Hot blood trailed down your wrists and arms and dripped onto your nightdress.

Someone was screaming. A tortured, twisted sound coming more and more clearly to you as you caught your bearings. The kind of mangled cry that tore its way up out of someone’s throat so ferociously that you were sure you could feel it in your own chest as well. The kind of scream that left your tongue bitter and filmed with iron.

You’re not sure where it’s coming from, but it’s loud. Almost deafeningly so. You wish it would stop. Wish whoever was making such a spectacle would realize the severity of the situation and pull themselves together for a moment so you could think. Maybe you’d find them and work together to get out of this mess. Get away from the forest and find your horse and get back on your path.

You think that maybe it’s the head still clutched in your hands. You remember a cook telling you stories when you were young about how the chickens from the farmers used to be able to run around for nearly eight minutes after they’d been decapitated. You wondered if their heads still squawked after they were severed. You wondered if humans operated the same way. If this poor man’s body was stumbling around meters away in search of his head.

A big hand clamps over your jaw. Forced your mouth shut with such punch that your teeth clack together. You taste blood and you’re not sure if you’ve taken off the tip of your tongue. The screaming stops. It takes you a long moment to piece the situation together. Sat there huddled in on yourself, still gripping at the head and letting the thick blood dripping from its- his- neck sludge down your shins and pool at your feet.

You almost forget about the hand shutting your maw in your daze. Muzzling you with the bitter taste of iron and leather and the vice grip of a bear trap. You’d almost returned to your mind. Remembered that this was not a friendly situation and the body attached to the hand was likely not of pure intention. But you were jerked up by the scruff of your neck. Another strong hand fisting a good portion of the hair at your nape in the process. It lifted you clear off the ground, left your feet dangling inches above the earth. Shocked you enough to get you to let the head tumble out of your hands and back to the ground from where it had come.

You tried to cry out, but your voice was shot. Shredded by the dryness of your throat or the screaming or pure exhaustion. You clawed at the hands, but they were wrapped in thick leather gloves that branched up the arms of your captor. Tried to kick out, but they were wearing thick armor that deflected the force of your blow straight back up into your leg.

You yowled as best you could from under the thick covering. Clawed and grabbed at the air feebly until you were shook by the neck like a rag-doll.

“You’ll quiet or I’ll cut out your tongue and quiet you myself.”

[imagine-darksiders]

Finally finishing up Eden's Heir chapter 4 and I'm falling in love with these two idiots all over again.

“You wanna take the big one?” he calls to War.

Grunting in affirmation, the larger Horseman readies his stance, rolling his shoulders and huffing, “Gladly. It seems more fitting.”

“Why?” Strife quips, sending a sly grin at his brother over the top of your head, “Cause he’s mean and ugly?”

Curling his lip, War snarls at the smaller demons when they begin to rush forwards as one shrieking horde, ushered by the bellow of their master. “Yes, and you can take the imps,” he retorts, raising his voice as he breaks into a slow, forward charge, building momentum with each, pounding footstep, “They’re loud and bothersome!”

[mpreg98]

The Orc King's Consort

Elyndor’s breath hitched as he was pulled roughly through the Orc encampment, wrists bound, captured as a prize from the recent battle between the Elves and Orcs over the valley. His sharp ears caught sneers and jeers, and the sound of orcish laughter echoed as they dragged him to the heart of the camp—to the warlord himself, Gor’thak.

The towering Orc king, clad in dark iron, looked down at Elyndor with a gaze that bore both power and curiosity. Though Elyndor held his head high, refusing to show fear, the warlord’s smirk unnerved him. Gor'thak claimed Elyndor as his prize that night, forcing the proud Elf into submission, marking him as his own. For days, Elyndor resisted, his elven pride clashing against the orcish warlord’s brutal strength. But slowly, he began to see a fierce honor behind Gor'thak's rough exterior, and a strange respect grew between them.

Over the weeks, what began as forced servitude softened. In the silence between battles and beneath the stars, Gor’thak and Elyndor found something more profound than captor and captive—a kinship, perhaps even love. The Elf’s defiance gave way to trust, and Gor'thak's dominance softened into something almost tender. Soon, they became inseparable, the Orc king with his noble, beautiful companion, and Elyndor with his powerful protector.

One morning, Elyndor felt a strange change within himself, a warmth and weight that was unfamiliar. It wasn’t long before he realized the truth: he was carrying Gor'thak’s heir, a life born of their unexpected bond. With a sense of pride and newfound purpose, Elyndor stood beside Gor'thak, ready to bring their child into the world and to support his king in the conquest of the valley.

With Elyndor’s knowledge of elven strategy and Gor'thak’s unyielding strength, they led the Orc horde into battle, claiming lands in both their names. The valley began to tremble beneath their shared power—a king and his elven consort, unstoppable, bound by loyalty, and destined to rule together.

[peachdies]

The Wind and His Moon (Sanemi x Reader)

A/N: hello! Part 1 of an ongoing story I wanted to write as I procrastinate studying for the Bar. I posted an earlier Drabble of something from later in this series, but I wanted to get the beginning out now.

Sanemi is drawn to the reader from the start.

Massive CW: canon typical violence, graphic violence, gore, child death, and implied sexual assault. Swearing and later smut. MDNI.

➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖

Sanemi was there that day; the day she became part of the Corps.

The day her world had ended.

It had been fucking freezing that morning. The sky had been a muted gray as snow drifted down from the heavens in wet, fat flakes. The snow had started sometime the previous night, already having blanketed the village in its thick blanket.

The carnage, however, was fresh, and so the snow was not white.

It had only been an hour since the watery gray light of dawn had begun to bleed from the east, when his crow had swooped down over his head, tugging frantically at his hair. Rengoku ducked as his own crow collided with his head.

“Northeast! Northeast! Right at the base of the mountain! A horde of demons attacked the village!” They had cried.

Not just one. A horde. A horde of demons had descended upon a decently populated merchant village and had torn it and its people to shreds.

As he and Rengoku had furiously made their way towards the village (having learned that Tengen and Iguro were also en route), the crows screeched as much information as they could about the village and what had prompted the attack.

It had been her.

Or rather, her family.

The head of the village was a merchant known for his imports from the West; his success had meant the village was a success, with many small shops and tea houses lining the streets, always crowded with locals and tourists.

Demons have no use for money or exotic baubles; but Muzan Kibutsuji had a keen interest in obliterating Lunar Breathing from the world. And so he had.

The very same merchant whose business success had bolstered the local economy with his imports was also directly connected to the Clan that had created Lunar Breathing, the powerful, dark twin to Sun breathing. The merchant was the youngest and only living relative of the aging head of the Lunar Clan. The head of the Clan had never taken a wife after he had retired from life as a Pillar for the Corp some fifty years prior and had no heirs to continue on the family legacy. That burden, instead, was placed on the surviving eldest child of the Merchant in the village that the Flame and Wind Pillars now rushed to.

There had been an elder son, the crow panted, but he had passed a few years prior from illness. And so, the next surviving eldest had been tasked with the mission of becoming a demon slayer so that she could continue on the Lunar Breathing tradition. Her.

The crows did not know whether she had been present for the attack. Final Selection had only ended a few days prior, and it was entirely possible that she had either been killed on the Mountain, or was still making her way back to the village, unaware that no one would be there to greet her home.

The village had been eerily silent as Sanemi and Rengoku arrived. Dawn had given way to a dark gray sky, and visibility had not been ideal.

But it hadn’t taken much effort to see the blood and gore that littered the village’s once lively streets.

“What on earth,” Tengen’s voice broke the silence, as he and Iguro approached their comrades from the Eastern gate of the village. Behind them trailed a group of nearly thirty Kakushi. The Hashira silently took in the nightmare around them, unable to find the words for the level of destruction which had befallen the village just hours before.

“Kakushi. Spread out. Look for any survivors. They may be buried or hiding.” Rengoku’s voice was steady but uncharacteristically grave, his face stony and hard.

“Shinuzagawa, let’s make our way to the Lunar Merchant’s estate. We need to send word to the Clan head right away if-“

“You didn’t hear?” Iguro interjected, “the head of the Lunar House is dead.” Though the lower half of his face was covered, the anguish on Iguro’s face was evident. “That’s where Tengen and I just came from. He was ripped to shreds.”

“Fuck,” Sanemi hissed, a toxic mixture of anger, guilt, and despair roiling in his gut. An entire clan — and entire village— had been decimated in a matter of hours, and no one — they — had not been able to protect them.

“Have we word on the Lunar heir?” Rengoku asked quietly. Iguro and Tengen shook their heads. “Then she likely is lost, too.” The Flame Pillar turned back to Sanemi, his face a mirror of his own. “Let’s go.”

The snow and wind had picked up just as the Wind and Flame Pillars approached the Lunar Merchant’s Manor, obscuring some of the wreckage before them. Out of the corner of his eye, Sanemi thought he could see movement from the side of the Estate, but when he turned to examine it, all was still.

Before he could inquire further, Rengoku drew in a sharp breath, snapping Sanemi’s attention back to the Flame Pillar. But Rengoku was not looking at him; rather, he was staring straight ahead into the courtyard of the manor.

“Dear god,” Rengoku whispered.

Sanemi followed his gaze, through what had been once-proud iron gates, though only one side of the gate remained hinged. The other had been ripped from its stone setting, twisted by some unfathomable strength and thrown carelessly to the side. Just past the gate, Sanemi beheld a single, bloodied arm. But his stomach clenched at what lay beyond it.

There was not an inch of ground not covered in blood and bits of gore.

Body parts were strewn about, having clearly been ravaged by multiple demons. Broken glass and wood from the manor littered the ground, and the walls that were left standing had been showered in a thick coat of blood.

Most sickening were the pieces of bodies that were stuck to the sloped roofing of the Manor, as though some demon had plucked fleeing humans from the yard and feasted on them mid-air, allowing a shower of human entrails to paint the estate in gore.

A group of ten Kakushi had arrived at the Manor, gasping and crying out at the horror. Behind him, Sanemi heard one or two begin to retch, unable to stomach the carnage before them.

“Move!” Sanemi barked, his voice scratchy over the lump forming in his throat. “Fucking look for survivors! Anyone!”

Rengoku, a few paces ahead, called up to the crows circling over head. “Do you have a description of the heir?”

“She is around 16, Lord Rengoku!” It cawed back. Not helpful, given that most of the bodies here were unrecognizable.

Rengoku turned back to Sanemi. “I will check inside the house. You!” Rengoku called to a small group of three Kakushi nearby, “come with me!”

Sanemi continued to make his way through the debris and body parts outside, lifting stone and wood in hope that he might find someone — anyone — who had managed to hide.

He came across a large chunk of curved, chiseled stone that had become half-embedded into the soft ground below. Grunting, Sanemi heaved the rock aside, thinking it was perhaps some part of a fountain or statue.

But when he beheld what lay beneath, Sanemi’s stomach lurched. Crushed beneath the weight of the rock was the small body of a child, severed completely at the torso. Her two halves lay next to one another, a ragged seam torn between the two as though she had been pulled apart by force.

Sanemi felt the bile rise in his throat as his gaze fell upon the child’s face, utterly frozen in fear. Though death had snuffed any life that had once illuminated her eyes, it had not concealed the terror she had felt in her last moments, her mouth fixed in a scream.

She could not yet have been ten.

He could not help it. Sanemi turned away from the grisly sight and vomited into the snow, every inch of him trembling.

Sanemi wretched until his stomach was empty, and his throat burned from the acid and strain of his dry-heaving. With great effort, he forced his legs to carry him forward, any hope that they would find the Lunar Heir or any survivor growing dimmer by the second.

Even as Hashira, Sanemi doubted any of them had quite seen wreckage like this.

Sanemi neared the center of the courtyard, and halted before a large, circular stone inset that had been smashed to gravel. A large piece of rounded stone wall was all that remained standing.

Found the fountain, Sanemi thought bitterly. Another sharp, icy gust of wind whipped its way through the courtyard, disturbing the little bit of snow that wasn’t packed down with blood and gore. But the wind had also stirred up something else, something dark and wispy. Had the Wind Pillar’s lilac gaze been focused anywhere but that piece of stone fountain, he would have missed it softly fluttering up before disappearing beneath the lip of the fountain.

Sanemi moved to examine the other side of the broken stone. As he did so, Rengoku reappeared on the outer steps of the of the engawa surrounding the Manor, a frown etched deeply on his face.

“Shinazugawa, something is off. Demons were clearly here, but the house looks like it was ransacked— jewels, silks, valuables, all strewn about. Some things are clearly missing, like-“

“I found her.” Sanemi bit out, gruffly. “The heir.”

It was her hair, Sanemi realized, that had been disturbed by the wind, a few strands having drifted up before settling back down upon the bloodied shoulder of the lifeless girl collapsed before the fountain.

Had there not been a thick spread of red-stained snow and earth beneath her, Sanemi almost would have thought her to be asleep. Her face had been almost devoid of any injury, save for a few fresh scratches along her jaw and temple. Her eyes were closed, long dark lashes tickling a soft, and unblemished cheek, as pale and smooth as the Moon. Her expression was almost serene, in stark contrast to the chaos and horror around her.

The rest of her had not been left untouched. Sanemi noted that while she appeared to have maintained her limbs, her back was soaked in blood — no doubt the source of the large stain beneath her, and he saw that some of it still oozing from some sort of wound between her shoulders. Her the wrist on her left arm, stretched out before her, was bent at an unnatural angle, skin mottled from a mixture of the cold and an attempt to bruise before her blood had ceased flowing.

Beneath the torn and bloodied haori around her shoulders, were a pair of pants and a fitted, long sleeved top that had clearly seen better days. They hosted various tears and stains, and were caked in blood and what looked like mud.

The crows had said the Lunar Heir was around 16 years of age, but as Sanemi stared at her lifeless form, all he could think about was how small she looked; how young she had been, when she lost her life to the brutality of demons.

The thought made his blood run cold.

“No doubt this is her,” Rengoku said heavily, nodding at wounds Sanemi had not noticed on her hands. Squinting, Sanemi saw bruises and cuts in various stages of healing dotting her knuckles and fingers. He suspected more lay beneath her soiled clothing, though Sanemi ventured he could guess where they had come from.

“Final selection wounds,” Rengoku confirmed. “She must have just returned from the mountain when the attack began. Perhaps she even stumbled into the middle of it.” Rengoku shook his head. “She didn’t stand a chance.”

It was well known that even if one survived final selection, it was unlikely they would descend the mountain without injury. Seven nights with no access to shelter, food, or water was tough enough, but the added danger of starving demons almost guaranteed that one would not emerge unscathed.

She must have been injured, enough to slow her return home by a few days. Even if she had the skill to hold her own against the swarm of demons that had attacked her village, whatever injuries she sustained during final selection had likely sealed her fate.

Sanemi swore, looking over the last of the Lunar Breathing Clan, feeling the acrid bite of guilt and pity seep into his veins. The poor girl had survived the controlled horrors of final selection only to meet an even more grisly end at her home — where she was supposed to be safe. It was cruel, but so was a world in which demons lived, unchecked.

“She will get a Slayer’s burial, in the Master’s garden.” Rengoku declared firmly, raising his voice so the nearby Kakushi would hear. “She passed final selection; she’s one of us.”

“No,” Sanemi said, voice hoarse. “Bury her here with her family.” Sanemi’s eyes returned to the girl’s face, an inexplicable bitterness coating his tongue. “She fought to return to them; let her be with them.”

Sanemi lifted his eyes back up to the crimson gaze of the Fire Pillar. Rengoku stared at him for a long moment, before nodding, turning back to the Kakushi. “You heard Shinazugawa. Let’s give them a proper burial.”

The Kakushi began to move, thorough and efficient even among the horror around them. Sanemi readied himself to assist, moving to stand when his eyes snagged on the girl’s torso, his gaze drawn to the sizeable swath of smooth skin that was exposed to the icy bite of the snow. Sanemi’s frown deepened as he took note of the odd way that her clothes sat around her exposed abdomen. The girl was half laid on her side, but the front of her shirt had been bunched and twisted together, like it had been gathered and shoved out of the way. Sanemi’s eyes lowered a fraction to the front of the girl’s pants. At first glance, they seemed to be fitted around her hips normally, but that was precisely what caught his eye. The waistband on the girl’s pants slotted across her lower hips, not higher up on her waist as it should have been. One side was noticeably lower than the other, almost as though they had nearly been tugged off.

Almost as if-

Sanemi felt the hairs on his body rise. Looking over the girl once more, he noticed the suspicious lack of claw marks and bite marks to her body. The way that she seemed intact, compared to the bodies of her friends and family scattered in pieces around her.

The way that her blood seemed even more fresh than what caked the snow around them, as though she had been attacked right before they had arrived to the manor.

“Rengoku,” Sanemi said sharply. The Flame Hashira was back over to where the girl laid in an instant, though he maintained a respectful distance.

Sanemi jutted his chin toward the girl’s body and Rengoku followed his gaze. Sanemi could see the gears turning in his comrade’s head, as he too took note of the odd skew of her clothes, the lack of demon-like injuries despite her having stumbled onto a veritable feast on her family.

“How many demons do you know that try to-,” Sanemi ground his teeth at the word that came to mind, his blood beginning to boil and rage. “Have their way with victims before eating them?”

“Not many,” Rengoku conceded darkly, a similar anger simmering in his eyes. “Though not unheard of. It is… rare. Most can’t resist their hunger.” Rengoku fell silent, thinking for a moment.

“Didn’t you say the house had looked ransacked?” Sanemi turned his gaze away from the girl and towards the broken doors of the manor.

Rengoku’s eyes widened. “Yes. As if someone came in and grabbed anything they could.”

Sanemi nodded. “Bandits. Probably heard about the attack and got excited to loot. Found a body that wasn’t completely torn apart by demons and tried to take advantage.” Rather than bile, Sanemi felt anger, hot and lethal, threatening to spill out of him. He loathed men who sought to abuse women, but a girl who had just been attacked by a demon? There was no mercy he could give them.

Rengoku exhaled sharply through his nose, a weariness clouding over his features. “Though I don’t suppose we can really know for sure. There isn’t enough left of anyone else to compare.”

Rengoku clasped his hands in front of himself, and closed his eyes. Sanemi heard him mutter a small prayer for the girl’s soul, one that he had heard from Himejima.

“Whatever happened to her, she’s gone now. Let us ensure she can rest.” And with that, Rengoku turned to head back to where the Kakushi had begun digging graves for the deceased.

Sanemi watched the spot where the girl’s body had lain long after a pair of Kakushi had gently removed her to ready her for her burial. Sanemi watched with hollow eyes and a hollow heart as the Kakushi — female — tenderly brushed the girl’s hair from her face and straightened her haori. They crossed her arms over her middle and lifted her gingerly, carrying her over to join her family’s remains.

Hers was the last of the graves to be prepared. The Kakushi were just beginning to pack the mud and snow over her body, when one of them collapsed from exhaustion both physical and mental. The group had resolved to take a small water break before finishing, and neither Shinazugawa not Rengoku had objected.

After all, digging eighteen graves was no easy task.

Both Hashira had assisted, and their combined strength and stamina had streamlined the task considerably. While Kakushi rested, Rengoku had gone to the front gates to update Tengen and Iguro, who had been dealing with the wreckage within the village. Reinforcements of both Kakushi and lower rank slayers had been called in to assist with the clean up and burial.

In total, over sixty-three graves had been dug.

And not a single survivor had been found.

It was a heavy day — perhaps one of the darkest in the Corp’s history, and its crowning poisoned jewel was the eradication of one of the oldest breathing styles.

The news that there was one less defense against the demons was not a welcome one.

Sanemi had gone to the other side of the courtyard, away from the voices and graves and rising stink of death. Out of sight from any prying eyes, he found a tree and shoved his fist through it, clear to the other side. Pieces of bark and wood flew and splinters bit into the skin around his knuckles and palm. Sanemi could not find it in himself to care; he sought only to break through the silent numbness threatening to consume him.

Because he had taken refuge on the other side of the courtyard, away from the new gravesite, Sanemi did not see the hand and arm that shoved through the pile of earth resting atop the last grave. He did not see clawed fingers sinking into the mud and snow, desperately seeking purchase as the body attached to the arm hauled itself — herself — from beneath the earth, the remnants of her grave skittering to the side as she heaved her body out.

Sanemi did hear the terrified shriek of the Kakushi, and immediately drew his sword. In the distance, he could see Rengoku racing towards them, hand on the hilt of his blade.

Sanemi came into view of the gravesite right as the girl spilled out from the hole in the ground, using her bare hands to pull herself forward as the rest of her body remained limp.

Sanemi Shinazugawa was not a pious man; in fact, he frequently ignored Himejima’s prayers. If there were any gods out there, then Sanemi wanted nothing to do with them. They chose to let chaos and devastation run rampant. They chose to let demons exists.

But hell had apparently frozen over, and Sanemi found himself offering a prayer for the girl’s forgiveness as he prepared to behead her demonized form. He hoped she would understand; after all, she had joined the Corps intending to rid of the world of demons.

It was what he hoped one his his fellow Hashira would do for him, if he ever found himself in that situation.

As Sanemi cocked his blade, ready to strike the crawling demon from behind, Rengoku cried out.

“Shinazugawa, NO!”

Sanemi stuttered, his arm in mid-swing as he neared the demon’s neck. A flash of violet and white shot towards him, and a piercing shriek of metal tore through the sky as Tengen’s blade parried Sanemi’s, the force of the clash knocking him out of the air. A frustrated grunt tore from his chest, and with great effort, Sanemi twisted mid-air to avoid falling flat on his ass, managing just in time to swiftly land on the balls of his feet.

“What the fuck,-“ Sanemi had begun to growl, but his voice faltered at the look on the Flame Hashira’s face as he gawked at the girl sprawled on the ground.

In that moment, Sanemi’s sharp ears picked up on the weak heart beating rapidly and unevenly below him. At the same time, he caught a whiff of fresh blood, rising from the dark stain on the girl’s back. No doubt the product of a re-opened wound.

Ears ringing, Sanemi stalked around to where Rengoku and Tengen both stared unabashedly at the sight below them. Only when he was face to face with her did Sanemi finally understand what had caused Rengoku to desperately move to stop Sanemi sword from hitting its mark.

The three Hashira were not looking at a newly turned and bloodthirsty demon, but at a sweaty, pale, and trembling girl. The girl whose death they had feared doomed the Lunar Pillar House had just clawed her way out from her grave with nothing but her hands and sheer will.

She had not been dead, after all.

Slowly, so slowly, her eyes lifted to glare up at the person standing directly before her. Though she clearly strained to raise her head more than half an inch, her silver eyes met Sanemi’s lilac ones, and goosebumps erupted all over his skin as he beheld what lay within them.

Defiance. Pain. Rage.

So, so much rage, relentless and raw.

And so, so human.

She reached another trembling hand out before her to further drag herself away from her tomb. A thin sheen of sweat coated her pallid skin, and fresh blood was beginning to stain the snow beneath her.

She was panting, clearly fighting every urge in her body to give in, to let death beckon her back into its sweet embrace.

“I-I’m not d-dead!” She grit out in between shallow, uneven breaths, her jaw clenched so tightly that Sanemi wondered how her teeth didn’t crumble.

The three Hashira remained dumb and silent for half a heartbeat before-

“WHAT ARE YOU ALL STANDING THERE FOR? HELP HER!” Tengen bellowed, startling birds in nearby trees into flight.

The Kakushi sputtered into action, several of them moving to assist the girl, to help her when she exploded.

“DON’T TOUCH ME.” She screamed, eyes screwed shut and head bowed defensively over her hands as she clenched her fists into the earth. When she finally opened her eyes again, her gaze clashed with Sanemi, and his heart tightened as he recognized the emotion threatening to overcome her.

Fear.

Whatever this girl had experienced over the last few hours had overtaken all other senses. She had no logic, no ability to rationalize that she was among other humans, among comrades. Instead, all that drove her now was the primal instinct to survive.

And to her, they were another threat.

The girl continued to try and crawl away from them, but her movements became even more shaky, more uneven as the blood loss combined with her physical exhaustion. Rengoku caught both Sanemi’s and Tengen’s eyes, waiting to confirm their next move. All nodded, and Sanemi, having the advantage of being in the girl’s blind spot, struck the pressure point on the girl’s neck with his his hand.

She collapsed against the ground, unconscious and still. Gingerly, Sanemi lifted her into his arms, mindful of the open wound on her back, and of her head.

Once she was secured, the Hashira began their frantic sprint towards the Butterfly Mansion.

➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖➖

[coralearei]

The Touch Of Death - Honkai Star Rail - Castorice x Reader - Based on Leaks

gn! reader - huge possibility that this is ooc, I don't know much about the Amphoreus characters yet, as you can see I have a soft spot for purple women

Castorice, who brings death to everything she touches. As her fingers skim any trace of life, it withers away, writhing in its last moments. She knows full well that whatever being is under her fingertips has always been aging, of course; her touch only makes it age faster. Many plants and animals have suffered this fate, and so have a few humans, though not by intention. The human population of Amphoreus is quickly dwindling due to the current state of apocalypse, after all, and Castorice wouldn’t want to make it any worse.

Castorice, who knows from the start that it’s safer not to talk to you. She’s on official business, standing by Aglaea’s side when she sees you for the first time. You are an outsider, that much is obvious. You are not from Amphoreus, and because of that, you are not to be trusted under any circumstances, as much as you seem to draw everyone around you in, and as much as you’ve charmed the locals, which unfortunately includes some of the other Chrysos Heirs.

Castorice, who abhors how much Aglaea trusts you. The Dressmaster starts to become a regular member of your combat party, fighting recklessly with someone she starts to refer to as “the foreigner.” In secret, Castorice relishes the sound of your name, her eyes widening in excitement as she sees it written in the language of Amphoreus.

Castorice, who sees you a few weeks later in Marmoreal Market with your other outsider friend, the stoic one with the scaly, green-and-white jacket. He has presented himself as a decent person, at the very least, but he’s rather… dreary in comparison to you. You look quite cute playing with a Chimera that’s just come up to you. A thought buds itself into Castorice’s mind— she wishes she were the Chimera, shamelessly nuzzling into your boot.

Castorice, who is infuriated the moment you leave Okhema. She reprimands herself for this particular fit of rage, knowing that you’re not supposed to stay in the holy city forever, and vows to act as your shadow while you’re gone. While you sleep, she inches her hand closer to you, careful not to get too close— you can’t be a hero if you’re dead. Still, she revels in unknown moments like these. They are the closest she’ll get to being near you, but they still remain in obscurity. The only thing you notice is something that vaguely resembles the silhouette of a smoky indigo dragon.

Castorice, who spots you at the Marmoreal Palace— presumably, it’s your first time, given your adorable yelps as you try to soak in the water, seemingly too hot for you. A few people have noticed her nearly gawking at you by now, and she makes an exaggerated turn before stomping away to the section of the bathhouse reserved for Chrysos Heirs, letting a wave of embarrassment sink in. At the very least, you haven’t noticed.

Castorice, who listens to Mydei recount his tall tales of combat in the reserved bath. You’re in the story he’s telling, fearlessly swinging your baseball bat through hordes of Titankin before Mydei delivers his glorious finishing blow. 

Castorice, who hears you everywhere. Not only your voice, but the voices of others praising you. She hates how close everyone around her is to you… why can’t she be the same?

Castorice, who laments how distant you are, and how far you will always remain from her.

[lovedreamer11]

About how Rhaenyra remained recorded in historical chronicles as a princess after her death

How else? This is Westeros, guys. A patriarchal and at times misogynistic society in which a woman's purpose is to bear heirs and be submissive to her husband.

Read about how the chronicles write about women who differed from the norm of the Seven Kingdoms and Essos.

Rhaenys and Visenya. Both were queens, both fought in battle, both sat on the Iron Throne and ruled in Aegon's absence. Visenya wounded Aegon with her sword. How many women in Westeros could, in the presence of witnesses, draw a sword from its scabbard, attack their husband and challenge his opinion? And that's how it all ended. Rumors were spread about Rhaenys that she allegedly cheated on her husband, and her only son was a bastard. Visenya was allegedly a dark witch and was involved in the death of her husband.

During the reign of Meria Martell, Dorne did not fall to the dragons. Yes, Dorne turned into a desert during the war with the Targaryens, but centuries later, the Dornish are proud of their origins, proud that they remained rebellious, proud that their ancestors were able to kill one of the Conquerors' dragons. But nevertheless, in historical chronicles they write about Meria as a liar and a coward, and her enemies spread rumors that the princess had intercourse with a stallion.

As a teenager, Rhaena Targaryen was not as outgoing and charming as her sister Alysanne. She loved to fly on a dragon wherever she wanted, and did not hide her affection for her ladies-in-waiting. While on tour with her parents and brothers, Rhaena didn't want to waste her time cozying up to a horde of strange lords. As a result, she was not popular and people began to spread rumors that the princess had lost her virginity to a commoner, which was not true.

Daenerys began to conquer Essos and abolish slavery, and remember how many vile lies people told Quentyn Martell about her.

And Rhaenyra? She was to be the first woman to be a full queen rather than a consort. They began to slander her from the very moment it became clear that Viserys would not make Aegon his heir.

Alicent began to spread rumors about twelve or thirteen year old Rhaenyra's affair with Criston, and she also disputed the parentage of Rhaenyra's eldest sons, and her green supporters eagerly supported her. Eustace constantly talked about how Rhaenyra had become a fat ugly creature that no one wanted, and she, dressed in armor, was allegedly cut by the Iron Throne. Mushroom shared his depraved fantasies about Rhaenyra with those around him. Have you noticed that when Mushroom said something unpleasant about Aegon the Usurper, people remind him that Mushroom was a court jester and you shouldn’t believe everything he said, but nevertheless all his stories about Rhaenyra were supposedly “the pure truth” .

If you want to know my point of view, Aegon the Usurper could live a long life, eat babies, turn the castle into a brothel, sacrifice virgins, but people would still remember him as a king because he was a man. I'm sure that even if Rhaenyra had come to the throne peacefully and her reign had been successful, there would still be people arguing that Rhaenyra should not have been queen and that she stole the throne from her younger brother.