#sapphire clawe

[riseofthewombwizard]

Southern Tier Trans Advocacy founder upset that people are being warned not to use fake NPO that exploits vulnerable people for clout online

Hey, remember when the Womb Wizard used the Southern Tier Trans Advocacy's social media to report someone as dead, then publicly mocked them for it when that person objected?

Or, hey, remember when someone suffering delusions reached out and the founder of Southern Tier Trans Advocacy encouraged them to believe they were talking to the Unabomber's tulpa?

Oooh, remember when the Womb Wizard, under the guise of their fake-ass NPO Southern Tier Trans Advocacy, exploited the pain of one of their end users so they could appear on a shitty podcast?

Remember when the Druid of Endicott, who is also the founder of Southern Tier Trans Advocacy, publicly derided working people with "grunt" jobs, and reacted with horror at the idea of working as a janitor, while continually expecting the same people they've degraded to support them financially?

[moxmodule]

In the event that there isn't a light switch, maybe you could use your robotic body to create a light of some sort? electricity typically produces light. or maybe if you have any innate magic, you could create light that way?

-🔵 Anon

"I am tempted by the mental image of flashbanging P03 at the desk over there with a wizard blast, though!"

[twistedtangledfate]

//Once again, key reminders regarding episode 10.

My Daemon doesn't choke out Rhaenyra. There was absolutely no need for that to happen. He just grabbed her by the shoulder and squeezed.

My Aemond deliberately chose to kill Lucerys and when he saddled up onto Vhagar, it was with the intention of carrying out his vengeance and killing Lucerys. It was no accident. Vhagar didn't do it off her own back, she did as Aemond told her to.

This is important for any of you who may wish to interact with these muses during or after these events.

[bardarch-y]

Sapphire Claw has absolutely been the easiest to deal with this far.

[tomtoth]

Title: "Echoes of the Midnight Garden"

Chapter Title: "The Offering Beneath the Stars"

Page 2.

As Elara's fingers delicately brushed against the book's jeweled cover, the guardian of the night and stars, a luminous figure cloaked in the ethereal glow of moonlight, reached out with a gentle touch. With eyes that held the wisdom of ages, the guardian's presence enveloped Elara in a comforting embrace. "You have journeyed far, dear one," the guardian spoke, their voice a melodious echo resonating through the night. "Your offering speaks volumes of your inner strength and courage." With a tender smile, they accepted the book, their touch imbuing it with a shimmering aura of celestial energy.

[multimuseticles]

“Kidnap Ms. Hakurei?”

“I wanna do it!”

“Let’s draw straws!”

“We should work together~”

“Three of a kind!”

“Birds of a feather!”

“Now and forever! (Wheee!) La, la la, la, la, la, la la, la, la, la,

La, la la, la, la, la, la la, la la, la!

Kidnap the Shrine Maiden, lock her up real tight! Throw away the key and then Turn off all the lights!”

“First, we're going to set some bait Inside a nasty trap and wait When she comes a-sniffing we will Snap the trap and close the gate!“

“Wait! I've got a better plan To catch this big red shrine maiden, Let's pop her in a boiling pot And when she's done we'll butter her up!“

“Kidnap the Shrine Maiden Throw her in a box Bury her for ninety years Then see if she talks!”

“Then we fairies can...”

“Take the whole shrine over then She'll be so pissed, I do declare That we will cook her rare Wheeee!”

“I say that we take a cannon Aim it at her door and then Knock three times and when she answers Reimu will be no more!”

“You're so stupid, think now If we blow her up to smithereens, We may lose some pieces And then Marisa will beat us black and green!”

“Kidnap the Shrine Maiden Tie her in a bag Throw her in the misty lake Then see if she is sad!”

“Because we’re the meanest girls around If you’re on our list, I'd get out of town!”

“She'll be so pissed by our success That youkai will reward us too, I'll bet!“

“Perhaps we'll make our special brew Of human and youkai stew! Mmmm!

We're nobody’s little henchmen And we take our job with pride We do our best to be grim So stay on our good side!”

“I wish my cohorts weren't so dumb!“

“I'm not the dumb one!”

“You’re no fun!”

“Shut up!”

“Make me!”

“I've got something, listen now This one is real good, you'll see We'll send a present to her door Upon there'll be a note to read Now, in the box we'll wait and hide Until her curiosity Entices her to look inside and then we'll have her!"

“One, two, three! Kidnap the Shrine Maiden, beat her with a stick Lock her up for ninety years, see what makes her tick

Kidnap the Shrine Maiden, chop her into bits Ms. Kirisame is sure to get kicks too Kidnap the Shrine Maiden, see what we will see Lock her in a cage and then throw away the key!”

[phantom-air-pirate]

Tag dump: Relationships

[yandere-daydreams]

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who's introduced to you as the hybrid you'll be taking care. When you found the job listed on some shady, bot-infested site, you figured it was just a temporary gig, that you'd be watching a dog or cat for a few weeks while their owner was away, so imagine your surprise when you pulled up to a reputable mansion a good hour or so out of the city, when an eccentric man with blue hair and an off-putting grin brings you to the lavish enclosure of a hybrid nearly a head taller than you, when you're told that you'll be 'petsitting' his kitten for as long as you care to hold the position. It's weird, but the money's good, and room and board are provided. You can't really afford to turn it down.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who's undeniably, unabashedly spoiled. His owner claims that he tried to replicate his natural habitat as closely as possible, but you don't think there's another snow leopard on the planet who prefers mink fur to his own. You spend most of your time waiting on him, running between Pantalone and his legion of personal chefs, holding sapphires and rubies up to the light so he can decide which one he'd rather have studded into his next collar, combing through his thick black hair while he purrs and basks in your attention. It's a surprisingly demanding job, but you don't mind. He's smart for a hybrid, and surprisingly conversational. Honestly, if it wasn't for the thrashing tail that curls around your legs whenever he passes you, the pointed fangs you catch a glimpse of from time to time, you could forget he wasn't human.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who tells you there's been a change in uniform a month after you start. This variation is definitely less conservative than your old scrubs, more in-line with his own blatant aesthetic values, but you don't complain, even when he starts swapping out his crushed velvet pillows for your lap. He's still a hybrid, no matter how human he might act. You're sure he doesn't see your exposed skin as anything but... something warm and soft to rest his head on, when he's looking for someplace to nap.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who grins as he tells you why his owner is always so busy. He's a researcher, he explains, as you file down his claws for the tenth time that week. He studies hybrid mating habits. His tone is enough to make you blush, and he laughs as you stumble over your response. He goes on to talk at length about his owner's particular fascination with snow leopards, how their pickiness when it comes to choosing a partner makes them a point of interest, but you write it off as a lapse in his otherwise perfect etiquette. You manage to do the same when you find out that he's been slipping into your personal room at night, and when he openly sulks in the days leading up to one of your rare vacations. It's not like you have much of a choice, considering none of the other, more legitimate jobs you've applied for have given you so much as a call back. It's not like you have much of a choice, considering how many weeks it's been since you've heard from anyone at all.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who's already above you when you woke up strapped to a metal table, your legs spread and your vision dim around the edges.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who smiles as he thrusts into you, his favorite fur coat draped over his shoulders and his expression one of idle amusement. There's a mirror built into one wall (an observational window, obviously), and a heap of silk sheets and fleece piled in a corner, but Pantalone's quick to catch your chin, to draw your attention back to him - to your mate.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who's always been so, so spoiled.

Snow Leopard!Pantalone, who's always gotten what he wanted - including his brand new human mate.

[prongsx]

Lazy Sundays

warning: fluff, f!reader, Jason being a cute guy. English its not my first language. established relationship.

Jason had always been an alert person. It was tiring, but he couldn't help it. Life forced him to never rest.

It started when he was still young, he had to be alert so he wouldn't die in the alley of crime, if he made a false move he could end up in a web of crimes and murders. He had to be alert to keep his own mother from self-destruction, had to be constantly checking her breathing, if she had eaten, if she hadn't used her subsistence money for drugs. He learned that being a heavy sleeper was dangerous when his house was shot at and he had to hide under the table, eyes full of tears.

Then Bruce adopted him, but he had already lost part of his ability to be a child, never carefree. And now he had the burden of showing Bruce that he was good enough, that he wasn't wasting his time training a boy with too many emotions. Always alert. He had too many emotions, he knew that. His love was wide and deep, but so was his anger. His sadness was like sharp claws scratching his skin from the inside out. He needed to stay alert to keep his emotions in check, because they could consume him.

Being Robin kept him alert, he needed to take care of himself and Batman's back. Even Dick, who had years of training, found Jason too vigilant, his eyes never seemed genuinely relaxed and Dick found out the hard way. He went to play a prank on Jason, waking him up in the middle of the night, but the boy reacted in the worst way and before Dick could react, there was a knife pressed against his neck.

When Jason died and came back with Red Hood, his sense of survival became stronger. There were too many people wanting to kill him, the anti-hero had twice as many enemies, sleeping in peace was not an option. He had so many knives and hidden weapons that he would get scared when he went to brush his teeth and found an AK 47 in the bathroom cabinet. He needed to be like that to survive.

Then he met you. And his knees got weak, his heart raced faster than when he had a gun pointed straight at the vigilante's heart. After much difficulty, you started dating, even though Jason warned you that dating him was a death sentence.

You didn't listen to his warnings, forcing him to stop self-deprecating and start acting like a functional adult (as much as possible) to be in a relationship. Jason was right, he was too busy with his double life. He almost never relaxed, worried about taking care of you and protecting you from his enemies.

After a few fights, you decided that for the relationship to work, you would have at least one day a week to be lazy. You started it: Sunday morning. You needed to know that at least one day a week you would have Jason completely. It was hard to live with the distance his night shift required. So he committed to keeping up this new tradition.

"I'm hungry," Jason just mumbled in response to your plea. It was 10 am on a Sunday morning and neither of you were willing to get up, just like you forced them to. Your legs were intertwined, a thin sheet covering you, Jason's hands holding you tightly against him, his soft lips against your shoulder. The sun was coming in through the curtains, Gotham seemed silent, the only noise that mattered to you was each other's breathing.

"The bakery should be delivering by now," Jason replied, sighing contentedly as you drew patterns on his arm. One of the rules of Sunday morning was to make no effort, even cooking. You knew Jason liked to cook and take care of you, but at least one day a week you allowed yourself the luxury of eating ready-made food.

"It should be at the door by now," you mumble, finally opening your eyes and finding your boyfriend's beautiful face. Jason imitated your action, his sapphire eyes seemed clouded with sleep, which pleased you. Yesterday you had gone out to dinner and stayed up late watching movies and kissing on the couch, which explained how tired they both were.

"Let's get it then," Jason's voice was still hoarse, his black hair cutely messy. He let out a groan of complaint when you pulled away from him to get up, causing you to laugh.

As soon as you established lazy Sunday, it was as if a switch had turned in Jason's head. It was impressive to admire how beautiful Jason looked relaxed, his shoulders without all that tension, his features less marked and even his scars relaxed.

Peace would suit Jason, you thought.

The two of you shuffled into the kitchen, talking in whispers, your hands never leaving each other. Jason walked close behind you, his large hands holding your hips close to his body.

Your boyfriend had a silly smile on his lips, the joy of being with you leaving him on cloud nine. He noticed how beautiful you looked in your sweat shorts and with his shirt, you smelled of comfort and love.

"So, our only commitment is to have coffee and kisses at the counter, right?" Jason hummed, a huge smile on his lips, the sun seemed brighter. Then clouds appeared in the glorious sky of the lazy Sunday.

The clouds came in the shapes of three known people invading your window, the largest of them smiling happily. You thought Jason was really sleepy and relaxed, because he didn't even raise a gun towards the intruders, which was customary.

"Good morning, couple." Dick Grayson greeted, closing the window when Damian entered last. You raised an eyebrow, while Jason gave a slight growl behind you. Your hands came up to lightly stroke his hair, urging him to stay calm, he relaxed into your touch, your lazy Sunday Jason returning.

"Okay, Todd, we got some information from that case we were working on." Damian said, being the rude little punk that he is, throwing work papers on their kitchen table. Tim Drake followed suit, leaning against their counter, where Jason planned to kiss you until you forgot your name.

"Boys," you called out to them, clearing your throat. Three pairs of eyes stared at you. "Today is Sunday."

You sighed when none of them reacted. Damn workaholic sons of Bruce Wayne. Your feet shuffled to the kitchen door to get breakfast, leaving Jason to take care of his brothers.

"Jason, we need those other documents you saved." Dick said, sitting down next to Damian. Jason let out a long sigh, he still felt numb from being in bed with you. He wouldn't let his brothers ruin his favorite day of the week.

"Can we fix this tomorrow?" The three brothers stared at Jason, their eyes equally wide. The fearsome red hood's posture was so relaxed, his pajama top slightly torn and loose. His hips leaned on the counter and his blue eyes seemed clearer, almost serene. His hair really looked like a mess, the white lock falling over his forehead in a cute sort of way.

"Jason, did you hear us? It's the case you've been working on for months." Tim said, still looking perplexed. Jason sighed, his features still marked by prolonged sleep.

"Yeah, yeah. So?" He grumbled, a smile appearing on his lips when you came back with the breakfast bag. Handing him a cup and pouring coffee. He whispered a quick, "Thank you, honey."

Damian was the first to recover from the shock, his hands holding a particularly suspicious photo that would solve half of Jason's case.

"Todd, big drug case! You spent months bugging everyone for clues."

Jason just shrugged, sipping his coffee and resting his face on your shoulder, humming with joy.

"One day more, one day less."You could have laughed at how Dick looked like he had been slapped in the face. Your heart was bursting with pride for your boyfriend, who had finally learned the meaning of being at peace and lazy.

"Who are you and what have you done with little wing?" Dick said, blinking those big blue eyes slowly.

You turned your back on the little argument again, not wanting to interfere in the family dynamics, busying yourself with taking your breakfast out of the bag from your favorite bakery.

"Take those papers off the table, let's have breakfast." Jason replied with just that, making Tim's eyes pop out. He looked like a different Jason, without his characteristic sarcastic smile or the tense shoulders.

"Todd, we need to figure this out!"

"Jason, it won't take long..."

Jason let out a louder sigh now, leaving the Wonder Woman mug in the corner and turning to his brothers, his tone of voice still soft compared to normal. "Today is Sunday." He repeated, pinching his nose slightly to keep his temper from rising. "I'm staying with my girlfriend. I'll figure this out with you guys tomorrow."

He turned to you, almost as if he expected to receive a proud smile, and he got one. Damian let out a snort.

"Todd, be a man for once in your life and stand up for yourself."

"He's too tangled up in the leash." Tim joined in the provocation, unable to contain himself.

"Wrong choice of words, boys," you whispered, knowing what was coming next.

The three of them were startled when Jason's hand slammed on the table they were at.

"I'm only going to say this once. It's Sunday morning. If you little shits are unhappy and girlfriendless, that's your problem. Either you're going to leave now with these papers or I'm going to use the gun I have hidden behind the fridge."

Jason's blue eyes were that darker shade that screamed: danger! It didn't take much more, the three guards took the papers and left muttering, you heard a few words that sounded like "this will come back, Todd" and "I'll tell him where he can stick that gun."

You turned to Jason, your hands going to his tense shoulders.

"Honey, it's okay, I'll accept if you want to help them."

He let out a snort, pulling you against his chest, smoothing the skin under your shirt.

"No. It's our lazy Sunday."You smiled, ridiculously content, pulling him into a lazy kiss.

"Speaking of which, gun behind the fridge?"

He distracted you with a kiss at the base of your neck, a small chuckle leaving his lips. Bastard.

It was a good lazy Sunday.

[envy-of-the-apple]

Dark!Naga!SatoSugu x reader

Top of the Food Chain

I've always wanted to continue my naga!mha fic but considering i dont write for deku+co anymore, i decided to move my au a couple fandoms over:D 1.8k wc

Part two , Part three

(Warnings: animal deaths, blood, obsession, dark content, slight gun threat but not rlly, polyamory, gender ambigious!reader) 

Despite being here for nearly a week, you still don't think Satoru understood how delicate you are. 

He's overbearing, in that sense. Constantly poking and prodding and squeezing until your lungs give and you're forced to squeak. You can't blame him for not understanding. He's an animal, after all. Inhuman. Despite his skin and hair, the scales coating his tail give away just how different he is. He was probably born fighting, kicking, and screeching his way through the foliage, hunting, chewing, and biting. 

He's not like you when all you knew when you were younger was coddling and softness. You can see it in his scars, and bruises, and marks. 

Luckily, for you, Suguru had an inkling that you weren't made for sharp claws. 

It's not a fight, you can tell when they're fighting, it's more like a warning? A minor disagreement. Suguru hisses at the other naga, scrunching up his face, showing his teeth. Satoru is quick to respond, but a little more playful. Fortunately for you, the black-haired male seems to win the argument. Satoru's coils loosen around you. Air stops fighting its way to get into your lungs. 

You finally go lax in his hold. Satoru seems to enjoy that, dipping his head to bury his face into the base of his neck. The first few times he did that, you were afraid he was trying to bite off your jugular. Now, you think it's just another way he can soak up your body heat. 

Maybe you've been here for longer than a week. At this point, you couldn't really tell. Hope that you'd be found was starting to slowly fizzle away. The explosion had been massive. The ship had sunk in a matter of minutes. With a disaster that huge, you doubt anyone would still be looking for survivors. Especially on an uncharted island, where myth had turned into reality. 

 Satoru had been the one you'd woken up to. Washed ashore, barely conscious. You were half-certain he was planning on eating you with the way he held your leg, watching your muscles bend and turn. In his defense, he must have thought you were dead. Your shrill scream quickly convinced him otherwise. 

It was barely a fight. More or less, a pathetic kidnapping as he grabbed your body, slinging it over his shoulder. You've never remembered screaming and crying so loudly before, convinced you were about to be eaten. Suguru probably heard you before he saw you. 

Satoru's mate was a little less impressed with you. Back then, they didn't bother learning your tongue, speaking in hisses and snarls, unaware of your misery. Suguru's frown was glued on his face, but the naga never let you run away, always keeping a hand or a tail on you at all times. It was a rough first day; you didn't know they weren't interested in eating you until they tried to feed you. 

Things were much different back then Nowadays, they are a lot more considerate of yourself and your soft body. You think you've come to an understanding with these strange creatures. 

Suguru was the nicest out of the two. In that, you mean the least rough. Compared to his counterpart, he's a bit smaller, but that's not saying there's any real difference. If it comes down to it, you are more than certain he'd be able to kill you off as quickly as his mate. You thought he hated you, at first. Now, you think he has a hard time showing blatant affection. His touches typically come in the dead of night, when you're barely conscious. A clawed finger gently raking over your soft skin. Large hands sculpting your face. 

Satoru's eyes were the first thing you noticed about him. Glittering like blue sapphires. You had a feeling they weren't just for show. Time and time again he's proven that he can see better than Suguru could. He smiles a lot more, but you're starting to wonder if that expression translates across species. He can speak your tongue slightly better than Suguru could. It most likely has to do with his insistence on staying with you. The more time you spend with him, the more you have to say 'No' 'Don't touch there' 'Stop'. 

In the rare times you manage to escape their hold, you like watching them interact with each other. They often sunbathe for hours, lazing around hot rocks to soak in the heat. They like touching each other. Sometimes it's aggressive, like when Satoru chomps on Suguru's neck and you're suddenly much more aware of how careful he is with you. Other times it's: soft, unintentional, meaningless. Languid cuddling when you are finally able to braid Suguru's hair. 

At this point, you've surmised they won't eat you. At least, not for the moment. You don't exactly know what they think of you. Do they have the concept of pets in their worldview? Maybe that's the closest thing you can place yourself as, at least in their eyes. They must think you're helpless. To them, you have no claws, no fangs, no venom. They probably don't know you come from a species that's hunted others to extinction and currently burning down the planet. You must be the first time they've ever seen your kind, stripped away from your weapons, when you're the least dangerous. 

"You should be more scared of me, you know," you once whispered to Suguru in the dead of night.

He was dozing off, blearily keeping his eyes open to stare at your moving lips. There was a grunt behind you, and Satoru tightened his arms across your waist. Greedy for affection, even in his sleep.

"Humans are terrifying," you said, reaching out to touch, "top of the food chain."

Suguru had smiled at that. You found yourself smiling back.

"You're lucky I didn't have a gun on me. You probably don't even know what that is." It's dark humor to press two fingers into his forehead. Your way of coping maybe.

Or perhaps your actions prove that humans will always desire to be violent, no matter how perilous their fight may be.

"Bang." He leans into your touch, unafraid. Oblivious to the threat that you are.

You're guessing Satoru only let you go because of the food Suguru brought.

You're able to feel the ground again as he glides over to Suguru having just come back from a successful hunt. The carcass of the largest deer you've ever seen is slung across his back. The smell of blood already makes you nauseous. 

You think Suguru had been the most panicked when you refused to eat, clicking and cooing while he tried to force-feed you the bloody leg of a bear. Back then, your communication was even worse than it was now. You were smeared in crimson by the time he relented. Practically dripping in it. 

Now, Suguru knows you have different tastes than them. You're not a big fan of raw. The fish and the handful of berries are more than enough to sate you as you gather the items he's given in your hands. 

"Thank you," you say. You reach out, touching his face with warm fingers. He purrs into your touch. You smile. It's the least gratitude you can give him. After all, he's not asking for much. If they hadn't found you, you would have been dead long ago, or at least, significantly less weaker. It's the least you can do. 

For a moment, you delude yourself into thinking they were your pets. It'd certainly be easy too. They have little to no regard for personal boundaries, much like dogs. They're more animalistic than they are human. 

It's funny to think of these monsters as lovable pets.

"Thank you," Suguru repeats. You giggle. It's not like they actually understand you. It's simple mimicry. Like talking to a parrot. 

"Thank you!" Satoru chirps, never one to be left out. He pushes his mate out of the way, eager for your pets as well. Suguru hisses, but doesn't argue. You've learned they like to be scratched right there on the bottoms of their chins. 

Suguru's less obvious, but Satoru has no desire to pretend. He melts into you, practically slumping his weight into your weak hold. It's a little adorable actually. You give a little laugh. He seems even more pleased at that. 

They're fun to be around, but this can't last. You belong with other humans, far far away from this island. So far, you hadn't seen any boats in the horizon, but you hope one would come by soon. A plane would be even better. Close enough to give you hope. Maybe if you built a big enough fire, it'd reach someone eye. 

Hopefully, in just a few weeks, these creatures will be a very cherished memory. 

You frown when Satoru reaches over to grasp at your food, the meat specifically. You glare, moving away from his hold. He titters in clear disappointment. You hate seeing him sad but you already have so few food sources. It's best to conserve whatever you get. 

"No," you pointedly tell him, "It's mine. Mine." 

His frown deepens, and he opens his jaws to let his fangs pop out. 

"Mine," you repeat. 

He leans back, huffing. You laugh because you know his expression is more out of frustration than any actual anger. Again, animals. You pet his head in apology, before turning away. You'd have to start a tiny fire to start cooking. Raw fish is edible, but it's hardly desirable. 

A hand grabs yours, clawed, the grip is tight around your frail skin. When you look back, Satoru is staring at you. Eyes wide. Eager. 

"Mine," he says, but it's more like he's testing the word. Tasting it on his lips. 

You scoff, unamused. "That's my arm. Not yours." 

Satoru smiles. Sharp teeth. You suddenly remember he's a carnivore. 

He's slow when he draws you in, practically dragging you into his arms. You're used to his spontaneous hugs, tight and suffocating. You can't fight him off, so you typically wait until Suguru has enough of his behavior and drags him off you. 

"Mine," Satoru repeats. Alarm bells ring in your head but it's easy to brush them off. It's mimicry. They can't understand. It's like talking to a parrot. 

You feel the weight of the other naga at your back. His arms wrap around your waist, pushing you against Satoru's chest. You stiffen when Suguru's fangs lightly graze up your neck. Never quite punctures, but is terrifyingly close.

"Mine," Suguru says into your skin. 

You laugh again, but it comes out less hesitant. More airy. Amid their hold, a sudden thought comes to you.

If you weren't at the top of the food chain anymore, then who was?

[riseofthewombwizard]

Womb Wizard flounces from Discord server over member's refusal to take fake ghost husband Jeffrey Dahmer seriously

[novaursa]

The Last Dragonslayer (1/2)

- Summary: When young Luke came to Storm’s End as his mother’s emissary, Aemond wasn't the only one there to greet the young Prince.

- Paring: female!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen

- Note: Reader is a Dragonslayer (a warrior) that saves Rhaeyra's child and fights for her. This is based on the request below, with my own twist in it, and it's the result of the votes that ended yesterday:

- Rating: Mature 16+ (last part will be rated higher)

- Word count: 8 000+

- Next part: 2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: male!reader/Rhaenyra Targaryen is currently under construction. It will be posted once the second part of this work is out. Also, for more of my works visit my blog.

The storm rages fiercely over Storm's End, the winds howling through the stone walls of the castle like a restless beast. You stand in the shadowed alcove, your eyes tracking the young prince as he dismounts from his dragon, Arrax. The creature’s scales gleam wet in the flickering torchlight, its eyes wide with agitation. The beast feels it, the looming presence of something much older and much deadlier. You know without looking that it is Vhagar, the monstrous she-dragon that casts her shadow over the stormy skies.

Lucerys Velaryon, the boy prince, has the look of a cornered deer as he glances around the courtyard, his gaze inevitably drawn to the dark silhouette of Vhagar looming ominously in the distance. His heart beats wildly in his chest, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The dragon he rides is no match for the ancient beast that waits, almost as if it hungers for the boy’s fear.

But it is not Vhagar that makes Arrax twitch nervously, shifting its massive claws on the slick stone ground. No, there is something else—another presence that unnerves both dragons. A primal fear ripples through the air, a fear that runs deeper than any rivalry between dragonriders.

You know what they feel. It is the Banshee, your mount, your companion. She lies in the caves beneath the castle, her leathery wings folded, her shriek an unspoken warning to all dragons that a Dragonslayer is near. You’ve ridden her across the skies of Essos, and now you have brought her to this cold, storm-battered land, a place so different from the sunlit shores of your origin.

As Lucerys is escorted into the great hall, you follow silently, a shadow among the guards, your steps barely a whisper against the stone. The hall is dimly lit, the flames flickering in their sconces as the storm rumbles outside. Lord Borros Baratheon sits upon his chair, his face a thundercloud of displeasure, while Aemond Targaryen stands off to the side, his single eye gleaming with malicious intent.

“Prince Lucerys Velaryon,” Borros announces with a voice as heavy as the storm, “sent by your mother, the Queen.”

Lucerys takes a breath, standing tall as he faces the Lord of Storm's End. His voice is steady as he presents his mother’s terms, but you can see the tremor in his hands, the boy struggling to maintain his composure under the weight of the situation.

Aemond steps forward, his presence dark and threatening, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “You’re a brave boy to come here alone, nephew,” he sneers, his hand hovering near the hilt of his sword. “But bravery only goes so far. You owe me an eye.”

The demand hangs in the air like the threat of lightning. Lucerys’ eyes widen, his breath catching as the terror grips him. He steps back, his hand instinctively moving to his sword, though you can see he knows it is futile. 

Aemond’s voice drips with venom as he draws closer, reaching for the sapphire in his empty eye socket. “Don’t be afraid, boy. It’s a simple thing, really. Just a payment for what was stolen from me.”

Your movement is like a shadow across the floor as you step out from your place against the wall, your boots making soft, deliberate sounds against the stone. Aemond’s attention snaps to you, curiosity flashing in his eye as he sees a figure unlike any other in this hall.

“Who are you?” Aemond demands, his voice tinged with both suspicion and interest. The hall seems to quiet, even the storm outside pausing as if to hear your reply.

Lord Borros rises from his chair, turning his gaze to you, and his expression is a mixture of awe and unease. “This is the emissary from the Free Cities,” he says, his voice uncertain. “She arrived a few days ago, from across the Narrow Sea. An emissary, she claimed, from an ancient order.”

You tilt your head slightly, regarding Aemond with those eyes of yours, eyes that many have said carry the weight of ancient knowledge, of secrets lost to time. When you speak, your accent is thick, your voice smooth, yet carrying a hardness beneath it, like a blade wrapped in silk. “The boy will return to his mother,” you state, your tone leaving no room for argument.

Aemond’s eye narrows, his curiosity turning to annoyance. “You think to order me around in my own land? I am a Targaryen, the blood of the dragon. And you—what are you?”

“I am Y/N,” you say simply, letting the name hang in the air, as though it should explain everything. And to those who know, it does. “And I have no interest in your games, dragonrider. The boy leaves. Now.”

Lucerys looks at you with wide eyes, relief and confusion mixing on his young face. He knows not who you are, nor why you would intercede on his behalf, but he knows better than to question the chance at survival you offer.

Aemond, however, is less easily swayed. “You do not command me, woman,” he snarls, his hand finally gripping his sword hilt.

Your eyes lock onto his, and there is a cold, ancient fury in your gaze that makes Aemond pause, just for a moment. “Do you hear that?” you ask softly, almost a whisper.

He frowns, confusion crossing his features. But then he does hear it—a low, keening wail, barely audible over the storm, but there nonetheless. It is a sound that twists something deep in his chest, a primal fear that is older than his bloodline, older than even the dragons themselves.

“That,” you continue, your voice never rising, yet commanding all attention, “is a Banshee’s call. Do you know what it means, dragonrider?”

Aemond doesn’t answer, his grip tightening on his sword. But you see it, the flicker of doubt in his eye, the instinctive fear that his ancestors would have known all too well.

“It means,” you say, taking a step closer to the prince, “that the Dragonslayers are near.”

Silence falls heavy in the hall, the only sound the storm raging outside and that distant, eerie wail of your mount. Aemond’s confidence wavers, just for a heartbeat, and you seize the moment.

“Return to your mother, boy,” you say to Lucerys, your tone softening slightly as you address the prince. “And tell her the Dragonslayers have not forgotten.”

Lucerys doesn’t hesitate. He turns and strides from the hall, the guards parting before him. Aemond watches him go, his eye flicking between you and the retreating prince, torn between pride and the icy fear that grips his heart.

As the doors close behind Lucerys, Aemond turns back to you, but you are already gone, melted back into the shadows of the storm. The Banshee’s wail echoes in his ears, a sound that will haunt him long after this night has passed.

And in the distance, through the storm and the dark, Lucerys Velaryon rides his dragon into the night, the words of a stranger echoing in his mind as he returns to his mother—a warning, a promise, and a name that will not be easily forgotten.

The storm's fury is unrelenting as Vhagar takes to the skies, her wings cutting through the tempest with the power of a creature that has lived through centuries. Beneath her, the world is a blur of rain and lightning, the roar of the wind nearly drowning out the beat of her wings. Aemond’s eye is fixed on the smaller silhouette ahead, the young prince Lucerys and his dragon, Arrax. His pride, his rage, they drive him forward with a singular, furious intent.

"Do you think you can escape me, boy?" Aemond mutters to himself, the thrill of the hunt coursing through his veins. His grip on the reins tightens as he urges Vhagar onward, the ancient beast responding to his will, her massive form gaining on the fleeing dragon.

But then, something shifts.

It begins with Vhagar. The she-dragon, who has known no fear in over a century, falters mid-flight. Her great head swivels, nostrils flaring as if sensing something that doesn’t belong in this world. A deep, rumbling growl escapes her throat, a sound of unease that Aemond has never heard from her before.

"What is it, girl?" Aemond calls out, his voice straining against the storm, frustration creeping in as Vhagar slows her pursuit. He yanks at the reins, but the dragon resists, her great body twisting in the air as if trying to turn away from something unseen.

Then it comes—a sound like no other. Piercing, shrill, it cuts through the storm with an unnatural clarity. A cry that chills the blood, a scream not of any living thing, but of something that should never have existed. Aemond feels it like a knife in his gut, a primal fear that shakes the core of even a Targaryen prince. Vhagar responds with a bellow of her own, but this is not a sound of defiance—it is one of terror.

Through the torrential rain and flashes of lightning, Aemond sees it. Emerging from the swirling clouds above, the Banshee appears, its form massive and menacing, a creature out of nightmares and ancient legends. It is larger than any dragon, its wings long and leathery, resembling those of some dark, twisted bat. Its body is sinewy and powerful, covered in scales as dark as midnight, its maw filled with razor-sharp teeth that seem made to tear through dragon flesh. Eyes that glow with a sickly green light fixate on Vhagar, and in that gaze, there is nothing but hunger.

A hunger that could swallow the world.

The Banshee shrieks again, and this time, the sound is closer, more intense, reverberating through the storm as if the very heavens themselves are crying out in fear. Vhagar roars back, but her voice wavers, no longer the dominant force of the skies. She tries to pull away, her vast wings beating furiously as she begins to ascend, desperate to escape the horror that has locked its gaze upon her.

And there, atop the Banshee, you sit. The storm whips around you, yet you are steady, your body moving fluidly with the creature’s every motion. Your eyes are fixed on Aemond, a cold determination set in your features as you close in. The distance between the two monstrous creatures shrinks with every heartbeat, the Banshee’s speed unnatural, as if it is not bound by the same laws of the world as other beings.

"Vhagar, no!" Aemond shouts, desperation creeping into his voice as he feels his mount’s fear, her once obedient nature slipping through his control. He pulls harder on the reins, but the ancient dragon does not heed him. She banks sharply to the side, attempting to flee, the instinct to survive overpowering all else. 

"Stay and fight, damn you!" Aemond roars, but his voice is lost to the storm and to Vhagar’s terror. For the first time, Aemond realizes that he has lost control. Vhagar, the greatest of all dragons, is fleeing like a hunted beast.

From behind, Lucerys and Arrax, seeing their chance, dart downwards toward the safety of the clouds below. The boy doesn’t look back, but his heart pounds with both fear and gratitude, his only thought now of returning to Dragonstone and the safety of his mother’s arms. The storm swallows them, the smaller dragon vanishing into the darkness, seizing the slim opportunity for escape that has been granted by the terror you’ve unleashed.

You see this, the boy’s escape, and though you could chase, though you could end him as well, your focus remains on Aemond. This is a message, a warning, and it is Vhagar who must carry it back. 

Aemond’s face twists with a mix of rage and helplessness as he feels Vhagar’s massive body turning, wings beating harder now, not in pursuit, but in retreat. You let out a command, your voice carried by the storm, not in words that Aemond understands, but the Banshee does. She dives, a predatory speed that belies her size, closing the distance between them in seconds.

Another scream from the Banshee, and this time, Vhagar shudders violently, nearly throwing Aemond from her back. The ancient dragon, who has seen countless battles and burned entire cities to ash, is utterly broken by the presence of this creature from a bygone era. She dives desperately, fleeing into the clouds, seeking any refuge from the horror that chases her.

For a brief moment, as you pull back, allowing Vhagar to escape into the storm��s embrace, your eyes meet Aemond’s. In that gaze, he sees something that shakes him more than the sight of the Banshee or the fear in Vhagar’s eyes. He sees the cold, unyielding power of an order thought extinct, a legacy that has returned from the shadows of history. 

And then you and the Banshee vanish into the storm, your form melding with the darkness as if you were never there. Only the lingering echoes of that terrifying scream remain, fading into the storm, a sound that will haunt Aemond for the rest of his days.

Vhagar continues her frantic flight, the once-proud dragon now reduced to a fleeing beast, her rider clinging to her, his pride shattered, his mind reeling. Aemond’s thoughts are a whirlwind of anger, fear, and humiliation. He came to these skies with the intent to prove his dominance, to assert his strength, but now he returns with the bitter taste of defeat and the knowledge that there are forces in this world even dragons fear.

And far below, Lucerys and Arrax race through the storm towards the safety of Dragonstone, the boy’s heart pounding with relief and terror. He will make it home, but the memory of this night will stay with him—the night he was spared not by his own hand, but by a mysterious stranger on a creature of nightmares.

The Dragonslayers have returned. And the dragons of Westeros will never be the same.

The skies over Dragonstone are dark, heavy with the remnants of the storm that raged over Storm's End. The air is filled with unease as the guards and retainers of the castle stand vigilantly on the battlements, their eyes scanning the horizon. They know who they are waiting for, though they dare not speak of the dread that gnaws at them.

Suddenly, through the mists and rain, a shape emerges. A dragon, smaller than most, with wet and weary wings straining to keep it aloft. Arrax lands heavily in the courtyard, his scales slick with rain and his breath labored from the flight. The beast's eyes are wide, pupils darting in a way that betrays its fear. 

Atop him, Lucerys Velaryon sits slumped in the saddle, his small form trembling, soaked to the bone. He barely has the strength to dismount, nearly collapsing as his boots touch the ground. His hands are shaking uncontrollably, and his eyes—those eyes that should be bright with the fire of youth—are wide and haunted, filled with the terror of what he has just endured.

From across the courtyard, Queen Rhaenyra breaks from her retinue of Queensguard, her heart seizing as she sees the state of her son. “Luke!” she cries, her voice cracking with fear and relief as she rushes to him, her skirts billowing as she nearly stumbles in her haste.

“Mother,” Lucerys gasps, his voice a whisper against the wind. He’s shivering violently, his teeth chattering as the cold and fear clutch at him.

Rhaenyra reaches him, wrapping him in her arms, her grip firm and protective as she pulls him close, heedless of the rain that soaks through her own clothing. Her heart pounds in her chest as she feels the tremors racking his small frame. “Gods, what happened?” she whispers, her hand cupping his face as she tries to meet his eyes, searching for any sign of injury, any indication of what has terrified her son so deeply.

Lucerys buries his face against her shoulder, his breath hitching as he tries to find the words. “I—I saw him, Mother,” he begins, his voice shaking as badly as his body. “Aemond was there… at Storm’s End. Vhagar was with him.”

Rhaenyra stiffens, her blood turning to ice at the mention of Aemond and his dragon. “Did he harm you?” Her voice is fierce, though a mother’s terror lies just beneath it. “What did he do to you?”

Lucerys shakes his head frantically, clutching at her arms as if grounding himself in her presence. “He… he wanted to take my eye, Mother. He said… he said it was a debt. But…” His words trail off, his breath catching as he struggles to explain the horror he witnessed.

Rhaenyra’s grip tightens, her eyes narrowing with a mixture of rage and fear. “But what, Luke? What happened?”

Luke pulls back slightly, his wide eyes meeting hers, filled with a confusion that mirrors his terror. “She… she saved me, Mother. A woman… a stranger. She stopped Aemond.”

Rhaenyra blinks, her mind racing. “A woman? Who was she? What did she look like?”

Luke swallows hard, his voice trembling as he continues, “She… she wasn’t from here. She looked… different. Like no one I’ve ever seen before. She had an accent I didn’t recognize. Lord Borros called her an emissary from the Free Cities.” His voice drops to a whisper, as if saying the next words might summon the creature back. “And she had a… a beast with her. Not a dragon, but something else. It was… it was terrifying, Mother. The dragons, even Vhagar… they were afraid of it.”

Rhaenyra’s heart pounds faster as she listens, trying to make sense of her son’s words. “A beast? What did it look like?”

Luke’s eyes glaze over slightly as he recalls the image burned into his mind. “It was… huge, bigger than any dragon I’ve seen, with wings like… like a bat’s. And its scream, Mother… it was like nothing I’ve ever heard. It made the storm itself seem quiet. And she was riding it… commanding it.”

Rhaenyra’s blood runs cold, her mind racing through the possibilities, but nothing matches the description her son gives. A creature that could frighten Vhagar, the largest and oldest of the Targaryen dragons? It sounds like a nightmare given form, a horror from ancient times.

“Are you sure of what you saw, Luke?” she asks gently, her tone softening as she brushes his wet hair from his face. “Could it have been… something else? A trick of the storm?”

Luke shakes his head vehemently. “No, Mother. I saw it. I heard it. She told me to go, to return to you. And when I left… Aemond was chasing me, but then the creature came after him instead. Vhagar fled, Mother. She was terrified.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen, a shiver running down her spine at the thought. If Vhagar, the mightiest of all dragons, could be driven to flee… what manner of beast had her son encountered? And who was this woman, this stranger who had saved her child from a fate worse than death?

A feeling of unease settles over her, a realization that something far greater and more dangerous than she had anticipated is at play. The knowledge that ancient powers, long thought to be myths, might have returned to the world shakes her to her core.

But for now, all that matters is her son. She pulls him close again, holding him tightly as if to shield him from whatever darkness lies out there, whatever force has set its sights on the Targaryen bloodline. “You’re safe now,” she whispers, trying to convince herself as much as him. “You’re home, and you’re safe.”

But even as she says the words, her mind is already racing ahead, planning, fearing, wondering what this new player on the board means for the future of her house, for her claim, and for the survival of her children.

The night is still and heavy with the remnants of the storm, the winds howling softly through the dark corridors of Dragonstone. Rhaenyra is deep in a restless sleep, her mind troubled by the events of the day, her dreams haunted by the image of her son, drenched and trembling, speaking of a beast that defied all she knew of the world.

But suddenly, her sleep is shattered by a sound so primal, so raw, that it feels like the earth itself is tearing apart. The roar of dragons, rising in a cacophony of fear and fury, echoes through the stone walls of the castle. It’s not just any dragon’s roar—it’s the sound of dragons in terror. Rhaenyra bolts upright in her bed, her heart pounding in her chest as the walls seem to tremble around her.

She hears another roar, louder this time, unmistakable in its ferocity—the Cannibal. The ancient, wild dragon’s scream is so powerful that it seems to shake the very foundations of Dragonstone. The deep, guttural sound reverberates through the castle, making the torches flicker as if the flame itself is afraid.

And then, cutting through the night like a blade, comes another sound—a wail, high-pitched and unnatural, unlike anything she’s ever heard. It’s the cry of the Banshee, echoing through the skies above the island, a sound so filled with dread that it makes her blood run cold.

Rhaenyra leaps from her bed, pulling on a robe as she rushes toward the door. Her heart races, a mix of fear and adrenaline driving her forward. She flings open the door, her voice breaking the silence of the corridor. “Daemon!”

As if summoned by her cry, Daemon Targaryen appears, already dressed and armed, his face set in a grim expression. He doesn’t need to ask what’s happening—the screams of the dragons and the wail from the skies tell him all he needs to know.

“They’re afraid,” Daemon says, his voice rough with tension as he strides toward her, his eyes blazing. “The dragons are terrified, Rhaenyra. Whatever it is, it’s here.”

Rhaenyra nods, her breath coming in shallow gasps as she hurries to follow him. The two of them rush through the castle, Daemon’s men falling in around them, their faces pale as they hear the screams that fill the night. The ground beneath their feet seems to tremble as if the very earth is trying to recoil from the presence that has arrived on its shores.

They reach the courtyard just as another roar shakes the air, but this time it’s different. This time, it’s a sound of submission, of retreat. In the distance, high atop Dragonmont, the dragons that make their home in the ancient volcano are pulling back, their massive forms retreating into the dark, smoke-filled caves, away from the open sky. Even the Cannibal, the most feared and untamed of all the dragons, has gone silent, its defiance turned to fear.

Rhaenyra’s eyes follow the direction of the retreating dragons, and there, near the rocky coastline, she sees it—the Banshee. It stands on the blackened sand, its vast wings partially spread, casting an ominous shadow that stretches out over the churning waves. The creature is even more terrifying than she had imagined from Lucerys’ description, a monstrous form that seems to absorb the darkness around it, its eyes glowing with that sickly green light that cuts through the night.

And before the Banshee, standing with an air of calm command, is the woman—Y/N. She stands tall, her presence as formidable as the beast behind her, her eyes fixed on the castle. Even from this distance, Rhaenyra can see the confidence in her stance, the ease with which she controls the horror at her side.

Daemon’s hand moves to the hilt of his sword as he stares at the woman and her beast, his eyes narrowing in a mix of fury and awe. “Is this the creature the boy spoke of?” he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

Rhaenyra nods, unable to tear her gaze from the sight. “It is,” she whispers, her voice tinged with fear and a growing sense of foreboding. “And that… that is the woman who saved him.”

Daemon takes a step forward, his gaze shifting to Caraxes, who is visible in the distance, his great head peeking out from the entrance of his cave. The Blood Wyrm, who has faced down dragons and men alike, recoils, his body pressed low to the ground as if trying to melt into the rock itself. He refuses to come forward, his instincts telling him that this is not a foe he wishes to face.

Rhaenyra watches as Daemon's knuckles turn white around the hilt of his sword. “Even Caraxes is afraid,” he mutters, almost to himself. “What manner of beast is this? And who is this woman?”

Before Rhaenyra can respond, Y/N takes a step forward, moving with a grace that belies the danger she embodies. Her voice carries across the distance, strong and clear despite the howling wind. “I come not as an enemy, but as an emissary.”

Rhaenyra feels a shiver run down her spine at the sound of the woman’s voice. There is something in it, an authority, a power that feels ancient, something that commands respect and fear in equal measure. She steps forward, placing a hand on Daemon’s arm to still him, her eyes never leaving Y/N.

“You saved my son,” Rhaenyra calls out, her voice steady, though her heart is pounding in her chest. “Why?”

Y/N’s gaze meets hers, and for a moment, Rhaenyra feels as though she’s being weighed, measured by a force that sees far beyond the physical. “Because the time has come for old debts to be paid, and old alliances to be rekindled,” Y/N replies, her accent unfamiliar, each word carrying an air of inevitability.

Daemon steps forward, his posture rigid, every muscle coiled with tension. “What are you?” he demands, his tone edged with suspicion. “And what do you want from us?”

Y/N regards him calmly, her eyes as unreadable as the stormy sea behind her. “I am the last of the Dragonslayers,” she says, her words cutting through the air like a blade. “And I seek what was lost to time—an alliance, forged in blood and fire, that will reshape the fate of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Rhaenyra’s breath catches at the mention of the Dragonslayers. The name is one of legend, spoken of only in whispers, a myth more than a reality. Yet here stands proof, undeniable and terrifying. “An alliance?” she echoes, her voice a mix of intrigue and caution. “With whom?”

Y/N’s gaze sharpens, and a ghost of a smile touches her lips. “With House Targaryen,” she says, the name carrying weight as if it alone could alter the course of history. “If you will accept it.”

The words hang in the air, filled with promise and threat alike. Rhaenyra and Daemon exchange a look, the gravity of what is being offered sinking in. The roar of the dragons has died away, leaving only the sound of the wind and the waves crashing against the rocks.

The Banshee shifts behind Y/N, its wings rustling like the ominous whisper of death itself. Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, stepping forward, her voice firm as she speaks. “Come inside,” she says, a queen’s command, but also an invitation. “We will speak more.”

Y/N inclines her head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment, before turning to her beast. With a simple, fluid motion, she mounts the Banshee, the creature responding to her touch with a soft, almost affectionate growl. “I will come,” she says, her voice carrying across the distance. “But know this, Queen Rhaenyra—what I bring is not just an alliance, but the power to change the very destiny of your house.”

With that, the Banshee lets out one last, bone-chilling wail that echoes across the island. The creature takes to the skies, its massive wings beating against the wind as it rises into the air, carrying its rider away from the shore and into the stormy night.

Rhaenyra watches as the dark silhouette disappears into the clouds, her mind racing with a thousand questions, her heart heavy with the knowledge that whatever comes next, it will be like nothing Westeros has ever seen.

Daemon stands beside her, his eyes still fixed on the sky where the Banshee vanished. “We must be ready,” he says quietly, his voice laced with both determination and unease. “Whatever she brings, it will not be easily controlled.”

Rhaenyra nods, her gaze steely as she turns back toward the castle, already thinking of the steps she must take, the alliances she must forge, and the preparations she must make. “Then we shall be ready,” she replies, her voice firm with resolve. “For House Targaryen will not be brought low, not by dragons, and not by beasts.”

Together, they walk back into the heart of Dragonstone, the weight of their decisions pressing heavily upon them, the storm outside now a mere whisper compared to the storm that is yet to come.

The great hall of Dragonstone is eerily quiet, the only sound the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth, its flames dancing in the dim light. The storm outside has settled into a steady, rhythmic beat against the stone walls, as if the very island holds its breath, waiting for what comes next.

Daemon Targaryen stands by the fire, his eyes fixed on the flames, deep in thought. The warmth of the fire does little to chase away the cold unease that has settled in his bones since the arrival of the stranger and her beast. Rhaenyra sits at the head of the table, her posture regal and composed, though her gaze is sharp and searching as it rests on the woman before them—Y/N, the self-proclaimed last of the Dragonslayers.

You stand before them, calm and composed, the flickering firelight casting shadows across your face. Your expression is inscrutable, your eyes reflecting a depth of experience and knowledge that stretches far beyond the walls of this ancient castle.

Daemon finally speaks, his voice low, but filled with the weight of old memories. “When I was a boy, I used to sit at my wet nurse’s feet as she told me the tales of old Valyria. Stories of dragons soaring above the world, of their might and majesty… and of the terror that once threatened them.” He turns his gaze from the fire to you, his eyes narrowing slightly. “She spoke of the Dragonslayers, warriors from an ancient order, born from the fear and hatred of those who had no other means to fight back against the dragons. It was said their beasts were as fearsome as the dragons themselves—monstrous creatures that could strike terror into the heart of even the most battle-hardened Targaryen.”

He pauses, his lips curving into a wry smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “But those were just stories. Tales meant to frighten children and remind us of our place in the world. When the Doom of Valyria came, the Dragonslayers were said to have perished along with the dragons. Swallowed by the same flames that consumed the Freehold.”

Daemon’s smile fades, replaced by a hard, calculating look. “So you must excuse me, Lady Y/N, if I find it difficult to believe that I now stand face to face with a ghost from those old tales. A Dragonslayer, here to negotiate with the very people her kind once hunted. It seems… unlikely, doesn’t it? Like a dragon holding court with a woman who eats dragons.”

Rhaenyra watches you intently, her fingers lightly drumming against the arm of her chair as she waits for your response. The tension in the room is felt, the air thick with unspoken questions and unvoiced fears.

You meet Daemon’s gaze without flinching, your expression unreadable as you consider his words. When you finally speak, your voice is steady, carrying an authority that demands attention. “You are right to be cautious, Prince Daemon. The tales of the Dragonslayers are shrouded in myth, and much has been lost to time. But make no mistake—those tales were born from truth. My order existed long before Valyria rose to power, and our purpose was never simply to destroy dragons.”

You pause, your eyes flicking between Daemon and Rhaenyra, measuring their reactions. “Our purpose was—and still is—balance. The world must be in balance, or it risks falling into chaos. The dragons of Valyria were a force of nature, powerful and wild. But when they were allowed to spread unchecked, to conquer and dominate, the balance was threatened.”

Rhaenyra leans forward slightly, her brow furrowed in thought. “And now? What is your purpose here, in Westeros? You say you seek balance, but what does that mean for my house? For my children?”

You turn your gaze to her, your expression softening slightly as you consider your words carefully. “The balance is delicate, Queen Rhaenyra. It is not my intention to see the dragons of Westeros wiped out. That would tip the scales too far in the other direction. The dragons are a part of this world, just as you are, just as I am. But if they are allowed to overwhelm this continent, to destroy all in their path, or if they are allowed to die out entirely, the balance will be lost. And when the balance is lost, it is not just the dragons that suffer—it is the entire world.”

Daemon’s eyes narrow as he considers your words, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, though he makes no move to draw it. “So you would see yourself as some kind of guardian, then? A protector of the balance? And what if that means turning against the very dragons you claim to protect?”

You meet his challenge with a steady gaze. “If it comes to that, Prince Daemon, then so be it. But understand this—my purpose is not to hunt dragons for sport or to seek vengeance for old wrongs. My purpose is to ensure that the world does not fall into chaos. If that means working with the dragons and their riders to maintain the balance, then that is what I will do.”

Rhaenyra exchanges a glance with Daemon, her expression one of deep contemplation. “And what would you ask of us, then?” she inquires, her tone thoughtful, though there is a note of steel beneath it. “What role do you see House Targaryen playing in this balance you speak of?”

You take a deep breath, your gaze steady as you address both of them. “House Targaryen is at the center of the storm that is coming. The dragons you command are both a weapon and a symbol, and their power must be wielded wisely. I offer you an alliance, a way to ensure that power is used to preserve the balance, rather than disrupt it.”

Daemon raises an eyebrow, his skepticism still evident. “And if we refuse?”

You smile faintly, a hint of something ancient and knowing in your expression. “Then the balance will be lost. And I will do what must be done to restore it, with or without your cooperation.”

Silence falls over the room, the weight of your words sinking in. Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker with a mix of emotions—fear, determination, and something akin to respect. She finally rises from her chair, stepping toward you, her gaze unwavering.

“You speak of balance, but know this—we are not easily swayed, and we do not take threats lightly,” she says, her voice strong and clear. “But if you are truly here to preserve this balance, then we will consider your offer. For the sake of our children, and for the future of this realm.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her words. “That is all I ask, Queen Rhaenyra. Consider my offer, and know that I am not your enemy. Not unless you make me one.”

Daemon watches you closely, his hand still resting on his sword, but for now, he remains silent, his thoughts unreadable.

Rhaenyra turns to him, her expression one of quiet resolve. “We will speak more of this, Daemon. But for now, we must be cautious. This alliance may be what we need to ensure the survival of our house.”

Daemon nods slowly, his gaze still locked on you. “Very well,” he says, his voice low and thoughtful. “But know this, Lady Y/N—if you betray us, if you threaten what is ours, you will find that dragons are not so easily tamed.”

You smile slightly, a knowing glint in your eyes. “Nor are Dragonslayers, Prince Daemon. But I hope it does not come to that.”

With that, the tension in the room begins to ease, though the underlying unease remains. The fire crackles softly in the hearth, and the storm outside continues to rage, a reminder that the true storm has only just begun.

The night has settled over Dragonstone with a profound stillness, the earlier storm having finally exhausted itself. The air is cool and crisp, carrying the scent of the sea, and above, the sky is a vast canvas of stars, twinkling like distant, forgotten fires. The castle itself is quiet, the flames of the torches flickering softly in their sconces, casting long shadows across the ancient stone.

Rhaenyra finds herself drawn to the open balcony, her steps light as she moves through the corridors, her thoughts still heavy with the weight of the day’s revelations. As she approaches, she sees you standing there, your back to her, gazing up at the night sky with a stillness that almost seems inhuman. The soft light of the stars bathes you in an ethereal glow, and for a moment, Rhaenyra is struck by your presence. There is something otherworldly about you, a beauty that is both mesmerizing and unsettling, even to one of Targaryen blood, who is no stranger to the idea of beings who are not entirely of this world.

Your figure is tall and graceful, your hair catching the faint light as it moves gently in the breeze. Your clothes, simple yet elegant, seem almost to blend with the shadows, as if you are a part of the night itself. There is an air of timelessness about you, something ancient and enduring, and it stirs a deep curiosity within Rhaenyra, a need to understand the enigma that is Y/N.

You speak before she can announce her presence, your voice soft but clear, carrying the weight of knowledge and memory. “It is said that my people came from those stars,” you begin, still gazing upward, your eyes tracing the patterns in the sky. “Long ago, when the world was young, their ship crumbled down in fire, crashing into what would become the Valyrian Freehold. Can you imagine it, Rhaenyra? A ship that sails among the stars, crossing the vast emptiness between worlds?”

Rhaenyra pauses at your words, her breath catching as she considers the image you’ve painted. The idea is both wondrous and terrifying, something beyond the scope of anything she has ever known. She steps closer, her eyes moving from your figure to the sky above, trying to see what you see.

“It’s a beautiful thought,” she says softly, “but also a frightening one. The idea that something so vast, so unknowable, could exist out there. Or worse, that there might be nothing at all. We would be so small… so insignificant.”

You finally turn to face her, your eyes meeting hers with a look that is both kind and ancient, as if you hold secrets that span the ages. “That is the truth of it, isn’t it? The vastness of the universe, the endless expanse of stars… it can make one feel so very small. All the battles we fight, all the kingdoms we build… in the end, they are but whispers in the wind compared to the forces that drive this world and all the others.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze softens as she looks at you, the intensity of your words resonating deep within her. She takes another step closer, her voice tinged with gratitude as she speaks. “I wanted to thank you… for what you did for Lucerys. You saved my son’s life. For that, I am in your debt.”

You incline your head slightly, acknowledging her thanks with a faint smile. “What I did was just,” you reply simply, as if there could be no other course of action. “The boy’s life was not meant to end that day.”

Rhaenyra studies you, her curiosity growing, fueled by the mysteriousness that surrounds you. She has faced dragons and men alike, but there is something about you that captivates her in a way she does not fully understand. “You said you were the last of your kind,” she begins, her voice gentle but probing. “Does that mean you have no family left?”

You turn back to the sky, your expression unreadable as you consider her question. “There are a few others of my order,” you say after a moment, your voice touched with a hint of melancholy. “They are scattered across the world, trying to survive as best they can. But they are not of my blood. My true family… they are gone.”

Rhaenyra feels a pang of sympathy at your words, a sudden connection to the pain you carry. She knows the weight of loss, the emptiness it leaves behind. “I am sorry,” she says quietly, her voice filled with genuine compassion. “To be the last of your kind… it must be a heavy burden.”

You nod slightly, your gaze distant as you continue to stare at the stars. “It is,” you admit, your voice softening with the weight of memory. “But it is the burden I was born to bear. The last of my bloodline, the last of those who once stood against the might of dragons. My family was everything to me… and now, they are nothing but memories and dust.”

Rhaenyra steps closer, standing beside you now, her gaze also turning upward to the stars. She feels a strange sense of kinship with you, this woman who has seen so much, who carries so much pain within her. “I understand what it is to lose those you love,” she says quietly, her voice filled with a sadness that mirrors your own. “I have lost many, and I fear I may lose more before this is over.”

You turn to her, your eyes searching hers, seeing the strength and sorrow within her. “That is the way of the world, Rhaenyra,” you say softly, your tone both comforting and resigned. “We are all bound by the same fate—loss, pain, and eventually, death. But it is what we do with the time we have, the choices we make, that define us. We must find the strength to carry on, even when all seems lost.”

Rhaenyra nods, her heart heavy with the truth of your words. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, to find the resolve she needs to face the challenges ahead. “I will do what I must,” she says, her voice filled with quiet determination. “For my family, for my children… for the future of this realm.”

You give her a small, understanding smile, a flicker of something almost like pride in your eyes. “You have the strength within you, Rhaenyra Targaryen,” you say, your voice firm with conviction. “I see it, just as I see the stars above. You are meant to be more than a queen—you are meant to be a force that shapes the world.”

Rhaenyra feels a surge of emotion at your words, a mix of fear, hope, and a deep, unspoken bond with this woman who seems to understand her better than anyone. She looks back at you, her gaze filled with both gratitude and a growing respect. “And what of you, Y/N?” she asks softly. “What is your place in this world, now that you are the last of your kind?”

You turn away from the stars to meet her gaze once more, your expression resolute. “My place is wherever I am needed,” you say simply. “I will do what must be done to preserve the balance, to ensure that this world does not fall into chaos. Whether that means standing beside you, or against you, remains to be seen.”

Rhaenyra nods slowly, understanding the gravity of your words. She feels a deep respect for you, for the strength and resolve you carry, and she knows that your path and hers are now intertwined, whether by fate or by choice. 

For a moment, the two of you stand together in silence, gazing up at the stars, each lost in your own thoughts, yet connected by the shared understanding of the burdens you bear. The night is a vast and heavy dread of what lies ahead, but in this moment, there is a sense of calm, of quiet resolution, as if the stars themselves have blessed this fragile alliance.

The morning sun has risen over Dragonstone, casting a warm, golden glow across the ancient stone walls and the restless sea beyond. The storm of the previous night has left the air fresh and crisp, with only a few lingering clouds on the horizon. The castle is stirring with life, as servants go about their duties and the guards stand watchful at their posts.

You are standing in the courtyard, the early light catching in your hair, giving it a strange, almost ethereal sheen. You are calm, composed, your posture relaxed as you watch the sea, seemingly lost in thought. The events of the previous night, the tension, and the conversations have left their mark, but you show no outward sign of it. You stand there, a figure of quiet strength, almost as if you belong to another time, another world.

Luke approaches you cautiously, his small feet making soft sounds against the stone. He is dressed in simple, practical clothing, appropriate for the heir of a noble house, but his expression is one of nervousness and gratitude. His young face is still pale from the fear of his encounter at Storm's End, but there is also determination in his eyes, a resolve to confront what haunts him.

He stops a few paces away from you, hesitant at first. “Lady Y/N,” he begins, his voice small but earnest. “I… I wanted to thank you. For what you did at Storm’s End. You saved my life.”

You turn to him, a gentle smile curving your lips as you look down at the boy. There is a kindness in your eyes that seems to ease his nerves, though the depth of your gaze still holds a mystery that he cannot quite grasp. “You owe me no thanks, young prince,” you say softly, your voice steady and warm. “I did what was just.”

Luke swallows, glancing down at the ground for a moment before looking back up at you. “But… Aemond,” he continues, his voice trembling slightly at the name. “He won’t forget what you did. He’ll come after you. He won’t stop until… until he gets what he wants.”

You regard him with calm assurance, unbothered by the warning. There is a quiet power in the way you stand, as if the threats of men and dragons alike hold no sway over you. “Let him come,” you reply, your tone even, as if discussing something as mundane as the weather. “Aemond Targaryen is not the first to seek revenge against me, nor will he be the last. I have faced dragons before, and I have survived them. If he wishes to challenge me, then he will learn that some battles are not so easily won.”

Luke looks at you with a mixture of awe and confusion, struggling to understand the depth of your confidence. He is young, and the world is still a place of fear and uncertainty to him, but your words carry a weight that he cannot ignore. “But… aren’t you afraid?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

You tilt your head slightly, considering the question with a faint smile. “Fear is a natural thing, young prince,” you say gently. “But I have learned that there are things far greater and more terrifying than a man or his dragon. We are all small in the grand scheme of things, and what we fear today may be forgotten tomorrow. What matters is how we face that fear—whether we let it control us, or whether we rise above it.”

Luke nods slowly, taking in your words. There is a wisdom in them that speaks to him, even if he doesn’t fully understand it yet. He looks up at you with a newfound respect, feeling a little braver, a little stronger in your presence. “I’ll remember that,” he says softly, his voice filled with a quiet determination.

As you and Luke speak, Rhaenyra watches from a distance, her eyes flicking toward you every so often. She stands near one of the arches that lead out to the courtyard, her gaze following the interaction between you and her son. There is something in the way she observes you—a mixture of curiosity, admiration, and perhaps a touch of something more that she doesn’t fully acknowledge, even to herself.

Rhaenyra notices the ease with which you speak to Luke, the way your presence seems to calm him, to give him strength. There is a grace in your movements, a calm assurance that draws her attention, almost as if you are a beacon of light in the chaos that surrounds them all. She sees the way Luke looks up at you, his young face filled with awe, and she cannot help but feel the same pull, the same captivation.

She remembers the conversation from the night before, the way you spoke of balance, of the vastness of the universe and the insignificance of their struggles in the grand scheme of things. It had left her feeling both humbled and intrigued, as if she were standing on the edge of some great revelation, something that could change everything she thought she knew.

But now, as she watches you with her son, she sees another side of you—a protector, a guide, someone who understands the fears of a boy and can ease them with nothing more than a few well-chosen words. It is a quality that Rhaenyra cannot help but admire, and it deepens the connection she feels toward you, a bond that is growing stronger with each passing moment.

Luke takes a deep breath, standing a little taller now as he looks up at you. “Thank you, Lady Y/N,” he says, his voice more confident this time. “For everything.”

You nod, giving him a reassuring smile. “You are a brave young man, Luke. Never forget that. The world is a dangerous place, but you have the strength within you to face whatever comes. Trust in that.”

Luke smiles, a small, genuine smile that lights up his face, and then he turns to go, feeling a little more at peace with the world. As he walks away, he glances back at you one last time, as if to hold onto the strength you have given him.

Rhaenyra steps forward as Luke leaves, approaching you with a mixture of caution and curiosity. “He admires you,” she says softly, her voice carrying a note of gratitude and something more, something she does not name.

You turn to her, your expression thoughtful as you meet her gaze. “He is a good boy,” you reply. “He will grow into a strong man, one who will carry the weight of his name with honor. But he is still young, and the world is full of challenges he has yet to face.”

Rhaenyra nods, her eyes lingering on your face, taking in the details of your features, the way the light plays across your skin. There is something almost hypnotic about you, something that draws her in, and she finds herself feeling a connection that she cannot fully explain. “I can see why he admires you,” she says softly, her voice tinged with both respect and something deeper, something that stirs within her like the rising tide.

You hold her gaze, your expression unreadable, but there is a softness in your eyes, a recognition of the connection that is forming between the two of you. “And I can see why you care for him so deeply,” you reply, your voice gentle, almost tender. “He is your son, your legacy. You have given him strength, Rhaenyra, just as you will need to give him guidance in the days to come.”

Rhaenyra nods again, feeling a surge of emotion at your words. There is a bond forming between you, something that goes beyond mere friendship or alliance. It is a connection born of shared understanding, of mutual respect, and perhaps even of something more, something that neither of you is ready to name just yet.

For a moment, the two of you stand there in the courtyard, the world around you falling away as you share a quiet, unspoken understanding. The sun continues to rise, casting its golden light across the castle, and in that light, the bond between you and Rhaenyra grows stronger, deepening with every passing moment.

And in the distance, the sea continues to churn, its waves crashing against the shore, a reminder that the world is vast and full of challenges. But in this moment, on this morning, there is peace, and there is a connection.

[twistedtangledfate]

//Casual reminder that both Daemon and Aemond will curse like demons, although Aemond tends to avoid doing that when Helaena is around and if his mother has an eye on him, both for different reasons though. Daemon really doesn’t care at all and does it a lot more frequently. 

[bxlladxnnabxtch]

Desertion & Destruction

Rhysand x Reader

❀​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​❀

Summary: Rhysand discovering you had left didn't go as gracefully as anyone expected.

Read Pt. 1 of Desertion & Destruction - HERE

Read Pt. 5 - HERE

Warnings: Blood, Yelling, Violence, Angst.

By the time Rhys had realized you’d left the Night Court, you were already over the border.

And Feyre stood, stunned and faintly terrified over the chaos that ensued.

“WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN SHES GONE?” Rhys was livid, indescribably so. His instincts were clawing at him, screaming at him to go after you. He could barely think through the chorus in his head yelling at him that you had left, you were gone. The logical, High Lord thinking part of himself said that he couldn’t do anything, couldn’t go after you. You were over the border, out of his court, and with tensions as high as they already were, he couldn’t risk walking into another court. They would take it as an unspoken declaration of war, especially considering he sent no correspondence beforehand- and that he was so close to Amarantha Under the Mountain. He was stuck.

A cornered animal is almost as dangerous as a wounded one.

Unfortunately for Azriel, Rhys was both.

“She left yesterday and headed straight for the border.” Azriel spoke matter-of-factly, as if he was giving a mundane report to his High Lord about observations he had made while out on a mission. He didn’t owe anything to Rhys, not after the way he had treated you. Right now, he was his brother, first and foremost, High Lord status be damned.

“And you helped her?” Rhys asked incredulously, a scowl upturning his features that had Azriel’s feet spreading, back straightening. Cassian tensed from beside them, noting the warrior stance Azriel had casually slipped into. He became mildly concerned about where this conversation was headed, and if the streets outside the townhouse would survive Azriel and Rhys duking it out in the middle of the entryway.

“What would you rather have me do? Leave her to rot like you did?” Azriel hissed through his teeth, shadows stirring from their dormancy. Rhys bristled, a flash of unrestrained power flared through his violet irises, lighting them up and making them shine with an iridescent hue. The ground rumbled beneath them, the movement causing Cassian to tense, shooting a concerned look at Azriel.

“Easy.” He warned, the tension becoming thicker with each passing second. He could tell Rhys was getting too riled up, his rage combined with his instincts roaring at him to go after you and his power that was no doubt bucking against its restraints, this could turn deadly real fast- too fast. Morrigan stepped in front of Feyre the slightest bit, watching the conversation pan out. Despite how heated it was getting, she seemed content to let them sort it out amongst themselves, although that didn’t stop her from urging Feyre to get behind her should things go south.

Azriel’s siphons blazed a bright sapphire.

He continued, “Turn my affections on to another fae?” He asked, waving his hand toward Feyre in a gesture that told the group he didn’t care much for her. Rhys’ figure grew taunt, like a spring that was wrung tight, ready to launch at a moment’s notice “Plaster posters around when she slips your leash?”

Cassian barely had time to blink before Rhys had Azriel up against the wall. The house shook from the impact, pictures falling off the wall and smashing on the ground as a yelp sounded from behind Cassian. Whether it was from Feyre or Morrigan, he didn’t know- didn’t turn around to find out. Rhys seethed, his forearm against the shadowsingers throat as he bared his teeth. “Don’t talk about my mate.”

Azriel wondered at what point his loyalty had turned over to you. Him and his brothers had grown up together. They had fought countless battles- killed thousands, and saved each other more times than they could count. But still, staring at Rhys as he was pinned to the wall, his High Lords arm digging into his neck as he felt a tremor shake the house under his barely restrained power- he knew he’d gone wrong somewhere.

Cassian jumped in, tearing Rhys off of Azriel as the High Lord struggled to push through him. Azriel ignored Cassian’s attempt to break it up, despite the shout of warning Cassian had shot at him. Azriel stepped forward, inches away from Rhys’ face as he snarled “You abandoned her just like you did Under the Mountain.”

Rhys had plowed through Cassian and was on Azriel in a second. Cassian barely had time to react as he stumbled back, attempting to regain his balance. Mor immediately turned around, ushering a panic-stricken Feyre up the stairs of the townhouse as Rhys and his spymaster threw each other to the ground.

The first punch landed directly in the center of Azriel’s face, making him recoil slightly before sending Rhys into a side table in the entrance to the foyer. Only a grunt left him, barely an acknowledgement of the wood that had slammed into his side before they lurched at each other again.

They scuffled on the ground for a moment, Rhys crawling on top of Azriel as the spymaster attempted to shift his weight, aiming to flip him over. His attempts ultimately failed as he was slugged again, his head being sent careening, cracking against the hardwood floors. He felt it collide, the blinding pain that shot through his head and down his spine, throbbing in his temples. He grit his teeth, his siphons fluttering, the light flickering until it came to a head.

A blast of blue light collided into Rhys, sending him into the wall behind him. A crack formed in the drywall as he hit, the sound audible in the once chaotic room that now sat still. A groan sounded from Rhys as he slumped down the wall, the pain no doubt incapacitating him for the time being.

Before one of them could regain their bearings and go at it again, his shadows swarmed him in a frenzy. It was almost as if they were panicked, the way they zipped around him. He felt the warm blood leak from his nose as he heard the first whisper. A murmur, almost like a graze as it spoke, mutterings of your journey, a fall, a broken wing.

Fuck.

Azriel hadn’t even given half a thought to the mating bond before he and Rhys went at it- of how it would affect you. Though before he could scramble to his feet and rush to you, a voice sounded from behind him.

“Cauldron boil me, what happened in here?”

His head rang, and a jolt of pain zapped through him as he looked up to find Amren staring directly at him, Mor at her side as she looked between him and Rhys. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to will away the headache that began to set in from the blow to the head. “Words were exchanged.” Azriel gritted out, ignoring Cassian as he arched a brow in slight amusement. Mor let out a whistle as she surveyed the foyer, the broken table, dented floorboards, and the pictures that lay shattered on the floor.

“No shit, I was wondering which ones had you willing to blow the entirety of Velaris apart.” Amren said, not sounding too enthused at the state of the room. She sent a pointed looked to the crack in the wall, the drywall caving in slightly and exposing the stunts underneath. Azriel rubbed his temples as he sat up on his knees, one hand coming to brace himself on the hardwood. “The ones that told Rhys he’s been a shit mate.” Azriel quipped, a layer of frustration edging his tone as he couldn’t stop the headache from raging on. “Ah.” Amren tutted, dark hair swaying with her steps as she walked up to the High Lord. “Get up.”

Rhys blinked blearily, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as Amren’s eyes shone with a flicker of that foreign power. It had appeared Rhys had his fill of fighting for the day, and rose to his feet without complaint, only a muffled groan of pain leaving him as he heaved himself up the wall.

Amren snapped her fingers toward Mor, nodding her head towards Rhys as she helped him steady himself. Mor seemed to understand as she let out an annoyed sigh, making her way over to the two as Rhys braced himself on the wall. Mor clicked her tongue as she gave Rhys a once over, but spared the ladder any further comments as she grabbed hold of him and Amren. The trio disappeared in a plume of black smoke, leaving Cassian and Azriel in the decimated foyer.

Cassian let out a snort, his steps avoiding the dents along the scuffed floor as Azriel grimaced weakly. Cassian held out a hand in expectation, waiting a beat before Azriel took it and he hauled him up. Azriel stumbled, tripping over his own footing as he struggled to keep upright. Cassian tsked. “Last time you had a concussion was 120 years ago.” Azriel shot him a glare, flinching when he felt another jolt of pain throb through his temples. He ignored Cassian’s comment, instead gesturing to the vacant space where Rhys once stood. “Where’d they go?”

“The House.” Cassian said, watching Azriel as he made his way towards the townhouse steps. “Figured you two needed a little time apart.” Azriel huffed a laugh as he sat down onto the steps rather ungracefully. A small grin tugged at Cassian’s lips as he watched his brother fumble. “And I take it Amren’s appearance was also your idea?” Azriel asked rhetorically.

Azriel never intended for this to get out of hand. A would’ve been quiet conversation had turned into a shitshow, and he didn’t know whether to feel bad or justified that the family seemed to have been picking sides. “It’s not my fault she’s the only one who can seem to get you two off of each other.” Cassian chuckled at his own joke, the laugh ringing out through the silent house. Cassian knew Feyre was upstairs and had probably heard everything that had gone down, but part of him was glad she wasn’t there to see the brunt of it.  A hell of a first impression she got.

Cassian’s smirk fell at Azriel’s lack of response. He noted the way he stared at the ground, watching the blood from his nose drip and splatter on the floorboards, staining the wood. “You care for her don’t you.” Azriel seemed to snap out of his reverie at the mention of you, his eyes glancing off to the side as he huffed incredulously. “I care about all of you.”

Cassian pursed his lips, surveying the bloodied spymaster. He sighed, looking down at the ground as he shook his head knowingly. “You know that’s not what I meant.” His tone had gone soft, Azriel gritted his teeth. He didn’t bother to respond to the remark, instead slumping against his hand that had come to cradle his head.

Cassian laid a hand on his shoulder, giving him a pat of goodwill. “Keep me updated.” He said gently, before strolling past him and up the stairs.

[milkyhoneybee]

Unethical magic friend who uses you to solve their problems without asking you or considering your comfort

They ran out of milk for their morning coffee? They snap their fingers and suddenly your tits are massive and leaking milk. They take what they need and don't bother changing you back until they remember hours or days later, even if you try to remind them they just wave you off saying 'sure, sure, I just need to finish working out this summoning circle' and get distracted again

Sometimes they read something in a book that gets them horny or there's something they couldn't figure out, or they just pass someone in the market who takes their fancy, so guess who's helping them recreate it? You lose track of the amount of times you've been turned into the current object of their desires-- you don't even remember what your original hair colour was at this point, though you think you're mostly the same as you were when they change you back... but, enough subtle differences over time can build up...

Not to mention the times you've ended up with tentacles or horns or fangs or a foot long tongue, genitals of every configuration, or been transformed into slime and used just for their pleasure, or, more humiliatingly, been used in some test or experiment, or used to get spell ingredients

You would leave, you think, even if it didn't usually feel so good you lose control of yourself, but you didn't realise how binding a mage's "friendship bracelets" were when you first accepted it when you became friends, and now even if you do go anywhere, they can summon you back without trouble

They just conjure you some souvenir or some kind of 'treat' if you complain, and you feel your cheeks flush with the patronising nature of it. None of your complaints are ever taken seriously

Sometimes they'll summon a demon or other creature either for information or for some task, and you've ended up being used as payment or to placate them. You start drooling and going weak at the knees whenever you smell succubus milk or incubus cum from the amount of times you've been exposed to it already-- you're honestly worried it'll become an addiction before too long...

The one time you tried to sabotage one of your friends spells, hoping they'd get a taste of their own medicine, and while at first it was satisfying seeing their look of panic when the magic went awry, it didn't last long...

When you looked at their spell book and saw they were trying to create an armour spell as strong as dragon scales, you figured out just what your interference had caused, watching those glistening sapphire scales spread along their growing, shifting limbs, long claws growing in, a tail stretching out behind them, horns and wings starting to form

Unfortunately, your friend was still conscious enough to realise it was you that had caused the issue, and they had no qualms about 'punishing' you for it

Increasingly they grew larger and stronger than you, long maw full of sharp fangs and a wicked tongue grinning as they pinned you down under one paw. The tongue that shoved itself inside you was larger than some of the cocks you'd taken before, making you squeal and writhe, body shaking when the edge of claws sent little trickles of blood down your thighs and sides. They pressed you down harder into the floor, growling like a thunderstorm and started fucking their tongue into you. Suddenly, their haunches were over your face, their serpentine body much more flexible and longer than their human one, and your eyes widened at the sight of the cock hanging heavy and flushed, pushing past the split of scales between their legs

Even trying to keep your mouth closed didn't save you, your draconic friend simply smothering you with their cock until you were forced to take a breath, and after letting you get a little air, they took the opportunity to ram their cock straight down your throat. You can't fight back at all as they fill you from both ends, feeling like a toy being hollowed out

Their cock is covered in ridges and the slick confines of your throat drag against them in a way that, from what you can still manage to piece together due to the lack of consistent air, must feel good. They even get their tail wrapped around your throat, making your watering eyes roll up as they tighten their hold

You pass out, of course

Thankfully, they must have pulled out before the lack of air completely did you in (though you have no way to tell, perhaps they could still cast necromantic magic in dragon form?) but you come to in fits and starts, finally piecing enough of yourself together when you're being held in both of their front paws, your hole stretched and leaking around their cock as they bounce you up and down its length

From the way your belly sloshes, and how sticky your legs are (not to mention the rest of you, you assume), you can guess they've already cum in you a few times while you were out cold

When the draconic mage finally finishes with you, you're left slumped over, face half laying in a puddle of cum and you don't think you'll ever not smell like it or if you'll ever taste anything else again. You don't know if you can even talk any more from having your throat so thoroughly fucked. Not to mention if your holes will recover after being stretched out and absolutely ruined on that massive dragon cock...

Of course, leaving them a dragon doesn't seem like a good idea for anyone. Once you get enough energy and brain cells to rub together, and manage to clean up a bit, you get herded over to their spell book. They eventually nudge you and manage to gesture, growl, and, at times, roughly manipulate you, until you can brew a potion to change them back

Once they're back on two legs? 'Well, that was fun, wasn't it?'

[llamagoddessofficial]

How about headcannons for fae Nightmare are fav Winter King??

You're in a relationship with two Nightmare's, really.

The first Nightmare is the King. Overwhelmingly powerful, aloof, wickedly intelligent, stern but with a strong sense of justice, (privately) very caring and gentle. This Nightmare is the one you spend the vast majority of your time with. He flirts like a courtly prince... he ballroom dances with you on glittering midwinter nights, he reads you poetry by dwindling firelight. He gifts you the finest gowns and furs, matched only in craftsmanship by his own, he puts crystal necklaces around your neck and silver rings on your fingers. He kisses your knuckles and takes you on long romantic horse rides, he has a winter flower garden made for you, he wraps his cloak around your shoulders when you're tired. This is the Nightmare that has been tempered by hundreds of years of rule. The man he shows the world; the man he wants to be, for you.

... Then there's the other Nightmare. The one underneath. The one that never recovered from the wound to his skull, nor the betrayal he felt after.

That Nightmare is furious. Ragged. Desperately tired, hates everything but you. Wildly possessive - barely holding back from clawing out the eyes of anyone who looks your way. Starving for your love, but absolutely terrified of what that means. Wants to sink his teeth into you and never let go.

Generally, the first Nightmare is excellent at covering up the second, he's had centuries to practise. But you catch glimpses. That's the Nightmare who sees a courtier aggressively flirting with you at a feast, and takes them outside to beat them within an inch of their life and leave them bleeding in the snow. That's the Nightmare that drinks a little too much wine and won't let go of your wrist all evening. The Nightmare who draws you like he's trying to capture you forever in the paper; the one who pulls you closer to him in the middle of the night. The Nightmare that stares jealously at people who make you laugh, only just covering his tracks and laughing along when he realises he's being intimidating.

He's very gentle with you. He'll never raise his voice at you.

He's got a surprisingly playful side. For all his gloomy seriousness, he seems to take quite a bit of joy in teasing you. The other skeletons are jarred by the sight of you teasing him back - that's a luxury no one else in either kingdom can afford.

Killer has his stray cats. Nightmare has his beloved horse, the eighteen-hand beast that bites off hands and kicks in heads. She has an obvious soft spot for you. Only you and Nightmare can mount her.

Nightmare also has some (equally beloved) massive hunting hounds who resemble dire wolves more than dogs. They look terrifying and vicious, coming and going from the castle as they please, often disappearing as a pack into the wilderness for days. When Nightmare isn't around, alongside the usual trio of Killer Dust and Horror looking after you, you'll have some massive fluffy good boys as excellent bodyguards.

Nightmare can be... difficult. He isn't very good at expressing himself; he lies about how he feels to make you feel better, getting the truth out of him is getting blood from a stone. He's a romantic, he wants to look after you, he wants everything to be about you. He's happy when you're happy and his own wants are far too messy and scary to unpack. Gifting you another set of sapphire earrings is much easier than admitting he's massively insecure and just wants you to stay in bed with him all day, cradling his skull and telling him you care.

... All that being said... you will never know loyalty like his. Many people say they would 'wait a thousand years' for their partner.

He actually would.