#☆ there is no strength left in the world of men ➵ lord of the rings

[peachessndreamss]

Weirwood Tree

Summery : While in labour with their second child, Cregan and his wife take s short walk to the Weirwood tree to help get things moving.

Characters : Cregan Stark x f!wife reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings : Pregnancy and childbirth (nothing explicit)

Word count : 3k

A/N : Turns out you never shake being a Stark girl, Ily Cregan so much.

“I’m sorry t’say it, my lady, but your labours have slowed up,” the midwife said softly as she drew the sheets back over Lady Starks bent knees before dipping her hands in a bowl of water. 

“Slowed up?” Lady Stark repeated incredulously, dropping her head back on the feather pillow, “but it's been hours already,” she added, tears burning her eyes. 

The second child of Lord Cregan stark and his lady wife was in no rush to make their way into the world. Despite the frequency and strength of her earlier pains once the midwife and maester had been sent for, everything seemed to have come to an uncomfortable halt.  

The midwife had brought her ancient grandmother along with her, known through Winterfell and the winter town as Auld Joan, she had been a midwife in her own time and had delivered Cregan's father and uncle. She was mostly blind and deaf now but still attended births but spent most of the time sitting as close to a heat source as possible and dispensing wisdom if necessary. She was currently sitting in a chair next to the roaring fire, her ancient hands clasped on her lap, knuckles bulging out of shape and fingers curled like claws. 

“I know it's been a while,” the midwife said soothingly, placing a warm hand on Lady Stark's knee, “but sometimes it's just like this,”. 

“The last one wasn't like this,” Lady Stark grumbled, her mood darkening as she tried to shift around into a more comfortable position. 

“You mustn't compare one with another,” the midwife soothed before touching a cold cloth to the lady's forehead. 

“A walk will geyit moving ,” the old woman wheezed from her seat by the fire, “no’ this lying about,”. 

The maester, who had been mostly disinterested in proceedings up until this point shot the old woman a dark look, he was standing in the far corner of the room, a leather case of vicious metal tools clutched jealously to his chest. His grey robes matched his grey and sickly looking skin. He wasn't particularly interested in births or deaths or the everyday ailments of life and resented being summoned to the birthing room of any woman. 

“This position is agreed upon as being the correct way for labouring mothers,” he said coldly in a clipped southern accent. 

“Agreed by men who know nothing about it,” the crone grumbled. 

“What does she mean?” Lady Stark asked the midwife who was now gently feeling the swell of the lady's belly. 

“Baby's not quite in righ’ place, that's why things have slowed,” she explained as she pressed on the left side of the belly, Lady Stark winced, “but grandmother thinks a little walk might get things moving again,”. 

The midwife glanced over at her grandmother who had closed her eyes and was now looking peaceful in the flickering light of the fire, she looked back at her lady and dabbed the cloth over her cheeks before putting it back beside the bowl of cold water. 

“What do you think?”Lady Stark asked. 

She shrugged, making a point not to look towards the maester before replying. 

“It helped me with mine, and it wouldn't do you any harm,”. 

The maester opened his mouth to disagree and lady stark held up her hand to silence him. 

“Just walking through the keep, out into the godswood for the fresh air should do it,” the midwife continued. 

The lady nodded and lifted herself up onto her elbows, she addressed the maester, privately enjoying ordering the sour faced man about. 

“Lord Cregan is outside the door, fetch him in,” she said. 

Cregan Stark had paced the halls outside of his wife's rooms since he'd been asked to leave them several hours before. While he wasn't accustomed to being removed from parts of his own castle he respected that father's, even lords, were not expected to be present at the births of their children,so he was surprised to hear the door opening when he was fairly certain nothing much had happened yet. 

“My Lord?” The voice of the maester echoed off the walls as the lord strode into view, “your wife would like to see you,”. 

He nodded, his face stern as he stepped past the man and into the warm, dark room. 

“Seven Hells,” he murmured as he pulled at the collar of his shirt, instantly feeling the heat of the room rolling over him like a wave, sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip. 

As he looked around the room he was surprised to see the midwife helping his wife into her fur boots, a long, heavy cloak already covering her shoulders. 

“Going somewhere?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. 

She turned her flushed face to him and smiled. 

“Yes, we're going for a walk,”. 

Cregan’s brows rose but he nodded without further comment, knowing better than to ask questions.  He watched nervously as the midwife helped his wife to her feet, ready to spring forward at any moment if it looked like Lady Stark might lose her balance. 

Once he was happy she was safely on her feet, Cregan stepped towards them, offering his arm to his wife, who took a small step and linked her arm through his. 

“Twice around the godswood’ll do it,” Auld Joan spoke from the chair, she opened one ancient eye that could just be seen through the folds of skin that made up her face. 

“Or as far as you need’t,” the midwife added, her eyes flicking towards the maester. 

From the darkest corner of the room the maester muttered under his breath “foolishness” but no one else could hear him or pay him a moment's more attention. 

As the Lord and Lady of Winterfell stepped out of the stifling room and into the cooler corridor of the keep they both gave a sigh of relief. As they walked they instinctively drew closer to one another. Finding comfort and strength in each other's presence. 

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Cregan said as they stepped through the door of the keep and into the much colder air of the inner bailey. The ground was a mess of mud, straw, snow and grey brown slush that cracked and crunched under their boots. 

“Yes,” she agreed, her hand tightening on his arm as her foot slipped a little on a patch of hidden ice, “Auld Joan felt this would be the best way to get things moving again,”. 

Cregan nodded, “She's seen a fair few babes born in her time, she knows what she's talking about,” he paused and took a deep breath of cold air, “I think she might have even delivered my grandfather,”. 

“Surely not!” She exclaimed, looking up at her husband's handsome profile, “that would make her more than a hundred years old,”. 

“I've heard of stranger things in these parts,” Cregan said with a shrug. 

They walked quietly together, moving slowly and carefully through the slush.

“Not as easy as last time then?” He asked as they made their way past the archery butts where the young men of the household were practising and past the stables with their snorting horses and young boys shovelling straw. 

“No, this one seems to have an obstinate Stark streak in them already,” she replied with a soft laugh that sounded like music to Cregan's ears. 

“I seem to recall your own family are known for their stubbornness so I won't be taking all the responsibility for that,”. 

“Pigheadedness, I believe my father called it,” she replied with a laugh, Cregan gave his own snort of laughter. 

“Your father certainly has a way with words,” he agreed. Recalling a few choice phrases her father had used for him during their courtship. 

As the pair crossed into the godswood the sounds of the keep and the town beyond the walls seemed to fade away and they became the only two people in the world. The ground was covered in a dusting of snow which had frozen overnight and now crunched under foot. From the dark canopy of the trees small birds sang between themselves and bounced from branch to branch, leaves rusting and falling to the ground in their wake. 

“Aly is worried we won't have enough time for her when the baby arrives,” Lady Stark said as they passed under the first dark boughs, “she kept asking me if we were going to send her away when I was putting her to bed last night,”. 

“She's a sensitive soul,” Cregan replied with a soft laugh, his mind wandering to the little girl who was at that moment playing in the same nursery he played in as a child, waiting for his own younger sibling to be born. 

“I dread the day we do need to send her away,” she lamented, drawing her body even closer to his in the cold air. Her free hand resting low on the swell of her belly. 

“We've many years before that day, my love,” he soothed, “and perhaps many more babes to fill our home,”. 

Lady Stark laughed softly, feeling the dull ache of her labours growing in strength as they followed the well known path through the trees.

“You are insatiable, always wanting more,” she said softly and Cregan laughed. 

They had been married 6 years and now were as comfortable with one another as any married couple could expect to be. Having been friends before they’re union had made things easier but the months after Cregan’s return from war had tested them to their limits. The time spent apart had been long and difficult for the both of them, when Cregan had left he was already old beyond his years but on his return he was darker and colder than the longest winter night. He’d forgotten laughter, softness and gentleness and his first few months back in Winterfell had been fraught as the two learned to live with one another again and find their way back to the happiness they’d briefly shared before the dragons tore the realm apart. 

The followed a well trodden path through the woods, her arm wrapped tightly through his and his hand resting over hers, warm and solid. As they walked, Cregan listened to her breathing, noticing every change to her breath and hitch in her voice. He was ready to take her in his arms at any moment to rush her back to the midwife if was necessary. 

They turned a corner in the path and were now on course to the weirwood tree, its ancient face seemed to watch their approach and its blood red leaves reflected in the black water at its roots. 

Suddenly Lady Stark stopped, her free hand going to her belly with a sharp intake of breath, she groaned, her teeth biting into her top lip as a strong contraction wracked her body. Cregan tightened his hold on her, fear gripping at his heart and twisting his stomach. 

After a few seconds of pain her face relaxed and her eyes opened, her cheeks were flushed with colour and despite the cold there was sweat at her hair line. 

“I think this might be working,” she said with a small smile, “or perhaps the baby can feel the tree,” she added, glancing toward the weirwood. 

“A good Stark then,” Cregan replied, forcing a lightness in his voice he didn’t feel. 

She stepped toward the tree and he followed her closely, never letting her more than an arm's reach from him. Once close enough she placed her hands on the tree, feeling the rough bark rasp against her skin. 

“Do you think the old kings of the north were born under this tree?” she asked, turning her face up as a shaft of wintery sunlight broke through the dense leaf cover, “snow and leaves for their midwife?”.

Cregan raised his eyebrow in thought for a moment before replying. 

“They were certainly conceived under it,” he smiled.   

“Yes, I remember the stories,” she agreed, turning to look at her husband and seeing the playful glimmer in his eyes. 

During the long months of the war she’d found comfort in the thousands of books in the Winterfell library, starting with the histories of the North going all the way back to the first men and how those ancient kings of the North did everything important in their lives in sight of a weirwood tree, they were born, married, made oaths and died as close to the trees as they possibly could. The histories had included stories of rituals the ancient peoples had contrived to conceive their children under the boughs of the weirwood trees, they believed these children would have the gifts of prophecy or live impossibly long lives because the powers of the tree flowed through them. 

“Perhaps, when you’re healed, we should try it ourselves,” Cregan teased. 

“When this one is delivered I’ll let you know if you’ll be welcome in my bed again,” she replied with a sly smile, before adding “my lord,”. 

Cregan gave a bark-like laugh, stepping closer to her and slipping his arm over her lower back and around her waist. She turned to face him, moving her hands from the ancient and cold bark of the tree to the living warmth of his shoulders, she studied his features before taking a deep breath and letting her forehead press against his. Another contraction wracked her body, she groaned and gripped tightly at the fur and wool of his cloak, taking strength from his body into her own. 

“I think we need to go back,” she said softly, their foreheads still pressed together. 

“I think so,” he agreed without hesitation.

Keeping his arm wrapped around her waist the two of them turned, she leaned heavily on Cregan as they completed the loop around the godswood and headed back through the castle courtyard. The space now almost completely empty as most of the household had been summoned for the midday meal. 

The progress was slow but they soon made it back to Lady Stark’s chambers, the room was cooler now, the windows had been thrown open but the coverings drawn across them to keep the room dark. The two women were sitting by the fire, talking quietly while the maester was still standing in the corner of the room, glaring. 

The midwife jumped to her feet and took Lady Stark’s arm, allowing her to slip from Cregan’s hold and move toward the bed. 

“How are you feeling my lady?” the midwife asked softly. 

“It helped, the pains are coming much more quickly now,” the lady replied. 

“Baby will be here soon,” the midwife agreed, “perhaps before the noon meal is over,”

Lady Stark glanced over her shoulder at her husband pausing by the door. His broad shoulders blocked out almost all of the hallway behind him.

“I want you to stay,” she said softly as she was helped back onto the bed. 

He smiled but shook his head. 

“This is not my place” he said softly, as he felt a burning sensation at the back of his throat and in his eyes as he fought the sudden overwhelm of emotions. 

“Thank you, my lord,” the old crone said from her seat, “we’ll take care of them,”.

Cregan nodded, knowing well enough when he was being asked to leave, he gave his wife a final look before stepping out of the room and closing the door behind himself and resuming his pacing. He wondered if his own father had paced nervously or if he had taken to the woods to hunt until the deed was over with and the child was cleaned and neatly wrapped in a blanket. He couldn’t imagine being any further than the castle gate while Lady Stark laboured. 

As the midwife predicted the midday meal hadn’t finished before there was the high pitched, squalling cry of a newborn that caused Cregan to stop in his tracks and lean heavily against the wall of the hallway, his hand clutching at his heart that was beating fast enough to burst. 

The door to the chambers opened and the midwife stepped out, a smile on her face as she saw her lord in a moment of unguarded emotion. 

 “A son, my lord, hale and hearty and with plenty to say for himself,” she said, the sounds of the crying child still coming clearly from the room behind her. 

“God's be praised,” Cregan said, his voice cracking with emotion. 

“Come meet him,”. 

Cregan felt his knees turn to water when he stepped into Lady Stark's rooms, the sight of his beloved wife cradling a squalling newborn was a joy that pierced his heart like an arrow. 

“Your son, my lord” she said with a tired smile, turning the bundle just enough for Cregan to be able to see the child's face. 

He stooped and took the child, cradling him close to his chest, for a few seconds the child stopped wailing, his blue eyes opening wide and taking in his first sight of his father. The two of them looked at each other for a few seconds, Cregan's own eyes filling with tears. One hot tear was about to track down Cregan's face when the baby in his arms screwed his eyes shut, opened his mouth and started to howl, his cries even more desperate than before. 

Lady Stark laughed from her seat on the bed, holding her arms out to take the child back. 

“Give him back, you're upsetting our son,” she said, grinning at Cregan who jealously clung onto the child, rocking him gently and trying to sooth the screaming babe. 

“Sorry my boy,” Cregan said softly, “but you'll just have to get used to me,”.

[greenbloods]

asoiaf thesis statements

The common people pray for rain, healthy children, and a summer that never ends. It is no matter to them if the high lords play their game of thrones, so long as they are left in peace. They never are.

Never forget what you are, for surely the world will not. Make it your strength. Then it can never be your weakness. Armour yourself in it, and it will never be used to hurt you.

The land is one.

"What is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?" "Everything."

Men's lives have meaning, not their deaths.

We were king’s men, knights, and heroes...but some knights are dark and full of terror, my lady. War makes monsters of us all.

When I'm king in my own right, I'm going to outlaw beets.

[novaursa]

The Blood We Choose

- Summary: Gwayne brings you to Dragonstone, to your sister. But it is Daemon who awaits you both.

- Paring: Gwanye Hightower/targ!reader/Daemon Targaryen

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is younger sister of Rhaenyra and was bonded with Silverwing. These events happen right after Where Banners Fall. If you want to read parts before this one in chronological order, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Word count: 4 356

- Tag(s): @deniixlovezelda @duck-duck-goose2 @aadu2173 @sachaa-ff

The scent of salt and brine clings to the air, sharp against the faint undertones of decay and blood—a constant reminder of the battle left behind at Rook’s Rest. You can still feel the memory of fire scorching your skin, the cries of Silverwing echoing in your ears as she fell from the sky, taking you with her. 

Your body aches, every breath a laborious effort as you sit propped against the rough-hewn wall of the small cottage. The village is a quiet one, nestled by the coast, far from the eyes of any lords or soldiers. A place where neither banners nor blood oaths hold sway. Here, you can pretend, for a brief moment, that the world is not consumed by war.

But it’s a fleeting delusion. The searing pain that courses through your side is a constant reminder of how close you came to death. Silverwing’s warmth had shielded you as much as she could, but nothing could stop the might of Vhagar. You know that if it weren’t for Gwayne, you would have perished alongside your dragon, your body left among the ruins.

Gwayne Hightower. His name lingers on your tongue, filled with both bitterness and something else you dare not name. He betrayed his own for you—forsook his House, his loyalties, everything that defined him as a knight of the Greens. For you. The memory of his desperate voice calling your name as he found you below Silverwing’s wing is fresh, a rare vulnerability exposed beneath his normally composed demeanor.

“Y/N,” Gwayne’s voice, low and rough, breaks through the silence of the small room. You look up, meeting his gaze from across the dim space. He’s seated near the hearth, his own wounds not fully healed, a dark bruise blooming along his jawline and his side still tightly bound. 

“What is it?” you rasp, wincing as the movement strains your ribs.

“You should eat more.” He gestures to a small bowl of fish stew beside you. The smell is unappetizing, but you know he’s right. You need strength if you’re to survive this war, if you’re to return to Dragonstone—to your family.

You give a small, reluctant nod, dipping the spoon into the lukewarm broth. The taste is bland, the texture thick in your mouth, but it’s enough to soothe the gnawing hunger in your belly.

“Daemon’s been searching,” Gwayne says after a moment, voice hesitant. “Caraxes was seen flying from Harrenhal. He’ll come for you.”

There’s a flicker of something dangerous in his tone, a tinge of possessiveness that makes your chest tighten. Daemon. Your husband. Your son’s surrogate father. You hadn’t told Gwayne about the child until that morning when pain had stripped away all pretense and left only raw confessions in the dark. It was the first time you saw something break in his eyes, something beyond duty or loyalty. Gwayne is a man forged in duty, yet in that moment, his loyalty had been to you, and only you.

The silence stretches between you both, heavy with unsaid words, unshed tears, and the tangled web of emotion that neither of you are willing to fully confront. How could you? You were always meant to be Rhaenyra’s little sister, the one whose role was to support, never to lead. Yet here you are, a thread woven into a tapestry that binds you to two men who could tear each other and you apart.

“If Daemon finds us…” Gwayne starts, his voice trailing off.

You lower the spoon, your hand trembling slightly. “You’ll run.” It’s not a question. You know what will happen if Daemon catches Gwayne with you, the traitor Hightower who saved his wife instead of leaving her to her fate. Daemon would kill him without hesitation.

His jaw clenches, eyes darkening with a mixture of anger and resolve. “And leave you alone? I think not.”

You shift, ignoring the pain lancing through your body. “This was never supposed to happen,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. You close your eyes, picturing Silverwing’s brilliant wings and the sight of Dragonstone on the horizon—your home. You ache to be back there, where the sea winds carried the scent of salt and freedom, where you could be Y/N Targaryen again instead of a broken remnant.

Gwayne’s presence is a steady warmth in the room, a contrast to the cold reality of the war raging beyond these walls. You want to hate him for making you feel something other than loyalty to Daemon all these years, but you can’t. Not after he’s saved you, cared for you, and stayed by your side despite the danger. Even now, with your heart and mind divided, you know that whatever he feels—duty, love, or perhaps something in between—it is real. And it terrifies you as much as it comforts you.

“Why did you do it?” you ask, barely above a whisper.

His gaze locks with yours, unwavering. “Because I couldn't let you die.”

Your breath catches. The simplicity of his answer is profound. No grand declarations, no lofty promises, just the brutal, honest truth.

Before you can respond, the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel outside the cottage makes you tense. Both of you are on edge, the brief sense of peace shattering like glass. Gwayne moves instinctively toward the door, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 

It’s only the fisherman, his weathered face peeking through the gap in the door. “Tomorrow,” he says quietly. “The boat’ll be ready at dawn. The tides’ll be with us.”

You nod in gratitude, relief mingled with apprehension. Dragonstone is so close now, but you know the return will be fraught with more dangers than those you’ve already faced. 

As the fisherman retreats, Gwayne turns back to you. “We’ll get you home,” he promises, though there’s an edge to his voice that betrays his own uncertainty. 

Home. But what awaits you there? Daemon’s wrath? Your sister’s grief? And what of your son—your son whom you’ve not seen in so long, raised by a Targaryen father who knows nothing of the man who just saved his mother’s life?

For now, you can only rest, listening to the steady rhythm of Gwayne’s breathing across the room as you both try to find sleep in this fleeting calm before the storm resumes. You close your eyes, letting yourself drift, even as a part of you dreads what dawn will bring.

The sky above Dragonstone is dark, heavy clouds gathering as if reflecting the storm brewing within the walls of the ancient castle. The great red dragon, Caraxes, lands with a furious roar, shaking the stones beneath his claws. Daemon slides from the saddle, his face twisted in rage, eyes burning like molten steel. Every step he takes towards the Great Hall is filled with barely-contained fury, the kind that simmers just below the surface and waits for the slightest spark to ignite into violence.

He bursts into the hall, his armor still stained with ash and soot from his fruitless search. Rhaenyra stands by the fire, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though seeking warmth. She turns as Daemon strides in, but before she can say a word, his voice cuts through the silence, sharp as Valyrian steel.

“You sent her to Rook’s Rest? You sent her?” His words are laced with venom, each one a dagger aimed directly at her heart.

Rhaenyra flinches, but she holds her ground, lifting her chin defiantly. “She volunteered, Daemon! She insisted. It was her choice.”

“Her choice?” he spits back, stepping closer, his anger radiating from him like heat from a forge. “She’s no warrior, not like Rhaenys! You sent her to die, Rhaenyra! To die at the hands of Aemond and that wretched beast of his!”

Rhaenyra’s composure cracks then, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “I trusted her! She’s my sister—our blood! I thought… I thought Silverwing—”

“Silverwing is dead!” Daemon’s voice thunders through the hall, a raw, agonized sound. “She fell, trying to protect her rider from Vhagar and Sunfyre. And Y/N? She’s gone, Rhaenyra. Taken by Gwayne Hightower. A Hightower! You might as well have killed her yourself.”

At that, Rhaenyra’s tears break free, streaking down her pale cheeks. “I never wanted this! I would never—”

“Spare me your tears,” Daemon snarls, his eyes narrowing in cold fury. “You speak of choices, yet you chose war over your sister. You sent her out to face death while you remained safe in your castle, protected by your crown. Do you know what it’s like to watch the skies, knowing that the one person who never turned her back on you is likely lying dead, or worse, in the hands of our enemies?”

Rhaenyra’s sobs wrack her slender frame, but Daemon is relentless. He steps closer, so near that he could reach out and touch her, but his hands remain clenched at his sides. “You sacrificed her for a battle that did nothing but weaken us. Aegon still holds King’s Landing. Silverwing is dead, Luke is gone, and now Y/N… she was the last thread of innocence left in this gods-forsaken war, and you ripped it apart.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head desperately. “I thought��Daemon, I thought she could reach them. Convince them to surrender before more blood was spilled. She believed in it too.”

“And now she’s paying for that belief with her life,” Daemon hisses. “Do you understand? Her life, her blood. And for what? Nothing.”

The hall falls silent, the air thick with tension, with grief and fury that neither of them can fully articulate. For a moment, Rhaenyra looks utterly lost, her shoulders sagging under the weight of all the loss that surrounds her. “What am I supposed to do, Daemon? Tell me. What can I do now?”

Before he can respond, a new voice cuts into the fray, youthful but tinged with urgency. “What’s happening? Where is my mother?”

Daemon stiffens, turning slowly to face the boy who has entered the hall. He’s just shy of manhood, tall and lean with the unmistakable features of House Targaryen—silver-gold hair, sharp cheekbones, and the stubborn fire in his gaze. But his eyes, those striking eyes of clear blue, are not Targaryen at all. They are Gwayne Hightower’s, and they haunt Daemon every time he looks at the boy.

The boy’s name is Vaeron, the son raised by Daemon as his own, the boy who never knew the truth of his parentage. Vaeron looks between his father and his aunt, sensing the tension, the raw pain in the air.

“Where is she?” Vaeron’s voice trembles now, the bravado slipping. “Where is my mother?”

Daemon’s expression softens, if only by a fraction. He crosses the distance to his son, placing a hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. “Your mother was ambushed at Rook’s Rest,” he says, each word carefully measured, as if they’re knives he’s forcing down his throat. “Aemond and his dragons brought her down. Silverwing is dead.”

Vaeron’s eyes widen, disbelief and horror written across his face. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head as if denying the truth will somehow change it. “She can’t be dead. Mother can’t be—”

“She’s not dead, not yet,” Daemon cuts in, his voice harsh. “But she’s missing, taken by Gwayne Hightower. And I’ll find her, Vaeron. We’ll find her together.”

The boy’s gaze sharpens, anger and grief mixing with determination. “I’ll go with you,” he says, the words coming out more like a plea than a declaration.

Daemon nods, the cold steel of his resolve hardening. “You’ll mount your dragon, and we’ll take to the skies. We’ll search every inch of the realm if we have to.”

Vaeron swallows hard, the weight of what’s being asked of him sinking in. He’s still so young, yet there’s no more room for youth in this war. He nods, determination etched across his face. “For her. For my mother.”

Daemon’s grip on his son’s shoulder tightens for a moment, the only hint of the fierce protectiveness he feels beneath the layers of rage. “For her,” he agrees.

As they turn to leave, Rhaenyra reaches out, her voice breaking. “Daemon… please… I’m sorry…”

Daemon doesn’t look back. “You can’t afford to be sorry, Rhaenyra. Not now. Not ever.”

The boy’s eyes meet Rhaenyra’s for a moment before he turns away, following his father out into the cold winds of Dragonstone. They leave her behind, standing alone in the dim light of the hall, tears streaming down her face, a queen weighed down by guilt and grief.

The dragons will soon take flight again, this time driven by fury, by a father’s desperation and a son’s determination. And neither Daemon nor Vaeron will rest until they bring her back—no matter the cost, no matter the blood they must spill.

The small fishing boat creaks under the weight of the sea’s relentless pull, the salt spray clinging to your face as the wind howls around you. Each dip and rise of the vessel feels precarious, the threat of capsizing ever-present. You cling to the rough wooden edge, your body still weak and aching from your injuries, but your eyes remain fixed on the silhouette of Dragonstone on the horizon. The ancient fortress looms like a jagged tooth against the darkening sky, its towers piercing the clouds.

Gwayne stands beside you, his gaze scanning the skies as if expecting danger at any moment. His face is shadowed, exhaustion etched into the lines around his eyes, but there’s a tension there too—an unspoken fear that you both share.

The fisherman grumbles curses under his breath as he wrestles with the sails. He’s an old man, his hands gnarled from years at sea, but his sharp eyes occasionally flicker toward you, a mixture of recognition and pity in his gaze. “Prince Daemon’s got the skies set ablaze with his searching,” he mutters, his voice rough like gravel. “And now that boy of his—Merothrax near sunk me last time they flew overhead.”

As if on cue, the air vibrates with the distant sound of wings, a deep thrumming that sends shivers down your spine. You glance upward and catch sight of them—two dragons cutting through the sky like living shadows. Caraxes, with his serpentine neck and blood-red scales, moves with a terrifying grace, his roar echoing across the waves. Beside him is Merothrax, Vaeron’s dragon. Sleek and deadly, the young dragon’s scales are a deep, shimmering indigo, laced with streaks of silver that catch the light when he dives. His wings are larger than one would expect for a dragon of his age, giving him a natural agility in the air. His eyes, a piercing shade of gold, scan the sea below, hungry and watchful.

The boat rocks violently as Merothrax swoops low, his wings stirring the water into frothy waves. The fisherman shouts a stream of curses at the sky, clutching at his hat as the gust from the dragon’s wings nearly tears it from his head. “Damn Targaryens, more fire and madness in them than sense!”

Gwayne’s hand is suddenly on your arm, steadying you as the boat pitches. “They’re looking for us,” he says grimly. “Daemon won’t stop until he finds you.”

“Or finds you with me,” you say, your voice quieter than you intend. There’s a deep tension in your chest, not just from the pain but from the knowledge that each moment brings you closer to facing the storm you left behind. 

Gwayne doesn’t respond immediately. His gaze is distant, lost in thoughts he hasn’t voiced since you confessed your secrets that day—secrets you had buried for too long. The memory of that confession hangs between you both, a reminder of how fragile this moment of safety is.

“You’re thinking of Vaeron,” Gwayne says softly, finally breaking the silence. “Of what happens when he sees me.”

You nod slowly, your throat tightening. “He’s never known who you really are. Daemon raised him, taught him to ride, to fight. Vaeron idolizes him… but he deserves to know the truth.”

Gwayne’s jaw tightens, and his hand drops away from your arm. “I knew of the boy. Rumors reached me—stories of the bastard prince raised by the Rogue himself. But I never… I never thought he’d…” His voice cracks at the end, and you hear the quiet grief in his words. The grief of a father who never had the chance to be a father. 

You turn to him, your heart aching for what you’re about to say. “He’s yours, Gwayne. He always has been.” The admission is heavy, laden with all the years you’ve kept the truth locked away. “Daemon knew from the start. He saw it in Vaeron, even before the boy could speak. But he accepted him anyway, for my sake, and for Rhaenyra’s cause. He never let Vaeron feel unwanted, never let him know he wasn’t his own blood. But those eyes… they’re yours.”

Gwayne’s expression is unreadable, but you see the storm behind his gaze—the battle between duty, regret, and a father’s yearning. “I should have been there,” he says hoarsely. “I should have been the one to raise him, to teach him. Instead, I’ve been chasing ghosts and loyalty that never truly mattered.”

“You would have been hunted down if you claimed him,” you remind him, your voice laced with the bitterness of harsh reality. “Your House would have disowned you—or worse. You would’ve been executed for treason.”

“And now I’m here, having betrayed everything for the woman I…” Gwayne stops himself, the words strangled in his throat.

You don’t push him. The truth lingers between you like a wound too fresh to be probed. You lower your gaze to the churning sea, feeling the boat rock again as Caraxes circles back toward Dragonstone. “He’s a good boy,” you say quietly. “Stubborn, with fire in his blood. But he’s kind, too. He has your strength, even if he doesn’t know it.”

Gwayne’s hand finds yours, squeezing it gently, the roughness of his palm familiar and grounding. “I want to meet him, truly meet him. But what do I say, Y/N? That I’m the man who should have been there, but wasn’t?”

Tears sting your eyes, but you blink them away. “You tell him the truth. Vaeron deserves that much, even if it’s painful. We both know there’s no easy way to face it, but hiding it any longer would be a greater cruelty.”

The boat jerks violently as they begin their final approach to Dragonstone’s rocky shore. You see the shadow of the fortress loom closer, the narrow docks already in sight. The fisherman mutters another curse as Merothrax’s tail lashes the air overhead, nearly capsizing the boat. 

Gwayne leans in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmurs, “No matter what happens when we land, I’ll be by your side. If Daemon tries to take him from me, or if he tries to strike me down for what I’ve done, I won’t back down.”

Your heart clenches at the promise in his words, at the weight of everything that lies ahead. The shore draws near, and you steel yourself for what awaits—a reunion not just with Daemon and your son, but with all the truths that can no longer be avoided.

Above, the dragons circle, their roars echoing through the skies like thunder. The war rages on, but now it’s not just a battle for the throne. It’s a battle for the lives torn apart by secrets and the relentless march of fate. And as you prepare to step onto the stony shore of Dragonstone, you know that the hardest fight has only just begun.

The small boat bumps against the dock with a dull thud, the sound lost beneath the howling wind and the distant crash of waves against the jagged rocks. The air is thick with tension as the fisherman throws a rope to secure the vessel, muttering prayers under his breath, his eyes wide with fear as he glances toward the two dragons perched on the ridge above. Caraxes and Merothrax sit like twin sentinels, their eyes gleaming with the predatory awareness of beasts ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

You step onto the dock first, your legs trembling beneath you, both from the strain of your injuries and the weight of what’s about to happen. Gwayne follows closely, his hand hovering near his sword hilt, though you both know it would be futile if it came to a fight. The wind pulls at your hair and cloak as you move forward, each step taking you closer to the confrontation you’ve dreaded.

Ahead, you see them—Daemon and Vaeron. Daemon’s expression is cold as stone, his eyes narrowed and lips drawn into a hard line. Beside him, Vaeron stands tense, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of worry and anticipation. He’s grown so much since you last saw him, more a young man than a boy, but the flash of relief in his eyes when he sees you tells you he’s still your son, still that child who would run to you for comfort.

But before he can take a step toward you, Daemon’s hand clamps down on his shoulder, holding him back. “Stay where you are,” Daemon orders, his voice as sharp as a blade. Vaeron’s brow furrows, confusion and frustration evident in his eyes, but he doesn’t argue. He simply watches as you and Gwayne approach, his gaze flicking warily between you and the man who saved you.

The tension in the air is palpable as you reach them. Before you can speak, a detachment of royal guards emerges from the path leading to the castle, armor clanking as they fall into formation around Daemon. The commander steps forward and bows deeply. “Prince Daemon, we stand ready.”

Daemon’s eyes never leave Gwayne as he gives the command. “Seize him.”

The guards move forward, hands reaching for Gwayne’s arms. He doesn’t resist, but you see his jaw clench, muscles tensing as iron manacles click shut around his wrists. Panic flares in your chest, and you step between the guards and Gwayne, your voice rising in desperation. “No! You can’t just lock him away! He saved me, Daemon—he saved my life!”

Daemon’s eyes flash with something dangerous as he looks at you, his expression hardening further. “He’s a Hightower, and a traitor to his House. His loyalty to you doesn’t absolve him of that.”

You take a step closer, your voice trembling but determined. “It does when it’s a debt of blood. He risked everything for me—for us. He’s not the enemy here, Daemon.”

But Daemon’s gaze is unyielding, his anger a simmering force barely restrained. “The enemy is anyone who serves the Greens, no matter the reason. You think I care that he chose you over his House? That only makes him more dangerous. He’s already betrayed his own; what’s to stop him from betraying you, or Vaeron, when it suits him?”

Gwayne meets Daemon’s gaze, holding it without flinching, though you see the strain in his eyes. “I gave up everything for her. I’d do it again. But I know what I am, and I don’t expect your forgiveness.”

Daemon’s lips curl into a sneer. “Good, because you’ll get none from me.” He turns to the guards, his tone cold and final. “Take him to the dungeons. I’ll decide his fate once I’ve had time to consider what to do with him.”

The guards tighten their grip on Gwayne and begin to drag him away. You move to follow, but Daemon’s hand catches your arm, stopping you in your tracks. “Enough, Y/N,” he says quietly, his voice a mix of anger and something softer—concern, perhaps, though it’s buried deep beneath his rage. “He’s done what he thought was right, but it doesn’t change what he is.”

You jerk your arm free, glaring at him with all the defiance you can muster. “You’ve lost sight of what truly matters, Daemon. Gwayne’s no longer a pawn of the Greens—he’s here because of me. Because of Vaeron.”

At the mention of Vaeron, Daemon’s eyes flicker, but he remains resolute. “And I’ll not have him jeopardize our son’s safety, not for some misplaced sense of gratitude.”

Your heart aches as you watch Gwayne being led away, the clink of his shackles echoing in the quiet that follows. He walks with his head held high, shoulders squared, but you can see the brief flicker of pain in his expression as he passes by Vaeron. The boy says nothing, but his eyes track Gwayne’s every move with a curious intensity, as if trying to understand the connection between the man being led to the dungeons and his mother’s desperate pleas.

When Gwayne disappears around the corner, swallowed by the shadows of the castle, Vaeron finally breaks the silence. “Mother… who was that man? Why did he save you?”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet your son’s gaze. “He’s… someone who once served the Greens but chose to protect me instead. He’s no longer a threat, Vaeron.”

Daemon releases his hold on your arm but keeps his eyes fixed on Vaeron. “He’s not to be trusted. Remember that.”

Vaeron nods slowly, his eyes still lingering on the path Gwayne was taken down. There’s something in his expression—curiosity, perhaps, or a flicker of recognition that he doesn’t fully understand. But he doesn’t press further, sensing that there are answers he’s not yet meant to know.

Daemon turns to you, his voice softer now, but still laced with frustration. “We’ll speak more inside. You’ve been through enough, and I’ll not have this discussion out in the open.”

With that, he leads the way toward the castle, the guards following closely behind. You fall into step beside him, though your thoughts remain with Gwayne, locked away beneath the stone walls of Dragonstone. Vaeron walks beside you, his young face set in determination as he tries to piece together the events swirling around him.

And as you approach the darkened halls of the castle, you can’t shake the feeling that the truths left unspoken will tear at the fragile peace you’ve only just regained.

[ai-manre]

Hang on king, a true warrior queen is coming

The strength he admires:

Val stood on the platform as still as if she had been carved of salt. She will not weep nor look away. Jon wondered what Ygritte would have done in her place. The women are the strong ones. - Jon III ADWD

Drogon roared. The sound filled the pit. A furnace wind engulfed her. The dragon's long scaled neck stretched toward her. When his mouth opened, she could see bits of broken bone and charred flesh between his black teeth. His eyes were molten. I am looking into hell, but I dare not look away. She had never been so certain of anything. - Dany IX ADWD

The shared loneliness:

Even with Ygritte sleeping beside him, he felt alone. - Jon V ASOS

She sat up with her hair disheveled and the bedclothes atangle. Her captain slept beside her, yet she was alone. - Dany VII ADWD

Lonely lovely lethal:

All the same, the wildling princess was not beloved of her gaolers. She scorned them all as "kneelers," and had thrice attempted to escape. When one man-at-arms grew careless in her presence she had snatched his dagger from its sheath and stabbed him in the neck. Another inch to the left and he might have died. Lonely and lovely and lethal, Jon Snow reflected, and I might have had her. - Jon III ADWD

Xaro took another bite, chewed, swallowed. "Daenerys, sweet queen, I cannot tell you what pleasure it gives me to bask once more in your presence. A child departed Qarth, as lost as she was lovely. I feared she was sailing to her doom, yet now I find her here enthroned, mistress of an ancient city, surrounded by a mighty host that she raised up out of dreams." - Dany III ADWD

Silver hair:

Beyond, the haunted forest waited, dark and silent. The light of the half-moon turned Val's honey-blond hair a pale silver and left her cheeks as white as snow. She took a deep breath. "The air tastes sweet." - Jon VIII ADWD

Dany's skin was flushed and pink when she climbed from the tub. Jhiqui laid her down to oil her body and scrape the dirt from her pores. Afterward Irri sprinkled her with spiceflower and cinnamon. While Doreah brushed her hair until it shone like spun silver, she thought about the moon, and eggs, and dragons. - Dany III AGOT

Wish for a dragon/wish for a rider:

We should have twenty trebuchets, not two, and they should be mounted on sledges and turntables so we could move them. It was a futile thought. He might as well wish for another thousand men, and maybe a dragon or three. - Jon VIII ASOS

The dragon has three heads. There are two men in the world who I can trust, if I can find them. I will not be alone then. We will be three against the world, like Aegon and his sisters. - Dany VI ASOS

Wishing for a dragon/wishing for someone to love a dragon:

"The Lysene pirate? Some say he has returned to his old haunts, this is so. And Lord Redwyne's war fleet creeps through the Broken Arm as well. On its way home, no doubt. But these men and their ships are well-known to us. No, these other sails … from farther east, perhaps … one hears queer talk of dragons."

Jon: "Would that we had one here. A dragon might warm things up a bit." - Jon IX ADWD

She was the blood of the dragon. She could kill the Sons of the Harpy, and the sons of the sons, and the sons of the sons of the sons. But a dragon could not feed a hungry child nor help a dying woman's pain. And who would ever dare to love a dragon? - Dany II ADWD

Shared prayers

Gods of the wood, grant me the strength to do the same, Jon Snow prayed silently. Give me the wisdom to know what must be done and the courage to do it. - Jon VII ADWD

Gods, she prayed, you took Khal Drogo, who was my sun-and-stars. You took our valiant son before he drew a breath. You have had your blood of me. Help me now, I pray you. Give me the wisdom to see the path ahead and the strength to do what I must to keep my children safe. - Dany V ADWD

Winter rose/flowers instead of violence:

If I could show her Winterfell . . . give her a flower from the glass gardens [...]

Ygritte: "Then I'd push him in a stream or throw a bucket o' water on him. Anyhow, men shouldn't smell sweet like flowers."

Jon: "What's wrong with flowers?" - Jon V ASOS

A blue flower grew from a chink in a wall of ice, and filled the air with sweetness. . . . mother of dragons, bride of fire . . . - Dany IV ADWD

"No heads," Dany insisted. "Once you brought me flowers." - Dany VII ADWD

Ruler of ruins:

He stalked across the yard, into the teeth of that wind. His cloak flapped loudly from his shoulders. Ghost came after. Where am I going? What am I doing? Castle Black was still and silent, its halls and towers dark. My seat, Jon Snow reflected. My hall, my home, my command. A ruin. - Jon VI ADWD

I am queen over a city built on dust and death. - Dany I ADWD

Turned off by their crushes due to violence against innocent:

"North of the Wall it is. Hemlock is a sure cure, but a pillow or a blade will work as well. If I had given birth to that poor child, I would have given her the gift of mercy long ago." This was a Val that Jon had never seen before. "Princess Shireen is the queen's only child." - Jon XI ADWD

Daario: "Better the butcher than the meat. All kings are butchers. Are queens so different?"

Dany: "This queen is." - Dany IV ADWD

Compassion and desire to save an entire people:

"Thousands of enemies. Thousands of wildlings."

Thousands of people, Jon thought. Men, women, children. Anger rose inside him, but when he spoke his voice was quiet and cold. - Jon VIII ADWD

"When Aegon the Dragon stepped ashore in Westeros, the kings of Vale and Rock and Reach did not rush to hand him their crowns. If you mean to sit his Iron Throne, you must win it as he did, with steel and dragonfire. And that will mean blood on your hands before the thing is done."

Blood and fire, thought Dany. The words of House Targaryen. She had known them all her life. "The blood of my enemies I will shed gladly. The blood of innocents is another matter. Eight thousand Unsullied they would offer me. Eight thousand dead babes. Eight thousand strangled dogs." - Dany II ASOS

Warrior princess:

Val looked the part and rode as if she had been born on horseback. A warrior princess, he decided, not some willowy creature who sits up in a tower, brushing her hair and waiting for some knight to rescue her. - Jon XI ADWD

Dany mounted her silver. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She felt desperately afraid. Was this what my brother would have done? She wondered if Prince Rhaegar had been this anxious when he saw the Usurper's host formed up across the Trident with all their banners floating on the wind. She stood in her stirrups and raised the harpy's fingers above her head for all the Unsullied to see. "IT IS DONE!" she cried at the top of her lungs. "YOU ARE MINE!" She gave the mare her heels and galloped along the first rank, holding the fingers high. "YOU ARE THE DRAGON'S NOW! YOU'RE BOUGHT AND PAID FOR! IT IS DONE! IT IS DONE!" - Dany III ASOS

No one was calling her Daenerys the Conqueror yet, but perhaps they would. Aegon the Conqueror had won Westeros with three dragons, but she had taken Meereen with sewer rats and a wooden cock, in less than a day. - Dany VI ADWD

A coppersmith had fashioned her a suit of burnished rings to wear to war. She accepted it with fulsome thanks; it was lovely to behold, and all that burnished copper would flash prettily in the sun, though if actual battle threatened, she would sooner be clad in steel. Even a young girl who knew nothing of the ways of war knew that. - Dany I ADWD

Ten years ago I would have sensed what Daenerys meant to do. Ten years ago I would have been quick enough to stop her. Instead he had stood befuddled as she leapt into the pit, shouting her name, then running uselessly after her across the scarlet sands. - The Queensguard ADWD

Wildling/no southron lady:

"And yes, I will take your women too. I have no need of blushing maidens looking to be protected, but I will take as many spearwives as will come." - Jon V ADWD

The carcass was too heavy for him to bear back to his lair, so Drogon consumed his kill there, tearing at the charred flesh as the grasses burned around them, the air thick with drifting smoke and the smell of burnt horsehair. Dany, starved, slid off his back and ate with him, ripping chunks of smoking meat from the dead horse with bare, burned hands. In Meereen I was a queen in silk, nibbling on stuffed dates and honeyed lamb, she remembered. What would my noble husband think if he could see me now? Hizdahr would be horrified, no doubt. But Daario … Daario would laugh, carve off a hunk of horsemeat with his arakh, and squat down to eat beside her. - Dany XI ADWD

Shared pet plays!

Jon squatted to let the direwolf close his jaws around his wrist, tugging his hand back and forth. It was a game they played. But when he glanced up, he saw Ygritte watching with eyes as wide and white as hen's eggs. - Jon VI ACOK

Drogon looped his neck around to nip at her hand. His teeth were very sharp, but he never broke her skin when they played like this. Dany laughed, and rolled him back and forth until he roared, his tail lashing like a whip. It is longer than it was, she saw, and tomorrow it will be longer still. - Dany IV ASOS

Add more please!

[ddarker-dreams]

A Chance Encounter.

Yan Scaramouche x Reader.

Loosely based on this concept.

Warnings: Only light yandere themes since Reader doesn't know about Scara's Harbinger affiliation. Word count: 1.1k.

Scaramouche could succinctly describe this assignment as a pain.

Some whistleblower whose conscience got the better of her in retirement, realizing now that she’s living off a measly pension instead of a steady stream of income that perhaps experimentation on unwitting subjects is actually not so dandy. How convenient. Moral epiphanies have the best timing. Or in the Harbinger’s case, the worst timing, since this trip to Mondstadt was supposed to be for pleasure, not business. 

He occupies a space beneath a sizable canopy. Shadows swallow him, occasionally chased off by shy sunlight wriggling through interstices born from the steady wind. The weather is fair compared to the everlasting winter that wrings all life from Snezhnaya. This nation is perfectly idyllic, perfectly boring, save for a single inhabitant who is notably exempt from his criticism. 

If it weren’t for the invisible yet no less present Fatui agents slinking about, he’d give in to the urge to quirk his lips upward. 

At least when this is wrapped up, he can see you. 

The matter shouldn’t take much longer. In written correspondence with the would-be traitor, he played the role of a bleeding heart, successfully blindsiding her into thinking he shares her plight. Now all that remains is to meet up with her and discern if the supposedly damning documents hold any weight or not. The rest can be left to his lackeys, he’d rather not waste any more time when he could be engaging in far more enjoyable activities. 

This is about as cut and dry as it gets. 

Except… 

Rapid footsteps approach. 

Foliage crunches beneath the heel of an exuberant individual, smothering leaves and snapping twigs. 

“Kuuuuuniiiiiii!” A voice he knows very well calls out. 

There is but a single entity throughout all of Teyvat who actively runs toward him, not away from him, and this entity so happens to be you. The concept of shame is a foreign one, you’re far too concerned with utilizing various flourishes to capture his attention. The fanfare is without reason. The instant you enter the scene, Scaramouche scarcely remembers the rest of the world exists, it becomes as inconsequential as the ground he treads on. 

You are a fallen star streaming through the sky, an answer to a wish he never had the courage to make. 

Unfortunately, you’ve happened upon him at a tricky juncture. The Fatui swarming like sharks in the water are prepared to tear into you at his command. From their perspective, you are an unknown variable running full force at their Lord Harbinger. Never in their wildest dreams could they fathom the notoriously spiteful Balladeer has a sweet spot for you, this is by his design. He’s painstakingly taken measures to ensure his little ball of sunshine can’t be used by his many enemies. 

The wave he gives serves two purposes — to greet you and signal his men to stand down. 

As if he wasn’t already thrown off-kilter by your abrupt appearance, when you’re at the appropriate distance, you launch at him with arms held wide. He catches you with an ease unfitting of his slender demeanor, his strength far surpassing that of any mortal. You’re content to wrap your arms around his neck while he steadies you. 

“I knew it was you! The hat gave it away. It always does,” you explain in between breaths. “And here I was thinking that you wouldn’t be in for a few more days.” 

Slowly, he helps ease you back down. You sway a bit, clutching his shoulders to maintain your balance, to which he snickers. “Were you so desperate to see me that running at a reasonable pace slipped your mind?” 

“I thought if I exerted more force, I might be able to tackle you to the ground this time… so much for that.” 

“Hah. As if. What strange fantasies you entertain without me around. The loneliness must rot your brain.” 

“Who says I’m lonely?” You challenge, tilting your head to the side. “I’m more than capable of making and maintaining friendships. That’s what happens when you’re a likable person.” 

He’s quick to reply so as not to betray his irritation at the idea. “You? Likable? The mental deterioration is worse than I feared. I hope it isn’t irreversible at this stage.” 

You shrug. “I dunno, you seem to like me well enough. I consider that my crowning achievement. If I can win you over I’m capable of anything. Maybe I’ll aim for world peace next.” 

Scaramouche is so quick to be swept up in the wild tide that is you that his bumbling underlings temporarily slipped his mind. Lately, there’s been one in particular who seems keen on proving himself worthy of a promotion. He goes out of his way to do extra work Scaramouche never tasked him with. It’s been a minor nuisance yet nothing major has come from it. 

However, in his purview, he senses this sycophant taking a position that’d be advantageous to strike at you from. 

Scaramouche’s retaliation is immediate. On a perfectly sunny day, a vicious bolt of lightning strikes mere inches from the spot he occupies, effectively communicating his lord’s displeasure. The white-hot flash earns your attention. You turn your head in the direction it came from, then shoot him an inquisitive glance. 

“... What did that bush ever do wrong?” 

“You’d be surprised.” 

The warning must’ve made it through the agent’s thick head, for he backs off like a dog with its tail between its legs. 

“Hey. I have some business I need to finish, then I’ll treat you to dinner,” Scaramouche knows you well enough to be confident that the idea of delicious food will successfully distract you. It’s as he predicted — he can practically hear the gears turning in your head as you form plans. He can only hope he doesn’t have to encounter that slovenly excuse of a god who once serenaded you with the story of an abandoned doll, claiming it to be a ‘cautionary tale’. The self-restraint he exercised that day is second to none. 

“Alright, but try to leave some nature standing, this is a trail I enjoy walking. I’d rather you don’t eviscerate it.” 

You begin to part ways, before loudly proclaiming ‘oh!’, like you’d forgotten something important. Then you’re back by his side. He processes the feeling before anything else, the soft sensation of your lips on his cheek renders him speechless. A crimson hue dusts against his pale cheeks as he subconsciously raises his hand to touch the still-tingling spot. Content with yourself, you depart, waving as enthusiastically as you had earlier. 

When his coherency returns, he sighs. That was a bit more than he’d prefer any Fatui-aligned person to see.

He’ll have to get creative to explain the deaths of all his men on such a low-stakes mission. Before that, however, he needs to ask one to hand the appropriate forms over, lest it disintegrate to ash as they’re fated to. 

It’s a pain, truly, but you’re worth the extra effort. 

[idkyetxoxo]

Davos Blackwood- Sworn To Her

Summary - Set out to command loyalty. She captures the attention of Davos Blackwood, whose admiration turns into a desperate yearning for her command. He is left begging her to dictate their fate, blurring the lines between duty and passion in a world on the brink of chaos.

Pairing - Davos Blackwood x Velaryon reader

Warnings - Sexual content (smut!)

Word count - 2671

Masterlist for Davos • House of the Dragon General Masterlist

As I descended from Silverwing's saddle, her silvered wings casting long shadows over the gathered men, I wasted no time. 

Steeling my shoulders and crossing my arms, I surveyed the assembly with a steady, unyielding gaze. 

"What would you do for your queen?" I asked, each word deliberate, carrying the weight of command. My voice was as resolute as the steel at my hip, and the men before me, some of the Riverlands' most notable lords, could only stare back, captivated and uncertain.

I had not anticipated taking on the task of rallying allies myself. 

This was not my mother's plan, nor mine. But circumstances had grown desperate, and when the tides of war demand action, sometimes it is best to seize the reins oneself. 

With Jace far off in the Vale, seeking support from its reluctant lords, I had been left to stand here alone, face to face with the lords of the Riverlands. 

We had both become sick of the sluggish, uncertain steps our allies were taking in this conflict. 

If loyalty to our mother had to be secured with words of fire and a glimpse of dragon wings, then so be it.

Despite Baela's cautions about appearing before these men alone, here I stood. I let my gaze fall slowly across each face, daring them to look away, to doubt the resolve that burned in my eyes.

The scent of wet earth and moss filled the air, the Riverlands heavy with the coolness of dusk. 

I felt the prickling bite of evening mist, seeping through my clothes and clinging to my skin, as though the land itself resisted my presence.

"I expect an answer," I said, my voice sharpened with an edge of impatience. 

Behind me, Silverwing shifted, her massive frame rippling, the low rumble from her throat a reminder of her presence and the deadly promise she held. Her groan cut through the silence like a blade, the sound echoing over the valley and making several men visibly shiver.

I wondered if my mother would approve of what I'd done here, of this choice to face these men alone. 

She'd taught me to lead with strength, but she'd also warned me that loyalty was not always won through power. 

Yet here I was, wielding Silverwing's shadow and my own authority like a blade, desperate to secure the allies we needed.

After a tense pause, a young man with curly brown hair stepped forward, his shoulders squared in reluctant acceptance. 

He was near my own age, yet I could see the weight of his house's loyalty bearing down on him. Oscar Tully, son of House Tully, the Rivermen's pride, looked up at me with a solemn expression.

"We swear fealty to the true queen, Rhaenyra Targaryen," he proclaimed, his voice clear and unwavering as he knelt, head bowed in respect. 

A ripple of movement followed his action as, one by one, each man lowered himself in allegiance, their fealty pledged not to mere words but to the queen herself.

My gaze swept over them, searching for any hint of insincerity, any flicker of hesitation. 

My eyes settled on a knight of House Blackwood, his lips curling into a smirk even as he knelt, meeting my gaze with a glint of something—admiration or challenge, perhaps—that caught me off guard.

The men here had sworn themselves to the queen—and they knew, as I did, that the true cost of their oaths would soon be paid in fire and blood.

Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the Riverlands and cast a warm amber glow across the hall, a feast was prepared in my honour. 

It was modest by the standards of a royal banquet, but the lords of the Riverlands had done their best, arranging tables heaped with venison, fresh-baked bread, and flagons of wine. 

Musicians played soft, lilting tunes, and candles flickered warmly in the sconces along the stone walls. 

I accepted each polite nod, each murmured "Princess," but my mind was elsewhere, fixed on the allies we would need and the battles to come.

Yet, amidst the formalities, a pair of dark eyes followed my every movement. Davos Blackwood. 

I'd noticed his gaze in the crowd before, but here in the soft candlelight, his attention was both bold and unapologetic. 

He was older than me by a few years, yet young enough to wear his loyalty openly. 

I caught him watching me as I moved between tables, his look tinged with something both admiring and dangerous—a lingering intensity that quickened my pulse.

As the feast wore on, the hall grew rowdy and loud, the laughter of men drunk on wine and the thrill of new alliance filling the air. 

I slipped quietly away, leaving the raucous sounds behind, and wandered through the corridors, searching for a moment of solitude. 

But I soon found I was not alone.

Davos stepped out of the shadows as if he had been waiting, his expression holding that same dark smirk I had noticed earlier. 

He met my gaze, his face half-illuminated by the light of a single torch flickering nearby. 

We stood in a small, dim room, the air thick with the tension that had simmered between us since that moment in the hall. 

He was quiet, his eyes fixed on mine, a slight tilt to his head that spoke of restrained intensity.

"You commanded them well, Princess," he said, his tone both respectful and tinged with that same smouldering intensity I'd felt earlier. "I don't believe I've ever seen men twice your age look so humbled—captivated, even." 

His eyes held mine, his admiration palpable. "It's no small feat to command a room of lords as you did."

I arched a brow, letting a slight smile play on my lips. "The men of the Riverlands needed a reminder of who they serve."

"They did," he agreed, his voice just above a whisper. "And it's clear to me now that you are every bit your mother's daughter."

A quiet heat simmered between us as his words sank in, and something unspoken passed in the space between us, making my heart quicken. 

"And will you serve as loyally as the others, Ser Davos?" I asked, testing the boundaries of this strange new familiarity.

He took a step closer, the flickering torchlight casting shadows across his face. 

"I cannot speak for the others, Princess," he began, his voice low and steady, "but know that I would gladly lay down my life for the queen." His eyes searched my face, lingering with a heat that made my breath catch. 

"And for her daughter."

My heart quickened at his words, but I kept my composure, arching an eyebrow. "Oh?" I replied, my tone light, even teasing. "And what, Ser Davos, would you do for the princess?"

The corner of his mouth lifted as he stepped closer, his gaze never wavering from mine. 

"Absolutely anything she desires," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, the words filled with an intensity that left no room for misunderstanding.

The space between us was small, the warmth of his presence close enough to feel, and yet I held my ground, unwilling to break the tension. The air felt electric, charged with an unspoken promise. 

I leaned in, my voice a soft murmur. "Anything, you say?"

His eyes darkened, the smirk fading into something sharper, fiercer. 

"Anything," he confirmed, his gaze holding mine as if daring me to command him.

For a heartbeat, the only sound was the crackling torch on the wall, and the distance between us felt like a thread, thin and taut. 

Here, in this quiet room away from the feasting and noise, with Davos looking at me as though he would march into fire if I asked it, I felt the heady power of my position, and something more—a stirring that felt as dangerous as it did exhilarating.

"I am pleased to hear that," I whispered, my voice barely more than a breath, but he caught every word. 

Davos inclined his head slightly, his eyes never leaving mine, a mark of respect mingled with an undeniable longing that set a spark between us.

"For there is much I would like," I continued, letting the words linger, each one wrapped in the promise of something unspoken. 

The insinuation was clear, and I watched a small grin lift the corners of his mouth, as though my words had unlocked a wish he dared not voice. He looked at me like he could scarcely believe his fortune, his gaze dark with wonder and disbelief. 

A princess, standing close enough for him to touch, and more than willing.

His eyes dropped for a brief moment, almost as if he needed to remind himself to breathe, and then his voice, roughened and warm, found its way back. 

"With a dragon as mighty as yours, I'm certain there is little you would be denied," he murmured, his hand lifting as though moved by some magnetic force. 

His fingers brushed against my cheek, a soft, tentative touch, almost as if he expected me to draw back, to laugh at his audacity, to reassert my place above him. But I didn't. 

I leaned into his touch, allowing his hand to linger, my skin tingling beneath his fingertips.

The briefest flash of surprise flared in his eyes, tempered quickly by something darker, something more consuming. 

My pulse quickened, the heat between us simmering into something almost unbearable. 

I was a princess—he knew that. And yet here we were, standing inches apart, the gap between duty and desire swiftly fading into nothing. 

For the first time, his loyalty was not to some distant queen or some abstract ideal; his loyalty, his yearning, was here, directed entirely at me.

Slowly, I leaned in, letting my words drift just past his ear, so close that I felt his breath catch. 

"I do not wish to take my pleasures by force," I murmured, my voice a soft invitation, a promise that was as powerful as any order. 

A shiver ran through him, and his fingers tightened just slightly against my cheek as if anchoring himself in this impossible moment.

The air was thick with the unspoken, and I felt him hesitate, battling the disbelief that a princess would want someone like him, a knight whose station fell far below hers. 

Yet his longing was palpable, a heady tension that electrified the space between us. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost reverent. "What would you have me do, Princess?" he asked, his tone weighted with more than just desire. 

It was devotion, his words woven with a quiet, reckless yearning as if he would tear the stars from the sky if I asked it.

I looked into his eyes, letting the silence stretch, each heartbeat a steady thrum that only deepened the pull between us. 

"Anything," I replied, a whisper that held within it the hint of a command and a promise all at once.

His gaze fell to my lips, and his breath shuddered like he was grounding himself in the impossible reality that he was here, with me, alone and permitted to wish for more. 

He let his hand trail down, tracing the line of my jaw with a featherlight touch, his fingers lingering near my neck where he could feel my pulse racing under his fingertips. 

His eyes were dark, wide, caught in some quiet awe, his body tense with restraint.

"Say it," he whispered, his voice rough. "Say what you would want of me, and I am yours."

"Command me," he begged, his voice softened by that same restrained yearning that had chased me all night.

For a moment, the gravity of our situation fell away, leaving only two people drawn together by a desire as dangerous as it was irresistible. I leaned in, my mouth a breath away from his. 

"For now," I whispered, letting the moment dangle like a thread between us, "I only want this."

His lips brushed against mine, tentative at first as if he could scarcely believe that I'd allowed him this close. 

But then, the restraint fell away, the delicate thread snapping, and we were pressed together in a kiss that held every bit of tension, every unspoken promise.

My hands slid to his clothes, and his eyes flashed with surprise before yielding, allowing me to undress him piece by piece. His gaze clung to me, astonished, as though he still couldn't believe I was here with him. 

I stripped off my riding leathers as fast as my hands could manage, hungry to feel the pleasure I'd been craving for far too long.

The war had stolen much from me, stripping me down to my bones, and tonight, I wanted only one thing: to lose myself, to drown in a rapture that would make me forget it all, even if just for a night.

"Bed me," I whispered when we were bare before each other, skin flushed, breaths mingling in the cool night air.

He froze, his gaze tracing my form as if I were a vision, something ethereal, almost too good to be true. His lips parted in silent awe, eyes raking over every line and curve as though I were an angel who had slipped into his grasp.

"Your wish," he breathed, finally snapping back to himself, "is my command." 

He guided me down to the stone floor, its chill biting into my skin, a startling contrast that only heightened my senses.

His lips found my neck, pressing fevered, insistent kisses that sent shivers racing across my skin. A contented sigh slipped from me as I surrendered to the sensation.

He gently parted my legs, settling between them, and I welcomed the feel of him, my thighs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. 

He moved with urgency, as though he sought release from something unspoken, a fever only I could soothe. 

Each thrust sent waves of pleasure rippling through me, the feeling consuming, erasing all else.

"Oh gods," he murmured, his voice reverent, as he looked down at me, his face filled with wonder. "You...you are a vision." His words, filled with awe, only stoked the flames in me. 

I met his gaze, my body pliant beneath his, feeling like I could stay lost in this moment forever, his desire feeding mine, each of us chasing the other's heat, until the rest of the world faded away.

My heart thudded in time with his, our bodies aligned and perfectly matched, an effortless rhythm that made me feel whole as if this one night could wash away a thousand memories of darkness and despair.

I held his gaze, feeling myself surrender completely, caught in his spell, in the heat and warmth of his presence as he chased pleasure from me with a patience that made my body tremble. 

I was unravelling, each touch, each movement, pulling me apart in the most exquisite way, and I realized I wanted to let him, to let this moment consume every hidden part of me.

His breaths quickened, and he pressed his forehead against mine, grounding us both in that intimate space, and I could feel his heart pounding, as though echoing my own. 

I held him there, one hand tangling in his hair, the other tracing the contours of his back, feeling the strength of him as we both surrendered.

Finally, in a crescendo of pleasure that took my breath away, I felt myself shatter beneath him, lost in the haze of pure, undiluted bliss. 

He followed close behind, his body tense before he released in a shudder that shook us both, his face a picture of utter, unguarded ecstasy.

Slowly, he leaned back, brushing a strand of hair from my face with a tenderness that seemed almost out of place here on the cold stone floor, surrounded by shadows and memories. 

He traced his fingers along my jaw, as though I were something precious, rare, his eyes softened by the afterglow.

And there, entangled together in the flickering dark, we let the silence embrace us, lost in the warmth and comfort of knowing, for this moment, we were exactly where we both wanted to be.

A/n - This was fun to write, teeny tiny bit inspired by Jude and Cardan from 'The Folk of the Air' series (if you squint basc)

[merwgue]

Sarah J. Maas: The Queen of Broken Women and Savior Men — A Deep Dive into Internalized Misogyny and Bad Writing

Sarah J. Maas is often hailed as one of the most popular fantasy writers of our time. Her series A Court of Thorns and Roses (ACOTAR) and Throne of Glass have millions of devoted fans, and it's not uncommon to see her name thrown around in discussions of "strong female characters." But when you take a closer look, a disturbing pattern emerges: almost every female character in her books is traumatized, broken, or impoverished, and it’s always the men who swoop in to fix them. There’s an underlying current of internalized misogyny that not only seeps into her stories but actively shapes the narrative. What’s worse? She can’t seem to write a truly independent woman character. Let’s break down why Maas’s writing is, at its core, problematic, unoriginal, and deeply flawed.

The Argument: Internalized Misogyny Wrapped in Fantasy

First, let’s address the root of the problem: Maas seems to believe that a woman can’t be strong unless she’s been torn apart by life in the most brutal ways. In her books, trauma is a prerequisite for strength, but only if a man is there to help the heroine overcome it. This trope is not only tired but also harmful. Maas constantly reinforces the idea that women need to be broken down to their lowest points in order to be "worthy" of a male savior.

When you strip away the fantasy elements, what you're left with is a pattern that closely resembles an old-fashioned, patriarchal narrative where women must endure suffering before being saved by a knight in shining armor. The "knight" might take the form of a High Lord, a warrior, or an assassin, but at the end of the day, Maas's female characters can never truly save themselves.

Feyre Archeron: The Poster Child of Trauma and Savior Worship

Let’s begin with Feyre Archeron from ACOTAR. She starts as a poor, broken young woman who sacrifices everything for her family, only to be thrust into a world of fae politics and violence. Feyre's trauma begins with the infamous “beast” Tamlin, and continues under the thumb of Amarantha, who tortures her in unimaginably brutal ways. But as if that weren’t enough, Maas ensures that Feyre's psychological scars run deep, so that Rhysand can swoop in and heal her. Oh, and let's not forget her trauma-induced depression after being trapped under the Mountain and made into High Fae against her will.

Sure, Feyre finds strength eventually, but only after Rhysand pulls her from the brink of despair. He doesn’t just help her heal—he remakes her. Feyre's arc quickly becomes about how Rhysand’s love, protection, and endless patience help her find herself. It’s through his intervention that she becomes powerful. Where is the agency? Where is the true independence? Feyre is never allowed to rise on her own—her entire arc is built on the shoulders of a man’s intervention.

Her “strength” is conditional, tethered to a man’s support. Without Rhysand, who is Feyre? Apparently, no one of consequence.

Nesta Archeron: The Angry, Broken Woman Who Needs a Man to Save Her

If Feyre’s story wasn’t enough, let’s talk about Nesta Archeron, who is possibly the most obvious example of Maas’s inability to write a truly independent woman. Nesta starts off as angry, bitter, and deeply traumatized by her experiences. She’s lashing out at everyone, and in A Court of Silver Flames, we see her spiraling into self-destructive behavior.

So how does Maas handle this? By sending Nesta off to be “fixed.” Cassian—ever-patient, ever-ready to rescue the broken woman—steps in as her savior. He helps her train, helps her heal, and becomes the crutch she needs to finally face her demons. The message here is clear: Nesta cannot save herself. She needs a man, a warrior, a male who can handle her anger and tame it.

What’s infuriating is that Nesta is never allowed to be strong on her own terms. Instead, Maas reduces her arc to one of forced rehabilitation, where male intervention (and sex) is the ultimate cure for all her pain. Cassian’s constant hovering, watching her every move, isn’t empowering—it's infantilizing. Once again, Maas reinforces the tired trope of the broken woman who needs a man to show her the way.

Aelin Galathynius: The Assassin Queen Who Still Needs Saving

Now, let’s shift to Throne of Glass. Aelin Galathynius is arguably Maas’s most “powerful” female character. She’s a queen, an assassin, and one of the most skilled fighters in the realm. And yet… Maas can’t seem to let her be powerful on her own. Aelin spends much of her time in Queen of Shadows and Empire of Storms either being captured, tortured, or emotionally crippled by the weight of her destiny. For all her strength, she’s constantly needing Rowan—her male savior—to guide her, protect her, or just plain save her from herself.

In Kingdom of Ash, Aelin is literally chained and tortured for months. And while this is meant to be a testament to her resilience, it’s just another example of Maas putting her female characters through hell so that men can come to their rescue. Rowan is once again her knight, her protector, the one who will fight to free her. Even when Aelin saves herself, it’s with the help of a man or because of the love a man has for her.

What happened to the assassin queen who was capable of taking down armies? Oh, right—she’s been reduced to a woman who can only triumph if a man is at her side.

Bryce Quinlan: Party Girl Turned… You Guessed It, Traumatized Heroine

Bryce from Crescent City is another classic Maas creation. She’s a party girl, carefree and wild, until trauma strikes, and she’s forever changed. Cue the entrance of Hunt, her male protector who steps in to help her navigate her grief, her trauma, and the dangerous world she now inhabits. Bryce may have a sharp tongue and fierce attitude, but Maas makes sure that she is broken enough to need a man to save her.

Hunt becomes the anchor in Bryce’s life, and once again, the pattern repeats itself: Bryce cannot face her demons alone. She cannot be strong without a man by her side. Her trauma is the driving force behind her character development, and Maas wastes no time in ensuring that Hunt is always there to steady her when she falters.

Villainous Women: The Ones with Power Get Punished

Let’s also talk about the women in Maas’s books who do have power—Amarantha, Maeve, Ianthe, the list goes on. These women are almost always villains, and what makes them villainous? They’re powerful, independent, and don’t need men to define them. Amarantha, for all her cruelty, is a ruler in her own right. Maeve, a queen, is feared and respected. And what does Maas do to them? She tears them down, punishing them for their independence, for daring to claim power in a world where only men are allowed to hold it without consequence.

These villainous women are never given depth beyond their cruelty, and they’re almost always defeated by men. Maas’s treatment of powerful women in her books reinforces the idea that a woman’s strength, when unchecked by a man, is dangerous and unnatural. It’s not just lazy writing—it’s deeply misogynistic.

Conclusion: Sarah J. Maas, the Fantasy Author Who Can’t Write Women

So, what’s the takeaway? Sarah J. Maas is a writer who consistently undermines her female characters’ independence and autonomy. Her female leads are traumatized, broken, and only find true strength when a man steps in to save them. The pattern is clear, and it’s damaging. Maas’s world is one where women are only allowed to rise if they have a male savior by their side, and any woman who seeks power independently is punished for it.

This is not empowerment. This is not feminism. This is internalized misogyny at its finest, wrapped up in a pretty package of fae magic and romance.

Maas’s inability to write an independent woman character is a glaring flaw in her work, and it’s time we stop praising her for perpetuating harmful, outdated tropes. If she ever wants to write truly strong female characters, she needs to stop leaning on trauma as a crutch and allow women to find their own strength—without a man’s help.

Until then, Maas’s writing will remain a problematic ode to broken women and their savior men, with little room for genuine female empowerment.

Inspired by @extremely-judgemental , I loved their post!!! Please check it out meringues❤️❤️

[lyragoth]

I want to talk about Celebrimbor because he is my favorite elf of the legendary. Everything I'm writing below is my personal interpretation of the lore, based on my wanderings through the books, letters, and appendices, gathering as much information about him as I could. I noticed Celebrimbor is often unfairly judged as unwise by the fandom because he ignored the counsel of Gil-Galad and Galadriel, but this overlooks his fiercely independent nature imo. Having distanced himself even from his father and rejected the Oath of Fëanor, he demonstrated early on that he was not one to follow others blindly. His choices were always his own.

At the core of his character lies the theme of choice and its consequences. He was not a passive figure led astray, but a strong-willed individual who stood by his decisions, for better or worse. Even in his fateful dealings with Sauron, Celebrimbor shows his strength of will.

Despite being deceived by Annatar’s guise, he was astute enough to forge the Three without Annatar's influence, and then hide the greatest of his creations from Sauron. Sauron certainly sought to invade his mind to uncover the location of the Three during the torture, and it’s likely that, like Galadriel, Celebrimbor was able to shield his mind from the Dark Lord. Sauron never broke Celebrimbor's will. We are talking about Maedhros' nephew and grandson of Fëanor. Celebrimbor’s eventual capture and torture by Sauron wasn’t just about seizing the Rings—it was deeply personal because Sauron was outraged by what he perceived as betrayal and sought vengeance against the elf who had outwitted him. When Sauron attacked Eregion, he assembled a humongous army, likely thinking Celebrimbor was in the possession of the Three. But surprise-surprise: he was not. And Sauron again didn't get the rings. The destruction of Eregion was fueled by Sauron's fury because Celebrimbor’s decision to hide the Three had left him enraged (of course).

In the end, Celebrimbor’s sacrifice was not simply an act of atonement for his mistakes, but a final stand to protect his people. He bought time for the elves, and they decided to seek aid from Númenor. Celebrimbor, like many of his kin, sought to preserve the heritage of the Elves, but he was the only one with the ability to act on it. With his people barred from returning to Valinor, it’s no surprise that, as a rebel Noldo, he would create something to delay their fading. His defiance wasn’t just ambition; it was a means of protecting his people in a world they were trapped in and was ultimately destined for Men. Celebrimbor was never merely a pawn or merely a victim in Sauron’s grand design. He was an intelligent, ambitious, and resolute force who directly opposed the Dark Lord’s will. His story is one of tragedy, not because of a lack of wisdom, but because of the weight of the choices he made—he was a defiant force in his own right.

[uravitsy]

‘BLESSED BE THE FRUIT’ RYOMEN SUKUNA

summary. sukuna finally answers your prayers, ready to give you anything you desire for just a small price in return. ☆

warnings. breedingkink!trueform!sukuna (though he doesn’t have two dicks in this ???), virgin!fem!reader, dirty talk, rough/forceful sex, talk of pregnancy, biblical references, a bit of mythology (?), angst if you squint, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, porn with plot, tw!coercion, you and sukuna are fucking in a temple, this is kinda long and barely edited

a/n. this was loosely inspired by eurydice and hades, if you know you know. i enjoyed diving deeper into some darker topics and exploring sukuna with a breeding kink.

Cloaked in the dim glow of candlelight, you knelt before a modest altar adorned with symbols of the underworld. Your eyes, reflecting a blend of sorrow and determination, were fixed upon an ancient relic representing Sukuna, god of the realm below. With clasped hands and a voice filled with quiet strength, you uttered fervent prayers, seeking solace and sanctuary within the hidden temple. The flickering shadows danced in rhythm to your whispered pleas, creating an atmosphere of otherworldly reverence.

“Please," you whispered, lowering your head beneath the flickering candlelight, the shadows emphasizing the pain in your eyes. "Hear my prayer, Lord Sukuna. Bathe me in all your glory and breathe life into my every desire."

Dealing with the gods was dangerous, a fact you were well aware of, but what other choice did you have? In a world where women were mere possessions, you refused to succumb to a fate of being bartered off like livestock. Each day, you faced the prospect of being presented to suitors—elderly men whose former wives had long since died. It was a fate you couldn't accept. You aspired for more than to become someone's wife; you desired to etch your name into history, to be remembered for more than just a marital tie.

Frustrated by societal expectations, you turned to Lord Sukuna, a deity with a tale that resonated with your own struggles. The legends spoke of his fall from grace, a narrative both pitied and condemned.

"Grant me freedom, the freedom to shape my own destiny, and I shall offer you my body and soul," you implored, slowly disrobing despite the inner warning that this was a dangerous gamble.

As the storm outside intensified, a deafening roar of thunder filled the temple. Startled, you leaped from the cold stone floor as a serpent came before you, its scales brushing against your bare skin. Panic set in, and you screamed, frantically kicking the reptile away.

Your realization of your actions heightened as you hastily covered your exposed body with the silk gown. Ready to leave the temple in disappointment, a chilling voice stopped you in your tracks.

"I come to answer your prayers," the tall figure announced, and as you turned to look, it became apparent he was no ordinary man. With multiple eyes and a visage both unsettling and captivating, it was clear before he spoke that this was Lord Sukuna. Though you recognized him from forbidden stories and images, seeing him in person left you awestruck. The deity towered over you, his appearance more otherworldly than any depiction you had encountered.

"And yet you kick me upon first glance," he snarled, and you dropped to your knees in a bow, pleading for forgiveness.

Yet, Sukuna's response was not what you expected. Swiftly, he materialized behind you, his voice close to your ear, taunting and chilling. As you nervously explained your choice to invoke him, he laughed dismissively, questioning the value of mortal offerings. The encounter with the King of Curses had just begun, leaving you on edge and uncertain of the consequences of your plea.

"Please forgive me, my lord," you uttered, head still bowed, as you sensed Sukuna leaning in closer, his breath brushing against your ear. "I-"

"You, you, you," Sukuna mocked, his tone dripping with disdain. "It's always something you mortals want. I came from my duties to answer your cries for freedom. Was not giving you humans free will enough?"

"I don't have free will or control of my own life," you confessed, glancing over your shoulder to meet Sukuna's gaze. "That is why I called upon you."

With an amused expression, Sukuna suggested drastic solutions, his words making you uneasy. "You could run away, or better yet, kill yourself and give your soul fully to me." You looked down, unable to deny the truth in his words. "Oh, but you won't do that, will you? You mortals always want everything but won't give anything in return."

In response, you steeled yourself, determined to offer what you could. "I can offer you my body and my soul," you declared, a glint of determination in your eyes. "That is all I have to offer."

Sukuna, ancient and seemingly indifferent, stretched his arms with a chuckle. "I am older than the Earth and the Sun itself. I have countless souls and have slept with goddesses.” He tapped his chin with a shake of his head, “No, no, I'm going to need something… more. Something that will weigh on your heart."

Your frown deepened, "Then what do you want?"

"A sacrifice," Sukuna replied, his voice holding a mysterious gravity, leaving you to contemplate the implications of the request. The encounter with the god took a dark turn as the demand for a sacrifice hinted at the potential cost of seeking divine intervention. The weight of your decision began to settle in, and the true nature of the pact you were considering became clearer.

"Sacrifice?" you repeated, the word hanging in the air, leaving you breathless. The realization hit you hard – you were in way over your head. Gambling with the Gods always came with a hefty price.

Sukuna grinned wickedly down at you before revealing his unsettling request. "I am in need of a woman, a woman to carry something very special to me." His fingertips danced across your back, sending a shiver down your spine. "For I need to taint a virgin to birth my son."

The weight of his words sank in, and you instinctively brought your hand to your stomach. "My firstborn child?" Your words echoed in your ears.

"That child would belong to the Gods, to me. It wouldn't be yours," Sukuna explained coldly.

"But I would carry him as my own."

"You'd be nothing but a mere vessel," Sukuna pressed his hand against yours, his black nails digging into your skin. "Do this one task, and I shall ravish you in wealth and power."

The internal struggle reflected in your expression, but Sukuna cut off your thoughts. "I don't have all day, (y/n)." His touch sent shudders through you. Sukuna laughed, his gaze roving over your body as if you were nothing but a piece of meat. "Do you accept?"

Caught in the web of your own desires, you hesitated. Sukuna, the King of Curses, already knew your answer before you spoke it. Your words were trapped in your throat as he continued undressing you. The silk gown you were being discarded, pooling around your ankles. The vulnerability of the moment made it clear how little agency you truly had.

"I accept," you finally whispered, turning around in his arms, ready to submit yourself to him. "I will give you a son."

Little did you know the depths of the consequences this pact would unleash. As you willingly embraced the bargain, you couldn't fathom the entanglement of your fate with the God of death. The journey ahead would prove more treacherous than you could have ever imagined, and the true cost of your decision was yet to unfold.

“Then let’s get to the fun part shall we?”

You had to admit that this wasn’t how you imagined losing your virginity. You thought it would be the traditional way, on your wedding night against a plush feathered stuff bed but clearly the universe had other plans for you. Your body felt as if it was on fire under Sukuna’s gaze, your legs spread apart for him to see you and all your naked glory.

“Look at you, so ripe and ready to be plucked,” Sukuna grins, “I should warn you that I am not the gentle type.”

“I can handle you,” You tell him with a new found confidence.

“Oh?” Your breath hitched in your throat as you felt his long slender fingers glide up along your wet folds, “Don’t get too cocky, little lamb.”

You winced in slight pain, his finger entering you up to his knuckles. Sukuna didn’t even give you time to adjust before he started fucking you with his finger, a glob of spit leaving his mouth and on to your naked cunt to get you more lubricated and to make the dry feeling less uncomfortable.

Once his finger could slide into you with ease he added another, his eyes never leaving your face so he could watch your every expression. You tried to bite back your moan, not wanting him to know that that pain you felt now turned into something that was pleasurable. It started off as a faint feeling inside your lower abdomen but it grew, and it had your legs shaking slightly from ecstasy, “Lord S-Sukuna..”

“What was that?” Sukuna pretended not to hear you, “I can’t hear you over the lewd sounds your pussy is making, dove, you got to speak up.”

“Ah!” You tossed your head back at the sudden feeling of Sukuna’s warm tongue on your pussy, it was long and felt a little rough but its warmth had you become a quivering mess. It was all a new sensation, something that the books don’t tell you— that sex can actually feel better if you had a somewhat relationship with the person you’re being intimate with. It was different with you though because you hardly knew Sukuna and yet it was if you’ve known him for years.

“Sukuna..” you moaned his name, the sound bouncing off the temple walls. That pit of pleasure only growing, something that was foreign and seemed forbidden to chase, “I—This feeling—Ah!”

“What a cute virgin you are,” Sukuna’s tongue was exceptionally long as he toyed with your clit, teasing the bundle of nerves as he spoke, “You’re the perfect woman to be filled with my cum.”

“M’gonna..” your legs began to tremble at the pleasure, your chest rising and falling as that wave inside you intensified. You were now being fucked with three fingers, Sukuna enjoyed the sight of your pussy sucking his large fingers in as if your body was specifically made for him, his own cock hardening underneath his kimono.

That wave inside you crashed, your orgasm falling over you, leaving your body involuntarily shaking at that overwhelming feeling of pleasure. Sukuna helped you through your release, his fingers quickly replaced by his thick cock that he slowly moved up and down your soaked folds, teasingly rubbing his swollen tip along your clit.

Your eyes widened at his size, you were sure that he was half the size of your arm. It was intimidating to say the least but what did you expect from one of the Gods? “You’re so big..”

“Aren’t you observant?” Sukuna teased, before taking ahold your legs in his large hands, with a snap of his fingers he materialized a pillow to rest beneath you, giving you a bit more comfort than the stone floor. You thought the gesture was sweet, making you realize that just maybe there was something warm brewing inside his cold, black heart.

Though those thoughts quickly faded as you watched him press your legs forward, your knees against your chest. You were fully exposed to him and unable to move, his fingertips dug into your soft plush thighs with such force you were sure it would leave a mark come morning.

“Now open up for me.” without warning, Sukuna thrusted inside you to the hilt, kissing your cervix with the tip of his cock. To say that you felt as though you were splitting in two was an understatement. It felt as though something ripped inside you, the pain was so instant that you tried to struggle away from his grasp but to no avail. Tears fell from your eyes as you bit down on your bottom lip so harshly to the point where it drew blood. Sukuna was your only source of leverage as he began to pound you against the temple floor. The sound of his balls slapping against your ass and your muffled moans was tuned out by the roaring storm still ensuing outside.

“Look at that little dove,” Sukuna groans at the sight of your small frame taking in his large cock, the thin trail of blood sliding down his veiny length almost sending him into a frenzy, “You aren’t a virgin anymore.”

“Sukuna…please..” Sukuna felt pity for you, for he knew this was no easy task, sleeping with a God— especially since he could be so cruel. To ease the pain, Sukuna opened his mouth on his stomach so his tongue could be free, lapping at your sensitive bundle of nerves yet again as he moved his other two free hands to fondle at your breast, pinching and tugging at your nipples to invoke more pleasure than pain. He knew his goal succeeded when your whimpers quickly turned into soft moans, your glossy eyes looking up at him with such reckless abandon.

“Is that better? I feel you clenching around my cock,” When you didn’t answer right away, Sukuna snaked his fingers in your hair, roughly pulling on the strands to toss your head back and expose your neck to him, “Answer me.”

“It’s s’good,” His cock pistoling inside you had your mind scrambled, eyes rolling further back into your head in pleasure.

“Ah, fuck.” Sukuna was enjoying this, enjoying this a bit too much. It had been a least a thousand years since he had sex with a mortal. He forgot how cute they could be, how fragile they are, “That’s it, take my cock, you like being fucked now don’t you? I bet after this a simple man won’t ever be able to satisfy you.”

You quickly found Sukuna’s fingers in your mouth to stop you from making any more noises. You moan around his cold digits, sucking and gliding your tongue along his fingers as if your life depended on it. Sukuna let out a string of profanities, retracting his hips before plunging himself right back into your greedy cunt; groaning softly at the sight of you quivering under his touch.

Sukuna’s hips continuously collided with yours, over and over with a lewd squelch coming from each forceful slam. You whimpered out his name like a soft prayer. Your drool slipping out of the corner of your mouth and down your chin. The pleasure that racked through you had your whole body shaking against his Sukuna’s death grip, you were unable to move, your role was to simply lie there and take whatever he was giving you with no complaints.

Sukuna kept you pinned to the floor, your legs pinned against you so you could watch as his large cock disappeared inside you. You couldn’t believe that it would barely fit before and now you were taking him like a champ, all of him.

"Look at you, taking my cock so well.”

Another orgasm came over you— making you toss your head back with a loud moan as Sukuna continued to thrusts into your tight velvety walls. You didn’t noticed he had flipped you over until you felt you cheek press against the floor and his large tongue attacked your sensitive pussy yet again.

“Oh my god, s-sukuna..” Your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head at the feeling of him fucking you with his tongue. It felt warm, so warm and inviting that you couldn’t stop your own hips from moving back to meet his sinful ministrations, “Yes..”

“You’re quite enticing for a virgin,” Sukuna licked his lips after he was done eating you out like a man starved. Using two of his free hands, he parted your ass cheeks, spreading you wide open for him so he could easily slide his dick in once again. You winced from the pain, this angle making him just go slightly deeper to the point where you felt a slight budge in your lower abdomen. It has you limp, completely powerless against the King of Curses as he used you like a simple toy, “Why, you’re nothing but a slobbish mess. Is my dick that good, dove? You want me to keep fucking this pussy, don’t you?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” You were crumbling, his name falling off your lips incoherently as he fucked you into another orgasm.

“You ready to take my cum?” Sukuna grunted, feeling his own release nearly reaching its peak. The God sat back against the temple steps, pulling you with him so you were in his lap, your feet on either side of his thighs as his large hands bounced you on his cock with such force it had your mind spiraling. You don’t know which hand it was but one of them found its way to your throat as he fucked you ruthlessly while the others held onto your thighs, forcing you to be still while he pounded up into you, his swollen balls slapping against your ass in the most sinful way, “C’mon woman, tell me you want it,” You shuddered at the feeling of his tongue against your ear, his voice in a cruel whisper.

“I want it.” Your back was against his chest and head on his shoulder as you began to move on your own accord, not even realizing that Sukuna loosened his grip on you.

Sukuna grinned wide, his eyes glinting with mischief. He knew that once he filled your womb you would be bound to him forever, an invisible contract sealing your fate as the mother to his child. You were his now, he owned you in more ways than one— that is what happens when you make a deal with the devil himself.

“I can’t hear you,” He teased, hands moving to cup your full breasts as his sharp teeth grazed your neck.

“I want it!”

“How badly?”

“So, so bad please…cum inside me, Lord Sukuna.”

With those words Sukuna painted your walls white with his load of cum, burying into you to the hilt to ensure that not a single drop would be spilled. You went limp against him, eventually passing out from exhaustion. Sukuna's laughter echoed, a sinister symphony as he gently traced circles on your stomach, foretelling the emergence of his heir.

The King of Curses, now bound by an unsettling promise, sought to give you a life bathed in opulence and liberation—a reward for your courageous surrender, offering both body and mind to bear the weight of his lineage.

Your destinies were now intertwined, a complex tapestry of sacrifice and anticipation. The promise of new life echoes in the air. In nine months on a full moon such as this, a child will enter the world, bearing the legacy of Sukuna. Amidst the shadows of power and ambition, your role is pivotal—a linchpin in a grand design. Sukuna's excitement resonates, not just for his prince, but for a future that hinges on your connection. The gravity of your intertwined fates, a force impossible to escape, draws you deeper into the intricate dance of destiny.

URAVITSY 2024

[oikasugayama]

Helloooo! I love your posts and I was wondering if you could do one of your charts with the bsd men for when you’re anxious and if they’d be good at comforting you or if they’d try their best, tried but failed and if they’d be just straight up shit at it, hope you’ve had a nice day :3

I have a few similar requests for cheering you up when you're upset, so here are my general thoughts as someone who suffers from anxiety:

Fukuzawa has the wisdom to say something genuinely helpful and calming. He also helps you with mindful breathing and makes you some tea.

Nikolai, in one of his sentimental moods, teleports you to a calmer, more peaceful location where you can calm down and feel safer.

Junichiro tells you what helps him when he feels anxious, and he comforts you by relating and talking through the situation.

Chuuya doesn't really know how to help anxiety, but he asks questions and gets you to talk and work through what's bothering you. Oda also does this but with more experience (I just noticed he's in the wrong spot, he should be further left than Chuuya)

Ango can't do shit doesn't do shit. His own anxiety paralyzes him.

Kunikida technically tries to help but he ends up making you feel worse by telling you all the other shit you should be worrying about instead.

Atsushi really, really, really wants to help but the poor kid is the most anxious person you know so he ends up making himself anxious and then you feel bad for making him feel bad.

Mori surprisingly makes you feel a little better by just talking about other shit until you stop consciously thinking about what was bothering you. It's still in the background but not as intense.

Bram tells you not to worry and that all will be taken care of. To him he's not helping, but you believe that he really will take care of the situation on your behalf so it helps you to know someone is in your corner.

Poe offers you a new novel he was writing, so you get to play in a fictional world. It's the best distraction ever.

Sigma doesn't know what anxiety is so he has no idea how to help. He tells you you can use any of his resources and that's about it.

Dazai says he'll jump off the roof with you so you don't have to deal with it anymore, and it at least makes you giggle. He'll keep saying dumb shit and you don't doubt that he really thinks offing yourself is a solution, but you also don't take him seriously so the giggles help.

Ranpo says anxiety isn't real so just don't worry -_-

Mushitaro tells you some depressing ass story of a time he was very upset as well and it just fucking sucks.

Fyodor either tells you to look to the lord for strength (I am so not joking) or he finds a way to twist you being anxious into an argument about you not believing in his ability to protect you/have things go his way.

Akutagawa says he'll kill anyone or destroy anything that's upsetting you. You really don't dig the destruction and it makes you feel worse.

[666writingcafe]

Jealousy?

MC

"Would you mind answering a question for me?" Barbatos asks me once we've exchanged pleasantries and settled down in the parlor.

"Depends on the question." A faint smile crosses his lips.

"I was just wondering how you could choose to associate yourself with Solomon." The irritation in his voice is rather evident, and I'm reminded of the staredown the two men engaged in a couple days ago.

"What do you have against him?" I sound a bit too defensive for my liking. I'm not trying to pick a fight with Barbatos; I simply want to know why he seems to detest the sorcerer so much.

He sighs before replying,

"Perhaps the version of Solomon that accompanied you here has cleaned up his act--and good for him if he has--but the one I know is fiendish, a blight upon the world, and destruction incarnate. He throws anyone he can under the bus if it meant avoiding trouble for himself. Being here for an extended period of time may cause your sorcerer to revert back to old habits, and I don't want to see you get hurt."

"Why? You hardly know me."

"You're right." He pauses. "I'm not sure, really. I mean, you seem like a good, honest person, but what do I know? Maybe you're just as bad as him, and I shouldn't have even bothered taking you under my wing." While coming from a practical place, his words do sting.

"And yet you did." Barbatos sighs again.

"And yet I did," he repeats, taking a sip of his tea. "The decision came from a gut feeling I had, and those rarely fail me. I just hope that you don't prove me wrong."

My turn to drink some tea.

I'm not used to Barbatos being this open about his emotions, especially while he's on duty. Perhaps time has granted him the ability to remain calm and composed when he's on the clock, but still. It'll be a bit before I get used to this particular attitude of his.

"Are you ready for your first lesson?" he asks, pulling me out of my head and back to the present moment. It takes me a second to remember exactly why I'm over at the castle today in the first place, but once I do, I quickly nod my head.

"Good. We'll start with a fairly basic anatomy topic: pheromones." Interesting place to start. Is he finally going to let me ask the question I had about Lucifer?

"In a lot of ways, demons bear a closer resemblance to animals than to humans," he continues. "While their strength in the latter is fairly minimal, the former uses them as a effective method of communication. Our pheromones can tell others what we're feeling as well as mark our territory, among other things.

"Demons have a baseline scent that's present no matter what they do. For example, I smell like mint, and Lord Diavolo like old leather. Different pheromones will bring out specific notes of the baseline scent. Positive emotions tend to make it sweeter, while negative emotions bring out its bitter and sour side. If those emotions are tied to one of the seven sins, then the scent becomes more potent, sometimes to the point of being nauseating to anyone that happens to catch a whiff.

"Am I making sense to you so far?" I nod my head. I don't have any questions yet, but I have a feeling that even if I did, Barbatos wouldn't let me ask any of them just yet.

"Now, Lucifer and his brothers have stayed in the castle for the last couple months, and in that time, I've picked up on all of their scents. Lucifer had one of the more pungent ones. Understandably so, since he's probably the most emotionally scarred from the war, but it got to the point where I couldn't be around him for longer than a few minutes. And making some of my favorite dishes proved to be impossible after a while, for even the smallest amount of nutmeg would make my stomach turn.

"But the moment you returned his credit card to him, Lucifer's scent noticeably shifted. For once, he actually smelled pleasant. And then it became stronger. By the time he left my side, I was craving a giant slice of coffee cake." At this point, he stops talking, allowing me to finally speak.

"So, you're telling me that my simple nice gesture was enough to turn him on?"

"It would appear that way, yes." Unbelievable. "If I pointed it out at the time, though, Solomon probably would have run after Lucifer to tease him about it, and that would most definitely piss Lucifer off. Plus, he would adamantly denied feeling that way at all, and given his initial behavior towards you, I didn't want to see you upset by him completely disregarding your kindness."

As I mull over Barbatos' words, I'm suddenly reminded of a specific moment. One where Lucifer had his mouth covered with a handkerchief, looking like he was about to throw up.

I wonder...

"If it's not too much trouble, would you mind telling me what I smell like?" I ask, causing Barbatos to smile.

"Not at all. In fact, I was just getting ready to ask you if you wanted to know, so this works out great." He sets his tea down on a nearby table and gets up, walking around and stopping behind the chair I'm sitting in. I momentarily feel part of his face on top of my head as he audibly sniffs. I'm sure that if someone walked past us right now, they'd be weirded out by what they saw.

Or maybe not. I don't know if intentionally smelling someone like this is standard demon behavior. Maybe it is, and I'm overthinking it.

"Vanilla buttercream frosting," Barbatos announces. Somehow, that doesn't surprise me. It at least explains a few things, if nothing else. Frosting can get overwhelmingly sweet.

"That might actually work," he mutters to himself as he sits back down.

"What would?" Barbatos finishes his tea before clasping his hands in front of him.

"There's a creature on the grounds that needs tamed. He's both ferocious and extremely dangerous, so Lord Diavolo had me put a spell on him to prevent anyone from coming into contact with him. If I told you how to undo the spell, would you like to take a stab at it?"

"What makes you think I'd be successful?"

"You don't smell threatening."

"No; I smell like a goddamn dessert. The creature will probably think I'm food and try to eat me."

"And if that's the case, I'll bail you out." He pauses. "There are creatures like this one that are very selective about who they will submit to, and I believe that you fit this particular one's criteria. Plus, you'll earn the title "Ruler of the Underworld", and you can use that as a way to get people to quit treating the brothers like shit." I find myself snorting in amusement.

"Like a mere title is going to make people change their entire ideology."

"People can think whatever they like. They just have to learn to keep some of those thoughts to themselves or else face severe consequences." The grin on his face is lowkey terrifying. I don't know if I want to be on the wrong end of that smile.

So, I end up agreeing to take on the responsibility of taming this creature.

Taglist: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @fuzztacular, @dianedancer18, @sweetbrier2908, @flare-love, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf, @thunderlightning351, @l3v1chan, @anxious-chick, @5mary5, @expressionless-fr

[cod-imagines-fanfiction]

Jealous Alejandro kidnaps Valeria's girlfriend part 6 (2k words)

Summary: What happened to Y/N since Valeria infiltrated the Mexican Army's headquarters. Note at the end Warnings: violence Link to A03 Links to part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5

[set right after the alarm went off, before Valeria arrived at the container, Y/N POV]

A chaotic cacophony raged beyond the walls of your container. It was a lot to process. The yells of men, their footsteps and commands, the gunshots, an explosion. It felt like demons had emerged from the pits of Hell and were wreaking havoc on Earth. It was all getting a bit muffled now, as though they had left the place your container was in. You supposed that the rest of the headquarters were more important to guard in a situation like this. You were a low priority in the grand scheme of things, after all. You were no drug lord, like Valeria. Or a Colonel, or a Captain, or a Commander. There was nothing really at stake resting within your container, you thought.

Other people may have felt small and despaired at the thought, but it made you happy. There were special people in this world. But they were not you. Yes, you felt important in the way that all living things are important. And yet some people were made to rule, like your wife did. You couldn’t picture Valeria ever having a quiet life. She was simply not built for it. No, she was built for this world, the world of terror and drugs. She was cunning and smart, cutthroat, and strong. She was unbreakable. And so were the others, people like Alejandro, people who forged themselves from fire and blood. The hunters of the world. Looking around the container, you felt like you belonged with the hunted. The lamb hiding with the wolves. The next best thing for someone like you was to live in the shadow of someone like Valeria. You knew that people thought that about you. That you chose the easy way out of work, that you became a drug lord’s housewife, so you didn’t have to make your living out there just like everyone else did. But that was not true. There was strength in your quietness, in your order and in your love. Somewhere beneath your tense fragility was an unyielding strength and, like the viper hiding behind a flower, it was dangerous because it was unexpected. Here you were, intimidated and frightened, and yet never giving in to the demands of tyrants. You were one of those people who, quick to laugh, are slow to anger. And yet when that anger came, it emerged unexpectedly and threatened to envelop everything in its path.

The sweetness of the breakfast bar still lingered in your mouth when you heard deliberate footsteps outside your container. You perked up at the sound and dared to hope that Valeria, or someone else from the cartel, had finally found their way back to you. The chain outside your door rattled and dropped to the floor; the door opened. You nearly jumped off your seat when the image of a human skull emerged from behind the door and looked within. It was the man with the skull mask, the one you'd met earlier. El fantasmo. His skull mask was terrifying to behold. It was a replica of a human skull that ended the lower jaw, and the rest of the image was completed by a drawn balaclava mask. Behind the mask, the skin was drawn black with paint and his dark, focused eyes looked right at you.

"She's still here, Johnny." He said and entered the room. He walked towards you, his hands reaching behind him and pulling out a set of handcuffs. "Covering you, LT," a voice said from the outside. You realised it was the man with the mohawk, the Scottish one. El fantasmo, you realised, was Lieutenant Ghost. "Get up." He said and grabbed your forearm, not gently, and lifted you out of your seat. He was massive, tall enough to tower over you and wide with muscle. His hands felt strong as he moved yours behind your back and promptly handcuffed you, tightening them enough to make them hurt. "What's happening? Where are you taking me-" "What the fuck is this?" His voice was deep, and it drowned out yours when he spoke. He reached into your breast pocket and pulled out the wrapping of the breakfast bar. He held it in his hand and the other man entered the room. "Somebody's been feeding her?" The other man, John, asked. "Looks like it. Call it in." Ghost let the paper fall on the floor. "Come here," he said and dragged you with him as he began walking out of the container. The other man spoke to his earpiece. "Soap here. Found some food wrapping on her. Look's like somebody from the inside reached her."

You felt embarrassed like you were caught doing something wrong. But they didn't blame you for it. In fact, they hardly acknowledged you at all. "Copy that, moving out now." The man said again and looked at Ghost. The masked man held your arm tighter as he dragged you after them. The sounds of gunfire hit you as you stepped out of the container and you stopped in your tracks. The absurdity of it all hit you; the violence and bloodlust, all the fighting. All for you.

“You as much as try anything,” Ghost whispered in your ear, “and I’ll break you.”

You didn’t have time to respond before he began dragging you after him with the other man trailing after you two, protecting you with his gun.

Despaired coiled around your heart like a python, tightening its grasp on you. You struggled to breathe as you were dragged into the line of fire. The rapid fire of gunshots echoed amongst the headquarters, which you had never seen. Men ran up and down the place, you stepped over fallen bullet shells which littered the floor, making it glisten like gold. You were not one of those people who found these sorts of things beautiful, someone who could polish guns and admire their beauty, the handiwork that went into them, the ways they could be customised and designed. Valeria would often tease you about it, calling you soft. Now, as you saw these guns be put to use, you could see them as nothing more than the murder machines that they were. And they were aimed right at you.

"Shit," Ghost said whilst he made both of you duck behind a wall of concrete. The other man was quick to follow behind you, firing a couple of shots in retaliation. "Why the fuck are they shooting at us?" Asked the Scottish one. "'Cause they haven't seen her yet," said Ghost. By 'they,' you guessed he meant the cartel staff. More shots were fired at you. The Scottish man forced your head down with his hand, the bullets having barely missed your head. "We're moving. Be careful, Soap, they'll try to separate us." The other man chuckled. "Let them try."

Soap fired another shot and whoever was firing at you stopped. With a pang, you realised that the other man was killed. The world blurred after that, you only moved because you were being dragged forward. Your mind could not stop wondering if you knew that man. Was it one of those that you saw come in every day to talk with Valeria? Was he one of those who, though you never met in person, had met a part of you when he ate your cooking? On special occasions, Valeria would ask you to cook a lot and invite some of her men over, a treat for those who excelled either in loyalty or performance. You were never present, but Valeria still managed to show you off when she presented all the delicacies you had prepared. Was that man there? All this death, all this blood, all this loss - for you.

A feeling of self-disgust arose and, for the first time since Alejandro puts his hands on you at the estate, you resisted. You couldn't do much with your hands cuffed behind your back, but you tugged away from Ghost, not enough to make him stop walking, but enough to make him lose balance. It wasn't because you were strong, but because, he realised, he did not expect you to do anything. You didn't stop there, you kept tugging back and forth, trying to break free of his grasp. It was not much, but this small commotion made the three of you slow down long enough for you to be recognised.

"Senora!" Someone yelled, someone from the cartel. Ghost growled angrily and slammed you against the nearest wall. "Didn't I say I'd break you if you tried anything?" His breath was hot on your skin. One of his hands was on your neck, but you felt hot too; you blazed in anger. "I'll have you killed!" You yelled at him. Surprise flickered behind the lieutenant's eyes. It made you even angrier, how dare he be surprised that you hated all this? That you could be threatened again and again, that you would be bruised and exhausted and just sit there and take all of it. How complacent did they think you were? "You hear me? I'll have all of us killed!" He didn't take his eyes off you as he spoke. "Soap, clear the way forward." But there was no reply.

Both of you broke from your locked gaze and looked to the side in surprise - the other man was not there. You realised how quiet it suddenly was, an oppressive silence that made you even more painfully aware of how trapped you were beneath Ghost's body. Rapid footsteps sounded close to you and suddenly, Ghost was slammed to the ground by someone. "¡Por aquí!" Someone said and grabbed your hand. "Senora, you okay?" You didn't know who he was, but you knew he was one of your people. "Yes," was all you could say as you ran away with him. You only caught a glimpse of Ghost being tackled by multiple people, struggling beneath the weight of all these men.

"This way, Senora. You know the way." He said and eventually stopped running. You looked around and saw, on the floor, a hole. "El Sin Nombre said you know how to use this. I'll be right behind you, Senora. Our people are on the other side." Hearing those words made you so happy, you almost cried. "What about Valeria? Is she here?" You asked. The man saw the tender look in your eyes, the desperation behind it. It was too much, he looked away. "She'll be right there, Senora." And with that, you plunged yourself into the cold darkness of the tunnel. You moved far enough for the man to come in after you. You had no torch on you, after all. But the man never followed through. "Senor?" You asked, but there was no reply.

All of a sudden, you became aware of how bad it smelled in there. But it was not the smell of dirt or of animals. It was the stench of cigars, a smoke that threatened to choke you but yet held a sweetness that was unlike the sharp smell of regular cigarettes. A light flickered in the darkness and you realised there was someone smoking in there, waiting. "Yeah," said a deep, British voice. He took a long puff from his cigar, the orange light burning brightly in the darkness that enveloped both of you. From that little flicker of light, you could see two piercing blue eyes staring at you, and a face covered by a well-groomed beard. The world above was muffled, gone.

"I'll take it from here, sweetheart." He said and lunged for you. Only darkness followed.

When you finally came to, the day was already over. Groggily, you awoke to find yourself in a transportation van, your hands and feet shackled by chains. Opposite you sat the man you saw before, the one with the cigar. "Sorry for the trouble, miss. But you know how these things are." Captain Price saw the frantic, lost look on your face and felt something he hadn't felt in quite some time; pity. "You're being transferred to prison. You'll be settled soon enough, new clothes and everything." You didn't even look at him, though he knew you could understand him. Instead, you gazed outside the window. The Captain only ever heard you say one word:

"Valeria."

"If it makes you feel any better, she's in the van behind us."

Note: I'm struggling with Y/N, I feel like I made her too passive, even though that's kind of what I was going for with her. In the next part, she gets reunited with Valeria (finally!) We're reaching the end of this fic, thank you for reading so far x I'm struggling with writing at the moment because I started my master's and I'm having some health issues, but I'll try my best! I'm also thinking of doing a spin-off with Valeria and Y/N on how they met and ran away.

tag list: @justmare @silas-222 @m0rganit3 @blarba-girl @sleepiemain @caffeineliker @ashy-kit @00ops1e @lesvii @therapyneeds @lez-zuha @starre-eyes @7smexy7diva @hello-kitty-festival @konigmeu @cassiecasluciluce @gay-ass-country-boy @starwars-theclonewhore @bi-witch-bxtch @somnoslvt @ashthepillow @b3ns0ne  @idiotwrites @danart501 @deakyspuff @mistresssiri @angethehimbosimp @@sae1kie @00ops1e

[gunpowdercarousel]

I feel like BG3 has some really interesting themes of emasculation

Throughout the game it's rare to find a major male character that's depicted as traditionally strong or even 'strong' in any way without having some crippling weakness or insecurity. Even just beyond the simple fact that all three male origin characters have EIGHT STRENGTH, there's deeper stuff.

Wyll: The legendary Blade of Frontiers, a folkloric hero and champion of the people, who is powerless before his master - a woman. She literally treats him like a dog - a puppy even - and is always there to drag him back down the instant he gets too confident in himself. His questline is mostly defined by his sense of powerlessness, especially in the face of the seemingly untouchable woman he serves.

Gale: Used to make love to a literal goddess, only for her to dump his ass. He nearly killed himself trying to figure out a way to win her back, only to be left with a curse that's basically ruined his life. And the first interaction between them we see in the game is her telling him via messenger to kill himself for her sake. And he is totally willing to do so.

Astarion: On the surface, he seems like a suave and confident flirt; a rake. He's full of himself, has a zest for life, loose morals, and overall just seems like a debaucherous playboy, when in reality he's deeply traumatized from two centuries of being tortured, abused, and used. He feels broken and powerless, and is so thoroughly desperate for some degree of power that he'll try reading the Necronomicon without a second thought just in hopes it'll help him.

Ketheric Thorm: A man defined by his relationship to the women in his life. He lost his mind when his wife died and somehow lost it AGAIN when his daughter died. He gave up everything he had - his own identity - to try and bring her back, only for her to hate and scorn him. And in the end, his skull is crushed to pulp by his daughter's girlfriend. The same woman who he drew his immortality from. His awesome power - his indestructability - was something he siphoned away from a woman.

Raphael: The scheming, suave, smooth-talking devil who seems untouchably powerful and impossibly smug throughout the entire game. And yet, when you finally infiltrate his House of Hope, you find out he's really completely terrible in bed, has low self-esteem, and is desperate to prove himself. In many ways he's pathetic. Impressive in the beginning, certainly, when you're utterly powerless before him, but by the time you actual visit his manor you see him for what he truly is: an angry, little man full of hot air.

Cazador: A victim of his own master, who's just desperate for power. Despite being a terrifyingly powerful vampire lord and one of the most powerful and influential people in the city, he just comes across as pathetic and whiny when you finally meet him in person.

Meanwhile, if you look at many of the women in the game - Vlaakith, Mystra, Zariel, Mizora, Shar - they're god-like in power, if not the most morally righteous people in the world, to say the least. Hell, the main villain of the game - the Absolute - is depicted with a feminine voice.

It's just kind of interesting to me how the game depicts so many men in the game as being weak, ineffectual, or pathetic. And yet for the Origin boys it doesn't do it in a scornful or negative way. It just depicts them as flawed people and victims, either of themselves or of circumstance. It doesn't try to show the male heroes being especially strong or cool, it's more than happy to depict them as soft and weak and vulnerable.

It's the seemingly impressive male villains that the game likes to tear down and expose for being pathetic weaklings, which - of course - I'm fine with xD

I'm sure I've missed some other characters, like Gortash or whatever, but these are the main ones that came to mind.

Anyway, just a random thought.

[discordiansamba]

just some more spitballing about character backgrounds for the avatar Yue AU... some of this I've been over before but it has been a hot minute since I discussed this AU

Yue is still the princess of the Northern Water Tribe, though she was born a waterbender and did not require the assistance of the moon spirit. She was only taught to use waterbending to heal growing up, and her father had full intention of concealing the fact that she was the Avatar from her, fearing that it may draw their people back into the war. When she discovered the truth (as well as her upcoming betrothal to Hahn), she decided to leave the North Pole and head to their Southern siblings, with the hopes that they would teach her combat waterbending.

(She is unaware of the major flaw in her plan.)

Aang is her childhood friend, born into one of the small pockets of survivors of the airbender genocide. He grew up in the North Pole and became fast friends with Yue, who was drawn to his sense of humor and how free he seemed. He's not an airbending master just yet, but it's clear he has incredible potential. When Yue decides to run away, she turns to Aang for help, and he agrees- and also agrees to teach her what he knows about airbending. He's eager to go out into the world, and maybe even connect with some of the other Air Nomad survivors.

Officially, Prince Zuko was kidnapped and likely killed by Earth Kingdom spies. Unofficially, the newly crowned Fire Lord Ozai paid off a few of his most loyal subordinates to make Zuko disappear. His face was burned to make him harder to recognize, and he was cast out into the Earth Kingdom and expected to die. Instead, he was picked up by a traveling theater troupe, who took him in. He taught himself how to fight, and has taken up moonlighting as a vigilante, fighting against both Fire Nation forces and Earth Kingdom corruption.

Instead of being too young to fight, Sokka was just old enough in this universe that his father brought him with him when he and the other men went to war. It was still a sharp learning curve for him, but under the mentorship of his father, he's gained strength in confidence in his own budding abilities. However he's throw overboard during a storm, but ends up washing up on Earth Kingdom shores. His goal is to find his father's fleet, but before that, he finds the Avatar and her two companions, and since their goal is to go to the South Pole, he decides his new mission is to join them.

(He and Zuko butt heads at first, but eventually, they learn to get along.)

Katara has disappeared from her village. According to Gran-Gran, she believes that she left to seek out proper waterbending training in the North, but even if that were the case, she should have arrived there before Yue left, but neither she nor Aang hadn't heard a thing about her. So where is Katara?

(She got side-tracked by Jiang and her pirate crew. She's doing great, actually!)

When Toph ran away from home, she decided she'd stay away and began living with the badgermoles instead. Now the Blind Bandit wanders the Earth Kingdom, looking for anyone strong to fight. She earns money by working as a bounty hunter, so a clash with the Avatar and the entourage is in the future...

Suki decides to escort Yue as her personal bodyguard after she helps fend of Zhao's forces on Kyoshi Island. If there's one thing that skirmish has shown her, it's that the Kyoshi Warriors can't afford to stay out of the war any longer... and the Avatar's got the best chance to end it.

(Plus, she and that Water Tribe boy are both pretty cute. She wouldn't mind traveling with them.)

After the disappearance of his nephew, Iroh traveled to the Earth Kingdom to search for him. He always suspected Ozai was behind it, but he had no proof, and therefore could not publicly accuse him. He has settled into the life of a wandering tea merchant, refusing to give up hope on Zuko.

[polutrope]

The world bent and, like Beleriand before it, Elenna was no more. But as a stone cast in a still pool sets a bright autumn leaf sailing to its hoary edges, the ships of the Faithful rode the wake of their kingdom’s downfall to the shores of Middle-earth. 

Elendil and his sons observed no period of mourning, left no empty space in which to contemplate their loss: almost at once they set footprints of great cities atop the villages of Eriador. Monuments to their strength, their survival. 

Soon, Elendil wrote, soon there would be time to visit the Last Homely House. But as the years wore on, it became clear that if Elrond wished to meet his brother’s proud heir he would need to make the journey to Annúminas himself. 

“You look so like him,” were the first words the King of the Exiles spoke to the Lord of Rivendell, once the door of his meeting chamber was shut behind them. Before, he had stared, as he had failed to hide his astonishment — and, it might be said, discomfiture — behind a kingly reception. 

“Who?” Elrond asked with half a smile, knowing full well who he meant. 

“Elros,” Elendil answered, completely serious. “The statues and portraits—”

“Yes, he was my twin.”

Elendil shook his head, abashed. “I am sorry, I suppose it is… Artists are known to flatter their royal subjects. You do not think, seeing the statue of a king of legend, that he might really have looked so in life.”

Elrond laughed. “You have something of him in yourself, too, lord.” He did not say it was his self-assurance, his candour that nearly overstepped the bounds of common courtesy. For all it had irked him at times, Elrond had ever admired his brother’s boldness and was pleased to see it had not been dulled over the generations, even in the more humble strain of his descendants. 

“Call me not lord,” said Elendil, then laughed and swept an arm across the room, beckoning Elrond towards a sumptuous green settee by the window. “But come, come. Let me have wine and cheeses brought — or perhaps you wish to eat a proper meal? I am sorry, you have come a long way, you must be tired. A bath, perhaps, and then we can meet again at supper?”

“No, no, I have all I need. I was hosted well at an inn on your city’s borders yesternight.”

“An inn!” Elendil cried. “You ought to have come at once to the palace.”

“My arrival was late.”

“Nonetheless,” Elendil said, and called to a servant positioned outside. “Solmion, have food and wine brought to us.” Sitting, he again addressed Elrond. “I do wish you had sent word of your coming. We would have had rooms and a great reception prepared.”

Elrond nodded and smiled graciously. He did not tell the king that his promises of pomp were the very reason Elrond had given no notice of his coming. 

* * *

Elendil’s wine cup barely touched his mouth, so absorbed was he in tales of his ambition, his hopes for Endor. His hands flew expressively as he spoke, and Elrond's eyes returned always to the ring adorning the index finger of his right hand: the green emerald crowned in gold, the serpents devouring each other. The ring of Barahir: Elrond knew it from the histories, though how it came out of the ruin of Beleriand, he could not say. For all its fame in the great tales, a ring must have seemed but a small token in those days when Elros’ ships were laden with all the surviving heirlooms of Men and Elves. Now, many of those had no doubt been lost, and Elrond noted how securely the ring circled his finger, as though it had become a part of his hand — for so jewellery appears when seldom, if ever, removed from the wearer. 

Elrond wore no such jewels.

Only one heirloom had come into Elrond’s hands, passed quietly from Gil-galad’s safekeeping, as if the High King felt some consolation was needed for all the times he had been passed over in favour of Elros. Elrond accepted the gift with gratitude, but in truth he had felt no jealousy for the many reminders of their legacy that had been heaped upon his brother the king. The heavy longsword, moreover, had never been Elrond’s weapon. For many centuries now Narsil had lain unused, awaiting a more fitting bearer.

Elrond bore it with him to Annúminas, for he had heard the sword of Elu Thingol had been lost at last in Pharazôn’s ignominious fall. 

“The work of Telchar!” Elendil exclaimed, admiring the well-balanced blade. “How have I heard no rumour of this weapon?”

“Alas,” Elrond answered, “the heirlooms of the Edain are often overshadowed by those of the Eldar.”

Elendil hummed his agreement, not taking his eyes from the sword.

“I am told,” Elrond elaborated, “that it  was commissioned by Felagund for Bëor the Old and became, for a while, the sword of his House. But Barahir sent it from Dorthonion with his wife, Emeldir Manhearted. Its history in Brethil is obscure, but it was kept by those peoples in honour, for it was carried with them to the Havens of Sirion and thence to Balar. Gil-galad entrusted it to me —but ever has it sat uneasily in my hands.”

“Nonetheless, it is a generous gift.” Elendil sheathed the sword. “You can be assured that I and my heirs will bear it with honour, Elrond son of Eärendil.”

* * *

Great as its deeds had been, it was all too short a time before Narsil returned to Imladris in shards.

Elrond balanced them upon his lap as young Valandil played among the wildflowers, uncomprehending of his doom. Tears gathered in Elrond’s eyes and wet his cheeks. Such premature grief was ever the price of foresight. Somewhere, Sauron’s Ring survived. Long would be the road and many the losses before Elendil’s sword was lifted once again against the shadow of evil. 

On AO3 | On SWG

[jonsnowunemploymentera]

It’s important that the first revelation of Nissa Nissa is accompanied by some level of skepticism from Salladhor Saan and aversion on Davos’ part. It doesn’t sound right that Azor Ahai chose to sacrifice his wife for a magic sword. It shouldn’t sound right.

“A hundred days and a hundred nights he labored on the third blade, and as it glowed white-hot in the sacred fires, he summoned his wife. ‘Nissa Nissa,’ he said to her, for that was her name, ‘bare your breast, and know that I love you best of all that is in this world.’ She did this thing, why I cannot say, and Azor Ahai thrust the smoking sword through her living heart. It is said that her cry of anguish and ecstasy left a crack across the face of the moon, but her blood and her soul and her strength and her courage all went into the steel. Such is the tale of the forging of Lightbringer, the Red Sword of Heroes.

“Now do you see my meaning? Be glad that it is just a burnt sword that His Grace pulled from that fire. Too much light can hurt the eyes, my friend, and fire burns.” Salladhor Saan finished the last grape and smacked his lips. “When do you think the king will bid us sail, good ser?”

[…] A true sword of fire, now, that would be a wonder to behold. Yet at such a cost … When he thought of Nissa Nissa, it was his own Marya he pictured, a good-natured plump woman with sagging breasts and a kindly smile, the best woman in the world. He tried to picture himself driving a sword through her, and shuddered. I am not made of the stuff of heroes, he decided. If that was the price of a magic sword, it was more than he cared to pay.

Not only does it not make sense that Nissa Nissa would agree to her husband’s request, it’s also telling how Salladhor Saan expresses relief in knowing that King Stannis didn’t actually forge Lightbringer. Because forging Lightbringer means human sacrifice. And why should one be deprived of their life, even if it’s for a magic sword? Davos is very right to be creeped out by it.

The theme of sacrifice shows up quite a bit in ASOIAF and Davos I isn’t the first or last time. The very first chapter in the series, Bran I, tackles this idea with Jon and the direwolves.

“Lord Stark,” Jon said. It was strange to hear him call Father that, so formal. Bran looked at him with desperate hope. “There are five pups,” he told Father. “Three male, two female.”

“What of it, Jon?”

“You have five trueborn children,” Jon said. “Three sons, two daughters. The direwolf is the sigil of your House. Your children were meant to have these pups, my lord.”

Bran saw his father’s face change, saw the other men exchange glances. He loved Jon with all his heart at that moment. Even at seven, Bran understood what his brother had done. The count had come right only because Jon had omitted himself. He had included the girls, included even Rickon, the baby, but not the bastard who bore the surname Snow, the name that custom decreed be given to all those in the north unlucky enough to be born with no name of their own.

Their father understood as well. “You want no pup for yourself, Jon?” he asked softly.

“The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark,” Jon pointed out. “I am no Stark, Father.”

Jon, though he may desperately desire to have his own piece of magic, would not sacrifice his siblings for it. He wouldn’t dare to deprave the girls, Arya and Sansa, of their own magic even when it might be very easy to do so. This is a pretty stark contrast (pun intended) to Azor Ahai and his Nissa Nissa. Azor Ahai’s first line of thought was to sacrifice his wife whereas Jon’s was to sacrifice himself. Sure Azor Ahai got his magic sword, but Jon’s self-sacrifice is not in vain either because he later earns his own wolf, who turns out to be even more special than the rest in the pack.

Bran IV kind of alludes to the idea of self sacrifice through Old Nan’s retelling of the last hero:

So as cold and death filled the earth, the last hero determined to seek out the children, in the hopes that their ancient magics could win back what the armies of men had lost. He set out into the dead lands with a sword, a horse, a dog, and a dozen companions. For years he searched, until he despaired of ever finding the children of the forest in their secret cities. One by one his friends died, and his horse, and finally even his dog, and his sword froze so hard the blade snapped when he tried to use it. And the Others smelled the hot blood in him, and came silent on his trail, stalking him with packs of pale white spiders big as hounds—”

Though the one we know is called the “last hero”, notice that it’s not a title but a mere descriptor; there were many heroes before him who died and he was the last one standing. There is a human toll in this legend, but it’s implied to be self sacrifice. It’s also interesting that though there is mention of a blade, it is the children of the forest’s magic that is key. This does kind of bleed into what we know about the Night’s Watch and its relation to the long night. The Night’s Watch victory was a group effort, rather than the actions of any one man.

We have several legends surrounding the long night that work, but only one involves the cost of sacrificing someone else (that we know of). This might be where GRRM is headed with Stannis and his creation of Lightbringer. Sure Azor Ahai did get his magic sword, but it doesn’t negate the steep human cost. GRRM has lowkey confirmed that Stannis is sure to burn Shireen. And rather than this sacrifice not working, I think it’s more likely that it does work. Stannis does indeed create the flaming sword. But this will be directly weighed by other (self) sacrifices made for the same purpose. Stannis’ sacrifice of his daughter won’t work any better than other characters who choose to sacrifice themselves even when knowing that they are not going to go down as individual legends; I think Jon Snow will once again be the prime example of this, as he has already resigned himself to being a shadow in history despite initially wanting the opposite. Maester Aemon was right in saying that

[…] all deceive ourselves, when we want to believe. Melisandre most of all, I think. The sword is wrong, she has to know that … light without heat … an empty glamor … the sword is wrong, and the false light can only lead us deeper into darkness, Sam

The sword is wrong. Azor Ahai is NOT one to be emulated. Rather, he should be a cautionary tale. He is not any more special for his sacrifice than what the last hero or the men of the Night’s Watch did, even though we know his name but don’t know theirs. GRRM answered the question regarding sacrifice before he even posed it. To make someone else pay the price is flat out wrong. The only true and worthy sacrifice is really that of the self.