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seafarersdream · 5 months ago

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Heck yeah Freddie Fox!!!!what if reader plays Gwayne and Alicent sister, but their chemistry is sooooo good that the creators had to cut their scenes together because "they're Hightowers, not Targaryens"🤣🤣🤣and the cast are having the time of their lives with that

Me and the Devil (Freddie Fox x Y/N)

Y/N L/N, who stars as Lady Eleanor Hightower, has an absolutely electric chemistry with her on-screen brother, Freddie Fox, who plays Ser Gwayne Hightower, much to the amusement and exasperation of the HOTD cast and crew.

TW // Strong language and profanities, incestuous undertones, sexual tension and innuendos.

The sun was rising behind the walls of the Red Keep, casting long, creeping shadows over the Outer Courtyard. Lady Eleanor Hightower, clad in the deep, grieving olive of her house, stood with an air of weary grace beside her sister, Dowager Queen Alicent. Her face was a picture of calm, though her eyes were heavy with the sorrow of loss and the weight of recent weeks.

“Do you think he’ll bring that dreadful horse again?” Eleanor asked, her voice soft but dripping with that sharp edge she never quite lost, even in mourning.

Alicent’s lips twitched, but she held her composure. "If he does, I’ll have it stabled outside the walls. I’m not having that beast piss all over the courtyard again."

The rumble of hooves on cobblestones drew their attention. The gates opened, and a column of knights in shining armor, bearing the sigil of House Hightower, entered the courtyard. At their head was Ser Gwayne Hightower, his helm tucked under one arm, revealing the tousled auburn hair and devil-may-care grin that Eleanor had grown so used to seeing—when he wasn’t hiding it behind an arrogant smirk.

“Well, well, look who it is. The fairest blooms of Oldtown,” Gwayne drawled, striding over like he owned all Seven Kingdoms. “Alicent, you’re still holding up the realm with that iron fist of yours. And Eleanor…” His eyes trailed over her, lingering just a fraction too long, “Looking every bit the grieving widow. Tell me, how does it feel to be free of that hideous arsehole, late Lord Hastwyck? May the Seven forgive him.”

Eleanor shot him a withering look, but there was a glint of mischief in her eyes. “About as good as it feels to watch you strut around like you haven’t been fucked in months.”

“Oh, fuck off, Ellie,” Freddie retorted, still in character, his grin widening. “Thought all that mourning might’ve taken the edge off your bite, but clearly, I was wrong.”

Eleanor arched an eyebrow, a smirk that could rival his playing on her lips. “And you, brother, seem as full of yourself as ever. Did the trip here inflate your ego even further?”

Gwayne grinned wider, flashing teeth. “Careful, little sister, or I’ll think you missed me.”

Alicent, tired of their verbal sparring, interjected. “Gwayne, you’ve arrived at an important time. Ser Criston Cole has replaced our father as Hand, and there is much work to be done.”

Gwayne’s grin faded into a sneer. “Ser Criston Cole? That jumped-up cunt of a knight? What, are we that desperate, we’re pulling nobodies out of the arse-end of the Kingsguard now?”

The crew, who had been trying to keep it together, finally lost it. Laughter rang out across the courtyard, cameramen shaking their heads as they tried to stay steady.

“Cut! Fucking hell, cut!” Geeta Patel called out, struggling to keep the exasperation out of her voice. She stepped forward, waving her hands as she approached the trio. “Alright, Freddie, Y/N, that was... Jesus Christ, that was incredible. But you’re not Jaime and Cersei Lannister, alright? You’re Hightowers. That kind of sibling chemistry doesn’t fly in this family. Tone down the ‘let’s fuck each other senseless’ vibes, okay?”

Freddie turned to Y/N, a devilish grin spreading across his face. “Hear that, darling? We’re too bloody hot for Westeros.”

Geeta rolled her eyes, but she was smiling despite herself. “I swear, you two are going to give me aneurysm. Just... try to remember you’re siblings. No more of that smoldering shit. The Hightowers don’t do what the Targaryens do, alright?”

Freddie put on a mock-serious face, hand over his heart. “I solemnly swear to be the picture of brotherly love. No more dirty looks, no more—“

“Smoldering looks, you tosser,” Y/N corrected, elbowing him in the ribs. “And good luck with that.”

The crew was still giggling, a few members openly impressed. “Honestly, we haven’t seen chemistry like this since Game of Thrones,” one of the grips muttered, shaking his head. “It’s fucking unreal.”

As Geeta returned to her chair, giving notes to the crew, Freddie leaned in closer to Y/N. “Honestly, how are we supposed to act like siblings when you keep giving me those eyes?”

Y/N shot him a sidelong glance. “You mean the same eyes you’re giving me right now? Don’t think I don’t notice.”

Freddie chuckled, his voice low enough that only Y/N could hear. “Well then how about we really give them something to talk about?”

Y/N swatted at him playfully. “Behave yourself, Fox. Or I’ll tell Geeta.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

Before Freddie could fire back, Geeta’s voice rang out again. “Alright, enough banter, you two. Places! And for fuck’s sake, remember—you’re Hightowers, not Targaryens or Lannisters!”

Freddie straightened up, slipping back into his role as Ser Gwayne, but not before giving Y/N one last, devilish wink. “For now,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear.

Y/N fought to keep her expression neutral, but the corners of her mouth twitched with suppressed laughter. She shot him a look that promised retribution later.

As the cameras rolled once more, they slipped effortlessly back into character, their banter sizzling with that same crackling chemistry that had the entire crew both laughing and marveling at just how damn good these two were together—siblings or not.

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On a different day, Geeta Patel was giving final instructions to Olivia Cooke and to Fabien Frankel. “Alright, Olivia, Fabien,” Geeta began, her tone calm. “This scene is all about the farewell. Criston, you’re asking for Alicent’s favor before you leave for war. This is a significant moment between you two. We need it to be subtle, yet powerful. Got it?”

Fabien nodded, his expression serious. “Got it, Geeta.”

Olivia smiled. “Ready when you are.”

Geeta gave them a satisfied nod and turned to the crew. “Okay, everyone, positions! Let’s make this one count.”

As the cameras rolled, Criston Cole approached Alicent with a grave expression, his armor gleaming in the dying light. He bowed low, his voice steady but laced with emotion. “Your Grace,” he began, his tone respectful, yet carrying an undercurrent of something deeper.

Alicent looked at him with those sharp, knowing eyes, giving him a slight nod. “May the Seven guide you, good knight,” she said, her voice soft but resolute. “And lead you not to shadow and death.”

Criston bowed his head even lower, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “I thank Your Grace for her prayers,” he replied, his voice filled with reverence.

Alicent turned as if to leave, her gown sweeping the stones with a soft rustle. But before she could take more than a step, Criston’s voice called her back. “And I would request,” he said, his words halting her in her tracks, “that Her Grace grant me her favor. That her Lord Commander may go into battle with her blessings… in his heart.”

The scene hung heavy in the air, the tension thick between them as Criston’s plea echoed through the courtyard. Alicent hesitated, her hand brushing against the delicate fabric of her sleeve as she turned back to him, her eyes locking onto his. There was a moment of silence, a breath suspended in time, as everyone waited to see what she would do.

She finally reached into her sleeve, pulling out the small, delicate handkerchief embroidered with her initials. The camera zoomed in, capturing the intricate details, the way her fingers trembled just slightly as she held it out to him. “Take this,” she murmured, her voice carrying a subtle tremor, “as a token of my favor. Return victorious, Ser Criston. And know that you carry my thoughts with you.”

Criston bowed his head, taking the handkerchief. “Your Grace,” he replied, his voice rough, “I shall return with your favor in my heart and the victory of your cause in my hands.”

The scene was supposed to be the focal point of the episode��an understated farewell between the Dowager Queen and her paramour.

Or at least, that was the plan.

In the background, Eleanor and Gwayne were supposed to be having a far simpler exchange—just a quick farewell between siblings, nothing more.

The moment the camera panned to them, what was meant to be a brief, subdued farewell exploded into something far more dramatic.

“Eleanor, my sweet sister,” Gwayne declared, sweeping her up in an exaggerated embrace, his voice loud enough to carry across the courtyard. “How will I ever endure the horrors of war without your smile to guide me through the darkness?”

Y/N played right into it. She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes shining with fake tears. “Gwayne, you reckless fool, you’d better come back to me—or I swear I’ll hunt you down myself.”

The crew exchanged glances, trying desperately to keep their laughter in check as the two continued to ad-lib their way through what was supposed to be a simple goodbye.

Gwayne placed a hand on Eleanor’s cheek, his expression one of melodramatic intensity. “If I do not return, tell the world I died with your name on my lips.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” someone from the crew muttered, barely audible over the sound of snickering.

Geeta Patel, perched in her director’s chair, pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to maintain some semblance of control. “Cut! CUT!” she finally called out, though her voice was tinged with reluctant amusement. “Freddie, Y/N, what the bloody hell was that? You’re supposed to be siblings, not star-crossed lovers.”

Freddie turned to Y/N with a grin that could only be described as wicked. “Sorry, Geeta, got a bit carried away there. Can you blame me? Look at her—who wouldn’t fall madly in love?”

Y/N smirked, not missing a beat. “Don’t flatter yourself, Fox. It’s called acting.”

Geeta threw up her hands in defeat. “I swear, you two are the bane of my existence. How am I supposed to get a serious scene out of you when you keep turning everything into a bloody pantomime?”

The crew was struggling to keep it together. Even Olivia, standing nearby as Alicent, was biting her lip, trying to stay in character despite the ridiculousness happening behind her.

Freddie chuckled. “Geeta, darling, I think what we’re doing here is revolutionary.”

Y/N rolled her eyes dramatically, though she was clearly enjoying herself. “What he’s trying to say, Geeta, is that we’re just too damn good together. Maybe it’s time to change the script.”

“Or maybe,” Geeta retorted, her tone playful despite her frustration, “you two could try actually sticking to the script for once. I’m pretty sure HBO isn’t paying you to improvise a Lannister-style farewell.”

Freddie turned to Y/N, pretending to consider it. “What do you think, Eleanor? Should we behave ourselves this time?”

Y/N gave a mock sigh, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off her costume. “I suppose we could try.”

Geeta couldn’t help but shake her head as she gestured for the crew to reset. “Alright, let’s take it from the top. And this time, keep it in your pants, Hightower freaks.”

Cameras rolled once more, the scene resumed, with Criston and Alicent taking center stage as intended from the start.

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The camera opens on a sleek, modern studio set, the familiar logo of Max glowing softly in the background. Y/N and Freddie are seated side by side, relaxed and comfortable, both dressed casually but stylishly—Y/N in a chic blouse and jeans, Freddie in his usual mix of sharp yet slightly rumpled attire.

The interviewer, a young woman with a cheerful demeanor, smiled warmly at them. “Thank you both for joining us today. Why don’t we start with some introductions?”

“Hello, everyone! I’m Y/N L/N, and I play Lady Eleanor Hightower on House of the Dragon,” Y/N says, her voice smooth and confident as she introduces herself.

Freddie chimes in right after. “And I’m Freddie Fox, and I play Ser Gwayne Hightower, Eleanor’s incredibly charming, dashingly handsome older brother.”

Y/N snorts, nudging him with her elbow. “You forgot modest, Freddie. Always so modest.”

The interviewer laughs, clearly enjoying their banter. “It’s great to have you both here. So, as you know, House of the Dragon has a massive fandom, and one of the things they love to do is theorize and create ships outside of the canon. They really get invested in the chemistry between characters—and, let’s be honest, between the actors as well.”

Freddie and Y/N exchange a look, both trying to suppress knowing smiles.

The interviewer continues with a mischievous glint in her eye. “So, naturally, people are starting to wonder—could we be seeing the next Kit Harington and Rose Leslie? You know, screen partners turning into real-life partners?”

Freddie, never one to miss an opportunity for a bit of fun, suddenly turned in his seat, getting down on one knee in front of Y/N. With an exaggeratedly serious expression, he took her hand. “Y/N, dearest Lady Eleanor, would you do me the immense honor of becoming my wife? I promise to annoy you, to steal your snacks, and to outshine you in every single scene we ever do together.”

Y/N bursts out laughing, placing a hand over her heart as if genuinely touched. “Oh, Freddie, how could I ever say no to such a heartfelt proposal? But I must warn you—I take up all the covers at night, and I’m not above hiding the remote if you try to switch to football during one of our movie nights.”

The interviewer is cracking up now, along with the crew behind the cameras. “I didn’t expect this, but I’m loving it! You two are absolutely priceless.”

Freddie stood up, still holding Y/N’s hand, and they both gave a bow to the camera. “Well, you know," he says, turning back to the interviewer, “it’s all about keeping the fans on their toes. Can’t make it too easy for them to figure out what’s going on, right?”

Y/N grins. “Exactly. We like to keep things... interesting.”

The interviewer, still grinning, leans in. “So, should we start planning the wedding, or...?”

Freddie looked thoughtfully at Y/N, tapping his chin. “Well, we’re thinking of something small. Just us, a couple of dragons, and maybe a White Walker to officiate. Keep it intimate, you know?”

Y/N nodded sagely. “Very exclusive. Only the crème de la crème of Westeros.”

The interviewer shakes her head, thoroughly entertained. “Okay, okay, I think we’ve just given the fandom even more fuel for their theories! On a serious note, though, it’s clear you two have incredible chemistry. What’s it like working together on set?”

Y/N smiled warmly at Freddie before answering. “Honestly, it’s a blast. Freddie and I just click, and I think that shows on screen. We’ve got a great rapport, and it’s always fun bringing these characters to life together.”

Freddie nodded, adding, “Yeah, we give each other a lot of shit, but that’s part of what makes it work. We trust each other, and that allows us to really push the boundaries in our scenes—sometimes a bit too much, according to Geeta,” he added with a wink.

The interviewer wraps it up, still chuckling. “Well, it’s been an absolute blast talking with you both. Can’t wait to see what chaos you bring to House of the Dragon next season.”

As the camera pulls back and the lights dim, Freddie and Y/N share a quick, conspiratorial glance, knowing they’d just given the fandom more than enough to talk about—and probably a few new fanfics to write as well.

When the interview dropped on the internet, the fandom absolutely exploded. Social media was flooded with clips of Freddie’s mock proposal, and the internet lost its collective mind.

Fans were dissecting every moment of the interview, from the playful banter to the way Freddie had gazed up at Y/N during his over-the-top proposal. The comments sections were filled with fans declaring that they were “shipping” the two even harder now, some even demanding that someone should cast them both in a romcom.

Amid the chaos, Y/N decided to fan the flames a bit more. She posted a cheeky selfie on Instagram, looking effortlessly stunning as always, with a caption that read, “The coolest of the Hightower siblings.”

It didn’t take long for Freddie to jump in on the fun. He reposted her selfie to his own Instagram story, adding the caption, “THE future Mrs. Fox.”

The internet went into overdrive. Fans were tagging each other, sharing screenshots, and even their House of the Dragon co-stars started chiming in with their own comments, playing along with the joke. The whole thing had taken on a life of its own, and it was clear that Y/N and Freddie had become the fandom’s favorite new obsession.

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During a press event, when Rhys Ifans, the man behind Otto Hightower, was asked about his thoughts on Freddie and Y/N’s antics, his face split into a wide, unabashed grin.

“Well, as Otto,” he began, dropping into character with a serious tone, “I have to say, it’s a major fucking ick. Completely inappropriate! Gwayne and Eleanor getting all... cozy? That would make Otto want to strangle someone. He’d be straight to the quill, penning some strongly worded letters to sort that shit out.”

The crowd erupted in laughter, knowing exactly how Otto Hightower would react to such scandal.

“But as Rhys?” he continued, his tone shifting to one of genuine enthusiasm, “I’m all in! I mean, have you seen those two together? The chemistry is off the bloody charts! If they don’t end up getting married after all this, I’ll be sorely disappointed. They’re perfect for each other—on and off the screen.”

His lighthearted comment sent the room into a ripple of laughter, with everyone loving the idea of Rhys being a secret shipper of Freddie and Y/N.

Within hours, his quote—“Ick as Otto, but fuck yes as Rhys!”—became the battle cry of the fandom, plastered across memes, gifs, and fan art that flooded every corner of the internet. It wasn't just spreading; it was detonating.

The whole situation exploded into a full-blown phenomenon, with fans practically canonizing Rhys as the unofficial president of the Freddie and Y/N ship. People started tagging him in everything, from wild fan theories to NSFW fanfiction, with captions like “Rhys would approve” or “Otto hates it, but Rhys lives for it.”

It was unhinged, chaotic, and utterly glorious. Rhys’s endorsement didn’t just add fuel to the fire; it threw in a grenade, making the whole thing go nuclear.

#hotd #hotd fandom #hotd fanfic #hotd x reader #freddie fox #freddie fox x reader #gwayne hightower #ser gwayne #gwayne x reader #gwayne hightower x reader #gwayne fanfic #hotd gwayne #gwayne x alicent #gwayne x you #ser gwayne hightower

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tra1nchi · 8 months ago

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save a horse, ride a cowboy.

Boothil with domtop reader,, why ride a cowboy when you can let the cowboy ride YOU. breeding,, dumbification,,, love bomb,, and stuff hhehe

yeehaw,,MINORS DNI!! Top male reader,, toxic ah reader,, manipulation,, mind control/altering,,breeding,,dumbifaction,, love bombing

Being Boothills mechanic,,hating him from how many hours you spend fixing his metal body,,hating his lighthearted tone once he comes back to himself,,the hand on the small of your back as he walks out was unappreciated!!

Him coming back from a mission so destroyed,, His system flaring up as he overheated,,even missing a leg!! Spending all night fixing him even through what was meant to be your day off!!

But you had access to his whole system,,staring at the computer infront of you,,swallowing thickly,, sliding your guilty pleasure folder into a USB,,standing up with a short breath as you put it in at the side of his thigh!!

He woke up with a start,,he felt different,,his face felt clammy,,his sharp teeth biting at his lips as he glanced over at you,,walking willingly into your open arms,,whimpering softly at the feeling of your hand in his long hair,,

"What's happenin' to me?" He mutters softly,,clutching onto your clothing,,something was wrong about the feeling coming from his backside,,not even noticing the USB sticking out of his port!!

Gasping when he feels your fingers dip in between his metal ass,,looking up at you with wide eyes,,his lips trembling as he realised you had willingly given him a hole!! >□<

His eyes met yours before he leaned up desperately pressing his lips to yours,,guiding you down to the chair,,whimpering at the sight of your smirk as he moves to straddle down on your lap,,his long white hair cascading down his back!!

"Please darlin' treat me like those girls in my mind.." His voice was pleading,,he felt hotter,,clearly his system was overheating but he ddint care at this point,,he wanted your baby,,and he was going to get it even if he had no ability to do so,,

Bouncing himself up and down on your cock,,moaning out loudly as he grips onto your shoulder,,looking down at you with a deep blush as you whispered affirmations in his ear,,but you were so rough with tugging his hair!!

The chair creaking under your weights as you swore he was going to break it with how desperate he was for dick,,the cyborg couldn't stop himself even as he overheated!! Mumbling to himself about how much he loves your dick,,drool running down his chin as he loses his bearings completely!!

"Cum inside, need ya' so bad!" His hands move down to grip onto yours,,his eyes filled with unshed tears as you couldn't help but indulge in his request,,

#{anon asks}#{h4rny ask}#{top male reader}#x top male reader #top male reader #x dom male reader #dom male reader #hsr smut #bottom boothill #sub boothill #Kisses him softly

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larriescompass · 6 months ago

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ways to dispel gay rumors, according to louis tomlinson and harry styles:

1. write a love song, and include the place where you and your enemy lived together.

2. constantly walk away from your at the time girlfriend of nine years.

3. struggle to hold hands with and kiss your at the time girlfriend of several years.

4. repeatedly say ‘no’ when asked if you and your girlfriend are engaged.

5. but do say, ‘it’s confidential, but we’re already engaged,’ when asked when you are gonna propose to your best mate.

6. say you have a crush on your best mate, and that you’ve discussed it and say that it’s mutual.

7. when asked if the rumor is true, smile fondly and say yes.

8. when your best mate is talking about finding someone they would want to date, cough really obviously and loudly.

9. choose to play a song on your tour, where the first word has major involvement with the rumor.

10. when asked about the rumor, turn into a horse.

11. deny the rumor while emphasizing the word ‘obviously’ and MAKE SURE to be very sarcastic.

12. dress up rainbow bears on stage that represent gay artists.

13. dress up said rainbow bears in wedding outfits on stage with a picture positioned in front of it of a man named larry, while signing the photo with the words “love, larry.”

14. when you see something involving the rumor, give it a thumbs up!

15. get matching tattoos.

16. go to amsterdam with your wonderful girlfriend at the time, then come back and write a song where the first line is, “i went to amsterdam without you,”

17. having to adjust your pants because your best mate’s shirt popped open.

18. when your “mate” asks to give you a blowjob, respond with “i’d love it, if you’d just wait.”

19. when asked about your favorite traits in a female, say “not that important” about the person being a female.

20. look depressed whenever someone mentions your child.

21. cover a song where the main objective of the song is to be the girl just so you could be with the guy.

22. get a tattoo that you know people will link to the person involving the rumor.

23. dress up as queer idols for halloween.

24. go to gay bars.

25. bring your girlfriends to gay bars.

26. cook a meal for your girlfriend even though you didn’t even know her when you cooked it, and she was vegan at that time.

27. make a dopey fonding face while you’re staring at your best mate.

28. sexually tease each other on stage.

29. while your best mate is hyping himself up and says while referring to himself, “that’s just sex on legs,” agree and say, “yeah it is,” while giving him love eyes.

30. at your solo concert, point to a replica of the rainbow bear in the crowd that you and your best mate dressed up on stage.

31. change the lyrics of your song from “i love it” to “i love him.”

32. you must wear a vintage umbro t shirt that is very rare, and make sure to have your best mate show up wearing the same vintage rare umbro shirt just a few months later.

33. go completely MIA while your best mate has his off season, and pop back up in public when he goes back on tour.

34. host your own festival and have an artist with a song named “you’re not harry styles” perform during it.

35. consistently use colored lights that are heavily associated with the rumor during your concerts.

36. use art of your “totally platonic” friend’s tattoo for the spotify background of one of your songs.

37. do a photoshoot with clothes from a gay clothing brand that dates back to the fifties.

38. go to the same euros game and make sure to be seen in the same room together.

39. bite your best mate’s back after you deny the gay rumors.

40. look at your best mate and sing “i’m in love with lou, and all his little things” in a totally normal and platonic way.

#i wrote this like two years ago #then i added more #now i’m posting it iahdisjdjd #hl #harry styles #louis tomlinson #one direction #faith in the future #larry stylinson #larry is real

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leth-writes · 4 months ago

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hotd x oblivious reader

I’m thinking about a reader who’s kinda oblivious. They aren’t super aware of everything going on around them, they’re just confused as to why no one is getting along.

You’re really close with both team black and green, to the point that they’re fighting over you, but you’re not even aware of the actual conflict; you just think it’s petty interpersonal drama.

They’re over in the corner threatening each other with dragons and swords and you’re just… hanging out with Helaena, looking at butterflies and asking to pet her dragon.

the second you express interest in the dragons, there’s practically a line; you’re the most nervous with Daemon and Aemond’s dragons, for obvious reasons given their reputation, but Luke has a pretty small dragon so you grow closer to him through that. Rather than the size of the castle, Arrax is about the size of a particularly large horse, or maybe a big bear. More manageable when you know they can’t swallow you in one bite.

This drives a wedge further between Aemond and Luke, with Aemond outright glaring every time he so much as catches a glimpse at Luke. Not only did he take his eye, now he’s taking a bonding opportunity out from under her?! He’s pissed and challenges him to a duel. You still think it’s all fun and games, and you’re cheering for both of them, and they’re both trying to fucking kill each other, it’s pretty intense.

no matter who wins, you’re ecstatic, and you hug them both and kiss them both on the cheek. The blush that blooms on their faces and the almost goofy smiles that stretch across their cheeks are perhaps the only thing they’ve had in common in years.

Aemond totally uses his injury to ingratiate himself with you. It makes you feel bad for him, and while he doesn’t normally want pity, he’s fine using it to his advantage. Once Luke is out of the way, he reckons, he’ll be able to reveal his true self slowly over time.

Daemon’s also pretty likely to get into physical fights, though he sues his silver tongue to make you blush just as often. He really is quite sly, and he’s the only one to outright proposition you. He’ll get Jace to take you out for a night in the town, slowly working their way to the brothels, trying to sully your reputation just far enough that you’ll have to marry him. It worked for Daemon, after all, and he just wants you connected to him. He’s fully aware that he’s not going to be able to live without you. Having you tied to Jace is just the perfect way to keep you close.

Rhaenyra is also taking advantage of your oblivious and gullible nature. She definitely tries to take advantage of the fact that you aren’t able to catch on to her true intentions. She’s convinced you to cuddle with her by telling you she’s too cold, and that Daemon’s too busy, and you felt so bad for her you were totally willing.

She’s more straightforward, pushing Jace to try to court you. He’s fighting off any of your various suitors, and anyone who is trying to take advantage of your obliviousness to secure a connection to the family.

You’re targeted by people from all over, mainly because of your close bonds to the various members of the nobility. Everyone has to work together to keep you safe when it’s announced you’re willing to court some random lord. You think you’re in love, they need to convince you otherwise.

Daemon immediately gets to work sullying the reputation of that lord. Then, he murders them. He’s not above paying a prostitute to seduce them in a place where you catch the two of them in the act, ravaging your heart.

Aemond and Jace both try to step into that void. Aemond, who takes a slightly more subtle approach, asking you to ride on Vhagar, fails; Jace, under the advice of Rhaenyra, takes a more direct approach and is able to begin dating you.

Alicent practically loses it, seeing her child so defiled by Rhaenyra’s child. She’s trying to convince you to marry Aemond or Aegon instead. Aegon shows up naked in your room; you can’t miss that clue, after all. It doesn’t work, you’re convinced he just mistook your room for his. Your rooms look nothing alike, but Aegon’s too charmed to even mention it.

Finally, Otto steps in to prevent Alicent from snapping and attacking someone. He’s not willing to let his precious grandchild fall into the hands of one of Rhaenyra’s bastards, after all.

Viserys is informed, even on his deathbed, that you should be married to Aemond. It’s to secure the familial line, after all, and your children will surely be strong and loved, the perfect combination.

So, he announces that you will be married to Aemond, breaking your relationship to Jace. Jace is heartbroken, Rhaenyra and Daemon are ready to burn the castle to the ground.

Thus begins the fight of the century.

#yandere hotd #yandere aemond targaryen #yandere rhaenyra targaryen #yandere jacaerys velaryon #yandere aegon x reader #yander daemon targaryen #lethwrites #yandere alicent hightower

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elliesmainhoe · 8 months ago

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Hey there vivi, I think your work is cool <33 Wanted to ask what you thought of Ellie and girlfriend having IVF with both their genetics/eggs so they both have a biological child together. Know it’s not possible yet but im thinking about a Ellie with biological kid. Tmi but im ovulating so this is what im thinking ab rn. Not asking you to do a little blurb if you don’t want to, but wanted to know if you like the idea of Ellie and her kidd, ngl i think is interesting and adorable. Much love!

omg I fucking love this idea!!!! she would be so silly , I wrote some headcanons for this so hope you like it!!!!

ELLIE WILLIAMS HEADCANONS: YOU HAVE A BABY WITH HER (biologically)

okay let's say- distant future, lesbians can now have biological babies (yay technology!)

when you tell her that your pregnant girlie is gobsmacked, even though you two were actively trying. (aka raw dogging every night)

goes through a crisis, buys baby books, pregnancy books, looks into a ton of birth and labour options

shes prepared for everything, goes to Joel to find advice about taking care of a pregnant woman and what to do with a newborn

GRANDPA JOEL????

stop that would be the most adorable shit ever, him sitting on his porch, yours and Ellie's babe on his chest, giving you two a break

stopppp 😭😭😭😭

anyways getting off topic-

she's literally so much more a doting loser than she usually is (which is a feat in itself)

gets you all your cravings, chocolate? done. pickles? done. chocolate AND pickles together? fuck it she'll try some too.

loves decorating the nursery in your house

PAINTS A DINOSAUR AND/OR SPACE MURAL IN THE ROOM???

the nerd indoctrination is already happening.

her and Joel make loads of custom furniture, adjustable crib, rocking/nursing chair, changing station.

the nursery ends up looking so cute, with loads of earthy tones and greens but also an array of rainbow toys.

OMG THEY MAKE YOUR BABY A ROCKING HORSE??

shed be so supportive during labour

whatever birth method you choose shes so supportive, makes you a little emergency bag just in case you go into labour

loves skin to skin

after the birth, you're exhausted of course, so you're sleeping and she's alone with a newborn baby???

honestly thinks that the baby looks a little funky

when babies come out they're squished, red and all silly looking

they're cute of course!!! but Ellie is still hoping your babe grows out of the squished tomato, potato phase?

skin to skin is her favorite thing

having the baby laid on her chest is genuinely the sweetest thing ever

she 100% cries when your baby grows out of their first onesie

she's so sentimental, keeps everything your kid does or has

old dummies (pacifiers if you're American), baby toys that the kid doesn't play with anymore, the umbilical cord? it's in a ziplock bag somewhere.

wears the baby in those baby back pack things (I can't remember the name LMAO)

when the baby starts teething she's always making jokes about how you've given birth to a feral baby.

jokingly scolds the baby when they start biting when you breastfeed them

dresses the kid up in the funnies outfits

the baby's dresser is basically a fancy dress box by now. dinosaur costumes, teddy bear costumes, pirate costume?

literally everything

---------------

I now have baby fever. kms.

not proofread

she's the best mum especially with a newborn

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ghoulbrain · 7 months ago

Text

Animal Instinct

18+ 3.5k ghoul x f!reader. graphic depictions of violence, wound tending, hurt/comfort, established relationship, feral/protective cooper, cannibalism, blood, dirty talk, vaginal fingering. gif credit. read on AO3. written as part of the Saddle Up, Sweetheart verse, but can be read as a stand-alone.

When you're both ambushed by raiders, Cooper comes to understand the lengths he'll go to keep you safe.

This never would have happened if Cooper was still traveling alone. He would have been more aware of his surroundings, he would have seen the signs of an ambush long before he stepped into it, and he wouldn’t have been so focused on you instead.

It’s lazy to blame you, though. The fault is his. Without preamble or flourish he draws his revolver and starts emptying shots into the spill of sorry sons of bitches that decided they would ruin his evening.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees you move forward, weapon drawn. His lip twitches. Your grip is good, but your stance is horse-shit. If this is going to become a thing–you taggin’ along like this–he’ll have to show you how to properly fire a gun.

He refocuses quickly, stepping forward to keep himself angled between them and you. The ambush isn’t anything special: just a bunch of jumpy junkies with twitchy trigger fingers looking for their next score. He takes a shot to the shoulder, another to the sternum. He doesn’t feel anything but the impact and pressure of irradiated flesh being forced apart around the bullets. There’s no pain, not so long his system is flooded with chemicals.

It’s your cry of pain that sets his nerves ablaze. He fires two more shots–dropping the men who hit him–before he whirls around, a hot rush of fire rolling through him at the sight of you with a man pressed up against your back, one arm fitted around your throat while he crushes your wrist in his other hand, squeezing hard, keeping your gun pointed at the ground as he chokes you out.

That’s when he sees the knife sunk into your thigh, blood soaking a wide crimson circle into your clothing around the knife’s hilt. In this infinitely long and horrible instant that your gaze meets his. The pain and fear in your eyes trigger something in him, and the whole world becomes both brighter and slower all at once.

Cooper aims, fires, but his revolver clicks emptily. He doesn’t reach to reload. Instead, he moves on pure animal instinct, bearing his teeth and charging with a guttural snarl.

Adrenaline mixes with the chemical cocktail in his veins and he moves faster than the man reacts, ripping his hands from you and throwing your assailant to the ground with such incredible force it dazes the man, his eyes glazing over. He roars in the raider’s face, spittle and yellow flecks coating his dirty skin, before he lunges, sinking his teeth into the pulsing jugular below.

He lends no thought to how natural it feels to bite into warm, living flesh.

Rearing up, mouth bloodied and full of viscera, Cooper winds his fist back and strikes the man in the face. His first blow hits his jaw. The next strikes his temple.

Straddling him, he doesn’t stop hitting. One fist after the other. He aims for the jaw, the temple, the high of his cheek. He misses and shatters his nose with a satisfying crunch, blood spewing from his nostrils to coat his knuckles. His jaw breaks with a pop. Broken teeth and bone slice flesh, mixing with gore and falling to the dirt in wet chunks.

The violence feels raw and good, like the first deep inhale of a vial or a hot wet fuck. He swallows the blood and meat lingering in his mouth and lets out a rough breath. Gritting his teeth he hits harder, driven on by the scent of blood and dirt. The gurgle of choked breaths. The slip of split flesh against his fists. It's all gasoline on the flames your peril sparked.

Cooper thinks of him stabbing you. Choking you. He thinks of your watery eyes, bright and terrified. He thinks of everyone he’s ever let down, ever failed to save, and he keeps hitting. Even when the man beneath him seizes. Even when he drowns in his blood.

Even when he dies.

Cooper is beating on a hunk of ruined flesh when he finally stops, drenched in the blowback of it.

Wheezing breaths saw from his lungs as he places one hand on the dirt road, lifting himself off of the mess of battered meat. He stares down at his knuckles where pain throbs with every heartbeat. It's a welcome sensation. Not because he deserves it, but because the raider did, and because he delivered. Destruction with his bare hands. Suffering where it’s meant to be found. He drags his tongue along the soaked leather of his glove and greedily swallows what collects on his tongue.

Heart thundering in his ears, Cooper stands, dipping briefly to pick up his gun. The grip slides around in his bloodied hand before he holsters it, cloudy eyes scanning for movement until his gaze lands on you. Down on the ground, clutching your wound, you look like a doe with a bum leg, your eyes blown wide and afraid. You look… irresistible. Not just as a woman, not just as his woman, but as an easy meal.

He takes a step forward, lips parted. The edges of you are blurry to his addled mind. The only part of you that’s in focus is the bright red of your wound seeping into your clothes. His memories of lapping the salt from your skin cross wires in his brain and all he can imagine is holding you safe and sound as he devours you.

“Cooper?”

The sound of your voice acts like a shock to his system that drags him back from the sweet coppery tang of warm, fresh blood in his mouth. He’s standing above you, closer than he realized he got. The sweetness in his mouth sours into putrid rot and he takes a step backwards, rasping out a cuss under his breath. He turns his head and spits, aggressively wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, smearing away blood and little chunks of flesh, abruptly and horribly aware of himself.

Shame blooms in his gut, unfurling all the way up to a tightness in his chest. He looks down at the mutilated body on the ground. There’s no head left, just wet gore soaking into the hungry dry earth below.

He completely lost control of himself. He spits, wipes, spits, wipes, rubs his mouth raw against his sleeve in an attempt to scrub away the taste and feel of it before he dares look at you again. He contemplates shoving a handful of dirt into his mouth just to chase away the lingering tang. He never wants to see you–to think of you–like that again. Like you’re just another hunk of meat.

Your touch makes him jerk away. He looks at you sharply, furious that you would come so close after what he’s done. What he could have done to you.

“Cooper–”

“M’not right,” he says roughly, taking hold of your wrist. You flinch and he realizes that he’s snatched the same wrist the motherfucker he beat into a paste had been crushing. He softens his grip, throat tight like there’s a hand squeezing it. “Fuck, would y’just–m’not right,” he says again, an edge of desperation in his emphasis.

“I know,” you say, voice tender, as if somehow he’s the one in need of gentleness. “I know. So come back. Don’t shut me out.” There’s more authority in your voice than you have any right to have in your position, shaking like a leaf while you touch his face, hushing him with such tenderness it fractures something in him that he thought long dead and buried under the weight of the last two hundred years.

Wish I could, he thinks, wiping his hand on his thigh. That you would look at him like that even now, as if he’s somehow still a man, eats at the very core of him. Makes him want to shy away, prove you wrong, and disappear into you all at once. He takes in a steadying breath before he clutches both of your arms, moving you to the ground.

“Easy,” he says, voice barely above a rasp. “Y’bleedin’.”

You’re holding onto his elbows as he lowers you, gritting your teeth against the pain. He focuses on your discomfort, on the risk you face, fragile thing that you are, to keep his mind far away from the abyss he walked the edge of while maiming the body behind him.

His first priority is to stanch the bleeding. His movements become practiced, hands that of a soldier. He uses a strap from his pack to create a makeshift tourniquet, twisting it around a scrap rod. All the while he’s hyper aware of your gaze on him and the shallow huffs of your breath, the way it catches when he pulls the binding tight.

“Hurts,” you say tightly.

“I know,” he says, drawing his knife. He lifts your blood soaked pant leg–don’t pause, don’t think, don’t breathe it in–and slices open the fabric. “S’about t’hurt a whole lot more. Gimme a count, I’ll pull it on three,” he tells you, bracing one hand on your thigh, the other gripping the hilt of the knife.

“Okay, okay,” you say, sucking in a deep breath. “One–”

Cooper yanks the blade free, startling a yelp out of you that carries into a pained groan.

“What happened to three?!” You ask sharply, fingers digging into the dirt.

He hurriedly smothers the wound with the cleanest cloth he has before he works on tightly wrapping the wound. “S’better when y’don’t know it’s comin’.”

“Asshole,” you breathe.

The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth is reluctant, as if there’s an invisible string tugging at it against his will. “Can’t be that bad if y’still mouthin’ off.”

“It’ll take more than a measly stab wound to keep my mouth shut,” you say, familiar playfulness slipping in alongside the strain in your voice.

“Don’t I know it,” he grouses, glancing up at you. There’s nothing reluctant about your smile. It’s the opposite of his, earnest in a way he’s long forgotten how to be. You’re making an attempt at comforting him, he realizes, looking back down to finish his work, removing the tourniquet once he’s satisfied with the dressing. “It’ll do for now. Y’need stitches.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say dismissively, shifting onto your knees.

He makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat, sheathing his knife. “Would it kill y’not to be so damn contrary?”

“It might,” you say, catching the lapel of his jacket and pulling at him, bringing his attention back to you. He looks down at your hand, stained now with the crimson wetness spattered all over his coat. His clothes are soaked heavy with misery and blood, but it doesn’t dissuade you any. You touch his jaw with your other hand and lift his eyes to meet yours.

“Hey,” you whisper. You’re close enough that he should feel the ghost of your breath on his lips, but he can’t. Most of the subtleties of life are lost on a man so close to death. The only ghosts he knows now are those of his past. “You okay?”

Holding your gaze, he doesn’t answer you. Sometimes you feel like one of them, like another specter haunting him. The only difference is that you haven’t died yet.

Yet.

“Come back to me,” you murmur. His vision refocuses, finding you closer than you had been a second ago. The warm pressure of your lips grazing his cheek makes him falter, wanting the tenderness of your touch so viscerally it feels dangerous to admit even to himself. “Stay with me.”

Your hand lightly cups the back of his neck, holding him without caging him. You move closer, settling in his lap, grounding him with the weight of your body against his. He moves at that, grasping your hips and squeezing.

“Stay with me,” you say again, the words as fervent as prayer. His own lips parted, he can taste the breath of each word, sweet and warm, the way a distant part of him remembers things like love could be.

Why? He nearly asks. You won’t.

He had thought himself immune to this sickly feeling. This sense of grief for someone who isn’t yet gone, but you rip it out of him. The truth of the matter is that the Ghoul should never have entertained your company. He should have left you where he found you and been on his way without ever casting a backwards glance. The Ghoul would have.

It’s Cooper who didn’t. It’s Cooper’s hands sliding up your sides, squeezing your ribs and pulling you closer, deeper. He kisses you hungrily, craving you the way the Ghoul can’t. The way a man craves.

I ain’t dead yet.

And neither are you.

Two hundred years of surviving for tomorrow has eroded his ability to exist in the here and now, but your touches demand it of him. Your lips against his bring him into the moment as he lives it. As you live it with him.

“I ever look at you like that again,” he says gruffly, swiping his tongue along his bottom lip, catching yours in the process. He moves you back enough to lock eyes with you. “You put a bullet between my eyes.”

Your lips curve in a bittersweet kind of anguish. “Like you’re gonna eat me? Because right now–”

He gives you a sharp little shake. “Y’know what I mean,” he says, startling the smile off your face. From day one he’s liked your wit, the cavalier way you face life, but on this matter he needs you to hear him. “You ever look at me, and I’m not there, you promise you’ll put me down.”

The set of your mouth turns to a flat line, your gaze somber, and you nod. “I promise.”

Some of the tension in his haggard lungs eases and he kisses you again, need shooting up his spine like a hot geyser. “That’s my girl,” he breathes, leaning back and bringing you with him, saddling you properly astride his lap, his long legs stretched out behind you.

You kiss him back just as hungrily, heedless of the blood and gristle between your melding bodies, and he’s forced to remind himself that this is the only world you’ve ever known. There’s no time before this, not for you. Your life has always been full of horrors, and for reasons he’ll never fully comprehend, you’ve decided he’s one that you want close.

He slips his hands under your thighs and squeezes, hiking your legs around his waist until you’re seated closely enough to feel the growing ache between his legs. You don’t miss a beat, grinding down against him so fervently his breath breaks into a low groan. Not even he can deny his humanity in this. You turn his blood hot and shock the deadened thump of his heart into thunder. You make him feel alive.

He’ll return the favor. He’ll turn his spit to wine on your tongue and make your whole body fucking sing.

Breaking from your lips, he uses his teeth to tug his glove free, letting it fall to the ground. His mouth feels sandpaper dry, but your lips are plenty wet.

“Open up for me, sweetheart,” he rumbles, parting your lips with the tips of his middle and index fingers. Your eager tongue slips molten wet between his fingers, your eyes hazy on his. He pumps his fingers slowly, cups the back of your head to keep you still while plunging all the way to his last knuckles before drawing them back. “That’s it… Get ‘em good and wet.”

It’s agonizing how easily you fall apart under his touch, and even more so how good you look doing it. Somewhat reluctantly, he withdraws his fingers from your mouth and with practiced ease maneuvers his hand down the front of your pants, curving his fingers to follow the contour of your pelvis until his fingertips slide through hot, wet arousal.

“Cooper,” you exhale, the pitch of your voice canary-sweet. If you have any care regarding the death that surrounds you or the blood between his body and yours, you don’t show it, nor pay it any heed. You’re focused entirely on him, lips parted on shallow breaths of pleasure. He strokes your clit in slow, deliberate circles, the rest of the world falling away the longer he watches your euphoria build.

Fuck, you’re goddamn beautiful. Why the hell you let a creature like him have you is beyond him, but he won’t let go. Not now. Not so long as you still look at him like this.

He swallows dryly, finally slipping his fingers into the welcoming heat of your pretty cunt. You’re soaked, his own personal oasis in the Wastes, velvet walls quivering around his toughened fingers. He angles the pad of his thumb against your clit and starts to finger fuck you in earnest, his cock throbbing beneath you.

“Fuck,” you keen softly. Your hands braced on his shoulders, you meet every thrust of his hand, huffing divine little sounds while he fucks you with his fingers, crooking them until he feels you shudder.

“Yeah,” he breathes, enraptured. “That’s it. Got y’now, don’t I? Ah ah, don’t get shy on me,” he tsks when your eyes fall shut. “Eyes on me, darlin’. Eyes on me,” he says, voice frayed. You pry your eyes back open and hold his gaze, your own heavily lidded. “Good, s’good. Y’close now, ain’t’cha, sweetie?”

You nod fervently, moans bubbling up instead of words, your sweet features twisted in the exquisite agony that comes just before climax. You roll your palms against his shoulders, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his coat. He wishes he could feel the bite of your nails on his bare skin, wishes it were his cock sinking into you, but all that wistfulness is erased the second you cry out, your back arching, your cunt squeezing his fingers as you’re pitched forward into the throes of release.

Cooper grits his teeth, baring them like an animal as he fucks you through the tremors, grabbing hold of your jaw to keep you from collapsing, to keep your eyes on him. You slide your hands up and cup either side of his face, yanking him into a messy kiss. He falls into it easily, slowing the thrust of his fingers as the aftershocks of your orgasm settle until his hand is still against you, fingers pressed in deep, savoring the feel of you.

You kiss him leisurely with tongue, teeth and barely sated hunger. Your bliss slows you, and Cooper is content to simply feel. Even the lingering ache of his own need is a welcome sensation in a world he so often walks through feeling numb.

After a time, he slides his fingers from your pants, wiping them absently on his own before wrapping his arms around you. You sink into him in turn, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. The sun has almost disappeared completely, and the chill of night is beginning to nip the air. All of this carnage will attract predators soon, but he finds himself unable to rush the matter. His embrace tightens.

“I love you,” you murmur.

There was a time long before his heart became an open grave that he would have been eager to return the sentiment, but hearing those three little words turns his tongue to lead. They flood him with memories of an era where love came naturally–the way only violence does now–and shooting a man in the head was the most abhorrent act he could fathom for himself.

These days, a headshot is a kindness.

His stomach is tight, a bile-like burn creeping up his throat. He screws his eyes shut, swallowing it back. To his relief, you aren’t tense with anticipation. Instead, you pepper butterfly light kisses along the scarred column of his throat, paying special attention to the nicks and scars along the way to his jaw.

You kiss him. He takes your face in his hands and deepens it, pushing into you until your back arches.

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispers against your lips, the words both a promise and a prayer. Not to God–He gave up on God a long time ago–this prayer is for you. It’s what he knows. It’s what he is. No matter the monster that threatens you, you’ll always have one of your own to bite back. You’ll always have him.

Strained, quieter yet, he says, “I swear.”

Or so help me, I’ll swallow the bullet myself.

“I know,” you say, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. There’s a blissful kind of sorrow in your expression, but so too is there understanding. He kisses you, closing his eyes against the dry burn of them. He’s not sure he’s even capable of tears anymore. He’s been worn down to the bone by sandstorms and bloodshed. Nothing goes untouched by the misery of the Wastes. No one goes through it unscathed.

What he does know is that he will do everything in his power to see that you’re never broken by it.

#the ghoul #cooper howard #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x you #cooper howard x you #fallout fanfic #fallout #x reader #x reader smut #fem reader

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diejager · 5 months ago

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This is omegaverse related so please here me out… What about something different? What about…

Feral Omega?

I’m talking like, this omega isn’t your typical omega. This omega is downright dangerous, reports of Omega going feral but causes of harm to them due to some omega discrimination.

So what if, reader who is feral omega, is down right butchering enemies. And doesn’t hesitate to almost maul some alpha recruits if they want to mess with her..

Cw: omegaverse, feral!reader, violence, blood, weird pack dynamic, discrimination, protective behaviour, tell me if I missed any.

You were a ‘one-of-a-kind’ omega —spoken with utmost reverence by them. You were their strong and independent omega, whispered in crowded halls, mumbled in darkest nights, screamed in busy moments, and kissed to in warm and comfortable beds. You were anything but a strong and dedicated and reliable soldier, someone Ghost had grown to respect after a joint Op, then coaxed to rely on by the others when they saw how welcoming Ghost was and simply how skillful you were at your job.

You were small but spry, less bulky but flexible, weaker but resourceful. You were everything they sought for in an omega. You were so much alike Soap, yet molecularly different. Though it was every alpha’s dream of finding a soft and loving mate to provide and protect for, someone smaller and more fragile than their thick muscles and broad build, there was a thrill in being reminded that they weren’t always at the top, being grounded and brought back down from their high horses. Against all of traditional mating couples, your current age and time had demanded more equal partnering, a relationship where both parties stood on the same ground.

And Ghost and Price thrived on that, their employment demanded a level of independence from their mates and pack mates, the capability of standing on their own and manage grief and stress. That’s where Soap stood, an omega at it’s finest, strong and independent and emotionally knowledgeable, the glue to their pack, and Gaz, the stabiliser, the soft and gentle hand that reminded them of who they were.

Then you came bulldozing through their well-built dynamic: feral and wrathful, full of hate and anger for the world who had wronged you. When the military had rejected you for both your sex and gender, you’d worked up the ranks in the CIA with your blood, sweat and tears, starting from a fresh agent - a rookie - to an experienced one. You’d gotten so far that Laswell had eventually reach out to you, acknowledged by someone so powerful and partnered with The Ghost had gotten you the acknowledgment and respect you’d dreamed of.

It was a rough start with Ghost, but he learned to rely on you as much as you did him, you had formed a mutual understanding that only grew into fondness after meeting the rest of his pack. They were a functioning mix of weird and quirky: a leading alpha that was a big, soft bear, another alpha that was rough on the edge but caring, an overenergetic and fiery omega and a beta that represented everything you liked in one, calm, open-minded and smart. It was odd seeing you join them so often and continuously on Ops that didn’t need much of CIA intervention, but you all made it work.

You’d become a familiar face on base, a blunt and no-nonsense agent to new people, but cracked jokes and smiled with those you knew. Fiercely protective of your pack as much as they were with you. If Soap was a menace, then you were an omen, your deep frown and growling snarl, baring your teeth as a warning before you attacked. The world had taught you to bark and bite —and bite you did, a strong and dangerous one, leaving you bruised and roughed up, but your opponent gasping for life and battered.

Honestly, sometimes you were more trouble than it’s worth, but wouldn’t have it any other way.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @haven-1307 @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

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luimagines · 5 months ago

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Doggo request 2: Isekai Reader who had brought their BIG boy dog? Like the ones that are almost as big as bears. I forgot the breed name.

Your wish is my command. Let's make it a Tiberian Mastiff. :D

Masterlist

Content under the cut!

"Ok, Hudson. Easy boy." You gently held the leash of the behemoth you called your baby.

The dog was the runt of the litter, but ended up growing into one of the biggest dogs on the planet. That's what you tell yourself anyway. In your heart and in his, he is just a little guy who wants hugs and kisses and for someone to throw the ball.

"it's going to kill us." The one you were told to call 'The Traveler' all but threw himself backwards when you brought your dog close to them.

Granted, most people tend to get a bit nervous when your dog steps onto the scene, but that's generally because he's huge, not because they're actually afraid of him. Still, you suppose you should have seen this coming.

"No, he's not. He's a sweetheart. Come pet him."

"No thank you."

"I'll do it!" The Rancher stepped forward with a bright smile on his face. You admired his instant bravery. It was a nice change of pace. He walked right up to the two of you, seemingly knowing his way around the creature.

Hudson sniffed his hand and his pants, letting the young man scratch his mane and his muzzle. You knew the procedure by now. It was impressive that Hudson hadn't barked yet. Maybe he was sniffing the fur pelt the man was wearing.

"He's a gorgeous creature. What did you say he was again?"

"He's a Tiberian Mastif, bred to hunt and guard against bears." You say proudly. Husdon had proved to be invaluable where you lived. He took his guarding duty very seriously and hadn't let you down since.

"I'm sorry, bears?" The boy with massive facial scarring seemed to light at the idea. "He's that strong?"

"I mean... I don't have bears where I live but he certainly scares off the coyotes and wolves."

"Wolves?" The youngest asks, hesitantly coming closer. He sneaks a pet onto Hudson's side.

"Someone better keep an eye on Wolfie then." The oldest with the scar over his eye, looks out into the distance.

"Wolfie?" You ask in question.

"A local wolf that seems to follow us where ever we go." The boy with pink hair speaks up. You really need to remember their names better. Didn't his start with an L? "Your dog wouldn't attack him, would he?"

"Oh, he might." You frown. "That would be a problem."

"I doubt it." The Rancher shrugs. "The wolf knows his way around. I'm sure he can take care of himself."

"Ok, well I don't want a wolf attacking my dog either." You put your hands on your hips. "That's a fight tot the death. Hudson won't give up easily."

"Wolfie knows better." The shortest- The Blacksmith, you remind yourself- tells you with another shrug of his shoulders. "Besides, you have all of us with you. We'll get between the two of them should anything happen."

You doubt that. This kid is small enough to ride your dog like a horse. "I wouldn't recommend it but I'll keep that in mind."

He seems to read your mind for a split second because he bites his lip as if he's thought of something that could get him trouble. "...Do you think he'll let me ride him?"

"Not a chance."

#linked universe #linkeduniverse #linked universe x reader #lu x reader #isekai! reader

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senorboombastic · 1 year ago

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This One Song… PREDECEASED on SCENE PAROLE

Tell you what – we love hearing from artists when things go right. We equally love hearing from artists when things go dreadfully wrong. A song that was a piece of piss, written in 20 minutes? Or years in the making and a bastard to write? Whether it’s a song that came together through great duress or one that was smashed out in a short amount of time, we’re getting the lowdown from some of our…

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#Bear Bites Horse #Ben Garnett #Birthday cake for breakfast #Charlie Wyatt #Eeasy Records #PREDECEASED #Quicksand #SCENE PAROLE #SUNDAY SCARIES #Thee MVPs #Wayne Adams #WHAT DO YOU DO?

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bogleech · 2 months ago

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I am thinking once again about plausible speculative mammals that would weaponize their parasites, and in my mind, one of them would live in North America alongside skunks and porcupines, completing a long overdue trifecta of funny woodland critter with a deeply unpleasant defensive strategy. CLOCKWISE: 1) A very large rodent that has its own alarmingly large fleas, like the real life fleas of mountain beavers. Most of its body is hairless with thick, wrinkled skin that discourages flea activity, so they're left with no choice but to concentrate in its big, bushy tail. A high concentration of blood vessels in the tail keep the fleas fed, and a low concentration of nerves keep them from being too irritating. When this animal gets upset it curls the tail over itself, spreading its fur so wide that the fleas feel exposed. Parting the fur of a wild animal is incidentally a surefire way to get a bunch of fleas jumping ship to you and immediately biting you. Now look at this mountain beaver flea next to a more normal size flea and imagine the pain:

2) A big ground-dwelling cousin of the silky anteater. A combination of long, course, tightly interwoven hairs and a thick underlying layer of fluff are impenetrable to most pests, but a bald patch of thick leathery skin on its back is an ideal attachment point for its specialized ticks, kind of like right whale callosities and whale lice. The anteater can sweat a thick, suffocating grease from this area that forces ticks to let go and scatter in search of another attachment point (LIKE YOU!!!! Leave wildlife alone!!!). Maybe It has pouchlike hairless underarms to serve as refuges for even more ticks, or ticks in their juvenile stage? If they co-evolved closely enough, the ticks could have developed an instinct to migrate up to the back only with their final molt. Maybe they're even as neurotoxic (to other animals) as Australia's paralysis tick? Maybe the ticks are also brightly colored, so predators can tell at a glance to stay away. 3) A desman-like animal, but maybe it's a marsupial or even a monotreme? I feel this one would have an unconventional symbiote; like how beavers have the only fur-dwelling beetles, sloths have their own moths and hairless bats have their own skin-dwelling earwigs. None of those examples, however, are parasites! As far as we know, all three of those insects just chill on those animals and possibly clean them. So what if this one had fur dwelling blister beetles? Blister beetles are a huge diverse group of beetles whose defensive secretions can severely burn skin, and accidentally ingesting a blister beetle can be deadly to even large mammals like horses. This guy's matted wool would be thick enough near the skin to shield it from its own insects, keeping them in the matted outer fluff, where they would maybe feed on whatever sustains beaver beetles (we actually aren't 100% sure! We just know it isn't blood!). If you make this thingy angry, it curls up like a pangolin, and anything that keeps messing around with the big hairball is probably going to keep pissing off, damaging or accidentally eating the worst beetles to ever do anything of those things to.

I also want to say I didn't think of names, but if one or all of these existed I wouldn't want them to get names like "tickbacked antsloth" or anything like that. They'd deserve their own original words like squirrel or fox or bear. But I think it should sound as nasty as they are to mess with. Like a vlykus or a thobb or a snentch. Probably any of these could be a snentch maybe. Nobody tell me if that's already an urbandictionary word for something worse, let me have snentch.

#animals #biology #art #nature #specevo #speculative evolution #sketches

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eowynstwin · 27 days ago

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Saw the AC 141 fanart you reblogged then immediately think about that animal crossing crack theory post here somewhere about humans being in extinction so the animals are keeping you safe in the island, and they're entertaining you with human enrichment activities they think you might enjoy. They might be misguided at times (the loan stuff), but they mean well. And that also explains why they cheer when you move their houses around bcs they think it'll keep you happy. Also, multiplayer is when they arrange a play date with other surviving human(s). T'was the greatest thing I've read this week.

So yeah, imagine COD AC shenanigans where you're the human, and 141 are your island inhabitants who never ask to leave the island.

the art in question

"Moved my bloody house again," mutters Ghost one afternoon, sulking on a beach chair beside Price as they (ostensibly) fish.

"Mm," hums the lion. "Mine last week. Better get used to it."

"Was by the river," the bear continues to lament. "Could hear the water while I was sleepin.'"

Gaz trundles up to join them, setting his box of fishing tackle down. "Sorry mate. Just saw this morning. River's filled in where you were."

Ghost sighs, very long and very loud, and slumps back in his chair. He longs for a beer, but Price had insisted on no alcohol on the island. It made humans screwy and weird, and increased their mortality ratings exponentially.

"I'm sure it ain't for no reason," Price murmurs. The line twitches, but nothing actually bites.

"Last I saw the human was burying a bag of money," says Gaz, extending his own fishing pole. "Not sure there's much of a reason for anything they do."

A low whir, gradually increasing in volume, interrupts the quiet of the day; the sea plane lands by the pier, and Wilbur hops out, followed by an extremely familiar horse.

"No," Ghost moans, "not that bloody numpty, please."

Soap catches sight of the group, brays excitedly, and runs down the beach.

"Fancy seein' you lads here!" he exclaims gleefully. "Heard there's room for me here from your human!" Gaz, the only one really excited to see him, throws him a high five.

"I want to leave," mourns Ghost.

Price snorts. "Good luck with that."

#answered #141 shenanigans #madi writes #low effort but i'm allowed to have fun dammit #also i haven't played ACNH in years

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serpentface · 3 months ago

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Dragon folklore in the Imperial Wardin region

A dragon as depicted in Wardi, Wogan, and Cholemdinae folklore

Dragon folklore is broadly similar between the three collections of human peoples who have inhabited the region since prehistory. The details of their description vary somewhat, but the core traits are the same. These dragons are described as very large birdlike creatures (standing as tall or taller than a human) with bodies like eagles, a reptilian head (usually that of a crocodile or lizard), black feathers, and trailing tail plumage. They are sometimes horned, and Wardi variants are specified as having wattles like roosters.

All variants of this folklore associates them with storms, lightning, and wildfires. They are said to only emerge during lightning storms and intentionally set grass fires in order to hunt. Some sources ascribe them power over lightning itself, which they capture in the clouds and send to the ground with the beating of their wings. Others state that they are simply immune to it. In either case, they set their tail feathers ablaze in lightning strikes, and then fly low over the ground to strategically spread the fire. They completely surround their prey with wildfire, and then circle overhead in wait until it has succumbed to the smoke and flames.

They are usually characterized as killing indiscriminately as fire itself, eating anything they can capture whether it be wild animals, livestock, or people. They have no appetite for raw meat, and will only eat burnt flesh.

These dragons rarely come down to the ground, spending most of their lives in storm clouds. They migrate along with the rains and breed in grasslands during the peak of the wet season, with female dragons laying their eggs hidden in tall grass. Dragon chicks are born with completely white feathers, which are gradually singed black with every hunt. The darker a dragon, the older and more dangerous it is.

They are generally non-personified and regarded as wild beasts, though are sometimes given a particularly vengeful nature. Stories of mother dragons burning down entire villages or towns in retribution for the death of their chicks can be found region-wide.

Wogan folklore is an exception (though this is more an aspect of a broader animistic worldview rather than a unique quality of dragons themselves), in which the dragon is personified and credited with first teaching the people how to practice controlled burns for agricultural purposes. The Wogan dragon is a very powerful and dangerous spirit and communion with it requires wisdom and caution. Many stories describe people enslaving dragons or capturing their chicks order to utilize their power to destroy enemies, only to be annihilated with fire themselves.

A dragon as depicted in the folklore of the Hill Tribes, ft. an unfortunate horse

The dragon folklore of the Highlands has some connection to the aforementioned (particularly in their association with storms) as a product of centuries of cultural interchange, but stems from a wholly separate tradition brought from overseas, bearing much in common with analogous legendary creatures in Finn and Royal Dain culture.

These dragons are heavily personified, being wholly sapient and capable of speech, and are said to be either extremely long-lived or completely immune to aging (though not immune to being killed). They are described as very large birds with the wings and bodies of eagles, the spurred legs of pheasants, the wrinkled necks of vultures, and the head and tail of a snake. Dragons are almost always red, brown, and yellow in color, resembling golden eagles (like their father). They kill prey with their venomous bite, said to be the deadliest of all animals. They are uniquely menacing to people, having little to no interest in wild prey in favor of the tender, domesticated meat of horses and cattle (or humans themselves)

Dragons are all males, and all brothers. They are the progeny of the goddess Ariakh and her spirit husband, the King of Eagles. Ariakh reproduced with her husband twice- first in the form of a human, in which she gave birth to the Winds, her four eldest sons, and second in the form of an eagle, in which she laid a clutch of eggs that hatched all dragons. These dragons are smaller and less powerful beings than their older brothers, and they're ascribed a sense of profound bitterness about this.

They are jealous and vain in nature, constantly squabbling amongst themselves for rank and admiration and menacing humans to gain recognition. Folktales often center on heroes taking advantage of their competitiveness and insecurity in order to defeat them. They occasionally play neutral or positive roles in tales, where they assist human protagonists in exchange for sabotaging one of their brothers, gifts of horsemeat, or excessive flattery.

#folklore

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reidsworld · 4 months ago

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Scars of Time | Masterlist

Summary: For decades, Logan and you have been each other’s sanctuary in a world that never offers peace. From a fateful encounter in a dive bar to a life together at the X-Mansion, your bond has weathered countless trials. But as Logan’s once-impenetrable healing powers begin to fail and your own abilities start to drain you, the stakes grow perilously high. With your love on the line and survival in question, can you both endure the ultimate test of sacrifice and devotion? Or will the scars of time finally come to bite you in the ass? Based on this request. Ongoing. *I promise I have not abandoned this!!

Pairing: Logan Howlett x Fem!Mutant!Reader

Series Content Warning: Canon-typical violence, alcohol use, arguing, use of Y/N. More warnings will be added as the story progresses. There will be individual warnings at the beginning of each chapter.

Total Word Count: 11.3k

Ch. 1, "Gimme Shelter" 2029

Ch. 2, "Wild Horses" 1997

↳ Sneak Peak

Ch. 3, “(Don't Fear) The Reaper” 2000

↳ Sneak Peak

Ch. 4, "Stand By Me" 2029 + 2018

Ch. 5, "House of the Rising Sun" 2029

Ch. 6, "A Whiter Shade of Pale" 2010 +2011

Ch. 7, "The Matador" 2029

Ch. 8, "Vienna" 2034

Mars speaks... If you are interested in this and would like to be tagged, let me know! Also please note that this masterlist is subject to change as the series continues to develop! The timeline for all x-men movies is FUBAR so bear with me, I'm gonna have to change some things along the way! This story is set post-dofp timeline so everyone is alive except I’m making it so that Logan remembers what happens in this timeline instead of the other one so kind of completely ignoring dofp…

Main Masterlist

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett fanfiction #logan howlett x fem!reader #wolverine #wolverine x reader #wolverine fanfiction #james logan howlett #james howlett #deadpool and wolverine #hugh jackman #x men #fanfiction #reidsworld #Scars of Time

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novaursa · 2 months ago

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The North's Fiercest Catch

- Summary: You challenge Cregan to hunt down a dragon.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

Snow clings to your boots as you trudge through the wintry woodlands of the North, the biting chill cutting through even the thickest furs you’ve borrowed from House Stark. Winterfell is alive today with excitement, for Cregan Stark himself is leading the hunt, and you've persuaded your brother to join. Jace looks delighted, eagerly exchanging talk with the Stark men, laughing and jesting with a camaraderie that comes easily to him. Cregan leads, with his watchful gaze cutting through the snow-covered forest as he speaks in low, firm tones that captivate those around him. It’s hard to ignore the sense of command he exudes, a quality you’ve come to appreciate more and more since arriving.

The North’s chill is harsher than any cold you’ve felt on Dragonstone, and yet, you find warmth in the glances you steal at Cregan, the Warden of the North. His gaze meets yours often, and each time, there’s a flicker of something unspoken—a fire beneath the ice. But today, you’re in the mood for more than just glances. A bold idea takes root, and as you survey the surrounding woods, your lips curl into a mischievous smile.

"Cregan," you call, pulling your horse up beside his. He looks over, raising an eyebrow at the challenge in your voice.

“Aye, my lady?” His voice is deep, grounded like the Northern earth beneath you. You can hear the amusement in his tone, as though he’s already bracing himself for whatever scheme you’re concocting.

You tilt your chin, feigning a casual air. “Tell me, what does House Stark find worthy of a hunt?”

Cregan’s grin widens slightly. “Stags, bears, even wolves,” he answers, glancing to his men. “Northern beasts fierce enough to keep even our best hunters on edge.”

You shake your head, feigning disappointment. “Not fierce enough, then.”

He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh? And what would satisfy a Valyrian?”

“Dragons,” you say, watching him with a glint in your eye. “The kind that can outmatch a wolf in speed, wits, and fire.”

Your words hang in the air, catching Cregan—and the men—off guard. Even Jace has stopped mid-sentence, staring at you as if you’d grown another head.

“You want me to hunt a dragon?” Cregan asks, his voice a mixture of skepticism and intrigue. The men around him exchange uneasy glances, clearly uncertain about your jest.

“Yes,” you say, holding his gaze, a slight smile on your lips. “A dragon of flesh and blood, scales and fire… and daring enough to let you try.”

Jace chuckles, crossing his arms with an amused shake of his head. “Sister, you’ve truly lost your wits. You’re offering yourself as prey?”

"Only if Cregan thinks he can catch me," you reply, with a taunting edge in your voice.

A murmur ripples through the hunting party, a mix of laughter and disbelief. But Cregan’s eyes remain fixed on you, studying you with a careful intensity that sends a thrill through your spine.

“Tell me, Princess Y/N,” he says, leaning slightly toward you, his voice low and filled with the promise of a challenge, “are you daring me to chase you on foot? Or do you intend to make this a true hunt?”

His question makes the corners of your mouth twitch. “Well, where’s the thrill in staying on the ground? My dragon, Gallaex, is nearby. You’ll have to catch me on his wings.”

His eyes flash with the prospect of the hunt, and for a moment, you think you’ve finally managed to break through that Northern reserve. He gives a quiet chuckle, nodding in acceptance of your terms.

“And how will I know you won’t burn me to a crisp if I get close?”

“Consider it part of the challenge,” you reply, arching an eyebrow. “If you can close the distance, perhaps I’ll decide you’re worthy enough to let live.”

Jace bursts out laughing, clapping Cregan on the shoulder. “Oh, I’d pay to see this, Cregan. I doubt you’ll get anywhere near her, though. You might not realize it, but my sister’s fiercer than any dragon you’ve heard about.”

Cregan looks back at you, and his smile is wolfish, mirroring the stark wildness of his homeland. “Then let it be a hunt worthy of legend,” he says, finally accepting your dare. “I’ll catch you, dragon or no.”

The thrill of the challenge sends a shiver through you, as potent as the bite of Northern cold. You take a step back, glancing over your shoulder at Jace, who’s grinning like a fool.

“Make sure you don’t get hurt, sister,” he teases, though there’s an affectionate warmth in his voice. “Cregan here might surprise you.”

You lift your chin. “Then let him try. The North may have its wolves, but it has yet to meet a dragon.”

With that, you turn, feeling the thrill course through your veins. You know that Cregan’s eyes are on you, and as you prepare to summon Gallaex, the promise of this chase—the thrill of being hunted by him—ignites a fire within you that no winter could ever hope to extinguish.

The Northern wind howls, a relentless beast tearing through the forest as Cregan Stark and his hunting party advance through the snowy terrain, his men trudging in silence, eyes sharp as they scan the dense landscape. Even Jace, usually so full of laughter and jest, has fallen into a tense quiet as they all search for you and your dragon.

This isn’t any ordinary hunt, and every man knows it. Cregan has taken on your challenge to “catch” a dragon, a feat whispered about as mad by some, yet thrilling enough to drive the blood through their veins with fire. It’s no stag or wolf he seeks in this hunt, but a Valyrian princess—a Velaryon who has fire in her blood and the daring of dragons in her heart. And somewhere above, hidden within the vast white of the northern skies, waits Gallaex.

Gallaex is a creature of beauty and terror, like a ghost rising from the snow, pale and icy, his scales glimmering faintly under the light of the sun like polished pearls or the glistening frost on Winterfell’s towers at dawn. He is a dragon of pale white, the color of fresh snow—making him nearly invisible against the wintry landscape that sprawls beneath him. Massive, powerful wings spread wide, each movement a barely audible whisper in the cold, as if even the air respects his presence, too fearful to disturb him.

“By the gods,” mutters one of the Stark men as they catch sight of Gallaex in the distant sky, a faint, ghostly shape. “Are we truly meant to chase that?”

“Aye,” Cregan replies, his voice a low growl of determination. “And if you value your life, keep close, and don’t stray.”

Jace snorts beside him, the thrill evident in his voice. “I’d wager Gallaex has already spotted us. My sister wouldn’t let us draw this close without toying with us.”

“Toying?” Cregan asks, casting a glance at Jace.

“She likes to test people,” Jace answers with a grin. “And Gallaex… he’s as much a part of her as her own skin. They’re both cunning and know the land around them. The skies are their domain, and they’re waiting for us to enter it.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow, fixed on the faint shape in the sky. “Then we’ll give them the chase they want.”

Jace laughs, nudging Cregan with his shoulder. “I knew I liked you, Stark. A dragon hunts best when their prey is fearless.” He tilts his head up, calling into the sky. “Sister! Are you afraid to come down and face us?”

A heartbeat later, Gallaex’s massive form shifts, descending in a wide circle, just low enough that they can hear the beat of his wings echo through the frozen trees. The dragon’s pale eyes seem to glint with something akin to mischief as he hovers, each beat of his wings sending gusts of snow swirling around the hunters below.

And then, your voice calls down from above, as sharp as an icy wind, yet carrying warmth enough to stoke a fire. “You’ll have to do better than that, Jace. Cregan, if you truly mean to catch me, you’ll need to keep up!”

Cregan’s jaw tightens as he watches you, perched gracefully atop Gallaex’s back, with a look in your eyes that dares him to try. “You think I won’t?” he shouts back.

Your laugh rings out, bright and wild. “We shall see, my lord.”

With that, Gallaex gives a powerful beat of his wings, sending snow and frost flying in a blinding cloud, obscuring him and you from sight in an instant. By the time it clears, you’re soaring through the sky once more, a pale ghost against the endless expanse of white, leading them further into the wilderness.

Cregan signals to his men to move quickly, his voice steady, though his heart pounds with the thrill of the chase. “Follow close! She’s fast, but we’re not beaten yet.”

The party picks up the pace, breaking into a run through the deep snow, following the occasional flicker of white scales or a shadowy shape in the sky that betrays Gallaex’s movement. Cregan feels the burn in his muscles, the cold biting at his skin, but he pushes on, unwilling to falter. There’s something exhilarating about chasing after you, knowing you’re just out of reach, leading him on a path only you and Gallaex know.

Jace jogs beside him, panting but grinning. “You look determined, Cregan. I hope you’re prepared for what you’ve started.”

“Nothing has ever come easy in the North, Velaryon,” Cregan replies without slowing down, a fierce glint in his eyes. “Your sister wanted a hunt—so that’s what I’ll give her.”

Ahead, Gallaex begins to descend once more, vanishing into a narrow, forested valley where the trees grow close and the terrain is rough. It’s a clever choice on your part, knowing that the dragon’s pale form will be near impossible to spot against the scattered patches of snow-covered trees.

The Stark men slow as they enter the valley, glancing up nervously, unsure of where Gallaex might reappear. Jace leans in close to Cregan, murmuring, “She’ll try to keep us guessing. Gallaex is her partner in every way—they’ve been together since she was young.”

Cregan nods, his gaze never leaving the trees above. “I’ll catch her, Jace. You can tell her that if she means to toy with me, I won’t be the one to tire first.”

Just then, a blast of snow erupts from the trees ahead, and Gallaex swoops down in a dizzying dive, so close that the men stumble back, raising arms to shield themselves from the gust that accompanies his descent. For a moment, his pale form vanishes among the snow-laden branches, a creature as silent and relentless as the Northern winter itself.

Cregan’s eyes narrow as he sees you again atop Gallaex, your gaze locking with his for a heartbeat, and he feels the challenge in your eyes. You hold his stare, daring him to come closer. Then, with a swift pull on Gallaex’s reins, you steer him up, soaring back into the sky with a grace that takes his breath away.

“Is that all you’ve got, Stark?” you call down, laughter in your voice. “I thought the North boasted wolves, not hounds who give up the chase.”

“Giving up?” Cregan growls, a fierce smile breaking across his face. “Not a chance.”

As you circle above, Gallaex’s form barely visible in the falling snow, Cregan readies himself, feeling every muscle in his body coil with determination. His men are breathing heavily beside him, unsure of how this strange chase will end, but the look in Cregan’s eyes is enough to keep them going. This is no mere hunt—it’s a battle of wits, endurance, and will.

He shouts up to you, voice carrying through the cold air. “You can’t stay in the air forever, princess. And when you land, I’ll be there waiting.”

You laugh again, but there’s a hint of excitement in your voice now. “Then you’ll have to be cleverer than that, Cregan Stark. Catching a dragon isn’t so easy.”

Jace claps Cregan on the back, grinning. “She’s taunting you. Don’t disappoint her now!”

Cregan tightens his grip on his weapon, eyes blazing with the thrill of the hunt. “Let her run, then. It’ll make catching her all the sweeter.”

With a final glance at the sky, he sets off once more, determined to outlast the dragon and the rider who dares to challenge him, ready to prove that even the fiercest creature can’t escape a Northern wolf.

The snow-laden forest is silent, save for the soft rustling of wind through the pines and the faint crackle of distant ice. Gallaex’s wings cut through the cold air with practiced precision as he glides above the treetops. You feel the cold air biting at your face, but the thrill of the chase has filled you with a warmth that no winter wind could chill. Beneath you, Cregan and his men track your every move with a tenacity you hadn't expected; no matter how high you soar or how skillfully Gallaex weaves through the skies, you feel Cregan’s presence close, determined, like the winter itself.

You can’t help but smile, watching as he pursues you with relentless focus, weaving his way through the rugged Northern landscape with an ease that makes you wonder if the North itself guides his steps. You've taunted him, challenged him, and now, with Gallaex beginning to tire, you know the time is coming when you'll have to land. Gallaex gives a low rumble beneath you, his exhaustion evident as his wings grow heavy with each beat.

“Shall we give them one last challenge?” you murmur to him, stroking the side of his neck.

Gallaex answers with a soft growl, but you know it’s time. You guide him down into the forest, searching for a landing spot concealed by snow-laden trees, where you can disappear into the wood and maybe—just maybe—make Cregan work a little harder for his prize.

The moment Gallaex’s claws touch the snow, you slide off his back, patting his neck before sending him back up to circle above. You know he’ll keep watch, ready to swoop in if needed. But this part of the chase is yours alone.

You dart into the dense woods, your heart pounding with the thrill of the hunt. Every step you take is silent, your Valyrian blood lending you a lightness that allows you to move without leaving much of a trace. Yet even as you run, you can sense him. Cregan is close, his every step bringing him nearer, guided by some invisible thread that binds him to you in this moment. You wonder if he can hear your heartbeat; it feels loud enough to echo through the forest.

Then, suddenly, a shadow moves ahead of you, and before you can react, Cregan emerges from behind a tree, his intense gaze locking onto yours. He moves like a wolf, silent and predatory, blocking your escape with a slight smirk that tells you he’s anticipated this move.

“So, this is where the dragon hides,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, thick with Northern timber. “I thought you'd make me chase you a bit longer.”

You take a step back, but your smile is defiant, unwilling to yield so easily. “Think you’ve won, Lord Stark? I still have wings.”

“And I have patience.” He takes a step closer, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the chase. “I told you I'd catch you.”

With nowhere to run, you tilt your head, raising an eyebrow. “And if you have? What prize does the wolf demand for catching his dragon?”

For a moment, he’s silent, his gaze searching yours, as if weighing the depth of his own answer. And then, with a smile both fierce and earnest, he replies, “The North is in need of a wife for its Lord.”

Your heart stutters, caught off guard by the weight of his words. “A wife?”

“Aye,” he nods, his gaze never leaving yours. “A woman fierce enough to dare me into a hunt—and skilled enough to make me work for it.”

You’re quiet for a moment, feeling the tension between you both, charged with unspoken promises and a yearning neither of you had allowed yourselves to admit. “And you believe a dragon would suit the North?” you ask softly, a hint of challenge in your voice.

His expression turns serious, though his eyes remain warm. “A dragon with your fire would do more than suit it—she’d light it brighter than any flame, and the North would be all the better for it.”

The sincerity in his words is undeniable, and something within you softens, realizing that this is more than a chase, more than a game between hunter and hunted. The North is cold and harsh, but Cregan stands before you like a promise of warmth, a force as enduring as winter itself.

“So,” you murmur, tilting your head, “if I were to accept this… reward, what would you say to your bannermen? That Lord Stark hunted down his own dragon?”

Cregan lets out a low laugh, stepping closer so that he’s only inches away, his breath warm against your chilled skin. “They’ll sing of it for generations. They’ll say the wolf was bold enough to catch a dragon and wise enough to keep her.”

You chuckle, finding yourself drawn to his intensity. “And will the wolf promise to keep her warm in the North?”

He grins, raising an eyebrow. “The North might be cold, but my lady needn’t fear the chill so long as I’m near.” His hand reaches out, gently brushing a lock of hair from your face. His touch is rough, warm, grounding you in this moment as he leans in, his voice a low murmur. “So tell me, do I have your favor?”

You hold his gaze, feeling your pulse quicken. “Only if you swear to never let the dragon grow cold or idle.”

His smile softens, though the fire in his eyes remains, fierce and unyielding. “Then it’s a vow, my lady. From this day forward.”

Around you, the forest stands silent, as if bearing witness to the pact sealed between you, a wolf and his dragon, bound by fire and frost alike.

From that day on, the tale would spread through the North and beyond, whispered with awe and laughter by Cregan’s bannermen: how Lord Stark, the Wolf of Winterfell, had hunted down a dragon and claimed her as his own, binding her not with chains or force, but with an unbreakable bond, forged in the heart of winter. And the North would never forget how the wolf and the dragon became one, each fierce enough to stand alone, yet unstoppable together.

#house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x reader #hotd x you #hotd x y/n #game of thrones #asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #fire and blood #hotd cregan #cregan stark #cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #house stark #house velaryon #house targaryen #jacaerys velaryon

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