#My Mountain Man’s Vow

[dargeereads]

My Mountain Man’s Vow by Lena Rae

4 stars

Love that Madi stood up for herself and Mav was completely lost! These two, while having an instant attraction, don’t hit it off right away. Luckily, his pup helps bridge the gap, and then it is full steam ahead <3

[swordgrace]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅 𝐇𝐄𝐄𝐃𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐎𝐍.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ cregan stark x fem!targtower!reader.

SYNOPSIS: a blissful marriage to an honorable man — it is more than you could’ve asked for. with the heir on the way, you make a request of your husband.

anonymous request. unofficial sequel to wolfsblood, dragonsblood.

{ FORMAT: one-shot — requested by anonymous.

{ WORD COUNT: 6.1K.

{ WARNINGS: SMUT (mdni), overprotective cregan, reader is pretty horny for cregan (valid), pregnancy, reader is pregnant, sexual activities while pregnant, cregan is a father in his mind, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, cregan loves munching, vaginal fingering, teasing, biting, hair-pulling kink, obvious size difference + size kink, slight face-riding, lots of cregan admiring in this one-shot, very soft ending + aftercare

{ AUTHOR’S NOTE: I love writing for Cregan so much, y’all don’t understand the depths of my adoration for him. I churned this out pretty quickly, but I loved writing it, Father Cregan is the best! I hope that you all enjoy, & thank you for your support! ❤️

𝐂𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐩, 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢��𝐝𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐍𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬.

It was easier to breathe, you’d realized — King’s Landing had always been so stifling and pungent, the population too thick, the air acrid. Here, in the North, it was sprawling with open spaces, regions of untouched forest and unsettled countryside.

The bite of the harsh, Northern chill was not an easy adjustment to make after a lengthy life spent in Southern regions — the gnawing wind often seared your extremities, and it was not any easier on Silverwing. Fire ran through your veins, tempered by your tender heart and kindly disposition.

Your beloved husband would not have it any other way.

What had started as an unsteady, tumultuous betrothal marked by obvious bitterness from your family and wariness from his own House, had blossomed into a fruitful union. You couldn’t have asked for a better partner, and it made you realize how fortunate you were.

Snow was uncommon in most of the South, yet it remained constant in the North, mountains blanketed in endless horizons of white. It was a particularly icy day, winter winds stinging your cheeks, prickling your flesh with its pinpricks.

Mounds of pale, grayish fur swaddled your form, lined in the finest fleece, downy and plush against your skin. The trodden path to the Godswood was marked by frozen dirt, dusted over with a fresh layer of snowfall. Sprinkles of crystalline drops fell from the cloudy skies, and your breath emerged in hot wisps of air.

Lilac hues drifted toward the mountainous form of your husband, whose back was turned to you, swathed in the dappled pelt of a direwolf. Ice hung from his shoulder, a massive longsword of Valyrian Steel, an heirloom passed down through generations of House Stark.

Someday soon, it will pass to your firstborn son.

You recalled the night that you were wed, beneath the crimson leaves of the Weirwood Tree. It was serene, a moonlit dusk that struck the snow with an ethereal glow, your hands bound as you recanted your vows. It had been some moons now since that day, and you had only felt joy since then.

Cregan listened to the light crunch of snow beneath your footfalls as they reverberated throughout the Godswood, the pond frozen-over with a layer of ice. Pale bark marked with a foreign face peered back at him — this was a place that he and Rickon visited many times.

Before his little brother had passed, they pretended to fight wars here, forge their weapons, sticks found from the forest floor, and envision themselves as Knights. He could still feel his brother sometimes, his presence a whisper in the blood-red leaves, somewhere within the forest’s song.

Religion was a complicated thing for you. Your mother wielded the Faith of the Seven like a crudely-worn shortsword, letting it strike to her advantage even when it was rusty, at best. You had little interest in it, and Cregan seemed to respect your growing distance from your old roots. The Old Gods were his — you had nothing.

Inklings of snow drifted from the pale skies, growing darker as evening approached. The North became unyieldingly harsh after the sun began to wane, the sting of biting wind swirling around you, seeping into your bones. You were rather cold, but persisted for Cregan.

“Ser Rodrick said that I might find you here,” Silence dissipated, filled with the sound of your voice, as soft as feathers, a soothing balm. You stepped closer, beneath the boughs of the great tree, the canopy thick with vermillion leaves. “How are you faring?”

With Winter approaching, spreading its cold, brittle tendrils across the North, Cregan’s duties had increased tenfold. Preparing his people for winter, ensuring that food was plentiful, that they were safe — it was the burden of leadership, but there was no one better suited for it in your eyes.

“Well enough,” Cregan murmured, storm-colored hues drifting over the Weirwood tree before they turned to you, completely and utterly transfixed. You stole every wisp of air from his lungs with your beauty, clad in the trappings of his people. “I apologize for running off.”

An amiable smile crossed your features as you reached for your husband, slipping a gloved palm against the crook of his arm. “You needn’t apologize, husband. You are owed your solitude, and I wouldn’t dare tell you otherwise.” You have his bicep a gentle squeeze.

Cregan’s gaze softened, sparkling with a warmth reserved only for you, his beloved. Your presence always seemed to melt away his hardened exterior, but he much preferred it that way. He stepped closer, towering above you in all of his indomitable glory, craning down to press a kiss against your brow.

The gloved leather of his hand moved to cup your abdomen, and the growing life within. The joyous news of your pregnancy had been the talk of the North, the new Lady Stark, preparing to birth an heir of Winterfell. Those thick furs you wore obscured your belly quite well.

“I should be asking you how you fare, carrying our child,” Cregan insisted, gingerly caressing around your stomach with the pride of a doting husband. “Here you are, walking all this way to the Godswood, when it is I who should be by your side.” If there was one word to describe Cregan, it was overprotective.

Gods, he was attentive — if he did leave your side, he ensured that you were well looked-after, under the watchful protection of his guardsmen. You couldn’t fault your husband for his safeguarding nature, given that it was to be your firstborn.

Sometimes he forgot that you were a dragon-rider.

“Being beneath the open sky has done me a world of good, husband,” You mused, canting your head to one side. You were not completely round and waddling just yet — halfway through, as the Maester stated. “I cannot stand to look at that dreadful cobblestone for days on-end.”

Cregan did not protest, nor invalidate your claims. He was not the one carrying a child — he did not have a right to speak on behalf of you. A shiver rolled down your spine, due to the bitter chill of the wind, coupled with the encroaching snowfall.

Instead, he reached for your jaw, cupping your face within the roughened texture of his leather-clad palm, presenting you with a kiss. It was kept brief, yet the ardor lingered, as strong as a burning flame. “You are shivering, beloved. Let us return to the Keep.” He rumbled, shielding you beneath his cloak.

A respite from the cold would be welcome. Even if you possessed the blood of the Dragon, you did not fare well in such blisteringly glacial conditions. The thick cover of your husband’s cloak brought a sense of comfort, coupled with the natural heat that radiated from him.

Snow crunched beneath his heavy footfalls, your own masked by his boots. Cregan made sure to guide you every step of the way, hovering with his impressive shadow. “I have been contemplating a name for our child.” You spoke softly, a smile toying upon your lips.

“Have you?” Cregan appeared appeased, a stoic smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t know if we are to have a son or a daughter.” He remarked, letting your hand wrap around the bulk of his forearm, guiding you through the Godswood.

“Perhaps not, but I wanted you to hear,” Such ideas had been stirring around within your mind for weeks, and with Cregan so preoccupied, you hadn’t broached the topic of conversation. “Gilliane, after your mother, should we have a daughter, and … Rickon.” You hesitated. “Should we have a son.”

Cregan’s steps began to slow, and he looked upon you with such love and devotion that it was nearly overwhelming. He couldn’t have loved you anymore if he tried — and he had tried. Towering over you, he pressed a kiss against the top of your head, one that blossomed with fondness.

You gave him the greatest honor of all — that of fatherhood, and now, you had bestowed upon him sentimental names, those of his family. Love flourished within his storm-colored hues, and he seemed to soften at your words. “You would honor me beyond words, wife. Do you not wish to pay tribute to your own family?”

Placing a hand over the growing swell of your stomach, you seemed somewhat indifferent to talk of your family. Helaena and Daeron were the exceptions in this, but it did not pain you any less. “I pay tribute by carrying our child,” You replied, your smile threadbare. “That is enough.”

Solemn, Cregan simply nodded, understanding your strained relationship with the family you had left behind in King’s Landing. From what you told him and from what he discerned, you seemed much happier here, liberated and free of such poisonous clutches. “Of course.” A soft rumble reverberated throughout his chest.

Winterfell’s snow-laden gates were now within reach, as guards in Stark tabards harkened the return of its Lord and Lady. He thoroughly enjoyed watching you interact with the denizens underneath his protection — you often greeted them with smiles and laughter.

He watched you grow into your station as Lady Stark, a growth that showed such promise. You had been shy around Northerners at first, but you now walked as if you had been in Winterfell your whole life. Cregan kept you close, his stance that of a protective husband, hovering above you with his hulking stature.

The Keep was close, and you could feel the crackling warmth of the hearth lick across your skin in the forefront of your mind. Cregan was characteristically stalwart, keeping you wedged against his side, swaddled in the thick furs of the direwolf.

Once inside, you welcomed the gust of warmer air. The Keep burned many fires and braziers when winter became sharp and bitter, your cheeks stinging from the cold. “Shall we retire this evening, or are you lacking in nourishment?” Cregan inquired, knowing that your penchant for foodstuffs had increased while pregnant.

“Could something be brought to our chambers? Perhaps a stew or a broth, that sounds rather warming.” As if on-queue, your stomach lurched with inklings of famish, as if your child also demanded something to eat.

“It will be done,” With his stoic assurance, your husband bent down to press a kiss against your temple, smoothing a palm across your back. “I will join you shortly, wife.” Cregan had a tendency to walk the Keep before retiring — spare a word to the guards, those in the kitchens, and anyone underneath his care.

“Do not keep me waiting for too long.” You mused, lips curving into a warm smile that could melt even the hardiest of ice — including that of your husband. The vulnerability that seemed to come to him in your presence was a comforting thing.

With a soft huff, Cregan cupped your chin, looking upon you with tempestuous hues, as gray as a winter’s storm. “I wouldn’t dare.” He assured, presenting you with a tender kiss. Gods, you had sorely missed his mouth in many ways, and you were swift to reciprocate.

After you had become with-child, fuller and round with the heir to Winterfell, you had not engaged Cregan as much in terms of intimacy. He wanted you to relax, to not have to lift a finger. You missed your husband in more ways than one, giving way to your own basic desires and carnal instincts.

The kiss possessed a charged edge, tension looming above, the fringes of it seeping into your lips. You held onto his forearm, an audible sigh slipping past your mouth when Cregan withdrew. He could detect your yearning — the sentiment was a mutual one, but he feared hurting you, as any man would.

With a gentle hum, you allowed your husband to leave you, watching as his impressive form encapsulated all space within the corridor he walked in. You let him tend to his duties, and you made for the spiraling stairwell, making your way to your chambers without a hitch.

Thick, wooden doors gave way to the sanctuary within, the hearth being stoked and tended-to by one of the servants. “I thought you might want it warm, m’lady.” She mused, having laid out a series of new wardrobes for you across the foot of your bed.

“Thank you, Tanea.” The new gowns and dresses seemed to be made with your new specifications in-mind, accommodating for your growing belly. Part of you felt self-conscious when it came to your pregnancy — you no longer seemed to fit into your own skin.

“You must be excited, with the babe on the way,” Tanea was easy to speak with, an exuberant young woman with cherubic features. “Your Lord-Husband certainly is.” She chimed, finishing with the hearth as she moved about.

“Is he?” Cregan was sometimes difficult to read, countenance permanently etched with that stoic Northern scowl of his, but you knew how happy he was. Knowing that your servants could see it filled you with delight. “I may need your assistance, Tanea.”

“Very much so, m’lady. He speaks as if he is a father already,” She fluttered to your side, assisting you in relinquishing the weight of your fur cloak and overcoat you wore. Tanea arranged the garments back into the large, wooden wardrobe. “Do you need anything else?”

“I do not,” You smiled, moving to sit atop the fur-laden footlocker at the end of your shared bed. “You have my gratitude, Tanea.” The girl curtsied, a proper gesture, before making her way from your chambers.

Intrigued, you happened to admire the new gowns strewn across your bed, many of them styled in the Northern way of dress, save for your evening shifts. One in particular caught your eye, made of sage-hued silk, translucent and frilly, the sleeves billowing.

Pinching the fabric between your fingers, you decided on wearing it to bed, pushing yourself up right as you organized the rest elsewhere, into the space of your wardrobe. Heavy footfalls resonated outside of your door, with it creaking open to give way to Cregan.

Your mountain of a husband carried two bowls of steaming stew, placing them down along the small, rounded table. The intricate carving of a wolf rested along the table’s edge, made of wood from the Wolfswood. “Are you tired?” He inquired, removing Ice from his shoulders, scabbard and all, placing it near his bedside.

After you had become with-child, he kept it close, in case of any unsightly, dire circumstances. He would not ever allow himself to be defenseless in your presence. You had thought it to be somewhat overly cautious, but you did not dissuade him otherwise.

“Not really,” You hummed, reaching for the many pins keeping your braids in-place. You removed them one by one, placing the ruby-studded needles upon your vanity. It felt better to let your hair down, pale tresses cascading across your shoulders in soft waves. “I am perfectly awake.”

Cregan’s visage was one of clear appreciation and adoration as he stepped closer, admiring the way you looked. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” He insisted, hands moving to assist you in unlacing your dress. This was a common practice with each passing night — you enjoyed it.

Warmth crept along your features as you stood still, allowing him to untie your bodice with his calloused fingers, until the garment loosened. “You are much too kind, husband.” Stepping from your gown, you were left in a white slip, one that had grown somewhat uncomfortable with its tightness.

“It is not a kindness, but the plain truth.” Cregan replied, pressing a kiss against the pale crown of your head, inhaling a gust of your saccharine scent. “You are my beautiful wife.” He affirmed with a grunt, and moved away to change into his own smallclothes. Abandoning his leather and armor always felt unusual for him.

There was no debating your husband, whose stubbornness was sometimes renowned. Instead, you smiled, abandoning the snug, ivory fabric for your field of sage, hastily pulling it on over the swell of your stomach.

It gave you ample time to observe Cregan, whose musculature ensnared you time and time again. He was impressively thick, broad-shouldered and built like the Wall itself. Seeing him standing there in just his trousers made something hot stir between your legs.

You crept forward, shamelessly wrapping your arms around him from behind, and you could feel a tremor throughout his body when he huffed. “I have a handsome husband, a perfect husband — and that is the plain truth.” You hummed, cold cheek burying itself against the warmth of his skin.

Wordlessly, you peppered soft kisses against his spine, and to any scars and bruises that you could see. You listened to the sharp exhale from your husband, who did not protest your actions. Your lips felt like the kiss of snow, still cold from the chilly outdoors.

Cregan let you stay that way, and in-truth, he enjoyed it thoroughly. Those large, calloused hands placed themselves atop yours, lifting both to his lips as he kissed your knuckles. He let them drop, and you caressed him wherever you could. The gesture was soft, but he couldn’t deny the growing sensuality present between you both.

“For the blood of the dragon, your hands run cold, wife.” Cregan rumbled, soothingly tracing his fingers across your wrist, feeling your physique against his back, including the swell of your belly. You pressed your palms against his abdomen, able to feel the taut, subtle muscle there.

“It is a good thing that I have you to warm them,” The silky, soft resonance of your voice brought him comfort. You sounded so relaxed and blissful, feeling him sluggishly turn around within your hold. Cregan cupped your cheek, rough pad of his thumb tracing across your lips. You kissed his thumb. “Kiss me.”

Cregan’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, and he instead gestured to the meal he’d brought with him. “Once you eat and have proper sustenance, I might indulge you then, beloved.” He mused, noticing the twinge of disappointment on your face.

“Might?” There was an upward inflection within your tone, as if the mere suggestion of might had offended you to some degree. Your burly husband then caged you within his embrace, palms soothingly caressing along your hips. “Must you insist on tormenting me?” You teased.

With a low grunt, Cregan reached for his tunic, eyes twinkling with mirth. “For now.” Tugging on the dark blue linen of his nightshirt, he gestured for you to eat, sitting beside you at the table. His own chair groaned in protest, and before he knew it, you were devouring your stew.

A mouthful of warm, seasoned broth filled your maw, accompanied with hearty chunks of venison and stewed vegetables. The cuisine in the North differed greatly from the South, not that you minded. You often felt more fulfilled after meals than you used to.

“Gods, that was wonderful,” You groaned, the stew satisfying your cravings. It warmed you to the bone, causing a shudder to roll down your spine as you finished, nudging the bowl aside. “I could eat several servings of that.” Your confession prompted Cregan to smirk.

“Famished, were you?” Cregan mused, watching as you moved out of your chair, cradling your stomach with one hand. He very nearly rushed to assist you, but he knew you would’ve swatted him aside.

“Quite, but I am eating for two. Your child needs it as much as I do,” You remarked, wandering toward the hearth as you extended one palm toward the fire. The comforting heat licked across your flesh, the orange light dancing over your features. “Much better.”

Cregan joined you not long after, guiding you to sit atop the large footlocker at the end of your marital bed, closest to the open flames. His rough fingertips glided over the plane of sage-hued silks, as he admired your womanly form through the fabric. “This suits you.” He rumbled, gently tugging on the silk to accentuate his point.

“Tanea had the seamstress craft me new clothing, given that I’ve grown quite a bit,” Admittedly, you felt some insecurity in your current state, afraid that your husband may not enjoy you as he once had. “I am glad that you like it, husband. I was worried that you wouldn’t.”

Perplexed, chestnut brows furrowed together, his countenance one of clear concern. Slipping an arm behind you, he calmly stroked your side, silently beseeching you to tell him of your worries. He knew what it pertained to, even if it was left unspoken. “Your worries are misplaced. I love you.” He assured.

“It isn’t just that, I — I suppose I feared that you wouldn’t still enjoy me this way. Most husbands in the capital seemed so disinterested when their wives began to show.” This wasn’t the South, and Cregan was as far from a disinterested husband as one could get. He kissed your jaw, letting you rest against him.

“You are carrying our child, the heir to Winterfell — I would continue to love you regardless of what your body might look like. Damn the Southerners,” Cregan murmured, planting a hand atop your belly. “I look at you and I see my wife — I see perfection. My heart calls your name.” For a man so rugged and rough, his words made your blood surge with exhilaration.

Joining his hand, you placed your palm atop his, the one firmly perched against your belly. If Cregan were being truthful with himself, he found you to be painfully beautiful like this, swollen with his child, knowing that he put a pup in you. Those lascivious fantasies had now become reality.

“Ñuha dōna zokla,” My sweet wolf — your High Valyrian often brought him to heel, bringing out the siren’s lull within your voice. Cregan had made a valiant effort to learn some of the language for you, but it never sounded as pleasant on his Northern tongue. “I am yours.” You beamed, lilac hues glistening with ardor.

Bringing a calloused palm to your face, he traced the fine plane of your cheekbone, reveling in the velveteen texture of your flesh. A wolf, brought to heel at his dragon’s side. Cregan studied your Valyrian features, basking in your beauty, coaxing you in for a kiss.

Your mouth was disarmingly soft, catching him off-guard, stealing away all of his coherency. He felt you turn inward, palm planting itself against the thick, corded muscle of his thigh, gripping him tightly as he deepened your kiss.

Something warm stirred within him, a longing to feel your body against his, able to detect the hitch within your breath as he drew you closer. Your wanton need radiated from you in thick, permeating waves, enough to bring him into the intricate web of your desire.

“Easy, wife.” Cregan rumbled, wanting to temper your carnality before it raged into that of a dragon’s flame. Your pleading gaze suggested otherwise, prompting him to caress along the length of your spine. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

A begrudging sigh escaped your lips as you incessantly tugged at his tunic, staring at your husband with furrowed brows. “You wouldn’t,” You uttered, tracing your fingers over his heart. “We do not have to commit the entire act. I simply want to enjoy you in other ways — I miss it.”

Subtlety wasn’t your strongest suit, and Cregan knew this. Arousal stirred within him, cock twitching at your lascivious insinuations. “Hm,” A soft growl left him, one that seemed to share your sentiments. “Is that what my lady commands of me?” He murmured, holding you close.

“She does,” You hummed, treating him to a playful smile as you reached for his chestnut tresses. One of your hands slithered beneath his tunic, feeling along the solid, thick muscle of his abdomen. He stroked at your belly, a stern hum reverberating within his throat. “Gods, I need you.” You exhaled.

With your need laid bare, Cregan heeded you with a fire swirling within his gut. His hand dipped down to the apex of your thighs, pushing beneath your silken shift until he found your cunt. Gods, you were wet already, a tantalizing thing, one that he found delight in.

“You are warm already, beloved.” Cregan’s thunderous timbre raked down your spine, effortlessly gaining your subservience with ease. You shivered, feeling his thick fingers deftly caress across your slit, teasing and toying with you, gathering your slick.

Feather-light touches would have to suffice as Cregan lazily pressed one digit against your clit. His mouth found the slender expanse of your neck, delivering hot, passionate kisses against your throat.

A simpering whine tore past your parted lips, one filled with such urgency as you shifted closer, writhing against the sensation of his hand. Any lick of friction would do, consuming your body with its amatory heat. He grunted into the hollow of your throat, kissing you wherever you could.

Your own mouth found the impressive bulk of his shoulder, seeking to bring your teeth into his flesh. A sonorous, rumbling grunt left your husband when you bit him, leaving behind the crescent marks of your teeth. If it weren’t for your pregnancy, he would’ve marked you in this way, too.

Seeking the softness of your mouth, Cregan’s mouth twitched into a threadbare smirk as he kissed you hard, letting it linger as his hand withdrew from your skirts. A groan of disappointment left you, but he intended on making up for it fully.

He moved off of the footlocker, planting a lasting kiss against your brow. Towering over you, Cregan’s shadow eclipsed most flickers of firelight, gray hues swirling with warmth as he bent the knee to you, his beloved. It was a mesmerizing sight, one that you reveled in.

His massive musculature bullied its way between your thighs, warm palms shifting to caress along your legs, from ankle to calf. He had never seen someone as resplendent as you, breathtakingly beautiful, the blood of the dragon, his wife.

Gathering your skirts within your hands, you fisted the silks, dragging them up until they pooled around your hips. Warm lips embraced the crook of your knee, peppering kisses across your leg, until he reached the velvet flesh of your inner thighs.

Your hips began to tilt forward, seeking the pleasant heat of his mouth, a heat that he gladly granted you time and time again. Cregan kissed his way to the slick warmth between your legs, a thunderous exhale escaping him, chest vibrating with a grunt.

Cregan gingerly adjusted your position, letting your legs rest against his broad shoulders, your back sloped against the furs and footboard of your bed. He pressed a kiss against your mound, nose buried near your pelvis before he made his descent.

A warm lap of his tongue dragged itself over your core, like hot embers raking across your cunt. You sighed, blissfully succumbing to wanton desire, reaching for his crown of chestnut tresses, gripping at the back of his skull. “Cregan.” You whined, head rolling forward just a bit.

Pale waves framed your face, countenance contorted into an expression of sheer and utter bliss, brows furrowing together. Your husband happily found his solace between your legs, mouth pressing hot kisses across your cunt. His hand gripped at your haunch, the other trailing against your leg.

It was ambrosial, your taste; a finest stout, sweetest of nectars that stained his lips with your perfection. Cregan lapped at your cunt, dutiful and attentive, ensuring to find every spot that made you gasp for air.

Nimble digits fisted into the furs at your side, mouth agape as a myriad of throaty moans escaped you. Your hand roamed through his tresses, tugging and pulling whenever his tongue graced the pearl of your cunt.

Splitting past your folds, Cregan tasted every inch of you, tongue seeking your cunt with a fervor. He was vigorous in his ministrations, not shying away from consuming every drop of your arousal. His nose brushed against your mound, hands kneading into your thighs to reassure you, let you know that he had you.

Any inkling of roughness had dissipated from him in the wake of your pregnancy, replaced with a passionate devotion, a rapture reserved only for you. His strong hands held you close, caressing you wherever he could.

You tasted sweet upon his tongue, honey-thick and a feast to sate his appetite. If he would choose his fate, it would be in between your legs, listening to the myriad of moans and throaty whimpers leave you. It was satisfying to know how much you enjoyed this; derived pleasure from it.

A tremor gripped your legs, little spasms of delight making their way throughout your body. Cregan’s mouth forged a blazing path from the hood of your cunt to your entrance, tongue greedy and hot, before he went back up again, seeking your sensitive pearl.

“Cregan!” Gods, he brought you such pleasure, a pleasure that seemed to seep into your very bones, sate your endless yearning, for now. Your legs curled inward, tight atop his shoulders as you rocked yourself into his mouth, doing little to suppress the volume of your moans.

He pressed closer with a wolf’s appetite, throat burning with carnal hunger as he continued to lap at your slick cunt. Your arousal felt honey-thick upon his tongue, something reserved only for him, chin glistening with your nectar. Your legs squeezed at his head, and he knew that he pleasured you well.

Molten heat churned within the pit of your stomach, a sensation that you had been longing to feel again. Cregan did not relent, yet he happened to slow just enough to savor you, dragging his tongue toward that clutch of nerves at the hood of your cunt.

As soon as he pursed his lips around your clit, you nearly forgot your own name, thoughts completely derailed, scattered into a blissful abyss. Your body reacted with shivers and tremors, hand gripping at the nape of his neck with a reckless abandon.

Your back arched slightly, collarbone glittering with perspiration through the thick, warm haze of your chambers. The hearth had brought about a feverish heat, coupled with the throes of your intimate entanglement. Cregan derived satisfaction from your pleasure, delighted to please his wife.

Pliant flesh filled his palm as he cupped your derrière, bringing you closer, letting you grind yourself against his mouth, use him and take whatever you needed. A grunt stirred within his chest, reverberating within his throat as he went about seeking your clit, suckling on the pearl of your cunt.

“Oh Gods,” You moaned, nearly clasping a hand over your mouth to hide the salaciousness of your voice. Surely, the servants had heard you by now — you would be fortunate if all of Winterfell didn’t hear you. “I — I’m close!” Rocking forward again, you let out a whimper.

With a strangled whine, you desperately chased after your release, one that you had sorely needed. Cregan’s cock twitched at the sound of your delicious moans, a shudder rolling down his spine whenever you whimpered his name. “That’s it,” He rumbled, hot breath fanning over your core. “Go on.” His encouragement was softly spoken through his Northern timbre.

He wanted to stay there, rooted between your legs, mouth consuming your cunt as if it were his last meal; a man wrought with starvation.

Cregan favored it, thoroughly reveling in the way your body reacted to him, visceral and ecstatic. He gingerly suckled on your clit, feeling your fingers tighten within his chestnut locks, gripping him tight. He wanted you to have your release, built upon this pent-up feeling.

He could feel your encroaching release, feel the tension in your grasp, the way you let your hips continue to lurch forward. Without relenting, Cregan continued to suck at your clit, letting it intermingle with hot laps of his tongue, dutiful and fervent between your legs.

A comfortable silence filled the gap between you, intermingled with the sounds of your pleasured cries and Cregan’s sonorous grunts. That heated coil within your stomach began to unfurl, bringing an onslaught of arousal with it as you bucked into his mouth.

At last, your peak consumed you in a white-hot oblivion, and you very nearly saw the stars themselves. With a strangled gasp, your legs tightened on either side of his head, followed by a blissful rush of liquid heat. Your grip began to slack upon his tresses, chest heaving from exertion.

Cregan lingered there for a few moments more, tongue caressing your cunt, cleaning up any last drop of your nectar. His mouth glistened with it when he did inevitably withdraw, lashing across his lips before he kissed your thighs, showering you in affection.

“Do you feel better?” He mused, kissing the crook of your knee before standing to his feet. You were positively hot, feeling a feverish warmth crawl across your skin, thighs shaking in the aftermath. You hastily adjusted your slip, regarding him with a gracious expression.

“Very much,” Your confession made him smirk as he helped you into bed, abandoning his tunic at the iron-wrought foot. As he settled down, you joined him, curled within the space at his side. “Would you like me to return the favor?”

Cregan never expected you to do anything that you didn’t want to — never feel obligated, either. He would survive without a night of release. “Tomorrow, perhaps.” He murmured, moving to rest a hand against the swell of your stomach, caressing your growing bump.

“Thank you, husband — for everything.” A gentle hum left you as you placed your hand over his, allowing him to protectively cradle your stomach. You let your head rest against his shoulder, his arm holding you at his side.

A bemused huff escaped him as he peered at you with mirthful hues, gray eyes that resembled a thunderstorm. “You needn’t thank me,” He assured, briefly pressing a kiss to your temple. “You needn’t ask for it, either.” Cregan enjoyed the taste of your cunt more than anything else.

You couldn’t help but smile, sheepishly moving to press a kiss against his jaw. “I love you,” You sighed, letting your ardor for him be known as you felt your eyes grow heavy. “Tomorrow, I would like for us to see Silverwing. She grows lonely in my absence.”

Cregan knew how much the creature meant to you. He had met Silverwing before, but he dared not climb upon her back — you’d asked it of him several times before. “Of course, beloved.” He murmured, basking in the heat of the firelight.

A sharp, fluttering sensation blossomed throughout your abdomen, prompting you to gasp. It was sudden and unexpected, but not painful. It was foreign, and had been happening on rare occasions.

“What is it?” Cregan questioned, visibly concerned before you dismissed it with a bright, delighted smile. You gently guided his hand elsewhere atop your stomach, pale brows furrowing together as you searched for the source.

“There,” You mused, joyous laughter escaping you as another kick fluttered against your joined hands. “Do you feel it?” It was heartwarming to watch the happiness glisten within his eyes, the way in which he adjusted his position to truly feel. Cregan’s true smiles were a rarity, and you saw it now.

The blood of the wolf and the dragon stirred within, prompting you to smile appreciatively at your husband. This was something the both of you had made with your love, the heir to Winterfell. “They seem strong,” Cregan remarked, leaning over to plant a kiss against your brow. “Perfect, just like their mother.”

His hand never left your belly, even as he maneuvered the furs over the both of you, letting you move to lay against the warm expanse of his chest. Cregan exhaled, staring into the dying embers of the heart, tracing his digits along the swell of your stomach.

“Strong, just like their father.” You whispered, pressing a kiss against his jaw before you settled down for slumber, shielded by the protective grasp of your Lord-husband.

[wheelscomedyandmore]

You Might Not Ever Guess

Captain Kangaroo passed away on January 23, 2004 as age 76 , which is odd, because he always looked to be 76. (DOB: 6/27/27 ) His death reminded me of the following story.

Some people have been a bit offended that the actor, Lee Marvin, is buried in a grave alongside 3 and 4 star generals at Arlington National Cemetery . His marker gives his name, rank (PVT) and service (USMC). Nothing else. Here's a guy who was only a famous movie star who served his time, why the heck does he rate burial with these guys? Well, following is the amazing answer:

I always liked Lee Marvin, but didn't know the extent of his Corps experiences.

In a time when many Hollywood stars served their country in the armed forces often in rear echelon posts where they were carefully protected, only to be trotted out to perform for the cameras in war bond promotions.

Lee Marvin was a genuine hero. He won the Navy Cross at Iwo Jima. There is only one higher Naval award... the Medal Of Honor

If that is a surprising comment on the true character of the man, he credits his sergeant with an even greater show of bravery.

Dialog from "The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson": His guest was Lee Marvin Johnny said, "Lee, I'll bet a lot of people are unaware that you were a Marine in the initial landing at Iwo Jima ..and that during the course of that action you earned the Navy Cross and were severely wounded."

"Yeah, yeah... I got shot square in the bottom and they gave me the Cross for securing a hot spot about halfway up Suribachi. Bad thing about getting shot up on a mountain is guys getting' shot hauling you down. But Johnny, at Iwo I served under the bravest man I ever knew... We both got the cross the same day, but what he did for his Cross made mine look cheap in comparison. That dumb guy actually stood up on Red beach and directed his troops to move forward and get the hell off the beach. Bullets flying by, with mortar rounds landing everywhere and he stood there as the main target of gunfire so that he could get his men to safety. He did this on more than one occasion because his men's safety was more important than his own life.

That Sergeant and I have been lifelong friends. When they brought me off Suribachi we passed the Sergeant and he lit a smoke and passed it to me, lying on my belly on the litter and said, where'd they get you Lee?' Well Bob.. if you make it home before me, tell Mom to sell the outhouse!"

Johnny, I'm not lying, Sergeant Keeshan was the bravest man I ever knew.

The Sergeant's name is Bob Keeshan. You and the world know him as Captain Kangaroo."

On another note, there was this wimpy little man (who just passed away) on PBS, gentle and quiet. Mr. Rogers is another of those you would least suspect of being anything but what he now portrays to our youth.

But Mr. Rogers was a U.S. Navy Seal, combat-proven in Vietnam with over twenty-five confirmed kills to his name. He wore a long-sleeved sweater on TV, to cover the many tattoos on his forearm and biceps. He was a master in small arms and hand-to-hand combat, able to disarm or kill in a heartbeat.

After the war Mr. Rogers became an ordained Presbyterian minister and therefore a pacifist. Vowing to never harm another human and also dedicating the rest of his life to trying to help lead children on the right path in life. He hid away the tattoos and his past life and won our hearts with his quiet wit and charm.

America's real heroes don't flaunt what they did; they quietly go about their day-to-day lives, doing what they do best. They earned our respect and the freedoms that we all enjoy.

Look around and see if you can find one of those heroes in your midst.

Often, they are the ones you'd least suspect, but would most like to have on your side if anything ever happened.

Take the time to thank anyone that has fought for our freedom. With encouragement they could be the next Captain Kangaroo or Mr. Rogers.

Send this on will you please? Nothing will happen to you if you don't, but it will tell what a "real" HERO is made of.

[almostfoxglove]

ONE NIGHT EARLY

a secret santa surprise for @talaok ! ✨ as part of @pedrostories' #pedrostoriesgift24 event ✨

RATING: Explicit (18+) | PAIRING: Joel Miller x f!Reader WORD COUNT: 2.2k | CW: Established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, brief reference to canon-typical violence / danger / the end of the world, but you're safe.

SUMMARY: You vow to find out where Joel hides his Christmas gifts while he's away on patrol.

read on ao3 | main masterlist | get notifs

It has to be here somewhere.

In the three years since you moved in with Joel—hell, even in the two years before that—you have never found your Christmas present before the day. The man’s determined, sworn to his secrecy. Takes great pride in catching you snooping around, digging, scurryin’, as he once muttered under his breath, shaking his head with that charm and smirk you can’t help but fall for. Every year, you swear you’ll find it, and Joel just crosses his arms with a shrug, cheek dimpled and eyes dark with affection, and tells you good luck, darlin’, confident you won’t.

This year, though. This year will be different because for the whole week leading up to Christmas, Joel is away with Tommy on patrol and you have the house to yourself. Seven days of freedom to pry and stick your nose where it probably doesn’t belong.

It takes you two days to tear the house apart. Every dish yanked from his cupboard, every shirt and worn pair of jeans thrown from the closet, every pocket turned out—you flip the mattress and unbundle his socks and rip the covers off all the couch cushions and find fuck all. One old, oxidized penny. Dust bunnies, dryer lint, wood shavings. Spent matches, a bullet case. A fossilized receipt robbed of its printed contents.

You spend two more going through everything again. The place is a dump; when Ellie swings by to borrow his guitar she lifts one eyebrow at you from the doorway, weary of the tornado you’ve left scattered across the first floor. Says, “Good to know four days is all it takes for you to lose your shit.”

“I’m not losing my shit,” you say, one hand waving dismissively as you climb the stairs. 

Quick on your heels she mutters, “Whatever you say, grandma,” just loud enough for you to hear. 

When she’s gone, you take a deep breath. The living room is a slaughter, more disastrous than the aftermath of any raiders or weather event. Couch cushions stand mountainous and stripped naked, the carpet’s rolled up against one wall, all the charcoal and half-spent logs have been scraped from the fireplace onto the floor. You’ll admit that might not have been strictly necessary, but you’ve looked everywhere, checked everything, and uncovered zilch. No gifts. And at the very least, Joel has—with his handsome, freckled, silvered face proud and smiling—conceded that his hiding spot is in the house. Doesn’t stash nothing at Tommy’s or in Ellie’s garage. It’s here. Somewhere. Driving you up the goddamn wall.

It’s not like you even know what you’re looking for, but you’ll know when you see it—of this you are sure.

Room by room, you reassemble the house, shuffling all the knick-knacks you’ve each cautiously assembled in this bizarre second chance at a life into their proper positions. His carvings are your favorites, and you rehome them on their shelves with care. You slide the few photographs each of you has into line on the mantle, behind the string lights. It ain’t the same as the world that for nearly thirty years has been dead and gone, but now and then you get flickers of that long-absent comfort. The day the Christmas lights go up in Jackson. The snowmen built by your neighbor’s kids in the street. Jars of homemade strawberry jam. 

Ellie and Joel playing guitar, his deep timbre humming along to her clumsy chords. 

The tight squeeze of your chest when his boots croak the porch and you know he’s finally home. 

The softness of his face first thing in the morning, scarred and weathered, kind. All the long tresses of his graying hair slumped out of place.

As you restore the house’s comfort and clutter over the shrinking days of his absence, you recheck and recheck and recheck and continue to come up empty. At night in the black veil of your shared bedroom, you sleep on his side of the bed with your face crushed in his pillow, breathing him in. 

On the 24th, you wake prepared to wave the white flag when he returns in the evening. You’re going to pout about it, but you’ll give in. Surrender to the superiority of his stupid, squirrelling mind, and admit once and for all that he’s bested you. You have no fucking clue where he hides his gifts. He wins. But you sulk as the day bleeds by, and more than once catch yourself affixed with a frown as you trudge through the crunch of Jackson’s snow-packed streets. As you groom the horses due for the next patrol shift and eat your dinner in the mess hall across from folks you’re only half listening to as they regale you with tales of their day, too distracted by the scrape of spoons against bowls and the emptiness of your hands.

Greedy, that’s what you’re being. Wanting all of him for yourself. You just miss him. You hate when patrol stretches this long, leaving you alone with your cloying worry.

After the sun has set and bowls have emptied, Jackson goes blue. All the snow piled to frame the gravel roads glitters with fresh frost and ice. On your way back to the house, you watch your shadow slide and flicker as you pass beneath the warmth of streetlamps. Someone down the road has a window open, letting the notes of their piano ribbon through the air. 

Even with all the lights and the chatter that tonight could bring fresh snow to the valley, you can’t help but feel a hollowness that you’ve only managed to shake when Joel’s around and the two of you are alone. It’s not all the time, but it happens—a magic you’d believed impossible before you stumbled across this Eden half-dead and were brought inside. Impossible until you met him, and everything latched into place. 

You’ve loved before. Almost got married once, in the world that’s gone. But there’s no comparing how it felt to fall slowly, clumsily into Joel. 

You’re not sure when he’s due to return tonight. Hopefully soon.

Shedding layers as you tread into the hollow house, you light a weakling’s fire in the hearth you know he’ll tease you for, then ascend to your bedroom to change, flicking the light on upstairs so he knows, whenever he gets back, that you’re home. Waiting for him, empty-handed but no less relieved. But as you cross the gold-lit bedroom, a floorboard near the foot of the bed wheezes strangely. This whole house croaks and groans just like everything in Jackson—that sure ain’t new—but this sound is different. You’re not sure you’ve heard it before. Not sure you’ve ever stepped in this exact place.

A grin slips sharp across your face at the smell of victory. You kick back the corner of the rug to bring your heel down hard against the board beneath it, and pop. Up comes the plank, perfect as a seesaw, revealing the black cavern beneath. 

In the shadowed hideaway, a small box lies in the dark beneath the floor.

There it is.

But all the world beyond this room, this box, disappears the moment you set it in your palm.

You don’t hear the porch steps’ announcement, nor the turn of the latch. You don’t hear the squealing door or how the heavy footsteps soften as he removes his boots to leave outside. Not even your name, often intoxicating on his tongue, reaches you in the bedroom—nor when he repeats it on the stairs. 

You’re too busy staring at what you’ve found after all you’re searching.

Then Joel’s in the doorway behind you, and you wake from what you’ve just now begun to believe must be some strange dream.

“Stubborn,” comes his voice, and at the sound you smack the box against your chest to hide it as you whirl around, still on your knees. Stupid you know. Useless. He can see the rug peeled back and the hole cut out of the floor, slender as a piano key. He knows you’ve won.

Broad in the door’s wooden frame, pink-cheeked and snug in his leather coat, Joel stands with the frosting of fresh snow clinging to his hair. He’s been growing it out, to your great pleasure, letting all his silver and curls go free. “I didn’t—” you start to say, but the words thin out and crumble. Your head’s not on quite straight, your heart not yet settled. Eyes still nickel round with shock.

You hadn’t considered how he might react if you succeeded. Maybe he’ll be mad. Take it back. 

But as you stare up at him, all bambi, Joel shakes his head and one snow-dotted curl slips out from the shell of his ear. As he rights it, his scarred hand rising, you see the dirt under his nails in the warm light. The stain on the knee of his jeans. You see too his lips, plush and touched by winter’s aridity, as they twitch in one corner, curling into his cheek. Curling up. Smiling as his eyes hold yours, not mad. Not shy. He’s been inside long enough now that there’s a fifty-fifty chance that the color in his cheeks might even be a blush. 

“Are you mad?” you ask, your voice soft enough to call a whisper.

He shakes his head again, steps over the threshold, and amber light from the lamp falls over him like Midas, turning him from man to gold. One step more and his mouth pulls wider, cuts that wink in his cheek you can’t help but stare at. “Course not,” he says gently. “Knew you were lookin’. Y’can have it one night early.”

It probably doesn’t mean what you think it means, but you’re surprised to discover you’re hoping as you swallow hard, blinking some of the shock from your eyes. He’s here; you ought to get up and hug him—welcome him home, your person here, safe and whole—but you’re too scared to move. Terrified that any flinch will make the box and its contents disappear. 

“Is this for me?”

Wry, he rolls his eyes. “Think you know it is.”

“I feel bad,” you say. “I got you a shirt.”

He’s generous enough to chuckle, and the low, earthy sound of it strikes flames along the column of your neck. “Could use a new shirt,” he says, smirking a little. “This one needs a wash.”

“Shut up,” you chide, but the words come out weak. He’s not allowed to joke right now because if you laugh, you might start to cry.

“Darlin’,” he says too softly. That’s the tone that makes honey of your insides, cruel in the gentle way it asks you to let him in.

Though your vision starts to puddle, you wrestle the feeling back. “S’pretty.”

The slightest nod. Then he unzips his coat to lay over the armchair in the corner of the room and you watch him, pinned to the floor despite the ache in your knees. “Was hopin’ you’d think so,” he admits with his back to you, the blades and muscles in his shoulders and back sliding gracefully beneath his flannel like waves on a lake. Antithetical to the thunder of your heart, Joel moves with a patience you can’t quite believe. In no rush at all, like you’re not holding what you’re holding in your shaking hands. Like some little band of metal doesn’t mean what it did before the world bit the dust and fell away.

The question sits like an icicle on your tongue, slowly melting, pooling behind your teeth. 

Joel lumbers back, the soreness of his body just barely visible in his bow-legged stride, to sit on the edge of the bed just behind you. The mattress squeaks. One hand cards through his hair. Slow is his next breath. Steady. But on the exhale, you swear you hear the tiniest shake, a tiny tremble. 

Realization strikes down at you like lightning: electric and tingling, zipping skull to spine to fingertips, blinding and white. He’s nervous. 

Which means the ring in your hand isn’t just a ring.

Lamblike, you force yourself to your feet and the mattress mouses as you sink against his side. Igneous is his body against yours—such a familiar warmth. Rigid and walled to all but a few. Open to you, in moments like these, when he lets you glimpse the whole of him in his eyes and you swear you might be capable of reading the thoughts straight from his mind. Joel nudges his arm harder to yours, and you see the question coming before it slips from his tongue. You see it brewing in the gilt of his eyes just as clearly as you hear your own answer ricochet in your head. 

You don’t cut him off, jump to yes. Instead you lower your hands from their hold against your chest at last, letting the box sit in your lap, open to his regard. Evening lamplight makes ice of the clear stone set squarely on its ring, and the heat of his breath kisses your cheek as he leans in to mumble,

“Y’gonna make me get down on one knee?”

dividers by @saradika-graphics!

NOTE: I am officially moving away from tag lists as they've gotten lengthy (thank you for that <3) so please follow @foxglovenotifs and turn on notifications to get alerts for future updates!

[wayfind-er]

Positive Depictions of Zeus

Peter Paul Ruben, "Jupiter and Mercury at Philemon and Baucis" (1632)

Titles & Epithets of Zeus

As a Fair and Merciful God

Μειλιχιος [Milichius]: Gracious, Merciful

Ευηνεμος [Evenemus]: Of Fair Winds

As a Bringer of Abundance and Prosperity

Επιδωτης [Epidotes]: Giver of Good

Πλουσιος [Plusius]: Of Wealth

Απημιος [Apemius]: Averter of Ills

As a Leader, Chief, and King

Βασιλευς [Basileus]: King, Chief, Ruler

Ὑπατος [Hypatus]: Supreme, Most High

Monarch of the Sky (by Homer and Virgil)*

Sire of Gods and Men (by Homer and Virgil)*

ἀρχὸς ἁπάντων [Archus Apantôn]: Commander of All Things*

As a Protector of People, Cities, and Homes

Κτησιος [Ctesius]: Of the House, Property

Λαοιτης [Laoites]: Of (all) the People

Φυξιος [Phyxius]: Of Refuge / Puts to Flight

Ξενιος [Xenius]: Of Strangers, Hospitality

ἀγοραῖος [Agoraios]: Protector of Public Places (assemblies)*

If you're interested in other epithets: LINK || LINK*

Artistic Depictions of Zeus

Francisco Bayeu y Subías, "The Fall of the Giants,"

Charles-Antoine Coypel, "Jupiter and Juno on Mount Ida"

Cornelis van Poeleburgh, “Feast of the Gods”

Maurice Denis, "Jupiter bestows Immortality on Psyche"

Myths with Zeus

War of the Titans: In this myth, Zeus' father, Cronus, has received the prophecy that one of his children will dethrone him. Out of fear, Cronus swallows all of his children as soon as his wife, Rhea, births them. Rhea manages to sneak out one, Zeus. Eventually, Zeus saves his siblings and starts a revolution against his father, resulting in a 10-year war called the Titanomachy. Zeus and his siblings end up victorious, and Cronus is dethroned and thrown into the pit of Tartarus.

Vows of Chasity: At the request of Hestia and Artemis, Zeus vowed that he would accept the two to remain as virgin Goddesses.

Reconciliation of Zeus and Hera: Hera was mad at Zeus and left Olympus for unknown reasons. Zeus couldn't change her mind, so he went to the cleverest man in the land, Kithaeron. Kithaeron told Zeus to spread the news that he would marry a nymph and craft a wooden statue to play the bride. Zeus did so, and naturally, Hera came back angry. However, instead of a wedding, Zeus surprised Hera with a grand festival (called Daidala), and the two reconciled. 

Hera & the Lust of Ixon: Ixon, a mortal King, fell in love with Hera during a visit to Olympus. He tried to rape Hera, to which Hera immediately reported to Zeus. To see if what she said was true, Zeus created a cloud in the sky which looked like Hera. Ixon, who saw the cloud and thought it was Hera, attacked it. Zeus punished Ixon by binding him to an eternally spinning wheel of fire in Tartarus.

Forgiveness of Cronus and the Titans: After many, many generations of Humans, Zeus forgave his father, Cronus, and freed him (and Cronus' brothers) from their prison in Tartarus. Zeus then made Cronus the King of the Elysian Islands (Home of Dead Heroes and the otherwise Blessed).

Orphic Hymn 15: To Zeus

"O Zeus, much-honoured, Zeus supremely great, to thee our holy rites we consecrate, our prayers and expiations, king divine, for all things to produce with ease through mind is thine.

Hence mother earth and mountains swelling high proceed from thee, the deep and all within the sky. Kronion (Cronion) king, descending from above, magnanimous, commanding, sceptred Zeus; all-parent, principle and end of all, whose power almighty shakes this earthly ball; even nature trembles at thy mighty nod, loud-sounding, armed with lightning, thundering god.

Source of abundance, purifying king, O various-formed, from whom all natures spring; propitious hear my prayer, give blameless health, with peace divine, and necessary wealth."

Homeric Hymn 23: To the Son of Cronos

“I will sing of Zeus, chiefest among the gods and greatest, all-seeing, the lord of all, the fulfiller who whispers words of wisdom to Themis as she sits leaning towards him.

Be gracious, all-seeing Son of Cronos, most excellent and great!”

Divider by @/vibeswithrenai

[saphirafoxgirlspost1]

(Open Rp) Alternate story Journey to the west 2: Demon strikes back in "Beauty and the Monkey King"

Long ago in a Distant Land, A land With mountains and barrens where no Birds nor creature was stirring except the sound of the galloping Hooves of the Mighty Kirin who wore a Golden Saddles and armor with Jewels on it.. and The Rider is None other Than Princess Saphira lorraina Fox Of Sakutopia and She is On the Journey to the west to Seek the beautiful Oracle herself. The reason why She heads to west is because It's been 5 Months since the Engagement is Called Off On Prince Daniel Jamerson Rooster after He was Caught cheating on saphira with another woman and being expose right in front of everyone including the Jade emperor himself, not only that She grieves on her dead daughter whom he Killed her beloved daughter in cold blood after she was born and made her passed away by abusing saphira when the daughter is in her womb.. Now Saphira made a Vow to Go to the Oracle to Seek out the husband whom he will be worthy for her hand in marriage.. Then at the 5 finger mountain, She hears someone calling for help.. She looked down and saw a Poor old man who's hair is not even grown on the top of his head.. She asked if he's alright and all, then he told her that he's alright. So she Comes down and asked Him who he is and then he answers that he is named "Sun wukong" known as the monkey king but saphira didn't believe him and neither is Saphira's Pet Marmoset companion Name "Mochi", She and Mochi Thought this man was crazy until when she got out of there..Mochi pointed at the lotus, She is amazed and thought she'll pick the lotus and put it on her beloved daughters urns..when she picked the lotus, it began to burn the lotus as she screams..and everything is on fire..as Mochi shrieks and chitters and began to hide in the kimono, She turns and hears the laughing as she began to ask him if he's alright but suddenly the fireball shoots up from the cave as she looked up as it landed right in front of her to reveal Himself, Lo and behold Sun wukong in the flesh as her eyes widen with shocked and in awe, Then he grabbed her by the Kimono and throws her to the air as she fell, he caught her Right on time and saphira was Suprised and before he said anything, 3 demon hunters appears and try to catch him but they were defeated by Sun wukong himself and then he told her this,

"Since you Free Me Princess, I shall make you my queen as an appreciation." But his moment is interrupted by a Monk Name "Master Tang" known as Golden Cicada.. During the battles, Saphira Saw Buddha putting his one hand down on sun wukong. She close her eyes and then Everything went black Until 2 hours later She awaken and looked around, No monkey king, No master tang, Nothing but a rock barren and shattered Mountains. She could've Swore it was just a dream or so, As the Time went by During her Journey and She began to put her white Cloak along with a celestial Fox mask Hidden her beautiful Face when She enters the Carnival and saw the Familiar face, She realized it was the Same Monk That Fought Sun wukong with his Buddha's palm.. When Master Tang Sees the mystery Fox masked woman he asked to pay to see the Shows.. She nodded and Brings out a Best Chest of Gold and silvers as well and She said, "We Meet Again Master Tang, It's been awhile since we last Encounter." Master Tang was Shocked to see the princess again and seeing Her marmoset companion looked at him and tilted her head..and Then Master Tang said that it was a pleasure to meet a princess in person and he told that it's showtime, he introduce her With Pigsy as Pigsy saw her and began to asked who she is and whats behind the mask, She sees him as a man but behind his disguise he is a Pig, Then He introduce him with Sandy The fish man.. Saphira is amazed by him with his freaky ways, then The Monk began to say "And Finally His excellency the-" Then Saphira cut off, " The Handsome Monkey king Himself, we meet at last.~" She said with a giggles..as people was angered because they thought the travelers are Fakes and all, Master tang Begged the monkey king to Perform as Saphira was right under his branch but then he Sluggishly got off from the branch and he Landed on her and his face on her Big Milky breast as she gasp and her face turns red, She takes a look to see if he's really a monkey king and saw a Golden crown on him. She is convinced that he is.. Then She said, "Oh great Sage Equal to Heaven, Please Show Us the Skills. Show everyone Who you and your brothers really are." Then He began to gets up and then did the good tricks alright but it cause alot of damages..and Then Master Tang Said with an Apoligentic face…

[ozzgin]

I saw these photos on TikTok (Credited from Doyuin with the ID:981642684) and my oh my, it sent me straight to this scenario. Content: female reader, female yandere, religious themes, horror

Yan! Mother Superior who welcomes all lost souls with open arms. Her kindness and benevolence are known by locals and foreigners alike, her reputation even reaching your ears. Overwhelmed by a longing you've never felt before, you packed your suitcase and left your home.

Once you reached the monastery, the nuns rushed you in without a word. You were taken aback by their swift compliance, despite the fact you never introduced yourself, nor your intentions. "I am no mere guest", you wanted to tell them, "I've come to take my vows, and become one of you." But no one listened.

"Mother had been expecting you", one of them finally confessed piously.

That's when you saw her for the first time. A smile radiating warmth, and a pair of bright, all-seeing eyes. You felt like a child soothed by a Mother's embrace, all worries and anxieties seeping away from your body. You were safe.

Days at the monastery are slow and peaceful. You've become indifferent to the world outside, focusing on prayer, and the wisdom taught by Mother Superior. Despite your newfound faith, however, something tugs at your heart insidiously.

Something isn't right with Mother.

What a blasphemous thought, to doubt her saintliness! Yet you cannot seem to put your suspicions at rest. The other nuns are fearful, the priest becomes pale whenever Mother is present. People seeking refuge between the walls of this sanctuary vanish without a trace. You do your best to hide it, but she knows. Her ardent stare strips you of any secrecy.

One night, when you'd been plagued by nightmares in your small chamber, you dropped your rosary. The beads scattered across the polished floor, and you lowered yourself to gather the pieces. That's when you found it: underneath your bed, deep scratches were clawed over the wooden tiles. Do not look into the eyes.

The recollection creeps into your mind now, as you glance at the priest finishing up the Sunday liturgy. Mother Superior observes the ritual with boredom. The church sinks into silence, and she stands up. The other nuns throw their hands in prayer. With calculated nonchalance, she grasps onto the crozier and plunges it directly into the man's chest.

You throw yourself out of your seat, bewildered, speechless. The chanting continues, blocking out the bubbling heave of the dying man. Mother Superior smiles, satisfied. Thick, warm blood slithers all the way to your feet. You want to crawl, to run, to hide, but your body is stiff.

"For the mountains may depart       and the hills be removed,

but my steadfast love shall not depart from you,       and my covenant of peace shall not be removed"

You mustn't fear her. For no one will love you with the same devotion, no one will offer you such unadulterated veneration. The nuns abruptly stop their prayer, and scurry outside.

Yan! Mother Superior who ceremoniously lowers the sharp, bloodied end of the crozier over your head. You hold your breath, petrified.

"No man stands above me", she concludes. Her voice is carried by the pillars, echoing across the empty church, shattering against your eardrums in a most unholy coalescence. A shiver cold as death envelops your being, and you're struck by a revelation:

It was not God's hand that led you to her.

[cillivnz]

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑺𝑨𝑪𝑹𝑨𝑴𝑬𝑵𝑻

[𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘯𝘢𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪]

PAIRING — PRIEST!NANAMI KENTO x NUN!READER

SYNOPSIS — you shift across continents hoping to leave all behind that drifted you apart from the Lord, only to catch the sole reason of your departure waiting for you patiently, with a rosary in one hand and his cock in the other.

WORD COUNT — 2878

WARNINGS — NSFW. MODERN AU. OOC!KENTO (kinda). RELIGIOUS IMAGERY, THEMES & RELIGION IN GENERAL. BLASPHEMY, sacrilege, impure thoughts, cursing, sins & sinning, sex in a church, indecent use of the confessional, DUBCON. oral (m! receiving), fingering, clit-play, biting, nipple/breast-play, unprotected and penetrative sex (p! in v!), overstimulation, against a wall (?), voyeurism, degrading. NANAMI HAS A GOD COMPLEX. there is repetitive mentions of religious themes throughout the smut, from praying to other things.

A/N — GOOD GOD. i’m asking you all for forgiveness, but i needed to do this. i intended it for leon kennedy but something in me snapped and i changed it to a nanami kento fiction, WHICH IS WHY THERE IS MENTION OF A CHRIS REDFIELD, i was too lazy to change it and also i didn’t want to incorporate too much from the JJKverse, so we’ll just leave Redfield at that.

i am NOT anti-religion, this is a common fantasy and i just wished to try my hand at this sinister trope. please refer to the warnings and DO NOT PROCEED if anything mentioned makes you uncomfortable. apologies in advance for any inaccurate detail written. not proofread.

art credits — unknown [pinterest]

LISTENING TO: ‘THE SACRAMENT’ — HIM

[therefore the title].

𝐌𝐎𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐊𝐘𝐎 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍’𝐓 𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐘, but you knew the Lord only wanted what was best for you, and so a new chapter in your life had begun.

A woman above materialism, you leave with only your bible and habit, but of course, you carried the last memory of your past life— a photograph your Sisters took of you and Father Redfield from your hometown, the church you had sworn celibacy to, near the Arklay Mountains.

You loved Chris— Father Redfield, the way you’d love the angels of the almighty, but at times this love prevented you from preaching, causing you to often ponder on your style of living, and the fact that doubt settled in your god-driven mind became the primary reason why you decided to move away, all the way to Tokyo.

Your feelings for Father Redfield made you question your vows to chastity, and you knew at once you needed to get away. So, you left the mountainous foliage at once and settled for the noisy city.

Upon arriving, you were welcomed by a ‘Sister Nobara”, with a soft face and piercing gaze, but none that lingered.

She walked you through the large and lonely halls of the massive church. The infrastructure of your hometown’s place of worship couldn’t compare to Tokyo’s, perhaps the difference in population was the reason why.

Throughout the walk to the nave, you felt an ominous sense of being watched— no, preyed upon, but you and your naïveté blamed it on your nerves. It worsened while you said your prayers, seeking forgiveness for the note on which you left: that doubt and urgency to succumb to hellish pleasures with the priest that couldn’t even reciprocate a smile back to you.

“Ah, there comes Father Kento,” Sister Nobara interrupted the last of your calls to the Lord, the one where you beseeched to attain enough strength to never succumb to lust. You quickly muttered a, “Amen”, and turned to Nobara. You looked at her for a brief moment, before your gaze followed hers and landed on the most devilishly handsome man you had ever seen.

Hell, you had to leave your home over a man who, now, you realise, isn’t even half as attractive as the man towering over you.

You backed away when the sudden proximity hit you, your subconscious mind immediately associating that eerie feeling in your gut with the presence of this man.

“Hello,” his deep voice broke the silence. “Greetings, Father,” you quickly averted your lingering stare onto the wooden floor. There was a stroke of amusement tainted in his tone, “Sister Nobara tells me you come from the Arklay Mountains.”

“She’s right,” you confirmed, still not eyeing him.

He nodded along, eyes still etched on your face.

“Father, if you could excuse me.” Sister Nobara suddenly spoke, causing you to look up at the departing woman. A “But—” was all you could mutter, before Kento put two-and-two-together and figured you sought out your quarters. “I don’t mind showing you around.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, Father.” You laughed, nervously, obvious to the subtle but definite bite of the Priest’s lower lip at the sound.

“No problem, follow me.”

The walk wasn’t as bad as you’d thought it to be; it was worse.

You couldn’t help but glance repeatedly at the seemingly older, definitely taller and the most handsome man you had ever dreamt of, and the fact that he hadn’t turned to look at you, nonetheless utter a single word, aggravated you.

He gracefully halted, and you knew you’d reached your quarters.

“There we are,” he announced, opening the door to let you in before him.

“It’s not much but—”

“It’s perfect.” You interrupted him with a warm smile, genuinely pleased with where you were to be stationed. Father Kento seemed pleased with your response, the small smile that broke out gave it away.

You instantly got to settling in, not that you had many things to place. Just your clothes, holy books and—

“Who is that?” Asked Father Kento the minute your hand reached for the framed memory.

“Father Redfield from the Arklay Church.” You spoke in monotone.

“Is he why you left?”

You didn’t have to answer.

The way you clutched the photograph tighter gave Nanami Kento all the answers he needed.

“Confessional is always open.”

“𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍.” The words rang in your ears, floating in the whirlpool of your disturbed mind throughout supper, and the fact that Father Kento was nowhere in sight was no solace. You decided to say, “Fuck it,” in a god-abiding way, and made your way over to the said confessional.

You step inside the wooden booth, steadying your breath you heard movement on the other side.

“Good evening, Sister.”

“I’m glad you obeyed me.” He said, seemingly in nonchalance, but you could picture a cocky smirk on his handsome face.

“Yes, father,” was all you could muster up.

“Tell me what’s on your mind.” He said so casually, yet compelling enough to get you to open up.

“You were right, Father Kento,” you sighed.

“It’s Chris—Father Redfield.”

“He’s, uh, the reason why I left.”

“Why would a man of the Lord drive you to that limit, Sister?” You heard that raspy voice of Father Kento’s inquire.

All you could muster up was a sigh. Talking about your feelings was something you’ve always struggled with, never there being a crucial need to do so, to redeem, like tonight.

“Because I would find myself thinking about him.”

“In what way?” Father Kento asked almost immediately, not wasting a breath.

“In impurity, lust, and love.”

The sigh on the other wooden end of the booth was almost unheard by you. “Describe them.” Father Kento broke the silence after a moment of halting. “W-what?”

“Describe your thoughts. What did you want to do with him?” You heard fiddling, but chose to ignore it.

“I would— would think about him and I, romantically. If and how things would’ve been different had we not chosen this life. Then, it was natural for excitement to settle in when he’d gently brush past me,” you oddly found yourself at ease, tranquil and nostalgic as you reminisce over the past.

“What about lust?” He interrupted in a tight voice.

“Uh,”

“I thought of his large, aged and veiny hands: grabbin—grabbing me, groping my… breasts…”

The ruffling on the other side silenced you, and when Father Kento noticed, he spoke in a stern tone, “Sister,”

“I need you to let it all out.”

So, you took a deep breath, and did exactly that.

You tell the priest how badly you’d grown accustomed to that ache between your thighs, how damp you would feel while merely observing the older man casually interact with the churchgoers; the tinge of bitterness that coursed through your veins, replacing the electricity that he’d often ignite, but now that you see him caressing the arm of another woman, much like the way he’d do to you, you’d find yourself unravelled in the sin of envy.

“I would find myself wanting to start a family with Father Redfield— by any means necessary. I would’ve wanted nothing more than to feel him inside me, carry his load inside me each night, sleeping in the warmth of his arms while his cum leaks out of me, still puffy and sore but in the need of more—”

You heard him groan.

He fucking groaned.

Your sinful ramblings would’ve persisted had the feeling in your gut not begged for you to shut the fuck up that very instance.

“Tell me, Sister,”

“Was it Father Redfield you felt such vulgarity for, or perhaps, just the thought of a superior— One with the Lord— indulging in you?”

You were speechless. Surely there was no insinuation in his sultry tone, right?

“I— I don’t know, Father.” You cleared your throat, thighs involuntarily rubbing together. You raised your palm to bite the back of it, softly, but enough to distract you. A habit you thought you had rid yourself of, but it still lingers.

“Oh, I think you do.”

Before you could deny the blatant accusation, your eyes land on Father Kento through the open wooden network.

You had now realised that this was the first time throughout your confession that you looked up— at him, and the sight awaiting you had caused you to clutch your rosary and gasp the first profanities you’ve dared to say in decades.

Father Kento sat on a ruby, velvet sofa, while his robe lifted up to his stomach. The first thing your eyes trail to is the smug, sinister look on his face, his slicked-back, disheveled hair, his glimmering eyes and pink lips. Then, his broad neck lacking the amice that is supposed to adorn it. Between his thick thighs, stood tall and angry the most vicious thing you’ve seen.

What made it worse was that he had a hand wrapped around the leaking tip, and in that very hand, was his rosary.

“Like what you see, Sister?” He called you out, and you immediately averted your gaze.

You looked to the ceiling, folding your hands and dropping to your knees.

“No, none of that.” Father Kento ‘tsk’ed at the sound of your prayers, making his way over to your side of the confessional.

“As pretty as you look while begging for mercy,”

“ 𝑰 ’𝑴 𝒀𝑶𝑼𝑹 𝑮𝑶𝑫 𝑵𝑶𝑾. ”

He grabbed ahold of your joined hands, opening them just enough to wrap them around the girth of his cock.

“Pray,” he said, squeezing your cheeks together. When your mouth forcefully opened, he shoved his tip past your plump lips, and you instinctively allowed more inside.

“Good girl.” He groaned, motioning your hands back in forth on his cum-slick cock.

Blasphemy coursed through your blood and all thoughts and prayers left your mind, and you twirled your tongue around his cruel tip.

He growled, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” pushing back your veil and bandeau to let your hair out and grip it.

“Oh, you have no idea what a punishment the past few hours had been,”

“I’d been doing so good. ‘So good,” his voice was weak yet hoarse; he damn near lost his mind when he hit the back of your throat, biting back a whimper.

“I was on the path to salvation, but you,”

“You just had to show up and send me spiralling to hell.”

He plunged into your tight throat one last time, savouring the sight of your hollowed cheeks and plump lips wrapped around his shaft. You bat your long, thick lashes at him and his heart skips a beat when he looks into those doe eyes of yours.

“Get up,” he yanks you up by the arm.

“Strip.”

You were hesitant while bidding farewell to your attire, but there was unknown fervency in your movements.

Once bare, you couldn’t even look him in the eye.

“This is so wrong—”

“—But do you want it?” He asked, his was was stern and soft, his recollected breath made his velvety voice return.

“More than anything I’ve ever known.” You answered in all honesty; only truth came out of you in the home of the Lord.

There was a soft smirk on Father Kento’s face that widened into a genuine smile upon hearing your words. “Come here, then.” He motioned for you close the eternal gap between the two of you, and you nearly leaped into his arms, the distance growing unbearable.

Kissing you, tasting himself on you, Father Kento spoke in between kisses, “I don’t want a fucking word out of you, okay? You’re going to take cock quietly.”

“We want this to stay between us and God, yeah?”

You nodded, letting him corner you against the wooden box.

His eyes darted up to yours and then trailed down to your body. His frustration aggravated at the sight of you, and the fact that you’re the Lord— his master’s forbidden fruit heightens his senses with carnal instincts, making the Goddess in front of him even more insatiable.

“You know I’d have taken my time with you, right?” He nods, enchanting your dumb and dazed state to follow him.

“But you understand how badly I need to be inside you?” You nod, you need it, too.

“And you’ve sworn in celibacy?” He quirks an eyebrow, but the minute you felt the slightest touch of his fingertips along your velvety folds, you forgot all your vows at once.

“Answer me.” His voice carried a trace of humour, but stoic nonetheless, finding your clit and pressing his thumb onto it.

“Y-yes. Yes.” You bit down on your lip and the priest nearly lost it then and there. His free hand meets your face and tucks the pillowy lip out of your teeth’s grasp, stroking it back and forth.

His hand left your cunt, earning pathetic whimpers from you. It went back to his cock, jerking it a few times, leaving you mesmerised, before he gathered the slick that leaked out of the tip and smeared it onto your pussy.

“Prepping you.” He simply grunted, easing one finger into your tight hole. Your walls show hospitality and gladly accept the digit curling inside them.

You were a virgin, but masturbation wasn’t foreign to you.

“More,” you ached, and he obliged.

By the end of your aching heat, you had (barely) accustomed two of his long, slender yet thick fingers. The fervent circles of his thumb on your clit were torturous.

On the brink of your orgasm, spiralling into ecstasy, Father Kento pulled you out. Like a sinister saviour, he pulled you out of enlightenment.

“No! Please— Why?” You blabbered bullshit, too fucked out to care about anything but release.

“I told you I need to be inside you.” His voice was hoarse, the lust evident in his tone.

Watching you right on the edge of unravelling had him throbbing and twitching.

“I need to feel that tight cunt.” He was damn near hyperventilating. “Baby, I’ll go crazy.” He chokes out a sob when you grab his cock by the angry tip and align it with your hole.

He smiled at you, causing you to clench.

How was this blonde bastard so handsome?

Lifting you up with sheer ease, he let your legs wrap around his waist, your arms crossing over his neck, and his dick plunging into you, inch by inch.

You thanked God the tiny booth was tall, so you had enough space to let your head fall back without it touching the ceiling, courtesy of the man balls deep inside you, standing at 6’0.

The snug fit knocked the air out of both of you. Tears ran down your flushed cheeks like a hot spring, the passion with which he embraced you, devouring your warmth against the cold wood set every cell in your body ablaze.

“You’re so fucking— tight. ‘Hot, tight pussy squeezing so nicely around my cock.” Father Kento began pounding into you. Your legs had began to tremble already, but your vicelike grip on his waist and broad shoulders didn’t falter.

His fat cock fucked into you with desperation, the carnality of being wanted so much, so sinisterly by a man who had sworn chastity makes your soul quiver.

You’ll need to make one hell of an apology to the Lord.

As if reading your mind, the blonde priest spoke in a hoarse voice, “Pray.”

“For your sake and mine, you better fucking pray.”

So, you join your hands and close your eyes, bring Father Kento’s face closer to your chest. He closed his eyes, relishing in the feel of your soft breasts embracing his face like the pillowy clouds of heaven he’d never see.

With every thrust, your would slide up the wall, cunt gushing along his length. You said your prayers silently but couldn’t help letting out wanton cries when the tip of his cock would hit a certain spot inside you, and hit it repeatedly.

You were too far gone to hear him say, “Put it in my mouth,” not knowing what he referred to, until he hit the flesh right above your breast. You struggled to let go of his neck, but grabbed the supple flesh and lead it to his ravenous mouth, like a lamb being led to slaughter.

His hot mouth on your nipple; tugging, licking, circling, and nibbling. His cock inside you, fucking you at godspeed. Two of his fingers on your clit, rubbing maniacally; all had you coming undone in seconds.

“Oh, Kento!” You moaned pornographically, driving him to the point of release and insanity when the rhythmic contractions of your cunt pulsated around his twitching cock, and in mere seconds, Father Kento buried his seed deep inside you.

“Good god.” He groaned, parting with your nipple with a ‘pop’ and overstimulating you with slow, deep thrusts; his fingers never once leaving your clit.

“That—”

“—Needs another confession altogether.”

And so every night you’d find yourself cornered up in the confessional, apologising for same mistake you’ve been making every night, with the man whose forgiveness you beg for, on your knees, and repentance he delivers with a rosary in one hand and his cock in the other.

[novaursa]

female targaryen (who is heir to the iron throne) and older twin sister to rhaenyra marrying cregan stark, having children and dance of dragons taking place but she gets to sit on the iron throne as the northern army fights fiercely for her

The Frozen Throne

Requests are closed!

- Summary: You and Cregan win the Dance.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Rating: Mature 16+

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

The day of your marriage to Cregan Stark is marked by a cold wind blowing through the Red Keep, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and snow. Despite the southern heat of King's Landing, the North makes itself known in more ways than one. His presence beside you feels solid and unyielding, like the frozen mountains he rules over. You stand in front of the godswood in Winterfell, where your father, King Viserys, sent you to form this alliance. Yet, here you are, older twin to Rhaenyra, now bound not only by duty but by something deeper with Cregan Stark.

The words are spoken. "I, Cregan Stark, take thee Y/N Targaryen, to be my wedded wife," his deep voice echoes in the ancient grove, every word a vow to protect you, to stand by your side.

Your heart pounds as you mirror him. "I, Y/N Targaryen, take thee, Cregan Stark, to be my wedded husband." Each word lingers in the cold air, joining with the weirwood’s ancient gaze, binding the North and House Targaryen.

His hand is warm in yours, grounding you, as he leans in to whisper, "Now, we are one."

Years pass, and Winterfell becomes your home. The North, harsh and beautiful, mirrors the man you’ve come to love. Your children, with their dark hair and dragon eyes, run through the halls. You raise them in the traditions of both your houses—dragon and direwolf, fire and ice. Cregan teaches them the ways of the North, while you share the lore of the dragons, telling them stories of Old Valyria by the hearth. They carry both legacies within them, as fierce as the winds of the North and as fiery as the blood of the dragon.

The peace that surrounds your life is fragile, like ice cracking beneath the weight of the world. Whispers of war reach even the farthest corners of the North. The Dance of the Dragons begins, the kingdom torn between your sister Rhaenyra’s claim and that of your half-brother, Aegon. When the ravens come, it is Rhaenyra’s name written on the parchment, asking for your aid, your dragons, and your Northern armies.

Cregan stands by the hearth, his grey eyes locked on you as you read the letter aloud. “She needs us, Cregan. She is our blood.”

“She is your blood,” he replies, voice measured. "And you, Y/N, are mine. Do not mistake my silence for hesitation. The North will march."

Your heart swells with a mix of love and fear. "Then we fight together?"

He steps closer, his hands settling on your shoulders, the warmth of his touch steadying the storm in your chest. "Always, Y/N. For our family. For the North. And if the South seeks to tear itself apart, it will know the might of Winterfell."

The armies are gathered. Your children watch as dragons are saddled, and the men of the North begin their march southward. Seasmoke roars beneath you, his wings beating the cold air as you lead the Northern host toward King’s Landing. Rhaenyra stands alone now—Daemon gone, your enemies closing in. But you will not allow your twin to fall.

The battle that erupts in the Crownlands is unlike anything you've ever witnessed. The ground shakes beneath the stomping of hooves and the clash of steel, while the skies above burn with dragonfire. Your Northern banners, emblazoned with the direwolf, strike fear into your enemies, and the dragons rain destruction from above.

In the Red Keep, the Iron Throne looms before you—a twisted, cruel seat of power. Rhaenyra stands at its foot, her eyes weary, the weight of the crown on her head evident in her every movement. But as the battle rages on outside, it is your armies, your dragons, that ensure victory.

"We’ve done it," Rhaenyra says, but there is a hollowness in her voice. "The throne is ours."

You walk toward her, shaking your head. "No, Rhaenyra. The throne is mine."

Her eyes widen in surprise, and for a moment, the room seems to freeze. "Y/N, you…?"

"I am older. I am stronger. And it is the North that brought us this victory," you reply, your voice firm but calm. "It is I who should sit on that throne."

For a moment, it feels as though she will refuse, that this will tear the last shred of your bond apart. But Rhaenyra, weary from the war, bows her head. “Very well.”

When you ascend the Iron Throne, it feels as if the fire of your ancestors courses through your veins. The sharp metal digs into your skin, a reminder of the price of power, but you do not falter. The North has fought fiercely, and now it is time to rule, with the strength of your blood and the might of Winterfell behind you.

The doors of the Great Hall burst open, and Cregan strides in, his armor bloodied, his face a mixture of exhaustion and pride. “Your Grace,” he says, his lips curling into a small smile as he sees you upon the throne. “The North fights for you. We always will.”

You look at him, the man who stood by your side through war and peace, who gave you children and a new life in the harsh North. “Come here, my Lord,” you say softly.

He approaches, and when his hand touches yours, you feel it—the unbreakable bond that has carried you through the worst of this war. Together, you will forge a kingdom of ice and fire, with your children as its future.

You lean toward him, your voice quiet but filled with resolve. “This is our reign now, Cregan. And the realm will tremble before it.”

[theotherpacman]

got s1 is really a very faithful adaptation of agot, with only minor divergences. sometimes I really love the little details in the book that the show doesn't have room for, but sometimes I like the decisions the show made differently.

things I appreciate about the book:

the fact that jon is 14 makes his naivete regarding the wall hit so much harder. he's just a little boy and he's willing to sign his whole life away bc he believes he can be a part of something noble... neither his father nor his uncle nor anyone else tells him that to take the black is a grim sentence steeped in shame

ned hearing that bran's direwolf saved his life and being like "holy shit I killed one of them... what the fuck did I do"

sandor just whole ass traumadumping on 11-year-old sansa completely unprompted and then when he realizes he's just made himself vulnerable for literally no reason he goes "if you tell anyone about this I'll fucking kill you"

mormont thinks jon will be disappointed that bran is now a cripple but jon is so ecstatic bran's alive that he picks up tyrion lannister and spins him around (tyrion is startled by this) and then proceeds to cheerfully make friends with a guy who hates his guts bc jon kicked his absolute ass in training

tyrion and bronn starting to become friends on the way to the vale <3

THAT SINGER BITCH i love him

"whatever you may believe of me, lady stark, I promise you this -- I never bet against my family" screaming crying throwing up

jon going to maester aemon and convincing him to let sam take his vows!!!! using the metaphor of the maester's chain to make his point about how just bc sam is different that doesn't mean he's useless!!!!!!!

TYRION FIGHTING IN THE BATTLE AGAINST ROBB'S MEN!!!!! THE SHOW DID HIM SO FUCKING DIRTY i get that they didn't have as big a budget back then but come on man ToT

"when the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. when the seas go dry and the mountains blow in the wind like leaves. when your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. then he will return, and not before." LET THE BARRENNESS BE PART OF THE CURSE why did they cut that

when tywin says "because you are my son" tyrion fucking Hates him for that bc he knows that if jaime were he tywin wouldn't spare him a second glance, he's only Tywin's Son now that jaime is prisoner and might die at the hands of the starks

things I appreciate about the show:

arya shooting a bullseye from behind bran. queen

jaime being a dick to everyone all the time for no reason. just going around starting shit. also that scene outside robert's bedroom where he talks to jory. jaime in general

ROS!!!!! MY GIRL ROS MY ABSOLUTE QUEEN ROS

"she's our guest." "she's our prisoner." "do you find the two to be mutually exclusive in your experience, my lord?" lmaooooo get his ass maester luwin

"sometimes possession,,,,, is an abstract concept"

THE DRINKING GAME!!!! first of all it gives us more insight into shae as a person who is so different from tyrion's established worldviews, secondly tyrion is always going around saying offensive shit and he thinks nothing of it bc a) people say offensive shit to him all the time and that's one of the ways he deals with it and b) he's usually right BUT when he makes all those assumptions about shae he's totally wrong and she stands up for herself, but my favorite part of that scene is that tyrion is hesitant to share this traumatic story from his past but he's just made bronn and shae confront their traumas so now he has to share too. and I think that's beautiful

all of varys and petyr's bitchy conversations when they're alone in the throne room

this only covers the first book/season I might make more of these as I keep reading

[charonnyxtides]

There's eroticism in "he would go through all the past again to win (my hand), if need be." Actually. A man going through literal Hell and coming back through the mountains irrevocably changed and vowing that he would go through all the blood and darkness and back just to wife this woman.

[makethatelevenrings]

Royalty AU - Simon Riley x f!reader

A/N: 9,335 words (20 pages) all in one sitting. I'm unwell. My mother became increasingly concerned as I didn't move from one spot. This is unedited. I'm sorry but I'm not.

Warnings: period(?) typical misogyny, allusions to sexual assault/rape (reader thinks she will be forced to perform her marital duties), illness, fever, violence, light smut so 18+, Simon being emotionally constipated, pregnancy (at the end)

This is part of my 5k Follower Celebration! Check it out to see if any prompts are still open to claim!

The first time you met your husband was your wedding day.

Crowds of people lined the dirt roads as the carriage lurched across the hills and valleys. Their faces peered carefully into the windows in an attempt to see past the velveteen curtains that obscured you from view. Your dress was a heavy combination of silk and a golden brocade that clung to your skin. The veils of your unmarried status hung around your face, giving the appearance that your face was something precious to behold.

Beside you, mother sat silently. Father was in the carriage ahead of you so he could escort you out once the time came. This was supposed to be a happy day, a blessed day, but all you could feel was dread as the wheels crept closer to the looming castle at the center of the village. Hushed whispers permeated the air and you couldn’t tell if the townspeople were looking at you in pity, anger, or disgust. Who were you? Some princess who was now going to be their queen despite never having stepped foot on their land.

You shut your eyes against the shame that burned at your cheeks. You didn’t open them until the carriage stopped.

“Let’s go,” Father said gruffly. He stood at the door of the carriage with his hand extended. Your mother exited first and then you did, only to be greeted by more hushed whispers and judgmental stares. You sucked in a deep breath and straightened your shoulders, raising your head to focus solely on the doors before you. One step. Two steps. You let the mantra guide you through the hall, past the people seated on the sides of the aisle, and to the raised dais before everyone and the gods.

Your betrothed stood on the opposite side of you. King Riley was as big as a mountain, a maid whispered to you as they dressed you that morning. His cruelty knew no bounds, another said. He killed without mercy on the battlefield. He was violent and vicious. No one had ever seen his face. He was incapable of loving anything but blood. His people were the same. Violent and rude, unrefined and uncivilized. Children left feral in the streets. Men and women who wrought vengeance for the smallest infractions. A kingdom ruled by fear and bloodlust.

When the rider came to the gates of your town with a treaty and alliance written out with the stipulation that the princess would marry King Simon Riley, you knew that you would have to accept. Your people were starving from the famine in your lands. Your parents had raised you for this.

Stepping onto the dais, your hand left your fathers and instead slipped into the larger, gloved palm of the king. Your head raised and you could see through the veils that he truly did wear a mask, something awful with a skull painted across the front of it. He couldn’t have gone without it for his wedding? You averted your gaze and instead focused on the priest. The words reverberated through your ears, but you hardly paid attention to the vows. You knew when to say the right words and how to say it.

And then the priest was announcing your marriage finalized and those gloved hands released yours to lift the edge of your veils. The lower half of his mask was raised to reveal his lips and the kiss was short, perfunctory, and colder than ice. Perhaps your maids were right, you thought to yourself. Fear gripped your heart for the rest of the night. Through the reception, the dances, and the dinner, you waited for this hulking mass of a man to take you to his bedchambers and force you to do your duty.

But he never did.

King Riley, your husband, merely sat back in his chair and watched the dancing couples on the floor. He occasionally spoke to the men seated beside him, but he never once glanced your way. When a maid approached you to take you to your new room, you glanced back at him, but he didn’t spare you a glance. She undressed you without saying a word, so unlike your friend and compatriot Lucy who had accompanied you but was probably packing the carriage for the return home. You would be all alone in this foreign place with no friends, no allies.

The maid left you in your thin nightgown and you sat in the big, empty bed and waited for your husband to come so you could perform your marriage duties.

The door lay untouched. As did you.

When the fire began to dim in its hearth and you realized that he wasn’t coming, you pressed your face into the soft, goose down pillow below your head, and wept, both in relief and out of despair. This was your life now.

The next morning, you awoke to someone gently touching your shoulder. Turning, you expected to see the same stone-faced maid from last night but was surprised to find Lucy standing over you.

“The king asked your father last night if he could retain me on his staff,” she explained. Hope filled your heart at the realization that you weren’t truly alone. One of your closest friends and allies would be here. She dressed you quickly as you picked at the tray of breakfast she had brought. As the bells chimed the arrival of seven in the morning, a knock sounded on your door. You settled yourself primly in a chair by the fire as Lucy went to answer.

“Your Majesty,” a knight greeted you as he stepped inside the room. He was tall, but not as tall as your husband, and his kind smile betrayed the intimidating broadsword that was strapped to his back. His hair was cropped short aside from a mohawk that split down the middle. All in all, he didn’t look like any of the stuffy, dignified knights of your parents' court.

“Good morning,” you greeted stiffly. His smile dimmed slightly and he inclined his head to you and then Lucy.

“My name is Sir John MacTavish, Your Majesty. I was sent to provide you both with a tour of the castle and the grounds.”

“Am I in any danger?” you asked. It was unusual that a knight would be sent to do a simple tour, but this whole court seemed entirely different from the way you were raised.

“No, my lady. It’s His Majesty’s version of a punishment, I’m afraid. He didn’t take too kindly to Sir Garrick and I stealing his sword for a day.” His crooked grin grew. “But if my punishment is to escort two beautiful women, then I fear I will find myself in more trouble.”

You exhaled a huff of laughter as Lucy’s cheeks flushed. This MacTavish was trouble, but he was the kindest person you had met so far in this country. Lucy grabbed a cloak for you and you thanked her for grabbing one without all the ornamentation that your mother insisted was fit for a queen. How on earth were you supposed to get your hands dirty if you were weighed down by jewels?

Sir MacTavish opted to show you the grounds first. The village bustled with activity and no one seemed to pay you any mind, which you preferred. Vendors stood at booths and bartered with tradesmen. Knights patrolled the edges of the market to keep an eye out for anyone with an intent to steal or deceive. Mothers with babies swaddled to their backs and chests carried laundry baskets on their hips. Men headed for the great doors implanted in the walls. They were open now, enabling the farmers, shepherds, and tradesmen to come and go.

Oh, it was delightful.

You were rarely allowed to step out into the village of your home because your mother insisted it was a dirty, loud, disease-filled place. Sure, it was full of voices and raucous laughter, and dirt and dust swirled into your hair and skirts, but it was full of people.

“Now, your main export is wheat, correct?” you asked over the din of the crowd. Sir MacTavish’s large stature and imposing sword made the crowds part, giving you a chance to examine the houses and buildings on either side of you. Lucy slipped her hand in yours in an attempt to stay close and not get swept up in the crowds.

“Aye,” he replied in his thick brogue. “How’d you know that?”

“When I first learned of the proposed alliance, I made an effort to learn about the country,” you admitted. “The orchards are your second greatest export, but I was told that you have to import medicinal herbs from other countries. Is the ground not suitable for those kinds of plants?”

He looked at you with something akin to surprise and then shrugged. “Alex, our main healer, has been trying to grow herbs for a while but they never last. He’s tried damn near everything. We try to stock up before the winter months when the fevers typically arise, but we’ve lost quite a few people to sickness.”

You pursed your lips in thought. “Your land should have the nutrients for the plants to survive. Their must be something else stunting them. Could you set up a meeting with the healer, if that’s allowed?”

The knight scoffed at your question and you felt, for a brief moment, that you overstepped. But he quickly dissuaded that thought. “You’re the Queen, m’lady. Of course that’s allowed.”

Hours later, MacTavish watched you talk with Alex, head bent over a book and finger pressed against the lines of text. Lucy stood next to him, rocking back and forth on her heels. You gestured to something outside and Alex lit up, your talking increasing in speed and volume.

“Is she always like that?” he asked the maid. Pride effused from her veins and she grinned brightly at him.

“Oh yes, she’s always been focused on caring for her people. The King and Queen…” Lucy faltered. “They were not as conscientious.”

When Soap first heard about the impending marriage, he thought Simon was off his rocker, well and truly. Price said it would strengthen their trade and provide protection from the west, but his king was the exact opposite of a touchy-feely love kind of person. But Soap also forgot that they were no longer a bunch of soldiers playing hero on the battlefield, but knights turned politicians. Gaz had nearly laughed himself out of the council chambers when Simon announced his intent to marry, especially to a princess of a small country. All they knew about you was from your parents. Your mother was a known court gossip and cared more about the latest dress trends than the status of her citizens. Your father was known for his callous nature and manipulation of his court.

All in all, they hadn’t heard good things about you.

Simon intended for it to be a purely political marriage. At some point, an heir would need to be produced, but Soap realized pretty quickly that Simon was betting on you producing some sort of bastard heir. Well, he thought to himself, Ghost’ll be surprised to hear about this.

That night, long after Lucy left you to sleep, you found yourself unable to fall into that state of semi-unconsciousness. The bed was too large, too empty for you. Sighing, you got up and pulled on a dressing gown over your thin nightdress and grabbed one of the candlesticks from the mantle. You used the dying light of the fireplace to ignite the wick and used the light to guide your steps out of the room and down the hall to where Sir MacTavish had shown you the library. This was your house too, now. Right?

Carefully, you eased open the doors and slipped into the library to find that a decent fire warmed the seating area. A maid must have left it going on accident and you made a mental note to smother it before you left. 

Shelves full of books lined the room and you tentatively approached the closest one, lifting your candle higher to see the titles inscribed on the spines. It seemed like every book in the world filled this room. You wanted to know more about this country and its culture, economy, everything. Three shelves down, you hit a jackpot and started to acquire a small stack of books that you could carry back to your room.

Until something tugged at the edge of your gown.

A startled shriek escaped you and you looked down to find a little kitten playing with one of the tassels of your dressing gown. You laughed at your own foolishness and bent down to set the candlestick on the ground and offer your hand to the kitten. It chirped and butted its head against your palm.

“Well hello,” you cooed. “You’re just a baby, aren’t you? Where’s your mama?”

“They stay in the library to kill any rats that get in.”

This time, you nearly jumped out of your skin. You didn’t even hear another person approach and certainly not the huge man that stood before you. A gasp escaped you as you pulled your dressing gown closer around your body. You were fully aware of how improper this was. You were a married woman. You were the Queen. You could not be seen half-dressed in the library with a strange man.

His dark eyes tracked your movements and he turned to look at the books beside him. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, by all means, sneak up on a woman at night, all alone,” you huffed. You gave the kitten one more scritch under the chin and then gathered up the books and pressed them against your chest to hide yourself better. Your other hand scooped up the candlestick and you stood to face him. Well. As best as you could. He towered over you easily and you swallowed past the lump in your throat. He was beautiful, in a haunted sort of way. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken before, and a thick scar ran across his cheek and through his lips. Messy blond hair fell across his forehead and some strands into his dark brown eyes. You had never seen him before, but you assumed by his ease of movement in the library and the muscles that rippled under his shirt that he was a knight.

“If you will excuse me now,” you said tersely. He stepped back to give you space and you practically stormed past him and out of the library. No way in hell would you be accused of impropriety.

Simon watched you leave with an amused smile pulling at his lips. He bent down to offer the kitten a gentle pet and noticed that you had left a book behind. Scooping it up, he assumed it would be some frivolous thing but found himself surprised when he read the title. What the hell were you doing reading last years tax collections?

Two months passed and you were settling into your new life quite well. You rarely saw your husband and, when you did, the two of you barely exchanged more than a stilted greeting and farewell. You didn’t mind. Sure, the court and the villagers were starting to whisper about your lack of body changes, but you didn’t give a shit. King Simon hadn’t darkened the doorstep of your bedroom and you preferred it that way. 

Despite the fact that villagers turned their backs to you, for once in your life, you didn’t feel pressured to exist by the constraints of others' expectations. For once, you felt like you could truly just…be.

The winter was beginning to creep up on the land. You could feel it in the mornings when your joints were a bit stiffer and the bed a little more inviting than it typically was. A new fur pelt blanket appeared on the edge of your bed after the first cold front pushed through and you accepted it gratefully. Lucy denied having acquired it, but you figured she was just being demure. King Simon and Sir MacTavish were off hunting with a few men before the winter finally closed the city walls for the season. It allowed you a chance to breathe just a little easier without wondering what your so-called husband was up to.

Despite the cold, you were in the garden plots on the far side of the castle wall. After talking with Alex, you had realized the old garden plot was too close to the castle and absorbed extra heat off of the sun’s reflection from the windows. The new garden spot provided the perfect amount of shade and light in equal turn and the herbs were growing beautifully. Alex had been called to help with a scythe injury in the fields, so you volunteered to gather the last of the herbs before the first frost. Lucy sat nearby with a basket of darning next to her. Your ever faithful friend rarely left your side and you were eternally grateful. Even if you knew she made sure to change out her dress and apron if Sir MacTavish came by to chat.

“Your Majesty!” a shrill voice shrieked in the distance. You glanced up and saw a young boy rushing towards you with two knights hot on his tail. The child’s face was stained with tears and his breaths choked off with the occasional hiccuping sob, but he still outpaced the two knights. You stood and wiped the dirt on your hands onto your skirt and kneeled in time to catch the boy by the shoulders before he bowled you over. The knights drew their weapons, but you raised your hand to stall them.

“What is it?” you urged the boy to explain. “What’s wrong?”

“My mother. She’s ill. Healer Keller is in the fields and Lady Karim went to get him, but she’s getting worse a-and I don’t know what to do,” he sobbed.

“Put your weapons away,” you ordered the knights. The older one left, presumably to fetch help, and the younger one sheathed his sword.

“Your Majesty, it’s the fever,” the knight explained. His soft eyes cast a worried glance at your hands that held the boy, but you brushed aside that concern. He was a child and he needed comfort. He needed to feel as though his mother had a fighting chance.

“Lucy, I need feverfew, ginger, and echinacea. Sir…” You turned to face the knight and he tipped his head in a formal greeting.

“Garrick, Your Majesty.”

“Sir Garrick will lead you to the house. Come, show me to your mother.” The boy grabbed your hand and you used your other free hand to gather your skirts and run. His house was on the opposite end of the village and the braying of cattle and sheep filled the air along with the clanking of their bells. When you stepped into the house, the earthy richness of the soil was overwrought with the pervasive scent of sick. A woman on the bed curled in on herself and let out a violent cough into the rag loosely clutched in her hand. Next to the bed, a baby wailed in its cradle.

“What’s your name?” you asked the boy gently.

“Tommy, m’lady.” Tears lined his eyes once more and you smoothed his hair down, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Alright, Tommy. Can you do me a favor? If I move your sister outside, can you take care of her until Sir Garrick and Lucy arrive?” He nodded his head so quickly, you thought he might injure himself.

You scooped up the baby and placed her in her brother’s arms before you grabbed the cradle and carried it outside, the children following close behind. The cold winter air nipped at your nose and you quickly discarded your fur-lined cloak. You wrapped it around Tommy and the cradle and instructed him to stay outside.

Once back in the house, you rolled up the sleeves of your gown and washed your hands in a basin set up by the door. Approaching the woman, you pressed the back of your hand to her forehead and cursed under your breath.

“Tommy?” she whimpered. You brushed your hand over her brow and shushed her.

“Rest. It’s alright. I’m here to help.”

Lucy came only a few minutes later with the supplies you ordered and a few other things she thought you would need. She then took Tommy and his sister, Eleanor, to the castle to stay at for the time being. The mother, Fiona, wasn’t too far gone in your estimate. You had helped the healers back home during the fever, slipping out when your mother wasn’t looking. The study of herbs and medicine fascinated you, even if it wasn’t a ladylike pursuit. Despite Sir Garrick’s protest at it being too dangerous, you stayed with Fiona even when Alex returned from the fields with her husband in tow. Instead, you banished the two men to find somewhere else to stay to lower their risk of infection. It would be no use if the children lost both parents and the country lost its best healer.

“Inhale, you’re doing great,” you coaxed Fiona through a steam treatment. The echinacea helped relieve some of her cough and the feverfew was bringing her temperature down. You had been at it for hours now and even though your mind ached for rest, you needed to see this through. Sir Garrick posted himself outside of the door and refused to leave until you did, so you weren’t the only one with a sleepless night.

As dawn broke on the second day, so did her fever. You must have dozed off at some point in the early hours and you rose to stoke the fire to keep the small cabin warm. Fiona stirred on her bed and let out a slight cough that sounded much better compared to the first time you saw her. A little bit of color returned to her face and you knew that you were past the point of the illness being lethal.

“Your Majesty,” she breathed. The woman tried to rise from her bed, but you shook your head and motioned for her to stay seated. You poured her a cup of ginger tea and settled yourself on the edge of the bed, helping her drink it in long, slow sips.

“How do you feel?” you asked.

“Better, m’lady. So much better. How did you…?”

A quiet laugh escaped you. “An old healer in my home village taught me all she knew. She was accused of being a witch, but she was really just smart.”

“Tommy and Eleanor? Are they alright?”

“Being doted on by the castle chef’s, I believe,” you assured her. “And your husband is with them. They’re all well.”

Fiona inhaled deeply for the first time in days and then blinked back tears. Her hands grasped yours and she bowed her head. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty. We thought you were some foolish girl. We’re so protective of the king that we just assumed… oh, my Queen, please forgive me for the contempt I felt towards you.”

A wave of both sorrow and adoration washed over you and you hugged the woman close. “You need not apologize. What’s done is done and let us move past it.”

On the third day, with her fever down and the risk of contagion passed, you granted the family to return to the cabin and accepted Sir Garrick’s offer of an escort back to the castle. You were sure you made a right sight, with your dress dirty with soot from mending the fire and spills of both tea and sick staining the fabric. You kept your chin up and shoulders back as you walked through the village. You didn’t want to look at the faces peering through their windows and open doors. You didn’t want to see their judgment at the sight of their Queen in such a disarray.

As you approached the castle, you asked Sir Garrick the question that had brewed in your mind since you left the cabin. “Has the king returned yet?”

“No, m’lady. We expect him back tomorrow.”

Good, you told yourself. He won’t see you looking like this. He won’t be present for what happens next.

Lucy heated bathwater for you and had it ready when you stepped through the doors of your suite. You refused to let her help you undress and bundled your dress into a bag before instructing her to burn it to ensure that contamination didn’t affect anyone else. The scent of rose petals lingered in your nose and you let your head loll back against the rim of the tub. 

“You should go,” you instructed your maid. “I will fall ill in a day, maybe earlier.”

“Is that an order?” You had never used rank on her. It was unheard of between the two of you and the thought of it made you cringe.

“Never.”

“Then I shall stay.”

Through the fog of sleep, you heard the doors shudder against the force of something. Sunlight was streaming through the windows and you could guess from the position of the rays on the bed, it was near noon, far past your usual wake time. You willed your body to rise from the bed, but all you were capable of doing was releasing a violent cough that rattled your lungs and made your bones ache.

The door rattled again and you concluded that it had to be a dream. Another cough escaped you and you looked at the fabric below your cheek to see a small splatter of blood on the fabric. Yes, a dream. You were still at home. You had fallen asleep in a bed of wildflowers in the garden, a book on your chest and a bird perched on your shoulder. The warmth that flowed over your body was simply the sun bathing you in its gentle light.

Footsteps pounded against your eardrums in the steady thudthudthud that matched your heart and you shut your eyes to ward off the ache that accompanied it. A wheezing breath passed through your lips just as two hands grabbed your cheeks.

“Your Majesty!” Lucy cried from somewhere to your left.

“How long has she been ill?” a voice growled above you. You tried to place it to a face, but all you could see was what appeared to be a skull. You couldn’t be that far along in the fever, right?

“This is the second day,” Lucy explained. “It’s only going to get worse tomorrow and, if we can stymie the fever, it will abate and she will make it.”

“Soap, alert Keller now. Bring me rags and a fresh pitcher of water.” You turned your head towards the voice and tried to see past your swimming vision. A delicate touch stilled you and you let out a slow, rattling exhale.

“My lord, if you stay, you risk the security of this nation,” Lucy said quietly. What? What on earth did she mean by that? A calloused thumb rubbed along your cheekbone and you let your eyes fall shut as exhaustion began to claim you once more. You nestled closer to the comforting touch and it stilled for just a moment before resuming.

“I had the fever as a child,” Simon explained to your maid. “And if my wife is brave enough to sit with the sick, then I must be too. Go rest. I will watch her for a bit.”

She meant to protest, but one look at her king made her change her mind. He wasn’t even looking at her, but rather his entire focus was on you. He had charged into the room looking like something fresh out of war when he saw your weakened from sprawled out on the bed. Lucy had been doing her best to provide symptom relief and to lower your fever, but she was exhausted too. Sir MacTavish took hold of the maid’s arm and gently led her to a spare room on the floor so she could rest, quarantine, and regain her strength.

When the fever broke three days later, you opened your eyes to find the hulking form of your husband crushed into the tiny chair he had drawn up next to your bed. One of his rough, calloused hands wrapped around your wrist and you realized with a start that he was checking your pulse. As your heart race increased, his eyes opened. He wore a different mask than usual, just a simple black fabric that bridged across his nose and hid the lower half of his face. It revealed a few scars that marred his temple and you couldn’t stop yourself from reaching out and smoothing the tips of your fingers over the puffy skin. He caught your wrist and you quickly realized your place and started to pull away, but he shook his head and merely drew your hand up to touch the silky blond hair he usually kept hidden from you.

It should be laughable to you. The first time your husband saw you in your nightclothes, in your bed, unmade and unraveled, and it was because you fell ill. This was the first time he had been in your room and it wasn’t for the expected production of an heir.

One of his hands came up to cradle your cheek and the other wet a cloth before dabbing it against your brow. You found that there were no words to say anything. Instead, you merely shut your eyes and let him care for you.

Things changed after that. Gone were the days spent in the company of only Lucy. Now you couldn’t make your way through the castle or the village without someone accompanying you. The villagers greeted you warmly and offered you fresh baked bread or holiday treats. When the first snow fell, you and Lucy found yourself ganged up on by some of the village kids in what turned into an all-out snowball war. Laughter rang out in the courtyard as you dashed around the bend of one of the stables to avoid a well-aimed snowball. Lucy had been tackled by some of the smaller kids and succumbed to them piling on her with shrieks of laughter and giggles echoing off the stone. You could hear some of the older kids coming towards your hiding location and you quickly turned around the corner only to land against a firm, unyielding chest.

Before you could say anything, a hand came up to cover your mouth and your husband raised a finger to his lips. He stepped away from you and bent down to scoop up a handful of snow and pack it into a perfect sphere. By the time the kids emerged from their hiding places, the two of you had a nice pile of ammo growing.

“You dare threaten the Queen?” Simon boomed in an overly exaggerated voice. As you pelted the kids with snow, Simon lunged and scooped up one of the smaller children who erupted into shrieks and giggles. Your heart seized at the sight of one of the world’s strongest warriors gently carrying this child. In all of your time here, you had never seen one of the rumors of the Riley clan come true. They were not vicious or cruel. They were good, kind people. They were as good as their king.

The parents came to collect their children and haul them back inside to warm up. It sounded like a good idea to you as snow dripped down the back of your cloak and soaked your dress. Lucy was off talking to Sir MacTavish, or Soap as he asked to be called, so you started to head inside alone. As you stepped out from the stable, a shiver wracked through your body and then a heavy fabric draped over your shoulder and settled across your body. You looked up to find your husband in a staring contest with one of the horses and you looked down at his cloak that now graced your body. A shy smile bloomed across your lips and you slipped your hand out of the bundle of fabric to seek out his.

“Would you like to join me in the library for some hot tea after we get out of these wet clothes?” His eyes darkened at your words and, afraid you overstepped, you started to draw your hand back when his fingers entwined with yours.

“I’ll have the cooks make hot cocoa,” he said in that rough, rich voice of his.

After a quick change into something dry and comfortable, you made your way down the hall to the library. You hadn’t been in here for at least a week due to being inundated with preparation for the solstice celebrations. Holly hung from shelves and crevices. Warm fur and soft knitted blankets lined the seating area. A tray of sweets and cocoa sat on the low table between the two sofas. A crackling fire jumped and danced within the hearth and beside it, a momma cat with her (now) adolescent kittens slumbered lazily by the warmth.

And standing by the window, watching the snow fall down, was your husband. He turned when he heard the door open and offered you a small smile.

Oh.

A smile.

He wore no mask.

“You were the one that scared me half to death that night,” you blurted out. He ducked his head, almost bashful, and nodded.

“My apologies, once again.”

You stepped closer to him and took a solid look at him in the light of day. You reached up and touched the edge of his lip, right where that nasty scar bisected his smile. There were stories of the old king of this land, stories that you wished desperately weren’t true, but you were afraid of their veracity. This scar wasn’t obtained from battle, you figured. But rather his father.

“You’re so handsome,” you breathed, truth in your words. His eyes watched you carefully as you ran your fingers along every one of his features, as though you could commit the touch of him to memory. When you first learned you would be marrying the King of the Riley lands, you were scared. Was he some snarling beast of a man? Would he take and take and take until there was nothing left of you?

No, you whispered to your past self. He was nothing like the rumors and everything like the man you dreamed you would marry. He was kind and gentle. He cared deeply, so deeply that it etched into every fiber of his being. He read literature, he took care of cats, he loved seeing his people experience joy, and he-

He kissed you as though he was a drowning man taking his first breath in a long time. You raised your chin to beckon him closer and curled yourself into his large frame. There was no fear in your mind or body, not when Simon was here. His large palm settled low on your back and pulled you flush against him, eliciting a tiny moan from you. You could feel his desire grow against you and you pulled away with a gasp.

“I have been a terrible husband,” he murmured and pressed his forehead against yours. You breathed him in and slid your hands up and over his broad, strong chest, his biceps, his shoulders, and into his hair. You tugged the strands gently and he groaned, his lips leaving open mouthed kisses along your jaw.

“I misjudged you, dear wife.” His hands slid down to grasp your ass and you whimpered, your heated fleshing erupting with desire. “I had no idea how precious you would be to me, to my people.”

“I fear we were both wrong about each other,” you gasped out. He picked you up with ease and left the library, turning right instead of left towards your room. For the first time, you were entering his room.

“Let me make it up to you, my love. Let me atone for every day I have left you without knowing how truly worthy you are.”

The maids and ladies of the court had gossiped about how it hurts, but they didn’t speak of what pleasure it could bring. He practically drove you mad from the way he drew you apart and made you snap. He took you apart over and over again only to bring you back together with such a gentle touch that you couldn’t believe that he was yours.

Four months after your nuptials, your husband finally laid you to bed and claimed you as his. But he waited until you breathed your assent against his lips, until you begged him to take you, until you claimed him as yours too. And when you finally collapsed against his sweaty, heaving chest, you waited for him to get up and walk out as so many women told you that their husbands do. But he merely slid his arm around your waist and drew you into his chest, his hand settling over the soft skin of your stomach.

“I have always been scared at the prospect of being a father,” he admitted. His words were stilted and slow, as if he had to consider each one carefully before he said them. You stroked your fingers through his hair and drew his knuckles to your lips so you could pepper kisses along the calluses of war that remained there.

“I’m not,” you said.

“Not what?”

Your eyes met his and he curled his fingers around your jaw, guiding you to meet his lips in a sweet kiss. When you broke apart, merely a hairbreadth away, you spoke. “I’m not afraid. I can be brave for the both of us.”

You nestled your face against his bare chest and hummed softly. His hand stroked along your bare waist, not in desire, but solely as a means to touch you in pure devotion. Your words seemed to stun him, but he regained his wits and leaned down to kiss your temple.

“If you don’t bring me those cookies, dear husband, I’m afraid I will never speak to you again,” you said, cracking one eye open to look at him. A brilliant smile spread across his lips and he hopped up, throwing on some pants so he didn’t scar any guards walking down the hall. You sat up to watch his toned body disappear through the door and bit your lip as want pulsed through your veins.

That night, you didn’t return to your bedroom. You wouldn’t have been able to, you mused, not with the sheer weight and muscle of your husband wrapped around you. But you didn’t mind. Here, in his bed, you didn’t feel the same emptiness or cold that seeped into your bones when you were alone in yours.

Spring brought new life to the world. You sat out in the gardens and plucked some weeds that threatened to overtake your herbs. The kitten from the library, now a full grown cat but definitely still a kitten in your eyes, lounged lazily at your feet. Lucy worked on embroidering something that you pointedly didn’t ask if it was for her wedding night. Because she and Soap refused to announce that they were betrothed even though you all had bets on it. That is precisely why they wouldn’t say, you figured. Brats.

Soap and Simon and Sir Garrick (Gaz, you reminded yourself) were off with a few other knights on a hunting party and also a reconnaissance mission. Word had it that a faction from a neighboring country was looking to cause trouble. Shadows, they were called, due to their ability to just appear and disappear into the forests.

The captain of his guard, John Price, stayed behind to protect the castle. John was a nice man, older than both you and Simon, but he was a good leader and an even better fighter. The knights listened to him and there were times that Simon went to him for advice on matters of state. You trusted John.

So when he approached you that day in the garden with a troubled look on his face, you knew to listen.

“Your Majesty, I have reports of movement on the western quadrant. I’ve dispatched a rider to inform the King, but I am about to place us on lockdown. I need you to come with me.”

Lucy was up before you could even begin to stand and she quickly helped you to your feet and guided you towards the castle. You knew that you needed to keep a serene, calm expression on your face so as not to incite panic. You hated that you were going into hiding when your people would be caught in the crossfire.

“How far is Simon?”

“About two hours away.”

A lot could happen in two hours. A siege could last days or the walls could fall within minutes. You inhaled deeply as you followed him through the winding maze of the castle halls. Time and experience had made you quick to learn the routes through here and hopefully, it would confuse an intruder.

John led you to a small room hidden under the stairs in the servants quarters and offered a reassuring smile. “It’s nothing but a precaution, my lady. But do not leave this room unless the King or I come for you.”

He overestimated your ability to sit quietly and listen to your people die. These so-called Shadows felt no remorse in taking down innocent people. Lucy had to practically sit on you and cover your mouth as you trembled with rage. Hurried footsteps sounded all around you as servants rushed about and knights set up barriers and mounted defenses.

It wasn’t enough.

They attacked at the beginning of spring, when people were lax from the winter feasts and lack of physical work due to being kept inside by the cold and snow. They knew this was when you would be weakest and that’s why they exploited it. 

Fear lapped at your stomach and you shut your eyes as a pained cry ripped through the servants quarters. No, you couldn’t do this. The Shadows weren’t after them. They were after you.

You shoved Lucy back and forced open the door, coming face to face with a knight in black armor. He raised his blade but hesitated when he took in the sight of the circlet that adorned your head. With a chuckle, he raised his helmet and revealed his smarmy face.

“How do you do, Your Majesty? Name’s Graves.”

“Go to hell,” you spat.

The knight dragged you out of the castle with little protest on your end. Servants peered around the corner of walls and furniture as you strode past, but they were safe. Now that the Shadows had their hands on one of the monarchs, they no longer needed to target the people. More of the Shadows fell in behind the two of you and you were glad to pull them away from terrorizing your family. Your friends. Your citizens.

“Your Majesty,” an older man greeted. “I wish we met under better circumstances. Herschel Shepherd.”

“Fuck you,” was your simple reply. The man chuckled and then backhanded you hard enough to split your lip thanks to his thick signet ring. The Shadows spread out in a circle around the three of you, blocking anyone from rushing to your rescue.

“You know why we’re here then,” Shepherd said. Graves yanked you back into a standing position and forced your chin up so you had to look the man in the eye. You simply rolled your eyes and glared at him, your hands bunching in the fabric of your skirt.

“I know you’re a coward. And pathetic.” Another smack to the other side of the face had you tasting blood.

“I know the King probably likes your pretty mouth, but I’m getting tired of it. You know what I want.”

“I won’t do it.”

“Then I’ll slaughter your entire village.”

Your chest tightened because it wasn’t an empty threat and you knew it. You had heard the reports of other villages and countries. You had heard the stories of what they had done to women and children and men.

“Will you do it yourself? Or make your men do it so you can go to bed every night lying to yourself that your a good man?”

His eyes flashed with something dangerous but you didn’t flinch. Rather, you curled your lips into a sneer and spat directly into his face. He grabbed your jaw, hard enough to force your teeth together with a painful clack, and dragged you to face him. His grip shifted down and around your throat, cutting off your air.

“I should kill you. I should. But once I get you to submit and renounce the crown, I’ll keep you around. Looks like Riley hasn’t laid his seed yet so I’ll let Graves do it. I’ll make sure that no matter how hard you try, you’ll have the heir to the Shadows. You’ll be our whore. Our bitch.”

You struggled against his hold and kicked out, connecting with his shin. He released you but Graves grabbed your arms and pinned them back, securing them with rope, before he pressed on the back of your knees.

“Kneel,” Graves hissed.

“Make me,” you snarled. You just needed to buy some more time. You just needed to-

No. Lucy was thrown into the mud next to you, her hands bound behind her back. She was breathing deeply and you could see her wince with every movement. Broken rib, maybe two, you cataloged. Those bastards.

“Kneel and I won’t kill her,” Shepherd commanded. Your heart pounded painfully against your chest as you slowly, slowly knelt down in the mud. He grinned, an awful and predatory smile, and yanked the circlet out of your hair.

“Look at your queen!” Shepherd boomed. “Come out and see how she prostrates herself before her new ruler. It’s alright now. You all are saved.”

Villagers peeked out of their houses and saw the spectacle before them. The Shadows parted to reveal you to the crowds in a mud-stained dress, crown gone, and bruises already forming on your face. A noise rang out in the village, some kind of holler. Shepherd’s smile widened.

“Yes, yes. Gone are the days of eating scraps while your ruler lives in riches,” he called. “Come see for yourself. She’s merely human.”

You bowed your head to look at Lucy and check over her. That’s what you told yourself, at least. You didn’t want to see the truth. You waited for the derision, the sneers, for the anger they surely felt at your failure to keep them safe. You waited for the rage to rain down upon you.

It never came.

A roar, no, a battle cry swept through the village and then they were descending en masse. No amount of armor or training could save the Shadows from the pure, violent rage of your people. You raised your head to see Fiona jab a pitchfork through a knight’s neck and let out a breathless laugh.

Chaos reigned. You wrenched yourself over Lucy’s body and pressed your cheek against your dear friends, listening to her labored breathing below and the sounds of war above. What if a horse struck you? Or a blade stabbed you in the back? What if a Shadow grabbed you and made for the forest? What if, what if, what if?

Someone grabbed your bicep and you kicked back, but a familiar voice calmed you instantly. “It’s me, m’lady!” John shouted. He sliced through your bonds and did the same for Lucy. You turned and saw that he was in a dreadful fucking state. Blood practically caked every inch of his armor and exposed skin.

“We need to get you out of here,” he ordered.

“And go where?” you retorted. “Give me a knife, sir, and watch me cut out every tongue of the men who dare harm my people.”

“Where is my wife?” Simon’s roaring voice erupted over the din. The villagers stopped their rabid attacks as the King’s Guard swept into the walls of the city. You nearly wept in relief at the sight of the masked figure atop the pure black horse. He looked as thought he were the Grim Reaper himself, but death would not touch you today.

Rage filled his very veins when he saw you, battered and bleeding and standing in the middle of carnage. He jumped down from his steed and pushed through the crowd to you. Blood caked your hair and dripped down your forehead and for a moment, he was terrified it was yours.

“Are you hurt?” His armor was cold where it touched your cheek and you shook your head, reconsidered, and then nodded.

“But not as bad as Lucy or others. I need to get to the healers room. I need to help them,” you pleaded. Soap had dismounted and rushed to join you when he saw Lucy and he knelt next to her now, gentle hands probing against her broken ribs.

“Where is he?” Simon snarled. “Where is Shepherd?”

“Right here, sir,” Fiona announced. He turned to find the farmer’s wife with her foot planted on the man’s chest and her pitchfork digging into the exposed skin of his neck. “Lou’s got the slimy bastard too. No one hurts our queen. No one.”

Affection squeezed your heart so tightly you feared you would break down and weep right there. These people, this nation, had adopted you and loved you unlike any other. You were a mere princess married to their king for an alliance but to them, you were their queen by merit alone.

“Round up any of the Shadows that remain,” Ghost ordered. “Leave Shepherd to me.”

You knew he would kill him. In fact, you knew he would torture him. But that didn’t scare you. Simon’s hands didn’t leave you until you were finally pulled away to aid with healing. There were bodies to prepare for burial, items to repair, people to hold as they grieved.

A queen’s job was never done. You wouldn’t give it up for anything.

In the quiet of the night, when the injured were sleeping peacefully thanks to droughts and pain relief, you slipped out of the healer’s quarters and found Simon leaning against the wall. He raised his head when he heard you step out and his tired eyes shut in relief.

“You should be sleeping,” you chastised. He shook his head and removed his mask, baring himself to you.

“I close my eyes and I see your corpse,” he admitted. “John informed me as to what you did. Sacrifice yourself.”

“I did what I had to do to keep them safe.”

He tipped his head back against the wall, exposing the smooth column of his throat and the way his throat bobbed with every labored breath. “I know. Fuck, I know. But I am a selfish enough man to admit that I would have rather you remained untouched.”

“I can be replaced. Our people cannot.”

He screwed his eyes shut and covered his mouth with his hand. Simon inhaled deeply, as if calming himself, and shook his head. “Don’t say that. Don’t ever fucking say that.”

“Say what?”

“That you can be replaced. You are not some expendable object. You are not some figurehead I can stuff a new body into. You are…you are exquisite. You are magnificent. Our people would rather die than ever lose you, do you understand that?” His armor creaked and groaned in protest but this man, this king, kneeled before you and fisted the fabric of your dirty, blood-stained gown in his hands and pressed his face against your stomach.

“Never say that,” he begged. “Please, I cannot bear to hear you say that in my presence again.”

“Simon.” Was that tears you saw in his eyes? “Look at me.” Truly, it was tears that lined his honey brown eyes. You swept your thumb across his lashes and gathered the salty tear on your skin. Leaning down, you pressed your forehead to his and breathed him in.

“What can I do to make you understand?” His voice was hoarse and thick with emotion.

“Nothing. I understand.” Exhaustion sank into your bones and dragged you down into his arms. He cradled you against him and hauled you up with ease. The day’s events were catching up to you quickly and you wished for the sun to rise again, simply so you could move past the blood that was caked on your skin.

He carried you all the way to his -- your shared -- room and set you on the ground before a bath of steaming water. Simon undressed you carefully, peeling off each layer as if you would dissolve once he reached your chemise, and then settled you into the tub. He stripped off his armor, his underclothes, and settled in behind you. His fingers etched their devotion with every gentle pass of soap against your skin and he took your hand in his to scrub the blood out from under your nails.

“Lucy?” Your tired voice sounded foreign to you, like another person was speaking.

“Soap’s with her. She’ll make a full recovery, just in time for the wedding.” A soft smile curled at his lips and you tilted your head back to rest against his shoulder. His lips traced along the cuts that Shepherd’s hands left and he removed the pain with a simple kiss.

“I’m sorry,” you finally said. You could feel his frown against the skin of your neck and he took a deep breath before asking what you meant.

“I lied to you. I’m afraid.”

“Oh my love.” He kissed your shoulder. “I was afraid too.”

“No, Simon, I wasn’t afraid before. I knew you would come. I knew that, whatever happened to me, you would avenge me. That didn’t scare me. It’s what is to come.”

You drew one of his hands away from the side of the tub and rested it on your stomach, above the slight swell that Alex confirmed earlier was indeed the next heir to the Riley throne. Simon’s breath hitched against your neck and then he fell silent. You shut your eyes and waited for his condemnation at your foolish actions today. You could threaten your own life all you wanted, but the heir?

“Simon?” Fear laced your voice and he hated that he put it here. He pressed his cheek to your hair and stroked his thumb against your stomach.

“I was content to rip out one of his lungs,” Simon murmured in your ear. “But now I have two reasons to remove both entirely. He threatened the life of my queen, my love, and he threatened the life of my heir.”

You exhaled a shaky breath and felt a smile grow on your face. He tapped your hip and you stood, letting the water slough off of you and back into the water that was now a mix of mud and blood. Simon took his time drying you off, leaving lingering kisses on every part of your body. Your shoulders, breasts, stomach, hips, even your calves received an equal measure of love. As he knelt at your feet once more, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled his gaze up to meet yours. He settled his chin on your stomach and looked at you with so much adoration.

“Are you afraid?”

His smile grew. “No, for I know you will be brave enough for both of us. And you, my little wife, have the bravery of a lioness.”

[ladykailitha]

The Last Dragon Slayer

This is what my brain gets up when I'm sick and can't sleep.

Enjoy!

~

50 years prior there were a rise in dragon habitations and to combat what the humans saw was an infestation trained dragon slayers.

But the profession is dying out as most of the evil dragons have been slain, and those that try are beat back by their own kind.

In a small kingdom the evil King Richard wants to get rid of the dragon that has taken residence in the mountain nearby.

So he hunts around to find that all the dragon slayers have died or retired long since.

All but one. Sir Steven of Harring's Town. He is a disgraced prince whose mother was eaten by a dragon shortly after his birth and has vowed to find and kill the creature.

The King almost turns him away when he arrives. He is thin, almost too thin to hold up his armor, his horse is on its last legs. His sword is chipped with many battles and held together with leather and tattered silk.

It's clear this man has not known a decent meal in a really long time.

But the dragon must be dealt with.

So the king feeds Sir Steve up for a couple of days so that he at least has the strength to draw his sword and sends off, pointing in the direction of the beast's mountain.

The dragon, Edgewraith, is black dragon with red eyes, claws, and underscales.

He is quite fearsome to behold.

He watches as this piteous creature stumbles off his aging horse and struggles up to the cave entrance.

"How desperate King Richard must be," Edgewraith hisses, smoke and spark spilling from his mouth. “To send me you."

Sir Steven pulls off his helmet and throws it to the ground. "I am the last dragon slayer, monster. All I ask is a shift death and that you mount my head on a spike in front of your cave announcing my demise."

Edgewraith is startled but before he could even form a response, the knight faints.

Two weeks later Sir Steve wakes to find the most beautiful man standing over him with a cup of broth. He has long dark curls and reddish brown eyes. Sir Steven falls in love almost immediately.

Eddie, as the man introduces himself, tells him that no one will come looking for him, as the dragon has spelled a skull to look like his visage and done as he asked.

Sir Steve is dead as far as the world knows.

Steve cries in relief.

The two slowly get to know each other and fall in love.

But before they can make love for the first time, Eddie reveals himself to be the dragon, Edgewraith.

Steve replies that he figured it out a long time ago and didn't mind. He took care of him when no one else would. Of course he fell in love with him.

Eddie knows that they can't couple, because of how hot he runs but one day a stray ember hits Steve in the leg but he doesn't call out in pain.

He picks it up and tosses it neatly into the fire. Once while making dinner for them both, Steve slips with the knife, but he doesn't bleed.

So Eddie starts pressing Steve a bit more about the dragon that supposedly ate his mother. All the villagers had described it as breathtaking. Bright bronze scales on top and warm brown eyes, claws, and underscale.

Eddie knows who this is and sends out the call.

Mirrorsong arrives and when she sees Steve instantly transforms.

"Mother?" Steve cries because the castle had paintings of his mother everywhere and he even kept a miniature he had painted himself with him at all times.

She runs to him and tells him the truth.

She fell in love with his father and married him. But when she gave birth to Steven, her insides burned the midwife's arms, nearly killing her. When the king learned this he banished his wife and raised her son as a dragon slayer.

Steve learns that while he can't change shape like Eddie and Mira, he cannot be hurt and he will live a long life. Maybe not as long as Eddie, but they have centuries instead of decades now.

The old king dies and the new king is kinder.All the kids like to go up to the mountain to play with the two strangers who protect their town.

And everyone lives happily ever after.

[barefoothighlander]

call of duty masterlist

-my requests are open if you have any asks!

-this blog is 18+, mdni, if i notice you’re an underage or ageless blog i will block you

-all posts will have individual warnings, smut indicated with a *

-taglist form

simon ‘ghost’ riley

absolution (18+) masterlist

summary: you're a sniper and hostage negotiations specialist in the military, secretly married to Simon, as the knowledge of your relationship would compromise both your posts. one night he comes home from a mission and you tell him that Price wants you on the team for an upcoming 141 mission.

spillways (18+) masterlist

summary: you joined the 141 a year ago, your file is completely redacted and no one knows anything about you, other than your code name, ‘phoenix’. you keep to yourself but have caught the eye of ghost, who seems intrigued by your presence and is determined to find out who you are behind the mask you put up.

mary on a cross (18+) masterlist

summary: you've recently moved to manchester, while looking for jobs you come across a run-down pub looking for bartenders. upon meeting its owner simon, you find out there's more to him than meets the eye. mercenary/vigilante au

the vow (18+) masterlist

summary: you’re betrothed to the future king of Guilder and a fearsome knight is assigned to protect you. medieval au

mini series

never going back again (18+) masterlist

summary: ghost finds himself at the wrong safe house, injured and unable to call for backup

cards on the table (18+) + soap

summary: ghost and soap place a bet on who can sleep with you first

septem peccata mortalia (18+) masterlist

summary: a collection of oneshots based on the seven deadly sins

pick and go (18+) masterlist

summary: you work as an athletic trainer for the manchester rugby team and accidentally sleep with one of their players rugby au

call me little sunshine (18+) masterlist

summary: you come home for summer break to find a new man has moved in next door, he’s charming and mysterious so you welcome him to the neighbourhood. dark themes

one shots

two birds

everlong

fear of the dark*

something sweet

cherry*

hysteria*

sweet creature

snake mountain blues* (cowboy au)

requests

epiphany

the very first night*

no more tears

forever

in the night

delicate

duality part 2 part 3*

sick day part 2

reaper

threesome (+ könig)*

monster!ghost (+ könig)

angel on my shoulder

mask kink

faked o*

protective!ghost*

jealous!ghost*

sub!ghost*

readers crush on ghost

ghost & cats (gn!reader)

headcanons

ghost x sunshine wife!reader hc

ghosts corruption kink*

ghosts office*

lieutenant ghost*

ghosts breeding kink*

ghosts tongue piercing*

jealous!ghost*

ghost x touched starved so

141 oneshots & headcanons

141 x fem!reader*

141 and calling them daddy

141 x adhd!reader

price x recruit!reader*

under prices desk*

price x adhd!reader

prices superiority kink*

price x noisy!wife*

gaz x sunshine wife!reader hc

homecoming (könig x wife!reader)*

sharp shooter (könig x fem!reader)*

ser schön (könig x gn!reader)*

könig x sunshine wife!reader hc

graves x enemy!reader*

[eugenedebs1920]

You know!? It ticks me off this perception that Donald Trump, J.D. (Jerkin Dicks)Vance, even Musk, is somehow manly. I mean, Trump and Ol Jerkin D wear more makeup than my wife! You can’t say that’s all just for television. Musk looks like if Smeagal had only kept the ring for 250 years as opposed to 500. His Prrreeeccciooouussss. None of those guys project masculinity. It’s the varsity cricket team and their weird gangly friend.

Does anyone remember when Trump tried to act like he knew how to use a shovel 🤣🤣🤣 That sh*t cracked me up!! Like ‘MFer, where have you seen someone attempt to shovel like that!?’

Then J. Dick Vance projects uncertainty in his sexual identity. It cool if your gay, but don’t fight being gay so much that you are viscous to women and marginalize those who’ve figured out who they are and are not overcompensating for it. it’s coo Jerkin D! We’ll still hate you either way.

I’m pretty sure Musk is a supervillain. But like if Dollar General had a comic book action figure series.. He’d be the main villain in that. Corneal Creepy McBillions, somethin like that.

These guys definitely got picked on in grade school and vowed to get revenge by making everyone else miserable. Thanks bullies! 😑

Speaking of. If you haven’t constantly put people down, talk sh*t on people, (I realize the irony as I’m sh*t talking these f*cks but, physically I don’t think any of them could take me, but power wise, what they could have done to me!! They’d ruin my world..) pinpoint and pick on a vulnerable individual or group, pretty much, if you get hard by making people laugh at or join in on teasing or bullying someone, that itself reeks of insecurity. It shows the flaws in yourself, you’re hiding by putting those flaws onto others before someone sees them in you. Trump is the master of that! If he accuses someone of something, he’s definitely guilty of it.

It doesn’t make you any less of a man to be kind. It’s isn’t a feminine to treat women with respect. It doesn’t make you macho to be a prick. Being racist and ostracizing immigrants doesn’t protrude masculine traits.

You know what women find sexy. Confidence. Knowing who you are, what your values are, compassion, knowing the difference between proper and improper, and sticking to those principles regardless what others would say or entice you to do. Being a good person, because that the good thing to do, proud of oneself, but knowing there’s always room to grow and learn.

I certainly don’t see what’s would constitute being attractive when you are borderline in a cult, infatuate with a 80 year old politician who bankrupted casinos, been accused by 23 women and adjudicated for sexual assault, shameless grifter, hateful, cruel, racist, bully f*ck. It’s just, sorry to say it, weird.

I have a heart and care for people, I build houses for a living. I believe in equality and the rights for EVERYONE, I can rebuild an engine. I think women are people (who knew!?) and should be in control of their own destiny, I am pro 2nd amendment and love to go shooting.

I’ve been in bar brawls, climbed mountains, go hunting, chop wood, ride atv’s, snowboard, go 4wheelin, camping, have a big beard, drink beer, and I think everyone is entitled to dignity, despite their sexual preference, race, religion, gender, what their hair looks like, whatever. Why? Because it’s basic human respect.

The last 2 times America actually won a war it was Democratic (BIG D 😉) administrations. The only 2 presidential administrations to not add to the deficit in the last, nearly 60 years, were both big D Democratic administrations. Democrats passed the Civil Rights Act, all the racist Dixiecrats jumped ship and became Republican. Democrats nominated and elected the first African American president. We have TWICE nominated a woman at the top of the ticket.

While Republicans are whining about having to wear a mask LIKE EVERYBODY ELSE DID, Democrats passed legislation to address the problem of unemployment, of vaccinations, of shipping logistics, while they were at it passed a HUGE infrastructure package, invested billions in green energy (our future) and ensured national security by manufacturing the technology materials needed to be the best in the world. Simultaneously creating a ton of well paying, respectable middle class jobs.

The right is too busy talking about Jewish space lasers, and checking out Hunter Biden’s junk, and keeping weed illegal, and worrying about bathrooms and sh*t.

How is that manly at all?! Acting like a bunch of whiny immature kids! They even whine when they win!! It’s stupid! It’s a waste of time, money and energy. Just grow up and do the job you’re elected to do!

So yea… I would say the right isn’t the vision of manhood they pretend they are. It’s overgrown children, spoiled to the core, acting out because they want it their way 😤

What shows manliness is doing your job, and doing it to the best of your ability. Being a kindhearted person and willing to help someone in need. Being true to yourself, and in turn others. Being knowledgeable yet willing to learn. Being brave, but admitting when you’re scared.

[wwinterwitch]

new vows – din djarin x gn!reader

summary: the first time din ever removed his helmet in front of you

pairing: din djarin x gn!reader (no pronouns used)

word count: 2.5k

warnings and tags: fluff and angst + good ending, insecure!din, established relationship, kissing, the helmet's removed, doesn't follow the plot of the show at all (it's just din, reader and grogu being a happy family)

author's note: oof i hate how this turned out but my best friend read it and told me to post it so here we are, i hope it doesn't suck as much as i think it does

a reblog and/or comment on my posts really help me out as a content creator so thank you in advance if you take the time to do either!

navigation | pedro's characters masterlist | star wars masterlist

Din was observing you and Grogu from the entrance of the Razor Crest, arms crossed across his chest as he leaned against one of the walls of the ship. He smiles to himself when he hears the child giggling after you put a flower at the top of his little head, immediately reaching out with some difficulty to grab a flower from the ground and offering it to you.

"Thank you, Grogu. It's very pretty!" you say to the baby, who looked absolutely thrilled to realize you liked his gift. 

The kid stands from the ground, lifting both of his arms as a sign that he wants to be carried. Already familiar with the gesture, you quickly lift him up from the ground before laying on your back in the middle of the landscape filled with lilac and light pink flowers. The baby giggles again, holding onto you as you both lay there.

Din's smile fades just enough shortly after that when the inevitable thought pops in his head again. That annoying and sudden thought that always makes an appearance during the day. 

At first he didn't mind, finding ways to always push it away before it got to him. However, it's been more and more frequent these past couple of days and it's becoming a bad habit he seems unable to control at this point, and it's starting to really annoy him.

His mind is filled with all these doubts and insecurities. Not only because of the content of what he's thinking, but because it's completely impossible to push it away now. Almost like an avalanche, it falls down the mountain at a rapid, devastating speed and it only seems to get bigger as minutes pass. It destroys everything in its way. In this case, the prime and only victim is Din.

Perhaps the worst part is that it always ruins what should be pleasant moments. If Grogu is looking up at him from the ground begging to be carried, the thought is there. Whenever you wrap your arms around him or grab his hand when the two of you are exploring yet a new planet, it's there. Even when he's trying to sleep right next to you, hearing the faint sounds of the baby already asleep, you can bet that thought will be there to torture him.

Because all of those little moments he shares with his partner and son remind him of the fact that neither of them even know who he is. Sure, they know how he is, but not who.

Every touch is not really a touch, it's just skin brushing against a uniform. Every exchange has a helmet hiding his features. They can hear him laugh, but they don't see his eyes squinting just enough and the smile that adorns his face. They can hear him remind them of his never-ending love for them, but they don't get to look into his eyes as he says it.

And it hurts because his mind has tricked him to believe none of those moments are real. Because they've never seen the man that claims to care for them so much, none of it is genuine. It's just touching a uniform and hearing empty words coming from a helmet. It almost makes him feel like a droid rather than a human, leaving him longing for that real connection. 

He knows he probably shouldn't, but he craves that actual contact, which is something he never felt before you two showed up in his life. 

Being a Mandalorian and living by their code was easy. He never even considered breaking his vow because nothing and no one was ever worth it. What could possibly be more important than this? That's what he would always ask himself and he wasn't able to come up with an answer– until you and Grogu showed up.

Now that you two are here, it's obvious to him that his priorities have changed. He wants to commit to an entirely new code. To prove his undying fidelity to his family and make a vow to the two of you.

But that brings another set of insecurities that make this entire situation a lot more difficult for him. As much as he needs to truly feel connected to you, he's terrified of what that connection means. It's obvious that in order to obtain that, he needs to take off his uniform. Most precisely, his helmet– which is something he has never done in front of anyone. Ever.

So that's when his mind is yet again filled with negative thoughts. What if you don't like what's under the helmet? What if you already have a picture of him in your head and he disappoints you because he looks nothing like it? What if you suddenly don't love him anymore because he's not what you expected at all? And what if Grogu rejects him too? He couldn't deal with either of you not liking what has been hiding underneath all the Beskar.

That's the complicated mess that's been haunting him for a few weeks. That inner struggle he has tried to keep hidden from the two of you. Should the helmet stay on despite being an obstacle to reach the depths of connection he needs to have with his family, or should he remove it and risk rejection? Is it better to settle or search for more?

He feels pathetic. The supposedly fearless bounty hunter is terrified of even thinking about taking a risk. Going on adventures used to be a lifestyle. Now, the mere idea of it is enough to fill his mind with self-doubt, making it almost impossible for him to make a decision.

He thought about it later that day when the three of you were already inside the Razor Crest and getting ready to go to bed, really considering his options and trying to create different outcomes to this hypothetical conversation that kept playing inside his head.

You were telling Grogu a bedtime story when Din joined the two of you. He sat on the bed and listened to you speak as he watched the baby, who was struggling to keep his eyes open at that point, holding onto the little blanket covering his body. 

By the time the story was over, Grogu was already completely asleep. You carefully brushed his face with your pointer finger in an affectionate manner, smiling down at him before focusing on Din.

"Ready to go to bed?" you asked.

"You'll tell me a bedtime story too?"

The comment made you laugh. "I think you're a little old for bedtime stories."

"Ouch. I'm not old."

"I said a little old," you quickly correct, putting both of your hands on his shoulders. He quickly lifted a hand that was resting on your hip a few seconds later. "Not the same as just old."

You smile down at him as he gently caresses you from your hip all the way down your thigh before his gloved fingers trails back up. Your smile inevitably takes him to the dark corners of his mind again because he knows you won't be able to see him smiling back at you.

His next words came out very impulsively. "Can we talk?"

Evidently, you were a little concerned after hearing that given the tone he used. "Is there something wrong?"

"I've just been thinking a lot lately...there's something that's been bothering me and it won't leave my head."

"Okay..." you said, trying to be receptive to what he was saying but still having no idea of what's going on.

"Neither of you know what I look like," he decides to simply confess. Why would he try to over explain something that is actually quite easy to say? "And I've never...you know, actually touched you," he adds, his helmet titling towards his hand still resting on your hip, hinting at the glove covering it.

"I mean, yes...but that's because you're a Mandalorian. It's what your people do, right?"

Din nods after your words. "It's part of our code, but...I don't know. It's been bothering me because lately this entire uniform feels like an obstacle. I still feel like it's a part of me but...it also stands in between us."

"I've told you how I feel about the suit," you quickly say in a soft, reassuring voice. "I don't mind it one bit."

"I know, I know. This isn't because of something you did or said," Din explains. "I guess my priorities have changed."

"You mean...?"

"I mean, I care more about connecting with you than with my traditions. I've started to question things I never took a second to consider before you and Grogu showed up. I want to be able to touch you– really touch you. And I want to look at you and talk to you. Not through a visor and a modulator," he further explains, feeling like a weight is lifted off his shoulders. "I don't need to be a Mandalorian when I'm with you two. I just need to be Din."

"Oh, darling," you start affectionately, feeling so incredibly in love with the man sitting in front of you. "Whatever it is that you want and need, I'll support you no matter what. Helmet or no helmet, you're still the guy I fell in love with."

"Really?" he asks with evident worry.

"Of course," you immediately reassure him.

"I guess it took me too long to talk about this because...well, I didn't know if you'd like what's underneath the uniform."

"Din," you call in a very serious voice, hoping that'll hint just how much you mean your next words. "I love you so much. I love you because you're the kindest man I've ever met. You're loyal, passionate, brave...and you care so much about me and Grogu. I could stay here and mention a trillion things about you that make me fall in love with you every single day. You're the one I want to spend the rest of my life with and nothing in this world is ever going to change what I feel."

He was quiet for what felt like forever, simply staring up at you while you held the helmet in between your hands so you could stare directly at his visor where his eyes should be. 

"You can't see it but I'm smiling, by the way. This is a good silence," he offers, which immediately makes you laugh.

"Is it okay if I take it off and see that smile for myself?"

He hesitated before answering. "Are you sure you won't change your mind?"

"I promise I won't change my mind."

There was another pause before he finally answered. "Okay..."

You start to remove his helmet in a gentle, slow manner. If he wanted to stop you, he could at any second. You really didn't want to rush it because you still wanted to give him a chance to back down if he wanted to. 

The fact that he wears the helmet all day in front of you has never been an issue. You fell in love with the person he is, whatever he looks like couldn't possibly matter any less to you. That love is not going anywhere. Ever.

It looks like Din is confident in his decision because he doesn't stop you at any point. He continues to keep one of his hands attached to your hip and the other rests on his lap for a few seconds until he uses it to help you completely remove his helmet.

Still holding it with both of your hands, you look down to admire his face. You can tell by his expression that he's terrified as he stares back at you, impatient for any hint of rejection. He was still expecting to see the disappointment all across your features before you take a step back from him and reveal he's nothing like what you expected.

But that disappointment never appeared. Instead, he's relieved to see the smile forming on your face before you leave the helmet next to him on the bed, immediately reaching out to grab his face.

Din practically melts under your touch, closing his eyes and focusing on just how good it feels to have your skin touching him for the very first time. The way your soft fingers trace his cheeks before they move down to his jaw...it feels like absolute heaven.

And you take your time with that. Your digits explote his features as if contemplating them wasn't enough. You needed to touch every inch of his face in order to truly appreciate what's in front of you. 

The most beautiful sight ever. The man you love so much, looking even more handsome than you could've ever predicted. From his soft brown eyes to the hint of a beard, he's so perfect you can't believe you're seriously this lucky.

"So?" he dares to ask. Hearing his voice without the modulator for the very first time almost made you feel goosebumps all over your body. How is this man so pretty?

You could've just said that. You could've stood there and told him over and over how pretty he is, but it didn't feel like it was enough. No words would ever begin to explain the admiration you have for this man, even before you knew what he looked like.

After feeling his skin for the very first time, you could only crave more. It was probably that inefficiency of words and the need for more contact that made you lean down and kiss him for the very first time.

He kissed you back instantly, the grip on your hip tightening just enough as he completely gave in to you.

It was evident you were his first kiss, but that detail couldn't be any more insignificant right now. His lack of experience didn't bother you. All you could think about is how lucky and happy you are to have him as your partner.

The kiss lasted for a few more seconds before you pulled away, failing to hide your smile when you saw his face. It was evident he was already missing the way your lips feel against his. 

You stare at him again for a bit, caressing his flushed cheeks, before you finally decide to speak. "Does that answer your question?" Din was still too lost in his thoughts to reply out loud, so he simply nodded. His reaction after your first kiss made you giggle, and you swore right there that you've never felt happier in your life. "Good. I'd like to kiss you again if that's okay."

Another nod, this time looking more desperate, was all you needed to kiss him again. You got more comfortable as you sat on his lap, knowing you'll be there kissing him for a bit, feeling his arms wrap around your lower back to keep you close as soon as you sat down.

And as he holds you in his arms, he knows he made the right choice, silently vowing to be yours for as long as you allow him to.