#that’s symbolism for your dead wife

[marbletheunworthy]

‘Abbey’ -Mitski

[bluerosefox]

Everything, including the bride. WAIT, BRIDE?!

Pariah Dark had, much like in the afterlife, had been a tyrant ruler when he was alive. He ruled with an iron fist and despite having many trophy concubines (from conquests and others) he wanted his actual partner to have some intelligence. So he set up a magical puzzle box and whoever solved it would have the honor of being his 'Queen'.... That was all before he died of course and later forgot about the box when he set his conquering sights on the Infinte Realms.

But some things from the living can still count even in death.

So when Tim Drake found the box at his first and only archeologist dig site he was brought to with his parents and solved said box after sneaking off with it he unknowingly became the Ghost Kings 'bride'.... Unknowingly he dodged that huge bullet when years later Danny Phantom beat Pariah Dark in rites of conquest and gained everything under Pariah's name...

Including his future 'bride.'

[devourerofcheesecake]

@dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

Exploring the others body but in a distinctly body horror way

[novaursa]

Hour of the Wolf

- Summary: Cregan keeps his promise to you, and delivers Northern justice to the South.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: These events happen right after The Wolf's Flame. To read all parts of this story, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top. This is the last part (conclusion) for this series.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Word count: 5 000+

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

The cold wind that blows down from the North seems to follow him even here, into the heart of the South, where the air is usually filled with the warmth of the sun. Yet today, the skies over King’s Landing are heavy with a gray pallor, as if the gods themselves know that justice is at hand. You are not here to witness this, but you are the reason for it. Every step Cregan Stark takes is one of duty, but also of love—love for you, his Y/N, his beloved wife, and the mother of his children.

The streets of King’s Landing tremble under the march of Northern boots, the sight of direwolf banners casting long shadows against the red stone walls. Cregan’s expression is as hard and unyielding as the land he comes from, his gray eyes focused on the path ahead. He is the Lord of Winterfell, the Wolf in the South, and today, the Hour of the Wolf has come. 

Outside the Red Keep, the air is tense, the men around him anxious. They know what he is capable of; they know the purpose behind his presence. Justice. It is the promise he made to you, and the promise he will fulfill. Waiting at the gates, he finds two figures—one is the boy king, Aegon, the youngest of your mother’s children, and the other is Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, your grandfather. 

Aegon stands tall, but there is a shadow in his violet eyes, a weight that he has carried since he took his place as the King of the Seven Kingdoms. Corlys, too, has the look of a man who has seen too much, but still, there is a fire in him, one that refuses to die despite the years of war and loss.

As Cregan approaches, it is Aegon who speaks first, his voice steady despite the turmoil that surrounds him. “Lord Stark, we have been expecting you.”

Cregan nods, his gaze unwavering. “And I have come as promised. The South will know the meaning of Northern justice.”

Corlys steps forward, his eyes sharp as they search Cregan’s face. “The traitor Aegon II is dead, found poisoned in his chambers,” he announces, his tone devoid of satisfaction, yet also lacking in sorrow. “The throne is now secure, but the realm is not yet at peace.”

For a moment, the air is still, as if even the city itself is holding its breath. Cregan’s expression does not change, but there is a flicker in his eyes—a glimmer of something darker. “The death of Aegon II was too swift,” he says, his voice low and filled with the cold of the North. “He deserved more for what he did to your family, for what he did to my wife.”

Aegon shifts uncomfortably, but Corlys holds Cregan’s gaze, understanding the weight behind those words. “Justice has been served, in one way or another,” the Sea Snake says, his voice carrying the wisdom of his years. “But what of your children, my grandchildren? How are they?”

The question brings a softness to Cregan’s hard exterior, a flicker of warmth that only thoughts of you and your children can invoke. “They are well,” he answers, a hint of pride in his tone. “Safe in their mother’s embrace, in the heart of Winterfell. And Killian, our eldest, has had a dragon hatch from Thraxata’s clutch. A fine beast, worthy of a Stark and a Velaryon.”

Corlys’s eyes widen at the news, and even Aegon’s lips twitch in something that almost resembles a smile. The thought of a new dragon, born of your bonded dragon, Thraxata, the Midnight Fury, a creature of polished obsidian and violet fire, is enough to stir the blood of even the most hardened man. It is a symbol of your strength, your legacy, and the legacy of the children you have borne with Cregan.

The Sea Snake nods, his gaze distant as he considers the future. “A new dragon, a new beginning,” he murmurs. “Perhaps there is hope yet for this broken realm.”

Cregan does not reply immediately. Instead, he turns his gaze toward the towering walls of the Red Keep, a place that has seen too much bloodshed, too many betrayals. He thinks of you, of the letters you exchanged before he rode South, the promises made between you. He is here to fulfill those promises, to ensure that your family, your children, will inherit a world where they can grow without the shadow of war looming over them.

Finally, he speaks, his voice as unyielding as the North. “Hope is something that must be earned,” he says. “And I will see to it that this realm is worthy of the children it will one day belong to.”

With that, Cregan Stark, the Wolf in the South, turns his back on the Red Keep, his mind already turning to the tasks ahead. There is still much to be done, and he will not rest until justice, true justice, has been delivered. For you, Y/N, for your children, and for the memory of your family.

As he walks away, the wind picks up, carrying with it the chill of the North—a reminder that Winterfell, and all that it holds dear, is never far from his thoughts.

The throne room of the Red Keep is a place of power, but also of shadows—of secrets whispered in the dark and blood spilled on the cold stone floor. Today, however, it is a place of judgment. Cregan Stark, the Wolf of the North, stands before the Iron Throne, his presence imposing, his expression as cold as the winter winds that sweep across his homeland. The crown has been secured, the usurper dead by poison, but the realm still bleeds, and it falls to him to stitch its wounds.

He takes his position as Hand of the King with a heavy heart, but with unshakable resolve. Justice must be done, and he is here to see it through, not for his own glory, but for you, his beloved Y/N, and for the future you share. He remembers the words he once whispered to you in the quiet of your chambers, promises made in the stillness of Winterfell: to protect, to avenge, to make the world safer for your children. Today, he begins to fulfill those promises.

Before him stand nineteen men, the accused, each bearing the weight of their sins. Traitors, conspirators, men who played their parts in the bloodshed that tore the realm apart. They are the remnants of a conflict that has claimed too many lives, the final vestiges of a regime that crumbled beneath the weight of its own ambition.

Cregan’s voice rings out in the hall, deep and unwavering, as he addresses them. “You stand accused of treason, of betrayal to the crown, and of crimes that have brought the realm to the brink of ruin. Justice is what I seek, and justice is what you will receive.”

The room is silent, the tension thick as his words hang in the air. There is no mercy in his tone, no room for doubt or leniency. The eyes of those before him are filled with a mixture of fear and resignation. They know what is coming, and they know there is no escape.

Cregan’s gaze moves across them, his expression unreadable as he delivers the sentence. “Those of you who have been found guilty, you will take the black. You will live out the remainder of your days on the Wall, defending the realm you have betrayed. Your lives are forfeit, but the Watch will have your service.”

There is a murmur among the accused, some relief, some despair. The Wall is a harsh fate, but it is life, of a sort. But not all will receive such a sentence, and they know it.

Cregan turns his gaze to the two men who stand apart from the others, Lord Larys Strong and Ser Gyles. They do not flinch under his scrutiny, though they know what fate awaits them. They are men who have accepted their end, men who understand that the blood they have spilled cannot be washed away by mere words.

“For you,” Cregan continues, his voice colder now, “there will be no such mercy. Lord Larys Strong, Ser Gyles Belgrave, you have been judged, and your sentence is death.”

The room is silent again, the weight of his words settling over all who are present. Cregan steps forward, the greatsword Ice in his hand, the Valyrian steel gleaming in the dim light of the throne room. It is a blade that has seen many executions, a blade that carries the history of House Stark in every inch of its steel.

Without hesitation, Cregan raises Ice, his muscles rippling beneath his furs as he prepares to deliver the final justice. The men before him kneel, heads bowed, accepting their fate. It is a grim task, but one that must be done. For you, for your children, for the future of the realm.

The blade comes down, swift and sure, and in a single stroke, both men fall. Their heads roll across the cold stone floor, the blood pooling at Cregan’s feet. The sound echoes in the chamber, a final, resounding note of justice delivered.

Cregan stands over the fallen men, Ice still in his hand, his breath steady. He feels the weight of his duty, the coldness of the act, but also the warmth of satisfaction. It is done. The traitors have paid for their crimes, and the realm can begin to heal. 

As he steps back, wiping the blood from Ice with a cloth handed to him by one of his bannermen, a raven arrives. The black bird flutters through the open windows of the throne room, a small scroll tied to its leg, the wax seal of Winterfell visible even from a distance.

Cregan’s heart skips a beat as he takes the scroll, recognizing the seal immediately. It is from Maester Kennet, and he knows what news it carries. He breaks the seal with a steady hand, though inside, his emotions swirl. The paper crinkles as he unrolls it, and he reads the words written in the familiar script.

"Lord Cregan,

It is with great joy that I inform you that Lady Y/N has given birth to a healthy son. Both mother and child are well. The boy has been named Rickon, after your noble father. Winterfell rejoices at the birth of its heir, and we await your return.

Maester Kennet"

Cregan’s heart swells with a warmth that almost overcomes him. Rickon. Another son, another piece of the future you will build together. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing himself to picture you in the great hall of Winterfell, holding your newborn son in your arms, surrounded by Killian and Alysane. He can see their smiles, hear the laughter that will fill the halls once more.

He tucks the letter away, the coldness of the throne room fading as he turns to leave. His duty here is nearly done, and soon, he will return to you, to your children, to Winterfell. He will hold his son, he will see your face, and he will feel the warmth of home once more.

But for now, he is still the Wolf in the South, the Hand of the King, and there are still tasks that must be completed before he can return to you. He steels himself, knowing that with every step he takes, he is one step closer to home, one step closer to you and the life you have built together.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth, its warmth chasing away the chill of the Northern winds that rattle the ancient stones of Winterfell. The room is quiet, filled with a peaceful stillness that you savor, holding your newborn son close to your chest. Little Rickon, barely a few days old, sleeps soundly in your arms, his tiny breaths warm against your skin. His dark lashes rest against his pale cheeks, so much like his father’s, and you can already see the strength in his small features, a promise of the man he will one day become.

You sit in a chair by the fire, wrapped in furs that keep you warm and comfortable. The weight of your son is a soothing comfort, grounding you in this moment, despite the swirling thoughts that sometimes pull your mind southward, toward King’s Landing, where your husband, Cregan, now walks paths that you wished you could have shared with him.

It was a hard decision, staying behind. You wanted to be there at Cregan’s side, to see justice served for what was done to your family. But the weight of your pregnancy had kept you here, in the North, far from the seat of power and the vengeance that now unfolds. You had argued, begged even, but Cregan, in his stern but loving way, had insisted. His duty was there, and yours, he said with a gentle hand on your belly, was here, with the child you were carrying and the children who needed their mother.

You sigh softly, glancing across the room where your other children play. Killian, your eldest, is sprawled on the floor, his dark hair a wild tangle as he wrestles with a small dragon, a hatchling from Thraxata’s clutch. Vexion, as Killian named him, is a striking creature, barely larger than a hunting hound, with scales of deep midnight blue that shimmer like sapphires in the firelight. His wings, though small, are strong and powerful, the membranes tinted in the same shades of violet as Thraxata’s, and his eyes, bright and alert, match the deep purple of her own.

Killian laughs as Vexion snaps playfully at his fingers, his little teeth harmless for now, though you know that one day, they will grow sharp enough to rend flesh and bone. But for now, the dragon is just a playful companion, a symbol of your legacy and the bond your family shares with these magnificent beasts.

Alysane, your daughter, sits beside her brother, her pale hair cascading over her shoulders as she carefully arranges a set of wooden figures. She’s creating a scene, you realize, a miniature version of Winterfell with figures of wolves and dragons placed carefully around the perimeter. Her little brow is furrowed in concentration, but she smiles when she hears Killian’s laughter, her violet eyes sparkling with the same mischievous light that often shines in Cregan’s when he is teasing you.

Watching them, your heart swells with love and pride. These are your children, your future. They are the reason you stayed behind, the reason you now feel a deep sense of contentment despite the ache of being apart from your husband. Here, in this room, surrounded by the warmth of the fire and the presence of your children, you find peace.

Rickon stirs in your arms, making a soft, contented noise, and you gently rock him, brushing a kiss against his tiny forehead. “Hush now, little one,” you murmur softly, your voice filled with a tenderness that surprises even you. “Your father will be home soon, and then we’ll all be together again.”

The thought of Cregan’s return brings a soft smile to your lips. You imagine him walking through the doors of the great hall, his face breaking into a rare, warm smile as he sees you and the children waiting for him. You imagine the feel of his arms around you, the strength and warmth that have always been your greatest comfort. You imagine introducing him to Rickon, watching as he takes his newborn son in his arms for the first time, the pride and love shining in his gray eyes.

But for now, you are content. Content to be here, with your children, safe in the heart of Winterfell. You have known loss, grief, and the cold touch of betrayal, but you have also known love, fierce and unyielding, and that love has given you these three beautiful children, each one a piece of your heart walking around outside your body.

“Look, Mother!” Killian’s excited voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you look up to see him holding Vexion aloft, the little dragon’s wings flapping furiously as he tries to stay airborne. “Vexion’s learning to fly!”

You laugh softly, a sound full of warmth and joy. “He’s doing wonderfully, my love. Just like you.”

Killian beams at your praise, setting Vexion down gently on the floor. The dragon immediately scampers over to Alysane’s miniature Winterfell, sniffing curiously at the wooden figures. Alysane giggles, gently guiding him away from her carefully arranged scene.

You watch them with a full heart, feeling the warmth of the fire, the weight of your newborn son, and the love that fills this room. Yes, you wish you could be with Cregan, standing beside him as he delivers justice, but you also know that this—being here, with your children, holding Rickon close—is where you are meant to be. 

You lean back in your chair, closing your eyes for just a moment, allowing the peacefulness of the moment to wash over you. Soon, Cregan will return, and your family will be whole again. Until then, you have this—this quiet, this warmth, this love. And that is more than enough.

The air in Winterfell is crisp with the first touch of spring as you stand at the gates, your heart pounding with anticipation. The sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the courtyard where you wait with your children. The news of Cregan’s return reached you only this morning, and ever since, you’ve been unable to keep the smile from your face. You’ve missed him with a deep, aching intensity, and the thought of having him home again fills you with a joy that’s almost overwhelming.

Killian and Alysane stand beside you, both of them practically bouncing with excitement. Killian’s hand is clutching Vexion’s leash, the little dragon sitting obediently at his feet, though his violet eyes are alert, as if he too can sense the importance of this moment. Alysane’s hand is in yours, her small fingers squeezing tightly as she peers down the road, searching for the first sign of her father.

The minutes feel like hours, but then, finally, you see them: the first of the riders cresting the hill, the Stark banners flapping in the wind, and your heart skips a beat. Cregan is home. 

As the riders draw closer, you spot him at the front of the group, his dark hair falling loose around his shoulders, his broad frame unmistakable even from a distance. The sight of him stirs something deep inside you, a rush of warmth and love that makes your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Father!” Killian’s voice breaks through your reverie, and before you can stop him, he’s running across the courtyard, Vexion darting after him with a playful roar. Alysane releases your hand and follows suit, her laughter ringing out as she races to meet her father.

Cregan dismounts with ease, dropping to one knee just in time to catch Killian in his arms. Alysane is close behind, and he sweeps her up as well, holding both of them tightly against his chest. His deep laugh rumbles through the air, the sound of it filling your heart with a warmth that melts away the last remnants of the cold that had settled there in his absence.

You watch them, your vision blurring slightly with tears. This is what you’ve been waiting for, what you’ve dreamed of during the long nights alone—this moment, when your family is together again. 

Finally, Cregan looks up, his gray eyes meeting yours across the distance. For a moment, the world seems to stop, and it’s just the two of you, connected by the unspoken love that has always been the foundation of your bond. He rises to his feet, one arm still wrapped around each of your children, and as he walks toward you, you feel your breath catch in your throat.

When he’s close enough, you close the distance between you, your hands reaching up to cup his face. His skin is cool from the journey, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth that has always drawn you to him, the steady, reassuring presence that you’ve missed so much.

“Cregan,” you whisper, your voice trembling with emotion.

He smiles, that rare, genuine smile that’s reserved only for you and your children. “Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice deep and rough with emotion. “I’ve missed you.”

And then his lips are on yours, gentle at first, but quickly deepening as the months of longing and separation melt away. His kiss is everything you’ve needed, everything you’ve craved—warmth, love, passion, and the undeniable connection that has always bound you together. You lose yourself in him, in the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer as if he can’t bear to let you go.

For a moment, the world fades away, and it’s just the two of you, lost in each other. You can feel the beat of his heart against your chest, strong and steady, a reminder that he’s here, he’s home, and you’re safe in his arms.

When you finally pull back, your forehead rests against his, and you take a moment to just breathe him in, to savor the feel of him against you. “I’m so glad you’re home,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

Cregan’s hand comes up to brush a strand of silver hair away from your face, his touch tender and filled with love. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he replies, his eyes soft as they gaze into yours.

Killian and Alysane, sensing that they’re witnessing something special, are unusually quiet as they cling to their father’s legs. But you can see the joy in their eyes, the way they look up at him with adoration and love. 

Cregan glances down at them, and then back at you, his smile widening as he takes in the sight of his family. “I’ve missed so much,” he says, his voice tinged with regret.

You shake your head, squeezing his hand. “You did what you had to do. And now, you’re home. That’s all that matters.”

He nods, his eyes shining with the same love and pride that you feel swelling in your chest. “I’m home,” he repeats, as if savoring the words. Then, he looks at you, his expression turning more serious. “How is Rickon?”

Your heart swells at the mention of your youngest, and you can’t help but smile. “He’s perfect, Cregan. Just like his father.”

Cregan’s smile softens, and there’s a tenderness in his eyes that makes your heart flutter. “I can’t wait to meet him,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

You nod, taking his hand and leading him toward the keep. “He’s waiting for you,” you say softly. “We all were.”

The walk to the great hall is short, but it feels like a journey, each step bringing you closer to the home you’ve longed for, the completeness you’ve missed. When you enter the hall, the warmth of the fire greets you, along with the familiar scents of Winterfell. But it’s the sight of the small cradle by the hearth that draws your eyes.

Cregan steps forward, his movements careful and reverent as he approaches the cradle. Rickon is awake, his tiny fists waving in the air, and when Cregan leans down to look at him, you see the wonder and awe in his eyes.

“He’s beautiful,” Cregan whispers, reaching out to gently touch his son’s cheek. Rickon’s eyes, a soft gray like his father’s, blink up at him, and a small, contented smile spreads across his tiny face.

“He looks just like you,” you say softly, stepping beside Cregan and slipping your hand into his.

Cregan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Rickon’s. “No,” he says quietly, “he looks like us.”

The words bring a lump to your throat, and you lean into Cregan’s side, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. This is your family—whole, safe, and together. 

You stay like that for a long moment, just watching Cregan with Rickon, feeling the love and contentment that fills the room. Then, slowly, Cregan straightens, his eyes still filled with that soft, tender light as he looks at you.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice full of meaning.

You smile up at him, your heart full to bursting. “For what?”

“For giving me this,” he replies, his hand gently squeezing yours. “For our children, our home… for everything.”

You reach up to cup his cheek, your thumb brushing against the rough stubble that you’ve missed so much. “We built this together,” you say softly. “And now, we’ll enjoy it together.”

Cregan’s eyes darken with emotion, and he leans down to capture your lips in another kiss, this one slow and full of promise. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel his breath mingling with yours.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispers, the words a vow, a promise, and a declaration all at once.

“I love you too, Cregan,” you reply, your voice filled with all the love and devotion you feel for him.

The world outside may be cold and harsh, but here, in this moment, in this place, you are warm, safe, and complete. Cregan is home, your children are safe, and your family is whole. And that is all you need.

Excerpt from Fire and Blood by Archmaester Glyndwyr, Chapter: "The Hour of the Wolf and the Dawn of the Dragon"

The Dragon That Followed the Wolf

In the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm lay in ruin, its people exhausted from years of bloodshed and treachery. The Iron Throne, once a symbol of absolute power, had become a seat of sorrow and conflict. Aegon III, the Dragonbane, who had ascended to the throne at a young age after the fall of his mother, Rhaenyra, found himself ill-suited to the demands of kingship. His reign, though marked by attempts at restoration, was overshadowed by the lingering shadow of the civil war and his own deep-seated melancholy.

It was in this time of uncertainty and discontent that voices began to rise among the lords of Westeros, calling for a new ruler—one who could unite the fractured realm and bring about a new era of prosperity. These voices soon coalesced around a single name: Killian Stark, son of Cregan Stark and Y/N Velaryon, a boy of strong bloodlines and even stronger will, who had already shown promise as a dragonrider, bonded to Vexion, a dragon of Thraxata’s clutch.

Killian's lineage was beyond question. As the great-grandson of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Laenor Velaryon, his claim combined the noble blood of House Targaryen and House Velaryon with the unyielding strength of House Stark. With his mother Y/N, the only daughter of Rhaenyra, and his father, Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell, Killian embodied the unity of the North and the Targaryen bloodline.

It was Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, who first championed Killian’s cause. The aged and wise Lord of the Tides, having outlived nearly all of his contemporaries, saw in his great-grandson the potential to restore what had been lost. The Sea Snake's influence and respect among the lords of Westeros were unmatched, and his advocacy for Killian as the rightful heir to the throne was taken with the utmost seriousness.

Corlys's argument was simple yet compelling: the realm needed a king who was not only of noble blood but also one who could command the loyalty of the dragonlords and the great houses alike. Killian, with his Stark resolve and Targaryen fire, was that king. He was a boy with the blood of the dragon in his veins, and unlike his predecessors, he had a dragon at his side—a symbol of the power that once ruled the skies of Westeros. Vexion, though young, was already growing into a fearsome beast, his deep midnight blue scales and violet eyes a reminder of the might of House Targaryen.

The Great Council of 138 AC was convened at Harrenhal, a place chosen for its neutrality, to decide the fate of the realm. The lords of Westeros, weary of war and eager for stability, gathered to debate the future. Among those who spoke for Killian was not only Corlys Velaryon but also his father, Cregan Stark, who had already proven his dedication to justice during the Hour of the Wolf when he served as Hand of the King and dispensed justice to those who had betrayed the realm.

Cregan Stark was a man of honor and few words, but his presence at the council carried weight. It was said that when Cregan rose to speak, the hall fell silent, and every lord in attendance felt the weight of his words. He did not advocate for his son out of ambition but out of duty—to his family, to the realm, and to the memory of those who had suffered and died during the Dance of the Dragons. He spoke of the need for a ruler who could command both respect and fear, a king who could rebuild what had been broken, and a dragonlord who could ensure that the skies of Westeros would never again be darkened by treachery and betrayal.

The lords of Westeros, many of whom had fought in the Dance or had seen their lands ravaged by it, were moved by the arguments presented. They saw in Killian Stark the hope of a new beginning, a ruler who could bridge the divides that had torn the realm apart. The fact that he was a dragonrider only strengthened his claim, for the memory of dragonfire was still fresh in the minds of many, and the power of the dragon was seen as essential to maintaining order in a realm as vast and diverse as the Seven Kingdoms.

Thus, it was decided by the Great Council that Aegon III, whose reign had been marred by personal tragedy and political strife, would abdicate the throne in favor of Killian Stark. Aegon, who had always been more comfortable away from the throne than upon it, accepted the decision with grace, retiring to Dragonstone, where he would live out the remainder of his days in relative peace.

On the first day of the new year, in 139 AC, Killian Stark was crowned as King Killian I of House Stark and Targaryen, the Dragon-Wolf, first of his name. His coronation was a grand affair, attended by lords and ladies from across the realm, each of whom pledged their loyalty to the new king. As the crown of Aegon the Conqueror was placed upon his brow, Vexion let out a mighty roar, his wings unfurling as he took to the skies above the Red Keep, a symbol of the new age that had dawned in Westeros.

The reign of King Killian I was marked by a period of reconstruction and renewal. With his parents by his side—Cregan Stark as his most trusted advisor, and Y/N Velaryon as the queen mother—he worked to restore the realm to its former glory. The North and South were united as never before, and under his rule, the great houses of Westeros found a new sense of purpose and loyalty to the crown.

During their marriage, Cregan and Y/N had more children, each of whom played a role in the continued stability of the realm. Their eldest daughter, Alysane Stark, was married to the heir of the Vale, further strengthening the bonds between the North and the South. Their younger sons, Rickon and Jory, were given lordships and served as key figures in the court, ensuring that the realm remained united and strong.

King Killian I’s reign saw the rebuilding of many of the great castles and cities that had been destroyed during the Dance. The Targaryen bloodline was secured through alliances with the other dragonlord houses, and the power of the Iron Throne was restored. The scars of the past were not forgotten, but they were healed, and the realm once again prospered under the rule of a strong, just, and wise king.

In the end, the Dragon-Wolf proved to be the ruler that Westeros needed—a king who could command both the loyalty of his subjects and the respect of his enemies. His reign ushered in a new era of peace and prosperity, and his legacy would be remembered for generations to come as the king who brought the broken realm back to life.

Thus ends the account of King Killian I, the Dragon-Wolf, and the legacy of House Stark and Targaryen.

[multific]

A Thousand Years

Astarion x Reader

Summary: Astarion tells a story of love.

"Tell me about your wife." said the man sitting in front of Astarion, the room was quiet around them, only the crackling of the fire could be heard.

Upon hearing the word, wife, Astarion's features softened. 

"It might be a long one."

"I want to hear it." insisted the man as he leaned back in his chair, waiting for Astarion to start.

Astarion smiled, his eyes filled with love as he began.

"My wife... My beloved Y/N. She saved me you know, in more ways than one. She not only helped me kill the man who caused me so much pain and suffering, but she saved me from myself.

My beloved was a strong woman, brave and incredibly beautiful. She was a kind soul and yet, she could kill a thousand men without taking a break.

She loved songs and loved to dance. Although that might be because I was the one dancing with her. She often said she didn't wish to dance with anyone else but me.

She enjoyed sweets. But only the ones I have given her.

And even if I told her not, she kept on eating them.

It has been so long yet, I will never forget her laugh. She became my world. You know, it wasn't even intentional, I fell in love by accident. I was only meant to seduce her so she would help me kill Cazador. And yet I found myself in love.

But make no mistake, I never regretted the feelings I have. Not once. Falling in love with her was so easy.

I am quite privileged to be able to tell that she was my wife.

My... scars on my back, she cried when she first saw them. She hugged me and told me how sorry she was for I had to endure such pain. She kissed me and cried at the same time. I was so confused by it, I didn't know what to do.

But then, not long after, I asked her to marry me." Astarion looked at the gold band on his finger.

"I never believed in marriage, I thought it was silly for people to bind themselves to one another, and the symbol of it all... a simple ring. I laughed at the idea until I met the person I never wanted to let go of again. Suddenly I wanted nothing more but to have her bonded to me and for me to be bonded to her. I looked and searched for the perfect rings. Matching ones, but hers had a simple stone in the middle. A stone which was made of our blood. The perfect diamond, mixed with my and her blood. And then, we were married. Not like the words of others mattered to me, I would have been happy just to have her in my life, but to have her as my wife... it meant everything. 

I will not bore you of the events directly after the wedding, leave it up for your imagination I suppose, but I can assure you, she was the first woman who could have me at her feet with a simple look.

And she always looked at me with so much love and care. She was always so gentle and lovely.

When people say love burns like fire, they lie, my love for her burns like lava, much like the core of the Earth. I was ready to destroy everything and everyone who would dare get between us. If I had to, I would have burnt down villages for her, for she was mine.

And not long after, she gave me the greatest gift. 

A gift so precious.

I will never forget the look on her face when she told me, pure happiness.

She was with child.

Something I never even thought would be possible for me and yet there she was, getting more and more round with my child, with my son. Our son.

She was the sun for me. I have lived a long life in darkness and pain, and she made it all go away with a simple simple. I had a life of happiness thanks to her." Astarion leaned back in his chair once more when the noises from the kitchen stopped.

"STOP TELLING PEOPLE I'M DEAD!"

"I have never used the word 'dead', My Love." Astarion turned to look at you as you exited the kitchen.

"But you made it sound like I am." you pouted as Astarion looked at the ring on your finger, he smiled as you placed the food on the table. "Don't listen to him, Love, he is but an old romantic." you said as you sat down.

"I am very much aware, Mother. I just like to listen to him talk about you." admitted your son as he smiled at the two of you. Now a grown man, yet all you could see was him as a little boy running around the house, hair silver like his father's but eyes the same as yours.

"That's because I love your mother very much."

"I love you too." you replied as you all finally began to eat.

You two loved each other for a thousand years, and you will continue to love for another thousand to come.

Your son could only hope to find such love.

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~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

DO NOT STEAL, REPOST OR TRANSLATE ANY OF MY WORKS  

[tethered-heartstrings]

hannibal: remember the time I lied to you about your physical and mental illness and gave you seizures and let your fever get dangerously high and convince an old classmates to join in on the gaslighting? :)

will:

hannibal: remember when I burned someone you cared about alive and convinced you you killed a bunch of people and shoved the ear of our surrogate daughter down your throat and messed with your fishing lures and got you put in prison for my crimes? :)

will:

hannibal: remember when I killed your good friend and displayed her in little slices and sent someone to kill you and got your biological child aborted then symbolically aborted the surrogate daughter you already thought was dead but you got to see alive for 5 seconds before I slit her throat and made sure she bled on your face after gutting you and blaming you? :)

will:

hannibal: remember when I gave your escape plane ticket away to someone and tried to replace you with someone I don't love at all and then sliced your head open because you are my most specialist boy and I just *had* to eat you because I love you? :)

will:

hannibal: remember when I just had to have you and no one else could so I sent a serial killer to kill your wife and child because why not make it three for three in killing your children? :)

will:

hannibal: good times :)

will: remember when I said I'd miss my dogs but not you

hannibal: will, why are you so unforgivably cruel. a wickedness that would even make god jealous. a heartlessness never before seen in the history of mankind. why must you make me your victim

[shooting-love-arrows]

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐄! 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐍

SYNOPSIS: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 who according to the sacred tradition of his peaople kiddnaps his bride. PAIRING: 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 x Female! Reader tw. kiddnaping, mention of blood, general lack of consent (becaouse history says screw it), mayhem. WRITER DISGRESSION: I do not support this kind of behaviour! It is only a piece of fiction and and for entertaiment putpooses only. Thank you for your attention!

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

It was a sacred tradition among his people, passed down from generation to generation in his clan. Filled with adrenaline and led by primitive instincts, the soon-to-be groom/husband kidnaps his future bride and wife from her home. 

𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 were traditionalists when it came to domestic life and topics related to love. He believed his ancestors and their ways of ‘wooing’ their subjects of affection were not only successful but also the truest form of confessing one’s feelings for their beloved.

Perhaps only taking you from home in the dead of the night would be better for an outsider like you, who is yet to understand the way of his people. But whenever he thought about it, 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 was holding a belief that you deserved better. Something memorable and "romantic," quoting the wives in his village.

That is why he didn't hesitate to raid your village at night.

Dressed in his best furs and leather, additional beads attached to his long, messy hair, and all sorts of accessories tied to his clothes symbolizing his impressive position among his clan. He was at the front, proudly riding his trusted stallion and leading the group of his best warriors on galloping horses towards where you were residing.

Not soon after they'd arrived, everything was set on fire. The barbarians didn't spare a hut from the unforgiving force of nature of their torches. Even some unfortunate fellas couldn't escape from it. Some fortunate ones were given a quick death by the sharp blades of barbarians. 

It was the mayhem, gifted to you by 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧.

“Oh my dearest wife, where are you?” He kept thinking, urgently looking all around. Adrenaline and euphoria were pumping in his veins. He was a predator on a haunt, ready to pounce on you the moment he saw you. 

And found you he did.

The second he laid his eyes on you, he got into an action. Without hesitation, he quickly urged his horse to gallop towards you. It didn’t matter who he tramped on his way, nor who he slayed to get closer to you. His full focus was placed on you.

You stood no chance.

When he was close enough, like a hawk, 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 swiftly leaned down and tightly gripped your waist, hoisting you up on his horse like you weighed nothing. You began to scream and trash in his iron hold, but it didn't phase him one bit. In his eyes, it was endearing and even arousing. He knew from the stories of the other married man that the more a woman puts on a fight, the better wife she’ll be. 

"Shhh...beloved...shhh!" 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 cooed, fervently kissing away your tears and wet cheeks and holding your hands tightly to his broad chest. Some of the blood splattered on his face he smeared on your snot coated face by nuzzling into you. Between whispering sweet nothings to you and coating your face and neck in his kisses, he couldn't help but laugh. His deep and raspy voice came rumbling from his chest, only frightening you further.

For 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞! 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 everything was perfect. Under the night sky, surrounded by flames (of his passion) and screams of villagers mixed with the mad laughter of his people, he achieved what he wanted. He gave you a grand and memorable ceremony. Additionally, in the eyes of his gods, clan and according to the sacred tradition, he laid his claim on you.

You were his, just like he was yours.

"You're mine, dearest wife. Mine!"

Forever.

All of the published posts on this account/blog belongs to @shooting-love-arrows. I do not consent to my works being: translated, stolen, published or reposted on this and other sites. Likes, reblogs, comments are highly appreaciated. Thank you.

[sansaorgana]

— SOMEPLACE BETTER (I)

PART TWO || PART THREE

PAIRING — Sauron x fem!human!Reader

SUMMARY — Sauron takes over a body of a recently deceased commoner without realising that stealing this man's identity comes with a price to pay – enduring his annoying wife.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — It was supposed to be a short fic and it turned out to be so long that there will be three parts... 🙊 I was writing it for a week – slowly, bit by bit each day after work. Sauron is a bit ooc here (and surely will be at the end of this fic), so be warned! 🤧 Also, I really wanted the Reader's character to be very common and low born, therefore I was reading how to change the speech to sound more like that and I hope I haven't overdone it... 😅 I hope she makes you laugh at least once while reading this! 💕

WORD COUNT — 3,850

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

SOMEPLACE BETTER (I)

Sauron was walking down the road slowly, still trying to adjust to his new form – finally a proper one after such a long time of being barely alive – and he still had no idea how to start the work on his plan that he had been crafting for the past centuries. Perhaps naturally occurring events would lead him to the right path, therefore he allowed them to happen and waited for an opportunity to arise.

And in order to help the interesting things to start happening, he was walking towards the smoke and the fire he could see from the distance far beyond the trees.

As he walked and walked, he spotted a group of people coming out of the woods. Common villagers like a man he should pretend now to be as well – the one he had found in the back of the carriage and whose body he stole.

The body had been dead already anyway – for a day or perhaps two. When Sauron had taken that man's form, it was like giving him a new life, a new chance. Not that he needed those excuses. He would have done that anyway, even if the man had been still alive. Judging his clothes and the wagon he had been travelling in, he was a commoner. Even the cause of his death was far from noble – alcohol.

The people Sauron encountered on the road looked exhausted and miserable. They were carrying some of their belongings and most likely leaving their ruined homes, which were probably the ones burning at the moment.

“That way lies death, friend,” an old man told him when they walked up to one another as they crossed each other's paths.

Sauron walked past him.

“Then that is my path,” he only said.

“An army of Orcs moves against Men,” the old man warned him and Sauron froze as he turned around to see him better. “We were the fortunate ones.”

“Perhaps the fortunate ones were the first to die,” Sauron answered, challenging him. And the words indeed had an effect on an old man as he approached him closer and looked deep into Sauron's eyes.

“I know you've suffered. I can see it in your eyes,” he said. “There's another life waiting for you. You just have to turn toward it.”

But Sauron was not listening to him anymore as his eyes sparkled at the sight of an item hanging by the old man's belt. It was a pendant of some sort and it did not look like something a villager or a commoner would wear. There was a symbol engraved on it that looked quite regal.

“That heraldry,” Sauron pointed out. “What is it?”

“A symbol of kings, long-dead,” the old man sighed as he took the pendant into his hands to show it off better.

“Your family?” Sauron asked, out of curiosity, although he doubted that the answer would be positive.

“No. My family served them,” the man answered.

“Then why wear it?” Sauron wondered and his wonder was genuine because he could not understand why one would want to wear a symbol of his oppressors.

“As a reminder that our fates are never certain, that fortunes can turn, for even the most powerful,” the man answered with the wisdom that was often attributed to people his age and Sauron nodded in silence as it reminded him of the downfall he had been through as well.

“A grim reminder,” Sauron pointed out with a smirk.

“Or a hopeful one,” the old man nodded. “A sure path may crumble, but there's always another. Often, it can lead us someplace better. Someplace good,” he added with a soft and genuine smile, to which Sauron could only answer with a matching one. “They say there's a place across the sea, a man can escape himself. Find another path. Perhaps another life,” he explained as more and more people walked past them.

Sauron furrowed his brows. He was sure the old man meant Númenor – a place that he surely wanted to visit himself and a place that was also on a list of things he needed to go to for his whole plan and scheme to succeed.

Just like he had been suspecting – the events would lead him where he needed to go on their own. He just had to let them unfold.

“Halbrand!” Some woman's scream made Sauron look around because he was curious to see what was happening.

There was a young woman amongst the walking people with her face dirty from the ashes and her hair ruffled. Her dress was linen and simple, patched in a few places. And in her hands she was carrying a basket but she dropped it the moment he turned around and with terror in his eyes, Sauron realised that she was running to him.

“Halbrand, ye son of a bitch!” She greeted him with words so awful and yet there were tears of joy and relief streaming down her cheeks as she opened her arms and pulled him close while sobbing. “I feared ye were lost to us! Sent yer sister to seek ye, but while she searched, the village was laid to ruin... attacked, it was, and...” The woman took a deep breath in and took a step back as she cupped his face and shook her head. “Ye filthy gambler, ye are... Missed all of it, ye did! Off drinkin' an' gamblin' like always, leavin' me here, alone as ever! I can't abide ye, ye wretched bastard!” She hit his chest with her fist as Sauron tried his best not to show the panic he was feeling on the inside.

A woman – especially like that – was not something he had planned to inherit alongside the body of the dead man he had found inside the carriage.

The woman he had killed must have been this man's sister and his name must have been Halbrand. A drunkard and a gambler. Most certainly not the best husband to this young woman either.

“Diarmid, this here's my husband – the one I've spoken of,” she sighed and looked at the old man who was smiling at them both. “That cursed bastard.”

“Now I see why he wanted to go back into that forest so badly. It was to find you, (Y/N),” the man whose name was apparently Diarmid told her and she rolled her eyes.

“Most like he wished me dead, so he might pry our last coins from my cold fingers an' be off to his taverns again,” she looked up at her husband with a scolding manner but despite her cruel joke and her words, Sauron could sense lots of affection in her, too.

“Don't be foolish, woman,” he tried to play along as he rolled his eyes and Diarmid chuckled.

“Ye're foolish, ye are! Best ye help me carry that basket, 'tis all I could salvage,” she dragged him behind her to the place where she had left her belongings. “An' where's yer sister, then?”

“She never made it,” Sauron quickly lied.

“Bless her soul, though it's no surprise. She was a drunkard, same as you. All yer kin are…”

“Don't start,” Sauron winced and lifted the basket to walk away from her.

If she was about to whine like that all the time, his patience would quickly run out. And as much as he would want to kill her even now to get rid of her, he knew that there were too many witnesses and he really wanted to go to Númenor with them, therefore he couldn't do anything suspicious. He had to wait for the right moment and then, he could kill this woman and be free of her annoying presence.

(Y/N)'s mouth was open constantly and she never failed to find a reason to complain about something. Sauron stopped paying attention to her words and only kept humming and nodding but the constant noise she was creating was slowly driving him insane.

In the evening men were busy with putting up small tents and women prepared the meal. It would take them a few days at least to get to the seaport, therefore they needed breaks.

When Sauron finished helping other men to put up one of the tents, he realised that most of them barely knew him. The people here were a mix of commoners from many villages around.

So, only his annoying wife was an obstacle to start a new life.

When he joined her side by the fire, she handed him a bowl full of soup that looked far from delicious but people around him were eating it eagerly either way, driven by hunger. 

Sauron himself did not need to eat and this sort of food surely was not something he would consume for his own pleasure. However, not to look suspicious, he ate half of the bowl and offered the rest to (Y/N). She had finished her portion some time ago and still kept staring at the empty bowl as if she prayed for more food to magically show up there.

“There, have it,” he took her empty bowl and handed her his.

“Are ye certain, Hal? Yer stomach's an endless pit, it is!” She was visibly surprised.

“Eat,” Sauron ordered, a bit harshly. At least when she was eating, she was not talking.

She nodded at him and began slurping on the soup eagerly and Sauron fixed her ruffled hair a little, so she would present herself less ragged.

That gesture made her look up at him with a soft smile and Sauron forced a smile back.

Gods, how he detested her.

Sauron did not mind the cold temperature but he could sense that the air was cold on that night, even inside the tent. (Y/N) was laying next to him, still wearing her dress under a thin, patched blanket. She was trembling slightly and he was staring at the ceiling out of boredom. He did not need sleep.

“Can't find yer rest, love?” The softness of her whisper surprised him as he looked down to meet her gaze and she cracked a smile as she reached her hand to caress his cheek. Her fingers were ice cold.

“And you?” He asked.

“'Tis bitter cold in here,” she whined and Sauron wrapped his arms tight around her trembling body to pull her close. She immediately nuzzled herself into him and lowered her hand to place it on his chest. Her fingers began to caress dark and curly hair growing there.

He felt awkward like that but what surprised him the most about this experience was how oddly good it felt to be able to sense someone's touch on his skin. After long centuries of not even being a person, it surely was an extraordinary sensation.

“I'm sorry I wasn't there,” he told her, suspecting she wanted to hear that from her husband.

“I'm just glad ye're here now,” she looked up to meet his gaze and kissed him on the throat before laying her head on his chest again.

Sauron sighed as he looked back on the ceiling once more. Despite everything – she must have loved that awful man named Halbrand.

“Why do you love me, remind me?” Sauron asked in a whisper out of curiosity. He disguised himself with a playful smile as she laid her eyes upon him again and furrowed her brows.

“Ye must be jestin', Hal!”

“No, truly, I mean it. I'd like to hear it one more time. Just pretend I've knocked me head and forgotten all,” he winked at her and caressed her hair.

“I think ye must have,” she mumbled and laid her head, “for ye're so much nicer all of a sudden,” she teased and Sauron chuckled.

“I got afeared I'd lost you,” he lied but she was happy with the answer. “So then? Why do you love good ol' Halbrand?”

“Ye're neither good nor old,” (Y/N) giggled. “But I'll gladly tell ye how I've doomed meself for life and fallen for ye, ye bastard,” she added jokingly.

“Well, I'm all ears, then,” Sauron smirked, trying to stop himself from bursting into laughter.

“I've known ye since we were naught but children. Always a troublemaker, ye were,” (Y/N) began her story with a sigh. After yer mother's passing, yer father turned to drink, and there ye were, wanderin' with no ambition, no purpose. That was, until me old man took ye in, when ye were 'round seventeen, was it? He taught ye all he knew of smithery,” she smiled and Sauron's heart skipped a beat at the mention.

Was Halbrand a smith, too? The coincidence seemed to be nearly impossible and yet… Nearly as if it was a sign of some sort.

“And what was I then? A silly little goose, not even fifteen, watchin' ye work, battin' me lashes, but to ye, I was naught but a child, wasn't I?” (Y/N) chuckled. “Then one day, when I was seventeen meself, ye finally saw me as a woman. I've known from the start ye were no good, but I loved ye still. Just like my old man, I've a heart that's too soft,” she finished her story with a smile and raised her hand to brush his hair strands out of his face.

Sauron knew that she expected some declaration from her husband as well in return and even though he could treat her coldly, he assumed that the nicer he would be, the less annoying she'd act on the next day. He just had to keep her happy until an opportunity to kill her off would show up. And he couldn't possibly know when he would be able to get rid of her, therefore he had to play it safe – he didn't want to risk her being constantly complaining and annoying.

“That soft heart of yours is what I love the most about you,” he cracked a smile at her and booped her nose. “And that big mouth of yours, too… sometimes,” he added with a smirk.

“Ye must've truly been afeared for me, Hal, 'cause ye're all of a sudden so much kinder,” (Y/N)'s lips twitched into a nervous smile as her eyes glistened.

Sauron was a little taken aback by her words. He was not trying very hard to show her affection and he had been quite rude to her earlier, too. And all of that was enough to make her think he was too kind.

“A new life awaits us across the sea. We can start anew there. I want to be better to you,” Sauron shrugged his arms and (Y/N) smiled before she nuzzled her face into his chest as she yawned softly.

After a short while, he felt her muscles relaxing as her breath steadied itself. She was asleep now and he was just laying there and staring at the ceiling again, waiting for the night hours to pass.

The woman's sleep, however, was not calm or peaceful. After an hour or two, she began trembling and shaking, experiencing some sort of a nightmare and judging by the things she was mumbling, she was dreaming of the night when the Orcs had come and destroyed her village.

Her face was twisted with pain and terror as she was trying to fight the shadows which only existed inside her head now. Sauron wondered, however, if his dark presence could somehow influence and worsen her dreams.

“(Y/N), love, you're safe now,” he woke her up and her eyes opened rapidly as she took a few deep breaths and kept looking around, still scared. Her body was trembling and she began to sob. “(Y/N), I'm here now, go back to sleep,” Sauron tried to calm her down but nothing seemed to work and it looked like she was not fully aware that she was awake already.

Therefore, he put his hand over her forehead and put her to sleep with his craft. Her limbs weakened in an instant and she drifted off to the land of much nicer dreams now. Sauron himself focused hard on putting beautiful images inside her head – green and sunny fields of Valinor that he still remembered and to which he was not welcome anymore.

Perhaps (Y/N) complained a little less truly than on the first day but it didn't mean her mouth would ever shut. Sauron was fighting himself not to lash out at her and tell her to shut up at least ten times a day. He wondered how she was not getting tired from all this talking but he also learnt a very useful skill that most husbands possessed the knowledge of sooner or later – the art of letting her words go in one ear and out the other as he only hummed and nodded.

And as he watched some human couples travelling alongside them with their whiny offspring, he only thanked fate for not cursing him with a child as well. (Y/N) was an annoying obstacle but it could have been… so much worse.

Only one day of the road was ahead of them now as they would spend their last night in the tents before getting onto the ship. Sauron was playing with the awfully looking food inside of his bowl as he waited for (Y/N) to finish her meal and when she did, he handed her his.

“No,” she shook her head and he furrowed his brow. “Hal, I see what ye're doin', an' I'm fair surprised to see how much ye care for me these days, but ye can't keep on like this, eatin' only half meals. Ye need to eat, too, love.”

“I'm just not hungry,” Sauron insisted with an irritated sigh but she didn't seem to be convinced.

“Ye're worryin' me, Halbrand. I can't smell a drop of drink on ye, an' ye've stopped eatin' too. What's ailin' ye these days?” She asked and the amount of worry in her eyes nearly made him feel bad for not being an actor good enough.

“I lost my sister, nearly lost my wife, my home is gone, and now we go into the unknown. Go on, guess,” he rolled his eyes and (Y/N) looked down.

“Sorry, love,” she mumbled and took the bowl from him. “Ye're certain ye won't be eatin' this?” She glanced up and he nodded at her, softly. That was what finally convinced her and she finished the meal hungrily. 

“I hope we won't be short of food in that place across the sea,” (Y/N) sighed and Sauron reached out to lift her chin up and force her to look into his eyes as she gave him a confused look.

“We won't. I'll see to it,” he gave her a false promise with her dead husband's lips and her whole face lit up at his words.

He let go of her chin and she moved slightly closer to him to put her head on his shoulder with a relieved sigh.

“We've lost all we had, an' yet… when I'm with ye, I feel safe,” she confessed. “I'm truly hopeful for our new life, Hal. Mayhaps we could start a family there,” she added shyly and Sauron froze at her words, although he pulled her closer and leaned in to kiss the top of her head.

“Yeah, mayhaps,” he mumbled.

As if he, Dark Lord Sauron, would ever even consider such a possibility. It was below him after all.

It was the middle of the night and they were finally on a ship to Númenor – all people together in one cabin but at least it was warmer this way. (Y/N) was sleeping next to Sauron, with her arm wrapped around his chest and her face nuzzled into his neck. Her breath and smile were peaceful because he made sure to put nice images inside her mind, so she would not have the awful nightmares again. He did not want to deal with them.

He was not asleep however and was not even trying to hide it on that night. He didn't expect anyone to notice.

A sudden and deep growl coming from the sea made him look around. He was able to hear and sense more than ordinary mortals, therefore he could feel that some sort of danger was coming.

“Nightmares again?” The old man named Diarmid asked as he was laying on a bed nearby. “What haunts you so?”

“I've done evil,” Sauron admitted but he did not look him in the eye and looked down instead at (Y/N)'s sleeping form.

That man seemed to be quite wise. Sauron did not mind sharing with him a little without revealing too much. It felt good to talk to someone who was not Halbrand's wife.

“Yeah, your wife told me. She tends to overshare,” the man chuckled softly but then his tone became serious. “All of us have done things that we care not to admit.”

“Not like I have. You don't know everything. She doesn't know everything,” Sauron shook his head.

“Find forgiveness,” Diarmid insisted as he leaned over to be closer to him.

“Forgiveness cannot be found. It should be earned,” Sauron pointed out.

“I think you have earned it already,” Diarmid looked down at (Y/N) and a soft smile appeared on his lips. “Despite her nature, she has never spoken of you with anything but love. You are alive because you have chosen good.”

“But what of tomorrow?” Sauron finally looked up and turned his head around to look at the old man's face.

“You have to choose it again,” Diarmid shook his head as he chuckled. “And the next day. And the next. Until it becomes a part of our nature.”

The sound of rumbling and a low wailing coming from underneath the ship interrupted them as they furrowed their brows. (Y/N) woke up as well as she sat up and rubbed her sleepy eyes with her fists.

“What is it, Hal? D'ye hear that, love?” She mumbled and he looked down as his heart skipped a beat at the realisation that a sea serpent was swimming underneath the ship.

“Grab hold of something,” he warned Diarmid and (Y/N) got scared of his words, so she clinged to his arm.

But that very moment they were attacked.

The ship got wrecked in an instant and the water was getting inside through the creaks in the wood. There was chaos on board as people screamed in panic and tried to evacuate themselves but the waves kept rocking their ship, therefore they were falling down or getting carried away by the tides.

By the force of such wave, (Y/N) let go of Halbrand's arm and he could hear her calling out to him but he did not even look back. It was a perfect opportunity to get rid of her.

And there was a sting of guilt in his heart, which surprised him dearly, but he simply ignored it as he grabbed Diarmid's pendant with the noble family's heraldry and left the old man there to die.

He was free now and with a brand new plan.

MASTERLIST

[al0v3w1tch]

݁݁˖ ❀ ⋆｡˚ Lady Persephone… Yesterday was Lady Persephone’s worship day. Because I hadn’t gotten much sleep the previous night, I completely forgot to make a post for her. I hope this helps teach you how to worship Her and Her mythology. ✾ Who is Persephone? Persephone is the daughter of the Olympian Gods, Zeus, and Demeter, she is the Goddess of spring, agriculture, reincarnation, and Queen of the Underworld; She is widely associated with growth, fertility, and love as well as everlasting pureness/youth. Her most famous myth is Her abduction by Hades, Her husband/uncle. ✾ Mythology. After Persephone was born, Her home was the Overworld alongside her mother Demeter. While she was picking flowers alongside the spring nymphs, the earth opened and She was abducted by Hades on His chariot. After Her abduction, Demeter struggled to keep up her divine duties and the earth started to die without Persephone, due to this, Hermes was sent to the Underworld to collect Persephone but before She left the Underworld; Hades tricked Persephone into eating pomegranate seeds. Due to this, Persephone now spends half the year in the Overworld and the other half in the Underworld which explains the seasons. Depending on the myth, Persephone is the mother of Dionysus after Zeus assaulted Her, however, the myth was changed later on as the ancient Greeks believed that having their chief God assaulting His daughter was too evil of Him. Nowadays, Dionysus was changed to Zagerus and He is known to be Hades’ son instead. Melionë was also a result of Zeus assaulting His daughter as He tricked Her by disguising Himself as Hades, although, modern interpretations of the myth have Hades be Her father, like Zagerus. Persephone also was associated with the Orpheus and Eurydice myth; when Orpheus descended into the Underworld to retrieve Eurydice, he managed to make a song so beautiful and heartbreaking that Hades became sympathetic toward him and offered Orpheus that he could take Eurydice back but the catch was he wasn’t allowed to turn back to see if Eurydice was behind him or even touch her to lead him out of the Underworld. Hades did this to test Orpheus’ love for his wife and how much he cared for her. 

✾ Symbols and Offerings. Symbols:  -Pomegranate. -Torches. -Seeds. -Flowers. -Skulls. -Bones. Offerings: -Any type of flowers (can be fake). -Pomegranate (fake, scents or food). -Found bones (Remember to thank the animal and leave an offering for them as a way of respect).  -Tarot decks you associate with her. -Nuts and seeds. -Fruit. -Anything with grains. -Anything minty. -Jewellery. -Poetry or any kind of art related to Her. -Floral/fruity scented candles. -Dried herbs or flowers. -Crystals: angel aura quartz, rose quartz, and opalite. -Drinks like tea, hot chocolate, water, milk or honey. -Bat, ram, deer or dog imagery. Persephone shares an altar with Lord Hades so if you wish to see altar inspiration, here is the post I made for Hades: https://www.tumblr.com/al0v3w1tch/766671508589477888/%E0%BD%90-%E0%BD%8B-lord-hades-today-is-lord?source=share ✾ Prayers. -Fair-haired Persephone, daughter of Demeter, friend of the nymphs, merry-hearted girls who dance bearefooted and play, carefree, in grassy fields, wreathed in bright spring flowers.

The joy of life is yours, goddess, the comfort of sun on skin, the dear bonds of friendship, the refuge of a mother’s love.

Well-crowned Persephone, bride of noble Hades, queen of the afterworld, clothed in fine silks, adorned with jewels, enthroned in glory, friend to those who have passed from this world into yours, advocate of the dead and the wronged.

Kindly Persephone, womanly one, of transformation do you know much, of the ways of the earth do you know much; of the life after life do you know much.

Gracious goddess, friend of mortals, I praise you and thank you for your gifts.

-Persephone, glorious goddess, fair one with hair that flows like ripened grain, eyes that catch the clear blue sky, a smile sweet yet shadowed, O light-footed one who dances in flowered fields, I praise you.Persephone, lovely one who knows the feel of sun on skin, who knows as well the press of cold stone against warm flesh, in the world of the living, no maid is so alive as you.

In the world of the dead, Persephone, you reign as queen, crowned with riches unsurpassed, enthroned in splendor, honored above all others.

Goddess, child of earth, bride of the darkness, I honor you. -Persephone, glorious goddess, fair one

with hair that flows like ripened grain, eyes that catch

the clear blue sky, a smile sweet yet shadowed,

O light-footed one who dances in flowered fields,

I praise you. Persephone, lovely one who knows

the feel of sun on skin, who knows as well the press

of cold stone against warm flesh, in the world

of the living, no maid is so alive as you.

In the world of the dead, Persephone, you reign

as queen, crowned with riches unsurpassed, enthroned

in splendor, honored above all others. Goddess,

child of the earth, bride of the darkness, I honor you. ✾ Blessed be.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Marlene Dietrich (Shanghai Express, Witness for the Prosecution, Morocco)—Bisexual icon, super hot when dressed both masculine and feminine, lived up her life in the queer Berlin scene of the 1920s, central to the 'sewing circle' of the secret sapphic actresses of Old Hollywood, refused lucrative offers by the Nazis and helped Jews and others under persecution to escape Nazi Germany, the love of my life

Sophia Loren (Marriage Italian Style, Houseboat)—Major Italian star, first actress to win an Oscar for a performance not in English (for Two Women (1960)) and later when Roberto Benigni won an Oscar in 1999 he jumped over the chairs towards the stage going "Sophia Sophia!!" because he was running towards Sophia Loren and said he cared more about her than the Oscar, that's the effect she had on people. She was big in the 60s already even though she gained a lot more notoriety after that. And I mean. Can we take a moment and just.

This is round 6 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Sophia Loren:

She has maxed out all her stats: beauty, elegance, sensuality, she's got it all. her mesmerizing eyes, her sensual mouth, her sharp face shape, her everything is so striking and unlike any other beauty in films. she was also voted the world most beautiful woman when she was freaking 65

im submitting her in honor of my dad bc she was the first celebrity crush of his he ever admitted to me and my sister :) and he was right. shes so pretty

OSCAR WINNER. Worked with some of the hottest leading men in Hollywood but remained faithful to her husband whom she had a loving marriage with till he died (even though Cary Grant almost tempted her once, it's complicated)

One of the most well-known sex symbols of the Golden Age of Hollywood, and unlike some unfortunate others, she seems to have been pretty well at peace with occupying that status. She made assertiveness and a tempestuous temper seem glamorous, and although she's famous for side-eying Jayne Manisfield's cleavage, honestly? She's one to talk.

Absolutely, drop-dead sexy, also a hard working, extraordinarily talented actress who didn't shy away from the less glamorous roles to gift us some gritty, memorable performances

Submitting this on behalf of my dad, who knows nothing of tumblr or this blog, but I remember being a kid watching Houseboat while my mom thirsted after Cary Grant, dad thirsted after Sophia Loren, and I was excited that they lived on a boat. Anyway, she's extremely beautiful and was an international star, doing a ton of movies in Italy before being recognized in the US.

JUST LOOK AT HER Y'ALL

Very smart and beautiful, the characters that she played (I mean those in the movies that I put in the previous question) are as strong and determined as her which I think adds to her hotness.

Global superstar and my late grandfather's long time movie star crush and for a man as quiet as he was, and as hopelessly devoted to his wife as he was, the fact that I know that means she was EXCEPTIONAL.

Big in the chest, snatched in the waist, pretty in the face 😳

Sexy, beautiful, deep. A real star.

Her performance in "Man of La Mancha" is just so very captivating. Dubbed as "the Italian Marilyn Monroe", she looks beautiful in any movie and at any age.

Forget the exotic sexpot of her Hollywood films and go back to her Italian career: sparking with Marcello Mastroianni as the woman who drives him mad and outwits all his fumbling attempts at macho posturing in their early films, and showing a tender side in their 1970s films. Sophia isn’t self-conscious about who she is or her beautiful body: she enjoys being herself and she wants us all to enjoy ourselves too.

She starred in films as a sexually emancipated persona and was one of the best known sex symbols of the time. She is a great cook and her filmography is immense.

On the misattributed quote that Sophia owed everything to spaghetti: 'Did you actually say the quote frequently attributed to you, "Everything you see I owe to spaghetti"?' "Non è vero! It's not true! It's such a silly thing. I owe it to spaghetti, no, no. Completely made up."

Marlene Dietrich:

ms dietrich....ms dietrich pls.....sit on my face

its marlene dietrich!!!! queer legend, easily the hottest person to ever wear a tuxedo, that hot hot voice, those glamorous glamorous movies…. most famously she starred in a string of movies directed by josef von sternberg throughout the 1930s, beginning with the blue angel which catapulted her to stardom in the role of the cabaret singer lola lola. known for his exquisite eye for lighting, texture, imagery, von sternberg devoted himself over the course of their collaborations to acquiring exceptional skill at photographing dietrich herself in particular, a worthy direction in which to expend effort im sure we can all agree. she collaborated with many other great directors of the era as well, including rouben mamoulian (song of songs), frank borzage (desire), ernst lubitsch (angel), fritz lang (rancho notorious), and billy wilder (witness for the prosecution). the encyclopedia britannica entry im looking at while compiling this propaganda describes her as having an “aura of sophistication and languid sexuality” which✔️💯. born marie magdalene dietrich, she combined her first and middle names to coin the moniker “marlene”. she was a trendsetter in her incorporation of trousers, suits, and menswear into her wardrobe and her androgynous allure was often remarked upon. critic kenneth tynan wrote, “She has sex, but no particular gender. She has the bearing of a man; the characters she plays love power and wear trousers. Her masculinity appeals to women and her sexuality to men.” in the 1920s she enjoyed the vibrant queer nightlife of weimar berlin, visiting gay bars and drag balls, and in hollywood her love affairs with men and women were an open secret. she was an ardent opponent of nazi germany, refusing lucrative contacts offered her to make films there, raising money with billy wilder to help jews and dissidents escape, and undertaking extensive USO tours to entertain soldiers with an act that included her a playing musical saw and doing a mindreading routine she learned from orson welles. starting in the 50s and continuing into the mid-70s she worked largely as a cabaret artist touring the world to large audiences, employing burt bacharach as her musical arranger.

First of all, there are those publicity photos of her in a tux. Second of all, I have never been the same since knowing that she sent copies of those photos to her Berlin lovers signed "Daddy Marlene." Not only is she hot in all circumstances, but she can do everything from earthy to ice queen. Also, she kept getting sexy romantic lead parts in Hollywood after the age of 40, which would be rare even now. She hated Nazis, loved her friends, and had a sapphic social circle in Hollywood. She also had cheekbones that could cut glass and a voice that could melt you.

Her GENDER her looks her voice her everything

“In her films and record-breaking cabaret performances, Miss Dietrich artfully projected cool sophistication, self-mockery and infinite experience. Her sexuality was audacious, her wit was insolent and her manner was ageless. With a world-weary charm and a diaphanous gown showing off her celebrated legs, she was the quintessential cabaret entertainer of Weimar-era Germany.”

The bar scene in Morocco awoke something in me and ultimately changed my gender

"Her manner, the critic Kenneth Tynan wrote, was that of ‘a serpentine lasso whereby her voice casually winds itself around our most vulnerable fantasies.’ Her friend Maurice Chevalier said: ‘Dietrich is something that never existed before and may never exist again.’”

"Songstress, photographer, fashion icon, out bisexual phenom (notoriously stole Lupe Velez and Joan Crawford's men, and Errol Flynn's wife, had a torrid affair with Greta Garbo that ended in a 60-year feud, other notable conquests including Erich Maria Remarque -yes, the guy who wrote All Quiet on the Western Front- Douglas Fairbanks Junior, Claudette Colbert, Mercedes de Acosta, Edith Piaf), anti-Nazi activist. Marlene was a bitch - she had an open marriage for decades and one of her favorite things was making catty commentary about her current lover with her husband, and her relationship with her daughter was painful- but she was also immensely talented, a hard worker, an opponent of fascism and the hottest ice queen in Hollywood for a long time."

"She can sing! She can act! She told the Nazis to fuck off and became a US citizen out of spite! She worked with other German exiles to create a fund to help Jews and German dissidents escape (she donated an entire movie salary, about $450k, to the cause). She looks REALLY GOOD in a suit. If you're not convinced, please listen to her sing "Lili Marlene". Absolutely gorgeous woman with a gorgeous voice."

Gifset link

"Bisexual icon and Nazi-hater. Looks absolutely stunning in the suits she liked to wear. 'I dress for the image. Not for myself, not for the public, not for fashion, not for men'."

"would you not let her walk on you?"

[the-fiction-witch]

You are not a Queen. You are The Queen. My Queen.

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Aegon Targaryen Couple - Aegon X Reader Reader - Alysanne Targaryen (Daughter of Rhaenyra, wife of Aegon) Rating - Sweet AF Word Count - 2437

The carriage bumped and bustled through the king's landing streets, the crack of the whip of the horses echoing in the mad rush. 

Alicent sat across the carriage in her impressive green dress, with golden chains and symbols of the faith of the seven. The crown she has always worn as queen nettled in her brown hair with her veil trailing down her back. She sighs and hardens herself for what must be done. 

Aegon sits dressed in his finery even if he shivered and he slightly cried trying to think of any way he could escape this fate. "Do you love me?" He asked his mother his voice plaid it like a joke but she didn't know the strength it took for him to utter those four words, and the deep tethers within him that those words and her answer would hold. 

"You imbecile," she shook her head, 

Her answer was enough of an answer for him to understand, but he felt compelled to speak once more, "Where is Alysanne?"

For a moment there was silence, and it spoke more than her words ever could, but after a time she speaks, "I send word for her but she could not be fetched. We couldn't wait."

He chuckled, "She is my wife." He glared, "We couldn't wait five minutes for her?" 

"every moment we wait risks the wrath of dragon stone."

"Yet you had time to change your dress?" he glared, 

"She would remain where she is safe, with the children." 

"So if Rhynera comes to burn the red keep we will all be in the dragon pit, except my wife who is in the red keep." 

"That is not what I intended-"

"Maybe not but its a helpful circumstance," 

"We should not speak of this," 

Aegon tried to protest but they arrived at the dragon pit, before anyone had much time to think Aegon was forced from the carriage and taken inside no matter his arguments.

The High Septom prepared the oils as the smallfolk were forced through the streets and ushered into the dragon pit until it was full, A small stage was set up with Alicent, Otto, Cristen, Helena and Aemond all waiting, preparing for this moment. 

Otto steps out to address the crowd, "King's Landing! Today is the saddest of days! Our beloved king, Viserys the peaceful... is dead!"

Muttering of shock comes from the crowd, 

"But it is also the most joyous of days!" he continues, "For as his spirit left us, he whispered his final wish that his firstborn son Aegon should succeed him"

more muttering but soon applause echos through the dragon pit, 

Members of the city watch rush the dragon pit pushing smallfolk as they do, they make a path to the stage half to keep smallfolk out, and half to keep aegon in. Horns ring out in royal tones as the armoured men raise their swords. 

Aegon does not wish to do this but he is forced out, so he takes slow and gradual steps a tear slipping from his eye as he begins the walk, the swords dropping behind him one by one, Each step makes him want to run, makes him want to fight his way out but with each one he is cementing his fate. 

His family's fate. 

His people's fate. 

His city's fate. 

His realm's fate.

He glances back and sees the swords are preventing his way, he really has no way back now. 

He holds 

"It is your good, great fortune to be here, to witness this. A new day for our city. A new day for our realm. a new king to lead us." 

He looks up and meets eyes with his mother a rage boiled inside him, that all this was her doing. 

When he climbed the steps she came and held his cheeks kissing his forehead, leading him by the hand to the Steptom of the faith of the seven. 

He looks to Otto who two gives him no choice he simply nods to him,

So Aegon kneels, 

silence rings out, 

"May the warrior give him courage, may the smith lend strength to his sword and shield, may the father defend him in his need, may the crone lift her shining lantern and shin his way to wisdom." the Septom says and with each anoints his head with oil, 

The crown is then taken from its pillow. The crown of Aegon the conqueror, sharp spikes of Valyrian steel with gems and jewels of finery. 

"The crown of the conqueror, past down through generations." Sir Criston takes the crown and places it on Aegons head even if the crown doesn't fit him right, "Let the seven bear witness, Aegon Targaryen is the true heir to the iron throne." 

For the first time in what feels like hours, Aegon lets out a breath, feeling the weight of the crown on his head, he gets to his feet and looks to everyone in attendance seeing how each bows to him,

"All hail his grace! Aegon second of his name, king of the Andals the Roynar and the First Men. Lord of the seven kingdoms and protector of the realm!" 

The bells toll out as cheers erupt for him, 

Aegon looks out to see the faces of all those who cheer, all those who look at him with joy, none of them know the death and destruction he brings. But even so, he can't help but feel a pride, and a swell of his ego as he takes Blackfyre from his belt and thrusts it into the air. For a moment he is swept up in his own family's pageantry and feels a joy to be king. 

But it doesn't last, as a rumble comes from below and suddenly dust and stone erupt up from the floor of the pit, people scream and try to run but there is no way to get away as the floor crumbles under their feet the red queen comes though the floor the dragon crushing smallfolk and killing hundreds in her wake otto tries to demand the doors to be opened but people are already dying, as Rhaenys sits on top of her dragon as the dust clears.

Alicent jumps in front of Aegon putting herself between the dragon and him,

The Red Queen screeched at everyone before turning and flying out and away into the sky. 

Aegon remains in the dragon pit, the pageantry of the moment long faded, the true death toll of his day hitting him, the weight of the sword in his hand and the crown on his head causing him to ache. He had such conflict in his heart, as he truly thought it all though. 

He never wanted this... and yet it was done. 

He never thought he was the heir... yet now the crown rests on his head.

His coronation... left hundreds dead. 

This moment... had surely begun a war that would tear apart his family, his realm, his house and all that he held dear. 

And in all of it, he stands alone, or so he thinks. 

Alysanne walks the up the stairs he walked up, her eyes looking only at him. Her gown is a body of green velvet, with silver threat lacing the bodice, black leather sleeves tight to her skin all the way to her wrists, a large skirt of green velvet with black flames embodied on the bottom, a long cape from her shoulders of a sheer black fabric cut like dragon wings. Her hands behind her back as she reaches the stage, she bows to him dipping her knees and lowering her head before her eyes meet his once more. 

His wife, in this moment, she is the light in this darkness. but there is so much sadness in him as he looks at her starlight eyes. 

"I am sorry Alysanne," He told her, 

"I hardly believed it to be true," she began, "Once word reached me." 

He felt unable to speak,

"Oh Aegon..." she said, "what have you let your mother do to you?"

Aegon looks at her with a mixture of guilt and shame, his throat tightens with emotion as he takes in her words. "I didn't have a choice,"

"I know." she nodded, "You are the king," She said almost not believing her own words,

He looks away, his mind filled with sorrow and anger, he is king, but he isn't happy. "This... already ways heavily on me... I cannot carry it alone." 

"If you are a king... I suppose that makes me a queen," 

He feels the weight lift a little, to know that she is beside him in this, "I am not a King. I am the king. You are not a queen. You are The queen. My Queen." he gives her an affectionate smile,

"so it would seem," A smile escapes her, but soon fails, "what- What is to happen to our children?" Her voice was full of fear,

Aegon's heart sinks as she asks, he knows his children are in danger, he feels already like he has failed them and his wife, he knows no matter what he can't protect them from this. "I do not know..."

"Forgive me, I should not sour your victory with my concerns."

"You should, concerns are now my most important matters." He told her, "I am sorry Alysanne, truly, I wanted to share this moment with you more than anyone. I am so sorry you were left behind,"

"... well, it's over now. it doesn't matter."

"It does. you are my queen and the fact you where not beside me for this moment... it breaks my heart."

"I admit... I am upset. that your mother had called this, not just for the politics and the show of the realm but... she wore her finest dress, her gold and her jewels, brought your family here, coronated you in front of thousands, gave you a crown, a sword, and the title of king... and I. Was left at the red keep with our children. Like a nursemaid." she explained, "I wish I could have been here is all..." 

He felt his blood boil that she felt this way, he took her hand and squeezed it, "I wish you could have been here, I wanted this to be for us. I wanted to take the crown with you by my side to take your own. I wanted our children to be here to witness the crown that may one day be theirs. and my mother robbed us of that... I am sorry, truly sorry. and I know I can never repay the injustice done to you." he explained, "You are my queen... and... you do not even have a crown." 

"I do." she said, as she revealed her other hand, "She gave me this when they arrived back to the red keep." she said and in her hand sat a small tiara of gold and green. No larger than a hair clip, and for a moment he remembers the crown his mother had worn today a large headband of gold and emeralds His own wife. His queen. Was tossed a crown, Without even being given a coronation. "I... I hardly wish to wear it at all... seems... foolish," 

Aegon stares at the tiny tiara and feels an intense surge of anger at the treatment his wife has received. It is a reminder of her insignificance in his mother's eyes, and it hurts him deeply. But he doesn't want her to be sad, he wants her to be proud of her new station. He looks at her, her face filled with a mixture of anger and sadness, and he doesn't want her to feel that way. He wants to make her happy and to make her feel wanted and accepted. "Wear it." He says, firm but gentle. His voice is a command, but also an appeal. He wants her to wear this crown, to let the world know that she is his wife and his Queen and that he is proud of her. He wants everyone to know that she is the Queen, no matter what his mother says or does. 

"There's no point..."

"Here," He takes her by the hand and tugs her with him to stand in front of the banners, he takes the small tiara from her and smiles, he gives it a clean on his shirt to make sure no fingerprints are on it before he does is most epic and dramatic voice for her, "May the warrior give her courage, may the smith lend strength to her sword and shield, may the father defend her in her need, may the crone lift her shining lantern and shin her way to wisdom. May the mother be an ever-sweet light in her life, may the maiden keep her safe, and may the stranger's visits be few," He explained, "The crown of ... uhh... the most beautiful of queens," he makes up as this crown had no name, 

she chuckles at him and he gently but sweetly presses the tiara into her hair, crowning her as his queen, his hands run down her hair and he kisses her lips softly, 

"Let the seven bear witness, Alysanne Targaryen queen of the seven kingdoms." he proclaimed, "All hail her grace! Alysanne Targaryen, queen of the Andals the Roynar and the First Men. lady of the seven kingdoms, protector of the realm, beloved bride and mother. My queen. My sweet queen," he cooed, 

"Thank you Aegon," she smiled, 

"You're welcome, and I promise you. You shall have a crown more worthy of your beauty and title." He smiled, 

"I think we have more pressing matters than a crown Aegon," she said,

"True," He nodded as his heart sank, "... you said once, not long after our children were born, that perhaps it would be best to cut or losses, to fly to Dragonstone with the children to meet with your mother, to cleave to your mother and beg for her mercy." 

she shook her head, "... it's too late for that Aegon, no matter what side we are on. Blood will be spilt, and the only way to keep our children alive is to be on a side of our own." 

He nodded and briefly smiled, "You took to talking queen fast," He chuckled, 

She smiled, "Aegon darling, I have been talking and acting like a queen for as long as I can remember. Our family ensured that. Come. The children wish to see their new king, and we have much to do." she explained taking his arm, he nodded and squeezed her hand happily walking with her even if the two were beyond scared of what now was to be done. 

[readychilledwine]

Peace in the Violence

Eris Week - Day 5 - War and Adventure

Summary - When the battle for Autumn doesn't end by your one year anniversary, Eris has no choice but to share one more night with you during the heat of war

Warnings - war, mentions of death, smut, using sex as a coping mechanism

A/N - I will be completely honest, I was most excited for this prompt for @erisweekofficial, and I almost was not going to partake this day until this happened. She is only a little thing, but I do love her and her potential.

So many people bash on the sex scenes on ACOWAR, but I don't think they see the bigger picture with them. Those scenes are meant to remind you of what the characters are fighting for. The sex is meant to be symbolic of so much more than sex. SJM, in my opinion, can not properly execute a smut scene during war. Hopefully, I conveyed what I feel those scenes are supposed to represent with this.

🍂Eris Week Masterlist🍂Eris Masterlist🍂Master Masterlist🍂

Dividers by @tsunami-of-tears

A rough roll of his hips had you gasping as Eris began to lose his gentleness. He was desperate to feel anything besides the looming fear of the battle that was coming. Eris was a skilled warrior, a natural fighter, and had been preparing his whole life for this, but the efforts to dethrone his father were making him question everything.

The war in Autumn had left far too many wounded and more dead. What was supposed to be a simple siege of the Forest House was now more. It was Beron with a legion protecting him. Eris with 6 High Lords in a tent waiting to call their armies. It was Beron refusing the blood duel while Eris put all of his magic into containing battle to just the area they were in to protect the fae of this court. His fae. His court.

You gasped below him before a strangled cry of pleasure tried to leave your throat. It was as if Eris couldn't hear you below him, like he was using all of his tricks to drive more noises from swollen lips. “Eris,” it was a broken call of his name, trying to pull him back to you. To remind him you were the one below him.

His wife. His mate. His love. The one he had set this very fire for.

His eyes met yours and he slowed before forcing you both to roll over, silent admission he could not be in control tonight. He wanted to laugh. One year. One year of marriage spent in bliss, and it was bliss he hoped to seek in this moment of peace you two shared.

Hands. Hands touching your thighs, your hips, your back. Hands roaming every inch of you. Desperate. Aching. Yearning. This wasn't the trip he had planned for your anniversary, but war waits for no male.

When you began to move slowly, he couldn't stop the whimper that fell through his throat.

He was seeking sex.

You had been seeking to make love.

Every bounce was at the pace he was hungry for, his hands settling on your hips to help guide you. You leaned down to kiss him, hands on his chest as he began to meet your movements, pace slowed to savor this instead of rushing.

There were no promises of this happening again, no guarantee that after battle tomorrow your husband would be in bed.

But you had tonight.

You had now.

“I love you,” the words left his mouth in a hushed tone. He needed to say them, to whisper them until his voice and words were etched in your bones.

Eris knew as he was making love to you, as he cherished you on his night, that tomorrow he may die. He knew he was the target in these battles. Not his brothers who so bravely came to his side. Not the soldiers he had been recruiting in secret. Him.

And tomorrow, before you woke up, Rhysand will have taken you to Velaris, hiding you from Beron if Eris will to fail. His mother was already there. His hounds. His wife belonged there too, safe, beautiful untouched.

He memorized every inch of you as you leaned back, pace increasing to give him what he was desperate for. He memorized every freckle, curve, the exact shade of your lips and eyes.

He memorized the noise you made as his thumb brushed your clit, the way your body seemed to shake before you could continue.

He memorized your face as you fell apart for him, forcing his own body to hold back to listen to every note in the song you began to sing.

And when he finally tumbled over the edge, you memorized his soft cry.

This wasn't how Eris planned to spent your anniversary, handing Rhysand your things as you slept clueless to what was happen. This wasn't what he wanted as he kissed you for what could have been the last time. It wasn't all he needed to say as he whispered he loved you again.

His world shifted as Rhysand winnowed your sleeping form to Velaris and he began to pull on the dark illyrian leathers he had borrowed, Azriel waiting in tow, watching Eris prepare to assassinate his father in his sleep.

Risky, unhanded, and cheap.

But war waits for no man.

Not even in his sleep.

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects @sleepybesson @tayswhp @itsswritten @milswrites @littlest-w01f

[safination]

Partners in Death...and Life.

Part I: Radio's not dead

| Part 2: Radio Will Be Dead if He Doesn’t Explain Himself. | Masterlist| ao3 Pairings: Alastor x wife!reader Tags: fem! reader, established relationship, human!alastor, hopefully not but just in case ooc!alastor (I'm trying my best to keep him as canon as possible) acroace!alastor

"Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you. Quite a pleasure!” One hand reset on his chest, and the other shoots into the air. It’s the bow you did in high school, back when you wanted theater to pay your bills. A performer’s bow. You chuckle. “I don’t think it will be quite the pleasure you think.” “Is that so?” Alastor’s smile remains constant. “And why would that be?” You show him the tray you’re holding. “I’m here to do your sutures.” [Or after a seven-year absence, you find the man you were married to in life, not only back in town, but also helping . . . *checks notes* . . . the Princess of Hell run a hotel aimed at rehabilitating sinners who were sent to the bad place for a reason.]

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

You pass the tissue box—the third one already.

Your patient blows his nose, rubbing snot off his snout. He has to stretch his arms to reach his nose. Alligators are known for their long snouts. His nostrils flare when he sniffles.

Used tissue is discarded on the pastel-pink floor despite a pastel-pink trashcan stationed by his webbed feet. It’s been the same pattern for the last fifteen-minutes. Tissue, Sneeze. Floor.

“—and I have this . . . uh . . . like this real bad itch on my eye. I keep rubbing and rubbing but it doesn’t do shit! My eyesight’s gotten worse—It’s already fucked up but this is just different. My roommate hissed at me about getting blood all-over the carpet floors if I kept scratching my scales. Oh. Oh! I’ve been snee—achew!” Alligator snot lands on the pastel-pink floors of the clinic.

Your eyes twitch.

He takes another tissue and waves it around his head. “The top of my head is killing me. Ya’know where that is right?” He blows his nose. “It’s right here,” he says, inching his head closer to you. “The last nurse I went to was blind as a bat! Literally, she had the wings and everything. It was kinda hot.”

“I’m well aware of the location of your head,” you say. “You can lean back now.”

Tissue. Sneeze. Floor

Tissue. Sneeze. Floor.

Tissue. Sneeze. Floor.

Pastel pink floor.

Underneath the mix of feathers and hair strands, the bustling of the waiting room catches your ears. Someone curses, booming and violent at another waiting patient. A cough, a sigh, a barf. Painful curses erupt after that. You bring a hand to your ears, wincing as your eardrum ring. Pentagon City’s best and biggest hospital needs better doors, but those lazy sloth fuckers at the top invested at the first material they found.

The alligator sneezes into another tissue. He flicks it with his wrist, and it hits the pastel-pink wallpaper adorned with closed eyes. Maybe Belphegor should be the sin of Pride instead, considering all items are covered in her symbol.

“I really feel like t’was those exterminators ya’know?”

You do not, in fact, know. Half of what this young man says is incomprehensible.

His snout sways left to right when he shakes his head. “It’s only my second one, and this was a close call, and uh . . . well, ever since then I’ve been like this. One even got to my roommate. “

You hum, leaning back on your chair. You should petition to for thicker doors. And while you’re at it, better interior design, and better paint—something that isn’t pastel pink.

“Ugh, and it’s so not cool that this new roommate of mine’s been shedding since the day they moved in,” he says.  “Speaking of shedding, do you think it’s because of those exterminators? Do you think they like spread some sort of weird pollen to make us sick? They’re totally the type to do that.”

You take your pen—your pastel-fucking-pink pen—and poke his alligator sinuses.

Hell does have its own brand of humor. You gave your 20s to studying human anatomy, only to die and find yourself with the need to re-learn the boring part of biology.  (Two books on reptiles, four on mammals, and fifteen on sea creatures.)

“YEOWCH!” His teeth stick out again. You do not know what this means.  “What kind of nurse ar—“

“Doctor.”

“—you? That’s not the top of my head!”

You push back on of the feathers on your head. “Your roommate ‘hissed’ at you? And they’ve been shedding fur for two weeks now.?

“Yeah . . . ?”

You stare at him. “Have you ever considered that you’re allergic to your roommate?”

“Ooooooooooh,” he says. ‘Yeah, I was allergic to cats back when I was alive.”

You grab your (pastel-fucking-pink) prescription pad from the desk drawer. “Control it with some antihistamine. Four pills every 12 hours.”

His teeth start showing. You’re not sure if he’s frowning. It’s hard to tell. “Pills, really?”

You toss what you were writing into the massive pile of germs, mucus, and tissue. “I can give you a nasal spray. I’ll flush the mucus then insert a spray that prevents build-up,” you say. “They last for two weeks and then you’ll need to come back.”

He grabs the last tissue from the box. It still lands on your floor. “Ma’am nurse, do you have any more of this?”

You sigh and reach for a fourth box of tissue. “It’s doctor,” you say. “We keep nasal sprays here in the clinic. I’ll just grab one and you’ll be out in fifteen minutes.”

“No can do,” he says. “Before I died, my coach told me to stay away from that non-organic shit. It’ll mess us up real bad apparently. All those steroids.”

“You have phencyclidine sticking out of your coat pocket.”

“Pheny—what?”

“ . . . Angel Dust.”

“The porn star?”

“The drug. You have drugs sticking out of your coat pocket.”

“Come on, nurse—”

Threads erupt from your fingers. It snakes around his wrist, coiling and twisting.

He jerks his arm away and cries out when you tighten your hold. Your threads wrap around his legs. It pulls against his waist. Magic binds his arms, and tightens around every joint he owns.

You stop, only when the alligator struggles, trashing against the clinic chair.  His teeth bare and he snaps at whatever he can reach. You tug on one of the thousands of strings digging into his skin. His jaw snaps shut, and it will stay shut. Another tug and his back stretches to straighten. You move your fingers as if a piano laid before you, and he sits up like a good puppet.

Another month of clinic dury will be your punishment if those sloth from down below are lucid enough to do their jobs.Sadly, killing this idiot would have you suspended for three months.

“I am a doctor,” you tell him. “Do not make me repeat myself.”

The tension on your strings marks even the few scales scattered on his body. He’s a real idiot if he continues to struggle.

Delicate movements of your fingers bring him forward, his back still strained, and tilt his snout at a forty-five-degree angle.

Your threads elongate as you move toward the clinic drawers. It loosens around you, careful at keeping you able to move freely. It’s one of the handier parts of your magic. You shake your hands and the threads detach. It sticks to the floor to keep the alligator as your puppet. You scrub your hands thoroughly before taking the nasal spray and filling with with distilled water.

You place on nitrite gloves. It’s always best when dealing with bodily substances such as mucus.

You place a pan underneath and jam the tube up his nostrils, hosing his sinuses with water. The tension of his binding keeps him still. (If you ignore his whining, then that’s your business. The brawl you heard from the waiting room drowned it all out anyway.) He starts breathing better when all the snot flushes to the pan.

“Finished,” you say with satisfaction. You grab your prescription pad and write one for a nasal spray. “I cleared the mucus buildup so you shouldn’t feel any more headaches. The spray will keep your nose clear for as long as you use it. Come back if you start to feel any discomfort. For the rashes just get cream.” You point at the pastel pink door. “The exit’s right there.”

The threads dissolve in the air. He rubs his wrist, trying to soothe the red marks that your strings bring. You hand him the signed prescription.

He doesn’t close the door on his way out.

The broom and dustpan are hidden in one of the taller cabinets—pastel-pink like everything else in the room.

(Well, not everything. The radio sitting on the corner of the counter gives a splash of red into the room.)

You sweep the tissues into the dustpan. Your control over your strings is much more proficient when living beings are involved. Inanimate objects whip around when you use your magic on them, and radios have been difficult to purchase recently. It’s more convenient to clean using your own hands.

“Tagatha,” you call out when the floor is clean. “You can bring in the next one in.”

Silence is your reply.

“Tagatha?”

Your ears quirk. The noises are faint—an occasional cough, silent weeping, and muted voices coming from the television. You peek out the door, eyeing the crowd formed around the corner of the hall where a pAstel-pInK television mounts on the wall.

The door closes with a faint click. You sink into the cushions of the office chair. Vox’s yapping bore you. It was probably some man-child debate about the new extermination date.

Although . . . those serialized dramas he produces, sadly, are interesting enough to be consumed. If asked for your honest opinion, you’d tell them that they were a hot pile of smelly garbage, but you like to leave it playing mindlessly in the background.

Your husband will throw the television out the window the first chance he’ll get.

Too bad he’s occupied.

You grab a piece of paper from the drawer. Management is forcing you to write a thousand-word formal apology. There are about three-hundred words left to write.

Getting caught dissecting the dead bodies from the morgue is a mistake that won’t be repeated. One dead body and suddenly those lazy fuckers have diligence weaved into their DNA.

The body was already dead, and it’s not every day a chance to poke around a chimera’s entrails appears.

The sinner would contribute to something meaningful at least. You’re stuck on clinic duty until you dot your last sentence, and not a moment before

The coffee’s cold now, but consumable.

You reach across the desk, feeling for the knob of the radio. You twist until you feel the clink. Music fills the air—the same twenty-five songs on a loop. You stare at the radio for a moment. Just . . . a small . . . single moment.

 . . . On your kitchen counter, that second cup of coffee should be cold by now. It’s always cold when you trudge through the door. It’s been cold and untouched for years.

Yet, without fail, that second cup you brew will always be waiting for its owner.

“Salutations!” You snap your head to the radio. “Good to be back on the air.”

Huh? The feather on your hair preens. You swipe the radio, your hold on it feather-light.  You turn the knob responsible for volume. The static noise stings your eardrums.

“—ile since someone with style treated hell to a broadcast. Sinners rejoice!”

Murmurs erupt outside your door. You blink and find yourself slamming it open. One foot after another, one step after the other, brings you closer to the television. Your shoulder throbs when you bump into someone, but you keep pushing until you see Vox and his tacky suit enlarged on the screen.

“What a dated voice!”

A reply comes from the radio. “Instead of a clout-chasin’ mediocre video podcast.”

Your feather rises higher. Laughter escapes your lips, it leaves a dry taste. That . . . that ṁ̵̭͔̲̙̦͎̝̜̲̠͙͇̂̏̃̐̂̓̊̂̕̕o̴̢̭̝̙̤̬͚͐̅͗̌̇̂̌̕ţ̷̛̝̂̿h̶̯̟̙̲̘̟̟͙͔̔̋͊̋̿̐͘͜͜ę̶̗̰͔̫͔̗̝̘̻̰̓̓̈̊͜r̵̨̂̏f̶͖̻̱̺͕̹̫̭̠̚u̸̬̺̯̟̦͖̅̂́́̌̚͝ć̴̖͙̰͈͕̉͌̈́́̈̔̀̉̍́͜͠ḳ̴̨̧̗̫̗͖̞̟̑͌̂̀̈́̀͆͒ę̷̛͓̼̟͍̆̆́͆̾͛͝r̵̹̮̤͓̗̹̈́̎̉͌̾͌̏͑̋̚͝.

“Doctor!” Tagatha screeches when she spots you. “I am so sorry. I’ll bring in the next one right away!”

Your eyes are trapped by the screen and your ears by the radio. “It’s alrig—”

Tagatha grabs the closest person to her and shoves you back into the clinic. The door slams shut just as everything goes dark and silent. (Well, it’s not completely dark, once your eyes adjust you can still see as if the lights were open. Another small perk to this body). Your radio, along with the power, stopped working.

“Oh my!” Your new patient bleats.

“We have generators,” you find yourself saying. “I’m sure the power will come on in a minute.”

The cushions of the chair do little to ease your nerves. You pat your hair, trying to get it in control. A pile of feathers starts forming on the PASTEL-FUCKING PINK FLOORS. T̴̹̜͇̅̅͗͜H̶̰̗̄Ơ̶̡̡̻̗͖̋̎̓̓S̴̨͉̝̻͋̽̆́͆Ẹ̸̡̢͐͐͠ ̷̨͚̞̙̀͒̆̆͊Ŭ̵͕̲̪͇͓͐̚G̷̹̝̦̬͊͒Ḷ̶̭͓̎̏̈͘Y̶͇̟̍̉̚ ̷̟͎͕̞͂͑̂̇À̶͉̍̄̈̚S̸͖̖͕͑̏͛̈́S̶͚̤̼̯̀ ̶̻͆P̷̬̝̉Ä̵͕́͊̌S̸̢͍̆̓͝Ṫ̸͖̲̠̾̉͜͝E̷̺͆L̷͖̏͐́͝ ̶̛̟̽͝P̷̪̔͜I̴̹̥̹͖̮͒́̏͘N̸̳̙̼̾̆̿Ķ̶̟̞̜̉͊̓̂̚ ̵͈̬̃̿̄̈́̋F̵̨̨̼̫̘͘L̸̙̠͎̓̆́O̷̧̘͚͉̤̓O̷̤̟̱̼̤͋̍͐R̷̰̝̓͌̌Ș̵̲̝̈́ “Excuse me?” You will paint this room red with the blood of management.  You tap your foot again, and again, and again. “ . . .Doctor?”

Your neck snaps in her direction, eyes wide and staring.

“The . . . uh . . . the lights are back.”

You blink at your patient—huh, she’s a goat. “I apologize,” you say, smiling. “Please, tell me, what brings you here in this hellish afternoon.”

She holds up her bleeding arm. “It’s been like this since the extermination,” she explains. “Some angle got me. Luckily, I was able to run off before I was finished. I thought it would heal on its own like it usually does but it just hasn’t. It keeps bleeding.”

“Well, angel-induced injuries are my specialty,” you say. Tucked away to the side, a mirror hangs. You catch your reflection, and you blow your hair away from your vision, your red sclerae “This will cost you. Injuries caused by angels are . . . difficult to stitch, but not impossible—not for me at least.”

“Oh, yes.” She bleats one more “Dear God, where are my manners? I’m sorry can I ask for your name?”

Your smile widens. “Of course. I’m—"

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

“Alastor! Pleasure to be meeting you. Quite a pleasure!” One hand reset on his chest, and the other shoots into the air. It’s the bow you did in high school, back when you wanted theater to pay your bills. A performer’s bow.

You chuckle. “I don’t think it will be quite the pleasure you think.”

“Is that so?” Alastor’s smile remains constant. “And why would that be?”

You show him the tray you’re holding. “I’m here to do your sutures.” He steps closer to take a peek. You watch him as his eyes gloss over your matches then your needle driver, then the alcohol lamp. His smile wobbles when he lands on the syringe.

You move the tray, dropping it down on the little cart by the examination chair.

“There’s no need to worry.” You beam at him. “I have the steadiest hands in this city.”

“Hmmmm,” he says. “You must be the other doctor then.”

“Not at all.” You point to your uniform, where the initial ‘NP’ is embroidered next to your name. “Just the nurse practitioner.”

He takes a closer look and reads your name. “Then I have no reason to fret. None at all! In my experience, doctors usually have their noses buried in their books. It’s the nurses that actually get the hands-on experience.” Alastor’s hands move when he talks. “What’s such a talented practitioner doing in such a dinged-up clinic?”

“Management caught me in the morgue dissecting the dead—It’s how I practice my stitches.”

“Really, now?”

You bark a laugh. “Not at all—I’m far too smart to get caught.”

“A witty sense of humor and a steady hand! I am in good hands, indeed.”

You take a seat on the rolling stool. “Yes, yes,” you say, waving your wrist. “You make fine compliments, Sir. I’ll be sure to be extra gentle.” You point towards the examination chair. “But, please hurry to the chair. You’re dripping blood on my floor.”

Alastor glances down. His eyebrows furrow as he glares at where the blood seeps from his sleeve . . . almost . . . almost as if he’s angry. “My apologies,” he says, allowing his blood to drip to the floor.

Alastor shrugs off his coat. It’s rare to see such a dark red—only a few choose such a color. You hum. Alastor is a well-dressed gentleman. Lovely. Those are your favorite kind. He drapes his coat over the spare chair, ignoring the coat racks the clinic provides.

You turn away and wheel yourself closer to one of the drawers on the counter. It takes two attempts until you find the stash of sterile gloves. “Take your seat when you’re ready,” you say. “I’ll take a look once you are.” You place the gloves on the little green cart, right next to your tray.

Alastor takes his seat, landing with an audible ‘humph’. He smiles at you, sleeves rolled and arm ready. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

You hold your palm out. “May I?”

His smile wobbles—it’s a small change in expression that you wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking. “Of course.”

Along his forearm, a long and sharp cut wounds him. The sight of grime that covers the opened abrasions makes you inwardly cringe. You need to clean these as soon as possible. “Why was this not checked sooner?” You rest his hands on the armrest and use your foot to bring the cart closer. “This looks old, and not at all like a freshly deep cut. I prefer it when patients come to me with fresh wounds.”

You grab a bowl with distilled water and pour in a sterile solution. “I assumed it would heal on its own,” he tells you. “It was quite a surprise when it did not.”

“I need to clean this before you die of infection.” You dip his arm into the bowl. He remains silent, but you feel the tension of his muscles under your fingers. “Hopefully there will be no next time, but just in case, next time, please don’t wait a month.”

He laughs, and there, you faintly see it—a twitch in his eye. “It was only a week actually.”

You smile to yourself. “I’d prefer it if it was only a few hours.” You dry his arm with a soft towel, his arm still tensed underneath your touch. “There, much better.”  You release your hold to go to a shelf filled with different labeled vials and select the one you need. With the clean syringe, you draw the contents of the vial. “You’ll feel a bit of a pinch,” you say. You tap its side. “It’s morphine— wouldn’t want you screaming and writhing”

You study his face for a second. There’s just that same dismissively polite smile.

“You can look away if you wish,” you tell him. “It’s why we pin such . . . er . . .interesting decorations around. . . . May I?”

You feel it again when Alastor inches his arm closer. His muscles tense under your touch. It’s almost as if he wishes to pull away. You keep your hold feather-light, but firm.

“Are you a hunter by any chance?” you ask. You don’t prick him—not yet. Not when tension coils in your hold.

“You could describe it that way,” he says, chuckling like he’s told a humorous joke. (You don’t understand why.)

“I figured you were.”

Alastor slides his glasses up the bridge of his nose. You inject the morphine into his skin, right inside the soft pink tissue. Good. Alastor relaxes when he speaks, it seems. “I do love a good hunt,” he says. “How ever did you know.”

You release your hold and discard the syringe. “Your hands are rough,” you tell him. “And hunters always have this silly notion that injuries magically heal given enough time—along with farmers, actually. Although, farmers are usually much more deluded.”

He flashes that same polite smile. “I'm guessing you’re not a hunter then?”

“How ever did you know?”

You watch his eyes flicker to your palms as you re-arrange the needles. “Delicate hands.”

You flash the same polite smile right back at him. You take a match, and light the alcohol lamp.

Soap spreads all over your palms and up your arm as you scrub your hands. You slip your hands into the sterilized gloves, careful not to contaminate the surface. “I’ll begin now.”

Alastor hums in reply.

You take a scapple and pass it over the flame. You poke him, lightly, but he doesn’t react. Satisfied, you cut back fibrous tissue underneath the skin. You replace the scapple with a needle driver. There was a quiet click when you pinch the tiny curved needle. You pass it over the flame as well. “Can you do me a favor? Can you tell me how many stars are on that wall over there?

Alastor turns to look at you, but you block his eyes with your palm, shielding him from your stiches.

“The wall isn’t over here.”

“I assure you, I’m not afraid of a silly needle.”

“I’m sure you are,” you say. “However, you’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. The last three people who said that took one look and started squirming. One even fainted. It makes your life miserable, and my job harder.

He counts.

“Out loud please.”

He does as he’s told, rather reluctantly.

Hands steady and determination set, you pierce the soft pink tissue with your needle The tissue nearest to the surface is always delicate. You’re certain not to catch any fat in your suture, for fat dies, and a loose stitch is useless. “Well, isn’t this fun!” he says. “I really feel nothing.”

Your concentration does not break. “I don’t remember there only being twenty-six stars. I’m positive there are more.”

“Why is someone as talented as you only a nurse practitioner?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being a nurse,” you reply, tugging on the needle. “Well . . .we . . . we certainly could be paid more.”

“Why not become an actual doctor then?”

“My father couldn’t afford it. He wouldn’t send me . . . and . . . hmm.” You smoothly pull the suture thread and begin the next stitch. “And I enjoy this.”

He looks down at you. “Is this all you’ll be satisfied with?”

You focus back on your stitching, hiding your glare. You bring your needle underneath the flesh, making sure to catch the soft tissue. You’re doing an uncommon stitch, but it would be a shame to leave a scar. “You sound familiar.”

You pause to look at him, His smile brightens, and it actually looks like a genuine elated smile. “Why, I’m a radio broadcaster. You might have heard me there.”

“Oh yes,” you hum, turning back to your stitching. “Alastor . . . I remember now. The ladies and I listen to your broadcast as we do our crafts.”

“Knitting?”

“I personally prefer embroidery,” you say. “I get to practice my stitching and make beautiful art.” You pull the thread and begin a new one, stitching his skin like they were shoe laces. “You’re quite the humorous gentleman, I must say, and quite a lovely taste in music. We enjoy your broadcast very much”

“Do you have any of your artworks here?” he asks you. “I would be eager to see them.”

“Maybe next time.” You tug the suture, and his laceration snaps to a close. You tie a knot and snip the end. “Unfortunately, I’ve finished your stitches.”

“Next time then.”

You discard your gloves and go back to the shelf with the vials. You fill up another syringe. You jam the needle into his skin, not enough to hurt, just enough to scare him a bit. “To prevent infection.”

He jerks away from you. “What happened to that gentle touch of yours?”

“It’s still a sharp object, Sir. They tend to hurt.” You smirk and carefully clean the remaining blood on the skin around the sutured wound. You take a bandage from your cart and begin wrapping it around his forearm, covering your sutures. “Don’t forget to drink your pills every 8 hours, with a meal in your stomach, preferably. Replace the dressing every three days. You can come back here or if you’re able to do so, you can change them yourself. Any by the good God, please, visit the nearest hospital should this incident repeat.”

Alastor slides off the examination chair. He grabs his coat as if you didn’t just stitch him close. You start packing when you notice him fixing his bow tie, and smoothing his hair. Huh . . .There’s blood on his coat, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Like he’s used to having it there. Like it’s just something he’s learned to live with. “You were wrong by the way.”

“Pardon?”

“It was quite the pleasure to meet you.”

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Next Part |Part 2: Radio Will be Dead if He Doesn't Explain Himself| Hello, welcome to the hell that's been plaguing my head. In case you didn't know Belphegor is the ruler of the sloth ring, and she seems to be in charge of medical-related stuff in Hell. I have the story mostly plotted out, it's just a matter of writing it down. If you have any questions, ask away

[closets-closet]

THIS COULD WORK WITH EITHER PRICE OR GHOST AND I LOVE BOTH SO MUCH SOO U PICK 😖

141 finding out on accident that ghost/price is married?!?! BEEN married. They bug him to introduce them to the missus, and he finally does it so they leave him alone, he takes them to his house made a home by the sweet bundle of light, shes a absolute darling, gorgeous thing. They’re kinda shocked how he pulled that

IM MELTINGGHFBDBSBZK

I LOVE THIS, could you imagine the chaos on base when Johnny or Kyle finds out about this mystery woman. Because we know damn well Simon pulled a drop dead gorgeous wife. Anywhosie here’s my take on this amazing prompt.

“Simon Pleaseeeee” Johnny trails out his arms dramatically spread out infront of him. It was just recently Price slipped up and revealed to the team that Simon was married and has a Missus at home, and that’s all it took for Johnny and Kyle to lose their minds. “Simon” Kyle dead pans “Why won’t you let us see the lady” Simon huffs, before looking at both of them, frustration bubbling in his chest. “Not happening mate, work and personal life stay separate.” He grumbles one more time before pushing out of his seat, slinging his duffle bag over his shoulder and making his way to the door. “Now if you don’t mind, i’ve got my lady waitin’ for me at home.”

-

“Dove?” You hear your husband call from the front door of your shared home “I’m back” You appear from around the door way to the kitchen, apron tied around your waist and hair up “Welcome home” You smile “I’ve almost finished dinner for you” He walks into the kitchen immediately circling your waist with his hands burring his face in your neck “I’m conflicted” He admits quietly as he takes you in “The boys want to meet you, but I don’t want them to know how lucky i’ve gotten.” You sigh gently hooking your fingers under the black balaclava that covers his face, slowly pulling it off. “It’s your choice, but I don’t mind having them come by, I’ll make them dinner and everything” You hand brushes over his cheek before planing a small kiss across his lips. “Okay then” He whispers leaving into a little bit more “We’ll have them over”

-

“Finally” Johnny cheers excitedly as they walk up the drive to your shared home, a modest one story at the end of a small residential street. “Got you a quaint little place here” Price comments as they stand at the door, the smell of food wafting out from behind it. “Come on in fellas” Simon says as he pushes open the front door.

“Hello everyone” you greet, voice floating towards them. “It’s so nice to finally meet you all, Si happens to talk about you guys a whole bunch.” The smile you gives them melts the boys all to puddles. “Please come in, make yourself at home” you step aside letting them all in.

“Beautiful home you’ve got here ma’am” Kyle says stepping further into the house that’s littered with framed pictures of you and Simon together. “L.T never told me you clean up so well” Johnny teases as he examines a wedding photos that hangs over the kitchen bar. Simon moves to stand behind you, hands resting on your waist gently. Price moves to stand infront of you extending his hand “John Price” He introduces, You meet his hand shaking it firmly “Thank you for keeping him safe” You respond giving him a warm smile that melts him. “How long ye been married” Johnny pipes up from the living room where he’s petting yours and Simon’s cat. “About 3 years” you question out trying to remember exact dates. Simon lets out a long sigh, a symbol this is going to be a long night for him.

-

-

It’s about 23:30 when the boys leave. “That wasn’t so bad” You sigh taking a seat next to Simon on the couch, wine glass pinched between your fingers “They’re good kids” You mention snuggling close to your husband. “They are” He admits looking down at you, the smell of the whisky he’s drinking flooding your nose “Should have em around more often” you say looking to him “They make you smile in a way I don’t see to often” He looks to you smiling gently “I guess they do” He whispers getting closer to you pressing a small kiss to your lips.

I should be his wife *SIGH*

[r0ugesun]

Can you write about a witch reader × aemond? Like he was lost after a battle of God eyes in the wood and then he found the reader, and then she help him with his wounds?

Thank you so much for your request. I apologize for the delay, and I appreciate your patience. I hope this meets your expectations :>

(Also shout out @moonstruksandco for helping me with this she’s my irl wife my moon and muse❤️)

Witch!Reader x Aemond Targaryen

No warnings

Synopsis: After a fierce battle above the gods eye, a wounded Aemond finds refuge with Y/N, a reclusive witch, who offers healing in exchange for something that will help guard the forest. They find solace amid the chaos of the ongoing war.

“You have lived too long uncle”

“On that much we agree.”

The battle above the God’s Eye was a clash of beasts, dragons roaring fiercely at their riders’ command. Smoke and flames thickened the air, war cries echoing across the sky like distant thunder.

Vhagar expertly maneuvered around Caraxes, their talons intertwining in a deadly dance. Though old, Vhagar's experience in combat was undeniable, but she struggled against the agile younger dragon. In a swift moment, Caraxes snapped his jaws onto Vhagar’s neck, giving Daemon the chance to leap from his saddle, Dark Sister aimed at Aemond.

But Aemond’s death did not come however, Vhagar twisted and writhed in caraxes grasp until her fire engulfed Daemon, sending him and caraxes into the depths of the lake.

The forest beyond was a twisted labyrinth, ancient trees clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The aftermath of the battle left the land charred, a silent witness to horror. Bloodied and broken, Aemond staggered through the underbrush, pain eclipsed only by the grief in his heart. His mighty dragon vhagar lay dead below the water, her sacrifice weighing heavily on him.

As darkness threatened to consume him, a soft, ethereal glow broke through the shadows. Driven by instinct, Aemond forced himself toward the light.

He stumbled into a secluded glade, where a dilapidated stone house covered in ivy stood, a beacon amid the gloom. The air was infused with the scent of incense and flowers, a sharp contrast to the stench of sulfur and burnt flesh he’d left behind. A lone figure, cloaked in black, tended to a moonlit garden. She turned, her eyes reflecting the light like constellations.

“Who goes there?” Her voice was a haunting melody stern, yet oddly soothing.

Aemond collapsed at the edge of the clearing, vision fading. “...help…me,” he gasped.

The woman crossed her arms, her expression one of clear annoyance. “The spirits always send me their messes to clean up.” she muttered under her breath.

Without a word, she stepped aside and helped him in, though her demeanor was far from welcoming. Aemond staggered into the warmth of the cottage, the scent of herbs and something unidentifiable filling his senses. The woman guided him to a wooden table, but her touch was far from gentle.

“My name is Aemond,” he managed, though his vision was blurring.

She rolled her eyes. “I know who you are, Prince Aemond. I am Y/N. Sit still and don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Aemond watched as she moved around the room, gathering supplies with quick, irritated motions. She mixed herbs with practiced ease, creating a paste that she applied to his cuts and bruises. Her touch, though skilled, was brusque, and the pain began to ebb away under her care despite her apparent displeasure.

Then darkness took him. When he awoke, he found himself in a dim room, shelves lined with mysterious vials and tomes in a language he didn’t recognize. The woman was beside him, applying a green salve. It stung at first but soon numbed his pain.

“You saved me” Aemond rasped.

Her nod was slight, her gaze steady. “Your wounds are grave, but you will not join the Stranger yet. I will heal you.”

He studied her intricate symbols etched into her tunic, her skin shimmering like silver in candlelight. “Who are you? Why are you alone in these woods?”

“I am y/n” she said, her voice edged with irritation. “I tend to the animals. They need me.”

Aemond’s eyes narrowed. “You tend to the beasts of the forest? You’re not just a healer, are you? You’re a witch.”

She she looked at him sharply “That’s one name for it. I am whoever the forest needs me to be sometimes a healer, sometimes a protector. And sometimes, something more.”

His expression softened as she unfastened his tunic, revealing deep, angry wounds across his muscular torso.

“These wounds run deep. Can you truly treat them?”

“Trust me” she said, fingers hovering over his scars, her voice unwavering. “The magic flows through me, but it requires something in return.”

Taking a deep breath, he felt the weight of his decision. “Very well. Do what you must.”

Y/n’s fingers grazed his skin, warmth radiating from her touch. “Close your eyes. Breath deep.”

As he obeyed, a surge of energy enveloped him in q blend of warmth and power flowing from her into his wounds. He sensed the whispers of the forest, and for the first time, he allowed himself to believe in something beyond mere survival.

When the healing was done, she stepped back, her eyes searching his. “I need a scale from your dragon” she said, her tone more serious.

His eye snapped open, suspicion and curiosity mingling. “For what purpose?”

“There’s an ancient spell I need to complete” she explained. “One that requires the essence of a dragon. With it, I can enhance my powers and protect this land from the dark forces encroaching upon it.”

He hesitated, the pain of his dragon’s loss still raw. “Vhagar lays at the bottom of the lake, I fear I won’t be able to reach her.”

"Not a problem, I can brew a potion that will grant you the breath of the sea, allowing you to reach her without pause." she replied. “Will you do it?”

Aemond’s jaw clenched as he nodded, the weight of her request heavy on his heart. “I will……I thank you for your help.”

“Come” she said, she gathered her ingredients with practiced grace. the air thick with the scent of herbs and salt Wisps of smoke curled from a small cauldron as she kindled the flame beneath it, the fire dancing in rhythm with her murmured incantations.

She crushed silvery seaweed between her fingers, releasing a shimmer of iridescent essence, and added it to the bubbling brew. Next, she sprinkled in powdered pearls, their luminescence casting a soft glow around the room. As she stirred with a carved wooden ladle, the liquid transformed into a deep azure, swirling like the depths of the lake.

With a final flourish, she dropped in a glimmering shard of moonstone, causing the potion to shimmer and pulse with an ethereal light. “Drink this by the lake, and you shall breathe as easily as the currents flow”

As he left her hut, determination and sorrow fueled his steps. The scale of his recently fallen dragon, an ancient spell, and a witch’s power, this journey was far from over.

With a steady hand, Aemond raised the shimmering potion to his lips, the cool liquid gliding down his throat like a gentle wave. Instantly, a rush of warmth enveloped him, filling his lungs with a strange, invigorating energy.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped toward the water’s edge, the moonlight reflecting off the surface like scattered diamonds. He plunged into the lake, the cool water wrapping around him like a cloak. As he descended, he felt the potion working, granting him the ability to hold his breath as he swam deeper, propelled by determination and the promise of what awaited him below.

As Aemond descended further into the lake’s depths, the water grew darker, illuminated only by the faint glimmer of bioluminescent creatures. Suddenly, he spotted Vhagar, her massive form resting peacefully on the silty bottom, surrounded by a tranquil stillness. Beside her lay his uncle, the visage of his former glory entwined with the majestic shape of Caraxes, their bond transcending even death.

A heavy heart weighed on Aemond as he approached, the sight of Vhagar once a fierce and fearsome beast now appearing serene in eternal slumber. He felt a bittersweet pang of longing, knowing the dragon had once soared the skies with him.

With a quiet determination, he swam closer, carefully reaching out to take a few scales from Vhagar’s side, each one a testament to their shared history. As his fingers brushed against her scales, a profound sense of reverence washed over him, mingling with grief and the echoes of lost love.

Hours later, Aemond returned, a scale from Vhagar in his hand. The witch y/n took it reverently, her eyes softening. “This will do,” she murmured.

Together, they ventured into the heart of the forest, where Y/n began her incantations. The air thickened with magic as she worked, the scale glowing with an otherworldly light. Aemond watched, his heart heavy yet hopeful.

As the spell reached its climax, the forest seemed to come alive. The trees swayed as if in reverence, and a deep, echoing roar filled the air. Vhagar’s spirit emerged, majestic and powerful, her essence blending with the forest. She became its guardian, a spectral presence that would protect the land.

Aemond felt a profound sense of peace. Vhagar was gone, but her spirit lived on, safeguarding the forest. He turned to y/n, gratitude in his eyes. “Thank you” he said softly.

She looked up at him, her stern expression softening. “Vhagars sacrifice will not be forgotten. This land is safe now, thanks to both of you.”

Days turned into weeks as Aemond recovered under Y/N’s care. Her initial annoyance with him faded, replaced by a grudging respect and something more tender. They spoke of many things of dragons and magic, of loss and hope. Aemond found himself drawn to her strength and independence, while she began to see the depth of his pain and the vulnerability beneath his warrior exterior.

One evening, as they sat by the fire, Aemond reached for her hand. “You’ve done so much for me… I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

She met his gaze, her eyes soft but still guarded. “You owe me nothing. I did this for the forest….And perhaps, for you as well.”

He leaned closer, his voice a whisper. “Y/N, I’ve come to care for you deeply. More than I ever thought possible.”

Her breath hitched, but she didn’t pull away. “Aemond…our lives are so different. I am bound to my duty to the forest, to its magic. And you… you are a prince, with duties the war isn’t over”

“There’s nothing left for me there” he said, his hand gently cupping her face. “What matters to me is here, with you.”

Y/N closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. The fire crackled softly beside them, mirroring the flame igniting their love. “Then stay” she whispered. “With me.”

Their lips met in a passionate kiss, the spirits of the forest their only witnesses to their new bond. Despite the chaos of the world outside, they found each other, a love as fierce and enduring as the magic that surrounded them.

For the first time in a long time, Aemond felt truly happy.

[mylordshesacactus]

I had the realization a while back that Isobel, who was dead for a hundred years, would have been around in Jaheira's heyday and almost certainly knows who she is.

And then the significantly funnier realization that, like.

POV: You are Isobel Thorm. You don't fully remember how you died, but you remember languishing in timeless darkness. You are ripped from the grave gasping and shaking, surrounded by darkness and obscene symbols and the desecrated remains of your ancestors. Your father, warped and corrupted, is acting deranged and horrifyingly possessive of you, and almost sounds pleased to tell you that your wife--your true immortal wife, your wife the unkillable demigod--is dead.

You flee in terror into a world that is a twisted mockery of the town you grew up in and loved. Twisted oily shadows lash at your body and soul and only the faint echo of the moon goddess' power sustains you as you race unseeing through the eternal darkness, sickened by a core of necromantic energy that you (as a cleric) can constantly sense but can do nothing to purge.

Unable to run any further you find the ruins of what was once an inn and collapse there. Your goddess reaches out to you, despite your conviction that your resurrection must make you disgusting in her eyes. You create a sanctuary and pray for help to come. While digging around in the inn, you find records and papers with confusing dates, and begin to realize that far more time has passed than you initially thought. But with no one alive to explain anything--and, now, an overwhelming paranoia telling you that it would not be wise to be known as Ketheric Thorm's daughter to friend or foe--you're going to need to be very circumspect if you ever intend to figure out the details.

A group of Harpers arrive. Their leader introduces herself as Jaheira, a name you know very well from while you were alive.

Isobel: Jaheira: Isobel, Who Lives In A World That Contains Both Elves And Archdruids: Well that tells me absolutely fuCKING NOTHING--