#this was a ceremonial sword not used in battles

[wr1t3w1tm3]

This is how we do a full circle!!

the blade is folded steel. that’s gold filigree laid into the handle. if i may — perfectly balanced. the tang is nearly the full width of the blade.

[merrinla]

Nick Thornborrow on BlueSky showed some more Lucanis narrative sketches

Sketch of Teia and Viago

Portrait sketch of Lucanis

Sketch of Lucanis violently dispatching prison guards along with Spite rapidly dispatching Venatori minions in the background.

Spite conversing with Rook. Spite grins with … well… spite. And Rook looks like she's having none of it.

A hedonistic bath house. Lucanis is deep in foreground in silhouette with two sword hilts apparent in the silhouette.

Ilario being seduced by I forget her name. But the villain in Lucanis's story. The villain is in a glowing red pool and drawing Ilario towards her who sits on the edge. Lucanis spies in the foreground.

Shirtless Ilario hulked out advancing on Lucanis in the foreground with a sword. The villain is in the background towering on a miasma of blood magic.

The villain reduced to a skeletal frame begging Ilario to save her.

Ilario smoke bombing out I think. Lucanis in the foreground in command of Spite.

Rook checking in on Lucanis who is curled up on the floor. Lucanis has just had an episode with his demon, Spite. Scorch marks in the shape of wings smolder on the walls.

Lucanis holding Rook in an embrace but looking warily back at Spite's wings protruding from his own back.

Lucanis ceremonially marking a book with blood.

I honestly can’t remember what was going through my head. I drew this years ago. It’s possible I was working from an explicit description of a ritual to become a Talon, or I may have been taking creative license. Either way, it was something to do with Talon coronation.

Lucanis and Spite working together for once to defeat the villain.

Action shot of Lucanis. I don't know. Kinda scruffy.

Lucanis looming over the villain who has been thoroughly defeated.

Lucanis becoming First Talon.

Lucanis with Spite wings out kissing Rook in the rain. This sketch was meant to portray an intense moment in the midst of going into a battle we don't expect to survive.

An intimate moment between Rook and Lucanis in the hot springs at the Dellamorte Estate.

Rook (who quite famously can't swim) tumbling into the canals of Treviso in a friendly game of bumper car gondola with Lucanis.

Rook and Lucanis having a wholesome (read spicy) experience in a secluded tunnel on a gondola. Lucanis's back is to us and his shirt is half off. Rook is obscured by Lucanis but the two are kissing.

Lucanis executing an ancient God with a lyrium dagger by stabbing him in the back. The God has a skull like face and and a horned helmet. Grey fog leaves his throat as he perishes with the word "URK"

[mass-convergence]

“Buy these tactical swords!”

I know they likely mean like modern tacticool type weaponry. But like … aren’t all swords are inherently tactical? They were used in war and like not to chop potatoes or something. (I mean I used my sword to cut up a cucumber for my Guinea pig but that was solely out of necessity because I couldn’t find my knife)

[obsessivevoidkitten]

That Time You Got Yeeted Into Another World, Mistaken as a God-Sent Gift, and Used as a Prize in an Arena

Yandere Bear-Man Dilf x Gender Neutral Reader

CW: Noncon, framed for a crime, language barrier, eaten out like it's groceries, biting, scent marking, musk, combat, general yandere behavior

Word Count: 765

(Speed written out of nowhere because I had the idea suddenly, not beta read so please forgive any mistakes. I hope you guys like this ficlet. Also forgive the title, in a game I was playing there was a crossover with "That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime" and I liked the vibe of the title.)

You were framed for a crime you didn't commit and in your village the punishment for that crime was immediate exile via being shoved down a steep crater in the center of which is a one-way portal to what is thought to be Hell.

What no one on your side of the portal knew was that on the other side was just another world. A world that celebrated with a great holiday anytime a human came through the portal. It was also a world populated entirely, with the exception of humans who crossed over, by human-like beast hybrids.

Driders, lion hybrids, nagas, aqrabuamelu (scorpion-men), harpies, dog people, centaurs, minotaurs, gnolls, and many other races that seemed to be part human. 

They have a connecting portal in their universe, but any who try to go into it are spat back out. The current went only in one direction.

Every few years, a human would be flung forth from the portal, a gift from the gods! But only the worthy can keep such a gift. So whenever a human comes to the realm from the watcher of the portal will ring the bells and all the warriors assemble and a grand tournament is held at the arena. Whoever wins gets to keep the human and gains enough wealth to care for them properly.

Things are no different when you arrive, you are immediately ushered away, examined, and pampered like a prize doll with no agency. Despite your objections. It seems like only the keeper of the portal has any rudimentary undestanding of your language, not that it helped you. He didn't explain much and his speech wasn't that great. Something about... a big game?

You were naturally frightened beyond all reason, seeing all these beast-men, but it didn't seem like you were being harmed. It really wasn't what you thought hell was going to be like. 

On the day of the big tournament, you were dressed in the finest silks, given a tiny crown of silver, and taken to the best seat in the arena. One where everyone could see you. A cushioned throne was provided for you to sit upon. You figured that this must be a ceremony to welcome people from the portal.

You watched as all the combatants sparred. At first you were horrified, but it became evident that people could yield and death was, almost always, avoided. There were combatants of every variety. 

Even from the start the best seemed to be a naga woman named Eeris and a bear-man named Brakwen. As they advanced through the fights they both finally made it to the finals where they'd clash. Eeris favored twin daggers and fangs while Brakwen used claws and brute strength. He had a sword but had not resorted to using it. 

It was a mighty battle but Brakwen the bear-man managed to win. You still did not yet realize you were the prize. Not until you were escorted down to him and were carried bridal style out of the arena with the crowd cheering. Brakwen had won the god's favor!

From close up he looked even more imposing. He seemed to be in his late 30s to early 40s. He mostly looked like a hairy man from far away though up close his massive size, sharp teeth, claws, thick fur covering his arms and quite frankly adorable bear ears, gave him away. He was rugged but admittedly rather handsome. You knew there was nothing you could do so you let him carry you away. 

Despite the language barrier, Brakwen did his best to please his god-given prize. He could tell you feared him. Especially since you tried to run off a few times. But Brakwen didn't get angry. You never even managed to get past the door. Even if you did there were two gates outside the house. You were far too valuable to let wander off. 

Eventually when you had stopped running off, and when his rut demanded he wait no longer, he began acting a bot more aggressove and sexual towards you. 

Though you tried to stop him it ended with him stretching out your hole with his powerful tongue, lubing you up with his copious amounts of drool, and sliding into you with his massive musky cock.

That's what your life was now. Being treated like a fragile precious gem most of the time and then for one week out of every month you were fucked full of hot bear cum in every possible position, bitten possessively, and scent marked by being forced to wear his oversized clothing. 

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

#she’s not using it but best believe it’s bejewelled and stunning!! #glad the canon art continues to provide them wrong <3 (via @darilarostarg)

#she would have stolen Blackfyre if George had moxy (via @claudiatherelentless)

“Book Rhaenyra wouldn’t carry a sword” crowd are weird, because how do you read F&B not coming away with the option that she absolutely would simply for the aesthetic.

[frannyzooey]

Veneration

Marcus Acacius x f!reader

Rating: E

a/n: another piece from Ao3 — enjoy! ❤️

—

“Where is she?”

Marcus stalks into his chambers, his white cape billowing behind him, a guard following in his wake.

“I asked for her, sir. I’m not sure where she is. She –”

“Just find her,” he growls, frustration etched on his face.

The guard makes a hasty apology, slipping from the room. “Yes, sir. Right away.”

Candles fill the space, pools of shadows gathered around the edges. The fabric on the bed is rich and decadent, every piece of decoration in the room dripping with luxury.

It’s jarring, after so many months living in a battle tent.

A table filled with food in abundance, he bypasses everything on it for the jar of heady wine. Pouring himself a cup, he drinks deeply.

He thumbs at the slice on his neck, smearing blood on the tips of his fingers. His hands are used to being drenched in blood, crusted with it, the firm hold of a sword nearly molded to the creases of his palm.

It took everything he had not to raise it to the fucking pup who cut him. The one who is so careless and callous, he threatens to burn down everything Marcus has worked for.

All of his protection, wasted. His entire career, played with for sport.

Where is she?

He rips the pin off his tunic, tossing it to the side — he should be more careful with it, but he’s in no mood to be careful with anything. The laurel comes next; the stupid fucking pageantry. He’s a general, a man made of sweat and blood and his fingers tear at the clasps of his armor, but he quickly gives up, pouring another cup of wine. Beautiful and untarnished, the armor is all for show, just like the adornments they covered him with.

It felt good to ride through the city and wave to the people he has been campaigning for months, but he could do without the show of it all. He recognizes the need for celebration, and he’ll gladly give it to them, but he wishes he could do it in his actual armor. The one he defends their city in. The one nicked with a thousand dents from a thousand swords. The leather that fits to his body like a second skin, and he wished for it during the ceremony more than ever, wanting to present himself to the city like the soldier he is.

He sighs, the weight of the day resting heavy on his shoulders. He’d hoped he’d feel more relieved after his conversation with Lucilla, that maybe he’d finally have someone useful he could persuade to act – and yet, the conversation was fruitless.

Frustration throbs behind his eyes, and he closes them, rubbing at his brow.

“You’d think someone who just had a parade held in their honor would look a little less plagued.”

At your voice, his head snaps up. He watches you slip into the room, servant girls on your heels.

He shakes his head, a stern look on his face. “Alone.”

His command is clear, and you obey, dismissing the girls with a slight wave. All for show in the first place, they turn and leave the two of you.

“Where have you been?” he asks. “I’ve been waiting to see you since we entered the gates.”

You walk closer, bending to pick his cape off the floor. “You know I’m not allowed up there with them.” You finger the rich fabric, fighting the urge to bring it to your nose just to inhale his scent.

A scent you’ve missed for almost a year now. A scent that was pressed into your bedding before he left, a scent you used to have memorized from the soft divot just underneath his ear. Oil and sweat and a heady fragrance that clung to his curls and clothes - one you’d been longing for since he left you behind for the promise of North Africa.

“I know,” he answers. “I thought you’d come to see me sooner. Or that I would have seen your face along the route.”

“Would you even have remembered what it looked like?”

It’s childish, the question. You know it, but a barrier comes up automatically, placing protection around your heart. You were so sure of your bond until you saw him climb those steps, taking his place alongside the Emperor. A tiny prick of doubt at the display of his status bled within you, and though you want nothing more than to run to him for reassurance, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

“How can you even ask that?” he asks lowly, hurt and frustration buried between his dark brows.

He steps closer, and yet you withhold, standing your ground.

You did see him on the route, hidden in the back of the crowd, watching from underneath the hood of your robe. The second you heard he was approaching the city, anticipation stole the air from your lungs, so strong that you had to stop your chores. A thousand different scenarios of reuniting with him swirled through your mind, all of them abruptly stopped by the remembrance that you couldn’t greet him. Not in public, not where anyone could see. You watched him instead from the depths of the crowd, feeling pride as he rode past.

There, he looked like a shining god. Here, in front of you, he looks older.

Aged in a way that makes him even more handsome, there is new gray along his temples. More, along the curve of his jaw. The candlelight catches strands that mix in with his dark curls, and you take in the wrinkles the line the edges of his eyes, the ones that crease his forehead. The one between his brows was there before he left, only it’s deeper now - something you know has to do with the way you haven’t touched him yet.

“This finery suits you,” you muse, fingering the edge of his armor.

He scoffs, catching your hand in his. Bringing it to his mouth, you watch with rapt attention as his lips mold to your knuckles, one delicate kiss after another.

“I hate it,” he mumbles against your skin.

You smile. “Then let’s remove it.”

–

He’s patient as you help, but barely.

You can feel the tension radiating off his body as you unclasp his armor and lift it off, the heavy leather set to the side. His eyes stay trained on you as you guide his thick tunic upwards, discarding it onto the floor. He stands in his underclothes for a moment before you sink to your knees and undo the tie at his waist, letting them fall as well. Bare now for your eyes, you inspect him from your position, your hands running over his skin.

It’s familiar, yet not: new wounds that have healed, new scars for your touch. He stirs under your exploration, twitching along his thigh, but you don’t give into the touch you know he wants - not yet. You used to spend hours exploring his body: working oil into his tired muscles, memorizing the firm planes of them born in the training yard. He’s just as thick and strong as you remember, maybe even more so now.

Standing, you turn to retrieve a strigil from his bedside table, undoing the clasp of your tunic with one hand with your back facing him. It falls from your shoulders, slipping onto the floor in a puddle of cloth and when you turn to face him, the hunger in his gaze at your nakedness floods you with arousal.

“They bathed me before the parade,” he says dismissively, glancing at the tool in your grip.

You had a ritual before he left: he would summon you to his chambers, and be waiting for you. You’d help him undress, and sometimes you’d bathe him, but sometimes he liked it better this way - your small hands smearing rich oil along his tanned skin, your fingers working it in. The deliberate strokes of the strigil swept along the lines of his muscles, the tool gathering all the grime and the dust and the sweat from the yard. Never enough that it disappeared though. You smelt it on you when you slipped from his chambers later that night, always pressed into your limbs, his seed trickling from between your thighs.

Assuming he wants the same veneration tonight, you’re surprised when his hand flicks out faster than you’re prepared for, his grip relentless on your wrist. It tightens, and he pulls you towards him, your back to his front. The heat of his body is flush with yours, the weight of his cock thick along the curve of your ass.

“How long I’ve waited to have you,” he breathes into your ear, his tone a growl that sends a shiver down your spine. The scruff along his jaw scrapes against your skin, and you melt into him. “Why are you doing this?”

You drop the stirgil on the tiled floor, the sound barely heard over the pounding of your heart. Letting yourself lean against the thick, broad plane of his chest, his hand lets go of your wrist to skate up your side, roughly palming the weight of your breast. He groans when he touches it, a relieved one that blends with your softer moan, and his other hand curls around your front, cupping you firmly between your thighs. His fingers reach for the curve of your entrance, his teeth scraping along your shoulder when he finds you wet. His touch lingers there, his fingers spreading you to find more evidence of your need.

There is a tension that still vibrates from his form behind you, hidden underneath his skin. He’s holding himself back just for you, and though you want nothing more than to put aside your hesitation and your pride, it’s actually easier to do it this way. To encourage him to take, so different than the sweet murmurs you’ve wished for in the night, less vulnerable than the tender touch of his hands.

You want it to hurt, just like you’ve hurt, and you know he also needs this right now.

Your hand rests upon his, sliding it up.

Up, up, up until it circles your throat.

He flexes his grip, his fingers pressing into your pulse that thrums underneath his touch. You give him silent permission — permission to be the one he wants to be with you sometimes.

Permission for him to be rough, like he is in battle.

Permission to take you as he needs to take you.

Tilting your head to the side, you whisper against his scruffed cheek. “I’m yours, General.” The title gives away the game, your slip into character. “Tell me what you want.”

Your words set him alight, his body moving just how it does on the field: in control, precise, power emanating from his stance when he tugs you away from him and pushes you to your knees. He blocks out the light above you, his fingers curling around your chin to pull you closer. Your hands splay on his sturdy thighs to catch your balance, and he steps forward, crowding you.

“Open your mouth.”

An order, like he was born to give.

Dutifully you do, and he wastes no time feeding himself between your warm, wet lips. The thick tip of his cock brushes against your bottom lip, the weight of him smearing across your tongue the deeper he gets. He tastes so good and so familiar, so musky and masculine, and your tongue runs along the underside of his shaft, curving to the skin as he hardens even more. You slide it along every ridge, every vein of his thick cock, and when he pulls back just before pushing himself deeper with a groan, you swirl your tongue around the rounded tip.

Going back for more, you do it again.

Your hands slide up his thighs to his hips, your fingers digging into the skin, and you pull him deeper, encouraging it. He groans loud and shameless, your cunt throbbing when you look up to the light flickering over his skin. It looks so rich and real , your hands slipping backwards to palm the curve of his ass with a greedy grab.

The release of want pours from you both, his body still tight with tension but a different type of tension: not frustration, but need.

He gives in, thrusting into your mouth harder, flickering candlelight catching the drool that gathers around the edges of your mouth and slides down your chin. Your cheeks hollow, his thumb fitting into the indented curve. Your eyes shut tight, his cock pushing against the tight ring of your throat. He holds there for a moment, and then pulls out, his is cock glistening and he strokes it while you catch your breath, but you’re already grabbing for him before you’re ready.

“I want more,” you beg, your voice hoarse. “Take what you need.”

He strokes himself faster, harder, his stomach tensing.

“I know you’re holding back, but don’t. Take anything you want from me. I can take it.”

Those are the words that do it. He growls, his hand palming the back of your head to force you back onto his cock. He pushes it past your lips as far as it will go and then some, not stopping this time when he reaches your throat. He feels the tight, constricting curve of it, and pushes a little further still, thickening at the strangled whine you let out into the dark curls at the base. Swiping the hair from your face, he cups your cheeks in his hands and angles your face to turn up towards his own.

Then, he fucks.

His pace is relentless, brutal, his cock slipping into the tight fist of your throat with every thrust forward. Stars dance along your vision, your chin soaked with spit. Desperation radiates from him, his grip tightening on your face, your fingers digging crescents into his hips and he groans, wanting more pain.

A familiar ache, one that he’s used to. Something to distract him from the deeper pain of your hesitation when you first walked in the room. Deeper still, the ache he felt for you while he was gone.

“You have no idea how much I missed you. How much I missed this.” Every word of his confession is mixed with his heavy breaths, with soft grunts from the back of his throat.

You hum, a tiny frown pulling between your brows. You missed him just as much, missed this just as much — the way he emanates authority, the way he bends and molds and positions you just like his soldiers, to do as he bids.

He pushes you further, shedding the frustration and pent up tension of the day with every harsh stroke. He feeds it to you, makes you swallow it as it pours from him into your waiting mouth and an ache blooms in your throat, your jaw tense with the effort of trying to stay open wide enough for him to fit. Slipping your slim hand between his strong thighs, you cup his heavy balls with a tender squeeze — a touch that makes his head tip back as they draw up.

Harder, faster and then he doesn’t give you any warning before he fists your hair and pulls you off his cock, stroking it with a slick, rapid beat to come on your chest. Your collarbones, the swell of your breasts.

More, when you start to smear it into your skin like oil, pressing it into your skin.

When he’s finished, he sags with release — though you know he’s not done. His hands reach for you, pulling you up off the floor and then finally — finally — he kisses you.

Fevered and desperate, his mouth open to taste yours, his tongue sliding against your own. Your fingers thread through his curls to keep him close, and his own dig forcefully into your skin, as if you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you tight. They splay to slide up your back and down again, stretch to cup the curve of your bottom and he lifts you to carry you over to his bed. He means to drop you there so he can sink to his knees, but when you cling to him, he falls with you, his weight settling over your body.

This — this is what you dreamed of every night he was away. This is what you held onto, this is what you missed. This version of Marcus that no one else gets. Not the stoic General, but rather the tender touch of his calloused hands. The slide of his body against yours, the murmurs of his adoration poured along the column of your neck.

Your legs wind around his waist, your hips canting up and he groans into your mouth at the sticky smear you leave on his stomach. More than ready for him, desperate for it.

“My love, I need a minute.”

My love. The endearment fills your heart until tears leak from the corners of your eyes, and you pull him closer, wanting to be buried underneath his bulk. Winding your arms around his neck, you keep his mouth pressed against yours, only to frown when he pulls away.

“I need a minute,” he repeats, his head bending to brush his mouth along your throat. “But let me indulge myself in the meantime.”

You watch the muscles in his thick shoulders shift as he holds himself above you and bends his head, taking your breast into his mouth. It’s a greedy suck, his hand pushing the soft weight of it up so he can fit more. His teeth scrape against the peak, and then he’s moving onto the other one, giving it the same attention while you moan underneath him.

Down further still, he presses kisses along your belly, against each hip. Your thighs open wider, making room for him. A part of you expects him to tease you like you did him, but he doesn’t — he settles in, hooking his arms under your thighs and spreads you wide right before he bends to devour.

Your hands rest upon the top of his head; your own version of a laurel resting on his curls. No adornments, no finery, no pristine armor and gold.

Your eyes close, savoring the slow, wide licks of his tongue. The devotion he gives your cunt with every slick, firm slide.

Not the General that the city fears and adores in equal measure - just Marcus, bending the knee for you.

[manicmanuscription]

Exhibit

PolySJM Week: Day Five

Prompt: Memories and History

Pairings: Feysand / Reader

Summary: You're the last one left in the inner circle, taking a weekly visit to the museum.

Word Count: 2225

Tags: Extreme angst, no like, a lot of angst, hurt and barely any comfort, author hurt her own feelings. Inner circle is all dead. briefly smutty memories but explicit, 18++

PolySJM Week 2025 Masterlist | Acotar Masterlist

My shoes clicked softly against the hardwood floors, yet each step echoed throughout my entire being, the sound deafening in the quiet halls and a sense of dread bled into my heart with every movement.

Being here was suffocating and I tried to remind myself to breathe, to force air into my lungs. Yet I tortured myself with this feeling every Friday, at one p.m. With tentative steps I reached the next room, the open floor plan allowing everything to be displayed properly and I halted in front of one of the clear cases. 

My heart constricted at seeing the matching set of jewelry. A custom set commissioned by Rhysand for Feyre and I. Small glittering black diamonds fashioned into the shapes of small stars and tiny pearls all strung up elaborately to cascade down the earlobe. 

The earrings sat next to their complimentary tiara's, the highest point also forming into a star. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment at the sight. It had been a mating gift, one of many after the elaborate ceremony he planned. The earrings had been one of my favorite pieces in my vanity and had seen the sun so often my mate had regularly taken it in for cleaning and upkeep services.

Though when they stopped pumping air into their lungs and their heart gave out from the extent of their injuries the sight of it quickly made me want to tear my skin off. 

Lifeless eyes and bloodsoaked satin flashed before my vision and I gripped my walking cane so hard I swore you could hear tiny wood pieces splintering.

A few hundred years later andI could still hear Nesta’s anguished cries and Mor’s horrified whimpers as we rushed to save them. 

Too late. Too late. Too late. 

I could still feel Cassian’s grip on my arms as he forcefully pulled me away from the sight of the gruesome scene, everyone yelling over one another as it all dissolved to chaos. The only thing that existed in that moment was them, the sight of their limp bodies into my mind forever, that agonizing pain in my chest as the bond shattered with their last breath. 

Madja wouldn’t even tell me what had truly happened to them. I found out, of course. It took me weeks but eventually I found out. That knowledge nearly sent me spiraling over the closest cliff, and the memory had that ragged bond in my chest stirring painfully. 

I forced myself away from the display case and ventured further into the Inner Circle’s exhibit. Blinking the horrid memories away as I passed a few of the other cases, letters between The Spymaster and Highlord, various weapons, sculptures, depictions of great battles my family fought in and other heroic deeds, even some shattered siphons from when my friends were youthful and untrained, a replica of the mirror the General used to capture the death god Lanthys, then a replica of the sword used to slain him. -the real thing had been given to their daughter-  great paintings depicting the Battle of Hybern and the Three Sister’s once human in all their glory. Each piece a living reminder of the legends that were my family until eventually I paused in front of my greatest torment. 

Feyre’s last unfinished piece was sitting in a storage unit a few blocks away, sometimes I’d sit there wondering what it was meant to be, my sneaky little mate having kept it a secret until she meant to reveal it on our anniversary, it tortured me for years after their deaths knowing she’d never finished it and never would, yet this canvas in front of me…

Feyre and I were sitting on lavish chairs facing forward as Rhysand stood behind us with an arm on each of our shoulders, a coy smile playing on his lips. Even though I was starting to forget a lot of things with my age, I remember that day like it was yesterday. 

“Stop trying to make me laugh!” I scolded Rhys mentally. His laughter echoed down the bond and I whirled around in my seat to face him, still keeping my hand firmly intertwined with Feyre’s. A reprimand on my tongue even as I struggled to control my giddy smile. 

The painter gently reminded me to sit still and Rhysand smirked. “Yes darling sit still we’re trying to get our portrait taken after all.” I rolled my eyes, sending a harsh wave of annoyance down the bond. “You’re the one distracting me!” I protested even as I faced the painter once more. 

“I. am. not.” Rhysand objected, his smooth voice falling on my ears, the sound of it a balm to my soul even though he was getting on my last nerve. Three seconds passed before another image of the three of us flashed in front of my eyes, my lovely wife was all wrapped up in pretty silk tied to our bed while I had the pleasure of tasting her, my tongue circling her clit as my husband kissed up her thighs before reaching her breasts. Her soft moans filled the room and- the image dissolved with a brush of Feyre’s magic and she glared at both of us and huffed slightly. “That is enough!” She snapped angrily, a faint blush crept up her cheeks and she adjusted herself on her chair. 

“The both of you are behaving like children! We wouldn’t even be in this position if you” She sent me a pointed glare.  “hadn’t insisted on a live portrait.” 

The artist gave us a confused glance at our conversation flowing in and out of mental or verbal speaking but returned to their canvas quickly not wanting to somehow upset the powerful leaders of the Night Court. 

“I thought it would be fun!” I whispered back and Rhysand chuckled softly leaning down to give Feyre and I a quick peck on the cheek. “She truly had no idea how boring these things are. I'm just trying to liven it up a little.” 

“Well quit it. Because you’re distracting me, our mate, the artist and making this whole ordeal last longer than it needs to.” 

Rhysand winced as her harsh words dug into his mental walls and I threw a look over my shoulder sticking my tongue out at him before returning my gaze forward. Feyre gave my hand a warning squeeze accompanied with her signature glare and I muttered an apology. 

Another few agonizing minutes passed before another image flashed before my eyes. I was slowly removing the silk dress from my body, stepping out from the expensive fabric in nothing but lingerie, Feyre trailed her hands up my spine from behind me a dark look in her eyes watching as Rhys leaned down to hungrily claim my lips with his own. Soft manicured nails tugged at my hair harshly eliciting a soft moan from my lips and she turned my head to the side to give our mate more access and Rhys trailed those kisses down to the side of my neck– 

“That is it!” I hissed. Standing up from my chair and storming out of the room as I fought to get my arousal under control. 

Rhysand just leaned down to Feyre’s ear. “I told you I could get her to break.” She just rubbed a tattooed hand over her temples, a small -annoyed- smirk playing on her lips as she stood as well. 

The memory faded and I brushed the tears away with an aged hand. Feyre ultimately finished the painting by taking the reference photo from the memory of the artist we hired, and reimbursed the poor girl for wasting her time. 

A wave of anger rose within me, I would never not be mad at them for leaving me to raise our child alone with that stupid fucking pact. Sure I had our family’s help but they had their own children and spouses to attend to as well and eventually old age or injury picked them all off until it was just me. The shattered bond in my chest ached at the thought refusing the anger and sadness that suffocated me so strongly a wave of pain almost had me doubling over in the exhibit.

I knew I was starting to go, forgetting things and losing time. I had to start walking with a cane and my hair turned fully white ages ago. Even my hearing was almost nonexistent. Not a lot of fae got to be this age but I was stubborn, refusing to go until I was sure my son, nieces and nephews, and court were ok. 

Sometimes I could feel my mates, brushing their hand with mine as I hobbled down the streets of Velaris, whispering things to me in the wind that I could not decipher. Sometimes I could feel one of my friends, urging me to relax or even teasing me from realms apart.

 It was getting more frequent and I knew my loves would be coming to collect me from this realm soon. 

When they did I would never, ever stop yelling at them for what they did to me. They broke their promises leaving me with a temperamental and newly made High Lord who was just a little too young to rule and a grieving court. I sat down on one of the museum’s benches as a cluster of people entered the exhibit, the clock striking one fifteen. 

My favorite part of the day. 

The tour guide spoke softly as the fae walked around the room, awe lining their faces. No one recognized me from the paintings and they were all too young to realize anyways, I hadn’t ventured to any political or public events in years, not ever since I broke my hip on some stairs in the Hewn City and my son all but banned me. Just as protective as his father. 

The guide spoke about my family with quiet reverence, telling stories about countless battles and wars won, treaty’s built. She talked about victory over Koschei and the Illyrians unrest. She talked about the political wins of my mates, she talked of the Lady of Death and her Valkyries. 

She then spoke of me, telling the love story of my mates and I, put together from long dead witness statements, letters, and even stories spilled from the old Inner Circle. 

The guests moved about the room excitedly, pointing at old artifacts and statues. It was always strange to hear my life and my family’s lives from another person, one who wasn’t there but had studied us. My nieces and nephew’s loved to hear the stories I told when they were young, but sometimes…it was nice to hear about it from someone else, I was the only one left who truly remembered what happened after all and even those were slowly going. 

It helped me remember. Remember Cassian’s booming laugh long faded, Azriels quiet reassurance, chess games between Nesta and Amren, Elain’s garden long untouched by her own loving hands. 

The perspective shift was amusing to me and war and peace raged in my heart at the memories the tour guide returned to me with her intricately weaved tales. I missed my family, missed the way our home came alive with their presence. 

Every fiber in my body ached and a stray tear slipped as the guide eventually moved onto my mate's demise and the betrayal of our ‘allies’

There wasn’t time, even if we spent eons together it would have never been enough. 

Eventually the crowd cleared as she concluded this part of her tour and moved to another exhibit. Leaving only one person in the room with me. Nyx strode across the room in just a few steps sitting on the bench beside me. “I nearly had a heart attack when Simone told me she lost you. Again.” 

“Why must you torture yourself like this Mother?” He asked, placing a comforting hand on my wobbled knee as he took a pained glance at the room. I didn’t respond, just took a chance to study his face doing my best to commit it to my weathered mind.. He was getting old, stress lines making him seem even older and being a High Lord and a new father certainly didn’t help.

Gods he looked so much like them. With his soft freckles and violet eyes. He most certainly had Feyre’s nose. 

I smiled, another ghostly wisp of a warm touch running along my spine and I knew it would be soon. I could feel that knowledge all the way down to my weary and ancient bones. Just as I knew Nyx would be fine, him and his cousin’s had been ruling for quite some time and I’d never been prouder of them and I would finally get the chance to confront my mates for I had hundreds of years of grievances to settle with them. But I would also get to hold them close once more, press kisses to their shoulders and tell them stories of the male our son had become. 

I would be able to cherish them once more, to hold them close once again, to hear their voices and see their smiles. 

I would be able to see my family once again and that peace would settle my soul for eternity. 

[blueiscoool]

Archaeologists Find a Beautiful 3,000-Year-Old Octagonal Sword in Germany

A rare Bronze Age sword unearthed from a burial site in Germany is in such good condition that it still glimmers.

According to a statement the Bavarian State Office for Monument Protection released on Wednesday, the weapon was discovered in the town of Nördlingen in Bavaria, and may date to the 14th century B.C.

"Last week, archaeologists made a very special find during excavations in Nördlingen: a bronze sword that is over 3,000 years old and is so extraordinarily well preserved that it almost still shines. It is a representative of the bronze full-hilt swords, whose octagonal hilt is made entirely of bronze (octagonal sword type)," a translation of the statement reads.

Its octagonal shape make it a rare find, as only the most skilled blacksmiths were capable of making these types of swords—known as Achtkantschwert in German—that required precise casting and decoration.

"The production of octagonal swords is complex because the handle is cast over the blade (so-called overlay casting). The decoration is made with an inlay and using hallmarks. While there are two real rivets, another pair of rivets are only implied," the statement said.

These rare and specialized swords were only made in two locations in Germany at the time, one in the north, one in the south, although the exact location of this sword's origin could not be confirmed.

This find is especially unusual considering that most burial mounds in the area of Germany where the sword was discovered have been opened and looted in the past.

"Sword finds from this period are rare and come either from burial mounds that were deliberately opened in the 19th century or as single, presumed sacrificial finds," the statement said.

It is unclear if this octagonal sword was ever used in combat, or if it was a ceremonial blade.

However, archaeologists noted that while the blade had no signs of wear in battle, its center of gravity made it suitable for use as a real weapon, and it was capable of being used to slash opponents.

The grave in which the sword was found contained the remains of a man, a woman and a child.

"It is not yet clear whether the persons were related or what the relationship between them was," the statement explained.

Despite these questions, the sword marks an exciting find for the archaeologists and for Germany.

"The sword and the burial still have to be examined further so that our archaeologists can classify this find more precisely. But it can already be said that its condition is exceptional. A find like this is very rare," Mathias Pfeil, head of the Bavarian State Office for the Preservation of Monuments, said in the statement.

[felassan]

Lucanis narrative sketches and captions by Nick Thornborrow, under a cut due to spoilers and length:

Sketch of Teia and Viago

Portrait sketch of Lucanis

Sketch of Lucanis violently dispatching prison guards along with Spite rapidly dispatching Venatori minions in the background.

Spite conversing with Rook. Spite grins with ... well... spite. And Rook looks like she's having none of it.

A hedonistic bath house. Lucanis is deep in foreground in silhouette with two sword hilts apparent in the silhouette.

Ilario being seduced by I forget her name. But the villain in Lucanis's story. The villain is in a glowing red pool and drawing Ilario towards her who sits on the edge. Lucanis spies in the foreground.

Shirtless Ilario hulked out advancing on Lucanis in the foreground with a sword. The villain is in the background towering on a miasma of blood magic.

The villain reduced to a skeletal frame begging Ilario to save her.

Ilario smoke bombing out I think. Lucanis in the foreground in command of Spite.

Rook checking in on Lucanis who is curled up on the floor. Lucanis has just had an episode with his demon, Spite. Scorch marks in the shape of wings smolder on the walls.

Lucanis holding Rook in an embrace but looking warily back at Spite's wings protruding from his own back.

Lucanis ceremonially marking a book with blood.

Lucanis and Spite working together for once to defeat the villain.

Action shot of Lucanis. I don't know. Kinda scruffy.

Lucanis looming over the villain who has been thoroughly defeated.

Lucanis becoming First Talon.

Nick Thornborrow: "Don't think for a second I haven't seen your fan art. 👀"

Lucanis with Spite wings out kissing Rook in the rain. This sketch was meant to portray an intense moment in the midst of going into a battle we don't expect to survive.

An intimate moment between Rook and Lucanis in the hot springs at the Dellamorte Estate.

Rook (who quite famously can't swim) tumbling into the canals of Treviso in a friendly game of bumper car gondola with Lucanis.

Rook and Lucanis having a wholesome (read spicy) experience in a secluded tunnel on a gondola. Lucanis's back is to us and his shirt is half off. Rook is obscured by Lucanis but the two are kissing.

Lucanis executing an ancient God with a lyrium dagger by stabbing him in the back. The God has a skull like face and and a horned helmet. Grey fog leaves his throat as he perishes with the word "URK"

Art by Nick Thornborrow. [source thread]

[powdermelonkeg]

How I would have made "False Zelda" land more effectively in Tears of the Kingdom:

Important context, Rauru and Sonia, canonically, HAVE to have had a kid. That's how descendants work. In my vague overarching rewrite, I made this kid the one that leads you around the Sky Isles.

TLDR: To protect her while the gloom evaporated and the monsters died off, Zelda sent Rauru and Sonia's kid up with the isles before going dragon. For the sake of simplicity, I'm calling her Little Princess.

Anyways.

TotK, as canon has it, likes to have its cake and eat it, too. We blatantly SEE Zelda in these cutscenes with the sages

But the new sages go "hey, that looked like Zelda, even though that can't happen!" And the whole "the Sage of Time is Zelda" is treated like a big reveal-

-when we already KNOW she's gone back in time.

And that's doubled up on with how Puppet Zelda looks. Clearly, this is the same girl. Come on now.

I think we can compound this more, make all the beats knit together a little better.

For starters, the Yiga traps are the same. It's still Zelda, exactly how Link remembers her. I'd add more instances of her, personally, to increase the chance that Link finds her BEFORE figuring out the back-in-time fake-princess mess that's going on.

Recall Zel and Final Memory Zel are also the same. The ceremonial dress suits her for this beat in time, and her dress being like Sonia's is a good homage to Dead Mom 2.

Puppet Zel is where we start changing things. It's easy to say that Ganondorf made her look like Zonai Zel because that's how he best remembers her, but he SAW her in modern Hyrulean getup. He knows that's how Link sees her. Puppet Zel, for maximum confusion, should look like Modern Zel. I think that would make the Yiga traps a bit more convincing, too.

Memory Zel should NOT have gone full-ceremonial-Zonai so quickly. I mean, it's fine that she did, in canon, because there isn't as much stake in recognizing her there, but for this setup? She stays in her Hyrulean gear up until at least Memory #7.

This is a good place to break out Zonai-style regalia. There's an in-universe reason for her to dress up so fancily, and to match the other two. Personally, I'd give her a more casual, less-fancy Zonai outfit AFTER Memory #7, but it's not technically necessary.

But she changes her clothes again following Memory #10, gearing up for war.

This is where we bring in the next big change to this setup.

Sage of Time Zelda should be completely different here. Nintendo wanted us to buy into the "oh, she looks like Zelda, what if…" but it's just transparently Zelda.

First off, the sages all had masks. We should give her one.

Not THIS one, but similar-ish shape. She wears a mask that looks like a Zonai face, and does her hair up differently. Her sleeves are long, maybe with a long skirt, and you can find clues (similar to the flower-shaped sky isles that give history) that say she was designing an outfit to protect from gloom. Maybe with Sheikah blue accents for flavor. You can get this outfit eventually, and a full upgrade renders you immune to gloom from enemy strikes specifically.

Most importantly, though, her hair is done up identically to Little Princess. The big "who could it be" is torn between Zelda, who you haven't seen in that outfit before, and Little Princess, who you don't know much about yet.

During the sages' flashbacks, she doesn't speak, you just see her head nodding and her hands moving the way Link does in dialogue as the sage talks over her, and that lends more credit to the "maybe it's NOT Zelda" thread the game was going for.

And then, when you find Mineru, you see the full scene of the final battle

And it's very clearly Zelda at that point. She's still dressed up in her anti-gloom gear (which is how she survived the attack while the other sages didn't), but the mask has fallen off and you can see it's her.

She goes back to the ceremonial regalia for the Master Sword and draconification scenes. I would tuck a Sundelion into her hair during the Master Sword scene to hammer home even more that she's in mourning. Even better, she puts it down on the altar before she swallows the Secret Stone, and around that altar is one of the few places it grows.

Bonus round: The Zonai mask is what helps you find Draconified Zel's location in the sky, and it's part of the reward for Mineru's questline. Zelda left it on the ground next to the Secret Stone pedestal.

[serpentface]

Faiza performing the Kagnoma Odo (pretty literally 'lion dance'), a weapons dance and one of the more important ritual duties of Odonii priestesses. A relatively new addition to this traditional dance involves the musket as the primary weapon, which is fired mid-twirl into the ground at the climax of the dance. Faiza is experiencing an 'oh fuck' moment because her shot is more than ideally diagonal, but she’s being so cool with it.

This is a wholly ceremonial performance at the onset of the pilgrimage, performed in full regalia and lion skin (of the small, semi-domesticated strain) but no armor. It’s also distinctly a display of political allegiance between the powerful and beloved Odonii priesthood (and its loyal military) with the increasingly reviled and destabilized imperial family, with Faiza prominently wearing a bracelet of the royal serpent, which was gifted (along with the musket) by the usoma Stavis Amanti himself (Usoma is the Wardi word for king, which has been retained in the context of emperors).

The Kagnoma Odo is the ultimate demonstration of the Odonii as an embodiment of the Lion Face of God and living vessel of military might and sovereignty, demonstrating her fitness and proficiency with weapons and as a spiritual unifier for soldiers. It is accompanied by drumming and occurs in stages, running through the three keymost weapons used in war- the spear, the sword, and the musket. The musket is of the most significance, given the weapon has developed a particular esteem as the ultimate embodiment of might and superiority. Assistants (almost always other priestesses, occasionally high ranking soldiers) load and prime the musket to be fired at the climax of the dance, where it is shot into the ground as the priestess leaps out of range of the shot. The firing signals the end of the dance and the rite itself.

While not the utmost exemplar of trigger discipline, only fully inducted and senior (and therefore very thoroughly trained) Odonii are permitted to perform the dance, and injuries during actual performances are quite rare (though are known to occur during training, more than a few Odonii have burns and wounds on their feet).

The most important renditions of this dance are performed upon declarations of war and before battles (in this case, generally done in full armor along with the lion pelt). It is also done during some trainings (while a dance, it is carefully choreographed to include naturalistic maneuvers of the weapons involved and helps soldiers limber up and learn to move their weapons). It is regarded as an impressive and motivating sight and a morale booster, and, seen at a distance, potentially intimidating to enemies.

A special variant of this dance is performed as means of fully incarnating the Odomache, which is done in full nudity with the body covered in the blood of the freshly sacrificed lion and cloaked in its raw pelt (the lion has become the corpse of Odomache in the moment of death, as part of its recreation of God's sacrifice). Her public, full nude appearance once (and only once) in this act is what allows the Lion Face of God to incarnate within her. Those in attendance see the spiritually vulnerable, naked human body obscured with the sanctified and deified blood and cloaked in the sanctified and deified skin. It is a merger of the contradictions of mortality and divinity, the boundaries between the two indistinct in flickering firelight and the flash of musketfire. She is witnessed by her people, dangling in between humanity and divinity and leading them in dance, and and is thus transformed.

[doodle-pops]

All Your Little Things (That Drives Knight!Fingon Crazy)

A/N: At long last, the fluff I promised after that heart-aching angst.

Masterlist | Navigation

10 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭!𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐞/𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐇𝐢𝐦:

1. You frequently slip away from your guards without telling anyone, riding off alone on horseback across the fields in full royal garb, unarmoured and entirely unbothered. Every time he finds you again—usually muddy and smug—he looks like he might burst a blood vessel. “Do you try to get yourself killed, or are you just daft?”

2. You absolutely refuse to use the side saddle, no matter the occasion. During formal processions you ride astride like a soldier, skirts hiked to your thighs, scandalising half the court and making Fingon grind his teeth into powder behind you.

3. You mock the ceremonial bowing and curtsying rituals—especially when Fingon does them. The one time he bent knee before you at a ball, you tapped his helmet like a drum and asked, “Can you hear me knocking?” He refused to speak to you for two days.

4. You have a tendency to ‘borrow’ his weapons for reasons both frivolous and infuriating. Once you took his favourite sword to use as a makeshift paperweight. Another time, you repurposed his dagger to cut cheese. He was appalled. “That blade has tasted dragonfire and your Camembert has ruined it.”

5. You challenge him to duels in public spaces, loudly and without warning, just to see the expression on his face. Whether it’s a wooden spoon or an actual blade, you’ve no shame and he’s so tired. “We are in the middle of a diplomatic feast, Your Grace—put the ladle down.”

6. You flirt outrageously with other knights in front of him, particularly the youngest squires, just to rile him up. It always works. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear it, and later you’ll find him hacking at training dummies like they insulted his honour.

7. You give him pet names in front of the court that no knight should ever have. “My brave little buttercup” nearly made him choke on his wine. “Moon-thighs” had him storming from the hall. “Sword-boy” made his cousin laugh so hard he snorted.

8. You leave your embroidery or court duties half-finished to go climb roofs, trees, or anything high and ridiculous. He once found you dangling your feet off the ramparts and nearly dropped his helm when you cheerily waved.

9. You don’t cower during battles or danger. You face threats with a mad sort of calm, teeth bared and eyes blazing, and he hates that he both admires and despairs of your lack of self-preservation.

“Next time you run when I say run.” “What if I’m feeling brave?” “Then I’ll carry you and tie you to a bloody tree.”

10. You once kissed him mid-battle, just to throw him off his rhythm. He fumbled his sword and had to pretend it was a tactical flourish while you laughed into his armour. “You—you absolute menace, that was not a proper time for affection!” he shouted, red in the face and bleeding from the ear.

10 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐌𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐊𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐨𝐧 𝐒𝐨𝐟𝐭/𝐌𝐞𝐥𝐭𝐬 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭:

1. You always polish his armour by hand before every battle, even though he has squires for that. You sit cross-legged on the floor, sleeves rolled up, humming under your breath as you work. He never disturbs you. Just watches in silence, thinking, I would die for you a thousand times over.

2. When he’s injured, you fuss over him like an old nursemaid, scolding him in whispers and bandaging him with trembling hands. “Idiot,” you murmur, but your fingers linger just a second too long. He pretends not to notice the way you kiss the edge of a bruise when you think he’s asleep.

3. You sneak him pastries from the royal kitchens—his favourite honeyed tarts that are technically forbidden to knights during drills. You press them into his hand with a wink and vanish. He eats them behind the stables like a guilty schoolboy.

4. You braid his hair before tourneys, your fingers working deftly while you murmur quiet encouragements. “Win this one, and I might let you kiss me somewhere scandalous.” He always fights twice as hard those days.

5. You dance with him when no one’s looking, in hallways and gardens, barefoot on marble floors or in the mud. Once, you whispered, “No music needed. I can hear it in your heartbeat.” He nearly tripped over his own boots.

6. You defend him publicly when other nobles sneer at his lack of courtly manners. “He’s the best man you’ll ever meet, and twice the warrior,” you once said, before challenging the duke to a duel over it. Fingon had never looked prouder. Or more terrified.

7. You write him letters during long campaigns, but never sign them with your name—only a tiny sketch of a sword and a crown in the corner. He keeps every single one in a secret box, even the ones that just say, “Don’t get killed. I’ll be pissed.”

8. You once fought off a wild boar with nothing but a branch because you didn’t want Fingon to be late for a royal inspection. He arrived to find you bloodied, triumphant, and completely unconcerned by the carcass beside you.

“I don’t know whether to kiss you or drag you to the healer first.” “I vote kiss. Always kiss.”

9. You always know when he needs silence. You just sit beside him, no words, no questions, your presence a quiet balm against the storms in his head. He once told you, softly, “You’re the only calm I’ve ever known.”

10. And when he’s had a hard day—when blood coats his hands and the weight of duty presses heavy on his shoulders—you never speak of titles or thrones. You just take his hand, hold it tight, and whisper, “Come home, Fingon. Just come home.” And he does. Every time. For you.

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[sweetstrawberryys]

Maybe some Alejandro x reader but it's like the knight x princess trope? 🫶🫶

"Oathbound to You"

Summary: Alejandro fights for your hand in an ancient trial, wins the King’s blessing with a vow that breaks hearts, and marries you in a royal wedding filled with chaos, love, and unexpected moments with Task Force 141.

Rating: Romantic tension, emotional moments, humor, and fluffy chaos

Masterlist

---

The bells rang for peace, not joy.

The Kingdom had long awaited the day its beloved princess would be bound to the son of a rival realm, a prince she’d never truly known. The alliance was inked in treaties and sealed with ceremonial lanterns—but it was a cage with velvet bars.

Alejandro stood at the edge of the hall, a storm behind his eyes.

He was no fool. He had watched, silent and burning, as the King introduced you to your betrothed. He had endured as the foreign prince placed a kiss on your knuckles, pretending not to see the way your eyes flicked to Alejandro as if asking—are you just going to let this happen?

You weren’t allowed to speak. Not of love. Not of Alejandro. Because your future had been decided behind closed doors.

But that night, you ran. You didn’t care about silk slippers or your guards chasing behind. You needed him.

He found you in the stables, hiding behind his warhorse.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he breathed.

“I shouldn’t be a thousand things,” you shot back, tears trembling in your voice. “But I’m here. With you.”

He moved closer. “I swore I’d protect you, not steal you away from your crown.”

You grabbed his hand. “Then protect this. Us. Before they take even that away.”

And that was the final blow.

...............................

The throne room fell into stunned silence when Alejandro burst through the doors.

The King rose, robes billowing, as guards reached for swords.

Alejandro didn't flinch.

“I speak not as your knight,” he said, voice echoing like thunder. “But as a man in love with your daughter.”

Gasps. Whispers. But his eyes never left yours.

“I have followed every order, bled for this kingdom, risked my life again and again. But I will not stand by and watch her be given away like a prize.”

“Alejandro,” you whispered, stepping beside him. “Please…”

The King’s face hardened. “You forget your place.”

“No,” Alejandro said. “I finally found it.”

And when he knelt—not as a knight, but as a man offering his whole soul—you stepped in front of him, placing your hand on his heart.

“I choose him.”

It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t graceful. But it was honest.

And in the stunned pause that followed, you saw it—the flicker of something in your father’s eyes. Not approval. Not yet. But understanding.

Perhaps even regret.

The throne room was filled with whispers and rustling silk as the King made his decree.

“If Alejandro Vargas wishes to marry my daughter, he must first prove himself worthy,” your father’s voice echoed, heavy with meaning.

You stormed into the war room moments before the trial, frustration burning in your chest. “He’s risked his life for me more times than I can count. This is just—”

“Protocol,” your father cut in, not unkindly. “If he passes, it’s a blessing not just for him, but for the whole kingdom.”

Alejandro caught your eye, his usual confident grin softened by something deeper—a determination just for you.

.............................

The trial was brutal but quick. First, he faced off against two guards, blade flashing with deadly precision. You bit your lip, heart pounding, as he dodged and struck with skill only a man who had seen countless battles could possess.

Next came the archery test, blindfolded. The room held its breath when the arrow struck the bullseye dead center. Cheers rippled through the crowd.

Finally, the hardest test—an oath. The announcer called him forward. Alejandro unrolled a scroll but surprised everyone by setting it aside.

“I don’t need scripted words,” he said, voice steady. “My oath is to her—”

He knelt before you.

“I vow to protect her heart, her dreams, and her smile. To stand by her side through every storm, and to never give up on us, no matter the fight.”

Your breath caught. His eyes held nothing but pure love.

The King, once stern and unreadable, nodded slowly.

“Rise, Alejandro Vargas. You have my blessing.”

The court erupted into applause. You didn’t hesitate—throwing yourself into his arms, feeling the weight of the moment settle between you.

............................

The wedding day arrived with all the noise and chaos you’d expected—and a whole lot more.

Soap was loud, obnoxious, and entirely too proud to be the ring bearer.

“He’s really doing it!” he shouted from the courtyard, waving a flag that read “Go Ale! Go Ale!”

Gaz just rolled his eyes but smiled

You sat quietly, heart racing as your silk dress hugged you and the delicate tiara sat just right atop your head. Laswell adjusted a stray curl and whispered, “He’s already tearing up.”

“Let him,” you replied, nerves bubbling. “It’s his day too.”

When you walked down the aisle, everything else melted away.

Alejandro looked like a man who had just seen the sun for the first time. His jaw clenched, eyes soft and shining.

“You’re real,” he whispered as you reached his side.

“So are you,” you answered, hands trembling.

The ceremony was a blur of vows and promises. When Soap stumbled with the rings, the entire court held its breath—until he caught them with a flourish that earned a cheer, grinning like a hero.

The kiss? The entire room erupted.

At the reception, the 141 boys took over.

Price was at the wine, regaling anyone who’d listen with stories that were definitely exaggerated. Gaz danced with more grace than anyone expected. Laswell ran a card game that ended with her taking everyone’s coin.

And Soap? Soap kept sneaking over to you, whispering ridiculous pickup lines just to make you laugh.

Alejandro pulled you aside into the rose garden.

“Just a minute with my wife,” he said, voice low and full of promise.

You melted into him, hands clutching his sash."Just a minute?"

“An hour, maybe.”

The fireworks lit the sky, but nothing shone brighter than the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing that mattered in the world.

You were no longer a princess with a secret.

You were his queen.

---

This one was so fun to write, I took inspiration from some books I read. Hope you like it. I was thinking of writing their honeymoon, a sequel to this. What do you think?

[redundantz]

Ancient Loz AU Story

10,000 years before the events of BOTW the Princess of Hyrule and the Hero who wields the sword that seals the Darkness first fought off the Calamity. With the help of the Sheikah, Guardians, Champions and the Divine Beasts. However, the hero and her best friend; the Prince of the Gerudo, were now missing. The only one to return from the fight was the Princess… Bloodied and bruised. She emerged from the castle alone. No longer the energetic, and free spirited person she used to be. Now, she is filled with a sole dedication to her Kingdom. But cold, and filled with deep sorrow. She orders the Sheikah to create shrines to train the next hero.They prepare the towers, store the Guardians under the castle till they are needed. Research started on the slate where it can be used for building infrastructure and even battle. Anything to help prepare for another Calamity.

The Gerudo Prince wasn't seen again and the heroes identity was forgotten But, the Royal blood of Hylia lives on….

Link is from a traveling caravan. His family has blood from the ancient Zonai tribe. He travels with a decent size troupe along with his sister, father and grandmother.

He meets Zelda during a festival where he was entering an archery contest in castletown. Zelda, who was disguised as Sheik, was also entering. She beat him at the contest(barely), but was extremely bothered by how good he was.

The festival goes on for about 3 days and at the end there is the sword ceremony where all the people coming of age(18) can attempt to pull the sword. She was presiding over it and witnessed him pull the sword and his whole life change. Not long after they meet officially and Link is appointed as her Knight; She introduces him to Ganondorf, her best friend from childhood.

And the chaos and comrade-ere ensues~

Over 3 years they travel, train, fall in love and wait for the day when the evil is supposed to show itself. With no sign of the great evil, they start to relax a bit. But that is when it strikes. Ganon travelling by himself at this time. Explores a cave in the Gerudo desert and encounters something ominous. Whispers in the dark speak to him and his fears and wants and his distaste for the King of Hyrule…. The voice is familiar, much too familiar, and before he can fight back it consumes him. When he awakes he is alone. He isn't instantly ‘evil’ but over time it twists his thoughts and actions. His closest friends and mother grow concerned. He becomes harsher and radical. Cruel. During a secret meeting with the King, Ganon assassinates him. Zelda happens upon Ganon covered in blood. She thinks he's hurt and is concerned by his behavior the past year. He snaps. He tells her every dark thing he has been thinking, and that he killed her father. In shock, and devastated, she can’t move as Ganon is about to strike her. But Link manages to get to her in time because the master sword was glowing, something he has never seen before but an instinct so old took over him. He races to escape with her. Ganon takes over the castle. But only as a steward because the King and the Princess are nowhere to be found. No one is the wiser to his malevolent plots. Yet. He knows she has to act fast since Zelda and Link escaped.

Zelda and Link make it all the way to Kakariko Village and Impa and they are all Informed that the Calamity is upon them. No one can believe it is their Ganondorf who is doing this but it is undeniable. They grieve, but they must act fast. With the help of the Sheikah they gather the guardians, monks and send word to the Races and Champions to prepare for battle. Zelda listens as Link hums an old Zonai Lullaby his mother used to sing to him. And it makes her remember something she read about. A story about there being an ancient Zonai device below the castle that would help defeat the Demon King.

Impa knows the tunnels She can help them sneak in. So they prepare to infiltrate the castle.

Under the castle they find the Zonai Artifacts that were left behind for sealing the great evil.

Ganon's followers saw them enter however and informed him. Knowing this is his chance he stops all pretenses and releases his power. Unleashing a mob of monsters and a cloud of malace into the castle and across Hyrule. But the Champions and Shekah are prepared to meet them.

Looking around for any clue. Trying to think of anything they read or that Link heard from his family that could be used to turn on the sealing jewelry. They don’t know how to activate it, but Ganon is going to be upon them soon as they had to fight through hordes of monsters beforehand.

Out of the dark behind them he emerges.

Zelda and Link manage to avoid the surprise attack. They both go on the defensive. They fight and try to reason with him. They can’t believe this is their friend, their lover. The fight is tough, because they all know each other's moves after training together for years along with the emotional turmoil. Zelda tells Link he needs to figure out how to activate the artifact if they are to succeed. She will hold him off. But by this point they are both exhausted.

Ganon manages to cut Link, spraying blood over the floor and the statue. Link falls to the floor and Ganon towers over him ready to strike him down, but Zelda blasts him away. Ganon turns his attention to her. Annoyed with her meddling and manages to land a blow on her also. Cutting the tip of her right ear off.

The statue lights up from the blood. The blood of a zonai. That  was another part of the Lullaby from Links family Zelda realizes. The Jewelry glows and expands before flying off the wrists of the statue to Link. He is surrounded by a green glowing light that blasts Ganon and Zelda back. The bands constrict around his arms and legs disintegrating the clothing underneath. He screams. Zelda watches on in horror as Link transforms before her. His skin is turning black and his bones and skin stretch until he is 6 ft tall. What did she get him into? This was supposed to help them what was happening… She is living in a nightmare. What else will she have to give up. She cries as she looks at him, feeling his pain and fear. His hair band she had given him falls from his hair. Rolling across the floor towards her. “..Zelda….” He says 

She picks up the hair band and goes to him! But he is not really responding. He is restrained and struggling within himself. His head is filled with the spirits of the Zonai he knows what he must do…he knows this is the last time he will see Zelda and Ganon. To seal the Demon King he must sacrifice himself. He says the last part of the Lullaby to Zelda and she knows. This is it. She kisses him. Though a bit strange now that he's so tall and his lips are cold. Ganon is getting up across the cavern from them, laughing. He mocks them and their weak attempts at thwarting him. One last clash. Zelda manages to get his weapon from him and Link plunges his arm into Ganons chest activating the sealing power. Glowing green. They both freeze in place and all is quiet. Entombed under the castle. The malice and monsters disappear. Zelda cautiously goes up to them. She doesn't touch them lest she break the spell somehow. The only thing she does is grab the hair bangle that fell to the floor in the final fight. It was the one from Ganon’s hair. And she left for the surface.

Alone.

Thanks for Reading! <3

[bellarkeselection]

Hiii I was wondering if you can do daemon Targaryen x plus size reader getting married fluff? Thank you!

Dragons Binded Through Blood

The double doors of the throne room creaked opened before my eyes. My Targaryen silver hair was completely loose except for two strands twisted up to appear like a crown sitting on my head. Walking through the entrance I focused my gaze on the stone floor until I reached the man who would soon become my husband. The Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen.

My sister always looked up to him but not in the same way as I did. I was the twin sister of Rhaenyra who was born a few minutes after her and a bit bigger than she was. “Iksos bisa nykeēdrosa mirros ao jaelagon, uncle. Am nyke nykeēdrosa someone ao jaelagon hae aōha riñnykeā ābrazȳrys? ( Is this still something you want, Uncle. Am I still someone you want as your lady wife?”

“Nyke iderēbagon ao, y/n. Regardless hen whispers lī orvorta lords vestragon bē ao. Nyke jāhor va moriot iderēbagon ao ( I choose you, Y/n. Regardless of the whispers those cunt lords say about you. I will always choose you.” His dark purple eyes lowered down to meet mine while he stood dressed in all black and red clothing of our house.

His words would mean more than they did the first time he had said something along those same lines to me when he asked me to marry him. Every lord that I had come into contact with attempted to compare me to my sister or politely ask if my size was because I ate more than I should, every single one of them except Daemon.

I’d remember the day he asked for my hand in front of the entire court and my father.

Standing beside my sister off to the side at the front of the crowd of people gathered in the throne room all awaiting to see whatever Daemon had to report on his battle fighting in the Stepstones. Heavy footsteps came through the crowd before I saw my uncle walkthrough and stand before my father. He wore white bones shaped into a crown upon his head. “You wear a crown. You also call yourself King.”

“Once we smashed the Triar Key they named me King of the Narrow Sea. But I know there is only one true king, your grace.” Daemon lowered himself down on one knee removing the crown from his head. “My crown and the Stepstones are yours.”

My father walked down the throne stairs clanking his sword on the harsh floor until he reached his younger brother. “Thank you, brother. I now ask you to give up your crown and title of King over to me if you would be so generous.”

“I will in exchange for something in return.” Daemon raises his head glancing behind his shoulder at me briefly.

Father raised a brow at him. “I suppose you can have anything for your victory in battle. What is it that you wish to have, brother?”

“Give me your daughter, Princess Y/n. Allow me to take her as my Lady wife.” His gaze focused on his brother.

Father glanced over at me asking me softly. “Daughter, what do you think about this opportunity? Do you wish to marry Daemon?”

“I’d gladly marry him, father.” Breaking through the crowd I jumped into his waiting arms where he spun me around in some circles till he sat me down on my feet. I grinned leaning forward, capturing his lips with mine ignoring the crowd of people watching us.

Daemon eyed the Septon who stood before us where he handed him a knife cutting his palm drawing out some fresh blood. He handed it to me and I did the same thing as he had. “Now we bind ourselves through blood, princess.”

“And become husband and wife forever, my prince.” I smiled fondly at him, connecting our bleeding hands together as one.

The Septon shifted his gaze between Daemon and I. “In the sight of the seven look upon one another and say the words.”

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crown, Stranger. I am hers ( his ) and she ( he ) is mine from this day until the end of my days." Daemon and I said in unison together with genuine smiles on our faces. We met the other's gaze and sealed the ceremony with a long awaited kiss.

I leaned up pressing my lips down upon his. He embraced me back instantly when my fingers dug into his shoulders once I had wrapped my arms around his neck. He ran his fingers over every inch of my body he could reach. Together we would keep the house of the dragon alive.

[argisthebulwark]

My Best Friend, My One & Only

summary: how they propose <3 gn reader, no gendered pronouns or y/n used. feat: Farkas, Teldryn, Miraak, Brynjolf, Balimund, Mercer, Vilkas warnings: non explicit mentions of battle/injury a/n: yes I know this isn't how proposals work in the elder scrolls, I know about the amulets, rings are just more romantic to me masterlist

Farkas does it in the middle of a difficult battle. When you're back to back, weapons bloodied and muscles beyond exhausted and the enemies are circling closer. "If we make it out of this," Farkas pants, back flexing as he readies his sword once more. "Will you marry me?" "What?" "C'mon, if we're both alive tomorrow we'll get married. Deal?" "Alright, deal." You gulp, rallying whatever shred of strength you have left. An arrow lodges itself near your feet and you're lost again, hacking and slashing through the seemingly endless waves of bandits. It isn't difficult to keep track of Farkas on the battlefield - his stature and the roar of his victorious laugh calm your worries about losing him. Once only the two of you remain standing, you turn to him. Through the mud and viscera Farkas is grinning as he approaches you, chest heaving with each deep breath. "We both lived." He brags, one messy hand scrounging in his pockets. Your heart flips when he produces a stunning ring in his outstretched palm and offers it to you. "I didn't think you were serious." You breathe, plucking it from his hand despite the screaming of your muscles. Holding it up you marvel at the silvery moonlight glimmering on its beautiful stones. "I wouldn't joke about this." The ring fits so easily onto your finger. Farkas presses shameless kisses on your hand and up your arm, clearly so excited to see his ring on your finger. You can hardly believe that this is real, this isn't a dream.

Teldryn has never really brought up marriage, so the hypothetical catches you off guard - would you ever want to get married? Coming from a relatively large family it had once been the expectation but after the years of dealing with dragons and wars it's become less of a priority. "Yeah, I suppose I would." "You suppose?" "Well, you never bring it up so I haven't given it too much thought." "I ever said to me, specifically." There's a glimmer of humor in his eyes but you can't bring yourself to play into it. Something about this conversation feels heavy, like it's more important than some silly banter. "I wouldn't consider it with anyone else." Teldryn sighs and flips a coin your way. You scramble to catch it, glaring over at him when he begins to wander away. Prepared to ask why in the hells he would throw a septim your way you stare down at your hand. Sitting there in the palm of your tattered glove is the most beautiful ring you've ever seen. Small pale stones glitter around one dark gem placed in the center, all held together with sturdy metal. That bastard has the audacity to propose to you so casually? To toss this gorgeous ring at you, risk it falling into the dirt, and stroll off as if he hadn't just offered you something so beautiful? "What d'ya think?" Teldryn smirks, glancing over his shoulder. You want to berate him for his nonchalant tone but you've lost all words, tears springing into your eyes at the realization. Teldryn's offering you a future together, a promise that he won't leave. Placing that ring on your finger, you know that it's all you want.

Miraak doesn't. He began referring to you as his spouse ages ago. You've been his partner for so long it's an easy rhythm to fall into. Everyone else simply accepts that you're married and you're comfortable with it - saves you the trouble of planning a wedding. You know that Miraak isn't going anywhere and neither are you. After lifetimes together, you feel that traditional wedding ceremonies can't capture the depth and love that have been crafted between you. Miraak is your future and your past, and when he whispers that you are his entire world you know that it is true. "So," some lordling pipes up, drawing everyone's attention. Thanes and Jarls mill about the room and Miraak rolls his eyes, still unsure why you insist on maintaining relationships with them. "Yes?" You respond, rubbing a soothing hand over Miraak's arm. You take a sip of your drink and ready yourself for whatever political nonsense they have to offer now. "We've heard so many stories about you two - how did Miraak propose to you?" Wine practically shoots out of your nose. You snort, grabbing onto Miraak's coat and fight the laughter bubbling up at his expression. Your beloved husband is looking especially pale when he wipes absently at your face. "Well," he stalls and oh, it is delightfully entertaining. Miraak, always so eloquent, at a loss for words? It's a rare sight, even you have hardly seen it. "I may have skipped a few steps." "There's still time." You snicker playfully, fixing the lapel of his coat. He sends you a cutting glare, though it hasn't scared you for ages.

Brynjolf wants to keep it lowkey. He never thought he'd make it this far, not bothering for decades to imagine anything for himself outside of the Guild. When you're seated atop a manor, packs full and enjoying your last night before the long carriage ride home, he slides the ring toward you. "Did you steal this?" You question, totally ignorant of the furious blush in his face. Examining the ring in the moonlight is difficult but you're impressed, a simple and stunning piece. One deep green gem is framed with gentle swirls of metal, so unlike the terribly gaudy pieces you're used to pocketing. "Usually these lords have awful taste but this is beautiful, Bryn." "Glad you like it." He sounds a bit off, almost nervous. You scour the streets below but can't make out any guards. "It looks expensive, I bet Tonilia can fetch a good price." "No." "No?" Your brows tighten, that strained tone of his voice sets your nerves on edge. "It's for you." The situation punches you in the gut. Brynjolf, usually so calm and collected, looks nearly ready to launch himself off the roof. The gorgeous ring sitting in your hand, the ring that's for you. "Are you asking me to marry you?" Your fingers quiver when Brynjolf finally meets your gaze. "That depends on how you're plannin' to answer." His nervous laugh is so endearing. How could he possibly think you would refuse him? "Well, we live and work together, we've discussed spending our lives together, and all the recruits think we're already married." You squeeze his chilly fingers, surprised at how scared he is. "Of course I want to marry you, Bryn." "Oh, thank god - please don't fence that, love. Cost me a fortune."

Balimund works with Madesi for ages to forge a ring just for you. He's known for years that he intends to spend his life with you, there's no need to rush this step. The pair craft a ring to Balimund's exact specifications, priding himself on knowing exactly what you like. He chooses one of the nights you treasure the most - a quiet night at home together. No couriers pounding down the door or Jarls demanding your presence, just a night at home. You notice Balimund planting extra kisses to your shoulder while you cook dinner together and gazing at you across the table until you're certain there's something stuck in your teeth. Curled up on the couch together, your heart feels so full it hurts. Balimund's heavy arm rests around your shoulders, calloused fingers trailing over your skin as gentle kisses press to the crown of your head. You notice the uptick in his heartbeat where you're pressed to his chest and snuggle closer. "You alright, dearest?" You yawn, glancing up at him. Balimund finds himself struck by the sight of you; eyes soft and tired after a lazy day together, that gentle smile on your face he loves so dearly. He swears he falls in love with you all over again in this one moment. "I want this for the rest of my life." He mumbles, grasping the little box in his pocket. He's been fussing with it all night, gathering all his courage over the course of the evening but suddenly it's all gone. When he feels your hand cup his face Balimund gulps and draws the box out. "Me too, love." "Yeah?" He thumbs open the box, nervously presenting you when the fruit of his labor. Perfectly polished metal bears three sparkling gems. They aren't large or especially impressive but he recalls the way your eyes lit up when you'd seen each of them in his chest of supplies. "Balimund, please tell me you're proposing." "'Course I am, dearest." "Oh thank the gods."

Mercer doesn't. He's already gotten far too close, he can't let you creep any further into his heart. Occasionally when you're tucked into bed at his side, legs tangled together and all worries banished, you smile up at him and he sees an entire future. And gods, he hates it. Boring days spent together in the Cistern and weeks on the road to some high profile job. His family's ring sparkling on your finger and your lips on his skin. Watching grey creep into your hair and retiring in some fancy manor not too far from Riften, somewhere you can watch the leaves turn that shade of orange that lifts your spirits. Marriage, family, a real life together... he hates the thought of it. He's in too deep and there's no going back. His stomach always turns when he catches glimpses of that potential life he could have with you because for one desperate moment he wants it. He wants to forget about all the bullshit he's spent his life building up, the Guild, the Eyes, everything to live that life with you. But he can't. Mercer wishes he didn't make your smile falter in these moments when he wants you so badly. He clutches you a little closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead in a silent apology for the heartbreak he'll surely dump on you someday. He knows he'll only break your heart, the longer he puts it off the worse it gets, but he can't bring himself to give you up. "Love you." Guilt spikes at his heart each time you yawn those damning words into his chest. Your skin is so lovely and warm when an arm wraps around his waist. I love you. He chokes on those words he can't say, choosing instead to kiss your head once more instead of damning himself further.

Vilkas knows that you'll say yes but fuck, he's still terrified. You're relaxing in the fancy inn, muscles loose from an afternoon of lazing in the hot springs. He's never been away from Jorrvaskr for so long without being on an assignment but tonight his nerves are entirely your fault. He's had it planned out for weeks. The many days spent relaxing far from the worries of your everyday life have lead up to this evening; a fancy dinner he's picked out every little component of, chilled drinks on the patio, and the ring. It sounds so easy in his mind but standing here in your rented cabin, he can't keep his hands from shaking. Thank the gods you help him with that last button. He'd only bought the jacket after you pointed out it would look nice on him, and when you smile up at him he can hardly breathe. "Are we running away?" You sigh, thumb tracing over his cheek. "Not if we plan on going back." He fumbles with the box in his pocket, stunned when you smile up at him. "There's no one else in the world I'd rather run away with. Even if it's just for a couple days." He isn't sure what he's thinking - the entire plan is forgotten when you're beaming up at him. Vilkas produces the ring, heart swelling at your words and the blatant love in your eyes when you gaze up at him. Suddenly his meticulously planned dinner seems far less romantic than what you'd said. "Vilkas," you pause, carefully reaching toward the little box. "What is this?" "Please marry me." He chokes out, all his fear and anxiety spiking when you thumb it open to glance at the ring. It's bewildering how just a few minutes can feel like hours but he endures it, choking back every nervous word until you respond. "Of course I'll marry you, Vilkas." Thank the gods you put him out of his misery. Vilkas feels numb when you launch yourself at him, arms around his shoulders and face buried in his neck. God, the world feels so wonderful right now. Vilkas holds you to his chest, relief slowly ridding him of those nerves until he's practically giddy - you've agreed to marry him.