#wrought iron twin bed

[toukomatsudaira]

Newark Guest Inspiration for a mid-sized timeless guest medium tone wood floor and brown floor bedroom remodel with yellow walls

[kahvikirahvi]

Bedroom Portland Large transitional loft-style carpeted and gray floor bedroom photo with gray walls and no fireplace

[nicohayes]

Bedroom Portland Inspiration for a sizable transitional loft-style bedroom remodel with a carpeted floor, gray walls, and no fireplace

[brewgifs]

Boston Guest Ideas for remodeling a mid-sized traditional guest bedroom with a dark wood floor and gray walls

[revorocketnails]

Transitional Bedroom - Loft-Style Large transitional loft-style carpeted and gray floor bedroom photo with gray walls and no fireplace

[lala-blahblah]

currently trying to search online for pajamas with lace and bows and google is like "Oh? Sexy pajamas? Lingerie?" NO you fool I want to look like an American girl doll!!!

[scealaiscoite]

⋆˚࿔ prompt sets of three 𝜗𝜚˚⋆

write a piece featuring - in any capacity you can think of - all three things depicted in the given prompt!

¹⁾ a polka-dot bikini, a throw blanket and a pint glass

²⁾ a sliotar, a flat tire and a thunderstorm

³⁾ a teakettle, a fresh bruise and rosewater

⁴⁾ a chipped enamel bathtub, a blue sweater and basil leaves

⁵⁾ howling gale winds, an inflatable paddling pool and an oil lamp

⁶⁾ a fresh buzzcut, pink bubblegum and rolling tobacco

⁷⁾ gas station bandaids, a cellophane-wrapped bouquet and muddy footprints

⁸⁾ a lipstick print, skinned knees and stained-glass windows

⁹⁾ a busted streetlight, green olives and a teak countertop

¹⁰⁾ gun oil, red lace and an old armchair

¹¹⁾ a fresh tattoo, a sacristy, and guilt

¹²⁾ a corner booth, sweet patchouli and a wallet

¹³⁾ donuts, orange juice and a jail cell

¹⁴⁾ a cold red bull, shaking hands and broken traffic lights

¹⁵⁾ new graves, a busted headlight and silver rings

¹⁶⁾ handcuffs, brightly coloured building blocks and fir trees

¹⁷⁾ a shortwave radio, takeout containers and a bare lightbulb

¹⁸⁾ broken windows, waist-high grasses and lit matches

¹⁹⁾ orange segments, divorce papers and a front porch

²⁰⁾ horror movies, steaming showers and cold bedsheets

²¹⁾ brazilian lemonade, a split lip and daisy chains

²²⁾ a red convertible, a priest’s collar and dogtags

²³⁾ a corner office, parking tickets and greyhound races

²⁴⁾ bitten lips, army fatigues, and coca-cola

²⁵⁾ old wives’ tales, creaky stairs and cherry lipgloss

²⁶⁾ smooth whiskey, greying hair and warm hands

²⁷⁾ hospital food, full moons and a reconciliation

²⁸⁾ exes, candy wrappers and a twin bed

²⁹⁾ a rural motel, a pocket knife and iodine

³⁰⁾ a dirty martini, a dressing gown and blood under fingernails

³¹⁾ slept-in braids, a lamplit office and an explosion

³²⁾ blueberry pancakes, a restraining order and the taste of rum off someone’s lips

³³⁾ farmers’ market peaches, burnt coffee and houseplants

³⁴⁾ a late text, faded jeans and lightning strikes

³⁶⁾ desert air, zinnias and chocolates

³⁷⁾ an old truck, freshly turned earth and a tv dinner

³⁸⁾ wedding rings, wildfire and wrought iron gates

³⁹⁾ a hostage situation, evergreen trees and a pierced tongue

⁴⁰⁾ unripe strawberries, bitter wine and a kitchen table

⁴¹⁾ a head laid down in a lap, green tea and a break news announcement

⁴²⁾ a fire alarm, a flower-patterened apron and an ajar kitchen window

⁴³⁾ a jar of jam, two shots of vodka and a stack of car manuals

⁴⁴⁾ techno music at 4am, knitted jumpers and a broken watch

⁴⁵⁾ a green silk scarf, a pan of burnt food and the trunk of a car

⁴⁶⁾ bound hands, a crescent moon and laughter

⁴⁷⁾ a winter coat, a heatwave and fresh mangos

⁴⁸⁾ a thrift store sofa, a highrise apartment building and creaking floorboards

⁴⁹⁾ missing teeth, a house half covered in ivy and cheap beer

⁵⁰⁾ undeveloped camera film, stomach kisses and cigarette smoke

[lovelytsunoda]

i saw mommy kissing santa claus // alex albon

summary: alex has to keep up the illusion that santa claus is real, and every year gets more extreme than the last. he's got footprints to put on the living room floor and cookies to eat and stocking to fill . . . and at this rate, he's going to wake up the whole house.

pairing: alex albon x wife! reader

warnings: set in the future, so alex is about 30, children ( their names are gabriel and isabella ), gabriel sees his mommy kissing santa claus (who's really just alex in a festive hat), honestly it's just fluff guys (aside from one joke about having george shove alex off a cliff if she left him to go out with santa claus)

it was the night before christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even alex albon's five cats. his wife was asleep in their bed upstairs, and the kids were down for the count, wrapped in layers of blankets as alexander tiptoes down to the living room, where the christmas tree was set up in the bay window.

he turned on the tree lights, slipping a santa hat over his dark heair and opening the walk-in closet to find the large canvas bag that he and his wife had filled with christmas presents.

above the fireplace hung four stockings. stockings that his wife had painstakingly bedazzeld for each member of the family: alex, y/n, gabriel and isabella.

he rubbed his palms together, looking at the pilsbury cookies on the coffee table.

he had some work to do.

meanwhile, y/n albon was stirring in bed, panic setting in as she groggily opened her eyes, finding her husband's side of the bed empty.

"alex?" she mumbled, slowly sitting up. a zit on her back had popped during the night, a small spattering of blood hardening on the back of her cotton nightdress.

she heard a crash coming from the basement, and she sprung out of the bed, her mama bear instincts kicking in and telling her to go and check on the kids.

first she checked on isabella, her youngest. she three-year-old had just migrated form crib to toddler bed, the small piece of ikea furniture made from stunning white wrought iron. the little girl was peacefully asleep, nestled under her snoopy blanket with a build a bear in her arms, three large stuffed animals watching over her from the foot of the bed.

she backed out of the room, closing the door before she moved further down the hall, past the sim room, to the white door decorated in glow-in-the-dark stars. gabriel was curled up in his twin bed, his head barely poking out from over his Spider-Man duvet, a stuffed reindeer clutches in his arms. a karting trophy sat on his dresser, next to a picture of him and his dad when he won his first race.

satisfied that both her kids were still soundly asleep, she set out to find her husband.

“alex?” she called out, pulling her bathrobe tight around her body as she made her way to the main floor. “alexander, what the hell are you doing?”

alex knelt in front of the couch, shaking flour over a card stock cutout of a boot print. “baby? what are you doing awake?”

“honey, you knocked the lamp over.” she chuckled, picking the ikea lamp up off the floor and setting back in the side table. “what are you doing?”

“setting the scene for Santa’s visit, obviously.” Alex chirped, yanking away the card stock. “see, snowy footprints!”

y/n laughed, fingertips against her temple. “you know that once isabella sees those presents she’s going to run right through all of the work you just put in to those footprints.”

“it’s all about the fun, love” one of the cats mewled, nuzzling against alex’s thigh as he leaned towards the coffee table, holding up the square plate. “cookie?”

"darling, it's four in the morning." she laughed, picking up a reindeer cookie from the plate. "you know that you'll eventually have to tell the kids that santa claus isn't real, right?"

"or i could let them figure it out for themselves." alex reasoned, getting to his feet and pulling his wife close. "isabella is smart, she'll figure it out before her brother does. she takes after you."

"and gabriel takes after his father. some days, it's like having three children in this house."

"hey!" alex feigned hurt. "give me a hand putting the presents under the tree? i've got springsteen."

she laughed, kissing him softly. "if you put the springsteen on, you're going to wake the kids."

"not if we use my airpods." he winked, tossing her the bluetooth case.

she let the airpods connect, putting one in her right ear before passing the case back to alexander. bruce springsteen's 'merry christmas baby' began to play as they started to empty out the canvas sack, stacking the beautifully wrapped presents underneath the white christmas tree. alex was dancing, shuffling around on the hardwood in his socks and messing up a few of the flour footprints, causing his wife to laugh.

"alex, you're going to wake the kids." she reminded, giggling as she reached for his hands, allowing him to pull her in for a dance.

she rested her head against his chest, allowing her husband to sway side to side with her, placing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

"i'm so glad i met you. i love you, and i love our kids, and i love the life that i have created with you." alex whispered, still holding her close.

"i love you too." she hummed, leaning up to kiss him softly.

"mommy!"

alex and y/n startled, jumping and slipping apart, turning to face the stairs. gabriel stood in the middle of the staircase, white as a sheet as he clutched his stuffed reindeer.

"gabriel, honey, what are you doing awake?" y/n cooed, concerned as she walked over to her son.

"mommy, why were you kissing santa claus?"

she shot a glance at alex before taking her son's hand, walking up the stairs with gabriel as she tried to calm him down.

"sweetie, that wasn't santa claus. that was just your dad, he was tidying the living room for when santa comes to visit. we don't want santa claus tripping on any cat toys, do we?"

after she tucked gabriel back into bed, with his dinosaur nightlight switched on, she left the door open slightly, holding her robe tightly around her body as she watched him fall asleep through the crack in the door.

"who taught him that santa claus was a thirty year old thai man?" alex scoffed. "has he learned nothing from his aunties? do i look like i could eat eight billion plates of cookies in one night?"

y/n laughed, allowing her husband to hug her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. "didn't your brother try and teach him that santa claus was an alien?"

"yeah, he did, didn't he." alex chuckled. "what did you tell him?"

"that you were just moving gucci's cat toys out of the way so that santa wouldn't trip. he thought i was cheating on you with saint nick."

"baby, if you left me for an aging, overweight white man and went to go live in the arctic and bake cookies all day, i'd have george shove me off a cliff."

she tilted her head up to face alex, thumb rubbing circles over his knuckles. "we're doing a damn good job with these kids, aren't we?"

"yeah babe, we are. but soon they'll grow up, and then we'll be grandparents-"

"stop talking. you're going to make me feel old!"

TAGS:

@magnummagnussen @libraryofloveletters @lorarri @cartierre @httpiastri @sidcrosbyspuck @oconso @thatsdemko @twinkodium

[romanticgremlin]

Through the Iron Bars.

Chapter 1.

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

I'm bad at summaries. Seb's in Azkaban, he's gonna break out, excitement ensues.

First chapter!

There will be NSFW content, but not yet!

TRIGGER WARNING FOR DARK THEMES. MURDER.

Please keep in mind, I have a darker raunchier version of Sebastian post Azkaban coming out as well.

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

You're really a brilliant dueler!

Lacewing Flies?

Of course I can dance! I'm a Gaunt!

Sebastian, please!

Cast it on me.

Perhaps we should part ways

I can tell you like her Sebastian.

I can be sneaky.

Go on…cast it. Before I change my mind.

How dare you treat Ominis this way! This isn't you!

Why don't you just go talk to her if you're so curious…

Somethings wrong.

You've made your choice.

Thank you for the shrivel Fig.

You couldn't best me if you tried.

We all know that I'm the attractive twin and you're the brainy twin!

The dark arts are not to be trifled with!

Absolutly not!

Sebastian…

Quite perceptive, that one.

You're my best friend.

-------

The voices of Anne, Ominis and her.

They bounce around in his head every minute, every second. Every hour in here.

When he first arrived, his thoughts were mainly of how horrible his surroundings were. How unfair things were for him. How he’d been betrayed by his friends. He was only trying to help Anne, couldn’t they see that? They were the selfish ones.

Time passed. He didn't know how much.

His hair grew longer and he broiled in his anger and dispair. The days were long and cold.

Musty water would drip down the slate gray walls of stony bricks one by one. He'd sit there counting them, his head leaned at a strange angle, barely able to lift his neck enough to watch. Wind blasted occaisionally through the wrought iron bars of his window, making the drips change direction slightly, causing them to collide or drift from each other.

Those were his favorite days.

He’d assign names to each droplet and watch as they lived a dance of life influenced by the sea air. It was only until he’d started having nightmares of Solomon that he couldn't stand his favorite hobby of raindrop watching anymore. No one like to sit around and be passive more than Solomon. Never did he want to be compared to his fathers brother, so he started moving. Pushups, situps, whatever he could do. The only thing he had was his body. Just like magic, he'd add another skill to his repoitoire. It made him smile to have such a victory. A skill no one could stop him from practicing. It kept him sane for a bit longer.

After Solomon appeared in his nightmares it was Anne’s turn, then Ominis. Each time he would awake, sore and damp with sweat, unable to do anything other than debate himself and wretchedly sob once he lost the arguments he himself picked. He tried desperatly at first, to argue that it hadn't been murder, trying to make his actions make sense to them in his head.

His legs grew longer and he no longer disagreed with them, he took their anger and hung his head heavy, asking for forgiveness. If only he could do it in real life.

------

His chest and lower abdomen grew a trail of soft hair and he dreamt of her.

Not a nightmare. No. He only ever dreamt of her.

The guards had given him a new set of clothes that fit him better and he felt like a new man for a time.

She came to him in the night again, like she always had. Her sturdy voice carried so much strength and vulnerability for him now. Caring and considerate but fierce and just when needed. She had been a good friend to him. One who held him accountable for his actions.

He’d been horrible to her. Manipulative. Accusing. Angry. In the dark of the room he grit his teeth.

He’d asked for her forgiveness, begged even. His fist clenched tightly, knuckles white. Why was he so angry. And at her alone. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes so hard thst he saw stars for a moment and rolled over on the thin slab of what the guards called a bed.

----

He tries to speak. To say something to a guard. It’s jarring. His own voice. Deeper.

Enough to tell him years had passed.

He vomits on the cold hard slate ground.

_____

His hand is wider than the space between the cell bars now and they’ve put someone into the empty cell next to him. Nothing comes of it for several days until a voice calls out to him.

“Oi.”

----

Ben was a bit younger and bit dumb, but he had to admit that he could have had a worse neighbor and after a while It wasn't uncommon for them to spend hours talking to each other about anything they could think of.

“If a Ghost fought a dementor, what'd ya reckon would happen?” Ben would say, causing a snort to escape Sebastian which then tumbled into a full on laugh. It took a while for him to get use to speaking again, much less laughing.

He thanked everything good in this world for Ben some days.

“A dementor can’t suck out a ghost’s soul because it doesn’t have a soul to suck out anymore and a ghost can’t interact with anything on the physical plane. I don’t think anything would happen.” he reply to the boy between laughs.

“No, I think it’d be cooler than that.” Ben would mumble in an huffy indignant voice after a small amount of time.

-----

He could hear Ben’s voice getting deeper.

There were nights where all he could do was think. Curled up in a fetal position on the floor, shaking, a right bloody mess, consumed by all his worst thoughts. Anne was probably dead. Ominis had been probably married off and forced to love someone he didn’t know. Or worse, someone he did know, someone cruel from his family.

He wouldn't dare to think about her. Last thing he knew, she was in the hospital wing. Dread settled in his belly at the thought of her. Dusty gold hair that smelled like something he could never describe imprinted itself in his brain like a brand on one of the highland cows. The long hours of quiet made the radical thoughts easier to rationalize and all he could do was lay there in terror, wondering if he’d ever have any answers about the outside world.

Ben and him didn’t speak about these things. It was left unsaid. One would reach out to the other in the dark of night with their voice and the other would respond, a quiet understanding.

------

He was taller than the guard now, who had to look slightly up when passing him food and he thinks of her again.

What would he do if he saw her?

Kill her?

Maybe.

Everthing is confusing about her.

Yell?

More likely.

He rolls over diggin his fingernail into his hand, not wanting to think about the real answer.

He hears a sniffle and glances at the unfeeling wall between him and the toher boy, glaring at it as if he could see Ben right through it if he tired hard enough. He clenches his teeth, a new bad habit he’s developed.

“Ben.” He says, bones creaking as he stands up, feeling twice his age. Whatever that might be at this point.

“Lets get out of here.”

[exeggcute]

randomly remembered the time my dad helped me pick out furniture for my first (non-dorm) apartment and I was eyeballing this honestly kickass ikea daybed with a wrought-iron frame and my dad was like "a twin? you sure you don't want something bigger?" and I said no because I'd had a twin in my dorm and in my bedroom at home and with the extra floor space I might be able to get a cool beanbag chair. so he kind of side-eyed me and was like, alright, whatever. then nine months later when I met noelle and she'd come to visit we'd have to squeeze onto this skinny little bed with one of us falling into the crack between the mattress and the frame and her wanting to kill me the whole time. and then at some point I was like ah...... I get it now

[toukomatsudaira]

Guest in New York Mid-sized beach style guest medium tone wood floor bedroom photo with blue walls

[kahvikirahvi]

Loft-Style Portland

Large transitional loft-style carpeted and gray floor bedroom photo with gray walls and no fireplace

[srim01997]

The Red Princess & The Green Knight | Gwayne H. X OFC

Paring: Gwayne Hightower x Alyssan Targaryen (OC), Slight Aemond “One-Eye” Targaryen x Alyssan Targaryen (OC), Eventual Gwayne Hightower x Alyssan Targaryen (OC)

Fandom: House of The Dragon (HBO)

Warning: Character Death mentioned, Heavy Angst, Bittersweet Ending

Writer’s note: Alternative Ending, everyone!!! Happy Ending for Alyssan and Gwayme!! Thank you for reading, reblog and liked. And if everyone here wants to read my Aemond x oc fic?

Previous Chapter | The Red Princess & The Green Knight|

Chapter 15.2 To the deceased and survivors. (Alternative Ending)

The sound of rain pattering against the small cottage window stirred Gwayne Hightower from his sleep. Groggy but alert, he instinctively listened for the soft breathing of the children in the next room. Their peaceful slumber reassured him: this was no longer the time of the Dance of the Dragons. He was far from the grand halls of King’s Landing, living quietly with Alyssan and their children at the edge of the known world—an independent city far removed from familiar faces and political turmoil.

This secluded haven would be the place where their children could grow up far from war and courtly intrigues.

Gwayne rose from bed, his gaze softening as it fell on Alyssan's form nestled beneath the blankets. He gently brushed a stray strand of her crimson hair from her face, leaning down to place a tender kiss on her forehead. She stirred, her lips curling into a faint smile as she returned his kiss, her arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer.

“You can’t keep waking me like this every morning,” she murmured, her voice husky with sleep. Her leg draped over his back, drawing him nearer. “Or are you trying to give us another child?”

“Are you sure, Alyssan?” Gwayne’s forehead pressed against hers, his voice tinged with concern. “I don’t want to see you suffer again.” Memories of her long and harrowing labor with their twins, Trystan and Beatrice, haunted him. Hours had passed before their cries filled the room, though both children were born healthy.

He had scarcely left her side during her recovery, terrified he might lose her if he did. But the Seven had been merciful, allowing her to stay and help him raise their precious children. Their shared wounds of neglect—Gwayne by his father, Otto, and Alyssan by her own parents—drove them to shower their children with equal measures of love and care, determined to break the cycle of pain.

Once their tender moment ended, Gwayne tended to Alyssan, wiping her skin clean with a damp cloth before dressing and setting about the task of waking the children. Their new life wasn’t easy—far from the luxuries of court—but it was worth it to keep their family safe.

He knew some might see their retreat as selfish. They had abandoned the war to spare their children the horrors of orphanhood if they hadn’t survived. For Gwayne, the savagery of dragon fire paled in comparison to the devastation wrought on innocent lives by the Dance of the Dragons.

The scars of war lingered. Gwayne still remembered staggering into Alyssan’s arms in Oldtown, bloodied and near death, just in time to witness the birth of their twins—his son and daughter, who bore his copper hair and green eyes. Once Alyssan had recovered from childbirth, Gwayne made the fateful decision to flee with her and their children, leaving Oldtown behind for a distant sanctuary.

The whispers of war surrounded them, spread by travelers and rumors. Queen Rhaenyra’s reign had been tumultuous, marked by heavy taxes to replenish the royal treasury, uprisings that resulted in dragons being killed in their pens, and ongoing outrage over Princess Helaena’s death, for which blame was placed on Rhaenyra and Mysaria.

For Alyssan, the war had taken everything. Her siblings—Rhaenyra, Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, and Daeron—were all gone. The Iron Throne now belonged to young Prince Aegon III, Rhaenyra and Daemon’s son, who had been wed to Jaehaera in a bid to heal the Targaryen family’s wounds.

Gwayne vividly recalled Alyssan’s grief-stricken cries when she woke from a nightmare of losing everyone, himself included. He had held her tightly, vowing never to leave her side again.

They adjusted to their new life, learning to live off the land and sell game in nearby towns. The transition was difficult for two people accustomed to servants and wealth, but they persevered for the sake of their children.

That fragile peace was shattered one morning when a knock sounded at their cottage door.

Gwayne grabbed his sword, instructing the children to stay behind their mother as he approached the door. When he opened it, a pair of King’s Landing guards greeted him, their presence heavy with purpose.

“What brings you here?” Gwayne demanded, his tone edged with suspicion.

“We bear a message from King Aegon III,” one of the guards replied. “You are summoned to King’s Landing to see Dowager Queen Alicent Hightower in her final days.”

Alyssan frowned, stepping forward. “My mother? What has happened to her?”

“Her Grace, Dowager Queen Alicent, is gravely ill with the winter fever,” the guard explained.

The journey to King’s Landing was long, as Alyssan and Gwayne sought to see someone for what they suspected might be the last time. Upon arrival, they found Queen Dowager Alicent bedridden, her health deteriorating rapidly due to a severe case of winter fever. The once-commanding presence of the former queen had dwindled, her life confined to a room with shuttered windows, illuminated only by dim rays of sunlight.

Alyssan, her fiery red hair tied back in loose curls, sat by her mother’s side, holding Alicent’s frail, trembling hand. The sight of the woman who had once ruled the Seven Kingdoms now reduced to this state filled her with sorrow. She gently dismissed the handmaidens from the room as Alicent stirred weakly, struggling to sit upright with what little strength remained.

"My daughter... my precious child," Alicent murmured, her dark eyes searching Alyssan’s face as if to confirm this wasn’t a dream. Her gaze shifted to Gwayne and the children, and for a moment, regret shadowed her features.

"You’ve grown brighter," Alicent whispered, her voice tinged with remorse. "I should have allowed this union from the start."

Tears welled in her eyes as memories of the past weighed heavy. "I’m sorry for all I’ve done—for separating you from Gwayne, for all the pain I’ve caused. I’ve lost so much... my children, my sweet Helaena..." Her voice broke, and Alyssan squeezed her mother’s hand gently, her heart aching with compassion.

“I forgive you, Mother,” Alyssan replied softly, her violet eyes shimmering with emotion. She smiled faintly. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

Gwayne approached, carrying their youngest children, the twins. Alyssan introduced them one by one. "This is Triston," she said, cradling her son, "and this is Beatrice." The tiny red-haired twins clung to their father’s arms, their green eyes wide with curiosity.

"And Aaron?" Alicent asked weakly, her gaze searching for her eldest grandson.

Aaron stepped forward, his resemblance to Gwayne startling. Alicent’s lips curled into a faint smile. "He looks so much like you, Gwayne," she said softly before coughing weakly. Gwayne kissed his daughter Beatrice on the forehead and excused himself, carrying the fussy toddler outside for fresh air.

Alicent turned back to Alyssan, her voice trembling. "I’m sorry." She had made so many mistakes, letting ambition blind her and dragging her children into a war they never should have fought. Her frail body shuddered with grief. Alyssan was Dowager Queen Alicent's only child left. Perhaps this was the gods' punishment for her sins—to leave her with the burden of knowing she had destroyed what she loved most.

Alicent’s weary eyes closed briefly before she spoke again. "Be good, Aaron," she whispered to her grandson, her voice growing weaker. "Take care of your siblings. Love them as I should have loved mine..." Her final words trailed into silence as she leaned back into the pillows, her breathing slowing.

Alyssan watched as her mother drifted into a final rest. She stood, stepping back into the hall, where she was met by Lord Cregan Stark, now Hand of the King. His imposing presence was as cold and commanding as the northern winds, and for a moment, Alyssan felt the weight of her past confront her.

“You may remain in King’s Landing, Princess, as an aunt to the King,” Cregan offered with his usual icy composure.

“No,” Alyssan replied firmly. “I’ve no place here. My family and I belong far from the politics and bloodshed. I’ve made my choice.” Her voice carried a note of finality, and Gwayne, now standing nearby, nodded in agreement.

Before the conversation could continue, a maid burst into the hall, her voice trembling. "The Queen Dowager Alicent has passed!"

Alyssan and Gwayne returned to the chamber, where they found Alicent’s lifeless form resting peacefully. Tears streamed down Alyssan’s face as she gently closed her mother’s half-open eyes. “Rest well, Mother,” she whispered, kissing her forehead.

The funeral of the former queen was a simple and solemn affair, held in accordance with the Faith of the Seven. Only the Hightower family encircled Alicent’s stone casket as the High Septon intoned the rites. Alyssan held her two youngest children close while Aaron nestled into Gwayne's embrace, the boy seeking comfort in his father’s steady presence. The fiery-haired princess watched as Alicent’s coffin was borne toward the Hightower family crypt, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. The weight of loss was suffocating—she and Jaehaera were the last surviving children of King Viserys and Queen Alicent.

But not for long. Weeks after their mother’s death, Jaehaera was discovered beneath Maegor’s Holdfast, her lifeless body broken in a way chillingly reminiscent of Helaena’s fate. Alyssan, sensing the tragedy was more than mere accident, wrote urgently to Cregan Stark. The Lord of Winterfell, ever vigilant, uncovered schemes by Lord Unwin Peake to wed his daughter to King Aegon III. But his maneuvering was foiled by the combined efforts of Daemon’s twin daughters and Daenaera Velaryon, a niece of Vaemond, who captured the young king’s attention and ultimately won his heart. Aegon III chose Daenaera as his bride, quashing the ambitions of House Peake.

Alyssan, having long abandoned the treacherous game of politics, sent her congratulations by letter. She had no desire to attend the wedding, unwilling to make her family a spectacle amidst the court’s intrigue. Far removed from the chaos, she found peace in the quiet beauty of her surroundings.

Sitting beneath the shade of a tree, Alyssan gently cradled her growing belly, her fingers tracing absent patterns across the fabric of her gown. From her vantage point, she could hear the delighted laughter of her children as they played with Gwayne. She smiled softly, tilting her head to watch a flock of birds soaring together overhead. They seemed to symbolize her newfound freedom—a life no longer shackled to the weight of duty and strife.

Her musings were interrupted when Gwayne, ever playful, laid his head in her lap. Alyssan playfully swatted at his broad chest, feigning exasperation. “You’re impossible! Keep an eye on the children, and don’t let them wander too far.”

The knight chuckled, his green eyes glinting with mischief as he sat up. “I couldn’t resist stealing a moment with my princess.” He leaned in, capturing her lips in a tender kiss. “May I?”

Alyssan rolled her eyes but couldn’t help smiling. She reclined on the picnic blanket, allowing Gwayne to settle beside her. Despite his teasing, his presence always brought her comfort. As they whispered and laughed together, the weight of their shared past seemed to lift.

“I want another child,” Alyssan confessed softly, her cheeks tinged with warmth.

Gwayne hummed thoughtfully, a sly grin forming. “Well, Princess, let’s not make the little ones wait too long for a sibling, shall we?”

“Promise me,” Alyssan said, her voice barely above a whisper as her fingers tugged lightly at the chain around his neck. “Promise me you’ll never leave. Don’t let me face loneliness again.”

Gwayne’s expression softened, his voice steady and sure. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll stay with you, always.”

Nine months later, Alyssan gave birth to a daughter, whom they named Helaena Hightower in loving memory of Alyssan’s gentle sister.

The tale of Princess Alyssan Targaryen and Ser Gwayne Hightower would become the subject of many songs and stories. The accounts varied, with some claiming they were lovers before her marriage to Aemond and others asserting they wed secretly long before the Dance of the Dragons. Yet all versions agreed on one thing: theirs was a story of love enduring against the tides of war and loss.

But as with all tales of Westeros, no one knew the truth better than those who lived it.

THE END.

[apifacture]

(this and the last one were from @goodnight-goodknight !)

"you're not leaving this bed until I'm done with you."

The room hung heavy with the musk of iron and leather, its air scented faintly with honeysuckle from the wilting bouquet that had found its way to the windowsill.

Ciaran stirred beneath the weight of his gaze.  She, who moved with such feline grace in the throes of battle, now lay pinned by his presence.  Artorias had always possessed a quietude that bordered on divine, a stillness that belied the ruinous power in his limbs, a ferocity that only she seemed to recognise – and incite.

Breaths came shallow and slow as the amber light poured over her, painting her skin with fleeting gold, tracing the scars that striped and pitted and corroded her body.  Ciaran carried her steel-gifted tapestry as Artorias carried his – the mark of their violent lives etched into flesh.  Yet tonight, she allowed the plain porcelain mask of the Lord’s Blade to be set aside.  In its absence, she was no assassin, no weapon, and he was not only the Abysswalker.  She was Ciaran, small as a poppy-seed in the legendary shadow of Artorias.  He loomed above her, vast and reverent, his body wrought in the chiaroscuro of strength and shadow, his presence filling the room as the cathedral filled with twilight.

“You’re not leaving this bed until I’m done with you.”

A whispered command that was absolute, that had her growing wetter and more impatient.  His fingers, scarred and sure, moved over and then within her.  Filled, she felt her bed become infinite, a space that tethered her as much as it liberated.

Lantern light pooled in his eyes, twin reflections of fire and adoration.  He was no creature of fleeting passions – his hands moved with a devotion that spoke of true eternity, each touch a vow, each caress a promise.  Her breath hitched as his calloused fingers curled and stroked and, for a fleeting moment, she was unmoored, suspended in the gravity of his presence.

Still, even now, even in this, her defiance flickered.  Tilting her head to meet his love-clouded gaze, the faintest smile ghosted her lips – a rare thing, fleeting as a shadow in the dark – her voice was a thread of silk unspooling from her throat:

“Bold of you to assume I would have it any other way.”

A symphony of all else left unsaid sang in the language of touch and breath.  His unoccupied hand, deliberate and unerring, sketched patterns like calligraphy over her form, charting the freckles that stippled her in constellations as true as those that hung in the heavens.  Her body answered readily, greedily, taut as a drawn bow, trembling with a resonance she could neither name nor deny.  Wine-darkened lips parted, her breath escaping in a quiet gasp as she closed her eyes and the world fell away.  There was nothing beyond this moment, this union, there was nothing beyond Artorias.

Outside, the night deepened, stars cold and indifferent in their vigil over the stone spires of Anor Londo.  But here, in the butcher’s bed chambers, there was warmth and light held against the inevitability of shadow.

He would make her come and then he would make her come again.  He would see the bed sheets soaked in her honey, insisting and persisting until her husky moans bounced off the high marble walls.  Then, and only then, would she pull release from him. They would not retreat across the borders of her bed until duty demanded it.

Ciaran lanced Artorias with a heavy-lidded stare, arching deliberately into him, the powder-soft swell of her breasts brushing against the wall of his chest.  His gaze held hers, his eyes steady, fathomless, and filled with a silent promise:  You are mine.

And she, though wordless, gave her reply:  And you are mine.

[shootybangbang]

[Arthur Morgan/Reader vampire/vampire hunter AU]

[tagging @cowgirl---bebop!]

In his hand, the silver dagger. Slender as a maiden’s wristbone and yet it weighs in his palm now heavy as an iron club. Arthur turns the brass knob of the bedroom door and steps over the threshold, peers into that shrouded chamber with its windows constricted by black sheets of muslin and velvet. 

Outside, beyond the tomblike shutter and rotting grandeur of this house, the orchard and garden are joyous with noonday sun, bright and lovely as a churchglass vision. But within this stifling dark that holds within it the sonorous silence of a catacomb, there burns but a single candle whose withered glow serves only to intensify the gloom. It has an unearthly flicker that pulses as though underwater, the same murky film of fluorescence that is equal parts shadow and light, and it stretches his silhouette monstrous across the curtain wrapped around the bed as he grasps it in his unworthy hand and drags it open with a rustle like stirring silk.

Within its confines, you slumber with the leaden-limbed stillness of the recently departed. Nightgown buttoned up to your throat, its mother-of-pearl buttons gleaming opaline in the momentary flare of candlelight. Scarcely any rise and fall of that breast, and he would be forgiven for believing he beheld a corpse. 

Yet it had been just three days prior that he had attended you in the greenhouse that lay in the cold shadow of the manse, still masquerading at fieldhand as he watched you twine a fall of night-blooming jasmine through your fingers and breathe in their funereal scent. You crouched among trumpets of datura white as snow and strands of wisteria that hung like flowering willow. Things which, like yourself, unfurled only under the pale suspension of the moon, and with the intrusion of day hid themselves away, curling inward as all things that have spurned the condemnation of light must. Shunning that which men revere as sacred in its clarity, and which banishes the liminal to pockets of shadow and derelict crevices that crack deep into the very bowels of the earth, where no holy trace can penetrate. As such is the sanctuary of creatures who dwell in the twilit transition between certainties, and who live with the cold ichor of death bluing their veins.

I suppose there’s no way I can persuade you to extend your contract, you’d said.

Afraid not.

Probably a rather futile question on my part, considering the way you drifter types operate. Eyeteeth sharp as knives in the reveal of your smile, but the soft, wistful turn of your lips had nearly made him recant. Still, I figured I may as well try.

You cupped the head of a gardenia in your hand, and caught in lunar shine its petals seemed wrought of milk glass, or bone. It’s too bad, you continued, drawing a pair of shears from the pocket of your dress. Your eyes fixed upon your task as his fixed upon the curve of your neck, noting the faded pucker of its perforated scar. The twin blades snipped, the gardenia’s slender stem cleft twain. I’ve enjoyed your company, Mr Morgan. So do me a favor, will you?

He nodded, against his better judgment.

If ever you find yourself back in this corner of Lemoyne… your palm briefly cradled the decapitated rosette before you proffered it to him, and the exchange had something in it the flavor of transgressed folklore. A mouthful eaten at the fair folk’s table, a pomegranate seed accepted from the king of the depths, a flower gifted from a woman who imbibed men’s blood as wine. Come see me again.

In a way, he reasons, tightening his fingers round the dagger’s hilt, this is but the fulfillment of his promise.

(Does the heart beneath that gown yet beat? If he were to unbutton it and press his hand to your unmarred breast, would it warm to his touch, as marble to flesh? And if he had instead stayed, if he had cast off his vows, if he had turned from duty—)

You sigh, and he stiffens. Nearly drops the knife when you flash him a baleful, exasperated glance with one eye open and say, “You know you’ve been standing there now for about five minutes now.”

“Jesus fucking christ, how long’ve you—”

“Been awake? Only since you climbed in downstairs through the parlor window.”

He can only stare, dumb as an ox. From the yard outside, a thrush trills a few cheerful notes that seem to emanate from a layer of reality both worlds away and perilously close. 

“Having second thoughts?” Both your eyes are open now, pinning him in place with irises the same dire, arterial hue as sunset. “Or maybe you think I’ll kill you for trying? Or maybe…”

You lift your hand, and as his arm jerks crosswise to defend himself the blade glints like a star swiped sidelong through the dark. But it is useless; he has miscalculated your route of offense entirely. For you raise your fingers not to his throat but to the lace collar of your dress, pinching its topmost button through its eyelet. Then the next, and the next, and the next, until the garment separates like the shores of a linen wound, and the slow window of skin that you reveal is as disconcertingly intimate as a view into the red mechanism of your entrails. You may as well have reached through muscle and bone to show him the blooded core of your very heart.

“Maybe,” you say. “You’re in need of some assistance.”

[real-time-twilight]

Eclipse in Real Time

June 1st, 2006 (Thursday)

Moon Phase: Waxing Crescent 🌒

🌄 Sunrise: 5:20 AM

🌅 Sunset : 9:10 PM

Eclipse, Ch. 6 ("Switzerland") (from line 9), Ch. 7 ("Unhappy Ending") (to Pg. 186, line 23)

5:10 PM (Approx.) - Alice picks Bella up from work, as Edward and the boys have left early for their make-up hunting trip; Alice announces that she and Bella will be having a weekend-long slumber party; Bella correctly surmises that it is actually a kidnapping organized to prevent her from going to La Push

5:20 PM (Approx.) - Alice and Bella arrive at the Cullen House; Alice shows Bella her new Porsche 911 Turbo (a twin to the one she stole in Italy, and the bribe Edward bought her in exchange for her complicity in the kidnapping plan)

5:25-10:00 PM (Approx) - Esme orders Italian for Bella while Alice runs a marathon of Bella's favourite movies

10:30 PM (Approx.) - Alice finishes Bella's pedicure; Bella calls Jacob to inform him of her last-minute incarceration

10:35 PM (Approx.) - Bella leaves Edward a strongly worded voicemail and heads for bed

11:00 PM (Approx.) - Bella enters Edward's room and finds it newly furnished with a massive wrought-iron canopy bed for her use; she stubbornly decides to sleep on Edward's sofa instead

11:10 PM (Approx.) - Rosalie asks to come in and talk with Bella

11:13-11:45 PM (Approx.) - Rosalie relates her tragic backstory to Bella and explains why Bella's choice to become a vampire bothers her.

11:46 PM (Approx.) - Rosalie leaves Bella to sleep; Bella has a nightmare of Rosalie's history