#leather vambrace

[warclad]

tooling work I've ever done. So much more to do, but it's progress. I definitely want to do more!

#leather vambraces #medieval armour #tooling #wip

[bluestonebliss]

Local markets are the fucking best. But so expensive.

#they had a shop of leather witches hats #and corsets #chokers #and vambraces #i dream of having a stall some day

[percheduphere]

LET'S TALK ABOUT LOKI'S SHOES (ACTUALLY, HIS WHOLE WARDROBE)

Production costs aside, clothes tell the audience about how characters think of themselves.

Loki's shoes in the S2 finale raised a lot eyebrows, but I find them quite fitting: they are comfortable, practical, and most importantly, they are humble. The camera brings this to our attention to communicate his evolution in character.

Loki has always dressed well, often times ostentatiously. Whether he is at war, passing as a Midgardian, or held captive as an Asgardian prisoner, Loki communicates his social class and sense of superiority through clothing. For him, clothing armors his fragile sense of self and against others' opinions of him. He intends to be perceived as deadly charming but ultimately unapproachable.

His attire in the first Thor movie is roughly equal parts green and gold, signifying his royal status. His style is dressed down for his brother's misadventures in Jotenheim, yet overall both silhouettes are lofty, princely, but not hardened or threatening.

In Avengers, Loki's look has more black and leather, with exaggerated emphasis on his shoulders meant to intimidate as he assumes the role of villain. The silhouette is very hard, heavy, and edgy. Gold detailing is prevalent as well. Combined with the goat's helm, this is Loki's most pretentious outfit, which speaks to an undercurrent of low self-esteem and a compulsive need to impress. There's no mistaking he is the main antagonist of the story.

In Thor 2, Loki's attire is similar to Avengers but the overcoat is exchanged for a less bulky version (perhaps conveying he is less guarded now that the effects of the Mind Stone are no longer influencing him). Loki's role likewise pivots from the harsh lines of a villain to the more flexible edges of a reluctant villain-turned-ally. This aligns with his character arc when he protects both Jane and Thor, seemingly sacrificing himself.

In Thor 3, Loki's silhouette is streamlined even further. The overcoat is done away with in favor of what appears to be a leather doublet, pauldrons, and vambraces. Gold accents are minimal. While stylish, Loki's attire is more practical than showy, and his helm serves the dual purpose of protection as well as weaponry. At this point in his arc, Loki has become a full antihero, joining his brother's side in rescuing as many Asgardians as possible, and eventually dying in a vain bid to protect Thor from Thanos.

The TVA does something very fun and interesting in taking away Loki's ability to dress himself. Since Loki cannot use his magic in the TVA, he is forced to wear the same clothing as his captor/advocate, who eventually becomes his best friend and peer.

Perhaps, on a subconscious level, this helped Loki to feel included. We know by his pwn admission that Loki fears being alone and desperately craves a sense of belonging. At the same time, he intentionally dresses to put people at a distance, thereby protecting himself from potential rejection at the cost of isolating himself further.

When Mobius gives him that TVA jacket for the first time, Loki seems uncharacteristically pleased. It is not an attractive jacket by any means, yet he neither scoffs at it nor refuses to wear it. Instead, Loki puts it on and is content when Mobius says it looks "smart" on him. He continues to dress like Mobius and, indeed, mimic some of his mannerisms such as placing his hands on his hips. Without clothing meant to push people away, Loki opens up, has more fun, and makes friends.

Loki's choice of attire as he assumes the mantle of God of Stories (and time) is fascinating. Setting aside the clear design inspiration from the comics, Loki's silhouette is soft, remarkably so. His colors are earthy hues of green, and the only bit of flare are the light gold trimming and crown. The look brings to mind the garb of sages and wise wizards rather than royalty or warriors. He's powerful yet approachable because there is humility in his bearing. And that humility springs from a well of healthy self-worth, self-love, and a deep love for others.

The shoes are not meant to be attractive. They are meant to help him ascend the throne, nothing more.

#loki #mobius #lokius #loki season 2 #loki spoilers #loki series #loki meta #my meta

[gloomwitchwrites]

Winter Gem

Thranduil x Female Elf Reader

Content & Warnings: soft!Thranduil, widowed!Thranduil, fluff, peril & rescue, mild hurt/comfort

Word Count: 1.8k

Seeking something precious for Thranduil, you're caught in a storm. When you don't return, he goes searching for you.

A/N: For @firelightinferno

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // winter 2023 masterlist

“The first snows have arrived.”

“It has come early.”

Thranduil inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed.”

You stand beside Thranduil outside the main gates. Five guards stand nearby but there is no danger. A steady snowfall drifts down from the sky. The snowflakes are slightly gray in appearance, almost like ash on the wind. You frown down at a few of the flakes that land on your leather vambrace.

“You look ready for your hunt,” observes Thranduil, gesturing toward your attire with the tip of his head.

“Yes,” reply softly. “I plan on heading out for a bit.”

His eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “In this weather?”

You glance up from the vambrace and meet his blue eyes. Thranduil’s gaze is startling and sharp. Piercing. Intense. It cuts right down to your heart. His gaze always holds you hostage, wrapping you up in his essence. Most might find Thranduil intimidating, but you know better.

“Is my king telling me I cannot?” You’re teasing him, and Thranduil knows this. His smile is one of soft amusement.

“As long as you return to me. You are free to do as you wish.” Even though Thranduil’s tone is gentle, you understand the deeper meaning.

Thranduil lost his wife many years ago. Other than his son, Legolas, you are his comfort. He wants you to be free, to enjoy the pleasures of life, but he also wants you to be safe, to return to him at the end of every leaving.

Thranduil glances over his shoulder. The guards on duty discreetly glance away, staring off into the distance as if they’ve suddenly found something of great interest. Thranduil leans in and shifts his body to block their view of you. He is close enough that it might appear that the two of you are kissing, but he does not meet your lips.

In the end, Thranduil is private about affection. He does not like to share your tender moments together in front of others.

“Enjoy your hunt. I eagerly await your return.”

You give him a half-hearted, sarcastic bow that immediately puts a wide smile on his face. Thranduil watches you until you disappear into the trees. Perhaps he lingers longer than that, wondering if you will turn around and come back to him.

It is true. You are on a hunt, but not for what he or anyone else is likely expecting.

Over a week ago, Thranduil went out in the woods with some of the guards on patrol. It’s the first time he’s been out beyond the walls in some time. Many patrols that ventured into the northern regions reported back on a strangeness in the air, and the scent of evil. Thranduil decided to investigate.

While tracking, he lost something precious.

Around his neck on a chain, Thranduil kept a silver ring. Within the ring is a precious gem, a blue stone so pale it almost appears white like a burning star. The chain that held it snapped while he and the guards chased a group of spiders that had made their way south.

He remembered it snagging, and while he did not show any distress upon telling you of its disappearance, you also know how much that ring and jewel means to him. It was a gift from his wife when they were newly married. She had a matching one, but upon her death, Thranduil moved it from his finger to around his neck.

This hunt—your hunt—is about that ring. You have a fairly good idea about where it might have fallen, and there is no reason for it to have moved since then. Few enter these woods unless they follow the road, and that is on rare occasions.

Tracking is your specialty, and your time is not limited due to the falling snow. But you’ve tracked in worse weather. The snow is unfortunate, but you can still search as long as it remains at its current pace. The tree cover will keep much of the snow in the higher canopy. There will be time yet before the snow completely covers the ground and you lose the trail.

Heading north, you retrace the path the patrol took. Yes, a week has passed, and nature reclaims much, but not everything is hidden so quickly. There are small disturbances that indicate the path ahead.

As you begin to draw nearer to the area Thranduil mentioned, the snow starts to pick up. It becomes thicker, not staying above in the canopy but instead making its way to the ground. It’s not ideal, but you can manage.

Thranduil mentioned two tree trunks growing together and then breaking apart. When you happen upon it, the snow comes down in thicker sheets. On the ground, it’s sticking. Collecting. Time is running out. Elves have good eyes, and you focus in on the ground, gnarled roots, and underbrush.

Near the base of the tangled tree, you notice a slight sparkle. Approaching it, you go down on one knee, brushing away some of the snow.

“Found you.”

The ring is there, resting in the roots. It appears undamaged, and that is a relief. Picking it up, you tuck it into an inside pocket, protecting it from the elements.

The snow crunches under your boots, and the wind howls. For the first time, you shiver. Cold is not and has never been an issue. Elves can withstand a great many things, including winter weather.

Frowning, you turn into the chilly wind. There is a disturbance. Something dark and foul. It sets the edges of your nerves tingling. A simmering suspicion bubbles up from somewhere within you, question whether this snow is natural or not.

Turning on your heel, you head back the way you came. But the snow is heavy, and your fresh tracks are starting to slip away, returning to the snow. As you walk, the snowfall becomes a storm. The wind whips up, swirling the snow around until you cannot see more than a few feet in front of your face.

Your instincts were right. This storm is not natural. It is too early for it, and storms like these are rare in the Woodland Realm.

The toe of your boot catches in a downed tree branch and you slam face first into the snow. It’s freezing. Temperature isn’t usually a deterrent for the elves, but this is beyond cold. It’s as if you’ve been swallowed whole by a massive glacier.

You walk and walk, and you have no idea if you’ve gained any ground. There are no visible signs, and you’re not sure how far you’ve gone, or if you’re simply walking in circles. The snow is deepening or perhaps you’re imagining it. Everything seems darker, like the world is closing in.

You’re not dressed for this sort of weather.

And you’re tired. So tired. Your knees and thighs burn, and sitting down for some rest doesn’t seem so bad. It’s fine. You can take refugee within the deep roots of a tree. You can stay warm there until the snow dissipates. Then, you can return. Thranduil will understand.

As if opening for you, the roots of a nearby tree expand, showing safety from the storm. You slink into it, curling up into a ball.

You drift in the howling wind. There is a haze that sits on your eyelashes. Whether you dream or not is irrelevant. Numbness oozes into your limbs, and that only forces you to curl up tighter, wanting to pull away from the cold.

A hand touches the side of your head. It is warm. Gentle. The fingers slide up to brush your hair out of your face. You hear your name but it is a whisper. Distant. So far away it doesn’t seem real.

There are arms around you. Lifting. Steady. And when you inhale, the scent is familiar. You know who it is instantly.

“Thranduil,” you murmur, and the answer is a gentle squeeze of your hand.

“I found you, my star.”

There are only short moments of consciousness. There is snow. Cold. The antlers of an elk. The gates of home, and then warmth. So much warmth that the numbness begins to recede.

You are brought back to the living world near a roaring fire. Beneath you is a makeshift bed comprised of pillows and soft blankets. You shift, and feel bare skin against bare skin. Slowly, you push yourself to sitting.

Your leather gear is gone, replaced with a soft robe that traps in the heat.

“You’re awake.” Thranduil’s voice is a gentle, comforting hug.

Turning toward his voice, you watch as he glides across the floor. Thranduil wears silver robes of starlight. In his hands in a small tray. On it is a steaming cup of tea and an assortment of food. Bending at the knees, Thranduil settles in beside you, placing the tray down on the blankets.

“You came looking for me,” you say, and your voice nearly cracks with emotion.

“Did you think I would not?” he asks, arranging the food around on the tray.

You know, deep in your heart, that Thranduil would come, but you also believed in your abilities as a tracker. “When did you start to worry?”

Thranduil lifts the cup off the tray and presents it to you. “When the storm picked up. Something about it felt unnatural.” You take it, and bring the warm beverage to your lips. “I gathered some guards and we set out. It is good that we found you in time.” He pauses. “I’m not sure my heart could take any more loss.”

The heat of the tea spreads throughout your body, the chill slipping away quickly. “I do believe you are correct. That storm was not natural.”

Thranduil nods. “There is a growing darkness to the north. The scouts on patrol have spoken of it often but have been unable to get close enough for more details.”

“Perhaps I strayed too close,” you murmur.

“Perhaps,” replies Thranduil, reaching out to take your hand. He lifts it, and brings it into his lap. Using both hands, he rotates your wrist until your palm faces the ceiling. Then, he guides your open palm to his lips, placing a soft kiss in the middle of it.

Instant warmth shoots out from that spot, running down your arm and piercing your heart like an arrow. Slowly, he curls your fingers in, creating a loose fist, and then brushes his lips against your knuckles before pulling away.

He does not release your hand. “I know why you left.”

“Thranduil—”

“You did not need to explain. I understand why.” Thranduil reaches out and cups your cheek, turning your face toward him. “I am thankful that you found it, but you are also precious to me, and losing you is a far greater loss.”

You turn into his touch. “That ring is important to you.”

“Many things are important to me. But the ring is just that. A thing. You are breathing. You are here. I would like to keep it that way.”

Your eyes drift close and you revel in the warmth of his touch. “Are you mad?”

“Never.”

“Will you hold me?”

“For as long as you like.”

taglist:

@foxxy-126 @glassgulls @km-ffluv @sweetbutpsychobutsweet @singleteapot @firelightinferno @glitterypirateduck @tiredmetalenthusiast @protosslady @childofyuggoth @coffeecaketornado @ninman82 @therealbloom

#thranduil #thranduil x reader #thranduil fanfiction #thranduil x you #thranduil imagine #thranduil fluff #thranduil fanfic #thranduil fic #thranduil x female reader #thranduil x f!reader #thranduil x fem!reader #the hobbit fanfic #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit fic #the hobbit imagine #the hobbit thranduil #lotr fluff #lotr fic #lotr fanfic #lotr fanfiction #lord of the rings fic #lord of the rings fanfic #lord of the rings fanfiction #the hobbit movies

[bits-and-babs]

Hi sweet Jas, can I please request some forced proximity smut? A tight space and a whole load of sexual tension 😮‍💨 the character is up to you! Thank you!

𝐃𝐎𝐍’𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 — 𝐃𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐉𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍

» PAIRING : The Mandalorian x Reader

» CONTENTS : Dry humping, dirty talk, Greef Karga and his loveable bullshit. Not proof read, who has time for that?

» DIN MASTERLIST : here || MAIN MASTERLIST : here

“Mando- Mando!”

You cry out as the durasteel walls of the trash compactor suddenly brace against your palms in your feeble attempt to prevent the kriffing things from smushing you.

Lodged between you and one of the walls, The Mandalorian stands firm. He, too, had been shouldering the advancing walls. The silver sheen of his beskar armour reflects your terrified expression, eyes frenzied as you realise they’ve stopped.

“Are you alright?!” Greef Karga’s voice sounds from above, no doubt shouting down the rubbish chute. This was the last time you were offering yourself up for a bounty mission on an Empire fleet ship- not even for five thousand imperial credi—

“We’re fine,” Mando’s raised, modulated voice sounds tinny in close quarters, hurting your eardrums. “If we let go, it’ll crush us.”

“I’ll find a way to get you out!” Karga calls down the chute, “Wait there!”

You cringe slightly at the order, finding it hard enough to safely unwind your limbs from The Mandalorian that had tangled in your desperate attempts to survive the compactor, let alone leave the blasted thing.

“Can’t wait anywhere else.” The Mandalorian’s response, muttered sarcastically, makes you huff out a laugh. He turns his face back to you, the beskar steel helmet barely brushing your nose.

One of his palms rests beside your head with his arm locking you in place, while his left leg, situated between your own, pushes the toe of his boot into the wall. Your own hands are settled on the opposite side of the compactor, trapping his body between your forearms. It’s a tight squeeze.

Blackness stares back at you, his tinted visor obscuring the view of his eyes. Besides the shaky rise and fall of his chest plate, thanks to his exertions in trying to stop you both from becoming Jawa Juice, Mando offers no insight into how he’s feeling.

Swallowing thickly, you cast your eyes to the darkness above your heads. It’s ridiculous, but you can feel his body heat from the breaks in his armour, covered only by his undersuit. It makes your heart flutter, the biting scent of leather.

“… I apologise,” his voice cuts through the silence and causes you to jump, “This-… This is uncomfortable for you.”

“‘S okay,” you mumble weakly, attempting to smother the butterflies that launch in your stomach at the soft, soothing whisper of his voice.

Silence settles between the two of you again. Despite your attempts to loosen up, the searing gaze through The Mandalorian’s visor feels as though it’s settled on your face, burning a hole into your lips. Stars, there must be fumes in the rubbish beneath your feet, driving you crazy.

Swallowing, you avoid his line of sight by looking at literally everything else. The woven flight suit that conceals his neck, the contours of his shoulder plates. Was that a Mudhorn-?

The sharp inhale through your nose as his knee brushes against your heat practically ricochet off the walls, eyes finally snapping to his visor against your better judgement. Unmoving, he offers nothing to infer he even noticed how he effortlessly set your body alight as though he’d triggered the flamethrower on his vambrace. Surely not. Surely he’d just been adjusting his foot to hold the wall better!

“You’re fogging up my eyeshade.”

It’s mortifying. Condensation from your heavy breaths is steaming up the silver beskar of his mask. The Mandalorian’s voice is flat but rich, and you can’t read his tone through that fucking modulator!

“S-orry,” you stumble over your apology when his thigh drags between your thighs deliberately, the second syllable coming out in a pathetic little squeak.

“Don’t be,” he says. “Don’t hold your breath.” He catches you before you even manage to still your lungs in embarrassment. “I want to hear them.”

His admission has the air trapped in your throat expelling in a quiet whine, unable to stop the noise from slipping out when he slooowly grinds his thigh up and forwards, rolling your clit between the layers of fabric.

“Hoh- '' you heave another breath, the mist encroaching across the beskar of his mask and mattifying the shine of the pure metal. “Oh fuck-“

“Don’t move,” he orders calmly. It sounds less like an order and more like an observation. “You need to hold the wall.” Yes. Yes, he has to remind you that you’re in a life-threatening situation, because the simple friction is enough to numb your brain with the thrill.

You whimper softly, shaking your head. The tip of your nose drags against the cold metal of his mask, sweeping through the misty dew and exposing the shine beneath. Stars, you can see your expression through the track you leave behind. It’s obscene, jaw slack and eyelids heavy as you mindlessly grind your hips down on the cuisse beneath you.

“So desperate you’re willing to risk your life,” he murmurs, watching you use him to get off like you’re a fragment of kyber- the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. “You like this? Using me to get off when your life hangs in the balance?”

“Y-ou starte-ahh-“ your pussy clenches as he drives his thigh up to match the roll of your hips. It grinds just right, and you arch against the throbbing hum between your legs.

“I started it,” he nods slightly, the low lighting flickering off the grooves and concaves of his mask, “I did. But you wanted it first. Burning for it.”

He’s right. Fuck, The Mandalorian is right, and you’re too far gone to be ashamed by his observation. If you weren’t on the brink of an obliterating orgasm, you’d be mortified that he’d found it so easy to read you.

You stifle a sob by biting the flesh of your lip as your clit drags against the smooth metal again. Trembling, your own thighs nearly give out entirely as you begin to crest the euphoric surge he’s pulling from you.

“Yes,” he breathes, his voice haggard as he watches you, “That’s it. That’s it, ther-“

“There!” A loud call bounces off the walls of the compactor room. A loud beep splits your eardrums, and suddenly the walls fall away as they draw back. The sudden lack of support has you falling into the chest plate of The Mandalorian in front of you, your orgasm blurring away between your thighs with the sudden lack of attention.

“Knew I could find the button!” Karga chuckles, the compactor walls falling in place to reveal your boss standing with his hands on his hips, grinning with a complete obliviousness that has you wanting to punch him in the face. With an ion cannon.

You sag against The Mandalorian slightly, devastated by Karga’s interruption. The little sigh you let out is pathetic, almost childish in nature.

“A thank you would be nice!” Karga chastises you, “I’ve never seen someone look so ungrateful to have their life saved!”

You swear you hear The Mandalorian huff a chuckle behind that stupid fucking mask, and you decide he was deserving of a punch with an ion cannon too.

-

-

#꒰꒰ ‧₊˚📁 ─ my works ˚₊· ꒱꒱ #꒰ ‧₊˚ din 🥫 ˚₊· ꒱ #꒰꒰ ‧₊˚ 1k+ notes club ˚₊· ꒱꒱ #din djarin #din djarin x reader #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin imagine #din djarin smut #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin one shot #din djarin x you #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian drabble #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian oneshot #star wars #star wars smut #pedro pascal #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #જ⁀➴ mail: received

[djarincore]

a sacrifice in your name

SUMMARY: A paladin's oath means everything to them—but not to Simon, not when it comes to you.

ALTERNATIVELY: Simon sacrifices his oath to save you.

TAGS: oathbreaker!ghost, f!reader, DND!au, smut, angst, hurt/comfort, nondiscript violence, implied minor character death(s), Simon can lift reader, special villain guest appearance by Graves, body worship, cock warming, WC: 3.2k

A/N: a little what if scenario for vengeance paladin!Simon, who will always choose you over everyone else no matter the cost. and yes, the title is another sleep token lyric...

thank you to @/saradika-graphics for the dividers!

You wake to dim woods, a full moon overhead, and arms firmly encircled around your waist. The world bounces and sways in your bleary vision with a persistent ache pounding through your head.

Memories of the past few hours are a rapid flash of reds and oranges, sounds of crackling, splintering wood, and terrified screams echoing through the night. The bone-chilling fear of death seems to still freeze your sore muscles.

Now, as you slowly regain your senses, you realize you're riding atop a horse somewhere deep in unfamiliar woods in nothing but your night gown. The figure, whose arms encircle your body, grips the reins in front of you. Their own weight almost sags against yours. A helmet rests against your shoulder.

Icy fear crawls back through your body. You wish you can remember or get a clue as to where you were, but it is too dark and the horse is no longer on a path. The best you can do is escape, run, somewhere far from this stranger.

You jerk forward and claw at their arms, but you're blocked by leather vambraces. The stranger pull you closer to their chest, trapping your arms against your body.

“Let me go,” you plead. The stranger scrambles to restrain you and reign in the horse, who has become spooked by your cries. “Please!”

“Shh, you're safe,” a familiar voice soothes. It's grated, rough. Simon. “It's alright.”

Your body sags into his, but your heart still pounds. Your thoughts are mush in your head as you try to piece them together.

“What happened?”

The last thing you can recall is smoke and flames, raiders breaking down your door, and the blunt end of a sword bashing your temple.

Your query is followed by thick silence. A dark cloud of confusion hangs over you and Simon doesn't seem to want to offer any guidance.

“Simon?” You attempt to turn, but he holds you tighter, almost forcing the air from your lungs. And then, you realize he's trembling.

Simon, who was the pillar of strength, never trembled, never showed an ounce of fear. You grew worried.

“Don't,” he says quietly. “Just rest. We’ll be at an inn soon.”

A pit sinks in your stomach. An inn, but not your inn. If your fragmented memory serves you correctly, your inn is ash. The home and business your family-owned for generations was gone in a single night.

All the fight and adrenaline drains out of your body, leaving you weak and exhausted. You shut your eyes and lean against Simon, allowing tears to fall freely in the dark.

The neighboring town’s inn is small, cold, decorated with the heads of different animals and sharp weapons mounted on the walls. You hate it. There is no fireplace, no warmth, or life—nothing like your inn, your home.

You stare into the glassy eyes of a deer hanging above the owner. Your blank expression stares back in the reflection.

The owner is a bony, severe-looking man whose slimy gaze clings to you alone. Even as you cower behind Simon the man’s hunger makes you shudder.

You stare into the glassy eyes of a deer hanging above the owner instead. Your blank expression stares back in the reflection.

“A bath for her.” Simon tosses an extra silver piece onto the counter.

You're covered in soot with a trail of dried blood running down your temple and a small cut on your neck.

The owner perks up. “Do you require any assistance washing?”

You can't help but cringe at his words and wrap your arms around yourself.

Simon’s hand darts over the counter to grab the man by the scruff of his neck and slam his face onto the counter.

“Shut the fuck up,” he barks, “and get it ready. Or I'll spill your fucking guts on the floor and you can wash that up instead.”

The man whimpers and you can't find it in you to feel bad for him. But you do worry. Simon always makes a point to keep his violence away from you.

His fury wasn't a sight you saw often. You only know the beginnings and ends of it. The deep breaths as he tried to control himself and keep his temper in check or the bloodied knuckles and split lips.

“Yes, yes, right away,” the man stammers.

Simon doesn't let up. You see the fingers of his pointed gauntlets curl tighter, forcing a choked gasp from the man.

“Mercy,” the man pleads, voice wavering on the edge of tears.

Finally, Simon flings the man back and he stumbles to catch himself from hitting the wall. Scampering off, the man disappears around the corner.

Simon heaves a sigh, bordering on frustration and exhaustion. His shoulders are tense and when you reach a hand out to touch his arm, he doesn't look at you. He hasn't since you woke up on his horse. His helmet being on didn't help either.

You desperately want to know what he is thinking. Simon was never a talker, but his eyes were always more expressive than his words.

His arm wraps around you, bringing you into his chest. Your cheek rests against his chest plate. The metal is cool against your skin. Your arms wrap around his waist in turn.

You want to ask him so many questions, but now isn't the time. You want to think he’ll explain everything soon, but his tension doesn't reassure you.

He holds you in silence until the owner returns.

The man's gaze doesn't fall anywhere near you this time. The bloodshot, green eyes stay firmly on Simon as he stumbles over his words and let's you know the bath is ready.

Simon takes your hand and leads you around the corner. The narrow hallway has a wooden staircase built into the left and leads further down to an open door. You can see the tub inside, a towel draped over a wooden chair beside it.

The washroom is a simple room with a basin and a chair. There's a standing mirror tucked in the corner you use to look at the grime covering your body. Your face is gaunt, a shell of yourself. Your fingers ghost over the frown you fear will become permanent.

Simon shuts the door and moves behind you like a pillar, poised to support your unsteady legs. “Off,” he commands with a low voice, brushing the strap of your nightgown off your shoulder.

Your clothes slip off easily and Simon guides you into the tub. The water is lukewarm at best and you curl your knees to your chest to conserve heat.

“Will you tell me what happened now?” Your question is quiet.

He runs a cloth over your shoulders.

“Raiders,” he all but spits.

“What of everyone else?”

“Gone.”

Your brows furrow. You just couldn't believe you were the only one to make it out. Your heart breaks for all the people who were lost.

“And the raiders?”

No doubt Simon made short work of those bastards. He always did.

Simon wrings the towel out and extends his hand. “Come on. Out before you get cold.”

You're redressed in your nightgown but not satisfied.

He leads the two of you up to your room for the night. There's a wooden bed tucked in the corner and a dresser beside it with an oil lamp. You grimace at the sheets which are covered in a layer of dust. You pull them off the bed and toss them to the floor.

Simon begins the quiet routine of shedding his armor at the door. It almost feels like you're back home. His helmet comes off first and rests on the dresser.

Finally, you can see the tight furrowed brows, the downcast eyes, and tense jaw he wears. There is a quiet conflict raging behind his tired eyes. He looks exhausted and beaten to the core. He leans his sword against the wall, places his gauntlets on the dresser, chest plate and greaves beside it.

You watch as each piece comes off, searching for signs of injury. He never returns to you without scars or bruises for you to fuss over. But piece by piece, his clothes are free of blood and his body doesn't tense from sudden movements.

No sign of injuries should be reassuring, but it only adds more questions.

“Are you okay?” Your hands run down his chest to rest on his abdomen.

He's quiet for a moment, tense beneath your hand, before he mutters a curt, “Fine.”

Simon takes your hands and guides you back onto the bed. He leans over you, forcing your neck to crane back. A hand cradles your cheek, caressing your cheekbone with his thumb, as his lips lower to ghost over yours.

You want to ask him more questions—ones he won't answer, he can't answer—but he stops you short.

Simon captures your lips in a desperate kiss. He kisses you with a hunger that he needs satiated. His hands cup either side of your face, always gentle.

When he pulls away there's something missing from his gaze, replaced with a despair that stretches beyond you.

“Simon…”

“Not tonight,” he whispers.

He never liked to talk about his missions, the evils he faced all in the name of upholding his oath. And you never forced him to, simply doing your best to provide him comfort in other ways. You gave him a home to return to, open arms to fall into, and loved him completely. But, the hollow look on his face warns you of something terrible, something that can't be healed.

He brings himself to his knees, head hung in quiet repentance. His lips press against your knee. Then his hands snake up, pushing your nightgown past your thighs.

You grab his hands before he can reveal anymore, but he is insistent.

He looks up between your thighs like you alone can offer him salvation for whatever sin is consuming him whole.

“I need you,” he pleads. “Let me have you.”

Simon doesn't wait for your response before he’s rising once again to push you against the bed. When his lips meet yours, it's fierce and demanding. His body cages you and you're helpless to refuse as he knees your legs open.

Simon’s rough hands explore the soft curve of your body. Your hands caresses the slender curve of his neck and into the silk strands of his hair while his thumb traces random patterns on your stomach before dipping below the waist of your panties. His fingers skim lower and lower, and you squirm when the dull ache between your thighs grows stronger.

The pads of his finger meet your sensitive clit for the first time and rub slowly. Your body seizes around him, thighs clamping around his, and your arms wrap around his neck to ground yourself around the sensation.

The way he gazes upon you so reverently, like a goddess worthy of his devotion, nearly makes tears spill down your cheeks. You let out a gasp as the pleasure in your stomach grows stronger.

Your hips move against his hand, demanding more. When his hand moves away to tug at your gown, you pout.

“Off,” he commands.

Nothing needs to be said twice, not with Simon. You pull your dress off, freeing yourself to the darkness and his roaming eyes. Your nipples are pert against the cold air. His calloused hands glide over your waist, mapping every inch and curve of your body to commit you to memory.

“My beautiful girl,” he whispers in awe. His hand cups your breast as he lays kisses across your chest. Between each kiss he says, “You’re mine.”

You feel yourself blossom beneath his reverent touch and words. You lift your hips to let him pull your underwear off. His hands slide up your calves, over your thighs, and eventually one settles over your mound. You arch into his touch. A sigh leaves your lips as he runs his finger through your slick folds.

Two fingers are thrust into you without warning. Your breath is caught in your chest as you clench around him. His fingers work inside of you, pulling sweet moans from your lips, until you come undone.

Simon lifts your limp body against him as he settles on the bed with his back against the wall. You lay against his chest, face buried in his neck, as a wave of exhaustion hits you. The traumatic night is finally catching up with you.

As you come down from your orgasm and your eyes grow heavy, he pulls his cock free and positions you above him.

You attempt to shift your hips down to take him, but he stops you with a gentle squeeze of your hips.

“I've got you. Just relax.”

Simon eases you down on his cock, stretching you open. You want to squirm, to move, to please him the same way he did for you.

“Just stay here,” he says, his breath heavy in your ear. His hands cling to you as he shifts your bodies against the pillows. You feel the stir of him in you and involuntarily clench. He groans, burying his face into your neck to regain control of himself. “Let me feel you.”

You stay in each other's arms until your breaths fall steady. The closeness, his warmth, is a comfort you relish. Your home may be gone, but you still have Simon.

And, for now, it is all you need.

Simon waits for you to fall asleep first, cradled against his chest, before he allows himself to feel guilt wash over him. The weight threatens to drown him and he clings onto you like a raft.

He leans his head against the wall, staring at the water-stained ceiling. A veil of unshed tears blurs his vision. “Forgive me,” he whispers.

To who and for what, he doesn't know. He just hopes those words are enough to make the ache fade—it doesn't.

He allows himself to fully recall the entire night before he found you, before it all fell to shit.

Simon returned to ruin.

He saw the plume of smoke in the distance and hoped it wasn't real, but it was. Your town was engulfed in flames, glowing in the dark as bright as day, burning in his eyes like hellfire.

He moved through rubble, mind swimming with dread, to find you at the center of town, bound and unconscious. There were men surrounding you who wore a familiar coat of arms.

Graves, the pain in his side who never seemed to just disappear, was standing in the center of it all. Simon had faced his men before, but never Graves in person.

Simon would have caught on to the strangeness of the situation if not for the fury boiling in his blood.

Simon knew what he had to do—kill him, make him suffer. His oath wouldn't allow his evil to continue any further.

Gods, he hated the cocky grin on his face.

“There you are,” Graves called out like he was greeting an old friend.

“What the fuck do you want?” Simon’s sword was already unsheathed, ready to taste blood.

“To teach you not to fuck with me.”

Simon almost barks out a laugh. He raised his sword toward the challenge. Not one of Graves’ men moved to help defuse the situation.

“Go ahead and do as your oath commands—kill me.” Graves stood proud, arms spread wide.

Simon took a step further.

“But if you kill me, your girl dies too.”

A henchman hauled you up and placed a dagger at your throat.

Simon, for once, faltered. The sword in his hand trembled. He tried to steal himself but found he couldn't catch his breath.

He couldn't kill Graves and reach you in time. And he was sure if he made any move to save you, you'd be dead already.

“If you don’t kill me, I'll let you leave with her. Make your choice.”

So that was the game.

“Fuck you,” Simon spat. “I don't know ‘er.”

Graves ignored the bluff. Something in his smile told Simon, he saw right through his bullshit. “Go ahead and be a hero, Ghost.”

“I'm not a hero.”

He scoffed at the word. Destroy evil by any means necessary. His tenant echoed in his mind. Any means necessary.

He was far from a hero. A hero didn't turn a blind eye to those in need to pursue evil. He left behind innocent's far more times than he can count in the name of his oath.

Would you become one of the souls he sacrificed too?

Ever since he lost his family and took up his oath, he couldn't allow himself to feel emotions like guilt, sorrow, or fear, less it made him weaker to deliver the vengeance he swore to uphold.

But, you were his new family, the love he found amidst his violent wandering. He couldn't lose the safety and warmth that you were.

No matter what he chose, you or his oath, he would lose a part of himself.

Simon wanted to plunge his sword into Graves’ chest and be rid of the man and his impossible choice and that fucking smug smile. He wanted to destroy his very existence, so not even the strongest magic or God could piece him back together. He knew the world would be better off without him. He knew it deeply.

Yet, Simon lowered his sword and made his choice to condemn the world.

“I knew you were a selfish one.”

“Give her to me.”

Graves waved his hand and you were dropped. Simon caught you before you could touch the ground. He wrapped his arms tight around you, shielding you from the world.

“Fuck with me again and I won't wait for you to save her.”

Simon gritted his teeth but didn't say a thing. He kept his eyes on you. There was a cut on your neck where the blade was, shallow enough to draw a sliver of blood, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Fighting Graves would mean your death. Simon didn't care if he died, but he would never risk you. All he could do was lift you up and walk away.

Each step away from that ruined town he felt a piece himself slip further into the dark, remaining in the wreckage. His limbs lost feeling; his chest constricted.

A rope pulled inside his chest, urging him back to finish his duty. But, his feet dragged against the force to continue forward.

When Simon stepped over the town's threshold, the rope snapped. He was left with cold, empty despair.

Simon held you because that was all he could do as he left behind the destruction and his oath. At least he still had you.

He condemned the town’s survivors to death and allowed evil to escape the wrath of punishment—and he would do it all again to save you.

He will tell you of his selfishness in the morning. But, for now, he will hold your bare form tighter against his chest, closer to his heart, convincing himself you will fill the piece of himself that will never return.

But the void is boundless. It is echoes of flame and terror, shame and guilt, and a haunting voice calling to him in the dark.

“Oathbreaker, what have you done?”

#simon riley x you #simon riley x reader #cod smut #ghost smut #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x reader smut #simon riley smut #cod fanfic #cod x reader #ghost scenario #simon ghost riley #cod mwii

[from-the-coffee-shop-in-edoras]

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a person in possession of a good blorbo must be in want of art of that blorbo. And on this front, I have suffered because there is really no Háma art out there despite the fact that he’s rad. (I won’t bore you all again with all of the reasons why he’s the best, but you can find that here.) So I asked @rinthecap to draw me a lovely and handsome Háma, and they delivered in the best possible way!!! Here’s my guy, with a lot on his mind as he watches his king slowly lose his grip on reality, but always at the ready to jump into the fray and help.

I love ALL of Rincap’s art, which you should definitely all go check out if you haven’t, and am extremely grateful for this beautiful and necessary contribution to a world that was severely lacking in Háma representation! ♥️♥️♥️ His face, his armor, his hair, it’s all aces!

And here, for good measure, is my Háma headcanon:

His father was the royal armorer in Edoras, and his mother worked alongside him; he did the metal work, and she handled leather. Little Háma grew up around their workshop, playing quietly in the back or listening to his mother tell stories while she stitched together vambraces or gloves. As he got older, he helped his parents with simple tasks, like linking rings for chainmail. When a mailcoat he worked on saved Théoden from a Dunlendish arrow and the king himself came by to thank young Háma, he nearly burst with pride. He knew right then that he wanted to dedicate his life to protecting the king and made it his goal to be captain of his guard someday.

Háma’s father was severely injured in a workshop accident not long after, and everyone marveled at how quickly he apparently recovered and was able to keep turning out work. What they didn’t know is that Háma’s mother took over most of the business, having learned metal crafting over the many years of work alongside her husband. They didn’t tell anyone who was actually making the pieces because they weren’t sure anyone would wear armor made entirely by a woman, but Háma knew, of course, and it filled him with both pride and frustration to hear people heap praise on his mother’s work while attributing it all to his father.

While he was working his way up through the ranks of the guards, Háma met and fell in love with Bryttalif, a midwife in Edoras. Brytta was herself pregnant and unmarried when they met, so she was viewed as a little scandalous. But they hit it off right away and he really didn’t care about town gossip or what other people had to say because she was just the sort of kind and gentle-hearted person that he was. The scandal was eventually forgotten because Háma and Brytta got married, which gave the whole situation a sheen of acceptability. He adopted her daughter Halwinë as his own and was absolutely crazy about her–Middle Earth’s truest Girl Dad. Brytta was pregnant with their second child when Háma was killed at Helm’s Deep. It was a boy she named Wilspell (“welcome news”).

Háma’s sword was recovered from outside the gate of the Hornburg after his death and was thereafter always used by the captain of the king’s guard, being transferred from person to person as part of a little ceremony whenever a new captain was appointed.

He was buried in armor his mother made.

#háma #hama #look at him! #art commissions #🐎🗡️♥️ #lotr #lord of the rings #tolkien #rohan

[copepods]

one last look

[id: a two-panel drawing of tommy looking up at wilbur and philza during the manberg-pogtopia war. they are surrounded by smoke billowing upwards, and tommy is covered in ash. he’s staring up at wilbur with wide eyes, looking dismayed. he’s wearing a chain mail shirt with a leather chestpiece and vambraces, under a netherite chestplate and pauldrons. tubbo’s bandana is around his neck. wilbur is wearing his light brown trenchcoat, a white button down, and a black scarf. he’s holding a light blue dagger in one hand and phil’s arm in the other. he’s smiling down at tommy sadly. phil is staring at wilbur, dismayed. one hand is resting on the dagger. he’s mostly obscured by the smoke, though, and only wilbur is entirely visible. end id]

#nov 16 you will always be famous #mcyt #dsmp #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #philza #art #fish makes art

[warclad]

A fun project at its end. Lessons learned and skills improved. Ill be showing these off in a video soon so keep an eye out for that! It's a good day! On to the next thing!

#larp #leather armour #leather vambraces #medieval crafts

[atlas-of-the-mind]

[ID in alt text and under cut]

Finally getting around to posting my pieces for the @technojoy-zine ! Piece 1 of 3: The Dragon

Had a lot of fun working on this zine, highly recommend people go check it out if they haven’t already! There’s a ton of very high quality art and writing and the head mod worked very hard on the finished book

[Image Description: A drawing of Technoblade attacking the Ender Dragon with a trident.

Technoblade is an anthropomorphic pig man with glowing pink eyes, a golden crown inlaid with gemstones, a golden bar piercing, and a braided goatee tied off with an emerald. He is wearing netherite armor: a chain mail shirt with a red sash around the waist; greaves modified to fit digitigrade legs; silver shoes; and leather vambraces. His cloak is red, with white fur lining the bottom, and clasped with a golden button at his neck. The handle of the trident is dark blue, but each of its tines are a pearlescent white material. Technoblade is in the air, a snarl on his face with his trident pulled back to stab at the dragon. Bright pink smoke trails from his visible pupil.

The Ender Dragon is a black dragon with bioluminescent markings and two sets of pupil-less bright pink eyes. Its coils take up the background and its mouth is wide open as it lunges at Technoblade, a bright pink glow indicating that it is charging up some kind of breath attack. End Image Description.]

#art #artwork #my artwork #dragon #digital art #mcyt #mcyt fanart #technoblade #c!technoblade #technoblade fanart #technojoy zine

[popatochisssp]

The Court AU has me DEAD!!! If you’d be willing, what sort of outfits would they wear? I’d love to draw them!

Anon, I had so many tabs open looking up medieval-type fashion and armor, we're talking like 30+, felt super awesome finishing this and closing them all 😌

Anyway--

Sans (Undertale): What’s black and blue and white all over? Why, him of course! His jester’s motley features a black-and-white diamond pattern, offset by bright, rich, royal blue—a mark of his service to the king. He doesn’t wear one of those silly hats, though…because he wears a silly hood instead! Less chance of falling off, you see. When not in costume he tends toward simple tunics, of decent material and often still in blue.

Papyrus (Undertale): Almost never out of full plate armor, even in downtime, he has to dress for the job he wants and that means being a shining metal bastion of knightly glory at all times! …Though he does often remove his helmet and hold it by his sword at his hip, or fasten it to his steed’s side. He’s a very handsome skeleton, it would be cruel to deny the people the chance to see their hero’s face!

Sky (Underswap Sans): Soft blues and yellows, as a squire only lightly armored—greaves and pauldrons, a mail shirt beneath his tunic if he’s expected to go into battle—but he considers even that much armoring to be overkill for what he’s doing. Still, his Captain insists, and it makes his brother feel better, so he takes care protecting himself. He has some nicer finery to wear about court, as a nobleman, but tends simpler for anything that might be dirtied or torn in training.

Paps (Underswap Papyrus): Rich green and earthy browns, his clothing tends to be without ostentation—no embroidery, no gold buckles or buttons, or anything especially elaborate. He may be noble but he’s a scholar and a recluse and prefers not to stand out much. Still, the fabrics of which his clothing is made are always fine, as coarse or stiff materials quite put him off. Mostly cottes—long belted tunics—with the occasional robe over, if it's cold.

Jasper (Underfell Sans): Blacks and browns, sturdy plain clothes which can stand up to considerable wear and tear. Often wears a short diamond-quilted gambeson and some leather armor (vambraces and greaves), but always has a sword belted to his hip and a cloak made of dire-wolf’s fur draped over his shoulders. If ever he should need to acknowledge his denounced family name, he does have some finer clothing stored away somewhere—in red—and a shiny gold signet ring with his family crest on it.

Pyre (Underfell Papyrus): Usually in half plate armor, dark metal heavily scratched and scorched, dents meticulously hammered back out. He also wears a tattered red cape about his shoulders that billows quite majestically behind him when he rides or runs into battle. He will occasionally dress down in laced tunics and breeches, still in red and black, fine but not too fine as to raise suspicion about his heritage. Should all that ever come out, he does have a suit of pristine night-black armor he’s been dying to inherit and a silken cape to pin about it with a golden clasp of the family’s crest.

Mal (Swapfell Sans): Mostly black but flaunts his privilege and royal ties with purple accents wherever possible. Brigandine armor with a fine gold-plated gorget and pauldrons and a few other ornamental trappings—he is the Empress’ personal guard and must in some capacity be as elegant. Very fine doublets and tunics for his (rare) downtime, often with gold threading, but not fond of most jewelries.

Rus (Swapfell Papyrus): Dark colors and crisp whites, noble yet eccentric, he has a lot of fine doublets and other such court-wear but tends not to actually…wear them. He can mostly be found in loose-fitting cottes, baggy sleeves often penned up by leather armlets to keep them out of his paints. He has a fur-hooded cloak for travel or cold weather, but he rarely leaves his rooms, much less the castle, so he doesn’t don it often.

Slate (Horrortale Sans): Dark browns and off-white cream, simple rough-hewn clothing showing signs of wear and occasionally odd stains. He works in the stables, with animals, and being around animals so much makes it difficult to keep clean. He has a somewhat decent dark blue cloak that he’ll wear into town for errands, or in polite company—it has a hood to conceal the great jagged hole in his head that tends to make the squeamish or timid flinch away from him.

Papy (Horrortale Papyrus): Still hasn’t quite shaken the habit to be armored, even when it isn’t necessary, but he’s cut down from full plate to chain mail only, much lighter and easier to move around in—which is vital when hurrying to the training field for an accident, or running to meet a wounded knight at the gates. He wears a simple tabard over his mail, blue with red edging (the Queen’s colors), and keeps a pouch of bandages and other aid supplies belted to his waist instead of a sword.

Ash (Undergloom Sans): The livery of the king’s court, gray and gold, but dyed into fabrics suitable for common folk. He still wears gray when not performing at court, tunics so thickly woven they could pass as a gambeson and often paired with hooded cloaks, but he keeps his golds set aside until needed to keep them in good condition. He takes equal care of his shiny brass sackbut (it’s a horn, with a very funny name but an instrument nonetheless) so it always plays well.

Yrus (Undergloom Papyrus): Off-white and tan linens, loose and breathable for hot work in the kitchens, sleeves rolled up and pinned at the elbows to keep them from getting in the way. Always an apron about his waist, occasionally with food stains after a long day’s work but these he quickly tends to as soon as he’s able. He has nothing in the way of real finery but tries very hard to make sure what he has is clean and presentable.

Brick (Horrorfell Sans): Fine brocaded doublets of rich red and shining gold thread, as a duke and brother to a king, he does have to dress the part a bit. He wears more jewelry, especially rings, but nearly always still has his dire-wolf fur cloak over his shoulders. When called for executions, he dresses down quite a bit, in simple black cloth with only a leather pauldron over one shoulder to help brace the weight of his axe before he swings.

King (Horrorfell Papyrus): Half plate armor essentially at all times, even formal or polite occasions—he’s the owner of a stolen throne and all too aware that it could be stolen from him the same way he got it. His breastplate is scaled and his pauldrons are elaborately spiked, but it’s all black. The only pop of color on him is his crown, the same worn by Asgore and Undyne, gold and sharp, with rubies inlaid.

Merc (Horrorswap Sans): Chain mail over a finely-made kaftan and beneath a traveling cloak, the latter two with signs of wear from a long journey. His head is notably absent of a crown—left behind in the kingdom he fled—but a new one awaits him soon, of flashing silver and blue stone, depicting the phases of the moon. When fully established in his new kingdom, he may begin dressing as a proper king again, draping himself in the blue and silver finery of the land that sheltered him.

Ell (Horrorswap Papyrus): Browns, greens, and blacks, he wears light leather armor—really just a breastplate and vambraces—and a thick woolen cloak about his shoulders. He has no need of greaves for his shins, legs lost to an accident in the wilderness, but supplanted by magical prosthetics, living blackened wood provided by his land when he called upon it for aid. …Not that he’s fully accepted that it’s his land, keeping his crown of twisting copper and emerald tucked away in a saddlebag instead of on his brow. Maybe someday…

Pitch (Horrorswapfell Sans): Rich purple and verdant green, amidst a sea of black—he favors very fine fabrics with open lacing at the chest. Still not especially fond of jewelry, but wears considerably more decorative leather braces on forearms, shins, and even the occasional full-chest corset. (He has some chronic pain and the extra pressure and support in certain spots helps.) He wears considerably more plain clothes for knight-training purposes and when traveling wears a black cloak with a cowl that comes down over the hole in his face at a point, as the beak of a raven.

Nemo (Horrorswapfell Papyrus): Usually in half plate splint mail armor for his patrols along the wall, but favors rusty oranges, brown and black for the tunics and boots and breeches he wears out of it. Often carries a lantern, and always has tinder in a pouch on his hip. Beside his pouch is a war-horn in case an alert would need to be called, loud enough to make everyone come running if it’s ever sounded.

Sunny (Gastertale Sans): A cavalierly styled courtier, at first having made do with graciously lent clothing and now being able to buy his own in a whole variety of rich colors—yellow, blue, magenta, and on. His aim is to look at home in court, which means he must dress as other courtiers do, so he has doublets and fine tunics and many, many fashionable capelets with embroidery and stylish pins, as well as a few equally chic plumed hats. The other courtiers look to him now for the latest fashion trends and he couldn’t be happier.

Aster (Gastertale Papyrus): A bit more subdued in style than his brother…though only a bit. He favors black frocks, almost as a cleric would wear, but beneath them, elegant doublets in greens and yellows as vibrant as anything his twin wears, with fine silver filigree work in his buckles and pins and clasps. He’s the pinnacle of restrained class and taste and it’s no wonder at all that the king should respect him so highly if his care in thought is as his care in appearance.

Spectr (Transcendtale Sans): Deep, dark black from head to toe, most prominently a long hooded cloak with two eye-lights glowing in the darkness. He always wears gloves and never lets his hood down, as he’s not especially fond of his metal bones and doesn’t really wish to be seen. It’s difficult to see in the daytime, but at night he’s trailed by faint wisps of ghostly light in all colors of the rainbow, such a strange sight that many a drunkard who’s seen him has poured out their bottle presuming they’d had quite a bit too much.

PapAIrus (Transcendtale Papyrus): Full plate armor, of course, but as he’s now some sort of spectral entity, it (and he!) glows and is slightly see-through. Being ghostly has washed out his colors quite thoroughly which is unfortunate—mostly all white with hints of silvery blue—but on the up-side he seems able to change his appearance some by will alone, donning or discarding his helmet at will, manifesting a majestic cape for himself out of the ether, and so on. It seems a fair enough trade to him!

Xanth (Ascendswap Sans): A man at court now, he’s donned an eye-patch and abandoned the trappings of prospective knighthood, fully embraced courtier fashion…if a bit ‘eccentrically.’ He favors bright yellows and spring greens, flowing garments of fine cloth layered beneath and over leather vambraces, gorget, and tasset. All these are elaborately, intricately designed and certainly make the similarly intricate gold jewelry (with multicolored gems) that he wears at wrist and neck stand out, but it’s hardly in fashion… Still, the mystic’s thinking is often inscrutable.

Piper (Ascendswap Papyrus): Unlike his brother, very fashionable and eye-catching, in rich amaranths and brilliant turquoises, with even the occasional lavender. He has many fine embroidered doublets, threaded liberally with gold, and wears many pieces of gold jewelry as well—necklaces, bracelets, pins, and brooches. When showing the birds of the crown at court or bidding them on a royal hunt, he wears the livery of the crown-proper—royal purple and gold—and always has a thick leather falconer’s glove on his left hand.

Carmine (Underfell Fruition Sans): What’s black and white and red all over? Well, newspapers haven’t been invented yet, so it’s him, of course! He’s no jester so he hasn’t a motley to wear to work, but he is a performer and does dress in the livery of the king, which is red and black. The material is a bit finer than he’s used to, but being that he’s no longer wearing rags and rotting in a hole, he’s quite pleased with it and doesn’t mind the bright colors that help him attract the eyes of many comely nobles at court. Off-duty, he sticks to loose, somewhat open tunics—red still very much preferred.

Tank (Underfell Fruition Papyrus): Laced linen shirts, not especially loosely fitting due to his largeness in the chest and shoulders but he hasn’t burst any seams in awhile so the measurements must be somewhat correct. He’s fond of white and a true connoisseur of red, all shades from dark to very light. He keeps an array of small carpentry tools—hammers, chisels, things for measuring—in a roll on his hip, a dedicated apprentice to the core.

Vi (Swapfell Fruition Sans): All black, pourpoint armor beneath fine silk doublets but almost disappointingly plain otherwise—no embroidery, no ornament, or stitched pattern, or brocade. Over this he wears a cloak, equally fine and with at least some ostentation, a bit of silver stitched decoration that matches the intimidatingly clawed silver gauntlet he wears upon his left hand—a symbol of his wealth, if not his status. These flashy items are for matters of court only, as he has a much more nondescript hooded cloak and less identifiable sharp implement which he uses for matters of stealth and misdeeds when it is important that he not be recognized.

Hunter (Swapfell Frution Papyrus): A prince in princely attire…mostly. He happily flaunts the color purple but proudly wears it with the black of his old family name, and drapes himself in silk tunics, fine (mostly decorative) pauldrons, capes and capelets. He tends to show off a bit more of his chest than seems appropriate for a man of his station, and seems to wear his elegant silver jewelry in ways such that the eye is drawn there, and…other places, but few question the whims of royalty. His pewter crown is heavy and inelegant and he’s talked much with his brother about how angry people would be if he had it melted and recast into something more stylish.

Kohl (Descendtale Sans): Plain, rough tunics, in black and dark brown. He wears a heavy fur-lined gabardine as it gets quite cold in the dungeons, though it’s uncertain where he managed to get such a nice garment. He keeps a knife on his belt, large and jagged-toothed, and though he hasn’t had need to use it yet, the threat of it tends to keep most prisoners from attempting to bring him harm.

Bram (Descendtale Papyrus): He’s traded in his full plate armor for a comfortably fit leather jerkin, accompanied by matching gauntlets to protect his hands and torso (inasmuch as they need protection, without flesh) from the thorns he trims back every day. He mostly wears black and white and brown, all things closely fit to his body, less they snag overmuch and need to be replaced too often. His clothing is simple but well-suited to his work, and he wears it nicely.

#anonymous #headcanons #court au #undertale #underswap #underfell #swapfell/fellswap #horrortale #undergloom #horrorfell #horrorswap #horrorswapfell #gastertale #transcendtale #ascendswap #underfell fruition #swapfell fruition #descendtale

[the-fiction-witch]

The Tourney

Media - House Of The Dragon

Character - Daemon Targaryen

Couple - Daemon X Reader

Reader - Y/n (Lady Non-Specific House)

Rating - Sweet + Flirty

Word Count - 877

I smiled as I held my dress as I walked through the gravel stones, passed tents, carts and people busy with the preparations for the tourney in celebration of the birth king's son. The birth had yet to happen, but many said it wouldn't be long. I held the skirt of my black dress up from the dirty gravel stones. Blood and mud coated the stones as people came and went from the main tourney arena. I snuck my way through the mess of tents until I found the one I had been looking for and I quickly went inside before I was spotted. Pulling back the red tent flap to slip myself inside, I saw the various fine objects littered about the dark Valyrian steel armour with details of scales, dragons and red lining half laid out and the other half being added to him.

Daemon stood in his tent wearing his underclothes, as well as black leather to protect his skin, already in boots, greaves, poleyn, a young squire boy trying to assist him with his black steel cuirass and dragon scale faulds that reached his mid-thigh but causing more trouble than he was assistance. The look on Daemon's face read of frustration with the boy.

"Enough." he demanded before his attention turned to me, "You may go, boy."

The boy didn't say a word he just nodded and quickly left without even looking up from his own feet, 

"Must you worry me," I told him,

"How am I worrying you?" He scoffed, 

I went over and began to help adjust it and actually get it on correctly, "You know how these things frighten me,"

"Everything I do frightens you," he chuckled looking into my eyes but I focused only on his amour,

"Yes. Perhaps you should do something about that?" I teased him,

"If I stopped doing everything that frightened you, I'd be stuck in the castle watching you knit for the rest of my life,"

"That such a bad thing?"

"it excites you as well as frightens you. Admit it."

"You should wear mail," I remind him ignoring his comment, 

"Not in a tourney, I need to be fast, and agile." He answered, 

"Others in the tourney wear mail."

"And others lose."

"Doesn't mean you shouldn't," I told him as I picked up the breastplate and buckled him into it, he watched me often as my hands slid over his body, buckling it at each side and ensuring each the three panels covered in dragon scales where still flexible enough to move with the two dragons on his pecks and back. 

"Would it please you if I did?"

"Not if you lost," I admitted as I took the tassets with the same three layers and the dragon worked into the metal, from the side and moved to my knees to attach them to his breastplate straps, as I did he stroked my jaw and picked my head up to meet his eyes, 

"You look very perfect down there,"

"Do I?" I raised an eyebrow, 

"Is my sweet lady going to kiss me for luck?"

"Perhaps,"

"Can she kiss me now?"

"I'm busy," I remind him tugging on his amour, "I need to be down here,"

"I don't recall mentioning you standing." he smirked, I just rolled my eyes and returned my focus, "Do not worry for me," he said more seriously, 

"I cannot." I admit, "No matter what I will be fearful,"

"Even if I tell you not to,"

"Even so my prince," I nodded as I got to my feet, I helped him into the more simple things, vambrace, rerebrace, couter, gauntlets and his very dramatically sculpted pauldron. All of which the same dark steel with scales, and red lining all dramatically sculpted as a dragon prince would need to live up to such a title. As I attached the gorget around his neck he smiled at me, he took my hand in his and brought it to his lips pressing a small kiss, 

"You know you are on my mind, always. I do not act without first thought of you. I will not be reckless I promise."

"Thank you," I smiled

I took his belt from the side and wrapped it tightly,

"So dramatic." He glared slightly at my tightening, 

"I am not the one needing to be called out. for dramatics." I glared as I passed his dramatic dragon helmet with metal wings and a long red and black plume, 

He took it in hand and gave me an unamused look, "Do I not get a good luck kiss?"

I rolled my eyes playfully and gave his lips a soft and tender kiss, he happily kissed back and set his hands on my waist before he pulled back with a smile, "Good luck,"

"Thank you, my lady," He cooed, "I will perform. With your trust, your belief and your luck behind me. Always." He says kissing my head, "I would take your favour if I could, and have it with me as I go,"

"I know you would," I nodded, 

"I'll save a flower for you," he chuckled before he headed to the door to grab his Targaryen shield and his lance,

"Daemon?" I turned,

"Yes Y/n?" he stopped at the tent flaps,

"Be careful my love," I pleaded,

"I will be. I promise my darling," he nodded before he headed out to fetch his horse and begin the tourney. 

#house targaryen #house of the dragon #houseofthedragon #hotd daemon #hotd x reader #hotd smut #hotd fanfic #hotd #hotd daemon targaryen #house of the dragon daemon #house of the dragon x reader #house of the dragon daemon x reader #hotd daemon x reader #daemon targeryen #daemon targaryen #daemon x reader #daemon #daemon targeryan #house of the dragon season 2 #prince daemon targaryen #daemon x y/n #prince daemon #the rouge prince #daemonfanfic #daemon fanfic #matt smith x reader #mattsmith

[asumofwords]

Smoke, Fire and Ash

Warnings: This fic includes noncon, dubcon, manipulation, violence, death, forced marriage, and inc3st. Tags will be added as the fic goes on. Blood, grief, sadness, suicidal thoughts.

This is a dark!fic. 18+ only. Read at your own discretion. Please read the warnings before continuing.

Summary: You are the eldest daughter of Rhaenyra and Daemon Targaryen. You are forced to navigate the difficult surroundings of your upbringing and the eventual disintegration between your family and the Hightower's relationship. What will happen when your older and estranged uncle suddenly takes a more sinister interest in you? (Dark!Aemond x Reader)

Masterlist

Characters: Aemond Targaryen X Reader, HOTD characters.

Note: Oh boy, get the tissues ready. Mummy and daddy have returned to the Red Keep for their baby, and honestly? I think we have all been waiting for this reunion. Not long now till we finish this holy smokes! Enjoy <3

Chapter 106: The Rightful Heir 

The room rushed around you as you stared at your parents. 

How long had it been?

How long had it been since you last saw them?

Held them?

Rhaenyra’s eyes were filled with tears as she ran swiftly across the chambers towards you, her steps faltering as she saw you did not stand to meet her.

Buttoned high across her neck were her riding leathers, but across her chest was cuirass of a black armour, the insignia of your House raised at the front of it. Her long hair was braided and pulled back and away from her face, golden crown nestled amongst the silver strands.

She was dressed for battle. 

They both were.

Daemon donned riding leather and armour alike. His hair was messed, braided back and half down, pressed against his scalp likely from the weight of his helmet, which was nowhere to be seen; tossed to the ground as he ran through the Keep with your mother in search of you.

Each pauldron was crafted to look as though they were dragon wings, curling down over the length of his shoulders and upper arms. Each rerebrace and and vambrace slotted over each other down his arms like dragon scales. The same for his chest piece and faulds, perfectly made to look like the belly scales of Caraxes, dripping down his body sharply, meanly.

A new set of armour you had not seen before, made for this moment.

“Y/n?” Rhaenyra whispered, almost in disbelief, head tilted as she looked at you.

But your fathers reaction was different. 

He walked slowly, as though assessing a risk in the room, as though he was waiting for some unseen danger to reveal itself. As if you were being used as bait to lure the two of them out. 

But it wasn't just his careful scouting of the chambers in search of his nephew, his eyes told another story. A story which entailed just how shocked he was to see you, in the way that you were, blood covered and crown atop your head. Your fathers mind not quite catching up to the image before him. 

Daemon's eyes cast over Larys Strong’s body, jaw tensing, but then a small smirk twitched at the corner of his lips.

It reminded you so much of Aemond.

And yet you did not move towards them. You sat and watched as your parents looked up at you from the bottom of the Iron Throne. Questions on the tips of their tongues, barely held resolve vibrating in their bodies.

It was clear they wished to come to you, run to you and hold you, but they didn't, and all because you didn't take the first steps.

Your heart ached in your chest. You wished they could feel it. Feel how much you wished to run to them, to leap into their arms and feel their hands and lips against your cheeks and head. To smell their scents around you, and hold them to you finally, in ways that you had longed to for months on end.

But you could not move, like you had grown to the throne, flesh and bones curling around each pommel and blade that your weight sat heavily on. Unable to lift yourself from it as you leant back, gut churning with anxiety. But what was more, an unavoidable rage and anger prevented you.

Prevented you from giving up something you had given so much for.

The war.

The losses.

Aemond.

You breathed deeply.

“I’ve had some time to think.” You licked your lips, the skin dry and cracked as you spoke down to them, Rhaenyra’s posture stiffening, and Daemon’s eyes roaming your body rapidly, finally landing at the bloodied crown that sat atop your head.

"About what I have done." You continued, voice becoming louder, firmer, more authoritative, "What I have endured to sit here. What I have had to do to sit here. And the more I sit, the more I think; Why?”

Rhaenyra shifted on her spot, brows furrowed in concern as she looked over you, trying to assess if any of the blood that was drying upon your skin was yours, “Why what, my sweet?”

Your lungs expanded as you sucked in a deep breath, the sound of guards and men outside yelling, no doubt Rhaenyra and Daemon’s, claiming the Red Keep and Kings Landing. 

But it was the bitterness of disdain that settled heavily upon your tongue, the anger that you would have to live forever more with your choices, the denial of it creeping across your skin.

In that moment, in those months you had been locked away, kept away, trapped, it was hard to not feel anger. To not feel hate. Or pain. Or anguish. To not feel righteous and justifiable disdain at all who did not suffer the way you had.

And so you channeled that rage, and you let it pour from you like a steady stream of fire.

“Why should I give the throne to you?” Your voice sounded foreign as it passed your lips. The presence of a silver haired man in your periphery as you spoke caused you to inhale sharply, blinking to try and get him out of your sight, “Why should you sit here, on a throne I have earnt with my blood? Why should you sit here, after all I have done to ensure it. After all I have lost. After all I have sacrificed.”

“Tala," Daughter, Daemon's voice rose, confusion, concern, and sorrow in his voice, "Skoros ēza-“ What has-, But your voice raised higher, angry and resentful as you interrupted him, Rhaenyra flinching at his side.

“-I have earnt this, more than you." You sneered down at them, "I have been raped and defiled for this throne." You watched their faces crumpled, "I have been beaten and mocked, before the court... The realm, to laugh at, to jest. Trapped and kept from my family in this vipers nest for a year! I have lost a child, and gained another to survive. To win this throne for you.” Your heart beat rapidly against your chest as blood rushed in your ears.

Rhaenyra’s face crumpled further, the softness of her eyebrows pulled down, and the violet of her eyes seemingly sparkling as tears gathered in the corners. 

Even in her sorrows, she was beautiful.

Daemon however, looked enraged. 

“But what have you done for me?” Your voice cracked, “You left me here.” You took a shuddering breath, watching as Rhaenyra shook her head in denial, chest rising and falling brokenly.

But then your voice hardened, lips twitching as you held back a sneer, "You made Jacaerys your successor, and me your Hand." You scoffed, "I have lost a dragon and gained another. I have been plucked from the sky and lived. The small folk say we are closer to Gods than man, but I must be a God if I am standing here today. If I sit where I sit. If I have survived what I have endured.”

Rhaenyra’s guards flooded the chambers, ensuring the safety of their Queen and King, eyes all cast up to you, their daughter, who sat upon the Iron Throne, Conquerors Crown atop her head. 

Your knuckles gripped the arms of the throne tightly, blade of your dagger scrapping loudly against one of the swords as you leant forward, “It is I the eldest daughter, the Merciless Queen, who should sit this throne. I have earnt it. It is mine by right.”

Queen Rhaenyra’s brow hardened, and her lips pulled down as you spoke, though a traitorous tear escaped her eye, sliding down her face. Daemon shifted beside her, looking up at you through his white lashes, his jaw ticking and hands at his side flexing.

“So you are to depose me of the throne? Like my brother? Your own mother?” Her voice cut across the chambers.

Your nostrils flared, trying to push the tide that surged within you. But it built, just as it always did, rising and climbing inside of you, dragging you down into its cold and murky depths, suffocating you in its clutches.

It was sorrow.

Loss.

Grief.

You licked your lips again, voice crackling in the back of your throat as you felt your own tears prick at your eyes, "The thought of sitting here, despite me earning it with my own hands, is agonising, muña." Mother, You clutched a hand against your chest, wringing the bloodied chemise in your fist, and watched as Rhaenyra's head tilted to the side sadly.

"It fills me with sorrow, knowing that sitting here would mean to depose you. That it would be another usurpation of the Iron Throne. Another of my own mother, who I love dearly. Who I have suffered for months for. And my father. Kepa.” Father, Your lips shook as you spoke, a small sob falling from them as you said kepa.

A tear tracked down your cheek, “It tears my heart in two to even think of such a thing, the pain more mighty than what has been done to it these past moons.” You shook your head, clenching the arm of the throne, a sharp sting running up your fingertips, the blades of the slicing at the flesh that gripped them tightly, knuckles white.

“I did this all for you, muña. I stayed for you. Because I love you, because it is your birthright. Because it was my duty. So much so, that I have committed the most egregious of sins. I have done something that can never be undone." A loud sob filled the chambers, "I will never be whole again.”

It was quiet. 

So very quiet in the throne chambers as you mother and father looked at you with tear filled eyes, wet tracks sliding down Rhaenyra's face. But they waited, they waited for you to continue, as they always have done, knowing that you had not had a chance to be open with them for so long, opening the door for you to speak your truth, which had been taken from you since the very moment you had arrived to the Red Keep. 

Your chest ached, pain spreading across your body, and up your throat.

Was this how Aemond felt? When you betrayed him?

When you pierced his throat with the blade he had given you?

Was this how it felt when he looked up at you as he died?

That lump settled in the back of your throat once again as you desperately tried to swallow it.

“Iksan ēdrugī." I am tired, "I am weary, muña. Eman issare pryjatan, kepa." I have been broken, father. "And yet I sit on this throne, babe in my stomach; the son of the One-Eyed King." Rhaenyra's eyes widened, "A man I loved. A man I killed. And all for you. I pierced his throat with mine own dagger in our bed; a dagger he gifted me, to keep me safe from Aegon. And what did I do?” Another tear slid past your cheek.

"I betrayed him." You sneered, anger at yourself rising.

Daemon lifted a foot and set it on the first step below the throne, his hand holding Rhaenyra’s tightly for grounding. The both of them wishing to run to you, to hold you, to feel you with their hands and make sure you were real, and not an illusion.

But the chill was back. And Aemond's presence in your periphery became harder, and harder to ignore.

You wished it was anyone but him.

Lucerys, Helaena, even Larys.

But it was him.

And he was there.

Watching.

“If I give you this throne, what do I get?” Your tone became icy, emotionless and cold, the warmth having bled from the tip of your tongue as you tapped it at the back of your teeth, “What is my payment for months of rape and torture. Of Aegon! Of Aemond."

The anger was back, bursting through you like wildfire, uncontrollable and ungraspable. You couldn't stop it, couldn't stop the heat that continued to rise inside of you.

“Will you banish me to Dragonstone, never to be seen again? Will you strip me of my titles once more, and give them to Jacaerys? Will my actions have no reward? No recognition? Will you turncloak against your own daughter?”

Daemon’s eyes opened in horror before narrowing into slits, angry, remorseful, bereft, “Why didn’t you tell us?! I would have burnt the kingdom to the ground! We would have come for you!

“And then where would we be?!” You cried back, “Still crownless, with a broken daughter and a war once again. You have sat at Dragonstone growing fat from my achievements, none the wiser to my suffering as I have lost myself and my senses for this throne. So tell me, what do I get?”

You saw Aemond's body shift, directing his eye to your parents.

Watching.

Waiting.

Supporting.

A tear slid down Rhaenyra’s porcelain cheek, “Why did you let yourself suffer so? My sweet girl." She said sorrowfully, and a tear slid down your cheek, "What horrors have you been subjected to that you have not yet told us?" Her hand tensed in your fathers grip, and you watched as his thumb brushed over her skin to soothe her, to calm her. But you knew it was more for himself.

"Why did not call for us sooner?" She sobbed, and another piece of your heart broke, "We would have come to get you. What of the people we had here for you? The maids? The Maester? I would have died for you to come home. To come back to us.” Her voice crackled and broke at the end, her pale hand spread against the sigil of her breastplate, fingers digging into the cold metal.

You leant back in the throne and shut your eyes sadly, not being able to bear the sight of your parents looking so broken, so horrified, so remorseful for something they had no control over.

You had made your decision to stay.

Not them.

You breathed in, and your voice came out quieter this time, softer, the fire simmering in the background, “I sat in these walls and dreamt of you coming to save me. But you never did. And you couldn’t have. Because it would have been for naught. All my suffering, my blood spilt, it would have been for naught if I had sent that raven to you earlier." You opened your eyes to look down at them.

Daemon and Rhaenyra had crept up three steps more, as your eyes had been shut, desperate to get close to you. Desperate to hold you.

You continued, "And I had tried once. I wrote a letter, but quickly dashed that hope into the flames of the hearth and watched them burn away. I stayed because I knew it was my duty to do so.” 

Duty.

Duty.

All of it was for duty.

All of this had been for duty.

And what had duty done for you?

Nothing but losses.

You straightened yourself in your seat, tapping your dagger against the metal arm in thought, “I have conquered this throne by right, not just one King, but two. I did that, and alone no less. No one else. Me.” You raised your head high. “Aemond slayed Aegon for me. And I have slayed Aemond for you.” 

The flames were back, and they licked at your face hotly.

“What could we possibly give you that could take this pain away?” Rhaenyra breathed, unsure of what to do, what to say, whilst Daemon stared at you the way you had stared at Aemond's corpse; with nothing but grief.

“What could we have possibly done without knowing the truth of what has happened here? I never wanted this for you, you forced my hand! I would have never let you come here if I had known you would suffer so." She all but cried.

You laughed humourlessly, “I am a fools Queen. A Queen, muña. The Broken Queen. The Queen Maker... And a Queen for a Day.”

Rhaenyra Targaryens face morphed into one of confusion before settling on shock, half blinking as another tear slid down her cheek. Daemon took another step towards you, but was held back by his wife, who’s arm was stretched out, keeping him from ascending any more stairs to you.

There was that anger again.

Anger that was not justifiably directed at them, and you knew it. You knew it to your core. But it still ate away at you, tearing at your flesh, and resolve, and strength, piece by piece. Sharp claws lashing at your heart with every word spoken.

They had been none the wiser to what had happened here, perhaps small whispers from the maids and Maester, but you had promised you would call for them, summon them with two little words if it became too much, if it became too violent, if it became the horrors that not even yourself could quite conceive just yet, but you hadn't. And it did not erase the hurt. It did not erase the pain.

And you were punishing yourself.

Keeping yourself from them. Hurting them. Lashing out at them, trying to be the worst version of yourself so that you could justify what you had just done in the mere early hours of the morning, before the sun had even risen.

Trying to justify that you were a worse monster than he had been. Trying to convince yourself that you deserved it. That you deserved the pain. The abandonment. The grief.

Because you betrayed him.

In his softest of moments, in his most honest of moments, in his most vulnerable of ones, you had betrayed him.

And how could you ever forgive yourself for that?

How could they ever forgive you for that if they knew the truth of it?

And they would.

They would know the whole truth of it.

And they would come to fear you, be horrified by their daughter, you were sure of it.

It nagged at the back of your head, like the scratching of Lucerys' whispers that had haunted you for months on end. A darkness in the back of your mind that you knew was yourself, a part of yourself you could never escape. A part of yourself that had always been there, that had been fed by the violence you had endured, and doubled in size in the violence you had committed.

It was there.

Just like it was there in him.

Always there.

To burn together.

Monster.

How could you ever do it?

How could you ever betray them?

You could not.

You would not.

If you did, you would die.

Your heart would stop beating itself, you were sure of that. It would still in your chest as it felt it would now, as though it would no longer beat for another. As though when Aemond's had stopped, yours had with it.

You couldn't do it.

You could not take this from them.

From her.

From your mother who had loved and raised you.

From your father who had done the same.

You would sooner throw yourself into the ocean, or onto the spikes at the bottom of Maegor's holdfast to be pierced upon, in a way you felt you deserved, and then, only then, would you be reunited with him. Would you get to hold him once more.

Would you get to love him, and never be threatened, or taken from him again.

Another tear fell.

You gave them a small smile, a sad smile, of regret, of sorrow, of mourning, “Let me have a moment more… Please.” You spoke quietly to them, and only to them.

Guards stationed themselves at the door to secure the chambers, the sounds of dragons flying above the Keep loud and ever present. You breathed in again, closing your eyes as you found the strength to speak once more.

“To see how it feels to sit on a throne I have earnt, and to know, that it was I who put you here. For never again shall I sit here. For after you, it will be Jacaerys, and then his heir, and their heir after. Let me be the Queen I was fated to be, if only a moment more.”

And so you sat, watched on by your mother and father as you felt the weight of the crown atop your head, the Conquerors Crown. A crown you had, by design, conquered.

The blood of the King drenched heavily atop your body, darkening your hair and skin and chemise, the sharp cold of the blades of the Iron Throne beneath you.

A crown forged in blood.

You stared at them, a moment more as they gave you the time you requested, watching as they stood stiffly, eyes shimmering with tears, their faces having fallen as you sat a moment more. And then, all too soon, your resolve and anger melted away, and a tidal wave of grief and relief flooded over you.

You stood shaikly, legs aching as you stretched to your full height, your parents looking up at you in anticipation, taking steps backwards away from the throne.

Your chest heaved, as you took one step, then another, and then flew down the steps and crashed into their waiting arms, Daemon lifting you off the stairs, turning you to face your mother, who buried her face into the crux of your neck. A small sob fell from her lips as they both held you tightly for the first time since you had left them at Dragonstone.

You cried, loudly, sobbing into Daemon, who cooed and kissed at the top of your head, fingers digging painfully into your flesh as he gripped you tightly. Making sure you could not leave him again.

Your father almost collapsed as you felt him cry and shake with you in his arms. Holding him so tightly to him you could scarcely breathe, hands shaking so violently that they almost vibrated.

“Ñuha byka vīlībāzmio.” My little warrior, He whispered into your blood clumped hair, “Issi ao ōdrikagon?” Are you hurt?

You sobbed louder, heart feeling like it would give out, stomach hardened and in pain with how it clenched, "Ñuha prūmia iksis pryjatan.” My heart is broken.

Rhaenyra hushed you gently, pressing a kiss thrice against your cheek, and oh how you missed it. How you missed the way she always did it, always in three's, always the same. Familiar. Yours. Hers. Whispering praise into your ear, promising that you were safe, that they were here now, that they loved you, that they came for you. 

And they had.

“I loved him.” You wailed brokenly.

“We know.” Daemon whispered, smoothing your hair at your back.

“I’m with child. And I killed him. I killed the man I loved.” You bawled.

“Ñuha dōna riña.” My sweet girl, Rhaenyra took you from your fathers arms, and you buried your head into her neck, feeling Daemons heat behind you, gripping you tightly, as you inhaled her scent, "He would forgive you. I know he would. My brother would understand. He understood."

It didn't do much to help calm you, but it helped to reassure you that they were truly there, and that they were not a vision like your brother, or Helaena or-

You lifted your head, opening your eyes to the chambers behind Rhaenyra.

There, at the back of the room, hidden amongst the shadows, was the violet and sapphire gaze you would come to miss the most.

Thanks so much for reading along with me, if you wish to be added to the tag list please let me know :) Likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated ! Enjoy <3

Tag List:

@izzicle @ej-shitchats @may-machin @alegria1580 @witchy-jadda @videovampire @inkdelicious @queteimporta39 @virtualsweetsqueen @fo-cus @auratiqs @feyres-fireheart @queenofshinigamis @asoiafwh8re @teasandcrumpets @shesjustanothergeek @grungegrrrl@queenofsarcazm @marihoneywk @curlszx88 @virgogaia @loser-keiji @asoiafwh8re @whore-of-many-hot-men @vipervixxen @theonewiththeimaginaryboyfriends @watercolorskyy @lavendervisions @mazmack666 @chokefrog @orangejump-suit @nik2blog @serrhaewinin @ohemgeewhat @winxschester @cryptidsrcool @drinking-tea-and-be-obsessed @celestedonut @bloodyvelvet777 @iamapersonthatsalive @av-sos @yentroucnagol @sanzu-s @opheliaas-stuff @bellameshipper @maviee @persephonerinyes @neytiri-09 @ensnaredinwonderland @xbluegracex @sotragedynut @nattieot7 @shesawaywiththefairies-blog @coffedraven @prettycutebunny @celestedonut @the-jess-life @ssulfurr @out-of-life @madislayyy @crazylokonugget @cicaspair418 @katwmk @relminnie @milovart @teagrex @visenyaverse @bellameshipper @toodlesxcuddles @tempt-ress @dontmindmereading7 @qyburnsghost @55gyi53vtnquwziq5 @notnormalthings-blog @maidmerrymint @qyburnsghost @madislayyy @chelseaouat

Bold is who I cannot tag!

#aemond targaryen fic #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen smut #aemond targaryen x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond x fem!reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond smut #hotd smut #dark!aemond targaryen x reader #dark!aemond x reader #dark!aemond targaryen #hotd #house of the dragon #hotd fanfic #dark!aemond #dark!fic #fic #series #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond #smoke fire and ash

[bits-and-babs]

i’m so sorry for your loss. i hope you’ve received a lot of requests though and are managing to stay distracted 💛

could i please request some soft period sex with din djarin? i’ve been loving your din fics lately and there really aren’t enough people out there writing for him, so thank you for doing god’s work!!

𝐂𝐘𝐂𝐋𝐄𝐒 — 𝐃𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐉𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍

» PAIRING : The Mandalorian x f! Reader

» CONTENTS : established fwb relationship, feeeelinggggs, period sex (duh), p in v sex, he talks you through it, cream pie (must I say it again, *wrap it kids*). He removes the helmet but you don’t see his face. Romantic as Mando can get. 18+, kiddos.

» AUTHORS NOTE : thank you for your condolences sweet pea. I’m doing much better with all these asks to work through!

» DIN MASTERLIST : here || MAIN MASTERLIST : here

“You’re in pain.”

For a man that doesn’t like droids, the voice that floats through The Mandalorians modulator sure sounds droid-esque. His tone is flat, devoid of emotion as he tries to ascertain the reason for your scrunched-up brows.

“I’m fine,” you dismiss awkwardly. The Mandalorian would have to set you alight with his flamethrower vambrace if he wanted to pry the information out of you.

Your period has started, settling a creeping pain across your lower back that kicks into what you can only describe as cramp-hyperspace. You’re both irritable and needy simultaneously, desperate for his attention yet frustrated by his presence all at once. Besides, you couldn’t call what you and The Mandalorian had a ‘relationship’. Sharing a cot every once in a while to ease the frustration built in a tin can in hyperspace wasn’t exactly marriage, was it?

A leather-clad hand gently finds its way onto the small of your back, rubbing slowly against the tight muscles there and soothing the ache that’s so intense it feels like it may pull away the flesh from your spine.

“I heard…” The Mandalorian hesitates for a moment, a twang of nervousness sounding from the tip of his tongue. “I heard that release is… is good for the pain.”

Your heart plummets into your stomach when his visor tilts to you, taking in your expression. His hand slides along the curve of your ass ever so gently, a ghost of a touch that feels more likely to be a figment of the force than something the big, burly Mandalorian could muster.

“Mando-“

He’s on you in a second, grabbing underneath your ass and hoisting you upwards in a strong lift that makes your head spin. You push your forehead to the smooth, cold metal of his helmet as he struggles to pull your pants down. He doesn’t get them past your knees, pushing your back against the wall and groaning as he works at his flight suit.

“I-I’m bleeding, Man-“

“I don’t care,” he rasps, voice dripping with arousal as he pulls his cock out from his pants. You can hear him work at it for a moment, his breath picking up as you whimper. “If you want me to fuck you- if that’s what you need- stars- I’ll give it to you, pretty baby, give you anything you need.”

He’s babbling, pushing your panties to the side and swiping his gloved fingers through your folds until the leather catches on your clit. You gasp loudly, the slight friction enough for your hips to jump off the wall.

Mando doesn’t hesitate, lining the head of his cock against your entrance before pushing into you with such ease. You take him so well, your body desperate to be filled by him that it offers no resistance at all. A groan tears from his throat like someone had punched him straight in the gut, wheezing slightly when he feels the head of his dick bitch against your cervix.

It should hurt, and it does, but stars, it feels so good, too. Your back is arching against the cool durasteel, tears welling in your eyes as he rolls his hips impossibly deeper. The coarse hair on his pubic bone grinds just right against your clit, and your walls clamp around his cock while you whine out his name.

“I know, Baby Girl, I know,” he breathes, his hips starting a languid, steady pace that has you digging your fingernails into the pauldrons on his shoulders. It stretches you out just right, your hips raising to meet each thrust as you sigh out his name in what could only be described as some kind of prayer.

“MmmMando,” you moan, head tilting back until your crown hits the wall behind you. Eyes cast to the heavens, they tear up as tendrils of pleasure work their way up your spine, Mando’s hips already working you towards bliss in a way only he could.

“Close your eyes, Pretty Baby,” you hear him groan, his voice gravelly. You do so without question, eyelids heavy already with the intensity of the pleasure building between your thighs.

There’s a shift, a mumble of ‘keep ‘em closed’ that sounds too loud to be him, and then his lips are on your neck. Nando’s lips are on your neck, kissing and sucking at your skin as he ruts into you at a blinding pace.

“Ohmy- Mando-“ you choke out, tears streaming down your cheeks at the overwhelming rush of adrenaline, of emotions. The coarse hair of a trimmed beard you didn’t know he had bristles your skin, and he whispers a moan against the junction of your shoulder.

“Fuck, Baby,” he chokes out, his hand gripping at the flesh just beneath the curve of your ass where he holds you up. “So fucking wet, so tight for me, Baby. That’s it, I know, I know, I can feel it-“

You’re arching into him, moaning louder. The sound of your keens bounces off the walls of the hanger, ricocheting back into your ears as you feel your orgasm work its claws into your abdomen.

“I’ve got you,” Mando soothes you, even with the strain in his voice, “I’ve got you, m’here.”

It sends you dropping through space, plummeting past the stars and the planets as he hits something vital inside you. You’re cumming, bliss spilling through your body and momentarily blinding you as everything blurs before your eyes. It roils through you, tears you apart at the seams like you’ve been stretched and ripped open in the best way.

You must be screaming, must be wailing and sobbing his name, because Mando is offering you a chorus of ‘I know I know I know’. You’re so tight around him, gushing on his cock and his hips stutter, spitting out your name against the column of your throat in a voice that’s unmodulated and crystal clear as he cums, filling you up when he spills inside of you.

You’re both panting heavily, legs like jelly and bodies buzzing with a burning afterglow that could compete with the twin suns of Tatooine.

“M-Must have made a mess,” you whimper, voice cracking. Your eyes stay firmly shut, even when you hear him chuckle and feel him press a kiss to your jaw.

“That’s what a shower is for, isn’t it?”

You share the shower, share a cot in your moments of frustration on this tin can in hyperspace. Mando takes his helmet off for you, kissing and whispering utter bantha-shite while he smoothes your discomfort… Maybe it is a marriage proposal, after all.

#꒰꒰ ‧₊˚📁 ─ my works ˚₊· ꒱꒱ #꒰ ‧₊˚ din 🥫 ˚₊· ꒱ #꒰꒰ ‧₊˚ 1k+ notes club ˚₊· ꒱꒱ #din djarin #din djarin x you #din djarin fanfiction #din djarin one shot #din djarin x reader #din djarin x female reader #din djarin x y/n #din djarin smut #din djarin imagine #the mandalorian #the mandalorian x you #the mandalorian x y/n #the mandalorian fanfiction #the mandalorian smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian oneshot #the mandalorian imagine #the mandalorian drabble #pedro pascal #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal smut #star wars smut #star wars #star wars fanfiction #જ⁀➴ mail: received

[thenightmarketofdathomir]

The Offering (Savage Opress x Reader)

Pairing: Savage Opress x Reader (GN) Rating: M (Sexually suggestive) Word Count: 1,200ish Warnings: Food mention, use of the "c" word, mild voyeurism

Summary: A gesture of kindness for a king. A stolen moment. A treat.

He's a collection of paradoxes: the strongest of all the Nightbrothers, the last one to wield the ichor, the only remaining Champion. They called him a monster, and a brute, and all manner of ugly thing that say nothing of the way he cares for his kin — his brothers and his clan. It's only after you've spent months on Dathomir that you hear the reverent whispers about him: he's fiercely loyal, he's the protector of the small, and he'll never back down so long as those he treasures need to be defended. 

He doesn't say an awful lot. Being Maul's enforcer is a twenty-four hour job, and there are only a few Savage would entrust to guard him in his stead while he takes his rest. At first you think it's because of one of Maul's diktats, but after watching the way Savage behaves, you soon realize that it's Savage's choice to stay close. Maybe he fears for Maul, or maybe Savage remembers those near-misses, growing up with a reckless, headstrong younger brother. 

You deduce several things about him, however: he doesn't like court company, he rarely indulges in spirits, and he doesn't keep a string of lovers. 

You don't understand why: you've seen him in Dathomiri fighting leathers. They're revealing: snug pants that cling to heavy thighs, matched vambraces with their clan crests, and nothing more than an oiled chest on the upper half, highlighting their Nightbrother markings. He never shies away from hard work — every grunt of effort when he lifts, and hunts, and trains with the other brothers are a revelation:

Savage wields a single-minded focus. No distractions.

The brothers respect him, but they keep their distance. You're not sure if that's his preference, or if he's just intimidating, but whatever his solitude suggests, it's intriguing. You would offer your company if you didn't think he'd reject your advances, but something suggests he needs more than someone keeping his bed warm.

Who cares for the person who cares for everyone else?

You're not sure. But you hope the position is available.

That's why you elect to catch him when he leasts expects the interruption. You intend it as a kindness — a token of your appreciation for working so diligently alongside Maul during Dathomir's restoration — but Nightbrothers are not used to receiving honour, and none of them enjoy being caught unawares.

You find him drying off in a small patch of sun after bathing in one of Dathomir's natural springs. His clothes are folded into a small pile on the stone beside him, and the way Domir's light falls across the small downturn of his mouth hints at other preoccupations that can't be washed away. Even with his eyes closed, a furrow notches his brow. 

When you make your approach, you do so with nimble feet in absolute silence. Not a single snapped twig. Not a breath. You move like a shadow, spilling over the edge to place your offering atop the pile of zeyd cloth and slip away before he notices.

Savage sniffs. You can see the flare of his nostrils when he turns his head as if scenting your presence, a mass of hard, moving muscle lumbering to wakefulness, like a statue coming to life. He turns his head left, and from your hiding spot, you're confronted with the angular chisel of his jaw and the sliver of firelight in the gloom when he slits open his eyes.

His rumble of displeasure is rolling thunder when he sees the thing that's violated his respite:

A tiny, leaf-wrapped sweet from one of the food stalls in the market: a confection of candied brula, its toxins boiled off to leave the sweet and chewy bits that warm the hearts. Perfectly safe. Perfectly delicious. 

He sniffs again, but your body tingles as the reserves of your bravery evanesce when he shakes off the sweet to collect his clothing. The wrapper opens as it rolls off, the treat wasted as it falls to the bog. 

When Savage rises, naked, you freeze: locked to your hiding spot on your knees beneath the brush as he turns on the spot — giving you a perfect view of every line and every bulge, and if you weren't nervous before, you're nervous now... seeing how his cock hangs heavy between his legs. 

Maybe there’s a reason he doesn’t take lovers. Maybe the reason he’s intimidating isn’t just the obvious station and stature and cadence, his family and his position. Maybe that’s part of the curse the Nightsisters left on him when he was changed: 

To be so different that none would dare try to love him.

But the reason it scares you is the reason you remain intrigued, heart hammering against your ribs like a bird in a cage —

And when his smouldering gaze picks you out from between the gnarl of trees, you remain rooted, stock-still and terrified that you’ve been seen — the hunter and its prey across from each other, with nothing between them but the promise of a failed escape if you try to run. 

“I smell your fear, little one.”

His amusement is self-deprecating, edged with the knowledge that you’re bested before you’ve even begun, but the fact that he stands before you still, alone and unadorned, is the reason you don’t.

He turns away, picking up his clothes, his gaze shuttering. The crown of his horns bows when he lowers his head, withdrawing from that beam of sun that angles through the trees in the effort to catch him. It fails.

His voice is the mountains, the swamp, the rumble of distant storms of the horizon —

“Go now. I won’t tell anyone.” 

Your ankles tangle, but you listen to your own self-preservation this time, and this time, you run.

It’s not until you’ve reached a safe distance in the gnarl of the grave thorn groves where the funerary pods rock gently in the breeze that you pause, turning back to see if he’s followed.

He has not, but you see him through a gap between the branches — hesitating in the distance over at the gift you left him. He appears to be staring at it, and when Savage bends to collect the little offering with the tips of his claws, there’s no mistaking the way his frown deepens when he unwraps it. Examining. Checking for poison with a sniff. Surprise registering with a lift of his brow bones.

A glance over his shoulder leaves you hunkering lower, your stomach twisting as he unfolds the little waxy package, lips pursed as he sniffs it, and if your limbs aren’t shaking, your heart slamming against your ribcage, the sweet vanishes between his lips. 

The face that rises to the red sky overhead is perplexed, but softening with the sag of those huge shoulders as he relaxes, eyes shutting briefly as the crunch of his teeth echoes through the trees as if he were chewing bones and not a treat, but pleasure is something you’ve never expected to see on those fearsome features.

Your stomach tightens. Your palms sweat. Your breath is shaky, having stolen this little secret:

And you know, all of a sudden, what Savage looks like when he’s surrendered to desire. 

#Savage Opress #Savage Opress Fanfic #Savage Opress x Reader #Savage Opress x You #if I miss a tag lmk.

[erathene]

Unguarded

100 word drabble written for @fellowshipofthefics 'Luck of the Draw' March 2024 writing challenge. For this one I got 12 ("I don't need a gentleman right now.") and 14 ("Strength").

I have read some incredible Boromir AUs recently with strong female characters; specifically The Unravelling of Hard Words by @eternal-vambraces and Fuck the Forbidden by @entishramblings, they honestly made me look at him differently so guess I'm a Boromir simp now thanks guys. I haven't ever written anything for Boromir so decided to use this prompt for him!

Warnings: Description of battle, Boromir x Female!Reader pairing.

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

"I don't need a gentleman right now!"

Two Uruks are annihilated by your blade in quick succession as you speak, the words woven with bitterness and ferocity. It's more than a demand to let you handle this yourself; it's resentment against societal norms dictating that a woman should be defended by a man.

Boromir knows this; he sees your scarred leather armour, toned physique and fearlessly unapologetic personality. He doesn't see a defenceless woman. He sees a warrior.

Broad shoulders press against your own, covering your back, sword and shield raised to fight.

"No," he concurs. "You need a friend."  

#fotfics #fotfics march event #luck of the draw #writing event #fanfiction #lotr fanfic #Boromir #Boromir x y/n #Boromir x you #Boromir x Reader