#ic ◈ ◤ .OC. ◥

[erudianokabe]

Monsters

My father often told me that I shouldn’t be here. 

I can still remember the look of disappointment on his face when he realized what I had been striving so hard to achieve. As someone who served in the military, my father knew the hell that followed where war was concerned. A nation like Marley was one that thrived during battles. Conquest was something that was always on their mind. Defending and capturing territories was hardly anyone’s idea of child’s play, but for Marley, having monstrous weapons in the form of Titans, it might as well be the case. 

He knew the perils of being a soldier. He knew the hardships and the trauma that came with it. Most of the time, he believed that these were things that I took lightly. After all, what did I know? I was just a girl who wanted to follow a dream that seemed too far-fetched to even… well… dream about. 

It’s not as if I was following in my father’s footsteps, and it’s not as if I truly wanted to be a soldier in the first place. Perhaps if I’ve never happened upon that one boy from years ago, I’d never find myself here. In fact, now that I think about it, there were so many paths that I could have taken if all I wanted was to help people. 

For one, there’s always a shortage of doctors in this place. When I say this place, what I meant is the Internment Zone. The “pure bred” people of this nation considered the inhabitants of the Internment Zone menaces. They were treated so poorly, as if they were plague incarnate. Shunned upon by society, these people— the Eldians, were nothing more than swine to many. Monsters and devils is what the people of Marley would call them… something that I never really understood. In fact, they looked pretty normal to me. Without the armband that they were forced to wear as a form of label, I feel like no one would have been able to tell the difference. 

They were good people in my opinion, but one person’s thoughts and views hardly mattered in a society that was teeming with both fear and disdain. 

When I think about what my own people do to these poor men and women, I begin to wonder just who the real monsters truly were. 

Marleyans treat the Eldians like cattle… no, even worse than that. At least cattle were desired by most for their meat; prized for the sustenance that they can provide to the body. The Eldians… despite their use in terms of protecting a nation that would readily spit at them and leave them for dead, were used as weapons and were expected to die for the nation’s cause… the very nation that would abandon them given the chance. 

But Marley can’t. 

Despite their hate and their fear, they needed these people to fight their wars. Eldian children were trained and conditioned to inherit specialized titans in order to bring Marley victory. The chosen would be elevated to the status of Honorary Marleyan, a title only in name… the treatment, however? Still the same. Those who were found with crimes were sentenced to a fate worse than death… forced to become monsters that they didn’t even want to be in the first place. Others, of course, were conscripted for the part in hopes of better treatments… and where does that lead them? An untimely demise if one was luck, or a lifetime of trauma if anyone survived to live another day. 

It was tough being an Eldian in the nation of Marley… you were less than the dirt that everyone walked upon. 

It’s disgusting… this place… the people…

Everyone here were monsters; some worse than the rest. 

I’m one of them, apparently. I’m not going to think of myself like I’m some kind of saint… after all, I’m in charge of training the children that would become the next generation titan shifters. I’m no better than anyone even if I want to be. But still, at the very least, I can do something to help them out. I want to understand the people who mine, considered evil. 

And honestly… they were hardly the offspring of the devil. They were no different from the children that played along the streets of Marley’s capital… Well, I hope that at least, others saw it that way too. 

But of course they didn’t. 

The military only saw these children as weapons, expendable resources that needed to be replenished after a certain amount of time. 

It was horrible.

I feel like a monster… and since I’m helping mold them to be weapons, I probably am one as well. But at the very least, if they were considered devils, then I should be too…

…because deep down inside, we’re all the same… aren’t we? 

If my father could see me now, I hope that he’ll be proud of the monster that I’ve become. 

[glasswarproject]

Recreating the Ice King Crown, from Adventure Time

[daily-dragon-drawing]

Chocolate and vanilla dragons that are best friends

#61 & #62 - 可可 (kěkě / cocoa) & 香草 (xiāngcǎo / vanilla) - Ironically, this position keeps them both very warm 🍫🍨🍦dail

[skelleste]

My muse.

[quiddling]

how many eyes does lord bloodraven have?

[ruushes]

dancing lessons! have to pass the time at camp somehow 💃

[murmel-malt]

Snow in the Vale ❄️

[wyvernest]

cregan stark x f!targaryen!reader

previous(first) part - next part | all chapters list

>Queen Rhaenyra has sent you away from the brewing war to safety since your brother, Jacaerys, has secured the Pact of Ice and Fire. You have to honor it by marrying Lord Cregan Stark.

cw: slow burn, fluff, eventual smut, angst, follows book events with slight deviations, im planning to let jacaerys live! every chapter is around 2k wc

chapter cw: tension, fluff, a little angst, they are starting to fall for eachother

“The ceremony will be held tomorrow.” Cregan’s deep and steely voice rings with an imposing echo onto the stone walls of the great hall of Winterfell. “My lady is worn from the journey.”

Although the order seemingly held some benevolence to your sore legs and southern blood barely adjusting to the newfound cold, his voice feels so detached that you find yourself wondering whether he truly did care for your spirits, or if he only wished it as a polite formality.

“I will take my leave before sundown, sister.” Jacaerys places a comforting hand on your shoulder. “I must be back at Dragonstone before the new moon.”

“Ill news?” you ask, already troubled and feeling incapacitated from protecting and helping your family.

“Ser Criston Cole marches on Duskendale lands. I must be present at the council to take action.”

“What about me?” You worry, and only after speaking do you realize how stupid the question was.

Jacaerys takes a moment to reply, evidently not wanting to make you feel more secluded than you were.

“I will not make any decision that you wouldn't have in my stead.” He decides, “I will send you ravens to inform you, and represent you.” a pause, “unofficially.”

There is nothing more to be said. Any words he could sweeten end with the same inevitable finale. No raven could fly fast enough to deliver your ideas soon enough for the Greens not to gain an advantage over the reluctance of your team.

You are a pawn. Your dragon is a pawn. And you will only read about the war as if it were history before you could contribute.

“I understand.” You manage to let out without showing how disturbed you are and possibly making the northern lords think that you were terrified to marry their leader.

With a hug too frail to even begin to express how much you will miss him, your brother mounts his dragon after the welcoming festivities in the great hall and takes off with a blow of wings that normally would have had you taking a few steps back from Vermax.

But now it didn't matter anymore. You watch as your only friend dissolves into the skies thick with white clouds, becoming nothing but a raven in the distance.

Suvion cries out, a sharp, strained screech that only pain as great as yours could have caused, and the clouds answer, though you cannot see him anymore.

You are taken aback at the feeling of heavy pelts placed upon your shoulders, and only then you realize how cold you are. Your frigid fingers reach around your own neck to grasp at it and keep it from falling.

“The cold is treacherous. One moment you may think you're warm, and the following, your heart stops.” Cregan comes to stand next to you, looking away to where Vermax had disappeared.

“Thank you, my lord.” You speak coyly, quietly, so he wouldn't catch the crack in your voice and think you weak and soft. Perhaps in a different situation, you would have blushed at his kindness, but the ice wall you felt between you and him was now more palpable than ever. Alone, with a stranger.

“You should come inside.” He insists, but it is not advice, it's a courteous command.

Without a word, you turn and listen. You are escorted to your chamber in the castle, and as you pass through the halls, you look around like a lowborn in a dragonpit. At least that's what it must look like, but in your heart it was storming; how different the place was from what you have known your whole life, the people, the sounds in the yard, the very air of the keep.

He stops in front of your door, beckoning you inside.

“Send for me should you need anything your handmaiden cannot provide.”

His voice is softer, as if trying to indulge you and your loss. As if he understands.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Cregan.”

You do not know for certain if there truly is a gleam of affection in his eyes as he says it, but you do know that you held yourself back from leaning forward in his arms.

Oh, how you wanted to just let it out, and how you wanted him to hold you through it. To offer some comfort that, at least, he cared for you. That he wasn't a cold hearted man with nothing warmer than diplomatic skills. Whom you would have to learn how to love the hard way. Only you know how your heart briefly yearned for him to offer you strength.

But alas, it was not proper. Too soon.

“Cregan.” You accept, and he barely hears it. Your heart sinks when he nods politely and slowly shuts the door, and it sinks further at the sound of his boots on the cold stone outside your chamber, walking away.

A terribly tragic thought slips into your tired mind; that he is betrothed to you, yet his heart belongs to another. Northerners love northerners, and the Stark men have mostly married into vassal houses of the north in the past.

No matter how loyal he is to be from now, his thoughts will always be about her, the people will always know about her.

Suvion's head appears at your window, blocking out the moonlight.

“Oh, you,” You whine, opening the windows and laying your upper body on his snout.

You hear someone gasp and scream in the courtyard, no doubt because of the dragon clawing at the walls of the castle.

“We should find some place good for you. Somewhere safe and warm.” He growls sorrowfully, as if aware.

But it doesn't last long. As quickly as he came at the window, Suvion rips away from your touch and carefully leaps out of the castle yard and up into the night sky. His otherwise white scales now partly reflect the dark of night in their shine, making it impossible for you to even tell how high up he was.

Alone again. You knew he wouldn't go far, that he only needed to hunt and come back, but you wished for leverage that was now gone.

Restless and troubled, you decide to take a stroll around the keep that is to be yours in less than a day.

You follow your curiosity back to the great hall, from where you hear whispered voices and see glimmers of lit torches.

“...of the beast. Food is scarce.”

“It will set eyes upon us.”

“Lord Glover, this is necessary. I do not wish-”

The lords at the table turn abruptly at the sight of the shadow you cast into the obscured hall.

“My lady. Is everything alright?” You hear Cregan's voice, his face away from light.

You feel embarrassed and stupid, interrupting a clearly important talk of resources that did not yet concern you and making the impression of a spoiled, uneducated woman.

“No- I didn't mean to intrude.”

“You could never be intruding on talks of our domain.” He attempts to soothe your nerves, although the implication of responsibilities is indomitable in his tone.

You approach them, carefully eyeing the other lords, feeling quite literally akin to a lizard slithering into a den of wolves. You cannot read anything on their stern faces, and it doesn't fail to make you uneasy and put your guard up.

“The dragon, my lady,” one of them starts, a man well past his youth, “he is a welcomed weapon in the North, although -”

“Although it is true that war has brought us both here, my lord, a dragon is not a weapon.” You warn with a poised expression, as respectfully as you could, yet fire dripped from your words.

The other men frowned in surprise and disapproval, but said nothing. You glance at Cregan, by your side, hoping to be faced with kindness, but instead your heart skips a beat at the sight of a cutthroat look he was throwing at the men, protective of your contribution.

“-apologies. The dragon is a welcomed ally. But livestock is barely enough to get us through what's to come. What are we to offer? Sheep?”

“We have endured harsher winters with lesser than we have today.” Your betrothed reassures, despite the evident growing concern.

“Suvion is big enough to hunt for himself, I dare say. The cold doesn't seem to burden him. There is absolutely no need to thin out the herd for him, my lords.”

You struggle to conceal a sharp gasp when his hand runs up your lower back. A way to show approval of your input, no doubt, yet you find that every crumble of affection he grants you is more than enough to spark fire in your body. Is that what you have come to?

You were worried enough that the rough stoicism of the north man wouldn't provide half the love you dreamed of, yet now you falter on that thought. If such a touch is already setting you alight, what would more do?

“A good omen. Prince Velaryon’s first visit wasn't as uneventful.”

“It is settled then. We will discuss other matters after the wedding.” He commanded, and your stomach flipped at the mention of your union.

With the lords out of the room, Cregan turns to you.

“I thought you would be resting. It's near the hour of the ghosts.” He speaks gently with a warm vibration in his voice, as if you have been wedded for years and he knows all about your practices and nature.

“I couldn't. The more I lay there waiting, the more it felt like I would never find sleep again.”

A faint smile lights up your tense visage, an instinctual way of wanting to see him soften as well.

He looks intently, clearly understanding of your friendliness, but it does nothing to soothe his brow further.

“Come. I wish to speak with you, since neither of us cannot find slumber.”

Neither of us? What is that supposed to mean?

You once again hook your arm around his, his body heat immediately warming you up and putting you at ease. He leads you into his chambers, a strong fire already lit in the hearth.

“Is this proper?”

“Whoever shall dare speak ill of my wife will never speak again.”

A shiver runs up your spine. Whether it's a pleasant or a distressed one, you cannot tell anymore.

“I know how you must feel, although it may not seem like it.” He begins, beckoning you to sit on the edge of the bed. “It's the duty that comes with the name.”

“Yes.” You agree, wanting to hear more of what he wishes to tell you. “Although my biggest concern lies with my position. I feel…” You cease before you could say something like “trapped” or “exiled”. He has been nothing but good to you since you arrived and you do not want to seem ungrateful or hostile. You do like him.

But before you could find the right words, he kneels in front of you on the floor and takes your hands in his. Your heart stops. Your brain shuts down. Gods.

“-powerless.” He untangles your mind and finishes your thought. “But you aren't. We will offer help, I do not intend to trample the oath I swore to your brother. The oath I am to swear to you.” He adds, his tone is soft and tender yet his words so meaningful and heavy, you hear them as though their echo reverberated in the entire room around you.

His thumb delicately rubs over your knuckles, his expression as stoic as ever, only his actions speak differently. He leans forward and places a kiss on the back of your hand, assuring and loving.

You draw in a sharp breath, as if you haven't felt affection before in your life.

“Cregan.” is all you manage.

“It is true that this union was made with interest. But you are not unwanted, my lady. I believe we will find more than allies in each other.”

TAGS!! im sorry for those that don't work its tumblr's fault i checked all of them multiple times

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@squidscottjeans @itchkhiara @klutzylaena @heylittlelollita @scrumptiousloser @karmaswitch

[rueghost]

melts into your floorboards

[yumykon]

Yumy Ice Cream Maid 🍨🎀

[ilovepaigebueckerss]

favorite words.

pairing: reader x p.b.

summary: reader pranks paige ONCE AGAIN for a tiktok video

a/n: i know paige doesn’t cuss its js for the story yall.

______________________________

you were scrolling on tiktok when you saw a video with the caption ‘saying my gfs favorite words otp to get her reaction’ you watched the video dying laughing at the way she was reacting in the video and decided you had to do it with paige.

a couple minutes later paige got home, a chiptole bag in her hand with you and her chipotle order in it. “hii paigeyy” you greeted your girlfriend. “hi baby” she says smiling wide. you grabbed the bag from her and sat it down on your island.

once you were finished eating you decided it was go time.

you went to tiktok and started recording, you put the phone by your face and pretended you were on facetime. (you have airpods in)

“ehh, i dont really wanna play basketball” you say trying to hide your smile. immediately after saying that paige gives you that ‘whos on the phone?’ look.

you pretend to not see her, “yeah, but i was thinking i could come over and we can go to walmart.” you continue, “yesss lets get some trufu.”

paige starts to smile at those words and walks over to you on the couch.

“no i don’t think paige would wanna come.” you say.

“no i wanna come” paige says a desperate tone in her voice.

after she says that you couldn’t help but bust out laughing, you turn your phone screen around to show her no one is on the phone.

“you just walked the prankkk” you say still laughing, tears pricking your eyes.

“oh fuck youuuu” paige says disappointment laced in her tone.

_____________________________

caption: dw i got her tru-fru after this. 😭😭

____________________________

comments:

@uconnwbbfan: what a big back😂😂

@kkarnold: i would’ve folded after you mentioned tru-fru too

@paigebueckers: yeah these pranks have to stop..

@oemgee: LMAOOOOO “walked the prank”?.. 🤣

see more..

[isa-sketches]

Made myself a sa-khui. I don't know what to name him but I want him to be a mean one. Some broody warrior type (who turns sweet to his lady after some real enemies to lovers situation)

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

OMG no way are you going to write an AU of Daemon's visions at Harrenhal??? I know its AAAAAGES away from where you are in the current story but desperate hos wanna kno ;)

Ask, and ye shall receive!

until i bleed myself dry

Note: This is technically using the characters/characterisation I have established in my terms of endearment series, but really you only need to know that the Reader is Rhaenyra's younger sister and that, instead of marrying Laena, he spent a decade ho-ing it up in Pentos before coming home and getting dazzled by his niece before deciding to wife dat gurl.

WARNING: Please note this is dark, dark stuff. Discretion is advised. Please use your judgement wisely before engaging.

Triggers: graphic depictions of violence, violence against children, character d*ath, MAJOR hallucinations, sexual scenes including visibly underaged character/s.

There is something fucking wrong with this place.

Daemon feels like a skittish child as he withdraws to his chambers, covers drawn up to his neck like the fabric will keep away the very worst of midnight evils. He does not know if the steady drip, drip, drip he hears is in his head or if the stone ceiling is cracked enough to let through the rain. Knowing Harrenhal, he would hardly be surprised by the latter. Still, the noise only serves to speed the racing of his thoughts, turning them fearful as he has not felt since the weakness of his youth.

In this moment, he curses his own doings. If he had stayed his hand—if he had held his tongue—the boy would not be dead, and mayhaps you would not be so wroth with him. He would not be alone in this shithole of a keep a world away, chilled to the bone and miserable as he thinks of you warm and safe in your bed with the children. Without him.

When he finally falls asleep, he dreams.

He knows it is a dream, for he can hear your humming. Soft, sweet, the kind of tune you sing to Daeryx after one of his tantrums. His head lifts from the pillow and he finds himself back in your shared rooms on Dragonstone, eyes finding you in the chair by the hearth. Your hair, unbound, shines like molten amber in the firelight, swaying softly as you tend to business that is concealed from his gaze. Enthralled, he rises, making his way to you.

Drip, drip, drip.

He pauses. That sound… it doesn’t belong here. He calls your name. You ignore him. He moves closer, tentative.

“Come look,” you murmur suddenly, startling him. “Come, kepus.”

His feet move unbidden, out of his control.

Bile pools at the back of his throat, gut curdling at the sight of the boy—the boy—cradled in your lap. You and he are wet with blood, and it drip, drip, drips to the floor, echoing eerily. His eyes are open, face petrified, and Daemon realises that the dark at his neck is not in fact a shadow but a gaping wound, made jagged by the weapon used.

You look up at him, skin shining with sweat and expression exultant. “Look at him, kepus. Look at what you made.”

Memory flashes—he brings his son back down to rest beside his daughter on your lap, two moonshine miracles side by side. “Look at them, kepus,” you whisper, spellbound. “Look at what we made”—and his lungs constrict. You make to lift the child up, but the movement jostles his head off its perch, and it rolls to the ground to stop by his feet. He cannot move. He is frozen, horrified.

You smile, tucking the headless corpse under your chin. Gore pulses against your throat as your chin settles to the yawning maw of the child’s open neck. You rock in your seat, a faint squelch each time your shifting weight disturbs the sodden cushion beneath you.

“I love him,” you whisper, lips pressing to where flesh meets innards. Your mouth comes away red. “I love him so much.”

Daemon awakens with a yell. He swallows once, twice, and then—

He leans over the side of the bed, retching violently. When it is over, he curls up on his side, shaking, staring at his hands. They are wet with blood.

It does not take long for terror to settle in his bones like a longtime companion. It follows him each day, in every waking moment, manifesting in strange visions that he knows—he knows—must be untrue, cannot possibly be real, and yet… And yet. There is a sort of verity in them.

Dark Sister feels like a leaden weight at his hip as he stalks the keep, a reminder of his earlier encounter with Rhaenyra. Only she was not the Rhaenyra he knows, and instead a strange sort of blend of child-queen, the face of the girl peering out accusingly from under her father’s too-large crown, exclaiming all manner of hurt as she stepped from the Iron Throne upon which she perched.

“You put me on that throne. And you love me, and you hate me for it. You created me, Daemon. Yet you are now set on destroying me. All because your brother loved me more than he did you.”

And, without warning, he had taken his blade up in arms and struck off her head, a puppet on strings pulled by another. As her body fell, it morphed into the boy again. Jaehaerys. The child he had murdered. He heard your humming even while Simon Strong’s voice filtered through his unconscious mind, alerting him of the raven that just arrived.

The healer woman’s concoctions have helped little. He still wakes to strange noises, still finds himself stalking after his monstrous one-eyed nephew down the halls, only to find that it is himself he is pursuing. He hears the words you yelled at him in that last great quarrel— “get away, leave before you turn on us and murder us like you murdered that boy”—interspersed with the sound of your screams, and perhaps they are the screams you let out when birthing his children, or perhaps they are screams of a different kind, a version of himself making good on the implication of your words, steel in hand and pursuing his love, his life, his blood—

These figments blur with reality to the point that he becomes unsure of what is before him and what exists only in his head to haunt him. He comes to dread the resting hours, only to find their horrors bleeding into daylight. Whatever strange power has come to roost in his mind serves only to bring him torment.

Perhaps this is why he is not immediately suspicious when he comes face-to-face with you once more.

You stand by the window, the dim light filtering weakly over your bare form. Your back is to him, curls spilling to brush the tops of your buttocks. Their gentle sway—the barest kiss to your skin—is tantalising, and his mouth dries even as he watches your neck crane, sly smile tossed back over your shoulder at him.

“Daemon,” you beckon. Like a cuntstruck fool, he is helpless to resist the call.

His hands settle to the familiar divots of your waist, up and up and up to cup the fullness of your tits. You lean into him, a quiet huff of pleasure escaping as his fingers squeeze and his lips fall unbidden to the slope of your jaw. He inhales deeply, stirred even now by the simplicity of your scent, a throbbing line straight to his groin. You turn in his hold, nose nuzzling against his chin.

“You were right,” you say, eyes shining. “You were always right.”

He is under some enchantment, surely, for he is incapable of coherent speech. All he can do is feel the satisfaction heat his veins, allow it to tug at the corner of his mouth. I knew it, he thinks. I knew her will would bend eventually.

You speak still, even as he backs you toward the bed. “Papa was weak. Rhaenyra is weak. Only you are the true blood of the dragon.”

You shift backward onto the mattress, legs parting invitingly. The split of you opens, revealing flushed folds and the teasing glimmer of want, shining slick for his hungered gaze.

“Fearless”—your hand trails down your belly, fingers tracing around your pearl—“brave”—you venture lower, pressing teasingly at your cunt, your lip caught between your teeth—“strong.”

Daemon drops to his knees before you, tongue licking through the spill and catching on your finger. He bullies it out of the way, arms locking around your thighs as he gluts himself on the sweet tang of you, senses clouding and narrowing to a singular point of existence. You grip his hair, the arches of your feet digging against his back.

“It is not my place to question you,” you breathe, twisting and writhing with his ministrations. He watches your face, enraptured by the toss of your head and the shape of your lips as they form moan after moan. Your release is quick, a final sobbing yelp followed by a flood of slick warmth. When your eyes reopen, they are blazing with reverence. Reverence for him. Your knees flex up, your lower half folded almost to your chest. Your cunt contracts, fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. “I live to serve you, my king.”

His head feels heavy as he rises just barely to crawl over you. He frowns. When he lifts his hand to extricate yours from his hair, he finds not flesh, but cool metal. A crown.

“My king,” you coo below him.

Your surroundings are changed. It is not the meagre offerings of Harrenhal that frame you now, but the sumptuous trimmings of the king’s chambers in the Red Keep, only brighter, more lavish than they ever have been. Jewels sparkle at your throat, in your hair, at your wrists. The sheets are molten gold against your silver-pale, and you wind your hips up at him provocatively, catching his cockhead against your opening.

“You belong on the throne, husband,” you say, fist closing around his shaft and pumping once, twice. You lead him back to the core of you, nudging him just inside. “Uncle. My love. And I belong at your side—at your feet—under your body.”

“My queen,” he gasps, driving forward with a grunt, and oh, he has missed you, missed this, missed the clutch of your walls like a mother’s embrace and the sound of your breathy cries as he plunges deep. Plunges home.

“My king,” you call out, rising into him with unrestrained abandon, precious gems clinking frantically with each fevered hitch of his hips against yours. “My lord. My master. I was made for you.”

“Yes…”

“Chain me to this bed, my king.” Your spine arches toward him, hands grabbing for his own and leading them above your head. He takes this for the encouragement it is, pinning your wrists to the pillow and rutting harder. You shout, elbows flexing to no avail. “Give to me my purpose. Give me your heirs.”

He is helpless to stop the noises escaping his mouth, feral and uninhibited, fucking with near painful intent. You take it all, curving yourself deeper, holding yourself more open so that he may lay claim to his conquest. As only a king can.

“And when I have birthed one,” you say, though now it is more a prolonged keening sound, “give me another. Never stop. Oh! Make me—make me take it—”

He does not know if he is imagining it or if it is happening before his eyes, but he can see it: ruling the Seven Kingdoms, sitting the Iron Throne the way his brother never could, striding down the halls of the keep as the commons bow and scrape to their sovereign, bursting into his chambers after small council to find his queen, to find you where you always are, naked in his bed and belly round and leaking milky white between your thighs, for it is his kingly law that the only part you play here is this, waiting for him to find you and fuck you and fill you and keep you, his little niecewifequeenpet—

He snarls, pulsing and burning. You squeal as he pushes past onslaught and straight to violence, bodies colliding so forcefully that his bones ache and his brain feels like jelly wobbling in his skull. What leaves his mouth can only be bestial in nature now. “I’ll make you—”

“Yes, make me take it until I cannot. Until my cunt is ruined by you.” He feels his end rushing up with every word you wail, his joints locking and grinding and gut roiling with the anticipation of it. “Until my womb is destroyed. Until I bleed myself dry, my king. Only for you.”

“Wha—”

The horror of it escapes him, for it is too late: the release crashes on him like a tidal wave, shoving him below its surface and imprisoning him in its current. He makes a noise like a wounded boar, chasing through the high despite the alarm in his mind, so at odds with the soaring rhythm in his loins.

You laugh, tilting welcomingly to receive him. “Make me bleed, my king. Make me bleed like my mother.”

It is enough to chill the heat in his blood to ice, destroying any semblance of enjoyment. But he cannot stop the unsteady eking out of what remains of his peak. He tries, but he cannot stop.

“No,” he says, a contradiction to the enthusiasm of his flesh prison. “No, no, I cannot. No—”

“What do you mean?” you ask, a strange quality to it. A duality. It crystallises into something comprehensible with every word that comes from your lips. All at once, it is not your voice he hears, but something much higher, younger, blending and overlapping with the cadence he recognises. “You already have.”

He looks down as he makes his final groaning thrusts, only to feel his stomach drop through the floor. Your thighs are soaked in blood, his cock sluicing a path through it all the while. All that flesh covered in red, and he glances up, only to see that you are gone, you are replaced by someone so small, so frightfully small, and he realises you are not replaced, it is you, but it is a you he has not seen for well over ten years, eyes wide and frightened and gleaming like game stuck through by an arrow and taking its final breath.

Daemon rears back, but it is too late. You begin to cry. A dark patch spreads out from underneath your broken body, from where he had torn your fragile opening apart. What have I done? he thinks.

“It hurts, kepus,” you say. “It hurts.”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, fixed to stillness by revulsion. “I’m sorry. I never meant to—”

“But you did,” you insist, childish pout despite your obvious agony.

Your hands reach out, and he leans away, too horrified to touch you—and he doesn’t know if it is you or he that he is more afraid of in this moment—but you are not searching through the air for him, no. Instead, a bundled weight is settled in them, and you bring it into the crook of your arms, gripping it as though it is the most precious of objects. You smooth the fabric from the top of it to reveal a tiny head of silver hair. The babe gurgles and roots at your flat chest, absurd and awful.

“This is what you wanted,” you say, eyes filled with betrayal. “Am I going to die now, kepus?”

Your Grace…

He shakes his head, but he is no fool. You are too little to withstand the sheer volume of blood you have lost if the bedding is anything to go by. He feels it stain his legs. He feels it drying on his cock.

“Your Grace?”

“I will, though. I’m too young. You’ve killed me.” The babe begins to suckle, and you cry harder. Your body isn’t built for this task, not yet, not like this. He wants to protest, to tell you that this is not his work, cannot be, for he has and would never do something so foul, so wholly inhuman, that the you he has gotten with child has only ever been a woman grown, but it is like you know his thoughts for you scoff and say, “You’re lying to yourself. I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He stares down at you, immobile, unable to even think. The metallic scent of your life leaving you fills the air, floods his nostrils with stinging heat.

“… Your Grace?”

Daemon jolts, blinking. Ser Simon Strong looks back at him. “Is the duck not to your liking, Your Grace?”

All at once, you are gone. The king’s chambers are gone. He is not even within his dank chambers at Harrenhal. Instead, he sits at the table in what passes for the dining hall here, a plate full of food steaming before him. The smell makes him ill.

“There’s also goose, if you’d prefer…”

He swallows, trying to ground himself in the present. Voices waft all around him, but he finds it difficult to pay attention.

“I’m not hungry,” he says shortly. It sounds stronger than he feels.

A pause, and then—

Simon clears his throat, turning to his companions. “I was saying, given the rather dire news…”

Daemon tries to concentrate. He does. He knows the others are speaking of matters of utmost importance. Of  Rook’s Rest, of his nephew, of the war. But his mind can only turn over his encounter—his vision? His nightmare? Or is it merely truth finally unveiled to unworthy eyes?—with you, the last of your words haunting him near to madness.

“I was always too young. You just refused to see it.”

He has grown restless here, revolving between the frustration of securing an army from those who see naught in him but the very worst and the torment of these terrible visions that seek him out at their pleasure, heedless of his duty or desire. Tedium or terror—when he is entrenched in one, he wishes for the other, and there is always a sick sort of irony in the granting of said wishes. In truth, he is able enough to tolerate the resistance of these riverlanders, insulting as it is. The phantasms that pursue him have almost become too much to bear.

What is worse? The accusations from the mouth of a juvenile Rhaenyra, full of admonishments for the way he’d so thoroughly undermined her claim before she ever got the right to exercise it? The condemnations from Viserys, a retracing of steps trod so long ago, brought to life once more and forcing Daemon to relive the very worst of his brother? The boy’s laughter darting through the stone halls, an ominous prelude to the sickening sound of steel sawing through skin and the rolling of his head, landing always at the feet of the one responsible for his fate?

They are all bad enough as they are, but for the simple fact that they do not surprise him. Monster, they call him, and he wears the name well. In most all aspects, he is a monster. But never has he thought himself monstrous to you.

He has come to despise the sight of you here, sometimes docile and worshipful, sometimes angered and raving. Sometimes you appear as a siren come to lure him to iniquity, and like a fool he always falls into the trap. Other times, you are battered, caged, a shell of yourself. No matter how it begins, the end is always the same: bloodied, beaten, fading from the world, and it is always his hands he finds the cause of it in. A new reminder every time of all the ways he has thought of taking you, owning you, keeping you. Always, he thinks to save you—to protect you. Always, he destroys you.

Just as he thinks himself finally driven to the edge of all reason, the Rivers woman beckons him to the godswood.

“When you came here,” she says, “you were a closed fist. You wished to bend the world to your will. But you’ve discovered, I think, that… this world will not be governed. There are omens here for those who seek them.”

She pauses. The air seems to whisper, to creak in the dark. Daemon suppresses the urge to shiver. Her eyes move to him, an odd little quirk to her mouth. Amusement, he thinks. Or pity.

“You do not scoff?” she asks.

How can he, after all he has seen here? He has been brought to the very edge of sanity by these omens. What irony, it is, after the great complaints he has made of superstition in past weeks (and months, and years).

“I’m no longer inclined to,” is his short reply.

She laughs. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

She stops before the heart tree and turns to him, expression solemn.

“Do you wish, then, to learn what is given to you?” The answer must lie in his face, for he cannot do anything but stare, silent, tense. “All your life, you have sought to command your own fate”—she takes his hand—“but today, you are ready.”

Gentle pressure at his wrist, and something in him knows to move past her, to take those final few steps so that he is close enough to make out the details of the face carved into the wood. His arm raises by itself, acting on its own power, or perhaps some higher power, his fingers brushing bark and the hot pulse of… blood? But he has no time to truly question it for—

He is flying—

No—

He is a raven, staring at the face of a pale-haired man with a wine-dark stain on his face and he flies into the forest, towards an army, only there is something wrong with the soldiers, they are blue and their eyes glow ice-cold and their breath is frosted with death and their bodies carry the look of corpses stood upright once more—

And then the dragons are dead, all of them, the ground wet not with water but with blood and he walks through it, falls straight into the ground and he is drowning, steel plate armour dragging him down into the depths and he looks up at the sky—

A red comet bursts through the air, hot like fire, and he sees eggs embroiled in flame, a girl sat in ash cradling the bodies of three newly-hatched dragons, a whisper of a memory on the air, “we are the only ones able to bring the fire to life… It is the secret”—

And he is before the Iron Throne, suddenly silent.

Rhaenyra stands before the seat. Viserys’s crown is in his hands. She moves toward him, down the stairs of the throne. He hears her speak.

“From my blood…”

But she does not finish. A roaring conflagration engulfs her and she screams, twisting and warping before him, burning, only not, because you step from the flames, unburnt, voice mingling with that of your sister’s, a haunting echo.

“… come the Prince Who Was Promised…”

You are before him, taking the crown from his grasp and retracing the steps your sister took, and then you are stepping over a charred body, Rhaenyra, oh gods, and ascending the steps. You sit. You lift the crown. You place it on your head.

“… and his shall be the song of ice and fire.”

He is on his knees now, right on that final step at your feet. He feels the warmth of you as you bend forward, your palm caressing his jaw. You look otherworldly in the shadow, backlit silver and gold and wearing a king’s accoutrements far better than any of your predecessors.

“You know what must happen now, Uncle,” you say gently, kindly. “You know what you must do.”

He bows his head to kiss your ring—the seal of the king—no, the queen—and then wind is whistling in his ears, chilling him to the bone and spraying his hair about wildly, so much so that he can barely hear the words yelled at him by the boy sitting astride Vhagar.

“You have lived too long, nuncle.”

—and he wrenches away, panting, body collapsing before the heart tree like a puppet with its strings cut. The world comes back to him in fragments: the scent of dirt and woodlands, the sharp sting of cold, the ache in his muscles that has since settled like sludge at the bottom of a river, ever-present and persisting. Finally, finally, he withdraws with hands washed clean, free of his many sins.

At last, he has come to the crux of it. At last, he understands.

He sits at the base of the tree, stunned and overcome, as faint words slither on the breeze, a final knell from the liminal space of prophecy. Your name. A cheer.

“Long live the queen! Long live the queen!”

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[msmorningstaarr]

let me be yours. | part I

ao3 | masterlist | part II >

Pairing: Rhaenyra Targaryen x F!Martell!Reader

Word count: 3.1K

Summary: You, a Martell princess who was recently brought into Rhaenyra's courtyard as a sign of goodwill to ensure the unification of the Seven Kingdoms. With time passing on, you feel trapped under the enticing aura of the Dragon Queen and sees yourself desiring her more and more. However, in a delicate situation, is it worth the yearn for your Queen? Would you give in to your needs to have your way with her and find some indulgence?

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI), afab reader, bisexual rhaenyra, canon divergence, longing, age gap (you early 20s rhae mid 30s), fingering, masturbation, oral sex, sub/dom dynamics (rhae dom you sub), overstimulation, scissoring, queen rhaenyra targaryen, nipple play, possessive rhaenyra

Ever since you left your homeland to be a ward in King’s Landing, life has become a journey of too many changes and mixed feelings. The sense of homesickness and fear of the unknown was present and huge within your heart.

You were a princess of Dorne, the second in line to inherit Sunspear after your brother. After the rise of Rhaenyra Targaryen as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she successfully united the relations with Dorne and finally brought it into the feud and unifying the realm once and for all. You, after all, were presented at her courtyard as a sign of good will from the Martells and forge a prominent marital alliance between you and the heir to the Iron Throne, Prince Jacaerys, in order to legitimise the coming of the dornish to the courtyard.

You obviously missed the sultry dunes of sand, the sweeteness of Dornish Red, the incandescent sky, with a fiery burning sun crashing your skin and the sense of community amongst your siblings and the freedom your country provided. You felt less lonely in Dorne, for the life in King’s Landing could prove to be challenging under the judgemental and prejudicial nature of the rest of the Westerosi. Some became outraged by your presence, others just spoke in whispers around the corners of the Red Keep, yet, it was undeniable that as soon as you stepped into the city, you became the centre of attention, always remembered by the courtyard for your mysterious peek, luscious, long hair and exquisite beauty or your luxurious sense of fashion. It distanced yourself from the standard beauty of the other ladies in the realm, putting yourself easily as the fairest maiden of your time.

You had no idea if this title came over the fact that you hold a big status as future consort and people wanted to fuss around you or if you were indeed the most beautiful lady in Westeros. However, you knew well that ever since the Queen has met you, she had been enchanted by you and held you in high regard, always complimenting you and your astonishing beauty. Her Grace enjoys calling you by terms of endearment, being “sweet girl” her favourite name for you, showering you with jewellery and plenty of expensive gifts or simply having your company along the day, to have long walks throughout the royal gardens and even show you the Dragonpit became a regular routine when she arranged time between her royal duties. You barely had time to bond with Prince Jacaerys, given the fact you became her loyal companion.

Speaking from the back of your mind, you cared not much, once you found yourself drowning into the alluring beauty of Rhaenyra. The Westerosi average accent for you was dull and ugly on everyone else; on her, it was perfection. Her touch was gentle and her violet eyes were rather attentive, careful of you. You spent your nights having supper with her and her other sons or simply sharing a good conversation. She made you feel less lonely in that castle.

You questioned yourself if what you were feeling was no more than a delusion, a projection over your neediness for attention. But you could swear you caught yourself in a moment with her where your gazes locked on each other and she lightly pinched your chin, getting too close to your face. Queen Rhaenyra was a daydream. You never indulged in kissing or having any romantic interaction with other ladies but Rhaenyra lit a fire within you - a liability only Her Grace could solve.

And now there you were, another night where she requested your company for supper. You wore an orange dress with silky cuts giving a slight volume to the gown, although it was a more simplistic dress, more adequate to the occasion. Her Queensguard announced you at the door and she received you with a polite smile before you gave her a courtesy.

“Good evening, Your Grace.” You speak, bending your body on a polite greeting gesture to Rhaenyra.

“It has been a far cry since we are done with courtesies, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra said, silently commanding her servants and guards to leave her with you. Her peek examined your features and smiled softly at you.

“It is a costume I would rather not lose, Your Gra-… Rhaenyra.” You corrected yourself, remembering she wanted you to address her by her name only, as a sign of how much she enjoyed your presence. She giggled and guided you through her chambers, ever so caring and jolly.

“I should warn you,” Rhaenyra began, walking through her private apartments. “I commanded the cook to prepare you something special.” Her Grace spoke to you, graciously raising her eyebrows and excited, yet contained beam. Your eyes lit up, already knowing what she was talking about.

You sat after her on the small table fetched for the two of you and a set of plates strategically placed for the duo to have dinner. Even before you would open it, you already knew. “The dornish recipe of roasted lamb.”

Rhaenyra grinned and joined her hands once she realised how much you enjoyed the said surprise. “I had the cook searching for this recipe for days, sweet girl. I hope it is of your liking.”

And then, after waiting for Your Grace to start eating, you hummed in satisfaction eating your meal. The spicy flavour exploded in your mouth, invading your taste and drooling your mouth by the slightest of satisfaction. “I take for your expression that you enjoy it a great deal.” Rhaenyra told you, after taking a bite of her own dinner. You nodded eagerly tasting it and had to contain yourself to not lose your composure in front of the Queen.

“Thank you, Your Grace. It tastes delicious, I have missed this.” You reply to her and involuntarily touches her hand, squeezing it delicately. Once you tried to take it away, Rhaenyra held it tighter, forbidding you to take it away and stared at you, silently reassuring you it was acceptable. Her hands entangling on yours was almost electrifying, causing goosebumps on your skin just with a simple touch or an exchange of looks. Her face, however, was tender and calm, with a soft smile whilst looking at you.

Rhaenyra put her hand over the table once again and her fingertips traced patterns over your soft skin. “My pleasure, sweet girl.” She muttered at you and tension was thick in the air. “Do you miss Dorne, my dear?” Rhaenyra asked you and her other hand grasped the cold metal of her cup of wine, taking it to her mouth to drink it, but her gaze never left yours.

You craved her attention, thirsting for more of Rhaenyra. Her presence sparked questions in your mind about her prowess as a lover; with so many sons, it seemed plausible her husbands found her passionate and fulfilling in bed, particularly Daemon. Could she bring that same intensity and allure to you? As Rhaenyra doted on you in your future role as a daughter-in-law, you could not help but ponder how she might express her affection in a more intimate relationship. Her gestures and glances, filled with warmth and intrigue, hinted at depths of passion waiting to be explored. The thought of her as a lover stirred your curiosity and desire, wondering how her charm and grace would translate into romantic moments.

"I do," you replied, your voice tinged with anticipation and full of honesty, grappling with the allure and uncertainty of what lay ahead. Would she meet your expectations, exceed them, or perhaps offer something entirely unexpected? The prospect both thrilled and unsettled you, as you navigated the complex emotions and possibilities that Rhaenyra's presence brought into your life.

“Well, darling, this is your home now. Your Queen will make sure you feel enoughly accommodated in my court,” Rhaenyra replied, breaking the contact between them to cut the tension shortly after it. The Valyrian Queen cuts a piece of her meat and fidget her fingers on her cup, tracing the boards as her eyes rested on your features. You, on the other hand, smiled gently at her words, deeply touched by her kindness towards you. It was not supposed to feel right to yearn for a full desire of Rhaenyra, you had to get rid these ruminations from your mind and replace them with Jacaerys. But how could it ever be possible when she is just in front of you, cornering you to fully focus on you and your relationship with her?

“I should hope you’re preparing your cloak with your ladies-in-waiting.” Your marriage, however, was a sensitive subject. Jacaerys was a dutiful boy and the interactions you had with him were more than pleasant, still, he was not what you were looking for. His long, brown curls had its appeal, but his mother unveiled things she wished she felt for Prince Jace. “I was done with the embroidery yesterday. I can bring it and show you on our next encounter, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra lifted her eyebrows and lowered her eyes, smirking at her food as she ate it, seemingly thinking about something. You laughed, nervously drinking your wine. Your hands felt sweaty and heart beating just as it was about to rip open your chest out. “I would be most glad, sweet girl. Are you nervous about your wedding?”

You nodded, with your eyes sly and cautious while lingering on the Queen and she smiled at you again, on an attempted shared empathy. “I was a little thing like you when I married my first husband, Ser Laenor Velaryon, Jace’s father,” Rhaenyra began. “He was not my choice of husband, earnestly.” She giggled and drank a sip of her wine. “But we had a good marriage. Laenor was a good man and provided me with children and good company. We loved each other in our own ways. Jace will treat you well too, sweet girl.”

“Thank you, Your Gr-...” The Queen lifted an eyebrow, reminding you of her request. “Rhaenyra.” You corrected yourself again and she mumbled something as ‘much better’. You giggled alongside her as she shook her head in amusement.

“A marriage is just a piece of paper,” Rhaenyra began. “You and Jace will understand you both can perform a duty and still find your happiness.”

Her words sounded suggestive, was the Queen motivating you to commit treason before your marriage? Was Rhaenyra testing you? You raised your eyebrows and Rhaenyra smiled mischievously again, her eyes gazing at you intensely and in quietude. You rummined what was going on within her mind. Rhaenyra's violet eyes held a depth that made you feel seen and understood in ways that no one else ever had. The silence stretched between you, charged with unspoken words and possibilities. Rhaenyra's touch was a lifeline in the vast sea of desires you were feeling. Her thumb brushed gently over your knuckles, sending shivers down your spine. You wanted to ask her so many things, but the words seemed to fail you in the face of her overwhelming presence.

"Sweet girl," Rhaenyra began softly, her voice a soothing melody, "My first marriage was also born out of duty. I can relate to the worry in your eyes. I want you to know that your happiness means a great deal to me, equally as my son’s. Your marriage to Jacaerys is a duty, yes, but it does not have to be the entirety of your existence."

By this point, you both had finished your plates and no desire for dessert rose for any of you. Rhaenyra had her wine by a window, feeling the cold breeze blow on her face with you by her side. The moonlight casted a silver glow, contrasting with her fair skin and silvery locks. Her words were a lifeline, pulling you from the deep core of your anxiety. The way she looked at you, with such intensity and sincerity, made you feel like you were the only person in the world who mattered.

"Rhaenyra, I..." You hesitated, unsure of how to articulate the storm of emotions swirling inside you. She squeezed your hand reassuringly, her eyes never leaving yours. “Are you testing me?”

Rhaenyra stared at you, grinning and confused. “Why would I test you, sweet girl?”

The proximity of her and the warmth of her breath on your skin, was intoxicating. You found yourself leaning closer, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Her nearness was both a comfort and a temptation, stirring feelings within you that you had never dared to acknowledge before.

“Rhaenyra, what are you asking of me?” You finally managed to whisper, your voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

A slow, knowing smile curved her lips. “I am asking you to trust me, to let me guide you through this. Do you trust me, sweet girl?”

“I trust you.” You simply replied, sighing heavily. You should not desire her this much. However, being this close made you want to touch her, kiss her perfect lips and beg for her to claim you as his. She smiled at you, relieved and her fingertips stroked your hair, pulling it behind your ear. Her scent was a blend of lavender and something uniquely her. You felt the pull towards her, a magnetic force that you couldn't resist. Tentatively, you leaned in, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure she could hear it.

“Good.” She mumbled against your skin as Rhaenyra came closer. You never had been this close to her before. Her fingers reached your chin, lifting it to bring it closer to her lips, but her kiss was redirected to your cheek, so gently and delicate, yet so intense and slightly lustful. “Will you visit me next evening, my sweet?” Her Grace asked you, whispering words softly and close to your ear. It was a dangerous game you two were engaging in and you knew it well. But what is duty compared to what you are feeling now? You nodded in silence, quietly responding to her question as her hands embraced you slowly, bringing you closer, like a viper defeats its prey.

“I shall leave you to rest now.” You whispered at her, trying not to look into her eyes. Rhaenyra did not deviate her eyes from you, caressing your hair and staying close enough to feel her breath close to your face. “If you excuse me, Your… Rhaenyra.” You corrected yourself for a last moment and she giggled briefly to your face and finally let you go.

You were right in front of a windy window and your body was catching fire after having that moment with Rhaenyra. The cold breeze contrasted sharply with the heat that had built up inside you. As you left her chambers, your mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions.

Making your way back to your quarters, the corridors felt longer, each step echoing with the memory of Rhaenyra’s touch and her whispered words. You couldn’t shake the feeling of her fingers against your skin, the promise and peril in her gaze. It was a heady mix of excitement and apprehension, knowing that you were treading a fine line between duty and desire.

Once in the privacy of your room, you closed the door behind you and leaned against it, taking a moment to catch your breath. The room felt different, almost foreign, as if it no longer fit the person you were becoming. You moved to the window, looking out into the night, the stars twinkling like a thousand silent witnesses to the secrets you now held.

You changed your clothing for a simple nightgown and decided it was time for your slumber, laying on the mattress and allowing you to rest. However, your mind recalled the way Rhaenyra was too close to you, the way her hands had touched you, her soothing voice in your ear felt as the prettiest of melodies, made just for you. It was by far, the most erotic encounter you ever had and you found yourself silently begging for more. Her words echoed in your ears, a constant reminder that your happiness was just as important as your duty. Your hands wandered throughout your body, pinching your nipples, squeezing your breasts and closing your eyes to imagine it is her touch on them. Your hand then passed down on your clothed belly and thighs, teasing yourself before actually going all the way to your pleasure. A soft moan left your lips as you played with your nipples, fantasising about Rhaenyra taking over that liability.

When her body was enoughly worked up and her cunt ached, your hand had encountered your centre over the thin fabric of your dress and when you could feel a small trace of wetness staining on the undergarment, you hummed slightly. Your hand was not a regular tool, you tried it a few times only, but her touch was so recent and her scent was well alive in your nostrils, it felt logical for your body to demeanour in that manner, begging to be touched. You moaned lightly when your fingers pressed against your swollen clit, causing your body to shudder under your own touch. You reminded her sweet talk so close to you, how soft her lips were kissing your cheek and your mind screamed, pleading for those lips to kiss your lips, your chest, your cunt…

As you moved your hand south, your fingers circled around your clit in a slow, tortuous motion and caused your body to arch your back, mumbling words of ‘please, Rhaenyra’ , begging to release for her. Alternating between circles and light taps on your sweet spot, you drove yourself to madness, humping your crotch in the air. Traces of sweat fell down your face as heat grew inside your body. Your breathing was quick to become erratic, just as the pace of your hand became more urgent on your sweet spot. Soon enough, your moans were a bit louder and the pleading became more insistent, desperate. When you least expect it, your body convulsed violently, and orgasm hits you, making your legs quiver, spread wider, hips bouncing against nothing and lungs breathing heavily, your entrance clenched around nothing. You never came this strongly before, and all thanks to your Queen. Trying to gain consciousness, you stared at the ceiling, reflecting about what you just did. Not even a single trace of guilt had reached your body and you considered doing it again if your eyes were insistent to be closed and put your body to sleep.

———

a/n: missed writing and hell yeah i got inspired by THAT scene. please consider leaving likes, comments and reblogs. it’s very important for the writer! <3

Taglist: @princessanglophile @hiroikegawa @hiraethrhapsody @pet1t3

[jacesvelaryons]

(Modern! Jace Velaryon x Female!Reader) Social Media AU

summary: Modern Jacaerys Velaryon is an heir to the Targaryen Corp, and also has a decent following on social media. You and him have the best time together, making the most out of life being young, beautiful and successful. Spot the cameos of our other HOTD characters in a lot less stressful circumstance where everyone gets along in modern day. 😅

a/n: please keep sending in your requests! i love hearing and writing for you guys. i’ll get them back to you as soon as possible alongside a ton of original work i plan to share. will post a previews of my upcoming work with their posters and all.

masterlist

requests OPEN

yourusername

liked by rhaenyratargaryen, laenorvel and others

date night with the love of my life

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user725 she’s making the targ heir work for her i love it

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taken by the beautiful @/ yourusername

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liked by addamhull, yourgirlnettles and others

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↩️ person1124 she don’t need no gold she comes from a comfortable family herself lol

↩️ user98 you’d go for the gold too imagine the life and besides he’s cute smart respectful and a gentleman i’d date him even if he was broke

↩️fan120 real

itsyourgirlnettles missed you luv! come over at driftmark more often

↩️ yourusername i don’t see you enough! promise we’ll hang one on one time more

↩️itsyourgirlnettles good luck to me to get your man off your arm even just for a few hours with ya lol

jacaerysvelaryon posted a story

creganstark

night out with the best bro

liked by kermitully, oneyedaemond and others

yourusername get home safely boys!

↩️usernamehere why didn’t you go girlie?

↩️ yourusername i’m always invited but im a grannie im in bed by 10 pm with a book winding down for the night 😅i come sometimes

↩️creganstark yeahhh you should come next time! had to deal with him fawning over you again 😐 don’t want your ego to get any bigger

↩️ yourusername hey! i’ll come next time i promise and my ego ain’t changing stark

jacaerysvelaryon missed you there my muse at my new set

↩️ yourusername i’ll be there next time i promise 😅 you know this isn’t my crowd but I’ll go for you

↩️ jacaerysvelaryon you missed my dedicated song to you last night i’ll have to play it again next time 😔

aegondeux yoo invite me over next time missed out the fun again

↩️helaenasbugs too busy at the bar that’s why 😒 why did you get out of rehab idiot

[quiddling]

gay son OR thot daughter? i thought you said gay son AND thot daughter 😟