#jace writes
Text
Leap Year
Pairing: Jake Lockley x gn!reader (mentions of Steven Grant x gn!reader and Marc Spector x gn!reader)
Word Count: 1.3k
Summary: Jake has never celebrated his birthday. He didn’t even have a birthday, until you urged him to pick a date. Of course, he picks the most chaotic date possible.
Content: Fluff, one use of a pet name (honey)
A/N: I was thinking about the fact that it’s a leap year, and this idea sort of just came to me. I don’t have much else to say about it. Enjoy! :)
Masterlist
“When’s your birthday?” you ask out of the blue one day over dinner.
Jake pauses, forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth. Carefully, he places the fork back on his plate and says, “Don’t have one.”
“What do you mean?” you ask.
Jake shrugs. “I know Marc’s is March ninth. I didn’t exactly check the calendar on the day I first showed up.”
“What about Steven?” Your food is now totally forgotten.
“Same as me, I guess,” Jake says. He looks into the reflection of his glass, likely listening to one of his alters.
You sit there for a few moments, deep in thought. Finally, you look up at Jake. “Well, then you’ll have to pick one.”
“What?”
“You and Steven should pick your own birthdays.”
Oh, boy. Jake knows that look in your eyes, knows from the way they’re sparkling that there’s no way you’re letting this go.
“Look, I dunno—” he tries.
“Come on, it’ll be fun!” you encourage him.
Jake knows there’s no getting out of this. “Fine,” he relents, pretending to be more annoyed than he actually is. Really, he thinks your enthusiasm is adorable, and he’d do just about anything to make you happy.
You cheer. “Great! Do you want me to help you pick a date? I should have some astrology books around here somewhere—”
“Astrology?” Jake scoffs. “I don’t need astrology. I already know what date I want.”
“Oh? Which one?” You lean forward in anticipation.
“February twenty-ninth.” Jake sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
“February twenty-ninth?” you repeat. “Why?”
Jake shrugs. “Why not?”
“I don’t know, I—” You sigh. “I guess there’s nothing wrong with that. I’ll put it in my calendar,” you say with a smile. “Now, we just need to find a birthday for Steven.”
“He’s already blabbing on about it.” He rolls his eyes fondly. “I think he’ll take you up on the astrology book offer.”
“Perfect!” you say. He can see the moment you get that faraway look in your eye, no doubt already analyzing which sign would match Steven best.
Seasons change, time marches on, and Jake completely forgets about the birthday conversation. Sure, Steven had made a big fuss over choosing his own date for a while, but, once that was settled, there was no need to think about the matter anymore.
So, it comes as a shock when, on a random winter day, Steven has called out of work and insisted that Jake take the body. Jake tries to argue, to get Marc on his side, but it’s no use. His alters slip deeper into the headspace, leaving Jake alone for the time being.
He notices you’re already out of bed, and it’s at that moment he hears movement coming from the kitchen. He throws on a t-shirt and sweatpants and gets up to investigate. Sure enough, there you are, singing to yourself as you stand at the stove.
Jake has spent a lifetime creeping in the shadows, so he’s gotten very good at sneaking up on people. Silently, he moves across the kitchen and wraps his arms around you from behind. You startle before laughing and leaning into the touch.
“Good morning, Jake,” you say brightly.
“Morning, honey,” he mumbles, burying his face in your neck. “What’re you doing?”
“Making pancakes.”
Jake perks up at that. “What’s the occasion?”
You laugh. “Don’t you know what today is?”
Jake thinks about it. “March first?” he tries.
“It’s a leap year, silly,” you correct him, “so it’s February twenty-ninth. Happy birthday!”
Oh, right, that.
“You didn’t have to do anything special,” Jake protests.
“Are you kidding? This is the first-ever birthday you’re celebrating. We’ve gotta make it special.”
Jake feels something warm blooming in his chest, a feeling that is occurring more and more often when he spends time with you.
You plate the now-finished pancakes—banana, his favorite—and lead him over to the kitchen table, which has already been set. You dish out the pancakes and pour two glasses of juice before joining Jake at the table.
“Is this why Steven and Marc were being weird this morning?” Jake asks as he cuts into his pancakes.
You chew thoughtfully. “Probably. I swore them to secrecy.”
Jake grunts. “Really, you didn’t have to do all this.”
“Oh, Jake,” you say with a grin, “we’re just getting started.”
Jake hates drawing attention to himself. It’s the antithesis of his being; at least, it used to be, when he was still keeping himself hidden from his alters and working for Khonshu. Now, even though he can be more present, it still makes him uncomfortable to be in the spotlight. So, being the center of attention, the “birthday boy,” isn’t really his style.
Of course, you know all this, and you plan the day around it. There will be no impromptu singing of “Happy Birthday” by waiters and random patrons in a restaurant—not on your watch. Instead, you spend a nice, quiet day together, walking around the city like a couple of tourists. It’s a mild day, not nearly as cold as it could be, so you even get to spend some time in the park, one of Jake’s favorite spots to relax.
It’s rare for Jake to get to spend a whole day with you like this. Sure, he and his alters have figured out a pretty fair schedule, but between work and life, it doesn’t always work out. Some days, he only catches glimpses of you in the morning, and come evening you’re so tired that he practically has to carry you to bed.
On the way back to your home, you make a quick stop at a little building with a pink awning. “Lily’s Bakery,” the sign reads in looping cursive. You pop in quickly and return moments later with a matching pink box.
“What’s that?” Jake asks.
“You’ll see,” you say with a glint in your eye.
After you’ve cooked and eaten Jake’s favorite dinner, you bring out the pink box again. You tell Jake to close his eyes, and, with a little eye roll, he complies. There’s some rustling, the sound of a box opening, and the click of a lighter before you say, “Okay, open!”
Jake uncovers his eyes, and he’s shocked by the gasp that leaves him. In front of him is a chocolate chip cookie cake that you’ve added candles to. Blue letters spell out, “Happy Birthday Jake,” and there’s even a little taxi cab drawn with frosting.
“I hope this is okay,” you say quickly. “I know you’re not the biggest fan of cake…”
“Are you kidding? This is perfect,” Jake assures you, blinking back the tears in his eyes.
When you sing “Happy Birthday” to him in the comfort of your home, Marc and Steven join in from the headspace.
“Okay, blow out the candles and make a wish!” you say.
Jake doesn’t need any wishes. He already has everything he could ever want right in front of him.
“What about next year?” Jake asks as the two of you lay in bed that night.
“What do you mean?” You roll onto your side to face him.
“My birthday next year. Do we skip it?’
“Of course not,” you say. “We’ll just celebrate the day before or after.”
Jake hums.
“Is that okay?” you ask.
If you had asked Jake that a year ago, the answer would have been a flat-out “no.” He hated drawing attention to himself, hated being fussed over. He felt like he didn’t deserve it.
What a difference a year makes, though. Instead, he smiles at you and says, “That sounds nice.”
“Happy birthday, Jake,” you whisper, leaning over to kiss him softly before returning your head to the pillow. “I love you.”
By the time he murmurs back, “I love you, too,” you’re already asleep.
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you think! Also, I have some ideas for follow-ups with Steven picking his birthday, plus celebrating Marc’s birthday, so let me know if that’s something you’d be interested in! :)
#moon knight#mcu#jake lockley#marc spector#steven grant#marc spector x reader#steven grant x reader#x reader#jace writes#jake lockley x reader#just realized i managed to spell lockley wrong in the tags whoops
351 notes
·
View notes
Text
roses on your shirt
all of the texts lando shouldn’t have sent to his ex.
find it on ao3.
#landoscar#jace writes#really don’t know how to feel about this#but i wrote it so i might as well post it#i need to post a proper fic soon man#f1#roys
64 notes
·
View notes
Text
Professor's Pet Master list
A/n: this AU would not be possible, nor would it exist without the patience, fortitude, support and encouragement of @rainbows-ampersand-sunshine thank you for letting me bounce all sorts of crazy ideas off of you constantly, and thank you for the always-present inspiration. Means the world to me.
Summary:
Dr. Elizabeth Ivanoff, a high-ranking history professor at a prestigious New York college, is on the hunt for something. But she never expected what fell into her lap, courtesy of her boss Natasha Romanoff's little sister Yelena. Will Kate submit to Professor Ivanoff's plans for her once she has her in her sights? Will Professor Ivanoff be able to keep her pet safe from the eyes of her boss, or her boss's new pet, Wanda? What kind of trouble could three ex-Russian assassins possibly cause?
Announcements:
4/22/22
4/16/22
3/30/22
Asks:
4/21/22
4/16/22 and 4/16/22
5/3/22
Drabbles:
a/n: my intention is that the drabbles will come from multiple points of view, so these will be highlighted at the top of each one, and may even feature guest author contributions, so if anyone is interested in writing a drabble from the POV of Wanda, Kate, or Yelena for this AU, let me know, and I'm 100% open to ideas, suggestions, etc.
D1
Chapters:
C1
C2
C3
C4
C5
C6
C7
C8
C9
C10
C11
C12
C13
C14
C15
C16
C17
C18
C19
Chronological Order (in progress)
D1
C1
#professors pet#marvel#female reader#marvel mcu#natasha romanoff#black widow#wanda maximoff#avengers#yelena belova#kate bishop#work in progress#dark fic#dark!fanfiction#dark avengers#jace writes
112 notes
·
View notes
Text
A Sea of Red
= Archon Quest Chapter 3 Act V spoilers !!!! =
He supposed it was fitting that the first dream he’s had in an extremely long time would be something so hellish.
~~~~
Wordcount: 1.1k
Very centered around dreams/nightmares, and there’s a brief reference to drowning.
This is just a little something I posted to my AO3 a few weeks back while I was brainrotting over the Archon Quest because Dottore has had me by the throat for a hot minute and refuses to let go. You could call it something of a character study ig? This is pretty headcanon heavy, I might make a post after this rambling off some of my thoughts. Until then though, enjoy!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He opens his eyes to complete and utter darkness; So much so that he wondered if he’d even opened his eyes at all. He could hear the faint whirring of machinery, and as he stepped forward, he heard what sounded like the splashing of liquid beneath his feet. A few more steps, and he heard something crack beneath his heel. He glances down, and finally sees something. A faint blue glow, one of the earrings he and all of the others wore. The liquid within leaks out, vanishing into a sea of red.
So much red.
Dottore had never been bothered by such things. His hands were outright stained with it. And yet, somewhere in his chest, he felt a pang of discomfort. And just as he felt that sensation, he began to hear whispers from somewhere behind him. Words he’d heard a million different times before, that had long since become white noise to him.
They had called him mad. A monster, a heretic.
The scars hidden away behind his mask begin to sting. With a small ‘tsk’, he shakes it off and continues to walk forward, eventually met with a sudden bright, blue light. What looked like gigantic test tubes, a commonplace sight in his lab. But outside of them, he was still met with almost nothing but red, until something else flickers into his vision.
Faceless figures. Some masked, some not. No eyes, no mouths. But they were all, undoubtedly, him. The other Segments that he had tossed aside. And despite his lack of regret in doing so, he could still hear them calling him out on it, somewhere in the back of his mind. A shame, really, that even now he couldn’t get them to shut up. Here he’d thought it had been nice, to not have to listen to their endless bickering with each other… He really hadn’t been kidding, when he’d told that little god that it was difficult for humans to make peace with themselves. He knew very well that he was no exception.
He blinks, and the figures vanish once again.
All but one. A mere child, standing maybe ten feet away from him. He looked furious, tears in the corners of his little eyes threatening to spill over. Dottore stood firm, ignoring the unpleasant feeling swelling up in his chest. Even this little boy had been erased that day, by his own hand. And even back at such a young age, he recalled being met with bewilderment, concern, apprehension. Humans truly were foolish, willing to call a mere child a monster just because they could not understand him.
The little boy mouths something out. Dottore couldn’t make it out through the ringing in his ears… Wait, when had that gotten there?
And then, his heart seems to stop, as he feels a hand grip his sleeve. Another grabs the back of his coat. A pair of smaller hands grabs his opposite wrist. Tugging, pulling him back toward the dark he’d walked through. He opens his mouth to shout, unhand me immediately, what do you think you’re doing?
But nothing came out, and if it did, he couldn’t hear it over the pounding of his heart in his ears. He pulls back against the hands grasping at him, daring to look over his shoulder to see several faces like his own. One stood out, his eyes visible through the holes of his mask. They were widened, and a maddened grin was etched across the visible half of his mouth.
Of course. That one especially had never gotten along with him.
Ripping one of his hands away, he reaches out to try and grab the little boy’s collar, but all he grabs is the air. And finally, he hears a voice. Undoubtedly that of little Zandik.
“So, do you regret your choice?”
“I have no regrets.” He speaks firmly, not noticing the slight tremor of his voice. “To accomplish the Tsaritsa’s will, no length is too far. You know this as well as any of us, brat.”
Dottore suddenly stumbles forward, the hands having vanished. He lets out a slow breath, ripping his mask away and looking the little boy dead in the eyes. Anger burned through him. Slowly, little Zandik walks through the sea of blood. Stepping over shattered glass and syringes, broken scalpels and other assorted viscera. Reminders of his past actions. Standing right in front of Dottore, he looks up, with that same angered expression. Tears slip down his cheeks.
“Then why do you seem so frightened, Omega?”
“Hah! You’re delusional. Why would I ever be—”
The little boy pushes him as though he were light as a feather; Instead of landing on his back, he falls right through, sinking beneath the waves of red. He quickly shuts his mouth and takes in a breath before his head slips beneath. He manages to keep himself stable, trying to move back up toward the surface before another hand grabs the back of his clothes, dragging him down. The little boy’s voice reaches his ears even from there.
“We’ll see about that.”
And he breaks. He can hold his breath no longer, and everything goes dark.
-----
He awakens with a loud gasp, shooting upright. He takes in a slow, deep breath, gripping at the fabric covering his chest. His immediate instinct was to stabilize himself, try to shut out the panic trying to set in. How long he sat there, he wasn’t sure, but eventually he took a look at his surroundings to ground himself further. He glances to one side, sees the two chairs and small coffee table with various papers scattered across it. He looks the other way, seeing the moonlight shining through the window, and the barren winter landscape beyond.
He was… Home. Yes. Snezhnaya. The palace. As his heart rate and breathing stabilize, and he returns to his normal calm, unbothered state, he lets out a sigh and runs a hand through his hair.
He supposed it was fitting that the first dream he’s had in an extremely long time would be something so hellish. Or, perhaps nightmare was a more accurate word. But even with this, he refused to say he regretted it. Regret wasn’t even a word in his vocabulary, much less something he felt. No, this was merely his unconscious mind playing tricks on him.
Everything he was doing was to further the Tsaritsa's goals. His goals. Nothing more, nothing less. He stares straight ahead, and thinks for a moment.
Well, now that he was awake, maybe he should try to get something done…
17 notes
·
View notes
Note
Brain rot of Jace practicing high valyrian on ur clit🫶🫶🫶🫶that’s it ily!!!!
꒰ 𝐃𝐎𝐍𝐀 𝐒𝐋𝐘𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐍 | 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄. ꒱
˗ˏˋ ꒰ summary : request above. ♡ (I hope you enjoy this, nonnie, ilyt!!)
˗ˏˋ ꒰ word count : 469.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ genre : smut, drabble.
˗ˏˋ ꒰ pairing : Jacaerys Velaryon x (fem!)Reader
WARNING.ᐟ THIS FIC CONTAINS ; slight profanity, slight praising, cunnilingus/oral sex (f receiving).
→ click here if you want to request a drabble for my followers milestone celebration! drabbles open from February 14th, to March 1st.
“Ao sylutegon sīr sȳz,” (you taste so sweet.)
A reddish hue began forming on your thighs, along the marks of Jace’s fingers gripping them firmly, spreading your legs wide as his face was buried betweem your legs - his mouth overabusing your sensitive clit, as his fingers teasingly moved in and out of your entrance.
It had been a good idea, to tell Jace just how much you adored hearing him talk in High Valyrian. Perhaps he wasn’t yet properly good at it, but you were still delighted in having him practice with you. And what better idea he had, than to practice High Valyrian and eat you out all at once? Not only it was something that pleasured him, but overall it was a different type of experience that he knew you’d enjoy; and the eldest Velaryon was right.
“Fuck,” with soft pleas that escaped continously from your partly open lips, your hand found it’s way to his brunette hair, interwining your fingers on several strands and unconsciously burying his head deeper into your moist, stimulated pussy; moving your hips forwards to give him better access. “Iksā iā olvie sȳz riña, issi ao daor?” (you are such a good girl, aren’t you?) a proud grin grew at the corner of his plump lips, feeling his panting breath hit against your nub, increasing the speed of his fingers fucking you.
Wetness oozed from your cunt, coating his fingers, as his mouth occasionally drank from your own cum. “Kesan qogralbar ao tolvie tubis hae bisa, issa jorrāelagon.” (I will fuck you everyday just like this, my love). Your fingers gripped desperately from his hair, as his tongue flicked ravenously on your slick-coated folds, until his mouth found his way to nibble on your clit once again. A loud groan escaped deep from your throat, throwing your head back as a knot formed on your stomach, anticipating your release.
Briefly, his coffee eyes moved to stare at your expressions, taking pride in himself for how ruined he managed to get you - having you panting and begging for more. “Keep... Keep going,” you weakly encouraged, barely being able to form a coherent sentence, at the feeling of him stopping for a few seconds. He scoffed, widely grinning, as he lowered his face one again, placing gentle pecks all over your folds and slowly moving his fingers inside of you. “Ao hae ziry skori gaoman ziry hae bisa, gaomagon ao daor?” (you like it when I do it like this, don’t you?) he muttered, using his tongue to lap at your own fluids, that violently flowed out of you.
“Kostan hae sȳrī gaomagon bisa tolī jēdi lēda ao,” (I might as well do this more often with you), the eldest Velaryon whispered against your edging cunt, “Eminna jeme bantis mirre syt nyke, issa dōna.”
♡ taglist : ♡
@damatheirin @jacesvelaryons @capellaadara @kyuupidwrites @tchatso @mstxdes @valeriecash @cookielovesbook-akie @zzz000eee @bellarkeselection @feliuuuksks @visenya-reigned @maria699669 @mariaelizabeth21-blog1 @sweethoneyblossom1 @jamiemydeer @snowprincesa1
#jacaerys velaryon smut#jacaerys velaryon x reader#jacaerys velaryon x reader smut#jace velaryon x reader#hotd x reader#house of the dragon x reader#house of the dragon x reader smut#hotd x reader smut#house of the dragon smut#hotd smut#jace velaryon smut#drabbles are open#amira’s 2300 followers celebration#I got inspired to write more while doing this huhuhu
648 notes
·
View notes
Text
❝Will you forsake me, my love? And the babe I carry?❞
[ You had made a mistake. A slip up. You had overlooked the extent of Otto Hightower and his greed. Now you must make it right... or pay in fire and blood. ]
[ +18 MDNI ] [ 5,504 ] [ series masterlist ]
| jacaerys velaryon x targaryen aunt-wife!reader (aegon's twin sister),
contains— canon divergence - manipulative reader— gets darkish but not yet dd:dne - targcest, angsty as fuck, pregnancy - nsfw: p & v sex, oral (male receiving) - no kings, no martyrs, no betas.
a/n— i... actually dunno how i got here tbh. thankfully, this isn't dead dove quite yet, but you, yes you, as jace's manipulative targ wife, almost did, girl, jfc. ahahaha! comments, reblogs & like at will, mwa! 💝
+ now that there is a second part, and a third part i'm plotting (uh huh), this is officially a series!! its v loosey goosey, but it'll have a masterlist so... it means it has a taglist! message me to be tagged 💝 & if there are any drabbles/blurbs you wanna see!! message me lmk!! i have so many thoughts about jacey & manipulative reader hehe
+ dividers by @danowh0re
The only warning you receive is the missive hastily made by your twin.
In his panic, Aegon's scrawl had been barely legible, but the cold sweat that shot through your spine at making sense of the text had you keening over; fingers over your mouth, a dangerous gurgle in your stomach.
The world tilts, the air sucks inward.
Fear... Cold, weightless fear, settles in your heart.
"Princess!" Your maid, Dyana, shrieks, hands grasping your elbows to prevent you from falling. She turns to the door. "Call the maestre back! Now!"
You shake your head rapidly. "No, no. No Ser Addam. I am alright."
"But princess—"
"No, Dyana, I am alright." But you are pale, and a thrum shakes through fingers, rattling your ribcage and trying to yank your heart out of your throat. You have to find your footing or all will be lost. You grab Dyanna's arms and she winces. "Tell me- the prince - where is he?"
"I'm not sure, princess, I can—"
"Quickly! We shan't lose precious more time."
You turn to Meera. You had invested in her from the early age you had taken her in from the orphanage. Loyalty, in its absolution, must be rewarded.
And ease for your own plans can be disguised as a reward.
She steps forward obediently, hands clasped behind her back like a soldier awaiting orders. She is nondescript with plain features, easily able to hide between other common folk; and no one, truly, looks at a maid.
"Go to the Sea Dragon Tower, wait on the Rookery for Johan. Only Johan, do you understand me? Keep the missive that I will dictate to you close to his heart, hidden, and he must depart immediately. Throw extra gold at the captain, I do not care. Meera, no other eyes must touch the paper I will send, tell him of the utter import such a thing. No other than another Spider. We cannot unravel further than this or we will start burning."
Meera's gaze darkens, her posture straightening. "Yes, your grace."
You grasp her hands, your mind whirring— so many plots, so many lies, in between them, he flashes in your mind; the dark hair, the warmth of his hand, the sweet, simpered smile and the flicker of rage that dances like a flame. In and out and calmed and wild.
Dutiful. A Perfect Son. A Beloved Prince. Your Lord Husband.
He flashes in between plans and unraveled lies. Along it, Aegon's missive, quickly written, panic seeping in every vowel.
Grandsire had gotten to Aemond's head. Went to Storm's End. Met Lucerys. They are calling him Kinslayer.
Your head is pounding. Kinslayer, Kinslayer, Kinslayer. It churns your stomach, dries your throat. Lucerys dead. Aemond beheaded. Jacaerys' rage. Rhaenyra's. Dark Sister in the Rogue Prince's hand. All your clever threads, your webs and tales, everything you have sacrificed to get here— they are unraveling, the lives you care about, your fondness and love — the fear has moulded and churned; the Stranger now haunting the skies, searching for names, trying to grasp for your neck.
Aemond, You, Aegon, Helaena, Alicent, Jaeheara, Jaehearys, Maelor—
Aemond, Aemond, Aemond.
Your baby brother. Marred and disfigured, dutiful and dedicated. Sarcastic and princely; dancing with you if you ask. Reading with him in the library. A flickering hearth, a kind eye, a protective arm.
Your baby brother, beheaded, gaping mouth and bloodred eye.
Justice spun and spun, but oh so corrupted when they had taken his eye and no name step forth to claim.
Disfigured, marred, and dead.
Focus, you think, your mouth moving, words spilling, plans stretching. Focus.
Otto Hightower must die. It is a pressing thought, digging into the centrefold of your mushy, wet brain. Pressing and pressing like a fever as words of instructions, orders, must be sent along one spider to another.
Your hand drifts to your stomach as Meera leaves, in her head the words that must reach King's Landing. That must pass only the cleverest of hands. Your hand curls, your fist tightens enough that blood clots and beads through crescent rings. Clever girl. Clever spider. You have to believe in Meera and the people under your hushed employ.
You have no choice. You have built your webs, you must trust your spiders.
Not when you can't even trust your own fucking blood.
It took a while to get your network going in Dragonstone. As soon as the smell of brimstone and dragon broached your nostrils, the plans for moving what you had started in Kings Landing became the forefront plan. There is only so much movement you can make in a board full of enemies; and with so many more things to do, you cannot be restrained.
People with stakes, with ambitions and wants of their own— be that money, a good future, a house with warmth and love — if you can provide it enough, dash it in enough kindness and care, people, like ants, could move mountains for you.
It took most of hyour life to have what you established in Kings Landing. Most of your free time— feiging afternoon teas, walks along the garden; young lady things that will not arouse suspicion, fit for a pious, devoted daughter of Alicent Hightower — was spent building and building webs.
Thankfully, as a Princess of the Realm— and as the future Heir's wife, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms (the title tingles and throbs, comes alive in gasps and winning hands) — you can have your pick of maids and lady in waitings here too. Connections are important, and Jacaerys did not bereaved you of choice.
In fact, he so encouraged you to make changes to Dragonstone as you so chose fit.
"You are my wife," he sighed, pressing kiss after kiss to the side of your head. When he was wrapped around you like this— arms around your torso, a finger, almost absentmindedly, rubbing just the underside of your breast, and the smell of him, boyish but smoky, like a fireplace and first kiss, swaying you to a rhythm he is fond of, absentminded almost — it reminded you of how Vermax oft like to wrap around small hills and large rocks. A dragon mimicking another dragon; a twin soul so connected.
He sighed again as you run your own fingers against the back of his palm, against the side of his head behind you. "You may do so as you wish," he finished, nuzzling further into you as if he wants no more than to become one with you, flesh and blood. An engorged monster of sorts.
"Just your wife?" you teased. The wedding had only been a few moons ago. The missive had been immediately sent to Kings Landing (under your orders, of course, your new husband none the wiser as he had preferred a few more days of just you), and before lunch, your hand on Jace's thigh, his eyes more than hungrily looking at your lips— Caraxes screech alongside Syrax' wing pattern shook the walls, demanding answers.
Jace had looked nervous for a second, not at all prepared to be facing his mother so soon, his Queen, and his stepfather... whose own daughter he was supposed to marry. Better prepared to face all of them in Kings Landing was his plan.
But you had grasped his hands, had mounted girlish excitement shining in your eyes (an expression so familiar to you to adopt that it so perfectly hides the sharp edges of your excitement; your smugness. It oft reminds you of Aemond)— and Jacaerys had melted.
"My Queen," he reimbursed. You turned as his hands cupped your face. Gentle, possessive in its own way. You sighed, eyes fluttering close with a small, satisfied smile on your lips. "My beautiful queen."
A Maiden in love is not a hard thing to emulate. And he does not make it hard to be.
On some days, you even think it will be easy to actually fall in love with him. You already do so feel his warmth for you permeate your own being. His attention is addicting for one; it is whole and preserving. He makes it known when he is looking at his lady mother, at Baela, his former betrothed (who had given you a meaningful eye when Rhaenyra and Daemon escorted you back to Kings Landing to face the rest of your consequences), and other ladies of the court versus when he is looking at you.
He does not hide his adoration. His so obvious desire.
When you reward him for his loyalty, for private little ticked boxes you keep for him— siding with you in arguments, defending you upon ugly whispers in the Keep, requesting from his mother, a more permanent residence of your own in Dragonstone, in the guise of newly wedded bliss to hide growing your connections far and wide (once Rhaenyra takes the throne, Jacaerys will be named Heir and Prince of Dragonstone; your spiders and people must reach each end of Westeros, and Dragonstone is the perfect central chatter) — you mount him and bask at the lust contorting his features, at his hands gripping your waist in a staccato rhythm of feeling and gasp, each harsh bounce of your hips sending you both to bliss. You feel him inside you so deeply, enjoy his eyes rolling back and exposing his neck for you to sink bruises on.
Most oft, he enjoys mounting you. And you like the alternative of his choice to be buried so deep you feel him in your throat; to hold you down and hold you close, telling you to keep your eyes open for him as you come undone again and again— time and practice can manage his newness to the act. His enthusiasm, both for the act and for you, definitely helps his case, and he is so fond of finding your pleasure, of leading you to the precipe, so addicted to your sounds and writhes.
"There? Is that it, little dragon?" he huffs against your mouth, so attentive as he held your wrist and watch as you gasp, your face twisting as he hits that point inside of you, that sweet, sweet spot of undeniable pleasure buried so deep within— that he laughs. Not meanly, but of pride as he pulls back and hits it again. More insistent. You mewl and scratch his back, your toes curling as you seek the pleasure he so enjoys insisting you into.
"I've found it again, didn't I?" Another snap of his hips, another cry of your lips. "I will fuck your sweetest spot until you- are- crying- my name in that sweet, sweet whine of yours, shall I?"
But it's not really a question privy to an answer, surely not by your own mouth but by your body, as he manhandles you easily and does not stop until you are a quivering, overstimulated mess against wet sheets.
Sometimes, when you can't help but reward him as soon as possible— so excited from his gallant display; the perfect King bowing to his wife — you drag him to shadowy corners and solemnly drop yourself on your knees, unlacing his breeches with deft precision. You place your hot mouth against his manhood, your eyes fluttering delicately, making him reach completion enough times that he is left with a dopey, simpleton of a smile afterward, a soft, chaste kiss against your your head, your nose, your lips. So tender to how he was fucking your mouth not but seconds ago.
"I love you," he whispers against hot skin and cool, salty air.
And it eases, every time he looks at you like that, holds like you that. His love is patient, sweet, kind, and devouring. It overflows and seeps into you that when you whisper back, just as soft, just as troublingly honest, "Avy jorrāelan, ñuha zaldrīzes, I love you, my dragon," the truth of them bleeds further and further into your heart.
Jacaerys.
A warm grief swells within you. Your hands twitch, flattening your grief beneath your chest, deep in your gut. Deep below. You fought hard to be here. You cannot lose him now.
Otto Hightower must die.
A cruel thought, a natural order. With your marriage to Jacaerys meant a relative peace, a truce. Moving to Dragonstone many moons was more than just to establish your position, your future. It was also for your darling sister to take better control of her position back in the centre of power, alongside her husband.
Aged well with a stronger alley who most would not dare defy— a vainglorious guard dog, really, one who isn't afraid to sic people with a mere nod from his master — more than evens out the playing field.
The Queen To Be is prospering. And in her prosper, meant your husband's position more than fulfilled. He was to be King, and with you as his Queen, his reign will want for not.
You should have known it would put Otto on defense, would panic and use your siblings and your poor, nervy mother, to move in unfeasible decisions.
Aegon had taken to calling him grandsire again. Aemond... Your spiders had told you that Lucerys was sent to Storm's End as no more than a casual reminder of Lord Borros' oath. Viserys was in no doubt in worse conditions than he had been the last time you or your husband had visited him. Rhaenyra was settling on her position, reminding the Great Houses which heir was meant to rise soon, so close to the changing of the guard.
And your little brother no doubt was moved in panic.
This was a slip up on your part. Once the King was dead, Otto Hightower would hold no cards; Rhaenyra would never take him as Lord Hand, and his daughter would no longer be a foreground of power. Rhaenyra has her heir. The winning hand is more than ensured on her part.
His only move would be an usurpation, and would ruin your chance at being Queen... it was a good move. Your twin was not made for duty whilst you craved it. He knows you better than you know yourself; you will not be played in his palm. You would be useless to him.
"I should have killed him," you murmur to yourself.
Yna, the last maid in your arsenal, steps forward. She is the youngest of your main three wards, and the newest. She is still learning her letters, but she is young and always eager to serve.
"My lady?"
"I am going to find the prince. Whatever happens, tell them Vermax must not leave with his rider. Make up any excuse you must. My husband must stay in Dragonstone until I say otherwise." You raise your chin, tone icy. "Anyone who dares to defy my orders will be beheaded."
"At once, princess."
Your steps are measured, your breath held between lie and tongue. So many pretty rings on your fingers, twisting and twisting at the idea of the confrontation plagues you.
But you raise your chin. You will not be defeated. All is not lost.
Dyanna had caught you at Aegon's Garden, windblow hair and wide, fearful eyes.
You had braced yourself. "The Prince?"
"The Stone Drum, my princess, he is..."
"Angry," you supplied. She nodded jerkily. "Tell me everything."
"The Prince was talking with Ser Robert, was about the missive sent from Kings Landing says Kevan, not soon after your own." Another spider, one that follows most of your husband's movements. Unassuming and quick on his feet. A good soldier. "Prince Lucerys is alive but badly maimed." The breath you had withheld between grit and fright unrolled, the world slamming back into the ground in a giant's fitful wake. "He still hasn't woken up, says Arrax took most of the damage— one wing torn but is awake. Dunno about recovery for dragons, 'specially against Vhagar. Mournin' the prince, Kevan says. Makin' loud, sad dragon noises."
"But he is alive?" you pressed. Aemond's life hung in its balance. Your sweet, vengeful baby brother who bore his tragedies between muted teeth and rage.
"Yes."
"And Aemond?"
"No word in the missive or between them." It made your throat tight, the convulsion restraining your neck once more.
"It's fine. As long as there no mention of his death. Then that's all I need."
"My lady, there's more. There might be a reason we haven't been getting much word from King's Landing. Or Oldtown. It seems to connect is all."
Your pulse jumped. "Tell me later. I have to see to the prince. No one is allowed in Stone Drum for the time being. Not unless absolutely necessary." You think and you think hard. "Ready to call in a maestre."
Dyanna had looked alarmed when you left her, but you only gave a pensive smile. A soldier's nod.
He is bent over the Painted Table, shoulders so hunched, reminding you of monsters and tall tales. A dragon, really. He may not have Velaryon blood, your husband, but you— nor others — could deny the thrum of fire in his blood. Roiling and boiling, so engulf in his rage, his voice is quiet at the approach of your footsteps.
"You have bound me to Dragonstone," he says calmly with all the quiet rage you can hear in your very soul. It makes you shiver, but you stand resolute.
He is still turned away, away from you, palms flat on the surface. The iron brazier is lit up, and so is the Painted Table itself.
"Can you honestly tell me you won't try and kill my brother if I let you, ñuha valzȳrys my husband?" you say softly. You plead. His refusal to turn to you spikes your madness in corners. The night reaches and you finger your rings as you try not to spill all over the floor; your own madness, your own fears, your quiet, quiet webs. "Aren't you at least satisfied at the thought of your stepfather excelling at planting Dark Sister to his neck? At least cheery at the idea of him suffering inside those dungeons?"
He spins then, rage—white hot and spilling — breathes as he bellows, "He has harmed my brother!"
You calmly met his gaze. "You do not know that for sure."
He laughs without mirth, arms wide and daring. Crazed anger outlandish and wild, while in response you tighten and become small.
But you do not cower. No truth cowers. And you are a princess. A dragon the same as he.
Lest all, he is a mere husband.
"What else could it be? Your brother has called us bastards our entire lives," he spits. "Neither of us are blind to his dark looks. Despite your family's attempted plots, his rage beholds him. His grudge is stronger. He attacked Lucerys, on fucking dragonback— Arrax, a dragon Luke has barely flown against your brother's war dragon — and that makes him a kinslayer."
Your blood leaps, and you cannot control your own fear, your own anger. "Do not throw that word around so carelessly, Jacaerys! My brother has killed no kin!"
"He has tried, " he hisses and it makes your eyes burn because he has never looked at you so before. At his thunderous footsteps to reach you, to aggravate you, you fight the urge to flinch. His anger spills and spoils you. You try not to curdle. You keep yourself braced. Kinslayer is so ugly said aloud. "That is enough of a brand to call him kinslayer."
Your jaw tightens, tears unleashed from your eyes and there's a glimmer there— a spark, of your Jace. Your husband. It is small and short, a comet so faint it is almost nothing, but it is there.
He does not like to see you cry, your Jace. Not if it isn't from pleasure.
You raise your chin. "My brother is no kinslayer. Lucerys is alive. Do not make Aemond what he is not."
He laughs humourlessly against your face, his hand reaching for your jaw, thumb over your chin, but the mock gentleness wounds you worse. "And who has alerted you of the news? Your twin usurper?"
"W-what?" Blood rushes to your head. Something is missing. He knows. He knows about grandsire's plans. Dyanna would have said. Dyanna didn't know. "Aegon is not an usurper," you whisper, faint but firm.
His thumb rubs against your bottom lip, his eyes tracing your face. "Is this the plan all along, then?" he says softly. "While your brother and grandsire plot to usurp the throne from my mother, and your younger brothers raise bannermen from Oldtown to Storm's End, and try to kill my own when they get the chance, I suppose your job is to warm my bed and to ensure I'm out of the fray before you kill me in my—"
His words stutter for you have slapped him. It is not the hardest move on your part, and he stops not from pain but from shock. Tears freely flow down your face now as you push him off you.
"I know nothing of these plots you speak of." That in much is true. These plots are half-assed. Made in panic and fear, and it makes you curse Otto Hightower to the depths of further Hell. "And you may bully me as you wish, husband, but I will not take it as if it does not hurt me. As if- as if I would take pleasure from your death."
He raises his chin, so defiant in his own anger that he clenches his jaw. "Are you telling me you took no part in your grandsire's plans?"
"We have been married for many moons now. I think, out of anyone on this island, amongst our family even, you would know me best. I have only ever truly bloomed in your presence," you say softly. Lies and truths are balanced so precariously; they spin and spin in a tantalising grip that even you don't know where fabrication meets honesty.
If your own lies befuddle you, why not your truths to him?
"If you are doubting me, then you are doubting our marriage, is it not?" You give a mirthless laugh of your own, chin wobbling as you brush your tears away. His eyes track your movements and his brows are furrowed. "Is it ease, that has turned you so from me? Has your doubt been seeded long before you took us to Dragonstone? To affirm your mother that you have wedded me? Yes, Aegon sent me a missive a mere hour ago. He says Aemond had been urged by our grandsire, no doubt played with as he had done so to our mother, as he tries with Aegon. With me."
Jacaerys' eyes darken. Bottomless pits of dark, dark eyes. You've grown to love them you realised.
"I will give you all the violet-eyed heirs you desire," you had purred once in your new marriage bed, having just christened (one to a few times) your new marital chambers in Dragonstone. "But I do so wish I get a babe with your eyes."
"They are hardly exemplary," Jace had said, snorting. His hand rested on your back while you rest on top of him. The air is acrid in sweat and sex, but neither of you mind. "They are not a show of Valyrian blood."
"Who cares?" You reached to dance your finger against his lashes. "A daughter with your eyes... I fear, I would spoil her rotten. She would be an absolute beauty."
"Are you calling me a beauty?" he teased, trying to hide his rosy cheeks.
"Your eyes, yes," you teased back.
"If I was such a pawn to him," you say now. "If I was using you as you so callously accused me of, why would I bother with a marriage with you? You are right, they have accused you of not being a trueborn Velaryon—" He flinches. "—So why would Otto decide marrying you was a good idea at all? Any babes I carry would be questioned, and it would serve no benefit at all if the main plot was Aegon usurping the throne. To keep you entertained? Hardly. It would serve him better, as was his earlier plan, if I had married Aegon myself."
He loses his stance, a grit in his teeth gives you way to a slow curl of possession. A renewed sense of anger. His fists clenched at his sides.
You found a thread. You don't just unspool, you decide, you will yank, and you will yank hard.
"Aegon is a firstborn male heir, even as twins. It made sense to anyone who understood Targaryen customs that marrying us would be the natural order. It did not matter any past transgressions he may have had, I keep him better. I am his tether to this world. It was obvious to anybody with eyes that if we were to marry, we would breed good Valyrian stock, our children—"
But he has lurched forward, grasping your face, seething, angry at an idea, at a diverted road.
"He wanted us to marry," you continue, a snake's hiss that it is. "But your mother sent a missive asking for Helaena's hand, and I had already told her I wanted someone else. I wanted you." You grasp his leather, pulling him to you in equal ferocity. Madness meeting a mirror. "From the very start, grandsire could not control me for my blood sung for you. I had done my very best to free my siblings from him, resigned myself to be their forever protector inside that Keep with no real power of my own, but when the Gods gave me the chance to have you, I had been selfish. I abandoned them for you. Because I wanted to be yours for a night, I was willing to have that, if it is the only moment you will grant me."
You are crying again, and lies are spinning with their truths, golden and bloodstained, but you are cracking him.
"But it was you, Jacaerys Velaryon, who had asked for my hand. You wanted to marry, whisk us away to Dragonstone, and I love you too much to blind myself to the idea of becoming your wife would not be a totally selfish act, for what act of ours would be considered selfish if it was borne out of love?" you sob hard, grasping and reaching against him, trying to shake and ruin him. "I thought you loved me, and yet here you are, accusing me of plotting? What? Usurping your mother? Killing you in your godsdamned sleep?"
"Wife, I—"
"No. I am sorry for what happened to Lucerys. But if it is vengeance that is truly what you seek, and in the morrow my brother," my choke out. "My brother would be announced d-dead, I would rather you kill me now for it seems I have not only failed them from my grandsire's clutches, I have also failed at being your wife."
Your hands reach in and pull his dagger out, and he is instinctive, a true swordsman, holding onto the dagger before your own. But you do not give up. You yank him forward so suddenly, the dagger now positioned over your heart.
You keep him there, defiant as you are. As no true dragon is afraid of metal. Metal melt in the face of dragonfire.
The tip of his dagger deepens against your skin as war rages in his own mind. Truths and lies spinning and spinning in his head, but your thread— your thread is Hightower green clung in blood and gold — and it's the brightest, twisting beneath his lids and rage. Rage and grief, the tethering madness is spilling, trying to break into the dragon's clutches—
But your Jace is strong. He holds it at bay with a fury.
It is love, it is love, it is love.
But you are not sure. And you have to be.
You have been betrayed already, your Jace cannot betray you. If you are to have a future with him as King, there must be no doubts.
You step forward, letting the blade sink against your skin. It draws blood. A few beads bloom and slide. Thick red in a string or two. It makes his jaw tighten, and you feel, almost impercibly, the strain in his hand give.
That flash of panic, panic bathed in love, in adoration, is all you need.
You grasp his hands in yours, blade nestled between two grips now, and he gasps, thinking you were going to push him away finally, but no. You hold on tight to his hands, nails digging into his skin, keeping the blade where it is before you push forward once more. The tip sinks into your flesh, blood gushes as pain explodes.
"What are you doing!? Let go!" he roars, but you stare at his eyes, brown, so pretty, framed in featherlight lashes, did he even know there are violet flecks in his eyes?
You will not harm me, you think. You realise. For you have given yourself to me body and soul. Even the Gods know.
"Will you forsake me, husband?" your voice is no higher than a whisper, than a wind's hum. It is hollow and cracking. A siren song. In the silence, it is a whip cracking against petty flesh. Against a beating heart thrumming for you. "And the babe I carry?"
Before the words register in his brain, you yank his hands again with every strength you can muster, the dagger, to hover over your stomach. Your Jace roars, pulling with his entire strength as complete fear in floods his beautiful, brown eyes. The strength propels your force of gravity, and you fall with a hard thud. The dagger is flung in the second as he reaches for you, cold-curdled terror ruining his face as he tries to make sense of where to touch you.
The fall is hard enough that you wince. And your instincts, new as it is, is to curl your hands protectively over your stomach.
"M-my heart? Does it hurt? I-I am so sorry, I-A MAESTRE, CALL A MAESTRE FOR THE PRINCESS NOW!"
Your child is strong, you have always known that in your heart.
The second you held suspicion, pressing against the tender flesh of your breast to the nausea that kicked in out of nowhere, before Maestre Gerardys had confirmed: you are with child. Your firstborn. The heir of heirs. You could not wait to meet him.
"I hope it is a boy," you murmur weakly into the darkened space of your chambers. You don't turn as Jacaerys' head snaps, his hands over your own, sat on a chair by your bedside. Relief, guilt, fear breaks and crashes in waves against him, trying to nudge you, but you don't look. You stare from your position on the bed; forward and into nothingness.
"My love," he breathes, hands against your own warm and tight. "I am so, so sorry. I shall call for a maestre—"
"No need." Your other hand moves to your stomach. An emotion glimmers in his gaze at the movement. "My babe is strong. Blood of the dragon that he is. I know him already in my blood. Call for my maid instead. Any of them. Tell them to move my things to a different room, perhaps the one above Aegon's Garden. By morn, I will fly to Kings Landing to be with my family."
Panic fills and breaks. His hold tightens. "I-If that is what you wish, we can go as soon as Maestre Gerardys says it is alright for you and the—"
You turn to him, finally, your eyes dead of emotion. "I will go for I do not think you would like your would-be murderer to sleep beside you, haunting you with a dagger. This way, I can take advice from my mother about births and the like, and you can sleep comfortably. Do not worry, I will not poison you to your child's mind. You may visit him as you would like. You might even take comfort in knowing your mother would look for him as if he were hers. She is so very motherly, I'm sure she would enjoy a grand..."
Your words drift off as he had fallen to his knees, tears soaking your hand as he presses it to his face. You feel like the Mother, looking down on a penitent. Or the Father. Or the Stranger. You feel complete, as his apologies fall in graceless, shaky exhales and sobs. The axe is in your hand. His neck is exposed.
"—I will do anything, a-anything for your f-forgiveness. Y-You can move rooms if it comforts you, I will not s-shadow your doorway, but please. Please. Do not leave me. Anything. I will do anything."
You, and you alone, is the owner of his absolution.
You smile, despite yourself.
Maybe you should reward your grandsire after all.
TAGGED (bold means I couldn't tag you: @inkareds @marihoneywk @caterina-caterina @ahristata
#jacaerys velaryon fanfiction#jacaerys angst#hotd angst#jacaerys velaryon x reader#jace velaryon x you#jacaerys velaryon x you#jacaerys velaryon angst#jacaerys smut#hotd smut#manipulative reader#elle writes !! ꒱ ↷˗ˏˋ🍒
1K notes
·
View notes
Text
I'm a big fan of Cregan looking like Harwin theories because
1. Hello Jace's daddy issues making him fall for a dude looking like his papa hehehe. Jace looking for his dead father in every man he meets finding only disappointment after disappointment.. and then to find Cregan, to find this wolf born from the same First Men blood as Harwin looking like he could be his twin? Something about Cregan seeing his little brother in Jace and Jace seeing his father in Cregan makes me go feral.
2. It makes Cregan executing Larys so much more poetic. Last thing Larys seeing being a face resembling his older brother who loved him so much.. Harwin who adored Larys, who was so protective and couldn't stand anyone being rude to his little brother, who was perhaps one of the few people who loved Larys genuinely and without prejudice.. only to get burnt alive by him. And it's like Harwin himself is reading out Larys's judgement and Larys doesn't see a wolf, but a ghost that somewhere.. he really missed.
#hotd spoilers#house of the dragon spoilers#asoiaf#a song of ice and fire#jacegan#jacaerys velaryon#harwin strong#cregan stark#larys strong#jacaerys targaryen#house of the dragon#hotd#fanfictionroxs writes#game of thrones#got#jace x cregan
104 notes
·
View notes
Text
me
○
く|)へ
〉
￣￣┗┓ "elia was ok with it because she's dornish"
┗┓ ヾ○ｼ
┗┓ ヘ/
┗┓ ノ
┗┓
#i need some of you to start reading what you write#not only that but also to rub those 2 remaining braincells together#we never see that treatment towards baela#how funny#this one guy from her bloodline had two wives then why would she care about jace and sara?😍#this is insane i hate it there (twitter) but also here bc i've seen what some of you post#a song of ice and fire#asoiaf#elia martell
185 notes
·
View notes
Text
Written in the Stars
Pairing: Steven Grant x gn!reader (implied Marc Spector x gn!reader and Jake Lockley x gn!reader)
Word Count: 800
Summary: Steven doesn’t have a birthday. He takes the task of choosing one very seriously.
Content: Fluff, one use of a pet name (love)
A/N: This follows Leap Year, but it’s not necessary to read that first. I don’t know a ton about astrology, so I’m learning as I go. Enjoy! :)
Masterlist
“Here it is!” you say triumphantly, pulling a purple book off one of Steven’s lower shelves.
Steven takes the book in his hands gingerly, as if it’s something sacred. “Why do you have this, anyway?”
You shrug. “My college roommate was really into astrology and tried to get me interested, too. I just never got rid of it. It’s sentimental, I guess.”
Steven nods, already flipping through the pages as he makes his way to the couch. “So, what signs are Marc and Jake, again?” he asks, not looking up.
You join him on the couch. “Both Pisces, oddly enough,” you remark.
He hums. “Maybe I should be, too.” He quickly consults the table of contents before flipping to the page on Pisces. “‘Empathetic, imaginative, creative,’” he reads. He skims a few more pages before saying, “It’s all a bit vague, innit?”
You laugh. “I guess it is, yeah.”
“Well, you can turn on the telly or grab your own book, if you like. This will take me a bit to get through.”
You stare at him. “You’re not gonna read the whole thing, are you?”
He looks back at you, confused. “How else will I know what sign I am?”
“I don’t think it’s that serious,” you say. “Jake just picked a date he liked.”
Steven just shrugs. “I’d like to see what the book says, I think.”
“Alright,” you say with a shrug of your own. “Knock yourself out.” You scooch towards the other end of the couch, where your latest read is waiting on the end table. You turn on the lamp and settle in.
Steven’s a fast reader. In the time it takes you to slog through a few chapters, he’s closing the astrology book with a satisfying thump. “All done,” he announces.
You close your own book after marking your place with a bookmark (a slightly crumpled receipt counts as a bookmark, right?). “And? What’d you pick?”
“Virgo,” he says.
“Yeah?” you ask, interested. “Why’s that?”
Steven finds the appropriate page and reads, “‘Intelligent, analytical, hard-working.’” He looks to you, his confidence wavering. “That…sounds like me, right?”
You offer him a kind smile. “I think so, yeah. Did you pick a date?”
He shakes his head. “Not yet.” He briefly looks down again. “Says here I can do any day from the twenty-third of August to the twenty-second of September.”
You hum.
“Wait a second…” Steven trails off, grabbing his phone out of his pocket and typing something in.
“What?” you ask.
“Aha!” he says. “Twenty-fourth August. That’s what I want my birthday to be.”
“How come?”
“Tomb Buster premiered on that day in 1990. I reckon us Steven Grants should have the same birthday,” he explains with a grin.
You can’t help but match his smile. “August twenty-fourth it is, then. I’ll add it to my calendar.”
He closes the book again and hands it back to you. “Thank you for lending that to me, love.”
“Any time,” you say, taking the book and returning it to its spot on the bookshelf. You glance at the clock. “Ready to start on dinner?”
“Sounds good to me,” Steven says, standing up and following you to the kitchen.
After dinner has been taken care of and you’ve watched a movie, you’re in the bathroom getting ready for bed. You can hear Steven talking outside the door. You assume he’s conversing with his alters.
When you exit the bathroom, you see Steven standing at the fish tank, bottle of fish food in hand. He doesn’t seem to notice you as he continues on speaking. You realize he’s talking to the fish.
“Maybe I should’ve picked Pisces, Gus,” he muses.
Gus II and his two tank-mates, Tom and Jerry (named together by Marc and Jake, despite Steven’s protests), swim around in slow circles, seemingly waiting for Steven to feed them.
He shakes the bottle, watching the flakes drop gently into the water. “Then all three of us would be the same. And Pisces is fish, innit? It fits.”
“Steven!” you groan playfully. “You can’t just change your zodiac sign!”
“Why not?” he counters. “I just picked it today. There should be some sort of trial period, right?”
You snort. “Maybe, but I like the day you picked. It means something to you.”
“Alright, fine,” Steven says. He bids the fish good night before following you to the bed.
You settle in under the covers and say good night to one another. Your eyes are closed when you hear Steven ask into the darkness, “Do I get a cake for my birthday?”
You smile to yourself. “If you want one.”
“And presents?”
“Of course.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Then, “What about balloons?”
“Whatever you want, Steven,” you say fondly. “Whatever you want.”
A/N: Thank you so much for reading! Please feel free to let me know what you think. :)
270 notes
·
View notes
Text
it’s all phonetic
charles is broke. daniel has a proposition.
this fic is explicit. find it on ao3.
#charlos#jace writes#happy fucking birthday carlos sainz#don’t know how to feel about this but i’m posting it anyway#only took me a million years to finish this fucking fic#HAH. fucking fic. get it. it’s a fic about fucking#think toro rosso carlos and sauber charles#iap
46 notes
·
View notes
Conversation
Black-Green Kid Dynamics
Aegon & Aemond: Sitcom duo where one of them is SO much more competent and just done with everything, and the other is simultaneously dead inside AND the life of the party.
Aegon & Helaena: They are horrible together, but boy is it hilariously awkward third-wheeling them. Watch how many expressions Aegon can make in .5 seconds when Helaena says anything.
Aemond & Helaena: Just that Gordon Ramsey "Oh dear, oh dear, gorgeous" meme. (Aegon is the donkey.)
Aegon & Jace: They make each other worse. I love it.
Aegon & Luke: They make each other worse. THEY love it.
Jace & Luke: Little boy balancing out his rougher, protective big bro.
Baela & Rhaena: Little sis balancing out her rougher, protective big sis.
Jace & Baela: Iconic Power Couple.
Jace & Rhaena: Iconic Amicable In-Laws.
Jace & Helaena: Iconic Precious Cinnamon Rolls.
Aegon & Baela: Someone get the popcorn, the girls are fighting.
Aegon & Rhaena: Even HE feels awkward being an asshole to that sweetheart.
Luke & Rhaena: Wholesome babes looking out for one another.
Luke & Baela: Baela over here doing the 'I've only had Luke for a day and a half-' bit from B99.
Aemond & Rhaena: OOF, watch out, guys, the girls are gonna fight. (Again.)
Aemond & Baela: Okay, seriously, they are GOING to fight. Somebody break them up.
Aemond & Jace: Who let them in the same room together? This will NOT end well, please!
Helaena & Baela: Have basically three words to say to each other, but will mutually lay down their lives for one another.
Helaena & Rhaena: These two deserve the best and thus each other. The BFF+ potential is through the roof.
Helaena & Luke: Not quite BFF material but again, two good souls sitting in a room, clearing my complexion with their sweetness. No supervision required.
Aemond & Luke: *maniacal laughing slowly devolving into ugly sobs*
#just me nailing down crack descriptions for writing my fic#gotta keep 21+ unique dynamics in mind at once#hotd#house of the dragon#baela targaryen#rhaena targaryen#helaena targaryen#aegon ii targaryen#aemond targaryen#jacaerys velaryon#lucerys velaryon#and too many ships to name but highlights:#jace x baela#jace x helaena#jaegon#lucemond#helmond#...and I'm struggling to find the proper tags for most others so stopping there#these are just headcanons just roll with me
997 notes
·
View notes
Text
Professor's Pet, Drabble 1
Warnings: dark!dom!oc; dark!yelena; heavy dom/sub dynamics; owner/pet dynamics; bratting; choking; implied threat;
(Professor Ivanoff’s POV)
Yel: I’m coming over.
You sighed in exasperation as you eyed the text that came through, glancing around your office and deciding to call it a night. You were supposed to be getting a new T.A. next week, and it couldn’t happen soon enough. Hopefully they would be competent. Or trainable. Or both. You didn’t care which.
By the time you pulled up to your building, Yelena was already there – her jeep haphazardly parked in your normal spot. You weren’t surprised to find your front door unlocked. She had let herself in. You glanced at the blonde strewn across your couch, and a second, unfamiliar face. You frowned. Akita? The dog trotted over to you immediately, sniffing your immaculate trousers before sitting obediently at your feet. “Hi girl,” you murmured, scratching instinctively behind her ears.
“Her name’s Fanny.” Yelena announced, finally sitting up and acknowledging your presence. “Did you even have any classes today?” When you raised your eyebrows at the question, she gestured to your ensemble – a flawless three-piece suit that was tailored perfectly.
“You never know who you’re going to meet,” you shrugged, hanging your keys beside the door, nudging Yelena’s feet off of your couch so you could sit beside her.
“Speaking of which, I found someone for you,” Yelena punched your shoulder as she spoke – a typical gesture of affection. You raised your eyebrows again, and the blonde scoffed at you. “What does that do? The eyebrows? I’m not scared of you.”
You snarled and moved at the same time, your fingers wrapping tightly around Yelena’s neck as her hazel eyes stared up at you, unblinking. Fanny began barking at you immediately, but Yelena gestured, and she sat, waiting. After a moment of silence, she had the audacity to smirk at you.
“You want to put me in my place, папочка, or do you want to hear what I found for you?” You rolled your eyes at the snark, pushing her away before straightening your vest and sitting back down.
“Do I even want to know?” You sighed. Yelena had exquisite taste, there was no denying that – but her judgement when it came to what you were looking for was often askew. Yelena pouted when Fanny decided to jump up into your lap, and you scratched the dog absently.
“How long has it been, Liz?” Your steel blue eyes snapped to hers immediately.
“Since what?”
“Since you had a pet?” Yelena smirked, nudging you in the shoulder. You inhaled sharply. Good pets were hard to find, and usually harder to train – and you had very specific…requirements. It was doubtful that Yelena, however good she usually was, had been actually successful. You cleared your throat, not wanting to think about it, feeling a familiar ache.
“Fine. Who is it?” You feigned curiosity and Yelena was moving immediately, pulling her phone from her pocket and scrolling through whatever, trying to find something. She held it up in front of your face, and you went to give it a cursory look out of politeness but something caught your eyes. She was…special. A pit began growing in your stomach as you stared at the picture. The longer you looked, the wider Yelena’s smile became.
“You like her, don’t you?” Yelena crowed, triumphantly, earning another eye roll. “Her name is Kate Bishop. She’s in one of my classes.” Your eyes opened wide at the name.
“Bishop?” You asked softly. Yelena nodded, frowning.
“Do you know her?” She asked, seemingly disappointed that her surprise had been ruined. You shook your head, but shuffled Fanny off of your lap and moved across the room to your desk, fishing for a folder. When you found it, you opened it, chuckling immediately.
“Ms. Bishop is scheduled to start as my T.A. next week,” you murmured, wishing for the first time that the student aid office included photographs with their assignments. Yelena cackled behind you.
“Oh, that’s perfect. But here’s the best part,” she smirked. You eyed her warily. She was enjoying this a bit too much, and it made you slightly uncomfortable – with good reason.
“What’s that?” You asked dryly.
“She just moved into your building.” Yelena laughed at the expression that must have been visible on your face as you processed this information.
“You don’t say.” Your jaw clenched, trying to get the image of the younger woman out of your mind – horribly unsuccessfully.
“You going to meet her in class, or are you going to pre-game?” Yelena asked, smirking at you. You grinned, your eyes flashing like a predator.
“You have to find your strays in the wild, Belova. You know that.” You chuckled, pouring yourself a glass of vodka and handing one to your guest. Yelena sipped hers slowly, smirking at you with a knowing grin on her face.
“Are you going to put me in my place now?” She asked, winking at you. You laughed and shook your head.
“Not tonight. Not if I’m potentially mutt-catching soon.” Satisfied with your answer, Yelena nodded and settled back against your chest as you both put your feet on the coffee table and settled in for a movie, old, familiar, and comfortable.
#professors pet#marvel#female reader#marvel mcu#natasha romanoff#black widow#wanda maximoff#avengers#yelena belova#kate bishop#pet drabble#jace writes
29 notes
·
View notes
Text
Gonna just rattle off some of my general Dottore thoughts + headcanons here
THIS IS KINDA LONG LMAO I’M SO SORRY IN ADVANCE ENJOY MY FUCKIN... MADDENED RAMBLINGS IG??? This bitch has been living rent free in my fucking head for months now and I don’t know how to evict him
We haven't gotten confirmation either way on how the Segments work I don't think, so I'm headcanoning them as at least partially organic until further notice jgksdjgk
Also I know we got that shot of that weird THING where Dottore's eyes should be when his model got posted, but you can pry red-eyed Dottore from my cold dead hands !!!!
(I personally think they just fucking slapped some textures under there because we're not supposed to see what his eyes look like yet. Think Kaeya's eye under the patch)
The way I draw him, he does have scars around his eyes underneath his mask, though I've probably tweaked how they look about half a dozen times by now. I'll post him later probably
My idea with that oneshot I wrote is that, despite his best efforts not to, Dottore is still capable of feeling emotions. Beyond basic things such as anger though he is... Not very well in touch with them. He insists he doesn't feel guilt in disposing of the other Segments. (If anything he almost sounded happy abt it while talking to Nahida bc it sounds like they never shut the fuck up lmfao) It only starts to sink in that maybe he does have some regrets when he starts having those nightmares.
He had countless pairs of eyes to give himself different views of the world, and now he only has himself. But he keeps pushing onward and shoving it back down, because to accomplish his goals, no length is too far. Dottore is completely and utterly ruthless, I think we all know this by now.
That also lends credence to how he could end up playable as well. I personally see him eventually getting a Cryo Vision, as (iirc) it's been shown that basically every Cryo user we've gotten so far has gotten theirs due to family conflict. And when you think about it, what he did to the Segments could be interpreted as him effectively killing his brethren or maybe some kind of extremely convoluted suicide WHDFHDSF it could honestly go either way
It's still too early to say on the Vision front tho lmfao it'll likely be a good year before he's playable
Moving back onto the Segments for a moment, the reason he gives in-game for creating them is... A lot more understandable than I expected. Giving himself multiple views of the world and effectively stopping time for that version of himself. The lengths he goes to in pursuit of knowledge are genuinely fucking impressive, and also go to show how utterly unhinged he is.
I saw this on Twitter first, but Dottore is extremely focused on preserving the past. Even outside of the Segments, there's lore in artifact descriptions and the like that point back to him as well, and though he keeps it under tight wraps, his conversation with Nahida gives a lot more insight into his mindset + who he is as a person than at first glance.
He says it himself: Humans have a hard time making peace with themselves. Wouldn't that also imply things like the passage of time? Growing older, and one's own mortality?
CHRIST I KNOW THIS IS A LOT BUT I THINK DOTTORE IS THE MOST INVESTED I'VE BEEN IN A CHARACTER IN A LONG FUCKING TIME LOL I AM FILLED WITH THOUGHTS™
There's a lot of potential with his character, and I think that's part of why I love him so much. He's just so fucking fascinating to me. Like. I know I haven't done RP shit in a long ass time (definitely FAR less than I used to), but Dottore is the closest thing I've had to a muse in years. Getting into his head is so unbelievably fucking fun for me
Anyway rant over lmfao back to your regularly scheduled whatever
7 notes
·
View notes
Text
All Mine
⭐️reposting this because it didn't show up in the tags
⭐️ Jace Herondale x Fem! Brightlaw Reader
⭐️masterlist | here are your warnings: 17+ + PiV + fluffy smut + marking and possessive-ness + birth control runes
⭐️book/movie Jace??? Idk. I imagine movie Jace as Jace when I'm reading, which I'm doing rn, I'm rereading city of bones. I'm going to post the next three chapters of EWW to my ao3 this weekend, and maybe I'll get a good update out! Like a real one. Thanks everyone for being patient and bearing with me being a totally emotional spaz
Jace's room was usually clean. The immaculate space could only be described as that of belonging to a monk or a pastor, or any man who lived in quiet humbility. Typically the place was spotless: routinely dusted and the hardwood floors always swept--perhaps that was a trait he had picked up from Mayrse...she was a rather strong advocate for the neat freak movement, so perhaps something about being raised by her in his later years of childhood had rubbed off.
His stack of piano music books, and a few other personal belongings, tended to be neatly set on his dresser, the one with the huge mirror (the same one he probably spent forty minutes gazing into every morning).
But now the room was trashed. It had everything to do with the way Jace had dragged you around it. He'd tossed you on every possible surface and possessed your body. Books spilled across the edge as your hands buckled to find something to grip onto as Jace hoisted his hips hard against yours, filling you up with this long cock.
By now, it had been hours, and you were both on the bed.
His thumbs pressed hard into the flesh of your ass as he guided your hips back and forth, shushing you as he grinned like a fallen Angel.
"You like this cock, baby?" Jace asked, his curly golden hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. The flushed features of his sharp cheekbones and the flickering golden hue fading in and out of his crisp blue eyes reminded you of his angelic heritage.
"Come on, angel, answer me," Jace hissed as he tipped your face up. His long fingers pressed beneath your chin, and his eyes glittered gold with brief hunger as he examined the splotchy marks he'd littered on your throat.
"I do like it," you stammered out, still trying to hump his hips as fast and hard as you could. His cock was angled just right so it rubbed the spongy spot inside of you. Your clit was erect and pounding with rushing blood, beating fast like another pulse in your body.
"I like it, I like it," you whined, sounding pathetic and not at all like a Shadowhunter. What would your parabatai say if they knew just how cockdumb you'd become, and for Jace Herondale of all people. He easily was the most arrogant of all Shadowhunters.
"Yeah, I know you like it," Jace chuckled as he stroked your cheek with the back of his hands, the cool metal of his family rings, both the Wayland and the Herondale sigils passing over your flushed face. The coldness of the rings eased the sweat as Jace maneuvered his thumb to tickle your clitoris just lightly. It made your vision blur and you couldn't help but cry out.
"You own this cock, don't you?" Jace purred as he lazed back, his voice deep with pleasure as you cried in rumbling ecstasy. Your body was trembling all over and Jace caught you as you pushed forward, slumping over as you gave up on using your own hips to hump his dick.
Jace wrapped his arms around you. He had gotten bulkier, more muscular, since the last battle in Alicante against Jonathan's army; he'd found temporary peace in his excercising with Alec, as well as his clear mind. Heavenly Fire flooded his veins, making the apples of his cheeks rosy with rush and fever.
You groaned into the crook of Jace's neck as he held you together. Without his arms you might very well fall apart; come completely undone as Jace split you in half, releasing your shadowy soul and laying it to rest in the City of Bones.
"Daughter of The Brightlaws" your slated tombstone would read. "Killed by a Herondale cock."
Well, it'd be an interesting sight.
Jace's hips and thighs smacked up as he leaned back into the headboard of the large, Institute bed. He cradled you in his arms and softly groaned as he fucked into you. Your teeth sank over the Star shaped mark on his shoulder as his skin wettly slapped into yours.
"Gotta suck something to keep quiet?" Jace chuckled as your lips suckled onto the mark. "That's fucking hot. That's right, suck. Like it's my cock, okay?"
Your lips cramped as tears dropped down your cheeks. Your upteenth orgasm was stirring inside of you, churning like cream into sugar. It was a sweeter feeling than any cake batter or cookie dough; a stronger and hotter feeling than any fine whiskey or vodka you'd ever tasted.
Jace hissed as your teeth nipped his collar bone. The skin was blotched red and purple and it stained the Star mark on his shoulder.
You shuddered violently as cum spilled outside of you. It was leaking down your thighs, coating Jace's pelvis; it was a salty mix of the both of you: it was the last of the Herondales and Brightlaws, and it was being wasted on sloppy, sloppy sex; what would the consul say? How would the Clave react if they knew your left shoulder blade was coated with a birth control rune, courtesy of Clary Fairchild.
The sound of Jace's cock plunging in and out through the sticky flood of semen was erotic on its own. It lubricated your pounding clit so that even the lightest touch made you flinch in the best of ways.
"Cum on it again, okay, Angel? I can't get enough of the feeling. Aw, baby, don't cry," Jace chuckled as he used a thumb to wipe away the tears that settled on your cheeks. "I'm going to take such good care of you. Don't you know how much I love you?"
The creaking of the bed crescendoed into a slamming against the walls. No doubt the other residents were hearing all of this, and no doubt would they guffaw and joke about it during breakfast the next day.
"I love you," Jace said, his voice breathless as he held your hips down firmly. His cock was twitching and pounding as it hammered inside of you. His thighs were thick and full with muscle as they flexed to keep himself from collapsing into the mattress. His entire body burned with tire but he couldn't stop. He needed one more, one more burst of ecstasy with you. "I will love you until I die. And if there's a life after that? I'll love you then. Can't let my Angel be all alone...need to keep her company."
Your jaw went slack as drool dripped from your lips, sticking to the Herondale star as you emitted mindless sounds into his golden skin. "I love you, Jace," you said between hiccuping moans.
"And my cock?"
You couldn't help but laugh between the thrusts. "Even your cock, baby."
Jace firmly smacked you on the ass as he made a little noise of praise. "That's right. You love it. You love it, you own it; you milk it so good. Your wet pussy hugs me just right. Raziel made you for me."
His blue eyes flared with golden flame; the heavenly fire was forcing its way out of hiding, making his hands warm as the groped across your body. "You're all mine."
#jace wayland x reader#jace herondale x reader#jace lightwood x reader#jace morgenstern x reader#jace wayland imagine#jace herondale imagine#jace lightwood imagine#jace morgenstern imagine#jamie Campbell bower x reader#jamie campbell bower x reader#starfirette writes#jamie campbell bower imagine#the mortal instruments x reader#the mortal instruments imagine#shadowhunters x reader#shadowhunters imagine#please work this time#18+ content
2K notes
·
View notes
Text
prologue.
the reluctant empress.
(19th Century Imperial Austria AU)
series masterlist
chapter 1 (soon)
jacaerys (jace) velaryon x female!original character
original work: house of the dragon
rating: rated g (will become pg 18+ in later chapters)
summary: this is a dangerous game we play. as rhaenyra sits on the iron throne and the crown lands on her head, she ensures nothing will risk her reign, and that her son, with all his promise, follows after her. and nothing will stop her.
genres: historical, romance, intrigue, smut (to follow)
word count: 1.0k words
Compromise. That was the word Rhaenyra had heard over and over again, uttered until it became repetitive and meant so much until it was empty.
Never had there been an Empress in her own name since Maria Theresa in the Imperial house, and many of her descendants made sure a woman like her could not rise up again whether by inheritance or coup d’etat.
When King Jaehaerys died unexpectedly in the dawning days of 1852, her father Archduke Viserys befell the throne and crown on his head. Long widowed and mourning the loss of his wife and her mother Aemma, Viserys was a peaceful, kind man, gullible and easily influenced, who suffered bouts of melancholy and locked himself away in his room for days and weeks.
After a series of uprisings from the Vale and failed conquests of Dorne, Rhaenyra managed to convince her somewhat feeble-minded and defeated father to abdicate and hand the throne to her, a princess at age of twenty, fresh from having given birth to her third son Joffrey with spouse Laenor Velaryon, who had taken court with her at Dragonstone, at their ancestral home.
Ever since Jacaerys sat on his grandsire’s lap, chestnut orbs full of wonder and curls forming on his head, as Viserys told him that seat would be his one day - it would be her greatest ambition to succeed him on that throne and pave the way for an even greater reign to come in form of her son.
Since the hatchling sat on her son’s chest and crawled over his wooden crib, Jacaerys was meant for greatness and she knew. He, who picked up reading and writing sooner than any babe, who was crawling already when most did not coordinate their spindly limbs together. Whose eyes read voraciously as he was pressed to her breast or a wet nurse’s. ‘Alysanne reborn’ they would call him sometimes - it’s as if she had swallowed texts and candles while she carried him in her womb.
As the scintillating diadem landed on her head full of silver hair up, Rhaenyra was a step closer to making her dream come true. Sapphires emblazoned on her collar, she honoured her mother Aemma wherever she went, avenging all misdeeds done against her, so that she may have the final laugh after all.
Seeing her father all hesitant, appeasing and letting himself be led on by ill meaning snakes who only wished to take advantage of him for their own personal gains had taught her that compromise can only go so far before it eats you up alive. And she won’t let that happen to her. Or to her son.
…
This is the best I can do. Or at least that’s what Alicent’s father told her when he was able to secure a match for her, a second son’s daughter, to a sickly, old Lord Targaryen who was a distant cousin to the conqueror himself. Not as wealthy or influential as the main branch of the family who sat on the throne, but this is the most she can dream for when most lords turned their heads at the sight of her and her brothers.
The old lord, as wealthy as he was, had no great lands but a humble castle in the middle of nowhere in the Crownlands. Loyal and content he was to his family, he had no drive or ambition of his own, after fighting the same war that had gotten Prince Aemon struck with an arrow, returning with maladies that only added to his already delicate health.
Left with two daughters and a granddaughter from the eldest who was now also left a widow, Alicent felt she had no escape, a hole dug so deep there’s no other way but down.
Meek, obedient, people pleasing and content, Helaena was born first, so quiet and unmoving they were afraid she was stillborn and lifeless, answering the prayers of long assumed infertility her husband had assumed from his failure to sire children from his two previous wives. Plump and round faced, her silver hair was nearly pale and had the blue eyes of her father.
Religion was an escape, a soothing balm to her wounds and sensitive nature, to Helaena as it was for her mother. Although Valyrian and raised in Targaryen customs, she was never found without a copy of the seven by her desk, a beloved edition passed down from her maternal grandmother. She married the Lord Celtigar’s second son, a handsome, dashing, brave, rather foolish young man who perished squashing the wars of rebellion in the Vale, never meeting his shy, reclusive daughter Jaehaera.
The second, youngest daughter Y/N - where do we even start? Auburn hair like her mother’s, with dark purple eyes common in the Freehold, was anything like her beloved sister. As close they were, they were opposites in every way. Whereas Helaena was hesitant and shy, Y/N was an accomplished equestrian, loved to hunt and explore the streets of the common folk as her father did in his childhood. Born kicking and screaming, she was nearly double the size of her elder, loud cries so piercing it could be heard throughout the keep.
Her cousins the Lord of Oldtown were aghast to see how her youngest daughter turned out, not made in the image of the Mother, but too Targaryen for their taste’s, yet they could not fully turn away their own kin.
Yet for all her feracious character and restless spirit, Alicent knew from her early age that there was an unsettling beauty to her daughter that she could not fully comprehend. It only seemed to haunt her as her youngest grew, learned to climb and walk and run.
A woman’s household, her father mockingly told Alicent, and although she at first felt humiliated and in despair at her hopelessness, a sense of hope sprouted in her. Draped in obsidian mourning clothes, clinging to the last good lace in her treasury, she receives a letter from her once childhood friend whom she had served as lady in waiting to in her youth, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.
The Queen has invited the Lady Alicent to join her royal court alongside her two daughters, especially as she was considering one who may be the future wife of her son and heir Jacaerys, Prince of Dragonstone. This was Alicent’s ticket to salvation and financial freedom that would save her ailing family from despair - making Helaena a future Queen and her blood on the throne.
…
#hotd fanfic#hotd x reader#house of the dragon#house of the dragon fanfic#house of the dragon imagines#house of the dragon scenarios#house of the dragon x reader#jacaerys velaryon x reader#jace velaryon#jace velaryon x reader#hotd imagine#hotd au#hotd smut#jacaerys x y/n#jacaerys x oc#jacaerys x reader#hotd jacaerys#original work#writing
238 notes
·
View notes
Text
Luke had to be killed of first. Why? Cause that boy is the definition of overprotective bloodthirsty hound with anxiety. He slashed Aemond's eye when he was JUST 5 YEARS OLD because Jace was in danger! Can you imagine what he would have done if Jace had died first?
Alexa play Set Fire to the Red Keep!
#luke is jace's no 1 protector#one of my fav hcs.. which are practically canon#lucerys velaryon#jacaerys velaryon#aemond targaryen#lucemond#tagging this as lucemond because luke taking mondy's eye is ALSO like him tugging his crush's pigtails#yall cant tell me luke didnt have a crush on emond.. especially 14 year old luke#and on the topic of lucemond.. jace is lucemond anti Numero Uno#boy hates HATES it with a passion hehehehe#hotd#house of the dragon#crack#fanfictionroxs writes
119 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
theygender
Free Palestine
xi-ren
A done goof
millsjay01
mills
drawing13ducks
Drawing13ducks
jiyullie
𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒈𝒐𝒏𝒏𝒂 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒖𝒔