im so in love with ser fucking gwayne hightower

★
hello vonnie
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@nyrasvoid
im so in love with ser fucking gwayne hightower

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i hate all you cory haters
cory walker num 1 fan right here
I love Daeron he can really find the positive in anything 🥰
Foreordained
Pairing: Daeron Targaryen x f!reader
Summary: Daeron avoids his wife after his dreams, until one vision changes everything.
Warnings: angst, fluff, smut. Talks of death, alcoholism.
The scent of him always reached you first. It was the smell of the city that clung to his clothes: smoke and sour wine, the faint, cloying perfume of the Street of Silk, and beneath it all, the salt tang of Blackwater Bay. You had grown to know it as intimately as you knew the lines of his face, the particular cadence of his footsteps when he tried so very hard to be quiet. He never was. Daeron Targaryen, for all his dreams of dragons and death, could not move through the world without leaving a wake of chaos behind him.
Tonight, the chaos arrived well past the hour of the owl. You had not waited up for him; you had learned, in the three years of your marriage, that waiting was a fool’s errand. Waiting meant watching the candle dwindle to a puddle of wax, meant listening to the distant revelry of the Red Keep and wondering which pleasure house held your husband tonight, meant feeling the slow, cold creep of resentment curl up in your belly like a serpent. You were in your bed, the heavy drapes drawn against the chill, a book of Seven Kingdoms histories open and unread upon your lap. You were not waiting. You were simply…not sleeping.
You heard him before you saw him. A stumble in the outer chamber. A low, muffled curse in High Valyrian, the words slurred almost beyond recognition. The clatter of something, a pitcher, perhaps, or a cup, knocked from a table. Then the softer, placating murmur of the maids. You could picture it without rising: Daeron, bleary-eyed and swaying, his gold hair a tangled mess, his fine doublet stained with wine and Gods knew what else. He would be leaning heavily against the doorframe of his own dressing room, his beautiful, tragic face slack with drink, while two or three patient servants attempted to undress him, to wipe the grime from his skin, to make him something approaching presentable.
You did not go to him. You had done that, once. You had rushed to his side, your heart a frantic drum of worry and love, your hands reaching to steady him, to help. You had learned that he could not meet your eyes in those moments. That your presence, your kindness, only seemed to deepen the well of his shame, to make him curl in on himself like a salted snail. It was a strange, bitter mercy, you had decided, to let the maids do their work without the added weight of your disappointment in the room.
So you stayed. You turned a page in your book, though your eyes did not move across the words. You listened to the distant splash of water, the low, rhythmic sounds of a body being scrubbed and dried. The maids would be silent, efficient. They were paid well for their discretion.
The door to your bedchamber opened much later. The sound was soft, almost hesitant. The tallow candle on your bedside table guttered in the sudden draft, sending frantic shadows dancing across the stone walls. You did not look up from your book, though you still saw nothing of the text. You simply waited.
His silhouette filled the doorway. He was clad only in a loose linen sleeping shirt that fell to his knees, his feet bare. His hair was damp and pushed back from his forehead, revealing the sharp, sculpted beauty of his Valyrian features. The room was dim, but even so, you could see the deep, bruised hollows beneath his eyes. He looked like a ghost of himself, a pale, sorrowful wraith haunting the edge of your sanctuary.
He took a stumbling step into the room, then another. He did not speak. He never did, on nights like these. The man who could make you laugh until your sides ached with his dry, witty quips, who could debate the finer points of history and philosophy with a scholar’s passion, was now reduced to a creature of pure, desperate need. Words were beyond him. Apologies were a currency he had spent into worthlessness.
He reached the foot of the bed. His hands, long-fingered and elegant, the hands of a musician or a painter, came to rest on the carved oak footboard. They were trembling. They were always trembling. The maesters said it was the drink, a weakness of the nerves. You knew it was more than that. You knew it was the weight of the visions, the fire and blood and screaming he saw behind his eyelids every time he closed them. The drink, you had come to understand, was not the cause but the desperate, failing antidote.
His gaze, when it finally found yours, was an ocean of mute agony. There was no explanation, no excuse, no lie about an evening with the king or a late council meeting. There was only the raw, undeniable fact of him: your husband, returned from his self-destruction, standing at the foot of your marriage bed with nothing to offer you but his broken, wanting body.
You should have been angry. You were angry. It was a cold, hard stone lodged deep in your chest, a constant companion. You were angry at his weakness, at his selfishness, at the whispers that followed you through the halls of the Red Keep like a persistent wind. Poor lady, they’d murmur behind their hands. Married to the dreamer. The drunkard. The whoremonger. You were so very tired of being strong, of being the anchor, of being the one who was perpetately left behind.
You closed the book with a sharp snap. The sound made him flinch. Good, you thought, a petty, vicious thrill running through you. Let him flinch. And yet, you did not turn him away.
Because beneath the anger, beneath the hurt and the exhaustion, you understood the language he was speaking now. It was a crude, desperate, physical tongue, but it was the only one he had left at this hour. It was his way of trying, in the only way his shattered mind and body would allow, to bridge the chasm he had dug between you. It was not an apology, but it was a plea. A raw, humiliating, moaning plea for connection, for absolution, for proof that at the core of it all, there was still something left between you that was just yours.
He moved around the side of the bed, his steps silent now on the carpet. You remained motionless, your spine rigid, your face a mask of neutrality you had perfected over years of practice. He pulled back the heavy duvet, and a draft of cool air washed over your legs, making you shiver.
Then he was on you.
He didn’t crawl into the space beside you. He crawled over you, his lanky, trembling body a cage of heat and the lingering, faint scent of lavender soap. He settled his weight upon you, his hips finding the cradle of your thighs, and you felt the stark, urgent heat of him pressing against your belly through the thin linen of his shirt and your silk nightdress. He was already hard, already desperate. His face, so beautiful it sometimes made your heart ache to look at it, hovered just inches above your own. His eyes, a shade of violet so deep they were nearly black in the candlelight, were wide and wild, pupils blown.
He didn’t kiss you. He just stared, his breath coming in shallow, ragged pants that fanned across your lips and tasted of mint and the faint, underlying sourness of wine. One of his hands found your hip, his fingers curling into the silk of your nightdress. The other hand, his left, came up to your face. His thumb, still trembling, traced the line of your jaw, the curve of your lower lip. It was a touch of such devastating tenderness that it nearly broke your resolve. This was the Daeron you loved. The man who existed in the quiet moments, the one who was, when sober, or almost sober, so achingly gentle it made you weep.
But his sobriety was a ghost in this room.
You remained still and silent beneath him. You were not unwilling, but you were not welcoming, either. You were a fortress, and you made him storm the gates.
He seemed to understand. A choked, desperate sound escaped his throat, something between a sob and a groan. His hand left your face and fumbled between your bodies. You felt his knuckles graze the soft skin of your inner thigh as he rucked the hem of your nightdress up, bunching it around your waist. The air was cool on your exposed skin. He didn’t bother to undress you, nor himself. He simply shoved his own shirt up enough to free himself, the fabric riding high on his lean stomach.
breaking my silence : maekar is not the girl dad yall think he is
it’s mentioned (or at least heavily implied) that only egg and his brothers had dragon eggs placed in their cradles. and honestly maekar is kind of a failure as a father … like all of his sons have pretty misogynistic and weird views about women (yh yh medieval times but still) even egg in the books talks about how he finds girls annoying and hates being around them.
idk, if anything maekar gives way more “boy dad” energy than girl dad … like he’d probably just leave the daughters to the septas and call it a day. not saying he wouldn’t care about them at all, but i feel like he’s already so overwhelmed with his sons that any daughters would just kinda fade into the background.

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I wanted wallpaper for my tablet
i love them so fucking much
I really loved season 4! My fav part was Thragg ngl, I want to wife him up. I just wish our boy Mark could catch a break
Can we please stop making virgin/innocent readers act like literal toddlers. Thanks.
Virgins still have a general if not very clear concept of how sex works, we're not fucking idiots.❤️ And stop making "bookworm!" Readers only read smut, that's not book worm, thats smut addict. You guys are so annoying. "Oh it hurts! It won't fit!" *Sob sob sob* "you're so pure, I don't want to ruin you" Actually shut the fuck up. Virgin doesn't mean stupid baby who has no basic or full concept of human anatomy.
-Saying as a virgin who knows more about sex than most people in my state and have never attended sex ed.
Innocent reader in general makes me mad because literally anyone over the age of 13 has a general understanding of sex unless you're literally sheltered with no access to the internet and that's neglect. Stop promoting age play even if it's unintentional, it's disgusting and misogynistic. Stop making virgins sound brain dead just because they haven't had sex. And it is that serious because people are gonna think that's how we act in person.
AND STOP ASSOCIATING VIRGINS WITH CHRISTIANITY. You guys are so fucking weird and not in a good way. Do I know this is mean? Yes. Do I care? No, because most of you are in your late 20's-30's typing up this shit and should know the difference between realistic first time and the misogynistic expectations first time. Also virgins masterbate, so I don't wanna hear "what would you know!"
Me reading my own fanfiction because I’m my target audience
BTS fun fact:
The most expensive part of the budget for making A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms, was the licensing fees for the use of 'SexyBack' every time Bertie Carvel appears on screen.

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Channeling modern AU Dunk on his insta fr
same vibes
You don’t understand what this means to me
i hae nothing decent to say oh my god.
generations
scrolling through the aot x reader tag and each scroll is either a smutfic or a shitty smau, and somehow every one is from the hood or a drug dealer and calls reader "ma"
When the storm passes
♡ Ser Duncan the Tall x Fem!Targaryen Reader
𖤓 Summary: a princess finds a boy hiding in the stables and names him dunk. over the years they get into trouble together, laugh, and share quiet moments away from the keep. as they grow up, feelings get complicated and promises get broken. one morning, dunk is gone, leaving the princess with nothing but memories and a broken heart
⚝Warnings: mild language, emotional intensity, themes of friendship and growing up, character death (not the princess nor dunk), childhood friends to ¿lovers? (we dont know yet hehe), social differences between dunk and the princess and slight angst at the end
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊ A/N: this is obviously inspired by the new Wuthering Heights movie (the one with my husband jacob elordi 😛😛) but I don’t know if I’ll give them the same ending. also i kinda changed my style for this fic because i wanted it to feel more like a movie and not as much as a book, thats why the different povs because i felt they were necessary (hope you guys don’t hate it)
⭑ Word count: ≈4.9k

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Where we stopped
♡ Prince Valarr Targaryen x Fem!Targaryen Reader
𖤓 Summary: at eleven, you lose the only friend you had when your brother Aerion falsely accuses her of stealing and has her cast out. When you try to sneak out to Flea Bottom to find her, Valarr stops you and your father sends you away to Dragonstone. Eight years later, you return to Summerhall, and to the boy who betrayed you.
⚝Warnings: family conflict, classism toward servants, emotional manipulation, arranged marriage themes, internalized misogyny, awkward almost-kiss/romantic tension.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊ A/N: i hope someone got the Miguel Prado reference, btw last night i remembered i had started this fic like 3 weeks ago so I decided to finish at least the first part
⭑ Word count: ≈4.8k
Question is there any chance of getting a part 2 of Winterbound. Its soooo goood and it would be interesting to see how or if you resolve the conflict between Cregon and the reader.
idk if you mean a part three but part two is here and they do resolve their conflict
this story is finished because I dont like writing long fics since I run out of ideas lmao