With Tears And Anger In His Eyes He Practically Gagged His Mother With No Hesitation

𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem Cousin!Reader

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | You could not leave him. Not when your very breath was the only thing that kept him tethered to this world. 

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 1,433

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | Arguing, Angry Jace, Desperate Jace, One curse word, Kind of hurt/comfort. 

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 | This was requested by @intheheartoftheking. I had a million different ideas for this, but the inspiration wasn’t there for any of them. So, I hope this is to your liking! Also, Varaxs is the name I gave the reader’s dragon! 

masterlist | read on ao3

Sea salt kisses your cheeks as the gentle roll of the tide rushes below you. The familiar scent of your dragon fluttered in the breeze as the Dragon Keepers brought your ivory mount out to you. Varaxs growled deeply, as if mimicking the waves that crashed against the inky cliffs of Dragonstone.

Chills danced up your spine as the cold seeped into your bones beneath your riding clothes. The weather wasn’t what had you so chilled, though.

Nervousness burns through your mind. Has your eyes darting from the dragon pit to the palace looming behind you. Every howl of the wind and every tumbling pebble falling from the rocks, kept you on high alert of discovery. There were more than enough troubles to keep your mind occupied, but should anyone catch you here before you could depart, your plan would be all for nothing. 

The Greens had sent an assassin to take Rhaenyra’s life in the dead of night. Ser Arryk was unsuccessful thanks to his brother’s valiant efforts, which cost him his life. But even if the Queen was unharmed, the usurper must still pay for the cowardly attempt on her life. 

Rhaenyra still hoped for peace, though, and such wishes had her stalling her hand. You, as her stepdaughter and loyal subject, could no longer rationalize doing nothing. 

And so, you were going to King’s Landing.  

You dare not give thought to what could befall you once you’re there. But if death or something worse awaited you, then it would have been worth it fighting for your queen. 

The wind seemed to pick up with his arrival. You didn’t notice until a loud cry of your name sounded over the currents. You spin around and see your betrothed, Jacaerys, dashing towards you. Trepidation and unease flowed through you as you caught sight of his vexed expression. You hadn’t told anyone of your plan, and you thought you had snuck away with no one noticing your absence. But of course, it was Jace who figured it out. 

He’s still in his princely attire, the Targaryen colors displayed proudly. The deep hues of black and red had always complimented him in the most alluring way. His boots kick up clouds of dust and sand as he comes to a stop in front of you. His lips pressed into a hard line, and his jaw clenched in irritation. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword like he always did, but the knuckles were white with the forceful hold he had on it. 

“Jacaerys.” You greet, meeting those serious, dark eyes you’ve lost yourself in more times than you could remember. 

“What are you doing?” He asks simply, but the sharpness of his voice made it clear this was no easy matter. His eyes burned into yours as he stood just inches from you. 

“What do you think I’m doing?” You questioned in return. Deciding to let him reveal what he knew before you told him the whole of your plan. 

He scoffs and swallows thickly. “I am not certain, but I am sure that it is something reckless and not something that my mother approved of.” 

Shifting your weight in the sand, you thought about how best to proceed. “I was anticipating no one finding out until I was already gone.”

“Did you think I would not notice your absence?” He asks incredulously, his brows rising in disbelief. 

You shrugged. “I hoped it would take you a little longer.” A leaden sigh leaves your lips while the restless waters below you rage on. The light reflecting off the water shines like a beacon around Jace, and you have to battle against the longing ache that spreads through your chest. 

“Someone needs to scout King’s Landing. Gather what information we can.” You explain praying to the seven that he’ll understand. 

His eyes widened as exasperation ignited in them. “Have you lost your mind?” He exclaims, shaking his head of dark curls. 

“Jace-” 

“No,” he insists. “You’re not going. You’re not going to fucking King’s Landing, where you very likely will be spotted.” His jaw is tight, and his eyes are just as troublesome as the waters crashing against the rocky shores of the island. 

“Someone has to do something!” You argue back, your raised voice causing Varaxs, waiting in the landing pit, to hiss with displeasure at your growing distress. 

“And if you are captured? Slain? What then?” He sneered, a sudden thickness lingering in his words. 

You lose yourself for a moment. Imagining all the horrors that could come upon you should anyone discover you even somewhat close to the capitol. Aemond held resentment towards you and your sisters for what occurred the night Luke took his eye. And Aegon was a mindless drunk, but no less cruel than his brother. But thinking of all their treachery just made you all the more determined to do everything in your power to see Rhaenyra on the throne. And Jace, good-hearted, compassionate Jace, as the heir.

“I have to do this, Jace. And if I meet my end, then it would be worth it to see Rhaenrya and you reclaim your birthright.”

Desperation colors his features, his sharp expression melting to one of concern and tenderness . Something that stokes the fires of your affection for him. 

“I forbid you.” He finally declares after a long moment of silence. 

“Forbid me?” Your own frustration at last rises to match his. “You are not my king yet. You’re not even my husband yet. So unless you intend to tie me up, I will be leaving now.” 

You turn on your heel to approach your mount. Fully planning on flying off to King’s Landing before his voice breaks. 

“You cannot leave me!” 

You halt in your place, your throat growing tight upon hearing the sheer panic coming from him. Your hands twitch at your sides as the wind dies down enough to allow you to hear the ragged breaths sounding from your betrothed. Hesitantly, not wanting to be met with his distraught expression, you turned back to face him. 

Raw desperation swam in his eyes. His lips, that had welcomed yours in so many devoting kisses, parted with pleading breaths. He closes the short distance between you; his hand captures yours before falling to rest against his heart. Heat flashes through you where your skin touches his. 

When he speaks, his words come out breathlessly. “It is no secret between us my devotion to you.” The strong fingers of his free hand, calloused from all his hours of training, fluttered over your cheek with a touch as light as goose down. “But even before our betrothal, you were my guiding light. In the wake of all the chaos, there was you.” His normally collected voice cracks. He clings to his hold on you as if terrified of you vanishing from his sight forever. “My entire heart craves only a fraction of yours. Even if only a piece of you loved me, that would be plenty, because that would mean at least a part of you was genuinely mine.”

“Jacaerys.” 

His gaze flickers down to your lips before meeting your eyes again. “I cannot live in a world where you do not exist,” he professed. The air had been stolen from your lungs upon hearing his words. You were no fool to Jace’s affection; you returned it tenfold. But never had he confessed such adoration to you. 

“I cannot just do nothing.” You whispered, knowing he could hear you. 

He was nodding along with your words. “We will destroy them,” he vowed. “But we will do it together. You cannot not be so careless with your life, Issa jorrāelagon.” 

You do not wish to be labeled as rash or reckless, but the Greens must face retribution. For all the agony they’ve caused. You wish only to help your family win back the heritage that was stolen from them. One day, sit by Jace’s side as he rules with all the kindness and strength you know him to possess.

But he was right. 

You look down at his hand, holding yours to his heart. It beat as fiercely as dragon wings in the sky. Each pulse hammered in each nail of faith you had in him. “Together?” You coaxed meeting his eyes again and seeing determination mingling with his sheer devotion. 

“You and I will take back my mother’s throne.” He pledged, pressing a reverent kiss to your brow. “And one day I will take you as my queen, and we will rule together just as we are meant to.”

This was shorter than I wanted it to be, but I'm just glad I was finally able to finish it!

Issa jorrāelagon; My love

rude

"Walking side by side with a person like you"

"Without you I'd be lonely, Fushiguro"

And what if I kill myself

rare vent art from a few months ago

*gets an old trauma memory back* sweet. bonus backstory unlocked 

Bigender goes to the bathroom                          

HEARTSTOPPER (2022-) | S03E06 'Body'

Cooked. Ate. Devoured. Work of art. Masterpiece. I mean, what more can I say or want?

Twin Flames

Gwayne Hightower x female reader

As King's Landing awaits the arrival of Gwayne Hightower and his army, you recall your first impressions of the lover you last saw years ago

2.4k words Warnings: gets a little smutty so 18+, bit of angst but eventual fluff Notes: So...this will eventually have another part, but I've already let it run away from me so here, enjoy part one! Reader is from House Tarly but isn't described physically, I've noodled around with timelines and book plot (please forgive me), and no hate to Samantha Tarly but she made a convenient plot device. (Also, if you saw me add a missing 500 words to this approx 16 hours after I originally posted it, no you didn’t.) As always, please let me know what you think and thanks for reading!

Gently, you untangle the Dowager Queen’s auburn curls with a fine silver comb, preparing to arrange her hair in a complex pattern of braids for the day. A well-rehearsed dance now, after serving her these past four years.

As you help her fasten her necklace there’s a knock at the door, and a serving girl brings Alicent a small scroll of paper. “Just arrived with an outrider, your Grace,” she explains, bobbing into a curtsey before leaving. It’s secured with dark green wax, unmistakably a Hightower seal.

Alicent snaps it open and unfurls the message with a frantic urgency, eyes darting across it while she touches her hand to the seven pointed star pendant resting on her chest.

A small smile twitches across her face, her eyes meeting yours in the looking glass in front of her. “My brother sends word that he will arrive later today,” she says with a hint of relief. It’s the news you had expected and hoped for, but your nerves stirred. So long since you had seen him last.

“Excellent news, your Grace,” you reply, and smile encouragingly despite your sudden apprehension.

She reads the rest of the message. “He says he will be ready to leave here tomorrow once he and his host have rested a night.”

“So soon?” you ask, unable to stop yourself.

“Such are the times we find ourselves in,” she replies, clearly resigned to a short reunion with her brother. “Would you deliver this message to Ser Criston? He’ll need to prepare for tomorrow."

“Of course, your Grace.” You take the scroll from her outstretched hand and curtsey. Outside in the corridor, you chance a look at the fragment of parchment. Yes, it’s written in his hand. You briefly trace the familiar script with your fingers before making your way to the Kingsguard’s quarters.

The rest of the day is spent restlessly, pacing the castle’s halls in between your duties to the Dowager Queen, while avoiding Ser Criston Cole’s soldiers as they prepare to leave for Harrenhal. The sun starts to set, the Red Keep bathed in orange and then pink light.

After a small supper with Alicent, you finally settle in a window seat, watching the men prepare in the courtyard below for their departure. All turns quiet once or twice as Vhagar’s monstrous wings beat overheard and her shadow covers the Keep, although her presence seems to bring little security or comfort now.

Agitated, your mind runs to memories of another time.

…

You remember arriving in Oldtown for your sister’s wedding, the strange Hightower and its flaming beacon, the smell of the sea and din of the harbour. Samantha Tarly’s betrothal to Ormund Hightower was a great achievement, though he was a widower and she was barely older than his children. It mattered little to her, the prestige of marrying into one of Westeros’ oldest and richest houses quite enough to sweeten the deal.  

“There’s no need to be jealous, sister,” she whispered to you in the carriage as you approached the Hightower, “one day I shall find you almost as impressive a match.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” you replied, “I would prefer to know more about my husband than his name before I marry him.” Delighted by your reply, she laughed prettily and muttered, “so particular,” fanning herself to combat the smell of salt and fish from the markets.

The wedding was solemn, but the feast afterwards was lavish, and you quietly observed your sister and her new husband while speeches were made and toasts were drunk to the couple. The role of highborn wife suited Samantha, who preened and giggled under the attention.

After the feast there was dancing, and you dutifully took to the floor with your brother, then your new good-brother and his eldest son, and after that a score of eligible lordlings that Samantha sent your way. With each you made a little small talk about your journey and the festivities, and your new position in your sister’s household, but none secured a second dance.

Taking a moment to breathe after dancing with a lord older than your father, you took a cup of wine and attempted to disappear against a wide marble pillar. You pressed your back to it, feeling the cold smoothness beneath your hand, and wondered how much longer the celebration would go on.

“My Lady,” came a voice beside you, and you stifled a sigh before you turned to find a man about your age with copper hair and distinctive dark green clothes. “We have not been introduced- Gwayne Hightower, Lord Ormund’s cousin,” he offered with a shallow bow and a tight smile on his fine- featured face.

“Delighted,” you answered, studying his high cheekbones and full mouth, “you are Lord Otto’s son? And the Queen’s brother?”

“The very same,” he affirmed, “I hear you will be staying with us in Oldtown.”

“Indeed, I think the intention is that I help Lady Samantha to establish herself here with her new husband and step-children.”

Both of you looked towards where the children were gathered, the younger ones pinching each other and squabbling while Lyonel, the oldest, yawned. Gwayne snorted.

“Is something amusing, Ser?” you questioned.

“Not at all,” he said, taking a sip of his own wine, “I only wonder how suitable you will be as a nursemaid, you hardly look accustomed to wiping noses.”

In hindsight you blamed your fatigue and the challenges of the day, but his comment made you bristle. “I am not here to be their servant, Ser, and I do not think you know me well enough to assume what I am accustomed to.”

Your skin prickled as he looked you up and down, eyes half lidded. Dark eyes- were they brown? Or deep blue?

“Quite right, my apologies. I look forward to knowing you better in the coming weeks then, my Lady,” he replied, the final words laced with sarcasm.

“And I you, Ser,” you returned sharply, before he dismissed himself with another brief smile and a nod.

A few times that night, while you were caught in dances with men you later couldn't recall the names of, you saw him watching you across the room with a haughty expression, bordering on a smirk. You tried to ignore him and the unbidden butterflies inside you, and hoped you would have little to do with him in the approaching days.

…

You were not so lucky. The first weeks in Oldtown flew, so much to learn and see and do. But each time you accompanied Samantha and Ormund on a tour of the Starry Sept, or the Maester’s Citadel, or the city’s harbour, Gwayne was your assigned escort. He offered you his arm each time with the same arrogant smile.

You spoke a little, remarking on the architecture or the books or the goods arriving from far off ports. Every time he seemed surprised, as if he had expected you to be too ill-educated or provincial to understand such things. It exasperated you.

“You know, Horn Hill is not some country backwater, Ser,” you retorted once when he had near congratulated you on having heard of the cities across the Narrow Sea.

“Of course,” he answered smugly, “I have heard there is even a library there.” You silently ground your teeth to hold your tongue.

Returning late one evening from the city, you bid goodnight to your sister and began to climb the stairs to bed, eager to be away from Gwayne’s enormous ego for a few hours before tomorrow’s fresh ordeal. Ormund had other plans.

“It is late, Gwayne, see my good-sister safely to her room,” he commanded, dismissing your protests with a wave of his hand. So, you and Gwayne made your way to your chamber in uncomfortable silence, the click of your shoes and swish of your skirts the only sounds.

At your door, you opened it with relief to find the fire and candles lit for your return. You turned to dismiss Gwayne, but he simply stared at you, half amused, from the open door. “You have done your duty, Ser, you may go,” you said, but he continued to stare, infuriating as ever.

You removed your gloves, throwing them down onto your vanity impatiently. “I have no love for intrigues, if you have something to say to me then please, speak plainly.”

“You know, ever since our first conversation, I have hardly stopped thinking about you,” he said lazily.

“What?”

“You were beautiful, so I approached you that night to hear you laugh and see you blush at my flirting, but it was not so. You are not impressed or intimidated by me, and that both irritates and interests me. I want to understand you. And I still think you are beautiful, even though I have not yet been able to make you smile. Is that plain enough for you, my Lady?”

“I…am not accustomed to such attention,” you answered. You had no cutting reply this time.

“I am accustomed to attention,” he admitted, “but it is always such empty flattery that it bores me. I have no fear of that with you. There, now we understand a little more about one another.”

Then he reached out, his hand gently touched your cheek and then cradled your jaw. His eyes, you saw clearly then, were deepest, sapphire blue. And his lips, you discovered, were as soft as they looked, fitting perfectly against yours.

“And now we know a little more, still,” he muttered, hardly breaking the kiss. Three more times, he kissed you chastely, you answering more confidently each time. Finally, his tongue swept along your bottom lip and you met it instinctively with yours.

Holding your face with both hands, he angled the kiss to deepen it further, while your arms found their place around his neck. Only the sound of footsteps in the hall broke you apart, both breathless and with reddened lips. “Goodnight then, my Lady,” he said, loud enough for the passing servant to hear, “until tomorrow.”

“Until tomorrow”, you agreed, still a little stunned as he lifted your hand to his lips for a parting kiss. For the first time, you blushed and smiled for him.

…

From then, your life in Oldtown was quite different to anything you had known before.

His condescending manner softened a little after his confession and attaining a kiss, and you did not react so sharply to his taunts. He didn’t feel the need to respond in kind to your occasional barbs, and you found yourself clenching your fists less in his presence. He sought your individual company, and you found yourself often and willingly accepting his invitations.

You took your own tours of the city’s historic wonders and cosmopolitan delights, enjoying a little more freedom without your sister there to tut at things she considered improper. Honey cakes and exotic fruits from the market were enjoyed afterwards in the Hightower’s library- a place you were sure Samantha would never venture- and sugar and sweet juice were kissed from your lips.

As often as you could, you accompanied the boy children to their lessons with their sword master, feigning interest in embroidery or a book while the object of your attention was across the training yard. You committed to memory the way his shirt would cling to his back with sweat while he trained with his fellow knights, the glint of steel in contrast to the red gold of his hair. Winks and smirks sent your way on those afternoons inevitably left you flushing red and pressing your thighs together.

Once you had followed him at a distance back to the armory where he would leave his sword to be sharpened and change his clothes. He heard you behind him as you leant against the stone wall inside. “What is it you think about when you come to watch me train? I’ll wager you couldn’t tell me what’s happening in that book,” he guessed, accurately, raising an eyebrow.

Perhaps the sun or the sight of his open shirt had gone to your head, but you felt bold. Reaching out, you toyed with its cotton ties. “I think, mostly, of where I wish you would touch me,” you smile sweetly, satisfied at his intake of breath, “and where I would like to touch you, and how. And the book is a romance, if you must know.”

“I have had similar thoughts,” he whispered, leaning towards you, “we really should share our ideas with each other more often.” An inch from closing the gap, a sudden clatter at the armory door made you jump apart.

“If only I didn’t always feel we were being watched here,” you muttered wistfully.

He smiled his usual smile, one that made him look like he was enjoying a private joke. “I may have a solution for that. Tell me, do you ride horses at Horn Hill or is it donkeys?” He chuckles as you roll your eyes, and tap him on the chest with your book, “fetch your riding boots, sweet, I will meet you at the stables.”

You can almost recall the smell of the tall grasses in the wide open plains of the Reach where you and Gwayne spent afternoons racing on horseback. You think of seeking shade under a glade of trees on the bank of the Honeywine and dismounting to let your horses drink. His hands on your waist, the rough scrape of bark on your back and the taste of his tongue.

He pulled away from your lips, his nose still brushing yours before his mouth ran down your neck to the collar of your dress. “Have you any idea what sweet, slow torment it is to see you astride that beast,” he whispered, breath hot on your skin, “to watch your thighs gripping the saddle while you race away from me?”

“Then look away, my Lord,” you replied, as if his words didn’t send heat between your legs and make you tremble.

His head snapped up and he sighed roughly while you laughed at him. His teeth captured your bottom lip as punishment before he claimed your lips again with his and pressed his body into yours.

…

Too soon, the clatter of hooves on cobblestones breaks you from your reverie.

I’m always pushing you away from me / but you come back with gravity / and when I call, you come home

This poster is from the book ‘Talking about feelings’. It’s from educate 2 empower. It’s great for kiddos like me who have a hard time explaining and understanding their emotions.