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author-morgan · 2 years

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Title: Dragonknight Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!Reader Rating: T Summary: Even darkness seeks the light, or in which Daemon considers you his northern star —his guiding light. Warnings: Typically Westerosi shenanigans.

HE LOWERS THE blunted training sword and frowns as you bolt down the steps of the tower and around Ser Ryam the Dragon —not wishing to be the fair maiden in need of saving again. Instead, you take up another sword, too big and heavy, and stand stalwart in your choice. Prince Daemon Targaryen nigh pouts. He’s meant to be brave and valiant and save his lady from danger. “How am I to be your dragonknight if you won’t let me save you?” He laments.

“Two swords are better than one against this fearsome foe,” you tell him, but the game is already over then.

Ser Ryam Redwyne laughs and rises from his haunches, feeling the ache in his aging joints —Clement Crabb told him it was his turn to entertain the prince and his coconspirator. At least then it would keep the pair out of too much trouble. “She is not wrong, my prince,” he remarks. Even a knight of the Kingsguard has brothers-in-arms, seeking and accepting help does not make one less of a man or less of a prince.

“You make a fine dragon, ser,” you note, remembering your courtesies.

Ser Ryam Redwyne smiles at your compliment. “Thank you, my lady,” the Kingsguard knight says, giving a half-bow to you and Prince Daemon before taking his leave to rejoin the king.

Florence Fossoway enters the courtyard, passing Ser Ryam, with her hands clasped in front of her golden-rose belt. “Prince Daemon,” she greets, lowering her head in veneration before turning her attention to you —a rowdy girl who’d rather frolic about the Red Keep and the streets of King’s Landing with Daemon Targaryen instead of practicing her stitches and letters. Your mother’s lips purse into the slightest of frowns, recalling the conversation the prior eve with her lord husband and your father, Martyn Tyrell. Soon you’ll be too old to partake in such churlish activities. The prince may be able to do as he pleases, but you will not. “It’s time for your lessons,” she reminds you. Sewing, reading, writing, and learning the harp, among other things —all of which are considered comely talents in a good wife.

THE SUN’S WARMTH shines through the canopy of summer foliage to the forest floor of the Kingswood, painting a halo of light around where you and Daemon lay, looking skyward at the passing clouds. It’s a rare thing of late, being able to spend time with him. Too often, duties and lessons keep you and Daemon separated now that you’ve grown older —not quite children any longer, but not yet adults in the eyes of the lords and ladies of the court.

Still, you’ve heard the whispers about what the small council speaks of, and so has Daemon. He sees how you worry in silence, though —always twisting your hair or picking at the skin of your palms, always trying to be a good and dutiful daughter for House Tyrell. But now, more than ever, the whispers are no longer uncertain truths or mere rumors, and in the past weeks, a heavy weight has settled on your chest and shoulders.

You’ve grown quieter as time passes, and the midmorning fades into the afternoon. Daemon looks at you and frowns when he sees unshed tears budding in your eyes. He reaches for your hand, twining his fingers with yours, and squeezes. He’s always been your dearest friend, your dragonknight. "We’ll always be together.” You want to believe him —he sounds so certain of it. “I won’t let anyone take you.” That makes you smile, but Daemon still sees your doubt. “I’m a prince, remember?” And soon to be a dragonrider, he thinks. No one would be able to stop him then. He would be able to whisk you away to the far reaches of the land —places you’ve only ever imagined in stories.

“Promise?” It’s a trembling whisper.

“On the Old Gods of Valyria,” he swears, then looks back to the sky and the creeping storm clouds. “One day we can go there,” he says, voicing his thoughts aloud, “on dragon back.” He’s told you about Caraxes —the Blood Wyrm— and Aemon’s former mount. A wild, unpredictable beast with a will strong as any Targaryen’s, but Daemon’s always had an eye for Caraxes. The dragonkeepers oft let the prince into the great dome to see him and the others, though he’s yet to take the Blood Wyrm for his own mount. But soon he will and you’ll both be able to fly high and far and free.

THE HOUR IS late when he knocks on your chamber door, and it rouses you from an ill-fated attempt to sleep. “Daemon?” His silver-white hair is mused from flying, his tunic and pants ruffled too —as though he’s run from Rhaenys's Hill. You pull him from the hall and into your chambers by his sleeve. You’re both too old now for him to come to you in the night —people at court will talk if anyone sees, and the walls of the Red Keep have both eyes and ears.

“I leave in the morn to help Lord Dondarrion stamp out these rumors of an unruly brotherhood in the Dornish Marches,” Daemon tells you. You’ve heard your father speak of those rumors in the prior weeks, even if he doubted the claims —King Jaehaerys’s reign is marked by peace and prosperity. Lord Baelon says he’ll be granted knighthood and the Valyrian steel sword, Dark Sister, for quelling the disturbance. “Though, before I leave–” he opens his fist to reveal a glittering white stone strung on a finely crafted rope of silver. “It was meant for your nameday celebration,” Daemon explains, the feast is to be held in a week’s time, and he knows he will not return from the Stormlands so quickly.

He holds up his gift so you can see the finer details —how the dragon’s claw curls around the stone, stamped with a hundred tiny scales. It lifts his heart to see you smile and even more so when you turn away from him, gathering your hair to the side so he may drape the necklace over your head and fasten the clasp.

The firelight catches the gem, and it twinkles around your neck as a star pulled from the heavens. It’s what you are to him, what you’ve always been —a star. A guiding light to pull him from the darkness. Daemon steps toward you, nigh closing what little distance remains, and he reaches for you, the backs of his fingertips brushing along your neck and jaw. “Iksā ñuha qēlos,” he breathes, tender as any caress. The weight of the world lifts from your chest, and Daemon can still see the gleam of childhood memories in your eyes.

“Se iksā ñuha zaldrīzes azantys,” you tell him, slowly, enunciating each word, still uncertain you are speaking the old Valyrian tongue correctly. Daemon smiles for you, his exhale a breathy laugh before he rests his forehead against yours —you’d do almost anything to live in this moment for eternity. But time does not stop for a fool’s desire. His lips, thin and wind burnt, ghost over your forehead, then linger there before he steps back to take his leave.

You stop him before he can go, hand loosely curled around his forearm. Daemon turns back and finds your lips on his —hesitant, but soft and sweet. But it’s over too quickly. “For luck, my prince,” you explain, not wishing to meet his gaze as you feel warmth rush to your cheeks in the aftermath of such a reckless action. The prince’s fingers curl beneath your chin and he surges forward at the same time. His kiss tugs at the corners of your heart, leaving you to shatter when his hands, now splayed across your back, draw you closer. And when your arms twine around his shoulders, Daemon’s certain he won’t ever be able to let you go.

LEANOR FLIES TO the Driftmark astride Seasmoke and beckons you to accompany him back to the Stepstones —for Prince Daemon has won the war, but he has not done so unscathed and there is only one person he wishes to see. They call him a madman and they hail him as a hero as you move through the victorious war camp. There are tales of how he slew twenty men, how it was only the three arrows that slowed him, but even still he cleaved the Crabfeeder in two. A maester exits the tent, his pale robes stained with blood. “How is he?” You ask.

But the voice that answers in the maester’s place is familiar, albeit rougher than usual and still laced with pain —the last dose of milk of the poppy has yet to take its numbing hold. “Come ask him yourself,” Daemon groans, recognizing your voice and shadow.

One of Corlys’s men draws back the flaps of the patched tent for you to enter. He lies on the cot, torso bound in linen strips speckled with blood, and his hair still a knotted mess of dried filth from the battle. Daemon means to sit up, but you stop him with a firm hand pressed to his shoulder and kneel at his bedside instead. “Issa sȳz naejot ūndegon ao.” It’s been many long months since you’ve last seen him —and even then, it is only fleeting moments on Dragonstone or at Driftmark before he returns to war and uncertainty.

Daemon reaches for you, his rough fingertips trailing across your cheek and jaw, then down to your neck and the silver chain resting there. You’ve scarcely parted from his gift since receiving it —letting it serve as a reminder for all those at court that your heart already belonged to another. The stone pendant still shines like a star even after the years, just as you do, always guiding him home. You take his hand and kiss his bruised and cut knuckles. “Ñuha qēlos,” Daemon whispers, and it sets your heart aflutter all over again.

It’s instinctive to lean into him when he pushes himself from the cot. Then he kisses you until the cold sea breeze falls away and your body sings with warmth —kisses you until he feels something melt inside him that nigh hurts in some strange, exquisite way. It’s all his longing and dreams and sweet anguish, and it all transforms into something enchanting, and when Daemon parts, everything makes sense once more —feels right once more. He lays back, grimacing. The Crabfeeder’s arrows struck deep. Daemon takes a long, slow breath, his eyes burning into you. “Avy jorrāelan,” he says, and he’s a fool for not saying it sooner. You kiss the corner of his lips in response, for you’ve already spake your love for your dragonknight.

“I mean to take the Stepstones as mine own,” he tells you. They will call him King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, and he will make his own mark on Westeros and the world beyond. But the stone seat and his bed will be cold without someone to share it with —he needs a queen to share the title and burden with. Daemon holds onto your hand and holds it close to his heart. “We can be together.” Together, you smile at the thought and rest your head on his chest. Together is all you’ve ever wanted.

High Valyrian translations: Iksā ñuha qēlos. - You are my star. Se iksā ñuha zaldrīzes azantys. - And you are my dragon knight. Issa sȳz naejot ūndegon ao. - It is good to see you. Ñuha qēlos. - My star. Avy jorrāelan. - I love you.

[ taglist: @mrsragnarlodbrok @erzsebetrosztoczy @certifiedlittleshit @safe-within-the-stars @holysmokesblog @sandronebabyy @qhbr2013 @dollvi3e @katie007123 @batmomphd @misskatiewrites @lillianastras @xinyourdreamsx @thewintersnoozer @beelanie @nenelysian @ksziggy @chemicalalice @oddaodd @prada-cat @madsmikkelsenss ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Game of Thrones/House of the Dragon taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

#Daemon Targaryen #Daemon Targaryen x Reader #Daemon x Reader #Daemon Targaryen Fanfic #House of the Dragon #Matt Smith #my writing #fic setting: pre HotD and up to the start of the War for the Stepstones #if you notice something wrong with my high valyrian translations plz let me know

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lanaluuart · 1 year

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Autumn vibes with Baizhu.

#Baizhu #Genshin Impact #Genshin #Qiqi #Changsheng #liyue #Happy Thanksgiving to my American friends #I will harass genshin CC staff with Baizhu art every month #Hoyo notice me #plz release him

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wexhappyxfew · 6 days

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12 on Subtle Love for Judy and Rosie? Simply cannot get enough of them ❤️

JAMIE HEYYYY!!!! thank you so much first of all for dropping this in the askbox :) very very appreciated on my end + it's for judy and rosie, my two sweetbeans who deserve nothing but the best, so truly, thank you!! i was inspired by the intimacy of sharing in the quiet moments and in this case, this piece hit me a bit harder than others. we come to judy in a time where she's wrangling some of the loses that the group experiences, over and over. and she's trying to find some anchor to hang onto in this ferocious sea that continually knocks her down, over and over......and rosie happens to be that anchor :)

looking out for me

(a/n): for the judy x rosie girlies :') in the midst of finals season, but needed a break from biophysics for the brain and landed on a judy x rosie piece that i'd been playing around with for a few weeks and finally found a place to put it in! prompt is: "You can call (talk to me) me. Day or night. I'm there for you." (changed call to 'talk to me'). please enjoy these two and the intimacy of sharing! <3

The briefing room was probably the place she felt it most.

The loss. The amount of lives that had stepped through the doors and heard that final mission, not knowing it would their final mission in life.

With the lights not on and the sun barely risen outside, it was almost peaceful. When they weren't being told that recipe for a suicide mission.

It was weird knowing Annie Bradshaw wouldn't be walking through those doors today for the mission; along with Margie or Bessie or Kennedy.

Knowing that their lives were scattered somewhere in continental Europe if they hadn't all died.

If.

Judy had gotten her tears out - it was funny, being so accustomed to death day in and day out, she got used to the names being told around the base. She just didn't expect it to be their names.

Reaching up to brush at a stray tear, Judy schooled her features a bit better than she had previously that morning when she'd woken up and Viv had watched her breakdown all alone and build herself slowly back up. None of them really wanted to have to talk about it - the four of them that were missing - especially Francis. Francis seemed to feel it deep within her enough that she was numb. Numb to it all. Judy hurt for her. One day she'd find herself better able to understand these emotions, these feelings, all those unwanted thoughts in her brain. For now, she could only sit and let them grow. She heard the door open from somewhere behind her and slowly turned her head over her shoulder.

Rosie Rosenthal stepped into the briefing room, his gaze lingering around the place, only before settling on her there in the chair. Judy watched him from across the room, the pound of her heart causing all the blood to rush to her head and her eyes, and it took all her might to stay right there in the chair instead of launching across the room to beg him to hold her and put her back together.

To get rid of this ache, this ever-present constant in her life.

Every person going down in a flying coffin, MIA or dead.

But even he couldn't do that if she couldn't even do it for herself. No one could do, especially if you couldn't do it yourself.

Judy hadn't taken the time to realize he had crossed the room, in his slow approach and settled there on the seat beside her. She watched him for a quiet moment and licked her lips.

"Not hungry?" he asked her quietly, leaning forward against his knees and looking up at her with those big, worried eyes, "I noticed you weren't at breakfast." Judy watched him, before a stubborn tear rolled down her cheek, quickly wiping it away, her hands slick with sweat, her heart pounding in her ears, loud enough for any other sense to be drowned out. She stared at him and swallowed the cry in her throat and shook her head.

"Not really." Judy managed out quickly, before looking towards the window, trying to control her breathing rate and her pounding heart, "Just needed a place to be alone….for a bit." Her vision became slightly blurred by her tears and she felt her body aching to cry, to let it all out, to get rid of this feeling and become comfortably numb. But she couldn't do that. She had to keep it in.

She could tell Rosie was taking it in, her poor mumbles of words, mulling them over and thinking all at once. His face looked more strained than usual and he seemed so still, like some sort of statue. She blinked away her tears - over and over.

"You going to be okay for the mission today?" she heard Rosie ask quietly, and there was something in his voice that made her want to cry just a little bit more.

Ever since Rosie had asked for her to be the turret ball gunner for Rosie's Riveters, she had been trying her hardest, putting out with all she could, to do her best in his eyes. There was a certain level of gaining his trust inside the plane that she had already gained outside the plane. A trust that she could operate a gun and strike down what enemy planes she could.

And he knew she was hard on herself, everyone had known that.

And with Silver Bullets being out of commission and their previous crew splintered in various groups, into Operations and HQ and all over Europe, she was still trying to convince herself she could get back to that headspace she'd been in under Annie and Captain Faulkner.

Now with her third commanding pilot, the fear she'd lose him was overwhelming.

"I will." Judy said quietly, looking over at him, his own eyes meeting her red-rimmed ones and she nodded, "I promise you." Rosie watched her; she usually never saw this much of his concerned side of him. He was usually pretty good at hiding it, at least in front of the other men and especially in front of her.

But sometimes, she'd hop out of that ball turret, sweat marks streaked across her face, burn marks on her cheeks, her hands beat-red and shaking and she'd see something flash through Rosie Rosenthal's gaze that made her want to take his worry away in any way she possibly could.

That maybe she could do something that wouldn't worry him, that would reassure him and take that fear away. Because even if he didn't show it, his eyes and that far-off look were ever-present and she saw it, even when staring at each other from across the interrogation table.

Because he'd stare at her as she spoke - citing what she saw, how many chutes, the works - and she'd watch his jaw clench and those eyes turn dark, and he'd speak solemnly almost, and an undisturbed, coldly, calm demeanor and would be by her side when they were dismissed. And he'd ask her how she was and if she needed a sit down. And he'd always have that look. One she replayed over and over in her head.

Like it was the last time he'd be seeing her get out of that ball turret.

"Well," Rosie said quietly, reaching into his inner coat pocket, revealing a neatly folded, lumpy brown bag, "then I can't have my ball gunner going up on an empty stomach so. Eat." He held out the brown paper bag and she stared at him, unsure of the offering, before taking it into her grasp and adjusting herself to sit up a bit. She looked hesitantly at the bag before looking up at him.

Watching with those persistent eyes, she slowly opened up the bag and inside was two pieces of bread, along with a sausage rolled in napkins and an orange. Her stomach, admittedly, growled at the sight and smell of food and she heard Rosie chuckle from beside her.

"Go on," Rosie said softly, his voice thrumming against her ears in a pleasant way that she'd never complain about, "here." He pulled his canteen forward and handed it to her. "Water, too." Judy watched him, in slight amazement and then met his gaze.

"Thanks, Rosie," she said quietly, "you didn't have to-"

"Don't worry about it," he said casually, and then settled into the chair and looked to her, "food's more important than anything and…I don't mind sitting here with you to make sure you enjoy it." She smiled a bit wider at his words, before digging into the bag and pulling the orange from the contents of the bag and settling it in her palm. Staring at the orange, she began to feel her eyes fill with tears and Rosie seemed to notice, leaning forward and placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Sorry," Judy managed out, reaching up to wipe at her eyes, a rather ugly sniffle leaving her nose as she nodded to the orange, "it's just….do you want half? I shared these with Bes all the time, so." Rosie held her gaze for a moment, before squeezing her shoulder warmly and nodding.

"Of course." he said, and Judy cracked out a smile towards him and sniffled again, "Big fan of oranges, ya know?" Judy let out a small laugh and she watched him grin, before she slowly began to peel the fruit, with Rosie's attentive gaze on her own downcast eyes and her slightly shaky fingertips.

"Oranges' your favorite?" Rosie asked her quietly, and Judy looked up, nodding.

“Back home, my brothers and sisters and I would always eat these. Ma made sure if we had anything, we had oranges," Judy said, a small chuckle leaving her lips, "Bes knew I loved them, so we'd usually share. All the time. And since…since she's not here, I wanted to share. With you." Rosie grinned at her, his eyes soft and lingering as he nodded. She smiled again before peeling away the rest of the bright orange outer surface. She looked up at him.

"Plus, it's rare when we get oranges in anyway, so….it's pretty special," she said, pulling the orange in half and then handing the first half to him, "for you." Rosie took the orange and smiled at her with a breathy, "Thanks." Taking a bite of the orange, that familiar and nostalgic taste flooded her mouth and she couldn't help but breathe a little easier just at that.

"Thank you, Rosie," Judy said, swallowing the orange and nodding to the bag, "it means a lot." Rosie gave her a worried smile, where it didn't quite reach his eyes and showed that maybe she had worried him more than she would ever know, but he nodded and looked to her fully.

"I know after the news, it hit you pretty hard." Rosie said, and she felt her throat tighten just at his words, the thought of what had happened, "And Judy….you know, you know you can talk to me. Day or night." Judy nodded and let a shaky smile cross her features.

"I'm there for you," he said softer this time, "you won't lose me that easy." That got a grin on Judy's face as she took another bite of the orange and met his gaze again, his baby blues watching her like it was the greatest sight to behold on base - when there were surely other things like the blue skies, or the setting sun, or the sight of one of those fortresses landing against the tarmac.

They didn't say much for the next few minutes, as they each enjoyed their halves of the orange, but Judy couldn't help but let her eyes linger on him for a moment after each bit of orange in her mouth. Watching how gently he had taken the orange from her, and how tender he still appeared now. How calm she felt sitting there next to him.

"You okay, Judy?" Blinking, she noticed that the orange was empty from her hands, and she was staring off into nothing important, and Rosie's hand was present on her shoulder. Judy met his gaze and then nodded, before covering her hand with her own.

"Yes," she said quickly, nodding again, "just, thank you Rosie. For everything. For looking out for me." Rosie smiled at her, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly, the tops of his cheeks dusting pink.

And he didn't have to say much - he just said, "Next time you get your hands on some oranges, come and find me."

Maybe oranges will be our new 'I got your back and you got mine'.

#masters of the air #mota #mota writings #silver bullets #judy rybinski #rosie rosenthal #judy x rosie #they #shared #oranges #(sobs in a corner)#ya know those quotes about sharing oranges? yeah that was basically my commentary on those in a moment of grieving and i just i-#mentally and emotionally charged by this so #dont mind me losing it in the tags AGAIN #yeah them #them them them #someone give them all the best and brightest things for their future plz #(cries)#HE NOTICES THINGS SHE DOESNT EVEN NOTICE ABOUT HERSELF !!!!!!! (he notices i scream)

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theproblemcallednight · 6 months

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guess whos not doing their hwwwwwwww

anyways. sigma in hoshikawa's style?? kinda?? the proportions, eyes, and shading are fine but the way they do hair is over my head. anyways hope this is good enough

#ik i reversed his hair colours #i didnt mean too #but it was too late when i noticed #but i can make up a valid reason watch #hoshikawa likes asymmetry a lot its rlly pretty #and a lot of times its on the left side (the character's right)#so there #it was def intentional #totally #bsd #bungou stray dogs #bsd sigma #sigma bsd #tmmr someone scream at me to do my science project if u see me here #plz its literally due in like 24 hrs 😭😭#night does art

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gothic-mothic-topic · 1 month

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What's a girl gotta do to find videos/images of character model studies, and in-game animations of the Ink Demon, Let alone any other character? I wish to over analyze every inch of every character I hyperfixate on until my eyes hurt and they're ingrained into my brain.

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softboiled-egg · 26 days

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Trying to get out of art block :3

#art #my art #dazai dark era #dazai bsd #oda sakunosuke #oda bsd #ango sakaguchi #bsd ango #dark trio bsd #can you tell I’m trying to diversify the way I draw faces :3 #was kinda inspired by obigoggles on Instagram :3 for dazai and Odas design and angos hair #plz notice me other cool bsd artist ;3;

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just-a-random-transformers-nerd · 1 year

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This app is awesome but I have to pay money for it to work so I'm not going to use it very much. Ill just stick to Sketchbook for bigger drawings. @retr0scum has a special place in the corner :)

#art #artists on tumblr #digital art #transformers #fan art #humor #soundwave #jazz #jetfire #megatron #optimus prime #sound systems #ratchet #blaster #rodimus #retroscum i love your artwork plz notice me🙏#this took a long time to do because i kept going into the app then not knowing what to draw #my brain keeps betraying me

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sourtomatola · 1 year

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My Friend @justfangirlstuffs...

You are not ready for this~

(Read left to right Warning: Blood, sensual touch, manhandling)

Excerpt from Enthralling you Enthralling me

Merrry Christmas!!

Next More enthralling comics

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octobre-ackedia · 20 days

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As a way of appreciation for Fern's work on his rewrite, I wrote my own chapter.

I wasn't sober during the process

Here are my highlights:

I think @fernlessbastard should take some inspiration from this masterpiece and add the chapter to his fic.

I could add context, I could

but it's funnier without it

#shitpost #tnt duo #quackbur #fic #fernlessbastard plz notice me senpai

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thatbigbisexual29 · 7 months

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You're Perfect As You (PJO/HOO)

ok ok ok ok ok so its the first time I'm doing this and this is comepletely random but HERE @carrie-tate I MADE A THING FOR NO REASON BUT HAVE THIS *blush blush blush blush* I've super super super super super love your PJO fan art and I really like them (also this couple gets like no attention but idk why they are like my favorite) and I know we've spoken like twice? but I just wanted to make this just cause also its reeeeeeally long sorry ok enjoy *shoves this at you then runs away and hides*

One could describe the perfect morning as what follows: Sunshine softly bleeding through the curtains, the warm light delicately kissing against smooth skin, and the warmth flooding into the bedroom. Sweet chirps of birds called from the outside and a gentle breeze rustled the tree by the window. Sheets and pillows strewn about on the mattress which was soft and inviting. And with a small excited gasp, you realized it was Saturday.

That's how Hazel Levesque would describe a perfect morning. And yet… something was missing. As she yawned and stretched, Hazel realized she was alone. Where was her boyfriend? He wasn’t hard to miss, especially due to his bulky size. (She loved waking up and clinging to his arm, knowing he was always too tired to push her away.) But she couldn’t feel his presence in the bed. Sitting up, she tried to get a look into the kitchen to see if he was making breakfast, but again she found nothing. She knew he didn’t work today, so where was he?

“Frank?” she called out. Before she could rip the sheets away, she heard a small mrrow? Lifting up the covers, she couldn’t help but smile as a small orange cat looked at her with a pleased expression. She giggled and scritched its head. “Frank, is that you?”

The cat meowed again and stretched, acting as if its arms were reaching for her. It stood on its legs and trotted closer, nuzzling into her hand. Hazel giggled again and laid down with the cat immediately worming its way in her arms, purring very loudly. She cuddled the cat close and hummed as she rubbed her face against its fluffy fur, stroking its tummy as well. If it was possible, the cat purred even louder.

“We should do this every morning, hm? Although, I’d prefer you as a fat, happy bulldog. I bet you’d really like belly rubs as a bulldog, wouldn’t you?” Hazel suggested, letting out a huffed chuckle as the cat meowed again. An hour passed and the cat slipped from Hazel’s grip and as it jumped off the bed, its form grew as Frank finally revealed himself.

“Noooo, more cat cuddles!” Hazel whined as she reached for her boyfriend. Frank chuckled, stretching his back then leaning over to kiss her forehead.

“Sorry, but this cuddly cat wants pancakes. You’d better get up and help or you won’t get any.” Frank kissed her head again and left her on the bed. She was up in an instant, following him out the door saying, “Like hell I’m not getting pancakes!”

Breakfast was made and eaten with lovely lo-fi beats to accompany them (Frank’s choice). Then, they began to settle down for the day. Hazel sat on the couch with her book as Frank laid his head on her lap while home remodeling shows played on the TV. As Hazel read, she carded her fingers through Frank’s short hair. She enjoyed the soft hums of pleasure that rumbled from his muscular chest.

Losing her train of thought, Hazel began to admire Frank’s form. He was built perfectly. He was muscular but not too bulky which was Hazel’s favorite thing. You could feel the pure muscle from his arm and he didn’t even need to flex. His entire chest was chiseled graciously from his pecs to his abs. His legs were something to marvel as well. It was embarrassing how easy Hazel blushed when Frank flexed his thighs and quads. But she couldn’t help herself. There was so much to love about him. And not just his body, she loved Frank because of how his kindness was unyielding. And the best part was that it was infectious. He was a loveable goofball that managed to get everyone giggling at his jokes or his silly solutions. Hazel was hopelessly in love.

Her arms moved before her mind did, setting her book aside and sliding her hand across Frank’s chest to his stomach. Frank let out a small gasp and smirked, fighting back a snicker. Hazel nearly squealed aloud but held strong, grinning back to him instead. She softly pet his tummy, turning his smirk into a bright smile. He put a hand around her wrist but his grip was so soft she barely felt it.

“Hehey, what are you doing?” he chuckled. He looked to his girlfriend’s eyes, fighting back a nervous giggle when he noticed the now mischievous glint in her eyes.

“Can’t I give my boyfriend a tummy rub? You seemed to like it a whole lot earlier~” teased Hazel, ever so slightly curling her fingers to make her giddy boyfriend jump. Frank did just that, twitching from her fingers while biting his lip.

“Y-You can… but…” Frank whined slightly and covered his furiously blushing face with his hands. Hazel laughed and shifted herself so she had both hands stroking his stomach.

“But what, Frankie? What’s the matter? Is there a problem?” Hazel’s honey smooth voice continued to tease as she now drummed her fingers against Frank’s hardened abs. Frank chuckled ‘miserably’ in his hands, lightly kicking his feet up as a very adorable reaction. The shapeshifter peeked at Hazel from his fingers and whined, “dohohooon’t…”

“Why nooooooot?” Hazel whined back but in a more playful tone. She gave a small pinch to his ab which made him squeak as he reached down to lightly push her hands away, but that proved useless.

“Because! It’ll tickle…” he said quietly, almost as if someone else would find out.

“I mean, that’s kinda why I wanna do it, dum dum,” she admitted. She started poking around Frank’s stomach that made him squeak once again and lean his head back, giggling oh so cutely. He gently thumped his heel against the sofa cushion to try and cope with the electrifying feeling. Hazel giggled and paused for a moment, taking Frank’s chin and gently directing his face towards her.

“I won’t do anything without permission.” That declaration from his girlfriend really sent him over the edge. Frank’s face went fully red as he covered his face again. After a pause he muttered, “m’kay.”

Hazel grinned and wiggled her fingers. Gasping like the first time, Frank started to chuckle sweetly, melting Hazel’s heart instantly. He covered his mouth with a closed fist, wrapping his arm around his chest as he tried his best not to lean off the couch. As Hazel’s fingers drummed and wiggled against his abs the more Frank’s laughter grew.

“Hmhm Hmhmhmhmhm… kkh… hehehehehehehehe! Hehehehehehehe! Hahahahahahahaha!” giggled Frank, now slightly arching his back off the couch.

Frank didn’t get tickled much since of his size and build, he suspected, but he didn’t mind when someone would try. Hazel found out his weakness on the Argo II and he didn’t necessarily say anything about it. No “please don’t tell anyone!” or “if someone asks me if I’m ticklish I know you’ll have told them” or anything like that. He always loved the games his mom would play with him, the stories she’d tell him as she tickled him silly. It made him feel… very warm inside. So having his girlfriend just up and do this out of nowhere made his heart flutter.

“Such a giggly goose- wait, are geese ticklish? Would you know Frank? I mean, can we test it?” Hazel was now unintentionally teasing the poor shapeshifter who now giggles at a higher pitch as Hazel swirled circles on his belly. He tittered and giggled, lightly kicking the arm of the couch as he fought with his arms to not block Hazel out. She started poking and prodding up his sides which made him squirm back and forth like a salsa dancer.

“Haha, Frankie! You’re so cute when you’re squirmy! What if I get you here?” Hazel pondered as she climbed her hands up to his armpit.

“EEHEE!” Frank shrieked and shot his arms to his sides, trapping his girlfriend’s evil hands where they were, digging into his highest rib.

“Hahahahahahahahahaha! Hahahahahahahahahazelllll! Thahahahahat’s my tihihihihihihihihihickle spohohohohohohot! Gahahahahahahaaa! I cahahahahahahahahahahahahaaaaaan’t!” Frank’s laughter rang true through their small apartment. And Hazel positively died of cuteness and cooed right back to him.

“Aww! That’s your tickle spot, huh? Does it tickle in your tickle spot?” She giggled as Frank nodded honestly, whimpering and laughing in the same breaths. Hazel forced her fingers upwards and that had Frank in stitches. He hugged his arms tight over his chest, kicking his feet harder now and shook his head back and forth as happy laughter burst from his throat.

“Nooooooooooooooo! Ahahahahahahahahaha Hazhehehehehehehehel! Come ohohohohohohohohoh! Nohohohohoho armpihihihihhihihihits! Eeheeheeheeheeheeheeheeheeheehee! Okahahahahay okay! Plehehehehehehehease!” Frank begged as he started to lose his mind. Taking pity on her large boyfriend, she stopped her wiggling fingers. This let the shapeshifter take in a huge gulp of air, panting and giggling as air was restored to his lungs. Hazel was about to leave well enough alone, but there was one problem.

“Uh… Frank?” she asked. Mentioned boy looked up tiredly to find Hazel’s hands were still stuck in his armpits. “I, uh, I kinda need these, babe.”

Frank froze… then shook his head rapidly. Hazel laughed and tried tugging her hands out, but her only result was ticklish glee from her boyfriend. She laughed again and tugged one last time. Half to prove a point, and half to hear that sound again.

“Bahabe! You need to lift your arms!” Hazel demanded, smiling at the silliness of the situation.

“Nohoho! You’re gonna tickle mehehe!” Frank argued, amused with not only the situation but as well as the simultaneous tickles.

“I’m gonna tickle you if you keep my hands here!” Hazel and Frank laughed for a moment before both calming, taking in giggly breaths. “Ok Frankie bear. If you lift up your arms, I promise I won’t tickle you. Swear on my life. Got it babe?”

Frank looked at her, still giggling through intervals of breaths. He sounded like a hysterical out of breath toddler, it was so cute! Hazel couldn’t stand it, her forehead falling on his chest.

“Cohome on, Frank! It’s not that hard!”

“Give me a second! Ghosh, what hurry are you in? I'm the ohone losing my mind!” Frank giggled as he fussed over her. She couldn’t give him just one second to man up?? He finally, finally caught his breath enough to focus.

“On the count of three, ok?” He looked at Hazel who nodded. Frank took a deep breath and exhaled. “One… two… three!”

In one swift movement, Frank lifted his arms and Hazel ripped her hands out his armpits as Frank shot his arms back down.

“See? That wasn’t so hard. Big baby,” Hazel teased, kissing his nose. Her hazel hair fell into Frank’s face causing him to smile. He brought his hand behind her neck and gently pulled her in for a kiss. When they parted, Frank started giggling again.

“What is it?” Hazel asked, humored.

“You taste like coffee.” Frank pressed their foreheads together and kissed her again. It was Hazel’s turn to giggle because when they broke away, she responded with, “And you taste like maple syrup.”

The two hummed and giggled, nuzzling their noses together and kissing every so often. And whispering ‘I love you’ to each other like it was their little secret.

Perfect wasn’t just a way to describe a morning. It was to describe their life, their love. It was all… perfect.

#pardon me carrie but if i may attempt to rizz you up?#*inhale* PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE #that was a joke plz dont be mad lol #*notice me senpai carrie*#also NO I DON'T HAVE A CRUSH ON FRANK THIS FIC PROVES NOTHING *blushes again*#pjo fandom #pjo hoo #hoo pjo #frank zhang #hazel levesque #frank zhang pjo #hazel levesque pjo #tickle fic #pjo tickle #pjo hoo tickle #pjo tickle fic #sfw tickles #sfw tickle community #sfw tickle fic

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xigrif · 7 months

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It’s almost time for another round of Abstractober! This will be the first year with an actual theme, and that theme is "Theatrics" - I hope everyone has fun with it!

You (possibly) know the drill:

Abstract art can be as fast and simple as you like, making it a good creative outlet for people with limited time and energy. If you’ve never done abstract art, this challenge is a great opportunity to experiment and explore with no worries or constraints - any medium goes, any amount of time and effort is fine, sticking to the prompts is not necessary, skip days if needed, go pseudo-representational, whatever! Experimenting with abstract art can be valuable and enriching no matter what kind of art you’re into. Trying something different challenges you to think in new ways and can be helpful with getting out of creative slumps. Without the pressure to make things look ‘correct’, you’re free to focus on design principles like composition, value, texture, colour etc., and then apply what you learn to your regular work. So, feel free to give it a try and tag your results #abstractober!

Alternately, you might try using prompts from previous years: 2018, 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022

#abstractober #art challenge #plz tell me if you notice an error cuz proofreading these things destroys me every time

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author-morgan · 2 years

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Title: Ānogar Hūra Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!Reader Rating: M Summary: When the war is over and done, and the blood has yet to dry on his hands, Daemon seeks you out. Warnings: Injury, post-battle filth (minor blood kink?)

TWO YEARS SLIP away in this War for the Stepstones. An ill-contrived attempt for Daemon Targaryen to prove his worth to his brother and the realm —to carve his path in the world by fire and blood. His madness is spurred by the early whispers of Corlys Velaryon, still bitter by Viserys choice to wed Alicent Hightower over Laena. Between the rejected proposal to secure his house’s power and the king’s disregard for the Triarchy threat, warring over the Stepstones was inevitable. But that was the early days of the war. Now it is hard to say which side is winning or losing, having turned into a bloody stalemate.

The Crabfeeder sends his men to an early grave. Corlys and Daemon do the same. Only injury has spared you from meeting the same fate —wounds from which it feels you will never fully recover. The blade cut deep, and when Daemon found you in the sands after the Triarchy retreated for the day, he was certain of your fate. Then you coughed up blood and bile and spake his name in fading breath. He took you to Dragonstone for the maesters to tend to, unwilling to entertain the thought of fighting in this war without you at his side, whether it be on the battlefield or at the war council.

But now —having rejoined the forces and after hearing of the happenings at Court— you want this farce to be over and done with. The sooner, the better. Too many have died already. Too many highborn lords laugh at the Sea Snake and Rogue Prince and their struggle against the Triarchy and pirates. And you know well enough that if Viserys has not yet sent aid to his brother and House Velaryon, there will be none to come in the future —it would be unseemly.

Caraxes casts a dark shadow on the encampment as Daemon returns. He’s been absent for nigh a week roaming the Stepstones and the waters beyond. The maester looks at you then gives a terse nod —you’ve helped enough for the day, and it is likely you’ll need to soothe the restless dragon within Daemon Targaryen. You fall into stride at his side and look him over. He’s unharmed. Daemon reaches for your hand, his fingers curling around yours. Your hands are coated with the blood of those fighting to survive their injuries, his with the blood of those already dead.

Daemon unbuckles his sword belt and places Dark Sister on the table before reaching for the ties and buckles of his dark steel armor. He sits, silent, and leans back —face twisted in frustration as he glimpses the spread-out maps and markers, a reminder of what little progress they’ve made over the last months. His gaze flits up —watching as you dip your hands into a wash basin, scrubbing away the drying blood, before sitting on the edge of a shared cot.

You stare at the trodden ground, suffocating under the weight of the war. “How much longer must this go on, Daemon?” It’s almost a whisper, weary and strained. Since trading a sword for a healer’s smock, you’ve seen too many die —some no more than boys, too young to even know a woman’s love. Daemon does not answer. He has no answer. This war could drag on for years, or it could end in a day. Daemon doesn’t know which it will be, for not even Caraxes flames can smoke them from the caves. “Corlys’s men are nigh spent.” Three more ships were lost today, and nearly all the men crewing them. “We are outnumbered” —Daemon’s lips twitch, he does not need to be lectured by you to know they are losing the war— “our supplies grow thin without the Crown's support.” But Viserys is too busy with his new queen to care about the war being fought in the Narrow Sea.

He stands and braces his weight on the table —silver-white hair falling in front of his face. It’s only when Daemon looks up that you can see the malice and anger in his eyes. “Flush Craghas Drahar and his men from those caves, and I’ll end this war tonight,” he bites. But so long as the Crabfeeder and his men remained in the caves and the Triarchy can supply new ships and men, this war will creep on, and the wheel of time will turn.

Shoulders sagging, you look down and drag a hand over your face. “I” —you shake your head and heave a great sigh— “I’m tired, Daemon,” you admit. You’ve only ever known peace with King Jaehaerys and Viserys until now. It is not like the bards sing, nor like the great tales told to children before bed.

Daemon rises from his chair and rounds the table, regretting his harsh tone as he stops in front of you. Rough fingertips trace along your cheek, pushing back into your sweat-matted hair —like this, he can see the scar cutting across your shoulder and neck, a line of puckered silver flesh. He sighs, curling his fingers below your chin, his thumb running along your bottom lip. “Look at me.” His voice is soft again, and you do as he says. “Where do you want to be?” He’ll take you anywhere —back to Dragonstone, the capital, or the Reach. Daemon sees you as an equal, free to come and go, not a soldier to be commanded, and he’ll think no less of you for seeking a place of solace instead of war.

Right here, you want to say, but the thought of rolling hills and a mild breeze makes you long for the Reach, for home. But you gave Daemon your heart when you were both children, running around the Red Keep —hitting each other with wooden swords. You don’t want to be amidst a war, but you don’t wish to leave him either. “I won’t leave you.” Daemon’s lips quirk upward upon hearing it, then he bends at the waist, and you tilt your chin up instinctively. His lips are wind-chapped, rough against your own, yet his kiss is soft, and he moves slowly, but it’s still fleeting —over too soon when he parts, resting his forehead against yours. You grip the front of his dark tunic and sigh, then he stands and steps back, retreating from the canvas pavilion to speak with Corlys and Vaemond.

He wakes you from restlessness. “Come,” Daemon says, offering his hand. You go without question and without hesitation. The encampment falls silent in the night; most are asleep or keeping watch along the shore. You crest a hill to the east, below Caraxes lays, slumbering —whiffs of pale smoke rising from his nostrils. The full moon hangs low on the horizon, half-swallowed by the dark waves and painted a pale shade of red. A blood moon. You’re unsure whether to take it as a good or ill omen.

THE WHEEL OF time still spins and what was two years turns to three. Three long years of fighting in the Stepstones with little progress to show for it. The only island to remain solely under Daemon and Corlys’s control is Bloodstone, and its meager keep is surrounded by breaking waves and scattered remains of ships run aground and tossed onto the rocks —inhospitable. You look over the whitecapped sea from a high balcony, watching and waiting, whiling away another day and fighting off the ache of an old wound.

Caraxes’s bellowing cry warns you of his arrival. The Blood Wyrm circles the keep thrice over before descending, stilling sand and ash with his wings. Daemon dismounts the red dragon below —soaked in blood— and stumbles on his feet, but there’s a look of victory about him when he glances up at you on the balcony, lips twisting into something between a smile and a smirk. There’s a new purpose in his stride too. It is over then, you think, alas.

He pushes open the door to your shared rooms, then unbuckles his sword belt and places it on the table as he prowls toward you, ready to claim the spoil of his victory —not giving you a chance to look him over for injury. Daemon surges forward, hands cradling your face as his lips seek out yours. You sigh into his mouth, letting him sear your senses. He tastes of salt and iron —of blood and sweat. His kiss makes you feel alive, even as it sucks the life from your lungs —but you keep coming back to it, again and again, back to him.

Fumbling, you grip his shoulders and let him part your lips with his tongue. The waves crash below the keep, but it feels as though they’re crashing over you too, pulling you under —drowning. But Daemon Targaryen makes drowning feel like the loveliest thing.

Your hand slips from his shoulder and finds the first of the broken arrow shafts, and you break from his kiss, frowning, knowing the bright red blood staining your fingertips is his own. And your frown deepens when you see the second rising from his middle. “You’re hurt.” It’s little more than a breathless whisper. Daemon does not answer, but he does not deny it this time either. The pain hasn’t set in yet. Arrows be damned, he won the war, and now he wants you.

Daemon’s hands fall to your waist, keeping you in front of him when you try to step back and survey the damage. Instead, your hands go the buckles and clasps of his armor —all slick with blood. He grimaces as you carefully pull the front of his breastplate forward and over the splinted ends of the arrow shafts. You rise onto your toes, and Daemon dips his head down, letting you lift the dark steel-and-leather armor overhead and set it aside —it will need to be cleaned and repaired— then you make quick work of his tunic, ridding him of the stained shirt.

His thumb traces a line below your bottom lip, wiping away the blood, but it only smears it. “Daemon,” you chide, knowing he means to distract you. Your prince is wounded, and you will tend to him as he once tended you, but you fear this is beyond your meager skillset. “I’ll get the maester.”

But Daemon shakes his head and grips your wrist before you can turn to leave. “No,” he tells you, knowing your hands are far gentler than any of the men trained in the Citadel. You nod and glance behind him toward the bed, he takes the cue and goes there, sitting on the settee at the foot of the bed and watching as you skirt around the room, gathering rags and the washbasin, but his impatience wins over. His fingers curl around the splintered shaft rising from his abdomen, and he draws the bodkin point out and tosses it aside.

You return to his side, frowning as you press a damp cloth to the bloody puncture. Daemon reaches for your hips, but you scold him with only a look and continue holding the cloth to stay the bleeding. “Ñuha jorrāelagon.” He grabs your hips again, voice husky as you relent, straddling his thighs.

Skirts hiked up around your waist, you can feel the outline of his hard cock pressed against your center —his lips part in a silent moan when you shift, and you won’t deny the effect seeing him like this —a true Targaryen— has on you. “Need you,” Daemon says, his voice a heady rasp with his palm pressed against your clit, two fingers exploring the slick gathering between your folds. He knows you won’t turn him away, especially now, having been separated from each other for weeks, and the hitch in your breathing and the soft moan that leaves your lips when two of his fingers press into your cunt is enough to spur him on. “Now.”

It’s a quick rustle of clothes —you rid yourself of your dress, and he fumbles with the ties of his britches, pushing them over his hips and down his thighs, then he lines himself up to enter you. Without a second thought, he’s pulling you down onto his cock —a low groan in his throat as you sink down to take him. Your cunt is wet and offers no resistance as he bottoms out inside you in one firm thrust. You’re tighter than he remembers, and it draws a wrecked groan from his lips.

Daemon presses his hips up into yours, feeling your walls tighten and flutter around his cock. “Greedy,” he taunts. And a choked little gasp escapes you. He pauses, fingertips tracing a random pattern along your thighs. You bite down on your lip, then offer a little smile of your own as you adjust to the fit and the soothing touch of his hand, stopping to grip firmly at your hips.

He holds you close —so your breasts are pressed flush against his bloodied chest— and ruts up inside you slowly enough to make you reacquainted with every inch of his cock sliding in and out of you. You’ve been parted for too long —unable to partake in the pleasures of flesh as you had before the war. It’s unexpectedly intimate, and you find yourself focusing on his face, where he’s still giving you that same pleased smirk until he pulls you down by the neck to meet his lips.

Another roll of his hips has you breaking away to let out a shaky whimper as his cock presses against that spot deep within you —it makes your toes curl. “Daemon,” you pant, struggling to speed up against the steady hold on your hips, keeping you in place. There’s a spark of something unfamiliar in his eyes that makes your stomach flip. He squeezes your hips down just a bit more to thrust deeper into your cunt.

Daemon keeps one hand firmly in place to control your movements but lets the other one roam over your body. You’re hyper-aware of the path of his rough fingers while he circles your navel, tickling over your stomach and ribs and up to your breasts. It stirs something more than a carnal desire in him to see you marked with blood like this —his blood. He pinches at your nipple without warning, and you cry out despite yourself and instinctively tighten around his cock in response. “Fuck,” he huffs out, voice rougher than normal.

Your head tilts back, staring upward at the vaulted dark stone ceiling, and Daemon sees it as an opening. He nuzzles his nose against the base of your neck, nipping and kissing before dipping lower and licking a long stripe along your breastbone —he can taste the metallic tinge of blood.

Daemon shows no sign of giving up, even with the fresh blood trickling from the open wound at his side. He continues to fuck you at a brutally slow pace —relishing in how well you fit him and how easily your bodies slide against one another. He’s only spurred on by the squeezing of your cunt that you can’t control. He pulls you closer, nips at your ear, and his tongue follows a bead of sweat running down your throat. His lips find your nipple again —suddenly, it’s hard to breathe, and your eyes snap open— sucking it into the heat of his mouth. You can’t stop the way you clench tight around him. He lets go of your nipple with a wet pop and moves to lave the other one with the same attention.

You’re so distracted by his attack on your breasts that you don’t even notice him finally releasing your other hip to rub his calloused thumb over your clit, and your resolve snaps like a frayed rope stretched too taut. “Daemon–” your words devolve into a needy moan, and his attention to your clit speeds up, but you need more —he knows it.

His unoccupied hand reaches to squeeze hard at your backside, and he picks up speed, your body following along with his movements. Daemon’s faint smile is taunting, but you love it —you love him— and your greedy cunt milks him for anything he’ll give you. You cry out for him, and his grip tightens to pull you up and down faster on him; you wonder if he’s getting as close as you are, but it’s hard to tell if the twisted expression on his countenance is from pleasure or pain —likely both. You lean your forehead against his.

You revel in every second he’s got you bouncing on his cock. His hand continues to make quick work on your throbbing clit, and you can feel yourself starting to come undone. “Fuck. Daemon, I–” you manage to pant out in his ear, unsure if you feel lightheaded from the sex or the heat and friction of your blood-slick bodies sliding against one another. He redoubles his efforts, thrusting up inside you with even harder, faster strokes, and his touch against your clit becomes nigh painfully intense. The waves of euphoria wash over you with his lips sucking a red mark into your neck, your hands buried in his filth-caked matted hair, and your ragged voice sighing and moaning his name over and over. The sweetest of songs —almost sweeter than victory.

He doesn’t last much longer once your own needs are taken care of —it’s been too long, and exhaustion begins to set in with the first twinges of pain. But he fucks you at that same frantic pace for a few more minutes, enjoying the sight of your breasts bouncing with every rapid motion of his body as you do your best to keep up —hips rolling and twisting to meet his own.

The muscles of his thighs tighten beneath you, and Daemon’s cock twitches —his head falling backward as he pants and groans your name. You wrap your fingers around the broken arrow shaft at his shoulder, and as he pulls his cock out at the last moment to paint your shaky thighs and stomach with his seed, you wrench the arrow free —it gives way with little resistance. He bares his teeth and hisses, eyes flaring with danger and a delicate mix of true pleasure and pain.

Daemon presses his hand against where the arrow was, and his fingertips come away painted with bright red blood. It still seems odd to see his own blood —and before you can stand from his lap, he grips your jaw and paints a red line over your chin with his thumb. Then his lips are on yours again —possessive and haughty— always reminding you that you’re his, and when you part to breathe and rise, he nips at your bottom lip. You glance down at yourself after standing on shaky legs —torso smeared with blood and streaked with pale ropes of Daemon’s seed. He’s marked you this eve in more ways than one. “Gevie,” he breathes, smiling in earnest.

By the time you both bathe and Daemon’s silver-white hair shines again, the sun has long sunk beneath the dark waves of the Narrow Sea. The bloodlust is gone, the day's aches settle into his bones, and the years of restlessness finally catch up. He lays back on the bed, wounds bound with linen and a great weight lifted from his shoulders. Daemon is nigh asleep by the time his head hits the feather pillow. You join him soon after and turn on your side, watching his chest's slow rise and fall, eyes tracing the new scar on his neck. It is over, you remind yourself, finding it difficult to believe after the past three years. Sighing, you press your lips to his temple, quick and soft so as not to wake him with the light of a blood moon painting the room in a pale-red glow.

High Valyrian Translation: Ānogar Hūra - Blood Moon Ñuha jorrāelagon - My love Gevie - Beautiful

[House of the Dragon taglist: @batmomphd @beelanie @certifiedlittleshit @dollvi3e @erzsebetrosztoczy @fictionaldistraction @holysmokesblog @katie007123 @ksziggy @lillianastras @lostingoogletranslate @lucyhotchner @misskatiewrites @mrsragnarlodbrok @nenelysian @nerdy4itall @notbrookie @paprikabadger @purestxblood @qhbr2013 @safe-within-the-stars @sandronebabyy @thewintersnoozer @xinyourdreamsx @xxgarden ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my House of the Dragon taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

#Daemon Targaryen #Daemon Targaryen x Reader #Daemon x Reader #Daemon Targaryen Fanfic #House of the Dragon #Matt Smith #my writing #fic setting: right after the War for the Stepstones #if you notice something wrong with my high valyrian translations plz let me know #oh this is filthy #mama I’m sorry #if i missed you on this taglist you'll be on the next!

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