43y, female, fan of Tom Hiddleston, Loki, Thomas Gibson, Aaron Hotchner of Criminal Minds, House of the Dragon, Matt Smith, Rings of Power, Lego, kitties and more; been here since 2016, feels longer
I've only just started watching A knight of the Seven Kingdoms and I'm obsessed with Baelor and Maekar so ofcourse I read all your Dragon princes' wife fics
And I was wondering if you could write something with that scene from the last episode where Aegon goes to Aerion's room to kill him, but Meakar and him mom are both there? maybe Baelor is still alive but in a coma?
IN THE RUINS OF BROTHERHOOD—Baelor & Maekar Targaryen
Baelor x wife!reader x Maekar
content: After a Trial of Seven you stand in the ruins of brotherhood, not only from your husbands, but your own sons.
words: 1k
cw: MDNI 18+ canon typical violence, as always if Trial of Seven happened wife arrived after, mentions of grief and guilt, lmk if I missed any
a/n: it warms my heart how much dragon princes’ wife means to all of you <3
more of the dragon princes’ wife universe
Aerion's labored breaths filled the room, and each time it felt as if it was your own lungs burning, and it might as well have been. Maekar sat next to you, stone like, his hand wrapped around yours, but it was unknown who was grounding the other more.
Neither of you spoke, not that either of you were really sure what to say.
You were in a state of disbelief. Having arrived to not only your two husbands injured, but one still in a critical state they did not know if he would make it through the night, and the reason for that sat next to you.
You could feel his guilt, even if he would not voice it to you directly. You knew him better than you did yourself most days. That meaning the guilt of injuring and possibly being his brother's demise was not the only thing weighing heavy on him.
It was also the fact of what he allowed to transpire in your absence. That Daeron and Aegon had gone missing, Aerion's currently had not been contained, and in that had lead to the first Trial of Seven in a hundred years.
Aerion would live. The maesters were sure of that despite his current state.
You let out a sigh, your hand moving to rub at your face, Maekar's hands tightening around you as if he could read your thoughts. In a way he probably could, because just as well as you knew him. He knew you as well.
You opened your mouth, finally ready to speak, but instead the creak of the floorboards sounded through the air instead. Your head snapped to the entrance, finding the last thing you had been expecting to see.
Aegon. Your sunshine boy. The one that had slept with you until he was three. The one that you chanced through the yard pretending to be some Blackfyre Soldier. Your youngest boy. Was here with a knife ready to end his own brother's life, on purpose.
After Maekar had almost done the very same, on accident trying to get to your third son.
You could see the hesitation in him. The shakiness in his body, despite his gaze trained on his elder brother with a purpose. A need to repay the debt, for the events that had taken place years ago or even mayhaps to protect others for the young man himself.
"Egg," you whispered, quietly, so low it almost sounded like the wind.
The boys head then whipped around meeting both yours and his father's faces, the tears evident in his violet eyes. His entire face crumpled the moment it meant yours. You went to stand, but instead a heavy anchor was holding you down.
You turned meeting Maekar's violent eyes, so many emotions swirling around them they mirrored the shores of the Storm Lands. You held them a moment, before he nodded, and it told you everything you needed to know without saying a single word.
You sat back, feeling his fingers slip through yours. You watched carefully as your husband made his way toward his youngest son, and did not utter a single word. He did not need too, instead he rested his large hands on his shoulders.
You watched as Aegon reacted immediately, leaning further into his embrace. The knife clattered to the floor, echoing slightly, and it would be a sound you would never quite be able to forget no matter how hard you tried.
That if something had been slightly different, then this could have ended worse. That your youngest boy would have had to live with that on his subconscious the rest o his life.
Then there was a knock on the door, cutting through the fragile moment, causing you to stand to your feet. "What?" Maekar asked, his voice filled with an edge it always seemed to have when talking to others.
"Ser Duncan request an audience, my prince," he informed the man.
The man's eyes then snapped opened, his jaw locked as he met your gaze. You cast him a nod, assuring him that you had it handled. He stared at you a moment longer. His gaze softening in the way it always had. Something reserved primarily for you.
Your lips turned up slightly, trying to muster a smile, and it seemed to do the trick cutting through his dilemma with ease. He leaned forward pressing a kiss to your temple, letting it linger.
You let out a shaky breath before looking down to Aegon who stared up at you. He looked younger then, his eyes filled with tears, his bottom lip shaking the way it use to when he had a bad dream, and crawled in next to you.
You dropped down to your knees, your arms open, and your son barreled into them. You held him tightly, as he cried sightly into you. Your hand moving up and down his back reassuringly. You did not try to quiet him, allowing him to get out all the sorrow and grief that coursed through his small body.
The tears that began to fall down your own face were quieter than his own, but the grief inside yourself was just as loud. That this was how your life had turned out.
That Daeron had tumbled into his drunken ways and disappeared for days. That Egg had shaved his head and had stuck with an unknown man for days, rather then presenting himself to your husbands. Maekar striking Baelor and almost ending his life in a Trial of Seven caused by Aerion's cruelty. That your youngest son had tried to kill his own brother.
A small voice tore through your thoughts, "Mama?" he whispered, causing you to hum in acknowledgement. "Can you please convince Ser Duncan to come home with us?"
You thought of it for a moment. Thinking briefly of what your eldest two sons and Maekar had told you about the hedge knight that Egg had become found of. He was good, in a way most were not. In a way that even Baelor seemed to lack in someways, and the realm needed men like him.
Your son needed a good, true, man like Ser Duncan the Tall.
"Yes," you answered, voice firm, and you both knew that if anyone could achieve this then it was you.
Some women will never want children in their life in any meaningful capacity. They don't want to give birth. They don't want to adopt. They don't want to be the fun auntie. They don't want to be a godmother. They don't want to work in a field with children. They will never change a child's diaper and don't believe their lack of childcare skills is a problem that needs fixing, because childcare is not a crucial part of the human experience, with billions of people on the planet. They go about their day while only seeing kids out at the grocery store or at the park, and nothing is missing from their lives.
The refusal to accept this is driving a global right-wing backlash movement.
hey, it’s horny horny horny again. Back with some thoughts about BFFs Dad Universe. One of readers friends or partners on some academic project talking ALOT about Baelor suggesting maybe she could get in on the fun and they could really show an old man a good time. Somehow I think reader is quicker to jealousy than Baelor is!
Hiya Horny Thrice! This gave me such a good idea for a short blurb because everyone assumes the composed older academic is going to be the jealous one and the uni student is going to be the wide-eyed passenger in that particular dynamic, but this AU has never worked that way.
She kissed him first. She proposed the video call. She deployed "daddy" after doing actual reconnaissance on his reaction beforehand. So jealousy runs in the same direction it's always run in this relationship — fast, decisive, entirely hers to act on. Baelor is not without possessiveness of his own — it surfaces, quietly, in specific circumstances — but between the two of them, she gets there first every time, and she gets there harder.
Picture something like this happening on the early stages of the relationship:
The dinner had been someone else's idea, which was the only reason you were still sitting through it.
A handful of people from the department, a restaurant too loud for the conversation it was hosting, and Priya three glasses of wine into a story about a guest lecture that had apparently rearranged something fundamental in her. The voice, she kept saying, like it was a whole argument on its own. The hands. Gods, the way he just — holds a room without raising his voice.
You knew exactly which hands. You knew exactly what that voice did, in considerably more detail than anyone at this table.
"We should get him," Priya said, leaning in like she was offering you something generous. "Seriously. Show an old man a good time."
You laughed. It came out thinner than you meant it to.
"He's not really — that type," you said, which was not a no, and you hated how close it landed to being one.
"Everyone's the type for the right offer," Priya said, delighted with herself, and moved on to dessert, and you sat there for the rest of the evening with something low and hot sitting in your chest that had nowhere to go, because nobody at this table knew, because you'd agreed to be sensible about this, and you had spent three hours being sensible and had absolutely nothing left.
You were at his door by nine.
He opened it, took one look at your face, and said, "Ah," in the tone of a man revising his evening's plans in real time.
"Someone," you said, stepping past him into the flat, "spent an entire dinner talking about how they'd like to show you a good time."
"I see." He closed the door.
"With me included. Generously included."
Something crossed his face — brief, controlled, not entirely composed. "I take it you declined on my behalf."
"I said you weren't the type."
"Accurate," he said with a low chuckle.
"It wasn't a no," you said. "It should have been a no. It should have been he's mine, find your own, and I couldn't say that, because nobody knows, because we decided to be careful, and I am done being careful tonight."
He was quiet a moment, something dark moving underneath the composure — the jealousy he rarely let surface, present now in you, working.
"Someone spent an evening discussing me," he said slowly, "as though I were available."
"Yes."
"And you sat there."
"Yes."
"I find," he said, "that even I have opinions about that."
"Good," you were already approaching him. "Because I intend to remind you exactly whose you are, and I'd like you to hold still for it."
Whatever composure remained cracked open entirely.
You crossed the room and pushed him back against the wall, your hands fisting in his shirt, and kissed him hard enough that his breath left him in a rush. He kissed you back immediately, hands finding your waist, and the low sound he made when you bit his lip was answer enough.
"Say it," against his mouth.
"Say what."
"Whose you are."
His breath caught. "Yours," he said, low, brows somewhat furrowing. "You know that."
"I want to hear you mean it." You got his shirt open, buttons scattering, no patience left in your hands, and pressed your mouth to his collarbone, biting hard enough to mark, feeling him shudder under it.
"Fuck—"
"Somebody wanted this." Your mouth traced a line down his chest. "Wanted you. Didn't know they were already too late." Another bite, lower. "I want them to know exactly how late."
"Gods," he said, hands tightening at your waist. "Say that again."
"You're mine." You got his belt open, his trousers down, pushed him properly against the wall, wrapped your hand around his cock — already hard, already undone in a way that told you the jealousy had done something to him too. "Nobody else gets this. Nobody else hears the sounds you make. Nobody else gets your hands, your mouth, the way you say my name."
"Nobody," he agreed, head dropping back against the wall as you stroked him slow and certain, watching the composure fracture with every pass. "Only you. Only ever you."
You sank to your knees.
Took him into your mouth without preamble — no patience left for slow — and felt his hands find your hair, gripping, his hips pushing forward with urgency.
"Fuck—" broken, immediate.
You pulled back just far enough to look up at him, eyes hard. "I want you to remember exactly who did this. Who gets to."
"You," he said. "Fuck, only you—"
You took him deep again, thorough and deliberate, a slight presence of teeth in every stroke, and felt him come apart above you — hands tightening in your hair, composure gone completely, low sounds falling out of him unmanaged.
"I'm close," rough. "You should—"
You pulled back before he could finish. Stood. Pushed him toward the bedroom with a flat hand on his chest.
"Not yet," you said. "I'm not finished reminding you."
He was on his back within seconds. You climbed over him after practically tearing your clothes off and sank down slowly, watching his face as you took him in — watching the last of the composure leave entirely, watching him become just him, undone and yours and completely present.
"Say it again." You rolled your hips, set a pace that was entirely yours to control.
"Yours," immediately, like the word had been waiting. "Yours. Only yours. Nothing else—"
"Good," you said, and rode him hard, hands braced on his chest, nails marking, claiming every inch with nothing gentle in it. His hands found your hips — gripping, not directing, just holding on — his own hips meeting yours with increasing urgency, his voice breaking into fragments of your name and yours and gods and don't stop.
"They don't get this," breathless, moving faster. "Don't get to see you like this. Wrecked. Begging. Mine."
"Yours," again, nodding profusely, wrecked and immediate, and you felt him getting close, his grip tightening, his rhythm faltering.
"Say my name when you come," your tone near commanding. "I want to hear it."
He did — broken and rough and entirely yours, his whole body shuddering beneath you — and you followed almost immediately, clenching around him, the release moving through you with the specific satisfaction of a claim thoroughly, completely made.
You collapsed against his chest after. Both of you breathing hard.
"Well," he said eventually, into your hair. "I feel extremely reminded."
You laughed, and felt him smile against your scalp — warm and slightly wrecked.
"Tell your friend," he said, "that I appreciate the sentiment. But the position's filled."
"I told her you weren't the type."
"I'm not," he said. "I am entirely, completely the wrong type for anyone but you." A pause. His hand found yours, laced your fingers together. "I do hope that has been adequately communicated this last hour?"
"Very adequately," you said, and closed your eyes, and let the last of it finally, completely settle.
the thing about media literacy is that understanding why the author chose to specify that the curtains are blue is the same skill set as understanding that the way the author characterizes all black characters as angry or all chinese characters as meek and silent is racist. it is the same skill set as being able to identify when a news source is biased or when someone is feeding you propaganda. the ability to ask "why did this person choose to present this premise in this specific way?" is a critical skill in a world full of misinformation. why are the curtains blue? maybe it's a characterization detail. maybe it's extraneous worldbuilding. why is this character written as being right all the time? maybe you're intended to disagree with them. maybe it doesn't matter. maybe you should still ask why.
I didn’t mean to offend you I just genuinely think you’d like what the ai did with the story, it’s really great and maybe even better than the first chapter! I also asked it to make fan art based on some of your shorter works and they’re gorgeous, some of the best art I’ve ever seen. Ai isn’t as bad as people think so if you ever realize that and change your mind I can still send it all to you!!! <3
i wasn’t going to respond to this bc of how much it fucking pissed me off but i feel like this needs to be said.
don’t ever come into a writers’ inbox and openly admit you used ai to, let’s face it, plagiarise their work. i don’t CARE if you want it to be on my blog, you still fed it into an ai bot for your own gain. it’s fucking ridiculous that you blatantly ignored the rules on my page that state NOT to do this to my work.
also saying it’s “better than the first chapter” sorry but fuck you?? first you steal my work and put it into ai and then basically say my works shit and ur ai slop is better???
i work full time, i dont tend to write all that often, hence why longer one-shots/fics are barely posted. sometimes all i can get out is a little drabble/blurb. and then sometimes i lose motivation for fics/series’ that i’ve previously posted about. this doesn’t give you an excuse to take my work and use ai to create your own. sometimes fics just don’t get finished and you have to fucking deal with it. if i ever find the motivation again, i might post about it again, but if i don’t, then don’t use ai on my work. and especially don’t use it to create fucking fanart on my other pieces.
tl;dr don’t fucking steal my work and plagiarise it through fucking ai. i don’t want your ugly nasty disgusting ai slop anywhere NEAR my blog and my content and my works.
So apparently the only way to write a female character is first stripping her down to her crying all the time, not able to decide anything, being portrayed as helpless and lost, being needy for some praise from the women her now husband slept with long ago just to make her snap in the last episode of the season, having her dragging her son she was even scared to speak to this whole season because of the fear that he also would get hurt with her outside and have her talking like some kind of 'evil' disney princess? There's a difference between having a character having a journey and being coherent in the storytelling and just pushing this version of her into the viewer's face. Does anyone else find it quite telling how aegon, the male character had this journey of finding himself, picking up the pieces while staying himself while the writing of rhaenyra feels like the writers were like, oh yeah shit we have to have rhaenyra the cruel and no we won't do it after her killing otto or having a feast with the noble lord's and lady's and serving them rats? Ah I forgot first she has to cry at least 5 more episodes because she's a women that's what you do as a women I forgot, because god forbid we do it a little bit more nuanced. Oh and when we finally decide that now is the time to switch this up she of course has to first talk to a man to get her out of her panic attack because her relationship with him is only useful or worth showing when she is in need, not because she chose him to be her husband years ago and is in love with him but hey now their relationship is useful again so here we go lets forget what happened one episode ago who cares anyway.
When I first saw the still with Rhaenyra in her armour it seemed strangely familiar. But when I read your post I realised why. They didn't turn her into an evil disney princess.
They turned her into the evil queen from Snow white. The female archtype villain
But she was still allowed to wear a dress at least... and wear another color apart from black...
Season 2 was already so bad, but they managed to make season 3 even worse.
It's truly awful how openly misogynistic this show is. Giving Aegon his girlboss moments was horrible. Aegon. Who should be the villain in this show! The showrunners truly love to tear some characters down and raising others up.
Turning book!Rhaenyra who was bullied by her (evil) mean stepmother into *the* archetype evil stepmother on this show....
You still have time. Time to change your wardrobe. Time to get divorced and married again. Time to change majors. Time to learn a trade from scratch. Time to pay off debts. Time to travel. Time to love and be loved. You still have your whole life ahead. Whether you're 19 or 66. You still have so much time. But you have to take it.
ok turning helaena into a thousand butterflies was a direct fuck you to grrm and his butterfly blog post specifically. these people are sooo messy lmfao
NAHHHHHHHHH 😭😭😭😭😭 thats so fucking embarrassing for ryan condal on god
Today is Severe M.E. Awareness day. A day that makes me feel such heavy grief, not only for what my life could have been like if I hadn’t got sick at 14, but for the millions of people who suffer around the world from this utterly devastating illness.
I had severe M.E. for several years as a teenager, and it put my entire life to a stop. I left school, and lay in bed for years, as friends went to college, and then uni, and went on to live their lives. I was completely bedbound, had a stairlift in the house, a commode next to my bed, and I was barely existing.
That’s the reality of Severe M.E.
It takes every single thing from you, and when you try and try to get better, the symptoms get worse and worse.
It is hell.
August 8th, marks the birthday of Sophia Mirza. She was the first person in the UK to have Myalgic Encephalomyelitis (ME) officially recorded as the cause of death.
Today honours those living with severe M.E. whom are living with disabling fatigue and a mariad of symptoms.
Most are housebound, bedbound, and often living in complete darkness and silence, as they cannot even tolerate light or sound.
Please watch. Please share. This is ours - and so many others’ - reality.
These stories deserve to be seen.
Tags of the wonderful people featured in the video part 1 (continued in comments)
Fran @franhaddock_
Amy @amykatherrrine
Armond @armond.needs.rest
Lizzie @slaywithsparkle
Elicia @its.me.elicia
Megan @mindlesslymegan
Mihaela @bloomanddot
Kayli @wandering
Lindsay @spoonfuloflindsay
Chloe
@chloeschronicles_of_illness
Emily @thatgirlwithlongcovid_
Quella @quella_the_dizzy_octopus
Fen @kutlongcovid
Katie @katiecupcakelifewithme
