★ Hazel ★ 2000's ★ Student ★ Artist and Writer ★ POC ★ She/Her ★ alternative ★
I write mostly for JJK, Marvel, DC, AKOTSK, Arcane, Frankenstein (GDT), Stranger Things, Avatar, and other miscellaneous media :)
I occasionally also post fanart
Main blog: @detectiveviridian
𖤓Dividers by @uzmacchiato
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𖤓 Minors under 16, Bigots, Transphobes, Racists, Homophobes, Zionists, Religious Extremists, Misogynists, and Rude People™, do not interact. You will be blocked immediately.
𖤓 I do not write cnc/r4peplay, sc4t, p1ss, ag3play, or inc3st.
𖤓 No hate in my inbox will be tolerated from anons. Don't be a coward, say it face to face. Why hide behind anonymity?
𖤓 If you don't like what i write, simply scroll away or block me. No need to spread hate over the work i pour my soul into :)
𖤓 I do not write smut for male readers as I don't know how to write mlm spicy scenes, and I don't want to, either. The rest of my works shouldn't generally mention any binary details and if they do— it will be mentioned in the description.
𖤓 English isn't my first language so forgive me for any grammatical/spelling errors I may make D:
This is what I imagine they would look like in college lol and i gave max glasses and clouded eyes cuz realistically she wouldn't have recovered fully from the attack so i headcanon her as atleast partially blind!
cw: domestic crackfic, sickfic, sick!aerion, fed-up!reader, fluff fluff fluff, whiny!aerion, maybe a little ooc!aerion, wife!reader, husband!aerion, ft. his bullshit armour design ideas
tags: fem!reader x Aerion Brightflame Targaryen, oneshot
a/n: first time writing our lizard boy :P lowkey went a little cuckoo with the word count and once again, sorry about the anachronisms :/
Please leave a comment, like, follow or reblog, it would help me grow my blog :3
other works
Enjoy ۶ৎ
Aerion is sick. Yes. Aerion Brightflame, the dragon amongst men, the monstrous prince, your lord husband—that Aerion. He is sick, and he is a bitch about it.
"For the love of the seven, Aerion, I need to go get your soup." You huff, looking down at the dramatic mess of a man attached adamantly to your waist. He has merely caught a cold, and now, he will not let you get out of bed, away from him, for any reason whatsoever.
"Call a servant to get it, woman." He sniffles quite pathetically, voice nasal and drowsy, muffled into the fabric of your velvet gown.
You deadpan, "It is ten footfalls away."
This only serves for him to hold on to you tighter "Ten too far." He tries to sound menacing, but it comes out as a huffy whine.
"Aerion-"
"I forbid you from abandoning your prince. That is an order."
"I am not abandoning you, you're being ridiculous. You need to eat. Let go of me before the soup freezes over, will you?"
"No."
May The Mother bless Maekar for all his patience because how the fuck does one deal with this?
You manage to free yourself from his grasp with some force, as his strength has greatly decreased since he became afflicted with the common ailment. He lets out an indignant grunt, looking positively betrayed as you take the tray of food from the nearby table and come back to him. You sit down at the edge of the bed, setting the tray down on the bedside table.
Sighing, you let the back of your hand graze his forehead, feeling for the tell-tale sign of fever. Aerion's eyes flutter shut as he leans into your cool touch, and you breathe in relief – his skin is not nearly as warm as you expected.
"Come on, up," You murmur, helping him sit up to eat. He grumbles in protest and glares at you with venom only a true dragon could spew (though it is subdued by the warm flush on his cheeks and the feverish sweat in his hair), but he doesn't disobey.
You take the bowl from the tray and hold up a spoonful in front of his face expectantly. You raise an eyebrow when he doesn't react and instead only looks from the spoon to your eyes – back and forth, as if debating whether his pride is salvageable or if he has none left and therefore might as well give in.
"Open." You urge again, moving the spoon closer, your own lips parting as a reflex to get him to do the same.
Aerion looks away from you and opens his mouth begrudgingly, letting you feed him the warm soup. His expression subtly changes to surprise when he tastes it, then to content, as the soup is delicious—which he did not expect.
"Is it too hot?" You ask in soft concern. He might be an irritating pain in the arse, but he's an irritating pain in your arse.
He shakes his head no and opens his mouth for more, which you provide. He swallows and points out, sounding as vehement as he could in his sickly state. "I would have had the cook's head if it was. The dragon ought never burn."
Your eyes roll on their own, as is the effect your husband has on you. 'Here we go again,' you grumble to yourself mentally. Nevertheless, you spoon-fed him the soup until the silver bowl was empty.
Now that he's much more energetic, having finally got some real food in him, his usual stupidity returns in full force.
He ponders out loud – "Do you think I should get a new helm made? Maybe one with mechanics that would allow me to blow fire onto my oppone—"
"Absolutely not, you will be causing the whole keep to burn to the ground."
He rolls his eyes and mumbles something that sounds almost like 'curse you, woman' under his breath.
You glare at him. "Pardon?"
He glares back. "Nothing."
You wipe his mouth with the corner of your sleeve, perhaps with a little more force than necessary.
He grunts, frowning. "Ow." You only smile sweetly and press a kiss to his cheek, getting up again to put the tray away. This time he doesn't protest, a little dazed and too busy clearing his throat to try and rid himself of phlegm.
You return to his bedside, holding out the small bottle of tonic the Maestars provided for his treatment. Aerion immediately grimaces.
"Oh fuck no."
"Fuck yes, I fear."
You shove the bottle closer to him and shake it in his face with an insistent glare and the kind of look in your eyes that silently conveys that there will be consequences if he does not listen.
He snatches the bottle from you and downs the medicine swiftly, as if taking a shot of firewine. He chokes slightly and makes a retching motion once he swallows and rasps, hand reaching out. "Water, quick." You withhold the goblet out of his reach with a slight smile gracing your lips. "Magic word?"
"Fucking hell, Please, love of my life, if you could be so kind, I'd like a drink or water." He sasses through his petulant disgust.
You smack the back of his head in retaliation but hand him the goblet anyway.
He eagerly gulps it down, cool liquid washing away the putrid bitterness of the medicine. Groaning in satisfaction, he keeps the cup down on the bedside table and looks up at you, as if expecting something.
"What?" You squint, suspicious.
Aerion looks at you as if you've grown two heads. "Uh – my kiss?" He scoffs, as if it's obvious.
"What kiss?"
"You always kiss me after supper." He says it casually, but the words make your heart clench. He's softer than he looks, sometimes.
People whisper nasty things about him. That he's unfeeling, only gaining pleasure from the suffering of others. That he's an entitled brat whose only pastime is cruelty. That he's a monster, sure to burn Westeros to the ground if he ever reaches the throne.
But you know that's not true. You know him, and he's not a monster; he's just a man. Like any real man, he gets sick. Like any real man, he wants a kiss from his lady wife. He's just a man, and he's your man. Even if the entitled brat part is true, and even if he does need a better hobby, he's still yours. You love him dearly, and you know he loves you too, although he has strange ways of showing it.
A loud, wet sneeze startles you, breaking your chain of thought. He blinks, looking surprised himself. You grimace at the sight of his running nose and hand him his handkerchief from the table, taking your own to wipe off his snot on your clothes.
"Eugh," He grumbles, congested, into the silk while rubbing his nose raw. You sigh and leave his side, walking away from the bed towards your vanity and wardrobe, partially to undress for bed and partially to change into something that isn't covered in sweat and snot.
He notices, perking up and frowning as you're halfway across the room. "Where are you going?" Something that seems suspiciously like panic creeps into his tone.
"Just to change, my love." you hum, sorting through your clothes.
He opens his mouth to reply when another sneeze racks through his body. He groans in annoyance as he feels more on the way, and you cringe in secondhand pain. Disappearing into the wardrobe as you search for your favourite nightgown, you try your best to ignore his sneezing in the background. It hurts your heart to see him suffer and not be able to help, but there's little you could do about it at the moment. You find the piece you were looking for and start to unlace the front of your robes. If Aerion were not too busy trying not to tear his nose off in frustration, he would have had his hungry gaze trained on you, but now he almost didn't notice you in the corner of the room,.
You reach behind you, trying to undo the intricate lacing on the back of your clothes, but huff when you are inevitably unable to do so. Usually, your lord husband helps you with this task. His gaze befalls you at that sound, and he frowns, keeping his handkerchief aside to extend his arms towards you. He sniffs. "Let me help."
You tilt your head in concern. "You are not well, Aerion, it is alri—"
"I am merely ill, not dead, you fool." His scowl deepens, and you give in, trudging over to him with a sigh and turning for him to untie the knots. He plants his feet onto the carpet, sitting up on the edge of the bed.
His tongue sticks out in concentration as he works, an adorable detail which you catch in the big mirror by the dresser. The sight makes you smile in adoration. His hands rest on your waist once he finishes, gently turning you to face him. You do, and raise a hand to brush through his spiky, sweat-soaked hair. He hums in satisfaction.
Your smile grows, and you slip out of his arms, back to your closet to change out of the heavy velvet, leaving you in just your underthings.
This time, Aerion was feeling much better, and he leaned back against the headboard with his gaze locked onto you. His eyes held not hunger, but admiration. He seldom let himself think like this. He was... grateful for you, he decided. Seven knows where he'd be if he never met you. You catch his gaze in the mirror and smile. "What?"
"Hm?"
"You're staring."
He scoffs. "Am I not permitted to look at my own lady wife?"
You roll your eyes and shake your head. Ever the dramatic, he is. You slip on the silk nightgown. Yawning, you trudge back to bed, climbing in beside him. Taking care of a sick 20-something toddler is no easy job, as one would find.
You pause, turning your head to ask, "Do you need anything else?" He doesn't speak in response but instead pulls you the rest of the way towards him to lie in his arms.
A contented sigh leaves his lips as you settle against him.
"Wife?" whispers his hoarse voice after a few moments of silence.
"Husband." You hum in response, raising your head from his chest to meet his gaze, your lips twitching to fight a smile.
"You did not give me my kiss." He mumbles, his expression much softer than before, but the grumpy pout remains. You chuckle and lean in, pressing a sweet, lingering peck to his slightly chapped lips. You were probably going to get sick after this, too, but you couldn't care less. Aerion's lips chase yours after you pull away. He kisses you again, a hand coming up to hold the back of your head.
You smile into the kiss, and he finally breaks it, moving his hand to your cheek. "...Good." He murmurs quietly, reverence bleeding through his indifferent tone. Well, reverence by Aerion's standards, anyway.
“Now sleep. Seven knows you need the rest, lest you start talking about commissioning yet another piece of scaled armour,” you grumble teasingly.
Aerion acts like he didn’t hear that and rests his chin on top of your head instead.
“Good Night, wife.” he murmurs into your hair.
"Night." you hum back, eyes already closing.
a/n: thank you for reading <3
updated a/n: Daeron girlies pls check out my news arranged marriage series linked below :3
When you find an x reader fic with your favorite characters but "Reader" is biologically related to a canon white character,has pink folds and pink nipples,has blonde hair and green eyes halfway into the story and is actually named Olivia or Jessica this whole time.
Girldad!Dunk because all I can imagine is this man, with a teeny tiny little girl sitting on his knee, teaching her to sew and mend or making flower crowns.
Girldad!Dunk because I want to see him with this baby that looks absolutely tiny and fragile in his arms (because she is), but anyone else holds her and you realize just how chunky she is.
Girldad!Dunk saying he's glad she's taken after a beauty like you and not a lunk like himself. Girldad!Dunk learning to love parts of himself after you point them out in your daughter.
Girldad!Dunk making sure to call her smart and beautiful every single day— he doesn't want her to inherit any of the self-loathing he has ingrained in himself.
Girldad!Dunk taking Maekar's offer to come to Summerhall, because although he is done with princes, he knows it would give her a chance at a better life than he ever had.
Girldad!Dunk shyly asking the maester at Summerhall, if he got the time, is there any chance he could teach her how to read? All he wants in this world is for his daughter to have more than what he did.
Girldad!Dunk wearing her clumsily made favor at tourneys (really, you did most of the work, but she helped!) and when he wins, he rides right past the royal and noble boxes to the crowds to crown your daughter Queen of Love and Beauty.
Girldad!Dunk teaching his daughter as she gets older how to wield a sword, because of course he's going to, she'll need to know how to protect herself.
Girldad!Dunk, and because the smallfolk tend to name their daughters after flowers, she's called Daisy, and whenever he sees one he brings it to her.
Taglist - Ask to be added! @h6avenly @qardasngan @nanamin-chan @beebeechaos @dont-try-pesticide
I have a bigger girldad headcanon with all the guys in the works, but who knows when that will be done, so enjoy this in the meantime!
Please like, comment, and reblog, and let me know what you thought or what you'd like to see next, my askbox is always open!
not using AI genuinely feels like the rest of the world is experiencing some kind of mass amnesia. if someone says they never use it, the immediate response is that can't be true because "everyone" uses it to write their emails or answer their questions. saw a comment suggesting that not using chatgpt to write an essay is "like the 90s". girl I graduated in 2021 and we weren't doing that! how is it that everyone has suddenly forgotten that they were entirely capable of doing these things all by themselves for their entire lives up until the past few years!! am I going crazy!!!
Daeron Targaryen being awkward with his wife because I feel like he is an awkward person
Daeron and his wife would have the kind of marriage where tenderness is constantly interrupted by something deeply, humiliatingly human.
Because yes, he is a Targaryen prince with prophetic dreams, a tragic destiny, and the general air of a man who belongs in a sad song.
But he is also Daeron.
Which means he can absolutely ruin a romantic moment by saying the most ridiculous thing possible.
Their first serious argument ends because he misunderstands the problem completely.
His wife is upset because he disappeared from a feast without telling her. Daeron thinks she is angry because he was drinking. So he starts apologizing for the wine.
She says, very stiffly, “That is not the point.”
He says, “Ah. A dangerous phrase. I have heard husbands fear it.”
She glares at him. He immediately shuts up. Then, after a moment, very carefully:
“So… the point is hiding somewhere else?”
She wants to stay angry. She really does.
But he looks so genuinely alarmed by the concept of “the point” that she nearly laughs.
He does eventually understand: she was not angry because he needed quiet. She was hurt because he vanished and left her to face the hall alone.
After that, whenever he wants to leave somewhere, he appears beside her like a guilty ghost and whispers:
“My lady, I have found the point this time. I am telling you before I disappear.”
He tries to be seductive and fails immediately.
Daeron is good with words when he is not trying too hard. Unfortunately, around his wife, he often tries too hard.
He leans in one evening, all soft voice and silver hair falling into his eyes, clearly about to say something devastating.
And then he says:
“You look very… marital tonight.”
She blinks.
“Marital?”
He closes his eyes.
“I heard it as soon as I said it.”
For weeks afterward, whenever he looks at her for too long, she raises an eyebrow and says:
“Am I looking marital again?”
And Daeron suffers. Deeply. Nobly. Loudly.
He writes her a very romantic letter and accidentally sends the wrong one.
Daeron writes letters constantly. Some are beautiful. Some are melancholy. Some are ridiculous. Some are only half-finished because he gets distracted halfway through a feeling.
One day, he means to send his wife a tender letter about missing her.
Instead, he sends her a draft in which he has written, in increasingly dramatic language, about how impossible it is to describe her beauty without sounding like “a drunk septon praising a pastry.”
The letter includes three crossed-out metaphors about her breasts, one comparison between her thighs and “the true wealth of the realm,” and a final note to himself that says:
“No. Too much. Wife will laugh. Begin again.”
She does laugh. For half an hour. When he returns, she greets him with:
“My prince, I hope I am still the true wealth of the realm.”
Daeron turns red all the way to his ears.
He accidentally insults her while trying to praise her.
This happens often. Too often. He means to say she looks soft and lovely in the morning.
What he says is:
“You look very comfortable.”
She slowly turns to him.
“Comfortable?”
Daeron realizes his mistake.
“No. I meant beautiful.”
“You said comfortable.”
“Beautifully comfortable.”
“Daeron.”
“Comfortingly beautiful?”
“Daeron.”
He gives up and hides his face against her shoulder.
“I adore you. Words have betrayed me.”
She lets him suffer for a while before forgiving him.
Mostly because he keeps mumbling increasingly pathetic apologies into her sleeve.
He comes to their chambers drunk on a night he promised he would be sober.
His wife is already waiting for him. She had dressed carefully. Not extravagantly. Just enough that he would know she had hoped for his attention.
Daeron sees it.
That is the awful part.
He sees the dress. The loosened hair. The way her face changes when she smells the wine on him.
And because he cannot bear the disappointment, he smiles. Defensively.
“My lady wife,” he says, too lightly, “you look as if you mean to judge me.”
She says nothing. That hurts more than if she had scolded him. He tries to cross the room, but his hand catches the back of a chair, and for a moment they both pretend not to notice.
She asks, very quietly:
“Did you forget?”
Daeron looks at her.
“No.”
And somehow that is worse. Because forgetting would have been easier to forgive. He did remember. He remembered and drank anyway.
He sits down slowly, not beside her, but near enough that she can see his face.
“I thought I would need courage,” he says.
“For me?”
“No,” he says, and his voice goes rough. “For being wanted by you.”
She does not know what to say to that.
He tries to apologize with poetry because plain speech feels too dangerous.
After hurting her, Daeron writes a letter. It is beautiful. Too beautiful. That is the problem.
It speaks of moons, rivers, shadows, sorrow, the cruelty of dreams, the sweetness of forgiveness.
She reads it once. Then again.
Then folds it and says:
“This is lovely.”
Daeron waits.
“But it is not an apology.”
He looks wounded.
“It was meant to be.”
“I know. But you hid inside the pretty parts.”
He says nothing. She continues, more softly:
“I do not need a song from you. I need you to say what you did.”
That is harder for him than writing ten pages. But eventually he does.
“I was drunk. I left you alone. I made you afraid to ask where I had gone. I am sorry.”
It is not beautiful. It is much better than beautiful.
He does not know how to ask for comfort, so he offers her comfort instead.
When Daeron is suffering, he often becomes gentle with her. Attentive in a way that gives him away.
He asks if she is cold.
If she has eaten.
If she is tired.
If someone upset her.
All while his own hands shake slightly. At first, she thinks he is simply being sweet. Then she realizes.
He is trying to receive comfort by giving it.
He cannot say: I am afraid. So he says: Are you warm enough?
He cannot say: I had a terrible dream. So he says: Come sit by the fire.
He cannot say: Please do not leave me alone tonight. So he says: You look tired. I shall stay until you sleep.
Once she understands, she starts answering the question beneath the question.
“Yes,” she says, taking his hand. “I would like you to stay.”
