A marriage is arranged between the Daynes of Starfall and House Targaryen to strengthen the bond between Dorne and Westeros. marrying a widow was daunting enough for Luciya as this widow was heir to the throne.
In the six moons in which they had been wed, Rhaena and Daeron's spaces slowly merged. The young Lord Paramount spent much of his time in meetings, on the training growund whilst the Lady of Oldtown held court in the gardens and her apartments. Sometimes, Daeron could be seen in the gardens with Rhaena and she would be in his study. Silent and seemingly distant but together.
One afternoon, the keepers brought the egg to Rhaena's solar. Daeron followed as they placed the warmer down in front of the fireplace. Rhaena placed her embroidery down, confused.
"What is this?" she asked.
"A clutch of eggs was brought from the Vale going to King's Landing. I, ah, wanted one for you." Daeron explained, "I chose this one for you. I want you to have it."
Rhaena eyed the egg warily. How many times as a child had she waited, patient, afraid, for an egg to hatch?
Then she found Sheepstealer, a lonely wild thing who was just as alone as she was. For a long time, her very soul aches at the thought of what may have happened to him. He died alone, afraid and in pain.
But now she was numb to most things. Even a dragon's egg could not bring a flutter to her stomach.
"You do not want it." Daeron stated. He had become good at reading her silences. He could see her hesitation, her inner conflict. He shook his head, chastising himself. It was insensitive, given the loss of her dragon, her sister's dragon too. "I apologise. I shall have them return it-"
"It is a fine present, husband. Thank you." Rhaena insisted, meeting his eyes, "Truly. I was just surprised. I did not think to see another egg."
"I only wish to make sure you happy here." Daeron said, bowing slightly, "I shall see you at supper." He left her.
Daeron paused outside the door, looking through the crack of the door. He should not spy on his lady wife, no that was unbecoming.
But he wanted to see if she liked the egg. Even if it were to never hatch, would she like it?
Rhaena tentatively lifted the lid of the warmer. This egg was of a deep pinkish hue. It was beautiful, very beautiful.
I chose this one for you. I want you to have it.
Hatched or not, the egg brought a small smile to Rhaena's face and warmed her heart. Unbeknownst to her, Daeron smiled too, able to walk away, knowing she was cheered.
hi babies, just wanted to send a message. i need a little favor from my favorite people. i recently made a gofundme, and i’d really appreciate any support you’re able to give. i understand not everyone is in a position to donate a large amount, and i completely understand that. honestly, i’m not asking anyone to send a lot.
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I have been working extremely hard since moving back home in November of 2025. F… Aliyah Kemp needs your support for Help Me Save My Apartme
nsfw — minors dni :: thinking about how sukuna loves watching you fall apart for him, only to remind you he’s nowhere near finished with you.
“hghh… oh god. oh god…” you whimper as sukuna laps at your pussy with hungry devotion, like it’s the last thing left in the world. more essential than his thirst for blood; more essential, even, than the empire he had built with his own hands.
“feels good, brat? grinding yourself against my face like a little whore. i know those other orgasms still weren’t enough for your needy cunt,” he growls.
“yes, ’kuna, please. give me more… i need more.” you moan, drunk on his tongue already imagining it was sukuna’s cock instead.
then he pulls away, lifting his head from between your thighs. for a split second, you whine at the loss, but he makes up for it immediately, his long fingers spreading you open before circling your clit in slow, almost painfully deliberate motions that reach straight into your core.
“tell me what you want, brat.”
he tries to sound cruel. controlled. but his voice betrays him. desire bleeds into every word, runs through his veins and guides his fingers.
for a moment, you think about refusing to beg. but you know he’ll keep you from coming if you do. now, your body is nothing but a mess of desire for sukuna, incapable of resisting him.
“i want you to fuck me. please, ryo, i need this,” you say, lifting yourself up as his fingers pull away, and the sound that fills the room is a soft but deliberate slap against your cunt.
sending butterflies through your stomach and making you clench around nothing. you love when he fucks you like this, like you’re nothing but his dirty little thing. sukuna was good at that — at devouring you like you were the last and most delicious meal right in front of him.
in the blink of an eye, he turns you over, your chest now pressed against the bed. one strong hand pulls at your stomach as he places a pillow beneath your hips, making you arch your hips into the air. in response, you give him the view he wants, spreading your legs and pressing your chest further into the mattress, your pussy completely exposed.
sukuna positions himself between your legs, rubbing his hard cock against your folds, still dripping from your first orgasm. the heat makes you moan instinctively seeking more of him, caught between pure ecstasy and anticipation.
“kuna… hah, inside, please,” you whimper.
but he doesn’t even listen, because his cock is already pushing into you. at first, it’s slow. he stretches you patiently, even after spending so much time touching you.
then, when he’s buried inside you completely, you could swear you hear him growl. you squeeze around him involuntarily, and sukuna leans over your back, brushing a few strands of hair away from your face before speaking into your ear.
“barely have me and you’re already squeezing me like that. you’re so needy aren’t you?”
then he starts moving. obscene sounds fill the room while your only instinct is to drool and become a mess of moans. you can feel him pulsing, the thick vein along his cock throbbing as he moves against your hot, trembling walls.
the angle makes your vision go white, and you can’t seem to breathe past him. but even so, it feels good — making you feel close to heaven, even while being fucked by something so close to the devil.
“ahhh—s-sukuna… please, more. i’m cumming. fuck… i’m cumming!” you scream.
your sounds are a mess now, and even you can’t understand them anymore. his size is overwhelming, consuming you completely, but there isn’t a trace of pain. he had spent the entire night preparing you to take him.
your walls tighten, and for a moment, your vision goes dark. it’s brief, barely half a second. your thighs begin to tremble, and the sounds of sukuna moving against you grow even wetter with your release dripping down his length.
“so pretty. so pretty for me.” his voice sounds thick with pleasure. “fuck, i want another one.”
“r-ryo! it’s too much… i can’t. it’s too much.” you frown.
you both know you can.
sukuna’s fingers leave your waist, where he had been holding you tightly to keep you in place. he keeps moving against you, but now he pulls you by your hair instead.
his hand is firm enough, yet still gentle to the touch. you feel a tug at your scalp and find yourself enjoying the sting of it, completely drunk on the man above you.
he then lifts you up onto your knees, moving against you harder and harder. he doesn’t pull you close enough for you to press against his chest, but just enough to make you arch. the new angle sends every sensation deeper, where he fills you completely.
from this angle, a small bulge appears in your stomach. it’s slight, barely noticeable, but it’s there. he catches sight of it in the mirror in front of you, and his free hand slides down to your abdomen, right where his cock presses deliciously against your inner walls.
“your cunt feels so good. so small and tight around me. look at you — you can barely fit all of me. you were made for me.” his voice drops lower, rougher now. “i’m going to fill you up. fill you with my cum. ohh, you’ll be so full of me you’ll come back begging for more. this greedy little pussy of yours is going to beg for me, and until i get you pregnant, i’ll keep fucking my children into you.”
you turn your head toward him, crimson eyes dark as spilled blood.
“yes, please, sukuna. fill me up! i want all of your cum—nghhh.” your voice breaks when sukuna drives into you even more eagerly. he releases his grip on your hair, forcing you to brace yourself against the bed once more. your breasts press into the mattress, and the room seems to shrink around you when those same fingers find your clit once again.
god, how could he be so good at this?
“but you still haven’t come again. and if you don’t come, i’m not filling you up, princess.” he lingers on the last word. the new nickname sends uneven tremors through you.
no, it wasn’t the nickname. you’re coming again.
this time, your release spills over him, soaking his cock completely. sukuna laughs, and the sound is so deep you feel it in your bones.
“good girl.”
oh, how he loves ruining you for anyone but himself.
a few more thrusts, and he comes too. his cock pulses as he fills you, warmth spilling deep inside you and coating every inch of you.
sukuna is loud when he comes, and you like that. even after he’s finished, he keeps moving against you, pushing every last drop deeper.
“you’re going to take it all.” that’s what he says.
and you do, because you were made for this. sukuna knows it too.
your legs finally give out beneath you, and you sink onto the bed. one last moan slips from your lips when he pulls out, only to turn you over and capture your mouth with his.
you feel his cock twitch against your thigh, but it doesn’t surprise you. that man seemed endless. insatiable when it came to having you and filling you.
even so, sukuna kisses you for a long moment before lying down beside you. he pulls you into his arms and runs his fingers through your hair.
you’re a mess, sticky and spent, but you don’t complain. later, his tongue will take care of that before he ends up devouring you all over again.
god knows you can handle everything he has — and more — to give you
first work posted here! i’m a little nervous, and i should warn you that i haven’t had the chance to properly revise this draft yet. but i’ve been obsessed with sukuna lately, and ever since i saw that fanmade gif of him on twitter, i’ve been feeling a little insane. jokes aside, i hope you enjoy it! ♡
tags: spencer reid x reader. tech analyst!reader. mentions of 50 shades of grey. bau ladies are like gossiping wine moms. fluff & crack, bcos spencer has been thru enough already. referenced/mentioned sexual acts but nothing explicit.
a/n: got inspired by aj cook implying mgg was reading 50 shades + the table read of cm where mgg’s name card was “matthew 50 shades of gray gubler”
masterlist.
requests are open !
The team is on the jet home from a consultation in San Francisco. Everybody’s either dozing off (Emily and Derek), eating (Rossi), or doing paperwork (Hotch, as usual). JJ is scrolling on her phone, catching up on the pictures and videos Will sent of Henry when she notices something very bizarre.
“Reid, are you reading 50 Shades of Grey?”
“Huh?” he looks up from the paragraph he was reading. Something about not making love and only fucking hard. Or whatever drivel he’s suffering for you.
“I didn’t peg you the type to be reading romance or erotica.”
“It’s for research.”
JJ quirks a brow Spencer doesn’t see. His eyes already returned to the book in his hands.
“Research? For Y/N?”
“Yep,” Spencer turns a page.
JJ continues to gape at him. She wants to press for more details, but with a shake of her head, decides she was better off not knowing the intricacies of the relationship of people she considers her siblings. No matter how baffled she is by the fact that Spencer Reid is reading 50 Shades of Grey, she doubts that she’d want to dip a toe in that rabbit hole. However, she has no qualms of bringing up this certain knowledge in the near future.
Spencer was in a rush to finish his case load for the day. It’s your day off, so he’s doing anything he can so that he can go home earlier than usual. With you out for the day, he can’t even pop into your office to bug you, talk your ear off, or have an impromptu make out session. It was so sad, really.
He’s down to his last three folders when Derek attempts to get his attention.
“Pst! Pretty boy,” Morgan whisper-yells.
“Yes?”
“How’s Y/N?”
Spencer’s a bit perplexed by the question. While it’s not unusual for Derek to worry about your well-being, he finds it a bit weird for Derek to be asking such a question at that exact moment. As far as he knows, you texted Derek 15 minutes ago about mold on the street that you insist looked like the aforementioned man. That was the last time Spencer talked to you as well.
“She’s fine. Enjoying her day off.”
There’s a big grin crawling across Derek’s face. Such a look on a man like Derek Morgan spelled trouble. He looks like he knows something that Spencer doesn’t. Spencer’s starting to get cautious.
“Anything exciting happened to you guys this weekend?” Derek asks with that shit-eating, I-know-something-you-don’t-know grin.
Spencer raises a brow.
“Not much. The usual,” Spencer flips a page in his file.
Morgan hums, “Ah, yes. The usual.”
Spencer looks up at Derek, perplexed. Having no idea what in the world Morgan is trying to get to.
“Late night?” Derek continues. Spencer shuts the folder in his hands.
“Are you trying to insinuate something?”
“I don’t know, am I?”
Spencer rolls his eyes and returns his attention to his work. Completely ignoring the chuckles coming from Morgan.
A few days later, Spencer is making his second cup of coffee at the office kitchenette, bracing himself for another round of paperwork when he hears somebody rush into the room. He turns from the counter to see you, flushed and embarrassed?
“Hey, darling—”
“Why did Penelope ask me how it’s like to have my own Christian Grey?”
“What?” Spencer puts his mug down to turn his full attention on you.
“She barged into my office, asking me what kind of BDSM we’re into!” you devolve into a sort of whisper-yell, eyes shifting as to check if there were other people around. The two of you were alone in the area.
“Why would she ask that?”
“I don’t know? Something about you researching BDSM for me?”
Spencer shuts his eyes in realization, “JJ.”
“JJ? What’s she got to do with this?”
“A week ago, on the jet home from San Francisco. I was reading 50 Shades of Grey.”
You take a pause, “You read 50 Shades? I thought you said it was complete nonsense?”
“My opinion hasn’t changed on that. But I overheard you and Garcia giggling over the movie’s actor… I wanted to see what it was all about.” He tries to be nonchalant with what he’s saying. You completely melt into a puddle.
“Oh, Spence. That is the cutest and sweetest thing that has ever happened to me.”
Spencer blushes red at the comment. All these years together, and you never fail to make him feel so lovestruck and bashful.
He clears a throat, “The BDSM in the book is so atrocious. Have you read it? Or are you only interested in the movie?”
“Just the movie,” you say with a grin.
“Their lack of communication is astounding. It’s completely far off from the BDSM we’re into.”
There’s a gasp behind you. You turn to see Garcia at the entryway of the kitchenette, one mug in hand, the other hand pressed against her chest.
“Oh , I knew it. Ya’ll nasty.”
“Penelope—” you start to speak. She cuts you off.
“I didn’t believe JJ at first when she said Spencer was reading 50 Shades for research. I mean, really, Spencer Reid and BDSM? Never thought to correlate those two things ever in my life,” Penelope rambles, and then mid-thought, she turns to you, “So you do have your own Christian Grey! That’s so sexy— I don’t think that’s the right word considering it’s Reid—” this earns a snort from the man watching amused, standing against the counter, “Have you recreated any scenes from the books?”
“Penelope!” you say, aghast.
“I mean, if Spencer’s using 50 Shades to spice up your sexy times then—”
Spencer begins to laugh. You turn to face him, in disbelief that he can laugh at your mortification.
“Trust me, Penelope,” he says, “we don’t need 50 Shades to spice up our sex lives.”
“Spencer!” You can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth right now. Penelope looks as if she’s hearing the greatest gossip scandal the world has ever produced.
“50 Shades is tame compared to us.”
“What?!” a third voice enters the conversation. Emily and JJ enter the kitchenette. Emily looked a bit confused, JJ looks just about ready to shit on you too.
You hide your face in your hands, trying to hide away from Spencer’s laughter. Emily, JJ, and Penelope start to bounce comments and choice words between the three of them. You hear words such as ‘unbelievable’, ‘kinky’, and the real kicker, ‘Dr. Reid will see you now’. You want to dig yourself into a hole.
Hands grip your hips, squeezing in silent comfort. Without removing your hands from your face, you mumble, “This is all your fault.” Spencer laughs once more, hands squeezing your hips one more time before he turns to pick up his coffee mug.
He moves to leave the kitchen, turning to you with a smug look on his face before he says, “Laters, baby.”
You refuse to acknowledge the three ladies descending on you like a pack of wolves.
summary: The night before your wedding, your betrothed tells you some bad news: your wedding night will happen with an audience.
words: 7.5k
cw: explicit, smut, handjobs, fluids, blood, spit, biting, knives, references to fem masturbation, suggested oral f receiving at the end, public sex, involuntary exhibitionism (they're being forced to do it), they're fabricating a cherry being popped lol, possessive behavior, marriage, bedding ceremony, massage, cuddling, mild hurt/comfort, alcohol consumption, virgin!reader, semi switch!valarr, he's just a wife guy idk, and a FREAK, but respectful baelor raised him right, canon typical sexism, valyrian wedding ceremony mildly described but don't talk to me about inaccuracies, the small council can get fucked, not edited, not beta read, not proof read
a/n: do not @ me. I wrote this in one sitting after being plagued by visions for a whole week and didn't read it over. i just want to give the prettiest prince in westeros a handjob
ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI. I BLOCK AGELESS BLOGS.
On the night before your wedding, you sit on the end of your bed and try not to tremble with nerves. You should go to sleep. You know you should go to bed, but you can't. If you go to bed now, it means that the next time you open your eyes will be your wedding day, and you can't fathom that right now.
It's not so much that you don't want to marry Valarr. You don't mind the prospect of being his wife— he is handsome, kind, chivalrous, everything that you could hope for in a husband. The problem is that you don't know him well enough to be able to hold a conversation with him beyond base pleasantries, and in roughly twenty-four hours you will be expected to lay naked beneath him and let him claim you as a man does his wife. You don't know what to expect from him, in that regard. Will he be gentle, as he is when you normally speak to him? Will he be forceful? Harsh? Angry?
You close your eyes. The very idea of it threatens to set your stomach churning. You have been sitting on the end of your bed with your head in your hands for roughly an hour now, but your anxiety is only seeming to mount tenfold each time you turn it over in your head. What you will do tomorrow with a man you barely know. You barely have it in you to move. You feel as though, if you do, the walls will come crumbling down around you.
Perhaps it's for the best that a knock at your chamber door rouses you from this stasis, finally permitting you to straighten and clear your throat. "Enter."
"M'lady." One of your chamber maids enters, looking a bit piqued, but keeping her voice hushed. "Lord Valarr has sent for you."
"Valarr?" You glance around the room wildly. Beyond the whorls in the window panes, black night falls over the Red Keep. You expected that the entire castle would be asleep at this hour, as you should be. What could Valarr want with you now?
What indeed. Your mind trips over itself, your anxiety spiking again. But you stand, your back straight as an arrow, and you follow her out the chamber door. It would not do to keep your future husband waiting.
Your chamber maid takes you as far as the stairway to the prince's apartments, where a serving boy you have never seen before meets you. The two eye each other meaningfully, and then your chamber maid abandons you quite unceremoniously, making your skin crawl beneath your dressing gown. You open your mouth to protest, but the serving boy looks at you apologetically and holds a single finger to his lips.
"All is well," he whispers, when you snap your mouth shut, looking mildly insulted. "Follow me, m'lady."
You follow the boy to the door of the prince's apartments, where he leaves you with a nod of his head. You do not dismiss him before he leaves— at this point, you surmise that he is following orders already given by someone whose authority outranks you. You steel yourself, fighting not to grind your teeth as you knock on the chamber door.
There is a quiet word from within bidding you entry, and you push open the door as quietly as possible. You are standing in what appears to be Valarr's study, surrounded by books of all size and description, stacked neatly in rows on floor to ceiling shelves. You cast your gaze around at the Myrish carpets, chaise longues and chairs, candles and other opulent comforts afforded a prince of House Targaryen, and you feel slightly out of your depth.
And then your eyes fall on him. The prince, in his shirtsleeves and breeches, sitting almost dejectedly on the couch by the fireplace. Either he or one of his servants had taken the liberty of building a small fire, enough to cast an amber glow throughout the room without overheating the chamber. The orange light catches on the strands of silver in Valarr's dark hair, making him appear as though fire dances along the edges of his being.
You stand with your back to the chamber door. You wait.
It takes your betrothed several moments to lift his eyes to you, and his face is drawn with a perplexing amount of stress. You wouldn't have imagined that he would have anything to worry about; as far as you know, he has not been opposed to your union in any way. But the longer he looks at you as though he carries all the weight of the heavens and the earth on his shoulders, doubts begin to creep in.
"I apologize for the secrecy, my lady," Valarr finally says quietly, his fingers twitching against the edge of the seat that he grips. "I hope I did not wake you."
"No, my lord." You are still standing, stalk-still in front of the chamber door, wondering what exactly this visit is about.
"I felt it necessary to be discreet," Valarr continues, as though he must explain himself to you. It's more than any other lord has ever done for you, when it comes to ordering you about, and it takes you slightly aback. "Talk runs rampant in the Keep. I wouldn't want there to be cause for gossip so near to our wedding day. You understand?"
"I— yes, I understand that. But, my lord," your eyes flit from him, to the fire, and back, "If you… wish to bed me, could it not wait until we are wed?"
That startles him. Valarr lifts his head, blinking up at you with a painfully concerned look on his face. "Oh— no, my lady, this is not…" He licks his lips, and looks to the fire again. "Ah. I fear there has been a misunderstanding. I did not call you here for that, on my honor. Forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive." You tilt your head, watching as his pulse jumps against his throat. "I— please, do not think me insolent, but… why have you called me here tonight, if not for that?"
Valarr closes his eyes. You take a moment to admire his profile. The warm glow of the fire makes his skin look all the more ethereal, flushed and freckled as it is. Valarr is beautiful in a way that bards should write songs about— have written songs about, in ages past. It nearly pains you to see that beauty so laden with trouble.
"Would you like some wine?" He blurts the question like it supersedes something worse, something that he doesn't quite know how to approach yet. He seems to be weighing it in his mind as he stands and crosses to a table set with a decanter and two goblets, without waiting for an answer from you. You do not fail to notice that his hands are shaking.
"My lord."
You watch his back, tight with tension beneath the soft linen of his shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbows in a rakish and informal way, as though he hadn't truly been meaning to have an audience tonight. He does not turn to look at you, just pours the wine like he hasn't heard you.
You take three steps toward him, and tentatively reach out to place a hand on his upper arm. "Valarr."
Valarr freezes. His head bowed, he holds the wine decanter aloft like it's a shield, a solid wall between him and whatever it is that's weighing so heavily on his mind. As though, if he draws out the night long enough, he may not have to put words to whatever it is that's bothering him.
But then the moment passes, and Valarr takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I'm sorry, my lady." His voice is so quiet, as to barely be heard over the crackling of the fire. The words practically break in his throat. "I'm so sorry."
"For what?" you ply gently, trying not to startle him. You feel as though you are approaching a cornered animal, with how tightly wound he is. Slowly, you stroke the flat of your hand down his bicep, trying to give him a reassuring touch without overstepping. You fear, perhaps, that you might be, but Valarr does not pull away.
Instead, he simply picks up a goblet of wine and offers it to you. You look at it for a moment dumbly— it is an ornate piece, carved with dragons and inlaid with red jewels that glitter in the firelight. For lack of an alternative, you take the wine from him without a word.
"I—" he starts, then stops again, like he is still weighing the words in his head, trying to find the right ones to convey his particular issue.
The longer he takes to say what's on his mind, the more your own starts to come up with things to fill that void. He has a secret wife already. He is stricken with some disease he procured in a brothel. You are not what he wants. All of these thoughts and more flit through your head, and all seem to ring the very same at the end. He wants to call off the wedding.
But then he takes another deep breath, and he turns to you, though his eyes are still downcast. "Tomorrow. When we— The wedding. It's… there will be a ceremony."
You blink. "Yes, your grace. That happens at weddings. So I'm told."
"No." Valarr shuts his eyes, turns away like he's chastising himself. "After. The—" He pinches the bridge of his nose, the wine in his own goblet threatening to slosh over the rim. "When we are wed, and we… when I take you to our bed. There will be a ceremony. A bedding ceremony."
The words tumble from his mouth and land with a splat on the carpet like some viscous, globular thing. Bedding ceremony. It conjures an image in your head of leering heads watching you from behind sheer curtains, pompous men making comments, taking notes. Bedding ceremony. Humiliation, degradation. A crowd of spectators to observe you in your most intimate and private moments.
You say nothing. Like him, you struggle to find the words to say to describe what you feel at the prospect. But now that Valarr has gotten the point of contension out in the open, he seems to be unable to stop talking. You watch him pace around the floor of his study, like a man on the eve of battle.
"I only learned of it today. It's not customary. But because I am second in line for the throne, the small council wants proof of legitimacy, that the marriage will not be annulled. That you will bear me an heir. As though we are incapable of doing anything for ourselves." He shakes his head, scoffing with an incredulous, irritated smirk. "I begged them to tell you, my lady, I truly did, but they would not have it. They intended for you to simply walk into it, unaware. I believe they fear you will abscond in the night, or some such nonsense. My father was against it, as I knew he would be, but the rest of the council would not be swayed."
"Does your father… does he know that you've told me? About the ceremony?"
"He encouraged me to." Valarr's hand finds his hair and rucks it up into a mess, his cheeks pink in the firelight. "We were in agreement. If there's going to be an audience, you should be told. What you do in response is for you to decide."
You turn your eyes down to the wine quivering in your cup. The thought of an entire council of men conferring about what goes on in your marriage bed without your knowledge sends a finger of disgust clawing up your back.
"I called you here tonight because I wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you myself, without any eyes and ears on us. I do not wish to begin our marriage with any kind of deception."
He stops pacing, finally, and takes a step towards you. You lift your gaze to his— his mismatched eyes, one brown, one violet. The eyes of his father. You stare at them and find yourself wondering if your children would have them, as well. A mark of their father's beauty.
"I will always be true to you," Valarr says softly, though his face holds a certain amount of frantic desperation that makes you nervous for him. "I will always be honest, and frank with you when needs be. I never intend to be anything less. Do you understand? Let us be frank. Please."
"Frank. Yes," you echo, reaching out toward him. His eyes flutter when your hand finds his cheek, and you stroke your thumb against the point of his cheekbone. "Valarr. Please calm down. You have nothing to fear from me."
"I—" He swallows, his eyes flicking over your face like he's trying to map it out in his mind. "I know." He nods, seeming to let your words sink in slowly. "I know."
"Good. Drink your wine." You sound more sure of yourself than you feel.
Valarr follows your instructions in earnest, chugging the contents of his cup without a second thought. You do the same, although slower, the dry red wine hitting your soft palate with a sharp tang. You sink onto the couch and, without pretense, pull your knees up to your chest, your feet curled against the cushion beneath you. It's a protective posture, meant to calm you, but all it does is make you feel small in comparison to him when he sits heavily beside you, his elbows on his spread thighs.
"They only want proof of consummation," he adds after a moment of silence, still swallowing back the remnants of his wine as it brings a rush of saliva to his mouth. "If… when you bleed, if it stains the sheets, perhaps then I could convince them that it isn't necessary to sit in—"
"I won't bleed."
Valarr stops talking. When he turns his head to look at you, you hide your face in the folds of your robe against your knees, your eyes closed against the blackness. Your heart pounds in your chest for fear of what he might say.
But, true to character, Valarr is gentle in his response. "Forgive me, my lady. I thought that you were…"
"A virgin?" Your voice is muffled by your robe. "Yes, and you'd be correct. I've never lain with another person. But hands and fingers can do enough damage, my lord. And… various other implements."
"Oh. Oh, yes. I see." There is nothing for a few seconds but the crackle of the fire and its heat on your back. "Well, I… I suppose that it— it's a good thing. I do not wish to cause you any discomfort on our wedding night."
The sentiment brings tears to your eyes. They bubble up out of nowhere, and you feel them leak out without warning, dampening the fabric pressed to your eyelids. You let out a quiet little sob, without even meaning to. "Why are you so good to me?"
You feel him shift. His knee knocks against your ankle as he turns to look at you, and a warm hand settles on your arm. "Well, it's the only way you should be treated. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Because—" You're crying. It is not a soft, dignified weeping. It's ugly. It shakes your body and leaves you with wracking sobs that come from a place deep down inside you, where you had pushed all of your anxiety and reservations and fears, about your future husband and your wedding, and everything that's to come after. The tears come so suddenly and in such force that you can't rein it in, and you find yourself unable to say anything but, "Because."
"No," Valarr replies, and his hand slides around your back. "Not me. Never to you. Come— oh, come here, love."
He manages to get your limbs untangled and pulls you to him, your legs slung over his lap and your head hidden in his neck. You're thankful for it; you don't really want him to see what you look like, crying yourself snotty the day before your wedding. His hand pets idly against your thigh, and it occurs to you that this position is more intimate than you've ever been with anybody, including your husband-to-be. It's the first time he's held you. The first time anyone has, since you were a babe in your mother's arms. You sober quickly against his shoulder, clutching at him like a child clutches their favorite toy.
"I thought you wanted to call the wedding off," you admit to him. "When I came in and you— you wouldn't look at me. I thought you didn't want me."
Valarr tuts, holding you closer. "I'm sorry. I never intended to raise any doubt in your mind. You needn't ever worry if your husband wants you, darling. I do. Gods above, I do. You have me utterly beguiled." Then, he asks you tenderly, "Have I not told you that I am more than happy to marry you? I suppose I haven't had a chance, have I? Too many people around all the time."
And that thought brings you back to the issue at hand. "I can't— Valarr, I can't do it. Not with them watching. Listening." A shudder runs through you at the thought. And then, your temper flares. Who do these men think they are, to play you and your husband for fools this way? "I won't."
Valarr's hand goes still. "My dear—"
"When I fuck you, my pleasure will be for your eyes and your ears, alone." You lift your head, gripping the open collar of his shirt in a fist strong enough to tear the fabric, if you were to pull it. Your eyes are still vaguely watery, and you're sure that you don't look as fierce as you want to, but at the very least, you know you look adamant. "I will not have these old men partake in something I give only to you, just because they feel like it. I refuse to give them that satisfaction. It is not theirs. Do you understand?"
"Yes. I understand completely." Valarr gazes at you, an unreadable expression on his face as his hand coming up to stroke a lock of hair away from your brow. He fixates on your lips for a few seconds before saying, "When I fuck you, I will not have anyone else witness what I do to you. That is for only you and I to know. What you do to me, however… I suppose that could be up for negotiation. I'll never let it be said that I am not pleased by you."
He winks, and in spite of everything weighing on you, you giggle. Then he smiles, and it's the loveliest thing that you've seen all night.
You brush your nose against his. "We are alone, now."
"Yes, we are." His voice has dropped low, to reflect your proximity to his lips.
"I don't suppose there's a chance that we could just…" You drag one finger across his exposed skin, where the collar of his shirt hangs open. "Do it now?"
Valarr sucks in a rueful breath, tilting his head back and away from you. It exposes the length of his throat for your wandering eye, and you suddenly have a great urge to sink your teeth into something. "I'm afraid honor demands that I don't take advantage just yet."
"Honor," you grumble, resting your fingers just at the hollow of his throat. "Is it honorable, what they're doing to us?"
"No, it isn't." His head tilted back against the backrest of the couch, he peers down his nose at you. "Even so. I mustn't. Not until we're man and wife." He sighs. "Even though I really, really want to."
You make a short, perturbed sound. "You're so…"
"What?"
"Decent."
Valarr lets out a laugh, his hand coming up to smooth over the back of your head. "You say that as though it's a bad thing."
"In this instance, I rather think it is." You fall silent for a few seconds, tracing your finger through the smattering of hair exposed on his chest. "It doesn't matter," you say suddenly, "whether there's an audience. I doubt you'll be able to change their minds now, and they'll still want proof. There will be questions when there is no blood. Oh gods, Valarr—"
"Shh. There's plenty we can do. We'll think of something."
"Like what?"
Valarr is quiet, but his hand moves. He catches your wrist, stopping you where you draw idle patterns against his chest with your finger. Without a word, he lifts your hand so that it catches the light, his thumb brushing upwards to flex your fingers back as he examines them, scrutinizing the length of your fingers like they are the most interesting and complex things he's ever seen.
"I may have an idea," he says softly, and then presses a kiss to the center of your palm.
The wedding is a joyous affair, which is only to be expected from a royal celebration. The vows are in High Valyrian, which you don't understand but which you repeat to the best of your ability. As per the custom of House Targaryen, your lips are cut and your foreheads smudged with blood. Your hands, sliced and bound together to let your blood become one. The wine you sip and share with Valarr stings the cut on your lip, but the smile he gives you before he kisses you makes it worthwhile.
There is a feast of wild boar and venison, and various other intricate dishes which you're sure the cooks in the kitchens labored over for days, but which you barely even register. Your stomach is too busy turning at the prospect of what happens after the feast, and what you and Valarr had spoken of the night before.
Beneath the high table, Valarr's hand finds your knee. Through the fine silk of your gown, you feel the warmth and weight of his hand, and it's one of the only things that can ground you to reality, to the here and now. When you look up at him, your husband— not your betrothed, your husband, now— gives you a knowing look and a coy smile that makes your blood sing in your veins.
And then, all too soon, it's over. The music, the merriment, the laughter. You are herded away by your ladies' maids to the prince's apartments, and you're ushered through a door you have not passed through the night before.
The prince's bedchamber is just as opulent as his study, with heavy wooden furniture carved in ornate fashion, tapestries and heavy curtains around the bed. When your eyes fall on them, you tangibly relax. There are no sheer drapes, nothing to suggest that you will be seen in the bed with your husband.
As you are undressed and wrapped in linen and brocade, an embellished robe draped over your shoulders to protect your modesty. You have yet to be told by anyone— servants or otherwise— that there will be a bedding ceremony. The fact sends a rage boiling inside you; if your husband were not as honorable as he is, if he had not taken the chance to secrete you away in the middle of the night and speak to you as an equal, you would have absolutely no idea of what is to come. You have half a mind to reprimand all of your ladies' maids for being a part of it.
But then Valarr enters the room, and the mere sight of him, dressed down in his own shirt and robe, makes the swelling rage within you quiet. He reaches for you, takes the hand that is bandaged from your vows, and presses a kiss over the cloth, his breath fanning across your pulse.
It does enough to keep you from screaming when a majority of the small council files into the room. Prince Baelor is notably absent— but, then again, Valarr told you to expect as much. You don't imagine that Valarr's father would want to sit in on his son's bedding ceremony.
Then— and only then— is the truth of the matter explained to you. That the small council will remain in the room to ensure that, "things are well in hand." You have to stifle a snort at that, and Valarr's own hand tightens slightly where he holds yours. You keep your eyes on your husband, refusing to look at the councilmen who have so grievously tried to humiliate you.
You are fussed over, annointed with holy oils and prayed over, beseeching the gods to bless your union with many children. It's the use of the word many that makes Valarr's own resolve threaten to crack, a small smirk curving the edge of his lips.
In the blink of an eye, you are shut in with Valarr on the bed, the curtains drawn, and the light blocked out. You swallow hard, sitting still in the dark for only a second before you're moving, reaching across the sheets in search of your husband, in search of his warm touch and comforting presence. You find his knee, and follow it upwards, over the expanse of his thigh to his hip as you bring yourself towards him.
His arms come around you, and then you're being pulled, his chest flush to yours, his hand finding your ass and lifting you to seat you on his lap. You gasp, your hands blindly fumbling in the dark for something to hold onto, and you find his hair. Soft as silk and threading through your fingers, you tighten your hold on it hard enough that he lets out a soft groan in response.
"Relax," Valarr whispers, just loud enough for you to hear, and his lips find your jaw. As you settle onto his lap, his fingers draw your robe and the neckline of your chemise to the side, exposing your shoulder to the air. He presses another kiss there, soft against the newly bared skin, and he repeats, "Relax."
"Can't see shit," you mutter angrily, and he snorts. You feel his smile against your skin, his breath fluttering in soft bursts across your shoulder.
Valarr reaches back, feeling for something over his head in the dark. He finds it, and there is a whisper of something, a spark. A candle is lit in the darkness, suddenly illuminating the enclosed space with dim light, just enough for you to be able to see him and the expanse of the bed sheets, the dark wood of the headboard.
The candle flame creates a halo around his head, painting his hair slightly golden. Your hands find his face, trace along his jaw and thumbs finding the pulse point under his chin. "My beautiful Prince," you whisper to him, watching his pupils widen just slightly before you finally dip to kiss him.
His lips taste of blood and wine, the cut on his lower lip still raw from the wedding ceremony. Your teeth latch around his lower lip and give it a tug, and he gasps sharply, his arms tightening around you. You smile, remembering his words from the night before, as he told you his ingenius plan for how to trick your unwitting audience.
They will be listening for anything that suggests we're doing what we should. Gasps, moans, the creak of the bed. They can only draw their conclusions from that, and what we leave on the bed sheets.
Valarr reaches behind him again, this time down between the mattress and the headboard. He searches for something, his brow drawing and lips pursed in frustration for a moment, before he grips something and pulls it out from where the sheet tucks beneath the mattress.
A knife, small and discreet enough to be slipped into a pocket or a boot, but made of valyrian steel. The edge of it, so sharp that it practically whispers on the air, glints ominously in the candlelight.
You will already have a cut on your hand from the wedding ceremony. They won't be surprised to find it in the morning.
Valarr kisses your forehead, just above the smudge of blood he'd painted between your brows with his thumb during your vows. Then, he lifts your bandaged hand, and begins unwrapping it with the care of someone unpackaging the most delicate work of art they've ever held.
Your nose scrunches as the bandage is peeled away from the cut on your palm, stuck to it with clotted blood. The wound is not deep, but fresh— the gash wells with little beads of blood already, but not enough for what you intend to do.
Valarr lifts the knife with one hand, cradling your own hand with the other. He peers up at you from beneath his lashes, his eyes apprehensive as he waits for your permission.
You nod, and Valarr slices the cut open with one small flick of the blade. The sound you make is loud, and slightly obscene— a visceral reaction, one that you did not intend to make, but which sounds quite like something your audience would expect from your wedding bed.
Beyond the curtains, someone audibly clears their throat. You look at Valarr and roll your eyes, making him bite back a snicker.
The blood needs to be in a reasonable spot on the sheets for it to look believable. You must put it where your hips meet mine. If it gets on your clothes, even better.
While he cradles your bleeding hand, you ruck your nightgown and robe up your thighs. The cut is shallow enough that the blood is already beginning to slow, but there is enough for you to smear it against your cunt, and then wipe it directly onto the bed sheets below you. The result is a blotch of pinkish blood, mixed with your own arousal, on the white linen.
When you meet Valarr's gaze, he nods at you in approval. Then, he takes your hand, and lifts your bleeding palm to his lips.
This was not something you had spoken about. This, you imagine, is something that he does purely for himself. His tongue flicks out and drags the length of the cut on your hand, mopping up blood and arousal alike. His eyes on you the whole time, dark in the dimly lit canopy of his bed, he makes a noise in his throat like he's found relief after a long period of torment.
A deep burning want coils in your core, willing you to do something insane and unscrupulous. You have the urge to resent him for it, and for not letting you fuck him on the couch in his study last night, while he told you what to do. When it was just you, and him, and the crackle of the fire as your witness.
After that, we need only sound convincing. You may do anything you want to me, and I will try to make my performance believable. Whatever you do, I shall bear it happily.
You want to make him regret that. You want to make him regret looking at you as he licks your blood and your arousal from your hand, as he moans like a whore about it, as he bats his mismatched eyes and kisses the cut on your skin before rewrapping it like you are the greatest gift he has ever received. You want to crack him open and spill his contents all over the bed sheets for them to find in the morning, and know that you did.
There are noises beyond the shield of the opaque curtains that remind you of just who is on the other side, listening to everything that you do. It bothers you, enough that you feel the cold fingers of dread tightening around your throat. But you cannot allow it to stop you when you've come so far already.
So, you kiss Valarr deeply, capturing the taste of your blood on his tongue and swallowing his moan as it bubbles up out of his chest. He catches you with his hands on your hips as you lift yourself over him, planting your knees on the mattress. You reach down and unravel the tie of his robe, allowing it to fall open and off of his shoulders, leaving him in naught but his linen shirt.
You may do anything you want to me. He has no idea of the things you want to do to him. He cannot possibly fathom how vicious your desire for him is— it's an all-consuming thing, and the only way you'll be able to survive it is if you just give in to your urges.
As you slide his linen shirt up his torso, you slide your lips along his jaw, sucking once against the curve just below his ear. He gives a startled gasp and a small jerk of his hips, which you think was unplanned. You don't think he intended it, because he shudders just a bit when you smile and scrape your teeth along his throat.
You pull back to help him out of his shirt, letting it fall to the mattress beside you. He gazes up at you, wide-eyed in the candlelight, entirely naked beneath you. His cheeks flushed, the V drawn in blood between his brows looks darker than it should. You place your hands on either side of his head and bend down to lave your tongue across the mark, tasting his blood the way that he did, yours.
Valarr's mouth drops open on a silent moan. His fingers tighten against your hips, the flush from his cheeks reaching down across his freckled shoulders and chest. You drag your hands down his chest, lowering them down towards where his cock rests heavily against his navel, hard and leaking. His core muscles tighten beneath your touch, his breath falling from his parted lips in a stuttered rhythm.
And then, you stop. Just short of touching his cock, you pull your hands away and lift yourself from his lap. His hands tighten once— just once, just enough for you to know that he wants you to stay, to keep going. But you do not yield, and he doesn't argue. Just releases your hips with a soft sigh through his nose, mildly disappointed at the distance.
But your hands keep feeling him. That's the thing that seems to vex him the most. You start again at his shoulders, your palm running flat across his pectorals and over to the other shoulder as you shift, rocking onto your knees beside him. You can see the questions spinning around in his head, the look of what are you doing etched on his face like words on a page. He turns his head, following you with his eyes as you move, until you swing your leg around his body from behind and sit against the pillows behind him.
Valarr's breath audibly hitches, and his head snaps forward. Your legs bracket his hips, your pelvis nearly crushed up against his lower back. You rest against the headboard of the bed and smooth your hand over his shoulder, down between his shoulder blades, and begin to trace around the vertebrae of his spine with your thumbs.
"Oh." The word leaves him on an exhale, and he hangs his head. You trace your way down his spine, applying gentle pressure and watching goosebumps raise on his skin. When you reach the bottom of his ribs, you begin tracing your way back up and watch a full body shudder roll through him.
You reach his neck and wrap both hands over his shoulders, digging your thumbs into his trapezius muscles. As you drag downwards, Valarr lets out a moan that makes you both freeze at how loud it is.
You drag your knuckles lightly up and down his back, and lean forward to press a kiss just below his ear. "When was the last time anyone rubbed your back like this, husband?"
"Never." The word is slightly more than a breath in your direction as he turns his head, but you hear it. He looks practically sun burnt with how red his face is.
"Hmm. No more." You pepper him with kisses across his shoulders, massaging your way down his back again and pressing into knots as you go. You aren't surprised to find him so tense— he is a knight, a soldier by station and a Prince of the Realm. He has more than enough reasons to be wound tight, and so you spend a decent amount of time working it out of him, bit by bit, until he nearly sags back against you.
Once you're sure that you've disarmed him enough, you slide your hands slowly around his waist to hug him from behind, pulling him back against you. He goes willingly, but turns his head to look at you questioningly, as though he's still trying to figure out what your plan is. You merely smile at him, press a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and begin running your palms across his chest, down toward his stomach.
He grumbles a low sound, his jaw clenched tight and his brow drawn as he watches your hand sweep low, and lower still, until you're nearly an inch away from his cock. His legs twitch, and his hand moves as though he means to grab your wrist, to stop you or urge you on.
You lift one hand, moving your arm around his shoulder to cradle his jaw in your palm and turn his head towards you. Valarr's eyes find yours, and— he's desperate. You shake your head at him, your nose nearly bumping his as you move, telling him not to fight you. But his brow is drawn in consternation, his pulse jumping beneath your hand like pure adrenaline is pumping through his veins, just from the touch of your hand against his core.
"Let me," you whisper to him. You trace your finger back and forth, feeling his chest leap with his breath the longer you hover there. But you wait, until he gives you the smallest nod of assent, and then you're on him.
You wrap your hand around his cock, your thumb immediately brushing over the flushed tip. He jerks in your grip, a moan breaking in his throat at the contact. He's hot to the touch, hard and growing harder as you flex your fist and stroke him once.
Valarr makes a rough sound in his throat and takes your hand, momentarily stopping your movements. He lifts your hand in his, just to bring it to his mouth and drag the wet swath of his tongue over it. He gets you dripping with his spit, taking his time with it, until you find yourself grinding up against his back just from the feeling of his tongue on your hand and the wetness dripping between your fingers.
And then he moves your hand back down to his cock, and he wraps his hand around with yours, guiding you where he wants you. He uses a firm grasp, harder than you would have given to him on your own— but you like watching him squirm, and he seems more intent to do things quickly and efficiently.
Which, perhaps, is a good idea in this scenario. But you make a mental note to spend some time in another instance, another night, taking him to pieces, and taking your time doing it.
"Make it believable," you whisper against his skin, following the pace that he sets in earnest.
Valarr chuckles hoarsely, an airy thing that barely even meets your ears. "Anything for you," he breathes as he fucks his hips up into your joined fists with a quiet growl.
You press an open-mouthed kiss to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, as his tendons strain and his chest leaps with his breath. You let your tongue dance over his skin, salty with sweat and warm from the heat of the enclosed space and the exertion you're putting him through.
He moves your hand up and down in time with his, tightening your grip around him harshly each time you reach his leaking tip. The feeling of his cock sliding through your fist sets your body alight in a way that you can barely fathom. You turn your face into his neck, fitting your teeth around his skin to muffle the quiet moans that threaten to spill out of your mouth. You told him that they were for his ears only, and you meant it.
But one does escape. Quiet, and soft, and probably too low to make it past the curtains and to your audience. It vibrates against his skin, falls upon his ears like a sigh.
"Seven fuck—" Valarr's his snap violently up into your hand, making the bed shake, the wood creak with the strength of it. "Fuck. Fuck."
"Cum for me," you say quietly, directly into his ear. His breath hitches, a startled noise leaving him at the sound of your voice. "Valarr. Cum."
It takes him two more strokes. Warmth coats your joined hands, and he cums with a strangled moan that he half-swallows as he turns his face toward you, seeking out your lips. You cradle his face with your free hand, taking to him with an open mouth and a gracious tongue.
You've never felt so needy in your life. His hand still holding yours on his cock, his tongue in your mouth, you have to remind yourself why you aren't going to fuck him tonight. Why this is all that will happen on your wedding night— or, at least, until the audience leaves and your husband has a moment to collect himself.
You let Valarr lift your joined hands, covered in his spend, and you meet his eye as you both lick the evidence of what you've done from your hands. Between your fingers, your tongues meet in a depraved, possessive dance. Then, he lifts the bed sheet roughly and wipes his stomach with it, letting his cum stain the linen.
He collapses back against your chest, heaving a sigh that you feel resonate in your body. He closes his eyes briefly, and then opens them again, before he says aloud, "It is done. Begone."
You listen to the scraping of chairs, footsteps, low voices as the witnesses leave the room one by one. You think you hear a septon say a final prayer at the foot of the bed, which then makes you have to bite down on Valarr's shoulder to stop from laughing. Which then makes Valarr moan in the midst of the prayer, and you hear the prayer stop abruptly, and you have to struggle twice as hard to silence your laughter.
By the time the chamber door shuts with a resounding bang, Valarr is laughing, too.
After a moment, he squeezes your thigh and disentangles himself, crawling on all fours to the end of the bed. You watch from your seat, unabashedly, as he pokes his head out of the curtains to look around the room and confirm that no one remains. You admire his backside, his ass, the firmness of his thighs and the strong muscles of his back that you still intend to knead and push until you've heard every sound of relief that you can possibly steal from between his lips.
Valarr ducks his head back inside of the canopy. "The knife?"
You feel around awkwardly in the sheets until your fingers brush the hilt of the knife, and you hand it to him by the blade. He takes it gingerly, careful not to cut you, and leans out to tuck the knife under the cushion of a nearby chair.
"Servants are nosy, but they won't be looking there in the morning," he says with an easy smile as he straightens himself, and then turns to you. His face screws up as he looks at you, arranging the pillows and turning back the bed sheets. "What are you doing?"
"I'm… going to bed?"
"No." Valarr shakes his head, beginning to crawl up the mattress towards your seated form. "No no no. You will do no such thing, dear wife. Not after that."
"Wh— Valarr." You yelp when he grabs you by the ankle, yanking you down the bed towards him.
"We are quite alone, now. And you've tasted me," he murmurs as he guides your robe and your nightgown up your legs. He kisses the inside of your thigh and breathes a small sigh against your skin. "So now it's my turn."
Lmao, okay- okay. So hear me out... I had no idea where I was going doing sketchy panels/comics- zero direction. I kinda just went with whatever popped into my head.
Firstly, Shippo. My dear wee bean. I totally imagine this lil baby when he first wakes holds his tail like a comfort blanket. Like, please. Please don't take that from me. He even has his mama's cardigan on his shoulders. 😭
Second, I love her. Inukimi would 100000% be the one to be like- oh my son has interest in another- hold on. How many buttons can I push until he either a)Snaps or b)Embarrassment. She would be the one to play chicken with a train.
Honestly (also), I think she would just love Shippo. Like omg he's cute and a menace- Omg me too! 🤣💖
I do hope you've enjoyed this fluff week. Thank you for putting up with my panels not being the cleanest and my delays. I enjoyed this silliness. 🥹💖
Okay... so this is right up my alley.
More weird whimsy and quirk in the romance genre... and more jaded suffer-no-fools women, instead of the creepy age-gaps, please and thank you
Frat boy kuna who tries to convince you to elope with him while, you guys are finishing up college. He knows it’s not ideal for you even in the slightest but fuck he wanted to be yours so badly. Sukuna was obsessed with you, it wasn’t enough to just show you off at frat parties or tattoo your name on him all over, he needed to be your husband. He knew how important your studies were to you though, and it was no way you would stop them just to have a marriage ceremony. That’s why eloping was the next best thing for him. He spent hours looking at rings just to get you to at least consider the idea. Even a maybe was better than nothing. You guys had been in his room at the frat house when he popped the question. His large body laying on top of yours entrapping you with his warmth to cover you from the aching cold of the back to school season.
“Would you say it’s too soon for us to get married?”
“What?”
“I mean…would you? Honestly, what do you think about it?"
“I can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”
“I don’t joke about shit like that. I’m serious. What’s stopping us? We could just go to the courthouse and get married and not tell anyone. Then we would have one another forever.”
“You been thinking about marrying me Kuna? That’s so cute.” “M’ being for real right now and you’re joking.”
“…”
“…”
“Well it’s not a horrible idea. Elope now and then have a big wedding when we graduate and have good jobs.”
Sukuna sat up so fast he nearly fell off the bed and had to grab on to you to steady his grip. He couldn’t believe you were actually consider it. He thought it’d be a flat out no.
“Really?”
“You gonna promise me a real big wedding later on”
“baby idk give you the damn world if you want it. You make me so happy you know that?”
I need Derek Hale, The Saviour of Beacon Hills, not because he fights the supernatural.
But because he learns Laura's bakery is going to close because some out of town corporation is bought the building and raised the rent 50%. Derek somehow buys the building and asks a reasonable rent.
The hair salon his Mom went too, they owner was going to retire and her the person she trained can't afford the loan from the bank. Derek loans the money instead.
The garage his family took their cars too
The mom & pop grocery store that is being going under cause a Walmart came to town
Shopping exclusively at the local butcher shop for all the packs meat.
Buying up swaths of the old downtown buildings so gentrification is almost stopped in their tracks.
Construction company is closing because the owner is retiring and his son can't afford to move to town? Derek moves his family to town, even helps with a down payment on a house.
He buys old factory buildings and turns them into low income housing, using exclusively the construction company he saved. People fresh out of college or those with minimum wage jobs can now live independently. Decreased cost of living draws people to the once dying town.
His family had money and he's donating it everywhere, fire fighter pension fund, police widow fund (luckily not often needed because the pack has helped decrease the danger I town), the library, meals on wheels, animal shelter, etc.
Because the Hales have always been the protectors of ALL of Beacon Hills, and if Derek Hale has to carry that mantle on just his shoulders alone he will.
