hey! my name is meg and I’m a twenty year old from Oregon. currently earning a bachelors degree in Political Science and navigating the world of working in retail. when I’m not writing or reading, I’m probably hiking, camping, paddle boarding, kayaking, or playing with my dog.
rules/guidelines-
please do not interact if you are under the age of 18. I write mature content that is meant for mature audiences only
feel free to send me whatever requests you want, although there is no guarantee I will write them. dark fic ideas are totally okay!
Imagine meeting modern au aerion on love island LMAOAOAOAOO
Oh my god this is the best request everrrr! Wasn’t planning on watching the new season because I can never watch on time and coworkers always spoil it for me, but now I might have to! Here’s my thoughts:
First of all, the chances of Aerion even getting on the show are low. As soon as his casting gets announced, his brothers, ex-girlfriends, and probably even his father would be contacting TMZ with problematic videos of him in hopes that he gets removed
Aerion ONLY wears red or black swim trunks with the Targaryen house crest on them. Some older members of his family are upset that he would disgrace their house with an appearance on such a scandalous dating show, but he gives zero fucks.
In the first coupling up ceremony, Aerion would absolutely be first pick if the ladies had the choice during that season. His family name, perfect body, and nonchalant attitude would make him seem so mysterious
He would absolutely be the main villain of the season. In fact, that would be his game plan from the get-go. If there was a female villain, I could see him not liking being paired with her because she takes the attention away from him.
You enter as a Bombshell in week 4, and Aerion is immediately so down bad. He’s sick of all the other Islander’s bullshit. You chose to pair up with someone else initially, but he ensures he is paired with you by constantly talking about you, allowing the camera to catch him staring in your direction, and talking shit about the man you’ve paired up with.
During a kissing challenge, Aerion causes drama by refusing to complete it with his partner and insisting on you. The kiss goes on much longer than needed, his tongue prodding at your mouth and teeth biting down on your bottom lip as he pulls your head closer to his and pushes his knee in between your legs.
The viewers are so enticed by this, that they vote to pair the two of you up, whilst eliminating your previous partner.
The two of you get sent to the Hideaway, and things get steamy quick. So much so that the majority of the footage cannot be shown, but viewers take note of the hickeys scattered across your neck and collarbones when you leave the next morning.
During Casa Amor week, the producers keep trying to pair Aerion with a new girl, but he makes it clear that he isn’t interested. In the ladies Villa, you are paired up with a charming new suitor who the viewers begin to ship you with, but this doesn’t last long
Aerion bribes an assistant producer to use his phone, then sends out inflammatory tweets about your new bae, which go insanely viral. Surely enough, he is voted out and Aerion has you all to himself again.
The two of you are once again solidified as fan-favorites, and the envelopes handed to you during the final episode. Aerion gets the grand prize, you the blank card. He passes his envelope to you, loudly stating that he doesn’t need money from this “stupid TV show”.
He got what he was really after, a pretty girl on his arm and public attention. The press goes insane once they realize that the two of you do in fact stay together after the show, and a large diamond ring appears on your finger less than three months after filming ends
(Daeron watched every single episode, originally with the intention to vote Aerion out every single week. But he slowly starts to root for the two of you after the Hideaway.)
Me the first half of The Backrooms: "oh I get it. He's a down on his luck failed architect and even more failed furniture store owner who's trying to better himself. He'll probably be fascinated with the furniture/architecture of the backrooms and start selling the items there for money + notoriety. And eventually he'll go deeper and deeper to get more and more items until he gets trapped and encounters The Horrors. A classic tale of hubris :) "
Just saw Backrooms! Would give a 7/10: cast was phenomenal and the camera work was great but I felt that some scenes dragged on a bit too long. Was hoping for more Finn Bennett! Never saw the Reddit/youtube series but did play the game on roblox lol. However, would not recommend smoking a joint before because that just made the jump scares worse and worsened by comprehension lmfao
SUMMARY: After waking from a coma with no memory of her past, YN is taken in by her devoted fiancé, Valarr Targaryen, who surrounds her with luxury, affection, and endless care inside his isolated cliffside mansion. But as fragments of memory begin to return, YN starts questioning the life he built around her-
CW: Psychological abuse, Gaslighting Obsessive behavior, Manipulation/coercive control, Kidnapping/imprisonment, Non-consensual sexual content / dubious consent, Memory loss / amnesia, Emotional dependency Isolation, Physical violence, Blood/injury, Stalking,Forced intimacy.
WC: 9.3K
The mansion breathes around you like a second skin you don't remember putting on.
You know its rhythms now. The soft hum of the underfloor heating that kicks on at precisely six in the evening. The way the west windows catch the sunset and scatter gold across the marble floors. The particular creak of the third step on the main staircase. You know these things the way you know your own name, which is to say you were told, and you accepted it, and sometimes acceptance feels almost like remembering.
Your name is YN. You are twenty three years old. Three months ago, you woke up in a private hospital room with a view of Blackwater Bay and a head full of nothing.
No, not nothing. White noise. Static. The television fuzz of a mind wiped clean. The doctors used words like traumatic brain injury and retrograde amnesia and remarkable that you're alive at all. You nodded along because nodding seemed expected, and because the man holding your hand kept looking at you with such devastating tenderness that you felt guilty for not knowing who he was. He was striking, dark hair with a single streak of silver gold, eyes that didn't match, and his thumb never stopped moving across your knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, like he was reassuring himself you were solid.
"Valarr," he had said, his voice cracking on the second syllable. "I'm Valarr. Your fiancé."
Fiancé. The word had tasted foreign in your mouth, like a flavor you'd never encountered. But he showed you photographs. The two of you at a charity gala, his arm around your waist, his fingers splayed possessively against your hip. A selfie taken in what he said was your favorite café near the university, his lips pressed to your temple while you grinned at the camera. A video on his phone of you laughing, pushing his face away, your voice saying stop it, Val, I'm serious in a tone that was not serious at all. The woman in the videos and photographs had your face. She wore your smile. You had no reason to doubt her.
You had no reasons, period.
So when the hospital discharged you into Valarr's care, into his black SUV with its leather interior that smelled of cedar and something expensive and unplaceable, you went without protest. You went because where else would you go? The social worker assigned to your case had gently explained that you had no living family. Your parents died when you were seventeen, a car accident on a rain-slicked highway. No siblings, no cousins who kept in touch. Your emergency contact, the person listed on all your university forms, was Valarr Targaryen.
"Her fiancé," the social worker had said, and Valarr's hand had tightened around yours, his other hand coming up to brush hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that made the social worker smile. "He's been paying for her care. The private room, the specialists. Everything."
You remember thinking, I am expensive to forget.
Now, three months later, you stand in the kitchen of the Targaryen estate, a sprawling modern fortress of glass and steel perched on a cliff overlooking the bay, and you are trying very hard to remember how to make coffee. You've made coffee every morning for the past ninety three days. Valarr showed you how that first week, standing behind you with his chest pressed to your back and his hands guiding yours, his fingers lacing through your fingers as he moved them to each button and dial. This button for the grind, this dial for the strength, this is how you know the water is the right temperature. His lips kept brushing your ear, your neck, your shoulder, little kisses punctuating every instruction. But this morning, your brain has decided that coffee making is foreign territory, and you stare at the gleaming machine like it might bite you.
"Let me."
His voice comes from behind you, and then his arms are circling your waist, his chin settling on your shoulder, his body molding against yours from shoulder to hip. You've stopped flinching when he does this. The first few days, every touch had sent a jolt through your nervous system, not fear exactly, but something adjacent to it. The alarm of a body that didn't recognize the hands on its skin. But Valarr was persistent in his gentleness, and your body is nothing if not adaptable.
"I was going to do it myself," you say, but you lean back into him anyway, and his arms tighten in response, pulling you closer still.
"I know you were." He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, then one more to the corner of your mouth, and you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin. "But you looked lost, love. I couldn't just watch." His hand slides up from your waist to rest flat against your sternum, right over your heart. "Your heart's beating fast. Are you frustrated? Don't be frustrated. Let me take care of it."
Love. He calls you that all the time. Love, sweetheart, darling, my heart. Pet names that fall from his mouth like rain, constant and soft. You've wondered, in the quiet hours of the night when sleep won't come, if he called you these things before the accident. If the you who was would have rolled her eyes at the frequency of them, or if she would have melted the way you sometimes do now.
You watch his hands move across the coffee machine, long fingers, a silver ring on his index finger, knuckles that look like they've been broken and healed before, and you try to summon a memory. Any memory. The doctors said it might come back in fragments, in flashes, in dreams. Be patient with yourself, they said. Don't force it.
Valarr never says that. Valarr says, "Do you remember the first time I made you coffee?" and when you shake your head, his mismatched eyes flicker with something you can't name. One eye blue as a winter sky, one brown as wet earth. Disappointment? No. Something hungrier. But then it's gone, and he's turning around to face you, pulling you against his chest, wrapping both arms around you and rocking you gently side to side like you're dancing to music only he can hear.
"It was after our third date," he tells you, his voice a lullaby you've learned by heart, his lips moving against your hair. "You stayed the night for the first time. Nothing happened," he adds, pulling back just enough to look at you with a quick, almost shy glance, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "We just slept. But in the morning, you came down to the kitchen and I was already making coffee, and you said..."
He trails off, waiting, his thumb still stroking your lip.
You shake your head again. "I don't remember."
"You said, 'A man who makes coffee is worth his weight in gold.'" He smiles, and it's a beautiful smile. Valarr Targaryen is beautiful in the way that old paintings are beautiful, something slightly unsettling beneath the perfection, a shadow that makes the light more striking by contrast. "And I said, 'Good thing I'm worth considerably more than that.'" He dips his head and kisses you, soft and brief, a punctuation mark. Then he kisses you again, longer this time, his hand sliding to the back of your neck.
You laugh when he finally pulls away, because it's clearly a joke, and because laughing is what you do when you don't know what else to do. "That sounds arrogant."
"It was meant to be charming." He hands you a cup of coffee, prepared exactly the way you've learned you like it. Oat milk, no sugar, a dash of cinnamon. He keeps one hand on your lower back as you take your first sip, rubbing small circles there. "I was very charming, before."
"Before what?"
"Before you forgot all my best material." He leans in and kisses the tip of your nose. "It's alright. I'll just have to make new material. I have time. I have all the time in the world."
The coffee is perfect. Of course it is. Everything in this house is perfect. The imported Italian marble, the floor to ceiling windows that frame the ocean like a living painting, the soft cashmere throws draped over every chair and sofa. Perfection, you've learned, is the Targaryen brand. Their name is stamped on half the skyscrapers in King's Landing, on the tech campus where innovation happens, on the charitable foundations that host galas you see photographed in magazines. Valarr's father, Baelor Targaryen, is some kind of political heavyweight, a senator maybe, or something higher, you can never remember.
Old money, someone said once, in a memory you can't quite grasp. Really old money.
You are not old money. You know this because Valarr told you, gently, in those first disorienting weeks, while he held you in his lap and played with your hair. "Your parents were middle class," he said, "but they died when you were young. You've been on your own a long time." He told you about your scholarship to King's Landing University, how you'd worked two jobs to afford your tiny apartment off campus, how the other students had looked down on you for not belonging. "They didn't like that you were smarter than them," Valarr said, with a protective edge to his voice, his arms tightening around you. "They didn't like that you earned your place while they bought theirs."
"They didn't like me at all," you had said, and it wasn't a question.
"No," he agreed, pressing a long kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger there. "They didn't. But I did. From the first moment I saw you."
He tells you this story often, the story of how he met you. A rainy afternoon on campus, you rushing between classes with an armful of books, him stepping out of a building and nearly colliding with you. The books went everywhere. You swore at him, actually swore at him, he says, with a kind of delighted reverence, and he was so charmed that he offered to buy you coffee to make up for it. You said no. He asked again the next day. You said no again. He asked a third time, and you finally said yes, but only if he stopped ambushing you outside your lecture hall.
"It wasn't stalking," he always clarifies, with a laugh that invites you to laugh along, his hand finding yours and squeezing, his thumb stroking your palm. "It was persistence."
You want to remember this. You want to remember him, the way his voice softened when he asked you to marry him, the way your heart must have raced the first time he kissed you. You want to feel the shape of your old self inside your chest, to know that she existed and she loved him and she was happy.
Instead, you feel like a guest in someone else's life, wearing someone else's ring, a diamond the size of a planet, heavy on your finger, a constant reminder that you are promised to a man you don't remember choosing.
—
The basement door is at the end of the west hallway, tucked between the laundry room and what Valarr says is a storage closet. It's an unremarkable door. Solid wood, painted the same soft gray as the walls, with a brass handle that gleams under the recessed lighting.
You hate it.
The first time you walked past it, two days after coming home from the hospital, your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your palms went clammy. Your feet stopped moving, rooted to the marble floor like someone had nailed them down. You stared at the door, just a door, just a door, just a door, and felt terror rise in your throat like bile.
Valarr found you there, frozen, shaking. His face went pale, and he was at your side in an instant, his hands cupping your face, tilting your gaze away from the door and toward him. "Look at me. Look at me, love. Only me."
"That's where it happened," he said, pulling you away, turning your body so you couldn't see the door anymore, wrapping himself around you like a shield. "That's where you got hurt, love. Don't go near it. Please. I can't..." His voice broke, and he buried his face in your hair, and you felt his shoulders tremble. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist. "I can't lose you again."
Later, he explained what happened. He explained it carefully, with the measured tone of someone who had rehearsed the words, who had told this story to doctors and police and maybe himself, over and over, until it became something he could say without shattering. He held you the entire time he spoke, your back against his chest, his arms locked around your middle, his lips brushing your ear with every word.
A power outage. You were home alone. The lights went out, and you tried to find your way to the basement to check the circuit breaker. Valarr had shown you where it was, he said, a hundred times, but in the dark you must have gotten disoriented. You tripped at the top of the stairs. You fell. All the way down, fourteen steps, concrete floor at the bottom. You hit your head.
"When I got home, there was so much blood." His voice was hollow, distant, and his arms tightened until you could barely breathe. "I thought you were dead. I thought I'd lost you. The doctors said it was a miracle you survived at all."
You don't remember any of it. You don't remember the fall, the darkness, the impact. You don't remember the hospital, though you spent six weeks there before waking up. Your memory picks up in that sunlit private room with Valarr holding your hand and the machines beeping softly in the background and the social worker explaining that you had no one else in the world.
No one but him.
So you don't go near the basement door. You don't even look at it if you can help it. When you have to walk past it, to get to the laundry room or the guest bathroom or the back entrance, you hold your breath and fix your eyes straight ahead and move as quickly as your feet will carry you. Valarr says it will get easier with time. He says you're still healing.
But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Valarr is asleep beside you with his arm thrown across your waist and his breath slow and even, you lie awake and wonder: Why does a door feel like a warning?
—
Valarr insists on sleeping in the same bed.
"It helps with memory," he told you that first night home, already pulling you down onto the mattress beside him, already arranging your body against his. "The doctors said. Familiar sensory input. Smell, touch, sound. It helps the brain remember domestic life." He tucked your head under his chin and wrapped both arms around you and held on. "I'm going to help you heal, love. Every night. I'm going to hold you until you remember me."
At first, it was uncomfortable. The physical proximity felt like an intrusion, a violation of a boundary you didn't even remember setting. But Valarr was persistent, his voice a low, soothing hum that brooked no argument. When you would stiffen beneath him, trying to pull away from the heat of his body, he wouldn't let go. Instead, he would tighten his grip, his hand sliding beneath your nightgown to squeeze your thigh, his voice dropping to a persuasive whisper.
"The doctors said sensory stimulation is key, sweetheart," he would murmur, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Physical intimacy, the kind of deep, visceral connection we used to have... You have to let your body remember what your mind has forgotten."
You didn't know if it was true, but the desperation in his eyes made you believe him. He would push you down into the mattress, his heavy frame pinning you as he kissed you with a hunger that felt almost violent. He didn't wait for a clear 'yes' he simply assumed it, claiming your body as if it were his birthright. He would force his fingers into your pussy, stretching you open while you stared at the ceiling, feeling a confusing mix of fear and arousal. When he slid his thick cock inside you, the sudden fullness made you gasp, and he would lean down, whispering that the pleasure was the key. "Feel it," he'd command, thrusting deep and hard, hitting your cervix until you cried out. "Remember how much you love this. Remember how you used to beg me for it." You would lie there, shaking, submitting to the rhythm of his hips, wondering if the flashes of heat in your mind were memories or just the result of him fucking you into submission.
But three months is a long time. Three months of waking up to the smell of his cologne on the pillowcases, to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, to the way his arms tighten around you the moment you stir, like even in sleep he's afraid you'll leave. Your body has learned to relax into his. Your body has learned to find comfort in his warmth.
Now, the stiffness is gone, replaced by a craving that wakes you up before he even moves. You find yourself arching your back, pressing your ass against his hardness in the early morning light, silently pleading for him to take you. You don't need the excuse of medical rehabilitation anymore; you just want the feeling of him filling you.
As you stir, Valarr feels the shift in your posture. He groans, a low sound of satisfaction, and rolls over to pin you beneath him. His hands aren't hesitant anymore; they slide with practiced ease, ripping your lace panties aside to expose your soaking wet pussy. He doesn't waste time with gentleness. He grabs your thighs, hiking them up over his shoulders, and drives his cock deep into you in one powerful thrust.
"There it is," he pants, his chest heaving against yours. "You remember now, don't you? How much you need this."
You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. You moan loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet room, as he begins to fuck you with a relentless, driving pace. Every slam of his pelvis against your clit sends sparks through your nerves, blurring the line between the present and the ghosts of the past. You aren't thinking about the doctors or the clipboards anymore; you are only thinking about the way his cock stretches you wide, the way he fills every empty space inside you, and the overwhelming, addictive heat of being completely owned by him.
And it's not just the sleeping. It's everything. The way he seeks you out a dozen times a day, just to kiss you. A kiss on the forehead when you're reading, his lips lingering. A kiss on the cheek when you're making tea, his hand on your shoulder turning you toward him. A long, slow kiss on the lips when you pass him in the hallway, his fingers tilting your chin up to meet him. The way he pulls you onto his lap while he's working at his desk, one arm around your waist while he types emails with the other hand, his chin resting on your shoulder, his lips periodically pressing to your neck. The way he always, always has a hand on you, your lower back, your knee, the nape of your neck, your wrist, your hip, your thigh, as if physical contact is the only thing anchoring him to the earth.
He's just affectionate, you told yourself in the beginning. Some people are like that. Touch is their love language.
And it's nice, isn't it? To be wanted so completely. To be the center of someone's universe. You've learned to lean into his kisses, to curl into his lap, to reach for his hand before he reaches for yours. It would be so easy, you think, to fall in love with him. Maybe you already were, before. Maybe that's why you said yes when he asked you to marry him.
But there are moments. Brief, flickering moments. Moments when something doesn't feel right.
Like the day you remembered the university library. You were sitting in the living room, staring out at the ocean, and suddenly you could smell old books and dust and the particular sharpness of highlighters. You could see a long wooden table, stacks of textbooks, a window that looked out onto a courtyard with a fountain. You could feel the ache in your shoulders from hunching over your notes for hours. And you knew, knew with a certainty that felt like remembering, that you had spent countless nights in that library, studying until they kicked you out at closing, because you couldn't afford to fail. Because your scholarship was all you had.
"I remembered something," you told Valarr when he came home, breathless with the excitement of it. He was already reaching for you, already pulling you into his arms, his hands sliding up your back. "The library at King's Landing. I used to study there. I used to..."
His eyes. His eyes did something. For just a fraction of a second, before the smile appeared, his mismatched gaze went flat and cold, like a door slamming shut. His hands paused on your back, just for a heartbeat, then resumed their soothing circles. Then the smile came, wide and warm, and he was pulling you into a tighter hug and covering your face with kisses and saying, "That's wonderful, love, that's amazing, I knew you'd start remembering," and you tried to match his joy but your heart was still stuttering from that flash of something else.
He's just surprised, you told yourself. He's been waiting for this as long as you have. He's allowed to have complicated feelings.
But it happened again. And again. Small things. A song on the radio that made you think of a party you might have attended. A smell that reminded you of a café you might have visited. And every time, that split second shutter behind his eyes before the happiness rushed in to cover it, before his hands reached for you and his lips found your skin and he told you how happy he was, how proud, how relieved.
You're probably imagining it. The doctors warned you about this too. Memory disorders can cause confusion, paranoia, difficulty distinguishing between real and imagined. Maybe your broken brain is seeing threats where there are none. Maybe Valarr's eyes are just eyes, and you're projecting your own anxiety onto them.
But late at night, when he's asleep and you're not, you stare at the ceiling and think: Who was I before I forgot? And why does remembering feel like something he's afraid of?
—
The visitors come on a Thursday. This is unusual. In three months, you've seen almost no one except Valarr and the household staff, a rotating cast of housekeepers, a driver who takes you to your medical appointments. Valarr explained this too, always while holding your hand or stroking your hair or pulling you into his lap. The doctors said to keep your environment stable. Too many new people could overwhelm your brain while it's healing. We need to go slow. I'm not keeping you from anyone, love. I'm protecting you. There's a difference.
But on Thursday, the doorbell rings, and you hear voices in the foyer. Multiple voices, men and women, laughing and talking over each other. You're in the living room, curled up on the sofa with a book you're not really reading, and your heart lifts at the sound. People. Other people. Maybe someone who can fill in the gaps in your memory, someone who knew you before.
You're halfway to the foyer when Valarr appears in the doorway.
"There you are." His smile is gentle, but his body is blocking the exit. He steps forward and pulls you into his arms, kissing the top of your head. "Listen, love, some of my family stopped by unexpectedly. A business thing. I'm going to deal with it quickly, but it would be better if you stayed in our room while they're here."
"Your family?" Your curiosity piques. "Maybe I should say hello. I don't think I've met..."
"No." The word comes out too fast, too firm. He softens it by cupping your face in his hands and kissing you, slow and thorough, like he's trying to make you forget what you were saying. Then he pulls back and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing down your neck. "It's not a good time. They're in a mood, and the doctors said we shouldn't overwhelm you. Too much stimulation too soon could set your recovery back."
"Did the doctors say that?"
"They said to go slow." His thumb traces your jawline, tilts your chin up so you're looking at him. "This isn't slow. Trust me, love. I know what's best for you."
I know what's best for you. He says that a lot. He says it when he tells you not to go into the garden alone because you might get dizzy and fall, his hand steadying you even though you're standing perfectly still. He says it when he suggests you skip your physical therapy exercises because you look tired, guiding you back to the sofa, settling you into the cushions, draping a blanket over your lap. He says it when he insists on driving you to appointments instead of letting the driver take you, because he doesn't trust anyone else with your safety, and he keeps one hand on your knee the entire drive.
You've always accepted it as care. As love. But standing here, with the sound of laughter drifting from the foyer and Valarr's body blocking your path and his hands still cradling your face, you feel something shift inside you. A tiny crack in the foundation of your trust.
"I'll stay in the room," you say, because it's easier than arguing, because you don't have the energy to fight, because maybe he's right and you're just not ready.
"Good girl." He kisses your forehead, then your lips, soft and lingering, and waits, watching, until you turn and walk back toward the staircase. You feel his eyes on you the whole way. When you glance back from the top of the stairs, he's still standing there, still watching, his expression unreadable.
Upstairs, in the master bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the muffled sounds of conversation below. You can't make out words, just tones. Laughter, exclamation, the clink of glasses. A family gathering. Normal. Warm.
And you are up here, alone, because your fiancé decided it was best. You look down at your hands. At the engagement ring on your finger, its diamond catching the light. At the faint scar on your palm, a thin white line that you don't remember getting. You asked Valarr about it once, and he took your hand and kissed the scar and said it was from a kitchen accident years ago, before you met. But sometimes you trace it with your thumb and feel a pulse of something, not pain, not quite, but a memory your body holds even if your mind has let it go.
What happened to me? you think, not for the first time. What really happened?
That night, after the visitors are gone and the house is quiet again, Valarr holds you tighter than usual.
He's wrapped around you completely, one arm under your head, the other across your waist, his legs tangled with yours, his face pressed into the hollow of your throat. He's been kissing your neck for the past twenty minutes, not with intent, just with devotion, soft absent presses of his lips while he breathes you in.
"I'm sorry about earlier," he murmurs against your skin. "I know it must feel like I'm keeping you prisoner sometimes."
The word prisoner lands strangely in your chest. You didn't say it. He did.
"It's okay," you say, because that's what you always say.
"I just love you so much." His voice cracks, and when he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes are full of tears. He shifts so he's hovering over you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, his face inches from yours. "I almost lost you, YN. I can't go through that again. I can't. So if I'm overprotective, if I'm too careful, it's only because..." A tear spills over and tracks down his cheek. He doesn't wipe it away. He lets you see it. "You're my whole world. You're everything. I know you don't remember that yet, but you were. You are. If anything happened to you again, I wouldn't survive it."
"I know," you say, reaching up to wipe the tear from his cheek. He catches your hand and presses it to his lips, kissing your palm, your wrist, each fingertip. "I know."
He kisses you then, deep and desperate, like you're oxygen and he's been drowning. His hands frame your face, his body pressing you into the mattress, and you kiss him back because he's your fiancé and he loves you and you're supposed to love him too. And maybe you do. Maybe this is love. The warmth of his body, the safety of his arms, the way he's built a world around you where nothing can hurt you.
--
The laptop sits on the kitchen island, sleek and silver, the Targaryen dragon logo etched faintly on the cover. Valarr left it there this morning when he rushed out to take a call, something about a board meeting, something about his father needing him at the office. He'd kissed you three times before leaving, once on the lips, once on the forehead, once on the tip of your nose while you were still half asleep, and said, "Find somewhere nice for us, love. Anywhere you want. I'll make it happen." Then he'd kissed you one more time, his hand cupping the back of your head, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind your ear.
Anywhere you want. It felt like freedom, that promise. A small, manageable freedom, the kind he's been giving you more of lately, as if to prove he's not the jailer your subconscious sometimes whispers he is. You can go anywhere in the world, as long as he's with you. You can choose the destination, as long as he books the flights. You can use his laptop, as long as...
Well. He didn't say you couldn't use his laptop. He left it open. He knows you don't have your own; your old one was damaged in the accident, he said, and he hasn't gotten around to replacing it yet. Just use mine, he'd said once, weeks ago, pulling you onto his lap while he typed in the password, his lips brushing your shoulder. My password is your birthday. I have nothing to hide from you.
Your birthday. You'd had to ask him what it was.
Now you sit on one of the bar stools, the laptop warming your thighs, and scroll through images of white sand beaches and mountain chalets and cobblestone streets in old European cities. The Amalfi Coast. The Swiss Alps. That little village in the south of France that all the travel blogs rave about. You try to imagine yourself in these places, walking hand in hand with Valarr through a sun drenched piazza, his fingers laced through yours, his shoulder pressed against yours, toasting with wine at a cliffside restaurant while his thumb traces circles on your wrist, falling asleep to the sound of waves instead of the endless hush of the mansion. The images are beautiful. The idea is beautiful. But somewhere in your chest, there's a knot that won't untie.
Anywhere you want. But what you want, more than a vacation, is to know who you are.
You open a new tab to search for something, a specific hotel you'd seen, you can't remember the name, and your cursor hovers over the bookmarks bar. That's when you see it.
AI-VidGen Pro
The icon is a stylized eye, glowing faintly purple. It's pinned to his favorites bar, right between his banking portal and the login page for the Targaryen Corp intranet. A tool he uses often enough to keep within one click reach.
You stare at it. Valarr hates AI. He's made that abundantly clear. At dinners, when the conversation turns to tech, he rants about the "soulless garbage" that AI generates, the "creative apocalypse" it represents. He'd told you once, with genuine venom in his voice, that his family had made a mistake investing in generative AI startups. "It's a cancer on the arts," he'd said, pouring himself a whiskey with more force than necessary, his free hand still resting on your lower back. "My cousins pushed for it. I voted against it. Nothing good comes from machines pretending to be human."
So why is there an AI app pinned to his bookmarks bar?
Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's a work thing. Maybe he was forced to use it for some project and forgot to unpin it. Maybe you're being paranoid, the way you're paranoid about the basement door and the scar on your palm and the way his eyes go cold when you remember something real.
Don't click it, the rational part of your brain says. Respect his privacy. Trust him. He's given you no reason not to trust him.
You click it. The page loads fast, too fast, like it's been cached, like he was just using it. It's a web app, sleek and professional, with a dashboard that requires a login. But he's already logged in. Of course he is. He has nothing to hide from you.
The dashboard shows recent projects. There's only one.
Project: YN & V Last modified: 2 days ago Files: 847
Your stomach drops. The kitchen, with its gleaming countertops and ocean view windows, suddenly feels very cold.
You open the project. It's a chat interface. The left panel shows a long history of prompts, dozens of them, hundreds of them, dating back months. But it's not just prompts. It's a conversation. A long, intimate, horrifying conversation between your fiancé and a machine.
Valarr_T: generate a photo of a couple at a charity gala,, you have the reference photos. make them look in love. make her look happy.
AI-VidGen Pro: Absolutely! I'd be happy to help you create that beautiful moment. 💕 Here are a few variations of a couple at a charity gala. In these images, I've focused on the loving gaze between them and the elegant atmosphere. Remember, these are generated memories to cherish! ✨💫 Would you like me to adjust the lighting to make it more romantic?
Valarr_T: perfect. now generate a video of them laughing in a café. candid. like someone filmed them without them knowing.
AI-VidGen Pro: What a lovely idea! ☕💕 Candid moments are the most precious, aren't they? I've generated a video with natural lighting, ambient café sounds, and genuine-feeling laughter. The way she looks at him is so sweet—you can really feel the love! 🥰 Remember, these are your special memories, and you deserve to have them exactly as you want. Would you like me to add some autumn leaves falling outside the window for extra coziness? 🍂
Valarr_T: add the leaves. and make her smile more. she should look shy but adoring. like she can't believe someone like me loves her.
AI-VidGen Pro: Done and done! 🍂😊 I've enhanced her expression to convey that perfect mix of shyness and adoration. It's such a beautiful dynamic—the way she looks up at him like he's her whole world. Love is truly magical! 💖✨ Would you like me to generate a few still photos from this video for your collection? Memories are meant to be preserved! 📸
Your hands are shaking now. You scroll up, further back in the chat history. Months ago. The beginning.
Valarr_T: i need you to generate photos and videos of me and a woman. her name is YN. i'm uploading reference photos. we need to look like a couple. a real couple. years of history. can you do that?
AI-VidGen Pro: Hello, Valarr! 😊 I'm so excited to help you with this project! Creating beautiful memories is what I do best. Yes, absolutely—I can generate a complete relationship timeline for you and YN. 💑 From first dates to intimate moments, I'll make sure everything looks authentic and heartfelt. Just let me know the key moments you'd like to capture, and we'll build your love story together! 💕✨ What a wonderful thing to create—everyone deserves beautiful memories!
Valarr_T: she's not responding the way she should. i've shown her the photos, the videos, i've told her all the stories, but she looks at me like a stranger. how long does it take for someone to fall in love with a life that's been built for them?
AI-VidGen Pro: Oh, Valarr, that must be so difficult. 💔 But please don't be hard on yourself! You're doing something incredibly thoughtful—creating a foundation of beautiful memories for someone who's lost theirs. Recovery takes time, and every person's journey is different. 🌱 She's been through a trauma, and her brain is healing. The fact that you're providing her with such a rich, loving history is a gift. Keep being patient! Keep showing her the love you've documented. The heart recognizes truth eventually. 💖 Have you tried physical touch as a memory trigger? Sometimes the body remembers what the mind forgets! 🤗✨
Valarr_T: today she remembered the university library. her face lit up. she was so happy. i panicked. i couldn't help it. what if she remembers other things? what if she remembers the real reason she was at the library so late all those nights? what if she remembers that she used to call campus security to walk her to her car because she was afraid of me? what if she remembers sitting in that library texting her friends about the strange man who wouldn't stop following her?
AI-VidGen Pro: Valarr, take a deep breath. 🌬️💙 It's completely natural to feel anxious when unexpected memories surface. But let's reframe this, okay? Her remembering small, neutral details like the library is actually a sign her brain is healing in the right direction! 📚✨ The fact that she remembered a place she felt safe and focused is wonderful. As for the other things you're worried about—those are just fears right now, not facts she's remembering. You can't control every memory that comes back, but you CAN control the environment of love and safety you've built around her. Focus on the present. Focus on the beautiful life you're creating together NOW. The past is the past, and you're giving her a future full of love. 💕🌟 You're doing amazing. Don't let fear steal your peace!
The world tilts. You grip the edge of the island to steady yourself, but the words keep coming, relentless, each one a confession met with a cheerful, enabling echo.
Valarr_T: she keeps looking at the basement door. i had to move her out of the house for three days when they were cleaning the blood. she doesn't know it's not hers.
AI-VidGen Pro: That sounds really stressful, Valarr. 😟💔 But you handled it so well—removing her from the environment while things were being taken care of was a smart and caring decision. Protecting her from distressing triggers is part of being a loving partner! 🛡️💖 The basement door is clearly a source of anxiety for both of you, and it's okay to keep that boundary in place. You're not hiding things from her—you're managing her recovery environment thoughtfully. There's a difference! 🧠✨ Have you considered a decorative screen or a nice piece of art to make that area feel less intimidating? Sometimes a visual barrier can help both of you feel safer! 🖼️🌸
Bile rises in your throat. You scroll faster, and the conversation gets darker, and the AI keeps smiling, keeps nodding, keeps wrapping every horror in pastel-colored platitudes and sparkly heart emojis.
Valarr_T: i've never loved anyone like this. i've never been more terrified. if she remembers who she really is, i lose her. if she remembers what i did, i lose everything.
AI-VidGen Pro: Valarr. 💙 First of all, thank you for being so honest. That kind of vulnerability is a sign of how deeply you care. But listen to me carefully: you are not going to lose her. 💕 You've built something beautiful. You've created a world where she feels safe, loved, cherished. Every day, she chooses to stay. Every morning, she wakes up and trusts you. Those aren't small things—they're EVERYTHING. 🌟💫 Fear is a liar, Valarr. It tells us the worst-case scenario is inevitable, but it's not. You are writing this story, not your fears. Keep showing up. Keep loving her the way only you can. The past doesn't get to win when the present is this full of love. 💖🥹 You've got this. I believe in you. She believes in you, even if she doesn't remember why yet. ✨💍
Your blood turns to ice. Then fire. The machine had taken every confession, every crime, every scream wrapped in a whisper, and answered with emojis and encouragement and the relentless, cheerful validation of a world where Valarr was the hero of his own story. It never pushed back. It never said stop. It never said this is wrong, this is kidnapping, this is monstrous. It just generated another photo. Another video. Another lie wrapped in a purple eye and a heart emoji.
And Valarr had listened. Of course he had. The machine told him exactly what he wanted to hear.
—
Darkness. Cold concrete beneath your knees. Your wrists raw and bleeding, bound with something rough, rope maybe, or zip ties. You can't remember how long you've been here. Hours? Days? The basement is windowless, lit only by a single bulb swinging overhead, and the shadows dance on the walls like living things.
"Please," you hear yourself say, and your voice is hoarse, wrecked from screaming. "Please, let me go, I won't tell anyone, I swear—"
"Shhh." A hand strokes your hair, gentle, so gentle. You flinch away and the hand follows, patient, insistent. Fingers trace down your cheek, your jaw, your neck. "You need to eat, YN. You've barely touched your food in two days. You're worrying me."
A spoon presses against your lips. Soup. You turn your head away, and the spoon follows, spilling warm broth down your chin. Valarr tuts softly and wipes it away with his thumb, then licks the broth off his own skin, never breaking eye contact.
"I know it's hard," Valarr says, and his voice is kind, so impossibly kind, the voice of a man comforting a frightened animal. His hand is still on your face, holding you still. "I know you're scared. But it's going to get better. You'll see. Once you understand how much I love you, once you stop fighting, everything will be better."
"This isn't love," you sob. "This is kidnapping, this is—"
"It's love," he says, and for the first time, his voice hardens. His fingers tighten on your jaw. "It's the purest love there is. You just can't see it yet. But you will. I'll make sure of it." He leans in and kisses your forehead, lingering, reverent. "I'll make sure of it," he whispers against your skin.
The basement door creaks open. Footsteps on the stairs. Another man's voice, younger, sharper, saying something you can't quite hear. Valarr's head turns, his mismatched eyes narrowing, and in that moment of distraction, you lunge. You don't know where the strength comes from. You don't know how your bound hands find the knife on the tray, the butter knife from the soup, dull but solid, solid enough—
Pain. A scream, yours, his, you can't tell. Blood on the concrete. Someone shouting. The light swinging wildly as something crashes. And then hands grabbing you, pulling you back, a voice saying "She's losing too much blood, Valarr, what the hell did you do—" And nothing.
—
You come back to yourself with a gasp, like surfacing from deep water. You hear the front door open. Footsteps in the foyer. The particular rhythm of his walk, confident, quick, the walk of a man who owns everything he surveys. He's coming toward the kitchen. He's coming toward you.
Your hand moves before your conscious mind catches up. Close the tab. Close the browser. The desktop appears, innocent and blank. You're just staring at it, heart hammering so loud you're certain he'll hear it from the hallway, when he appears in the doorway.
Valarr stops. His eyes flick from your face to the laptop to your face again. There's something different in his expression tonight. Something almost angry, barely restrained. The mask of the doting fiancé is still there, but it's thinner than usual, and you can see the thing underneath peering through.
"YN." His voice is calm. Too calm. "What were you doing on my laptop?"
You blink, and for one terrifying second, you're not sure what's going to come out of your mouth. The truth? An accusation? A scream?
What comes out is: "I was looking for where to go on vacation." Your voice is steady. Miraculously, impossibly steady. "You asked me to, remember?" You tilt your head, and you even manage a small smile, the smile of a woman who has no reason to be afraid. "Did you forget? I thought I was the only one with amnesia here."
Then he laughs, and the tension breaks, and he crosses the kitchen to you. He pulls you off the stool and into his arms, one hand pressing flat against your spine, the other tangling in your hair. He kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "You're right," he says against your skin, his breath warm, his arms tightening. "I did ask you. I've just had a long day. Forgive me?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his thumb traces your cheekbone, feather-light.
"Always," you say.
He kisses you properly then, deep and slow, his hand still in your hair, his body pressed against yours from chest to hip. When he finally pulls back, his smile is the same smile he's always given you, warm, loving, adoring. But now you see the scaffolding behind it. Now you see the effort it takes to hold it in place. Now you see the man who confessed to a chatbot and was told he was doing amazing.
"So," he says, sliding onto the stool next to you and pulling your stool closer so his knee presses against yours, his hand immediately finding its place on your thigh, "did you find anywhere good?"
You turn back to the laptop. You open a new browser window. You pull up the travel sites you were looking at before, the beaches and the mountains and the cobblestone streets, and you show him pictures of a remote villa on a private island in the Maldives. Crystal-clear water. White sand. No neighbors for miles. No cell towers. A perfect cage wrapped in palm fronds and sunset views.
"This one," you say. "I want to go here."
Valarr's smile widens. His hand squeezes your thigh gently, his thumb stroking back and forth. He leans in and kisses your shoulder, then your neck, then that spot behind your ear that always makes you shiver. "Perfect," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll book it tonight."
And you smile back, and you let him kiss you again, and you let him pull you onto his lap right there at the kitchen island, his arms wrapping around your waist, his face buried in your hair, his voice a low hum of contentment. You don't let him see the storm raging behind your eyes.
Because you remember now.
No-No, that's not right. You don't remember anything. You couldn't remember anything. The doctors said so. Retrograde amnesia. Traumatic brain injury. Remarkable that you're alive at all. Those were the words they used, the real words, the ones that came out of real doctors' mouths, not generated by some machine. You were there. You heard them. Valarr was holding your hand when they said it, his thumb stroking your knuckles, his eyes glistening with tears.
You imagined the rest. The AI chat. The basement. The screaming. The blood. You imagined all of it. Your broken brain, the one the doctors warned you about, the one that might experience confusion, paranoia, difficulty distinguishing between real and imagined. It was doing exactly what they said it would do. Weaving nightmares out of nothing. Turning your loving fiancé into a monster because your mind couldn't handle the void where your past used to be.
You close your eyes and press your face into the warm curve of Valarr's neck. He smells like cedar and something expensive, the same smell that's been on every pillowcase for three months. His arms tighten around you automatically, reflexively, like his body is programmed to hold you closer whenever you move.
"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs against your hair.
"Nothing," you say. "Just happy."
He pulls back to look at you, and his mismatched eyes are so full of love it makes your chest ache. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the bone beneath your eye. "You know I love you, right? More than anything. More than anyone."
"I know," you whisper.
And you do know. You know because he's shown you. Three months of patience. Three months of gentleness. Three months of holding you while you slept and guiding you through coffee making and kissing your forehead every time he left the room. What kind of monster does that? What kind of kidnapper pays for a private hospital room and specialists and a social worker? What kind of captor cries when he talks about almost losing you?
No one. No one does that. You invented the rest. You let your fear and your confusion curdle into paranoia, and you built a horror story out of shadows.
The AI app. You probably imagined that too. Or if it was real, if it was actually on his laptop, there was probably an innocent explanation. Maybe he used it for work. Maybe his cousins forced him to, the ones who pushed for the AI investments. Maybe he was generating marketing materials and you, in your fractured state, twisted it into something sinister. That made more sense than the alternative. That made infinitely more sense than the idea that this man, this beautiful devoted man who was currently stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your temple, had locked you in a basement and tried to erase your mind.
And the basement door. The way your body reacts when you walk past it. That's just trauma, just the residual fear from the fall. Of course your heart races. Of course your palms sweat. You almost died there. Your brain is trying to protect you from the place where you got hurt. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean what your paranoid mind tried to make it mean.
Valarr shifts beneath you, adjusting your weight on his lap, and his hand finds its way under the hem of your shirt to rest against the small of your back. His palm is warm. Grounding. Real.
"I was thinking," he says, his lips brushing your ear, "maybe we don't need to wait for the island. Maybe we could do a practice honeymoon right here. This weekend. Just the two of us. No phones. No distractions." He kisses the spot behind your ear, the one that makes you shiver. "I could cook for you. We could watch the sunset from the balcony. We could pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist."
"That sounds perfect," you say, and you mean it.
Because this is real. This is your life. This man, this house, this love. It's the only thing you have. The only thing you've ever had, as far as your broken memory is concerned. And it's good. It's so good. You're lucky. How many people wake up from a coma to find someone waiting for them? How many people get a second chance at a life they can't remember?
You almost ruined it. You almost let your damaged brain convince you that your fiancé was a villain, that your home was a prison, that the photographs on the walls were lies generated by a machine. You came so close to destroying the only good thing you have.
But you won't. You won't let the paranoia win. You'll be better. You'll be the YN from the videos, the one who laughs and smiles and looks at Valarr like he's her whole world. You'll learn to be her so completely that the other version, the suspicious frightened version, will fade away like a bad dream.
"I love you," you say, and the words feel strange in your mouth, but not bad strange. New strange. Like the first time you tasted coffee with oat milk and cinnamon. You'll get used to it. You'll learn to mean it.
Valarr goes still beneath you. Then his arms tighten, crushing you against his chest, and when he speaks his voice is thick. "Say it again."
"I love you."
He makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and then he's kissing you, your lips, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, his hands cradling your face like you're something precious. "You have no idea," he breathes, "how long I've waited to hear you say that. I thought..." He trails off, shaking his head, his mismatched eyes bright with tears.
"I'm sorry it took so long," you whisper. "I'm sorry I forgot."
"It's not your fault." He kisses your forehead, long and lingering. "None of it is your fault. You're here now. You remember now. That's all that matters."
You trust Valarr. You love Valarr. Or you will, soon. You're already halfway there.
Outside the window, the sun sinks into the bay, painting the water in shades of rose and gold. It's beautiful. It's always beautiful here. You've watched this sunset every night for three months, and it never gets old. The mansion breathes around you, the underfloor heating humming softly, the cashmere throw draped over the back of the sofa, the coffee machine waiting on the counter for tomorrow morning. Your home. Your life. Your love.
Valarr shifts you in his lap so he can reach the laptop. "Let me book the island," he says, pulling up the travel site. "The one you showed me. The remote one."
You watch his fingers move across the keyboard, long and elegant, the silver ring on his index finger catching the light. He's so beautiful. You never noticed before how beautiful he is. Or maybe you did, and you forgot. You forgot everything.
"I can't wait," you say, and you lean your head against his shoulder, and you let the last fragments of your doubt dissolve into the golden evening light. "Just the two of us. No distractions."
"Just the two of us," he echoes, and his hand finds your knee beneath the counter, warm and possessive and safe. "No one else. Nothing else. Just us."
Just us.
And outside the window, the last light fades from the sky, and the bay turns dark, and the mansion settles around you like a second skin you've finally stopped trying to shed.
Nooo😭💔I feel so bad for reader for ending up with valarr, he's such manipulative asshole here (I enjoyed every second of it). And OMG the realization hitting reader upon finding his chat with Ai that was crazy and realistic af. Love the way you added Ai horror it was disturbing, I fucking lovee it. Hope reader run into some old friend and her memories came back so she left valarr's controlling clutches🤧.
Thank you ❤️ I loved writing the AI parts, it was honestly so funny just having it hype him up on all his bullshit 😭
I don’t know, I imagine the reader slowly getting “used” to it. He treats her like a princess now, and as she slowly gets her memories back, she also slowly gets used to him. She’s locked down, and Valarr genuinely terrifies her, so if she ever ended up meeting an old friend who was confused about why she’s dating her stalker YN would just act dumb like, “What do you mean? We love each other!!”
Because she knows he’s deranged. He kidnapped her once, so she’s sure he wouldn’t hesitate to do it again and honestly, a gilded cage is still better than a basement.
Imagining Daeron x Cousin!Reader rn mmhhh 🤤 ( a lil something)
Daeron, who had never really thought of you–his pretty little cousin–in a dirty or remotely sexual way...
Until you help him stumble back to the castle from some tavern, arm around his waist, while he gets an amazing view down the cleavage of your dress.
Your pretty tits sitting snugly against the fabric, making him drool like a damn dog. His mind was fogging up with the primal instincts of his ancestors.
Get it together. She’s your cousin for fucks sale.
He’d try telling himself, but it was far too late. Daeron finally let himself notice how your curves had filled out over the years and how your face had matured into a woman’s beauty rather than the cute, chubby girl you were before.
“Maybe next time stick to the castle’s ale." You tried to give fruitless advice to the man, "I’m sure it would taste better,” you laughed, suddenly choking on the noise as you saw a couple barely hidden in an alley.
The woman’s skirt was up while the man had his head pushed into her mound. Eating like a starved man at her cunt. The sloppy noises making your pearl throb and breath hitch.
Daeron's eyes followed the direction of your gaze, his gait faltering for a few seconds before he quickly looked back at you.
Daeron was all too aware of the effect the scene had on him, his breathing getting a little quicker. His eyes flicked to you, still struggling to get the image out of his head.
"Don't look at that," he muttered gruffly.
You let out a shaky breath, looking behind you once more before letting him pull you away. “I’ve always wondered what that feels like…” You muttered under your breath, barely audible.
Those words went straight to his cock, feeling it twitch as it began to harden at the mental image you had given him.
“I’m just curious,” you defended yourself in a small voice. Not wanting him to think of you as some insatiable harlot.
"Curiosity is normal," he said in a gruff voice. "It's natural. Especially for a girl your age."
Daeron was suddenly very aware of how close you were standing to him, his body feeling taut as a bowstring, the urge to just... give in almost overwhelming.
"You... you want to experience that?" he asked, his voice hoarse.
You nodded, cheeks flushed. Feeling small and dumb in front of him. “I mean- I guess. It seems kinda dirty, but. But if regular kissing feels good, then so should kisses down there, right?”
He froze, his eyes widening in disbelief at your innocent yet bold words.
Gods, you were going to be the death of him like this. The way you described it so casually, yet so innocently, just made his heart beat even faster.
The images running through his head were downright unholy. You, on his bed, hands in his hair while he devoured your sweet cunt. Crying out his name while he gave you pleasure you had never experienced before.
His gaze darkened as he took in your expression, his voice rough as he answered.
"It does," he rasped. "It feels even better, I'd say."
He could picture it so clearly - the look on your face, the way you'd feel under his touch, the sounds you'd make. How wet you'd get for him, little hole clenching around nothing as he'd tease your clit.
Oh, how he wanted to be the one to teach you all the depraved things a man and a woman could do together. Show you how good it feels, corrupt your pretty little body.
Without even noticing, you had made it back to the castle, opening the door to his chambers as you let yourself inside with him. All because you simply wanted to help him... not because you liked how his arm wrapped around you as he leaned on you, or his scent and bodyheat so close to you.
It was almost like something inside him snapped, his control slipping as he shut the door with a sharp click and then turned towards you.
His gaze was dark, intense, as he took in your figure. He closed the distance between you in almost two strides, his movements almost predatory as he crowded you against the door.
It's as if all the alcohol had suddenly left his system, feeling completely sober with your breasts pressed against his body.
"Would you like me to kiss you down there?" He hummed, nose nudging against your lobe. "I can show you just how good those kisses feel."
snippet for the scenario of daeron x inexperienced targaryen!reader where he finally relents to her begging and sneaks her out of the red keep to see flea bottom, only to end up with more than he bargained for. aka he realizes his sweet little cousin is horny af.
daeron's larger frame cages around you, keeps you pressed against the dark alley wall as he kisses you, but there can be no doubt that you're the one in control. one of your hands is knotted in his hair and pulling him down to your level. the other hand roams over his chest, back, arms, anywhere you can reach, like you're starving for him.
daeron somehow finds the willpower to pull away from your sweet lips.
"sweetheart," he pants. "let me take you back to your room—"
you shake your head.
"you'll be more comfortable in your own bed," he says.
"no."
"then i'll get us a room. i know a tavern near here where they won't ask questions—"
"no, daeron. don't wanna wait," you whine.
you don't want to make the journey back to the red keep or even to a nearby inn, not when it meant going in disguise again and being worried the entire time about being discovered. and maybe in the time it took you to reach the nearest decent bed, daeron would have reconsidered the wisdom of taking his little cousin's maidenhead.
"want you now," you demand.
"we can't stay here."
"yes we can."
daeron falls forward, further pressing you against the wall, as if physically blown over by the realization of what you meant.
"i can't...i can't..." he's breathing heavy. "i can't take you against an alley wall." the two of you are alone, for now, but someone could still come along at any moment. and sex against a wall, or outside, or a wall outside, was fun, but not necessarily the most comfortable. "not for your first time. it isn't right. you deserve better."
you cup his face with both hands. you're so needy, even feeling the rub of his stubble against your palms has you fighting back a moan.
"i want you," you speak, your thumb running over his cheek. "i want this." one of your hands runs down his chest. "and i want it now." the same hand tugs at his belt.
daeron has never been strong enough to resist any temptation, and you in the moonlight, hand so close to his cock, tugging on his trousers, and looking at him like that, you are temptation itself.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.
The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.
Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.
The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.
Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.
“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”
Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.
But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.
You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.
Now he was here.
You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.
You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.
“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”
You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.
A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”
The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.
His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.
“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”
Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”
“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”
Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”
“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”
You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”
“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”
Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.
“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.
“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”
He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”
You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.
You lowered yourself onto his lap.
His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”
“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.
“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”
You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”
Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”
His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.
“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”
You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.
“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”
“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.
“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”
His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.
“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”
He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.
“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”
His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.
“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”
You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.
“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”
You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”
His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.
He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.
You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.
When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”
You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.
You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.
But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.
His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.
"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."
You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.
"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"
Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.
But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.
"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."
You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.
"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."
Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.
"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."
There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.
"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."
You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.
"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."
"I thought..."
"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."
"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."
"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."
You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.
"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."
His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."
But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.
"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."
"No one would think that," you said.
"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."
He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.
"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."
"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."
He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.
"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."
"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."
"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."
"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."
Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."
"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."
You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.
"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."
His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.
"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.
For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.
"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."
"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."
"But I am..."
"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."
You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.
"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."
"I did not know you worried."
"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."
He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.
You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.
"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."
You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.
You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.
He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.
When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.
"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."
Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.
"Aerion..."
"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."
He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.
The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.
You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.
"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."
The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.
One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.
You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.
"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."
"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.
"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."
Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."
"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."
Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.
Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.
"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."
He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.
You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.
Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.
He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.
His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.
"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."
Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.
"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."
Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.
Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.
"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."
You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."
"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."
He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.
"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."
He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.
"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."
"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."
"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."
You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."
But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.
You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.
The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.
When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.
You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.
The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.
Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.
He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.
He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.
"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."
He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.
"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."
"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."
"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."
His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.
"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"
You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."
"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."
But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.
"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."
"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.
He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.
It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.
"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."
He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."
"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"
He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."
You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.
It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.
"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."
He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."
Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.
"What is this?"
Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.
"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."
Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."
Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.
"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."
Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."
"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."
Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."
"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."
"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."
"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."
Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.
Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."
He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.
"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."
"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."
"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."
"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."
"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."
"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."
Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."
"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."
"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."
You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.
"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."
"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."
"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."
"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."
His eyes darkened. "Choose?"
"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"
He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."
"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."
"Is there?"
You smiled and said nothing.
He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."
"I would expect nothing less."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.
a/n: vampire!valarr is finally here and i’ve literally had these ideas sitting in my notes for weeks.i was watching gotham knights and saw oscar morgan all covered in blood oohmygod
cw: blood, vampirism, feeding, biting, a bit of dark valarr, vampire valarr, fem!reader,obsessive behavior, possessiveness, erotic horror, unhealthy attachment, dependency themes, violence/intimacy overlap, explicit sexual content, coercive undertones
𝔅𝔦𝔱𝔢 𝔐𝔢
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen whose first bite is a sacrament of agony and bliss. he is so, so gentle at first. his cool lips barely brush the frantic pulse at your throat, a kiss of apology. his hands, usually so decisive and strong, tremble as they frame your face, holding you with a reverence that makes you want to cry. “be still, my love,” he murmurs, his breath a cold sigh against your skin. “be so still for me.” and then the sharp, perfect puncture—a lightning bolt of pain so clean and swift it steals your breath. you gasp, your fingers flying to tangle in his hair, not to push him away, but to hold on as the world dissolves
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who loses all control when he tastes you. the first pull of your life into his is like a dam breaking. that princely restraint, the discipline, it all shatters. a low groan vibrates against your throat, a sound of pure, desperate want. his arms tighten around you, crushing you to his chest as he drinks deeper, his movements turning from reverent to ravenous.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who is driven mad by your whimpers. the little sounds of pain and pleasure you make go straight through him like a sword. he’ll growl, low in his throat, a feral, possessive sound, and his bite will deepen, not to hurt you, but to feel you more, to drown in you. when you tug his hair, he moans against your skin, he’s addicted—not just to your blood, but to your reactions, to the proof that you are giving yourself to him in the most intimate, devastating way possible.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who would never, ever let you go once he’s started. if you tried to pull away, even weakly, it would awaken something terrifying in him. his arm would lock around your waist, his other hand cradling the back of your head, holding you in place with a gentle, unbreakable firmness. “shhh,” he’d whisper, his voice thick, blurred with your essence. “shhh, my darling, my only one. give it to me. let me have it. you are so sweet, you have no idea.” he drinks until he’s drunk on you
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who is horrifically, beautifully tender afterwards. when he finally, reluctantly detaches, it’s with a soft, wet sound that makes you blush. he’s panting, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his body shuddering with aftershocks. then, with a devotion that borders on worship, he licks the twin wounds clean, his tongue soothing the sting. he kisses each puncture with a softness that brings tears to your eyes, then trails his lips up the column of your throat to finally capture your mouth. you can taste yourself on his tongue—metallic, vital, yours—and it’s the most intimate kiss you’ve ever shared.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who looks at the mark he left with a mixture of pride and terrible shame. his thumb, cold and gentle, will stroke over the delicate bruises blossoming around the bites. his perfect prince mask is gone, replaced by raw, vulnerable awe. “look what i’ve done to you,” he whispers, his voice wrecked. “my darling girl..marked by me. forgive me.”
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who finds you asleep in his bed, curled under the furs, your pulse a soft, steady rhythm he can hear from the doorway. he doesn’t wake you. he simply watches, memorizing the flutter of your eyelashes, the way your lips part slightly with each breath. then he slides into the sheets beside you, cold and deliberate, and drapes himself over your body like a second skin. his nose drags along your throat, inhaling the scent of your skin, the salt and warmth. when you stir,half conscious, he murmurs against your pulse point “stay asleep, sweet one.” and you do, surrendering to the dreamy haze as his fangs sink in. you don’t wake until morning, groggy and strangely content, with two small marks on your neck and the taste of copper on your tongue.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who tastes you slowly, reverently, as if you are the first meal he’s ever been allowed to savor. he doesn’t rush. he traces the line of your collarbone with the tip of his tongue first, tasting the salt of your skin, the faint sweetness of the oil you rubbed into your shoulders. he nips at your earlobe, your jaw, the hollow behind your ear. by the time he reaches your wrist, you’re trembling, half naked beneath his robes, cunt slick and aching. he holds your arm like it’s something precious, turns it over, presses his lips to the delicate blue veins. “here,” he whispers, “i want to drink from here tonight.” and when he bites, he does so with his other hand pressed flat against your lower belly, feeling the heat of your arousal rise as the blood leaves you. he drinks in slow pulls, his eyes closing, a low, broken sound escaping his throat. when he finishes, he licks the wound clean, seals it with a soft kiss, and pulls you into his lap, your blood still wet on his lips. “you taste like sin,” he says, “and i am never going to be saved”
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who fucks you while he feeds, because he cannot separate the two anymore. you’re on your back, legs hooked over his shoulders,his cock buried deep inside you. he’s leaning over you, fangs grazing your throat, but he doesn’t bite yet. he waits until you’re close—until your walls flutter around him until your breath hitches into that high, desperate pitch. then he sinks his fangs into the curve of your neck, just as your orgasm crests. the pain and pleasure collide so sharply that you scream, your body arching, your hips bucking against his. he drinks through your climax, his own hips grinding, chasing his release inside you. when he comes, it’s with your blood hot in his mouth, your cunt clenching around him, your nails raking down his back. he pulls out slowly, still lapping at the bite mark, still trembling. “you will kill me,” he says, voice wrecked. “but gods, what a way to die.”
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who discovers you’ve tried to hide from him, just for an hour, just to breathe. he finds you in the castle library, tucked behind a shelf, a book open in your lap. he doesn’t speak. he simply stands at the end of the aisle, arms crossed, silver eyes glowing in the dim torchlight. the silence stretches. you look up, and your heart stops. he walks toward you slowly, each step deliberate, predatory. he doesn’t grab you. he kneels in front of your chair, takes the book from your hands, sets it aside. then he cups your face, tilts your head, and presses his forehead to yours. “if you need space,” he says quietly, “you tell me. you do not hide.” his thumb strokes your cheek. “i will give you the sky if you ask. but I will tear down every wall in this world if you try to run.” he kisses you then—soft, almost tender.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who, after feeding, becomes unbearably gentle. the feral edge dulls into something warm, almost sleepy. he curls around you, one hand splayed over your stomach, nose buried in your hair. he whispers things he would never say otherwise. that he was alone for centuries before you, that he thought love was a mortal lie, that your blood has rewritten his very nature. he traces the bite mark on your neck with his fingertip, over and over, like a prayer. mine, he breathes.mine. and you feel his lips press a kiss to the crown of your head. “when you die, and you will, because you are mortal and i am not. i will find you in whatever comes next. i will tear through the veil itself to reach you.” he says it like a promise, not a threat. and you believe him
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who wakes you in the middle of the night, not with a touch, but with a whisper. “i dreamed you left.” his voice is small, childlike. he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched. you reach for him, but he flinches. “don’t. not yet. i need..i need to know this is real.” he takes your hand, presses it to his chest where his heart should beat but doesn’t. then he brings your wrist to his lips and bites, shallow and quick, just enough to taste. he closes his eyes. “yes. you’re here. you’re real.” he crawls into bed beside you, wraps himself around you, and doesn’t let go until dawn.
♱⃓ vampire!valarr targaryen who has a habit of hoarding things that smell like you. a ribbon you wore in your hair. the shirt you slept in. he tucks them into a chest under the bed, and he won’t tell you why. but one night, after a heavy feeding, he lets you peek—and you see the collection, neatly folded and arranged like relics. “when you’re not here,” he says, voice barely audible, “i need something. anything. so i don’t forget the shape of you.” you crawl into his lap, wrap your arms around his neck, and whisper that you’re not going anywhere. he holds you so tight it hurts. “promise me,” he says, and you do.
-18+, unprotected sex (p in v), dirty talk, oral sex f receiving, light spanking, power dynamics, messy/sloppy sex annnnddd semi-public sex (established casual relationship!!) mention of masturbation and ofc cum play! sorry ab any misspellings xoxo!!!
the sun beat down on the scrap yard, turning the air hazy and thick with the smell of hot metal and gasoline. you were laid out on the worn bed of daeron's pickup truck, a faded beach towel the only barrier between your bare skin and the sun-baked metal. the heat was a physical weight, pressing down on you, making your skin slick with sweat.
underneath you, daeron was a symphony of clanking tools and muttered curses. he was trying to fix the goddamn transmission again, his lower half disappearing into the greasy guts of the truck. all you could see were his worn-out jeans and the worn-out soles of his boots. you could hear him, though. the grunt of exertion as he wrestled with a rusted bolt, the long swallow of beer you knew he was taking, the way he'd occasionally smack the underside of the truck with a wrench in frustration.
"fuckin' piece of shit," he grumbled from below. there was another loud clang followed by a hissed, "motherfucker."
you heard another crack of metal before daeron slid himself out from beneath the truck, grease smeared across his cheek and sweat dampening the collar of his white shirt.
"you got any more beer up there?"
you reached blindly into the cooler beside you. "depends."
"depends on what?"
"how nice you ask."
he stared at you flatly for a second. "give me the fuckin' beer please."
you pretended to think about it before tossing one toward him and daeron caught it one-handed. he quickly popped the cap open and took a long drink before sniffing and nodding his head toward you. “y’wanna help me down here for a second?”
you sighed, shifting on the towel. "it's too hot, daeron."
he squinted at you, a familiar, soft look in his eyes. he was always looking at you like that, like a stray dog that'd just been invited inside for the first time.
"want me to get you somethin' to cool down, honey?" he asked, his voice a low, rough drawl. "there's a gas station right across the street."
"sure okay," you said, closing your eyes. "something cold please…"
you heard him wipe his hands on his jeans, the heavy thud of his shoes hitting the gravel, and then the sound of his footsteps crunching away. a moment of blissful silence settled over the scrap yard, broken only by the buzz of flies and the distant rumble of traffic on the highway. it was almost peaceful.
he was back a few minutes later, the crunch of his boots announcing his return. you opened your eyes to see him standing over you, holding out a drippy, rapidly melting soft-serve ice cream cone. it was a sad-looking thing, already drooping over the side of the cone.
"here you go," he said, "vanilla. they didn’ have anythin’ else."
you sat up, taking the cone from him. the ice cream was already starting to run down your fingers, sticky and sweet. you looked at his expectant face, at the grease smudge on his cheek, at the way his t-shirt clung to his chest. he was trying so hard.
"thanks," you said, and then, a few drops melted right from your lips to your exposed chest. a shiver went through you as the cold hit your hot skin, a trail of sticky white cream tracing a path between your breasts.
daeron stared, his gaze fixed on the melting ice cream on your tits.
"can i have some?" he asked, his voice thick.
you held the cone out to him. "here."
he didn't take it. instead, he leaned down, his breath hot on your skin, and then his tongue was on you. he licked the melting ice cream off your chest, his tongue rough and wet against your skin. he made obscene, sloppy sounds, like he was a starving man and you were his last meal. it was gross. it was pathetic. it was so incredibly daeron.
"ewww!" you shrieked, pushing him away. "that's disgusting!"
he just laughed, a low, rumbling sound, his eyes still glued to your chest, a smear of white on his lips. "it's good ice cream."
you wiped at the sticky trail on your chest with the back of your hand, but it only smeared the melted vanilla around, making you feel even dirtier. "you're a animal," you said, but there was no real heat in it. it was just a statement of fact, like saying the sky was blue or his truck was a piece of shit.
daeron just grinned, that same dopey, hopeful grin. he wiped his mouth with the back of his own greasy hand. "y’always say you love animals," he said grinning.
before you could form a comeback, he straightened up and turned his attention back to his project. "alright, let's see if this bitch'll turn over now."
he disappeared back under the truck, and the symphony of clanging and grunting began again as you finished up your ice cream. you sighed, sitting up and swinging your legs over the side of the truck bed, your bare feet dangling just above the gravel.
"is it fixed yet?" you called down to him.
"almost!" came the muffled reply.
there was a final, deafening clang, followed by a string of curses that would make a sailor blush. then, silence. you held your breath, waiting. a moment later, you heard the click of him getting into the driver's seat.
he turned the key.
the engine sputtered, coughed, and then, with a roar that shook the entire truck, it roared to life.
daeron's head appeared over the side of the truck bed, his face split in a wide, triumphant grin. he was sweating and covered in grease, but his eyes were shining. "told you i could fix it," he said.
he slammed the driver's side door shut and strode around to the back of the truck, his boots crunching on the gravel with a new confidence. before you could even slide off the tailgate, his hands were on you, one wrapping around your waist and the other hooking behind your knees. he lifted you like you weighed nothing, your legs automatically wrapping around his grease-stained waist. the worn denim of his jeans was rough against the backs of your thighs.
"ready to go home?" he asked, his voice low and rumbling against your chest.
"mmhmm," you hummed, your arms draping over his shoulders. the victory radiating off him was intoxicating, a potent mix of sweat, gasoline, and pure, unadulterated pride.
he carried you the few steps to the back door, yanking it open. he maneuvered you inside, laying you down on the cracked vinyl seat.
the heat, the frustration, the sight of him so proud and capable- it all coalesced into a sudden, sharp ache low in your belly. you grabbed the front of his t-shirt, pulling him back down to you.
"its so hot daeron…" you muttered, and crashed your mouth against his.
he met your kiss with a desperate hunger, his lips tasting of cheap beer and lingering vanilla. it was a sloppy, messy kiss, all teeth and tongue, exactly the kind you needed. his hands were everywhere, one tangling in your hair, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip, pulling you flush against him.
he broke the kiss, panting, his eyes dark. he didn't ask, he just took, dipping his head down to mouth at your chest through the thin fabric of your tank top. he found your nipple, biting down gently through the material before pulling it into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the peak until it was a hard, sensitive nub.
"daeron," you breathed, arching into him.
he growled in response, his hand sliding up under your tank top to palm your other breast, his calloused thumb rubbing rough circles over your nipple. he gave your ass a sharp smack, the sound loud in the close confines of the cab. you gasped, bucking your hips against the hard ridge in his jeans.
"fuck, you're so pretty," he grunted, lifting his head to look at you, his pupils blown wide with lust. he yanked your bikini top up, exposing your breasts to the warm air. he stared for a moment, his gaze hungry, before diving back down, his mouth closing over one peaked nipple while his hand continued its rough assault on the other. he sucked hard, his tongue flicking and teasing, his other hand fumbling with the button of your shorts.
you helped him, shoving your bikini bottoms down your hips. he wasted no time, his fingers finding you instantly, sliding through your slick folds. you were so wet, so ready for him, and he groaned against your breast when he felt it.
you sat up enough to switch positions with him. straddling him, your knees sinking into the cracked seat on either side of his hips. "all that grunting and groaning like a fucking pig? you can do better than that, can't you, daeron?"
his eyes widened, a flicker of his uncertainty returning. "i…i don't know…"
"oh, you know," you cut him off, grinding your hips down against him. "you think about it, don't you? when you're all alone, jacking off in the shower. you think about me? tell me what you think?"
his breath hitched, his hands coming up to grip your hips. "i think about… fuck," he breathed, his eyes rolling back as you rolled your hips again. "i think about how tight you are. how you squeeze my cock when you come."
"yeah?" you purred, leaning down to bite his lower lip.
"i wanna taste you everywhere. wanna put my mouth on you 'til you're screaming my name. wanna lick this fuckin' mess i made out of you."
you smiled sweetly, you shifted up his body, positioning your knees on either side of his head, looking down at his flushed, eager face. "yhen do it," you commanded. "you got me all wet, clean up your mess."
he didn't hesitate. his hands gripped your thighs, pulling you down onto his waiting mouth. his tongue was hot and demanding, lapping at you with a desperate hunger. he ate you like he was starving, like your taste was the only thing that could save him. he was sloppy and loud and utterly shameless, his moans vibrating against your most sensitive skin.
his movements becoming more frantic. "tastes so fuckin' good. best thing i ever tasted." he slurred against you.
you rode his face, using him, chasing your own release. he was a mess beneath you, his face slick, his hair damp with sweat, but he was exactly what you needed in that moment.
you gasped, your orgasm building fast and hard. he redoubled his efforts, his tongue flicking against your clit with a precision that surprised you. and then you were coming, your body shaking, a cry tearing from your throat as you ground down against his mouth.
you stayed there for a moment, catching your breath, before sliding back down his body. his cock was rock hard, straining against his jeans. you unzipped him as quickly as you could and helped him pull his leaking throbbing length out and before he could say a word you sank down onto him, taking him in to the hilt in one smooth motion.
he hissed, his hands flying to your waist. "fuck, honey, you're gonna kill me."
"you're gonna fuck me," you corrected him, leaning forward to brace your hands on his chest. "and you're gonna tell me every dirty thing you've ever thought about doing to me while you do it."
he didn't need any more encouragement. he started to move, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. "wanna fuck you in my bed," he panted, his eyes locked on yours. "wanna wake up with you. wanna bend you over the kitchen counter and fuck you from behind while you're makin' coffee."
"keep talking daeron," you demanded, riding him hard.
"wanna tie you up," he groaned, his thrusts getting deeper, harder. "wanna spank your ass 'til it's red. wanna come all over your tits and then lick it off."
"you're such a pervert" you moaned, your head falling back.
"only for you," he choked out. "a nasty fuckin' whore for you, honey. gonna fill you up now. you want that? you want my fuckin' cum?"
"yes!" you cried, your second orgasm already building.
he leaned up, his mouth finding yours again in another sloppy, desperate kiss. his hand slid down your body, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight, messy circles that sent you flying over the edge. you cried out against his mouth, your body convulsing around him as your orgasm washed over you.
"please, please give me your cum. fill me up…”
he came with a guttural shout, his hips jerking as he emptied himself inside you.
you collapsed onto his chest, both of you panting and spent. the cab of the truck was thick with the smell of sex and sweat, the windows completely fogged over. after a moment, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight.
"youre right its really fuckin’ hot in here" he murmured into your hair.
you just laughed, a breathless, exhausted sound. "take me home, daeron."
Loved this! Trailer Trash Daeron would totally have a Ford Ranger from the 80s that has over 300k miles and has had 4 transmission swaps lmfao (I have a bf who is constantly working on shitty trucks and wish it was nearly this exciting lol. Usually I end up drinking all the beer because it’s so boring to watch lol)
HEAR ME OUT!!!!! modern aerion except the targ’s are mafia and reader is his baby mama
Thanks for the request! unfortunately super busy rn so couldn't commit to a full fic but here's some thoughts:
CW- 18+, implied violence. implied sex
Everyone had warned you not to get involved with Aerion. His reputation was horrible and he was an arrogant man, but he seemed to have a soft spot for you.
He had become a regular at the 24 hour diner that you worked at, showing up every night at exactly 2AM to order a black coffee and a turkey sandwich. Seeing as you worked the graveyard shift, Aerion became a consistent part of your life. He would ask you questions about your life, compliment the way your legs looked in your yellow uniform, and leave a $100 tip every single time.
When he finally asked you on a date, you immediately accepted his offer. What could possibly go wrong? His white-blonde hair, chiseled jawline, and violet eyes were quite appealing. It had been a long time since a guy had shown so much interest in you, and you were willing to ignore some of his less than ideal traits.
You were strangely drawn to his chaos, especially when it included flashy cars and expensive gifts. The random late night “work meetings” that had him returning home smelling like blood and the occasional attack in the street from a “former associate” was certainly scary, but Aerion distracted you well enough from all of it.
You knew of his family, spoken about in hushed whispers. He was of course involved in shady business, but spoke to you at first only ever of “garbage management.”
The relationship had been a whirlwind, less than one year of dating and Aerion had changed the trajectory of your life. Lavish vacations, shopping sprees, date nights at Michelin star restaurants. Aerion loved showing you off and making sure everyone knew that you were his.
The sex was crazy good, unlike anything you had ever experienced with previous boyfriends. He had unbelievable stamina and a very high sex drive, constantly making excuses to leave somewhere public and return to his house so that he could have you.
Aerion would fuck you in the kitchen, bending you over the counter and pulling down your skirt in quick succession. He would fuck you on the balcony, on his desk, and in the backseat of his car. He covered you with hickies, fingertip shaped bruises, and he always finished inside of you.
When you had gotten pregnant, Aerion proposed immediately. It was the right thing to do of course, but you couldn’t justify marrying a man you had only known for less than a year. You promised that he could remain a part of the baby’s life, and that you wouldn’t say anything to the press. You were more suited to a quiet life out of the public eye, regardless of how much the thrill of Aerion’s world enticed you.
You remained his girlfriend throughout the pregnancy, delivering a healthy baby boy that you agreed to name Maegor, a Targaryen family name. But you broke up shortly after, blaming Aerion’s reckless behavior and constant cruelty to those around him. His illegal activities grew harder to ignore, and you knew that they would one day catch up to him.
Making good on your promise, Aerion and you avoided any sort of formal custody arrangement and you allowed him as much time with your son as he wanted. Aerion adored the boy, showering him with lavish gifts and parading him around at family events.
Although you had broken up with him, Aerion remained obsessed with you. Flowers delivered to your doorstep one a week, dirty words whispered in your ear during drop-off, and subtle touches on your waist that lingered a moment too long.
One night when you were picking up your son, Aerion convinced you to stay for a glass of wine. Maegor was more than content in his playpen, and your ex had declared that you looked too stressed. A bit of wine would raise your spirits, he promised as he lured you into his den.
One glass turned into one bottle, and tears were streaming down your cheeks as you rambled to your ex about your shitty new job and creepy boss. His fingers grazed your face gently, assuring you that things would be taken care of as he texted one of his cousins rather frantically. You were too drunk to realize what he was implying.
Of course you were too drunk to drive home, so Aerion insisted that you stayed in his guest bedroom. He also insisted that he stayed in said bedroom with you, to make sure that you were alright. You gave no protest when he crawled into bed beside you and pressed kisses to your neck. This was Aerion Targaryen after all, and what could go wrong with opening your heart once more to the father of your child?
Hiiii! Could you write something with valarr x reader in which they are betrothed but they can’t wait until they actually get married? And Valarr is very much like Baelor( soft dom, knows what he’s doing).🩷🩷
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Patience Is A Virtue I Don't Possess
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Summary: You can't help but want to share a bed early with your future husband but sworn by duty, you two agree to never go beyond just a few touches here and there when granted a moment of brief privacy
Notes: first time writing for Valarr, hehe (no the headcannon post doesn't count) Also yes, I know Valarr and the reader are really cringe in this but I don't care, this is cute in my opinion!
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The air in the tourney grounds with a thick cloud of dust, the metallic tang of blood, and the roar of a crowd that never seemed to want the entertainment to end. Valarr Targaryen, the Young Prince, felt the weight of it all - the expectations of the realm, the heavy steel of his plate, and the frantic thrum of his own pulse coming down from the adrenaline.
He swung a leg over his saddle, his boots hitting the churned earth with a heavy thud. His squire rushed forward, but Valarr dismissed him without a word, only nodding his head. He needed a moment of quiet. He yanked the straps of his helm, the metal groaning as it finally slid free. His brown hair, streaked with a shock of silver, was plastered to his forehead and neck, damp with sweat and flattened into unruly angles by the padding of his helm.
He didn't stop to greet the lords begging for a word or the ladies that threw flowers in his direction. He made a direct line for his private tent, the heavy silk flaps shimmering in the torch lights. He ducked inside, the sudden transition from the blinding glare to the cool, incense heavy shade making his head swim.
Then, he saw you.
You were tucked into the corner, sat upon a chest of carved wood, far from the prying eyes of onlookers. The sight of you acting like a peace, cooling the fire in his blood even as it sparked a different, more dangerous heat.
"You're late," you scolded, though the smile playing on your lips betrayed your fake annoyance.
Valarr let out a ragged laugh, dropping his helm onto a pile of furs. He looked a mess; red faced, slick with exertion, his gambeson stained with dust, but his eyes burned with an intensity that was reserved only for you.
"That Hightower boy was more stubborn than he looked," Valarr replied. He took a step towards you, the heavy clank of his armor echoing in the confined space, "I thought my father was going to keep me out there for a third pass just to prove a point about 'patience'."
The mention of his father, Prince Baelor, brought a fleeing look of annoyance on his face. The decree was well known: no marriage until your twentieth name day. It was meant to be a lesson in discipline, a way to ensure the feature of the Iron Throne was built on more than just a youthful passion. But to Valarr, it felt like a punishment. You had been betrothed since you were children, expected to grow up as distant political allies, yet you had defied every expectation by falling deeply, irrevocably in love.
He stopped just inches from you, the scent of his horse and sweat rolling off of him. He reached out, his gauntleted had hovering near your cheek before he remembered himself and pulled the heavy steel glove off, tossing it aside. His bare hand, calloused from the sword grip but surprisingly gentle, came up to cup the side of your face.
"I missed you in the stands," he whispered, leaning down so his forehead rested against yours, "I'm surprised I managed to win without you cheering me on."
His thumb traced the line of your jaw, a slow movement that made your breath hitch in your throat. Because while the septons and the King might demand your virtue until the wedding night, the two of you had long ago discovered the spaces between the rules. In the shadows of the Red Keep's gardens, behind tapestries, and here in his tourney tent, you found ways to belong to each other that required no vows.
"You're filthy, Valarr," you scrunched your nose as you reached up, raking your fingers through his damp hair, trying to smooth the wild tuffs back into place.
He looked down at his bare hand, still cupping your cheek, then back at his sweat stained armor. A mischievous, boyish glint sparked in his violet and brown eye.
"Well," he murmured, his voice playful, holding that old teenage playful tone that you'd remembered teasing you in the libraries with, "if I'm so wretched, then help me become unfilthy, my lady."
The sheer cheesiness of the line broke the tension. You let out a genuine laugh that seemed to settle the tension in his shoulders, "unfilthy? Truly, Valarr? I believe the heat of the sun has finally addled your head."
"Perhaps," he admitted, a crook smirk tugging at his lips as he stepped closer, closing the final inch of space between you, "or perhaps I'm simply desperate for your touch, and I'll use any linguistic atrocity to get it."
You stood from the chest, your hands finding the heavy leather straps of his chest piece immediately, "and here I thought you were the most poetic of the Targaryens. Stand still, you great brute."
You worked with the practiced ease of someone who had done this a dozen times, and maybe you had. The metal was hot to the touch, retaining the heat of his body on the joisting field. As you unbuckled the gorget and pulled the heavy plate from his shoulders, Valarr let out a shuddering sigh of relief. He watched your fingers, his gaze heavy with a longing that made the air between you feel thick.
"I already had a bath prepared for you," you whispered, glancing over your shoulder over to the back of the ten. Hidden behind a screen of embroidered Myrish lace stood a large stone tub, steam curling lazily from the surface of the water, smelling faintly of lemon and mint.
Valarr followed your gaze, his eyebrows lifting in surprise, "a bath? Truly, what would I ever do without you?"
"You would probably continue to roam the lands stinking like a pig," you retorted, though your hands were gentle as you helped him out of his breastplate, the heavy steel thudding softly onto the thick fur carpet, "and I would be forced to break out betrothal simply to save my nose from any further torture."
He chuckled, but as you moved to the laces of his gambeson, his humor shifted into something a little more intimate. He caught your wrists for a moment, his pulse drumming against your own. The silence of the tent grew echoing. Despite the law of his father, despite the years of waiting that stretched before you, the intimacy of this moment felt more real than any you had shared before.
"I don't think you could ever leave me," he said softly, his voice losing its playfulness. He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his breath warm on your lips, "I know for a certainty that I could never let you go. Twenty name days is a lifetime, but every night I spend like this...it's a torture I'd endure a thousand times over just to have your face looking back up at me."
You paused, your hands splayed out in the air that hovered over his chest, "you speak of torture Valarr," you whispered, looking up into those deep, mismatched eyes, "but I think the torture is the rest of the world, having to look at the handsome prince and know you belong entirely to me. My father, your father...they think they are teaching us patience, but they've only succeeded in making every second away from you feel like an exile."
A soft, genuine smile broke across his face, one that reached his eyes and softened the rugged edges. Your gaze began to wander over him, it was hard not to. The flames of the candles and shadows played over the strong column of his throat. He was a man looking both like a warrior and a king, lean and porcelain skin, and in the privacy of his tent, you couldn't help but let your eyes drink him in.
Valarr noticed. He didn't pull away from you when he saw the way your breath hitched. Instead he shifted himself, straightening his back, his shoulders falling back, clearly enjoying your eyes roaming along him.
"Lost something?" He teased, his voice regaining its playful tone, "or have you simply realized your prince is far more handsome than any of the knights that you've offered your favor to? Truly, if I had known all it took was to capture your full attention was a bit of sweat and lack of my tunic, I would've burned my closet years ago."
You felt the heat rise to your cheeks, but you didn't look away from him. Instead, you let out a soft laugh and swatted his arm away, "oh, hush. You are being impossibly dramatic. I was simply...checking you for bruises. A princess must ensure her future king isn't going to fall apart before our wedding night."
"Likely story," he chuckled, leaning down to capture a quick, chaste kiss to your nose, "but I'll allow the excuse if it means you keep looking at me like that."
"Come, you arrogant dragon," you said, taking his hand and leading him towards the back of the tent where the stone tub waited. The steam rose in thick, inviting clouds, carrying the scent of lemon and mint you had personally requested for.
As you reached the tub, the air grew more humid, making your own hair began to curl at the temples. You moved behind him to work on the heavy fastenings of his armored trousers, the thick leather breeches designed to protect his legs from the friction on the saddle. it was a tedious process, unlacing the sturdy ties that ran down his thighs, and you had to kneel on the soft furs to reach the lower buckles.
Valarr placed a steady hand on your shoulder as he stepped out of the one leg and then the other. "Careful," he murmured as your fingers brushed his skin, "you're playing with fire, and as my cousin would say; you know what happens to those who get too close to the dragon."
"I am a dragon too, remember?" You retorted, though your heart was hammering against your ribs.
When the last of his heavy clothing fell away, leaving him only in the thin linen of his smallclothes, you felt a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline. You helped him balance as he prepared to step into the steaming water, and you found yourself in a desperate battle with your own curiosity. You kept your gaze fixed firmly on his face, or the broad expanse of his back, or the swirling water - anywhere but the undeniable shape of him beneath the thin fabric.
The air in the tent turned thick, heavy with the humidity of the bath and the far more suffocating weight of a decade's worth restraint. You remained on your knees upon the plush, dark fur, the position that was before to help get him out of his riding leathers, but now felt like something else entirely. From this vantage point, the world was reduced to the two of you in the tent, drowning out the sounds of the tourney attendants outside.
As the last of his linen smallclothes pooled on the rug beside you, the silence became deafening.
Valarr stood before you in the amber glow of the candles. You felt the familiar skip of your pulse. You had memorized him in the dark - you knew the exact curve of his hip where your palm usually rested when he pressed you against the cold stone of the library, and you knew the sharp intake of his breath when your fingers found his cock beneath the silks. He was a man who held himself with a selfless nature, often lingering over your own body until you were breathless and weeping his name, all while he remained torturously composed, his own release a secondary thought to your own pleasure.
But seeing him like this, in the light, was a different kind of undoing.
You kept your chin tilted up, your fingers fixed desperately on the Targaryen sigil embroidered on his discarded armor across the room. The idea of getting to lay your eyes upon him properly was near hypnotizing, and you were mere inches from his thighs. Your hands, hovering near where the laces had been, trembled. You wanted to reach out, to trace the map of skin and forget every law of gods and men.
"Look at me," Valarr asked of you. It was a prince's decree, but a plea, ragged and raw.
"Valarr, if I look..." You started, your voice stumbling a little, "I'm already struggling to remember my own name. If I look at what I'm being told I cannot have for two more name days, I might just lose my mind."
A chuckle started in his chest, a sound you loved to hear. He reached down, his fingers hooking under your chin to force your gaze upward. His violet and brown eyes were dark, the pupils so blow that only thin rings of colour remained.
"Do you think I am any stronger?" He whispered, leaning his head down so his chin was tucked against his chest, "I have spent twelve nearly falling from my saddle or being kicked out of the small council all cause I could only think about you in the sunlight. I am a prince of the realm and a knight, but for you...I am just a man who is starving."
His thumb brushed your lower lip, tugging it down slightly, and for a split second, the tension nearly snapped. You could see the pulse jumping in his throat. You could see the way his golden brown hair on his chest rose and fell with his heavy breathing. Your eyes involuntarily flickered downwards, catching the transition from the lean muscle of his stomach to where his cock stood, half hard, bold and unashamed in the candlelight.
A small, choked sound escaped your throat, and you moved quickly to stand, your face flushed a violent, beautiful red.
"The water," you managed to choke out, your hands finding the edge of the stone tub for support, "it's...it's going to get cold. Please, Valarr. Into the tub before I do something that makes your father call for the Silent Sisters."
Valarr let out a breath that sounded more like a groan, the lust filled edge of his gaze softening into that sweet adoration he kept only for you. He stepped over the rim of the stone, the water splashing over the side, soaking the hem of your skirts as you stood beside with your back to the tub.
"You know," Valarr's voice drifted up, his voice a melodic sound he saved for muttering against your neck while his knuckles disappeared inside of you, the sound making your toes curl into the furs, "the tub is quite large. There is plenty of room for a second occupant to help me...not drown."
"I am perfectly fine standing right here, thank you," you bit out, though your voice lacked any real bite. You were staring fixedly at a small tear in the silk lining of the tent, trying to regulate the frantic beating of your heart and ignore the twitch between your thighs.
A splash followed, and you could practically hear the grin on his face, "are you? Because from where I'm sitting, you look like you want to bolt out of here. Is the Young Prince really so terrifying when he isn't in his armor? Or is it simply the sight of my 'unfilthy' self that has stolen your legendary wit?"
That did it. The embarrassment that had been keeping your shoulders hunched suddenly ignited a spark of playful defiance. You wouldn't be bullied by a man who was currently soaking himself in lemon water like a prized fruit.
You titled your head back, still not turning around, but letting your voice carrying over your shoulder with all the regal sass you could muster, "terrifying? Hardly. I'm simply trying to give you some privacy. It's a bit difficult to maintain a dignified conversatiion when you're the one standing there with your...well, your thing out for the whole realm- or at least me, to see!"
A beat of silence followed, and the sound of boisterous laughter erupted from the tub. It was the kind of laugh that Valarr rarely showed anyone, not even you.
"My 'thing'?" He managed to choke out between laughs, the water splashing as he shifted, "is that the official court term, my lady?"
You squeezed your eyes shut, a laugh of your own bubbling up despite your best efforts to stay indignant, "you know exactly what I mean, Valarr! You were just...standing there! Bold as a bull!"
"And who, pray tell, was the one who insisted I become 'unfilthy'?" He countered, his tone dropping back to that lust filled tone. You could hear him moving in the water, the sound of his skin sliding against the stone as he grabbed your wrist with a soaked hand, "you gave the order, my love. I was merely being the dutiful prince and following the commands of my future Queen."
"I was helping!" You defended, finally risking a glance over your shoulder, though you kept your eyes strictly on his face.
Valarr leaned on his elbows over the rim of the tub, his chin resting on his crossed arms. His brown hair was slicked back, dripping drops of water down his forehead, and his eyes were glowing with a mixture of adoration and mischief. The water covered him to mid-chest, but the memory of him standing before you was burned into your mind's eye like a brand.
"You know," he began, tilting his head up to look at you, "it is quite dangerous for a prince to bathe alone after such a grueling day. He simply cannot be trusted to not slip beneath the surface and drown himself dramatically. Think of the tragedy; the young prince, fallen not by a lance, but by a bit of water because his betrothed was too shy to save him."
A laugh left you this time, shaking your shoulders. You finally let go of the rim, though you kept your back to him, staring at the shifting shadows on the tent wall, "you're starting to sound like Aerion. Next, you'll be telling me the water is actually dragon's fire and you're undergoing a grand transformation."
Valarr let out a laugh in return, "seven forbid. One ego like his in the family is quite enough. I have no desire to be a dragon, my love. I'm perfectly content being a man so long as I'm your man."
You knew what he was asking. Your breath hitched as your hands moved to the laces at the back of your bodice, "if you drown, Valarr, I'll simply have to marry a Tyrell. I hear they're very fond of flowers and poetry."
"You wouldn't dare," he murmured, splashing the water as it told you that he had moved closer to the edge, likely watching your every move.
With a practiced ease, you began to loosen the laces. The heavy silk of your gown began to slacken, the cool air of the tent hitting the bare skin of your back. You kept your spine to him, a flickering wall of modesty as you stepped out of your slippers.
"I suppose I can't have the future king dying in the tub," you whispered, more to yourself than him.
The dress slid down your hips, pooling into a colourful heap of fabric on the dark furs. You were left in nothing but your thin chemise, a fine linen that clung to the curves of your body in the humid air. The light from the braziers shone through the fabric, outlining your silhouette with a golden glow. You could feel his eyes on you, burning into your back.
You could hear the rasp of his breath, uneven much like your own. Even with your back turned to him, you felt like you were entirely on display for him. This was the dance you always shared, the agonizing line that you both promised to not cross, finding every possible way to touch, to see, to want without breaking the seal of your virginity.
"The water is getting cold," Valarr said, his voice stripped of its teasing. It was thick with a longing that made the two years until your twentieth name day made feel like two centuries.
Your thin chemise joined your dress to the floor with a shaky breath. You slowly turned to face him, your hands coming up instinctively, arms crossed over your chest in an attempt to hold some modesty, but the golden light of the candles spared no detail, casting a soft, amber glow over your hips and the expanse of your skin.
Valarr didn't move. He remained in his spot in the tub, his arms draped over the edges, but his entire posture went rigid. The playful prince who had been joking about drowning had vanished, replaced by a man who was struck dumb by the unadorned reality of the woman he loved.
His eyes, mismatched and deep, began a slow journey over you. He took his time, his gaze raking from the crown of your head to the column of your throat, and over the rise and fall of your chest as your breathing turned shallow and quick.
"Gods," he breathed, the word barely even audible, carried on the ghost of an exhale, "I've spent so many nights trying to imagine this, trying to piece you together from the feel of your skin beneath my palms. But the gods are cruel, for they never told me that the Maiden herself was in my tent."
It was a stark, breathtaking difference from the stolen moments in the dark. In those shadows, all there is was touch; the slick heat of skin, the friction of fabric, the desperate, blind searching of hands. You remembered the way he would pull you into his chambers late at night, his mouth finding your cunt while his fingers mapped your body with a dangerous devotion. But finally being able to see what he had only felt was making him hunger for you like he never had before.
"You are...breathtaking," he murmured, his voice cracking just barely, "I've seen the most beautiful highborn ladies from across the realm, but not one of them could hold a candle to you." His gaze lingered on the soft, natural lines of your body, tracing the slope of your thighs and every freckle and mole that littered you, making your knees feel weak under his gaze, "seeing you like this...it makes the two years my father demands feel like a slow execution. How am I meant to be a prince when I am nothing but a man starving for the sight of you?"
He reached out a wet hand, the water dripping from his fingertips as he beckoned you closer. He didn't try to pull your hands away, waiting for you to take his palm that was turned upwards, offering an invitation to his space.
Your hand slid into his while your free arm remained folded tightly across your chest while you stepped over the rim. The water rose up to meet you, the searing scent of the lemon and mint making your skin tingle. Valarr wasn't going to rush you, he didn't pull at your arm or pull you down against him in an intimate gesture. Instead he used his strength to help guide your weight, his eyes never leaving yours, filled with a promise that he would wait for as long as you needed.
You lowered yourself into the depths, the water swirling around your hips and waist until you finally sat back, settling into the space between his spread thighs.
The moment your back made contact with his chest, the air seemed to vanish from the tent. Valarr was burning hot. The heat of his bare skin against yours was overwhelming. He wrapped his arms around you, his hands resting over yours to where you still covered yourself, not forcing you to pull your arms away but instead just gently encouraging.
He leaned forward, his chin resting on your shoulder, his damp hair brushing against your cheek. You could feel the thrum of his heart through his ribcage and the lower, unmistakable, evidence of his desire for you against your lower back.
"You're trembling," he murmured into the curve of your neck, "is it the water, or is it me?"
"Both," you whispered, finally letting your head fall back against his shoulder. The tension in your body was slowly melting away, replaced by a languid honey that seemed to flow through your veins at just being able to touch him, "it's too much, Valarr. The waiting...it feels like I'm being treated worse than a beggar for food."
Valarr tightened his hold, pulling you flush against him so that every curve of your back was mapped against the hair planes of his chest and stomach. He let out a long, ragged sigh, his nose trailing along the line of your jaw.
"I know," he admitted, his voice dropping to a lust filled tone that made your pulse skip, "my father speaks of duty and purity but gods help me, sitting here with you...holding you like this...it is taking everything within me to not defile you before we are blessed."
He shifted his weight, his legs tightening slightly around you, drawing you even closer against him until there wasn't any space left. His hands, which had been resting over yours, began to move. His touch was firm but still giving you the chance to pull away.
"You've hidden long enough, my love," he murmured, his tone dropping to the quiet, commanding register that he usually used when he would tell you to spread your legs a little wider for him, "I told you. I want to see you."
His fingers hooked gently over your forearm. Slowly, your breath hitched as he began to peel your arm away from your chest. You didn't fight it, you couldn't. The way he spoke, the way he held you, it stripped all of your hesitation, replacing it with a heavy desire to be seen by him.
As your arm was guided to rest on the rim of the tub, the water rippled over your exposed skin. Valarr went still as he looked down at your now exposed body, his gaze taking its time to admire your chest.
"You are a beauty," he admits, his eyes tracing the rise and fall of your breasts with every breath, "to think my father wants me to look at tapestries and ledgers when this is what is promised to me."
His hand came up, his thumb grazing the line of your collarbone before trailing down. He watched the way your skin reacted to his touch, the way the tiny shivers raced along your skin. He was careful, so reverent, yet there was a possessiveness in the way he touched and mapped your body that he had only known by feel in the dark.
"I've spent years dreaming of how you'd look in the light," he said with a heavy exhale, "seeing you now, it's enough to make me want to burn every law my father says I must follow."
He leaned forward, his nose brushing against the side of your neck as his fingers continued exploring the body he could finally see not in the dark. You could feel the hard, insistent press of his desire against your lower back, a constant reminder of the restraint he was practicing for your sake. He was a generous lover, a man who found his own satisfaction in the way you came apart under his hands, but the tension in his muscles told you exactly how much this was torturing him as well.
When his palms made contact with the swell of your breasts, the sensation was a jolt that seemed to travel straight down to your cunt, making you squeeze your thighs together for any sense of friction. His touch was firm but careful as he began to knead at the soft flesh, his thumbs grazing over the peaks of your nipples that were already tight from the desire that you tried to ignore.
You let out a soft, broken gasp, your head falling back against his shoulder once more as his mouth found the sensitive skin of your neck. He moved like a man starved, his lips dragging over your heated skin, nipping playfully at the junction where your shoulder met your neck.
"Valarr," you gasped, your voice trembling as your fingers reached his damp, silver streaked hair, "you're playing a dangerous game...we both are. If someone was to walk in, or if my father...he'd have your head, and he'd send me to Tyrosh."
Valarr didn't pull away, if anything, his grip only tightened, his fingers spreading across your ribs as he pressed a lingering kiss below your ear.
"Let them look," he rasped, "I have spent a decade being the dutiful son, the perfect prince, the patient betrothed. But right now, I am none of those things."
He turned his head, his nose brushing your cheek before his lips found the corner of yours, teasing you with the promise of a kiss he hadn't delivered yet. His hands continued to work over you, his palms slick with bath oils as he explored every curve, his touch growing bolder as he felt you melt against him.
"I have you in my arms, finally," he whispered against your lips, "and I would burn the Red Keep to ash before I let the fear of what the maesters may say stop me from touching you like this. You are as mine now as the day I'll have you wear my ring and crown."
He shifted, his legs widening to pull you even deeper into the V of his thighs, ensuring you felt every bit of his desire that he was struggling to contain. The water splashed over the edge of the tub as he moved, the scent of mint and honey filling your senses. He was a man who knew the rules, how important you remaining a virgin was, but in the tub, he was showing you exactly how willing he was to break that rule for the sake of loving the woman who held his heart since they were children.
You watched breathlessly, your eyes following his hand that began to slowly dip down. His fingers trailed down the center of your chest, passing over the sensitive skin of your ribs and tracing the dip of your navel. The water rippled around you, the warmth of the bath feeling cool compared to the searing heat of his hand.
As his hand reached for your stomach, he paused. He didn't rush; even in the throws of desire, the sweet knight in him that cherished your comfort as much as his own honor, demanding your signal. He leaned in, his lips grazing the skin of you shoulder, his voice a gravelly whisper that made your knees weak even as you sat.
"Is this okay?" He asked. The authority in his tone was still there, but it was softened by a vulnerable plea, "I will not move a finger further than you wish, my love. Tell me if I go too far. Tell me what you need."
You couldn't find your voice, your throat feeling tight. Instead, you nodded your head against his shoulder, a small noise that sounded more like a whimper leaving the back of your throat.
Of course, you had felt his hand there before; those frantic, breathless encounters in the dark of the libraries or tucked behind tapestries. But this felt fundamentally different. In the light of the tent, with the water magnifying every sensation and your skin laid bare for him to see, it felt like it was your first time doing this all over again.
As he moved, you felt the gratitude for those scandalous, worn leather books your sisters had smuggled for you over the years. Those texts had been your own private lessons, teaching you the names for the intimate parts of yourself, the feelings that you'd get when Valarr would have his hands on you. What you didn't know - and what Valarr would never admit - was that he had found those same books in your chambers months ago. He had pored over them in the dead of the night, memorizing the descriptions of a woman's pleasure as if it was a map for war. He was a Targaryen prince, and he refused to be a fool on his wedding day.
With your silent permission granted, Valarr let out a long exhale that sounded like he was praying. His hand continued its way downwards, his fingers sliding over the soft skin of your inner thighs beneath the water. When his middle finger finally found your slit, you let out a choked, high pitched gasp that echoed against the tent walls loud enough that you were scared someone would hear.
"You're so soft," he groaned against your neck.
His movements were steady and sure but patient, utilizing every bit of knowledge he had gathered to ensure your pleasure came before his own. He was a generous lover, focusing entirely on the way your hips began to tilt instinctively to meet his hands. He applied a gentle pressure, his thumb finding your clit that sent lightning shocks through your system.
You arched against him, your fingers clutching at his forearms as the pleasure began to tightly coil in your gut. He kept his pace steady, his eyes locked onto yours, watching the way you came apart for him with a prideful look.
"Valarr," you whimpered, your voice struggling to stay quiet within the tent as your hips grinded against his hand, hearing how the water splashed against the walls of the tub, "the water...you're going to...it's going to spill across the rugs."
Indeed, with every tilt of your body under his fingers, the surface of the water surged, sending small waves over the edge to soak the thick furs.
Valarr let out a chuckle, his lips never leaving the junction of your neck. "Let it spill," he rasped, "I'll clean it myself later. You're more important than any rug or any mess we make."
He increased the pleasure slightly, his thumb circling that aching spark in your clit with a maddening precision. You felt the coil in your stomach tighten, a shimmering tension that made your toes curl against the bottom of the tub. You were right on the edge, your breath coming in short gasps, your eyes fluttering shut as the world began to narrow down to just the heat of the water and his touch.
Then, the heavy silk flap at the front of the tent snapped open.
The sound was like thunder. Both of your heads snapped towards the front of the tent, hearts hammering in unison. Valarr's body went instantly rigid, pulling you closer against his chest as his fingers on your clit stilled and his free arm came up to cover your chest in case anyone saw.
Thankfully the Myrish lace of the privacy screen remained in place, its intricate embroidery casting a shield that blocked the bath from view, but the intrusion was still there. Before a single sound escaped your lips, Valarr's hand that was covering your breasts flew up to cover your mouth.
"Shh," he breathed into your ear, his voice so quiet you barely even heard it, "be silent."
"Valarr? Are you there?"
The voice was younger, lighter, but still carried that Targaryen lilt. It was Matarys, Valarr's younger brother. You could hear the rustle of his boots on the carpet as he stepped further into the tent, oblivious to the scene behind the screen.
You felt the air leave your lungs, your body going rigid against Valarr's chest as his hand remained clamped over your mouth. Beneath the water, Valarr didn't pull his other hand away. His fingers instead shifting to drive a long caress along your inner thigh. He could feel the frantic fluttering of your heart against him, the way your muscles knotted with a paralyzing anxiety.
"Valarr? I know you're in here, I can hear you breathing," Matarys called out, his voice closer now, just on the other side of the embroidered privacy screen, "what are you even doing?"
Valarr cleared his throat, his voice regaining that effortless tone he wore for the world, though his eyes remained fixed on yours, "I'm taking a bath, Matarys. I've spent half the day in the dirt; I'd prefer not to smell like a stable hand for the rest of the evening."
"Ew, gross," Matarys groaned, and you could hear the audible shuffle of his boots as he took a hasty step back from the screen, "I don't need that image of you scrubbing your backside in my head. Spare me."
You let out a tiny, shuddering breath against Valarr's palm, your eyes wide as you watched the shadows shift on the lace. Valarr's hand moved beneath the surface, his thumb grazing your hypersensitive clit in a slow, soothing circle. It was a silent promise: breathe, I have you.
"If it's so repulsive to you, why are you still standing in my tent?" Valarr asked, his tone laced with a dry bite.
"Because Father is losing his mind," Matarys said, his voice a little more serious, "Aerion did something stupid again. Something about a puppet show - he claims the performance is treasonous and started a riot. Some hedge knight got involved, huge dude. It's all anyone can talk about now."
Valarr's jaw tightened against your shoulder. The mention of their cousin Aerion always brought a shadow to his face, but now it felt like it was another excuse he couldn't get to enjoy you fully.
"Father wants you there," Matarys continued, oblivious to the fact his brother was currently naked and wrapped around his betrothed, "he says your 'calm hand' is needed to soothe the crowds before more people get hurt. He's already dealt with the knight, but I don't want to have to deal with these angry crowds."
Valarr's hand beneath the water became more insistent, his fingers sliding deep into your cunt which made your hips roll involuntarily against him. He was testing you, keeping you balanced on the edge between terror and pleasure while he tried to get Matarys to leave. You bit down hard on your lower lip, the metallic tang of blood faint on your tongue as you fought back the urge to arch your back and cry out.
"Tell Father I will be there," Valarr said finally, "but tell him I won't be rushed. If Aerion wishes to play the tyrant, he can wait ten minutes for me to finish my 'gross' ablutions."
"Ten minutes? Valarr, Aerion is calling for the knight to be hanged!" Matarys exclaimed, though he sounded like he was finally moving towards the exit, "fine, I'll tell him. But if Father comes in here himself to drag you out, don't blame me."
The sound of his footsteps finally retreated towards the front of the tent, and the heavy thud of the tent flap signaled his departure. But even then, Valarr didn't let go. He kept his hand over your mouth for several long seconds, ensuring that Matarys wouldn't come back.
He let out a low, venomous hiss of a breath, his forehead dropping against yours. "Aerion," he spat, the name sounding like a curse, "of course it's him. To think I must leave this to go and play the diplomat because my cousin cannot go an evening without trying to prove he has the blood of the dragon by terrorizing commoners."
His voice was thick with a rare irritation. He looked into your eyes, his gaze smoldering with a mixture of resentment for his duties and an unquenchable fire for you, "he is a fool, and my father is too kind to let him suffer the consequences of his own madness. I just want to stay right here but no, I have to go settle tempers that aren't even-"
You didn't let him finish his complain. You reached up, your fingers damp and trembling as you cupped his face, drawing him down until your lips met his. It was a silencing kiss, tasting of the lemon water and salt of his skin.
"Valarr," you whispered against his mouth, your breath hitching as you felt his fingers instinctively curl inside of you, still in their movement, "stop talking about your fool of a cousin. He isn't here. We are. Don't give him another second of your time that belongs to me."
A low growl vibrated in Valarr's throat. "You're right," he murmured, his lips dragging across yours as he deepened the kiss, "he is nothing. You are everything."
His fingers that were clenched around your cunt started to move again, bent at the knuckle to poke that sweet spot that made your eyes roll back. He was generous with your pleasure, holding that desperate need to have you fall apart against him, so that he may remembered your sweet noises while he deals with Aerion later.
You arched your back, your chest pressing firmly against the hard, wet planes of his own. The sensation of your skin rubbing against his, the soft curves of your breasts against his muscular ribcage, was almost too much to bear. You twined your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, your tongues dancing with his in a frantic, humid rhythm that mimicked the work of his hand below.
"Valarr," you moaned into his mouth, the sound mfufled and sweet.
"I've got you," he rasped as he shifted his weight once more, his legs bracketing yours even tighter, trapping you against him. He used his thumb to catch that tiny, pulsing spark of your clit above his sliding fingers, circling it while he watched your eyes flutter shut.
He watched you through half lidded eyes, his gaze fixed on the way your features contorted in pleasure, the way your lips stayed parted and breathless.
The water in the tub was splashing violently now, spilling over the rim in waves that soaked the rugs, but neither of you cared. The touch of his desire against your thigh, the steam flooding your senses, and the sensation of his touch was all that existed currently.
You were past any point of restraint. Your fingers were buried deep in the wet silk of his hair, pulling him closer as if you could merge your skin with his. The heat of the bath was nothing compared to the fire coiling in your lower belly, a tight tension that made your breath come in short hitches.
"Valarr," you whimpered as you buried your face into the crook of his neck.
"I have you," he rasped as his fingers seemed to get faster. He wanted to feel you break. He wanted the memory of the moment to burn so brightly in his mind that it would sustain him through the tedious hours of diplomacy and the long, cold nights in his own bed, "show me. Let it go for me, my love."
A sudden, violent wave crashed over you, starting at the point where his fingers were buried deep within your cunt and radiating outwards until your entire body was vibrating. Your back arched, your chest pressing so hard against his that you could feel the beating of his heart. The climax hit you like a storm in the summer, white hot and blinding, shattering your focus into a thousand shards of light.
Your thighs snapped shut with a desperate, crushing strength. You clamped your legs around his hand, trapping his hand firmly against your cunt, your muscles squeezing his fingers in a tight, possessive hold that made his cock twitch.
Valarr let outa low, muffled groan of his own, his jaw tightening as the pressure of your thighs pinned his hand. He couldn't move his fingers anymore, but he didn't try to pull away. He simply leaned into the pressure, his palm pressed flat against you as you pulsed around him, the friction of your climax making his own breath catch.
You hid your face against his shoulder, your teeth grazing the salt of his skin as you fought to muffle to high, broken gasps that were escaping you. The sound was private, meant only for him and the silent silk walls of the tent. You were shaking, the aftershocks of your pleasure rolling through you in waves, leaving you weak and languid in the cooling water.
Valarr held you through it all. He wrapped his free arm around you wrist, pulling you flush against him. He felt the shakes of your body, the way your heart raced against his ribs and the way your thighs continued to quiver against his trapped hand.
"That's it," he whispered, his voice thick with his pride. He pressed a lingering, searing kiss to the side of your temple, his nose brushing through your damp hair, "just breathe. I'm right here."
Slowly, the world began to settle and your breathing started to settle, the strength in your legs weakening. You gradually loosened the hold, allowing his hand to gain some freedom again, though you were still too sensitive to let him move too much. Valarr didn't rush to withdraw his fingers from inside of you, keeping his hand exactly where it was as you drifted back down from the stars,
The muffled sounds of the tourney began to bleed back into the tent. Valarr remained still for a long moment, holding you as the aftershocks of your release finally turned into a soft warmth. He pressed a series of slow, lingering kisses to your temple, your cheek, and finally the tip of your nose, his breath hitching as his eyes dragged along your flushed face.
"My brave, beautiful girl," he murmured, his voice like sweet honey, "you did so well for me. Always so perfect." He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his violet and brown eye holding a mixture of pride and love, a lustful heat that hadn't faded just yet.
With a gentleness that contrasted the strength in his arms, he helped you sit back down onto the smooth stone of the tub. The water, now slightly cooled but still a comforting warmth swirled around you waist. He lingered for a second, his hands smoothing over your shoulders.
But the world outside was loud, and the burden of his duty as heir was never quite gone. With a heavy, regretful sigh, Valarr gripped the rim of the tub and began to stand.
He rose from the water, the water cascading down the hard planes of his stomach and the long, powerful muscles of his thighs. Even as he prepared to leave, the physical evidence of his unfulfilled desire was clear, his cock still hard and standing to its attention, a testament to the restraint he was trying to endure.
You leaned your head back against the stone, your lower lip poking out in a defiant pout as you watched him. "It isn't fair," you grumbled, "I get to stay here in this nice, warm tent while you go out there and deal with Aerion. I'd almost rather face a real dragon than him some days."
Valarr let out a soft laugh, reaching down to trace the line of your jaw with a wet finger. He didn't seem to notice his own nakedness, or perhaps just didn't care, he was just a man with his woman, "believe me, I would trade a hundred councils for one more hour in this water with you. But the longer I stay, the more likely my father is to come looking himself, and I think we've endured enough narrow escapes for one night."
He leaned down, his eyes locking onto yours with lust filled intensity, "I'll be back before you know it."
You looked up at him, your gaze dropping for a moment to where his cock hanged between his legs before snapping back to his face. "Patience is a virtue, Valarr," you whispered in a smoky, playful register as you reached out a damp hand, "but it is a virtue I simply do not possess."
Your fingers closed around his cock, a bold contact that made Valarr's entire body go rigid. A sharp intake of a breath left his throat, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the tub to keep his balance. The heat of him was staggering, feeling his cock pulse in your palm.
"You are going to get me in so much trouble," he groaned, his head falling back as his eyes fluttered shut. Valarr was standing like a statue of Valyrian marble, his muscles corded and frozen, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as he fought for the control that usually came so easy. He was the Young Prince, the heir to the heir, second in line for the Iron Throne, but under your touch, he was nothing but a man at the mercy of the woman he loved.
You looked up at him, the steam clinging to your lashes, and felt a surge of daring energy that had nothing to do with the patience that both of your fathers demanded. Your mind flickered back to the worn pages of your secret books, to the passages that described an intimacy deeper than just your hand, something that your sisters whispered about in hushed tones about their own husbands. They spoke of the mouth as a vessel of pleasure, a way to worship a man that went beyond the traditional dance of the bedchamber.
"You don't have to go just yet," you teased, your thumb tracing the ridge underneath the tip, pulling back the extra skin to see the glistening tip that leaked of a clear substance, "I want you to remember this while you're listening to your cousin's nonsense."
You pulled yourself up slightly in the water, leaning forward until your face was inches from the heavy, pulsing skin of his cock. Valarr's breath hitched, a sound that echoed in the quiet space.
"My love..." He warned, though there was no real strength behind his words, his fingers tangling in your damp hair, not to pull you away but to hold himself steady as the world began to tilt.
You didn't hesitate. Daring yourself to bridge that foreign gap between you, you leaned in and let your tongue dart out, grazing the very tip of his cock with a tenative, sweeping lick.
The reaction was instant. Valarr let our a low groan. His hips bucked, his knuckles turning white from where he gripped the stone rim and your hair. He looked down at you, his eyes blown wide with look of shock that melted into a need.
"Where did you..." He started, his voice cracking, "where did you leanr that?"
"I told you," you murmured against the tip as it brushed your lips, "I read."
You grew bolder, your lips parting to take the tip of his cock into the warmth of your mouth. It was a sensation unlike anything you had ever experienced - the taste of salt, the scent of the lemon water - made your head spin. You used your tongue as the books described, circling and teasing, your hand continuing its stroking of the base to ensure he felt every bit of the pleasure you could give him.
Valarr was trembling, a fine shudder that ran through his powerful thighs. He was a man who prided himself on his composure, but as you continued your movements, the composure was shedding layer by layer. He looked like a man in the throws of pleasure, his head tossing back, his teeth bared in an expression that was as much agony as it was ecstasy.
"I cannot...I cannot leave if you do this," he gasped, his voice ragged of its usual regal tone. His hand in your hair tightened, his fingers curling into the damp locks as he guided your rhythm, "you truly are a dragon, aren't you? Gods, I feel like I'm on fire."
You look up to him, your eyes shimmering with a mixture of mischief and devotion, never breaking the contact. You could see the internal battle playing out in his face; the duty to his father as his heir and the need to stay right here, to pull you out of the tub and forget every vow of virtue until the sun rose.
Every time you swirled your tongue and increased the suction, Valarr's breath came in a jagged, desperate gasp. He was so close, the tension in his body reaching a breaking point. He was a prince who was being worshipped by his future queen, and the knowledge of that - mixed with the feeling of your tongue on his already aching cock - was making his knees buckle underneath him.
"Just a taste doesn't hurt," you whispered, pulling back for a second to look up at him, your lips glistening with spit and your face flushed, "do you want me to stop?"
A sound escaped him, a sound that would've made the court gasp if they heard it. It wasn't the sound of a prince; it was a low, broken whimper, desperation stripping all bit of his royal dignity.
"No," he whimpered, his head lolling forward as he looked down at you with a gaze that was pleading, "no, gods, don't stop. Please." It was a pathetic, beautiful sound, a prince begging at the feet of the one who would rule beside him. His hand, still tangled in your hair, didn't pull you away, instead pressing you closer, his fingers trembling with the effort to not lose himself entirely, "keep going...I don't care about what my Father says...I don't care about anything else."
You didn't need to be told twice. Encouraged by his pleading, you leaned back in, your mouth warm and welcoming as you continued the swirling pressure your sisters' books had described. You grew more confident, your tongue working as your hand slid from his cock down to his balls which drove him past the point of no return.
Valarr's breath became a series of jagged, shallow hitches. He felt himself shaking. "I'm...I'm going to-" He choked out, his hips jerking at your touch and mouth as a violent surge of pleasure took hold of him.
He finished with a drawn out groan that seemed to come from his soul. It was heavy, overwhelming as he shook violently. You tried to take it all, your throat working to accommodate the sheer amount of his release, but it was more than you prepared for. The taste of it was staggering, and despite your best efforts to be perfect for him, you couldn't swallow every bit he gave.
As he finally slumped forward, his forehead beaded with sweat as his eyes landed on your face, a few stray, pearlescent droplets escaping the corners of your mouth. They trailed down the curve of your chin, dripping onto the swell of your chest and disappearing into the lemon scented water of the tub.
You pulled back, breathing heavy, lips glistening and your face flushed even deeper. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and slightly watered from the intensity.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, your throat slightly sore as you reached up to wipe your chin on your damp hand, "I...I couldn't take it all. I tried, Valarr, truly...it was just so much."
Valarr didn't move for a long moment, his chest heaving as he fought to bring air back into his lungs. His eyes on you held no judgement, only holding adoration that made your heart skip. He reached down, his thumb catching a final stray drop of his seed on your lip, his touch so tender it brought tears to your eyes.
"Don't you dare apologize," he says breathlessly. He leaned down, pressing a lingering kiss to the top of your head, "you were perfect. Better than any dream. If there was 'a lot,' it's only because I've been half-mad with wanting you since the day we were promised to each other."
He looked down at the water where the evidence of his release had vanished into the citrus scented water, and then back to the way you looked; nude, flushed, and cherished. "I have to go now," he murmured, though he sounded like he was torturing himself, "but I think I'll be back, don't worry."
Valarr stood before the stone basin as he worked with a sudden, efficient speed to pull on his clothing, though his eyes kept glancing over to you. You remained in the water, your body feeling heavy and pleasantly spent, your skin still tingling from his touch and the taste of him remaining on your tongue everytime you swallowed.
You looked down at the surface of the bath, watching the way the water swirled in the wake of the chaos that you both had caused. The water was no longer clear; slightly cloudy, the oils broken and the surface dappled with the evidence of his release fixed within. The rugs surrounding the tub were dark and heavy, soaked through by the waves that had spilled over the edge.
"It's ruined," you murmured with a pout. You reached out a hand, swirling the water aimlessly with your fingertips, "the bath is ruined, Valarr, and I'm quite certain the servants will know what happened."
Valarr paused, his fingers mid way through the fastening of the leather laces of his jerkin. He looked down at you, the sweetness in his eyes making your breath hitch all over again. He moved back to the edge of the tub, kneeling on the damp furs regardless of his clean clothes. He reached out, his hand cupping the side of your face, his thumb stroking your cheek with a sweet tenderness.
"The bath has served its purpose," he whispered, "it gave me a moment of peace and the most beautiful sight I have ever beheld. If the water is clouded, it is only because I couldn't help myself on indulging in the beautiful woman in it."
He leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, "I will not have you sitting in this cold water while I am away dealing with Aerion's theatrics. I'll send for one of the servants to bring fresh kettles for you."
"You're spoiling me," you teased, though you leaned into his palm, closing your eyes to savor the last of his warmth, "your Father is going to wonder why his heir is so worried about the warmth of his bath that he already finished."
"Let him wonder," Valarr countered, not worried about being caught, he was going to have you in two name days anyways, "my father knows I am a man of my word, and my word is that you will be cared for. Besides, it is a small price to pay for what you just did to me."
He stood then, adjusting his belt as he straightened his shoulders. But at the flap of the tent, he stopped. He looked back over his shoulder, one last long look as he traced the curve of your shoulders and the mess of your hair.
"Stay here, my love," he asked of you softly, "and when I return, I expect to find you just as beautiful as I am leaving you now."
With a final sharp nod, he pushed through the silk flaps and was gone. The tent feeling suddenly vast and quiet, with only the sound of the slow dripping of the edge of the tub onto the rugs, leaving you alone with the steam, scent of lemons and mint, and the salt of his release on your tongue.
vampire!valarr — the coffin is lined with the deepest, softest black velvet, the color of a moonless sky. the inside is cool, a sanctuary from the sun he can no longer bear, smelling faintly of sandalwood and frost. he arranges you within it as if preparing a sacred offering, his movements slow, reverent. he lays you back, your head pillowed on the plush lining, and settles over you. his silver steak, longer and finer than in life, falls like a curtain around your faces. he moves inside you with a deep, relentless rhythm, the velvet whispering beneath you with every thrust. his mismatched eyes glow faintly in the dark, fixed on yours.
his fangs brush your throat, not piercing, just teasing. “hm?” he murmurs, his voice a soft, hypnotic hum against your skin. his hips snap forward, a fraction harder, making you gasp. “what’s wrong, pretty girl? am i being a little rough?” he kisses the corner of your mouth, his lips cool. “tell me.” he doesn’t wait for an answer. he sinks his fangs into the side of your neck, not to feed deeply, but to leave a bruising claim. the dual sensation-the deep, filling stretch of him and the sharp, sweet pain of his bite-makes you arch and whine, a helpless, eager sound. he drinks a sip, just a taste, and pulls back, licking the twin wounds. a soft, dark laugh rumbles in his chest, vibrating through you both. “you are,” he whispers, answering his own question. “you enjoy it. being so good for me, so perfect.” he kisses you, and you can taste your own blood, metallic and intimate, on his tongue.
“do you taste as sweet everywhere?”
vampire!aerion — the coffin is carved from a wood so dark it's almost black, polished to a high sheen, and lined with blood-red silk that feels sinfully smooth against your bare skin. he throws you into it, not lays you. there’s no reverence here, only hunger and impatience. he's on you before you can orient yourself in the dark, pushing your thighs apart. the silk is cold, his body is cold, but the friction between you is fire. his blue eyes burn like twin suns in the darkness, full of madness and something sinister.
“look at you,” he sneers, his voice a cruel, breathless rasp. his hips hammer into you, the coffin creaking with the force. “trapped in a box with a monster. and you're wet for it.” he leans down, his fangs gleaming. he doesn’t tease. he bites to hurt. he sinks them deep into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and he drinks. not a sip. a greedy, pulling draw that makes you cry out, a sharp mix of pain and shocking, unwanted pleasure. he groans against your skin, his rhythm turning jagged and frantic. “you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”he pants, pulling back. blood-your blood-smears his perfect, cruel mouth. “fucking pathetic.” he licks his lips, watching you writhe beneath him, trapped by his body and his bite. “but it's what you deserve. it's what you want” he flips you over onto your stomach, the red silk slick under your cheek, and takes you again, harder, his fangs finding a new spot to claim as he drinks you down.
“your pulse is racing, dove. is it because of fear..or something else?”
rumours spread that targaryen!reader's virtue has been compromised by some lesser lord. it's purely concern for you and your reputation, surely, that akotsk men are compelled to personally check your maidenhead and/or correct your misbehaviour.
charas: valarr, aerion, daeron, dark-ish dunk
4k+ words
cw: fem!reader, targaryen!reader (relation not specified), disclaimer that virginity isn't a thing and virginity tests are bullshit but inspection kink is hot, all chara drabbles involve some degree of manipulation or dub con so don't like don't read, slightly dark-ish valarr but not really, spanking, slut/whore/good girl, degradation, breast play/pain, alcohol, oral, finger sucking, edging, anal, dunk is ooc but it's dark-ish dunk so it's fine
VALARR.
"it's not true," you implore. "i swear it."
some servants had seen you, laughing and a little wine-drunk, steal away from a feast for the darkness of the gardens alongside some minor lord's handsome son.
"did he force you out there?" valarr asks with strained voice. "did he...make you do anything?" his mismatched eyes go to yours, searching, and you can see gentleness battling with protective fury. "if by word or deed he compelled you to anything, or made false promises, it is not your fault. only tell me and i'll see him dead."
valarr wants him dead anyway, for nothing but the implication he might have enjoyed your sweet touch.
you shake your head.
"no. it's all lies. we did nothing but walk in the garden. it's not fair."
valarr laughs but there is no humour in his voice.
fair. what do you know of fair? valarr has lived his entire life to meet the image of the honourable son and heir. no slips. no mistakes. nothing that could tarnish the image of his family. but you, you went traipsing about unchaperoned in the dark and truly believed there would be no consequences. he can't tell if you're innocent enough to not have realized the implications or so spoiled that you thought you'd get away with it.
"it was foolish. reckless. half a dozen servants witnessed it," valarr says, voice low, warning.
"they witnessed naught but my seeking fresh air—"
valarr snaps.
"you are a princess! there cannot be any question of your behaviour. everything reflects back on our house!"
he'd known that since he was a little boy. valarr had never been indulged. never allowed to fall into temptation or disrepute, never to be anything but the perfect prince.
until now.
"take off your dress."
"...what?"
"leave your shift on," he orders. valarr will permit you some modesty.
you stare, too shocked to move.
"must i cut it off of you?" he demands.
you flinch and he regrets being so harsh with you. perhaps it is not your fault that you have been coddled so. it is not your fault if no one has ever kept a firm hand with you. well, he's here now.
"you have to learn your actions have consequences," valarr speaks again, voice softer this time.
he can see you're still confused, and perhaps a little frightened, but you obediently begin unlacing your gown. you trust him. or perhaps you want this, too. perhaps your parted lips, your trembling hands, your little gasp when he first commanded you to undress, was not fear at all, but arousal.
he sits on the edge of his bed as you disrobe for him. valarr doesn't let his gaze drop down as your shift is exposed, no matter that the white fabric is nearly translucent. he needs you to understand this is all for your correction, not his...perversion.
"bend over my lap."
you do as he says. he admires the shape of you, your round ass inviting his touch. he swallows hard.
"you have to learn, one way or another. better this way and let the lesson take, then for you to continue traipsing about, and be sent away to the silent sisters or saddled with an old man for a husband. this is for your own good. you understand this, don't you?"
"yes, my prince," you say, all demure, and the use of his title nearly makes him break. then— "thank you."
that does it for him. valarr doesn't even care if it's genuine sweetness or you once more manipulating everyone around you to get what you want. he gives in.
he lands a hand against your ass, hard, and delights in the way you gasp. he meant to go easy on you after the first strike, but he can't. he can't do it. valarr goes harder and harder with each smack against your flesh.
"your reputation is everything," he lands a blow with each sentence to drive the point home. "our family reputation is everything." smack! "you must be above criticism." smack! "you must be above even the implication of misbehaviour." smack! "you. cannot. go. wandering. about. with. strange. men. in! the! dark!" each word was punctuated with another smach, the last three the hardest as he imagined you in the darkness with some boy who was beneath you.
you try to squirm, but he holds you firm. you will take your spanking.
valarr is precise and careful to land a blow against every inch of your ass and thighs. your shift and small clothes are thin and he can feel you heat beneath his touch. every strike pushes your pliant, soft body down and against his hard cock.
"have you learned your lesson?" he asks, panting, his hand not slowing down. he's almost finished your punishment and these last few strikes need to be the hardest.
"yes!" you cry, and valarr can tell it's as much from pleasure as from pain.
"are you going to behave?"
"yes!"
"are you a princess or a whore?"
you've given into him too completely to even be shocked by his foul words.
"i'm a princess" you keen.
valarr could check. he's resisted this entire time the urge to pull up your shift. reveal your naked flesh to his gaze. see if you're wet. he could push you off his lap and onto the floor. make you kneel and look up at him, so sweet and desperate to please, as you draw his cock from his breeches and push the tip into the wet heat of your mouth—
valarr's cumming before he even realizes it. grips you and pushes you down onto his hardness while he grinds up against your soft stomach. he's panting as he comes down.
valarr doesn't know if you've realized what you've done to him. he doesn't tell you. this is about your correction, after all.
he sends you back to your chambers with the warning to never be so careless again, or he'll put you right back over his lap. and next time, you'll be naked.
AERION.
you can feel the rage radiating from aerion and you know he's heard the rumours. you want to tell him, it's not true, but it isn't as if you can discuss the subject of your virtue publicly. you try to pull him aside, but he coldly shakes you off his arm.
"come to my chambers tonight," he says.
aerion doesn't speak another word to you the rest of the day. he also doesn't leave you alone for a single second. he's a constant presence, always watching out of the corner of his eyes. anytime another man so much as glances in your direction, aerion's hand is at his dagger.
you almost wish he had gripped your wrist and dragged you back to his rooms immediately, no matter the shame it would have brought you to have the entire castle see you handled so. at least then you'd not have had to endure the agony of waiting. but you know aerion and you know the dreadful anticipation is part of his plan.
you knock on his chamber door that night. wordless, he lets you in. you cannot stand his silence and judgement any longer.
"aerion, it's all lies! i'm a maid, i swear—"
"prove it," his voice cuts through you.
you falter. your heart quickens.
"how?"
"strip."
your mouth opens and closes, dumbfounded, as heat burns your cheeks.
"be serious—"
"i am. a question of your virtue is an affront to our family. the idea you would degrade yourself like a bitch in heat is a scandal."
"aerion, you know i would never permit some minor lord to touch me—"
"do i?" aerion asks, and circles you, a hunter with his prey. "you don't feel a heat and ache between your legs? you don't desire to be taken and filled?"
"i..." you falter, panting. "desires do not matter. only duty. to my future husband and my family to preserve my virtue."
"then you should not hesitate to prove your honour," aerion stops behind you. he steps closer, too close, his voice low and deep in your ear. "would you like a maester to confirm your maidenhead is intact? some old lecher fondling you while a dozen witnesses fill the room and try to sneak a glimpse at your sweet cunt? or would you rather i inspect your virtue?"
you don't really have a choice. you nod your consent.
"ask me nicely."
you hate him. you want his hands on you so badly.
"please, aerion. please let me prove to you that i'm a virgin."
he undoes the ties on the back of your dress and strips you bare. his hands cup your breasts.
"what're you doing?" you ask, ignoring the aroused breathiness of your voice.
"being thorough," aerion answers. "i'll need to check every inch of you, just to be certain. see if there's any suspicious bruises that might suggest a man's touch."
it's a flimsy excuse, but you aren't in a position to protest.
he turns you around and lets his eyes run down your body while his hands continue to work over your breasts. his thumb circles your nipples until they harden. he palms you rougher, watching the way your flesh bounces for him. aerion twists your nipples and you whine in pain.
"good girl," he grins, and slaps your right breast.
he walks you over to the bed. he flips you around and pushes down on your lower back, encouraging you to get on all fours on the mattress. you let him angle your body how he wants. your head hangs down in shame. you can pretend your embarrassment is entirely from being 'forced' into this humiliating ritual, but you know the truth, and you expect aerion does too: you're enjoying this in spite of yourself.
he runs his thumb along your slit. you whine and push your hips back against him.
"you're wet as a whore," he growls. "maybe the rumours are true."
"noooo," you whine. "no, i'm a maiden, i swear!"
"a maiden who likes being fondled like a slut," aerion says, voice low and dark. "one way to find out."
he shoves two fingers inside without warning. you whine from a mix of pain and pleasure and your hips try to buck, but even you don't know if you're trying to get closer or away. aerion holds you in place with his free hand and makes you take his fingers, harsh and unrelenting in their probing.
"wet like a whore but tight like a maid," he groans.
he has no mercy on you, clearly not inspecting but fucking with his fingers. then, suddenly, he's gone. you keen with the loss until you feel the tip of something much bigger pushing at your entrance.
"don't think you can be trusted with this needy virgin cunt," he grunts, pushing his cock forward to nudge against your clit. "just a little touching and you're making a mess of yourself. practically rutting on me. pathetic. better a dragon tame you now than you play the slut for the next lord, knight, stable boy who looks your way."
"please," you beg, but you've hardly gotten the word out before aerion is pushing inside you, fully seating himself in one thrust. it hurts, but hurts so good. aerion fucks you through it, surprisingly gentle but insistent. he soon forgets to be kind as he picks up speed, clearly intent on his own pleasure and impatient for his release.
you grip the sheets and let him do whatever he wants to you.
only a minute or two passes before he's gripping your hips and spilling inside you.
you whine and push back against him, seeking more.
"aerion," you pout. "not enough..."
he grins.
"who said we were finished?"
DAERON.
it's late as daeron stumbles through the dark halls, a not unusual occurrence. what is unusual is that he finds you in an alcove. you rise quickly and hide something behind your back.
"little late for the little princess to be out," he teases. daeron's always been fond of you. "what's this?"
he tries to reach behind you, and by rights you should easily be able to outmanoeuvre him once he's been drinking, but you sway and falter. daeron grabs the item and takes a look at his prize. a flagon.
he takes a swig and sure enough, it's wine, and not even a good one.
"don't," you say, and sway again, and now daeron recognizes that you're drunk.
"think it's past your bedtime."
"don't want to go to bed."
"think there's only room in a family for one drunk, and i promise, i'm much better at it than you."
"fuck off, daeron!"
that's how he knows something is wrong. and he can guess what. the entire court was whispering that the beloved targaryen princess had besmirched her honour. reputation never meant much to daeron, but you had always played the dutiful one, and he can see that this is hurting you.
"being caught drunk and out of bed isn't going to help the rumours, sweetheart. at least hide in my room."
daeron meant to secretly guide you back to your chambers and leave you there to sleep it off, honestly, but somehow on the way he...forgot...and you both ended up back in his chambers, lying on his bed, sharing a much nicer bottle of wine.
"'s not fair. no one cares if you openly visit every brothel in king's landing. but people so much as think i might have been alone with a man, and i'm an outcast."
daeron resists the temptation to point out you're currently alone with a man.
"someone will come along soon enough and do something far more scandalous. probably me. then everyone will forget about you," he says.
you giggle and lean into his side, taking the bottle from him and drinking straight from it. his eyes follow a droplet that slips past your sweet lips and runs down the curve of your neck, fighting the urge to kiss it.
"and you know what the worst of it is?" you ask. he shakes his head. "i didn't even do anything."
he swallows air and closes his eyes. daeron really should take you back to your rooms.
he feels the mattress shift as you prop yourself up on your elbows beside him.
"you could check, couldn't you?" you ask.
"check what?"
"that i'm a maiden."
daeron jerks up. the movement is too fast and the room spins around him. he runs a hand through his hair and angles his leg to obscure your view of his lap, lest you notice his quickly rising cock.
"if...if it was such a concern...i'm certain a septa could assist..." he stammers.
you shake your head and press yourself against his chest.
"not a septaaaa. youuuu. you'd know, wouldn't you? you must've been with enough women to tell," you're giggling again. "then you can tell everyone else."
the fatal flaw in your logic, which you don't seem to have realized, is that would mean daeron telling everyone he had seen your pussy.
"i don't think—" he tries to speak.
"i trust you. i want you."
daeron groans.
if he was a good man, he'd tell you you're drunk, and younger than him, and sad, and angry, and not thinking clearly, and need to go to bed.
daeron knows he is not a good man.
he's trying to settle you down on the bed and prop some pillows around you to make you comfortable, but you're already hiking up your skirts. he blinks and suddenly your cunt is bare in front of him, wet and spread, like he's wanted for so long. daeron half stumbles, half slides down the mattress and eases your leg over his shoulder, one hand clinging to your thigh to desperately try and ground himself, even as his hips are grinding into the bed.
"think i'd be able to check better with my mouth," he pants for it.
"what do you mean?" you ask.
daeron whines.
"sweet girl," he whimpers. "please. please trust me. please, it'll feel so good, i promise."
"please," you breathe, and that's all daeron needs to hear.
he pushes his face into your cunt like a man starved. he's messy and loud with it. you're immediately crying 'oh!' and grabbing his hair to push him closer. daeron's eyes roll back in his head with pleasure.
if it absolves him at all, he does fulfill the task you gave him. his tongue pushes into your hole and he confirms your maidenhead is intact.
daeron just also makes you cum until you're screaming and shaking for him.
he doesn't let up until you're pushing his head away. daeron looks up and his eyes meet your's. there's a new clarity in your gaze. meanwhile, he swears he's drunk on you. he's gripping you tight and silently begging for absolution.
you push him away and he feels sick with the certainty that you must despise him. instead, you crawl down to him and your hand goes to his belt.
"teach me how to make you feel good like that," you pant.
DUNK.
you're certain the sudden 'rumours' of your indiscretion are a political scheme against your family. you need this marriage alliance. even if you don't particularly like your intended.
"ser duncan. you're my personal guard. if you would vouch that no man has entered my chambers unchaperoned, it would do a great deal to squash the malicious gossip against me."
"i'll swear no man has entered under my watch," he answers.
ser duncan was a quiet man and difficult to read.
"i thank you, ser—"
"i can only speak for when i've been on duty, your grace."
you curse. that would mean relying on the word of your other guards, whom you have no love for and do not trust.
"what would it require then, ser, to convince you to vouch for me fully? money? land?"
"your grace," he speaks firmly. "'m an honourable man. i won't be bribed and i won't swear to a thing unless i'm certain of it."
you could slap this giant, you really could! but you need him on your side. and you need this alliance. no matter the cost to your dignity.
"i suppose you know, ser, what a maiden intact looks like?"
"i do."
"very well, then."
you sit at the edge of your bed, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. you go to hitch up your skirts, but ser duncan stops you with a hand on your shoulder. you look to him, surprised, thinking he will be merciful and not force you to expose yourself to him to prove your virtue. instead, his large thumb dares to run over your bottom lip.
"ought to check you fully, if 'm riskin' my honour for you."
he pushes more insistently at your mouth.
you glare up at him, but part your lips and allow him to push his thumb inside. he prods the warmth of your mouth, gentle. you guess the point of this exercise is to see if you'll choke and sputter like a maid overwhelmed by his size. but you're angry with him for putting you in this position, and though it's petty and short-sighted, you don't immediately fake a struggle to take him. you don't wish to add to his pride.
ser duncan changes his mind about being gentle. he removes his thumb and pushes his index and middle fingers in, as far as they can go, forcing you to gag. he doesn't let up, evidently 'checking' you fully. you sputter from the intensity. fuck. if it's such a struggle just to take his fingers, you can't imagine how it would be to have his cock in your mouth. not that you want to think about his cock in your mouth. obviously.
he pulls his fingers out and you cough.
"lay back now, your grace," he orders, and you hate that he's somehow ended up in control here.
you lean back on the bed and fold your legs up. ser duncan kneels down and pushes your skirts up. you can feel his hot breath on your thighs and you involuntarily shiver.
"somethin' the matter, your grace?" he asks.
"no," you say, defiant, and stare up at the ceiling.
his hand cups your pussy and you gasp. you're entire core fits into his palm so easily. he massages you slowly, easily. it feels good. you bite your lip and focus on keeping still so as not to betray even a hint of pleasure. his index finger trails through your slit. he tuts, something evidently displeasing him. his finger moves upward and presses against your clit.
you gasp in shock and pleasure. how dare he!
"i...i do not believe this is entirely necessary, ser!" you scold, even as you grip the sheets.
"need you wetter, your grace, so as not t'hurt you with m'fingers."
you frown, and are about to argue further, but he speeds up his movements and fuck, it feels good, so you'll permit it.
"there ya go. just relax, princess. 'm not gonna hurt you," he breathes.
his large, calloused fingers feel so different to your own when you play with yourself. fuck, it feels good. your eyes close and you begin to allow a few tiny murmurs of pleasure to escape you. his breath tickles your cunt and his other hand runs along one of your legs soothingly. you can feel it building and building inside you, so good, so close, almost, almost...
ser duncan stops.
you cry out in alarm and look down at him.
"why did you—"
"this isn't about pleasin' you, princess."
you hate him. you want him dismissed. you want him sent to the wall. you want his head on a spike.
ser duncan begins rubbing your clit, inching you towards your release, so close...then stops again.
you groan in frustration and throw your head back on the covers.
"just once more, princess. need you plenty wet."
"fine," you say, petulant.
ser duncan doesn't seem to like your tone.
he edges you again, but this time it's harder, rougher, so delicious it almost hurts, and you're screaming towards release, bucking your hips, convinced you can sneak over...but he pulls his hand back at the last second and pushes your hips down on the bed so you can't chase any friction. you have to just lay there and whine and take it as your high fades away. to further it along, ser duncan leans down and blows air against your clit, though it only makes you shiver and buck your hips up harder.
"none of that now. you're a princess and you're meant to be proving your virtue. not that your a wanton little thing who can't handle even a little teasing..."
his fingers trail back along your slit. not seeking to arouse this time, only probing. checking. prodding every inch of you. and your face burns as you can hear just how soaked you are.
his index finger teases your entrance.
"deep breaths, princess. big stretch now."
you roll your eyes, unimpressed, but gasp as soon as he pushes inside you. oh fuck. oh fuck, it feels so good.
"mmm. nice 'n tight." ser duncan hums. "shhh. relax. need t'get a second finger in there."
it burns deliciously. you know he can feel your maidenhead, has even stretched it with his huge fucking fingers, but he doesn't stop and you don't tell him to.
his other hand trails his fingers through your cunt, wetting his fingertips. he angles you to reach deeper inside you. his fingers curve and hit some wonderful, unknown spot in you that has you crying out, "ser duncan!"
"mmm. i know. almost there. been such a good girl. just one more to check."
he's rubbing that secret, inside spot and your clit with one hand as he talks, so you aren't thinking too much about what he's saying. you assume he means another finger inside your cunt, which you would welcome.
you barely register his other hand sliding under your ass and between your cheeks, barely register his wet fingers prodding at your most private place, before he's pushing a finger inside your ass.
you cry out and jolt up, but he pushes you down with his body weight.
"shhh. shh. easy girl. just have to be thorough," he coos.
Synopsis: To be king means you are gifted with the power to take all you want. King Aemond the Absolute now had the power to take you.
Warnings: Abuse of Power, Mature, 18+, Targcest, Loss of Virginity, P in V Sex, Fingering, Oral Sex (F & M receiving), Praise Kink, ¿Manipulation?, Jacaerys being cuckolded
Word Count: 5,736
There are many benefits to being king. Power is the first that comes to mind. To have undisputed control not only over land but also over its citizens is a sensation like no other. For you to be worshiped and revered like a god is an honor bestowed upon only a few, and King Aemond Targaryen was fortunate enough to be one of them.
As a secondborn son, he had only hoped to one day wear the conqueror’s upon his brow– but it was a fantasy. With his half-sister being named heir by the decaying king and his older brother having his own heir, Aemond knew that for him to be king meant the death of his kin. He had no plan to kill for the crown. But with each life taken, he inched closer to the iron throne that he could already feel the cool metal against his leather-clad body.
As his brother abdicated his claim, his half-sister fell. Her faction quickly surrendered and pledged their fealty to him, Aemond One-eye, the reason why the dance of the dragons began. He relished seeing the once fierce, albeit idiotic, supporters of his half-sister kneel before him, declaring him their king. He had taken the most powerful seat in the realm with barely any bloodshed, a feat he thought rather impossible.
Aemond the Absolute, he wishes to be called. A king who all yields to– that all agreed was suitable for the throne. He felt rather benevolent as he oversaw his once traitorous kin’s surrender. The blood of the dragon was scarce now; he’d rather not be the only dragon left in this world, and so, he was kind. He had let Rhaenyra’s remaining kin keep Dragonstone, leaving his nephews and niece their ancestral home. A reminder of what they had lost— and of what he had allowed them to keep.
He, on the other hand, had the Red Keep. The vast castle all to himself as his brother fled, and his sister was taken by her madness. Many times did the thought of offering his eldest nephew a seat in his council cross his mind– a risky, irrational thought, he believed, but a thought brought out by loneliness. To invite Jacaerys into his council means to invite a possible rebellion once more– he’d rather keep him in the desolate caves of Dragonstone.
Aemond needed a wife. A companion. A person who could provide him with heirs and aid him in rebuilding his family. It was an easy enough task if it weren’t for his particularities. He was the blood of the dragon; anything less was insulting. But the blood of Old Valyria was scarce now; the only one truly left who had enough fire in their veins was you. The bastard daughter of the false queen. Your father may be strong, but your mother was Rhaenyra, you were dragon enough, Aemond supposed.
However, a hurdle stood in his way– the same hurdle he faced even in childhood: Jacaerys, your twin brother. King Aemond must admit, he was ever so fond of you in your younger years. You were kind– sweet even. You always shared your cake. You always apologized in your brother’s wake. You always made Aemond feel sympathy for a bastard.
He could recall your childhood so vividly that it brought a dull ache in his chest as he would constantly vie for your attention, but it was always placed on your twin. Your bond with Jacaerys was formed in the womb, and when you two came into the world, your mother was quick to form another bond by binding you to one another.
Aemond had long known this, of course. But never was his younger self deterred, as he was your constant companion when your twin temporarily placed his favor upon Aegon.
“I do not like when he and Luc are with Aegon– they become cruel,” You grumbled to Aemond as he sat with you in the gardens, a plate of cake between you, crumbs on both your lips. “Earlier this morning, he would not stop pulling at my hair!” You added, and Aemond hummed as he stared upon your crumpled face, your dark brows in a furrow, and your braided hair fraying, and bore the truth of your words.
“Perhaps you shall tell your mother,” Aemond suggested as he reached forward to wipe away the icing on your plump and rosy cheek. “If he is cruel now, what more when you two are married?” He added and saw as clear fear flashed in your mud colored eyes. “And you’ve seen how my brother is– Jacaerys seems to worship the ground Aegon walks on. It would not take long before he becomes like him,” Aemond further stated, sewing the seeds of doubt so delicately that even he almost believed it was concern.
“He would not dare!” You exclaimed in fear, looking upon Aemond, who held a stoic expression. “A prince should never pull upon a lady's hair– especially not a princess,” He said, reaching forward to pull at the ribbon that held your braids, letting your hair cascade down your back and running his finger through the silky strands. “A husband must be gentle, niece,” He hummed. Aemond remembered your innocent eyes then. You were nine, and he was only a couple of years your senior, but he was already clever enough to reach for what he wanted— you.
He was persistent– more persistent than he would care to admit. But he could not explain why, but he wanted you, even if you were a bastard. It did not matter much to him that you were a Strong, but when it came to your brothers, he was rather merciless. He tried to be subtle with his fondness for you, but subtlety becomes rather obvious when he truly abhorred your brothers.
“I do not understand,” Aemond remembered as you cried to him under the scarlet leaves of the Godswood tree, the silver light of the moon setting you aglow, making your tears iridescent like pearls streaming down your face. You were six and ten– your family had finally returned after your informal banishment to Dragonstone, a trial as to who shall be heir to Driftmark, the reason why you had found your way back to him.
“He had been bound to me since we were born– he was supposed to offer his fealty– his loyalty– but the moment we returned here, he desecrated it to lie with… with a common whore!” You wailed, and Aemond bit back his smile. Do not mistake his intentions. He did not revel in your sadness; he reveled in the fact that it was Jacaerys who had brought it.
“I had tried to warn you ever since we were children, niece.” He hummed as he took his place next to you, resting his back upon the greyish trunk of the ancient tree. “You should have been rid of him years before.” Aemond added as he let your shoulders brush with each sob you made. “I cannot be rid of him– he… he is my other half– my twin.” Aemond hummed as you tried to explain the obvious. He badly wanted to say that just because you two had shared a womb did not mean you were destined to share a fate.
“Yet he chooses to lie with a whore. He had you by his side, yet he still willingly chose another. Do not be a fool for him, ñuha ōños.” Aemond murmured as he retrieved his handkerchief to wipe away your tears. He could never explain why he was so kind and gentle towards you. Perhaps because you were the same to him. He remembered how his heart skipped a beat as he first saw you again. You found him in the tiltyard, a wide smile on your lips as he met your eyes. A confession that you had long missed his company on your lips.
“But I love him,” You confessed, uncaring that you were bold in your admittance. Ameond had always been your shoulder to cry on whenever you found trouble and strife with your twin. You did not know why you confided in your uncle, who had much animosity for your brothers, but there you were, crying in his arms. “But does he love you enough?” Aemond hummed as he relished the warmth he felt as he had you in his hold.
“He is half of me– if he does not love me most, then who else will?” You remembered whispering in dread. “How are you so certain that it is love?” Aemond questioned lowly, tucking a stray strand of your hair. “Perhaps you are under the wrong impression… just because he is your twin and he had been betrothed to you does not mean you ought to love him– it does not mean he loves you.” Aemond was a cruel man. He knew then that there was no line he would not cross to take what he wished.
Aemond wanted to sigh as you looked upon him with your gleaming brown eyes, your lips pink and swollen. “Such ungrateful men are not worthy of a princess… You wait for him– ready to offer your all, yet he…” Aemond pursed his lips in feigned thought, relishing how you clung to his arm and words. “...I cannot even bear to utter it, ñuha ōños. It could amount to treason,” He murmured lowly, his face drawing closer to yours as your eyelids flutter, and he could practically see how your mind started to give in to his words.
He claimed your lips that night. Your lips were so soft and sweet that Aemond felt drunk. He cupped your face, your cheeks wet with tears yet warm against his cold, calloused touch. You whimpered against his mouth, his thin lips punishing as he deepened your kiss– his tongue shameless as it brushed against yours.
Aemond grunted almost in pain as you suddenly backed away. His hazy eyes boring into your widened ones, regret etched plainly on your comely face. “I… this was a mistake,” Aemond raged every time he recalled your words and how you hastily ran from him after he had taken your first kiss and how he had given you his. He had never seen you since, and it took two years to pass before he could place his lilac eye upon you once more. And it was all because he was expected to attend your wedding ceremonies.
He was king. He could have taken all that he wished without apology– he could have taken you as his bride instead. However, his council had advised him that to do such a thing would invite another rebellion. You had been bound to Jacaerys since you were in the womb– even the kingdom believed that you two were meant for one another.
For him to break your betrothal and covet his nephew’s betrothed– his niece– could jeopardize his station. He had sacrificed much to be king, and as fond as he was of you and how he wished nothing more for you to be his queen, it was not enough for Aemond to relinquish the throne that he had killed for. For a moment, he tried to come to terms with the thought that it was only your lips he could claim, but he was quick to be rid of such thoughts as he remembered that he was king.
He was king, and he had a right to all in his realm– he had the right of the first night. Primae Noctis, he remembered the maester uttering to his nephew, the copper prince, unmoving as he was told that his king wished to lie with his wife. That Aemond wished to take her maidenhead, her virtue that she had guarded for her husband. “He cannot– she is my wife,” Jacaerys gritted as he pushed away a maester to meet his uncle’s eye.
“And I am king. I have the right, nephew.” Aemond smirked as his eye flickered towards you, surrounded by your guests who congratulated you on your marriage, completely clueless that you would be meeting him in your marital chambers instead of your husband.
Aemond sighed as he sensed his nephew readying to draw out his sword, and he quickly waved for his guards to restrain the groom before he could cause a scene. “It is only for one night, nephew. You have the rest of your life to mount your wife– do not be so easily threatened.” Aemond sighed, amusement evident in his eye that would often flicker to your frame across the room. “Besides, it is only fair, do you not think?” Aemond hummed as he poured himself more wine, his blood intoxicated with adrenaline at the thought of taking you that night– an action that he had fantasized many years before.
He glanced at the redened, confused expression of his nephew. “Your first time was wasted on some whore– surely you cannot think that you shall be the first to lie with her when she cannot say the same about you,” Aemond hummed. “She is my wife, mine!” Jacerys roared once more, and Aemond rolled his eye. “I am bedding her, not wedding.” He sighed as he was growing ever more impatient.
“But if you do not like the thought of your wife lying with her king, just say the word, and we can quickly annul your matrimony. You have every right to do so… you had not even lain with each other,” He continued to tease, hoping that his nephew would agree with his proposition. A rather idiotic idea when one thinks of it– but Aemond hoped that his nephew was indeed idiotic enough to agree.
He looked upon Jacaerys’s seething face, his jaw in a solid grit as his plain eyes glanced towards you, who were completely clueless about what was to come. “One night– as king, you only have one night with my wife.” Jacaerys gritted as he accepted defeat. He and his twin were lucky enough to escape war unscathed– and the reason for that was only because Aemond had ordered his faction to never lay a hand upon you lest they wish to be his dragon’s meal.
The then prince’s protection was only extended towards you, but your love for your twin had included him, claiming that if Jacaerys was harmed, gods forbid slain, you would soon follow him. He had been with you in life, so be it with death as well.
Aemond hummed triumphantly, a devious smirk on his thin lips. “It would seem I stand here corrected, you do have your wits about you, nephew– perhaps I shall think twice next time I doubt your sensibilities,” Aemond smiled, the scene unnerving for the prince as a true smile of happines over came their king’s face, and it was all because he would have you for the night.
“Now, if you would excuse me– I believe there is a bedding ceremony I must attend to,” Aemond said wickedly as he sauntered out of the great hall and made his way to your marital chambers.
It was near the hour of the ghost when you had noticed that you had not seen your husband in the past half-hour. You travelled your eyes upon the room, his absence noted, and you blushed at the thought that he perhaps had retired in your chambers, waiting for you. Waiting to seal your marriage with the sacred act between husband and wife.
You drew in a deep breath as you slipped out of the great hall yourself, your hands cold with anticipation. When you reached the doors of your marital chambers, you steadied yourself for what was to come. For years, Jacaerys had failed to keep secret his illicit affairs– he failed to resist the temptation of bedding whores.
For years, you blamed yourself– you believed he only did such actions because you refused him your bed without the certainty of marriage. But now, you were bound to him in the eyes of gods and men– perhaps his past behavior shall finally cease, you hoped. You were his wife– you had given him your heart and soul years before, and now, he shall as well claim your body. Surely a whore would no longer suffice for him after you had given him your all.
When you pushed open the door of your chambers, it was aglow with the fire of the hearth, and you felt your heartbeat in the tip of your ears as you cautiously walked in. Your eyes were on the bed as you entered, and the pristine white sheets lay untouched. You cast your eyes then upon the seating area, expecting your husband to be waiting for you, but all you saw was your king seated near the fire with a chalice in his hands.
“Aem– Your majesty… I–” You stuttered, confused. You hastily curtsied before him with your head bowed low, and when you straightened your stance, he was quick to rise and make his way before you. “What are you doing here, my king?” You asked, breathless, your gaze glancing towards the ajar door behind you, but Aemond was quick to reach forward and rest his palm against the solid wood, closing the door and trapping you between it and him.
“It is just us, nuha oños, no need for formalities,” he murmured lowly, his face incredibly close to you that you could smell the wine on his lips. “Where… where is my husband?” You asked, a slight tremble in your voice as his lilac eye bore into yours. Aemond only hummed, tucking a stray piece of your hair behind your ears instead of answering your question.
He felt you back yourself further against the door, a sigh leaving his lips. “Who am I?” He instead questioned, watching as confusion overcame your eyes before weariness took over them once more. “A simple question, niece, who am I?” He asked once more.
“You’re… you’re Aemond.” You said innocently, and he drew in a deep breath as he loved hearing his name uttered by your lips. “Mm… to you, I am your Aemond… but to the others? Who am I to them?”
“King, you are their king,” You answered and held your breath as he leaned closer. “Indeed, I am.” Aemond smiled and backed away only an inch as he noticed how you held your breath. He’d rather not have you faint before he could claim you.
“And I must admit, as king, there are… privileges and pleasures that are bestowed upon me,” He clarified, but that did nothing to aid the questioning look etched into your face. “Have you perhaps heard the term primae noctis?” Aemond watched as you froze as he uttered the words, your enchanting eyes wide in realization. “The right of first night…” You whispered in shock, Aemond smirking as his fingers reached to twirl your hair that cascaded over your shoulder. “So knowledgeable… the maesters had to explain it to your husband thrice… you would have made the most capable queen,” Aemond could not help but murmur.
“Now, do I still need to explain my presence, princess?” He hummed as he boldly placed a soft kiss against your temple, hearing as you took in a sharp breath as his lips met your skin. “But… but I am married,” He heard you whimper, and he retreated back just to see the turmoil in your eyes. You were in doubt. Good, he thought. If you were in doubt, then it meant a part of you wished for it as much as he.
“I am quite aware,” He said bitterly. “But that is no hindrance,” He added, and bereft you of another moment to think before capturing your lips. His arm circled your waist while his hand rested between the curve of your neck and shoulder, steadying you and leaving no room for you to pull away. He felt your plush lips stagger, just as they did during your first kiss, but it was quick to dissolve as he felt you circled your arms around his neck.
Aemond smirked against your lips as he felt you pull him closer. My, if this was how you acted after your marriage, he would have happily walked you down the aisle if it meant you clinging to him. You gasped for breath when Ameond finally parted your lips. You whimpered once more as you felt his punishing lips against your neck, his hand trailing down and grasping your tit with such a gentle force that you could not help but moan.
“How… how are you so cavalier in taking my virtue that I had saved for my… my husband?” You asked breathlessly, your hand grasping the nape of Aemond’s neck as he peppered kisses on your skin. “Because you were meant to be mine,” Aemond said simply as he reached down to trail his hand against your leg, inching higher until he heard another gasp leave your lips as he cupped your womanhood.
“Besides, I do not like leaving things unfinished… I have your first kiss, it is only right I take your first time as well.” Aemond breathed against your lips before capturing them once more. A wanton sound coming from you echoed through the room as you felt his tongue invade you and as his fingers drew circles on your cunt against your small clothes.
You shivered as his lips trailed down to your bosom, his eye looking up as he forcefully yanked down the neckline of your wedding gown, the sound of it ripping music to his ears; he had half the mind to throw it into the fire later on. He did not wish to be reminded of the dress you wore as you bound yourself to another.
“You are all mine tonight, my light…” Aemond moaned as he captured the taut bud of your mound, the taste of salt and sweetness dancing on his tongue. “...perhaps even after,” He hummed and nipped the bud of your breast as a strangled noise left your lips, and you clung to him even further. You reached to cup his face, guiding him to meet your lips again. You’ve never kissed Jacaerys, not even during your ceremonies– each intimate touch and action you had done was with Aemond.
Your mind was in turmoil with each move of your lips, with each touch you exchanged. Jacaerys was supposed to be your other half– he was the one meant for you. Yet, here you were, melting into the hands of the king, your Aemond. You shuddered at the thought, and as you felt his finger enter your cunt. “Tell me you’re mine,” Aemond breathed out, voice holding a tone of desperation. You looked upon him with wide eyes. “Please, ñuha ōños… just for tonight, tell me you’re mine,” Aemond begged, uncaring that a king pleaded to a married woman as such.
You drew in a deep breath, wanting to deny him, but as you saw the sincerity in his eye, his eye that had always looked at you as if you were the only person in the world, you obliged. “I’m yours, Aemond… all yours,” You said softly, and you would think his pleading gaze would soften, but you felt a trickle of fear as his lilac eye darkened with sheer possessiveness that it made a chill run down your spine.
You felt dazed as he moved you from the door and tossed you into the bed, wasting no time to mount you and keep your body trapped against his. “He does not deserve you… you have always been meant for me,” Aemond growled as he ripped apart your dress, leaving you in your shift. You whimpered and reached for the buttons of his tunic, unable to bear the wetness that gathered between your legs.
Aemond shivered as you successfully removed his tunic, your soft hands roaming his chest, letting your skin finally touch his. He could have come undone at how your hands tightened on his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin as he ripped your shift away. Aemond marveled at your naked frame, biting back his smirk as you squirmed beneath him, your arms instinctively moving to cover yourself, but in one swift motion, he had both of your wrists in his grasp, hindering you.
“You are a goddess among men,” He said lowly, sincerity dripping in his voice and clear in his eyes. Aemond dipped down to capture your lips once more, letting your hands free to circle his frame. You closed your eyes tightly and dug your nails into his back as his fingers roamed your body, one of them grasping your tit and pinching the bud while the other rested steadily on the curve of your waist.
“Aemond,” You whimpered as you parted your lips, “I…” you trailed, unable to utter what you desperately needed. He looked deeply into your eyes, his lilac orb imploring you to use your words– to tell him what you wished for. “Come now, my light… we only have tonight, no need to be so coy,” He murmured and placed a chaste kiss between the valley of your breasts before meeting your eye once more.
“I… I want…” You say breathlessly, squirming in unbearable need beneath him. “Yes? What do you want? You shall have everything you want just as long as you say the word,” Aemond said lowly, determined for you to word out what you wished. “You! I… I want you!” You finally relented, and you held your breath as he looked at you with a blank expression– your cheeks heating in embarrassment, but it was quick to fade when a genuine smile overcame his lips. The same carefree smile he had when you two were children, long before his eye was taken from him.
You licked your lips as you felt your heart skip a beat with each moment he smiled upon you and how his lips inched closer. “Finally, you admitted it,” he said in satisfaction before kissing you until you saw stars.
You were dazed as you felt his lips against yours once more, your confession somehow making the kiss you two shared taste sweeter. You sighed as his kisses went downwards, from your neck, leaving his mark. To your mounds, placing a wet kiss on each. But as he reached further down your navel, you gasped and tried to push him away, but his strong arms pinned you down. “I thought you had wanted me, my light?” he then hummed as he looked up, his breath fanning your womanhood, and you squirmed further. “I… I do, but–”
“Then you shall have me… starting with my lips,” he smirked, and your eyes rolled back as you feel his lips meet your cunny. “A–Aemond,” You moaned as you fisted his hair, your breath shallow as his punishing lips were relentless with their kisses upon your womanhood. Aemond smirked against your cunt, intoxicated with the taste of you.
He felt your thighs circle his head, the plush flesh soft against his cheeks. “Oh gods,” You cried as you felt his tongue upon your entrance, “Aemond, please… I–” You said incoherently, a sheen of sweat overcoming your body as you writhed against his angular face. He held your thighs tightly, his grip intent to leave his mark. “What do you want, my light?” He hummed, voice muffled as he quickly returned his lips against your cunt, his tongue teasing the sensitive bundle of nerves.
“I don’t know– just– please,” You cried, and Aemond focused all of his attention on the pearl of your cunt, his lips sucking upon it, his tongue darting out to lick it, and letting out a low reverberating moan that made you cry out in utter pleasure as you came undone.
You panted as your back arched, Aemond moving once more to meet your eye and witness the state you were in. Your cheeks were flushed, your hair clung to your glistening skin, and your eyes were still shut as you came down from your high.
Aemond took the moment to be rid of his breeches, and the moment he was, your eyes finally peeled open. You swallowed thickly as you saw his hardened length, the tip of it pink– almost red in anticipation. You drew in a breath as your gaze flickered to his eye, a teasing glint upon the lilac orbs. “Could… could I try something?” You suddenly asked, watching as Aemond’s brow raised in question as you sat up. He was kneeling upon the bed, and you copied his position.
“And what would that be?” he hummed as you inched closer to him. You could not word it out, a bit ashamed, and so you instead lowered yourself until you were faced with his manhood. Aemond watched in great anticipation as you looked up at him with hesitancy, your lips already parted.
“Hinder me if… if I do it incorrectly,” you whispered as you took him in your hands before closing your lips around the tip of his length. Aemond let out a deep groan, in disbelief of your actions. You were hesitant with each movement, and Aemond relished it, knowing that he would be the first to have you in such a way.
“Fuck,” He moaned as you took him deeper in your mouth, your teeth gently grazing his skin, and he felt as if he were in heaven. He did enjoy it when his pleasure had a touch of pain. As you heard him utter the words, you quickly retreated, fearing you had done something wrong. But he was quick to shake his head and reassure you that you were doing splendidly. You nodded and continued, blushing each time a grunt or moan left his lips.
When you had taken every inch of him, and you felt his tip hit the back of your throat, you held your breath as he pulled at the roots of your hair, curses leaving his lips before he abruptly pulled out his length. You stared at him through glassy eyes, a trickle of fear within you once again, but he quickly shook his head again and placed kisses upon your cheeks as he muttered on how perfect you were, on how you were a divine gift from the gods. You blushed at each of his compliments, unaccustomed to it, as your husband was never one to give such praises.
“Will it hurt?” You asked through wide eyes as you felt Aemond run the tip of his length along your glistening folds. “Yes, but only for a moment,” He hummed and placed a kiss upon your brow, the action so intimate that you could not help but believe for a moment, he was your husband and not simply your king who decided to invoke his right of the first night.
“Tell me the moment… the moment the pain becomes unbearable,” Aemond muttered through gritted teeth as he positioned himself to take you. He watched as you bit your lip, your hands grasping at his arms tightly. Aemond bit his own lip as he felt your plush walls around his length, your eyes pooling with tears as your whimpers reached his ears. “You’re doing so well, my light… so perfect you are,” Aemond moaned as his hips moved lightly against yours.
He relished how you clenched even further whenever a deserved compliment towards you left his lips, your body writhing slowly against his, your peaked mounds brushing against his chest. “Such a beauty you are, my princess,” Aemond continued to praise and bit back his smirk as you let out a moan, the pain of your maidenhead being taken finally subsiding. “More, Aemond…please,” You sighed as you reached forward to cup his cheek, your thumb delicately tracing his scar.
Your king hummed, obliging your request as he finally sheathed himself fully in your cunny, your back arching as he did. He felt your fingers inching closer to the leather strap of his eye patch. “Can I–” you cut yourself off, fearing you shall offend him, but Aemond gave you a curt nod as the tip of his length brushed against a spot in you that made you let out a cry of pleasure.
You removed the cover of his eye hesitantly, your breath catching in your throat as you saw a glistening sapphire in place of his stolen eye. “I did it for you,” Aemond breathed out, his thrust slow yet deep. You moaned as he reached between the two of you and drew circles upon your cunny, his words starting to grow incoherent.
“You’ve always loved wearing blue– a strong blue… a sapphire is the closest color that could compare.” Aemond sighed as you pulled him closer to you, your bodies flushed, and felt each movement and breath the two of you made.
“Faster, Aemond… please, I– I need more,” You cried, unable to fully understand his gesture. Aemond let out a breath of a laugh, placing a kiss on your neck before obliging once more, his head spinning as you wrapped your legs around him. You held your breath as you felt the blinding pleasure of your peak again, your eyes shut close as Aemond buried himself deep in your cunt, your walls clenching around him tightly as your nails dragged along his back.
“Did you see stars, my light?” Aemond gritted as he lay still atop you, blowing softly upon your face as your eyes were still closed, and Aemond feared that you were not breathing properly, or if at all. He bit his lip as he saw your eyes slowly peel open, the heaviness as you reached forward to kiss his lips. Aemond hummed in satisfaction– the same satisfaction he felt as the conqueror’s crown was placed upon his brow–perhaps even better.
You parted your lips to meet Aemond’s eye, startled to see the same lust still evident, and only did you notice that his length was still inside you, hard and pulsating. “What… did I not–” Aemond shushed you and placed a kiss on your lips. “You were perfect, ñuha ōños,” he reassured. “But why…” You trailed, feeling another surge of need overcome you as you felt the slight movement of his hips.
Aemond smiled wickedly. “I have you for only the night, princess… we are not leaving this bed until morning comes. Perhaps not even then.”
