kat kat ‼️‼️ what are ur thoughts about gdgw!valarr with jealousy/marathon sex from the prompt list 😓
missed my insane lover boy && his handler so got carried away. this is the last one for the night, thank you for sending some in! valarr targaryen + jealousy/marathon sex. 18+. mdni. ✶ tt!au // valarr!first verse. // year three.
You notice it at the fundraiser.
Valarr's hand finds the small of your back when the venture capitalist from Volantis leans in too close to hear you over the music. That's standard. The warm press of his palm through your dress, the public claim he makes so smoothly that the other man's eyes flicker down to it and then away.
Valarr does this at every event. It's practically choreography by now, and you've stopped noticing it.
What you notice is what happens after.
The Volantene says something that makes you laugh. A real laugh, bright and surprised, because his joke is genuinely clever and catches you off-guard. You tip your head back slightly and the sound comes out of you unguarded. When you glance sideways at Valarr, his face hasn't changed.
That's how you know.
Valarr's face always changes when you laugh. The brown eye softens. The blue one goes bright. He has a tell: the slight upward pull at the left corner of his mouth, the fractional widening of his pupils. You've tracked it over three years of watching him watch you.
The expression of a man who finds your laughter a personal gift and hoards it.
Tonight, the wonder is absent.
Tonight, Valarr's face is still, pleasant, polished to a mirror shine. The golden smile in place, his hand warm on your back, his posture easy and confident. He shakes the man's hand when the conversation ends and guides you to the bar.
He orders your drink without asking because he knows what you drink at these events. When the bartender slides the glass across, Valarr picks it up and hands it to you with a look that's perfectly warm.
You take the glass. "Val."
"Mm?"
"You're quiet."
"Am I?" A sip of his own drink. Bourbon, neat, the glass held between index and middle finger. "Sorry, my love. Long day."
He didn't have a long day. You spoke to him at four, and he was fine.
Valarr is a meticulous liar when he wants to be, but you're better at reading him than he is at hiding from you. The tell is always in his hands. The thumb of his free hand is moving, slowly, against the side of his glass. Back and forth. The same small, repetitive stroke he makes when he's working through a problem he hasn't yet solved.
You let it go.
You let it go through the rest of the fundraiser. Through the car ride home, where he holds your hand in his lap and strokes his thumb across your knuckles.
He asks about your week with an attentiveness that, in anyone else, would read as genuine interest. In Valarr, tonight, it reads as surveillance.
He's gathering data. You can feel it in the intensity of his listening. He asks a follow-up question about a colleague you mentioned, then another, then circles back to the fundraiser as an afterthought. Did you know him? The Volantene. He seemed familiar with you.
"I've never met him before tonight," you tell him honestly.
"Ah." A small nod. His thumb continues its slow circuit across your knuckles. "He was charming."
You turn your head to look at him in the back seat. The city slides past in long, golden bands through the window behind him. Valarr's profile is composed, almost regal. The white streak catches the passing streetlight, then goes dark again.
"Yes," you say evenly. "He was."
Valarr's thumb stops.
The silence between you fills the car for exactly four seconds. Then his thumb resumes, and he lifts your hand and presses his mouth to the inside of your wrist. Where the pulse is, and he holds it there. His mouth, and his breath, warm and steady, against the thin skin over the vein.
"Let's go home," he says quietly against your wrist.
You're already going home, but you don't point it out.
To his credit, he doesn't touch you in the elevator or the foyer.
Valarr sets his keys on the side table with the soft metallic click that means he's placed them in the ceramic dish you bought him for your first anniversary.
He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it. Every motion careful, domestic, a man performing normalcy while something hums just below the surface.
You lean against the kitchen island, watching him.
Valarr opens the cabinet, takes down two glasses. Pours water for you, then himself. Sets yours in front of you without making eye contact, and that's how you know he's about to start something. Valarr always makes eye contact. He was raised to it, built for it.
The only time he avoids your eyes is when what's behind his own would give too much away.
"Valarr."
He drinks his water, sets the glass down, and glances up at you.
There it is.
Under the gold, beneath the polish, past three years of construction. The thing that lives at the bottom of him. The thing you've been coaxing out in inches since the first night you pinned his wrists above his head and watched his pupils blow.
It's focus.
The dark, fixed, predatory focus of a man who watched another man make you laugh. He has, in the thirty-minute car ride home, worked through every response and settled on one.
"Come here," he says silkily.
You don't move. You want to see what he does when you don't.
Valarr's jaw tightens. A single flex of the muscle at the hinge. The brown eye goes flat, the blue one bright.
His voice pitches lower. "I said come here, my love."
You set down your water and stroll around the island. You stop in front of him, close enough that you can smell his cologne going warm at the collar, the bergamot gone darker this late in the evening. Close enough to see the faint shadow under his cheekbone where his jaw's been set for an hour.
Valarr takes your face in his hands. Both of them. The long fingers along your jaw, his thumbs settling at your cheekbones, and he tilts your face up to look at him.
He doesn't kiss you.
He gives you the first-night look. The dim living room, the bourbon, the half-buttoned shirt.
"He made you laugh," Valarr says, softly and conversationally.
You keep your expression straight. "He told a good joke."
"Mm." His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone. "You tipped your head back."
"Did I?"
"You did. You do that when something genuinely surprises you. You tilt your chin up, and your throat goes long, and your mouth opens. The sound comes out of you like you've forgotten to be careful for once."
He recites this without inflection.
"I know that sound very well," Valarr continues. His voice has gone low, clinical, that smoky register. "I have worked, for three years, to be the reason you make that sound. I've studied you. I've learned every version of your laugh, and I know the hierarchy. The polite one. The surprised one. The cruel one. The one you make in bed, which no one else but me has ever heard."
His thumb stills.
"He got the surprised one. In public. In front of three hundred people."
You hold his gaze. "Are you jealous, Val?"
The corner of his mouth twitches. The dark thing, the one beneath the gold.
"No, my love," he says fondly. "Jealousy implies uncertainty. I'm not uncertain about what's mine."
His hands slide from your face to your throat. Settling.
"I'm reminded," he says, "that I haven't been thorough enough."
He takes you to bed.
He puts you on the grey sheets, in the room with the lamp turned down and the city a distant golden haze at the windows. He undresses you slowly. He has the entire night, and he intends to use every hour of it.
Valarr folds your dress and sets it aside on the chair. He kneels at the side of the bed and takes off your shoes, one and then the other, his thumbs pressing into the arch of your foot. He sets them together by the closet, perfectly aligned.
Then he comes back and stands over you.
"I'm going to be very thorough tonight," he tells you, unbuttoning his shirt without hurry. "I want you to understand what that means."
You watch his fingers work the buttons. The reveal of his chest, the long flat plane of his stomach, the thin chain at his throat that catches the light.
"It means I'm not going to stop."
The shirt comes off. He folds it. The belt follows, drawn through the loops in one smooth pull. He sets it down, steps out of his trousers, and folds them. Even now.
Valarr climbs over you, naked, already hard, pre-cum beading the flushed tip. He's been hard since the car, since the elevator, since the moment you tipped your chin up and laughed at another man's joke.
Since Valarr felt the small, hot, private pulse of something he's spent three years learning not to name.
He doesn't kiss you. He puts his mouth at your throat instead, at the place where the pulse is thickest, and he stays there, breathing you in. His lips parted against your skin.
"I'm going to make you come until you can't remember his name," he says into your throat. "Until the only thing your mouth can shape is mine."
His hand slides between your thighs. Finds you wet. A low, satisfied sound vibrates against your pulse.
"Oh, my beautiful love. Already."
"Already," you confirm, and your voice is steadier than his.
"Because you knew," he says, huffing a small laugh. "You knew what you were doing at that fundraiser. You knew exactly what sound you made, and you knew I'd hear it, and you knew what it would do."
You don't deny it. You thread your fingers into his hair, the dark silk of it, the coarser white at the temple sliding between your knuckles.
"Maybe I wanted to see," you tell him.
Valarr lifts his head. His eyes find yours in the half-dark. The brown one nearly black, the blue one near luminous.
"See what?" he whispers.
"What you'd do."
His jaw works.
Then Valarr smiles. A real one, sudden and blinding and a little bit feral. The most dangerous expression you've ever seen on his beautiful face. The kind of smile that reminds you, with a sharp electric jolt, that the man you built is still, underneath everything you've given him, a dragon.
"Then let me show you," he drawls silkily.
The first time, he uses his mouth.
He puts you on your back with your knees apart, settles between them, and eats you out with a focus that borders on vindictive. This is year-three Valarr on a mission, and the mission is to make you incoherent. He pursues it with the same relentlessness he brings to hostile acquisitions.
His tongue works you in long, intent strokes that hit the spot he mapped months ago and has never once forgotten. His hands hold your hips down when you try to move. He doesn't let you guide him or set the pace.
When you fist his hair and try to grind against his mouth, he pulls back and peers up at you. The blue eye gleams in the low light.
"No," he says pleasantly. "My pace tonight."
You come on his mouth with his hands pinning your hips to the mattress and his name caught in your teeth. Valarr doesn't stop. He eases you through it, tongue going flat and lazy, drinking you in, and before the aftershocks have finished, he's building you back up.
"Val—that's—I can't—"
"You can."
He makes you come again. Slower this time, his mouth gentler but more insistent, three fingers crooked inside you. You sob once against the pillow, and he makes a soft, pleased sound into your cunt that you feel in your spine.
"That's two," he says, withdrawing his mouth. He wipes his lips with the back of his wrist. His chin is wet, his eyes dark.
You gulp down air. "Two?"
"I told you. Thorough."
The third time, he fucks you properly.
He slides inside you in one long stroke and holds there. The deep, full stretch of him makes your breath leave in a rush. Valarr braces his forearms on either side of your head and looks down at you and doesn't move.
"What was his name?" he asks.
You blink, dazed. "What?"
"The man at the fundraiser. What was his name?"
You open your mouth and close it. You actually can't remember. The realisation shows on your face, and Valarr's expression shifts, a dark satisfaction settling into the line of his mouth.
"Good," he says.
He fucks you slowly. Agonisingly slowly. Long, full strokes that drag through every nerve, his pelvis pressing flush against yours at the bottom of each one. He stays there for a count of three before pulling back. Each thrust is an act of patience that borders on cruelty.
When you try to speed him up—rolling your hips, pulling at his back with your heels—he pins your hip with one hand and says, "No, my love. You don't get to rush this."
"Val, please—"
"Please, what?"
You bare your teeth at him. "Harder."
"Harder," he repeats thoughtfully. He pushes in again, unhurried. "No. I don't think so. Not yet."
You make a sound that's half a snarl.
Valarr laughs, low and delighted, his forehead pressing against yours. "There she is. There's my wolf. You're so impatient, my love. Always so greedy. You want me to fuck you how you like. But that's not what tonight is about."
"What is tonight about?" you bite out.
He kisses you, deep and unhurried, his tongue finding yours while his cock stays buried in you. The faint twitch of him inside you is maddening.
"Tonight," he breathes against your wet, swollen mouth, "is about making sure every nerve in you remembers who it belongs to."
He keeps the slow pace for so long you lose your sense of time. The room goes liquid around you. Everything reduces to the cadence he's choosing, the deep rolling press of him inside you, his mouth at your throat. Murmuring.
My love. My girl. My good, perfect, filthy girl.
Who do you come home to?
Who puts you to bed?
Who knows how to do this to you but me?
Say my name.
You say his name. Into his mouth, against his throat, into the pillow when Valarr finally picks up his pace and fucks you hard and fast. His hand at your throat, his mouth at the bite mark he left on your shoulder two nights ago. The sound of the two of you fills the room, wet and raw.
You come the third time with his hand pressing low on your stomach and his forehead against yours. The sound that tears out of your throat is practically a howl of dark satisfaction, your nails sunk into his gleaming skin.
Valarr doesn't come.
He stays hard inside you, breathing hard, his jaw trembling with the effort. His hand at your stomach presses down. The familiar, possessive weight.
"Not done," he rasps.
The fourth is on your stomach, face in the sheets, teeth ripping at the sheets, his weight pinning you flat.
The fifth is on your side, one leg hitched over his hip, his mouth at the nape of your neck. His hand between your bodies works your clit with patience that makes you want to scream and bite.
Somewhere between the fifth and the sixth, you lose the ability to distinguish one from the next. They blur into a single long wave, cresting and receding and cresting again. Valarr is relentless above you, beneath you, behind you. His hands everywhere, his mouth everywhere, his cock an insistent presence he governs with the same iron discipline he's been practising since the first night you showed him what he was.
He talks throughout.
A low, private litany against your skin. Quieter than the filthy monologue of the rug, more intimate. Less dirty talk and more a man reciting vows.
This is mine. This sound, this taste, this. How your back arches when I do this. How your mouth opens. How you say my name when you're too far gone to say anything else. All of this. Mine. I learned all of this. I earned all of this. I built myself into the man who could do this to you, and I did it on purpose, my love. I did it on purpose, do you understand? I did it because you're the only thing in the world I want to be good at.
When he finally comes, it's past two in the morning.
He comes inside you with a pained moan and his face pressed to the hollow of your throat, his hand at the side of your jaw. A long, shuddering sound that cracks at the end. You feel every pulse of his release, deep, the hot rush of him filling you and filling some more. Valarr holds there, grinding in those short blunt presses, the animal drive to push himself deeper into you. His breath shatters against your collarbone.
"Yours," he whispers, the word breaking. "Yours, yours."
You hold the back of his head. You press your mouth to the white streak at his temple, dark with sweat.
"I know, Val," you tell him, trembling in his arms.
After, he lies on his back with you draped across his chest. Your legs have given up and your thighs are shaking. Valarr's hand is in your hair. The slow, unconscious stroke. His heart rate is coming down beneath your cheek.
"I wasn't actually interested in him," you say into the quiet.
"I know."
"I've never been interested in anyone who wasn't you."
His hand pauses in your hair, then resumes. "I know that, too," he says softly.
"Then what was this about?" you ask, genuinely curious.
Valarr is quiet for a long time. His fingers sift over the top of your head, finding the fine strands at your temple. The same place he's been touching since month four of year one.
"Sometimes," he says, very quietly, "I need to remind myself that I can."
You lift your head and look at him. In the dim, his face is stripped bare. A man with a white streak in his dark hair and two mismatched eyes and the soft, vulnerable mouth of a creature that lives in fear of not being enough.
You put your hand on his cheek.
"You can," you tell him. "Always."
His eyes close. He turns his face into your palm. The press of his mouth against the heel of your hand is small and fervent.
You lie back down on his chest. He holds you, and you let him, and Valarr Targaryen does not sleep for a very long time.
He's too busy memorising the weight of you against him.
Filing it away, in the place inside him that you built and furnished and filled with yourself, where nothing else is permitted to live anymore.
