comparing valarr’s beauty to the moon while laying under the stars 𝜗ৎ
You couldn’t see him all day, and his presence haunted you like a ghost. The heat of the day had long since bled out of the red stone of King’s Landing, leaving only the cool breath of night and the silver sprawl of stars above the highest terrace of Maegor’s tower. It was a place few ventured, a forgotten lip of stone overlooking the sleeping city and the distant, black ribbon of the Blackwater bay.
Valarr found you there, exactly where he knew you would be.
You were seated on the edge, legs dangling over the void, head tilted back. He made no sound as he approached, but you felt him, the smell in the air, the warmth that seemed to radiate from his beautiful skin even in the chill.
“You’ll fall” he said quietly, lowering himself to sit beside you.
“Then I’ll fall into the sky” you replied without looking at him. “It seems softer than the ground.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, rare, for him. Valarr was not grim, precisely, but he carried his lineage with him. The firstborn son of the firstborn son. The weight of a crown that had not yet been placed. But here, with only the stars to witness, some of that tension flew from his back.
You turned your gaze from the heavens to his face. In the moonlight, his silver streak looked almost white, a pale river spilling over his brow. His eyes, mismatched colors of old Valyria, reflected the sky above, twin fragments of a forgotten dream.
“The moon” you said, ignoring his self-deprecation.
That startled a genuine blink from him. “The moon is cold. Barren.”
“No” you said softly, shaking your head. “The moon is the most faithful thing in the sky. The sun burns too bright, it devours everything it touches. But the moon… the moon just shines gracefully. It even pulls the tides without ever asking for thanks.”
Valarr was very still. The easy rhythm of his breathing seemed to pause.
You lifted a hand, not touching his cheek, letting your fingers hover along the line of his jaw. “The moon takes the light of a distant sun and makes it gentle enough for lovers to see by. It doesn’t need to be the source to be beautiful.”
He caught your wrist, slowly encircling his fingers around the bone. “And what happens to the moon when the sun rises?” His voice had dropped, rough at the edges.
“It stays” you said simply. “It’s still there. You just can’t see it for a while. But it never leaves.”
He had no words. He looked to fragile, almost like a child. His eyes lit up and his heart was beating fast. No one ever said such beautiful words in his presence, much less about him. A pity it was, that you weren’t his wife.
“You’re going to ruin me” he mumbled with a breath he had been holding.
“We’re both ruined”
The space between you was nothing, a heartbeat, the span of a single unspoken word. He closed it. His lips found yours gently. It was a little wet, a little clumsy, but it was utterly beautiful.
When you parted, his forehead rested against yours, and you could feel the faint flutter of his pulse where your fingers had finally settled against his hand.
“Stay with me” he said, as a few tears started rolling down his cheeks.
It was a view of the old songs and beautiful glass windows from castles. No perfectly sewn tapestry could compare to the moonlight reflecting the tears of the prince in front of you.
You cleaned his tears with your hands, kissing the tip os his nose and leaving a small peck on his lips.
ooo this gentle giant … gimme that cookie right now
“i’m sorry. i’m sorry, m’lady. so fucking sorry.”
the position dunk had you in was brutalizing, your hands clawing at his forearm as he held you in a headlock, his other arm splayed across your stomach, pushing your back into his front. you both were kneeled on his bedroll, the fire light dancing across tree bark and soft grass as your moans echoed throughout the air.
duncan had pounced on you the second you came back from cleaning off in the stream, a little shy in the fact he watched the water trickle down your breasts as you washed yourself, yet unabashed in the way he fucked you relentless. his oversized cock split you in a half, each rut of his hips leaving you a whimpering and mewling mess.
“o-oh god,” you cried, dunk’s hold getting softer as gasps of air spit from your lips. all though he couldn’t help his desires, this was still dunk — your dunk, and he would never hurt you.
breath tickling your neck, duncan’s moans were loud in your ear, the sounds of his pleasure stirring you on further. you loved the way he fell apart, each fibre of his being submitting to you as he made his only goal to make you feel good.
“i swear on my honour,” dunk whispered, his voice coarse with pleasure. “that i will never hurt you. you’re my girl, okay? remember that.”
⡴ utterly whipped gojo with a girl who’s just using him for dick slowly warming up to him ⡴ 0.5k words
“you’re really gonna make me leave baby?” he’s frowning. frowning like a child while he stands by your apartment door as you’re actively trying to shove him out. “i brought flowers.” he looks over to them on your table, sitting in a vase he brought with a sappy note attached to it. he looks back at you with puppy eyes to try and convince you further.
“yes, i am.” you just keep on pushing him trying to hurry him out your door but making next to no progress. you know you’ll win eventually though. you guess in about 5 minutes you’ll compromise and say he can actually kiss you next time if he leaves. “i’m not looking for a relationship right now, gojo. i don’t need you all fawny over me. now leave.”
his lips quiver like they’re about to cry. his hands even grip harder on the change of clothes he brought incase you’d let him sleepover this time and the fabric scrunches beneath his touch.
“so you’re just using me for my body?” he knows damn well you are. for gods sakes you met him at a bar and had told him you just wanted rebound dick from your last breakup. his other hand pushes on the door frame, steadying him and rendering him completely still. you stop pushing at this point. he’ll leave eventually.
“you’re a great person ,” you feel like you’ve said this before, and by his hurt face it looks like he has too, unfortunately now seeing it from the other side. “but i can’t deal with all this mopey shit. i have work, bills—”
“i can pay them!” he suggests, perking up like that’s the only word he heard. “or you could move in with me!” he’s back to that prince charming smile you can just tell he abused back in college.
“that’s not it, gojo—”
“i love you,” he grabs your wrists, dropping his clothes he was holding, that were by your side and brings them up to his face, forcing you to cup his jaw. you stare up at him. “i can wait, sweetheart! i can—i really can!” he’s like a child trying to convince their mother they won’t act too crazy on sugar.
he stays going off on a tangent now, gripping your wrists even tighter unconsciously.
“i-i can buy you anything. my friends would love you—especially utahime, you hate me like her i guess. i already give you good dick, i mean you were just moaning not to long ago—” you start to drown him out.
“—just one date. if you really do hate me you can slap me after it, just let me try. please? don’t be so cold hearted, baby.”
“gojo,” he looks disappointed already, like he’s anticipating a terrible answer. “come here.” you gesture with your hands for him to lean closer. you plop a delicate, just barely there, chaste kiss on his cheek. “go home.” you deadpan.
and best believe he’s showing up at your door the next evening awaiting another one.
Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Aerion's lady wife keeps sneaking out of their bedchamber at night. Aerion is determined to find out why. Can be read as a oneshot. Can be read as a chapter in Growing Strong series. Set after Growing Familiar but before Deep in the Meadow.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, obsessive behavior, breeding kink, power imbalance, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas. Dual pov?
The first months of your marriage to Aerion Targaryen, he bedded you every night without fail. It did not matter if you were tired from a day of riding or bored from hours of needlework or still irritated from some sharp word he had thrown at you over dinner. It did not matter if you drifted off before he even finished unlacing his breeches. Aerion Targaryen took what he wanted, and what he wanted, night after night, was you.
The first time you fell asleep before he came to bed, exhausted from a long day of travel, your body aching from the saddle, you woke to the feeling of his hands on your thighs, pushing your nightdress up to your waist. The room was dark, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth, and his silver hair gleamed like moonlight as he knelt between your legs.
"Aerion," you mumbled, still half-asleep. "What are you..."
"Hush." His fingers found your center, stroking with practiced patience. "Go back to sleep if you like. I will be quick."
You did not go back to sleep. You could not. His touch was too skilled, too knowing, drawing moisture from your body despite your exhaustion. When he finally pushed inside you, your back arched off bed and a broken moan escaped your lips.
"Shh," he breathed, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm. "There you are. My sweet wife. My soft, warm, perfect wife. Just let me take what I need. You do not have to do anything."
And you did not. You lay there, drowsy and pliant, while he chased his pleasure in your body. His hands gripped your hips, tilting you to the angle he preferred, and his violet eyes were fixed on your face, watching every flicker of expression that crossed your features. When he finished, spilling inside you with a low groan, he pulled out slowly and pressed a kiss to your belly.
"A son," he murmured against your skin. "Give me a son, my sweet rose."
Then he gathered you against his chest, pulled the furs over you both, and fell asleep with his face buried in your hair.
This became your routine. Every night, without fail, Aerion took his pleasure from your body. And every night, you fell asleep immediately afterward, your body spent and satisfied, sleeping through until morning like a babe in a cradle.
He had to wake you each day by smacking your arse. A sharp, stinging slap that jolted you from sleep with a yelp and a flurry of tangled limbs.
"Aerion!" you protested, rubbing the smarting flesh. "That is not a proper way to wake one's wife."
"You do not wake to gentle words," he pointed out, already dressed and immaculate, his silver hair pulled back from his face. "I have tried. I have whispered endearments. I have kissed your brow. I have called your name a dozen times. You sleep like the dead, wife. Only pain rouses you."
"It is not pain. It is...surprise. And indecency."
"Call it what you like." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead, brief and almost tender. "You are awake now. The day awaits. I have duties, and you have whatever it is you do when I am not bedding you."
You restrained yourself from glaring at him. He could only tolerate so many complaints until he turned insufferable in return. You had learnt to pick your battles. You had also learnt that if you slipped out of the role of the charming wife, the lovely lady Tyrell, instead of figuring out you had never wanted to play the part of his wife in the first place, he'd think you were deeply upset about this one particular thing and he'd fixate on it. So you rose, and you dressed, and you went about your day, and at night he came to you again.
Nothing deterred him. Not your moon blood, you had been mortified the first time, stammering apologies and trying to push him away, but he had only laughed.
"The wetness is different," he had said, his voice dark with fascination. "Hotter. Slicker. I like it." And he had taken you anyway, slower than usual, watching the evidence of your body paint his length with each withdrawal. Afterward, he had kissed your belly and wished for a son, same as always, utterly unbothered by the blood that stained the sheets.
Not even your fights deterred him. If anything, they made him more ravenous. The night you quarreled over some petty thing, you could not even remember what, some slight or sharp word that had spiraled into shouted accusations, you had retreated to your chambers expecting a night of cold silence. Instead, he had come to you with fire in his violet eyes, spun you around, bent you over the bed, and taken you from behind with a ferocity that left you gasping.
"You are all the more delicious when I am angry," he had panted against your ear, his hips slamming into you with bruising force. "My sweet rose. My infuriating, stubborn, impossible wife. I should hate you. I should cast you aside. Instead, I cannot stop wanting you. Cannot stop needing you. What have you done to me?"
You had no answer. You could barely form words, too consumed by the pleasure and pain of his possession. When he finished, he had pulled you upright against his chest, his arms wrapped around you, his face buried in your neck.
"I do not wish to fight," he had whispered, so quiet you almost did not hear. "I do not know how to stop. But I do not wish to fight with you."
And then, because he was Aerion and could not let tenderness stand unadorned, he had smacked your arse and sent you stumbling toward the bed. "Sleep. I will wake you in the morning."
You had fallen asleep within moments, as always, and slept through until his hand connected with your rear at dawn.
That was simply how things were for some time.
You began to build stamina. Your body, accustomed to his nightly attentions, no longer collapsed into exhausted slumber the moment he spent himself inside you. You still fell asleep before him, Aerion had always been a restless sleeper, prone to lying awake and staring at the canopy while his mind churned, but you no longer passed out like a candle snuffed.
One night, however, Aerion woke in the small hours of the morn and found the space beside him empty.
He assumed you had returned to your own chambers. It was not unusual, you kept your own rooms, as was proper for a lady of your station, though you spent nights in his bed. Perhaps you had needed something. A different gown. A book. A ribbon for your hair. He rolled over and went back to sleep.
But it happened again. And again. And again.
The third time, he mentioned it over breakfast. "You left last night."
You looked up from your plate, your brow furrowed. "Did I?"
"You did. I woke and you were gone. Did you need something from your chambers?"
You blinked, clearly confused. "I...do not recall. I must have been half-asleep. I am sorry if I disturbed you, husband."
He let it go. But the fourth time, and the fifth, and the sixth, he began to wonder.
"You left again," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "Three nights this week. Where do you go?"
"I have no idea what you are talking about." Your eyes were guileless, your expression genuinely bewildered. "I sleep through the night, my love. You know this. You are the one who complains about having to smack me awake each morning."
He studied your face for any sign of deception. He found none. But Aerion Targaryen had been raised in the Red Keep before Summerhall, had survived the viper's pit of court politics, had learned to see lies even when they wore the most innocent of faces. His wife was a Tyrell. She had been trained in deception since birth. If anyone could lie to him convincingly, it was her.
The suspicions only began to grow, curling through his mind like poison ivy. She was leaving his bed in the night. She claimed not to remember. Where was she going? What was she doing?
His mind, ever prone to darkness, supplied answers that made his stomach clench.
A lover. She was sneaking off to meet a lover. Some handsome knight, perhaps, or a lord's son with a pretty face and gentle manners. Someone who was not cruel and sharp and difficult. Someone who could give her soft words and tender touches instead of games and barbs and rough handling. He could not think about it without murderous rage. He could only imagine all the painful ways he would kill the man.
Not a lover, mayhaps, but conspirators. She was a Tyrell. The Tyrells had been loyal to the Targaryens during the Blackfyre Rebellion. Leo Tyrell won notable victories in the Reach against Daemon Blackfyre's supporters, though his forces were unable to gather quickly enough to arrive in time for the battle of the Redgrass field. But loyalties shifted with every harvest in the Reach. Perhaps she was meeting with agents of her house, passing along secrets, plotting against him. Perhaps their entire marriage had been a scheme from the beginning, a way to place a Tyrell close to the throne, close to Summerhall, close to his father Maekar.
Perhaps, and this thought hurt most of all, she simply did not truly love him. Perhaps she left his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. Perhaps she waited until she thought he was asleep and then fled to her own chambers, where she could breathe freely without his suffocating presence.
Aerion did not sleep that night. He lay beside her, listening to her soft breathing, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest. She looked peaceful in sleep. Innocent. Beautiful. When he finally drifted off, his dreams were troubled.
The next morning, he smacked her arse to wake her, same as always. She yelped and swatted at him, same as always. But when she smiled at him over breakfast, he found himself searching her face for signs of guilt, for evidence of betrayal. He found nothing. She was either innocent or a very, very good liar.
That night, he decided he would catch her.
He feigned normalcy. He unlaced her gown with practiced ease, as he always did. He kissed her throat and her breasts and the soft curve of her belly, as he always did. He took her slowly at first, then with increasing urgency, until she was gasping and clutching at his shoulders and crying out his name. Afterwards, he pressed his lips to her belly, just below her navel.
"A son," he murmured against her skin. A tradition by now, a ritual, his way of sayinga prayer. "Give me a son, my sweet rose. A strong son. A dragon."
He paused. Something caught in his throat, words he had rarely spoke aloud, words that terrified him more than any battle or tourney ever could.
"I love you," he whispered, so quiet that he was not sure she heard. "Even if it causes me pain to say it. Even if I cannot admit it when you are awake to hear. I love you, and I cannot...I cannot lose you. I cannot bear the thought of you slipping away in the night, going somewhere I cannot follow, seeking something I cannot give."
He fell silent. She did not stir. Her breathing was slow and even, her face peaceful in sleep.
He pretended to sleep. Hours passed. The candle burned down to a stub. The fire in the hearth faded to embers. Aerion lay still, his breathing deliberately slow, his eyes cracked open just enough to see the room in shades of grey and shadow.
In the deepest part of the night, she moved.
He watched through squinted eyes as she sat up slowly, her movements strangely fluid, almost mechanical. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a long moment, utterly still. Then she rose, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. She found her slippers, felted wool, soft and quiet, and slid them on. She found her robe, a heavy thing of green velvet, and wrapped it around her shoulders.
She did not look at him. She left the bedchamber.
Aerion counted to ten, his heart pounding. Then he threw back the furs and followed.
He kept to the shadows. He had learned to move silently through corridors patrolled by guards and servants and spies. Trailing his wife through Summerhall was child's play.
She went first to her own chambers. Aerion's heart seized, this was it. She was meeting someone. A lover hidden in her rooms. A conspirator waiting in the dark.
But she did not stop. She passed through her chambers without pausing, movements unhurried, and continued through a side door that led to the gardens.
The gardens. Of course. A secret meeting among the roses. How fitting for a Tyrell.
Aerion followed, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. The night air was cool and sweet, heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers. Moonlight silvered the paths and the fountains and the carefully tended beds of roses, red and gold, the colors of his house and hers intertwined.
She walked. And walked. And walked.
No one met her. No shadow detached itself from the hedges. No whisper greeted her from the darkness. She simply walked. Around the fountain. Down the rose path. Past the marble bench where they sometimes sat together in the afternoons. Her steps were slow and aimless, her arms loose at her sides.
Aerion watched her for what felt like an eternity, his confusion mounting. What was she doing? Where was she going? Why was she... She turned a corner and nearly walked directly into a rose bush, its thorns gleaming in the moonlight. Aerion moved before he could think. He strode forward, caught her arm, and pulled her back from the thorns. She did not resist. She did not react at all.
"What are you doing?" he demanded, his voice too loud in the quiet garden. "Where are you going? Who are you meeting? Tell me now, wife, and I may yet show mercy..."
She did not answer. She did not even look at him. Her eyes were closed.
Aerion's words died in his throat. He stared at her face: peaceful, serene, utterly unaware of his presence. Her lips were moving, forming words too soft to hear. He leaned closer, his heart pounding for an entirely different reason now.
"...roses need pruning," she was mumbling, her voice distant and dreamy. "The red ones first. Grandmother always said red roses first. Then gold. Then the path to the fountain..."
She was not meeting a lover. She was not conspiring against him. She was not fleeing his bed because she could not bear to lie beside him. His poor, sweet wife was sleepwalking.
Relief crashed over him like a wave, so intense it left him dizzy. He stood there in the moonlit garden, holding his sleeping wife's arm, and laughed: a shaky, breathless sound that was half-sob.
But the relief faded quickly, replaced by a new and different fear.
She could have walked into that rose bush. She could have torn her skin on the thorns, could have bled into the garden soil while he lay sleeping in their bed, oblivious. She could have fallen into the fountain and drowned. She could have wandered out of the gardens entirely, into the darkness beyond, where anything might have happened to her.
She could have been hurt. She could have died. And he would have woken in the morning to an empty bed and no explanation.
His grip on her arm gentled. He stepped closer, sliding his hand down to clasp hers.
"Come," he said softly, though she could not hear him. "Come back to bed, my sweet rose. You are safe. I have you."
She did not respond, but she did not resist when he turned her gently and began to lead her back toward the castle. Her feet moved automatically, following his guidance, her face still peaceful and blank.
As they walked, Aerion's mind raced with plans.
He would have to lock the bedchamber doors at night to keep her safe. He would put the key somewhere she could not find while asleep. Under his pillow, perhaps. Or around his neck on a cord.
He would have to put away all sharp things. The letter opener on his desk. The small knife he used for cutting fruit. Her sewing scissors. Anything she might stumble upon in her dreaming wanderings.
He had heard, somewhere, that a wet cloth placed on the floor beside the bed could help wake sleepwalkers. The shock of cold on bare feet, jarring them from their dreams before they could wander far. He would have the servants place one on her side of the bed each night. He would check it himself before they slept.
He would protect her. He would keep her safe. He would not lose her to something as absurd as a sleepwalking accident.
They reached his bedchamber. He guided her inside, closed the door behind them, and made a mental note to have a new lock installed in the morning. A sturdy one. One she could not open without a key.
He led her to the bed and eased her down onto the bed. She went willingly, her body limp and pliant, already sinking back into deeper sleep. He lifted her legs onto the bed, arranged the furs over her, and stood looking down at her for a long moment.
Her face was peaceful. Beautiful. Utterly unaware of the terror she had put him through. He climbed into bed beside her and pulled her against his chest. She mumbled something unintelligible and burrowed closer, her hand fisting loosely in his nightshirt.
"I will keep you safe," he whispered into her hair. "I will do whatever I must. You will not wander where I cannot follow. You will not come to harm."
a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: This was a random fic but I missed Growing Strong!Aerion hehe. I had the last chapter of the series, named Valyrian Legacy, typed up. Then I realised it sucked so now I'm going to do it in a completely different format. I now understand how George R. R. Martin feels about finishing his book.
dark valarr would worship reader while fucking, like missionary while looking into her eyes and whispering to her would be his favourite, but i see him also placing his hand on the back of her neck like he usually does and even (gently) wrap his hand around to front of her throat in pure ownership. and i bet he’d thoroughly enjoy headlocking her in probe bone and seeing her try to get away from him and pulling her back into him (i saw a tiktok saying men enjoy that position more especially when they see the girl clawing at the sheets cuz it awakens something feral in them lmao). ah i can’t get enough of that problematic man
oh man....
***warning filthy smut***
Missionary Position:
Valarr has you beneath him on the king size bed, your legs parted and wrapped around his hips, the city’s distant glow tracing silver along the hard contours of his shoulders.
He worships.
Missionary is his sacred rite. He needs your eyes on his when he sinks into you, slow and thick and devastatingly complete, filling you until every breath you take is shared with him. One strong hand braces beside your head; the other slides beneath your nape first—his usual claim, fingers threading into the hair at the back of your neck, cradling, anchoring, as if he could hold your very soul steady while he moves inside you.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” Valarr whispers, voice low and rough, like smoke curling through candlelight. His hips roll forward in one long, deliberate stroke, burying himself to the hilt so you feel the heavy, perfect press of him against the deepest part of you.
Violet eyes—dark as storm-lit amethyst—hold yours without flinching, drinking you in like you are the only light left in his world. “Let me see everything. Every flicker. Every sigh. I need to watch how you open for me… how perfectly you were made for this.”
You moan, soft and helpless, and something raw and reverent crosses his face—devotion so fierce it borders on obssession. He lowers his forehead to yours. Every thrust is measured, deep, dragging the thick length of him along that sweet, aching spot inside you until your back arches and your nails press into the scarred muscle of his back like you’re trying to anchor yourself to something real.
His hand at your nape tightens just enough to tilt your head exactly where he wants it—never forcing, only guiding—so your gaze stays locked with his. Then, slowly, almost tenderly, his fingers slide forward. The broad palm curves around the front of your throat in the gentlest of collars, thumb resting over the wild flutter of your pulse. Not squeezing. Just holding. Pure ownership wrapped in worship.
“You feel that?” he breathes against your mouth, never breaking eye contact, pupils wide with awe and quiet hunger. The subtle pressure of his hand at your throat makes every heartbeat echo between you.
“That’s me inside you. That’s me reminding the universe that you are mine to cherish… mine to love like this.” His voice softens, almost trembling with the weight of it, even as his grip stays warm and steady against your neck.
“Gods, you’re exquisite. So warm, so tight, so perfectly wet for me. You take every inch like you were sculpted by the old gods themselves just to fit around my cock. Like your body already knew it belonged wrapped around mine.”
Valarr grinds slow and deep on the next stroke, letting you feel the full, heavy drag of him, the way your walls flutter and cling as if they never want to let him go. His free hand slides down, palm spreading reverently over your lower belly so he can feel the subtle bulge of himself moving inside you—worshipping the sight, the feel, the truth of your union—while the hand at your throat remains, a silent vow of possession.
“You save me every time you let me in like this,” he confesses in a hushed, eyes still locked, unblinking, as though looking away would unravel him. The pad of his thumb strokes once, feather-light, over the hollow of your throat.
“This rotten world tries to take everything from me, but you… you give me back my soul. You’re my goddess, my peace, my only sanctuary. I would lay the world at your feet just to keep earning the right to hold you like this—around my cock, under my hand, under me.” His hips find that devastating rhythm again—deeper, slower, more soul-shaking.
“Tell me while I’m buried so deep I can feel your heartbeat against my palm. Tell me you’re mine the way I’m yours. Say it so I can worship you properly while you come undone for me.”
Valyrian endearments slip from his lips like sacred vows between each unhurried thrust—zaldrīzes, gevī, ābra, my light, my forever, my only—each word laced with the kind of possessive reverence that makes your chest ache. His gaze never wavers, drinking in every tear of overwhelming pleasure that slips down your cheek, kissing them away without ever looking away, as if losing even a second of your expression would be a sin he refuses to commit. The hand at your throat stays gentle, warm, a constant reminder of exactly who you belong to.
When your climax begins to crest—shaking, gasping, clenching around him like your body is trying to pull him deeper into your soul—he doesn’t chase it faster. He simply holds you there in that endless, worshipping eye contact, fingers still curved around your throat, whispering against your lips like a man at the altar of his only true religion.
“Come for me, my love. Let me feel you fall apart so I can follow you and fill you up. Let me worship you while you ruin me completely… because you are the only thing in this world that truly owns me.”
And he does—slow, deep, endless—until the city lights blur into nothing and the only reality left is the man above you, inside you, loving you with every breath and thrust and whispered devotion, his hand at your throat the quiet, perfect seal of his worship.
Probe Bone Postion:
Valarr has you exactly where he wants you—face-down on his enormous bed, silk sheets cool and slick beneath your overheated skin. He’s draped over you completely in prone bone, every hard line of his body molded to yours, chest pressed to your back, hips flush against your ass, his thick cock buried so deep inside you that you feel him in every breath.
His forearm slides gently under your throat—not a choke, never that tonight—just a firm, possessive cradle that holds you close, keeping your cheek turned into the pillow so he can watch every flicker of pleasure across your face. His lips brush the shell of your ear, voice low and rough with lust.
“Easy, sweetheart… breathe for me,” he murmurs, the words warm and tender even as his hips roll forward in one slow, devastating thrust that drags the head of his cock right over that sweet spot inside you. “Fuck, you feel so good like this. So wet and tight around me… my perfect girl.”
You whimper, fingers curling into the sheets, body instinctively trying to squirm forward when the pleasure crests too sharp, too much. Valarr chuckles softly, the sound dark and delighted, laced with that hungry edge he can never quite hide. His free hand snakes down between your body and the mattress, fingertips finding your swollen clit with unerring precision. He doesn’t rush—he teases. Slow, lazy circles at first, feather-light, just enough pressure to make your hips jerk and your breath hitch.
“Uh-uh, sweetheart,” he whispers, lips grazing your shoulder as he feels you try to pull away again. “Where do you think you’re going?” His arm tightens just a fraction in that cradling headlock, and he yanks you back onto his cock with one smooth, powerful pull, seating himself to the hilt again. The wet, filthy sound of it makes him groan low in his throat. “That’s it… take every inch. You’re not escaping me tonight.”
His fingers never stop their teasing—circling your clit, rubbing firm little strokes, then flicking lightly over the sensitive bud until your thighs tremble and your cunt clenches hard around him. He’s so deep, so full, every lazy grind of his hips pushing you closer to the edge while his touch keeps you dangling right there.
“Look at you,” he breathes, voice thick with lust, almost reverent. “Clawing at my sheets like that… so fucking pretty when you’re desperate. Does it feel too good, sweetheart? My cock stretching you open while I play with this needy little clit?” He rubs faster now, tighter circles, matching the slow, filthy rhythm of his thrusts—deep and deliberate, like he wants to feel every flutter of your walls around him. “You’re dripping down my balls, sweetheart. So sensitive for me… I love how you squeeze when I touch you right here.”
Every time you whimper and try to crawl up the bed, overwhelmed by the relentless pleasure, he pulls you right back with that gentle-but-unyielding grip, hips snapping forward to bury himself again, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder. He’s trembling with the effort of holding back, breath ragged and hot against your skin, but his voice stays soft, filthy-sweet.
“Shhh, I’ve got you… let me take care of you. Let me feel you fall apart just like this.” His fingers pinch your clit lightly, then soothe it with slow, slick strokes, and his cock drags perfectly inside you on the next thrust. “That’s my good girl. Keep making those pretty sounds for me… I’m nowhere near done teasing this sweet pussy tonight.”
He’s lost in it—the way you feel under him, the way you fight and then melt, the desperate little gasps you make every time he circles your clit just right. Valarr’s forehead drops to the back of your neck, a low, needy groan vibrating through his chest as he keeps you pinned and pleasured and perfectly his.
“You’re mine, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice wrecked with lust and something softer, almost worshipful. “And I’m going to keep you right here… full of me… until you’re shaking and begging and still trying to crawl away just so I can pull you back where you belong.”
MODERN!AERION is perpetually annoyed by his surroundings and the people. Everyone is inferior to him. But you? He finds a special comfort with you. He doesn’t need to be the cruel son, he can just be Aerion. And you’re the only person who doesn’t think he’s a monster. (He is)
MODERN!AERION gets annoyed on how sweet!reader is the kind of girl who compliments strangers’ earrings, and somehow knows everyone’s birthday.
MODERN!AERION who’s just infuriated at you for being like this. “How dare she be so relentlessly happy in his presence? Doesn’t she know the world is cruel, ugly, and unworthy of her optimism?” He pretends to hate your cheerfulness, but he finds himself orbiting you anyway. He’ll show up at your study group, mock all of your friends, and somehow stay the entire time.
“You’re staying? I thought you hated group work.”
“I do. But you’d get distracted and forget half your notes.”
“So you’re my babysitter now?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
MODERN!AERION who rolls his eyes at group selfies but secretly checks if his hair looked good ok. #diva
MODERN!AERION who gets dragged by you into late-night ice cream runs, karaoke, beach bonfires. He insists he’s “just keeping you out of trouble” but he enjoys it.
MODERN!AERION who you once called ‘Grumpy Dragon’ and he nearly lost it. He didn’t speak you for days. Later on, he got used to your pretty pet names. But if you call him those in public, he’ll never talk to you again.
MODERN!AERION who hates the way his whole family adores you. Frowns when Maekar compliments something you baked for them. Rages out when Daeron asks ‘Why are you even with him?’ And nearly punches Valarr for looking at you too long.
MODERN!AERION who almost fainted when you putted a My Melody sticker on his red Lamborghini.
MODERN!AERION who just loves how you defend him. Daeron always trying to warn you on how terrifying and cruel he can be but you just say ‘he’s misunderstood’. #icanfixhim final boss.
MODERN!AERION who in small moments, realizes how important you are for him. You’re laughing at something silly, sunlight hitting your hair, and he thinks: If anyone ever takes this away from me, I’ll burn the world down.
HOUSE RULES⠀─── ⠀Your daughter's friend always heard from her that her parents are disgustingly in love. She doubts it after watching you and Sukuna interacting.
The girl had heard many stories about her friend’s parents.
“You don’t understand,” she had said more than a million times, “my parents are, like, disgustingly in love. It’s embarrassing.”
She had expected something cringey. Kisses in the kitchen. Maybe matching mugs. Some middle-aged couple nonsense. Something wholesome, like in one of those old movies.
She hadn’t expected… this.
She stood awkwardly near the front door, her hands gripping the straps of her backpack. She felt slightly suffocated, as if the walls had eyes and all of them were staring at her.
A deep voice echoed through the house and she swallowed hard, glancing toward the kitchen, where her friend was calmly chewing her toast as if it were just another normal day.
“Are you blind?” Ryomen cleared his throat, one hand on his hip and the other lifting a small yogurt bottle to his mouth, his eyes fixed on his wife. “That’s not how you cut them.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” For a moment, the girl thought you were actually apologizing, but judging by the way you stabbed the poor fruit with the knife, it was easy to predict what would come next. “Next time I’ll ask for permission from the master chef before touching a knife.”
He smiled, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was the kind that showed too many teeth. Almost mocking.
“You really should,” he replied, taking another sip of yogurt as if he were completely relaxed, as if his wife didn’t have her hand dangerously close to a knife. “Because clearly you lack the motor coordination.”
You slowly turned your body, leaning your hip against the counter and crossing your arms, your lips parting to retort. “It’s just a fruit.”
“Presentation matters.” He shrugged.
“Then cut it yourself.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Are you admitting your incompetence?”
“I’m offering you an opportunity, coward.”
“Right—“ Sukuna’s gaze shifted, his eyes landing on the visitor near the door. “Who’s that.” His expression was terrifying to the poor girl.
“My friend, dad.” The teenager took one last sip of coffee and stood up. “She’s walking to school with me.”
“You brought someone into my house without asking for my permission first?” Sukuna placed the yogurt bottle on the counter and crossed his arms.
“That ‘someone’ is her friend,” you interrupted. “And the house is ours. I allowed it. Stop making a scene.” Your voice lowered slightly, as if trying to spare the poor girl from feeling even more embarrassed and intimidated.
“But she didn’t ask permission—”
“I asked mom. She’s the one who decides, anyway,” your daughter said, placing her plate in the sink and grabbing her backpack from the chair.
He let out a low “hm” through his nose.
“Of course,” he murmured, uncrossing his arms only to rest his hands on the counter behind him, leaning his weight back with an almost irritating calmness. “You hide behind your mother’s authority.”
“Sure, sure,” the teenager rolled her eyes, already pulling her friend by the arm toward the door.
“Sweetheart,” you said, your voice softer than anything you had used in the past few minutes. “Aren’t you going to be late? Your father can give you two a ride.”
“I don’t—”
“We’re fine! Thank you so much!” the friend answered far too quickly, dragging your daughter outside.
Ryomen’s gaze returned to you. “Did you see her behavior? In my time, children who challenged their parents learned—”
“You’re too talkative today,” you replied. “And don’t complain, you’re the one who spoiled her.”
He scoffed, leaning over and hugging you from behind.
As the two girls walked side by side, the friend cleared her throat.
“Are they… okay?”
“They’re like that,” she replied. “Gross, right? Imagine listening to that flirting every single day.”
no warnings spiderman!yuji loves to swing around! (you don’t)
“yuji, are you sure this is a good idea?”
when the boy first suggested to take you on a little swing through new york, you had agreed. it seemed like something you had to do at least once—i mean, not everyone has spider-man as their boyfriend! it seemed fun even.
now, perched on top of the empire state building with nothing but emptiness at your feet and trust in yuji in your heart, it seems like a not so fun thing to do.
yuji seems relaxed and confident, as always. he’s just smiling at you and so obviously trying not to laugh at your visibly distraught face.
“don’t worry,” he says with an infuriating big grin considering the circumstances, “the hardest part is jumping.”
which, yes you can understand. still not reassuring enough. a part of you wants to do it. the other part, however, is scared shitless. you look down, nearly throw up, stumble backwards straight into yuji’s arms. he looks down at you, eyes full of mischief, and that’s when you understand you shouldn’t have went into his arms.
“maybe you need some help,” he trails off. you say the first half of his name in a warning tone but too late, he’s already jump off the building with you in his arms.
you shut your eyes tight and cling to him like a koala, while he’s just laughing and telling you to look at random things—the audacity! you utter weak threats in his ear through gritted teeth (in case you actually throw up) and crack one eye open. you close it back immediately. then you do it again, both eyes this time. everything is a bit blurry but you manage to see a part of new york sprawled out under you.
it’s beautiful, of course, but you’re very high in the sky. you close your eyes again, and this time yuji swings to a building and gently lets you go once you have both feet on a hard surface again. your legs are wobbly but you manage to glare at him in between deep breaths.
“i’ll kill you right now,” you huff, and he simply laughs once more, wrapping his arms around you.
“aw, come on baby,” he hums, pressing a kiss on your temple. “wasn’t it amazing?”
“it was awful.”
he snorts, fondly shaking his head. “maybe we should do it again soon, then, so you can see how cool it really is.”
you glare at him again, and he mutters a little “fair enough,” with a laugh before kissing your cheek. he’ll try again maybe. or maybe not. maybe he’ll just walk with you. and buy you flowers for forgiveness.
one thing is certain, having spider-man as your boyfriend is cool, but having yuji as your boyfriend is cooler!
no warnings spiderman!yuji loves to swing around! (you don’t)
“yuji, are you sure this is a good idea?”
when the boy first suggested to take you on a little swing through new york, you had agreed. it seemed like something you had to do at least once—i mean, not everyone has spider-man as their boyfriend! it seemed fun even.
now, perched on top of the empire state building with nothing but emptiness at your feet and trust in yuji in your heart, it seems like a not so fun thing to do.
yuji seems relaxed and confident, as always. he’s just smiling at you and so obviously trying not to laugh at your visibly distraught face.
“don’t worry,” he says with an infuriating big grin considering the circumstances, “the hardest part is jumping.”
which, yes you can understand. still not reassuring enough. a part of you wants to do it. the other part, however, is scared shitless. you look down, nearly throw up, stumble backwards straight into yuji’s arms. he looks down at you, eyes full of mischief, and that’s when you understand you shouldn’t have went into his arms.
“maybe you need some help,” he trails off. you say the first half of his name in a warning tone but too late, he’s already jump off the building with you in his arms.
you shut your eyes tight and cling to him like a koala, while he’s just laughing and telling you to look at random things—the audacity! you utter weak threats in his ear through gritted teeth (in case you actually throw up) and crack one eye open. you close it back immediately. then you do it again, both eyes this time. everything is a bit blurry but you manage to see a part of new york sprawled out under you.
it’s beautiful, of course, but you’re very high in the sky. you close your eyes again, and this time yuji swings to a building and gently lets you go once you have both feet on a hard surface again. your legs are wobbly but you manage to glare at him in between deep breaths.
“i’ll kill you right now,” you huff, and he simply laughs once more, wrapping his arms around you.
“aw, come on baby,” he hums, pressing a kiss on your temple. “wasn’t it amazing?”
“it was awful.”
he snorts, fondly shaking his head. “maybe we should do it again soon, then, so you can see how cool it really is.”
you glare at him again, and he mutters a little “fair enough,” with a laugh before kissing your cheek. he’ll try again maybe. or maybe not. maybe he’ll just walk with you. and buy you flowers for forgiveness.
one thing is certain, having spider-man as your boyfriend is cool, but having yuji as your boyfriend is cooler!
ꮼ alt!geto always finds new ways to prove his love.
ᦸ alt!geto as a boyfriend ⸝⸝ art by hunnismokah ⸝⸝ not proofread.
alt!geto who lets you toy with his various lip piercings during aftercare & honestly whenever you want, always getting lost in the soft touches & tugs as he practically melts into your fingertips.
alt!geto agrees to giving you piercings at home as long as you let him help you clean them up so they don't reject or get infected.
alt!geto has a peekaboo dyed to be your favorite color—always showing it off whenever he puts up his hair or gets the chance to show off his pretty hair devoted to his pretty girl.
alt!geto shares his entire closet with you, from his too-loose rings & necklaces, to his jackets, shirts & sweaters; he'll even buy certain shirts he knows you'll just steal out of his closet, just because you'll like them
alt!geto is big on DIY gifts; he'll make you trinkets from clay, sketch out posters for your walls, make a little box for you to keep everything of his in, and paint your favorite things. His favorite gift he's made was a bouquet blanket that he crocheted.
alt!geto lets you press him down flat on his stomach so you can color in the tattoos splattered across his back—teasing you occasionally by arching his back to distract you whenever you're too focused on his skin.
you wake up at the feeling of tiny, sticky hands pulling at your cheeks. letting out a soft hum, opening your eyes slowly to find the cutest little face in front of you, smiling brightly
“morning’, mommy!” he chirps, flashing you his baby teeth.
“mmm, good morning, baby” you murmur sleepily, hand going to his face, brushing his messy bed hair off his forehead, “you are up early today,”
“yeah! i dreamed about you!” he excitedly tells you as you slowly sit on the bed, pulling your son into your lap
“yeah? about what?”
before your son can even open his mouth, a low grunt made both of you turn your heads to the other side of the bed to see a tuft of pink hair buried face down on the pillows, a muscular, tattoed arm emerging from the covers to settle heavily around your stomach.
“s’too fucking early for this,” your husband mutters under his breath, eyes still squeezed shut.
you swat at his arm, a smile tugging at your lips the moment yuuji starts giggling at his dad’s bad word. “ryo! language,” you scold softly and your husband finally opens his eyes slowly, squinting against the morning light.
“brat’s old enough, don’t you think?” sukuna asks, looking at his son, who only nods enthusiastically.
“yeah, mommy! i’m a big kid, i got 'munity to bad words!” your son puffs his chest proudly, tilting his chin up
sukuna flashes you a sleepy, loopsided smirk before closing his eyes again. this time, his arm raise from your stomach to tug at yuuji, making the little boy fall between the two of you.
“go back to sleep, brat. it’s saturday and too early to be up,” he says, his big hand covers his son’s face to force him to close his eyes and yuuji giggles, moving his face back and forth to escape his father’s grip.
“dad! i was going to tell mommy about my dream!” he whines, pouting but the little yawn that leaves his lips tells you he was ready for another hour or so of sleep.
“later, let your mom rest,” sukuna opens an eye to look at you, gesturing with his head for you to lie back down, “come here, ma. cuddle your husband and son,”
you let out soft laugh, lying on your side, soon feeling the weight of your husband’s arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him and the now sleepy yuuji tucked against his chest.
closing your eyes, you let out a dreamy sigh, falling back to sleep enveloped by the warmth of your two favorite boys.
☀︎ SATORU GOJO is the only person who could fuck you mid-argument.
i mean, one moment, you're complaining about how close he was to a girl today.
something about how he let her flirt with him 'without having the decency and respect' to tell her that he was beautifully taken by a beautiful girl.
something about how you always (not true) have to tell girls that your precious boyfriend is taken while he sits there and does nothing (also not true).
another moment, you're bent over, trying to whine about how much of a piece of shit he is while he dicks you down, half apologetic, half amused. amused at the fact that you even had the courage to talk to him the way you had.
"sorry, baby," he says, but you're not sure if he's talking to you, or the pussy he was submured in, because hell, it was definitely talking to him. "'m really sorry... 'kay?"
he's whispering in your ear, but you can't seem to comprehend a word he's saying. the dick's too good.
he grabs your jaw with one hand, and grips the sheets with another, his chest warm against your back.
every thrust forces a moan from your throat, but you can't quite talk.
not like he wanted you to, anyway. you'd done enough of that.
"i didn't mean to make you jealous, baby," his brows furrow as he looks down at you with those blue eyes that you love so fucking much. "you're– you're the best, i swear, my– fuckkk,"
he pushes his upper half away from you, letting go of your jaw and moving his large hands down to your ass.
squeezing it, his thrusts slow down, and it makes him smirk.
the sight of his dick easingggg in and out of you? he loves that shit.
you? you're still whining and trying your best to shit-talk. satoru knows you can't. you never can when he's fucking you this good.
and there's never a time where he's not fucking you this good.
"f–fuck you," you finally push out, knuckles aching from the grip you had on the sheets.
"you can, baby," he grins, moving a hand up your back. "i promise, only you can." he almost whispers, but he knows you can hear it.
sukuna is the best boyfriend you could ever ask for. he’s nice and sweet to you, doesn’t really care about anyone else, and always makes you feel like the most beautiful and loved girl on earth. most people wouldn’t believe, considering how he scowls anytime he sees someone — which is all day — and glares at anyone that comes talking to him and is not his friend.
but, sukuna is truly a sweet guy, when you’re together in your room or his. the scowl melts away, the glare morphs into warm, loving eyes, and he even happens to laugh sometimes!
yes, sukuna is a good, kind boyfriend.
except when he wants to fuck you. he makes you a whiny, trembling mess before he even thinks of sinking into your warmth, and mocks you all the while.
“aww is the poor baby too tired already?” or “damn, and here i thought you could keep up with me…” and you’re left to shake your head energetically and cling to his arms while repeating that you can, of course you can, you just need him so bad!
it makes him really happy to see you like that, so different from the usual composition you have at college. it makes something quite possessive flare in him, to know he’s the only one who gets to see you letting loose this way.
that’s usually when he enters you, groaning as your cunt sucks him in eagerly.
you moan softly in relief, nails sinking in the meat of his arms, before remembering that he’s mean when he’s into you too!
feeling your needy hands in his hair, your body arching against his, hearing soft sighs escaping your lips…it all makes him feel so good, so feral.
it’s like a button was pushed deep in his mind (or down in his cock) that immediately makes him needier but also so so determined to go harder.
he has no excuses really, he just want more hair pulling, more of the sharp sting that turns into waves of pleasure, more, more, more!
you found out really early about this little thing, how he’s always shivering when your fingers thread in his hair, and downright whining when you pull hard enough.
so naturally, you use this knowledge at your advantage, even outside the bedroom. want something? your hand goes in his hair while you ask, fingers playing with his curls; you’re sure he’ll say yes. want a little foreplay in public? hair pulling, only lightly, until his cheeks are flushed and he can’t really breathe anymore. hair pulling became a way to tease him and to turn things in your advantage, you just need to be ready for what’s coming after.
and truthfully, izuku is right where he wants to be!
kianamaiart
dailybridgerton
yousharknotpass
snowghoul
baratheonpilled
prguitarman
