Hockey Boyfriend! Aerion & Valarr Targaryen x Reader
Headcannons about what Hockey player! Aerion and Valarr Targaryen would be like as boyfriends, knew I had to write these as soon as I saw this fanart ughhhh
Warnings: Suggestive, Some violence obv we're talking about Aerion
Hockeyplayer!Aerion who teaches you to skate on the team's private ice during off-hours. He holds both your hands, skating backward, pulling you along while you wobble and curse. He laughs at you with that sharp, beautiful laugh but he never lets go. When you fall, he falls with you, cushioning your body with his, and suddenly you're both lying on the cold ice, his breath fogging in the air between you. "Again," he says, helping you up. He'll stay out here all night if that's what it takes. He loves watching you improve. He loves catching you when you fail even more.
Hockeyplayer!Aerion who makes you sit as close to the penalty box as possible, right on the aisle, first row, directly in his line of sight. Because he knows he's going to get sent there. It's not a matter of if, but when. And when he does, skating off the ice with his helmet off and his silver-gold hair plastered to his forehead, he wants the first thing he sees to be your face. He'll sit on that narrow bench, jaw still tight, and mouth three words to you across the divider: Worth it. Every time.
Hockeyplayer!Aerion who insists you wear his jersey to every single game, home or away. Not just any jersey. His. The one with his name arched across the back and his number on the sleeves. He pulls you into it himself before each game, tugging the hem down over your hips, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders like he's dressing a prized possession. "Let them see," he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. "Let every man in this arena know exactly whose name you wear." He gets a certain look in his eye when he skates past your seat and sees his number on your back. It's the same look he gets right before he scores.
Hockeyplayer!Aerion who fights like a man possessed every time someone on the opposing team so much as looks at you in the stands. He doesn't care if it costs his team a power play. The moment some defenseman checks you through the glass, accidentally or not, Aerion drops his gloves and goes for blood. The refs have to pull him off. He'll sit in the penalty box with his knuckles split, breathing hard, and the only thing that calms him down is your hand pressed against the glass. He doesn't look at the coach. He doesn't look at the scoreboard. He looks only at you.
Hockeyplayer!Aerion who has your name written inside his shoulder pads, right over his heart. You discovered it by accident, rummaging for a clean towel in his gym bag, and found the lining of his pads marked with a silver Sharpie. Mine, he'd written next to it. When you asked him about it, he just shrugged, but his ears went red. "Superstition," he said.
Hockeyplayer!Aerion who smells like ice, sweat, and something sharp, like winter air and cedar. But after a shower, he smells like your shampoo. He uses it on purpose. When you confronted him, he said, "If I can't have you on the road, I'll have you in my hair." He travels with a tiny travel bottle of your conditioner. His teammates tease him relentlessly. He threatens to break their kneecaps. They stop teasing.
Hockeyplayer!Aerion who keeps every ticket stub from every game you've ever attended. They're in a box in the back of his wardrobe, rubber-banded in chronological order, along with the first napkin you ever wrote your number on. You found them once when you were looking for a spare hoodie. He caught you with the box open and, for the first time in your relationship, looked genuinely embarrassed. "Don't," he said, voice rough. "Don't look at those." You looked anyway. You saw your handwriting on a crumpled bar napkin from two years ago. You kissed him so hard he forgot to breathe.
Hockeyplayer!Aerion who, after a win, pulls you into the empty locker room before the press gets there. The team knows to give him five minutes. He's still in his gear: sweating, flushed, adrenaline humming through his veins and he lifts you onto the equipment table like you weigh nothing. His hands, still wrapped in sweaty tape, grip your thighs. His forehead presses to yours. He doesn't say anything. He just breathes. And then he kisses you deep, hungry, tasting of Gatorade and victory. "This is what I play for," he whispers against your mouth.
Hockeyplayer!Aerion who has a very specific ritual after particularly brutal away games when he comes home at 2 AM. He finds you in bed, half-asleep, and peels off his clothes in the dark. He slides under the covers and pulls you against his chest, his body still cold from the ice, his skin smelling of arena air. He buries his face in your hair and holds you so tight you can barely breathe. "Need you," he mumbles, already half-gone. His hand slips under your shirt, not grabbing, just resting flat against your stomach, feeling your warmth. He falls asleep like that, his palm pressed to your skin, his thumb stroking slow circles. You've never felt more wanted in your entire life.
Hockeyplayer!Aerion who, on nights when you're both restless, pins you against the mattress with his body, not aggressively, but deliberately, like he's settling into the only place he belongs. His weight presses you into the bed, his thighs bracketing yours, his forearms planted on either side of your head. He looks down at you with those sharp violet eyes, still half-feral from practice, his silver hair falling across his face. "Say my name," he whispers. You do. He shudders. He lowers his mouth to your neck not biting, not yet, just breathing against your pulse point. "Again." And when you do, he smiles against your skin. That slow, dangerous, possessive smile. The same one he wears right before he scores. Only this time, you're the goal he's been aiming for all along.
Hockeyplayer!Valarr who plays Centre like a ghost: silent, precise, almost invisible until he isn't. He doesn't fight. He doesn't trash-talk. He just reads the ice better than anyone, steals pucks with surgical precision, and threads passes through defenders like he's weaving thread through a needle. He leads the league in assists three years running. The announcers call him "the Silver Shadow." His teammates call him "the quiet king." He doesn't correct them. He just skates to the faceoff circle and wins another draw.
Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, before every game, finds you in the crowd, section 112, row C, your seat and holds your gaze for exactly three seconds. No wave. No smile. Just a look. He doesn't need to say anything. You know what he's telling you: I see you. Thank you for being here. Then he turns away, taps his stick twice, and drops into position. His coach has learned to give him those three seconds. His team has learned to wait. It's not a ritual. It's a lifeline.
Hockeyplayer!Valarr who never asked you to wear his jersey. He just left one in your closet one day, folded neatly, with a note that said: Only if you want to. You wore it to the next game. He saw you from the tunnel and, for the first time all season, missed his pre-game stretch because he was staring. He didn't mention it. But you caught him tracing his name on your back during the post-game hug, and you felt his heart hammering under his pads. He doesn't need you to wear it. He needs you to choose to wear it.
Hockeyplayer!Valarr who has anxiety before big games but handles it with quiet composure. He doesn't tremble. He doesn't hide. He sits in the corner of the locker room, eyes closed, breathing slow and measured, running through every play in his head. He doesn't ask you to calm him down. He doesn't need you to. But when you brush your fingers over his knuckles, he relaxes , just a fraction, and he opens his eyes to look at you. "Thank you," he says, and nothing more. He doesn't need you to save him. He just needs you to remind him he's not alone.
Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, after a loss, processes it in silence. He doesn't disappear. He doesn't break down. He sits in the locker room, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling with a stillness that unnerves his teammates. His coach tries to talk to him. He listens, nods, takes responsibility for the missed assignments. He doesn't deflect. He doesn't blame anyone else. "I should have been faster on the backcheck," he says, voice level. He carries the weight because that's who he is. Later, when he finds you waiting outside, he pulls you into a quiet embrace and presses his forehead to yours. "One more game," he says. "I'll fix it." And he always does.
Hockeyplayer!Valarr who has a pre-game routine he doesn't break: black coffee, no sugar, exactly seventeen minutes before warmups; a specific playlist he never shares with anyone (mostly classical, some ambient); and a five-minute phone call with you, no matter what time zone he's in. He doesn't tell you he loves you. He doesn't need to. He just asks, "How was your day?" and listens to you talk about something mundane, traffic, your boss, what you had for lunch. He takes that sound, that grounding, ordinary warmth, and carries it onto the ice with him. It steadies his hands more than any superstitious ritual ever could.
Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, on road trips, texts you one thing before bed every night: Goodnight. Be careful. I'll call tomorrow. It's not clingy. It's not desperate. It's matter-of-fact, steady, like a man who knows he has something good and doesn't need to overcomplicate it. Sometimes you reply with a photo, your face, a cute animal, something silly. He saves every one. He doesn't tell you that, either.
Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, when he comes home from away games at 2 AM, finds you in bed and slips in behind you without waking you. He doesn't pull you close. He just lies there, one hand resting on your hip, feeling the rise and fall of your breathing. He doesn't need to talk. He doesn't need to be held. He just needs to be near you. In the morning, you'll wake up to him already up, making coffee, looking at you with those tired, steady eyes. "Morning," he says, and it sounds like home.
Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, when you initiate intimacy, responds with quiet intensity. He's never rough. He's never demanding. He's simply present, completely and utterly present, his hands on your body like he's memorizing the shape of you. He looks at you like you're the only real thing in a world of noise and speed and bright lights. He just breathes your name, once, like it's a prayer he's been saving. And when it's over, he doesn't fall asleep immediately. He rests his forehead against yours, eyes open, watching you. "You're still here," he says, not a question. You kiss him. "Still here." He closes his eyes. He finally lets himself rest.
Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, at the end of every season, gives you something small, a puck from his first goal, his A from the alternate captaincy, a necklace with a silver skate charm that he had custom-made. He doesn't make a speech. He doesn't get emotional. He just hands it to you and says, "I don't keep much. But I keep you." That's all. That's everything.
Hockeyplayer!Valarr who, on the rare nights when he has anger from a game left over, rolls you onto your back and hovers over you with that tired, wondering look, like he can't quite believe you're real. He doesn't rush. He never rushes. He takes his time undressing you, kissing each inch of skin as it's revealed, murmuring your name like a prayer. His hands shake, they always shake, but his touch is so gentle it almost hurts. "You're the only thing that quiets my head," he whispers against your collarbone. "The only thing." He makes love to you like he's apologizing for every game he lost, every night he kept you awake, every time he came home too exhausted to hold you properly. And when it's over, he curls into your chest, smaller than a man his size should be, and sleeps for ten hours straight. You don't move. You wouldn't dare.
Notes:
GUYS I'M BACKKKK!!!! Exams had me so damn drained but I missed writing SOOOOO MUCHHH UGHHHH
I'm literally so excited to continue PR Stunt and Chivalry, I've also finished the sequel for Hung by a Thread, just editing it now and I'll post it later td!!
Alsoooo I'm writing some more headcanons but for Vampire! Aerion & Valarr which i might make into a series but I want to finish PR stunt and Chivalry first :)))
i need more modern au aerion where hes a rich spoiled university student instead of trailer trash NOT DISSING TT AERION 😥 but honestly i need me some spoiled trust fund nepobaby 🤤
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amandla
stormborns
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