valarr targaryen had known all his life that he would become king.
the responsibilities of a realm which would weigh heavy on his conscience one day, the endless hours heβd have to spend around other world leaders and businessesmen, the pristine, picture perfect life he would have to lead. or at least show to be leading.
it all sounded dreadfully exhausting, didnβt it?
so what harm was there in having some fun with his girlfriend, while he was still young?
he would likely never taste this kind of freedom again, being freshly eighteen β spending the summer in one of his familyβs way over the top luxury estates somewhere in the english countryside.
the kind where the gates are all valyrian steel, with intricately carved dragons, the mansion itself made up of glass windows and handmade clay bricks. something private. reclusive. totally lowkey.
somewhere this pr disaster was definitely never supposed to happen.
but then again you suppose drinking an entire bottle of vintage salon champagne and then a bottle of domaine leroy wine was not the greatest idea in the world.
valarr should have been more responsible. his parents had taught him better. he was an educated man, an intelligent person. future world leaders didnβt get drunk and made the headline of some trashy magazine.
the both of you should have been more responsible.
you could have gone horse riding or swimming in the nearby lake which was part of the estate, or literally anything that other normal rich people did!
but no. instead you got entirely plastered on alcohol that cost more then someoneβs life savings.
you were giggling, somewhere on the line between tipsy and drunk as you and valarr made out on the enormous king sized bed.
the peter reed linen was soft and cold against your warm skin, your hands tangled in his dark hair as you forced his head back, making him open his mouth more so you could shove your tongue inside. it was utterly depraved, uncivilized, sloppy. but you didnβt care. it felt good.
valarrβs hands traced the curve of your waist, going up and down, tangling in your hair and pulling you impossibly close to himself.
you were giggling when you came up for air, his cheeks were comically red, flushed both from the alcohol and the making out. his hair was a mess, the top two buttons of his loro piana polo unbottened.
βitβs so hot!β you whined, flinging yourself beside him and pulling up your shirt in a desperate attempt to cool down.
βhmm.β valarr hummed in response, clearly off somewhere in his own thoughts as he kept pressing kisses to the skin where your neck and shoulders met, before moving behind your ear.
that is when the idea popped into your head.
and yeah, maybe you were to blame. just a little bit.
but to your defense valarr did not argue one bit when you grabbed your scarlet yves saint laurent lipstick from the bedside table.
βletβs go outside.β you suggested, sitting up on the bed, stumbling as you stood.
βlike this?β valarr huffed. βweβve drank like β¦ way too much.β ever responsible he was.
you rolled your eyes. βoh come on, itβs just the terrace, no oneβs looking there anyway.β
valarr stayed silent before standing up with somewhat steadier movements.
a dumb smile crossed your face as you grabbed his hand, padding over the plush beige carpet and opening the doors which lead to the balcony.
a gust of warm air hit your face as you inhaled the smell of some foreign plants and perfectly manicured grass.
the two of you ended up stumbling outside, onto the stone floor of the balcony, and then you found yourselves sitting on the cold tiles, it felt amazing against the sheer warmth of your skin.
that is when you reached to unbutton the rest of valarrβs shirt.
βhey!β he reached for your hair, yanking it up gently, stopping you mid motion. βwhat are youββ
βgods valarr, ease up,β you rolled your eyee. βno oneβs watching anyway.β
if only you had known.
he grunted something, relenting, and let you undo his baby blue shirt.
you smiled to yourself, the soft skin of his chest on full display, your canvas.
βwhat are you thinking?β valarr asked with a dumb smile. βi know that lookβ and itβs never something goodβ¦β
you remained silent, instead popping off the cap of your lipstick and putting it between your teeth as you rolled the stick open.
once again, valarr did not argue.
he just watched, fingers still tangled in your locks.
then he felt the waxy press of red against his skin and he waited for you to be finished before looking at the handiwork.
there, in the bright red shade of your lipstick, on the center of his chest, was written the word KING.
he laughed, genuinely laughed so hard that his entire chest shook. βyouβre insane.β he murmured before pulling you into another kiss, cupping your cheek.
your lips were already raw and hurting from how much he had bitten them but you didnβt care, you kept a hand pressed against his chest as you hummed into the kiss.
βmy king.β you whispered playfully against his mouth.
what you did not expect β was for that exact moment, which you cannot even remember clearly now, since you were so intoxicated, to end up on the front page of almost every single news outlet in the world.
you were trending on every single social media platform β twitter, instagram, tiktok, you name it. edits, trends, whole videos debunking your life and relationship.
the two of you became somewhat of an⦠exhibition for people to gawk at. two nepo babies, living their life without a care in the world.
some hated you, some dragged you, while others thought it was simply iconic.
but how were you supposed to know that just when you and valarr had stumbled onto the balcony some lousy tourists were hanging outside the gates of the estate and they managed to snap a few pics of you from their car???
huh. definitely not your fault. sue them. invasion of privacy or whatever.
yeah⦠valarr is totally not freaking out in the morning when the staff tells him his father is personally coming over to the estate, while the two of you are barely managing, nursing horrendous hangovers.
β MYSTERY OF LOVE β daeron the daring x fem!reader ( 2.8k sfw)
π£² synopsis . . . you visit Daeron Targaryen in his chambers after a long and tumultuous day in Tumbleton or in which two teenagers are in love and carry the weight of the Realm on their shoulders.
π£² warnings . . . reader is described as common-born, mentions of physical abuse and manipulation (not between the two of them), takes place after the events of ep4, use of y/n
π£² a/n. i had to write something for my sweet baby daeron i love him sm :(
avy jorrΔelan (high valyr.) β i love you
π£he halls of Tumbleton are cold. Yet his chambers are even colder, strangely, despite the torches lit and the candles burning low, dripping wax in their metal plate. It is painfully obvious that not much time is spent in the room. The desk stands empty, save for a few spare history ledgers spread across the oak, untouched. The drawers and dressers also remain pristine, as if no one had even bothered to unpack in the first place. A short stay. Temporary.
You knock on the door only when you know for certain that his uncle has dismissed him. Which tends to be at a differing hour each day, depending on his Lordships particular mood. If itβs foul, Daeron stays shorter, hoping to escape Ormundβs wrath, if it is pleasant, he tends to stay longer. On those rare days, he speaks highly of him, he even tells you how he much he admires the man. How intelligent he is. How much he can learn from him. About ruling, about justice, about people.
The door clicks open almost silently as Daeron ushers you in. The guards who are standing post outside do not stop you. Their loyalty and silence only paid for by the few golden dragons Daeron had shoved into their hands and the fear of lord Ormund if Gods be good he found out about this treachery. Ormund had eyes and ears everywhere, and certainly it was most unbecoming of a young maiden to be sneaking into a princeβs chamber at any time. Morrow or sundown. But especially sundown.
You are dressed in a simple woolen dress, hair styled the way you liked, you curtsy clumsily as a familiar quiet settles between the two of you. βMy prince,β you speak, but the words come out soft and playful, more a harmless jab than greeting.
He gives you a pointed look, tilting his head to the side, before inevitably a smile breaks over his features. You can see it lighting in his eyes first, spreading to his cheeks and the corners of his mouth. He truly is a vision. Or perhaps it is just an ailment of first love, your own eyes deceiving you.
βSpare me, would you?β He groans, falling onto one of the wooden chairs, hand gliding over the table, settling on a ledger and twisting its frayed parchment. βI find myself quite tired of squirely and princely duties.β
He huffs an annoyed breath of air, not truly irritated by your banter (he reveled in your presence), but rather anxious to rest from his toil, at least to manage a few hours of reprieve, before beginning it all again on the morrow.
βWhat would Lord Ormund say, hearing you speak such sinful wickedness?β The teasing lilt was evident in your voice as you approached him, but you see his shoulders stiffen at the mention of his uncle and a sharp pang of regret immediately floods you.
You know how he can get β the Lord of Oldtown β his foul moods and how he could behave worse than a toddler, throwing tantrums and taking his frustrations out on everyone and everything around him. Especially on Daeron. Despite it all, Daeron never dared speak a malicious towards his uncle. Or against him. Ever. Not even to you.
Not even when he came back with tear filled eyes and a bruise on his arm, not when he defended him to you, even as you pressed a soothing ointment into his marred skin β blooming blue and purple under the force of his touch β you swore that day youβd strangle him yourself. But Daeron insisted. βHeβs just trying to teach me. I ought to be more careful next time, more disciplined, I was too carelessββ
βDaeron.β You had snapped him out of his rambling. βHe hurt you.β
You saw the protest in his eyes, the argument already blooming on his tongue. βYou do not understand himββ
βGwayne would never, ever, harm you. Not even to teach you a lesson.β That silenced him. You always managed to make him see the truth, even when he himself didnβt want to. It pained you to watch how he always searched for the fault in himself, trying to understand how he could better it, fix it. Simply denying to see the wickedness of others. He was too forgiving for his own good, too just.
You saw him move his gaze from you now, biting his lip as if that could keep him from spilling any wrong words.
βYou do not have to worry about what you say to me, you know.β You managed, the guilt still gnawing at you. βI will not tell anyone. I promise.β
βI know.β He whispered, offering you a weak smile. He was tired, you could see it in the corners of his eyes, in the top two buttons of his green double which were undone. Daeron was always neat, always put together and polished. Now he was carefully (almost hesitantly) letting his guard down.
You sat yourself in the chair across from him, spine bending as you leaned forward, placing your hand a few inches from his. His eyes swept over your form, making sure not to linger too long where inappropriate, quickly moving from your bodice to your neck. He knew staring at a lady or girl was deemed improper. Alas you could see the crimson blooming on his pale cheeks. You resisted the urge to smile.
βYou are wearing the necklace.β He noted with constrained delight. The necklace β the one with the intricately carved silver heart pendant on a thin chain, which he had gifted you for your nameday β even when you had insisted that you could not possibly accept it. βDaeron! They will think I stole itββ he had just scoffed and pressed your fingers over your palm where the piece of silver lay. βWear it under your garment then. It wonβt be visible that way.β Clever he was.
βI never take it off.β You admitted. That made his skin flush even deeper, there was no denying it, not even in the warm orange glow of his chamber. He made a little hum of contentment instead.
Another comfortable silence washed over you, until you felt his fingers brushing against yours, his eyes asked for permission and you nodded ever so gently, he interlaced your hands. Still no words were spoken, you could see his shoulders were tense, pulled taut and he kept swallowing, as if something were stuck in his throat.
Finally, he spoke. βOrmund wants to make me King.β He blurted out the words so quickly you thought you had misheard them at first. But when he looked at you, his eyes spoke for themselves, and you knew you had heard exactly what you thought you had.
Your thumb stilled where it was caressing the ridges of his knuckles. βKing?β You choked. The title feeling heavy on your tongue. Daeron, your Daeron, King.
He nodded solemnly, retreating his hand from your touch. Your arm remained unmoving on the ledger before it limply fell into your lap. βDo you want to be King?β You found yourself wondering.
A shaky sigh left him and you could see the turmoil gathering behind his eyes. Daeron was a quiet boy. But there was not much need for words when his body spoke for itself. βI do not like who I become when Iβm around himβ¦β he admitted with a pained expression. βMy uncle.β
You knew who he was referring to even without the clarification. You bit your tongue, fearing what would escape if you let everything that was swirling in your mind and bubbling in your chest boil over.
βI am different around him.β He furrowed his brow. βI do not wish to disappoint him, he has done so much for me. I do thingsβ things thatβ¦ I know are not right. But still I do them becauseββ because I love him. I want him to love me. He didnβt say it.
βYou are a good squire Daeron.β You assured him with certainty in your tone. βThe best in all the Seven Kingdoms, I have no doubt of it.β
βDo you know many squires then?β His jest came quietly, painfully void of humor.
βNo.β You admitted, shaking your head with self-assurance. βBut I do not need to.β He smiled at that. It was beautiful, pulling out of him these rare few glimpses of joy, perhaps too far fetched to be called a smile, but still it was something. Somethingβ¦
The revelation of his uncleβs kingmaking scheme weighed still heavy on your mind but you could see him fidgeting once again, wanting to say something more.
βHe made meββ he began, looked at his lap, at his clenched fists, anywhere but your face. As if he were ashamed. Worry immediately surged in you. Your mind already running through all the possibilities of what that β¦ monster might have forced him to do.
βHeββ Daeron choked on his words and you could see the tears pooling in his irises. You took his hand in yours once again, worry coiling around your heart, he flinched from the contact but didnβt pull away. βI am so ashamed Y/N.β He admitted quietly. βSo terribly ashamed. The Gods will punish meββ his voice wavered.
βDaeron.β Your voice hardened, making him focus on you, his breaths came in shallow rapid pants until finally you soothed him and he managed to pull himself together. βWhat did he make you do?β You prompted gently.
βI beheaded a man.β He finally made himself say it, and the sorrow with which he looked at you made you understand both the guilt and the fear that you would look at him different now. Think of him different. See him as some kind of monster. βBut it was justiceβ in the eyes of both Gods and menββ he was explaining it, justifying his actions to you. Ormundβs will.
It all made sense now, the heavy quietness which had washed over him when you entered, darker than usual, the jitters and the nervousness.
βAm I a monster Y/N?β He wondered, furrowing his brown in pain. βWould uncle Gwayne hate me for thisββ
βDaeron Targaryen.β You took his face between your hands, the freckles over his nose and cheeks dusted over the pale skin like stardust. You would trace every and each one and commit them to memory. βYouβ you are β¦β you swallowed. βYou are brave and you are kind and you are the best person I know.β
He offered a weak smile at that, apologetic, as if he didnβt quite believe your words.
βOh Daeron.β You felt your own heart softening, the anger bleeding into something gentle. βYou did not do anything wrong.β
He shook his head. βYou cannot say that.β He reasoned. βThat man had a family, a wifeββ
βAnd I took that from him.β He rasped. Your heart ached for the strain in his voice. βIf this be war, if this be justice and if this be mercyβ thenβ¦β he cast his eyes down once again. βPerhaps all Iβve been taught, all I amββ he stopped himself before he could dwell further on the matter.
βYou do not have to be anything with me Daeron.β You squeezed his hand. βNot Prince Daeron orβ King Daeron, or anyone elseβ¦ just Daeron.β My Daeron, you wanted to say.
Something in him finally softened at that and he brought your other hand to his cheek so that you were cradling his face, he leaned into the touch as if he were starving for it. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your palm.
βAnd anywayβ¦ what do you want?β You offered tentatively. βI meanβ¦ besides the whole King Daeron thing.β The matter seemed somewhatβ¦ distant now. Still painfully heavy and serious in its sheer gravity, but for a single moment it was just a thought. An idea. Perhaps just a jest, between two teenagers. And nothing more.
No one had ever asked him that before he realized. Not his mother, when she had sent him to Oldtown, away from herself and all his siblings, not Ormund, when he taught him the importance of legacy and religion, not even Gwayne, when he drilled into him sword lessons and how to play each note on the flute. (He did enjoy playing the flute.) But what did he, truly, want? He had never asked himself. Never allowed himself the luxury of wondering, even if he was a prince.
βHumility, brothers and sisters, humility. It is a pillar of the Seven, fore all men are equal in the eyes of Gods.β A septon had preached on a dreary morning in the Starry Sept. Daeron had vaguely remembered reading about it somewhere, in one of the verses of the Seven Pointed Star.
He pondered, mulling over the question in his mind. βI supposeβ¦β he began. βI supposed I would want for this war to end. I would wish to go back to Oldtown and become a knight there, to serve beside my uncle Gwayne. I would go to Kingβs Landing and see my mother.β
You smiled at his words. βAnd I wouldβ I would take you to wife in Oldtown.β He watched your reaction to that. βWe would wed in the Starry Sept and we would have children of our own, but first, we would visit Dorne and Essos, the Free Cities and see all the wonders of the World.β
He resumed rambling on about the dresses he would have commissioned for you, real gowns, all the colorful, rich fabrics you would choose, the sweet cakes and the jewels⦠but you cut him off. Because you knew. You both knew. That would never ever happen. You were a girl of commoners blood. And he a prince of the royal bloodline. A Targaryen. The blood of Old Valyria. Any children of yours would be bastards, born out of wedlock or not.
You still showed him gratitude by the look you gave him, but his brows furrowed. βYou think I am jesting, you do not take me for serious ββ
βDaeron.β You began calmly, shaking your head calmly. βYou know it is not possible. No matter how much either of us wish it were, it never will beβ¦ you are a Targaryenββ
βLook at me Y/N!β His voice raised slightly, not yelling, but quite evidently agitated. βLook at my hair, look at my clothes.β He clenched his jaw. βI am no more Targaryen than any Hightower knightββ
βDo not say that, your father was a Kingββ you attempted to reason.
βMy father.β He reminisced dully, the word bitter on his tongue, thinking of the man he had never known. The man who had never bothered to know any of his sons. You both knew who Daeronβs real father was. Who had brought him up. Who had taught him. Who had guided him.
You could see now, how torn he was, between two worlds, between all he was and all he wasnβt, between all he could be and all he could have been. And all he could never be.
βLet us settle this matter.β He finally answered. βI am tired of itβ¦β he admitted, letting the fatigue wash over him. βI do not wish to discuss it any further.β
βOf course.β You nodded, standing up as he pulled you to your feet. Daeron still remained seated as he pulled you close to himself. He leaned his head forward, settling it onto the soft of your body as he exhaled, breathing in your familiar scent.
Your fingers immediately carded through his auburn locks and you felt him soften beneath your touch. You leaned down to press a kiss into the crown of his head.
βAvy jorrΔelan.β You heard him mutter into your bodice, the vowels and syllables forming a foreign shape to your ears. You pulled his head up, forcing him to look at you, squinting your brow. βWhat?β
He just chuckled softly, squeezing your hand which was beside you and pressing a kiss to the back of your knuckle.
βAre you making fun of me?β You raised a brow in mock offense. βI would neverββ You shoved him away playfully. βCruel, cruel prince. How could you make a poor girl suffer like that.β
He caught your hand mid-air, pulling you back before you could escape. βI would not dream of it. I would not dream of letting you go in a thousand yearsβ¦β he looked up at you, and perhaps it was the wine you had drunk or perhaps it was something else, perhaps the marvel of being in love for the first time which made you feel this warm. Heart thumping, breath catching.
βGood.β You hummed. βBecause I do not indeed on going anywhere.β
Daeron let out a noise of contentment, closing his eyes, letting himself find solace in your embrace. Be free of all his burdens, if only for a few fleeting hours, letting himself be just Daeron.
envisioning eater! jason todd who tongue-fucks you throughout the night and makes you squirt over and over again. one of your legs rests on his shoulder while the other is suspended in the air by his strong arm that's been there for the past few hours. your thighs clench together every time he hits the sweet spot, the one that makes you release juices all over him.
but he doesn't stop, not until your legs are trembling and you're grabbing his hair so tight it's about to be ripped off. he loves the taste of you; he can never get enough of you.
. . . not that he actually owns the color red or anything β itβs just that when he sees you wearing anything maroon or scarlet . . . his brain immediately associates it with red hood.
itβs like a silent declaration that you chose him. despite everything.
despite all the skeletons in his closet and the anything but pretty remnants of his past trailing behind him like a shadow, clawing at his neck, threatening to suffocate him and everything good in his life.
it doesnβt even necessarily have to be an item of clothing thatβs his. it could be anything.
for example: a maroon top or a red bow in your hair, a pair of tinted sunglasses or that little handbag you always carry around, even if jason keeps insisting that βliterally nothing can fit inside that thingβ.
and still, you somehow manage to shove all you need inside: your phone, your lipgloss, your wallet etc.
it doesnβt really cross your mind when you do it, itβs instinctive, itβs second nature. you just put it on because well β¦ you like it.
to jason however, itβs more than just clothes and accessories. so much more.
it is a declaration of loyalty. physical evidence of your commitment to each other. of something he cannot doesnβt want to name yet.
whenever he sees you walking around the apartment wearing that one specific tank top which clings just perfectly to your waist and accentuates your cleavage. his mind goes numb. literally.
bonus points if itβs red. bonus points if youβre wearing no bra.
at one point, he even starts encouraging you to wear more red lipstick or red lipgloss or whatever, and when you asked him about it he just shrugged. βlooks nice.β
safe to say, it didnβt take you long to figure it out.
so you started adding more red to your wardrobe, nothing too obvious or flashy β a new belt, a wristwatch with a burgundy band, some ballet flats. subtle, chic. (as much as a vivid color like red could be)
however what really makes jasonβs brain short-circuit, convincing him that dick has thrown a batarang at his head, because his brain has become incapable of processing coherent thoughts, is when you got red nails.
βyou like them?β you had grinned expectantly, holding out your pretty fingers with a coat of dark red polish covering your nails.
he started at them. sucked in a breath. shoved his hands into his pockets. nodded curtly.
βjasonβ¦β you snickered softly.
βwhat?β
βare you blushing right now?β
yeah, you never let him live it down.
and when you do actually take any of his red clothes. whew. the man is on the last thread of willpower.
youβre doing something casual like preparing dinner or scrolling on your phone but youβre in his hoodie. the soft, cotton, maroon one he always wears.
βthief.β itβs the only thing he can manage. but when you argue that βitβs soft and it smells like himβ and then you offer to give it back he just replies with.
βkeep it.β
maybe he doesnβt really mind.
heβs not so subtle about eyeing or outright staring at you (not to be creepy or anything) when you wear anything of his. his mind trailing to some β¦ unorthodox places.
so thatβs how, during the trajectory of your relationship, you manage to accumulate quite a few pieces of red clothes. some yours. some his.
but anyway, no one can deny that red hood loves seeing you in his color.
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π£²β some info about me !
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