Summary: Working as a bartender is not an easy gig, but Valarr Targaryen always seems to make it better; he's kind and caring and never rude. You think he's just a great customer, that is until you wake up one morning after dealing with a serious creep last night, to a gift from Valarr calling you his "good girl" and the gift...well, let's just say, you'll never not be his good girl. (2.7k)
Pairing: Modern!Yandere!Valarr Targaryen x fem!bartender!reader
TW: 18+ due to graphic violence (Valarr cuts off a guy's fingers). Mentions alcohol. Serious creep at the bar. Mentions of dealing with creeps. Jumpscare at the end. I think that's it.
Credit: GIF @borgialucrezia; story requested by Anon, here
Being a bartender meant dealing with creeps. The kind of guys who thought the low-cut tops you wore were an invitation to flirt, to touch, to act like they owned you even when you wore them both for yourself because you liked them and because you got better tops that way.
Being a bartender meant that every night, you were confronted with exactly what men thought of women. Thought of you. But it paid the bills, subsidized your tuition and kept everything going. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t glamorous, but it was something and something is always better than nothing.
The only thing that made bartending worthwhile was your favorite customer, Valarr. He came in every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, just at the start of your shift and stayed for a few hours. Those few hours were the best that you had in your job because he was a customer, nothing more and nothing less. He didn’t make crude comments, he didn’t flirt and he didn’t leave his number scrawled on the napkins.
What he was, was polite and kind and a great tipper. The most he’d ask for were a few moments of conversation, something to delay his return to his table whenever he was out with his monstrous cousin, Aerion. And it was such a simple request that you obliged every time. You didn’t see the harm in it; you didn’t see the possessive glimmer in his eyes or the way his hand tightened on his glass every time someone flirted.
He was just a customer to you.
He was the one who stumbled in a few years ago, his arm looped around his cousin Daeron as he carried him to a table and you’d watched, tossing your towel over your shoulder, yelling out to the people at the bar, “two minutes!”
“Need help?” you’d asked, walking over to them, hands on your hips as you surveyed the scene of the impossibly drunk man whose limbs were so weak that he was practically liquid, spilling out across the booth he’d been unceremoniously dumped in by the shorter man with the dark dark hair, save for a single white streak that glimmered in the sepia tinted lights of the bar.
“Coffee, please,” he’d said, voice lilting with an accent, the kind you heard in the upper crust of King’s Landing, the one not heard so much among where you worked, your neighbourhood. “A lot of it.”
“Yeah,” you’d replied, “you got it. I’ll bring a bucket too…mainly cause I don’t want to clean up his vomit at closing time.” You’d turned and ducked back behind your counter, lifting the divider up and dropping it down as you disappeared back into the kitchen, turning the coffee machine on, setting some beans up in the grinder.
You’d gone back out as the coffee brewed, mixing drinks and serving shots, laughing under your breath at the pickup lines some boys used at the bar on other people, pickup lines that should have been left in the vault, dusty and unused. When you heard beeping, you’d readied the pot and put it on a tray, a bucket in your hand, hip bumping the divider up as you walked back to the booth.
“Coffee,” you’d announced, setting the rubber, circular carrying tray down with the pot and the old, chipped white porcelain mugs. “And a bucket.” You’d set it down and turned to go when you felt fingers curling lightly around your wrist, your muscles going rigid at the touch. It wasn’t unusual for men to touch you, but never when you were outside of the bar, when you were serving, mainly because they wanted you to hurry up and get back behind the counter and make more drinks.
“Thank you,” you’d heard the shorter, sober boy say and you glanced over your shoulder at him, lips pressed thin as you nodded and pointedly removed your hand from his grip, walking back to the bar, back to the job you hated and enjoyed at the same time.
But when you were closing up that night, you found a thousand dollar tip at the booth with a note in elegant, expansive cursive. One that read I meant the thank you. The money cannot accurately express my gratitude, my feelings, but it’s an attempt.
For you, he’d been the best customer. For him…you’d been something else.
For him, you’d been his. From the moment he’d laid eyes on you, he’d understood that he’d never before felt love because it was all designed for you.
His soul was yours; his life was yours and yours was his. He knew it and you would too, in time. He was willing to give you that even if everything in him had him needing you, needing to press you against the wall and mark your neck with his teeth, leave something that those pigs at the bar could see. So that they could understand that you were his.
But he refrained.
He refrained because he understood that, perhaps, you were too busy, worried and stressed to let yourself see what was before you. He understood that you would need time and he was willing to give you that. He was willing to give you time if that’s what you so needed because he would still remain. Always there.
Whether you knew it or not.
It was merely him protecting you, his love, that had him follow you home, set surveillance upon you so he knew where you were and what you did every moment of every day. He knew your favourite colour, favourite movie before you could tell him, but when you did in those precious few moments of conversation, he felt like the sun had smiled upon him, like the universe was telling him that soon, Valarr. Soon she will be yours.
And truthfully…
He could not wait any longer for you to be ready.
He’d make you ready.
“Good luck!” Red says, her hand clapping down on your shoulder as she steps out from behind the bar, untying her apron and tossing it onto the storage shelf just behind the divider.
“That bad?” you ask, side-stepping her and slipping behind the bar, hands shifting, pulling down your ever rising up top, the one that shows a bit more skin than you’re comfortable with without the apron on.
“Worse,” she says, slipping into the back hallway, the one you just came from, the lockers there, stuff stored before shift, retrieved after shift, the back exit there, ready for your escape at the end of a long, long shift. “But you can handle it, tough girl! I have faith.” She disappears around the bend in the hallway, her long red hair the last bit of her you can see as you reach and grab your apron, the half-one that you tie around your hips, looping it back around the front, the ties far too long for any apron and you refuse to have anything that someone can pull on. Trap you. Cage you with.
Worse than bad was never good at this place. It meant that the creeps were in top form and wouldn’t stop no matter how many times you reiterated, not interested.
“Hey, pretty lady!” And so, it began.
“Just a minute, please, sir,” you call out, stepping into the bar area, glancing behind you, taking note of the bottles, of the ones low, high. What’s been popular and what’s been avoided. Vodka and tequila, good. Whiskey, bad.
“You single?” you hear someone call out and you can feel as your jaw tightens, teeth grinding together as you turn around, eyebrows raised, arms crossing.
“Anything I can get for anyone?” you ask, cursing yourself as soon as the words leave your mouth, a man to the right of you leaning forwards, eyes tracing your figure. You can feel his eyes on you, feel the way he’s tracing your figure with his eyes. The worst part is, is that he won’t even tip well.
“Your number,” he says and his voice is just as disgusting as the way his eyes feel on your body. The way his stare makes your skin crawl like a thousand spiders and their ten legs are skittering all over your skin.
“This is a bar, not a speed-dating exercise, sir,” you say, turning, biceps flexing against your fingers as you look at him. “I’m happy to provide you alcohol, but my number is not something on offer at this establishment.”
You wish that had been the end of it, but the guy is relentless, making comment after comment about your body, about what he could do to you, make you feel. It doesn’t matter how many times you say no, not interested, please stop, he just keeps going.
Your manager is no help, never has been. He values profit over employee safety and the more the guy verbally assaults you, the more drinks he buys.
“Sir, no!” you yell out, his last words, last sentence having struck a chord. Something about his dick and your tits and you stopped listening because you just can’t stand it. You hate the objectification; you hate that to wear anything that you feel good in is to invite commentary from men.
A bit of tequila from the shot you’ve slammed down on the bar top splashes out but the group of girls here for Saturday’s karaoke night don’t notice, simply slamming them back and running all together, shiny and glamorous for now, up to the stage, Britney Spears spilling through the roughed up speakers.
“I believe,” a silk smooth voice calls out, the bell above the door chiming open, “that the lady said no.” You didn’t notice Valarr come in, only taking notice of the bodyguard hovering in the doorway.
“What’s it to you, man? She yours?” Valarr steps up into the spot vacated by the gaggle of girls, flashing you a brief, heart-stopping smile before leaning his elbow on the counter, body turned to face the creep.
“She is hers,” he whispers, tone calm, but a kind of calm so calm that it’s terrifying. Only the creep is too drunk to notice.
“Then it don’t matter if I flirt or not,” he says and Valarr reaches forwards, his hand curling into the neck of the man’s white tee, pulling him forwards, mouth hovering over his ear as he whispers something that has the man blanching. He pushes forwards and the man stumbles back, looking from you to Valarr and then running off, shoving past the security guard into the cool, not-so-clean air of Flea Bottom.
“So sorry that happened to you, love,” Valarr says now, turning back, both elbows on the counter as he looks at you, lips drawn into a tight smile, a glimmer of seething, roiling anger in his eyes. The depth of that anger almost scares you, but he blinks and it’s gone.
Like it was never there at all.
“Happens all the time,” you tell him, nodding at a man who holds up his empty glass, asking for a refill. “Do you want something from the bar?”
“Oh no,” he says, “I’m simply here for you.”
The words both make you want to smile and hide, run and yet stay, but it must just be a slip of the tongue…right?
That man had no right to look at you, let alone speak to you! He didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air that you breathed! Occupy the same space as you! You were his! You were above all of them! Above everyone because you…you are everything!
It was anger that loosened Valarr’s tongue, had him grabbing the man and whispering a promise, not a threat into his ear.
“If you are not locked up in your home at the end of the night, I will find you and I will make you pay for daring to make my love uncomfortable. Do you understand?”
“You don’t listen well, do you?” he calls out now, the man’s form slumped against a wall, a blunt held between his fingers.
“I-I’m s-sorry! D-don’t hurt me!” the man calls out, his voice rising and falling, a cry contained in those words. Pathetic, he did not care that he hurt you. No, he cares not for anyone but himself.
“I made you a promise,” Valarr whispers, stepping forwards, hands on his knees, pulling his trouser legs up as he crouches down before the man, removing the blunt from his fingers and tossing it aside, into the gutter, removing a dagger from his jacket pocket and lifting the man’s right hand. “And I always keep my promises.”
And then he takes his knife to the index finger, pressing the blade through the flesh, the finger falling onto the ground, blood leaking from it, spurting from the place where it had previously been on his hand, the man screaming, screaming, screaming, screaming.
Valarr then lifts the knife to the middle, cutting through every single finger on his right hand. Only once all the fingers rest on the ground does he step back, wiping the dagger off on the man’s pant legs and tucking the knife back into his pocket. If the occupants of Flea Bottom know one thing, it’s that a Targaryen done crime never happened at all.
“Take the index finger,” Valarr orders his guard. “Dispose of the rest.”
“What do I do with the finger, sir?”
“Put it in a fancy gift box. I have a gift for my girl.”
It’s the doorbell that rouses you from your sleep, your dreams haunted by the remnants of the creep, of Valarr and his declaration of being there for you. The doorbell sounds through your house, ringing through the stillness as you slide out of your bed, too lazy to throw the covers back, rather slithering down and out, feet on the floor as you push to a standing, padding down the hall towards your door.
“COMING!” you call out, drawing your hoodie sleeves low over your hands, the heating in your house being on the fritz, meaning that you’re sleeping in a hoodie and fleece pants with socks because it’s winter and your heating sucks. You reach the door, pulling it open, to reveal a porch that has no one standing on it, rather a pretty box tied with a bright iridescent bow.
You crouch, lifting it up and looking left and right for the person who left it, but seeing no one. You step back into your house, bumping the door closed with your hip and walking into the kitchen, setting it on the counter.
There’s a card, your name in flowing calligraphy which you pull down, flipping it over, reading in Valarr’s neat, elegant and ever recognizable writing, My good girl; your loyalty delights me. It tells me that you know as I do, that we are meant to be. A forever match. Enjoy the gift. I’ll pick you up at 8 for our date. Wear the necklace and wear something in red, you look best in red.
You can feel your stomach twist at the words on the card and you step it aside, pulling the bow open, the walls of the box falling flat, revealing the contents. The first is a pretty necklace made of silver with a deep red ruby pendant, but the chain is so short that you realize…it’s a collar. A way to mark you.
Something to show ownership of his good girl.
The second is a jar, one covered with a cloth and you lift it from the box, the cloth falling away to reveal a cut off finger suspended in liquid.
It’s like a horror movie, your heart is pounding, lungs constricting with your throat and you’re screaming, but you don’t even realize that you’re screaming, don’t even realize that your hand has opened, the jar slipping from your hand and shattering on the floor into a million tiny pieces, formaldehyde splashing over the gritty, yellowing tiles of your kitchen floor, the finger rocking side-to-side like a possessed talisman.
The only real thought in your mind is what would happen if you hadn’t been his good girl?
໒ Summary : What would their wish would be if they had the one wish willow on their hand to have the girl they want?
Including : Aerion Targaryen, Valarr Targaryen, Jacaerys Velaryon, Gwayne Hightower, Ormund Hightower (all Modern AU) × f!reader
CW: Modern AU, Dark Romance, Supernatural Mind Control, Compulsion, Obsessive & Possessive Behavior, Dubious Consent, Loss of Autonomy . Not supporting bear's action, Read at your own risk . "obsession" movie inspired.
A/N: reminding that this is just a fiction. everyone is crazy af in here
Aerion Brightflame
Aerion was never someone who accepted rejection.
As you turned your back on him in the dimly lit hallway behind the lecture halls, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He had pulled out all the stops—leaning against the wall, flashing his usual lethal smirk, casually offering you a ride in his sports car like it was the greatest privilege in the world.
And you? You had just adjusted your backpack, looked at him with complete indifference, and said, "No thanks, Aerion. I'm busy."
No hesitation. No blush. Just sheer, cold indifference as you walked past him, the soft click of your shoes echoing down the corridor.
Aerion stood frozen for a split second, his silver-blonde hair falling slightly over his eyes. His pride wasn't just wounded; it was utterly scorched. Watching your retreating back, something inside him snapped—a raw, dangerous frustration that burned away whatever patience he had left.
He slipped his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the One Wish Willow box. It was cool, heavy, and pulsing with a subtle, unnatural hum against his palm. He didn't care about the warnings or how ridiculous it seemed to use it right here in the middle of campus. He just knew he couldn't let you walk away from him again.
Taking two swift steps forward, his dark eyes locked onto your figure, Aerion held the branch tight in his grip and whispered bitterly into the cold air,
"I wish for her stop walking away. I don't care how—just make her look at only me. Make her body refuse to leave me behind."
He snapped the branch in two. The moment the last word left his lips, a sudden, heavy static filled the air.
Just ten paces ahead of him, your feet suddenly felt like lead. A strange, sharp chill ran down your spine, followed by a dizzying wave of warmth that flooded your chest. Your heart gave a violent, unnatural thud. Suddenly, the urge to keep walking completely vanished, replaced by an overwhelming, magnetic pull drawing your attention back behind you.
You stopped dead in your tracks.
Your head felt heavy, filled with a sudden, intrusive image of Aerion—his eyes, his voice, his presence. The indifference you felt just five seconds ago was completely wiped clean, replaced by an intense, suffocating need to be near him.
Slowly, almost like a puppet pulled by invisible strings, you turned around.
Aerion was still standing there, holding something small in his hand before casually slipping it back into his pocket. A dark, triumphant smirk slowly spread across his lips as he saw you frozen, staring at him with wide, dazed eyes.
You took a slow step back toward him, your breath hitching as you looked up into his gaze. The words left your mouth before you could even process why you were saying them.
"...Aerion?"your voice trembled slightly, eyes glued to his. "Actually... changed my mind. Let's go home together."
Aerion took a slow step closer, closing the distance between you, his eyes burning with a dark, satisfied possession.
"I thought you'd never ask," he murmured softly, reaching out to gently take your hand.
Valarr Targaryen
Valarr was always the epitome of self-control.
As the quiet, dutiful heir, he was used to keeping his emotions perfectly checked. But standing near the campus courtyard under the afternoon drizzle, watching you politely reject him for the third time this week, his composure was threadbare.
He had brought you your favorite iced coffee, offered to help you carry your heavy books, and gently asked if he could drive you home.
And as usual, you offered him a small, distant smile—the kind reserved for polite strangers—and pushed the coffee back toward him. "Thank you, Valarr, but really... I can handle it myself. You don't need to keep doing this. I'll see you around."
You turned away, clutching your tote bag against your shoulder, your steps steady as you walked out into the rain toward the bus stop.
Valarr stood alone under the shelter, holding the cold cup of coffee. His chest constricted with a heavy, suffocating ache. He saw how warmly you laughed with your friends, how relaxed you were around everyone else, while with him, you always built an invisible, unbreakable wall.
I’m tired of being just a harmless background figure to her.
His hand dropped into his coat pocket, wrapping around the cold, carved edges of the Willow box he’d been carrying for days. He pulled it out just enough to hold it in his fist, his knuckles pale. Standing right there under the awning, watching your figure get further away, Valarr let his quiet desperation take over.
He lowered his head slightly and whispered sharply into the rain-chilled air,
". Make her need me. I wish to be the only warmth she seeks when everything feels cold."
The instant the wish left his lips, a sudden, unnatural shudder rippled through the courtyard air.
A few yards ahead, you froze.
The rain felt bitterly cold on your skin, but inside your chest, a strange, terrifying emptiness suddenly bloomed. A violent chill rushed up your spine, making your hands shake so badly you almost dropped your books. Your mind, which a second ago was thinking about your schedule, was suddenly flooded with a suffocating sense of helplessness—and an intense, magnetic urge to find Valarr.
Your feet stopped. The bus stop was just a few feet away, but every instinct in your body screamed that you couldn't leave. You needed him.
Slowly, as if guided by an unseen force, you turned back around.
Through the light rain, you saw Valarr standing under the awning, his dark eyes locked onto yours, steady and unblinking. The usual soft, hesitant look on his face was replaced by a deep, unwavering intensity.
Your breath hitched. You took a step back toward him, then another, your feet moving on their own until you were standing right in front of him again, completely drenched and trembling.
You looked up at him with wide, helpless eyes, clutching his jacket sleeve.
"...Valarr," your voice broke slightly, full of a sudden, desperate need you couldn't explain. "I... I don't want to go home alone. Please stay with me."
A slow, subtle smile touched Valarr's lips as he slipped his hands around yours, his grip firm, warm, and entirely unyielding.
"I'm right here," he murmured softly, pulling you under his umbrella. "I’m not going anywhere."
Jacaerys Velaryon
Jace had been the perfect gentleman for as long as he could remember.
He was the guy who always remembered your coffee order, stayed up late to help you study, and walked you home just to make sure you were safe. But standing near the campus library under the fading evening light, his heart hit rock bottom.
He had just offered you his umbrella, stepping out into the drizzle himself so not a single drop of rain would hit you.
You stopped, looking at him with a gentle, pitying expression that hurt more than a slap to the face. You softly pushed the umbrella back toward his chest.
"Jace, stop... please," you said softly, giving him that frustrating, gentle smile. "You’re such a good friend, but I really don't want you wasting your time on me like this. I can walk alone."
A good friend.
You turned around, pulling your hood over your head as you walked out into the open courtyard, leaving him behind in the shade.
Jace stood frozen. His bright, warm smile completely vanished, replaced by a hollow, burning ache in his chest. He was tired of being the 'safe option'. He was sick of watching you walk away while he stayed behind like a foolish, loyal dog.
His fist tightened inside his coat pocket, his fingers pressing hard against the cool, smooth surface of the Willow box. He had swore he’d never use something like this—that he’d win your heart fair and square. But watching your silhouette disappear into the fog, his patience completely snapped.
Pulling the branch out just enough to feel its faint pulse, Jace stared intently at your back and whispered, his usual gentle voice turning low, sharp, and resolute.
"I’m done being just a friend. Make her turn back. I wish she feels as desperately, hopelessly attached to me as I am to her."
A heavy, electric pulse instantly shot through the damp air.
A few yards away, you took another step— and completely froze.
A sudden, overwhelming wave of emotion crashed into your chest, making your breath catch in your throat. It felt like an invisible wire had snapped tight around your heart, tugging you violently backward. The cold rain didn't matter anymore. The schedule in your head completely evaporated. All you could feel was an intense, suffocating ache—a sudden, desperate fear of losing Jace.
Your eyes widened in confusion as tears welled up without warning. Why do I suddenly feel so terrified of leaving him?
You turned around so fast your wet sneakers squeaked on the pavement.
Jace was still standing under the awning, watching you. But the sweet, hesitant boy from two seconds ago was gone; his dark gaze was fixed on you with an intense, unwavering possessiveness.
You ran straight back through the rain, practically throwing yourself toward him. You grabbed the front of his jacket, looking up at him with wide, trembling eyes, your heart pounding wildly.
"Jace...Jace, I’m sorry," you choked out, clinging to him as if you'd drown if you let go. "Don't leave. Please... don't look at me like that. I don't want to be just friends anymore. Take me with you."
Jace dropped the umbrella onto the ground, bringing both hands up to frame your face, wrapping you tightly in his warmth as a dark, satisfied smile spread across his lips.
"I'm right here," he whispered against your forehead, his grip tightening so you could never pull away again. "I’ve got you now."
Gwayne Hightower
Gwayne was used to being the smooth-talker everyone wanted around. He had the charm, the sharp style, and the kind of easy confidence that usually made people bend to his will without him even trying.
Except for you.
You were standing near the steps outside the campus cafeteria, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Gwayne had walked up beside you, leaning in with his signature cocky smirk, tapping his fingers against the strap of your bag.
"Come on," he teased, tilting his head with an easy laugh. "You’ve been staring at your phone all afternoon. Let me take you out for dinner. I promise I’m way better company than whatever’s on that screen."
You didn't even smile. You just gently brushed his hand off your bag, giving him a weary, unimpressed look.
"Gwayne, please. I'm really not in the mood for your jokes today," you said plainly, stepping past him. "I'm going home."
No banter. No playful back-and-forth. Just a clean, effortless rejection that left him standing on the steps like a complete fool.
Gwayne’s smirk instantly melted away. His jaw set into a hard line as he watched you walk down the stairs toward the crowded courtyard. His ego was stinging, but beneath that pride was a darker, persistent frustration that had been brewing for months. He didn't want to just be the guy you brushed off with an annoyance in your eyes.
His hand darted into his jacket pocket, his fingers wrapping around the smooth, heavy surface of the Willow box he’d bought off an antique store for a joke.
Holding it tightly inside his pocket, his gaze pinned to your back, Gwayne dropped his casual facade completely. He leaned against the stone pillar and murmured under his breath, his voice laced with bitter intensity,
"Stop letting her run from me. I wish for her to realize she can’t get me out of her head, no matter how hard she tries."
A heavy, static charge rippled through the air the second the words left his mouth.
Down at the bottom of the stairs, your steps suddenly faltered.
A sharp, dizzying pulse hit the back of your brain, followed by a sudden rush of heat that made your breath catch in your throat. The frustration you felt a second ago vanished, completely replaced by an intense, overwhelming urge that made your knees feel weak. Your mind felt utterly consumed by Gwayne—his voice, his laugh, the way he looked at you.
You stopped dead in your tracks in the middle of the crowded walk.
Why was I walking away? The thought hit you with terrifying force. The idea of leaving him behind suddenly felt entirely wrong, almost unbearable.
Slowly, you spun around on your heel, looking back up the stairs.
Gwayne was still standing up there, his hands pulled out of his pockets, watching you with dark, burning eyes. Seeing you stop and turn around, a slow, dangerous smirk crept back onto his face—this time, far more triumphant.
You practically sprinted back up a few steps toward him, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs, eyes wide as you looked up at him.
"Gwayne..." you breathed out, clutching the lapel of his jacket without even realizing it. "Wait... don't go yet. Can we... can we go somewhere together? Just the two of us?"
Gwayne wrapped an arm securely around your waist, pulling you flush against him with a low, satisfied chuckle.
"Now that," he whispered against your ear, his grip tightening possessively, "is much more like it."
Ormund hightower
Ormund was a man accustomed to authority.
He was refined, structured, and used to having people listen whenever he spoke. Yet, standing outside the law building’s lecture hall, all that polish meant absolute zero to you.
He had walked alongside you down the hallway, keeping a respectful distance while offering his help with a dark, composed tone. "I noticed you were struggling with the case study earlier. Let's get coffee—I can walk you through the arguments before tomorrow."
You didn't even slow down your pace. You just hugged your binder tighter against your chest, giving him a flat, distant look.
"I've already figured it out, Ormund," you replied evenly, not a single trace of emotion in your voice. "Thanks, but I don't need your help. Excuse me, my ride is here."
Without another word, you stepped around him and headed straight for the glass exit doors, leaving him standing alone under the harsh fluorescent lights.
Ormund didn't flinch, but his jaw clenched until the muscle ticked. The sheer dismissiveness in your tone hit him harder than any open insult. You treated him like an inconvenience—an unnecessary distraction.
His hand slipped smoothly into the pocket of his tailored coat, his long fingers closing around the intricate, heavy wood of the Willow branch he always kept on him. He didn't raise his voice or make a scene. Instead, he stood tall, his dark eyes tracking your movement through the glass doors with icy precision.
He took a slow, deliberate breath and whispered into the quiet hallway, his voice thick with unyielding authority:
"I'm done letting her act like she has a choice. Make her turn around. i wish she belongs by my side—and nowhere else."
The instant the command left his lips, an eerie, heavy pressure settled over the air.
Out on the front steps, just as your hand reached for the door handle of your ride, your body completely locked up.
A sudden, dizzying wave of heat rushed to your head, making your vision blur for a fraction of a second. A sharp, suffocating sense of panic spiked in your chest—not because of danger, but because of an terrifyingly strong realization that leaving Ormund was a grave mistake. Every instinct in your mind suddenly screamed that the only safe, correct place for you to be was right back next to him.
Your hand slid off the door handle.
Your heart thudded violently against your ribs as you pulled back, your feet moving in reverse as if compelled by an invisible command.
You turned back toward the glass doors and walked straight back inside.
Ormund was still standing in the center of the foyer, his hands resting casually in his coat pockets, watching your return with a cold, triumphant calmness.
You hurried over to him, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps as you looked up into his eyes, completely unable to break eye contact.
"Ormund..." you murmured, your voice trembling as you reached out to grab his sleeve. "I... I made a mistake. Please don't let me leave. Take me with you."
Ormund leaned down slightly, his hand coming up to gently cup the side of your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline with dark, possessive satisfaction.
"I knew you'd see reason," he whispered smoothly, his eyes burning with absolute victory. "Let's go."
summary — with growing threats against your son’s birthright, you travel to ashford meadow to petition to the hand of the king directly. arriving as a young widow, you leave the tourney a promised bride to a prince.
warnings — slight smut, oral f!receiving, dry humping (kind of), kissing, yearning, angst, reader wants to lowkey merge souls, reader has a child, reader is also a widow, period-typical sexism, valarr isn’t the stepfather he’s the father that stepped up, I have never interacted with a toddler, long fic, plot heavy
i lovee your work so much i like vist ur page so many times and what do u think about valarr having a big crush on his cousin and goes up to maekar to beg to marry her and what maekar would think about it yk ?
I WILL GET ON MY KNEES AND BEG—Valarr Targaryen
Valarr Targaryen x Targ!reader
summary: Valarr is ready to do anything to win your hand in marriage, even getting on his knees and begging his uncle.
words: 1.3k
cw: MDNI 18+ targcest, nothing really other than that, reader is Maekar's eldest daughter, but no physical features are described.
You were a Goddess. He was not positive if it was the Old, The New, the Flames, the Lord of Light, but it did not matter it. You were a Goddess of Beauty to him all the same.
You were absolutely everything to him. The reason for his existence he thought often. His heart walking around, blessing everyone for your mere existence.
You danced around the floor with Aegon, a wide grin pulling at your beauty lips as your head was tilted back your laugh spilling out into the loud hall. It would have gone unnoticed to anyone else due to all the other sounds, but not to Valarr. Never to Valarr.
He stood on the outskirts watching, waiting patiently for his turn after you made it through your younger siblings. That was always the deal, and Valarr would have waited years to simply have the pleasure of dancing with you.
Though he much proffered when you would drag him off into the gardens, slipping past all the guards. Not because you would kiss him, though that was always a plus. He liked the quiet. When the two of you could exist without the watchful eyes and the pleasured of the crown.
Your eyes looked with his again, and you smiled at him. He could feel his own lips turn up slightly before Aegon pulled you once more attempting to spin you.
Valarr was so lost in his thoughts that he did not even notice the presence next to him. Though he probably should have due to the loud drunken steps, and the stench of wine that never quite left the man.
"If you stare any longer you might scare her off," Daeron mused, a lazy grin pulling at his lips. "Though I think she does like your attention."
He rolled his eyes, "I am admiring my future wife is all."
"Are you sure about that?"
The mismatched eyes turned meeting his violet ones. "What?" he asked, in confusion.
"My father has been speaking to Lord Tyrell about marrying his grandson," he answered with a shrug.
Valarr's eyes widened in horror. This was the worse possible thing he had ever heard in his entire existent. The thought of you married to anyone that was not him. That just would not do!
There had never been a formal betrothal, but he thought he did not need one. It was not secret how fond you were of the other, and he thought…His eyes then moved to the high table looking to Maekar who sat beside Baelor.
He would make this right. He then decided.
The Prince was moving through the crowd without a second thought, pausing before you to alert you of his intentions. You looked up as if you had felt his presence meeting his eyes. You beamed at him and he lost his train of thought pausing monetarily in his place as he simply stared at you, "Have you finally come to dance with me, Val?" you asked.
He could hear his heartbeat picking up. Your smile, your beauty, your angelic voice and the way you said his name. "No not yet, my love," he told you gently.
You frowned slightly, and it almost made him forget the task at hand due to how much he hated that sight. He moved forward cupping your face gently. No one in the crowd even paused to look at you continuing to spin around the pair of you, "I have to go have a talk with your father," he said.
The disappointment from only a moment ago, replaced by something that he had seen so often with you. In the quite moments when it was only you and him. No loud noises. No distractions.
It was the love you held for him. The one you confessed so loudly compared to his quieter admissions. It was the all consuming feeling that filled you both.
"Are you…" you trailed off, but you did not need to finish. He knew you better than that, as if you were an extension of his own thoughts and you never needed to complete yours, because he always knew.
"I am," he nodded in agreement. He reached down gripping your hand before pressing a kiss to the back of it.
"Do not leave me waiting long," you told him.
He grinned at you, "I wouldn't dream of it."
With a strength he did not quite know he possessed he pulled himself away from you, and began toward your father. He sat talking about something with his eldest brother, Valarr's father. The younger's face was a gruff as always as he rolled his eyes at something the elder said.
And before he knew it he was standing in front of the two men, "Valarr
"I request an audience with you," he suddenly declared, looking at his uncle.
Maekar turned looking to his brother, "What the fuck is he talking about?"
Baelor shrugged, "It is Valarr than requests an audience, Maekar. Not I," he reminded the younger.
He scoffed then turned back toward his nephew, "What the fuck do you want?" he then asked, not moving from his seat.
Valarr was undettered. This was Maekar's typical personality. Cold, stern, and harsh with his words, but underneath all that was a man who loved his children. Who loved you his first born, his precious girl, and only wanted the best for her.
And he believed he was that for you.
He puffed his chest out slight, trying to appear bigger than he was. He wanted to seem impressive, to seem worthy, but that was harder to do with a man that had earned the name of the Anvil.
"I wish to marry your daughter,"
"No," he answered immediately.
The young man's face immediately fell, but he was not going to take rejection that easily, "I will get on my knees and beg," he said.
The uncle's mouth turned into a grin as if he was tempted to see just how far he was willing to go. "Maekar," Baelor warned, knowing his son would do exactly as he said.
"I will do it," he repeated.
"You will get down on your knees in front of all these guests? The heir to the heir on his knees begging for my daughter's hand like an insolent child?" the stern man asked, leaning forward.
Baelor's eyes flickered around watching half in intrigued,and the other. making sure no one was witnessing this scene, because his brother was being his stubborn self.
Valarr nodded immediately, "Yes I will," he took a deep breath steadying himself, "I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and I will work every day to be the man she deserves. Getting on my knees and begging seems inadequate to the love I hold for her so if that is what you need I will l do it."
He then went to sink to his knees, but his uncle's hand shot out stopping him, "Do not get on your fucking knees. Maekar let out a sigh, shaking his head, "I will discuss it with your father. Now go and dance with my daughter so she will stop glaring at me," he instructed.
Valarr grinned widely, "Thank you," he said, with a bow before practically sprinting off toward you. As you awaited him, your hand already extending indicating exactly what you wanted. Both men watched as he complied, as you both danced around, matching grins on your face.
"Is there even much to discuss?" Baelor asked, once his eldest was out of ear shot.
"Oh, no. She already asked, but told me not to do anything until he did himself. I do not possess the ability to tell her no, and neither does he it seems."
a knight of the seven kingdoms tags: @kyvillasstuff @goldengirl86 @scarletwolfxox @witch-of-letters @confusedwhitegirl10 @itspbjellytime
THE LAST two months of your pregnancy felt longer than the entire rest of the year put together. When you had first discovered you were expecting a child, you had imagined many things: the morning sickness everyone talked about, a few sudden cravings in the middle of the night, some tiredness, perhaps even a few mood swings. You had prepared yourself for all of this calmly, convinced that time would pass quickly and that, after all, your body would know what to do. What you had not imagined, however, was how difficult it would become to live within your own body.
Each week seemed to add a new weight to your shoulders, your legs, your breath. Your belly grew day by day, slowly becoming the center of your balance, forcing you to move with a caution that did not belong to you. You often found yourself thinking nostalgically of the simplest gestures, the ones you had always performed without a second thought: bending down to pick something up from the floor, pulling on your boots without sitting down, turning quickly when someone called your name. Everything had become slower, more tiring, and yet it only took a gentle caress over your belly or one of the baby's small movements for every complaint to dissolve, at least for a moment.
By the eighth month, your belly was large and perfectly round, to the point that even looking at your feet had become a small challenge. Every morning you woke with an aching back, stiff from hours spent in the same position, as if during the night someone had placed a massive stone upon your shoulders without you noticing. It took you several minutes just to sit on the edge of the bed, waiting for your body to cooperate, while your hands instinctively searched for support on the mattress. Your legs began to ache after only a few steps, and your ankles had swollen so much that you had been forced to set aside almost all the shoes you had worn until then. Even your favorite boots, the ones you had worn since your arrival in Dragonstone, now squeezed you so tightly they left small marks on your skin.
Sitting down or getting up required an effort you had never thought possible, and every movement was accompanied by a tired sigh that escaped you without you even realizing it. Even crossing a room seemed like a longer journey than it should have been, and you often stopped halfway, one hand on your back and the other resting on your belly, patiently waiting for the discomfort to fade. Every movement was slow, accompanied by a small, weary sigh that slipped out of you without your noticing.
Luckily, you had never had to face all of this alone. If there was one thing those months had taught you, it was how deeply Valarr cared for you, even in the quietest ways. He had turned a difficult pregnancy into something infinitely more bearable, almost managing to make you forget the constant weight you carried with you. No matter how busy he was as heir and prince of the realm, or how many lords among the court demanded his attention, he always found the time to come to you, even if only for a few minutes. It was enough for him to meet your gaze to understand immediately whether you needed to rest, whether you were in pain, or whether you simply desired his company. You had never needed to ask him for anything, he seemed to notice every discomfort before you could even give it a name.
When your clothes had begun to tighten around your belly, he had not waited for you to bring it up. He had summoned the finest seamstresses in the castle and ordered them to make you new garments, warm enough to protect you from the cold weather of Dragonstone, and soft enough not to press against the baby. He had even insisted that they choose fabrics pleasant against the skin, because he said he could not bear to see you irritated by stiff seams or heavy cloth. One evening, when you had confessed somewhat shyly that you craved a lemon cake, the next morning the kitchens seemed to have turned into an orchard. Every evening brought a different version of the same dessert: with cream, with honey, with glaze, even with small southern berries decorating the surface. After a few days, you had begun to laugh, wondering whether there were any lemons left in the castle or if Valarr had sent someone all the way to King's Landing just to satisfy you. He had merely shrugged with that calm composure of his, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
And when the days grew too long and your back felt as though it might break, it was he himself who guided you to sit upon the bed. He helped you settle with a gentleness that seemed almost surprising for a man so serious, then knelt behind you without the slightest hint of embarrassment. His large hands moved slowly along your back, pressing patiently into the tightest spots, easing away, little by little, every ache that had built up over the course of the day. Sometimes he spoke, telling you of matters within the castle or the latest problems; other times he simply remained silent, letting the crackling of the fire fill the moment. You would close your eyes and surrender completely to his touch, feeling the tension melt away one piece at a time. He had spoiled you without the slightest restraint, and without even realizing it, you had grown accustomed to those daily attentions, until they felt as natural as breathing.
It was precisely for this reason that that day felt so different from all the others.
You woke together, as you did every morning. When you opened your eyes, you found Valarr already awake, sitting beside you with his back resting against the headboard. One hand moved slowly through your hair, stroking it gently as he watched the rain fall beyond the tall windows of your chamber. The silence was pleasant, broken only by the wind rattling the shutters and the soft crackle of the fire still burning in the hearth. When he noticed you were awake, he lowered his gaze to you and smiled with that calmness that seemed to belong to him alone. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, then let his hand drift to your now enormous belly. At that very moment, the baby answered with a firm little kick, so sudden it drew a soft laugh from both of you. "Already has the temper of a Targaryen." he murmured, amused. You smiled, ready to reply, but an insistent knock at the door shattered the moment. A guard announced that several civilians from the city were urgently requesting their lord. Valarr sighed softly, cast you an almost apologetic glance, and after promising he would return as soon as possible, left the chamber.
From that moment on, you did not see him again. The hours began to stretch with exasperating slowness. You tried to read a few pages of the book resting on your bedside table, but soon realized you had reread the same paragraph at least four times without understanding a single word. With a sigh, you closed it and instead picked up the embroidery of the small blanket you were making for the baby. For a while, you managed to focus on the neat, even stitches of the cream-colored thread, imagining the day you would wrap your child in that fabric sewn by your own hands. Yet your back soon began to protest, forcing you to abandon that pastime as well. You rose to walk a little around the room, but after only a few minutes your ankles throbbed so fiercely that you were compelled to return to the fireside. You sat, then stood again almost immediately because the position was uncomfortable. You remained standing for a moment, watching the flames, then sat once more. Nothing seemed able to distract you, and as time passed, a restless unease began to creep in.
Your poor maid, Alys, had to endure every single complaint that slipped from your lips as she patiently arranged her lady's wardrobe. She continued folding garments, dusting shelves, and hanging cloaks as if nothing were amiss, occasionally turning toward you with a sympathetic smile.
"Is he still in his study?" you asked for what was likely the tenth time, idly tapping your fingers against the armrest of your chair.
The girl nodded patiently, continuing to hang clothes in the wardrobe. "Yes, princess."
You huffed in a decidedly unladylike manner, letting your head fall back against the chair. "Is it possible he is still working?"
"It seems there are many matters to resolve." she replied cautiously, as though fearing the explanation might only irritate you further.
You set the embroidered blanket down on the small table beside you and crossed your arms, making a face that would have made anyone who knew you smile. "It can wait."
The maid lowered her gaze to hide the hint of a smile. "I do not believe prince Valarr would agree."
"Well, he should!" you insisted stubbornly, one hand instinctively moving to support your belly.
She nodded at once, offering no contradiction. "Of course, princess.”
Another half hour passed, then another. The sun had begun to sink behind the walls of Dragonstone, and the light filtering through the windows had grown softer, casting the room in shades of gold and gray. You kept glancing toward the door as though you could summon Valarr simply by staring at it long enough. At last, you let out a sigh so deep it surprised even you.
"Enough."
Alys immediately stopped what she was doing and turned to you. "Princess?"
"I will go to him myself." you said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
The girl's eyes widened slightly as she watched the effort it took for you to rise to your feet, one hand braced on the armrest and the other supporting the weight of your belly. She waited until you found your balance before speaking with utmost gentleness. "May I accompany you, princess?"
"Yes." The answer slipped out almost automatically, though part of you wished to say the exact opposite. A piece of your pride still resisted the idea of needing someone even to cross the castle. You wanted to tell Alys it was unnecessary, that you were perfectly capable of reaching your husband's study on your own, as you had done for all the previous months. And yet, the simple act of standing proved otherwise. You immediately felt the weight of your belly pulling you forward, forcing you to steady yourself with a hand at your side as your back protested with a pain so familiar it felt like a part of you. You let out a small sigh and, with the faintest of smiles, silently accepted as the girl stepped closer. She did not take your arm without permission, nor did she try to support you too insistently. She simply remained at your side, close enough to help if needed, yet discreet enough to allow you the illusion of still walking on your own strength.
You left the chamber and made your way through the corridors of Dragonstone, wrapped in that peculiar silence the castle took on in the late afternoon. Torches had already been lit along the stone walls, their flickering light reflecting on floors worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, while from the narrow windows a few last rays of the low-hanging sun still filtered through. Outside, the rain continued to fall softly, and now and then a gust of wind made the trees shiver with a faint rustling sound.
You moved forward very slowly, one hand pressed against your lower back in an attempt to ease at least a little of that constant tension, the other resting beneath your belly as though to support its weight. Every step required care. Your hips felt stiff, your legs heavy, and the baby seemed to have chosen that very moment to stretch with enthusiasm, making it even harder to find a comfortable position. You instinctively paused whenever a sharp ache ran through your back, taking a few breaths before continuing.
When you reached the first flight of stairs, you lifted your gaze with a mix of resignation and disbelief. It almost seemed as though there were more steps than the day before. You took them one at a time, lightly gripping the handrail worn smooth by time. With each step, your legs protested more insistently, while your ankles felt increasingly swollen and heavy inside your shoes. Halfway up, you had to stop. You inhaled slowly, trying to catch your breath without drawing too much attention, your heart beating faster than usual from an effort that only a few months earlier you would not even have noticed. Alys remained silent beside you, watching only from the corner of her eye. She did not say you needed to rest, did not urge you to sit, did not offer any of those well-meaning attentions that, in that moment, would have only wounded your pride. She simply waited patiently for you to nod, signaling you were ready to continue.
A little further on, you stopped again, this time placing both hands on your belly and letting out a longer sigh. "It's getting really heavy..." you murmured to yourself. Alys lowered her gaze briefly toward your belly, holding back a fond smile, but once again said nothing. You had always been grateful for her ability to understand when silence was the best kind of company.
When you finally reached the corridor leading to Valarr's study, you could already hear through the door the faint sound of parchment being unrolled, followed by a deep, weary sigh. That simple sound was enough for you to picture the scene perfectly before even stepping inside. You could already see it in your mind: him seated behind the large oak desk, surrounded by maps, letters, and ledgers, completely absorbed in the problems of the island.
You paused before the door for a moment, breathing in slowly. All the small irritation you had nurtured throughout the day seemed to resurface along with your fatigue. You raised your hand and knocked softly, twice.
"Come." His voice came muffled through the wood, low and slightly rough after hours spent speaking and reading documents.
You pushed the door open slowly and found him exactly as you had imagined. He was seated behind the imposing dark-wood desk that dominated the study, almost hidden beneath an impressive number of open parchments. Some were rolled at the edges, others bore wax seals still intact, while a large map of Westeros covered much of the table. The light of the setting sun filtered in at an angle from the window behind him, casting golden reflections through his dark hair and softly illuminating the stern profile of his face. One hand rested against his forehead, fingers absently massaging his temple while the other moved slowly along the lines of a document. He looked tired. Much more tired than you had imagined. For a moment, all your irritation wavered, replaced by that familiar warmth that filled you every time you looked at him. It was enough just to see him to feel suddenly at home.
He was still the most handsome man you had ever seen.
It was only when you gently closed the door behind you that he finally looked up. His eyes met yours immediately, and for the briefest instant, a genuine expression of surprise crossed his face. "Wife."
His gaze moved slowly over you with that usual attentiveness that never seemed to miss a single detail. He immediately noticed your furrowed brows, your lips drawn into a stubborn pout, and that displeased expression he had come to know all too well. It took only a few seconds of observation for his own brows to lift slightly, in something almost like amusement. "What are you doing here?"
You looked at him stubbornly, as if challenging him not to understand the answer on his own. "I haven't seen you all day." Your voice came out exactly as you felt: a long, tired complaint, tinged with that vulnerability that, in recent months, seemed to surface far more easily than before. As soon as the words left your lips, you realized how childish they sounded. A lady of your rank would likely have expressed her displeasure with far more composure. You, instead, sounded like an overgrown child.
Valarr remained silent for a moment. Then, slowly, the corners of his mouth lifted into that calm, patient smile you had learned to love, one that seemed capable of melting away all your irritation.
He finally set the parchment down on the desk, pushing it aside as though it had suddenly lost all importance. "Hey."
You approached with the usual slowness imposed by the weight of your belly. He waited patiently for you to reach the desk, then extended a hand toward you. His fingers wrapped gently around yours, large and warm as always, holding them just firmly enough to convey that reassuring solidity only he seemed to possess. "Valarr..." you murmured almost without thinking.
"Come here, my girl." His voice was soft, patient, free of any urgency.
With a slow and incredibly careful movement, he drew you toward him, supporting you with both arms. One hand remained steady behind your back, the other beneath your side, guiding you with the utmost care until you found yourself seated on his lap. He made sure your belly had space without being pressed, even waiting for you to settle as you preferred before loosening his hold slightly. When he saw you were finally comfortable, he let out a small, satisfied sigh. "That's better."
You stubbornly kept your pout, even though it was now obvious how much you had missed that closeness. You wrapped your arms around his neck, leaning into him. "No."
His brows lifted slightly. "No?"
"I'm still upset."
A low laugh rumbled in his chest, so close you could feel it against your cheek. "Really?"
What a tease.
You nodded firmly. "You left me alone all day."
He tilted his head slightly, not attempting to justify himself. "I see."
One hand slid slowly over your now enormous belly. He caressed it with a tenderness that still managed to surprise you even after all those months of marriage, tracing its curve with his open palm. The baby seemed to recognize that touch immediately, because moments later a firm little kick pressed right against his hand. Valarr's smile grew warmer and wider. "They seems to have noticed my absence as well." He then lifted his eyes to yours. "My wife feels neglected, hm?"
Those few words were enough to melt all your stubbornness. You looked away with an embarrassed little grimace, feeling warmth rise slowly to your cheeks. "Mayhaps."
"Mayhaps?" He lifted an eyebrow.
"Yes."
He brushed your cheek with the back of his fingers. "I should have come to find you sooner."
You nodded without hesitation. "Yes, you should have."
"You're right."
He leaned down slowly, letting his lips brush first your forehead, then one cheek, the other, and finally your lips. It was a slow, warm kiss, unhurried. One of those kisses that tasted of home, of a burning hearth, and of all the small certainties you had built together. His lips felt soft against yours, sightly dry from the cold but warm in the same time. It made your belly fill with dancing butterflies and your heart shudder.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours for a fleeting moment. "I'm terribly sorry."
You did not answer immediately. You simply let yourself fall completely against him, hiding your face in the crook of his neck and absentmindedly brushing your cheek against the soft fabric of his cloak. Suddenly, all the exhaustion you had tried to ignore throughout the day seemed to come crashing down on you at once. You felt utterly worn out, heavy, aching in every muscle.
"My legs hurt."
"I know." His voice was barely above a whisper.
"My back too."
"I know."
"My ankles too."
"That too."
"And i'm tired."
You felt his arm tighten slightly around you, his hand slowly stroking along your back before returning to your belly, as if he wanted to reassure both you and the child at once. "I can see that."
You huffed softly, pressing yourself closer against his chest. "You should feel guilty, you brute."
For a few seconds, he remained silent. He simply continued to stroke you with that calm that never seemed to run dry, another faint laugh rumbling in his chest. He did not try to deny it, nor did he tease you. He let you vent, knowing perfectly well that in that moment you did not need explanations, only him.
"I am." he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with sincerity. "I carry the guilt of it, truly."
He shifted slightly, adjusting his position so you wouldn't slide, his movements fluid despite the massive amount of paperwork currently serving as his seat cushion. He didn't seem to care about the ink staining his doublet or the maps being crumpled beneath you; in this moment, you were the only priority in the entire of Westeros. His sneaky hands roamed like snakes on your skin, burning their way under your grown.
"It seems I need to apologize properly." he murmured against your hair, though his voice didn't sound apologetic. He picked at your small clothes, earning a whimper out of you, tugging them aside. Cold air brushed your core, creating shivers up your back. His cold hands found your thighs, slowly pushing them apart.
You sucked a breath, suddenly aware of his improper touches out of the marital room. It was unthinkable for a married couple to perform the act outside the bed, especially during the day. Yet you didn't care. Not when pregnancy made you so sensitive at his very touch.
Valarr's hands continued their sensual exploration, calloused fingertips tracing delicate patterns on your inner thighs. He took his time, savoring each shudder and gasp he coaxed from your lips. Slowly, torturously, his touches become more demanding. The heat of his arousal pressed insistently against your arse, even through the fabric separating you. One large hand boldly cupped your breast, so full of warm milk ready for the babe, kneading gently as his thumb circled your nipple. A small drop of white liquid ran from it, crashing into his fingers. It was wet and dirty, so shameful to do such a thing while heavily pregnant. You felt vulnerable, so exposed, yet it felt so exiting.
"You've been so brave, carrying our child. Bearing this burden alone today." he rumbled, voice low and thick with emotion. "I have to reward you, my lady wife." His other hand slid between your legs, finding your slick folds. He groaned at the silky wetness he discovered. It covered the tip of his fingers, coating him in the scent he so loved. He pressed them on your clit, circling it slowly, before inserting two fingers in you.
You let out a broken, needy moan, arching your back against his solid frame. The shame you felt was rapidly being overtaken by an overwhelming desire. The sensation of his thick fingers sliding into your heat, so much larger than anything else you knew apart his cock, sent sparks flying across your vision. You felt stretched, full, and desperately desired, which was perhaps the greatest remedy for the insecurity that often accompanied your changing body.
"The master said we can't do it right now..." you whimpered, your fingers digging into the muscles of his arms. You could see stars on the ceiling, covering your blurred vision. "It could be dangerous for the babe..."
But he knew that a small touch was just fine, right?
"Then we won't do anything apart this." He murmured, his hot breath fanning over the shell of your ear. His fingers continued their relentless assault on your dripping core, curling and stroking in ways that made your toes curl as well. "Just let me make you feel good. You deserve this much."
He peppered your neck with open-mouthed kisses, occasionally grazing his teeth over your racing pulse. Dark spots appeared on your neck just where he sucked, covering you in the marks of his love. His other hand continued its ministrations on your breast, rolling and pinching your sensitive nipple. Milk leaked steadily now, coating his palm.
You threw your head back, exposing more of your throat to his hungry mouth with a strangled cry as his fingers worked deeper within you. The friction was exquisite, pushing you toward a precipice you hadn't expected to reach so quickly. Mayhaps pregnancy really made you so sensitive. Between the fullness of your breasts and the pressure of his hand on your stomach, you felt entirely consumed by him, by the sheer force of his presence. "Valarr... please." you gasped, though whether you were asking him to stop or to go faster, you didn't even know. Your hips began to buck rhythmically against his hand, seeking more of that stretching friction. The combination of the milky dampness on his palm and the slickness between your thighs created a heavy scent that seemed to fill the small space between your bodies.
You wanted more, more, more. You wanted all he could give you, for you are the greediest woman alive.
He swallowed your desperate pleas with a deep, claiming kiss, his tongue delving past your parted lips to tangle with yours. The taste of him, warm and masculine, mingled with the salt of your sweat and the sweetness of your arousal. He drank you down like a man starved, as if he could devour you whole and still crave more. His fingers curled inside you, rubbing mercilessly against that secret spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. At the same time, he pinched your nipple hard, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your core. The dual stimulation was too much, pushing you past the point of no return.
"Let go for me, my love." he growled against your lips, his voice rough with his own restraint. "Come on my fingers."
You obeyed without hesitation, your body trembling in his arms as waves of ecstasy crashed over you. A ragged scream tore from your throat, half-pleasure, half-shame, but he held you tight, not letting you slip away. The guards outside the door must've heard all of it. It didn't matter as long he kept touching you. Your nails dug into his arms, leaving pale crescents in his flesh as you clung to him like a drowning woman. Air, you desperately needed air. Each aftershock pulsed through you, making you tremble and shake, your breath coming in short, uneven gasps.
When the last tremor faded, you collapsed against him, boneless and exhausted, your head resting on his shoulder as his heartbeat thudded steadily beneath your back You felt his fingers still moving inside you, coaxing the final remnants of your climax from your body, his touch impossibly gentle even after everything.
"You are so beautiful, my love." He muttered, softly peaking your warm cheek.
Valarr slowly withdrew his fingers from your sensitive flesh, bringing them to his lips to lick them clean. His eyes shone with satisfaction at the taste of your essence. Then, with great care, he maneuvered you off his lap and onto the plush rug in front of the fireplace. The heat from the flames washed over your bare skin, chasing away the chill. He knelt beside you, strong hands gently kneading the swell of your belly. "How are you feeling, my wife?"
His gaze roamed over your form appreciatively, drinking in the sight of you flushed and sated, marked by his passion. Even in the throes of your condition, he found you breathtaking. Utterly beautiful. His.
"I need a bath." you murmured, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips. Your fingers traced the edge of your gown, still slightly askew, and you gave a soft chuckle. "Though I suppose I should be angry with you for taking advantage of me like that. Especially when I was already so sore from walking all way here."
He chuckled, searching for your hand. Valarr brought it to his lips, kissing it softly. You watched him with satisfaction, your gaze softening into warmth. The pout you had just a few moments earlier was completely vanished from your face.
warnings: dead dove: do not eat, ghostface! aerion targaryen x ghostface! valarr targaryen x fem! reader, canon typical violence (scream movies/slasher movies), mild gore, torture, manslaughter, kidnapping, noncon/dubcon, fingering, reader is cuffed and gagged! (lmk if i missed anything!)
summary: you're under lock and key, stuck to sit on a staircase inside a basement, while valarr is having fun with his...toy, and aerion is having fun with... you.
a/n: first part of the series... hope you like it <3! comment your thoughts, and lmk if you want more!
beta read/edited by: @tristanswildcat
tag list | previous part
You didn't agree to this. you didn't! You're cuffed, and sitting on the staircase of a basement, Aerion besides you, his hand around your waist, your mouth gagged with a piece of cloth. You weren't wearing your clothes from the previous night, instead you wore an oversized shirt—belonging to one of them— and your undergarments.
"You're just like us," he whispered to you, his fingers tapping across your flesh. There's no rhythm to it. "We see it in your eyes," he told you, his tone amused yet cruel. "You'll be ours, even if we have to break you in others ways first." As if it to prove his point, his hand takes a hold of your jaw, forcing you to face Valarr, who was sharpening his knifes. A man was strapped on the table in front of him.
The basement was covered in plastic, but underneath it looked like a vintage, rich place. Cozy. Bricked walls, and warm lights. Somehow entirely out of place of whatever was happening around you. There are two other people here, tied up, drugged somewhere in a corner you can't see. One for Aerion and one for you.
You had woken up, and everything felt like a dream. A weird, fucked up dream where you had been actually alive for one second in your lifetime and it was snatched away from you, and now everything will be returned to normal. But no, Aerion and Valarr Targaryen had been there, on either side of the bed you had woken up on. Waiting. Observing you with their predatory gaze. Ready to pounce on you, and tear you apart.
Three weeks they had said, your fate will be decided in twenty one days. They made it sound so simple. You will be theirs. You will prove yourself worthy to be theirs, and if you can't? Six feet under along with the rest of their victims will be your new address!
You knew since you were a child you were different. You didn't flinch when you first saw your first horror film as a child at a sleep over. People dying fascinated you to no end. Unlike others who flinched away, you leaned forward, trying to get a better look at it. The darkness making the death vague. You remember biting your tongue, wishing you could be there, inside the movie, watching the woman wither, and steal her life.
And then you had turned to look at the rest of the kids. They were staring at you like you were the monster, like you were the killer with your huge grin of excitement and eyes filled with wonder. Your body had turned ice cold when your mind figured out you were born wrong. That that wasn't the norm. So you rebranded yourself a horror fan. You said you enjoyed the psychological aspect of it, and it had absolutely nothing to do with your desire to break bones for your pleasure and learn the exact frequencies of the snap.
So you knew it wasn't a fluke, it was your self control failing you. And they had seen it, and now they wanted to play with it like a fiddle. So here you are, trapped between two monsters trying to rip apart your human skin, to peer inside and see if they liked what they saw, so you could be at their side. This was their first attempt, and oh were they succeeding.
You couldn't bring yourself to panic even in the situation you're in now. Tied, and gagged, next to Aerion no less. Valarr was still sharpening his blades. Different kinds. Medical ones. Scalpels of different lengths and what not. One of them caught your eyes, a beautiful dagger, with dragons carved on it's hilt.
"Valyrian steel. An heirloom of old Valyria, proof of our conquests." Aerion explained, his tone prideful of his heritage. "He always makes the first cut with it."
And Valarr does. A line of deep red made on the throat of the man. Crimson spills all over. The man wakes up with a snap, straining against his bounds, gasping, causing more red to ooze out of him. But it's not deep enough, not to kill. No, that would be too quick. Too easy, and not the show they want put up for you.
Despite being on the staircase, you could see Valarr and his choice of toy clearly. He had picked up a scalpel next, the blade sharp, catching the warm light of the room. And then so it begins. You feel the heat between your legs throb, your walls twitching around nothing, trying to get your attention with how wet you were becoming.
A whine comes out of you, muffled due to the piece of clothing in your mouth. But you don't thrash around like you want, nor stand up and go to Valarr, to see what he's doing more clearly. To learn. Because Aerion is right there, his head resting on your shoulder, his arm wrapped around you like a serpent. His other hand held a knife, ready to be plunged into you if you misbehave.
You can hear him breath. He's so close to you, and he runs hot. Hotter than most. Like he had lava coursing in his veins instead of blood. He listens to the sharp intake of air you take, memorising how your skin feels under his fingers. "Enjoying the show, sweetheart?" He asked, his lips brushing against your neck. He pressed a kiss on your skin. It didn't feel sweet or kind. It felt possessive, it felt like a brand. An invisible tattoo on your neck. His hand goes up under your shirt, fingers edging close to your bra. Another in take of breath, but it's not due to watching Valarr mutilate the man, but due to feeling the touch of Aerion.
"I wonder how wet a freak like you is right now."
His hand skims down, fingers hooking into the fabric of your panties. Aerion snaps the elastic of your waistband, making you flinch. The metal cuffs pulls against your wrists as you do. You try to twist your face towards Aerion, but like lightening your jaw is redirected to look at Valarr and Valarr only.
"Don't." It was the first and last warning you'll receive.
He pulls your panties down. It's a bit of a struggle but Aerion gets it done. The sudden cold air of the basement hits your cunt, making you shiver. The dragon laughs, his head back on your shoulder. "Let's see if your body speaks the truth, baby."
Your eyes nearly roll back when you feel the first touch of his fingertips between your legs, a stark difference from the frigid air of this room. His index and ring finger pulls apart your folds, exposing your insides for everyone in this room. You weren't even sure if Valarr has realized what was happening, if he heard his brother's jeer, and knew of his actions.
The plastic sheened with crimson under his ministration. It seemed like a lot of red, dripping down the table, one drop at a time. Tip top, tip top. One of the only sounds other than Aerion's mocking voice in the room. Valarr was methodical, utterly relaxed in what he was doing. If he weren't dissecting a man, you would have described watching him calming. He did it like it didn't take much from him. Gently, and with care. Even said action was the slowest way of causing a passing you had ever seen. Even with all the sticky metallic scarlet on the floor, you reckoned whoever was on the table hadn't crossed the gate for the afterlife yet.
Aerion steals back your attention, as his middle finger sinks inside of your warmth without a warning. A single digit of his messaging your gummy walls, trying to reach as deep as possible. Your cries get swallowed by your gag, and the silver haired boy nuzzles into your neck, pressing his lips on your skin, right up until he reaches your jaw. The dragon reveals his teeth, and sinks them into your flesh without a warning. At the same time, another of his fingers has joined their rightful place inside you. You closed your eyes, muffled moans spilling out of you, your hips twitching forward to have more of him.
"You're wetter than a well paid whore, baby." Aerion remarks, his tone tinged with innate darkness and lust. Mocking your pleasure, yet pulling it out of you with each deep thrust of his fingers. His digits press deep into you, making sure your walls got accustomeded to their shape and thickness, and then the tip of his finger touches the soft, hidden spot inside of you. You see white, clenching around him, your insides squeezing him without mercy. You're rewarded with another bite, this time on your neck.
The pain overshadows your pleasure, but in a way that is perfect. Simply delicious. It burned having him inside, pulling you apart, his fingers scissoring, spreading you wide open. Your juices make a mess of his hand. He kept whispering dirty little things in your ear, of what he wanted, of what Valarr wanted. Each whisper a promise they both meant to keep. He keeps pushing in, fucking in and out of you, his pace never faltering, never slowing down. It's fast and erratic, just like he is.
You can feel it build inside of you in layers, each time he twisted his fingers, you went closer to the edge. What tipped you over was his thumb rubbing at your pearl, hard and fast. In small, tight circles. His lips whispering how he's going to fuck his cock into you later. His teeth biting your ear lobe, and Valarr. Valarr. The older targaryen finally turning to look at the both of you. His mismatched eyes trail down, focusing his gaze between the space of your legs, drinking in the sight of Aerion's fingers thrusting in and out of you. Then his eyes raise up, meeting yours, one an ocean and another a deep melted chocolate looking right into you.
You can't hold it back anymore. You spill all over his hand. Your cunt closing in around his fingers, spasming as you finish. Hot white ecstasy crashes over you. You moan Aerion's name, you moan Valarr's name. They can't hear it, and a part of you is grateful for that. Valarr walks in front of the both of you in measured steps. Aerion is grinning, presenting his glistening fingers to his brother, proud of what he's done. They're coated in your juices. Valarr doesn't hesitate, taking Aerion fingers inside his mouth, his tongue swirling around to clean his digits of your essence. However, his eyes are focused on you, on how the shirt clinged to you with sweat, your hair sticking to your forehead. The drool all over your chin, the cloth around your mouth fucking sloppy wet. It felt disgusting, you realise, as you come down from your high.
Valarr does you a mercy. His crimson hand reaches behind your head to undo the knot. You don't beg. You don't cry. The first thing you do is a make desperate demand, as the man leans down, his thumb painting your bottom lip scarlet.
"Kiss me."
And he does. His lips finds yours, tongues battling against each other as if you were fighting a civil war to conquer westeros. It's filthy, and fast. Nothing like how Valarr would have kissed you any other day, but he also was calming down from a high of his own. Both of you were breathing hard when the kiss broke. Aerion tsks besides you, his arm wrapping around your shoulder, pulling you up.
"Come, my little fright," he said, "it's time for bed," Aerion nodded towards Valarr, "and he has a bloody mess to clean."
Your panties remain on the stairs as you walk up ahead. Your head turns to look at Valarr pick the ruined cloth up, his hard length straining against his trousers, before bringing it up to his nose, letting your intoxicating scent inside his lungs.
The targaryen besides you whispers with a twisted smile on his face. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll make sure he has his share of fun too."
The last thought you have as you leave the basement is that you're so utterly fucked.
leon kennedy wears you out the best way he knows how when you get bedtime zoomies ⋆⑅˚₊
fem!reader x leon kennedy
𓊆❤︎𓊇 2.5k words | nsfw
the moon hangs high in the sky, its glow peeking through the window. that and the light from the tv just barely illuminates the living room. leon sits beside you on the sofa, his arm around you as you lie curled into his side. the credits for the show you are watching begin to roll, the screen prompting you to start the next episode. though you hoped to charm him into staying up longer with a plea to watch just one more episode, a yawn cuts you off as leon slowly stretches his stiff limbs.
"sorry, baby. think 'm gonna fall asleep if we try and watch another one," he says as he moves from beside you. your lower lip juts outwards in disapproval, the sight causing leon to chuckle; the low, sleepy sound makes your stomach flutter. "we can watch more tomorrow, promise. but i'm gonna go to bed, you coming?"
you nod in response, and leon watches as you rise from the couch to scurry upstairs with far more energy than he expected at this time of night. it was unclear why this happens, but as soon as it came to be time to go to bed, something activates in you. energy with an unknown source bubbles inside of you, and all you want to do is bounce off of the walls.
when he makes it to the bathroom to brush his teeth, he knows from the way you're orbiting around him so frantically that you aren't calming down any time soon. this continues into the bedroom, too, poking at him every chance you get, asking him nonsensical questions that are hard to answer in his sluggish state.
"now what has gotten into you, hm? aren't you tired?" he questions as you bite at his bicep, amusement hidden beneath his drowsy gruffness.
"i dunno…" you mumble, voice muffled as you remain latched onto leon's arm. "why? you struggling 'cause it's past your bedtime, old man?" the mischievous glint in your eyes has not dulled in the slightest, and leon knows if he wants to sleep any time soon, he has to meet you where you are.
"old man, huh?" he raises a brow at you. before you can quip back at him, he pounces on you. you squeal in surprise as he cages you in with his body, squirming beneath him in an attempt to break free.
"leon!" you shriek amidst giggles, wiggling out of his grasp just enough to get a taste of freedom before he drags you right back.
"surely you can take on an old man, right?" he taunts, his large hands clasping around your wrists and pinning them against the mattress. no matter how much you writhe beneath him, his grip is vice-like and you know you're not going anywhere now.
"not fair, you caught me by surprise." you groan, looking away in feigned annoyance.
"oh, i'm sure that's why you lost."
you're breathless, airy giggles filling the silence. when your gaze shifts to look ahead of you, the ceiling is barely visible, most of your vision taken up by the broadness of your boyfriend. he's got that look on his face, a shift from playful to something else that you've become so familiar with. leon admires you beneath him, eyes hooded and hazy. he still has you pinned, but you can tell he's not even trying to keep you in place. he knows you're right where you want to be.
"so… come here often?" he jokes, earning an eye roll from you.
"i'm kind of a regular, yeah." you humour him. "i'm hopefully the only regular here."
"of course, baby. this right here's a vip spot." he leans down closer to you and begins trailing slow, deliberate kisses up your neck. "you know there's no one else i'd rather have under me like this, right?"
once again, he catches you off guard, only with his words this time. you nod slightly delayed, a small and breathy mhm leaving your lips. your breathing gets a little heavier, and leon can feel you go pliant beneath him as he kisses your skin - oh, he's got you now.
"think it's safe to say that i won this fight, hm?" he says proudly, retreating from the crook of your neck to admire how flustered he's gotten you. failing to break from your leon-induced trance, you shoot him what is supposed to be a pointed look, the small smile you can't bite back completely giving you away.
"only 'cause you cheated…" you grumble.
"not sure that matters now, you don't seem too unhappy where you are." you have no retaliation to that, every thought in your head rapidly being replaced by how good leon looks on top of you.
despite his smugness, leon is also struggling to keep his thoughts at bay, your lustful, half-lidded stare and the straining against his boxers clouding his mind. he could never get tired of seeing you beneath him like this, watching the fire in you dwindle until you're warm and willowy, your determination to provoke him long forgotten.
"kiss me," you ask abruptly, "please."
leon wastes no more time after that, releasing your wrists and leaning down to connect his lips with yours. he sighs in what sounds like relief as you exchange messy kisses, goosebumps raising across his skin as your nails scratch at the nape of his neck. your hips absentmindedly chase after is own, rolling into him like you just can't help it.
one of leon's hands sneaks its way beneath your shirt, gently grabbing at the soft skin of your waist. a particularly pretty grunt escapes his throat as you grind against him just right.
"fuck, that feels good, huh?" he groans at the sight of you rubbing yourself against his bulge.
"mhm, want you so bad." you whine, reaching down to tug at the waistband of his sweatpants. this makes him snicker softly, so endeared by how needy you get for him.
"i know, baby, i know." leon coos, pressing gentle kisses along your jaw as he continues to rock against you. his hand tugs at your clothing, slowly riding up the fabric of your t-shirt. he reaches higher and higher until it sits bunched up above your chest, revealing your breasts. he tries not to let out a guttural groan at the sight of you, your chest rising and falling at a quickened pace as he greedily rakes his eyes across your body.
"swear you keep getting prettier." he mumbles, almost in disbelief. seeing you like this sucks the air from his lungs every time; his memory of your every ridge and curve never living up to the real you. he inches down your body with a trail of kisses, your whimper of protest at the loss of friction between your thighs quickly cut off as his lips latch onto your tit.
a dreamy gasp floats from your mouth as his tongue swirls around your areola, his lips sucking at your hardened nipple. you reach up to thread your fingers through his hair, nails dragging across his scalp in the way that makes his eyes flutter. he goes back and forth between your tits, drawing pretty noises from you until his teasing becomes too much.
"please…" you whisper shyly, "need you to touch me."
"touch you where?" he asks simply, though he knows getting an answer out of you will be anything but.
"you know where…"
"nah, i think you're gonna have to spell it out for me." he has that stupidly attractive grin on his face, taking such joy in watching you squirm.
"under my… panties." your voice grows quieter, and you can't look at him while you ask. he thinks you're adorable, still so shy with him despite how long you've been together.
"good girl, i can do that for you."
he reaches his hand into your panties agonisingly slow, only for him to simply rest his palm over your vulva. the initial contact has you clenching around nothing, a fluttery feeling blooming between your legs. but then a few seconds pass, nothing. he hasn't moved an inch.
"what are you doing?" your brows furrow in confusion.
"what you asked, aren't i?" he replies as if it is painfully obvious, though a knowing smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. "my hand's in your panties, isn't it? 'm touching you right where you asked me to." his voice is low and gravelly, the sound of it almost distracting you from how infuriating he is being.
you huff in frustration, which only adds to leon's amusement. he knows you're not really mad at him, especially not with how drenched his fingers are only after a short while spent stuffed inside your underwear.
"i think you need to be a little more specific." embarrassment burned at your cheeks, your gaze averting his eyes. to this day, there is something about leon that made you so flustered when it came to asking for what you want. fortunately for you, leon loves it. it makes you so easy to rile up, and if you wanted to bother him so bad, then it's only fair that he returns the favour, right?
"i want you to…" your voice trails off. if you had known asking if he'd love you as a worm one too many times would result in such torture, you perhaps would have bit your tongue. "please play with my clit." the words leave you a little whinier than intended, a poor attempt at containing your attitude in hopes of getting what you want.
leon hums in satisfaction, finally letting his fingers run between your slick folds before they stop at your clit. he rubs steady circles over the bundle of nerves, reaching with his other hand to gently pull back the hood of your clit. shaky moans fall past your lips, your legs spreading wider whilst his hand works against you.
"thaaat's it, wasn't so hard, was it?" leon feels dizzy at the sight of you beneath him, hips bucking into his hand as you indulge in the pleasure he'd so cruelly denied you. your underwear grows messier with every precise caress of your clit, and the tent in leon's sweatpants is becoming harder for either of you to ignore.
"leon- ah, i need you so bad." you plead.
"i know, baby. gonna need to tell me exactly what you want though." you let out a mix between an irritated groan and a pathetic whimper at his refusual to give you what you want, despite knowing exactly what it is. it's hard to seem truly irritated when he's rubbing against you so good.
"i need your cock, pleasepleaseplease- i wanna feel you." a pleased glint flashes in leon's eyes at your eagerness, his determination to fluster you faltering.
"yeah? show me that pretty pussy then." he removes his hand from your sticky underwear, the loss of friction only fuelling your impatience. hurriedly, you pull the damp fabric to the side, not bothering to undress any further. leon's dick throbs at the sight, the glistening between your legs a view he couldn't get enough of.
he hooks his thumbs under his waistband, tugging down his boxers along with his sweatpants. you visibly perk up at the sight of his cock standing proudly just for you, precum beading at his flushed tip. crawling towards you, he settles between your legs before leaning down to capture your lips with his own. gently, he runs his hand up your torso, the ticklish sensation making you shiver under his touch. he grabs at your boob, squeezing softly while thumbing at your nipple. the gasp you let out makes him chuckle.
"you're so cute, princess."
pulling away from you, he shifts to line his dick up against your pussy. leon thrusts experimentally, his shaft sliding against your slippery folds and rubbing against your clit in a way that makes your lashes flutter. then he does it again, and again, and again, never once moving to push the head of his cock into your needy hole. it feels good, really good, but there is an ache inside of you that you desperately wanted him to soothe.
"leonnn…" you whine, exasperation creeping up on you. he tilts his head in faux confusion, maintaining the steady pace of his grinding against your cunt.
"aww, is something wrong?" he questions with a subtle moan, mock sympathy dripping from his words.
"i told you what i wanted," you huff, though you are struggling to show your irritation on your face, "you're being so mean." leon was so close to giving in, but with how pretty you look trying to be angry with him while your pussy drools on his cock, how could he stop now?
"hmm… i don't remember you being very clear with your demands." you can't decide if you want to punch him or kiss him all over. "does this not feel good, baby? if you already think i'm being mean, there's no harm in stopping, right?"
"nononono, please don't stop!" you exclaim, eyes glassy from his incessant teasing and how badly you want him. the coil low in your abdomen grows tighter with every rock of his hips, wandering hands grabbing at any part of him you can reach. "please just let me cum, leon."
"so eager for my permission to cum, but can't ask for my cock properly? oh, my silly girl." leon readjusts himself against you, the leaky head of his cock disappearing beneath your underwear. "you can cum, princess, whenever you're ready."
leon resumes his thrusts against your cunt, the head of his cock creating a wet spot of its own on your panties. he was getting close too; the way your pussy lips drag against his shaft so perfectly has his balls tightening. his pretty grunts and moans mingle with your own, his composure slipping away the closer you both get to your peaks.
"l-leon, 'm gonna- mph! i'm gonna cum-" you pant, hips bucking against him as you chase your high.
"cum with me, baby, please." he chokes out, his eyes darting between your pretty, scrunched-up face and his cock sliding against your twitching pussy. "fuuuck, 'm cumming-" staggered moans fill the air as you both hit your peak, a warm, gushing sensation flooding your underwear. ropes of leon's cum paint your skin, a perverse squelching sound reaching your ears from just how much of a mess you'd made.
you ride out your orgasms in unison, leon slumping towards you to press his forehead against yours. frantic breaths slowly turn into even exhales, the wave of euphoria you'd been swept away in now a calm ocean of bliss. you feel him softly kiss your forehead, a content hum vibrating in your throat.
"do not be mistaken, i'm still mad at you for holding out on me." you have the dopiest smile on your face, bleary eyes gazing lovingly up at him.
"oh, i bet you are." leon chuckles. "consider it your punishment for bothering me while i was trying to sleep." not that it was much of a punishment anyway.
"booo, you're no fun." you mutter drowsily, lids fluttering as exhaustion set in.
"i'll fuck you properly tomorrow, brat. and we can watch our show." you grin giddily, though your tired eyes are now closed. he sighs at the sight of you, a smile tugging at his lips, "i'm gonna have to carry you to the bathroom, aren't i?"
"yep."
𓊆❤︎𓊇 i finally finished writing something, hooray!! writer's block and brain fog are kicking my ass, but i still got it • ᴗ <⋆.˚ i hope you enjoyed! big kisses from the princess herself, mwah <3
content . . ৎ → in which you get possessive over them and they secretly love seeing you claim them ☆
ft. vivien hugo, sae itoshi, michael kaiser, julien loki, and bunny iglesias ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ໒꒱
˚₊‧꒰ა VIVIEN HUGO
The little bell above the sweets shop chimed as the two of you stepped out into the cool evening.
A paper bag full of pastries swung from your wrist while Hugo casually walked beside you, one hand tucked into his pocket. Even after dessert, the ridiculously tall midfielder somehow looked composed enough to be walking into a press conference instead of down a crowded street.
"You've been smiling ever since we left the café," you pointed out, glancing up at him with a teasing grin. "Something must've put you in a really good mood."
"Hm."
You nudged his arm lightly. "Is it because you're spending the afternoon with me..."
You watched him pause, as if he were genuinely considering your question.
"...Or because you finally got your favorite éclair?"
"The éclair made me happy."
You frowned dramatically, narrowing your eyes at him.
"And what about me?"
He turned his head to look at you, his expression as calm and unreadable as ever.
"You made today worth remembering."
You stared at him for a moment before letting out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.
"...You really have a talent for saying the sweetest things with the most unreadable face possible, don't you?"
"So I've been told."
Before either of you could continue walking, a wave of hushed squeals erupted a few feet away.
"Oh my gosh—that's Vivian Hugo!"
"He's even taller in person!"
"And he's so much more handsome than on TV..."
The group huddled together, practically vibrating with excitement as they debated who would approach him first. And after a brief round of panicked whispering, one of the girls finally stepped forward, her friends hiding behind her as moral support.
"Excuse me, Mr. Hugo?" she asked, trying not to stumble over her words. "We're really huge fans! We watched all of your matches, and... um... would it be alright if we got a picture with you?"
Hugo nodded once.
"Of course."
The girls immediately erupted into delighted squeals.
"I told you he'd say yes!"
"Oh my gosh, look at him..."
One of the girls clasped her hands together before blurting out, "This is so embarrassing to ask, but... do you happen to have a girlfriend?"
Her friends immediately gasped.
"Oh my god!"
"I'm so sorry—we tried to stop her!"
"I just had to know! He's ridiculously handsome!"
Before Hugo could answer, you slipped in beside him wearing a look that was clearly meant to be intimidating. To Hugo, however, it looked more like a cat proudly guarding its favorite sunspot.
"Sorry, everyone." You gestured toward him with your free hand. "This absurdly tall guy with an unhealthy addiction to éclairs is already spoken for."
You smiled brightly.
"By yours truly."
The girls stared for a beat.
"...Oh."
"Oh my gosh."
"Wait, that's actually so cute."
One of them laughed sheepishly, nudging her friend.
"Girls, let's give them some space."
"Yeah, we already got our picture. Let's not interrupt their date."
"Sorry for bothering you two!"
With a chorus of embarrassed giggles and quick apologies, they waved goodbye before disappearing down the street.
Hugo let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Oh là là... Do you have any idea what you looked like just now? You marched over, wrapped yourself around my arm, and looked at them like a cat proudly marking its territory."
You looked at him as though he'd just said the most ridiculous thing imaginable. "I was not marking my territory!”
"You looked incredibly pleased with yourself though. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were silently celebrating because you'd scared off the competition."
"...Well," you admitted after a brief pause, "they did leave. I'd call that a successful operation."
He studied your face for another second before quietly chuckling.
"...Come here."
Before you could ask why, both of his hands found your cheeks.
"V-Vivi! What are you doing?"
"I've been trying not to do this ever since you called me your absurdly tall sweet tooth."
"You can't just squish my cheeks because I embarrassed myself!"
"I'm doing it because you were adorable." Hugo said softly, finally letting go. "I just think you're unbearably cute whenever you get possessive over me."
You rubbed your warm cheeks, refusing to meet his eyes.
"...I'm never doing that again."
A quiet chuckle escaped him.
"I sincerely hope that's not true."
˚₊‧꒰ა SAE ITOSHI
The little bell above the teahouse door chimed as Sae stepped inside, his gaze briefly sweeping across the familiar wooden interior. For the first time in years...Nothing had changed.
The elderly shop owner looked up from behind the counter before her eyes widened in recognition.
"...Sae-chan?"
Sae gave a small nod.
"It's been a while."
"Oh, my goodness!" she exclaimed, hurrying around the counter with a bright smile. "Look at you! You used to come in here with your little brother after practice, and now you're all over television." She clasped her hands together, looking him over proudly. "You've grown into such a fine young man."
"I've gotten taller."
"You certainly have." She laughed before suddenly narrowing her eyes. "Now, tell me... are you married yet?"
"...No."
"Engaged?"
"No."
"A girlfriend, then?"
Sae sighed almost imperceptibly.
"...Why does every visit home turn into this conversation?"
"Because you're handsome!" she replied as though the answer were obvious. "If you don't have anyone, I know a lovely young lady whose mother comes here every Thursday. She's sweet, polite, and she's been asking if I'd ever met that football player from Kamakura—"
Before she could finish, you quietly stepped beside Sae, slipping your hand into his before intertwining your fingers.
You offered the shop owner a warm smile.
"I'm afraid your matchmaking services won't be needed today."
The elderly woman blinked.
"Oh?"
You glanced up at Sae before smiling just a little wider.
"This hometown celebrity has already been claimed."
The shop owner gasped, both hands flying to her cheeks.
"Oh! So that's why you came back looking so much happier!"
The shop owner disappeared into the kitchen with a cheerful hum, leaving the two of you by the counter.
A moment later, you felt a familiar pair of arms wrap around your waist from behind.
"...Sae?"
He rested his chin lightly atop your head, his voice as calm as ever.
"Thank you. I was starting to think I'd have to sit through another round of matchmaking proposals."
You let out a soft laugh, relaxing against him.
"So that's why you let me interrupt? I was wondering why you looked so unbothered while I practically claimed you in front of her."
"I was hoping you'd do exactly that," he admitted without the slightest hint of embarrassment. "It's considerably more effective than rejecting every recommendation she has."
You tilted your head just enough to look back at him.
"So I'm your official anti-matchmaking strategy now?"
"The only one I need," Sae replied. "Besides... you looked rather cute getting possessive over me."
Your face immediately warmed.
"...Don't get used to it."
˚₊‧꒰ა MICHAEL KAISER
The bell above the bakery door chimed softly as you wandered past rows of freshly baked pastries, the warm scent of butter and sugar filling the air.
"I still can't believe this place is open," you murmured, eyeing the display case. "You talked about these rusks so much I was convinced they only existed in your memories."
Kaiser slipped his hands into his coat pockets, a smug smile tugging at his lips.
"I have excellent taste, Liebling. Some things simply survive the test of time."
Just then, one of the bakery employees approached carrying a tray of neatly cut sample pieces.
"Good afternoon!" she greeted warmly before her eyes landed on Kaiser. There was a brief pause.
"...Oh."
Recognition flickered across her face.
"You're Michael Kaiser, aren't you?"
"The one and only."
Her smile widened almost instantly.
"I knew it! Welcome back!" She laughed nervously before holding the tray toward him. "We're handing out samples of our new honey rusks today. Please, have one—it's on the house."
You waited beside him, expecting the employee to extend the tray your way after offering Kaiser a sample.
She didn't.
Instead, she lingered in front of him with an eager smile, her entire attention fixed on the famous footballer standing before her.
"I really hope you like it," she said. "It's one of our newest recipes, and we've been recommending it to everyone today."
You glanced from the tray to her, then back again.
...I guess I'm invisible.
The faint pout that settled on your face didn't escape Kaiser.
His eyes flickered toward you for the briefest moment before a knowing smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He plucked a honey rusk from the tray, turned toward you without the slightest hesitation, and held it just beneath your lips.
"Open, Schatz."
You looked up at him, momentarily caught off guard.
"...You're feeding me?"
"I don't see anyone else I'd rather share it with."
Your cheeks warmed instantly. Aware of the employee still standing there, you hesitated for only a second before leaning in to take a bite. Kaiser watched with quiet satisfaction, then popped the remaining half into his own mouth as if the gesture required no explanation at all.
The employee blinked several times before an embarrassed laugh slipped past her lips.
"Oh... I'm so sorry." She pressed a hand to her forehead, mortified. "I completely misunderstood. I thought you were here alone—I didn't realize you two were together."
"It's alright," you replied with a reassuring smile as your hand naturally found Kaiser's forearm. "Don't take it personally. He has a habit of collecting attention wherever he goes."
The employee disappeared behind the counter with another apologetic smile, leaving the two of you alone beside the shelves lined with warm loaves and pastries.
No sooner had she walked away than Kaiser's arm found its way around your waist, drawing you effortlessly against his side. His shoulders gave the slightest shake as a quiet laugh escaped him.
"So..." He glanced down at you, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Were you genuinely jealous over a complimentary bakery sample, Liebling?"
You looked up at him with an offended gasp. "I wasn't jealous. I was simply wondering why I was standing there like decorative furniture while you were being treated to free food."
"Oh?" He arched a brow, the corners of his lips lifting. "Then why did you cling to my arm the second she realized we were together?"
"Because she looked embarrassed," you defended, trying your best to sound convincing. "I was helping her recover from the awkwardness."
"How noble of you." His thumb absentmindedly traced small circles against your waist. "And here I was thinking you were reminding everyone that I'm your boyfriend."
"You already know you're my boyfriend. Everyone else was just... receiving the same information."
A satisfied grin spread across his face as he leaned down to press a quick kiss against your temple.
"My beautiful, sweet Liebling..." His blue eyes met yours, sparkling with unmistakable amusement. "Getting jealous over a complimentary bakery sample... I do hope you realize you've just made my day."
˚₊‧꒰ა JULIEN LOKI
The morning air carried just enough of a chill to make jogging pleasant. Beside you, Julien matched your pace with effortless ease, his breathing so steady it was almost insulting.
"You know," you said between breaths, "I refuse to believe you're actually running."
He glanced over with a faint smile. "I am."
"You passed three cyclists in the last five minutes."
"They were going rather slowly."
"They were on bicycles, Julien."
"They'll recover."
You laughed, giving his arm a light bump as the two of you rounded the next corner.
Just then, a young woman stepped out of a nearby café with a cardboard tray balancing two coffees in one hand and a paper bag of pastries tucked beneath the other. She looked up at the same moment Julien noticed her, both of them reacting a fraction too late.
"Oh!"
Before the drinks could topple, Julien was already moving. He caught the sliding coffee with one hand, steadied the paper bag with the other, and instinctively reached for the woman's arm to keep her from stumbling.
"I'm terribly sorry," he said at once, releasing her as soon as she regained her footing. "Are you alright?"
The woman blinked up at him, still trying to process what had happened.
"...Julien Loki?"
A small chorus of delighted gasps came from the nearby bench.
The elderly ladies who had been chatting moments ago were now watching the scene unfold with unconcealed interest.
"Oh, look at that..."
"He caught her before she fell."
"Mon Dieu, it's just like one of those romance dramas."
The poor girl's face turned scarlet.
You could practically see the imaginary opening credits rolling.
Absolutely not.
Suppressing a laugh, you walked over and slipped comfortably beside Julien, your hand finding his forearm as naturally as if it belonged there.
"I'm so sorry about that," you said with an apologetic smile. "My boyfriend has this unfortunate habit of forgetting that normal people can't react as quickly as he can. He was only trying to save your coffee."
The woman looked from your hand resting on Julien's arm to his face before letting out an embarrassed laugh.
"Oh! I... I'm sorry. I completely misunderstood."
"No harm done," you assured her. "I'm just glad nothing spilled."
One of the grandmothers smiled knowingly.
"So that's the girlfriend."
"I was wondering when she'd make her entrance."
After another round of apologies and relieved laughter, the woman excused herself, leaving the two of you to continue your jog as though nothing had happened.
You barely made it half a block.
"Eh bien..." Julien's voice was soft with amusement. "You were very quick to clarify that I was your boyfriend."
You kept your eyes ahead, pretending the conversation didn't interest you.
"I was preventing a misunderstanding."
"Were you?" He glanced at you, a knowing smile forming. "Because you repeated it with such confidence, darling. Almost as if you wanted to make certain everyone heard."
"They were already deciding who you should marry."
Julien let out a quiet laugh, his fingers slipping between yours as you walked. "So you saved me from a future arranged by strangers?"
"Exactly."
"How fortunate I am, then." His smile grew. "Saved from an imaginary marriage by my very devoted girlfriend. I should probably thank you, non?"
As if on cue, he brought your joined hands closer, pressing a small, affectionate squeeze as the two of you continued along the path.
˚₊‧꒰ა BUNNY IGLESIAS
The cameras were still flashing when Bunny Iglesias stepped out of the stadium corridor, his lavender hair slightly messy from the match and his expression as calm as ever.
A few reporters gathered around him almost immediately.
It wasn't unusual. Bunny had become someone everyone wanted a piece of—the young Spanish forward who had taken the football world by storm, the New Generation World XI player everyone expected to become one of the faces of the sport.
But tonight, they weren't asking about his goals. They were asking about her.
"So, Bunny, there has been a lot of discussion online recently regarding the rumors about you and Valeria Cruz," one reporter said, raising his microphone. "Many fans believe the two of you are more than friends. Would you like to address those rumors?"
Bunny blinked once.
"Valeria Cruz?"
The reporter nodded. "Yes. The photos of you together have caused quite a reaction. People are saying she might be the person you're dating."
For a moment, Bunny simply stared. Then a small, almost amused smile appeared.
"People seem to be very good at creating stories."
The reporters laughed softly.
"So you're saying there is nothing between you?"
"I am saying that people often see two people standing near each other and decide they already know the entire story."
"And what is the real story?"
Bunny looked thoughtful, his fingers adjusting the sleeve of his jacket.
"The real story is that I played a football match today, and I am more interested in discussing that."
A few reporters smiled, but they clearly weren't ready to let the topic go.
"But you understand why fans are curious. You're one of Spain's biggest young stars. Everyone wants to know about your personal life."
"I understand," Bunny replied calmly. "But curiosity does not always mean people are correct."
Before another question could be asked, Bunny noticed you making your way through the crowd toward him, your expression calm but familiar enough for him to recognize your quiet determination.
You didn't interrupt the interview or draw attention to yourself; you simply reached him, took hold of his arm, and gently guided him away from the reporters. The sudden movement left the media team staring as the cameras quickly followed the two of you.
Bunny allowed himself to be pulled along without protest, a small smile forming as he looked down at you.
"I believe they have their answer now."
You looked back toward the reporters and the cameras, finally realizing the conclusion everyone had reached. The rumors, the speculation, the endless guesses about Bunny's supposed girlfriend—it was no longer a mystery.
Bunny, however, seemed far more entertained than bothered. He glanced at you as the two of you continued walking away from the crowd.
"You know, cariño, I think that was the fastest way anyone has ever ended one of my interviews."
"I didn't want to wait until they finished making assumptions."
A quiet laugh escaped him. "Ah, so that was the plan? Walk in, steal me away, and let everyone figure it out themselves?"
"It seemed easier."
Bunny nodded thoughtfully, a small smile appearing. "I have to admit, mi amor, I respect the confidence. Walking into a crowd of reporters like that was bold."
"You think I was brave?"
"Very." He looked amused. "I spend my life in front of cameras, and even I don't enjoy that many people staring at me."
"Then why are you smiling?"
"Because you looked completely serious while doing it." His smile widened slightly. "It was cute."
He stopped walking for a moment, gently taking your hand in his before lowering himself slightly until he was at your eye level. The teasing expression on his face faded into something warmer as he looked at you.
Then he turned your hand over and pressed a quiet kiss against your palm, holding it there for a brief moment.
tags/warnings: modern!au valarr, subby! valarr, dry humping, pet names, handjob, praise kink, p in v, unprotected sex, inexperienced! valarr, experienced! reader, established relationship
a/n: this my first time writing anything i hope this is SOMEWHAT good heh
you still remember the first time having sex with valarr, and so does he, but he remembers it as a life changing experience. probably because he was a virgin. but besides it being his first time with anyone, he swears to you on his life that he could never have the same experience with anyone else. and he wouldn’t because he would never leave you either.
ever since that day, he always found himself kneeling at your feet like a puppy asking for attention, and it didn’t take long for him to get it. you knew how much of a good boy valarr was, and you always made sure he also knew it. each time he was on his best behavior, which was almost all the time, you would let him choose how he wanted to be rewarded. he loved being rewarded.
valarr had his favorite rewards, for example, letting him dry hump you. seems basic, right? not to him. the first time it happened was after he cooked you your favorite meal after you came back from a long day at work. such a silly day. “w-wait, i’m c-cumming again, holy-“ he whimpered out breathlessly as he continued to grind his leaky tip against your panty-clad cunt. but with a jerk of his hips and a whimper, he came all over the lace of your panties, soaking the pretty fabric.
“satisfied?” you sighed out as you leaned back on his thighs. he shook his head, then looked up at you with his flushed cheeks. “can i go again?” you couldn’t deny such a sweet boy. he came four times that night. his second favorite reward was receiving a handjob from you, whether it was through his clothes or without. the first time he received this reward was when he took you on a shopping spree.
“you’re such a good boy, valarr..” you quietly breathed into his ear while your hand stroked his needy cock, occasionally swiping your thumb over his leaking tip. “i-i’m your g-good boy, h-hah..” he whined out, slowly fucking into your hand. “you’re going to continue to be good, right?” you softly cooed, in which he immediately nodded. “yes, yes, yes! g-gods, yes..” and with one more pull to his cock, hot ropes of cum spurted out, dribbling down your hand, and down to his now empty balls.
valarr’s most favorite reward ever would be having the permission to fuck you. this was the first time you two had sex, and when he lost his virginity to you. while on a date at the bar, valarr had beat the shit out of some drunk dude who was harassing you, and you just had to reward him in some way. and of course, he accepted.
“alright, y’ready?” you asked, resting your hands on his chest as you hovered above his standing length, waiting for his word. “y-yes, i’m ready..” with his confirmation, you slowly sank down onto him, earning a moan from him. “y’okay?” but when you glanced at him, he looked more than okay. his mouth was slightly agape, and he looked dazed. “do you want me to start moving or..” he immediately nodded, not wanting to waste anymore time.
as soon as you started to move your hips, every type of noise of pleasure poured out from his beautiful lips. you found it adorable how much a simple movement had him in such a state, so you decided to go a bit faster. his eyes were slightly rolling back and fluttering shut, and his hips would occasionally jerk up to meet your movements. his hands shot up to grab onto your hips, trying to get some leverage. “i-i think i’m going to c-cum-“ and before you could even react, he was already releasing inside of you.
“i barely started..” you quietly said to yourself, looking down at him. “m’sorry, c-can we go again? i-I’ll do better this time, i promise.” he softly pleaded. his brows were furrowed and his cute face was all flushed, you just couldn’t say no to such a sweet face.
AKOTSK men kinks? Any pet names for LS? High Valyrian in bedroom??!? I’m foaming at the mouth rn 😫
I did answer sizes/positions/kinks already, but did keep it relatively broad rather than Lady Stark!Reader specific, but holy shit did I have a lot to say about this. Strap in, we're gonna get real nasty and weird lol.
includes: baelor, maekar, aerion, dunk, lyonel, valarr, daeron, aegon the conqueror, maegor the cruel, daemon blackfyre && brynden rivers (bloodraven). 18+. mdni. this contains some dark themes/content (guess who lmao) but NO no-con (because we don't fuck with that here.)
BAELOR:
The Dornish approach to pleasure (unlike Westerosi prudishness, Dorne celebrates sex openly, and he very much brings that philosophy to bed, will spend hours on foreplay because Dornish lovers are generous, will make you come three times before he even gets inside you because in Dorne a man's prowess is measured by his partner's satisfaction)
Delayed gratification (he's been edging himself for too long when it comes to you; edging you is just the natural extension—he'll bring you to the brink a dozen times before he lets you shatter because he's teaching you the pleasure of waiting, of burning)
The praise specificity (he doesn't just say "good girl", he's specific: "The way you take me is perfect, the sounds you make, how wet you get, the way you clench when you're close", detailed observational praise that proves he's paying attention)
Competence kink (watching you ride, negotiate, command makes him harder than any bedroom game ever could—he wants to fuck you still wearing the confidence you wielded in the council chamber, wants to be the only one who gets to see you undone)
Feeding (Dornish culture is sensual about food too, so he'll feed you pomegranate seeds, blood oranges, watching juice run down your chin before licking it away, and sometimes he'll fuck you with sticky fruit-sweetness still on both your mouths)
Northern/Southern contrast fixation (your cold skin warming under his hands is a metaphor he can't escape—he's the southern prince, a dragon, with blood of Dorne in his veins, melting the winter queen, the dragon thawing the wolf, and he whispers it while he fucks you: "You're so warm for me now, aren't you? All that ice, melting.")
Lowkey breeding kink (he tells himself it's duty, political necessity, but the truth is he's obsessed with the idea of you round with his child even though he would never say it, likes watching his seed drip out of you, presses it back in with his fingers while you whimper)
Siesta sex (the Dornish afternoon rest becomes SEXUAL; he'll pull you into his chambers in the heat of the day, strip you both down, fuck you slow and sweaty while the castle is quiet, and there's something deeply intimate about mid-afternoon sex, sunlight slanting through shutters, no rush)
Mirror sex (he positions you so you have to watch: watch yourself take him, watch your face when you break, watch him watching you, "Look at yourself. Look how perfect you are. Look what you let me do to you.")
Breeding intensity (when he's actually trying to get you pregnant, he becomes almost feral, fucking you multiple times a day during your fertile window, keeping you in bed, barely letting you leave: "I'm not wasting this, I'm going to make sure it takes")
Orange blossom oil (he uses Dornish scented oils—orange blossom, mainly, his favourite—warming it in his hands before touching you, and the scent becomes rooted in your brain, you smell orange blossom anywhere and get immediately wet, and he knows, will sometimes wear it himself just to watch you react)
Oral fixation (he'll spend an hour between your thighs, ignore his own aching cock entirely, because tasting you is communion and he's a devout man; same can be said about finger sucking heh)
Spiced wine as ritual (he'll bring Dornish wine—the kind his mother drinks, heavy and spiced—and make you drink from his cup before sex, the sharing of wine a Dornish intimacy ritual, and sometimes he'll pour it on your skin and lick it off, the spices mixing with salt and sweat)
Praise kink (when you call him "my prince" while he's inside you makes him actually dizzy)
Orange grove fantasy (he talks about taking you to Dorne, fucking you in the orange groves of Sunspear, under the desert sun where no one would care about propriety: "In Dorne we could do this anywhere, the Water Gardens, the shadow city, no one would bat an eye")
The way he fucks you: Slow and controlled. He's a man who's been denying himself for years (in many contexts) and now that he has permission to have one thing he's wanted above all else, he's going to savour every second. He maps your body like territory he's conquering inch by inch. He learns what makes you gasp, whimper, beg, and then he uses it. A merciless commander of his favourite battlefield. With the same brilliance he brings to the tourney field.
Pet names: "Little wolf" (only in private, only in bed, and it makes you feral every time), "my lady" (even when you're naked and begging, because the formality is part of the game), "sweetling" (rarely, and when he does use it you know he's feeling extra soft toward you)
High Valyrian: He uses it sparingly because he knows the power it has over you. The intimacy of a language you don't fully speak, the intimacy of it. He waits until you're close, until you're trembling, and then he switches: "Gevie" (beautiful), "Ñuha zaldrīzes" (my dragon, ironic and possessive because you're the wolf but he's claiming you in dragon-tongue), "Māzīs syt nyke" (come for me).
Post-sex: He holds you like you're something precious he's afraid will disappear. Traces your face with his fingers like he's memorising you. Whispers things into your hair: "I've wanted you so long," "You undo me," "I would burn the realm for you and I know I shouldn't." The vulnerability lasts maybe five minutes before he rebuilds his walls back to the prince (because he still feels ashamed to want you this much), but every one of those moments is yours.
MAEKAR:
Competence + control exchange (he's furious that he wants to submit to your authority outside the bedroom—you're his wife or his political equal and you command respect he has to give, and it makes him feral—so in bed he takes it all back, pins you down, makes you yield, forces the power dynamic back into his favour)
Possessive marking (bites and bruises in places only he'll see, but also places that will show, just barely, under your gown's neckline, so every man at court will know you're claimed)
Restraints (his belt, your own clothes, his bare hands—he doesn't need silk ties, he needs you helpless and teeth bared)
Rough silent dominance (the sex is almost wordless sometimes, specially in the beginning, just commands: "Turn over." "Spread your legs." "Breathe." and the silence makes every sound you do make sound ten times filthier)
The rare praise (he almost never praises, so when he does, a muttered "Good girl" or "Perfect, just like that", it hits like a physical blow, and he knows the power those rare words have so he rations them like a miser)
Reclaiming his wife (after social events where you have to be polite to visiting lords, where other men look at you with appreciation, or even want, he'll pull you into your chambers and fuck you still half-dressed, possessive and intense.)
Aftercare denial (he makes you wait, trembling and aching, before suddenly pulling you against his chest and the tenderness hits harder because he made you earn it, left you on the edge before claiming you with his strength)
Scent fixation (burying his face in your hair/neck and just breathing you in before he fucks you, like he's trying to get drunk on you)
The cold prince warming (Winterfell's cold draws something out of him; he runs hot naturally and in the Northern winter that contrast is more stark, he's your personal furnace, and he'll warm you with his body deliberately, strip you down and press skin-to-skin in the furs: "Let me warm you, wife, let me—" and the service aspect gets him off)
The awkward tenderness (he doesn't know how to be soft, so when he tries it's clumsy; his fingers too rough when he tries to be gentle, his words stilted when he attempts praise, and the awkwardness is somehow more intimate than smoothness would be)
Authority kink (he gets off on giving orders and having them obeyed ("Spread your legs," "Don't move," "Stay quiet") and watching you comply makes him harder than the actual acts themselves)
Duty-bound breeding (he frames getting you pregnant as duty, as obligation—"We need heirs, this is necessary"—but really he's obsessed with the idea of you carrying his children, of permanent claim)
The northman's endurance (winters are long in the North and so is he; he'll fuck you for HOURS on long winter nights, nothing else to do but tend the fires and tend to YOU, and his stamina becomes legend between you)
The crack (very rarely, after particularly intense sex, his mask will slip; his hand will tremble when he touches your face, or he'll pull you closer with something desperate in the movement, and you'll see the sheer need underneath the iron)
Praise starvation showing (he's spent his life as the overlooked fourth son, so when you praise him genuinely, tell him he's good, tell him you want him, he goes absolutely still, and then something ignites and he's on you with desperate hunger: "Say it again")
Throat-holding (his hand on your throat is about control, about feeling your pulse race, about the trust it requires. He doesn't squeeze, just holds, and it's more intimate than any kiss)
Wedding night do-over (months into the marriage, when he's actually in love, he'll recreate your wedding night, but THIS time with passion instead of duty, and the contrast destroys you both: "I want to do it right this time, want you to want me this time")
The Lord's hand always on you (in the great hall during meals his hand is on your thigh under the table, possessive and constant, and sometimes his fingers will slip higher, reminding you what's coming later, and you allow the touch grounds him)
Seasonal intensity (winter makes him MORE possessive—something about the isolation, the darkness, the need for warmth—he'll keep you in bed longer, fuck you more frequently: "Nothing else to do but keep you warm, keep you satisfied, keep you full")
Possessive sleeping (he cannot sleep unless you're in his arms, will wake if you try to move away, drag you back unconsciously, and the need for physical contact even in sleep betrays how deeply he's fallen)
Hate-fucking his own desire (sometimes he fucks you angry—angry that he wants you, angry that you make him weak, angry that he can't stop wanting you—and it's rough and desperate and he won't look at you until after)
The way he fucks you: Hard and controlled, especially initially. He's not trying to make love to you; he's trying to do his duty to you, prove something to himself while he's at it. But underneath the roughness is a desperate need he won't name. He'll pin your wrists above your head and fuck into you with mechanical precision, but his eyes are wild, burning. He'll bite your shoulder hard enough to bruise and then his tongue will trace the mark like an apology he can't voice.
Pet names: He doesn't use them. You're "Lady Stark" even when he's three fingers deep. You're "wife" (bitten off like a curse), then like a claim. The closest he gets to softness is a muttered "woman" that somehow sounds like "beloved" in his mouth every time.
High Valyrian: Rare. Cold and commanding. "Kostilus" (please, but it sounds like an order), "Māzīs" (come, snapped out when he's losing control), "Ñuha" (mine, branded into your skin like he's claiming territory).
Post-sex: He doesn't speak. Just pulls you against him with a grip that borders on bruising, buries his face in your hair, and holds. Sometimes his hands shake. Sometimes you feel his breath hitch like he's fighting something bigger than desire. He'll never say "I love you," but the way he clutches you in the aftermath speaks volumes. Nothing could take you from him. Nothing.
AERION:
Blood play (he bites until you bleed, licks the wound clean, mixes your blood with his—it's not about pain, it's about mingling, about becoming indistinguishable, about love as cannibalism)
Hair-pulling (your hands in his hair, yanking his head back, making him gasp—he's bratty and vicious until you pull hard enough and then he goes pliant)
Exhibitionism as claim-staking (he wants them to watch, wants them to see you choose him, wants everyone to hear you scream his name, wants the realm to know the wolf chose the mad dragon)
Degradation (call him "pretty," call him "desperate," call him a "temperamental little dragon" and watch him fall apart; he's been called brilliant and terrifying his whole life but no one's called him pretty like it's an insult and a caress)
You shaped Breeding kink (he's never wanted children with anyone else, the thought disgusted him, but you? He's obsessed with putting a child in you specifically, has spent years fantasising about it, wants to see you swollen with his seed, wants to bind you to him in the most permanent way possible—"You'd be so beautiful round with my babe," "Want everyone to see what I did to you," "Going to fill you until it takes"—it's possessive and primal and he can't think about anything else when he's inside you)
Humiliation play (making him perform, making him beg, making him prove he deserves you—he needs to earn it or it doesn't feel real)
Orgasm denial (he hates how much he loves being edged, being told when he can come, being controlled, but he's also achingly hard the entire time)
Oral fixation (his mouth is always on you—biting, sucking, licking, tasting—he needs his tongue on your skin like he needs air, will spend hours just kissing and biting his way across your body, sucking bruises into your thighs, your breasts, your throat, and when you're on your knees for him he nearly blacks out, watching his cock disappear between your lips is a straight up religious experience)
Bratty submission (his submission is never easy; he fights, he mouths off, he tests boundaries constantly, because he needs you to take it from him rather than have it given)
Mirror sex (he needs to watch himself break for you, needs to see his own degradation, needs the visual proof that you've undone him)
Jewellery/adornment fixation (he wants you dripping in Targaryen gold and jewels while you're naked and he's marking you; it drives him insane)
Temperature play (ice and dragonfire, he's obsessed with contradictions, with things that shouldn't coexist but do, his perfect balance)
Scent obsession (he steals your clothes when you're not looking, sleeps with them pressed to his face, gets hard just smelling you on fabric, sometimes he'll bury his face between your legs and just breathe you in for minutes before he even starts using his tongue)
Marking obsession (your marks on him are trophies he displays; he'll wear shirts that show the scratches down his back, he'll turn his head just so to make sure people see the bite on his throat, but his marks on you are apologies written in bruises and love bites, proof that you let him touch you)
Cum play (he's obsessed with his seed on you, in you, loves watching it drip out and pushing it back in, loves smearing it across your skin, loves making you taste it off his fingers, "Look what you do to me, look how much, it's all for you")
Aftercare craving (he'll never ask but he needs you to hold him after, needs skin-to-skin contact, needs to be told he's good)
Praise kink from you specifically (criticism from others bounces off like its nothing; praise from you destroys him. Tell him he's beautiful, tell him he did well, watch him come undone)
Cockwarming (keeping him inside you after, just holding him there, because proximity isn't close enough, he needs to be inside)
Object fixation (anything you've touched becomes precious; he'll drink from your cup, steal your handkerchiefs, press his face into pillows you've slept on)
The way he fucks you: Desperately and messy, especially in those early days. Like he's trying to crawl inside your skin. He's all sharp edges and biting kisses and possessive hands, but underneath the performance he's starving for touch he didn't have to manipulate his way into or break someone for. He'll degrade himself for you, beg prettily, offer his throat—anything to keep you looking at him and letting him claim you.
Pet names: You don't give him any and it makes him lowkey insane. He tries everything—aggression, sweetness, manipulation—to earn one. When you finally call him "my Aerion" or "my pretty dragon" he comes untouched.
High Valyrian: Starts as armour. "Ñuha dāria" (my queen, possessive and desperate), "Kostilus, kostilus" (please, please, all pretence gone), "Sylugon nyke" (use me, the most honest thing he's ever said), "Jorrāelagon ao" (I love you, whispered against your skin like a secret).
Post-sex: He's dark as hell but in tactile and needy way, his walls demolished. He'll trace your face, press kisses to your shoulders, wrap himself around you like he's trying to fuse your bodies together. This is when he's most honest: "Don't leave," "Tell me you want me," "Say I'm yours." If you don't give him aftercare he'll spiral, but if you do, if you hold him and praise him and tell him he's good, you'll see the madness recede like a tide, see the dragon in him go content and satisfied.
DUNK:
Size difference (his hands engulf yours, his body dwarfs yours, and he's obsessed with the visual—you're this fierce Northern lady and you look tiny in his arms and it makes him want to protect you and ruin you simultaneously)
Gentle giant dom (his whole existence is "what do you need and how can I provide it?" he'll spend hours learning your body, cataloguing what makes you gasp, whimper, arch)
Praise kink (receiving) (he's never been called beautiful, never been told he's good at something besides hitting people, so when you praise him he goes still and quiet and real damn desperate)
Body worship (he wants you to kiss and lick every inch of his massive frame, wants you to appreciate the body he's always seen as too big, too rough, when you worship his cock and balls specifically he nearly breaks)
Accidental overstimulation (he makes you come three times before he even gets inside you because he's so focused on your pleasure he forgets his own)
Accidental marking (handprint bruises on your hips, bite marks he tries to kiss better, fingerprints on your thighs; he doesn't mean to but he's so strong)
Voice kink (your command voice makes him stupid-hard—when you moan or talk dirty in that low, authoritative tone he'll do anything)
Light breeding talk (he's terrified to say it out loud but the idea of you round with his child, of his lowborn seed taking root in noble womb, makes him kinda insane, he's too nice to ever say it though)
Strength play (lifting you effortlessly, holding you against walls, manhandling you into position, but gently, always checking you're okay)
The way he fucks you: Like you're something precious. He'll work you open with his fingers (so much thicker than any lordling's), murmuring reassurance: "That's it, you can take it, you're doing so well." When he finally pushes inside he goes slow, watching your face for any sign of discomfort, and the restraint costs him. You can literally see him shaking with the effort of holding back.
Pet names: "M'lady" (always, even in bed), "little one" (size kink goes brrrr and makes him melt), "my heart" (when he's being devastatingly sincere and doesn't realise how loving he sounds)
High Valyrian: He doesn't know any and feels insecure about it. You're highborn, educated, you probably expect courtly sophistication. When you tell him you prefer the Common Tongue from him, that you prefer his rough Flea Bottom accent, it makes him dizzy with relief.
Post-sex: He holds you like you're made of glass. Peppers your face with kisses. Asks if you're alright at least seventeen times. Fetches water, cleans you gently, tucks you against his chest just to have you close. The aftercare is instinctive—he's taking care of you the way he takes care of his armour, his horse, anything he values because he has so little. Sometimes he'll whisper: "Can't believe you let me touch you. Can't believe you're mine."
LYONEL:
Impact play (hard spanking that leaves your marked, but he's laughing while he does it, drops an open mouthed kiss against the mark, clearly having the time of his life, "You can take it, wolf, I know you can, there's my girl")
Loud dirty talk + booming laughter (he doesn't whisper, he proclaims, "Going to fill you so full you're dripping for days," "Listen to those sounds you're making, fuck," and sometimes he just laughs, delighted by your body's responses)
Primal breeding (hair-pulling while he fucks into you from behind, biting your shoulder, holding you down; pure animal dominance, he knows better than to try and tame a wolf)
Public risk/semi-exhibitionism (fucking in tents during campaigns, against walls at feasts where someone might walk by, in the godswood where the risk of discovery makes it better and someone always hears you)
Cum play as marking (he loves smearing his seed all over your body—your breasts, your thighs, your face—or making you wear it under your gown at court dinners, loves the secret knowledge that you're marked, you can see his eyes twinkling every time he looks at you)
Strength play (lifting you effortlessly, fucking you against walls, holding you up while you're impaled on his cock)
Competitive (how many times can he make you come, how loud, how wet—he's keeping score and he's winning)
Exhibitionist breeding talk ("Everyone's going to know I fucked you," "You're going to walk into that council meeting with my seed dripping down your thighs," "Going to put a black-haired babe in you and let the realm wonder")
The way he fucks you: Hard and fast. He approaches sex enthusiastically, messily, and with full-body commitment. He'll throw you onto the bed and laugh at your indignant yelp before covering your body with his, all muscle and heat. He doesn't make love; he celebrates you.
Pet names: "Storm Queen" (his favourite, said with open pleasure), "my she-wolf" (possessive), "gorgeous creature" (when he's being appreciative), "there's my girl" (when you do something that particularly pleases him)
High Valyrian: He knows like three phrases and uses them all wrong but with such confidence you can't even correct him 😭 He'll try to dirty talk in Valyrian and completely butcher the grammar and you're too busy laughing/coming to care.
Post-sex: He's really affectionate, pulls you against him, plays with your hair, traces the marks he left on your skin with obvious satisfaction. Sometimes he'll sing, some tavern song or Storm's End ballad, while you're trying to catch your breath. He has no concept of embarrassment or vulnerability; this is just another form of intimacy to him.
VALARR:
DM Verse context: He's in love with Daeron's betrothed. Or Aerion's lover. Or the woman caught between one or both of his cousins in a toxic dance that's going to consume all of you (and likely kill someone). And he's the fool watching from the outside, wanting in, knowing he'll burn if he touches but reaching anyway.
Modern AU context: He's in love with his father's girlfriend. His father's fiancée. The woman who smiles at him over breakfast and sleeps in Baelor's bed and is going to become his stepmother. He's so thoroughly fucked it's almost funny. Except nothing about this is actually funny.
Forbidden fruit (every touch is stolen, every kiss is betrayal, and the wrongness makes it better in ways that shame him)
Guilt kink (he hates himself for wanting you and the self-hatred makes him desperate; he fucks you like he's trying to purge you from his system and fails every time)
Voyeurism (he's seen you with them; through cracked doors, across courtyards, and it's destroyed him, burned the images into his brain so he can't escape them)
Touching himself to memories of you with them (this is the WORST part because he'll replay what he saw, you with Baelor/Aerion/Daeron, and he'll hate himself while he strokes his cock to the memory, imagining it's him instead, and the self-loathing after he comes is crushing)
Stolen moments (quick and desperate in shadowed hallways, gardens at midnight, anywhere you won't be caught because discovery would ruin everything but the risk makes his hands shake)
Teasing/edging as delayed gratification (if he's already damned, he's going to make it last—he'll edge you for hours, make you beg, draw it out because these stolen moments are all he gets)
Comparative worship (he kisses you softer than they do, fucks you slower, gentler, because he needs you to know he'd treasure you if he could have you. DM: softer than Aerion, gentler than Daeron; Modern AU: more tender than his father)
Marking he'll have to hide (he wants to bite, to bruise, to claim (he's still a dragon even if others don't see him as one) but he can't, so he settles for kissing places no one else will see, leaving ghost-marks only you'll know about)
Praise kink as vulnerability (when you call him "my perfect prince" or "so beautiful when you fuck me" he melts, goes molten; he's been good his whole life and hearing it from your mouth makes it hit ten times better)
Light bondage (silk ties, leather belts; he needs you to restrain him, needs the choice taken away so he can pretend he's not choosing this)
Perfectionism in bed (he wants to be PERFECT for you: studies your reactions obsessively, adjusts technique, asks what you like, and the desperate need to be good enough bleeds into everything he does)
The confessor's burden (DM specific) (if you ever confide in him about problems with Aerion or Daeron, he'll comfort you appropriately, but later he'll replay the conversation and get off on your vulnerability, on the intimacy of you trusting him)
Slow sensory teasing (prolonged foreplay with fingers, tongue, silk, feathers; he's savouring you because he doesn't know when he'll get this again)
Modern AU specific:
Age-gap reversal (you're older, sophisticated, his father's equal, and he's the college kid who can't control himself)
Household proximity torture (you're always there: in the kitchen in the morning, on the couch in silk pyjamas, in the pool in a bikini that makes him want to gnaw his own arm off)
Forbidden fantasy (he jerks off thinking about fucking you in his father's bed, in his father's shower, against his father's desk, then nearly throws up from how guilty he feels over it)
Good boy corruption arc (he's never been reckless until you, never lied until you, never wanted something absolutely forbidden until you—you're unmaking his careful golden-boy persona and he's letting you)
Listening through walls (he's learned which walls are thin, where he can hear—and when you're with his father he'll press his ear to stone and listen to the sounds you make, hating himself, aching, hard and horrified in equal measure)
Scent obsession (he'll get close enough to smell your perfume, your hair, and later he'll try to remember it exactly while touching himself, and once he passed you in a hallway right after you'd clearly been with his father and he could SMELL sex on you and he nearly came untouched from shame and want)
Overstimulation seeking (he'll ask you to keep going even when he's too sensitive, even when it almost HURTS, because the overwhelming sensation grounds him in reality, proves this is really happening)
Mirror to his father (he's aware he looks like young Baelor, same dark hair, same build, and he uses it, styles his hair the same way, dresses sharp, anything to make you see the resemblance and want)
The way he fucks you: Like he's trying to memorise you through his skin, tender and desperate. Every thrust is "I love you," every kiss is "I'm sorry," every whispered praise is "Choose me." He can't fuck you without emotion bleeding through, it's physically impossible for him to separate the mechanical from the meaningful.
Pet names: He doesn't dare. You're "my lady" (DM) or just your name (Modern AU) and the formality/distance is armour that doesn't work. Sometimes, when he's breaking, he'll whisper "beloved" (DM) or "baby" (Modern AU) like a confession.
High Valyrian (DM only): Whispered sins he shouldn't speak—"Jorrāelagon ao" (I love you, and he does, and it's destroying him), "Kostilus henujagon" (please stay, even though you can't), "Ñuha mittys" (my mistake, said against your mouth like he's apologising to the gods themselves).
Post-sex: Guilt tastes sooo good. He holds you too tight and won't meet your eyes. Sometimes his eyes burn after tears (mostly due to guilt). He'll press his face to your shoulder and breathe you in like he's drowning. Sometimes he'll whisper things he shouldn't: "I'd give up the crown for you," (DM) / "I'd walk away from everything for you" (Modern AU), "I dream about you every night," "I'm going to the Seven Hells and I don't care."
DAERON:
Wine-sharing as intimacy (he'll take a mouthful of wine and kiss it into your mouth, or pour it across your skin and lick it off, the alcohol making everything hazy and warm, and sometimes he'll get you drunk WITH him so you can exist in that floating space together where nothing hurts quite as much)
Self-destructive exhibition (when he's spiralling he'll fuck you where someone might catch you—against the door while a feast happens outside, in the godswood where guards patrol, anywhere with risk—because part of him wants to be caught, wants the scandal, wants to burn it all down)
Lazy oral fixation (he'll spend hours between your thighs, drunk and dedicated, because focusing on you means not thinking about visions)
Light somnophilia (sleepy morning sex, half-awake and gentle, the only time he's soft because his defences are down)
Praise desperation (he's starved for affirmation, for being told he's GOOD, he's worthy, he matters; when you praise him during sex he falls apart, will bury his face in your neck and shake, and he needs the words as much as the physical pleasure)
Body worship from below (he loves lying back and letting you ride—his face, his cock—while he lazily praises you, because it means he can just receive for once instead of carrying the world)
Temperature seeking (he's always cold—the visions leave him chilled to the bone—so he seeks your warmth obsessively, will press his icy hands to your warm skin, bury his face against your neck, wrap himself around you like he's trying to absorb your heat, and the contrast makes you gasp)
The gift of laughter (on rare good days when the visions are quiet and the wine has him pleasantly buzzed instead of miserable, he's actually playful: tickling you, making you laugh, smiling against your skin, and the sex is light and sweet and you treasure these moments because they're so rare)
Reversal of caretaking (he spends so much time being taken care of—helped to bed, monitored, pitied—that when you're the one who needs comfort or care, he becomes almost manic about providing it, and he'll eat you out for an hour or fuck you exactly how you need, completely focused on your pleasure because it's the only time he feels useful)
Cum eating (he'll lick his own seed out of you or off your skin, because it's intimate and it grounds him)
The prophet's resentment (he resents that he needs you, resents that you're the only thing that quiets the visions, and sometimes he'll fuck you like he hates you for it, rough and graceless and mean, and he'll spit accusations: "This is your fault, you made me want this, I was better off alone")
Melancholy intimacy (the sex is tender and sad, like he's trying to memorise you before the visions come true and take you away)
Neediness masked as anger (he'll pick fights specifically so the makeup sex is intense, will say cruel things he doesn't mean just so you'll prove you won't leave, testing your loyalty through manufactured conflict)
Cum denial for himself (sometimes he'll fuck you and deliberately not let himself finish, will pull out before he comes and just stop because denying himself pleasure is another form of self-punishment, and you have to coax him or sometimes physically force him to let himself have good things)
Vulnerability (when he's drunk he sometimes cries during sex, clings to you, whispers prophecies he shouldn't, "I saw you burning," "I can't save you," "Stay with me, please stay")
The way he fucks you: Like every time might be the last time because in his visions it always is. He'll cup your face and stare into your eyes like he's trying to burn the image into his brain. He'll whisper your name like a prayer. And sometimes he'll just stop mid-thrust and hold you, because the weight of knowing is crushing him.
Pet names: "Darling girl" (sometimes teasingly if he's sober, lovingly if he's drunk), "my salvation" (because you are—you're the only thing keeping him sane), "sweet thing" (when he's eating you out, tasting you in some capacity)
High Valyrian: Mostly slurred but rather poetic, "Jorrāelagon ao" (love you, said like he's confessing a crime), "Kostilus henujagon" (please stay, even though the visions say you won't).
Post-sex: He holds you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows. Traces your face with shaking fingers. Sometimes he talks—streams of consciousness about visions, fears, futures he can't prevent: "I saw Summerhall burning," "I saw Aerion's madness consume him," "I saw you and I wasn't there to save you." Sometimes he just cries, silent tears soaking into your hair. Truth is he's in love with you. Has been since the first vision where you appeared crowned in snow and ice before you began burning and he can't tell if you're dying or transcending. Every time he touches you he's trying to change the future, trying to make this real enough that it overwrites the visions. It never works but he tries anyway. In every vision, he loses you. You burn or you leave or you fade, and he's always reaching for you, always too late. So he treats every moment like borrowed time. Fucks you like he's trying to anchor you to this reality. Loves you like it's the last thing he'll ever do (because it is).
DAEMON:
Version One context: He knew you while you were betrothed to Baelor
This is the version where he watched you at court, saw you promised to the Baelor, and wanted you with a longing that predates any rebellion. This Daemon has context—he knows your laugh, knows how you take your wine, knows the way you argue in council. He didn't just want to take you from Baelor. He wanted you to choose him instead.
Competence worship (he's watched you negotiate, watched you ride, watched you command, and every display of capability makes him want you more, not as a prize but as an equal, as a queen in the making)
Stolen tenderness (in the rare moments when he's not performing conqueror, when it's just you in a quiet room, he'll touch you gently—fingers tracing your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone—like he's memorising something precious he was never meant to have)
Laughter during sex (with you specifically, because you knew him before the rebellion fully consumed him, you remember when he could still be light, sometimes mid-fuck he'll crack a joke or you'll say something cutting and he'll laugh, genuine and warm, before the bitterness crashes back)
Face-holding intimacy (he cups your face in both hands when he kisses you, holds you there like you're the only real thing in the world, like if he lets go you'll disappear back to Baelor)
Praise ("You're brilliant," "Gods, you're magnificent," "No one else sees the world like you do" said quietly, reverently, in the aftermath when his walls are down)
Slow morning sex (when you've spent the night together and woken tangled up, he'll fuck you slowly, lazily, with none of the usual conquest energy, just want and familiarity and something dangerously close to love)
Protectiveness masking as possession (he positions himself between you and danger, his hand at your back in crowded rooms, his body shielding yours, and he tells himself it's about owning you but really he just can't bear the thought of you hurt)
Confession intimacy (he tells you things he'd never tell anyone else. doubts about what he's doing, fears about failure, the weight of the name he carries, all whispered against your skin in the dark while he's moving inside you)
Naming (not "my queen" or "she-wolf" but your name, every time)
Version Two context: He takes you as conquest
This is the version where you're already wed to the enemy, where he has less history with you, where taking you is more about the statement than the person. This Daemon is harder, colder, more willing to hurt.
Conqueror roleplay (he wants you to resist so he can overwhelm you, the fight makes the submission sweeter, makes it feel like victory over Baelor)
Possessive territoriality (marking you as his even though you're not, even though you never will be—it's about claiming what the crown denied him)
Hate-fucking energy (anger and want tangled so tight neither of you can breathe; he's furious you're married to them, furious you make him want you anyway, furious he can't just take and keep)
Sword kink (Blackfyre stays in the room, propped against the wall, a third presence, threat and promise; sometimes he'll fuck you with the sheathed blade pressed to your throat, cold Valyrian steel a reminder of power and if/when you lean into it, he only laughs and fucks you harder, whispering how you're meant for a conqueror instead)
Exhibitionist (he wants Bloodraven to know, wants Daeron to hear, wants Baelor to know, wants the whole damn realm to whisper, "Did you hear? The she-wolf spreads her legs for the Pretender")
Degradation ("Does your prince fuck you like this? Does your king make you scream like I do?" every insult is aimed at the Throne through your body and pleasure)
Primal dominance (hair-pulling, throat-holding, forcing you to look at him while he takes you, "Eyes on me, I said.. on me")
Ownership through defiance (he'll fuck you in their colours, tear the Targaryen red off your body and replace it with nothing but his marks, and eventually his own colours)
The way he fucks you:
Version One (knew you before): There's a sick duality to it. Sometimes it's pure conquest—hard, commanding, relentless. He's the warrior-king in exile and you're territory he's claiming. But other times, when the walls come down, he fucks you like he's coming home. Slower. Deeper. With eye contact that lasts too long to be just physical. He'll pin you down and fuck into you with brutal precision, but then he'll press his forehead to yours and breathe you in like you're oxygen, like he's missed you so much it physically pains him. The contradiction is soul destroying for you both.
Version Two (pure conquest): Like pure warfare. He'll pin you down and fuck into you with brutal precision, and the whole time he's watching your face—cataloguing every gasp, every moan, proof that you want him more than you want anyone else. There's no softness here, just raw possession.
Pet names:
Version One: Your actual name (said softly in private), "my queen" (challenge but with genuine reverence underneath), "she-wolf" (affectionate despite the teeth, teasing)
Version Two: "My queen" (pure challenge—he's calling you what you'll be when he wins), "she-wolf" (with teeth, possessive and wild), "prize" (dehumanising and he knows it, and does it purely to see you bare your teeth at him)
High Valyrian: Usually commanding, "Tepagon issa" (give to me, not a request), "Ñuhon" (mine, over and over like a brand), "Kostilus jaelagon nyke" (please want me—the only time he sounds vulnerable, spoken only if he knows you don't understand what he's saying, and he hates himself for it—more common in Version One).
Post-sex:
Version One: He holds you. Actually holds you, not just claims you. His hand will stroke your hair, trace patterns on your back. Sometimes he'll whisper things he shouldn't: "If I'd won—" (he never finishes that sentence but you both know how it ends). Sometimes he'll just press kisses to your temple and pretend, for a few minutes, that you're his and there's no rebellion, no crown, no Baelor. Then reality crashes back and his jaw tightens and the tenderness evaporates, but for those few minutes he lets himself be soft, lets himself imagine what you could have been.
Version Two: He doesn't do tender. He'll drag you against him, possessive and silent, and sometimes you'll feel his heart racing like he's just fought a battle (and he has—against himself, against wanting you this much). Sometimes he'll trace the bruises he left and his jaw will tighten. Sometimes he'll mutter: "You should have been mine. The crown, the throne, you. You were meant for me, not him."
Thing he won't admit:
Version One: He's not just fucking you to claim territory or make a political statement. He's fucking you because he loves you—has probably loved you since before he should have, since before the rebellion, since you were just Barthogan Stark's daughter at court and he was the legitimised bastard watching you from across feast halls. That's more dangerous than any war. Because loving you means he's not fighting for a crown anymore, he's fighting for you. And if you ever chose him freely, without conquest or coercion, it would undo him completely because a part of him would want to give it all up for you.
Version Two: He's not just fucking you to claim territory or send a statement. He's fucking you because he wants you—genuinely, devastatingly wants you—and that's more dangerous than any political game. Because wanting means weakness and Daemon Blackfyre cannot afford weakness. "Say the word. Say you want me and I'll take the throne. I'll crown you queen and fuck you on the Iron Throne itself."
You never say it.
(He's still hoping.)
AEGON I:
Prophetic obsession (he dreamed of you before he knew you, saw your face in flames and frost, your body crowned in stars, your womb as the forge for the prince that was promised, and when he finally touches you it felt like his entire life led to this moment)
Mythological breeding (this isn't about heirs, this is about fulfilling ancient Valyrian prophecy—the dragon and the wolf, fire and ice, the song that will save the world—he fucks you like he's writing fate itself)
Sister-wives trifecta (Visenya's fire—fierce and deadly; Rhaenys's warmth—soft and sweet; your ice—cold and burning—he needs all three elements to be complete, needs the contradiction you embody)
Sacred ritual (sex with him feels like religious rite; you're being consumed, worshipped, on an altar of dragon-bone and/or Northern weirwood)
Dream-sharing (he whispers what he's seen while he's inside you: "I saw our son on the Iron Throne," "I saw you crowned in ice and fire," "I saw the Long Night and you were the dawn" essentially prophecy as foreplay)
Dragon-bond (he wants to take you flying on Balerion, something of old Valyria, because wants you to feel the power he commands, wants the dragon to accept you as he has. He takes you flying, lands somewhere remote—a mountaintop, an empty beach, or simply the open sky—and fucks you against the dragon's flank while Balerion's heat radiates through you, the beast's breathing steady and enormous beneath you, and Aegon whispers, "He accepts you, he knows you're mine" while you're impaled on his cock with a living god at your back)
Claiming through titles (he doesn't just fuck you, he enthrones you; even before any official ceremony, he calls you queen, treats you as equal to his sister-wives, seats you at his councils, to him the political is inseparable from the personal)
Three queens, one king (he'll fuck you in front of Visenya and Rhaenys, not as humiliation but as inclusion—you're the third point of the triangle now. Sometimes it's not just witnessing, either, Visenya will hold you down while Aegon fucks you, her strong hands on your wrists or your throat, and Rhaenys will kiss you through it, touch you with eager hands, and Aegon orchestrates it like a battle: commanding, knowing exactly where everyone should be)
The Crown stays on (he wears the Conqueror's crown while he fucks you, makes you ride him while the Valyrian steel circlet sits on his head, and sometimes he'll place it on YOUR head mid-sex and watch you with something feral in his eyes, "This is what you look like as queen, this is what the realm will see")
Throne sex (he fucks you on the Iron Throne before it's even finished, you astride him while he sits on the half-built seat of swords, and the danger of the blades adds edge, just one wrong move and you'd both bleed, but he holds you steady, controls every movement, keeps you safe while making you understand the throne is as much yours as his)
Verbal dominance (he gives commands but frames them as questions: "You'll take me deeper, won't you?" "You want my seed, don't you?" "You'll give me a son, yes?" and the phrasing implies choice but his tone makes clear there's only one answer, and you give it more than willingly)
Orgasm denial (he'll edge you for HOURS, bringing you to the brink over and over, making you beg in Common Tongue and then Valyrian, teaching you the words for "please" and "mercy" and "I need you" in his language, and he won't let you come until you can ask properly, and if you turn those lessons back on him, and make him beg, on the rare moment his guard is lowered, even better)
Forced relaxation (you're both creatures of duty and vigilance, but he'll make you submit to pleasure, hold you down and eat you out until you stop thinking about politics or the North or anything but his tongue, and he's relentless about it, "You'll learn to take pleasure like you take everything else I give you—completely")
The way he fucks you: He'll position you exactly how he wants you (on your back, legs spread, open to him like the realm opened to dragons), and he'll watch constantly—how his cock disappears inside you, watches your face, watches fate happen. But there's reverence in it too. He touches you like you're something holy, something precious. Fucks you like you're the answer to every question he's ever asked the gods.
Pet names: "Northern star" (navigational but also his one true purpose), "my winter flame" (fire and ice in one), "the answer" (said with religious gravity, because you are), "ice-that-burns" (paradox made flesh), "ñuha brōzio" (my destiny, used more than your actual name)
High Valyrian: Used it often. "Ñuha brōzio" (my destiny, possessive and absolute), "Se dārilaros bona iksos kivio" (the prince/princess that was promised—he's not sure if he means your child or you, perhaps both), "Sagon sȳz syt nyke" (be good for me, because even destiny requires your cooperation), "Māzīs, ñuha jorrāelagon" (come, my love—the only time he uses a term of endearment and means it carnally).
Post-sex: He holds you like you're sacred. Traces your face like he's memorising constellations. Sometimes he'll talk—stream of consciousness about visions, prophecies, futures: "I saw a throne of swords and our son sitting on it," "I saw winter coming and you standing against it," "I saw us—centuries from now, in songs they'll sing forever." Sometimes he's silent, just staring at you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows. He'll pull you against his chest and you'll feel his heartbeat—steady, like the turning of the world—and you'll realise this is the only place the Conqueror allows himself to be simply Aegon. You're the only answer that matters. He's been searching for you across a lifetime (in dreams, in visions, in prophecy). You're the reason he conquered Westeros at all—because he knew you'd be here, waiting, the missing piece of something vast and terrible. He can't separate desire from destiny. Can't fuck you without thinking about prophecy. Can't touch you without seeing visions—your belly swollen with the prince that was promised, your hand holding Lightbringer, your face illuminated by dragonglass as you stand against the darkness. You're not just his lover. You're his prophesied queen. The ice to his fire. The song itself.
MAEGOR:
Pain/pleasure blur (he genuinely can't tell the difference and doesn't care to, biting that draws blood, gripping that bruises, fucking that feels like violence and transcendence in equal measure)
Combat arousal (if you argue with him, if you fight back verbally with genuine fire, he gets HARD. He doesn't want you broken and meek, he wants you fighting, and the sex after an argument is intense and almost equal, like he's fighting you into submission and you're fighting back and you both get off on the struggle)
Ownership through fear (you should be afraid and you are and it makes the wanting worse—for both of you)
Jealousy sex (when another man looks at you too long, when someone at court speaks to you with too much familiarity, Maegor will fuck you that night (likely after punishing, if not killing whoever it was) with barely controlled violence. Not to punish YOU, but to reassert his claim, to erase the other person's existence from your thoughts, "You think he could make you feel like this? You think anyone else could handle you?")
Breeding obsession (he wants heirs and he wants you destroyed making them; wants you swollen and aching and marked as his, wants the realm to see his seed took root in Northern womb)
Ownership through adornment (he commissions jewellery for you, usually heavy Northern pieces in silver and sapphire, but designed so they feel like shackles: a thick torc that sits on your collarbones like a collar, rings that connect with delicate chains, and he'll fuck you wearing nothing BUT the jewellery, getting off on how thoroughly you're marked as his)
Temperature play reversal (he'll heat stones by the fire and press them against your cold skin, watching you gasp and arch, obsessed with warming you, making the ice melt or he'll drag ice across your overheated skin after he's fucked you brutal and sweaty, and the care in the cooling is the only softness he can manage)
Degradation (he'll call you "wolf-bitch" and "Northern savage" but his hands are too gentle for how violent you've seen them be with others, and you both know there's a reluctant thread of respect at your refusal to break)
Claiming through destruction (he'll rip your gowns off, tear Northern furs, destroy anything that marks you as not-his because you're his now and the realm will know it)
Sleeping vulnerability (he only truly sleeps when you're in his bed, and he'll pull you against him unconsciously in sleep, hold you with a tenderness he'd never show awake—you've woken to find him curled around you protectively, his face pressed to your hair, and if you move he tightens his grip without waking)
Size and strength dominance (he's massive, built for war, and he uses it; he'll pin you with one hand, lift you effortlessly, manhandle you like you weigh nothing, and the casual display of power makes you clench even when it terrifies you)
Forced eye contact (he grabs your jaw and makes you look at him while he fucks you, "Look at me. Look at who's ruining you. Remember this." he needs you to see him, needs to be SEEN)
Hair worship (he's fascinated by your hair, he'll will bury his hands in it, wrap it around his fist while he fucks you, brush it himself sometimes in the aftermath with rough, unpractised strokes, and once you woke to find him just running strands through his fingers, watching the light catch in it like he's never seen anything so fine no matter how ordinary)
Battle-high fucking (he'll come to you straight from the training yard or from sentencing someone to death, or actual battle, still in armour, still bloody, and he'll fuck you with that violence still singing in his veins, using you to burn off the excess)
Possessive scarring (not just bruises—he wants permanent marks, wants his initials carved into your skin, wants you branded as his in ways that can never fade—he hasn't done it yet but you see him thinking about it)
Scent marking (he'll fuck you and then send you to court without letting you bathe, wants everyone to smell him on you, wants your hair to reek of sex and sweat and HIM, and when you walk into the throne room dishevelled and marked, his eyes track you with open possession)
Silence as dominance (sometimes he fucks you without saying a word, just watching you with those cold eyes, and the silence is MORE intimidating than any threat, but with him, also far more intimate, too)
Forced orgasms (he'll make you come over and over, overstimulate you until you're sobbing, prove that your body obeys him even when your mind resists, "See? Even this is mine. Even your pleasure belongs to me.")
Corruption kink (he's obsessed with the idea of breaking you down, taking the proud Stark wolf and turning her into something that begs for him, that NEEDS him, and he's patient about it, methodical)
Contrast fixation (you're everything he's not—Northern ice where he's Valyrian flame, ice where he's fire, merciful where he's cruel—and he wants to see how much of that he can corrupt, how much ice can melt before it's just water in his hands)
Bathing (this is the closest he gets to tender; he'll wash you after he's fucked you raw, rough hands surprisingly careful, and he won't speak but you'll see something complicated in his eyes every time)
The way he fucks you: Like conquest. Like war. Brutal and unrelenting. He'll pin you down with a hand on your throat (squeezing just enough to make you gasp), and he'll fuck into you with no gentleness, no mercy. But his eyes—his eyes are wild with something that looks like desperation. Like he's trying to anchor himself in you. Like you're the only thing real in a world he's burned to ash. He's heavy and huge and overwhelming, and he knows it, uses it. Every thrust says "mine," every bite says "stay," every bruise says "I was here."
Pet names: None. You're "woman," "wife," "Stark," "wolf bitch" (when he's angry). Endearments are weakness and Maegor the Cruel is not weak. (But sometimes, very rarely, he'll whisper "mine" like it's a prayer and a curse. And once, ONCE, in the absolute depths of vulnerability after you nearly died in childbirth, he called you "ñuha perzys" (my flame) and then he never said it again.)
High Valyrian: Used as weapon. "Henujagon" (stay, barked like an order), "Dohaeragon" (serve/obey, because you will), "Ñuha" (mine, branded into your skin with teeth and nails), "Tepagon issa" (give to me, not a request but a demand), "Sagon sȳz" (be good, and the threat in those two words could level cities).
Post-sex: He doesn't hold you gently. He claims you, drags you against him, possessive and silent. Sometimes his hands will shake and he'll hate himself for the weakness. Sometimes he'll trace the bruises he left and his jaw will tighten. Sometimes he'll mutter: "You're mine. Say it. Say you're mine." (It's the closest he gets to vulnerability.)
Very rarely—so rarely you almost think you imagined it—he'll press his face into your hair and breathe like he's drowning and you're air. His arms will tighten almost painfully. And you'll feel him shake. Just for a moment. Then it's gone and he's shoving you away and getting dressed and the king is back.
The thing he won't admit: He needs you. Not wants—needs. You're the only thing that doesn't flinch when he enters a room (anymore, you learned not to), the only thing that fights him (when you're brave or stupid enough), the only thing that makes him feel alive instead of monstrous. He'll never say it but you're not as breakable as he expected. He's broken queens before, gentle flowers who withered under his attention. But you're Northern, and the North is hard. You bend but you don't shatter. And that fascinates him. Enrages him. Makes him want you MORE. Every time he thinks he's finally broken you, you get back up. And he doesn't know if he wants to crush that entirely or preserve it forever.
BRYNDEN:
Omniscient voyeurism (he's WATCHED you for months before he ever touched you—through his network of spies, through his greenseeing, through birds and whispers—he knows how you touch yourself when you're alone, knows what makes you gasp, knows your tells when you're aroused, and when he finally gets you in his bed he uses all of it with devastating precision, and you realise with creeping horror that he knew, he's always known)
The weirwood witnessing (he'll fuck you in the godswood, pressed against the heart tree, and he swears he can feel the old gods watching through the carved face, that they approve, that this is sacred, and whether it's true or he's just insane doesn't matter because the blasphemy of it makes you come harder)
Prophecy pillowtalk (he sees futures while he's inside you; his eye goes distant and unfocused and he'll narrate what he sees: "I see you heavy with my child, I see you standing over my enemies, I see you crowned in weirwood leaves and raven feathers" and you can't tell if he's fucking you or the future of you)
Information as foreplay (he'll tell you secrets while he's fingering you—state secrets, dangerous knowledge, things that could get you killed for knowing—and the combination of his fingers curling inside you and his voice reciting treason in your ear makes you come so hard you forget half of what he said, which was probably the whole point)
The birds are watching (his ravens are ALWAYS present, perched around the room, watching with their black eyes, and he insists they stay, says they're part of him, extensions of his sight, and you're being fucked under the gaze of a dozen birds and Bloodraven's one red eye and you don't know which is worse)
Marking with meaning (he doesn't just bite randomly; every mark is placed, deliberate, forming patterns across your skin that mean something in old magic you don't understand, and he'll trace them afterward murmuring in the Old Tongue, and you think he might be binding you to him through sex magic and the terrifying part is you don't want him to stop)
The thousand eyes penetration (he'll blindfold you and then describe in EXACT detail what you look like from every angle—above, below, beside—because he's watching through the birds, through the shadows, through eyes you can't see, and he narrates your own body back to you: "Your thighs are trembling, you're so wet it's dripping onto the sheets" and you're disoriented and overwhelmed because how does he know)
Corruption through knowledge (he teaches you things you shouldn't know—blood magic, greensight techniques, secrets of the old gods—and every lesson ends with sex, classical conditioning until you can't separate learning from arousal, until forbidden knowledge makes you wet, until that Stark magic in your blood becomes another binder between you)
The three-eyed crow (sometimes during sex his personality shifts—becomes something older, stranger, less human—and he'll speak in riddles or prophecy, his voice layered like multiple people talking at once, and you're being fucked by something that's only wearing Brynden Rivers, and it should terrify you but you come anyway)
Forced confession through pleasure (he'll edge you for HOURS, making you tell him every secret, every thought, every tiny rebellion, and he already knows but he wants to hear you say it, wants you to confess while you're desperate and aching, and only when you've told him everything will he let you come)
The whisper network as dirty talk (he'll tell you what your enemies said about you today, what lords are plotting, who wants you dead—all while he's inside you—using state intelligence as pillow talk, making you paranoid and aroused in equal measure)
Artistic torture (he approaches your pleasure like a problem to solve, methodical and brilliant, and he'll bring you to the edge and stop, making notes (actual notes, he keeps a journal), testing variables: does this angle work better, does this pressure, does this word, and you're a study to him and it's dehumanising and so intensely hot you can't think straight)
The inverted (he's obsessed with contrast; his pale hands on your skin, his white hair falling across your face, the red of his eye against whatever colour yours are, and he'll position you in lamplight specifically to watch the shadows, the interplay of light and dark, making art of you fucking)
Magical stimulation (he swears he can use greensight to stimulate you mentally, that he can make you feel phantom touches, can reach into your mind and trigger arousal without laying a finger on you, and whether it's real magic or just psychological manipulation you've definitely come untouched while he sat across the room staring at you with that red eye)
Possessive documentation (he sketches you—obsessively—in margins of reports, on scraps of parchment, elaborate drawings of your body, your face, anatomically precise studies of exactly how you look when you come, and you found the collection once and it was extensive and deeply unnerving and also kind of flattering?)
The breeding obsession (he wants a child with you specifically to see what the genetics produce. Will your colouring dominate or his, will the child have his gifts, will they be beautiful or monstrous, and he talks about it clinically while breeding you, analysing probability like you're a fascinating experiment)
Sensory deprivation with narration (he'll blindfold and gag you, bind your hands, remove all your senses except touch and hearing, and then he'll narrate everything he's doing in that quiet, clinical voice: "I'm going to touch you here, you'll gasp, your pulse will quicken" and he's always right, he's studied you, and the predictive accuracy is horrifying and arousing)
The master of whisperers (in the early days, he'll orchestrate scenarios to make you need him, arranges for you to be threatened so he can protect you, creates problems he can solve, manipulates you into his bed through elaborate social engineering, and when you figure it out he doesn't even deny it, just smiles that slight smile and says, "And yet you're still here")
Ancient bloodlines (he's obsessed with the idea of mingling bloodlines; his ancient Targaryen/Blackwood blood with your Stark/First Men heritage, talks about it like alchemy, like you're creating something NEW, and he'll murmur genealogies while he's inside you, tracing your ancestry like it's foreplay)
The loyal hound routine (in public he's the King's servant, bows and scrapes and plays the loyal spymaster, but in private he's ruthless, dark and feral, and the contrast gets him off, the idea that the court sees him as one thing while you know the terrible truth of him)
Rewarding intelligence (when you figure something out, when you demonstrate strategic thinking or cleverness, he gets visibly aroused—his pupil dilates, his breathing changes—and he'll praise you lavishly while fucking you: "So clever, Lady Stark, I've taught you well", sapiosexual to a disturbing degree)
The way he fucks you: With unnerving precision and complete control. He's not passionate in the traditional sense, he's FOCUSED. Every touch is deliberate, calculated for maximum effect. He watches your face constantly with that red eye, cataloguing every micro-expression, adjusting his technique in real-time based on your responses. It's like being fucked by someone who's already read the manual to your body and memorised it. But sometimes (rarely) the control cracks. And then he's desperate and almost human, clinging to you like you're the only real thing in a world of shadows, fucking you with something that looks almost like simple human need.
Pet names: He doesn't use them in the traditional sense. You're "my lady" (formal, distancing), "clever girl" (when you've pleased him intellectually), "mine" (stated as fact), and once, in absolute extremis, "my only truth" (and he looked shocked he'd said it).
High Valyrian + Old Tongue: He uses both—High Valyrian for commands ("Gaomagon" - do it, "Sagon sȳz" - be good), Old Tongue for the weird magical shit (words you don't understand, phrases that make the air feel THICK, and once he spoke something that made the candles flicker out and you came so hard you blacked out briefly).
Post-sex: He doesn't cuddle so much as arrange you. Positions you exactly how he wants, your head on his chest, his fingers in your hair, and then he'll talk. Not sweet nothings, he'll discuss philosophy, magic, the political situation, prophecies he's seen. He treats pillow talk like a debriefing. But his hand is gentle in your hair, and sometimes you feel him press a kiss to your temple so lightly you might have imagined it.
Sometimes he'll sketch you in the aftermath, your body relaxed and sated, and he's surprisingly talented, and the sketches are intimate in ways that make you feel more exposed than the actual sex did.
The thing he won't admit: You're the only person in the world he can't fully read. His birds tell him your actions, his spies report your words, his greensight shows him futures, but your thoughts, your interior world, remains slightly opaque. And that fascinates him, gives him something to obsess over. You're the one mystery he can't completely solve and it's driving him insane in the best way.
He's definitely used greensight to watch you across time—has seen you in the past, in potential futures, in moments that haven't happened yet or happened years ago. And he'll reference them during sex: "I saw you do this three years ago, you were alone in your chamber," "I've seen you pregnant with my child in six different futures," "There's a timeline where you killed me, you were magnificent." It's violations of consent across the space-time and your brain can't even process the ethics of it.
But for all his power and knowledge, he's lonely. Desperately, crushingly lonely. Everyone fears him or uses him and no one knows him. You're perhaps the second person who's seen the man beneath the legend and hasn't run. He knows every possible future. He's seen the timelines where you betray him, where you leave, where you die, where this ends in blood and tears. He knows the odds. He's the man who calculates everything.
But he reaches for you anyway. Because in at least ONE future, you stay. And he's decided that future is worth burning all the others to reach.
summary: Valarr has neglected his soon-to-be wife, no passion in their political union. But one glance at you in your simple nightgown manages to completely unravel him.
warnings: smut; inexperienced!reader; inexperienced!Valarr; Valarr is an eater (it's the enthusiasm that counts); cumming untouched
words: 3.4k
notes: No physical description of the reader (only that she has hair). If you don't feel comfortable with these warnings/topics, please do not read. I am not responsible for the media YOU choose to consume. I literally wrote this before bed, so if you see something suspicious?? No, you didn't.
When Valarr was first betrothed to his soon-to-be bride, it was a union forged from duty rather than desire. He sought to honour his father’s wishes, securing the alliance that Prince Baelor had so deftly arranged. To Valarr, you were an obligation, a means to an end. Yet, despite the coldness of his motives, he treated you with the manners befitting a true gentleman, for his father had raised him in the values of courtesy and respect.
With a subtle smile gracing his lips, Valarr would speak to you in tender tones, his words laced with a polite charm that could not entirely mask the absence of warmth. He opened doors for you, his strong hand at your back or entwined with yours as he guided you through the bustling halls to grand feasts. Such gestures were the height of chivalry, yet all you craved was the fire of passion and the bloom of love, emotions that danced just out of reach.
Over time, you found solace in accepting this harsh reality, making peace with the truth that your marriage was merely a political arrangement, binding your noble house to his in a web of duty and allegiance. It was a bitter truth to swallow, yet you resolved to fulfil your part in this grand tapestry of power and lineage, even as your heart ached for something more.
This wasn’t the worst fate you could have endured, you knew that well. You were surrounded by a multitude of maids to attend your every whim, feasting on the finest delicacies the realm had to offer, and your future son would rise as the heir to the iron throne. Yet, the last point bore a certain weight, for the honour of ruling was often shrouded in peril and intrigue.
It's not that Valarr found you unsightly or undesirable, far from it. In his eyes, you were a vision of beauty, with hair that shone and skin as smooth as the finest silk. You possessed the enchantment of a siren, beckoning sailors to their doom upon treacherous shores.
However, he kept busy in the web of politics, far too entangled in the affairs of state to fall for your siren song just yet. His gaze was set on aiding his father to rule the realm wisely.
But all it took was one evening for Valarr to finally see the woman in you, not just a beautiful maiden he was to wed, awakening a desire he had kept locked away for too long.
In your private chambers, the dying fire flickered, casting warm shadows across your freshly bathed skin, still faintly fragrant with honey and dates—a scent that wafted through the air like an aphrodisiac. He had stopped by as he did each night, but this time it felt different.
You turned to him, a sweet smile curving your lips, your hair left loose, untamed, and perfumed, an allure he had never before witnessed. Gone were the elaborate gowns and intricate braids. A soft blush on the apples of your cheeks, feeling almost naked in the rather flimsy nightdress.
This was something else. This was raw.
As he lingered in the doorway, his gaze roamed over your figure, dressed in a nightgown, the fabric sheer enough to unveil the gentle curves of your body in the dim light.
Valarr had never seen you in such a state of unready before. As if the Gods had conspired to unveil your softness.
It was like tossing a scrap to a famished wolf—his breath quickened, sweat beading on his brow, the air thick with a growing warmth that made the chamber feel as though it had reached a fevered pitch. The sight of you stirred something deep within him, illuminating the desire he had kept locked away until now.
For a moment, it seemed as though Valarr's throat had gone dry, his gaze fixed upon you. The sheer nightgown's fabric betraying just enough to fuel his imagination, the soft candlelight playing a teasing game with your curves.
He took a step closer, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. His eyes roamed over you, tracing the contour of your hips, the gentle swell of your breasts. His voice, normally controlled, now held a rasp that betrayed his desire.
"My lady," he murmured, his voice low. His eyes drank you in, lingering over the slope of your shoulders, the gentle arch of your neck. The sweet scent clung to your skin, adding an intoxicating edge to the moment.
He took another step forward, the distance now mere inches. His hand moved of its own accord, his fingers gently tracing the line of your collarbone, the touch soft yet possessive. "You look…" He swallowed, his eyes finally meeting yours. "Breathtaking."
You blushed, feeling goosebumps rise on your arms as he grazed your skin. Feeling such a gentle touch for the first time from him, swallowing with slight nerves. "My prince, do not be silly. I am simply in my nightgown," you joked with a light tone, your voice breathy.
You felt a warm flush spread across your cheeks, and a shiver coursed through you as his fingertips danced lightly upon your skin. It was a gentle caress, unlike any you had ever known from him, igniting nervous anticipation in your belly that made you swallow hard. “My prince, do not be foolish,” you bantered softly, a teasing lilt gracing your breath.
“I am clad in my nightgown.” Your words hung in the air, sweet as honey, while your heart raced at the intimate closeness between you.
He hesitated, fingers barely touching your collarbone, worried he might cross an unwelcome line. His mind raced with thoughts that made him ache, nearly choking on his words.
“I’m not joking. You look... ravishing." The word fell from his lips like a confession, barely above a whisper. "Like a goddess made flesh,” he breathed, his voice thick with desire. Valarr’s gaze devoured you, trailing down your body to the low neckline that had him yearning and weak in the knees.
Valarr swallowed hard, realising he had never allowed himself to acknowledge the depth of his attraction to you until now. He felt blood rush to his cock so fast it almost made him dizzy, breeches tightening against his bulge.
His hand drifted lower, fingertips brushing the swell of your breast through the thin fabric. He felt your nipple stiffen at his touch, betraying your arousal. The air between you crackled with tension, heavy with unspoken desires.
You gasped as Valarr's fingers brushed your soft breasts, your nipples stiffening instantly at his touch. "Valarr," you breathed out, instinctively arching your back to press your breasts more fully into his palm. Your eyes fluttered closed, body burning with a sudden, intense ache that made your core throb.
"Touch me," you murmured, voice husky and low, a plea laced with newfound hunger. Your own hands moved to cover his, holding his touch against you as you felt your heart pounding. The cool air and your racing pulse made your skin prickle with goosebumps.
Now that you'd had a taste, you could never go back.
Your tongue darted out to wet your lips, the action slow and deliberate, an unspoken invitation. The air between you felt electric, heavy with the promise of passion about to be unleashed.
Unable to resist any longer, Valarr cupped the soft mounds fully, thumbs grazing over the hardened peaks. He leaned down, breath hot against your ear as he murmured, "As my princess commands..."
Valarr leaned down and captured your lips in a searing kiss. His mouth moved over yours hungrily, tongue delving past your lips to taste you deeply. One hand remained at your breast, kneading the soft flesh, while the other slid down to grip your hip, pulling your body flush against his.
He could feel his own heart pounding in his chest, his cock throbbing almost painfully against his breeches.
You kissed him back clumsily, but with growing fervour. Your tongues tangled awkwardly as you let out a muffled moan into his mouth. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, fingers digging in as you tried to steady yourself and simultaneously pull him closer.
Gods, but he kisses like a starving man, you thought dizzily, your own hunger rising to match his. You could feel the evidence of his desire, hard and insistent, against your stomach. It thrilled and intimidated you in equal measure.
Valarr's hands slid down to grip your rear, squeezing the firm globes as he pulled you harder against him. He could feel your body melting into his, your soft curves moulding perfectly to the hard planes of his body. His hips rocked forward, grinding his cloth-covered erection against your core, seeking friction even through the layers of fabric separating you.
Breaking the kiss, Valarr's mouth trailed down to your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. He nipped and sucked at the tender skin, determined to mark you as his own. His hands slid under the hem of your nightgown, calloused fingers skimming up your thighs, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Valarr was inexperienced, having lived a sheltered life and never visiting the brothels as his cousins often did. But he was a man—a Targaryen. He instinctively knew where to trace his fingers.
"I want to taste you." He whispered, voice shaky with how many thoughts and feelings were swirling inside him.
Driven by a yearning that stirred deep within, he needed to taste you, to have your honey on his tongue.
You let out a shaky sigh at his bold confession, the breath catching in your throat for a fleeting moment. "Taste me?" you inquired, uncertainty lacing your voice.
Your knowledge of intimacy came from books or your handmaiden, who kept the description of the act rather vague. Teaching you that the main purpose of a man and woman being together was to reproduce.
Valarr's hands slid further up your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin at the apex. "Here," he murmured, voice low and thick with desire. "I want to put my mouth on you, taste your essence, feel you come undone against my tongue..."
"Forgive me, I forget myself. This is new for me too." His thumb caressed your inner thigh soothingly.
I want to put my mouth on your sweet cunt until you're writhing and begging for more. That is what he truly wanted to say, but he kept his baser instincts at bay.
Your eyes widened, and you let out a breathy gasp, "Oh! I see..." You bit your lip, a blush spreading across your cheeks. "Well, I suppose that could be... pleasant." You trusted him; that's what made you agree almost embarrassingly quickly.
Valarr's heart raced at your breathy consent. Slowly, almost reverently, he eased you down onto the bed, settling between your parted thighs. He gazed up at you, eyes darkened with lust and a hint of tenderness.
"Pleasant doesn't begin to cover it," he murmured, hands sliding further up, thumbs brushing maddeningly close to your core.
With that, he leaned in, breath ghosting over your clothed sex. Then, he pressed a soft kiss to your mound, breathing in your scent before pulling the fabric aside.
Gods, she smells divine, he thought, mouth watering.
Your stomach fluttered nervously asyou felt Valarr's breath ghosting over your most intimate place, thighs clenching instinctively. A breathy, almost mortified whimper escaped your lips as he pushed your nightgown up and exposed your womanhood to his hungry gaze. "Ah," you gasped, cheeks flushing crimson. Yet, you made no move to stop him, pulse quickening in anticipation.
Valarr paused, looking up at you with a mix of hunger and tenderness in his mismatched eyes. "Shh, don't be nervous," he murmured. "I would never hurt you, my princess."
He leaned in, inhaling your scent deeply before placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss on your bare mound. His tongue flicked out, parting your lower lips, tasting your essence. He groaned at the flavour of you, eyes fluttering closed.
"Sweet gods, you taste even better than I imagined," he rumbled against your skin, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider as he settled between them.
His tongue delved deeper, exploring your folds with a growing hunger. He lapped at your essence, savouring the taste of your arousal. His hands slid up to grip your rear, kneading the flesh as he pulled you tighter against his mouth.
"Valarr~" you mewled, back arching off the bed as jolts of pleasure shot through you. Your fingers clawed at the sheets, bunching the fine linen in your fists as you gripped them for dear life.
What is this feeling? You thought dizzily, overwhelmed by sensations you had never known before. Soft, breathy mewls and whimpers spilt from your lips uncontrollably.
"So... so good..." you trailed off, unable to even articulate the depth of your pleasure, your body writhing with a hunger you had never known before.
Valarr groaned against your sex, the sound vibrating through you. Behaving more like an animal rather than a prince.
He sealed his lips around your clit, suckling the sensitive bud. His tongue flicked over it in quick, teasing strokes, drawing more of your essence.
Your breathing grew ragged, mingling with the obscene sounds of his suckling, filling the room with a symphony of lewd noises.
Valarr's thumbs spread your glistening folds apart, revealing your slick, little hole to his hungry gaze. "Exquisite," he breathed, the sight of your dripping sex making his painfully hard cock throb against his breeches.
Unable to resist any longer, he leaned in and dragged the flat of his tongue along your slit, savouring your ambrosial taste, before delving inside your tight channel with a low moan.
He thrust his tongue in and out, fucking your hole with his mouth as his hands gripped your hips, pulling you harder against him. His nose brushes your sensitive clit with each thrust, the stimulation driving you wild.
Valarr's movements might have been clumsy, but he was too focused on making you feel good. Listening what exactly you seemed to like, ears trained on the pretty sounds you made for him.
He could feel your walls fluttering around his invading muscle, your body instinctively trying to draw him deeper. Nothing else mattered in that moment but bringing his princess to the pinnacle of ecstasy.
One hand slid up to splay across your belly, feeling it quiver beneath his touch as he pleasured you with lips and tongue. The other hand gripped your hip, holding you in place.
"Oh fu- gods!" You cried out, voice ragged with pleasure. Your body undulated beneath him, thighs quivering and clenching around his head. You could feel every drag of his tongue, every suckle and nip, stoking the fire building in my core.
Moans spilt freely from your lips, growing louder. In that moment, you cared not who might hear. Your fingers tangled in his brown hair, nails digging into his scalp as you held him to you, pushing his face into your cunny.
Valarr's eyes rolled back in bliss as he feasted on your dripping sex. The lower half of his face was entirely coated in your juices, but he didn't seem to mind at all.
"Ah, gods, I can't... I can't..." you gasped, voice breaking as your body began to tremble uncontrollably.
He pushed his hand more firmly on your stomach, holding you in place so he could continue lapping at your cunt, making sure you couldn't run away from the pleasure.
A broken cry tore from your throat, eyes fluttering shut as a coiling heat gathered in your core. Valarr's grip on your hips held you in place, preventing any escape from the intense sensations consuming you.
His cock had been hard and leaking the entire time, pulsing against the mattress as fresh beads of precum kept staining his breeches.
Valarr's hips began to hump the bed instinctively, his painfully hard cock rubbing against the mattress as he lost himself in pleasuring you. The friction of the fabric against his aching arousal only heightened his lust, making him hump against the bed like a dog in rut.
Uncontrollable, near animalistic moans spilt from your lips, your body writhing beneath him. "Valarr!" you choked out, your voice ragged and raw with pleasure.
The coil of tension in your belly wound tighter and tighter, threatening to snap at any moment. You could feel the impending release building, your walls clenching and fluttering around his invading tongue.
You had never known such intense sensation. It felt as if you were possessed, leaving you a writhing, mewling mess.
Valarr's own body was wound tight, his cock throbbing almost painfully as he rutted against the bed. He needed to make you come, to feel your pleasure crest before he sought his own release. Only then would he allow himself the satisfaction of spilling in his breeches like a green boy.
He could only whine into your cunt, the sound muffled by your dripping flesh. He sees your body tensing. He knew you were close. He needed to taste your release, to feel you come undone against his mouth.
He sucked your clit hard, his lips sealing around it as his tongue flicked over the tip rapidly, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.
He could feel his own release building as well, his balls drawing up tight as he rutted desperately against the mattress, chasing his own end. But he focused only on you, determined to please you before seeking his own.
"Valarr!" You cried out, voice ragged and raw with ecstasy. Your body convulsed beneath his touch, back arching off the bed as you shattered into a million pieces.
"Mmhhh~" you mewled shamelessly, fingers fisting in his hair, holding him tight against your sex as you rode out each intense wave of your climax.
Valarr's own body seized, his cock pulsing hard as he found his release in his breeches. With a muffled cry against your sex, he found his own release, his body stiffening as hot seed spurted from his cock, staining his breeches. His hips jerked and shuddered as he came, the sensation of your quivering walls under his tongue pushing him over the edge.
He shuddered and twitched below you, gasping for breath as the intense pleasure of his climax rolled through him. Hecouldn't remember the last time he had come so hard, so intensely. The taste of your sex, the sound of your cries, the feel of your body writhing above him—it was all too much.
He held you close as you trembled and shook, his hands gripping your hips tightly as he helped you ride out each intense wave of your climax.
Finally, as your body went limp beneath him, he slowly pulled back, looking up at you with hooded eyes.
"Fuck," you panted, chest heaving as you stared up at the canopy above. "That felt... really good." You sat up on your elbows, meeting his gaze. "I didn't know men did that to their women." You admitted shyly, still catching your breath. "Can you do it again sometimes?"
Valarr smiled, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he gazed up at you. "Anytime you wish, my princess," he murmured, voice still rough from his own intense climax. "In fact..." He leaned in, placing a soft, lingering kiss on your sensitive mound, making your muscles twitch. "I look forward to it."
Valarr smiled, a boyish grin spreading across his face as he gazed up at you. "Anytime you wish, my princess," he murmured, voice still rough from his own intense climax. "In fact..." He leaned in, placing a soft, lingering kiss on your sensitive mound, making your muscles twitch. "I look forward to it."
He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, sensual kiss. You could taste yourself on him, the musky flavour of your release. His hands slid up your sides, cupping your breasts and kneading the soft flesh.
"I must be patient until we are married," he murmured against your lips. "I need to be proper. But once you are mine, I will have you every day if you only let me. I want to fill you with my seed until it takes, until your belly swells with my child."
Rolling onto his back, he gathered you to his side, one arm wrapped possessively around your waist.
You sighed in bliss as he held you, relaxing into his touch. Finally feeling loved and appreciated in this union, caressing his chest softly while your lids grew heavy with sleep.
His other hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your kiss-swollen lower lip. "You're exquisite, my princess," he whispered, studying your face as if committing it to memory. "I am not nearly done with you."
warnings: non con. dub con. smut. possessive men. obsessive men. spanking / aftermaths of spanking. dacryphilia. oral male and female receiving. manipulation. overstimulation. orgasm denial. character deaths / implications of murder. 18+
a/n: guys i can't stop writing and i really don't want to clog up the tags. please also note that this is down to opinion and you might not agree and that's okay.
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
You were probably expecting Daeron to be the most neediest out of the three of them. But seriously believe this, Aerion craves attention.
Super Needy! Aerion Targaryen
You belong to him. He may not admit it but he craves your attention and affection.
Aerion wants your eyes on him at all times and when he can’t have that, he’ll be pestering you with his hands climbing up your skirts or even pinching your sides. He likes to scare people, Lords and Ladies alike but there’s some people he can’t simply scowl at and send away, like his family. So his hands up your skirts at dinners will have to suffice.
He’s never going to admit how fond he is of you, how he likes the way your nails graze his scalp or your fingers lightly trailing over the palm of his hand. But he’ll never shy away from it, clearly happy for anyone to see how much you dote on him.
He’s a dragon, what would he need to be embarrassed about.
When he’s out training in the court yard, or away at tourneys, he’d expect you to be there with him. He might not tell you in words but he’ll search for your face within the crowds and smirk when he notices you there.
How do you know all of this? Well there are the times where you may have not paid him the attention he feels like you should have.
Those days of not having you around end up in nights that leave you battered and bruised.
Blood shot eyes, soaked cheeks and nasty red hand prints all over your ass cheek. Aerion would have you begging for mercy with his cock hitting the back of your throat. You can barely breathe yet you try your hardest to mumble out apologies.
Aerion would want to take pity on you. He really does. But you should have really known better.
He’s teaching you a lesson, watching you choke on him. He doesn’t let up either, not until his balls feel sufficiently drained. Even then he’ll have you bent over the nearest table, rutting into you like your some brood mare that needs to be punished.
He’s satisfied when you’ve stopped talking all together. All that’s left of you is shaky breaths and tears that make a small puddle on the table. Then he’s all forgiving, yanking you into his arms and telling you that he knows “you didn’t mean it” and how he knows “you’ll do better” for him next time.
He’ll let you sleep then, brushing your wet cheeks with his fingers and saying how much he knows you love him.
Very Needy! Daeron Targaryen
This man drowns himself in a bottle trying to push down his feelings for you. He’s embarrassed not of you but himself and the way he genuinely desperately needs you.
It all comes out at once in a drunken needy kiss when he has you alone in the gardens and he completely forgets himself. From then on forward, he’s truly screwed.
He’ll try and play the dutiful prince, not wanting to seem that pathetic in front of his father but his hands will search for yours under tables. He will literally let out a sigh of relief when you touch him, rubbing your finger along the back of his hand to give him reassurance.
When he’s drunk, he’s more careless. He’ll nuzzle his face into your neck and practically beg you to stroke his cheek like the good pet he is. People may be looking but he’s too drunk to care what they think.
And when he thinks you’re not paying enough attention to him, he’ll take your hand under the table, placing it on top of his hard cock and grind into it. All tinted cheeks and glazed over eyes as he groans into the feel of you through his breeches.
The worse is when you completely forget him, off to do your own duties instead of being with him. Then he’d find you, it doesn’t truly matter where you are. He’ll snatch you way into the closest room and have you either tossed over the furniture or lying on the floor, his head burying itself beneath your skirts.
You had only been without him a few hours but this man would eat at your cunt like a man starved. He’d take it slow, from kissing all over your thighs to then lapping at your folds with his tongue like he was the one that needed to apologise.
He’d look up at you with those wet puppy eyes begging for your forgiveness, trying to get you to tell him what he did wrong.
He would pull orgasms out of you like it was nothing, not finished until his face was dripping in your juices and you were crying from the overstimulation.
When he does calm down, he’s deeply buried into your walls, pulling you on top of him as you tell him how sorry you are and how you’ll never do this again. He’d sleep with his mouth on your neck, your body caged underneath him like at any moment you’d slip away. But you knew better than to face the consequences of leaving him.
Needy? Valarr Targaryen
Valarr doesn’t scream needy to me. In fact, he likes it the other way round.
You may have never initially wanted Valarr before but he’ll be sure to turn you into a desperate brat screaming for his attention.
He’s a prince. In line to inherit the throne after his father, he simply can’t be seen as needy. But having a needy wife that is wrapped around his finger. This man’s dream.
How did he manage such a thing? Fear is his best tactic. The idea that being without him simply wasn’t a life worth living. Making him your lifeline and cutting out everyone else.
You paid attention to that suitor at the banquet, the one that was found with flies swarming his body in the Godswood. Or the one who asked for your favour at the tourney, the same one that ends up screaming with Valarr’s lance buried in his shoulder.
He’ll make sure you fear what lurks around the corner when he’s not around. He’d make himself your knight in shining armour.
He won’t need to beg for your attention then. You’ll always be beside him, curling up beside him at banquets or watching beside his father at tourneys. You’d even beg him to let you sit in council meetings but it never works, so you'll listen to him and to sit pretty in your chambers for when he’s finished.
It’s simple really.
All of that just to coo at you when you crawl into his lap after a long day, peppering his face and neck with kisses. Only for him to tell you he’s tired and tell you if you're a good girl and stay still all night with his cock buried inside you, he might be kind enough to reward you when morning comes.
But it’s too hard with him cockwarming you. You’ve been craving him all day and the feel of him inside you isn’t enough. Would he really notice if you wriggle slightly around or if you touched yourself a little bit?
He would and he wouldn’t be so kind in the morning. He’d take his sweet time spreading you out on the bed, delivering torturously slow strokes that have you clawing at the sheets underneath you, toes curling and that feeling growing in your stomach. Only he’d stop when he could feel you close, taking it all away. Bad girls don’t get to be satisfied.
Valarr would spend the morning ruining you. Making you almost reach climax again, and again, and again until you’re whimpering at him to give you some sort of mercy. He’d leave you empty then, watch how all day you’ll practically claw at him like some needy cat, whining at how much it hurts, at how badly you need him to touch you.
Then when night finally comes around he’d have you all over again, fucking you thoroughly until you’re overstimulated and a mess. Until you’ve cum so much, you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to come again. Then, and only then, would he be satisfied.
divider by @ sweetshuga
a/n: currently working on some modern drabbles that i hope you guys will love.
