Yandere Older Woman! She loves you. More than she has ever loved anyone or anything.
Yandere Older Woman! You are her North Star. The daughter she never had, the mother she always needed, the partner she could never find. You encapsulate everything she has ever wanted.
Yandere Older Woman! She met you casually. Coincidentally. Sheâs convinced cosmically. You were at a boutique grocery store or a cafe. Picking up something to snack on or some groceries for later on.
And she spots you. The love of her life standing before her like an angel and an apparition.
Yandere Older Woman! Before you know it you feel a presence and watching and but the time you recognize it sheâs in front of you working up a conversation.
By the time the conversation ends you have her personal number and a date!
Yandere Older Woman! She canât stop thinking of you after your first meeting. Itâs like sheâs come alive again. She hadnât realized she had been so dull and dreary for so long but now life has returned! Spring has sprung and she feels like she needs to start this new season of her life as close to you as possible and as much as possible. Sheâs already imagining what kind of flowers are your favorite and imagining how she would arrange them.
Yandere Older Woman! She wonders what your favorite wines are- do you like wine? Surely you like wine and if you donât she will turn you because she has the best collection. Acquired from friends and travels all around the world.
Or maybe you like bourbon- oh how fun, or maybe champagne, or gin, or tequila, maybe you donât drink at all!
Every detail about you excites her to extremes.
Yandere Older Woman! She wants to know how you like your eggs and the type of toast you like. If you are allergic to anything and if youâre intolerant.
Yandere Older Woman! She wants to buy you gifts and take you around the town. She wants everyone in her old stuffy circles and the wives with sticks up their asses to know she has the most beautiful companion that she gets all to herself.
Yandere Older Woman! She wants to caress you to sleep and kiss you goodnight.
No one can take you away from her, she would never allow it. And why would you ever want to when she showers you in adoration and luxury?
ă»More sociable than the rest, she does well with other people, which makes campaigns very easy.
ă»Sillverwing shows her affection openly towards you. Booping you with her snout, blowing gusts of air toward you...your dragon loves making you smile.
ă»She loves showing you her clutches of eggs. She's so proud of them. She's trying to say, "look! here are my babies!"
ă»Only you know where they are hidden.
ă»You spend a lot of time together; you see each other everyday. Flying for at least an hour or two before responsibilities catch up to you.
ă»When you're alone together, you speak to her as if she can understand every word.
"Can you believe it? I mean I know we've had our differences, but she went too far. Don't you think? You can be honest-"
ă»But her eyes are upon you and you know that deep down she does understand. You are bonded afterall.
ă»When it's warm, Silvering will fly you to a waterfall or the like, to splash around in. She loves water.
ă»You hate leaving her in the dragonpit. One night you missed her so much that you went and slept in her lair.
ă»She woke up as soon as she smelt you enter the dragonpit, and let out a coo.
ă»You were giggling, and ran to her when you saw her.
ă»Mind you, this was at one in the morning.
ă»Yes, you did get into trouble for it.
ă»And yes, you did do it again...well...a few more times.
ă»When the guards come down to the dragonpit, to fetch you, Silverwing hides you behind her wing.
ă»When you are threatened, than Silverwing is gentle-no longer.
ă»You are her world.
ă»And when someone might hurt you, she shows teeth. She shows anger and she shows fire. She is still a dragon.
He is obsessed with you. Heâs the most cocky mf on the planet but he is the most respectful reverent partner ever.
Iâm imagining like Nicholas Chavez as Lyle menendez energy- the high strung peacock male energy but he is a total lover
He is a man. He isnât grossed out by periods or stretch marks. He wants all of it. Preferably on his tongue.
People donât understand how your together sometimes. Your gorgeous but he seems like the kind of man that would like the typical younger talk super model types and you are not that. Your something else entirely and thatâs what he is addicted to.
He confidence is on full display when it comes to showing how much he loves you. He is the most over the top vocal expressive pda lover ever. People can even call it performative because heâs so serious. Itâs just how he is.
Heâs your biggest supporter and the most annoying clingy creature.
Heâll be on the phone like, âmotherfucker let me tell you something-â
And then later on heâs making you a sandwich and bringing it to you while youâre relaxing and kisses your forehead, âhere you go baby, let me know if you need anything else.â
Heâs very passionate. You have to calm him down sometimes because if you donât get your dog he will bite and thatâs a lawsuit đ
Hes prone to violence when it comes to you. He has everything to lose but he has enough money to not care?
yandere!billionaire who blackmails you into being his trophy wife
yandere!billionaire who gets you to decide everything in his life and in the future of both of your lives, while he watches you like a hawk.
yandere!billionaire who slightly harass every employee into pampering you everywhere you go because you have to have the most satisfying experience always
yandere!billionaire who grabs your face and makes you look at him whenever you zone out at the nice restaurants trying to pretend that you aren't with him
yandere!billionaire who always have to have his arms around you or the chair you're sat at
yandere!billionaire who has to be around you, trapping you, touching his thigh on yours, the etiquette around his peers being damned as long as he feels you are under his control. not that he sees it as control. he can't have you thinking he goes a second without you on his mind
yandere!billionaire who wants you to oversee everything even though he has an housekeeper, ignoring his employees, only paying attention to what scents you like, how you like the lightning, how you like your food and how you treat people, making no judgements, only watching you and loving every behvior and any slight reaction you give, loving that you are at his reach
yandere!billionaire who wants you to actively decide everything on your wedding day, party and honeymoon even though he has a group of planners who could take care of everything because you don't get to seat the most important moment of his life out, he has to see you being present and engrossed. he loves to see the stress of it consuming you. he sees it as a proof of your love for him
yandere!billionaire who wants you to call the shots on the construction of the house you're going to live in after you're married, even though there's a group of the best and most expensive architects at your disposal, serving as your servants and he observes you intently, feeding obsessively off of your vision for the background of your future married life and the maternity you are going to be forced into
yandere!billionaire who can't stop holding you while you get to your honeymoon country, has you on his lap on the private jet, feeding you and then tightly gripping your face as he fucks you on the leather seat of the jet, forcing your cried out face to keep looking at his unblinking eyes that doesn't seem to get tired of watching you
yandere!billionaire who cages you the moment he has you folded in a mating press. eyes never closing not even as he shudders from cumming deep inside you. the thought of getting you pregnant with his firstborn and heir seemingto get him to cum again right after. you know he is trying to impregnate you and you think he is done but goes limp as you realize he is behaving like a plug. he takes deep breaths, trying to maintain his cool, thumbs digging on your hips, before starting to thrust again and whispering that he has to make sure and you know exactly what it means
it's the first night of the rest of a life you never chose
YAN! FASHIONISTA who doesn't give a damn about the new secretary they put in place of the old one. Honestly, where did you get that ridiculous sweater with kittens on it? He wanted to fire you as soon as he saw it, but he changed his mind when he remembered all the paperwork he'd need to sign to make it happen.
YAN! FASHIONISTA who finds it funny how you try to simultaneously hang his designer coat on the hanger while talking to a client on the phone.
YAN! FASHIONISTA who rolls his eyes every time you take too long to bring the coffee to his desk.
YAN! FASHIONISTA who, on any given day, has to blink twice when he sees you walk into the office wearing one of the dresses he designed years ago. The dress accentuated all the right places, the ones he'd never deigned to glance at before. He hummed with satisfaction at his choice and returned to work in silence.
YAN! FASHIONISTA who tried to hide his flushed cheeks when he saw you bending down to pick up a pen from the floor, revealing a little more of your thighs.
You, a recent journalism graduate with a mountain of bills to pay, were surprised when your strict boss, known as the Ice King, started giving you clothes from projects he wouldn't be using anymore. Blouses, coats, bags, hats, scarves... in a single month you could barely rummage through your wardrobe without a piece of clothing falling on your head.
Your relationship with the other secretary was reasonably good, but lately she seemed afraid to talk to you. On the other hand, your boss started taking you from one place to another, taking you to fashion shows and charity auctions.
YAN! FASHIONISTA who became desperate when you spent a day away. It's fine that you went to the doctor, but not seeing you wearing the clothes he gave you or leaving coffee on his table made him deeply upset. The other secretary and the other workers in his department avoided him for the rest of the day. In that fit of rage, he was capable of choking someone with a magazine.
YAN! FASHIONISTA who pretended everything was normal when you returned. However, for some unknown reason, your table was now next to his.
Pairing: Prince Valarr (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her, "You" referred )
Summary:
Everyone online thinks she has the perfect life: the face, the ring, the husband, the child, the dynasty, the kind of marriage people envy in photographs and edits online.
What they cannot see is the loneliness inside it, or how a woman can be deeply loved and still left starving for something gentler, warmer, and spoken aloud.
When their son brings home a rumour cruel enough to shatter the silence between them, Valarr is forced to reckon with the difference between loving his wife and making her feel loved.
Warnings:
unrequited love but not really unrequited, emotional neglect, marital loneliness, angst, Valarr is a damn fool, child caught in parental tension, rumours of infidelity, family pressure, difficult communication, crying, reconciliation, you have son, and he is named
A/N: Studying was the plan (but it's okay, my finals won't be here for another three weeks....yikes). but anywaysss, Valarr was the reality. I know what I said, and I know I should have committed to being productive, but I couldnât help myself. Take this for what you will. I just love him very much.
The marriage had been arranged so early, and spoken of so often, that sometimes it felt less as though a wedding had happened and more as though a contract had simply risen one day and put on silk and gold.
Your family and House Targaryen had been tied to one another for years through old money, older obligations, and the kind of corporate alliances powerful families still dressed in softer language. By the time Baelor Targaryen began preparing Valarr to succeed him as CEO, the union had already been decided. It was practical. Strategic. Clean. Your family strengthened theirs, theirs elevated yours, and the future of the company looked steadier for it.
Everyone called it a perfect match.
You were beautiful, poised, educated, and from the right family, with the kind of grace that made people lower their voices when you entered a room. Valarr was Baelorâs heir, sharp and self-contained, the future face of Targaryen Consolidated, a man the business press had circled for years like hawks awaiting a crown. Together, you photographed beautifully.
That was the problem with beautiful things. They made people think they understood them.
The photographs caught your wedding in gold and white and crystal light: Valarr in a black tuxedo cut so perfectly it looked severe on any other man and princely on him, your gown falling in clean silk over your body, your veil soft behind you, his hand steady and possessive at your waist as though even then he had already decided where you belonged. They caught the old family chapel, the private reception high above the city, the way he bent to kiss you beneath flashes of light and chandeliers and everyoneâs approval, one gloved hand sliding gently to your back as though shielding you even from the cameras. Later, they caught your son seated between you both in tailored little clothes, solemn-eyed before the camera, his dark hair smoothed carefully back.
They captured the shape of happiness.
They did not capture the quiet inside it.
His name was Vaegon.
He was six years old, sweet in a way that made your heart ache, all soft eyes and gentle hands and careful little questions. He was not loud or difficult or wild. He thanked the house staff when they brought him things. He apologized when he bumped into furniture. He pressed little kisses to your cheek for no reason at all except that he wanted to. He liked animals, soft blankets, storybooks, and curling up against you with complete trust, as though the whole world could not touch him while he was there.
You loved him with a ferocity that lived in your bones.
You fussed over him. Smoothed his hair. Buttoned his little shirts even when he could do it himself. Straightened the collar of his school coat. Cut his fruit into neat little pieces. Remembered every preference, every fear, every tiny thing that pleased him. You kissed bruises, soothed bad dreams, and packed his lunches yourself because you liked knowing that some small part of your care followed him out into the world.
Vaegon was the truest thing in your life.
The penthouse atop Targaryen Tower was all sleek glass, marble, soft lighting, curated art, and a view that made guests fall quiet when they first entered. It was elegant to the point of sterility, the kind of place that might appear in magazines under titles like How the Next Generation of Power Lives.
It only ever felt real when Vaegon left something out of place.
A toy dragon on the sitting room rug. A little cardigan draped over the back of a dining chair. Colored pencils left by the window where the light was best.
Valarr tolerated the mess.
This, in its own restrained language, was tenderness.
He was not cruel. Cruel would have been easier. Cruel men were simpler to hate, simpler to understand. Valarr was attentive in all the wrong ways and absent in all the ones that mattered most. He noticed everything. He missed you anyway.
He made sure your driver knew your exact weekly schedule. He had your preferred tea sent in when the brand you liked became difficult to find. He replaced Vaegonâs favorite books the moment one tore or went missing. He remembered anniversaries, doctorâs appointments, and the name of the florist your mother preferred. When you were sick, medicine appeared before you asked. When something in the house broke, it was fixed by morning. When Vaegon needed anything, it was already handled.
And when it came to you, he placed you above everything in the quiet, maddening architecture of his life â above the board, above appearances, above himself â yet he did it so wordlessly, so inefficiently, that it often felt less like devotion than management.
He noticed more than he ever said, remembered more than he let on, and took care of you in every way he knew how.
But he loved like a man who had been taught affection was safest when disguised as competence.
And because he loved you so badly â so deeply, so helplessly, so carefully â you often mistook it for the absence of love altogether.
That was the tragedy of it.
At dinner, he sat at the head of the table in dark work clothes, usually a charcoal shirt with the sleeves folded once over his forearms, the lines of the day still clinging to him. Vaegon sat to his right, small and neat in his school uniform, trying so hard to behave like a little gentleman. You sat to Valarrâs left in one of your softer house dresses, and from a distance the three of you must have looked impossibly composed. One elegant family above the city. The future of the dynasty already secured.
Vaegon tried, sometimes, to fill the silences.
âMama made my lunch herself today,â he said one evening, with unmistakable pride.
Valarr looked up from the report he should not still have been reading. âDid she?â
Vaegon nodded brightly. âShe cut the strawberries the way I like.â
You smiled despite yourself. âThey taste the same whole.â
âNo,â Vaegon said gravely. âThey taste better when you do it.â
Something shifted in Valarrâs face then. Not much. Just enough for you to see it.
He loved moments like that.
Loved you in them, perhaps most of all â you with your softness, your patience, your impossible instinct for making care seem effortless.
But where another man might have smiled, might have reached across the table to take your hand, might have said something warm enough to settle in your chest and stay there all evening, Valarr only lowered his eyes again and said, after a moment, âThen your mother is spoiling you.â
Vaegon beamed. âYes.â
You laughed softly.
Valarrâs mouth almost moved.
Almost.
That was how it always was. Almost.
You had tried, in the beginning, to meet him halfway.
You learned the names of the investors he disliked and the branch relatives he distrusted. You mastered the social rules of their world quickly enough that even Baelorâs hard-eyed wife had little to correct. You hosted beautifully, dressed perfectly, and moved through charity galas, shareholder dinners, and political fundraisers at Valarrâs side with the ease expected of you. In fitted gowns and diamonds chosen by family stylists, with Valarrâs hand resting firm at the small of your back, his thumb sometimes moving once in a gesture so slight no one else would notice, you became what such a wife was meant to become: graceful, useful, calm, impossible to fault.
And privately, you tried to love him too.
Not because you had no pride, but because he was your husband, and because there were quiet things about him that reached you in spite of yourself. The way he went still when he was deeply tired. The way he softened, almost imperceptibly, when Vaegon leaned against his arm. The way he watched you when he thought you did not notice. The way his hand at your back in public was always steady, protective, never careless. The way he reached for your hand in elevators or private corridors without ever seeming to realize he was doing it, only to let go once the doors opened and the world saw him again.
The internet loved those fragments.
A blurry video from a charity gala had once made the rounds for days because some account swore a lip reader had caught Valarr leaning close with his hand firm at your waist and murmuring, If I have to wear this tie another hour, it may actually kill me, in a tone so dry it had made you laugh and reach up to fix it for him. In the clip, your fingers smoothed the silk at his throat while he looked down at you with that rare, unguarded softness people online were always desperate to catch. The comments had been unbearable. People insisting he was in love with you. People replaying the few seconds over and over as though devotion could be proven in pixels.
There had been other moments too. Photographs of you at lunch with his parents, the four of you leaving some old restaurant uptown while Vaegon ran half a step ahead with a pastry in his hand, Baelor pretending sternness while his wife dabbed icing from his cheek. A grainy Sunday shot of the three of you at a winter market, your gloves linked with Vaegonâs little ones while Valarr carried far too many bags and looked faintly offended by the existence of handcrafted ornaments. Another set from the botanical gardens, where Vaegon had talked the adults into riding the miniature train meant for children, and the internet had nearly died over the sight of Valarr Targaryen, future terror of the financial world, folded awkwardly into the tiny carriage while you laughed beside him and his mother took photographs like any other grandmother.
People loved those pieces of you. The polished candidness of them. The proof, however small, that this beautiful and frightening family knew how to be warm with one another. Strangers built whole marriages out of five-second clips and long-lens stills. They called you enviable.
Once, after an ordinary afternoon in late autumn, a grainy paparazzi set made the rounds online â you and Vaegon leaving a childrenâs boutique downtown, your coat belted neatly at the waist, oversized sunglasses on though the sky was overcast, one hand holding a shopping bag and the other wrapped around your sonâs little gloved hand. Vaegon, serious as a tiny prince in his wool coat and polished boots, looked up at you while you bent your head to listen to whatever solemn thing he was saying.
The caption on one gossip account had read: to be pretty, rich, and married to Valarr Targaryen while shopping for your beautiful little boy⊠some women really do live in fairytales.
Another post called you the internetâs favourite rich mother.
Someone zoomed in on the ring on your finger and wrote a thread about old dynastic jewelry. Someone else made a montage of photographs of the three of you, set to melancholy music, and called your family modern royalty, done right. There were comments from women who envied you, from men who wanted you, and from strangers who insisted they could tell from a single still frame that Valarr was obsessed with you. There were edits of him stepping out of black cars in dark coats, edits of you at galas in silk and diamonds, edits of Vaegon tucked between you both in little formalwear, all of it stitched together into the same glossy lie.
You had stared at one of those posts too long one evening while the apartment was quiet around you.
It had nearly made you laugh.
Because yes, you looked beautiful. Yes, your son was adored. Yes, your husbandâs hand always found the small of your back before a camera could catch you at an awkward angle. Yes, from the outside it looked like a fairy tale.
Only you knew how lonely it was to be so beautifully kept.
You began to love him in the spaces where he failed to speak.
Which might have been romantic, perhaps, had it not also been so lonely.
Sometimes, late at night, he would come to your room after long hours in meetings with Baelor and the board, his tie loosened, his hair slightly disturbed, weariness hidden beneath that same elegant control. He would stand in the doorway for a moment as though bracing himself, then cross to you and touch you with a care so restrained it hurt.
He was never thoughtless with you.
Never rough. Never entitled. Never cold once his hands were on you.
That was almost worse.
Because it meant you knew there was feeling in him. Great feeling, perhaps. Enough to make his restraint tremble at the edges. Enough to make his breath catch when you touched him back. Enough to make him kiss you like a man trying not to show how badly he needed it â one hand at your waist, the other cupping your jaw, his mouth careful at first, lingering and warm, and then not careful at all, as though every quiet hunger in him lived there. Enough to make him hold you afterward with his face buried in your hair, one arm around your middle, his fingers spread at your hip as if anchoring himself there, as if he wanted to say something and never could.
And by morning it was gone again, tucked away behind polished silence and unreadable eyes, leaving you to wonder whether you had imagined all of it.
It began to feel less like marriage and more like loving a locked room.
And still you doted on Vaegon.
He became the place where all your untouched tenderness went. If Valarr made you feel kept at armâs length, Vaegon flung himself at you with total certainty. You brushed his hair back from his forehead while he read. You packed little notes in his lunch. You let him crawl into your bed after bad dreams. You sat on the edge of the tub and washed shampoo from his hair while he told you solemn little stories about his day.
âDid you miss me?â he asked one afternoon after school, still in his uniform, climbing into your lap though he was getting a little too big for it.
âAlways,â you said, kissing his temple.
He considered this. âEven when I am only gone a little bit?â
âEspecially then.â
He smiled and tucked himself closer, satisfied.
Valarr stood in the doorway and saw it.
He said nothing.
But the look in his eyes lingered with you all evening â something pained, yearning, almost hungry. Not for the child, never that. For the softness. For the easy certainty with which Vaegon was loved and knew himself loved. For something in you he did not seem to know how to reach without breaking it. For the kind of tenderness he wanted from you and for you, and did not know how to ask for in words.
One Saturday morning, you were in the kitchen packing Vaegonâs lunch for a school picnic because he refused to eat âsad sandwichesâ prepared by anyone else. You cut fruit, tucked in little sweets, folded napkins, and added the small chocolate wafer biscuits he loved most.
By the time you came downstairs dressed and ready, handbag over your shoulder and coat belted neatly at the waist, Valarr was already at the elevator with Vaegon in his little navy coat.
âYouâre leaving now?â you asked.
Valarr checked his watch. âWe should have gone three minutes ago.â
âI know. I just had to finish his lunch.â
Vaegon brightened when he saw you. âMama, did you pack the little biscuits?â
âI did.â
Valarr took the lunch bag from your hand. âIâm taking him.â
You blinked. âIâm coming.â
His gaze rested on you. Calm. Controlled. Impossible.
âYou were tired yesterday.â
It took you a second to understand. âThat doesnât mean Iâm too tired to go to his school picnic.â
Vaegon looked between you both, his small face beginning to tighten with uncertainty.
Valarrâs voice stayed even. âItâs crowded. Loud. Half the parents there will want to talk to you. Stay home.â
Stay home.
As though he were sparing you something.
As though you were a delicate thing to be managed for your own good.
You smiled for Vaegon because mothers did that even when something inside them ached. âI wanted to go, sweetheart.â
Vaegonâs expression fell at once. âCanât Mama come with us?â
Valarr was quiet for one beat too long. âNot today.â
It was not harsh, and perhaps that made it worse.
Vaegon stepped forward and wrapped his little arms around your waist before the elevator arrived, pressing his cheek against you. âIâll bring you something back.â
Your throat tightened. You bent to kiss the top of his head. âYou do that.â
When the doors closed behind them, the silence in the foyer felt enormous.
They came back three hours later, flushed with sun and schoolyard excitement. Vaegon ran to you at once, as he always did, clutching a paper craft in one hand.
âMama! Papa beat all the dads at soccer.â
âDid he?â
Vaegon nodded with great seriousness. âIt was very dramatic.â
Behind him, Valarr held out a small white box tied with ribbon.
You looked at it, then at him.
âI stopped on the way back,â he said. âI thought you might like them.â
You opened the box.
Inside were delicate pistachio-rose macarons from a famous patisserie downtown.
You hated pistachio.
He knew, in theory, that you did not particularly care for nut-based desserts, but somewhere amid the thousand details he carried about your life, he had remembered wrongly. Or half-remembered. Or perhaps he had only recalled that once, years ago, you had admired the shop window and failed to notice you had been looking at the cakes, not the macarons.
You stared one second too long.
Valarr saw it instantly.
Of course he did.
Vaegon peered into the box and said in a hushed voice, âOh no.â
You let out the tiniest breath that might have been a laugh if it had not hurt. âI donât like pistachio.â
Valarr went still.
Not angry. Not offended. Just still in that awful way he had when something struck deeper than he let show.
Vaegon looked stricken on both your behalves, as if he alone had witnessed a small domestic tragedy. He glanced from the box to your face, then back to his father with dawning alarm.
âBut Mama doesnât like those,â he said softly, in the tone of a child offering a correction with mercy.
Valarrâs gaze shifted to him. âNo?â
âNo,â Vaegon said, scandalized by the mistake. âMama likes lemon things. Everybody knows that.â
âI know,â Valarr said, and the worst part was that he sounded like he hated himself for getting it wrong.
That night, the macarons remained untouched in their box.
The days did not collapse in some dramatic fashion. That would almost have been a relief. Instead, things eroded. Quietly. Tastefully. The sort of marital sadness that looked elegant from the outside and suffocating from within.
You still did everything expected of you. You still stood beside him at events. You still remembered every detail of Vaegonâs life. You still made the apartment warmer than it deserved to be. But some bright part of you began to withdraw.
You stopped texting Valarr in the middle of the day.
You stopped waiting up in the living room when he worked late.
You stopped trying to fill every silence at dinner.
Vaegon noticed first, because children always did.
He would come to you after school and hesitate, as though checking whether the old rituals still held. Would you kiss his forehead? Would you open your arms before he asked? Would you fuss over whether he had eaten enough?
You always did.
Always, always for him.
But even then, the sadness in the house had changed shape. It no longer belonged only to you.
One afternoon the school called.
There had been a fight.
You arrived first, heart in your throat, only to find Vaegon sitting outside the principalâs office with red-rimmed eyes and his little hands clenched in his lap. He looked so small in the chair that something in you twisted sharply at once.
You knelt in front of him. âBaby.â
He looked at you and burst into tears.
You gathered him immediately, stroking the back of his head, kissing his damp cheek, murmuring soft nonsense meant more to soothe than to mean anything. âIâm here, Iâm here, sweetheart, itâs all right.â
Vaegon clung to you with shaking little hands. âIâm sorry.â
âYou do not need to be sorry before I even know what happened.â
But he only cried harder, which frightened you more.
Valarr arrived twenty minutes later straight from the office, still in his suit, carrying that severe polished authority he wore like another skin. Staff moved differently when he entered rooms. Even school administrators seemed to feel it.
The principal invited all of you inside with the stiff, strained smile of someone who would have preferred to be anywhere else.
Valarrâs gaze went first to Vaegon. Always first. âWhat happened?â
Vaegon wiped his face with his sleeve and looked down.
The principal cleared her throat. âThere was an altercation on the playground. Another student made some remarks, and Vaegon reacted physically.â
Valarrâs voice remained level. âWhat remarks?â
The principal hesitated.
You already knew you were going to hate the answer.
Vaegonâs mouth trembled. âHe said Papa has a girl at work.â
The room went completely still.
Your stomach dropped so sharply it almost felt physical.
Vaegonâs face crumpled again. âHe said everybody knows rich men do that, and that Mama probably cries when Iâm at school, and I said to stop and he wouldnât stop, and then he said Papa doesnât really love Mama because if he did he wouldnâtââ
His voice broke.
You were not shocked by the rumor, not because you believed it, but because some sick, broken part of you knew at once why other people would.
The principal looked mortified. More than mortified, perhaps. This was not merely any family sitting in her office. The Targaryens had funded the new arts wing, the scholarship endowment, and half the restoration of the old chapel on campus. Their children had attended the school for generations. Their name was etched into buildings, printed in gala programs, spoken with careful gratitude at every fundraiser. Vaegon was not simply a student here. He was legacy, dynasty, expectation.
âWe are handling the other child appropriatelyââ she began.
âLeave us,â Valarr said.
There was nothing raised in his tone. Nothing dramatic.
It was somehow more absolute because of that.
The principal went pale and stood at once, all apology and professional stiffness, as though she understood too late that this had moved beyond schoolyard discipline and into something far more intimate and dangerous.
The door closed.
Vaegon sat there breathing in little shaking gasps, humiliated by crying and too young to hide it properly. You moved toward him, but Valarr reached him first and crouched in front of his son.
He did not touch him immediately.
âLook at me,â he said quietly.
Vaegon obeyed with wet lashes and trembling lips.
âYou do not hit people at school.â
Vaegon swallowed hard. âI know.â
âBut.â
That one word hung there.
Valarrâs expression did not change much, but something in him had sharpened into frightening clarity.
âBut no one speaks about your mother that way.â
Vaegonâs face gave way entirely then. âHe said you were making her sad.â
And that did it.
Whatever controlled distance Valarr usually kept between himself and his feelings cracked clean through.
He gathered Vaegon into his arms without hesitation, holding him firmly against his chest while your son cried in earnest now, all the pent-up confusion and fear pouring out at once.
âI am not cheating on your mother,â Valarr said into his hair, each word low and precise and meant to be believed. âDo you understand me?â
Vaegon nodded against him.
âI have never cheated on your mother.â
Another nod.
Valarr closed his eyes for one brief second, his hand large and steady at the back of Vaegonâs head. When he opened them again, he looked at you over your sonâs shoulder.
And in that look was something almost unbearable.
Not indignation.
Not merely anger at the rumor.
Shame.
Because he understood, all at once, that the rumor had only been believable because of the kind of marriage you had all been visibly living inside.
That people could look at your sadness and his reserve and think: of course. Of course that powerful man is making his wife lonely. Of course there must be someone else. Of course she is the beautiful, neglected wife in the tower.
Not because it was true.
Because it looked true.
That night, after Vaegon had fallen asleep curled against you while you stroked his hair until his breathing turned soft and even, you stood alone by the apartment windows and looked out over the city.
Valarr came in behind you.
For once, he did not begin with composure.
âI have never touched another woman,â he said.
You shut your eyes.
âThatâs not the point.â
âI know.â
He sounded tired. More than tired. Stripped back.
You turned to face him. He was still in his office clothes, tie loosened, the top button undone, as though he had come apart by increments and not nearly enough. âDo you?â
His face was pale in the low light, all sharp planes and restraint stretched too thin. âYes.â
âBecause if our son can sit in a principalâs office listening to another child tell him his father is cheating on his mother, and it sounds believable enough to hurt him, then something is very wrong.â
Valarr flinched.
Small. Barely visible.
But you saw it.
âI know,â he said again.
Anger rose then, not hot and explosive, but exhausted and aching. âYou know what the worst part is? It isnât even that I believed it. I didnât. Not really. Itâs that I understood why someone else would.â
He said nothing.
So you kept going, because years of sorrow had finally found a crack to rush through.
âYou make me feel loved in fragments,â you whispered. âIn competence. In arrangements. In things arriving on time. In your hand at my back before cameras. In every careful thing except the one thing I have been starving for.â
His breathing changed.
You stepped closer. âI know you are not faithless. I know you are not careless. That almost makes it worse. Because it means all this distance has happened while you were standing right there, loving me in your own way and watching me hurt, and still saying nothing.â
He looked at you as though each word had landed exactly where it was meant to.
âI was trying not to burden you with myself,â he said at last.
You stared at him. âWhat?â
His laugh was brief and joyless. âThere it is. That look.â
âValarr, that doesnât even make sense.â
âIt does to me.â
His voice had gone quieter now, roughened at the edges. âMy father loves me. I know that he does.â He looked away for a moment, jaw tight, as though even saying that plainly cost him something. âHe has never been careless with me. Never indifferent. He gave me everything â education, protection, discipline, a future already built strong enough to step into. He is proud of me. Proud in the way men like him know how to be.â
He paused, then looked back at you.
âBut in this family, love rarely arrives by itself.â
You said nothing.
âIt comes bound up with expectation. With pressure. With shaping you into what the family requires. With legacy, responsibility, performance. My father did not fail to love me.â His mouth tightened slightly. âHe loved me with all the weight of what I was meant to become.â
Your throat tightened.
Valarrâs voice lowered further. âSo I learned what it was to provide, to protect, to manage risk, to keep what mattered safe. I learned how to carry people. How to anticipate needs before they became problems. How to make myself useful, reliable, necessary.â
He exhaled once, quietly.
âBut wanting someone gently,â he said, and there was something almost pained in the softness of it, âwanting someone in a way that was not also about duty or structure or obligation⊠that was never something I was taught how to do.â
Your throat tightened.
He looked away for a moment, then back. And there, finally, was the thing itself â not hidden well enough anymore.
âI loved you too early,â he said.
The words landed like a blow.
You did not move.
Valarrâs eyes held yours with painful steadiness. âBefore I knew what to do with it. Before I knew how to speak it without ruining it. Before I knew how not to turn it into another obligation laid at your feet.â
Your lips parted, but nothing came out.
He continued, more softly now. âSo I tried to make your life easier. More comfortable. More secure. I tried to remove burdens before they touched you. I tried to be careful.â His mouth tightened. âAnd all the while I was apparently making you feel abandoned in your own marriage.â
You could hardly breathe.
That was the shape of it, then.
Not absence. Not rejection.
A love so repressed and badly expressed it had curdled into loneliness.
You whispered, âValarrâŠâ
He took one step closer, then stopped, as though even now some part of him needed permission to cross the rest.
âWhen Vaegon said that boy thought I didnât love you,â he said, âI realized I have built a life with you that makes that lie look plausible. I would rather be accused of almost anything else.â
You pressed your fingers to your mouth.
His voice lowered further. âI have never loved anyone but you.â
It was not dramatic. That made it worse.
No flourish. No grand seduction. Just the plain truth, laid down at your feet years too late.
You felt tears prick at once.
âYou make it feel unrequited,â you said shakily.
Something in his face broke then â not in spectacle, but in pain.
âI know.â
And the fact that he said it like confession, not defense, nearly undid you.
âI loved you,â you whispered, âlike a fool. For years. In scraps. In looks. In the way you held Vaegon. In the way you came to me at night and then shut the door by morning. I kept thinking perhaps I had imagined it. Perhaps I was just⊠making a feast of crumbs.â
His eyes closed for one brief moment, and when they opened again, they were darker than before.
âNo,â he said. âNever crumbs. I loved you in full. I simply handed it to you in a language no one should be asked to survive on.â
You cried then.
Not neatly. Not prettily. Years of being lonely beside the man you loved had made the tears too old for elegance.
Valarr crossed the rest of the distance at once and held you.
This time there was nothing measured in it. Nothing polite. He held you like a man whose restraint had finally become more unbearable than the risk of being known. One hand spread across your back, the other cradling the base of your skull, keeping you close with an urgency he no longer tried to hide. When he kissed your temple it was trembling and reverent and wrecked all at once, and when he drew you tighter it felt less like possession than desperation â as if he had spent years holding himself apart and could not bear another inch of it now.
You pressed your face into his chest and wept.
âI am sorry,â he said into your hair, and the rawness in his voice shocked you. âI am so sorry. You were never unloved. Only badly loved by a man too afraid of the size of it.â
You clutched his shirt harder.
He went on, quieter now, as though saying truths pulled from somewhere he had buried them deep. âDo you think I donât see the way you love Vaegon? The way you soften for him? The way he runs to you first because you are warmth itself?â His breath shook once. âI have watched you for years and loved you for making this house human. For giving our son gentleness. For being everything I never knew how to ask for.â
You lifted your face enough to look at him.
âYou really are terrible at showing it.â
To your surprise, a broken sort of smile touched his mouth. âYes.â
You let out a watery laugh.
His thumb brushed beneath your eye. âBut I will learn.â
That mattered.
Not perfection. Not some instant transformation into a different man. Just that. That he knew now. That he meant to try.
In the morning, Vaegon came to breakfast quieter than usual, watching both of you with careful little eyes, as though he did not trust peace unless he could see it held together in front of him.
You opened your arms at once, and he climbed into your lap as naturally as breathing. You kissed his cheek, smoothed his hair back from his forehead, and held him close while he leaned into you with the solemn, sleepy trust only children possessed.
Valarr stood at the far side of the kitchen for a moment, coffee untouched beside him, watching.
He had already dressed for the office. Dark suit. Crisp shirt. Silver watch at his wrist. Every line of him composed as ever â except for his eyes, which were fixed not on the table, not on the morning brief glowing on his phone, but on you and Vaegon.
Then, without a word, he crossed the room.
Vaegon looked up first.
Valarr crouched beside your chair, bringing himself level with your son. âVaegon.â
Your son blinked. âYes, Papa?â
âWhat that boy said yesterday was a lie.â
Vaegon studied his fatherâs face with painful seriousness, still small enough to hope adults could mend the world simply by saying the correct thing in the correct tone.
Valarr did not look away.
âI have never betrayed your mother,â he said. âI never will. There has never been anyone else. There will never be anyone else.â
Vaegon searched him for a long moment. âPromise?â
Valarr answered at once. âOn everything I am.â
Vaegon seemed to accept that, but only partly. His little hand remained curled in the fabric of your sleeve.
And Valarr, who had once built whole walls out of silence, looked at him and did something he should perhaps have done years ago.
He kept speaking.
âI have made mistakes,â he said quietly. âReal ones. I have made your mother feel lonely when she should never have felt lonely a day in her life. I have loved her badly when I should have loved her openly. That is my fault. Not hers.â
You went completely still.
Vaegon frowned in the earnest way he did when trying to understand grown-up sorrow. âDid you forget to say nice things again?â
A sound escaped you â half laugh, half something much more fragile.
Valarrâs mouth changed, the ghost of pain moving through it. âYes,â he said. âAmong other things.â
Vaegon looked between you both, as if judging whether this answer was satisfactory, then turned in your lap and cupped your face in his little hands.
âMama,â he said with deep concern, âPapa is silly.â
This time your laugh broke properly, wet at the edges.
âYes,â you whispered. âHe is.â
Valarr exhaled, but he did not retreat behind that small moment of ease. He rose, turned to you, and for one suspended second it felt as though the whole room had narrowed to the space between his body and yours.
Then, in full view of the morning light and your son and the silent staff moving somewhere far beyond the kitchen doors, he reached for you.
Not the polished hand at the small of your back that cameras knew. Not the discreet touch meant to guide, to manage, to maintain appearances.
This was different.
His fingers slid around yours and held.
Firmly. Deliberately. No audience in mind but the two people who mattered.
You looked up at him.
Valarrâs expression was unreadable to anyone who did not know him. But you knew him now. Or perhaps, at last, he was letting himself be known.
âI meant what I said last night,â he said.
Your throat tightened.
Vaegon had gone very still between you both, sensing something important and sacred in the air even if he could not name it.
Valarr did not look away from you. âI have spent years placing you above everything in my life,â he said, his voice low and even and far too honest to bear. âAbove the company. Above the board. Above my fatherâs expectations. Above my own comfort. Above my own pride. But I did it like a coward.â His grip on your hand tightened. âI made you carry the consequences of my silence and called it care.â
You could not speak.
He took one step closer.
âI will not do that to you again.â
Something in your face must have changed, because his own softened in answer â not into ease, exactly, but into a kind of grief-struck tenderness so naked it almost hurt to look at.
âYou are my wife,â he said. âYou are the mother of my son. You are the best thing in my life, and the only person I have ever loved in a way that frightened me.â His jaw tightened once before he went on. âI am done behaving as though that love is something shameful, or dangerous, or better left unsaid.â
The room felt unbearably quiet.
Vaegon whispered, almost reverently, âOh.â
Your eyes burned.
Valarr looked at you as though there were no one else in the world.
âI know apologies are cheap if the life beneath them does not change,â he said. âSo watch me change it.â
And because he was still Valarr â still a man who did not mistake emotion for disorder, still a man built of discipline, timing, and the cold steadiness that had made half the board fear him and the other half depend on him â he did not theatrically cast aside the day.
He reached for his phone instead.
You watched him, not yet understanding.
Valarr opened his calendar, scanned the morning, and sent off three messages with the kind of terrifying efficiency that made entire departments move faster. One to his chief of staff. One to legal. One directly to the board secretary.
He lifted the phone to his ear when it rang back almost immediately.
âPush the investor call to eleven-thirty,â he said precisely. âMove the strategy review to this afternoon. Iâll join the Dorne numbers meeting remotely from the car if necessary. Anything requiring signature authority comes to me directly before noon.â
A pause.
âNo,â he said, and something in his tone made it clear the discussion was already over. âNothing is being neglected. It is being reordered.â
Another pause.
Then, more coolly, âIf the board has a concern, they may raise it with me when I arrive.â
He ended the call.
For a moment the kitchen remained very still.
You stared at him. âYou didnât cancel anything.â
âNo.â
It was not defensive. Merely true.
Valarr slipped the phone onto the table and looked at you with a steadiness that felt more intimate than if he had touched you. âI am not going to insult you by pretending my responsibilities do not exist. They do. They always will.â
Your throat tightened.
âBut neither will I keep using them,â he said, âas an excuse for letting you live on whatever remains of me when the day is done.â
That landed harder than if he had shouted.
He took one step closer.
âFor years I told myself I was doing right by you because everything material was handled. The home. The schedule. The staff. The schools. The security. The comfort. I made sure you never had to ask for anything.â His jaw tightened. âAnd all the while I was behaving as though love could be delegated into proof.â
Your breath caught.
âI can do my job,â he said. âI can run a company. I can manage a board that would happily eat weaker men alive. And I can still come home before my son is asleep. I can still stand beside my wife at dinner without making her feel alone. I can still answer a message from you before midnight like you are not an interruption to the machinery of my life.â His gaze did not leave yours. âI should have been doing all of that already.â
Something in your face must have changed, because his expression softened, not into weakness, but into something far more dangerous in a man like him: honesty.
âYou were never asking me to be less capable,â he said quietly. âYou were asking me to be present.â
âYes,â you whispered.
He nodded once, like a man receiving a truth he should have understood years ago. âThen that is what will change.â
Vaegon, who had been listening with solemn concentration from your lap, blinked up at his father. âAre you still going to work?â
Valarr looked at him.
âYes,â he said.
Vaegon frowned. âThen how are you fixing it?â
And there it was â the brutal simplicity only children possessed.
Valarr crouched in front of him. âBy not making your mother compete with work for whatever is left of me,â he said. âBy acting like she matters before the day is over, not after.â
Vaegon seemed to think this through with great seriousness.
âOh,â he said.
Then, after a moment: âSo⊠pancakes first?â
To your surprise, Valarrâs mouth shifted â not quite a smile, but something warmer and more human than usual.
âYes,â he said. âPancakes first.â
Vaegon brightened instantly.
Valarr rose and turned back to you. âI have forty minutes before I need to leave for the office.â
You looked at him, uncertain.
He stepped closer.
âIn forty minutes,â he said, âI can have breakfast with my family. I can take my son downstairs myself. I can sit beside my wife and speak to her like she is not some beautiful fixture waiting for me to remember she has a heart.â His voice lowered. âAnd when I leave, you will know I am coming back to you, not merely to this apartment.â
Your eyes burned.
That seemed to undo something in him.
His hand came up to your face, thumb brushing lightly beneath your cheekbone, the gesture so careful it hurt more than roughness ever could have.
âI am not choosing the board over you,â he said. âI am choosing to stop behaving as though loving you properly would cost me my competence.â
You let out a shaky breath.
âAnd it wonât,â he said. âIt will cost me pride. Habit. Distance. Silence.â A pause. âGood.â
That was better. Much better.
Because it still sounded like him.
Not a man becoming lesser for love.
A man finally understanding that love asked him to be braver, not smaller.
Something unsteady and damp and disbelieving moved through your face then, enough that his mouth softened at the edges.
âHow noble,â you said, your voice fragile with the remains of tears. âA great sacrifice. Valarr Targaryen, at last laid low by the terrible burden of adoring his wife properly.â
A quiet, surprised huff of laughter left him.
It changed him more than the confession had, in some ways. Took ten years off his face. Made him look, for one suspended second, not like the heir to an empire or the future terror of a boardroom, but simply like your husband â the man beneath all that ironed self-command.
âYes,â he murmured gravely, playing along with just enough solemnity to make it worse. âA tragic fate. Behold me. A man brought to ruin. Entirely beholden to his wife.â
You gave a wet laugh and slapped him lightly on the chest.
âOh, shut up.â
His hand slipped from your cheek to your waist at once, and before you could say anything else he pulled you into him properly, not hard enough to startle, just firmly enough that the movement stole the rest of your breath. He dipped his head, smiling now against your skin in that rare, dangerous way of his, and nosed softly at your cheek, once, then again, until another unwilling laugh escaped you.
âThere,â he murmured near your face. âThatâs better.â
âValarrââ
But you were laughing now, and he seemed almost helpless before the sound of it.
He kissed the corner of your mouth first, then your cheek, then lingered there as if reacquainting himself with the shape of your happiness. One of his hands stayed spread warm at your waist while the other moved behind you, drawing you closer still, until there was no space left for pride or distance or any of the old, careful silences.
When he bent his head to your neck, it was not theatrical, not some polished seduction. It was quiet and terribly fond, his mouth brushing the place just beneath your ear in a kiss so soft it made you shiver. Then another at the curve of your jaw. Then one more against your cheek when you turned back toward him with that half-breathless, half-embarrassed look he knew so well.
âYou are laughing at me,â he said.
âYou are being ridiculous.â
âI am being sincere.â
âYou are being ridiculous and sincere.â
At that, his mouth curved properly.
A real smile this time. Small, but devastating.
When he bent to kiss you, it was still intimate, still aching, but now it carried that same steadiness too. One hand warm at your jaw, the other braced lightly at your waist, his mouth lingering as though he was learning the shape of honesty in real time. Not frantic. Not careless. Just devastatingly deliberate.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
âI will still go to work,â he murmured.
âI know.â
âBut I will not leave you starving in the doorway of this marriage and call that sacrifice again.â
new thought. i'm very much a sub!daeron truther, but daeron who would really like topping with his partner still being in control. like sure daeron is the one on top but that's cause his partner told him to shut the fuck up and fuck me already. he likes being ordered around and used for your pleasure, even if that means him on top like he's your fucking machine. you pulling on his hair and scratching his back. even better is if you make it more interesting by telling him he can't cum without permission and that if he's a good boy you'll let him eat his own cum out of your cunt when he's done.
Oh absolutely devastating. Everything you've written so far, Baelor and Valarr. Perfection. The darkness they show is so bone chilling and scary, I honestly find my hesitating to project myself onto the girlie inside the story.
This is peak yandere, whether people like to admit or not, treating the object of their desires like an actual object to be possessed, never giving them any choice or agency, wearing them down, breaking their spirit in not-sexy but heartbreaking ways, the despair is oozing out of the words. This isn't brainrot y/n folks, this is the real. This is it. Oh thank you for writing, I hope to read more.
Oh would you ever consider writing for a non-valyrian protag? I'm praying for inspiration to strike for Maekar and/or his sons.
Thank you! â€ïž I really like writing the 'horror' side of yandere/dark fanfics. I don't know, sometimes I just really like 'corrupting' these characters and leaving the reader in pain. Like yes, the man you're thirsting over loves/is obsessed with you, but that doesn't mean he treats you well. I really love writing them being manipulative and mean. Like yes, Valarr: make the servants treat her like shit so she has no choice but to come to you begging to be treated like a human being. Yes, Valarr: treat her like a whore with no absolute respect for her dignity. Yes, Valarr: make her think you're having an affair when she gets pregnant so she's terrified and clinging to you 24/7 so you won't discard her and leave her to the wolves who would see her dead.
And yes, I can and will write about non-Valyrian protags. I just really like the idea of Baelor/Valarr having an inferiority complex regarding their looks (like Jacaerys, and maybe a dark!Jace x aunt/sister reader in the future).
In my drafts, I have an Aerion x Dunk's sister. Dunk has a younger sister who was kidnapped when she was 15/16. She's taken to a brothel and Aerion buys her. He fixates on her and makes her his mistress. She's his for years, they even have a child together, a girl named Rhaenyra (Maegor with teats, lmao, I think it fits). He takes her to Ashford with him, where she and Dunk find each other. But when Aerion finds out, he threatens to hurt Rhaenyra if she leaves him, saying he will sell her to a brothel like she was before, etc. So she's forced to stay with him.
A daeron x reader where he sees her at a ball and bc he had a dream abt them being together he "accidentally" rapes her in the gardens thinking they're making love bc he's shit faced drunk
warnings: non con. dub con. perverted men. possessive men. obsessive men. clothes sniffing, sweat kink (i guess). blood kink. predator vibes. dacryphilia. . oral male and female receiving. manipulation. overstimulation. 18+
a/n: guys Iâm drunk and on holiday so Ive been trying to write in quiet moments but and the ideas are flowing but the editing is bad. tomorrow I will edit for guys but yeah enjoy my perverse mind right now
you are responsible for the content you consume. make sure to read warnings before proceeding with any of my fics
DaeronÂ
Daeron is the most perverse.Â
Probably from the fact that he tries to fight against the idea of you.Â
His desire for you becomes too much for him because heâs spent so much time trying to push it down. It gets to the point where he thinks about you all the time, barely able to focus during his fatherâs lectures or when heâs asked to sit in small council meetings. And if his father dares to set him up with a potential match, he canât even look at her, her eyes arenât nearly as warm as yours, her hair not so unruly, and her lips not as subtle.Â
The mere thought of you drives him wild.Â
Heâll wait for you to leave your bedchamber, possibly passing you in the Red Keep when you leave for your lessons with the Septas. Just so he can slip into your bedchambers unnoticed.Â
Heâll find your used bed linen, stripping the material from its neatly tucked confines as he inhales your scent. Nose pressed to the sheets, groaning and whimpering when he finds a rather damp patch. His tongue darts out to lick at it, humping himself into the bed and cumming in his pants just like that.Â
Daeron will steal your freshly worn night clothes from the maids' hampers, sneaking into places no Prince should need to enter, most likely following your chambermaids as they leave your rooms to do so.Â
The item of clothing pressed up against his nose, hanging out of his mouth as he bites it. The image of you being at the forefront of his mind, all while his hand fists his hard cock. Heâll cum quickly, painting your gown in the hot liquid and not even feeling ashamed by it.Â
Eventually even that isnât enough.Â
Heâll follow you to your bedchambers a day after riding, slipping in behind you and pouncing you on as soon as he can.Â
Youâd laugh at first, thinking it was just him being affectionate. Youâve always been close. Only to frown when he unbraids your hair and presses his nose into it, sniffing your scent. Youâll even try to gently pry him off you, tone playful but a hint of fear laced in there as your hands push at him. Itâs no use, his grip is too tight and you literally freeze when his tongue trails the sheen of sweat across your neck.Â
Youâre telling him itâs gross, to let you get changed and youâll come see him when youâre fresh but heâd be literally telling you he likes you just like this all while yanking at your riding gear to get it off.Â
Heâd lick at your slightly damp skin as he fucked you, almost like some sort of cat cleaning you as his tongue dragged itself across your skin. The taste of it would have him groaning into you and rutting into you with vigour.Â
Then when heâs cum inside you, heâll place you down on the bed and eat his cum out of you. Leaving you overstimulated and weak, begging for him to stop as he licks every drip of your slick and his cum from your cunt. Only for him to be completely hard against after you thought he might be done.Â
Aerion
Aerion has always had a mad obsession with biting you as children. Something that swiftly was brought to a stop by his father when you grew older.Â
And yet that desire only worsened as he grew into a man, wanting to taste your bed in a sicker way.Â
Heâs always the first one there when you hurt yourself, drawn to the blood that trickles down from the small cut, sweeping a bit with his fingers just to get a taste.Â
You cut your finger on his blade, playing with it after he shows you it and accidentally catching it on the edge of your finger. Not like he made sure to sharpen it before seeing you. Heâll press the finger into his mouth, licking the droplet of blood off the finger before putting the digit in his mouth and sucking it.Â
Youâd have to tear yourself away from him to get him to stop, telling him how gross he is and leaving him there. But heâd smile as you left.Â
Heâd find your maids leaving your chamber one day, bloody sheets in hand and he wouldnât be able to help himself.Â
A tray of tea from the maesters in hand as he enters your chamber, ignoring you telling him he shouldnât be here. Anyone in the seven kingdoms would be able to see right through him as he placed down the tray, telling you he just wanted to help.Â
Heâd circle the screens that shield you, laughing as the maids struggle to place more in front of him as he walks around you. Heâd sniff the screen, telling you that he can smell you from behind there.Â
You know thereâs no chance of escaping him, you donât even dare try, knowing it might excite him more. You donât even think to fight him and simply give into it. Maybe in your naivety you think you can sedate him, that this will keep him at bay for a while as you take a comfortable position sitting on his sickly smile.Â
It only fuels him more, tasting you when youâre like this especially when it feels like itâs endless, making you drip red with his licks and groans against your sensitive bud.Â
Eventually heâll wear out, letting you both take a break. But youâve only just started your cycle, and when you realise he knows this, you know it wonât end here.Â
Valarr
Valarr doesnât really seem perverse at first glances but youâll soon realise how truly perverse he is behind closed doors with you.Â
Heâs always transfixed by the sight of simple things with you. Heâll watch the way nibble on your lip anxiously, and sometimes stare at the way you fiddle with your hair when you think no oneâs watching, always focused when he does like heâs trying to imprint the image to memory. Only looking away when you catch him in the act, giving you a smile like heâs happy you caught him before turning his gaze elsewhere.Â
It makes you nervous, the intensity in the way he watches you, always feeling his stare on you even in your most private moments.Â
You donât realise just how much he likes watching you when he gets you alone in a room. The way he canât stop watching you with his thick fingers knuckle deep inside you, how he seems delighted with the sight of you breathless before him, trying to fight against the feeling inside of you.Â
Heâs even more amused when you cry for him.Â
When heâs cornering you in a room, no one else is around to save you and you know whatâs going to happen. What heâs about to do.Â
Your cheeks are stained red and you canât stop your lips from trembling, and he canât help the way he just enjoys it so much. The way he stares you down, pushes your hair behind your face and leans in to claim what he wants.Â
But most of all he canât deny the way he enjoys watching your face as he fucks you. Flush faced and mouth falling open as you tell him something he doesnât really care to hear. He likes watching you choke on your words as he delivers a harsh thrust, likes watching the conflict in your eyes as he pushes you over the edge.Â
Baelor
Letâs just say like father like son but Baelor is just way worse.Â
He watches you doing the simplest things, drinking and eating. Doesnât even turn away when you catch him just continues watching, letting his gaze run over you once more before catching your eyes. Itâs always you turning away, his heavy gaze still lingering on your skin making your skin crawl.Â
Baelor becomes so obsessed with the sight of you that he doesnât even think before wiping the wine that dribbles down your lips, or the way his thumb pushes ever so slightly into your mouth. He doesnât care who catches him when he puts that same thumb into his own mouth afterwards, only enjoying the way you frightfully stare back at him with wide eyes.Â
But the prince definitely prefers the comforts of being alone with you, getting you to do things he doesnât want anyone else seeing.Â
Getting you to crawl to him might be one of his favourites, petting his lap like you're an obedient pet. He loves the way your eyes water, the way you want to deny him the request but you know you're in no position of power to do so.Â
What he enjoys most is watching you cry.Â
Crying from overstimulation as he drags down the bed for the fourth time that night. The way his eyes darken when your hands dart out to try and steady his hips against yours, only to laugh when your nails dig into his sides for some sort of reprieve.Â
Most of all he enjoys the tears that roll down your cheeks when he bullies his cock into your mouth. The sight of your tears mixing with spit and precum around the edges of your mouth. The unholy sight at the end when the white liquid spills out the corner of your mouth and he catches it with his thumb, pushing it back into your mouth and telling to swallow. Â
dividers by @ chrisssiren
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Rich male business partner yandere x Male business partner reader
Tags: implied situationship, Yandere backstabs reader, reader goes from riches to rags, forced marriage contract, manipulation, gaslighting.
__________________________
You had it all once.
Money, fame, control.
The world was your oyster.
Once amongst the 1%, the minority who lived the dream those who would kill for, a king is what you were.
But those were the days. Paycheck to paycheck, the cold cruelty of living off scraps, the humilation of begging and stealing is what you now knew. You walk the streets, looking for work, constantly trying to survive.
It all started with a toast.
The sound of men laughing, the smooth jazz and the gold lights dancing around the room. You met him at that party. He was well groomed, his suit tailored perfectly to his body, the poster child of class. With honeyed words, the two of you sweetened a deal. It was typical to do business in these sorts of events. You wouldn't have shook that hand outstretched to you if it meant making a deal with the devil. He became a business partner of yours, someone who slowly began to infect your life. Phone calls, emails, and meetings from him became a new routine of yours. He was charming and knew how to use that smooth voice of his to appease potential investors. He was dangerous that way, and somehow, he always had a way to wrap everything around his thumb without anyone suspecting it. It's why you loved working with him.
The two of you destroyed your competition left and right. You created the ideas, and he pitched them. He would be in the meeting with you, talking to the old wealth with their wrinkled faces, always a step behind to support you.
He had everything. You didn't understand why a man like himself, a big shot, would go out of his way to help another man with as much wealth. In this world, in the world of the rich, the business world, it was a dog eat dog. There was a catch, you always knew there was. Many times, you asked him. "Why? Why do you do this?" And he wouldn't give an exact answer, but, playfully, he danced around something more. "I consider this a long-term investment," He'd say, "Don't worry, you're not my charity case" before changing the subject.
Being with him felt timeless, a perfect era in your life that felt neverending. He was always there, with a confident smile that would swoon the ladies. You didn't blame them, his smile began to affect you too.
You got attached. You couldn't help it. It was lonely being you. All the money in the world, yet there was no one to lean back to, someone to tell all your fears. You had everything every man wanted. All the silks for you to wear, the beautiful house that outshined the neighborhood, the maids to cook and clean, yet you found yourself envious towards the working and poor. They had a community, a place that felt like home, family, that special someone to talk to.
You had no one to trust.
Your family was vicious, back stabbing each other just for the sake of biggering their assests and properties. But him? He was a refresher. He was that special someone in your life, even if it was just buisness. But those times when he was around you, supporting, making you laugh, it made you feel warm. Unconsciously, you began to expand that relationship between the two of you.
Excuses of talking about potential opportunities over on the phone, urging him to see you as soon as possible, only to have him at your home, pouring him a glass of wine while you rambled away, laughing at a story you were in the midst of telling. And he? He enjoyed every moment he was with you. "I swear, we could perhaps advertise to the people that we're working together! Perhaps make a package deal!" He laughed, elbow on your kitchen counter, standing close beside you. "We already did that, though." You were both leaning on the counter, standing together. "Well, we can try again!" You were so giddy to have him over. You couldn't hide it. You've never willingly invited anyone to your house before."You're not here to talk about business, are you?" He found it adorable when you tried denying it. "What? No!"If you just wanted to see me, you could've just told me."
A smile on his face, and the flusteredness on yours. The two of you knew that there was something special.
It's why it hurt so much when he did what he did to you.
First it was the drinks, then it was the outings, then the restaurants, the cafes, the shops the two of you went to. Then, it was the stay overs, when either one of you would stay over and sleep at one another. At that point, you had to be more than just business partners. Two peas in a pod are what people described you as. Inseparable.
Each glance held a secret. Each conversation, a dance around the truth. There was always this underlying feeling beneath the surface. Something never confronted. Unconsciously committed to each other, no one got close - neither of you allowed it.
You weren't lovers, no, you were worse than that.
Perhaps that's what caused your downfall.
You needed more time.
But he wasn't ready to wait.
That one unforgettable night, he sat across you. That wooden desk you would sit behind when someone came to you for a contractâ only you were the one now being interrogated. "Who was he?" He demanded something so out of character that you couldn't help but stutter. "W-What?" "Who was he? That fella you walked out with behind the back." You let out a laugh, trying to ease the tension in the room. "Oh, that was just Brett! He was uhâ just talking to me about some stuff.." "What stuff?" You could feel the anxiety rising. "...He uh, wanted to see if he could work with me.. Like a partnership. "And what did you say?"..I said I'd think about it."
That night when you told him about branching, seeing others to expand your buisness, the night your view of him would change. The illusion of a carefree friend, broken into pieces.
"We've known each other for a while yes?"
You remembered him say.
"I'm tired of pretending that there isn't something between us. That there's... Nothingâ"
He was frustrated with his words, the lack of form or smoothness it had. He was desperate, something you hadnât seen before.
"And I'm no begger, but.. 10 years me and you. Tell me you see it too."
He seemed sincere, so pitiful that night.
"Seeing you with him.. I'm kind of forced to acknowledge it but, don't you think it's time we've done something about.. Us?"
He was hoping you'd get the hint. But you were foolish back then, too prideful to admit something you were unsure of, something you felt disgusted by.
"What are you talking about?"
You said, laughing at his face. His taken aback expression was something you couldn't forget. The hurt on his face, it made you feel awful.
"Now about the proposition Brett had, I think maybe we should consider it."
"Can you stop doing that?"
"Doing what?"
"Every single time we get so close to acknowledging this.. Relationship between us, you always find some way to avoid it. And I'm getting tired of it."
"I think you're being weird and delusional.."
"I'm not and you know it. I see the way you look at me, and I feel the same way too. Why are you being soâ difficult?"
You kept turning him down that night, denying those feelings you had. You were scared back then. You weren't ready to admit that you had some sort of feelings for the man you considered a best friend. You were comfortable with the relationship you had with him. Going a step up would change everything you've known.
That's what you thought at least back then. But now, in the present, you were completely justified. If anything, you'd argue you should've done worse.
For a moment, his confession won you over, and you finally admitted the tension in your so-called "strictly professional business" relationship. But, there was something his slick tongue got tied on. The contract, the one he wanted you to sign. You always trusted him, so when it came to signing them, you always skimmed them through. But this time, you decided to read it carefully through.
"...Lawful..? W-What is this?"
"Please...Just think about it. After everything I've done for this company, for you, for us."
"This is too much.. Too much is going onâ"
It was all too fast that night. His insistent advertisting on the fact it was the most logical course of action.
He spoke of stronger communication and trust, a strengthened public image, unified finacial planning, the joint tax filingâ all the works.
All you had to do was share his last name.
It felt too surreal, crazy. You ended up leaving, storming off overwhelmed, abandoning him to sit behind that wooden desk by himself - hands on his head. Multiple times, he tried bringing up the subject again, only for you to cut him off, to pretend nothing had happened. Days on end, he'd keep asking, persisting, begging with a smileâ but you just wouldn't budge.
"No."
You kept telling him.
"Enough."
You barked.
So, who was he to not respect your no?
It started off with the little things. Potienal investors began to distance themselves from you, going to him in private for deals and proposals. The people around you didnât pay as much attention as they didâ their eyes ignored your presence whenever you walked into the room. Then, it began to snowball. Suddenly, you found yourself being served papersâ the man you once trusted now requesting to sever his business with you with a cold, unforgiving stare. Then, the rumors. Scandals of you mistreating workers, screaming when things didn't go your way. The papers, magazines, news, they started spreading like wildfire. The drama became unescapable.
Then, the final blow, the court case. When the man himself claimed you stole his idea, he was, in fact, the original founder of the company the two of you owned. That day when he won the court case, suing you for millions he knew you couldn't afford, leaving you with nothing.
Your name stripped away from the company.
Your house foreclosed.
Your money, all of it, taken away.
It was all gone in a blink of an eye.
A pariah, that's what you became. It was all over the news. The court live on national television, and your humilation plastered for millions to see. Paparazzi flashed you with their bright lights, their questions proading and following while you tried to leave the area. It wasn't easy adjusting. In fact, it was cruel. So used to being pampered by your luxurious life, you cried for weeks trying to scrap up what you could from your old life. But you couldn't. It had been ripped away from you. You sold what you had to, watches, jewlery, clothes, all your prized possessions down to the little trinkets you used to collect.
It gave you enough money to last you for at least a year and a few monthsâ granted if you spent your money wisely. No one helped you, not even your so-called "pals" even spared you a dime. Alone to fend for yourself, you became bitter, suriving off what money you had that was slowly dwindling. Like a fish out of water, you had to work service jobs you never had to work before. Retail, fast foodâ it was a culture shock, but you managed. The only issue was that they never seemed to keep you for long. Your managers never told you why, but you could only assume it was because of your reputation or lack of skills. You lived in a cheap dingy motel, it was the only cheap place to rent in the city. Every other one bedroom apartment was at an unreasonable price. It also didn't help that food, hygenic products, and clothing were at an ungodly price.
Who knew basic nesscitities could be so expensive?
Money was going down the drainâ and you weren't earning a livable wage. So now here you were now in the present, searching for work in the streets. You were willing to take any job, regardless of how sketchy or legal it was. The job market was so abysmal that you were practically begging for work. You've tried applying to office jobs, something higher than minimum wage, butâ you were always denied. Interviews were rare, and millions of applicants applied for the same job as you. God knows if you got the job if they'd even keep you for long.
It felt helpless.
So, in your dingy motel room, on a special night, your night, you prayed. You treated yourself to one little luxury, something you hadn't indulged in a whileâ a cake. It was small, and it happened to be reduced. A single candle came with the cake, and with a match, you lit it up. You sung to yourself, clapping in rhythm.
Then, you blew out the candle, making a wish.
It felt stupid, almost delusional like those fairytalesâ someone wishing upon a star to live the life of royalty. You cut only a slice, putting it on the paper plate for yourself. You took a small bite, solemn but content with your special day. All your previous birthdays, you were always surrounded with expensive gifts, with your friends and him by your sideâ a contrast to now.
You frown at the thought of him.
A moment of silence, you ate your slice. Then, a knock comes from outside. You jump at the sound. Again, the person knocked, louder this time. You get up from the floor, cautiously approaching. You peep into the peephole on the door, and your heart drops.
He's there, outside, waiting. Your heart begins to beat, and you stumble back. Again, you look into the peephole, and he looks back into it, your eyes making contact, his smile acknowledging your stare.
He knocks again, testing you.
You thought about what you would've done if he ever showed his face to you. A plethora of scenarios you've thought of more than once; screaming obsanities for how he ruined your life, throwing any objects directly at his face, smashing that disgusting face over and over against the wall until he was no longer recongizable.
And now here the fucker was in the flesh. All in his glory with his neat prisy tidy hair, that stuck up expensive black trench coat, those comfy silky loose fashionable pants, the branded belt on his waist.. Everything screamed privileged.
You opened the door.
He stepped inside.
He scanned the room, grimacing at the grim on the walls, the dirt littered on the wood floor. He didn't take off his shoesâ he wouldn't let his feet be soiled. "Oh how the mighty fall" he laughed, like a prideful achievement he accomplished. You had to fight the urge to not to punch himâ least god forbid he takes you to court again for some bullshit excuse like physical assault. "What do you want?" You spat, your voice sharp like the edge of a knife.
He looked at the cake, the small sad cake that wasn't even enough for two. "It's your birthday, thought I'd check up on you."
"Bullshit. How did you even find me?"
"Look at this place, it's filthy."
He brushed past you, inspecting your home. He checked every nook and crany, making small remarks of the filth.
"This is how you're spending your birthday? Ah babe...That's a shame."
"Yeah, ever since you FUCKED ME OVER. Now, answer me before I call the goddamn cops. How did you find this place? Why are you here?!"
Again, he didn't answer your question. Your threat fell deaf upon ears. "Oh, it's worse than I thought... I'm so sorry I put you through this." He almost looked remorseful if it wasn't for the glee in his eyes that said otherwiseâ like you had gotten what was coming to you. He looked back at you, seeing you fully as you stood at the door, arms crossed. Eyes sucken, like the life had been sucked out of you, and you had gotten skinnierâ he kissed teeth at the sight. He went to you, each step you tookâ he only went closer. He touched your hands, his thumb caressing the palmsâ once soft and pampered, now rough with the patches of calloused skinned. You've been worked to the bone.
"I can fix this."
You scoffed, yanking your hands away.
"You can't fix shit. You ruined my life."
Again, he stepped closer, streching his arms out to you.
"I know you're tired, I know it's been hard. You practically had everything stripped away from youâ and I'm sorry something like that happened to you."
"You did this."
"And I'm sorry it's caused you to live like this. I never wanted to see you hurt. I honestly thought youâd bounce back by now. Youâre stronger than this, arenât you?â
You frowned in disbelief. Lips shut, you kept stepping away. He hurt you, he ruined your life - the man you once clung onto, the man you hated, the man you loved so secretlyâ pushing you into a corner once again.
"..............."
âI still care about you, even after everything. It hurts me too, you know.â
His words swayed you, catching a moment of vulnerability from you.
"Let me fix this. Let me fix us."
It sounded so promising, so tempting. He stood there, his hands open to you, urging you to take the intitive. For a moment, you fell for it, uncrossing your armsâ but not daring to move an inch.
"Here, I've got you the best birthday gift ever"
He smiled, so soft and so sincere. He reached into his pockets, rummaging through it. You almost looked forward to the supposed gift he had.
A pen.
And then something that made you sick.
He placed it in your hand. Mortified, your hands shook holding it. The very object that signified the end of all things, the very same papers you refused to sign.
"All you need to do is say yes, and I can make your life perfect again."
SUMMARY: You are not adjusting well to Westeros. Luckily, your husband is patient and kind and gentle. Unluckily, all of the other ladies in the Realm are aware of this as well. There are certain difficulties being married to Westerosâs most yearned-for prince, and after one miserable feast too many, everything you have been so desperately trying to quietly endure comes crashing down once you get your husband alone.Â
WARNINGS: fem!reader, hurt/comfort, reader is foreign (from Qarth), Westeros-typical xenophobia, starts with reader being jealous but escalates into a whole breakdown of her not feeling welcome in westeros, Valarr is also jealous/possessive at certain points.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I genuinely am not sure where this came from, I donât even remember writing most of it last night LOLLL I think I woke up from a fever dream at 4 am and banged most of this out, no joke. BUT sometimes a girl just needs to have a very, very justified crashout with a husband who will listen and comfort </3 Valarr I love you euhuhuhuhu Also, got to explore some Westeros-typical xenophobia, which we will see more of in the HTTYD universe after Volantene reader comes to Westeros w/Aerionâbut specifically, how bad it likely gets post-Dornish unification when the Storm lords and Reach lords are already losing their mind over Dornish influence in court, and now also having to deal with some foreign Essosi girls being married to their princes. No Kiera erasure here :P Kiera still comes to Westeros, but to marry Matarys, and her and reader become very very close companions. Anyway, enjoy, and ignore any errors I didn't edit LOL! Comments and reblogs v appreciatedÂ
âI was looking for you at the feast,â Valarr says as he enters your chambers. You can hear the frown in his voice as he shrugs off his cloak and tosses it on the chair on the opposite side of the room. âWhy is it that I had to hear from my cousin that my wife left early because she was feeling unwell?â
You press your lips together, not answering him as you stare out the windowâeast, to the Blackwater, the Narrow Sea, and beyond. Far, far beyond. Your jaw is tight, and your throat is tight, and your chest is tight, and your eyes already stingâyou have been here for two hours already, and he has only just returned. Did he only just realize you were missing?
The irritation drains from his voice as he pauses, looking in your direction and catching the tension in your shoulders. He says quietly, âYou are upset with me.â
You stiffen when you hear him make his way over to you, raising your chin when you feel the cushions dip behind you. You exhale hard through your nose as his fingers ghost the nape of your neck, brushing your hair over one shoulder so that he can press his lips there.Â
You bristle instantly.
âOh my,â Valarr murmursâhe has the nerve to sound amused, you can picture the boyish grin curling at his lips, and it enrages you. The nerve. âYou are very upset with me.â
âUnhand me, you lecherous cur,â you snap, shifting further away. âI shall catch the pox if your touch lingers too long.â
You hear the smile in his voice as he asks, âAnd what have I done to deserve such a vicious accusation, ñuha jorrÄelagon?â
My love.
His High Valyrian is honeyed as ever, soft and sweet to your ears, the endearment enough to make lesser women melt, but you are not lesser women, so you only toss him a furious look, because how dare he play the fool as though he doesnât know what heâs done? How dare he try to abate your anger with sweet nothings?
âWhat have you done?â you echo furiously, gaze cutting as you whirl around to face him. Loathsome manâyou hate that he is beautiful, and you hate that even in the face of your rage, his eyes are soft and adoring. âYou shame me, that is what you have done.â
Valarr tilts his head to the side slightly, a glimmer of calculation and confusion in his mismatched eyes as he searches your faceâas though he does not know what he has done, how he has shamed you. You detest him.Â
âTell me how I have shamed you,â he says softly, shifting closer still. Loathsome, loathsome, loathsomeâhe lifts his hand to brush the pads of his fingers against your cheekbone, and when you try to pull away, he holds your chin lightly, keeping you in place, forcing you to look at him. âTell me, so that I may fix it.â
You almost bite him for thatâfor the softness in his voice and the fondness in the eyes, the way he looks at you as though you are something precious to him when he has spent the better part of the evening making a spectacle of you before half of the court, letting that Lannister woman parade around on his arm.
âYou should know already,â you hiss.
âI do not,â he says, and he sounds earnest. You despise him. Loathsome man. His thumb glides over your lower lip, free hand coming up so that he can cradle your face between them both. âIf I have wronged you, I would hear it from your lips.â
You think to spurn him some more, to press your hands to his chest and shove him away, to leave your chambers and go seek outâseek out who? You have no one in this wretched keep. Your brothers are all back home, six thousand miles away, because your wretched father sold you to the Targaryens for trade. And your wretched friendsâwho were never truly your friends, clearlyâabandoned you the moment they realized you would no longer be able to bolster their standing when you are three seas away.Â
You are alone. All you have is a wretched husbandâa man you were promised would be gallant and charming and respectful, only for him to spend the evening smiling at another woman while the court watched to see how his foreign bride would react.Â
They hate youâthey have hated you since the moment you arrived on your fatherâs gilded ships, smiling to your face and scorning you the second your back is turned. They pray for illness and poor health, that an accident would befall you, so that Valarr might take one of their Andal daughters to wife instead, andâ
âand the cruelest part of it all is that, in this wretched court with these wretched people, the only person who has ever made you feel wanted is your wretched husband.Â
Valarr leans in to press his lips against yours when you do not immediately respond, soft and gentle as he always is, trying to ease the answer out of you.
A wavering sigh escapes you before you can stop it, and you melt into him far too easily, because Valarr is loathsome and wretched. You detest him, and you despise him, but he isâhe is insufferably good to you. Has been since the moment the two of you were introduced, in spite of the fact that he was as forced into this marriage as you. He is as gallant and charming as you were promised, much as you wish him to be otherwise, and he treats you as though you are not some foreign prize ferried across three seas to warm his bed and strengthen alliances, but someone he chooses and wants.
It is the worst part of it, because if he were cruel and disrespectful, you think you could hate him properly.
âYou are wretched,â you whisper against his mouth, voice unsteady with the remnants of your anger. âYou stand there all evening with that woman draped upon your arm, smiling at her as though she were the Sun Maiden herself, and then you come here and kiss me as though I am meant to simply forgive you.â
Valarr draws back only enough to look at you, brows knitting together slightly.
âThe Lannister girl?â
You glare at him. âYes, the Lannister girl, you witless dragon.â
To your mounting fury, understanding finally flashes across his face, and then amusement follows close behind it.
You shove at his chest immediately. âDo not laugh at me.â
Valarr catches your wrists before you can shove him too far, laughter warm and breathless as he presses a quick kiss to the inside of your palm. He pulls you closer to him, one hand sliding around your lower back to drag you into his lap, and you hate that your arms instinctively slink around his shoulders. You hate that your anger dissipates, and you hate that the fury on your face drains into a pout, that you have to chew the inside of your cheek to stop the tears from building in your eyes.
You hate everything about this. You are not so weak, but weeks of suffering through this snake pit have taken their toll on you.
The amusement fades from his expression when he sees yours, one hand lifting to caress your cheek gently.Â
âI was alone,â you say, grateful that your voice doesnât break. âI am always alone in this awful place. You are the only person I have, and you abandoned me to let that girl cling to you. If you wish to take a proper Westerosi wife, you are free to do so, but divorce me and let me return home. Do not force me to endure such humiliation.â
âNow, that is a bit drastic,â Valarr murmurs, and your lashes flutter as his fingers drag lightly along the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull your head down so that he might ghost his lips against your forehead. âWhy ever would I divorce you when I have only just managed to convince you to tolerate me?â
You make a soft, offended sound that he swallows with another lingering kiss to your lips. He tastes of honey and wine; you let out a breath that is far too shaky as his arms tighten around you, one hand soothing up and down your back.
âI am serious,â you mutter. âYou make light of everything.â
âOnly because you speak as though I have cast you aside for a girl I scarcely noticed.â His thumb rubs small circles into the small of your back. âLook at me, wife.â
You do not wish to. You fear if you do, he will see the tears that have started to gather in your eyes, and your pride has suffered enough tonight. You meant to stay angry and silent, but it is hard to do so when Valarr isâwell, Valarr.
He waits anyway, because he always does, and when you still refuse to do as he says, he hooks two fingers beneath your chin, and tilts your face upward so gently that you barely bite back a whine. Thereâs a softness in his face, an undeniable fondness that makes your heart ache.Â
âI did not abandon you,â he tells you quietly. âI left your side because Lord Lannister cornered me to speak of the new trade agreements with Qarth and his daughter decided to preen while doing so.â His thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a tear before it can fall. âHad I known you were miserable, I would have returned immediately. I thought my cousins were taking care to ensure you were not alone.â
âYou should have known,â you say, spiteful, voice sullen.
âYes,â he agrees easily, without argument. âI should have. Forgive me.â
You falter, because you prepared yourself for his infuriating charm and smooth talk, not for an apologyâespecially not one so genuine.
Valarr exhales softly through his nose, gaze roaming over your face before he rests his forehead down on your shoulder, arms curling a bit tighter around your waist until your bodies are flush. You let out a shaky breath before burying your face in his soft hair, eyes sliding shut.Â
âThe Lannister girl is not what really upset you,â Valarr says quietly after a momentâit is a question, but it is not phrased as one, and you stiffen. You do not respond, but you do not need to. He knows the answer already. He admits reluctantly, as though the realization pains him to speak aloud, âI do not know how to make you happy here.â
âI am happy,â you say immediately, an instinctive, courtly answer, a lie that tastes like poison on your tongue.
âDo not lie to me,â he tells you, and then he lets out another heavy breath. You see his jaw tighten slightly before he speaks again. âIâŠâ He hesitates, trying to find the words. âI thought if I loved you enough, the rest would matter less.â
You inhale at his words, watching as he pulls back to look at you again. The grief in his eyes makes your stomach turn.Â
âIt is not you who makes me unhappy,â you say, because guilt eats at you. Valarr is the only person trying to make you feel comfortable in this wretched placeâhe goes out of his way to ensure you are included, to make you feel wanted and welcome, and youâyou what? You turn on him the moment he glances away? As though none of the rest matters? You feel embarrassed suddenly, mortification rolling waves in your stomach and chest, because Valarr has tried. He has tried so hard, so desperately, and here you are making a mess of everything, because of a tantrum over something beyond his control. âValarr, Iââ
âHush,â he chides, leaning in to swallow your words with another kiss. âI understand. You do not need to explain yourself to me.â
The tears fall in earnest at that, rolling over your cheeks silently as you stare at him. You are the wretched oneâwretched and miserable, you have been blessed with a marriage to a man most women would kill for, and you ruin it with your gloom. Love from Valarr should be enough to outweigh the rest, so why isnât it?
Valarr clicks his tongue lightly, lifting his hands so his thumbs can wipe your tears as they fall.Â
âNone of that,â he murmurs. âI do not know what is running through that beautiful mind of yours right now, but enough of it. I know this is not an easy transition for youâyou are six thousand miles away from your home and family, in a strange place with stranger people. I do not begrudge you for struggling to find your place here, nor for being upset when alone. I should not have left you.â
âI want you to be enough,â you say, and you mean it. You mean it so desperatelyâyou need him to understand. This is notâit is not of your choosing; if you had it your way, this would be enough. âI want to be happy here.â
âI know,â he says gently, holding the weight of your head in the palm of his hand as you lean into him. âI know, ñuha jorrÄelagon.â
âThey all hate me,â you tell him. When his brows furrow and lips part to deny it, you continue before he can, âI can tell. Do not deny it.â
Valarr doesnât respond for a long time, and then he says quietly, âYou are beautiful, and you are my wife, and their daughters are not. You arrived on gilded ships with enough wealth to shame the majority of lords in Westeros, and then had the audacity to capture the affection of a prince they had long hoped to claim for themselves. They would have hated you even if I did not adore you so openly. They hate men for much, much less.â
âIt is not fair,â you say, voice weak and childish. âI have given up so much for their favor. I dress how they expect. I speak how they expect. I act how they expect. I celebrate their holy days with them, and I go to the temples of their gods, andââ
âI know,â Valarr cuts in gently again, stroking your hair.Â
âThen why? What more must I do for them to accept me?â
Valarr doesnât reply for a long while, an unreadable expression on his face. âDo not give up anything more for them,â he says. Your face twists, but before you can rebuke his words, he continues, âI mean it. The only thing that will help is timeâI do not want you to cut away parts of yourself to satisfy the likes of vultures who would strip you of everything if given the chance.â
âIt is easy for you to say,â you scoff bitterly. âYou do not have half of the lords in this keep praying for your ill health and accidents to befall you. It is only a matter of time before their prayers turn to action.â
Valarr goes very still and very quiet. For a moment, the only sound in the room is the crackling of the fireplace, and you realize you have made a terrible mistake.
His hand slides from your cheek to your hair, holding you close as something cold flickers briefly through his eyesâyour husband is gallant and charming, and he loves you despite the circumstances. Your husband is also a Targaryen, and the blood of the dragon runs hot through his veins; madness and greatness are always one flip away from the other. It is tamer in Valarr compared to his cousins, but it is there nonetheless.
âWho?â he asks softly. The quietness of it chills you more than shouting would have.
You shake your head immediately, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He lets you, but his fingers remain stiff in your hair, body tense and coiled against yours.Â
âIt does not matter.â
âIt does to me,â he says. âYou think someone in this keep means you harm. You think they pray for your death so openly that you have come to expect attempts on your lifeâand you would have me ignore it?â
You shouldnât have said anything. You know this court better now than you did when you first arrived; you know how quickly whispers become accusations, and how quickly accusations become bloodshed when dragons are involved. Valarr has always seemed gentler than the rest of his kinâarrogant, maybe, but what prince is not? He is easy laughter and soft smiles, and it lulls you into a false sense of security, because you forget he is still a prince of House Targaryen. Still fire and blood.Â
âIt was only a figure of speech,â you murmur, another lie.
âYou do not speak carelessly, wife.â
You fall silent at that, because he is rightâyou do not.Â
Valarr exhales hard through his nose. âWho has threatened you?â
âNo one.â
âWho has frightened you, then?â
You do not answer, looking away. âI do not want to talk about this anymore.â
Valarrâs jaw tightens, frustration flashing across his face briefly. For a moment, he looks as though he wants to fight, but then he concedes, âVery well. But this will not be the last we speak on this.âÂ
His hands slide under your thighs, and your eyes slide shut, arms tightening around his shoulders as he rises to his feet with your body wrapped around his, carrying you over to the bed and laying you back gently on it. He slips out of his tunic and leathers before joining you beneath the covers.
You immediately curl into his side, pressing your face into the warm skin of his shoulder, sliding one leg between his to be as close to him as possible. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you impossibly closer.
âYou are wrong,â he says after a moment, and your brows furrow. âNot everyone dislikes you in this keep. My family adores you, and that, I fear, is one of the greatest accomplishments a person can claim, considering most of them can barely tolerate each other.â
âThat is not true,â you say immediately, lips pursed.
âIt is,â Valarr insists. âMy father and brother love you. They cherish the mornings you join them in the library. They like hearing your stories of Qartheen culture and the Far East. My father wishes to broach the subject of you joining them more often, but he does not want you to feel obligated to come.â
âOh,â you say, voice wobbly again, eyes suddenly very wet.
âAnd the twins adore you,â he continues. âAelora gave quite the verbal lashing to a Marcher lord who spoke poorly of our unionââ Of you, he means, because no one in this keep would speak poorly of Valarr, the perfect prince. ââand Aelor threatened to have him whipped if he ever repeated such a thing again. They do not forget the day you found Uncle Rhaegel teetering on the edge of a balcony in the west tower and looked after him until they were able to come and retrieve him.â
âI did not know that,â you whisper.
âAnd gods know how you managed to gain the affection of Uncle Maekarâs sonsââ
âAffection is a stretch,â you disagree.
âYou do not know my cousins like I do, wife,â Valarr says with a wry smile. âIt is affection, I must insist. I have never seen Aerion so captivated when someone speaks the way he is when you do.â
Your face feels hot. âIt is only because he is interested in Qartheen magic and our warlocks. He wants to visit the House of the Undying.â
âI digress, both Aunt Shiera and Uncle Brynden are well-versed in magic, and Aerion is hardly so starry-eyed when he badgers them for information,â Valarr counters dryly, though there is something pinched in his voice that piques your curiosity. âAnd even you cannot deny that Daeron is enamored by youâI have caught him reciting poetry for you in his drunken ramblings. You have thoroughly charmed him, that is clear.â
This time, there is no denying the bitterness in his voice. You smile against his skin.
âAre you jealous, husband?â you ask, peeking up from his shoulder to look at the way his jaw is tight.
âIn truth, I have contemplated tossing them both into the Blackwater a concerning number of times this past week,â he admits flatly.
A laugh startles out of you before you can stop it, and the flat line of his mouth softens at the sound. He leans down to press his lips to your forehead, long and lingering.
âDaeron cornered me for an hour last week to ask whether you prefer sweet wines or dry ones,â he continues after a moment, bitter. âClaimed he wished to âbetter understand Qartheen tastesâ as though I am foolish enough to not realize what he is really doing.â
Your eyes crinkle. âThat explains the odd assortment of wines he brought to the gardens when I was there reading, then.â
Valarr lets out an exasperated sigh. âTo think my own cousin is trying to woo my wife away from me,â he mutters, âand so shamelessly at that. To think he has the nerve to ask my advice on how to go about it.â
You find yourself giggling despite yourself. âHe is sweet,â you say at last. âHarmless.â
âHe is a Targaryen prince,â Valarr says dryly. âWe are very rarely harmless.â
You are smiling openly now, warmth spreading through your chest as the void of loneliness is filled little by little. You had thought yourself so isolated here, so painfully unwanted, that you never considered anyone beyond Valarr might genuinely care for you.
The realization leaves your throat terribly tight.
Valarr notices at once, expression softening as he tilts your face up toward him to brush his lips against yours gently. Once. Twice. Three times. You think you could lose yourself in the taste and feel of him.
âMy brother is to be married soon,â Valarr says after a moment, fingers stroking your hair absently. âTo the daughter of the Tyroshi Archonâmy father finalized the betrothal this morning. I hope, perhaps, the two of you will get along, since she will also be far from home. It may make court easier for you, to have someone who understands what it is to arrive here alone in a foreign landâa companion.â
You peek up at him again, blinking once. Tyrosh. He presses his lips to your forehead. You say, voice small, âThe Tyroshi like dyes and hats. I am not versed in them. What if we cannot find common ground?âÂ
Valarr pauses, and then says, far too amused, âI think you will have enough common ground that you need not be familiar with dyes and hats.â
âDo not mock me,â you mutter.
âI am trying very hard not to.â
âYou are failing.â
âTerribly,â he admits.
You make a wounded sound and attempt to bury your face back against his shoulder, but Valarr catches your chin before you can escape, smiling as he brushes his thumb along your cheek.
âWife,â he says gently, âI promise you the Tyroshi girl will not arrive here expecting expertise in dyes and hats.â
âPerhaps I should read up on them just in case,â you say, gaze flitting away briefly. âQarth isâit is a far cry from any of the Free Cities. Very different⊠very far. She might think me strange, and if I am strange, then everyone here will be strange to her. It would be good to have common ground in interests, so that she can keep some of home with her at least with me. I think it would make her more comfortable, donât you?â
Valarrâs expression changes at once, and there is something devastating in the way he looks at you nowâso warm and tender, so sickeningly fond that it makes heat creep up the back of your neck. Valarr loves you; he loves you so deeply and so openly that it is impossible for anyone to deny, not with the way he looks at you as though you are the most precious thing in the world. You gnaw at your bottom lip, unable to hold his gaze when he looks at you like this. He kisses your temple again, long and lingering, and then sighs against your skin.
âYou are worried about making her comfortable,â he realizes quietly.
You blink. âWell, yes.â
You remember too vividly what it felt like to arrive here alone, standing in a hall full of people smiling at you with teeth instead of warmth. If the Tyroshi girl is lonely, if she looks around this court and feels swallowed whole by it, you do not want her to feel the way you did.
âYou are extraordinary,â he murmurs. âI do not know how I got so lucky.â
Heat floods your face immediately. âI am speaking about dyes and hats, Valarr. Do not be ridiculous.â
âYou are speaking about a girl you have never met and worrying over how to make her feel welcomed in a foreign court despite the fact that you yourself are still struggling here.â His mouth curves softly. âYou do not even realize how lovely you are, do you?â
You scowl weakly. âYou are biased.â
âHopelessly,â he agrees, so sincerely that it makes you embarrassed. He adds after a moment, âYou know what I think will happen?âÂ
You eye him warily. âWhat?â
âI think the Tyroshi girl will arrive terrified.â
Your brows knit slightly. You know this. That is exactly what you are trying to prepare for.
âI think she will spend the voyage rehearsing how she ought to speak and smile,â Valarr continues, voice soft. Yes, she will, you agree, because that is what you did, too. âI think she will step into court and immediately realize she is being examined like a prized horse at market.â His thumb strokes slowly along your cheekbone. âAnd then I think she will meet you.âÂ
Something in your chest twists painfully.
âShe will see another woman who crossed the world alone,â he says. âAnother woman who survived it, and learned this court well enough to navigate it gracefully despite how cruel it can be.â His lips curve faintly. âAnd then she will cling to you desperately for guidance while you panic over whether or not you understand hats sufficiently.â
You let out a startled laugh despite yourself. Valarr smiles at the sound instantly, gaze unbearably warm.
âThere she is,â he murmurs quietly. âYou look less like you wish to flee back across the seas now.â
âYou make it very difficult to remain angry with you.â
âThat is because I am devastatingly charming,â he says, ghosting his lips against your nose, over your eyelids, your forehead, settling on the top of your head. âAsk anyone.âÂ
âYou are insufferable, is what you are.â
He hums in agreement. âAnd yet, you cling to me still. I cannot be so insufferable then, can I?â
âI told you not to mock me, husband. My homeland is fond of its poisonsâyou might find sweet death laced in your wine should you push too far,â you threaten, but there is a smile in your voice, hidden against his shoulder, and his chest rumbles as he huffs out a laugh.
âI will endure the risk if it means I get to have you curled in my arms like this, ñuha jorrÄelagon,â he murmurs, all warmth and devotion as he tucks you closer into his chest.
You lay like that with him for a long while, basking in his warmth and the comfort of his arms, eyes sliding shut as the drowsiness finally hits you, all of the day's stress and excitement sinking in.
You murmur at last, âYou smiled at her too much,â before you can stop yourself. Then you add for clarification, âThe Lannister woman.â
He vows, âI shall never smile at anyone besides you again.â
âI will poison you if you do.âÂ
His fingers trail up and down your side, gentle and adoring, lulling you to sleep. âA just punishment, certainly. I should expect nothing less from my fearsome wife.â
You make a soft, sleepy sound at that, too exhausted to muster another threat, and Valarr smiles faintly against your hair.
Valarrâs fingers continue their slow path along your side, absent and affectionate. You think he believes you are half asleep already by the way he presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment too long.
âYou frightened me tonight,â Valarr admits quietly after a while.
Your lashes flutter slightly, but your eyes do not open. Your words are half slurred together as you ask sleepily, âI frightened you?â
âYou spoke as though you truly believed I would cast you aside,â he murmurs. âThat you were unwanted by me.â
You do not know how to reply to that, because a part of you had believed it, for a moment. You were forced upon him through politics and trade, and the rest of the court has made its opinions clear on you. You had let the insecurities get the best of you, with people around you whispering poison so sweetly it began to sound like truth.
âI choose you,â he says when you do not respond, fingers stroking your side again. âNot for your fatherâs ship and your familyâs wealth. Not for trade with Qarth and access to the Jade Gates. Youâbecause you do not look down on my brother for not taking to the sword the way everyone else expects him to, because my fatherâs eyes light up every time the two of you speak, because you ease the burden that weighs on my shoulder just by being in the same room as me. Because you are good and kind and worry about making sure another girl is comfortable here, when you still struggle yourself. Given the chance and opportunity to pick any woman in Westeros or Essos, I will always pick youâand anyone in this court who is bold enough to try to harm you will find themselves begging the gods for mercy before I am through with them.â
âYou are very foolish,â you whisper weakly, barely awake.
Valarrâs lips curve. âDesperately so.â
âThere are easier women,â you say quietly. âWomen who your court would accept, whoââ
âI do not want easier women,â he cuts in immediately. âI want you, and only you. I try very hard to be a good manâto follow in my fatherâs footstepsâbut I would do terrible things to anyone who dared try to take you from me.â
Your chest aches. Loathsome man.
âI love you,â you say quietly, eyes heavy and voice slow, the steady beat of his heart and strokes of his fingers still doing quick work at ensuring you are half to sleep already.Â
âAnd I you,â he murmurs, pressing his lips to the top of your head. âSleep, ñuha jorrÄelagon. No one shall ever touch you while I draw breath.âÂ
AKOTSK Modern AU: Targaryens are a rich family in their flop era facing power and wealth decline, they go on vacation and chaos ensues White Lotus style.
