#husband material

[asamantis]

He is such an angelface 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯

[fatdadschubbysons]

King has nothing just fat and power. And a humble twink servant who feeds well and fattens him huge.

[atropa-digitalis]

Breakfast

Summary -> When you wake up, your husband is nowhere to be found. Turns out, Steve is making pancakes for his girls and you can't help but admire the view.

Pairings: Steve Harrington x Wife!Reader

Warnings: Dad!Steve, fluff, baby fever, smut, dirty talk, hand job, getting freaky in the kitchen, desperate!Steve, reader is THIRSTY, POST SEASON 5

Wordcount: 3.6k

Steve wasn't in bed.

That was the first thing that registered in your sleep-fogged brain when you woke up. Normally, the man was a huge teddy bear and would be clinging to you like a limpit, refusing to let go.

You groaned, blindly reaching out for your husband in the dark room. The side next to you was empty, the sheets were rumpled, and the blanket was gingerly tucked around you like a lovers embrace. It was still warm, so you knew he had left recently.

Minuets later, you were in your dressing gown, leaving the bedroom to find wherever he had wandered off to.

First you checked Dia's room.

It was a habit. Your baby- well, she was already four and growing fast, but she would always be your baby- was face down in her bed. Small tufts of thick, brown hair were sticking up at odd angles and the covers were tangled around her feet.

She had a tendency to move in her sleep.

Dia had her father's hair. It was something both your children shared with Steve to the point you were convinced there was something magical about his glorious locks; the way it framed your children's faces perfectly, the way it made Dia look like a little cherub instead of the menace she was growing up to be.

The four year old in question was snoring softly. Her short little breaths could be heard in the early morning quiet and it was a miracle she was still asleep.

There was still no sign of Steve. Sometimes, he could be found squashed in with either one of your children. Stevie was with his girls more often than not and was the most loving man you had ever met.

You crept silently into the depths of the small room and made sure the drapes were shut tight, not letting any sunlight in, before making your way over to her bed. Leaning down, you placed a soft kiss to the top of her head, inhaling that comforting baby smell.

The faint scent of the ridiculously expensive shampoo Steve had bought was buried deep in her hair. It was the only shampoo he used on the kids. The excuse he used every time was always: 'only the best for my girls'.

The memory made you feel all fuzzy and warm inside. It reminded you that you had yet to find him and should probably keep looking.

You stood back up and walked to the door, glancing once over your shoulder just to check if Dia was still sleeping. Seeing that she was, you stepped into the hallway, closing the door quietly behind you.

Next was Jane's room.

Jane was nine and tall for her age. She too had Steve's case of a bedhead, and even in the dark, her tresses could be seen splayed across her pillow.

Steve had named your first child.

It was one of the only things he refused to meet you halfway on, not that you didn't like the name. You loved the it and knew what emotional depth it held for Steve. It was an honour to be able to name your child after El and a way to keep that girl embedded in your lives forever.

Jane was an early riser and had given both you and Steve a run for your money when she was younger. Still, Steve had been up with her from the moment her eyes opened with no complaints. He would quietly lead her out of the bedroom and into the living room, granting you a few more hours of rest. He was truly the best man you could ever ask for.

Her room was littered with toys- evidence of her tea party held last night with you and 'Prince' Steve, who had 'courageously' saved you from the evil dragon (cough, cough Dia). Steve had played his part adorably and remained passive even when the 'Great Bad Dia' had yanked his hair a little too hard.

No wonder both girls were still unconscious. Steve always had a hard time saying no and they had stayed up way past their bedtime playing make belief.

You slowly peeled back the covers, careful not to wake up your darling daughter. But, no luck. Stevie wasn't tucked up with this one either.

Gently, with the most care and skill you can muster this early, you pulled the blanket back over Jane. You smoothened her crazy locks back down out of her face and smiled at the beauty you and Steve made.

Then, as you did with Dia, you crept back out, careful not to trip on any items left on the carpet, and closed the door on your way out.

It had now hit you that you still couldn't find Steve.

Though, you had no worry and made your way downstairs where the smell of pancake batter hit you full force.

You snuck through the house until you were leaning comfortably in the doorway to the kitchen.

Steve, as you suspected, was by the counter, his back to you, and seemed to be cooking. He was illuminated by the morning light. It brought attention to his strong back muscles and biceps.

Steve hadn't noticed you yet and was fully focused on preparing the meal in front of him. He was stirring (what you could only assume was more batter) with the seriousness of a navy seal and kept murmuring to himself, adding some more flour into the mixture.

The kitchen was a battlefield: the first batch of pancakes already sat tucked away on the side, faint traces of flower covered every other surface, clumps and blobs of pancake batter were stuck to the counter in different shapes and sizes, and spoons and various other ingredients littered the counter tops like they were planning an invasion on your home.

Steve was humming some song he heard on the radio while holding the mixing bowl under his arm and swaying to the imaginary beat. He was oblivious to the world around him, and from here, you could tell that his hair was dusted with flour- Steve always was a messy cook.

He was wearing the frilly pink and white apron Dustin had brought him as a gag gift for his latest birthday. Ever since then, Steve wore it non-ironically, claiming 'it was a gift', so it must be worn. Seeing Steve being all house-husband did things to you that you weren't proud of.

He had just begun pouring the next round of batter into a pan. You remember a time when he wasn't allowed near the stove when you made breakfast because of the mess he made. How times have changed. Having a baby really does make a person adjust accordingly.

You observed him for a while longer, watching the way his sleep pants rode low on his hips, the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt due to the heat, and the fact that his ass was looking amazing. The strings of the apron were tied in a lop-sided bow at the small of his back, pulling the fabric tight across his waist.

You could faintly see the gold font at the front as it curled around the side of the fabric. You couldn't read it all, but you knew what it said: 'Kiss The Cook'. It made you laugh the first time you saw it, and you secretly think he likes to wear it for the free kisses it gets him.

Suddenly, all your thoughts about getting him back into bed to cuddle before your 'terrors' awake left swiftly out the window. Instead, you would much rather the two of you do something a little more up close and personal. Still, you tried to refrain yourself and remain the 'responsible adult' you were.

At that moment, Steve leaned down to pick up a dropped spoon, and all your will power evapourated. His pants slipped even lower, and you could practically see the way his muscles move under the fabric.

Aw, well. You never had much restraint when it came to Steve anyway.

You pushed off from the doorway and mutely headed towards him, letting your hips sway as you went.

Every time he reached over for the spatula or flipped a pancake, the muscles in his back and arms would flex under his soft skin making your mouth water.

The sight was enough to make you pause for a second, fully appreciating the man you married. The apron strings pull tight every time he leans forward to check the griddle, outlining the perfect dip of his waist, the swell of his ass, the long line of his thighs.

You’ve been watching from behind for three solid minutes. Thighs already slick. You've grown impatient now.

You make the final stretch, hugging him from behind as he's mid-pour. He jumped, then froze for a moment, his eyes flickered down. He realized it is indeed you and let himself relax again, placing a chaste kiss to your forehead and going back to the task at hand.

You pouted slightly at his obliviousness to your growing need. So, you tried again: leaning forward until your front is flush against his back, and you could rest your chin on his shoulder. You drew your arms around properly so that they could rest on his hips while your hands overlaped, tugging at his waist.

Steve looked down.

"G'morning, sweetheart. How'd you sleep?"

You sighed. Steve is a gentleman now, after all.

"I slept alright. But, you weren't there when I woke up..." you drew out the sentence until it was almost a whine.

He chuckled quietly, the sound reverberating in your chest. "Aw, I'm sorry, baby. I wanted to get up early to make the kids breakfast."

"You could have woke me up," you sighed, "I wouldn't mind."

That got a smirk out of Steve. "Oh, yeah, you wouldn't mind? Where was this attitude when I woke you up an hour early on game day to get a good parking space?"

He had you there. You pressed closer, nosing along the line of his neck placing sleepy kisses there as he dragged his eyes back to the frying pan.

"That was different..." You said slowly. "But I want to be with you now."

Steve finally seemed to get the hint after you began sucking the side of his neck. You switched between sweet kisses and soft sucks hoping to gain his attention.

He went quiet for a beat. It was clear he was trying to hold himself together, but he couldn't help but tilt his head to the side to give you better access. Steve shuddered when you bit softly at the sensitive spot under his jaw. You've had years to find all his sweet spots and today, you intended to use that knowledge.

You slid your hands under the apron next, feeling the warm expanse of his chest and stomach. The skin there prickled the moment you touched it, and Steve shivered pleasantly. He sucked in a deep breath but remained focused, flipping a pancake and placing it on the large plate on the side.

The lack of a reaction made you increase your advances. Your palms flattened over the slight pudge of his stomach that he still gets shy about when you stare too long. You smirked into his neck, an early warning that things were about to be a lot harder to ignore.

Your nails suddenly dragged downwards slightly. Over the cut of his hips. Into the waistband of his pants.

He breathed in sharply, his shoulders tensed so much that they almost went up to his ears. His whole body went rigid, and you could practically feel his heartbeat lurching out his chest.

"Baby..." He said, his voice rough and low. It's edged with that stubborn 'I'm really trying to stay responsible' tone he's been clinging to all morning. "The girls could be up any second. The pancakes. I– I gotta focus, sweet thing."

You hummed against the nape of his neck, retracting one hand only to slide it up his back, giving his ass a firm squeeze on the way. He squeeked, tensing again, practically vibrating with dwindling self-control. It doesn't get much easier for him because your hand slid up into his hair, tugging it firmly to move his head so that you could place an open-mouthed kiss directly over his pulse.

"I am focused." You murmured. "Very focused."

You watched as Steve still tried to stay calm. He'd already pouring another pancake, but now his arms were shaking with the effort not to grab you.

Seeing this, you took the opportunity to slip your other hand lower. It wrapped around his already hardened cock. It was already thick and weeping at the tip. You could feel it throbbing against your palm with barely controlled need.

Steve choked on a moan, his head dropped forward without conscious thought until his hair hung heavily in front of his eyes.

"Fuck– Sweetheart, don't–"

You ignored his plea, stroking again. It was a slow, firm motion that left your thumb circling the wet head. He bucked, a helpless little jerk that forced his hips to press back into you. The bowl he was holding was instantly put down on the side. The bang echoed with a deep finality.

Circling again, you chuckled as he braced both hands on the counter as if he was actually being fucked. His hands gripped the edge of the marble tightly, and his knuckles turned white with strain.

The smell of burning pancakes filled the air, and it snapped him out of his haze just long enough to grab the pan and flip it. The pan shook with the tremors from his hand, and he managed to slide the ready, if slightly crispy, pancake onto the plate.

"Baby, sweetie, love of my life, please. The pancakes– nghh- they're gonna burn–" He whined, still pushing his hips forward with every stroke, unable to deny you this pleasure.

"I'll have the burnt ones," you said cheerfully, continuing your movements.

You kissed his neck again. It's an open, wet kiss, your tongue tracing the indent your teeth made earlier. His neck sunk further, instinctively giving you more throat to bite on. So you did bite. And it was strong enough to make him let out a beautiful, quiet sob of pure pleasure as his hips threw a particularly strong thrust forward.

Given his response, you sucked a mean bruise info the soft flesh of his jaw.

His knees buckled– just a fraction, just enough to show his surrender.

You ground against his ass in a slow, deliberate roll. You felt him twitch. Felt the way he braced, his forearms locked, his shoulders rigid, like he was about to be fucked raw right here.

He groaned softly.

"Care–careful. M'gonna..." He trailed off into a quiet moan. "M'gonna burn the pancakes. Don't let me burn the fucking pancakes."

You laughed against his neck. It made his pulse jump. You couldn't help but find it endearing how even after all this, he still was trying to ensure his girls got their breakfast.

"Then pay attention, Stevie."

Then you sped up your motions. Just a little. Just enough that you could twist your hand on every upstroke.

Steve was fully rocking up into your hand now, letting out whimpering moans and gasps and trying to push back harder for more friction. You drew your tongue up his throat to bite the soft spot behind his ear and squeezed his weeping tip at the same time.

Your husband let out an honest to God pornographic moan so loud that he clamped one trembling hand over his mouth in hopes of silencing it. Too late.

He whimpered as you kept going.

"What– w'bout the girls... Baby, what if they come down?" He said, full of fresh clarity.

"They're fast asleep, honey." You replied. "But, you're right."

Steve breathed a sob of relief that only turned into another strangled moan as you picked up the pace until it was impossibly fast. He could feel your hardened nipples flush against his sweaty back. The speed was so deliciously unbearable that he seriously considered flipping the two of you. He held against it, though, knowing this morning it's you who wanted to be doing the heavy lifting.

You pressed your lips against his ear and repeat again, "You are so right, honey. So smart, baby. But, that just means you're gonna have to come a lot quicker. Can you do that for me? Can you come, Stevie?"

Your hand clenched the whole time as you dragged the it from top to bottom. He gritted his teeth and nodded frantically. Little moans escaped him, and his quiet gasps filled the air.

Your other hand that had previously been tugging and pulling at his hair (scratching his scalp until he was trembling) joined your right hand on his thick cock. You used both hands, making his eyes roll back into his head. He shuddered viciously and you reached back, giving his tight, drawn up balls some attention too. You squeezed and rolled them until the pleasure was unbearable.

He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood and one of his large hands clamped down on your forearm for frantic support.

"C-coming– oh, Jesus, I'm gonna come! Fuck, baby please. Dont stop–dont stop–dont stop."

You felt his whole cock pulse with oncoming release and a warm gushing liquid poured out of his tip. It soaked your hand and the front of his sleep pants. Steve let out a drawn-out groan, leaning back into you as his shoulders sagged and his knees buckled with the force of his orgasm.

Both of you stayed like that for a moment. Breathing heavily and sharing sloppy, little kisses until he was able to stand up straight without support.

You licked your hand clean, keeping eye contact. He groaned, dragging his hands down his face, muttering a quiet but love-filled, "You're going to be the death of me, y'know?"

"I know," you said back, wiping your palm on the side of his pants, making him scoff in a over the top tone.

"What? You gotta change anyway." You shrugged, giving him a cheeky grin and leaning on your tiptoes to kiss him again.

Steve smiled fondly, pulling you back in for a proper 'Steve Harrington morning kiss'. The two of you sighed into each others mouths. You eventually broke apart. You washed your hands and went to the stove to finish off what little batter was left. He left to go clean himself up.

He took off his apron with exaggerated care (sighing that it would be scarred for life) and placing it on its designated hook. Then, he quickly fixed his hair to the best of his abilities and snuck off out the other door to head to the bathroom to have a shower.

You had half the mind to join him as you watched him leave the room. However, that thought was pushed out of your mind as Dia and Jane sleepily came downstairs, just missing Steve's escape.

They yawned loudly, Dia sneezing in the process and Jane scratching her head. Together, they made their way into the kitchen, both seeing you by the stove and trailing after you like lost ducklings.

Dia hugged your leg tightly, whinging a quiet "Mama," while Jane gave you a quick squeeze and tried to look over your shoulder to see what you were doing.

"Pancakes for breakfast?" You offered, tilting the pan so they could both see what was cooking.

Both their faces lit up like it was Christmas morning.

"Yes!" They both cheered as if the question had an obvious answer. Which, to be fair, it did.

"Thank you, mom!" Jane said excitedly.

Dia nuzzled into your leg, her little, chubby fingers squeezing your dressing gown tightly.

"Yes! T'ank you, mama!" She giggled, rubbing her face into the soft fluff.

Your heart melted at the sight of both of them.

"Aw, no problem, my babies."

You then lowered your voice like you were telling a secret, "But, make sure to thank Daddy when he comes in, yeah? It was his idea, I'm just helping."

"Otay!" Dia squealed happily, running off to try crawl up into her seat at the table.

You followed Dia and picked her up, holding her against your hip to place another kiss to her head and sat her down in her chair. When you turned back to the stove, you realized Jane already had a hand in the pancake mix and was licking the rest off her fingers.

"Jane Harrington!" You gasped with exaggerated offence.

She jumped at the noise, turning around and hiding her hands behind her back, flashing you one of her cutest smiles paired with the puppy dog eyes she definitely got from her father.

"Yes?" She said innocently, sliding away from the counter and towards you.

"Nu uh. That isn't going to work on me, young lady. I love ya, but that just cost you first dibs."

She gasped, her face dropping. "No fair!"

You gave her a pat on the back as you went to turn off the stove.

"Well, I don't make the rules." You shrugged, "Maybe, if you set the table and sit extra quietly, I might be able to bend it slightly. Okay? If your dad comes back and sees your good behaviour, maybe, and I mean maybe, he might let you have the first pancake."

You said all that knowing damn well Steve would fold the minuet he saw Jane's face. You just wanted to tease.

"Okay, mom!" Jane nodded, running to grab the spreads and toppings for the pancakes and then bringing them back to the table.

You sighed happily, leaning against the counter and letting the warm morning sun come in through the window and warm your back. Today would be a good day.

Authors note: I really love the idea of girl-dad Steve, and he will definitely be making a return. And yes, I had to have them name a child Jane after the end of the show. Steve will always hold El in his heart as one of his nuggets. <3

Divider: @angeliicide

[miinhoo]

. filled to the top﹒ 𓂃 ˖ ࣪⊹

thinking about chris's obsession with creampies rn. seeing his quiet sobs about getting married and having kids is driving me nuts, leaving me wet every night like bffr. This is more than a smutty oneshot; this is a need... ૮ ྀི⳿ ◞ ◟ 𑁬ྀི ♡

tags : contains mature themes, sex, creampies, pregnancy topics, p in v, unprotected sex, oral (f recieving), slight mention of public sex (if you squint your eyes), nicknames, mommy, and pregnancy kink

all credits to @miinhoo on tumblr, other socials on my profile.

𝒞hris is the type to take a few days off only to take you to your dream vacation destination, spoiling you however he can. Hawaii? You got it. Paris? As you wish. Rome? I hope you're already packed, because that man will give you whatever you ask for at the speed of light.

𝒞hris is the type to book the most luxurious hotel with the most mesmerising view for both of you. It had a meaningful reason though. Little did you know that there was no such thing as "rest" when you two finally entered and explored your new housing. He'd pick you up without hesitation, things still unpacked as he pressed you up against the marble kitchen counter, caressing your body as if it was some precious monument to him. There was nothing more prepossessing than seeing you right in front of a big, glassy window with a city view or the entrance of a beach balcony. And the danger of being seen? Adds even more to it.

"Look at you, baby...So angelic like that. I'm the luckiest to see this side of you..."

𝒞hris is the type to take his time when it comes to devouring you. He loves to put time and tension into these moments as they don't happen quite often due to his work. But when it actually does happen, you realise how worth the waiting was. His tongue makes you forget all your worries and bad thoughts. And then... once his plump lips meet your folds, you let out an euphonious voice you never thought you had in yourself.

𝒞hris is the type to get all groany and impatient once you start calling out his name like he was your god. Your saviour. It drives him crazy, making it so difficult to hold back from stuffing you full of his aching problem. It wasn't anything new for you to feel him grind against your clothed core either. Maybe he had a thing for making a mess?

"You drive me so mad with that beauty of yours..."

𝒞hris is the type to go slow and intense once he's buried balls deep inside of you, taking you to heaven with him in such an unchristian way. He'd talk you through it, saying how nicely you two fit together. a Damn puzzle. That's when it gets to him once again. His need to become your husband and the father of your kids. You can barely form a sentence as he's all mumbly about how beautiful you'd look if he got you pregnant right here, right now.

𝒞hris is the type to get lost in his own fantasies, begging you to officially take him as your man. This situation you two were in seemed the most ideal. Skin pressed up to skin. No ring needed, when you knew he would've given you the blue skies if you asked him to.

𝒞hris is the type to beg you for an allowance to finish inside of you, make it all so romantic and filthily messy at the same time. He's been dreaming about this for a while now. Just thinking about how happy you two (three...? four?...) could be together in the future... And there you are, agreeing on your husband's prayer... You clench around him, and he growls in an animalistic way once he hears that he's empowered to fulfill his deepest, sweetest fantasies.

"Will make you a mommy...Oh, mommy."

𝒞hris is the type who drabbles about nonsense at this point, marking you his own with tons of hickeys and love bites. His pace got unstable, voice whiny, and body melted into yours, holding you as close as possible once he finally reaches his high, not stopping till you see the stars aswell.

"...I'll give you a few minutes before we take it to the bedroom, sweetheart."

[iicarusflew]

nine lives

tags: established relationship; marriage couple; domestic fluff; mention of previous miscarriages; mention of conceiving; fear of inadequacy; soft Valarr; devoted Valarr; akotsk universe; 

A year after your second miscarriage, you try to convince your husband for another child, another shot at happiness you both so desperately desire.

words: 4.1k

The room reeks of memories.

You are trying to find another word for it other than reek . It’s proving to be way harder than you anticipated. Reek. Thick and bulky and almost tangible… not bad , certainly, but burning in its intensity to the point of being uncomfortable. Almost for you to touch and fold and make a different shape, form a different mold of it. Your room smells like crushed flowers and the tarty sweetness of Arbour wine (Valarr’s favorite) and the fresh, piney smell of your cologne. The darkness of the room cowers over you, even as the drapers from your windows blow with every gust of wind—spilling the silver moonlight over the room every once in a while. The flickering darkness brings memories too. Good ones, scary, aching ones. One that feels like a distant memory of someone else.

Valarr shifts beside you, his face mashed half against the pillow, half resting on his own arm. Naked from waist up, the muscle of his arm bulks a little, makes an elegant curve of it as he rests it over the pillow, drawing it closer to his body. His hair is upturned, messed up, the silver strand glimmering like a dream. It’s dark in your room, but he’s so clear to you. So unimaginably clear, like a shadow of yourself. A part of your own body. Your face is mashed up against the pillow as well, looking at your husband with a storm brewing in your chest. Your eyes—unlike his closed ones—are open and prying, calculating, rationalizing.

You try to mimic his even breaths as you trace unintelligible lines across your abdomen. Your own breaths stuttering, heart racing as if you’d been running a hundred miles an hour. You cannot help but feel as if, even by only deciding what you’ve decided, you have broken the invisible shield of protection. You have exposed yourself to a newer, more uncertain future. 

You are scared to your bones.

Your index draws a line from your abdomen to your chest. A hundred different futures swirl and dance inside you.

It’s been two days. You haven’t come around to telling him yet.

You cannot help feeling as if you’re cheating a bit. As if you’re still toying with the idea. Which you aren’t. Not for a long time. It was a steady flow of progression after the christening of Daeron and Kiera’s daughter. You saw the reverence with which Valarr held his niece, traced the slope of the child’s nose as if it were a wonder in itself. You felt the strange, unearthly pain prick at your chest again, for a hundredth time. It didn’t help that the court had started whispering again, dragging up old wounds, picking at your faults like vultures atop a dead body.

You kept your smile at the sept despite the clawing wound in your heart. You held him in your arms and tried, very hard, not to let your failure cloud your blessings for the pure soul. You tried exceptionally hard not to stare at Valarr, to not see the warmth in his eyes as you held a child that was not yours.

But at the end of the day, as you were walking back to your chambers, your eyes drifted to him—catching him in his dreams. His mismatched eyes had that faraway look—the sky and the land meeting in some distant, aching place—and he’d shuddered when he caught you looking. He blushed, shook his head and started talking about the Tyroshi ships they’d been given as gifts.

But you saw it. The look. The dream. 

And something light and springy settled in your chest. You decided.

Two days.

You lift your hand to rest your palm against your husband’s cheek. The sharp jut of his cheekbone, the stubble littering his jaw, all paint a picture of him stark and clear even in darkness. Even in the shadows. It swirls another rush of painfully sweet memories inside you, another rush of hereafter as you’ve bared yourself to him. You know this as clear as day. You want his child. And you cannot imagine doing that with—or for—anyone else.

“I love you,” you say softly. “So much.”

Your heart jumps when you feel him smile. His lips puckered on your skin, a soft, effervescent kiss on your palm. 

“I should hope so,” he says, the smirk evident in his voice. “You married me, remember?”

You roll your eyes, smiling like it’s an instinct. Valarr draws you closer—eyes open now, soft, mismatched eyes, muddled with sleep and exhaustion—and settles his hand across your body, just where you were touching yourself a moment ago.

“I thought you were sleeping,” you say, only slightly embarrassed.

“Hmm… so did I.” He pecks you on the nose. “It’s fortunate that I was conscious, though. Otherwise I’d miss your confession.”

“Confession?” you snort. “I was just trying not to make it obvious that I am in it for your throne.”

“Or my golds.”

“Your stupid, handsome face.”

“My great, gigantic cock—”

He doesn’t get to finish it, because you start laughing too hard. The laughter scrapes out of you like air and you feel yourself getting more and more nauseous, giddier. Valarr scrunches his nose, thoroughly happy with himself. And the sight of him like this, eyes pushed closer, slightly narrowed in exhaustion, lips pulling in that adoring half smirk only illuminated by the flood of moonlight in your chambers, you can’t help filling the gap between your faces, laughing, kissing, melting.

You are unsure how the next part happens. It’s the mechanics of your bodies, forever gripping each other, chasing each other, settling against each other’s warmth like locks and keys work before your mind has any say in it. Valarr wraps his arm around your waist, you clutch onto his shoulders. He settles on his back, you lift your legs to straddle him. Hands bracketing his face as you lean in for a long, lingering kiss.

When you pull away, the remnants of the smile still present, he tells you he loves you too.

And you cannot help the next thing coming out of your mouth, unmistakably like a confession.

“I want to try again.”

Valarr raises his eyebrows. His eyes are confused only for a moment before they widen. Your breath hitches from the sudden sharpness. The sweet, tangy pang his expression brings. You sit up straighter almost the same time he grips you a little tighter.

“What?” he rasps.

You repeat your words. I want to try again. You roll your tongue around the words, like you’ve been doing for the past few weeks. You’ve been tasting the hope in them. Reading into their tones in your own head before you infect your husband’s mind as well.

Valarr is looking at you with wide eyes, lips parted in a terrified, helpless surprise. It scrapes at your heart. “My love, we’ve talked about this…”

“Yes, yes, I know.” Your spine melts. You rest your hand on his chest for leverage. “But I want to.”

“You don’t—did anyone say anything to you? Did my mother…”

“Your mother said nothing,” you say, licking your lips. “And the court always says something, so really, I do not register that as an issue anymore.”

“I’m so sorry,” he huffs out a breath. “I haven’t protected you.”

You narrow your eyes—feeling your eyes prick as the conversation slips into someplace you haven’t intended it to. “What? No, Valarr—” 

You grip his jaw and tilt his face. It tilts, the way you pull. You can feel him soften under your touch. Becoming malleable. “I did not mean… I want to get with child again. Your child. Our child.”

Under you, Valarr goes peculiarly still. The side of his face, the side you can see in the inconsistent light, is as immovable as the rest of him. But you see his eyes, raking all over you, still apprehensive. Still searching.

“It’s too dangerous,” he says, his words coming out clipped, as if he’s been holding onto them for too long. 

“I know.”

“I cannot lose you. I cannot watch you go through with losing a babe again.”

You tap your index against his jaw. You lean to brush your lips against his dry ones. His one blue eye is as watery as the narrow sea. And the dark one is just as deep. “You went through with it as well. I was not alone, remember?”

He shudders. And the weight of it—the weight of all those times before—presses down so heavily that you have to close your eyes or you fear the gravity will pull you under. Memory floats back to the last time, a year ago. Springtime. The smell of budding roses from the garden wafting into your bedchamber. Valarr had come back from a late council meeting to find you shivering against the unlit fireplace. You were in your nightshift, sobbing silently, and he had to have but one sparing glance at the blood red spot on your backside to know what had passed.

You had looked up to him. “I lost it,” you said, as if your child was a thing, not really a person. You hadn’t given your babe enough time in your womb to be a person. You were inadequate, a failure, a few steps closer to a complete disaster.

Valarr had a look on his face that you will remember to your dying breath, and you will never tell another. His face twisted, from grief—the familiar calm expression wrenched away from him. He ran to you, wrapped his arms around you as he sat down next to you. And you climbed into his lap, the blood from your miscarriage soaking his doublet, his breeches, his skin. And he rocked you, as if you were a child, crying against your hair and asking you to hold on, to have heart—because you were his heart. 

The two of you stayed like that—blood-soaked, devastated—the entire night. For one night you were only two people, outrageously young, sharing the loss of a child who never even took a breath. And when your maids came at the break of dawn, they found you wrapped together to a single point. They whispered about the two of you, cooing false sympathies, ruminating about curses and omens. About the stillbirths of your mother, about the poison in his Targaryen blood. The walls of the castles rang with rumors and you two were the stillpoint soaking the tragedy in as if it was your destiny.

You had a terrible fever the next day. It stretched into a month and not one of the maesters thought you’d make it out alive. They say that Valarr went mad, whenever he was not in front of you. Your ladies told you he shrieked at the Seven, that he threatened a maester, that he had broken his cousin Aerion’s finger when the man had joked at your expense.

“You are my heart,” Valarr says now, his words have the same hunger still, the same fear. 

“And you are mine.”

“I will not need an heir if I have you. I cannot lose you.”

“We can’t see the future, Valarr,” you say. “I might die even if I never get with child again.”

“Don’t—”

“And I might live if I try again. I am healthy. This time, I feel healthy.”

Valarr looks at you as if he’s trying to decide if you are real or not. The look on his face on Vaella’s blessing was wistful, hopeful, aching. You remember the softness raking the lines of his face when you held the baby. 

But now there is a peculiar stillness in his face. He clenches his jaw, the muscles there rippling in a grief too great, too heavy for a man as young as him. You know he resents himself for wanting a child with you even after all that tragedy. You know he thinks he’s a beast for that. 

You purse your lips, sitting entirely straight now, pelvis just on top of his groin. “I want your child, Valarr. I want you to spill inside me. I want to cross my legs and pray that your seed quickens. I want to feel those morning sicknesses. I want to feel our child stir inside me. I want to guide your palm across my belly and watch your face as our child kicks. I want it so bad, my love. I ache for it, I feel empty for it. Please, please, my only love. I want to. I want to teach him how to read. I want to teach our daughter how to write. I want to see them and find traces of ourselves in them. We are good people. We deserve this happiness.” You whisper the words against his skin, kissing and kissing him between words. You kiss his face all over—his eyelids, the jut of his cheekbones, the gap in his jaw. You feel the lazy stubbles graze your lips and you say all these against his skin so he could soak it all up, at once, you want and your hunger. 

There is a fever in you. Has been since you saw him first at a meadow in your father’s manor. You were talked of for prince Aerion, as per your status and your beauty, they said. But then Valarr saw you, and the world twisted and turned until you could be as you are now. You remember you wished for love, so much love, that you wouldn’t know what to do with it. You wished to be as close to him as humanely possible. You wish to stitch your lives together like you are making a poem.

“I want a boy that looks like you—”

You squeal embarrassingly loud, your breath hitched on your throat mid-sentence as you feel gravity fail you when Valarr—that madman —flips you around. Unexpectedly. Hurriedly. As his face hovers over you, eyes wide, hair tousled, you gasp. He looks just as breathless as you.

“Oh, fuck!” He cups your face, eyes scanning you. “Are you okay, my moon? Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”

“No, you jester.” You huff. “I was… surprised.”

“I’m sorry.” He kisses your face, your nose, your forehead—mimicking the desperate keening you were doing not a minute ago. “I was so overwhelmed, love.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Valarr dips down to kiss your throat, his breath hot and fanning over your skin. “You are stirring me up, my love. I can’t—”

“We can,” you plead. “Say yes.”

You feel his weight relax against you. He rests his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. His lashes flutter against your skin as he closes his eyes. “I love you,” he says instead. “Do you know why I love you?”

“Because I am pushy and exhausting?”

His teeth graze along the line of your neck. “Do not talk about my wife like that.”

You laugh. “Aright. Alright.”

“She is a vision. She is extraordinary.”

“Why do you love me, husband?”

“Because you are real. You look at me and you see a man. You want a child because you think we are good people. There is no one else who’d see me and not think about that bloody throne. I forget about the throne when I am with you. I forget my name.”

“Valarr,” you say softly, your heart skidding to a dangerously slow pace. Less blood flowing in your body, only nerves. Only fireworks. “My Valarr.”

“I want to give you everything. The things an ordinary man gives his wife.” He grips you tighter, burrows his face in your hair with more urgency. “But I am afraid that it’s my blood that’s causing…”

“Shh.” You wrap your hands around his shoulder, maneuver your body so you are even closer to him. “No.”

“You don’t know…”

“I do,” you say firmly. “No.”

He stays still. Like this. Wrapped up in you like a blanket. You stay still with him and inhale, taking in his scent—that sweet, humane mixture of both your skins. For a while you only feel his breaths working up and down his lungs. His heartbeats thudding in its own mechanical way. His silence has your answer, aching and pulling. And you feel your heart hammering inside your chest as you recognise his soft moan, the softest yes. 

“You should hear about my future plans, you know,” you say against him. “I want to keep you around for all the gory details. There’s going to be vomiting, and water in the feet, itchy skins, and—”

“And I’ll stay for it all.” He settles a little on top of you, his weight pressing sweetly. You have this memorised, too. His weight. The smell of mint and musk and something that escapes when you are together like this—twisted like one being. “I’ll take leave from the council. I will kiss your feet everyday.”

“They’ll think me a witch.”

“Well, you have bewitched me. I have been at your mercy for a long, long time.”

You bite down your lower lip, staring. There’s a soft buzzing across your abdomen, trailing from the hollow of your pelvis to your ribcage. The trickling, electrifying intensity and it feels like excitement as it settles on your chest and you wrap your arms around his shoulders, spreading your legs to pull him closer with more intent, with more suggestiveness.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

There is a horrible, dark gash running from the side of his right shoulder to his throat, its shape like a half moon. You trail it with your index, absentmindedly remembering the day he got this. Your strangled cries on Matarys’ shoulder when they brought him from the battlefield. You remember hating him, you remember screaming that you’d never forgive him if he died. 

“You could die too, you know,” you say softly. “On battlefield, or in bed from natural sickness. A plague. But that is not a reason to stop living, husband.”

This is a new kind of danger you invite to your mind when you love someone. You can’t stop thinking about everything going wrong. Sometimes you think that love and fear of death come hand to hand. You have never been more in love with your husband, you have never been more afraid. “You tell me something now,” you whisper to counteract your thoughts. “Something you have thought, against your fears, about our future.”

Valarr traces your hairline, twists his finger to a loose strand. “You know them. Riding horses, teaching them how to read, taking them everywhere I go on my shoulder.”

You nod. You want more. You need more to fight this wretched fear of inadequacy, you still need to convince yourself it will be worth everything.

“I have this… another scene playing inside my head,” Valarr continues, his voice trembling. It’s barely perceptible, but oh you hear it well. “We are arguing in our bedchamber, over there, by the fire, and he is playing on the floor with his massive collection of toys.”

“Why are we arguing?”

“I do not know—something inconspicuous. Maybe because you haven’t told me that Aerion was antagonising you.”

“That would be because you’d do something irresponsibly rash.”

“You’re my wife .”

“Your wife who is capable enough to take care of herself. And anyhow, we are possibly arguing about how you jump headfirst into any roguery Aerion pulls without so much of a second thought and now that you have a son along with a wife , it’s your duty to—be more—more responsible and mature—”

You are stopped again by his kiss. You chuckle into it, but he doesn’t. He is intense and melting into you and his tongue slips past your lips and his hands are on your hair and it’s good, it’s so good. You gasp with a wet sound when you pull apart.

“Alright. Alright. We are arguing, we’re mad and we are nearly hissing because we do not want to scare him. But kids are perceptive, are they not? He understands that we are angry and he’s trying to divert us. But it’s just making things worse. We’re at the height of it all and you have that mournful look on your face and I am almost about to combust and he—when he sees no other recluse—screams for our attention. And we snap our head, angry, and ready to yell but then—” his voice drops down. “But then I see him, eyes welling up, eyes like yours, and I… I stare at you to find you already reaching out to him… and suddenly we can’t remember what we were fighting about, why it seemed important. Suddenly there’s so much love we can’t see beyond it. And you scoop him up and I pull you both in and—we bask in that love. That’s all. That’s all, my darling.”

You trace your fingertips along his jaw. “That’s lovely. I’d… I’d like that.”

You would. And now you grip him tighter to pull him in. Instinctively, like a memory, twist your legs around his so you touch where it feels necessary. Feels like a necessity. You are bare underneath the soft silk nightdress, and there’s a thrill in knowing how he likes that, how you dress a certain way so he can undress you a certain way. 

You let out a surprised, disdainful huff when Valarr pushes your hands aside and makes them rest on the side of face. Your hips buck to meet his, but he resists that, too. He’s leaving kisses when you huff again, whispering. Whispering.

“Shh. My baby, my darling girl, I will make love to you. I’ll make love to you so good.” As if he wants to prove he’ll make good on his promise, he leaves the grip on your wrist to run his hands along the curves of your body. Stopping at the hollow of your pelvis, dips his finger just on the edge of your cunt. You moan. But he doesn’t linger. He moves his hand, cups your breast momentarily, before holding your face, tilting it so he can whisper directly to your ear what he’s going to do to you, how many times he’ll repeat that  His voice is low and raspy and… dirty . Brimming with intent. He promises more. You buck your hips. He promises more. “We’ll take it slow. We’ll make it last. I just need to look at you first.”

He kisses your throat one last time before pulling back, staring straight in your eyes. Saying, insisting, “You saved me. I was a piece of wood before you. An heir. A marble statue only fit for a bloody throne.”

He shifts to mimic something close to lovemaking. Soft thrusts to meet your hips, he moves you sideways so he’ll have better access. You can’t speak for a moment. The hot, needy pull, the intensity in his eyes a reflection of yours. In the last few years, you have held him in contempt in anger in annoyance in adoration in tenderness in love. In love with tender-eyes and honeysuckle dreams of a future where all is well. You know him by his weight when he comes back to the side of his bed and by the absence when he leaves in the morning. You know him by the blurred mist he leaves in your mirror and the collection of love letters he sends to you whenever he’s away. 

There’s a fear of death that creeps in when you love someone. But there’s the exhilarating, nauseating life as well. Burning you, engulfing you. “You saved me, too. I was so lonely before you. You saved me from a life of exceptional loneliness.”

There is a visceral persistence to your knowledge of him. Staring at his familiar mismatched eyes, there’s an undeniable stretch of memory that makes you trust that it’ll always be there. That the same pull you felt, deep in your belly, even after he’d been too careful while making love to you. Every time, after those desperate, needy pushes inside you, he was always careful not to come inside you —instead spilling his seeds over your thighs, or your stomach—and then clutching you close so you’d not even register the emptiness. Instead of praying for a child that propriety, his blood, the realm had demanded of you to, you laid together, chest pressed against each other, easing your breaths and feeling your heartbeats come to the same rhythm as his spend dried against both your skin.

He traces his hand along your face now. “We’ll be fine. We’ll be so fine. All our life.”

The sky outside your window shimmers. You melt.

“I know.”

more of my akotsk stories

akotsk masterlist

[sweetoldermenlover]

and imagine he’s sweet and caring as well instead of a lustfull weirdo😩 that’s so husband material coded

[hbasdevotion]

tiramisu with a side of Kento

Summary -

your husband loves you to death and shows you with the little things in life. anything to see his beautiful wife smile.

Content -

This post contains fluff and (some) suggestive material.

Enjoy reading!

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Kento is a very traditional man. he always was since the day he met you. from getting you flowers every week, to buying you anything you want, he would do anything to see his wife happy.

you wake up to the bliss warmth of the sun on you. you look at the clock to see it saying 7:34 AM . the sun was peeking through the lace curtains, enchanting a glow on your body. you were wearing short shorts and a slim tank top in the color beige. you feel groggy since you stayed up late last night to wait for your husband to come back from work. you turn around to face your husband, your palm looking for his face to rest on.

you feel his spot empty, turning around. he isn’t there. ‘why is he up early? we usually stay in bed on Saturdays. he doesn’t even have work..’ you question. your curiosity gets you out of bed, searching for him. you check the bathroom, not there. His office, not there. you make your way to the kitchen barefoot, rubbing the sleepiness away from your face with the pads of your fingers.

Kento is standing next to the counter, stirring up coffee with a piece of toast in his mouth. you stand by the entrance of the kitchen, peeping at his tall, muscled figure.

he looks up, a warm smile sneaking up on his face as he notices you.

“good morning, sweetheart. why are you up early? i left you asleep since we stayed up late last night.” he cooed softly, a warm smile spreading across his face.

“i woke up and you weren’t next to me. why are you up early, where are you going?” you yawned.

you walked towards him to get a closer look at what he made himself for breakfast. his hand caged in your waist, caressing your hip.

“i’m going to the gym real quick. i haven’t gone in 2 weeks because of how crammed my schedule is with work. i won’t take long, ill be back in 2 hours, my love.”

he puts his cup of coffee down, freeing his hands to hold you. His right hand slithers to your face, cupping your cheek and pecking your soft lips. His other hand supports your spine while he leans you back, deepening the shared kiss.

you guys let go after a few seconds of shared warmth, parting ways. he picks up his gym bag and makes his way to the front door. as he is about to close the door, he hesitates and makes his way to the bedroom, seeing you making your shared bed. he snuck his way behind you, stealing a kiss from you.

“almost forgot to kiss my beautiful wife goodbye. have a good morning baby.” he sighs onto your lips.

“bye ken, let me know when you are coming back.”

as you hear the door slam shut and watch him get into his car from the living room window, you start to get ready for the day.

you want to actually look presentable for your husband when he comes back.

you finish making the bed, cleaning the kitchen, eating your own breakfast and hop into the shower to feel fresh.

you layed out a silk 2 piece set with ruffles and lace on the hems of the top and shorts onto the neat bed before hopping in the shower. you took a steaming shower, relaxing and untensing your muscles.

you finish and wrap a towel around you, trapping in the heat. your feel a cold hurdle of wind flow on your face from the contrast of the bathroom and your bedroom.

as you sit down in front of your vanity, now changed and smelling like vanilla and sandalwood, you apply light makeup, wanting to look cute when your husband comes back. you finish doing your hair, now sitting at your dresser, cleaning it up from the mess you made getting ready.

you didn’t hear the front door open, nor your husband calling out for you from downstairs.

he makes his way to your shared bedroom with a playful smile across his face.

you diddnt notice him enter the room either.

you back was facing the door where he was standing. he scoffs and you turn around startled .

your husband was holding the most beautiful bouquet of flowers you have ever seen.

you gasp, covering your mouth with your hand. they were rosey pink hibiscus flowers with white lining. the stems were peeking out of the wrapping paper under his hands. they were arraigned perfectly, making them look full and vibrant. they had your name engraved into the wrapping paper, saying ‘the love of my life, y/n’

he speaks in a soft spoken tone, “i got your favorite on my way back. i haven’t shown you some proper love for the past week since i have been busy, im sorry sweetheart.”

“kennnn, your so sweet my love. i love you.” you coo as you walk towards him with a smile so big your pearly whites were shining.

“anything for my beloved wife.” he breathed.

you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. his hands found your waist, pulling you in to inhale your scent, the bouquet of flowers held firm behind your back in his hands. his body melted into yours as your scent hit his nose, making him sigh into your neck. you start peppering kisses onto his face, making him giggle. he twirls you around, making you laugh and cup his jaw, pulling him into a loving kiss. his hand leaves your waist, lacing his fingers through your freshly blowed out hair, deepening the kiss, making it even more meaningful and intimate than it already was.

he soon lets go, leaving you desperate for his touch.

“i need to shower first, then we can properly spend time together. “ he whispers into your ear. you let out a puff of annoyance, making him scoff.

“i also bought pastries from your favorite bakery, you can try them while i finish up showering.” he cooes as his hand untwines from your hair.

as he closes the bathroom door behind him, you set his freshly washed and folded clothes onto the bed for him. You close the bedroom door behind you, giving him some privacy when he finishes, making your way to the kitchen. you unfold the flowers from their case. you pick out one of the multiple vases kento buys you so you can put his flowers he gets for you into them. you fill it with water and dunk the flowers into it, arranging them the same way there were in the wrapping. you place the flower vase in the middle of the island counter, giving the kitchen a welcoming look. you pull out a fork from the drawer, eager to try the pastries he bought. your knees bend, leaning onto the counter. you try the treats, having a tasteful blow of sweetness hit your tastebuds.

he always knew what you liked. from what you like to eat, to where you like being touched. he has you memorized like flashcards. and also wrapped around his finger from all the affection and attention he gives you.

you hear the bedroom door open and footsteps coming closer to the kitchen. you turn around to see Kento standing near the door, shirtless. he was drying his hair with a towel in his right hand. you give him a warm smile, welcoming him closer to you. he wraps his hands behind you back, leaning you slightly backwards as he starts kissing your face. he ends with a peck to the tip of your nose. you let out a warm giggle, making your face flush with rosey blush.

he takes the fork from your hand and picks up a piece of the tiramisu with it. he pushes a strand away from your face, framing it behind your ear. he lifts your chin up, feeding you the piece of tiramisu.

“this one was my favorite Kento, thank you for making me feel special…” you utter, barely over a whisper because of how nervous he makes you, even after years of knowing each other.

he places the fork onto the counter and caresses the dip in your waist, making your heart flutter. his other hand reaches for your chin, cupping it. he leaves a lingering kiss on the side of your lips.

this moment feels so intimate, yet so quiet. Kento utters in a soft tone, taking you out of your trance,

“your the one who makes me feel special when i come home to a beautiful wife who loves me devotedly. The least i could do is show my love to her… especially when i see her beautiful smile.”

______________________________________________

thank you for reading!!!

ugh he is so husband material i wanna take a big bite outa his arms..

© 2026. all work belongs to @hbasdevotion. please do not plagiarize, copy, nor plug into AI.

[inactive-earlymorninglow]

hyperfixations come and go but i'll never get over peeta mellark