Omggg yandere Valarr is something I didnt know I needed.
What if his wife went missing? Either she is wandering or kidnapped, his reaction would scare his own father lmao
I LOVE THIS!!!! It was so much fun to write and I know right, the idea of Yandere Valarr is like...OMG! (And here are the links to the other Yandere Valarr stories—My Heart is Yours, My Life is Too; To Love You as You Should Be Loved) Anyways here you go:
You Are Not Allowed to Leave Me
Yandere!Valarr x wife!reader—in which he loses it when she leaves TW: 18+ MDNI public sex, possessive behaviour and violence
You were everything to Valarr, his sanctuary and septa. His wife and love and life, the one whom he would could return to always, to find warmth and comfort. Safety and sanctuary. You were the light of his life and had been since the two of you were young, since he heard the sound of your laughter echoing through the halls.
Since he heard your voice, your words and had to make you his. He needed just one thing in his life that was his, whole and complete and he wanted that to be you. And he got what he wanted. He got you and your love, your touch. He got to know what you felt like underneath him, what it felt to hold you in the morning, to kiss you and mark you and show everyone that you were his.
Because you were. He had chosen you and marked you and he had you. No one else did. No one else ever would. He would burn the world for you if it hurt you. He would burn the world down to keep you.
And he would burn the world down to get you back if you were ever mistaken enough to leave.
Because you are not allowed to leave him. Ever.
***
Valarr’s mind is on you, not the council meeting before him, not the way the lords speak of money and taxes and road maintenance. Not the discussions of his grandsire or his father. Not the importance of charity or dealing with citizen unrest. No, his mind is on you.
His mind is on you and the way you laugh, head tipped back with abandon, throat exposed. His mind is on you and the way you hold him, like he’s a precious thing, a rare thing—as if he’s as special to you as you are to him. His mind is on you and the way you fall asleep at night, the way your eyelids close, your body pressed to his, no space between you two, his arms anchoring you, tethering you. Possessing you.
His mind is on you. On the way you look when he kisses you, kisses his way down your body, leaving marks in his wake, claiming you. Showing everyone whom you belong to. His mind is on you and the way you feel around him, clenching and releasing and the way you sound when he brings you to your peak. His mind is on the way you look beneath him, the way your body looks like a masterpiece, covered in his signature—love bites on the surface of your skin, reminders that you are his.
His mind is on you and he wants to go to now, but he must still play the role of dutiful prince, loyal heir. The perfect son. His mind is on you, but his body is here in the throne, beside his father, pretending to focus on council issues when really his body feels too tight and his sight is filled with you not the papers before him.
It’s a delicate balance, focusing on you over his duty but to him, you are his duty, he took vows to cherish you, to protect you, to love you and that is what he should be doing.
Let the kingdom fall to ruin so long as he has you, his wife, in his arms.
The only peace he has is the thought of you, waiting for him, in your chambers. The chambers that the two of you reside him, him having forgone the idea that you would have separate rooms. He needs you with him always, by his side, in his bed. He needs you where he can watch you.
Protect you.
That’s what he does. He protects you. You are far too innocent and perfect; kind and trusting to be left alone. Having you in your own rooms, away from him, would just invite disaster. It would be courting death for someone could hurt you and then he’d have to end them and tell you your mistake.
Make you see the error of your ways.
It’s not that he would be angry at you. No. Never angry, you know not what you do. It’s why he must protect you.
Always.
“I do believe that concludes this meeting, my lords,” his father says, voice deep and booming, resonant and powerful, mismatched wolf’s eyes turning on Valarr, narrowed with curiosity and irritation. Valarr knows his father was aware of his misdirected attentions but he does not have it in him to feel ashamed or to care. He simply wants you.
He always wants you.
“Am I needed elsewhere, Father or am I free?” he asks, eyes narrowing on his father, one hand behind his back, clenching and unclenching in a fist, rage at the distance and separation from you taking a physical toll upon him. If he had his way, he would never be parted from you, would always be with you, have you fused to him so that everyone could see that you were his and he was yours.
How strong the two of you were, how strong your love.
“You are free, my boy,” Baelor says, a small smile growing on his face as he shakes his head. “You are much in love with your wife. That’s good. Makes for a strong king.” Valarr has nothing to respond with, nothing to say in answer. He simply nods and takes off, out of the meeting room, through the halls and up the stairs to your chambers.
Where you wait for him. Where he will be able to take you—preferably on every surface in the room. Where he will be able to show you how much he missed you, how much he wants you, will always want you. Where he will be able to fill you, to leave marks upon you to remind people whom you are. Whom you belong to.
Where he will be able to taste you, to feel you. To remember just exactly that feeling of ecstasy when you clench around him, when you unleash that breathy moan, that exhalation of his name. Where he will be able to tell you he loves you.
Over and over and over.
He doesn’t knock upon the door, doesn’t need to with the room being his as well and so he simply walks in, closing the door behind him and sliding the iron latch into place, hands already peeling his doublet off, finger going to the laces of his breeches as he wanders through the room, through the combined touches of your possessions and his.
Although, you’re truly the only possession he cares about in the room.
“My flower? My flower, where are you?” he calls, his voice teasing and lilting and that of a man starved, waiting and tensing. A hunter searching for his prey. “My flower?” When there is no answer to either question, no answer to his call, no giggle or tired reply, he tenses for a new reason.
“My flower?!” he yells, tone rising and turning angry. He hopes your just bathing, teasing, baiting. Anything but you being gone. “Darling? If you can hear him, talk to me!”
Nothing.
And that’s when he loses it, red tinting his vision as he searches every room of the chambers, each one devoid of your presence, of your rosebud scent and skin that glows like sun. Every room is empty. You are missing.
Missing…
He screams, the noise of an angry broken man, his voice cracking as he rages, knocking decorations down, shattering glasses, rendering tapestries, kicking and attacking inanimate objects as if the things you carried from your birth home have taken you. As if they are responsible for letting you go.
“My prince? We heard the screams, is all alright?” one of the Kingsguard asks, his hand holding the key, the one which opens the door. The one which the guards must have in event of an evacuation.
“WHERE IS MY WIFE?!” Valarr cries, turning around, one hand closed around the blown-glass dragon you insisted on buying for him during your honeymoon trip around the Seven Kingdoms. (He remembered the way you giggled as you purchased it, handing it to him, your giggle becoming a full laugh at the look on his face. The exact reason he treasures it so.) He hurls the dragon at the guard, the glass object shattering against the flesh of his face, the guard crying out in pain.
The others take a step back in fright as Valarr charges forth, steps no longer that of a caged predator, but of a monster set free. “WHERE IS SHE?!” He grasps the front of one’s uniform, pulling him to him, whispering the question again in a much more dangerous tone.
“We don’t, Your Grace,” the knight whispers, terror lacing his voice as Valarr punches him, once, twice, thrice. Over and over, until he quite loses count, only stopping when he realises the other guards still stand around him.
“What are you idiots waiting for?! GO FIND HER! She does not get to leave me and NO ONE takes her from me! FIND HER!” And the guards run, footsteps the sound of metal against stone, echoing throughout the keep, the smell of fear wafting after them as he straightens himself, wiping his bloodied hands upon his doublet, walking calmly from the chambers, jaw set so tightly together that he fears it may never open again.
He examines every inch of the Keep, every room, searching. He accosts Aerion, questioning him about your whereabouts, slapping him open-palmed when he speaks crudely of you. He questions all those who come into contact with you. Only to receive the answer of nothing and no idea.
He goes to the library, your favourite room in the Keep and finds it empty of you. And that is when the panic sets in, when he imagines you taken, kidnapped, stolen out of the window. Taken and killed or taken and paraded somewhere as someone’s prize.
And that’s when he runs from the library to the Great Hall, to the room where the guards assemble. It’s when he yells and orders them to find you just find you goddamn it. But they do not move, frozen in place by the sight of the young prince in total loss of control.
The way he demands and attacks, tears tapestries from walls, threatens to burn them all alive if they do not bring you back to him.
It is this that Baelor walks in on, the sight of his son so angry that every line of his face is set with terror and anger. He watches his son hit the guards, destroy the decorations of the family, the signs of status and lineage. He watches as his son threatens to build piers strong enough to burn every single Kingsguard alive if they fail to bring him his wife.
And it terrifies Baelor, the sight of this obsession, this possession, this love gone completely mad. Completely wrong.
Especially when Baelor just left you in the field of sunflowers, Valarr planted for you as a wedding gift. Something to remind you of your garden at home.
“What is the meaning of this?” Baelor demands, not needing to raise his voice, the words carrying, his son pausing and turning to look at him, mismatched eyes for the first time that of a stranger’s.
“My wife. Is missing. And these. Fools. Cannot seem. To find. Her,” Valarr’s every word is heavy and angry and fear-filled. It’s that which Baelor understands.
“She’s in her garden reading. She asked me to find you for it had taken you a long time to get to her after the meeting. Especially since you had made plans for a picnic,” he tells his son, watching not as shame fills his son’s face, but victory and desire and relief.
You are still here. You are waiting for him.
“Thank you, Father,” he says, running past him, all smiles now, a wolf-sharp smile as he pats his father on the shoulder, running past him, running from the destruction behind him. Running to you.
***
He finds you exactly where his father said you would be, sitting inside the field of sunflowers, a book in hand, laying on your side upon a deep red blanket limned in gold, hair half-braided. You look at peace, but Valarr knows the lines of your body better than you and he can read the stress and fear upon you in the tension of your spine and the way you sigh before turning the page.
“My flower!” he cries, falling beside you, hands playing with the laces of your dress, teasing them open, slipping his hand to rest between your shoulder blades, to touch your skin and feel your warmth.
“I thought you’d forgotten me, my husband,” you whisper, your voice thick with sadness, tears and it sings through Valarr’s heart as he retracts his hand, pulling on your arm until you lay flat on your back, a single tear slipping down your cheek. He leans down, licking it away and reveling in the sweet taste of your skin. The taste that is, the fact that you are still here and that you waited for him.
“I would never forget you, my heart,” he whispers, moving his body until his legs are on either side of your hips, his body braced above yours as he leans forwards, pressing kisses against your neck, his tongue flicking against your pulse point. “I forgot we were meeting here. I went to our rooms to find you and found you missing. I found you missing and I destroyed most of the castle and threatened to burn the useless Kingsguard alive for failing to bring you to me.”
“Did you. Really?” you ask him, your breath hitching as his mouth hits the peak of your breasts, tongue tracing the shape of them, mismatched eyes pupil-blown and locked on you.
“Yes,” he answers, his hands pinning your hands above your heads, his lips coming up to press against yours, his tongue invading and stroking against yours, sucking it into his mouth, his teeth nipping at it, the touch causing desire to well inside of him, his hands raising your skirts, freeing himself from his breeches.
He continues to kiss you, while pushing inside of you, groaning into your mouth at the feel of you, trailing his lips down your skin, sucking and biting on your neck, each thrust punctuated with a growl of mine.
He takes you in the field of sunflowers, planted to remind you of home, of Reach. He takes you in the field where anyone could see and delights in it. The idea that they could see just how much you belong to him.
And when it’s done, when he’s filled you with his seed, your neck already darkening with the force of his love, marks in the shape of his mouth, a sign of you belong to me.
“Why did. You tear the. Castle apart?” you ask him, still breathless with desire, turning into his body, still pressed against you, his legs twined with yours, his hands holding you possessively.
“Because I thought you had left me,” he whispers, the idea of you leaving him feeling with that same helpless fright and desire and he pulls you closer, already hard again and forcing himself inside of you again, delighting in the way you moan his name.
“You.” Thrust in.
“Are.” Out.
“Not.” In.
“Allowed.” Out
“To.” In
“Leave.” Out
“Me.” In.
And you come apart around him as he comes apart inside you, falling against you spent for the second time. And then he whispers the words into your skin,
“You are not allowed to leave me.” And you sigh in response, nestling against him, the sun beating down on the two of you. “Not ever.”
And then he presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
“You are not allowed to leave me because you are mine.”