husband!valarr targaryen x f!reader
Summary: Your husband spends a lazy morning indulging in the finer things, namely: you.
Warnings: 18+/NSFW/MDNI!, smut, fr y'all this is some nasty shit, established relationship, fluff, angst in the final hour, mentions of grief/death/spouse loss, masturbation (f! only), oral sex (f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving AYYYYYYYY), overstimulation, dom/sub dynamics if you squint, finger sucking from both of these freaks, service top!valarr (oh ty lord), also lwk switch!valarr, unprotected p-in-v sex, reader being a pillow princess, the big westerosi 'rona is implied. not beta'd idgaf. lmk if i missed any and i'll update!
Author's Note: baby's first fic, probably a nothing burger but i would genuinely give everything to throw it back on 209 valarr like wow girl i'm so bored let's go get vaccinated and make out. likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! ty for reading! also s/o to @priestboy for the divider!!!!
A steady drip of drool came out of his mouth, loud, obnoxious snores sounding into the air. Three freckles packed together on the left curve of his nose, a flare of his nostrils as he slept. His fringe was askew across his forehead, the clump of hair shifted only to one side. You could not help yourself from reaching your thumb out and tugging down the center of his bottom lip, plush and pink.
You could see every crease in it, and pulled it down even further to see his gums. You traced the point where his white tooth met pink, wet and pliant. He was even pretty there, too. He stirred slightly at that, but you pulled back, your hand returning to his cheek. He made a harrumping sound, tawny eyebrows pulled together, annoyance and tiredness painted on his features.
“What are you doing?” Valarr murmured through the fog of sleep, burying his face into your neck, willowy arms wrapping around you.
“Nothing,” you spoke into his hair, fingers twirling the ends. You dug your nose into his scalp, wanting to remember the lilac notes in it.
He mumbled some protests, but you couldn’t make any sense of it. Jumbled and out of place vowels as he squeezed you, as if to drain the ache from his bones by pressing you into him. You stretched, moving to sit up, but he only held you tighter with an indignant huff, seeming to hope that the skin would give way to his will.
Your little laugh made the white streak in his hair sprig up with flight.
“Are you trying to merge your skin with mine?”
He scoffed, pressing a peck to your pulse.
“Yes. I would be successful, were my lady wife not to fight me.”
“And yet I lay here limp.”
“Your will is spiritual. And forged of iron,” he sighed. Silence fell between them, and you traced the muscled line of his arm. Eyes cast up to his, a tad bit guilty.
“Ah, cease that. I never get to see you like this. Your hair all muffed up. Drool dried on your chin,” he swooned, smoothing his hand up and down the column of your throat, love in his eyes.
“That soaked pillow is your doing, not mine,” you rebuffed, giving a small bite to his earlobe. He feigned annoyance, a sour glare cast your way.
“And who will believe you? Your word against a prince’s….” he tsked, nudging your nose with the tip of his.
“Do I get a trial at the very least?” you whispered, lips grazing the corner of his mouth.
“No,” Valarr affirmed, giving you a soft kiss. He moved to your cheek, then your forehead, taking his time. Your jaw, your eyelid. Right next to your ear. “Trials are not granted for acts of treason.”
You gave him an admittedly weak scowl, flopping back against the pillow, hair strewn around the crown of your head.
His hands slowly slipped from your back to your waist, small, tentative touches down to the back of your thighs. His hands stilled on your hips and he restrained the urge to pinch the fat where your legs met your ass. He would dream of nothing but greedy fingers soothing the sting, rubbing circles into the flesh he had rendered you into nothing but little mewls as he licked into your mouth.
“What do you desire this morning?” he whispered into the shell of your ear. A kiss on it to leave a piece of himself with you before he left the bed.
Your head swam with possibilities, but indignance came first at his assessment of your wanting.
“And when exactly did I say I desired anything?” you protested, and yet, you smiled through the whole statement.
He sat up, beautiful hair in three different directions. The golden light from the open balcony formed a ring of light around him. One eye lit up in a mosaic of cerulean and cyan, the other with brown. You couldn’t decide which one you loved most. He let out a chortle at your expression and started to smile, and at that, you became entirely too preoccupied with the way the creases around his eyes looked.
“You get…” Valarr waved around a hand, trying to summon the right phrase. “This look. As if you wish to eat me alive. That is how I know you want something. To use your poor husband’s body as a tool for thoughtless pleasure,” he added with a touch of mirth.
Your cheeks burned at his comment, half a mind to bury your face in the pillows and die, but he simply tapped your cheek and brought your hand to his lips, kissing each fingertip for every time you would not meet his eyes.
“It is not an awful thing, wife. I imagine our marital bed would not be as well-used as it is were I having to guess if you wanted me,” he shrugged, bowing his head to yours. “Now, tell me what it is and I will do my best to give it to you. It is not as if I suffer in doing so. Rather the opposite.”
You looked into his eyes, earnest and brimming with affection. You swiftly nodded, a shy smile on your lips.
“Your fingers, for now. Then perhaps more as well.”
He took your order, standing tall and naked from the bed. He strode over to the washbasin, taking his time to thoroughly scrub his hands clean, and then what was left of his and your release from the night prior off of his groin.
You could not free your eyes from him, the chestnut curls that grew above one of your favorite parts of him, long and heavy against the inside of his thigh as he moved a wet cloth along himself. Your mouth watered, fingers slowly moving down under the bedsheets to soothe the ache between your legs at the sight of him. You could not bear to wait until he was done. His meticulous routine always took some time, and patience was not an esteemed virtue of yours.
Strong, tanned thighs from the fortnights they had stationed away at Summerhall, more freckles dotting his skin by the day. You traced your eyes up his body, the lean muscles in his back stretching as he applied perfumed soaps and picked at a spot on his leg. Sinew against skin, stronger and bigger than he had ever been.
He had been training in the courtyards of Summerhall before they had returned to Dragonstone, sword clashing and countering every attack the master-at-arms threw his way. You would have every door into the castle locked if it kept him outside, tanned and panting, gleams of sweat on his brow, arms straining, growing. Thighs that strained against his trousers, bracketing yours at night when he held you. Your head grew heavy, slumping against the pillow, open-mouthed as you drank him in.
A few moans threatened to slip past your throat, but you quickly bit down on your bottom lip, trying with all your might to not reveal yourself. He would tease you endlessly, drag you from the covers and down to the end of the bed, drawing out every sound you prayed the guards posted outside their door would not hear. You stopped the pace of your fingers when he wiped his hands on the hand linens the servants had not yet changed from yesterday night. You willed your hands at your side, shifting the bed covers up to your chin.
He turned around, unhurried paces across the large room. He peeked out to the large balcony that supplemented the bed chambers, gilded beams of sunlight coming dancing off his rich skin. He strode over the railing looking over the sea, the smell of salt crisp in the air. A deep sigh broke from his lips, squinting as he gazed out at the horizon.
“You’ve a wife to attend to, Your Grace.”
His chest shook with a small laugh, lips taut to one side of his mouth as he cast a look at you.
“My cruelty is unparalleled,” he remarked, smiling and throwing your covers aside. The morning was warm, but the air chilled you and he quickly soothed your body with the warmth of his. You thought it better to pretend you did not feel him stirring against your leg.
You hummed in assent, peace on your face as he kissed along your jaw, hands quickly smoothing through his hair.
“Truly, you’re awful. Absolutely…” you trailed off as he moved his fingers in a downwards arc, first tracing the line of your stomach and slowly beginning to tend to where you wanted him. You breathed deeply, focusing on the beams of the ceiling as you willed yourself not to make a fool of yourself screaming like a whore.
“It is a beautiful morning,” he breathed against your pulse before adorning it with his mouth. “Perhaps we can go for a walk in the gardens. I know how you love the yellow roses. I should order the gardeners to plant more.”
You couldn’t control the stupid smile that took over your face, and as a consequence, many of the noises built up in your throat came slipping out, your eyebrows pinched. That seemed to spur him on, lowering his head to circle his tongue around one of your nipples before popping it into his mouth. His unoccupied hand came up to abuse the other one, switching sides every time you grew too quiet.
They were swollen and reddened before too long, overstimulation and pleasure blurring into one another as it became too much.
“Valarr,” you panted, gripping his hair to pull him off your chest. A flash of panic took over his face, eyes searching your face for any pain or discomfort. His worries were soon discarded when you redirected his head between your legs, a smile on his lips as he opened his mouth heartily.
He soon began to make a new mess, spit and slick forming a small pool beneath you on the bed. The spot cooling with air was the only thing that grounded you as he ate at your cunt, tongue slopping over your sex again and again. He felt relentless, pinning your hips down with one arm banded over you as you desperately tried to escape the overwhelming knot building in your stomach. You couldn’t bear it but couldn’t stop adorning his tongue, pulling his hair as tight as you could and rolling your hips into his mouth. Your legs closed tighter around his ears when you looked down to see him grinding himself against the mattress.
Prior, you would’ve balked at how loud your moans grew, echoing in the chambers, but you now wailed with reckless abandon, every feeling and moment centered at Valarr’s nose bumping against you as he dipped down to taste the nectar that had been seeping out of your slit. He groaned into you, resuming with a fervor until your mouth dropped in a silent scream. Legs locked up, you shoved his face into your hips desperately chasing the last of the shock that lit up your bones. He worked you through it, only ceasing when you tugged his chin up to your lips, tasting yourself on his tongue.
You laid there panting for many moments, sweat beading at your hairline. He kissed his way back down, reinforcing his focus on your breasts, watching you twitch and whine as he pressed his lips to your oversensitive nipples. You reached down for him, using what liquid had already beaded at the tip to stroke him in full. You took turns stopping and continuing, watching a beautiful pink flush take over his chest. His soft moans, some caught in his chest, meek and quiet.
“Please,” he groaned into your stomach, humping himself back and forth into our hand after you had paused. You withdrew your hands and he chuckled humorously against your skin, brows pinched together in near pain. He looked up at you, the side of his face heated by your flesh. He was just a man at his temple of choice.
You simply smiled, blissful in the glow of the pleasure he had given you, and mirthful all the same. He conceded, sighing as he accepted his fate.
“You still have not used your fingers,” you chirped, nose tilted up. “That was my sole request, lord husband.”
You could feel his teeth etched against your belly in a grin.
“Right you are, my love,” he said, rising into his knees.
He slipped his fingers into your mouth gently, rounding them around your gums before forcing your tongue down with the pad of his ring finger. He was playing dirty; your brain always seemed to fill with fog whenever he suddenly took control back from you, if only for a moment. Your mouth started to pool with saliva, the edge of his gold wedding band caught on the bottom of your front teeth. You whined and keened, hips moving against his to find friction, but he pinned them again with his other hand.
“Shh….,” he spoke into his knuckles, a hair’s breadth from you. Your lashes brushed up against each other, twin silk threading into each other. Your eyes bored into his, pleading and needy, weakly clenching half of his wrist with your hand. He did his best to hold his smile at bay, but he always loved you like this, drunk off your own desire. Drool started to spill from the sides of your mouth, and he simply wiped it away, replacing the streak with his kisses.
When he had decided you’d sufficiently drenched his fingers, he pulled his fingers out of your mouth, suppressing the smirk at the hoarse gasp you let out. Licked lips, swollen and red, biting still as he brought his hand down between your thighs. Your chin was tucked up to the sky, body practically buzzing with anticipation. His fingers brushed through you, clicking his tongue as he watched you clench around nothing.
He ran them up and down the length of you, wet and sloppy, his spit making your cunt shine in the light of day. He would make seven or so passees, deliberately ignoring your clit and pinning your hips as you tried to wiggle your hips so he would go where you wished. On the eighth pass, he would finally use the full weight of his fingers to press down on your clit, beaming in the way you gripped his hair, pulling him up for a kiss. He snaked his other hand up your body, rolling his thumb around your nipple. You keened, chest rising in quick breaths, distracted enough for him to slip two fingers inside of you.
His pace was brutal from the beginning, short, hard thrusts of his wrist, smiling into your kisses as he felt you drip down the palm of his hand. Any other time, he would take his time with you, gentle touches and a slow temperament. The morning, however, found you rather brave, and was reserved for you being pressed into the cold, smooth mattress and asking, demanding for more. You could not think, hair sticking wildly to your forehead with sweat. Your cheeks burned at his lips against yours, and you were like to scream when he aimed his fingers upward, the loud sound of your desire reverberating in your ears. Your limbs tensed, jaw hung open, and it faded from one moment into another, Valarr suddenly over you, spreading your legs to kneel between them. He smoothed the hair from your head, kissing his way from your chin down to your stomach. Your mouth was dry, your tongue a rough weight bearing it down.
“Was that satisfactory? The fingers only?” he muttered into your stomach, hair ruffled as he looked up at you, head rising with the slope of your torso. You fanned the back of your hand over his cheek, laughing breathlessly as you nodded.
“Do you want more, or shall we make to start our day?” he inquired, sincerity etched into his brow as he chased your fingers with his mouth. He did not expect words from you in these moments, blissed out as you were. You silently pulled his arms up to plant beside your head, your answer plain to him.
He chuckled to himself, and lined himself up with you, the mess you had made together helping him slide into the root. He swallowed your whines, the practiced sawing of his hips digging at the spot he had already abused. He hitched your legs up, holding them to the opposite sides, his pelvis slapping onto yours now. He was everywhere, hot blood thrumming under your skin as saccharine dripped into your legs and made its way up to your stomach.
Your mouth was etched in an O, brows drawn together as he quickened his pace, bearing his body down on you.
“Valarr,” you spat out after several attempts, eyes honed in on him.
He could not respond, his stomach pulling taut. He would not allow himself to, to indulge himself before he had wrung you dry. He bore you into the bed itself, your nails raking down his arms. With a weak, throaty cry, you shook in his arms, and clutched him down to you, hips still chasing his to ride you through it.
His thrusts turned sloppy and uneven, less care now that he had pleased you within all of your whims. His arms bracketed your head, burrowing his own into your neck. What once were reserved groans and careful slips were now uncontrolled whimpers and fervent pants against your flesh. He coated your neck in involuntary drool, cradling the top of your head as he took and took and took. Hips slapping against your, his hair catching against your clit and working your jaw open despite how much he had already given you. Words were not viable for either of you, only grunts that came from your chests and shrill moans.
He tensed, and he shifted to look at you, noses touching as his face clenched up. It was always his tell. Even if he was taking you from behind, one of the mirrors across the room would have to be used or he would need to flip you onto your back. Smoothing his fingers over the face he loved most, static surging through every point in his body, a knot in his stomach that refused to unfurl until he heard you say it.
“Please,” he forced out, so close to you that it seemed there was no more room to breathe. His face was etched in perfect misery, a power only you could grant him, a fire you held the tools to extinguish with three simple words.
You managed to smile through his growingly rough thrusts, open mouth twisting. You gripped his hair and steered him to nearly close the gap between your lips.
“I love you,” you whispered to him, delighting at how such a strong man seemed to shake and tremble at a small testament.
He bit onto the pillow beneath you, ivory of canines and feathers embedded and intertwined. In a more sober moment, he would blush viciously at the noises he was making, but a force was driving through him that could not be contained. His throat felt raw from the whines he filled the chamber with as he finally emptied himself into you. He panted for how many minutes he could not say, red in the face and sweat adorning his hairline. You simply stroked his back, giggling at his exasperation.
He took all of the strength he had left in him to roll himself onto his back and bring you with him, not caring whether or not he stayed inside you. You were the princess; if twenty batches of moon tea was what you desired, you would have it. Your hot skin pressed into his, your weight pushing his back into the soft mattress. He settled his nose into your hair, his breath as real as the warmth from his skin on yours.
“Is this your favorite to remember?” he said, a soft kiss to your scalp, moving the hairs stuck to the sweat on your forehead.
Your stomach emptied at the words.
“This is just a dream, is it not?”
He smiled sadly. The sight of it was so beautiful that it was no wonder it could not be reality.
“Does it matter?” he said, voice so quiet it was barely above a whisper. He tucked pieces of your hair behind your ear, gazing into your eyes with an unreachable somberness. “It happened in this bed.”
“What a blessing,” he whispered against your lips, your eyelashes touching. “You were the last thing I ever got to see.”
You woke alone later that morning, the grey clouds cast over the capital city. The side of the bed that had laid cold and dormant for two years. You rose only to order more sleeping draughts from the maester.
