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﹙ 🪞 ! : recent showings ﹚pussy drunk choso・predator + prey w. gojo・the practice of kissing w. geto・greedy for more! multi chara・he's a secret perv?!・gojo being annoying・gojo has big hands・handsy toji ⧽
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader - modern AU (see part 1 here, part 2 here, part 3 here, part 4 here, part 5 here, part 6 here, part 7 here)
You were no longer a teenager. You paid your own rent. You could fix electronics on your own. You had once argued with a tenured professor and won.
And yet you were pacing your bedroom because you had to call your mother and ask if you could go to Tarth with your boyfriend.
Aerion was sprawled across your desk computer chair, watching you with open disdain.
“You are an adult,” he said flatly.
“I am aware.”
“Then why are we behaving as though you require a signed permission slip?”
“Because my mother,” you replied tightly, “believes the world is a series of traps specifically designed to swallow me.”
He leaned back further. “Charming.”
“She didn’t pester me about you because you were ‘helping me study,’” you added, making air quotes. “Educational proximity is acceptable. A seaside trip is not.”
His lip curled faintly. “It is nobody’s business where I am taking you.”
“It is my mother’s business,” you said. “In her mind.”
“In her mind, perhaps. In reality...”
“In reality,” you cut in, “I would like to go without triggering a three-month cold war.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Fine. Call her.”
You stared at your phone like it might bite.
Aerion watched you for another few seconds before muttering, “Give me that.”
You blinked. “What?”
“If this is to be a negotiation, I will participate.”
“You don’t have to...”
“I absolutely do. If she is to imagine me spiriting you away to some lawless coastline, I would prefer to correct the narrative personally.”
“That is not how she thinks.”
“That is precisely how overprotective parents think.”
You hesitated. “You’re going to be polite.”
He looked offended. “I am always polite in front of elders.”
“You’re condescending.”
“That is not the same thing.”
Before you could argue further, he stood and smoothed down his shirt, glancing at his reflection in your dark laptop screen. He adjusted his collar. Ran a hand through his hair. The transformation was subtle but unmistakable: posture straighter, expression composed and earnest.
“You look like you’re about to attend a job interview,” you observed.
“In a sense, I am.”
You huffed a nervous laugh and hit the call button before you could lose your nerve.
Your mother answered on the third ring.
Her face filled the screen almost immediately. “Hi, sweetheart. Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” you said quickly. “Everything’s fine.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Why do you look like you’re about to confess to something?”
Aerion stepped into frame smoothly, as though this had been choreographed.
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said, voice measured and respectful.
Your mother blinked.
You watched the moment she assessed him: posture, tone, background, the fact that he was standing straight rather than slouching.
“Oh,” she said slowly. “Hello.”
“Aerion,” you supplied.
“Yes, I remember.”
Of course she did. The mysterious study partner, a Targaryen. The one with the voice too confident and the surname too old.
“We were calling,” you began carefully, “because I’ve been invited to spend a few days on Tarth before I come home.”
Your mother’s expression shifted instantly. “Tarth.”
“It’s very calm,” Aerion interjected smoothly. “Blue water. Quiet coastline. We’ve rented a small place. It’s well-populated, not remote.”
You shot him a look. We?
He ignored you.
“You’d be alone?” your mother asked, gaze sharpening.
“No, ma’am,” Aerion replied evenly. “With me.”
There was a pause.
You could practically hear your mother recalculating every scenario.
“And your parents?” she asked.
“They are aware of my plans,” he said, which was technically true. Maekar had grunted something that might have been approval. “But this would not be a large family gathering. Simply a short trip before your daughter returns home.”
He sounded infuriatingly composed. Not defensive. Not flippant. Not the man who sneered five minutes ago about it being nobody’s business.
Your mother looked at you. “And this is what you want?”
“Yes,” you said quietly.
She studied your face for a long moment, searching for pressure or hesitation.
Aerion didn’t interrupt. He just stood there like a candidate awaiting a verdict.
Finally, your mother sighed. “I don’t like the idea of you being so far from home.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t like not knowing the people you’re with.”
“That’s why I wanted you to meet him properly,” you said gently.
Her gaze shifted back to Aerion. “You understand that she is my daughter.”
“I do,” he replied without hesitation.
“And that I worry.”
“I would be concerned if you did not.”
It was such a measured answer that you almost stared at him.
Your mother’s expression did not soften. “You’re responsible for her safety.”
Aerion inclined his head slightly. “I take that very seriously.”
Another long pause.
“Five days,” your mother said finally. “And you call me every morning and evening.”
Relief washed through you so fast you nearly swayed. “I will.”
“And if I feel something is off...”
“You won’t,” Aerion said calmly. “But you may call at any time.”
Your mother eyed him for another beat, then nodded once. “All right.”
When the call ended, you exhaled like you’d run a marathon.
Aerion remained standing for a second longer, posture still formal, before the tension left him all at once.
“That,” he said, rolling his shoulders, “was more exhausting than any lecture.”
“You were very well-behaved.”
“I am capable of diplomacy.”
“You sneered ten minutes ago about it being nobody’s business.”
“It isn’t,” he said immediately. “But if performing civility ensures you are not grounded, I will perform.”
You laughed, stepping closer. “She likes you.”
“She tolerates me,” he corrected. “That is sufficient for now.”
You studied him. “You really did treat that like an interview.”
He looked down at you, expression softening. “If I am taking you across the sea, I would prefer not to begin by alarming your mother.”
“And if she’d said no?”
His jaw tightened slightly. “We would have found another solution.”
You smiled faintly. “You mean you would have.”
“Obviously.”
He huffed leaned down, brushing a brief kiss against your brow.
“I am not the one who requires supervision,” he murmured.
“According to my mother, you absolutely are.”
He almost smiled at that.
Tarth was exactly what Aerion had promised, the water blue in a way that almost looked artificial, the sea stretching out beneath chalk-white cliffs, the air clean and salted and far quieter than Lys could ever claim to be.
It would have been perfect.
If not for the morning calls. And the evening calls. Your mother did not miss a single one.
The first morning, you were half-asleep and very warm, tucked securely against Aerion’s chest, his arm heavy over your waist. The curtains were still drawn. The sea could be heard faintly through the open window.
Your phone began ringing and vibrating against the nightstand.
You froze. Aerion groaned softly and tightened his hold, instinctively pulling you closer.
“Ignore it,” he murmured into your hair.
“I can’t,” you whispered back. “It’s her.”
He went still. “Already?”
“It’s morning.”
“Barely.”
The phone continued vibrating.
You wriggled, trying to extract yourself. His grip tightened in sleepy protest.
“If you move,” he warned, voice low and rough, “I will consider it betrayal.”
“I have to look awake.”
“You are awake.”
“I have to look like I’ve been awake.”
With visible irritation, he released you. You scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over your own discarded shirt as you snatched it off the floor and dragged it over your head.
“Good morning!” you answered a second later, breathless but smiling brightly at the screen.
Behind you, Aerion collapsed back against the pillows with theatrical suffering.
Your mother’s face filled the display. “You’re up early.”
“Yes! We were just about to...” You shot a warning glance at the bed, where Aerion was very clearly not up. “...go for breakfast.”
He made a quiet, offended noise. You coughed to cover it.
The routine repeated every morning and every evening. Each time, you untangled yourself from him while he muttered darkly about surveillance states and maritime privacy laws. Each time, you angled the camera carefully to exclude the very obvious evidence that you had not been “reading on the balcony” or “organizing”.
By day three, he had begun timing your mother’s calls with visible resentment.
“This is psychological warfare,” he informed you one morning as you slid out of his arms yet again.
“She’s being protective.”
“She is interfering with momentum.”
“You sound deranged.”
“I sound inconvenienced.”
Despite his complaints, he made no attempt to disrupt the calls. He simply lay there, watching you with narrowed eyes as you performed alertness, then pulled you straight back into bed the moment the screen went dark.
During the day, he was less irritable.
He taught you to ride on the second afternoon. The horse was patient; you were less so. Aerion stood beside you at first, one hand steady at your thigh to help you mount.
“You look insufferably pleased,” you told him when he smirked at your concentration.
“You are glaring at the horizon.”
“It’s very high.”
“It’s a horse.”
“That is not reassuring.”
He walked beside you until you found your balance, his hand occasionally brushing your knee to correct your posture. When you finally managed a controlled trot without panicking, he actually laughed, sharp and bright and proud in a way that caught you off guard.
“That,” he said, “was not disastrous.”
“Your standards are low.”
“They're realistic.”
You went swimming every morning. The water was cold enough to shock and clear your head. He swam easily, confidently, diving beneath you and resurfacing close enough to make you yelp.
“You’re intolerable,” you sputtered once, spitting water, laughing hysterically.
“Yet you followed me into the sea.”
He brushed water from your shoulder with absent intimacy, gaze lingering for a moment too long before he leaned in to kiss you, tasting of salt.
It was on the fourth night that you drank too much.
The wine had gone down easily. The sunset had been unfairly beautiful. You had felt light, untethered from the constant awareness of expectations.
Back in the house, flushed and laughing, you flopped onto the couch and declared, “I am going to text my mother.”
Aerion, halfway through removing his watch, paused. “Why?”
“So she doesn’t worry.”
“You spoke to her a few hours ago.”
“Yes, but she expects the evening call.”
He watched you squint at your screen, thumbs moving with exaggerated focus.
You read aloud, solemnly, “Hi Mum. I’m fine. There’s a power outage so I can’t call. Love you.”
He stared at you. “There is no power outage.”
“She doesn’t know that.”
He crossed the room slowly. “You little liar.”
“She’ll worry less if she thinks it’s technical.”
“You are drunk.”
“Only a little.”
He took the phone gently from your hand before you could add anything incriminating. “Go to bed.”
“Noo!...I lied because of you.”
Aerion arched an eyebrow. “Because of me?”
“Yes!” You jumped up and looped your arms around his neck. “So we could spend the evening uninterrupted.”
He smiled crookedly despite himself. “Oh, well, in that case, how can I possibly send you off to bed?”
You grinned back and kissed the upturn of his mouth.
The five days passed faster than either of you liked to admit.
On the morning you left, the sea looked deceptively calm. You stood on the small porch with your bag at your feet while Aerion locked the door behind you.
“You’ll call,” you said lightly.
“I am aware of the expectation.”
“No sulking.”
“I do not sulk.”
“You absolutely sulk.”
He gave you a look but didn’t argue.
The drive back to King’s Landing was filled with conversation. The closer you got to the airport, the more tangible the end felt.
At the drop-off lane, he stepped out with you, pulling your bag from the trunk before you could protest.
“This is unnecessary,” you said.
“So is your mother’s surveillance schedule. Yet here we are.”
You smiled faintly.
Inside the terminal, he didn’t make a spectacle. No dramatic declarations. He simply stood close, one hand resting at your waist, gaze fixed on you like he was committing something to memory.
“You will text when you land,” he said.
“Yes.”
“And if your mother attempts to restrict communication, I will consider that an act of war.”
“She won’t.”
“You have more faith than I do.”
You hesitated, then leaned in and kissed him properly, uncaring of who might see. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there.
“Five days were insufficient,” he murmured against your lips.
“Greedy.”
Another kiss. “For you.”
You sighed fondly and kissed his nose. “As am I.”
You pulled away before the goodbye could stretch into something heavier.
He watched until you disappeared through security.
The first morning you were home, your phone rang at precisely eight.
You blinked at the screen.
Aerion.
You answered groggily. “Hello?”
“Good morning,” he said briskly. “Just ensuring you are alive.”
You squinted at the time. “It’s eight.”
“Yes.”
“That’s early.”
“So is nine in Tarth,” he replied smoothly. “And yet.”
You sat up slowly, realization dawning. “You’re taking revenge.”
“I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
He ignored that. “What are your plans today? Who will you be interacting with? Are there cliffs?”
You laughed despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Am I? I believe I am demonstrating appropriate concern.”
“And you’ll call tonight too?”
“Of course.”
“Eight in the morning,” you said finally. “You’re worse than she is.”
“Untrue,” he replied. “I do not require visual proof.”
You choked on a laugh.
“Yet,” he added dryly.
And just like that, the calls became routine again, this time from him.
part 9: see here
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Now, good people of this humble town, lend ear unto my words, for this month of July doth come burdened with whispers and dreads from distant, unknown lands – full of wicked creatures and phantoms that haunt the shadows of our waking fears. And in this selfsame moon, the goddess herself shall unfurl the scrolls she hath writ, and lay bare every dark tome she hath perused, that all may witness the horrors she hath gathered from the abyss.
liah's most beloved ones
── 𖤐 everything the goddess has written
001. Under your spell, chapters two and three 𖤐 Coraline inspired
002. In my restless dreams... 𖤐 Pyramidhead!Toji Fushiguro x Ex!Reader 𖤐 part of my summerween collection
003. First love never dies 𖤐 Apollo!Gojo Satoru x Nymph!Reader
004. Spiked! 𖤐 Kakashi x F!Reader
005. Lovestrucked 𖤐 Killer/Stalker!Suguru Geto x Slutty!Reader, part two of this fic
006. 👩❤️💋👩 Gays die first! 𖤐 Femjo x F!Reader x Femguru 𖤐 part of my summerween collection
007. All my blood for the sweetness of her laughter 𖤐 Husband!Suguru Geto x Wife!Reader, inspired by Hamnet
008. Yes ma'am! 𖤐 Younger!Nanami Kento x Older!Reader
009. Loving you was really hard, chapter six 𖤐 Yandere!Satosugu x F!Reader
── 𖤐 chosen by the crows [july favourites]
001. Don't hate the girl! by @satolune 𖤐 Geto Suguru x Obsessive Ex!Reader 𖤐 Oh... OH! Let me tell you a thing or two about psycho x psycho, because it's recently become my favourite trope. I loved this story so much and read it all the way through with my feet curled up. The reader is such a minx, and Suguru is such a toxic! And while the stalker guys are popular, we do need more psychotic readers in our JJK community!
002. Frat!Gojo Satoru x Yandere!Reader by @pillsatoru 𖤐 Oh this one was something! I'm sorry, Isobel, but you really need to give us a full 10k fic, because your yandere reader was absolutely toe-curling.
003. Valko and his scent kink by @madamechrissy 𖤐 Valko x F!Reader 𖤐 Ah, Valko, my dearest wolf boy, oh how I miss you so much. And thank you, Chrissy, for this luscious, spectable, amazing fic, because you only fed my obsession with him... #teamjacob.
004. CODEWORD: F.U.C.K.M.E. by @jazzthatonewriterchick 𖤐 Nightwing!Gojo x Spy!Reader x Red Hood!Geto 𖤐 Listen, I usually don't read superhero fics because I literally know only Batman, Superman and Spider-Man, BUT THIS SHI WAS SLAPPING. And the aphrodisiac, oh my god, the smut was so good, and I was giggling stupidly while reading it. THANK YOU, JAZZ!
005. The arrangement by @fireladylisa 𖤐 Fratjo x F!Reader 𖤐 You know I hate Fratjo, you know I don't write for him and usually don't even read fics, but this one... damn. I love that the reader hates him as much as I do, and we're just spiralling into this love-and-hate relationship. Also, the sex scenes were so steamy, and I loveeee how mean she is!!!
006. Escapee Suguru and his crazy ex-wife by @rengoatku 𖤐 Prisoner!Suguru Geto x Ex-wife!Reader 𖤐 Someone sedate me because it was so hot and funny. The reader is literally so done with Suguru always escaping from prison, and I was laughing so hard. Also, them fucking while the cops are outside? hafbuefufie.
007. Three for the price of one by @6x-x9 𖤐 Toji Fushiguro x Nanami Kento x Gojo Satoru x Reader 𖤐 Idk what to say, that was a fucking fever dream. Good job Anna, I guess...
008. 👩❤️💋👩 Kitty Kat by @moviecritc 𖤐 Femkuna x F!Reader 𖤐 OH I KNOW MAMA, and Femkuna is such a mommy in this fic. Literally my big, cuddly, hot tigeress mmm.... so fem!omegaverse when?
009. Hate moots by @torupng 𖤐 Nerdjo x Mean/Popular!Reader 𖤐 The first chapter got me hooked, and both of them are such a menace to each other. The hate, the sexual tension, them just barking at each other ughhh.
010. 👩❤️💋👩 Kiss her, not me by @indiewritesxoxo 𖤐 Queen!Femjo x F!Reader (x King!Geto) 𖤐 Okay, I need to cheat a bit because I'm in the middle of this fic, but I feel obliged to recommend: 1) every fic written by Indie, and 2) every fic about my wife femjo. By far, it's been absolutely amazing, and my heart literally beats too fast whenever I'm reading it, like, oh god. Thank thee, the person who commissioned it!
011. Alpine divorce by @sukunahs 𖤐 Mountaineer!Sukuna x rF!Reader 𖤐 As someone who absolutely loves hiking, the idea of fucking in a tent on a stormy night with my hot crush WAS SO FUCKING AMAZING. Sorry for the tmi, but I squirted a bit. Literally, woah, such a cozy and fun read, and the smut was delicious! But Iris is never missing, and everything she writes is liquid gold...
012. 👩❤️💋👩 Bushology 101 by @moviecritc 𖤐 Puppygirl!Femjo x F!Reafer x Catgirl!Femkuna 𖤐 Oh my dearest, miserable wifey femjo, I would never deny you a taste test... unless there's a butch Femuka behind me lmaoo. Nora, I need a part two with both of them fucking the reader... please?
013. Stargazing with farmer Toji by @daflex 𖤐 Farmer!Toji Fushiguro x Citygirl!Reader 𖤐 Stargazing my ass, we are fucking in the pitch-dark and waking up the whole fucking village, let's gooo! It's one of those fics where you wish there were more backstory, you know? Like, I want to see it in 10k words and enjoy each one while lying in my bed at night...
Thank you to all the amazing writers who blessed us with their fics this month! I myself had a record of writing nine stories (using my unemployed era to the fullest) and am so, so happy to share this list! See you next month, as always!
[ SERIES SYNOPSIS ] — it was obvious when this started, it was simply a mutual understanding between two horny college students — with very high libidos, and didn’t want any random stds — that this was purely a sexual relationship only. and yet, both of you are unintentionally toeing the line between that and something else. [ frat!kuna fwb series ]
[ TAGS ] — MDNI. 18+ nsfw. contains explicit sexual themes and content. piv. angst. friends with benefits. toxic frat culture. hazing. fraternity/sororities. hurt/comfort. hurt/no comfort. SLOW BURN. fluff. spit. ráw. rough. heavy spanking. degradation. dacryphilia. slight exhibitionisim. pda. soft sukuna. choso + yuuji r his younger brothers. every position. heavy creampies. violence. depression/anxiety. anger issues. squirting. cockwarming. alcohol. family death. family trauma. reader slightly oc. sukuna is a footballer (soccer) too. HAPPY ENDING. tags will be updated as series continues.
✮ ch 1 || how it all started ✮ ch 2 || miss me already?
✮ ch 3 || call me ✮ ch 4 || two worlds
✮ ch 5 || conditions ✮ ch 6 || cracks
✮ ch 7 || summer break ✮ ch 8 || oasis
✮ ch 9 || tbd ✮ ch 10 || tbd
✮ ch 11 || tbd ✮ ch 12 || tbd
✮ ch 13 || tbd ✮ ch 14 || tbd ✮ ch 15 || tbd
✮ pt 1 — sukuna is starting to toe the line
✮ pt 2 — you’re desperate to prove this is just sex
✮ pt 3 — cockwarming him for the first time
✮ pt 4 — sukuna’s brothers visit unexpectedly
✮ pt 5 — pregnancy scare with sukuna
✮ pt 6 — sukuna has a stash of naked polaroids of you
✮ pt 7 — halloween special: scare actor!sukuna
✮ pt 8 — sukuna’s noticeable bulge at the gym
✮ pt 9 — high stakes no nut november edition
✮ pt 10 — holiday special: grinch!kuna naughty or nice
✮ pt 11 — sukuna leaves his door open when you’re over
✮ pinterest board ✮ ask tag ✮ main masterlist ✮ ao3 ✮
[ INFO ] : the chapters are the actual series. it begins mid-spring semester JUNIOR year. the parts exist in the same story, but as stand alone canon oneshots and will not be mentioned in the chapters (like filler eps). they take place between sept-nov fall semester of their SENIOR year [parts and chps can be read separately]
THERE IS NO SERIES TAGLIST ✦ age should be visible on your blog tho (art: @/xhealer_ tt, dividers: @/lariesographic)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
So you’ve caught the boss’s eye, huh? Think you’re up to being part of the Babygirls? Well, you better know that the boss [alright she trusts you enough to reveal…Name: Tony (she/her)] has been ruling these parts from beneath the shadows for 21 years now as exalted boss of DTGB (Daddy Tony’s Gang of Babygirls), aaaand alongside a little side-dabbling as a GOJO-GAGGER ♡ GETO’S THERAPIST!
Think you’ll pass the initiation? You better be of ADULT AGE before we hand you that emblem, newbie.
But be warned, because Tony will make…a gang-star out of you!
Requests: CLOSED
Backup: @tonysighs
Passed the initiation? Good. Your first mission is to vow to THE BABYGIRLS' HONOR and read through THE GOLDEN PAGES lest you wish to get overthrown.
MASTERLIST #1 & MASTERLIST #2 & MASTERLIST #3
[TONY SHARES ANOTHER GOLDEN NUGGET OF INFO—The rats underground say there’s tension brewing amongst factions?! Aide the split-off gang: MADAM GOJO.]
FRESH FROM TONY’S LAIR: New writing usually on WED/ SUN nights.
synopsis: with no friends and a wallet full of cash, you concoct one last idea to make your final semester one to remember. paying everyone's favorite pretty playboy to pretend to be your boyfriend to complete your college bucket list before you start the life your family is forcing you into. but you might be buying far more than you bargained for.
pairings: broke!Geto x rich!Reader x dropout!Sukuna
content: mdni, angst and fluff and smut, college au, fake dating, pining, yearning, falling in love, jealousy, hurt/comfort, piv sex, drunk sex, oral (m! + f! receiving), car sex, making out, drinking and parties, piercings/tattoos, complicated feelings, regret, healing, more tags in each part
venus as a boy ⧽ you decide to volunteer at your local library, only to figure out that the owners grandson is not at all what you imagined. you’re fully convinced he hates you — only to soon realize he’s been planning on which position to put you in first.
back of the net ⧽ satoru absolutely falls in love with the girl that can play piano. too bad he’s forbidden from dating, but who’s to stop him
DRABBLES / ONE SHOTS
sneaking in for sex
using his balls as a needoh
spider-man is your ex
he’s crushing on an alt girl
AITA for fucking my twins ex?
obsessed with his beauty marks
wisdom teeth removal
him & his shy girl
cosplay sex
spider-man cums a lot
mother’s day
brace face part 2
jealous jealous girl
he hates your bf
he apologizes with his dick, not words
satoru is surprised to see his pretty neighbor
UPCOMING
offside romance ⧽ Satoru Gojo’s reputation isn’t look too well with all the “playboy” accusations, not while being the most successful soccer player in the University of Tokyo. So what better way to get it back up than to fake a relationship with the pretty barista from the local coffee shop?
□ summary: The North was never meant to change the course of Valarr Targaryen's life. He expected nothing more than political alliances, careful smiles and an eventual betrothal that suited the crown. Instead, he found a woman who wields weapon and that some choices cannot be made for crown alone.
□ tropes: slow burn, he fell first and harder, hurt-comfort, No use of y/n, no physical description of reader, reader is a badass and can fight.
□ a/n: This series will probably have 10-15 chapters, and i will try my best to keep the updates weekly.
⤷ Chapter 1
⤷ Chapter 2
⤷ Chapter 3
⤷ Chapter 4
⤷ Chapter 5
⤷ Chapter 6
⤷ Chapter 7
⤷ Chapter 8
⤷ Chapter 9
⤷ Chapter 10
⤷ Chapter 11
⤷ Chapter ?
...
⤷ Appendix (Family tree & Some Character Profiles)
geto doesn’t think his sweet girlfriend is hiding anything from him. of course he doesn’t.
sure, you always keep your phone close—tucked into your hoodie pocket, never more than an arm’s length away whenever he was around—but he never thought much of it.
after all, he knew your phones password, and you knew his. if you were hiding anything, why would you have given it to him in the first place?
that’s why one quiet afternoon, he goes through your phone for the first time and doesn’t see it as a big deal at all (and well, you’ve looked though his phone before so it was only about time).
his long legs are stretched out on your bed, bored, while you sit all cozy, curled up near the headboard, nose buried in a book. your phone sits a few feet away on your desk.
he briefly thinks it’s almost strange seeing it there instead of nestled out of sight in your pocket.
eventually, out of idle curiosity, he reaches for it. there’s no real intention, he just wants something to do with his hands. his thumb moves lazily across the screen, opening one app, then another. he isn’t looking for anything in particular.
it’s the small things that catch his eye; your organization habits that are still apparent, even on your phone and the pieces of you that live in photo folders and music playlists.
after a while, he feels your eyes on him.
when he glances up, you’re staring, book lowered just enough for him to see the way your eyes widen behind your glasses, before you blink it away. you don’t say anything. and because you don’t, a slow grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.
cute.
he thinks your reaction is from the act of eye contact—which was partly true. keeping eye contact with him still left you flustered. but this time, it was more than that.
you were afraid because there were things you were keeping from him. the urge to snatch your phone out of his hands swells in your chest. it’s stupid because doing that would make it blatant you were hiding something.
the truth was, you were terrified he’d see it all and start looking at you differently.
the things you didn’t want him to see? the copious amounts of twitter porn in your bookmarks and the filthy smut you read on tumblr.
and yet…a part of you almost wanted him to find it all. a part of you wanted him to realize just how much of a fucking freak your nerdy and quiet self truly was.
you get just that—the latter.
when he opens twitter, suguru notices a striking difference immediately. the feed is unlike you, as if you barely use the app. he dismisses it and thinks that’s probably the case, getting ready to swipe off the app. but then…he accidentally bookmarks a post.
he scrolls through your bookmarks and that’s all he sees. he doesn’t need to click show to know what’s hiding behind it.
porn.
wow.
he never imagined you were the type to indulge in something as lewd as quick nut twitter porn. after all, just his kisses left you too flustered to function. so porn? he’d never really thought about it…but god, now his head is going down the gutter, imagining you watching these clips.
meanwhile…across from him? you have no way of knowing he’s found it all—but your heart is pounding all the same. you’ve been stuck on the same page in your book forever, waiting for the worse to happen.
little do you know it already is.
as geto views video after video, his eyes are the ones that are widening now. if he hadn’t expecting finding porn on your phone, he hasn’t expected seeing this kind of porn.
you have all the filthiest things saved, every position, every kink—from mean headlocks to dry humping to nasty blowjobs and then, to fucking hentai and downright nasty fanart.
well, well, well. it was always the quiet ones.
he feels his face warm scrolling through clip after clip, not even noticing the way you sink further into the pillows, afraid. he’s been on your phone for too long—what should you do?
what really catches his eye is a video that’s a whole seven minutes. since when the fuck could twitter porn be this long? it’s the only video you’ve liked out of all of your bookmarks. he assumes it’s by accident…or maybe it’s your favorite.
the video is so hot, and so you.
the tip of a man’s cock is pressing into a sweet girls clothed pussy. she’s got downright adorable panties that reminds him of you. god—suguru is twitching in his sweats already.
he teases and teases her, nudging against her clit, back and forth for what feels like an eternity. the man in the video speeds up, the woman matches his pace, canting her hips against his cock.
then he slows completely. suguru hardens in his pants.
poor girl.
he wants to turn the volume up. he wants to recreate this with you immediately—tease you in ways that are worse than in this porn. but alas, he can’t seem to rip his gaze away from the screen.
the angle changes. a generous amount of lube is poured. and god, he keeps on going and going, grinding his cock against adorable soiled panties. he speeds up again, then slows like a fucking menace. his cock nudges at her entrance, so close yet so far. then again, as deep as he can through the fabric.
finally—he reaches to slide her panties to the side. but it’s not for the reason suguru is hoping for. the man continues grinding against her clit only without the fabric between them. he only keeps going and going, relentless. suguru can’t fucking wait any longer…but he does. he’s glued to the screen as if it’s you and him.
he’s thrusting, rubbing, rubbing, going for ages, until oops! slipping right into her pussy.
that’s when the volume of your phone blasts up and you hear slick sounds. you recognize it immediately, gaze snapping up to your boyfriend for the first time in a while.
what the fuck? since when was his hold on your phone tight enough for him to accidentally turn the volume up?!
he’s red in the face. you’ve never seen him anywhere near it. you know you’d be gushing over how cute the flush looked on him if you weren’t absolutely mortified.
his eyes flash when his eyes meet yours and he pounces—leaning across the bed with his wide frame to crash his lips onto yours.
then you feel it against your thigh, thick and hot.
suguru pulls away, breathless, cheeks still tinged red, porn still playing in the background because he didn’t care enough to turn off your phone.
“so…wanna recreate your favorite porno?”
you gulp.
>> pt 2 | series masterlist
inspired by this fic by @bluukive !! and the twitter clip i was describing is this heheh
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synopsis. when the tournament for your hand and heart was announced, you expected to see lords from different houses who tried to win the throne through you, knights who saw it as a matter of honor. but what you didn't expect to see was the first and only person who broke your heart into a thousand pieces.
pairing. aerion targaryen x cousin! reader
contains. mdni! miscommunication trope, from childhood friends to lovers to enemies then to lovers again, betrayal, angst, tension, obsessive!possessive! aerion, reader has a typical targ. features, tba.
⋆ pt 2. pt3. pt4.
"so many princes and noble lords are waiting in line, my princess!" the maid exclaimed, her voice shook with excitement. "you are the most wanted bride in the whole kingdom. the castle did not see such a fuss since the time of the old king," she added, as she pulled the laces of the corset on your dress.
you rolled your eyes without a shadow of spite, only with a light tiredness. you looked at your reflection in the tall mirror and fixed the folds of the expensive fabric. "they do not want me, they want my closeness to the throne."
"you are too hard on yourself, my princess," nana softly argued. "everyone knows that prince valarr will become king one day, so it is not just about the crown. everyone truly loves you, from the small to the great. to be your husband is a true blessing from the gods."
and it was not flattery. you were the only daughter of prince baelor, the precious jewel of the castle. everyone spoiled you: from the king himself to the simple knights.
the only one in your branch of the family who inherited the classic targaryen look — hair that shined like silver and violet eyes — you combined this beauty with perfect manners and a gentle soul. it was simply impossible not to love you.
that was why, when you told your father that your heart was silent and there was no one you would marry by your own will, prince baelor decided to hold a great tourney. the winner got the greatest prize — your hand.
"and what if some old man wins?" you asked, as you pressed your lips together. you looked at her with fake disgust, but fun sparks danced in your eyes. "i do not think my patience is enough to wait for his natural death."
the maid laughed as she fixed the last pin.
"i am sure prince baelor has everything under control. your father is too wise and mature to let such a thing happen."
"father worries about me too much."
when she finished with the dress, nana carefully fixed your curls. she took a step back and looked at you with clear love. "i never saw anyone more beautiful than you, princess. you were charming as a child, but now… no one in these lands has a chance against your beauty."
a red blush touched your cheeks and you looked away shyly, not knowing where to go from such honest praise. this woman was with you since you were in swaddling clothes, she practically raised you and became a second mother and the most loyal friend.
"you are too generous with compliments," you said quietly.
you smoothed the dress once more, checking it, and said so low it was like you spoke to the heavens.
"i hope the gods send me a reliable husband. one who protects me and stays loyal. one who i can answer the same way."
you did not say love on purpose. there was only one man in your life who you loved with all your heart — and you were sure he would never be your husband.
the tourney field was noisy and bright: tents of noble houses stood everywhere, and flags waved in the wind above them. the air filled with the smells of roasted meat, dust, and grass heated by the sun.
you walked over the flattened grass and felt hundreds of looks on you. the dancers smiled kindly at you, and young lords and knights, when they saw you approach, gave dramatic bows and shouted compliments after you. you only shook your head with a forgiving smile and headed to the stands, where your brother already sat in the shade.
valarr watched the lords on the field closely, but as soon as you came near, his look warmed instantly. he looked over you with love and smiled gently. "it seems the number of participants will double or even triple today," valarr said, as he nodded at the crowd of knights. "spare the poor men, little sister, do not make them go to their death even more willingly."
you rolled your eyes dramatically as you sat down next to him. "it is not my fault that men are stupid enough to risk their lives for a woman they do not really know."
he raised an eyebrow merrily and, he could not stop himself, jokingly pinched your cheek. "a lady does not speak this way."
you caught his hand with a giggle and easily pushed it away.
he became silent and watched you for a moment, and then his tone became unusually serious. "special guests arrived today," he said quietly.
"who can be so special?" you asked, and your eyebrows rose in surprise.
valarr hesitated, as if he thought about whether he should tell the truth right now. he even opened his mouth to say something, but then he changed his mind. "you'll see soon."
however, soon your indifference changed into a dull anxiety. you could not look at it.
there was so much blood on the grass that a bitter lump rose in your throat. the whistle of blades cut the air, and the screams of the excited crowd mixed with the painful moans of the wounded.
men maimed each other for a ghost of a chance to one day touch the throne and get a sweet body in their bed.
of course, you saw tourneys before. but those were for glory, for fun, or to protect honor. and this? this looked like hell.
another knight fell to the grass, the blade of his rival went deep into his thigh. he moaned and screamed as he admitted defeat, but the winner had no time to enjoy his triumph — a sharp, loud sound of a bell cut the air. a cloud of dust rose over the field, and a cavalcade of riders appeared.
you froze when the flag of your own house flashed among the banners. your heart skipped a beat, and nausea rose in your throat.
the herald, whose voice spread over the quiet crowd, announced:
“welcome! the second son of the king, brother of prince baelor — prince maekar targaryen and his sons!”
this could not be true.
they did not step into your castle for many years. why did they show up now, at the very beginning, when only low-born knights and lords from poor houses fought on the field?
you turned your head sharply to valarr. his jaw was tight, and his look was fixed on the guests. he already stood up with father, as he prepared to meet the kin.
and then you noticed him.
aerion sat on his horse just as confident and easy as before. a familiar arrogant smirk played on his face, and his look showed such disdain, as if no one around deserved even a bit of his attention.
your heart pounded so hard that it became painful to breathe.
you did not see him for several years, and in this time he changed. the youth's softness disappeared and gave place to predatory, sharp features of the face.
he became broader in the shoulders, larger and more powerful — the result of grueling training that he, as you remembered, never missed. something dangerous, masculine, and scary appeared in his look. only his hair stayed the same — silver and always messy.
a memory hit you in the gut like a sharp blade.
you stood between his open legs while he sat on the edge of the bed, still hot after another fight with his father. you softly brushed his tangled locks and tried to calm his anger with your touches.
"do not be so angry with him," you whispered. "he just worries about his son."
he always came to your chambers right away, no matter what happened — a fight with his father, a bad day, or to brag that he beat daeron in training once again.
"and what happens if i go to a real tourney like a real man?" he growled, as he put his fingers in his hair again and destroyed your work. "dragons fear nothing!"
you hit his hand lightly and grumbled. "hey, i just brushed them! do not dare to ruin it."
he just rolled his eyes and snorted that he "is not a bloody cat to be brushed," but he obediently moved his hand and let you brush them when they become too messy. only you.
the sharp roar of the crowd pulled you from your memory and brought you back to cruel reality.
you knew your duty: you had to stand up, go down after your father, and let your cousins press a respectful kiss on your palm.
the thought of his lips touching your skin made you feel sick.
aerion's look wandered feverishly over the stands. he searched for someone until his eyes met yours. he looked at you for a long time, even from far away, you saw how he studied your face, focused on every feature, then moved from your hair to your dress.
for a short moment, something flashed in his pupils that you could not solve even up close, but the mask of indifference returned instantly. his lips curved into a predatory, triumphant smirk, and dangerous sparks shined in his eyes.
he was so familiar and at the same time a total stranger.
you looked at each other, separated by space and unspoken tension, until you broke the contact first and raised your chin.
you turned your head, gave a short nod to your father and brother, and turned around. you headed deep into the castle with your head held high, and you felt how his gaze literally burned your back.
you would never shed another tear because of him again.
you just started to take off your heavy gold bracelets when a knight entered the rooms. he bowed his head and told you that your father waited for you. you gave a quiet sigh and nodded: you could not hide from the inevitable.
you understood well that he wanted to discuss your behavior — how you left the stands in such a way, without even greeting your own blood.
but, to be honest, you did not care. father never knew how to be truly angry with you. you were his treasure, his favorite, and the most you risked was a soft rebuke for being too rude.
however, you simply could not do it any other way.
not when he was on the field.
even a passing shadow of his name in your thoughts caused such sharp pain, as if a hundred hot needles stabbed your heart at once.
aerion targaryen.
your cousin and only childhood friend, the man who once patiently taught you how to grip a knife handle and shoot a bow.
your first, most honest and only love.
and he was also the one who broke your heart into pieces, trampled it, and then calmly walked over the sharp shards without even looking back.
he became the man who clearly showed you what a naive and lovelorn fool you were, as you blindly believed his promises.
you outgrew these feelings long ago. the pain still lived somewhere deep inside, as a reminder, but not a trace remained of that bright, pure devotion. love burned and left only the bitter dust of hate in the very moment when he betrayed you.
behind your back stayed endless sleepless nights, full of tears and a silent question: what did you do to deserve such treatment? how did it happen that you meant nothing to him? but those tears hardened you, made you stronger and colder.
if aerion hoped to see the same little girl with an open heart and endless love — he was deeply mistaken.
you held your head high as you looked at your reflection for the last time. the dress of deep dark-red color wrapped around your legs in heavy folds, and the jewels on the bodice shimmered with every breath. your hair — a complex, thick braid that the maid worked on since dawn — still stayed perfect, and only a couple of silver strands broke loose near your face.
you were the first granddaughter of the great king, a princess of house targaryen and the favorite of all the people, and you did not plan to let anyone think you were less than you were.
when you left the chambers, you gave the knight at the door a quick, soft smile and followed the familiar halls to your father.
you knew every turn of this castle, every tapestry on the wall, but when you turned into the gallery that led to the rooms of the prince, your step slowed down against your will.
there, leaning against a stone pillar, stood the one you did not expect to meet so soon.
aerion.
his posture carried that same unbearable confidence and greatness you remembered since childhood.
his look slowly slid over you, as he carefully studied every detail of your image, and then a light smirk appeared on his face. "hello, cousin."
you did not even look at him, continuing to walk, intending to pass by. you had neither the time nor the desire to take part in his games.
however, as you came level with him, he suddenly leaned forward, trying to catch your hand. his fingers almost touched your skin, but you reacted instantly, calmly and quickly pulling your hand away.
“do not touch me.”
aerion stared at your face for a while, then, with his usual smirk, he pulled his hand away.
“you would not even greet me? how rude.”
"i have no time for you," you cut him off as you tried to walk past.
“that is exactly why you were rushing to your father?” he huffed, not falling behind a single step. "it is good to know that knights today are so easy to bribe."
this made you stop for a moment, and you turned around and looked at him with disdain. "it seems this is the only thing you are truly good at."
aerion slowly closed the distance between you. he loomed over you and leaned to your very ear, so you felt the heat of his breath. "you did not mind any of this, when we were children."
you slowly raised your look to him and smiled a bright smile with mockery. "what luck that we are not children anymore."
he became silent, just watching you. his look became heavy and greedy — it seemed he could not get enough of your emotions and your face, which he saw for the first time in so many years of separation.
"you did not change at all," he said quietly, as if he reached some inner conclusion.
"praise the gods that i cannot say the same about you."
you turned around and were already about to go back to your room when his voice, full of poison, made you flinch again.
"how is your little knight? is he still a crybaby, who is not able to do anything except hide behind his mother's cunt?"
you only rolled your eyes, as you remembered how he was always jealous of tristan when you were little. he said back then that tristan looked at you with more than friendly eyes and that he would kill him if he even tried to touch you.
it seemed this did not leave him even after three years.
"you do not even ask why i am here?"
you ignored him and walked further down the hall. you already imagined how you would take off this heavy dress and finally sink into your nightgown, as you washed away this whole day.
"i am in the tourney."
this made you freeze in place.
"you are lying," you breathed out, without turning around. your voice shook a little, but you quickly pulled yourself together. "father would never allow you to take a part."
you felt him come closer — so close that you felt the heat from him against your back. the air between you seemed to fill with electricity.
"he already did," he answered quietly right above your ear.
you turned around sharply. aerion stood too close, and now, face to face, you saw everything that the distance hid: small scratches on his forehead, a fresh wound on his cheek, and an old scar across his eyebrow. it was all so painfully familiar, as if these long years of separation did not pass at all. for a moment it seemed to you that the same boy stood before you, who once whispered promises to you and covered your face with kisses.
but you knew the truth. and this truth was much more bitter than your memories.
you narrowed your eyes and looked down at him, despite the difference in height.
"you think you are the best, do you not? you think every thing is a game that you must try?"
it seemed some memories hit him too, as he watched you and did not take his eyes off yours. his lips curved into a smirk as usual, but something shook deep in his pupils.
"i do not understand what you mean, cousin."
"you know well why this tourney was held," you hissed.
"i know. that is why i am here and i intend to succeed."
the absurdity of it all was so great that you could not stand it and gave a short, angry laugh. “and you do not even consider that you might die just because you grew bored?”
now this made him laugh — openly, merrily, with that same unbearable mockery that was always his armor.
“i will not die. i know that, because i will not allow any of those wretches to come even a step closer to you, let alone touch you.”
“i will never marry you.”
“you will,” he said, slowly closing the distance as your back met the wall. “you will, if i win this tournament.”
he leaned in even closer, until your noses almost touched, and a dangerous, victorious fire lit up in his eyes.
contents: Dunk x fem!Reader, Modern AU rom-com. Features Raymun, Rowan, Lyonel, Egg and very background Targaryens. Semi-reversed medium-burn (lmao, go figure). Friends to friends-with-benefits to lovers with a secret third thing. Which brings me to the biggest nsfw warning of this fic: unplanned pregnancy. It doesn't happen until Ch.3., but I know some people (including me, ironically) don't like reading about pregnancy, so you have been warned. If that's the case you can safely read up to chapter two and then call it a day. Dunk has my uterus confused, ok.
Besides that: mutual pinning, awkward crushes, they are in their 30s, it's set in Ireland (I know -.-) but most of nationalities are not defined, miscommunication but not in a way that will make you hate the characters, actually lots of humour, fluff, smidge of angst, attempt at magical realism. So far nsfw warnings include: drunk unprotected sex, pregnant sex. Tags will be updated for each chapter.
disclaimer: I've never been pregnant, but I hope my extensive research will prove sufficient. If you 🫵 have been and ever notice something wildly incorrect, please let me know! If you haven't noticed anything incorrect yet, but still would like to share your experience, also let me know! If you want. I'd love that.
synopsis: For two years, you and Duncan orbit each other inside the same circle of friends, each mistaking the other’s awkwardness for disinterest. Then, one reckless night changes the terms entirely. A story about bad timing, good longing, and leaving the hardest thing until last.
a/n: Hi *waves awkwardly*. Yeah so... this happened. Nobody look at me. I have no idea how many chapters this is going to have, but I'm planning weekly updates on Fridays. I promise to tag up to the wazoo. Anyway, banner as usual by me, and dividers by @strangergraphics. This fic is being proofread by @hextoken!
chapters:
chapter one: (sfw) In which they all get very drunk.
chapter two: (nsfw) In which they make the baby :')
chapter three: (sfw) In which she realises they made a baby.
chapter four: (sfw) In which she tells Duncan.
chapter five: (sfw) In which Duncan freaks out a little.
chapter six: (nsfw) In which she deals with life kicking her ass.
chapter seven: (sfw) In which they both get a little jealous.
chapter eight: (nsfw) In which they bang.
chapter nine: (nsfw) In which they survive the morning after.
chapter ten: (nsfw) In which they have their honeymoon.
chapter eleven: (nsfw) In which Reader meets Egg.
chapter twelve: (nsfw) In which Dunk is having a terrible day.
chapter thirteen: (10/07)
chapter fourteen: (17/07)
chapter fifteen: (24/07)
chapter sixteen: (31/07)
extras: general #heartburn tag (like, everything—asks, questions, art, blurts, hcs), heartburn!Dunk hcs, various blurts (yes, the #hcu stands for 'heartburn cinematic universe' lol), and art!
꒰ content ꒱ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ knight!bruce wayne x princess!reader, fluff, this has nothing to do with dark knights of steel, just loosely inspired bcuz he’s so pretty as a knight
knight!bruce wayne collection
The castle halls are polished and hushed. Sunlight trickles in from the enormous windows, breaking across the mosaic tiles, making it rain color.
Bruce deepens the kiss, his hand cupping your jaw, the other sliding down to your hip slowly as if he’s trying to hold back. Your hands rest against his chest, feeling the muscle that was usually hidden under all the armor he wore. Only you could see him like this.
Well, you and anyone who walks through this hall.
He pulls back, breath coming out in uneven pants. His eyes trace you. Your lips are parted, your eyes wide and eager for more. His thumb brushes your cheek.
"We shouldn't be doing this out here," he mumbles, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.
"We can do whatever we want," you reply with a grin. After all, he's your personal guard.
He steels his face, but you see his lips curling up. "You're the most troublesome princess I've ever had the pleasure of meeting," he says, then, without letting you get another word in, he kisses you again.
"Your highness—
A maid stumbles when she sees you pressed up against the wall. For a moment, she simply stares. Her eyes widen, though, when Bruce's body tenses like he's ready for battle.
"My apologies, my lady," she squeaks, gathering her skirts and fleeing as if her life depended on it.
Bruce's forehead falls against yours.
"She must be new," you offer.
He grunts.
"Still, you didn't have to scare the poor thing," you add, your arms wrapping around his neck.
He tilts his head until his eyes meet yours. To your surprise, there's amusement lingering in them. "I didn't—
Distant voices cut him off. A long-suffering sigh leaves him.
"I heard the king granted the princess a plaything," one of the guards began, his voice carrying through the quiet hall.
Silence.
"It's him, isn't it? Wayne?"
Bruce—already knowing you well enough—puts his hand over your mouth to muffle your incessant giggling.
The other guard speaks up, his voice deeper and older. "Yeah, the bastard probably pissed in the king's goblet."
The other one snorts as their footsteps get louder and louder. Your body shakes, and Bruce tries his very best to keep you quiet, but the guards spot you anyway.
Their steps slow. The older one reaches for his sword as he takes in Bruce's hand over your mouth.
"Sir Bruce," he says carefully. "I think it would be wise for you to remove your hand from her highness."
Bruce closes his eyes.
"Her highness prefers it this way." Is all he gives in return before his hand leaves your mouth, and suddenly you're being lifted into his arms, heat blooming across your cheeks at the improper way he carries you away.
"Next, we shall try the gardens," you tell him, cheek pressed against his chest.
i am obsessed over these targ men it's getting to be a problem now
anyhow!!
asks are welcome!! ( because i need reasons to live)
valarr targaryen
in the same universe
kismet
Egg is missing, more or less.
A missing cousin, a patched-up rescue mission, and fateful meeting in a spring afternoon reminds Valarr that try as he might, some forces are beyond his help.
tags: love at first sight; existential crisis; valarr needs a hug tbh; egg being the main plot point
first light
Valarr Targaryen has always been aware of the consequences of being a Targaryen. Of bloodrights and curses, of dreams and tragic endings and he has made his life around them like a careful magician.
Then he meets the one who makes him want to ignore his fate and —for once, for once—take a chance.
tags: multiple parts fic; valarr POV; usual targaryen angst; requited unrequited love; love confession (later parts); eventual smut (later parts); angst; repressed emotions; emotionally stunted valarr targaryen; arranged marriage (arranged by the groom);
palindrome
the night prince aerion attacked the puppeteers. unaware of the tragedy that awaits, prince valarr spends a quiet night with his wife
tags: angst. angst with happy ending (if you ignore what happens next). angst with hurt/comfort. eventual smut. mention of previous miscarriage. tortured prince.
different universes
twenty long years
Valarr and you are childhood friends. Only friends, you thought for such a long time that it became part of your narrative. Oh, you know him so well because you’re his friend. He looks at you from across the crowded ballroom because you are his oldest friend. There could never be anything else… could it?
tags: friends to lovers; repressed feelings; requited unrequited love; established friendship;
i am his and he is mine (the wedding)
celestial bodies (wedding night)
heaven sent
You need a little reassurance of your goodluck, and Valarr is more than happy to give it to you.
tags: established relationship; married couple; domestic fluff; pregnancy; having a family;
nine lives
A year after your second miscarriage, you try to convince your husband for another child, another shot at happiness you both so desperately desire.
tags: established relationship; marriage couple; domestic fluff; mention of previous miscarriages; mention of conceiving; fear of inadequacy; soft Valarr; devoted Valarr; akotsk universe;
grief bodies
“Forever is a strange word. Treacherous, by nature. Flickering and mercurial. Meaning a thousand different things. Meaning nothing.”
An imagine concerning the moments after Ser Duncan leaves Valarr Targaryen at Baelor’s funeral.
tags: grief; hurt/ comfort; angst; pregnancy reveal
modern au
lucky strike
It’s four in a Tuesday afternoon and you are holding down your boyfriend by his shoulder as he desperately tries to rut against your groin, and it isn’t your fault. Technically.
Technically.
tags: established relationship; angst; shameless smut; modern!valarr!; asks/requests
morning haze (drabble)
a warm, cozy morning with Valarr (smut implied)
magnets
You have long since convinced yourself that this is the only way you’re allowed to have him.
In pieces.
In secret.
tags: forbidden romance; friends with benefits; unrequited feelings; you are one of the interns, and Valarr is, of course, the pristine heir to the Targaryen dynasty.
futile devices
When you think about it, you can never quite describe it: How you met. Why you met. Why, sometimes, it felt like the only logical conclusion to every thread of your carefully woven future. You met somewhere not quite real—on the outskirts of reality. Just on the edge of it, the future seemed so probable sometimes.
But you know better than to build future with Valarr Targaryen. You have to.
tags: modern valarr x you; established secret relationship (kinda); forbidden love; a little bit of lying; little bit of self-sabotage; smut; Valarr is a sweetheart; reader is desperately in need of assurance
allergy season
Valarr Targaryen’s father dies and it leaves a hole inside him so large it devours everything he touches. Until, of course, he finds you again and decides to play-pretend. And you let him. You would always let him.
“I wish… I wish we did this when I was whole.”
tags: modern!valarr!; secret relationship; summer fling; unhealthy coping mechanisms; attachment; dependency; valarr needs a hug; angst; mention of death;
negative space
As far back as you can remember, the dreams have made everything worse. The darkness the pain and the bone-deep, terrifying knowledge of the inevitable has infested your mind since you were a child. It has taken your sanity and everyone who has been unlucky enough to care for you.
And yet, nothing is worse than meeting Valarr and knowing that he isn't meant to survive you either. Nothing worse than the doomed knowledge that nothing lasts, not even love.
tags: dreamer girl, friends (??) to lovers, girl who thinks she’s doomed by the narrative, boy who loves her like that is his narrative.
prime cut
“You trust me to drive your car," he says, and you can hear the shudder, the crack in them. The painful, bite on his words, as if he’s been holding on to them for far too long. “You trust me to lie to your mother when you don’t feel like talking to her. But you can’t trust me with your heart.”
“I don’t have to trust you with my heart,” you say, and there's the bite, your bite. Because you have been holding on too hard to the desperate reality of your friendship as well. And the words are almost painful to utter. They claw out of your throat. “You already have it.”
“All yours,” Alyssane announces as Valarr opens the car door.
Tanselle sniggers from the driver’s seat. You giggle, loud enough for the sound to flutter against your ribcage, and you fall against your friend. Your head zings, a giddy, gleeful sound escaping from your mouth at the sight of your husband in all his bedtime glory. Standing in his dark tee and grey trousers, dark hair ruffled, the silver streak gleaning in the sodium light of your driveway and his eyes—gods his eyes—melting like two drops of light. Valarr ducks down to get his head inside the backseat of the car, his upper body bending to settle his space into yours.
tags: established relationship; domestic fluff; married couple; drunken talk; soft Valarr; husband Valarr; modern au
aerion targaryen
poison drips through
Scared of the intensity of Aerion Brightflame's love, you break off your betrothal and choose his cousin, Prince Valarr instead. Aerion finds you alone in a King’s Landing alleyway to demand an answer, determined to find the truth or burn everything that comes in between.
shipwreck
Aerion doesn’t quite understand how it happens, but through the pain and the burning, bruising inferno in his head, he always manages to crash against your door.
tags: aerion x you; angst; self-destructive tendencies; co-dependancy; aerion goes to the reader after a fight; taking care of bruises; vulnerability;
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— summary: as maekar’s eldest daughter, you are a trophy to every man of the realm. and for that, one evening your husband’s protective streak turns into a cruel accusation that escalates into a heated argument. you’ve mastered the art of the silent treatment, and for a man who treats you like his entire religion, one day of being ignored is enough to drive him to the brink of insanity.
— pairing: valarr targaryen x wife!targaryen!reader
— word count: 5.4k
— content: +18 (minors dni!), targcest, light sexual content, established marriage, childhood friends to lovers, jealous & possesive!valarr, a bit of angst, period-typical sexism, marital arguments, emotional tension, hurt/comfort, a LOT of worship and sweet romance bc he is so in love, silent treatment until he can't take it anymore (he's so pathetic).
For as long as memory held its flickering torch, the eyes of men had been fixed upon you.
You were a creature grown accustomed to the weight of their collective gaze—a heavy cloak you wore wherever your feet led. Some looked with shadow of loathing, others with the rigid mask of respect; some with the sharp edge of envy, and many more with the burning, unwashed hunger of desire.
It had begun as simple smiles blooming in the dim corridors of the Red Keep, back when you were but a child clutching your father’s hand. Even then, the Lords of the Court possessed no shame; they would boldly petition for your hand to grace their sons’ beds, or, more obscenely, their own.
As the years stretched your limbs, the courtesies grew deeper than necessity required. The compliments became overwrought, smelling of false summerwine. Their eyes would linger upon the curve of your smile or the silk of your bodice a heartbeat longer than was seemly. They looked at you through a glass of unreality, forcing their kindness and sharpening their flattery, all to carve a place in your favor. They hoped, perhaps, to ensnare your heart and bind you to them in the sight of the Seven.
By right of blood, you were the eldest daughter of Maekar Targaryen—his firstborn, a flawless alloy of his steel and your mother’s grace. You were a vision of royalty in its highest splendor: hair of spun silver and a smile that dazzled like sunlight on Blackwater Bay. You moved with the terrifying confidence of one who knew exactly who, and what, she was.
You were a Dragon Princess, as beautiful and volatile as the wildfire burning in your veins.
That was a sin the world would never forgive. Nor would they ever permit you to forget it.
The lesson was learned early and with bitterness: men did not see you. They cared little for the contents of your soul or the mettle of your character. They saw only your name, your blood, and the power of your heritage. You were not a woman to them; you were a ledger of utility.
For that, your life had been spent parrying unwanted advances and shivering through uncomfortable dalliances. Your father had grown weary of swatting away marriage pacts like persistent flies. He had even gone so far as to backhand your younger brother, Aerion, when the Prince had dared to claim you as his own by right of birth.
To the realm, you were a trophy to be hoisted. A prize to be corrupted, to be flowered and bedded, a vessel to carry their legacy under the prestige of your name.
To everyone, that is, except for Valarr.
Your sweet cousin had always been the perfect counterpoint to your own existence, for you understood one another with a clarity that defied words. You were two bright spirits the world sought to quench.
He did not look at you as a ladder to the Iron Throne, nor did he squint to measure the span of your waist or the fullness of your breast to judge your worth as a broodmare. He looked at you because, since you were children racing through the gardens, you were the only one who could read the silences hidden behind his shy, quiet smile. You were patient with him when the court was not; you were his confidante, his shield, and above all, his most faithful ally.
You had covered for one another’s mischief, mending the echoes of broken treasures and whispering secrets as you snuck into the Dragonpit. There, amidst the towering, hollow skulls of the ancient dragons, you would play at being Old Valyria reborn, pretending the stone husks still breathed fire at your command.
When the betrothal was finally cried out, the court hailed it as the ‘Perfect Union’ to secure the succession. With the King’s blessing and your fathers’ consent, the pact was sealed. They saw it as a masterful stroke of politics; for the two of you, it was the first true breath of relief you had ever taken.
For you loved him, and Valarr had loved you since his heart first learned to beat. To him, you had appeared like a Valyrian goddess—radiant, laughing, and full of life. As the years turned, he had found himself a devotee at your altar, a prince kneeling before his own religion. He had always been there to shield you from the grasping hands of men who took advantage of your girlhood innocence.
“I don’t like how they treat you, cousin,” he would grumble, squeezing your hand in his, hidden in the shadows behind a enormous dragon skull. Naturally, that was where you both felt safest, under the dark, fierce gaze of the hollow eye pits of the dragons in their lair. “As if you were some kind of property they could claim.”
Valarr was your guardian. And now that you were his wife, the silver prince had grown more territorial, his devotion sharpening into a protective jealousy that burned as fierce as any dragon’s breath.
That evening, at some royal feast in the Red Keep, the weary pantomime played out once more. You were draped in a gown of breathtaking scarlet and black—the colors of your House—mirroring the doublet Valarr wore.
ogether, you were a vision of dragonblood manifest, your silver tresses woven with threads of beaten gold that glimmered under the fire of the lamps. Your face remained serene, a mask of pale porcelain that the lords of the realm, in their infinite dullness, so often misread.
“Your sweetness is truly exquisite, Princess,” a Lord claims, his flattery oiling the air for the third time within the hour. He pressed closer than etiquette deemed holy, mistaking your silence for the soft bloom of shyness. But as Maekar’s daughter, shyness was a stranger to you. “Surely a woman of your... temperament would find respite from the rigors of the capital. My lands in the south are far warmer, and much more welcoming.”
You do not stir or grow desperate. You merely take another slow sip of your sweet red wine, dangerously calm. You sense Valarr’s presence before you hear his boots on the stone, and so you let him handle the intrusion. You let him mark his territory.
Your husband slides to your side with the natural elegance of one born to wear a crown. He has been occupied in conversation with his father—much to his chagrin, for he detests leaving you alone in halls so thick with that kind of men.
And Valarr, much like his father Baelor, is a man of precise words and measured gestures.
“Lord Tyrell,” he says, his voice so soft it feels like a caress, though his beautiful two-colored eyes hold the dull glint of an ice floe. “My wife already has all the warmth she could ever need here. The Targaryen fire requires no southern sun to burn fiercely.”
Valarr places a hand to rest gently on the small of your back, drawing you flush against him.
It is a subtle gesture to the prying eyes of the court, but to you, it is absolutely everything. The heat radiating from his palm and the delicate graze of his fingers against the silk of your gown at the curve of your waist are enough to make the insult—which has begun to climb your throat—dissolve into a lover’s sigh.
Though, you wish you could have that Lord’s eyes served on a platter for the way he undresses you with his gaze.
“Of course, my Prince,” the portly Lord stammers, recoiling before Valarr’s intimidating stare. “I was only looking after... the Princess’s well-being.”
“There is no need. I am here to ensure my wife's well-being, my Lord,” Valarr concludes with a courtly smile that does not reach his eyes. His fingers tighten at your waist, dipping dangerously toward the curve of your backside as you lean against his chest, looking down upon the other man with disdain.
When the Lord takes his leave, babbling your titles in farewell, Valarr does not step away. He leans close to you, pretending to adjust one of your ruby necklaces at your chest, letting his breath brush against your face and his fingertips gently caress the contour of your bosom, pressed together by the tight neckline.
“They are being especially persistent tonight,” he whispers, frustration lashing his tongue. Finally, that perfect calm fractures a mere millimeter, revealing the possessive zeal that simmers beneath his skin. “I wonder if I should remind them every hour that you are wed to me.”
Your hands travel up his chest, tracing a soft path of soothing caresses until they find the broad expanse of his shoulders, seeking to anchor his rising temper.
You offer him a tight, strained smile, still tasting the bitterness of the situation; you loathe the way any other man dares to look at you, for in your heart, only your husband holds the right to such intimacy.
Your fingers toy with the ornaments shaped like crimson dragon scales upon his shoulders, and you gaze up at him with big, adoring eyes.
“They all know it, my love. I am yours...”
But Valarr does not relax. He does not release that heavy, searing exhale—as hot as the breath of a dragon—that usually signals his surrender to your charms or the sound of your seductive voice confessing your devotion. That you are his.
Instead, his hand moves from your chest, sliding slowly up the column of your throat until it reaches your chin. He tilts it upward, holding you firm, forcing you to look only at him.
“Then you should stop encouraging them, wife,” he accuses in a husky rasp. He leans down, tilting his head to claim your mouth in a sharp, brief kiss that leaves the faint sound of parting lips as he pulls away, never breaking eye contact.
The phrase falls between you like a lump of stone, cooling the air that a moment ago was burning with the heat of his closeness.
Your hands stiffen on his shoulders as you search for any hint of jest in his gaze, that he is just teasing you, but you see only eyes darkened by wounded pride—a temperament he rarely unveils.
“Encouraging them?” you repeat, your voice a mere thread of incredulity. You cling to the hope that this is some cruel play on words. “Valarr, I have scarcely opened my lips. I have remained as motionless as a statue of Baelor the Blessed.”
“And that is precisely the invitation,” he retorts, taking a long step back, causing your hands to fall from his shoulders as the distance grows between you. “You stand there with a serenity that looks like submission, permitting them to circle you like vultures over a jewel. You should rebuff them at once, reject them with the strength of your lineage before they dare to breathe your very air.”
You feel the sting of injustice prick your chest. Valarr, better than anyone, knows the crushing weight of crowns.
“You know I can not do that, much as I wish to cut out their tongues and pluck out their eyes,” you hiss like an angered viper, lowering your tone so no prying ear might catch the fissure in the perfect marriage—your first true quarrel in months. “I am the firstborn of Prince Maekar. If I humiliate Lord Tyrell or any other bannerman before the entire court for a mere ill-intentioned compliment, I invite a political war that neither your father nor mine desires.” You tilt your head slightly beneath his gaze, which now sparks with anger. “Do you wish for me to be the cause of a dispute between the Reach and the Crown?”
“I prefer a thousand political disputes to the sight of other men stripping you with their eyes while you smile at them with courtesy,” he snaps back at you, the bitterness in his voice palpable, his words measured to wound.
You shake your head in disbelief, the movement causing your silver tresses to shimmer like cold moonlight against your shoulders. A dry, hollow laugh escapes your throat, though there is no mirat in it—only a sharp, stinging disappointment.
This time, you take a deliberate step back, increasing the distance between you until the warmth of his body no longer reaches your own. You look at him as if he were a stranger wearing the face of the man you love.
“Valarr, this is madness,” you breathe, your voice trembling not with fear, but with the sheer weight of your incredulity.
His hands retreat behind his back, hidden away as if he’s afraid of what they might do—not out of malice, but out of a desperate, clawing urge to reach for you and end this distance. He locks them together, his fingers digging into his own skin, clenching into fists so tight that the knuckles turn a ghostly, bloodless white.
It is a physical struggle, a silent war he wages against his own nature—his lifelong instinct to be close to you, the instinctive urge to reach out and touch you.
By hiding his hands away from you, he denies himself the comfort of your touch, choosing instead to let his wounded pride dictate the space between you.
“At times I wonder...” he adds, his voice dropping to a tone of refined cruelty born of an agonizing insecurity. You can tell he's hesitating for a moment before deciding to succumb to his rage and hurl out more poison. “I wonder if you secretly crave the attention. If the daughter of Prince Maekar requires the adoration of the world to feel like a queen for a fleeting moment, even at the cost of her husband's patience.”
The silence that follows is suffocating, a physical weight that seems to drown out the screech of the fiddles, the roar of drunken laughter, and the rhythmic swirl of the dancers.
It cuts deeper than any insult from some nameless Lord; Valarr is accusing you of common vanity when your entire life has been a battle to survive the scrutiny of a world that views you as nothing more than a prize to be won.
You hold his gaze, your breath hitching as genuine offense turns to a cold, hard coal in your chest, but you don't let the tears fall.
The ancient, inherited fire of your blood finally flickers to life behind your violet eyes.
“You have known me since I was a child of three, Valarr,” you say, with a coldness that rivals his own. “If you truly believe I enjoy being a piece of meat on display... then you do not know me at all.”
And then, you wait for just a moment. You wait for his expression to soften, for guilt to cloud his beautiful eyes, and for his hand to seek yours with that touch of regret that always follows this rare moments of tension.
You wait for him to ask your pardon, to pull you against his chest and whisper that love drives him mad, that his insecurities, his own fears, are to blame for his sharpened tongue.
But Valarr does not move.
He maintains his impeccable, princely posture, his chin high and his shoulders squared, his gaze fixed on a point just above your head. His lips, which have so often whispere promises of eternal devotion, are pressed into a thin, bitter line. There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt. There is no retort, no apology, not even a flicker of doubt.
He simply steps aside.
Without a single word, Valarr moves to the right, clearing the path and leaving you the space to depart. It is the most galling gesture of all: a calculated indifference, a silent invitation for you to retire if you are not prepared to accept his terms. Never before has he let you go while you were angry. Always, without fail, he found a way to hold you until the storm passed.
You feel the knot of indignation tighten in your throat.
“Very well. This is how it will be, t–then,” you mumble reluctantly, swallowing a lump in your throat. “Fine.”
“Fine,” Valarr echoes, dropping his gaze to the floor, still visibly simmering.
You gather the heavy skirts of your scarlet gown with fingers trembling from rage and you walk past him, keeping your back as straight as a dragon-bone spear, and begin to walk toward the exit of the Great Hall.
You feel the weight of the gold threads in your braids, and above all, you feel the weight of everyone's eyes upon you.
Even from a distance, your father can sense that you are visually agitated and very upset, considering that pout you're holding on your lips. His frown deepens when he glances at your husband standing behind you, his jaw clenched, looking down at the floor, clearly forcing himself not to gaze at you, for his act of indignation would likely crumble into a thousand pieces.
Then, Maekar shares a knowing glance with Baelor, who is sitting next to him, as he too realizes that something has happened between their firstborns.
Now, without Valarr by your side as a shield, the gazes feel even more invasive, more ravenous. You can sense Lord Tyrell watching you from afar with a crooked smirk, noting the sudden distance set between your husband and you. So, you hurry to get out of the place, not even bothering to give excuses to your family.
Valarr had hurt you in the deepest way, doubting your loyalty and integrity just because the rest of the world didn't know how to be decent. Every time you thought about it, about the way he had accused you and looked at you, as if he didn't know you, as if you had been a stranger, you grew increasingly furious.
The seconds turned into minutes, which felt like hours. You abruptly took off your jewelry, letting the rubies fall onto the dressing table with a loud clatter. You let your hair down, letting your silvery locks cascade over your bare shoulders like a fountain.
Finally, as you are settling down for a good night's sleep, relaxing in your spacious bed and solitude, the sound of the door creaking open interrupts your peace.
There is no rush in his movements, Valarr walks in with his characteristic serenity, which now irritates you so much that you are unable to even so much as glance at him.
“Maekar was looking for you,” he informs you, his voice unusually monotone, as he begins to take off his cloak. “I told him you were not feeling yourself.”
You lay motionless beneath the satin sheets, your gaze locked on the shadows cast by the burning embers across the ceiling, imagining that they are dragons.
His words hover in the space of the room, unacknowledged. You offer no expression of gratitude, no hum of acceptance, neither even the faintest gesture of your head in his direction.
For you, Valarr is not there that night. In his place, there is only a stranger who wears his face, one who has had the audacity to question the core of your very soul.
You can hear the sound of leather sliding on wood as he begins to take off his doublet. The following is a heavy silence, charged with the weight of all that has not been said.
Valarr takes his time, moving with that regal slowness that you would usually find charming, and that, on any other day, would have you already crawling up his bare back with kisses and caresses, but now seems like a desperate tactic to get your attention.
It's really pathetic, you think.
He steps to the edge of the bed and you sense the mattress dip slightly under his weight as he sits down to untie his boots.
“You could have waited for me at least,” he is bold enough to keep talking, even when he can clearly see that you are still fuming, bursting the ice again and uttering your name in that gentle tone of his. At least that much has not changed on this catastrophic day.
Indeed, his tone has lost the harshness he displayed in the Great Hall, turning into something closer to a resigned lament. Pathetic.
“I had to make up excuses for my father and yours. It's not like us to put on such a display of disharmony in front of them and the King.”
Once again, you don't respond. Instead, you close your eyes, concentrating on the cadence of your own breathing and then, roll overyourself to turn your back on him.
If he doesn't approve of your polite silence, then you will give him an entire ocean of it.
Valarr sighs, a long, weary sound that betrays his own frustration. He finishes undressing and, after blowing out the last two candles, slips under the bedcovers beside you.
Typically, the instant your bodies lie side by side in the darkness and comfort of your quarters, he would reach for you, wrap an arm around your waist, bury his face in your neck, and whisper how much he loves you, emphasizing his words with sweet kisses upon your skin that would often lead to passionate lovemaking.
But this time, despite sharing the same bed, the distance between you seems to be unbridgeable.
Valarr lies on his back, very close but not touching you. You can feel the warmth emanating from his body, that warmth that has always makes you feel at home. Your skin tingles, betraying you, yearning for his touch, but your sense of pride—the same pride you inherited from your father, so fierce and intense—keeps you cold and distant.
“You're not even going to look at m–me?” Valarr asks into the suffocating darkness of the bedchamber, his voice cracks with the weight of despair.
There is a trace of bewilderment in his gentle voice. The situation is terrifyingly foreign to him as well; you have always been the one to reach out and smooth things over with patience. He has grown accustomed to your mercy, leaning on it like a crutch he never realized he needed.
But not now.
“There is a tournament tomorrow. We are expected to be in the royal pavilion, together. We cannot afford this... this whim.”
A whim?, you think, and rage boils in your gut like the fire-breath of a dragon.
You don't give him the luxury of a reaction to his provocation. You simply adjust your pillow with a sharp movement before lying perfectly still again.
At that you feel him grow tense beside you.
Your husband is not a man of violent outbursts, but indifference is the only force that can shatter his composure.
For the first time, he is facing the abyss of your indifference, and the overwhelming loneliness of that void is beginning to drown him.
“V–very well,” he finally declares, and this time his voice rings with wounded emotion, despite his efforts to conceal it with a veil of coldness. “Good night.”
The echo of the crowd's cheers reaches your terrace, celebrating every lance broken, every fallen rider. Normally, you would be the star of the royal pavilion, seated at Valarr's side, but today you have chosen the cozy comfort of your own bedchamber.
Earlier that morning, you had sent a message to the king and your father, as concise as it was unconvincing: you were not feeling well, a vague discomfort kept you bedridden. It was a lie, and everyone knew it. But since your whole family already knows that something has been going on between you and your husband, they decided to let it slide.
You can just imagine Valarr, looking perfect and stoic on the outside, but burning with humiliation and solitude on the inside, forced to answer all the questions about the absence of his wife, his other half, who isn't there to hand him the favor of her silk when it's his turn to ride.
The sunset bathes the big bedchamber into a bloody shade of orange as the door is flung open. This time, there is no trace of finesse or restraint.
Valarr comes in like a force of nature then. He has already stripped away the cold plates of his armor, but he still wears the dark, sweat-stained gambeson—the thick, quilted tunic of black leather and wool that served as his last line of defense. It clings to the broad expanse of his chest and shoulders, damp from the grueling effort of the tourney, mapping out the frantic rhythm of his breathing.
His dark hair is all messed up and sticking to his forehead from the sweat and effort he put into the tourney, and that one platinum streak of his, the one that makes you go feral just by the sight of it, is all ruffled up. His two-colored eyes, normally as calm as a peaceful lake, burn with a fury you've hardly ever seen before.
He looks handsome like that, you must admit, all fired up and sassy.
He tosses his gauntlets onto a nearby table with a loud bang that makes you sit up in the bed, your fingers instantly clamping shut the book you were so absorbed in reading.
“Not a single word,” he snarls, his voice low and dangerous as he storms across the room towards you. “Not a single glance all day. You left me alone in front of the court, in front of my father, like a fool who can’t even run his own household.”
You remain where you are, sitting with a graceful languor and purposeful poise on the vastness of the bed, surrounded by the soft disorder of the silk sheets. You haven't moved to acknowledge him, nor have you displayed any reaction to the agitation he exudes. Instead, you remain leaning against the cushions, your back straight and your scarlet silk nightgown sliding dangerously down the curve of your shoulder, revealing the smoothness of your skin as a kind of silent provocation.
You look devastatingly beautiful, a vision of heaven that contrasts cruelly with the miserable state in which he has returned to you. Your silvery hair flows down over your chest, simultaneously covering and revealing the delicate curves of your figure, as you hold your book with an elegance that is almost hurtful.
That nightgown is his favorite, you both know it. You are keenly aware of the effect you have on him. You know that while he has been away playing the perfect prince, you have been here preparing to be his downfall.
You gradually raise your gaze, and lock your violet eyes onto his with unnerving calmness. At least you grant him that today: the privilege of looking you in the eyes.
“I gave you exactly what you asked for, Valarr,” you reply reluctantly, stretching out your other hand to put your wine cup down on one of the nightstands and crawling out the bed to stand up. “Didn’t you want me to stop attracting attention? Didn’t you want me to hide myself away? Well, here you have it. I’ve hidden myself away from the world. And from you.”
You stand up with a measured nonchalance that only serves to fuel the fire of his rage. You move with the fluid grace of a predatory creature, walking calmly and intentionally avoiding his menacing figure, passing so close that he can smell the scent of your skin, but without allowing him even the slightest touch.
You head toward the balcony, and that's where you pull off your masterstroke. As you walk away from him, the orange, bloody light of sunset filters through the open doors, turning the thin scarlet silk of your nightgown into an nearly transparent veil.
Valarr stands rooted to the spot, his breath catching in his throat, as the sinful clarity of your body's shape is displayed before his eyes: the curve of your back, the sway of your hips, and the curve of your arse, all outlined by the glow of the dying sun as it pierces the thin fabric.
You lean on the stone railing, watching the horizon where the sun sinks like a glowing ruby into the Black Waters. The night wind begins to dance with the hem of your dress, clinging to your thighs and leaving precious little to the imagination.
And you know he's right behind you, following in your own footsteps with the patient determination of a predator. You feel the heat of his body against yours, smell the scent of sweat exuding from his skin, a fragrance that is purely masculine and dominant, making your insides knot with desire.
His warm hands catch you by the waist and pull you forcefully against his chest. You let out a breathless gasp as his face digs into the crook of your neck, and his hot, hungry lips kiss the sensitive skin just below your ear.
You try to call out his name, to scold him, to remind him that you are still upset about his awful behavior from yesterday. “Valarr...”
“You think this is a fucking game?” he grunts, his voice rumbling down your spine. “You think you can just disappear and leave my mind to rot, imagining every man in this kingdom coveting my woman?”
“You pushed me away,” your voice weakens as one of his hands rises impatiently, cupping your breast over the thin fabric of your nightgown, holding your body close to his. “You doubted me, Valarr. My loyalty. My dignity. In front of all those people. In front of my own father. Do you know how humiliating it feels?”
He sighs heavily into your neck, placing one last kiss on your skin before spinning you around in his arms so abruptly that it knocks the wind out of you.
Instinctively, your hands reach for his shoulders to hold on to him, and he supports you with his own hands, fitting the curve of your waist, incapable of letting you go now that he has captured you.
Seeing the way you're looking at him, he sighs once more, ducking down to push his forehead onto your chest, closing his eyes as his face nuzzles between your breasts. His arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer to him and ensuring that you can't even consider moving away.
“Forgive me,” he pleads then, his voice cracking just slightly, his lips spelling out the words into your skin. “Forgive me—my love, please. I am just a stupid, jealous fool. I was out there all day, feeling like I was suffocating because you weren’t there. I am—I am so tired of your silence. I can't do it—”
He physically swoons when he feels your hand running through his hair, your fingers tangling in that lock of silver hair you love so much, smoothing it back into place.
The prince lets out a shuddering breath, his forehead still pressed against youe body, leaning into the touch of your fingers as if he’s a man dying of thirst and you are the only well in the desert.
“I can't do it,” he repeats, his voice a muffled, raw rasp against your chest. “I can not live without your gaze upon me. Without your touch, your voice. Don't go back into that silence, p–please. Come back to me...”
You look down at him, your own anger beginning to fray at the edges, replaced by the heavy, intoxicating pull of the devotion he’s offering.
“I am right here, Valarr,” you whisper, your voice finally breaking the seal of that icy silence. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging just enough to force him to look up at you. “I forgive you”
“Thank you,” he breathes out, his voice choked with emotion before claiming your lips with his, and kissing you as if it were the first time he’d been able to kiss you in years away from you. He kisses you again and again and again. “Thank you...”
“I believe you are exaggerating now, darling,” you tell him, struggling to contain a giggle at the way he is clinging to your body, his hands sliding down to palm your arse and squish you closer to him, kissing your flushed cheeks.
But Valarr doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile. Instead, he pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression so hauntingly solemn it makes the breath catch in your throat.
“I am not exaggerating, my heartfire,” he says, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly earnest register. He looks like a man who has just survived a war. “It has been twenty-six hours and fourteen minutes since you last looked at me with anything other than loathing. Twenty-six hours since I last heard you speak my name.”
He leans his forehead against yours affectionately, letting out a sigh of relief now that he has you in his arms again, feeling the pressure of your breasts on his chest.
“Twenty-six hours, Valarr?” you tease, your heart softening completely as you realize the depth of his devotion.
“And fifteen minutes now,” he corrects immediately, his voice devoid of any humor, lowering sheepishly.
A bright, genuine and sweet burst of laughter escapes you, the sound ringing out like silver bells across the terrace and shattering the last of the tension. You lean back against his loving arms, your body shaking with amusement as you realize just how deeply you’ve unraveled your husband.
You feel the heat radiating from his skin as a deep, crimson flush creeps up his neck and floods his cheeks.
Groaning in a mixture of embarrassment and relief, he hides his blushing face in the crook of your neck, seeking refuge from your teasing gaze.
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A Tale Of Forbidden Desires
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The Perils of Betrothal to a Man So Pretty He Must Be Gay
Love and death
How Not to Escape a Prince
The heir within
The crown's fool
The dragon's secret The Dragon's secret part two
Mutual Hatred and Other Courtly Traditions
A love written in secret
Married at first sight modern au drabble part two
The Tetanus Shot That Started It All, crack
The Most Important Fuck in Westerosi History
SERIES:
I THINK I MISS MY WIFE AU:
The first meeting (ITIMMW AU)
I think i miss my wife
I think i miss my wife part 2
Cut Short by Cruel Gods and a Runny Nose
I miss my wife universe: the reader gets hurt edition
"Your HoneyPot Is Bare"
Valarr Targaryen Will Not Tolerate Head-Shaming
No Aelias, your mother is NOT trapped inside that locket
Two Sleeps
BASTARDS, DRAGONS AND ROYALS
Bastards, Dragons and Royals 1
Batards, Dragons and Royals; The Prince and the Dragon Girl 2
Bastards, Dragons and Royals: Intermediate, Part 2.5
Bastards, Dragons And Royals: The Cave 3
Bastards, Dragons And Royals: The Island 4
Bastards, Dragons and Royals: Home 5
Bastards, Dragons and Royals: The Dinner 6
Fan art:
Moonfyre 2n art
Y/N 2
Various characters: valarr, aerion, daeron, maekar, baelor, dunk, lyonel, teleporting in the real world. (DISCONTINUED, i'm sorry i don't enjoy writing these😭)
Them reacting to WAP
Them reacting to godzilla after you told them it was a real story
Them reacting to roller coasters/theme parks
Aerion Targaryen
I think i miss my wife, aerion's version part 2
'Aww So Cute!' 'Get The Fuck Away From Me'
The Belt
HOTD!Reader in akotsk:
HOTD!Reader is a DILF fucker
Aerion and silverwing
Brownhairphobic reader
In the works:
Bastards, dragons and royals part seven
Maekarling reader is kidnapped and raised as a blackfyre
Fourth valyrian dragonriding family
Valarr's neglected wife isekai
time travel au daughter of jaehaerys and alysanne ends up in akotsk
baelor/maekar/daeron i think i miss my wife au
aerion 'itimmw' first meeting
bdr Bastard!Reader alternate ending where she runs away forever but valarr gives up everything for her and follows her
'ITIMMW' AU baelor catching valarr and yn in the library
ITIMMW!Valarr waking up in the body of BDR!Valarr
valarr x dreamer/dreamwalker reader
Jacaerys i think i miss my wife version
Jacaerys x reader, reader coming back after being kidnapped from the greens
