#sub valarr

Your young prince was always strong in the face of adversity.

When beaten, he would put on a brave mask and smile, congratulating his opponent with flattering words as if his middle was not throbbing in pain.

Then he would look to the side and see his father. Baelor would give him the usual royal nod — he wasn't disappointed, but it always made his son feel so.

Truths such as these always come out whispering like the bed covers.

The temporary chambers you had been placed in were nearly the grandest Ashford had to offer, but they paled in comparison to the smallest rooms in Maegor's Holdfast.

Petrichor filled the bedchamber, the sound of dripping beginning to dwindle.

The cotton of your shift crinkled, your husband laying his head there, upon your chest.

"I feel like a fool." Valarr murmured against your breast, his naked body curled around yours, exposed yet ashamed. "I cannot even stay on my horse when faced with the polished loyalists father chooses."

A soft sigh left you. "Valarr-"

"I know what you are going to say." He cut off, his voice muffled and nasally as he squished his face against your bicep, trying desperately to disappear.

It was a sad thing, hearing your confident and lively husband so torn up over a mere loss during a tilt. It made you question if there was something deeper than just melancholy over the lists.

The prince knew not of your thoughts, only of his sorrows. "Please, wife, do not pity me so sweetly. It only makes me more ashamed of my exchange." He whispered.

Lids fluttered as you opened your tired eyes, turning onto your side to face him.

"My love, is something more the matter?" The words came out carefully — not because you feared anger… but tears — whispered as you leaned your head against his, the tips of your noses touching so intimately that you could feel his breath touching your upper lip.

That made his own tremble. It seemed you had broken the dam, and now the flood would come.

Tears gathered in his eyes, the one violet and one brown glassy and wet in an instant, coating his lashes and he let out a quiet, struggled sob.

"H-how…" He stuttered, voice cracking. The beautiful mismatched irises were taken from your view at that, your husband squeezing his eyes shut in unmitigated humiliation.

It was not uncommon for him to cry in front of you; he was not one to bottle his emotions when he had someone as accepting as you.

But the topic which evoked tonight's feelings was lifelong, and undignified.

"Oh, my darling." You whispered, rubbing his strong back slowly, giving him such affection that in this moment, he felt undeserving of.

The prince sat up. Though he had his back to you, you could hear his shoulder-shuddering sobs.

He had moved to conceal himself.

His face was scrunched unattractively, his nostrils flared, his mouth dripping with uncontrolled spit as the salty trails betrayed him, flowing a treacherous path all the way down his neck.

"How am I ever supposed to sit the throne when I can barely sit a pony's buck?" He bawled, voice weak; like a child's.

There was a deluge on his chin, a mixture of snot, tears, and saliva from his mania. Gods, he felt so weak. So completely fragile.

What would he do if an enemy were to burst in right this moment? Cower behind you and whimper?

"You will be the best of kings."

He shook his head.

The deep-set pout on your face only cemented itself, his words and wails making you wish to cry yourself. Yet there was another thought... you pushed it down.

You stood on your knees behind him, draped your arms over his shoulders, and kissed the back of his head.

His breath began to quicken.

"Husband, breathe." You pleaded softly, coercing him with warm words and the comforting weight of your arms.

The Young Prince raised his big hands to grip yours, seeking a hold on your body to keep him on the ground. He let out a few more shaking blubbers, then sniffled.

A gentle kiss was pressed against the side of his head, then you laid yours on his shoulder for a moment before getting out of the way.

"Lie back."

The prince nodded — still trying to stop tears from gathering in his eyes. He obeyed and lay back, mismatched irises looking up at you desperately, a hand finding your knee to have something to hold.

His lip quivered once again.

It would be a lie to say that the sight of him, with a wet, glistening face, and such beautiful eyes reddened with grief did not make you wet.

"Why do you cry, Valarr?" You murmured softly as you swung a leg over him, situating yourself onto your favourite seat.

A crack came from his throat, as if he would speak but could not. The air was thick; he was shocked at his wife's brazen action, and stayed completely still.

"My handsome prince believes himself unworthy." You murmured disapprovingly, taking a hold of his strong forearms, placing his hands on your hips.

"What foolishness." The tone of your voice was soft and tender, yet lilted in a way that made him question your intentions.

His eyes were wide and blinking, sniffling as he spoke. "What-"

The shush was prompt, just as firm as the grip you had on the hem of your chemise to pull it over your head.

Then you were exposed, as naked as he was, breasts exposed and flesh covered in goosebumps from the breeze. You cared not.

You dived in for a deep kiss, gods, you could taste the salt of his tears. Your tongue brushed his, just as you guided his hand to cup a breast, and the other to the patch of hair leading to your desire. Then cupped his cheeks.

The prince was still befuddled, trapped in a mixture of dejection, yet growing want. How did you wish to fuck him when you had just seen his nose drip all the way down his neck?

No matter.

He kissed back with equal fervour, slowly delighting in the touch as he gave your tit a gentle squeeze, then let that hand drift to your waist, his other dipping between your folds to gather arousal — there was so very much, and circle it around your pearl.

The grip that was suddenly on his wrist made it clear that you were going to be dominating the act tonight, as you made him grope your breast.

It was often that you did this, guided him how you wished, bent his will to yours. Your husband enjoyed it; it was a break from having to be the controlled, poised prince he always had to be.

And he always obeyed. He was such a good boy.

There was a thin string of spit attached to both of your mouths when you left the kiss, but it did not long survive as you bit at his jaw, rolling your hips against both his hand and hardened cock, which had appeared immediately and was poking your thigh.

"Valarr, you have made me wicked." You said breathily — feigning shame at your heat for his sadness, batting his hand away from between your legs in favour of his blue-veined cock. You sank down on it all at once, allowing a rough moan to leave you. It was always like being impaled, to take him.

The poor prince was so overwhelmed with emotion and pleasure all of a sudden, whimpering when you took him inside your warm, pulsing cunt.

"My darling, be still, please." He begged, wrapping his arms around your waist to embrace you in the most intimate of ways.

Lazy, heaving breaths left you, despite not having done any work just yet. You decided to allow him this, to simply bask in the adoration of the moment, the gentle hold in firelight.

Careful fingers caressed his cheek, scratching his nape simultaneously as you contented yourself with being so full of his needy cock. The stripe of silver in his hair had the most of your attention; it was so ethereal, and the most sensitive part of your husband's scalp.

"Alright?" You whispered.

As much as you adored the sight of his wet face, you did not wish him to feel lost in the sensations.

He nodded swiftly, nostrils flaring as he tried to stop his nose dripping. "Perfect."

You wiped it away with the back of your hand, and began to roll your hips slowly. A firm hand pressed against his chest, then both pushed to pin him against the bed.

You took your own pleasures from the man beneath you, moving in the way which stimulated you, performing not, only being true to yourself, as you ever were in bed.

This captivating sight brought tears to Valarr's eyes once again. His wife atop him, her face so gorgeously scrunched in pleasure, as even her own hand took over his job of stroking her bud; it had him on the edge of overstimulation within minutes.

Meanwhile, you were only forcing the head of him to pound against the spot inside of you, drawing out your indulgence as if you were a goddess in complete control: to him, you were.

"Please.." He moaned softly, tears clouding his eyes, a mix of hedonism and overwhelm. "Love, you must finish." He begged, surely marking your waist with his iron grip.

There was no humiliation like peaking without you doing the same, and the wonderful man you called your husband could not handle anymore humiliation.

With one unexpected — almost abusive — upwards thrust of his hips, the heat inside of you snapped; your hips went erratic and your cunt was spasming around Valarr's quivering length. The loud, unabashed moan from your lips combined with the sight of you drove him to his end.

He came much, and loudly, a groan that tapered off into a whine escaping him. The creamy evidence of his gratification filled and heated your womb to the point that it began dripping out instantly, a white ring gathered at the base of him.

After was silence, just quick chests and the tight grip he had on your middle as he pulled you down so your chests were flush. His lips kissed your scalp, one large hand cupping the back of your head.

He cleaned you quickly — with a mission to treat you as correctly as he possible could, his endeavour since before even meeting you.

Then, you laid together, limbs intertwined, foreheads pressed against one another's.

"I did not mean to bury your feelings in favour of my desires." You said softly, your thumb brushing his under eyes as they began to swell from his earlier outbursts.

"You did not." He replied earnestly, shutting his lids and tilting his head to press a kiss to your palm, before letting it go limp against the pillow once again.

"I meant what I said, sweetling. You will be a great king." You affirmed with a mirroring kiss to his cheek.

"As long as you are by my side." He murmured quietly, rubbing your back in slow circles to comfort himself with the indolent rhythm.

A leisurely silence came over the chamber after that, the crack of the hearth was the only sound around. That and the rustle of the marriage sheets.

There was no need to speak of his crying, for it was already solved in his mind. You had seen him that open, even more so than ever before, yet welcomed his despair to morph it into content once again.

There was need to speak of your arousal, however. Your husband loved nothing more than finding fresh ways to entice you.

"My tears made you very wet." He said plainly, as he did everything, like a maester explaining fucking to two virgins on their wedding night.

An amused huff left you, deciding that you were alright with being as brash as you had presented yourself as. "They did." You whispered back, pressing a kiss to his poor jaw which you had earlier bitten.

He sighed deeply, drawing you even closer to him with his strong arm. "I shall let all of my emotions hang, then. I will never try to bottle them, so long as I may be inside of you when I talk about them."

A hearty chuckle left you, your chest moving with the force of it. "I am glad."

Valarr smiled.

The Young Prince was a complex man. He was kind, dutiful, true, and chivalrous. A rarity today.

He accepted you just as you were, and even worshipped you for it.

How thankful you were for your pretty husband, his glistening tears, and his longsword of a cock.

Valarr Targaryen m.list ♖

i picked this divider and header image bc orchids look like vaginas

hi this is kinda rushed but it's been plaguing my mind

i hope you enjoyed!!

if you have any requests or just wanna talk my inbox is open <3

House Targaryen taglist

and the even worse habit of talking too much whenever he tried to prove he wasn’t affected by you… even though he absolutely was.

that night, in an almost-empty corridor of the castle, you were about to leave when he caught up to you with quick, irritated steps, clearly still bothered by something you’d said at dinner.

“you shouldn’t speak like that in front of the council,” valarr said, breath uneven, eyes sharp. “you could get yourself in trouble, you could—”

“seven hells, valarr,” you cut him off without slowing down. “you’re a prince, not my septa. spare me the lecture.”

he froze.

and then that soft arrogance ,so very him, returned.

“i’m only saying you should behave with a bit more… consideration. you can’t just—”

you spun on your heels so quickly he almost bumped into you.

valarr opened his mouth to continue scolding you, but he never got the chance.

your hand rose.

your fingers slipped under his chin.

your palm closed around his jaw with a precision that was insultingly firm.

valarr went utterly still, shocked, caught by a gesture he had not expected at all.

“are you going to keep talking badly about me?” you asked, your voice calm in a way that felt almost dangerous. “or are you going to think before you say the next stupid thing?”

valarr swallowed. hard.

his lips parted, not to answer, but because your grip had stolen his breath.

you were shorter, but the way you held him made him feel as if you’d seized complete control of him. his eyes, went dark and bright all at once.

“i’m not…” he tried to say.

“shhh,” you silenced him, tightening your grip just a little. “i asked you to think.”

that closeness destroyed him.

your breath brushing his mouth, your eyes locked on his—sexual tension swirling between you like a private wildfire.

valarr tried to gather what was left of his dignity.

“you can’t… just… take hold of me like that,” he said, though his voice trembled embarrassingly. “i’m the prince of—”

“i don’t care what you are,” you murmured. “i know what you do. you get annoyed, you scold me, you pretend my words don’t get to you… when really, you love being challenged.”

something in him broke open. his breathing deepened.

his pupils dilated.

“i don’t…” he stammered.

you leaned in.

he did too—unconsciously.

“i understand you getting angry with me, valarr,” you whispered, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw, warm and claiming. “but don’t you dare raise your voice at me like you don’t know exactly who’s pulling the strings between us.”

his lips parted further, as if he were about to confess something he would die before admitting.

“no— i don’t— you’re not…” he tried weakly.

you tilted his face toward you with delicious, effortless control.

“sweetheart,” you murmured, brushing his mouth without kissing him, “you’re talking too much. again.”

valarr let out a low sound, a soft, broken moan of frustration, desire, and surrender.

his pride melted under your fingers.

“then… what… what do you want me to say?” he breathed.

your smile was slow, victorious.

“i want you to say ‘yes, my lady’… and to think before you say the next stupid thing.”

the prince closed his eyes, undone and burning at once, your fingers still holding his chin, guiding him, owning him without force, just intention.

when he opened them again, he was looking at you like you were a delicious danger he had no wish to escape.

“yes… my lady,” he whispered at last, voice soft and broken, fully surrendered.

you released his chin with a slow, sensual glide that left his skin warm beneath your touch.

valarr stood there, breathing faster, staring at your lips like he wanted to commit a sin.

and you… you simply smiled.

The Young Prince was a man before he was ever a boy.

The moment he gained consciousness the weight of his inheritance was saddled upon his shoulders without his leave.

But it was plainly his; his to deal with, his to be thankful for.

He treats his marriage with you the same.

The betrothal was quick — he's the heir to the heir, he needs a wife as soon as possible — and lacked true connection.

He didn't like to pester you with his presence, he figured you were uncomfortable enough being away from home, let alone awkwardly walking the gardens with your betrothed. Though he admired you silently, walked behind you in the corridors, watched from across the throne room and allowed himself a few stares at meal times.

The wedding day was a whirlwind, but not lacking tenderness. He said his vows and pecked your lips loyally— he even held your waist!

The bedchamber was a feat in itself. Thankfully, after a very passionate beseeching from Valarr, the king and his father decided there was no need for a maester in the room.

The prince was a dutiful one, he would do what must be done.

You shook as your maids took your hair down, and almost jumped when the door clicked shut. He had appeared right behind you.

"I wish not to frighten you." He spoke quietly, meeting your gaze in the mirror as he chanced to place his hands on your shoulders.

"You do not." You replied lowly.

He unlaced your dress and let it fall along with his clothes, and met you with a deep, fumbling kiss.

He was as much a maiden as you were this eve.

The intimacy was — uncomfortable in the beginning — slow and fumbling, but grew hot in its last moments.

After, he drew you into his arms, breathing heavily, and kissed your head.

What a match this turned out to be.

Valarr was a most attentive husband. It was often that you found little gifts on your pillow, like some new silken hair ribbons or a dainty bracelet.

He enjoyed spoiling you, but above all his language of love was quality time. He adored coming back to your shared chambers after a long day, eating a meal and chatting, reading, or simply lying about together.

Often you would sit on his lap as you readied for bed, your polished hairbrush in his large hand, the prince carefully smoothing and separating each strand. Once he finished, he would wrap his arms around your waist and assail your neck with kisses until you giggled.

You found yourself watching him often, and had his mannerisms, routine, and habits memorised.

Each morn he rose to train, then bathed, broke his fast with — an egg, a fatty slice of pork, toasted buttered bread — you, and attended council. Then he would stroll about with his father politicking, go for a peaceful walk of his own, and return to your chambers.

On his own promenade, he brought a small book and a sneaking, messy little bottle of ink. He hid on a discreet wall at the very cusp of the gardens, and traced the plants, often pressing them into his sketch book next to his lacklustre drawings.

You thought it endearing.

His face was a very expressive thing, too. A clench of the jaw meant that he was holding his tongue. A wrinkle of the nose was an attempt not to cry.

The interlacing of his fingers was often anxious, but it varied. In the presence of his father it was simply relation; Baelor often fiddled with either a coin, ring, or his own fingers, and your husband tended to do the same. It was sweet, how much he mirrored his sire.

It was clear to any how much he wished to make him proud.

The bedroom was a place you found yourself far more frequent and passionate than you had anticipated before marriage.

Valarr proved to be a perceptive lover; as he learned to please you he did not stunt, but endeavoured to do more and more until he had mastered your body. A twist of the nipple, a bite on the hip, a vibrating moan against your hot cunt…

As much as you enjoyed his eves of devotion, you preferred it most when he was frustrated.

He was most attractive when angry and bottling it, his veiny hands balled into fists.

The moment he spotted you — himself pent up after a frustrating council —, he bent you over the nearest surface, spanked and fucked you so hard that it was a miracle you had not lost consciousness. He could not help it, he craved to be inside of you with each moment that he was not.

After, he was the most apologetic man alive, embracing you and begging your pardon as he rubbed your back.

An occurrence as common as the aforementioned was your husband coming back tired, drained, and unable to put in the work. Though he was exhausted, his drive never dulled— it was not his fault, you were there, stalking about the chamber and making him think the most obscene of thoughts.

You would ride him slowly. How he loved the picture of you atop him— dare he say it was his favourite position.

Perhaps after you would suck his cock, but most certainly he would tug you by the thighs to sit on his face. That was his favourite way to unwind, tasting you. He was also partial to being commanded. There was something about the threatening tone of your voice when you tugged at his hair that made him hard whenever he thought of it.

In the afterglow you always embraced, front to front — Valarr disliked not being able to look into your "transfixing gaze " — though the way varied.

One thing about him is that he is desperate for your touch. He seeks it for its calming qualities, its gentle comfort, and its tolerant love.

Sometimes it was your head on his chest. The Young Prince always grinned at that one, it made him feel like he protected you. He enjoyed feeling useful.

Sometimes it was the opposite, his face nuzzled against the soft flesh of your breast, inhaling the scent of your bath oil as your gentle fingers rubbed the sensitive scalp beneath his silver streak. In that hold he felt safe and weightless, the pressure of the throne alleviated for a brief moment.

He did not need to be Prince Valarr, the future king, the son of the great Baelor Breakspear; but simply Valarr. The man who liked to sketch and appreciate a flower's form.

At the end of each night when candles were blown out, the embrace still did not cease

Valarr slept deeply in your arms, held you tightly, and dreamed silently.

Marriage with your sweet prince was peace.

Valarr Targaryen m.list ♖

i've never rlly written headcanons before, so forgive if it's not the right format. i js can't write in bullet points idk. also not proofread might be insane.

i hope this was what you were envisioning anon! i really enjoyed writing it. he's so cute.

if you have any requests or js wanna thirst pls hit my inbox <3

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Consciousness found you like a sharp slap in the face.

Your shared bed was empty, your figure unembraced. Your husband had gone to train.

Stupid Valarr and his "duty".

Did he not realise he had other duties, such as filling you with children? Duties that allowed him to stay in bed after the break of dawn?

You supposed it was not worth your thought. You would get your revenge. Just as soon as you would catch up on the sleep he deprived you of last eve.

Valarr practically skipped back into your chambers after training, a pep in his step after aiding his brother with a pesky move that had been troubling him for weeks.

There was a grin on his face as he reached for the handle of the rooms' door, clumsily pushing it open. It was shut just as quick, and he strolled over to the bed.

The covers had you swaddled, curled up beautifully as your messy hair splayed itself across your face. Your husband huffed fondly, and reached out to tuck the hair behind your ears.

"Wake up, my love." He murmured softly, getting a groan in return.

"Fuck off." You muttered into the pillow.

The prince chuckled at that. Everything was like water off a duck's back with him when he was in a mood like this; nothing could spoil his mood.

"Sweetling, council is in an hour. We must appear in court before I go." He took a seat on the edge of the bed.

Perfect.

"Hold me." You said, voice far more tender than before.

That made your husband's expression even more cheerful. There was a quick clunk of his boots against the stone as he kicked them off, and then he sat up against the headboard, and scooped you closer.

He smelled of sweat and leather. This would not be an easy morning for him.

Slowly — slyly — you laid your head in his lap, and began to rub your cheek against his thighs and groin, under the guise of innocence, and closeness.

The ever-deft fingers that the prince possessed found themselves massaging at your scalp, staring down at you with a gentle, incongruous gaze. What a sweet morning this was.

The aglet of his breeches was caught between your teeth before he could realise, tugging the bow free just as quickly.

"You act honourable." This tone was clearly a teasing one.

"Wife..?" His hand stilled in your hair, cautious of your intentions.

Your sneaking fingers found his laces swiftly, beginning to undo them. "And yet, you leave me here in the morn. All alone, and unloved."

It seemed Valarr forgot about how exposed he was on the edge of being and naively focused on your words.

"I did not mean to leave you lonely. I had-"

"Duties." You cut him off swiftly, pulling the flap of his breeches out of the way so you might gaze upon his cock.

Half hard. Hm.

The prince made a sound of protest, lowering a hand to cover himself. It was promptly smacked out of the way, as you let the sheets fall, revealing your naked, evil body.

Your husband's mouth opened just slightly. Your hands gripped his waistband and pulled his breeches down past his thighs.

Then, you gripped him tightly, stroking him slow to get him fully hard. It barely took one up and down motion to do that, for the sight of your beautiful breasts always got it standing at full attention.

His breath shook as he looked down at you, tensing his body in anticipation. He truly never knew what to expect with you. It was one of the things he loved most about you.

The tip of your tongue reached out to lick his tip. So sweet and pink. Gods, his cock was beautiful.

It began with a trail of silver from around and below his navel that abruptly cut off at his mons, and transformed into a thick yet carefully kept covering of black hair. His shaft was long, but its thickness was the main event. He had girth that split your insides apart, and such pronounced blue veins that you could feel them against your walls even now.

That gorgeous cock needed sucking. It pulsed. It was rewarded by the sweet feeling of your lips stretching around it, and your tongue lapping at its sensitive veins.

Valarr let out a low moan, and gripped your hair tightly — just as he knew your liked — while his other hand fisted the white marital sheets.

The sucks which you attended him with were slow and controlled, practiced and aimed for peak pleasure. They had your famously expressive husband whimpering weakly after a mere minute.

"Yes, yes- Like that." He stumbled over his words, blissed out already.

It was difficult to stay angry with him when he made such adorable sounds, but you kept your eyes on the prize regardless.

Your head began to bob quickly, alternating between sucking his tip with aggressive vigour and licking the bulging blue vein on the underside of his upwards-curved length.

Valarr was gasping for breath at this point — he was still so easy to finish, having only lost his innocence with you four moons prior — and on the edge of release.

He fisted your hair roughly, and tugged in time with his exaggerated moan.

"Oh- My love, I will not last-"

A conniving hand reached for his balls, rolling one in its palm as its fingers caressed the other. Your efforts redoubled, tasting his salty precum, and speeding up.

He whined and gasped, and with his inability to hold back, spilled hot seed onto your eager tongue with a loud moan that trailed off into a caged whimper.

The adorable, guilty, and mismatched gaze of your husband found your wily one, noting how you smiled when you released him with a pop.

The prince did not like to spend in your mouth, thinking it disrespectful despite your constant expression of enjoyment.

He let go of the sheets and cupped your face, cleaning the spit and seed from your chin with the corner of the covers.

The breath that left him was heavy and hot, unable to get words out, only able to grin down at you lovingly.

His hand in your hair released your locks, and moved to rub your back.

Fool.

Now, in his time of rest, it was your time of revenge.

His endowment was still like a rock, and you gripped it firmly once again, brushing your thumb over the wet, ruddy tip.

Valarr had the audacity to make a sound of discomfort.

Did he really think that he would receive no punishment after allowing you to wake all by your lonesome?

"Darling-" He said with breathy urgency, his voice strangled.

Then you sealed your lips over his cock once again. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.

His hand pulled your hair roughly, attempting to drag you up.

What was this torture?

You sucked with painful vigour, making his eyes drip into your tresses.

"Stop, please-" He whined, hips bucking, trying to escape but only delighting their attacker even more.

When your hand once again found his stones, he let out a quiet sob and began to babble, his hand in your hair gone limp as he did nothing but take what was forced upon him.

Whimpers and whines intersected sobs in a way which made them impossible to differentiate, formed from the overwhelm you forced upon him.

There was a different kind of arousal that came with revenge, one that slicked your cunt just as his sounds did.

This was what he deserved, you reminded yourself, and hollowed your cheeks to suck even harder.

The Young Prince let out a shattering cry, under the weight of agony and ecstasy, sweating more than he did in training.

Then he exploded.

Without warning or notion, he shot boiling, sticky cum down your throat, and whimpered pathetically, at how excruciating yet assuaging it was.

You released his member as it quickly grew flaccid from such attentive abuse, and straightened up, a wide grin upon your face.

The prince had a deluge of tears and drool on his face, his glassy incongruous gaze looking at you like a babe would its mother, desperate for comfort.

You could not help but open your arms. "Come here, my dear husband." Cooed lovingly.

His lip quivered, and he buried his face against your bare breasts, wrapping his arms around you tightly as he sniffled.

"Why..?"

"You left me this morrow." You quipped back coldly.

The prince gazed up at you with betrayed, guilty eyes, the violet and brown welling once again.

The soppy sight killed you; you shook your head. "No, I am not angry, my sweet." Was offered to the puppy-dog-eyed thing with a light smile.

"I thought you might enjoy it." You pet his hairline gently. "Too much?"

Valarr sniffled, and pressed his cheek against your warm tit. "Almost." He said weakly. "I think I just… I need a few moments."

You guided him to lie on his side along with you, and laid a leg over his, getting close as can be.

A gentle hand found your husband's hair, scratching along his silver patch to comfort him. His snivels ceased after a minute or two.

The morning air filled the rooms, mixed with coastal sea salt and sex.

Your husband finally spoke, almost in a whisper against the stiff peak of your nipple.

"I very much liked that." He said meekly, looking up through his eyelashes to meet your caring eyes.

You smiled. "I am glad."

He nodded in turn, and held you tighter.

Marriage was still something that the prince was getting used to. He was so in love, and diving into the deep end of the world of pleasure.

Overwhelm was something he often felt, but never as much as he had this morn.

He supposed he learned two things from it.

He must often step out of his comfort zone if he ever wishes to grow.

He must not anger his wife.

Your sweet, dutiful husband adored you, so much that he delighted in your vicious punishments.

If that is not love, then I do not know what is.

Valarr Targaryen m.list ♖

i hope you enjoyed this!! idk why i have such a thing for overstimming poor valarr lol

also yet another vagina flower header, couldn't resist

if u have any requests or js wanna thirst hit my inbox xx

House Targaryen taglist

there were no easy smiles in you, no polite softness: you carried a blade’s edge in your gaze, a cruel and knowing spark that assessed him with the precision of someone who already understands exactly how far a man can be broken, someone who still chooses to tease him closer. and valarr, despite knowing the danger, despite feeling it cling to him like perfume, walked toward you anyway not with the authority of the heir to dragonstone, but with the silent obedience of a man who has already accepted that the fall will hurt and that he wants it more than he wants his own dignity.

when he finally stood close enough to speak, you did not bother offering him any greeting; you simply lifted the cup you had taken from a servant without hurry, let the wine wet your lips with a studied slowness, and kept your focus elsewhere as if his presence were nothing more than an inconvenient decoration you refused to acknowledge. that deliberate indifference cut deeper than any insult, sending a shiver down his spine; no one had ever dared treat him that way, and yet no one had ever managed to excite him so completely without laying a single finger on him.

“my lady…” he began, voice softer than he intended.

you didn’t let him finish. you tilted your head slightly, and with a flick of your hand and a whisper sharp enough to slice, you stopped him cold.

“don’t speak if you don’t have anything worth my time, valarr,” you said, without smiling, without offering even the smallest trace of warmth. “it’s pathetic enough that you follow me around the hall like a dog that hasn’t been trained.”

the prince exhaled slowly, feeling his blood swirl somewhere between shame, desire, and a submission he hadn’t known he could feel. he did not step back. he forced himself to hold your gaze even though it burned.

“i’m not following you,” he replied, tension simmering beneath each word. “i’m observing.”

“even worse,” you murmured, moving a step closer without giving him space to breathe, catching his chin between your fingers with a deceptive gentleness, “men who observe too much tend to shatter the moment i give them attention. and i don’t have the patience to repair broken toys.”

you didn’t say it provocatively; you said it clinically, like someone who had already discarded others who tried to match you. valarr felt a deeper tremor then, a dark wave of lust that made his fingers twitch at his sides to keep from reaching for you. your closeness was a curse, a spell, a promise of something forbidden and inevitable.

“i’m not easy to break,” he whispered, though the need in his breath betrayed him.

“oh, prince…” you murmured, leaning in until your lips hovered over his without touching, letting your warm breath ghost across his skin like a caress he hadn’t earned, “you have no idea how fragile you are when someone looks at you like they want you. and the worst part is you like feeling that way. you like being on the edge.”

your fingers slid from his chin down to his neck, tracing a slow, intimate path along his chest too public to be innocent, too cruel to be affectionate. valarr clenched his jaw as your hand reached his waist, but he did not move away. he couldn’t.

“i like it when you do that,” he admitted quietly, the words trembling. “when you talk to me like—”

“like you belong to me,” you finished, not missing a beat. “you don’t, valarr. you won’t. but i enjoy watching you believe you could if you begged hard enough.”

a soft, broken sound escaped him, and your lips curled with dark satisfaction. you pushed him against an ornate column not harshly, but decisively leaving him no room to resist, and valarr obeyed instinctively, letting you cage him between your body and the cold stone. your knee rose slowly, deliberately, slipping between his legs and brushing with too-perfect precision against the place where he already ached.

“tell me, prince…” you whispered, your lips brushing his ear without kissing, “how long have you imagined me like this? how many nights have you touched yourself thinking about sliding your fingers between my legs or about me riding your hips until you beg for mercy?”

valarr’s breath broke against your throat, a low, helpless sound spilling from him.

“don’t deny it,” you continued, dragging a single nail down the line of his abdomen, almost reaching where he was throbbing. “not tonight.”

“all of them,” he confessed, barely breathing. “every night.”

“i thought so.”

you released him abruptly, letting the sudden loss of your body hit him harder than any blow. he inhaled sharply, desperate, drifting forward as if pulled by gravity, but you placed your hand firmly on his chest and held him in place with ease.

“i want to see you like this longer,” you said, watching the tremor in his posture. “i want you to keep feeling like you could have me if you stepped closer… but knowing you won’t.”

“let me do something,” he whispered, voice burning. “anything.”

“not yet,” you replied, tilting your head with a softness that contrasted cruelly with your eyes, “you haven’t earned the right to put your hands on me. or your mouth. much less… your body.”

he swallowed hard, desperation hollowing him out, leaving him entirely in your hands.

“then tell me how,” he murmured, pride gone. “tell me and i’ll do it.”

you leaned in, your lips ghosting over his once more, close enough for him to taste your smile.

“i’m not going to fuck you tonight, valarr,” you whispered. “i’m going to leave you like this: hard, hungry, trembling over a woman who has no intention of giving you anything until you break for me completely.”

your fingers brushed his cheek—softly, painfully gently.

“if i feel like it… i’ll come find you later. and when i do, you’ll come crawling. because i already have you.”

you walked away slowly, sensually, devastatingly, leaving the prince breathless against the stone, his body burning, his mind unraveling, knowing you had pulled him to the edge and would keep him there as long as you pleased.