tel-a-tale

husband!valarr targaryen x f!reader

Summary: Your husband spends a lazy morning indulging in the finer things, namely: you.

WC: 3.5k

Warnings: 18+/NSFW/MDNI!, smut, fr y'all this is some nasty shit, established relationship, fluff, angst in the final hour, mentions of grief/death/spouse loss, masturbation (f! only), oral sex (f!receiving), fingering (f!receiving AYYYYYYYY), overstimulation, dom/sub dynamics if you squint, finger sucking from both of these freaks, service top!valarr (oh ty lord), also lwk switch!valarr, unprotected p-in-v sex, reader being a pillow princess, the big westerosi 'rona is implied. not beta'd idgaf. lmk if i missed any and i'll update!

Author's Note: baby's first fic, probably a nothing burger but i would genuinely give everything to throw it back on 209 valarr like wow girl i'm so bored let's go get vaccinated and make out. likes, reblogs, and comments are greatly appreciated! ty for reading! also s/o to @priestboy for the divider!!!!

A steady drip of drool came out of his mouth, loud, obnoxious snores sounding into the air. Three freckles packed together on the left curve of his nose, a flare of his nostrils as he slept. His fringe was askew across his forehead, the clump of hair shifted only to one side. You could not help yourself from reaching your thumb out and tugging down the center of his bottom lip, plush and pink. 

You could see every crease in it, and pulled it down even further to see his gums. You traced the point where his white tooth met pink, wet and pliant. He was even pretty there, too. He stirred slightly at that, but you pulled back, your hand returning to his cheek. He made a harrumping sound, tawny eyebrows pulled together, annoyance and tiredness painted on his features.  

“What are you doing?” Valarr murmured through the fog of sleep, burying his face into your neck, willowy arms wrapping around you. 

“Nothing,” you spoke into his hair, fingers twirling the ends. You dug your nose into his scalp, wanting to remember the lilac notes in it. 

He mumbled some protests, but you couldn’t  make any sense of it. Jumbled and out of place vowels as he squeezed you, as if to drain the ache from his bones by pressing you into him. You stretched, moving to sit up, but he only held you tighter with an indignant huff, seeming to hope that the skin would give way to his will.

Your little laugh made the white streak in his hair sprig up with flight. 

“Are you trying to merge your skin with mine?” 

He scoffed, pressing a peck to your pulse. “Yes. I would be successful, were my lady wife not to fight me.”

“And yet I lay here limp.”

“Your will is spiritual. And forged of iron,” he sighed. Silence fell between them, and you traced the muscled line of his arm. Eyes cast up to his, a tad bit guilty. 

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

“Ah, cease that. I never get to see you like this. Your hair all muffed up. Drool dried on your chin,” he swooned, smoothing his hand up and down the column of your throat, love in his eyes.

“That soaked pillow is your doing, not mine,” you rebuffed, giving a small bite to his earlobe. He feigned annoyance, a sour glare cast your way.

“And who will believe you? Your word against a prince’s….” he tsked, nudging your nose with the tip of his. 

“Do I get a trial at the very least?” you whispered, lips grazing the corner of his mouth. 

“No,” Valarr affirmed, giving you a soft kiss. He moved to your cheek, then your forehead, taking his time. Your jaw, your eyelid. Right next to your ear. “Trials are not granted for acts of treason.”

You gave him an admittedly weak scowl, flopping back against the pillow, hair strewn around the crown of your head. 

His hands slowly slipped from your back to your waist, small, tentative touches down to the back of your thighs. His hands stilled on your hips and he restrained the urge to pinch the fat where your legs met your ass. He would dream of nothing but greedy fingers soothing the sting, rubbing circles into the flesh he had rendered you into nothing but little mewls as he licked into your mouth. 

“What do you desire this morning?” he whispered into the shell of your ear. A kiss on it to leave a piece of himself with you before he left the bed. 

Your head swam with possibilities, but indignance came first at his assessment of your wanting. “And when exactly did I say I desired anything?” you protested, and yet, you smiled through the whole statement.

He sat up, beautiful hair in three different directions. The golden light from the open balcony formed a ring of light around him. One eye lit up in a mosaic of cerulean and cyan, the other with brown. You couldn’t decide which one you loved most. He let out a chortle at your expression and started to smile, and at that, you became entirely too preoccupied with the way the creases around his eyes looked. 

“You get…” Valarr waved around a hand, trying to summon the right phrase. “This look. As if you wish to eat me alive. That is how I know you want something. To use your poor husband’s body as a tool for thoughtless pleasure,” he added with a touch of mirth.

Your cheeks burned at his comment, half a mind to bury your face in the pillows and die, but he simply tapped your cheek and brought your hand to his lips, kissing each fingertip for every time you would not meet his eyes. 

“It is not an awful thing, wife. I imagine our marital bed would not be as well-used as it is were I having to guess if you wanted me,” he shrugged, bowing his head to yours. “Now, tell me what it is and I will do my best to give it to you. It is not as if I suffer in doing so. Rather the opposite.”

You looked into his eyes, earnest and brimming with affection. You swiftly nodded, a shy smile on your lips. 

“Your fingers, for now. Then perhaps more as well.” 

He took your order, standing tall and naked from the bed. He strode over to the washbasin, taking his time to thoroughly scrub his hands clean, and then what was left of his and your release from the night prior off of his groin. 

You could not free your eyes from him, the chestnut curls that grew above one of your favorite parts of him, long and heavy against the inside of his thigh as he moved a wet cloth along himself. Your mouth watered, fingers slowly moving down under the bedsheets to soothe the ache between your legs at the sight of him. You could not bear to wait until he was done. His meticulous routine always took some time, and patience was not an esteemed virtue of yours.

Strong, tanned thighs from the fortnights they had stationed away at Summerhall, more freckles dotting his skin by the day. You traced your eyes up his body, the lean muscles in his back stretching as he applied perfumed soaps and picked at a spot on his leg. Sinew against skin, stronger and bigger than he had ever been. 

He had been training in the courtyards of Summerhall before they had returned to Dragonstone, sword clashing and countering every attack the master-at-arms threw his way. You would have every door into the castle locked if it kept him outside, tanned and panting, gleams of sweat on his brow, arms straining, growing. Thighs that strained against his trousers, bracketing yours at night when he held you. Your head grew heavy, slumping against the pillow, open-mouthed as you drank him in. 

A few moans threatened to slip past your throat, but you quickly bit down on your bottom lip, trying with all your might to not reveal yourself. He would tease you endlessly, drag you from the covers and down to the end of the bed, drawing out every sound you prayed the guards posted outside their door would not hear. You stopped the pace of your fingers when he wiped his hands on the hand linens the servants had not yet changed from yesterday night. You willed your hands at your side, shifting the bed covers up to your chin. 

He turned around, unhurried paces across the large room. He peeked out to the large balcony that supplemented the bed chambers, gilded beams of sunlight coming dancing off his rich skin. He strode over the railing looking over the sea, the smell of salt crisp in the air. A deep sigh broke from his lips, squinting as he gazed out at the horizon.

You cleared your throat. 

“You’ve a wife to attend to, Your Grace.”

His chest shook with a small laugh, lips taut to one side of his mouth as he cast a look at you. 

“My cruelty is unparalleled,” he remarked, smiling and throwing your covers aside. The morning was warm, but the air chilled you and he quickly soothed your body with the warmth of his. You thought it better to pretend you did not feel him stirring against your leg. 

You hummed in assent, peace on your face as he kissed along your jaw, hands quickly smoothing through his hair. 

“Truly, you’re awful. Absolutely…” you trailed off as he moved his fingers in a downwards arc, first tracing the line of your stomach and slowly beginning to tend to where you wanted him. You breathed deeply, focusing on the beams of the ceiling as you willed yourself not to make a fool of yourself screaming like a whore.

“It is a beautiful morning,” he breathed against your pulse before adorning it with his mouth. “Perhaps we can go for  a walk in the gardens. I know how you love the yellow roses. I should order the gardeners to plant more.”

You couldn’t control the stupid smile that took over your face, and as a consequence, many of the noises built up in your throat came slipping out, your eyebrows pinched. That seemed to spur him on, lowering his head to circle his tongue around one of your nipples before popping it into his mouth. His unoccupied hand came up to abuse the other one, switching sides every time you grew too quiet. 

They were swollen and reddened before too long, overstimulation and pleasure blurring into one another as it became too much. 

“Valarr,” you panted, gripping his hair to pull him off your chest. A flash of panic took over his face, eyes searching your face for any pain or discomfort. His worries were soon discarded when you redirected his head between your legs, a smile on his lips as he opened his mouth heartily.

He soon began to make a new mess, spit and slick forming a small pool beneath you on the bed. The spot cooling with air was the only thing that grounded you as he ate at your cunt, tongue slopping over your sex again and again. He felt relentless, pinning your hips down with one arm banded over you as you desperately tried to escape the overwhelming knot building in your stomach. You couldn’t bear it but couldn’t stop adorning his tongue, pulling his hair as tight as you could and rolling your hips into his mouth. Your legs closed tighter around his ears when you looked down to see him grinding himself against the mattress. 

Prior, you would’ve balked at how loud your moans grew, echoing in the chambers, but you now wailed with reckless abandon, every feeling and moment centered at Valarr’s nose bumping against you as he dipped down to taste the nectar that had been seeping out of your slit. He groaned into you, resuming with a fervor until your mouth dropped in a silent scream. Legs locked up, you shoved his face into your hips desperately chasing the last of the shock that lit up your bones. He worked you through it, only ceasing when you tugged his chin up to your lips, tasting yourself on his tongue. 

You laid there panting for many moments, sweat beading at your hairline. He kissed his way back down, reinforcing his focus on your breasts, watching you twitch and whine as he pressed his lips to your oversensitive nipples. You reached down for him, using what liquid had already beaded at the tip to stroke him in full. You took turns stopping and continuing, watching a beautiful pink flush take over his chest. His soft moans, some caught in his chest, meek and quiet. 

“Please,” he groaned into your stomach, humping himself back and forth into our hand after you had paused. You withdrew your hands and he chuckled humorously against your skin, brows pinched together in near pain. He looked up at you, the side of his face heated by your flesh. He was just a man at his temple of choice.

You simply smiled, blissful in the glow of the pleasure he had given you, and mirthful all the same. He conceded, sighing as he accepted his fate. 

“You still have not used your fingers,” you chirped, nose tilted up. “That was my sole request, lord husband.” 

You could feel his teeth etched against your belly in a grin.

“Right you are, my love,” he said, rising into his knees. 

He slipped his fingers into your mouth gently, rounding them around your gums before forcing your tongue down with the pad of his ring finger. He was playing dirty; your brain always seemed to fill with fog whenever he suddenly took control back from you, if only for a moment. Your mouth started to pool with saliva, the edge of his gold wedding band caught on the bottom of your front teeth. You whined and keened, hips moving against his to find friction, but he pinned them again with his other hand. 

“Shh….,” he spoke into his knuckles, a hair’s breadth from you. Your lashes brushed up against each other, twin silk threading into each other. Your eyes bored into his, pleading and needy, weakly clenching half of his wrist with your hand. He did his best to hold his smile at bay, but he always loved you like this, drunk off your own desire. Drool started to spill from the sides of your mouth, and he simply wiped it away, replacing the streak with his kisses. 

When he had decided you’d sufficiently drenched his fingers, he pulled his fingers out of your mouth, suppressing the smirk at the hoarse gasp you let out. Licked lips, swollen and red, biting still as he brought his hand down between your thighs. Your chin was tucked up to the sky, body practically buzzing with anticipation. His fingers brushed through you, clicking his tongue as he watched you clench around nothing. 

  He ran them up and down the length of you, wet and sloppy, his spit making your cunt shine in the light of day. He would make seven or so passees, deliberately ignoring your clit and pinning your hips as you tried to wiggle your hips so he would go where you wished. On the eighth pass, he would finally use the full weight of his fingers to press down on your clit, beaming in the way you gripped his hair, pulling him up for a kiss. He snaked his other hand up your body, rolling his thumb around your nipple. You keened, chest rising in quick breaths, distracted enough for him to slip two fingers inside of you. 

His pace was brutal from the beginning, short, hard thrusts of his wrist, smiling into your kisses as he felt you drip down the palm of his hand. Any other time, he would take his time with you, gentle touches and a slow temperament. The morning, however, found you rather brave, and was reserved for you being pressed into the cold, smooth mattress and asking, demanding for more. You could not think, hair sticking wildly to your forehead with sweat. Your cheeks burned at his lips against yours, and you were like to scream when he aimed his fingers upward, the loud sound of your desire reverberating in your ears. Your limbs tensed, jaw hung open, and it faded from one moment into another, Valarr suddenly over you, spreading your legs to kneel between them. He smoothed the hair from your head, kissing his way from your chin down to your stomach. Your mouth was dry, your tongue a rough weight bearing it down. 

“Was that satisfactory? The fingers only?” he muttered into your stomach, hair ruffled as he looked up at you, head rising with the slope of your torso. You fanned the back of your hand over his cheek, laughing breathlessly as you nodded. 

“Do you want more, or shall we make to start our day?” he inquired, sincerity etched into his brow as he chased your fingers with his mouth. He did not expect words from you in these moments, blissed out as you were. You silently pulled his arms up to plant beside your head, your answer plain to him. 

He chuckled to himself, and lined himself up with you, the mess you had made together helping him slide into the root. He swallowed your whines, the practiced sawing of his hips digging at the spot he had already abused. He hitched your legs up, holding them to the opposite sides, his pelvis slapping onto yours now. He was everywhere, hot blood thrumming under your skin as saccharine dripped into your legs and made its way up to your stomach. 

Your mouth was etched in an O, brows drawn together as he quickened his pace, bearing his body down on you. 

“Valarr,” you spat out after several attempts, eyes honed in on him.

He could not respond, his stomach pulling taut. He would not allow himself to, to indulge himself before he had wrung you dry. He bore you into the bed itself, your nails raking down his arms. With a weak, throaty cry, you shook in his arms, and clutched him down to you, hips still chasing his to ride you through it. 

His thrusts turned sloppy and uneven, less care now that he had pleased you within all of your whims. His arms bracketed your head, burrowing his own into your neck. What once were reserved groans and careful slips were now uncontrolled whimpers and fervent pants against your flesh. He coated your neck in involuntary drool, cradling the top of your head as he took and took and took. Hips slapping against your, his hair catching against your clit and working your jaw open despite how much he had already given you. Words were not viable for either of you, only grunts that came from your chests and shrill moans. 

He tensed, and he shifted to look at you, noses touching as his face clenched up. It was always his tell. Even if he was taking you from behind, one of the mirrors across the room would have to be used or he would need to flip you onto your back. Smoothing his fingers over the face he loved most, static surging through every point in his body, a knot in his stomach that refused to unfurl until he heard you say it.

“Please,” he forced out, so close to you that it seemed there was no more room to breathe. His face was etched in perfect misery, a power only you could grant him, a fire you held the tools to extinguish with three simple words. 

You managed to smile through his growingly rough thrusts, open mouth twisting. You gripped his hair and steered him to nearly close the gap between your lips. 

“I love you,” you whispered to him, delighting at how such a strong man seemed to shake and tremble at a small testament. 

He bit onto the pillow beneath you, ivory of canines and feathers embedded and intertwined. In a more sober moment, he would blush viciously at the noises he was making, but a force was driving through him that could not be contained. His throat felt raw from the whines he filled the chamber with as he finally emptied himself into you. He panted for how many minutes he could not say, red in the face and sweat adorning his hairline. You simply stroked his back, giggling at his exasperation.

He took all of the strength he had left in him to roll himself onto his back and bring you with him, not caring whether or not he stayed inside you. You were the princess; if twenty batches of moon tea was what you desired, you would have it. Your hot skin pressed into his, your weight pushing his back into the soft mattress. He settled his nose into your hair, his breath as real as the warmth from his skin on yours. 

“Is this your favorite to remember?” he said, a soft kiss to your scalp, moving the hairs stuck to the sweat on your forehead.

Your stomach emptied at the words. 

“This is just a dream, is it not?”

He smiled sadly. The sight of it was so beautiful that it was no wonder it could not be reality. 

“Does it matter?” he said, voice so quiet it was barely above a whisper. He tucked pieces of your hair behind your ear, gazing into your eyes with an unreachable somberness. “It happened in this bed.” 

“What a blessing,” he whispered against your lips, your eyelashes touching. “You were the last thing I ever got to see.” 

insane. genuinely so, regardless of verse. you're not leaving the bed for three days and that is a conservative estimate.

aerion has wanted this with a ferocity that has no bottom. the proposal isn't the climax for him, it's the uncaging. every year he's spent wanting you. every version of himself that's been told no, not yours, never yours. all of that morphs the second you say yes into something white-hot and half-feral.

he doesn't become gentle. he becomes unleashed. the difference between aerion wanting you and aerion having you is the difference between a leashed dog and an open maw.

he fucks you like he's trying to leave a record. like if he can just get deep enough, thorough enough, he can carve wife into your bones where no one can undo it. you come so many times you lose count and he's still going. still dragging orgasms out of you with his hands and his mouth and his cock like he's offended by the concept of you being anything less than ruined.

and the thing is... he passes out. he does. he's human. collapses face-down into the mattress with his arm slung across your waist, breathing hard, platinum hair wrecked and sticking to his skin. you think okay, done, I can close my eyes for five minutes—

and then his hand tightens. pulls you back against him. you feel him hard against you already and you're like aerion it has been forty minutes and he just makes this low, dangerous sound against your shoulder like the concept of a refractory period is beneath him personally.

you tease him. because of course you do. you're still you. you trace his jaw and murmur something about how tired he looks, how maybe he needs a nap, and the noise that comes out of him is practically a snarl. he's shoving your thighs apart before you finish the sentence, mouth on your throat, voice all gravel and bite: "quiet, wife. you should be busy moaning my name."

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he reveres each roll, each plump curve as a sign of wealth and prosperity. he’s not materialistic, nor is he one to care for societies opinions in the slightest, but he’s also not blind to the way people stare, and the way that they talk. if nothing else, he’s prideful - and that pride filters down to his wife, for is she not an extension of him? irrevocably his in the same way the fresh buds blooming in the garden are, etched in his image like the gilded halls of his temple. belonging to him as innately as each of his muscled limbs do.

he hears the servants chatter; look how well fed the kings darling pet is, how cared for and doted on she must be. their eyes follow you as you walk, delicate and barefooted, draped in the finest silks and jewels. freshly bathed and painted in a healthy flush, with your skin oiled and glowing as you lounge and eat freshly picked fruits from the garden. you eat with fervour, with pleasure, letting the sweet juice coat your fingers, slip in glistening dribbles down your chin and past the dip of your throat until he prowls across the garden and licks you clean, one great hand planted firmly over the swell of your belly.

nepobaby!toxic!ex!aerion x hotmess!corporate!reader

cw: mdni, 18+, afab!reader, toxic relationship, power imbalance, reckless behaviour, swearing

a/n: bratty son of a millionaire CEO aerion being reader’s toxic ex boyfriend. english is not my first language

[optional] lore with valarr

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✴︎ you hated his fucking guts. he is a total jerk. pathetic, whiny spoiled brat who never lifted a finger in his golden life

✴︎ he is just a useless idiot, who got a job at his father’s company with his own spacious cabinet, his own corporate throne that he definitely did not deserve but still got because daddy wanted him to be a part of his legacy or some bullshit

✴︎ you think you broke up because of something stupid, when in reality your relationship were the epitome of a disaster. like his regular tantrums of jealousy, or his habit of picking up fights out of nothing, or how annoyingly irresponsible he was, or how he never forgot to remind you of his high status. it was a constant wild push and pull with him

✴︎ oh, the way aerion gaslighted and twisted everything he said or did, truly believing to outplay you, trying to make you apologise for the way you made him feel in the first place. the way you pushed back, calling him out on his bullshit, the way you yelled at him and the way he rolled his eyes. the way he guilt tripped you because of the money he has spent on you and the way you told he to go fuck himself with all the things he bought you. they way he pinned you to the wall, hissing in pure anger that you belong to him and the way you shoved his chest

✴︎ so eventually you broke up. loudly and violently. with screams and things flying around the room. it was catastrophic and final. and yet, aerion still was rearranging your guts every night, at least twice

✴︎ aerion was an awful boyfriend. truly. but he was a phenomenal fuck. you didn’t even know why it felt so good and hated him more for it, but the hatred was settling down very quickly, especially with his head between your legs, groaning against your core, greedy tongue lapping and teasing. eating you out was always his ultimate alternative to an apology. not that he didn’t eat you out on other occasions, the man was ready to nuzzle in between your thighs literally any given moment, no matter in what mood or condition he was. angry, frustrated, irritated, jealous, sad, affectionate, sadistic - he ate your pussy like it was his last meal

✴︎ it was also hard to be mad at him when he was splitting you in half at the backseat of his aston martin vantage. aerion's hands gripping your hips with a bruising force, his mouth lapping on your moving breasts as you ride him, his hand pressed firmly against your mouth to suppress the obscene moans that are coming out of you

✴︎ but still, you were not dating anymore

✴︎ you are not dating, he is just sending you videos of him fisting his cock and pornographically moaning your name, making you slam your phone screen down on the table during a work meeting

✴︎ you are definitely not dating, he just books you two a private villa because you ‘deserve vacation’ and he knows exactly how to make you relax just right

✴︎ aerion is still a dick though. even when he is not your boyfriend anymore, he views you as his woman, because you certainly didn’t mean all the things you said to him. aerion considers your breakup a ‘tantrum’ and lets you ‘play’ in it, but he makes sure no other person sees you as available ever. so dating or even seeing someone else is out of the question, he just takes up so much space in your life you physically don’t have time for other things except work, which he hates as well by the way

✴︎ in his eyes it is absolutely ridiculous that you have to spend so much of your time in the office doing nonsense while he is bored and misses you. aerion sabotaged your days many times by slutting out and making you stay home with him. he would kiss your neck, purring like a cat that if you were his wife, you would never have to work, he would pull you in his lap, while his hand snakes in between your legs, reminding you how good it would feel to give in and stay with him

✴︎ you still fight and argue a lot. mostly about his manipulations and arrogance, sometimes because of how jealous he is, occasionally because of you being ungrateful for everything he has ever done for you. aerion always tries to manipulate through luxury and the crazy rich lifestyle he provides. you yelled at him that you don’t want to see him again? expect a diamond bracelet at your door in two hours. you tell him you don’t want to see him? he sends ridiculous amounts of your favourite flowers to your apartment and work office. you tell him you need a break and it is better for both of you to not see each other for a while? he is already ready to fly you to france on his private jet

✴︎ when you refuse his every attempt at bribery, he just comes up himself and waits near your door, talking you into opening up and saying he will stay until you let him in, even if it means staying there till morning. aerion will use every tactic literally. he will sweet talk, threaten, beg, guilt trip, gaslight, seduce, bargain, you name it, he has done it

✴︎ no one ever told this mother fucker “no” in his perfect rich life. it is simply an absurd concept to him, he always gets everything he wants, from all the stuff his daddy bought him to, very literally, you. aerion is sure one day he will put a ring on your finger and treats it as an inevitable thing. maybe it is

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modern!ceo!valarr x hotmess!employee!reader

cw: mdni, 18+, afab! reader, obsessive behaviour, pervert valarr? yearning?

a/n: basically kinda bratty slutty reader and kinda proper valarr in a corporate setting. i got possessed by a demon and wrote this

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✴︎ the reason why he notices you in the first place is because of how outrageously laid-back you are in any setting. entering the meeting 40 minutes late with a coffee and wearing a completely inappropriate outfit for the office, with wired earphones still dangling from your left ear, sitting, of course, in the back row, unbothered

✴︎ valarr, most of all, values discipline, rules, order. you are literally none of that and it irritates him, no, infuriates him, how you can just ignore the system and dismantle everything he believes in with just a glance

✴︎ he thinks you are the worst. literally the worst person to hire, to assign a task, to ask to do something, to rely on in any sense. valarr is so disturbed by your character orbiting around his life that he starts involuntarily watching you every moment he has

✴︎ in his head, he ticks your every mistake, your every rule violation, your every sin. valarr remembers how you put your feet on the desk while typing a report, how you talked on the phone during working hours, how you brought in food and drinks in a ‘no food’ areas, how you left early on some days without a reason, how you violated dress code. the imaginary list in his mind was endless, filled with your bad bad awful behaviour

✴︎ but that isn’t the worst thing. no, no, the worst thing is that nobody seems to mind you, except him. everyone likes you. he is alone in his weird fixation on you and your vagaries and sufferes from it immensely. you are constantly on his mind to the point that he starts to believe he is going crazy. how can he explain it otherwise?

✴︎ it seems nobody else sees how ridiculously off putting is, in fact, your behaviour. only he notices the black lace peaking right at the waistband of your baggy smart pants. only he notices you are not wearing a bra under that white buttoned up shirt. only he notices the way you glance at his crotch when giving him papers. only he notices

✴︎ it is so unfair how no one cares. no one cares that you use black ink instead of blue on important documents. no one cares that you flirt with the staff occasionally. no one cares that you leave your empty coffee cups with lipstick stains on the rim around the office. no one cares that your perfume is so strong he can smell it after you leave the room. no one cares you bite your lip when trying to concentrate. no one cares the skin of your lower back is visible when you bend over

✴︎ no one cares except him. he cares. he cares so much he can’t stop thinking about all these things. because he is a good worker. simple as that

✴︎ but what is even more insane is that you are a good worker. most likely the best in your department. all papers on time, all presentations delivered perfectly, all numbers precise. you earned his company more money in one month than your colleagues in six. firing you would definitely be the loss for the company, so maybe it is not that serious after all. maybe he can calm himself down. maybe he can pull himself together and forget about it

✴︎ but no. eventually, it reaches a point where valarr can barely think when you are in the same room as him. he is listening to a presentation by someone from finance department and you are in the corner of the room surrounded by your colleagues. he tries to focus on the speech, really tries, but his thoughts drift to you as usual. you in your white see-through long sleeve. you in your dark blue low rise pants. you with your black lace underwear subtly visible through the clothes

✴︎ his mismatched eyes are openly watching you instead of the speaker, how you are listening to him with a lazy smirk, looking the man up and down and whispering something to a coworker nearby, making the woman chuckle. what did you say? are you making fun of that man? or do you find him hot? do you want to fuck him? do you want to fuck the man from finace department??

✴︎ it gets progressively worse with time. valarr’s control is slipping like sand from his hands. he can’t do a single task, read a single word, check a single file because you are wearing a pencil skirt today. he is forcing himself not to look but it is humanly impossible. his gaze is literally glued to your form as you slowly walk back and forth around the office, hips swaying in a way that makes valarr curse the damn glass walls in his cabinet. it is torture. sweet, hot, sick torture

✴︎ guilt and restlessness follow valarr like hungry dogs. he is sorry, he is truly sorry, and hates himself for thinking these inappropriate things about his own employee, but how can he not get hard when you are standing above him, leaning closer to check something on his computer, your eyes on the screen while his eyes are on you. your breasts are right in front of his face, your scent is filling his lungs, making his head spin. he turns his head away, hands gripping the side of the table till his knuckles turn white

✴︎ "you done?" he asks, still not looking at you. "almost," you murmur, and he exhales impatiently. "the numbers should be in columns—" valarr starts, but you don't listen. "who cares? it works like that as well. your welcome." you wave dismissively, quickly making your way to the door, leaving him furious, irritated and turned on

✴︎ it is clearly not healthy, he says to himself. valarr doesn't like you, but he also doesn't hate you, and god, he wants to. he wants to hate you so much and get free from this curse, he wants you to stop haunting his dreams, his reality, his conscience, and unconscious. he wants to stop noticing every fucking thing about you and to stop touching himself to the thought of you. how? he geniunly doesn't know, it seems impossible to get rid of you now, when you've already infected his weak mind

✴︎ everytime valarr closes his eyes, he sees eyes you. you spilling your water on your blouse. you biting the end of your pen. you bent over in order to make the printer work. then imagination gets involved, and then suddenly you are straddling him, whimpering into his shoulder as he grinds against you, kissing your neck. then suddenly you are leaning back against the desk, while he is kneeling between your legs, licking and sucking, making you cry out his name. then suddenly he is pounding into you from behind, whispering how good you are for him into your ear while you moan

Pairing: Aerion Targaryen x sweet wife reader

Word Count: idkkkk again, but I am pretty sure that it is longer than the first one.

Summary: Aerion is cruel but you, his wife are the complete opposite. After nearly being trampled by a horse, Aerion's young squire saves you in an attempt to save the sweet princess. You take full blame for his injury.

I haven't proof read because I just don't have it in me rn, so I am sorry if there are any spelling/grammar/punctuation errors- I will get to it eventually.

Warning: Mentions of violence, violence

Reblogs, comments and likes are very appreciated :)

First fic of this trope

Masterlist

My requests are open.

“Be careful, the hem of your dress will ruin.”

You heard your husband’s words clearly, yet chose not to listen. The floor beneath was muddy, and there was not much you could do to stop that. The last thing you cared for would be a little bit of brown mud stuck to your dress.

“It will only be a smidge of mud, my love. I have plenty of other gowns.” Your words were sweet like honey. In Aerion’s opinion, all of your words were sweet- even in the rare times that you lost your temper. Or your version of losing your temper, anyway, which usually meant a stern face and a huff. Aerion’s version of losing his temper tended to be entirely different.

Aerion let out a huff through his nose, a grin on his lips and clasped his hand in yours. “I am well aware. I paid a lot to ensure that they were all especially made to your liking.”

HOLYYYY!!! pussy obsessed ahh boyfriend lols

just an average afternoon w bobby eating you out ₊˚♡

"so then i told her, like, there's literally no way i'm paying 30 dollars for a basic t-shirt, you know? like, the prices at that place are just insane now. i remember when you could get a whole outfit for like, 40 bucks, and now one shirt costs almost that much. it's crazy, babe!"

you're gesturing with one hand, really getting into your rant about the mall, bobby hums against your thigh, his warm breath sending shivers through you as he nuzzles closer.

you barely pause in your story, continuing as he presses soft kisses to your inner thighs.

Disgusted With Myself

blaise zabini x reader summary: the two of you are over now, and draco may be your boyfriend, but when you're with him you're thinking of somebody else. and when he kisses you, you're disgusted with yourself. heavily based off of katy perry's song ! tags: fem!reader, one shot, angst-ish, yearning word count: 777

⊹ ࣪ ˖ pairing: aerion targaryen x f!stark!reader

⊹ ࣪ ˖ wc: 2.6k

⊹ ࣪ ˖ notes/content: stark!reader, smut (p in v), sub!bratty!aerion until he isn't, biting/marking/practically primal & blood play tbf, freak4freak rough sex (they're both grossly into it!), praising, finger sucking (and lots of it!), jealousy, mentions of past you && daeron, possessiveness, unhinged aerion (water wet), but kinda soft!aerion too if you squint, he's obsessed with you in ways that are concerning to humanity! Anyway, hormones won, here's some smut, enjoy!

devour me verse.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Aerion is already inside the room when you enter, leaning against the stone mantel with that dangerous, lazy grace he wears like a second skin. His silver hair glows in the warm heat of the hearth as he angles his head towards your voice. The severe cut sharpens the cruel elegance of his face, making the violet eyes look even brighter while they flick up and down your body unhurriedly. He wears only a loose black tunic, unlaced to the sternum, and breeches of dark wool, one boot propped against the hearthstones as if he owns the room.

He doesn’t. It’s one of Winterfell’s oldest guest towers that serves as your private retreat when the royal party visits from the south. The walls are thick grey stone veined with frost, the air sharp with the scent of pine logs burning low in the hearth and the faint, clean bite of snow. 

“Why not?” he drawls.

He watches you close the heavy oak door, lips curling into a sharp, goading smile that doesn’t quite hide the hunger beneath. You don’t grace him with a response right away, shedding your cloak and gloves. Aerion tracks every twitch of your body with predatory focus, his hunger like a hand around your throat.

“Well?” he repeats, voice low and mocking, the words edged with challenge. “You dragged me all the way to this frozen pile of stone just to stare at me? Or are you finally going to do something about that pretty little itch between your legs that Daeron never could scratch?” 

⚠︎ — MDNI. 18+. lots of humping, groping, denial, kissing, spit, heavy petting.

Frank Langdon has a perfect mouth— exfoliated lips, a sparse amount of stubble around his chin, and a he always tastes like mint chewing gum or strawberry flavored candies. It’s safe to say you’ve got a fixation on the way his mouth moves, and the pattern in which he slides his tongue across his lips for some extra hydration. You’re shameless about the way you stare, gaze focused on his mouth even during inappropriate times. Regardless of your bad habits, Frank is usually sweet on you about it, and most of the time, he lets you have what you want.

“C’mere. You’re staring again,” Frank pats his thigh, a signal for you to climb on his lap and take what you’re so desperately craving. He doesn’t need to tell you twice before you’re crawling over to him, sliding yourself onto his thighs and looking at his mouth in even closer proximity. His dry fingers, always raw from excessive handwashing, hook under your chin. The gap between you two is closed in a matter of seconds, and his tongue dances across you bottom lip, teeth nipping and pulling at the soft tissue. Drool accumulates at the corner of your mouth, threatening to spill over. It’s something Frank will lightly tease you about later. ‘You’re such a drooler, baby,’ and ‘my pretty girl, you’re drooling at just the thought, huh?’

Makeout sessions with Frank always turn into humping and groping over clothes. In most cases, you’re a whining mess, pawing at his belt buckle for some more, but he’s always hesitant about finishing the job once it’s started. Your legs spread on either side of him, hands filtered throughout his hair, using the locks as a grip while your hips roll against him. His length grows against his jeans, the hard outline of his dick is evident even through his pants. You can nearly make out what the tip looks like, even clothed.

“Please, Frank,” your eyes shut tightly, rolling your hips forward to get some stimulation from him. All you want is his cock tucked deeply inside you, pounding you until you’re a mess beneath him, fluids leaking everywhere. Drool, arousal, cum, whatever it may be. “Please… please,” your pleads are pathetic in between the kisses, and you know Frank is about to deny you when you feel his smile stretching across your lips, a knowing scoff sounding from the back of his throat.

“Not yet, baby. Gotta stretch you out first, remember? You want my fingers, wanna practice taking two this time?”

“No,” you groan against him, “wanna feel your… you know… wanna feel you inside me.”

“You can’t even say the word ‘dick,’ sweetheart. What makes you think you’re ready? Doctor knows best, right?”

c.ws :: mdni , smut , slight degradation , missionary so you can continue arguing , dirty talk.

"stop being so fucking mad at me." frank grumbles out from above, driving the point home by grinding his cock in deeper inside you. your thighs quiver despite yourself where they're hooked around his waist, lewd slapping noises permeating the room just to tease you. “i said sorry an hour ago.”

you keep turning your face, trying to angle it out of reach, or at least force the fury back into your expression. you can’t fight the scrunch of pleasure that crosses your face, however. he can see that too. the grudge held like a stone dam, meant to keep your pride immune and well guarded from the way he's fucking you into the mattress. but it never works.

"m’not-"

"you are." he nips at your shoulder, voice muffled. "you keep clenching up when i talk.” his hips rear back steadily, a wet squelch sounding from where you're joined, then he sinks back in with a grunt of effort. "except down here."

the truth stings worse than the fight itself: frank knows you like the back of his hand. the front and back. he knows exactly how to fuck you until your resentment feels misplaced and petty.

hands that had been pushing against his chest find the silky sheets instead, clutching tight.

"it was a stupid fight," he pushes in again, slowly, allowing you to relish in the thick ridge and veins dragging along your walls while he explains the situation to you.

"and you know it." pride makes you not answer, of course, the only thing you can manage is a soft whine.

"sweetheart," he sighs. "you really gonna let me cum in this pussy while you're busy pretendin' to hate me?" you blink up at him in silent retort. defiance radiating from every inch of your face.

"mmm." the man even has the audacity to pinch the bridge of his nose, like you're the one being unreasonable. like he’s not currently balls deep. "always so fucking stubborn." he reaches between your bodies, thumbing lazily at your clit. "you think i like walking out?"

rage bubbles back up your throat at once, rolling your eyes with the little attitude you had remaining. "you slammed the door — our door — and left."

"you knew damn well i'd come back…” he grunts, not missing a beat to retort. an especially brutal thrust has you seeing stars. "you’re a smart girl, stop acting stupid, yeah?" you try to hitch your hips, to hurry him along but he only holds you down, eyes narrowing.

"go ahead and scream all you want, curse me out, break something if you need to. but don't fall asleep hating me.” he rambles on, shaking his head faintly. “can’t take that shit."

your words come out sharp, bitter once you find your voice. "so what’s your plan, fuck me into forgiveness?”

there's no hesitation in him when a toothy grin splits across his face, "there you go. if we fight in the morning? before work? fine. but if we're sharing a bed like this, we fix it before we close our eyes. understood?" no thought forms twice before your head's nodding stupidly, not an ounce of resistance (or dignity) left in you as he sinks back in.

"good girl, now be sweet to me while i cum."

"— so I realigned his spine," he laughs breathlessly, shakes hair out of his eyes and squeezes at the fat of your hips while you ride him. "his spine, baby. without neuro."

"that's so hot,” you gasp into his mouth, “you’re so hot.”

“had his head in my hands and then i j-just—snap,” his laugh is more delicious this time, and then it gets cut off by a moan when you squeeze around his cock. “fuck, sweetheart, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

“better than a spine realignment?” you smile n bite his lip while he chuckles.

summary: dennis accidentally gives you a hickey at work, leading to lots of speculation, a bet, and a confession

cw: fem!nurse!reader, dennis is v insecure, reader is not really in this part it just revolves around her

AN: literally went to post this earlier this afternoon and i got broken up with lmao so hope y'all enjoy this, i'm going to go cry :(

the pitt masterlist

°˖✧✿✧˖°

Dennis doesn’t mean to give you the hickey. Really, it’s entirely your fault. 

If you didn’t melt in his arms every time he latched himself to your neck, if you didn’t encourage him by trailing your nails over his scalp and whispering pretty words in his ear, he wouldn’t have done it. But, you do, and you make the sweetest sounds Dennis has ever heard, so can anyone blame him when he’s unable to detach himself from you?

It’s not horrible, but it is… noticeable. And oh, do people notice. 

contains… blaise zabini x reader, suggestive material, ass grabbing based off this request (masterlist) (nav)

“blaise!” you giggle, running up to the tall man that stood less than a foot away from you. he had just finished one of the biggest quidditch matches of the season, obviously you went and supported him. blaise was the best player on the slytherin team in your opinion — totally not biased.

he embraced you in his warm arms, holding you tight as you hugged. you could feel blaise’s chin resting on your head as you tried to get as close to him as possible.

“you did great out there baby.” you get on your tip toes to whisper in his ear. “i told you,” he said back, you could feel his hands lowering greedily. “you’re my good luck charm.” he finally said with a firm squeeze of your ass.

a giggle left your lips as you hit him softly on the shoulder. “c’mon, we’re in public” you said quietly. blaise grabbed your ass like a man starved, all while holding you and peppering kisses to the top of your head.

“can’t help m’self,” he mumbled. “seeing you all excited in the stands, here for me. makes me go crazy.” his words made you smile, he always knew what to say.

“well, how about when we get back to the dorms i’ll give you a reward for how good you did out there?” you asked, already knowing the answer. within seconds, blaise had let go of you and swung you over his shoulder as he bolted for the dorms.

tessa’s notes… guys i’m so so sorry for how absent i’ve been lately:( may is gonna be a very busy month for me, but after that i should be back and writing regularly!

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