⌌⊱⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊰⌍

- red oozes from within the lid of the metal tin of waste, hours bleeding further into the spiral to not the dread of what’s to come, neither the anticipation to a certain’s obdurate aim of possessing what is beyond one’s wishing— but the raw trepidation as to what is looming in near coming.

the windows remained opened despite the gloomy weather almost mocking the storm that is inside of you in turmoil; wrapped in the same cordial blanket by the sofa in mere state of distance in mind— chest as heavy as the pitting patters of the rain.

it has been exactly seventeen hours since the red of quietus arrived to your holding, sixteen since you last spoke with whom mattered most, fifteen of absolute descend into the inevitable hebetude in form and forever it seems to this unfortunate chronology of never having what you’ve considered at least at an arm’s reach once.

perhaps attainable, so to speak.

you could feel his arms around you in memory, breathe the remnants of his scent from the fabric surrounding you in little aid and taste not of his lips but the saccharine essence to each syllable maekar’s whisper to you of ‘i love you.’

it’s unfair— it’s so unfair, you repeat with each descend of hot sentiment from your eyes while cursing the gods from above for being utterly cruel to not just you, not just to the man you love but to what both could have been.

perhaps it’s an easy choice, for most it would most likely be apparent in choosing the future that is to come in self-proclaimed glory through the hardship endured— biting the fruit of labor. yet for you, no other sweetness compare to the honesty of maekar’s devotion.

but you were merely a young woman of morals after all; inner battle of common heart and mind you’ve once dismissed as never in falling situation to, has now found it’s way in a rather vicious ultimatum.

and so a choice is made despite the sobs of pleading to those supposed just above who listened, the screen of your cell lit in typing not in response to maekar but to sir reynold:

‘could you bring me boxes, please sir reynold. loads.’

‘and do not say a word to maekar. thank you.’

- arms of the clock hanging in display from your bedroom wall reads six thirty-eight in the early evening from the day that followed your dilemma.

you’ve spent the entire day slowly filling the boxes with your belongings; sir reynold commanded to seal his lips in letting slip anything to who has been consistent in growing fret about you.

‘doll?’

‘talk to me, please. what’s going on?’

‘good night, babydoll. speak soon, okay?’

‘good morning, heading to the conference meeting with the investors now. grabbing lunch with the franchise department head by noon. did you eat?’

‘you’re worrying me, my girl.’

‘i miss you. talk to me please.’

‘it’s been two days, doll. your location isn't on either.’

‘sir reynold said you’re home, did i do something wrong?’

‘no text, no call and not even reading them? your pictures aren't enough to suffice me from this suffering, doll.’

‘babydoll?’

‘i love you. don’t forget that.’

all sent within the hours of practiced restraint, one single message captures your beating heart in panic.

‘times up, pretty girl. meet me in the address by seven thirty. or don’t, it would be a pleasure to post how soiled you are.’

and a pin to an exclusive bar within the inner parts of the city most had named a playground for the rich.

breathing out a wavered sigh, you swallowed each tremble in change of a decent pair of jeans and a cardigan— signalling sir reynold for a drive that's all too quiet and all too telling of the quagmire you’re subjected to.

the setting of the sun in rest only adds onto the intimidating lights to the entrance of the location, glancing back to the front with a quiet demand.

“please wait for me here. i will not be long..”

“yes ma’am.”

“..not a word to maekar, as well. please.”

“understood.”

to that, feet in usual pair of doll shoes have stepped into the blaring red door where the bouncer and security recognizes you with ease— instantly letting you past with a respectful nod, nodding to a particular booth that you walk towards.

- silver hair brushed back in tame but tousled from the humidity, lips curled into a baleful smirk and clothed in black leather— aerion orders his companions away with a single dismissive wave, nodding beside him for you to sit.

a respectable distance was placed, hands gripping the handle of your bag and the form of your cell— he scoffs and decides to move himself nearer, perhaps much too nearer where every boundary is jeopardized. gaze down to your lap, aerion tilts his head with the same look as before; taking in every tremble of your chin from evident fear that he breathes in like life— so intoxicated to what there is of you.

fingers twirling the strand by your cheek, the silver-haired young man who happened to be the son of who weighed heavy in your heart leans in close while you attempt to move away from the repulse of a touch non other than maekar’s— aerion’s other arm already snaked by your shoulders.

“i need time.. please.”

“time that you don’t have, unfortunately. have i not given you an ample amount already?”

“you have.. and i’ve made my decision.”

“have you?”

“..just please. i need more time— just a week. just one more week.”

“to what?”

to carve in feeling each stroke of affection maekar blesses you with, to memorize the very line of his features traced by the pads of your fingertip in safekeeping, to indulge in complete solipsism the glimpse of a love well deserved but all in the while purloined from having in complete.

“..to deal with this. please..”

the tears further in falling the second his hand raise up your thigh and envelop your nape with a tight hold— hair blowing from his breath while you held yours in as much as the sobs threatening to spill.

“.. you fuck me over in any way.. and i swear to gods you’re done for, understood?”

a nod, court and swift with closed crying eyes. aerion revels to the emitted show of distress and obeisance, lips to the slope of your neck where gritted teeth is warranted as expression in return.

the second he lets go, you were moving away, but all once more tugged by the wrist in facing with spilled whimper and glossed irises.

“five days. that’s all you get before you’re mine.”

feet already in search of the exit, you slipped past people and climbed the backseat of the waiting car still in rimmed tears. sobbing completely now that you felt an ounce of safety, sir reynold merely brushed away with a ‘i’m fine.. just drive me home please.’

- away for long, the sojourn felt much longer than a certain amount of days for maekar who hurriedly disposed of his items at home before anxiously driven to who mattered most at the very moment.

finding you curled in resemblance of a new born cat, he coos quite instantly onto the manner you’re wrapped in a blanket by the sofa with an open window— slumber currently holding you hostage away from him in reality.

maekar kneels before you with a heart plenty in sentiment of longing; craves to have those pretty eyes set on him with excitement he wishes to capture yet selfless enough to allow rest. instead, he takes you into his arms and walk both to the long couch before breathing in deeply the scent of his beloved— you.

it isn't long before he’s taken as well: breathing at ease, heart warm, and mind at rest— evidently, the man who adores your being does not wait for long, much too impatient for he quickly surrenders in dreaming state where he prays to reunite with you.

- soft with sleep but much mellower from the love emitted with no limit; the light of the early morning is witness to the attempt in withholding the very little restraint left into glimmering tears coating each of your eye while admiring wordlessly the man who held you even in sleep.

it’s heavy, not the longing but the ache of knowing how soon it would all be taken away when the time arrives at last in demand of crossing the rubicon. but for now at least, at this very hour of the new day— maekar is yours, and you were his.

a hand to caress his cheek, a tear slips past without permission; unaware of it’s existence, maekar blinks away the remnants of rest and instantly smiles upon seeing you dote him with affection craved in a long while.

“good morning, my love.. why the tears?” uttered past his lips in benign, you merely stared back with a look of unceasing devotion— whispering in return.

“i love you.”

a kiss to follow, melting in complete paralleling the feeling of simply being with him. maekar completed you, the same way you did him: pure, sinless, true and honest. in manners most would regard as spurious for how little time existed in creation of the profound connection in between beating flesh and morphing souls— yet for you and for maekar, it mattered little and it mattered not at all.

it’s innocent the kiss, sweet and almost childlike from the forming smiles after paired in gazes of reciprocated perception. lips tingling and head buzzing with endorphins, he breaks the silence first:

“did you miss me?’’

“i always do..”

the quickness of your response in tone of a repressed misery veiled by equanimity brings forward a wave of soothing fervor to his heart— still so taken even after the repetition from before.

“you’re all i thought about in my trip..”

“really?”

“even after you worried me. don’t do that again, hm?”

“i'm sorry.”

“i don’t know what to do with myself without you.”

it nearly triggered you to sob. his words reminding you of the ticking time left, of the impending ruin in waiting— all inhaled sharply in constrained tongue, a kiss is placed in response. a wistful prayer the man you adored does not question the behavior of a woman already longing for who she held in her arms still.

how cruel aerion— his own son, while he remained furtive of the truth.

- five whole days remained, and five whole days you took solipsistically in a state of abnegation that it would all slip past your fingers like water returning to sea after a pleasant wave.

a reality of cunctation one subjects themself in denial in order to feel even a slightest sense of normalcy— but you were far too aware of how little time lingered in ticking checkered flag. in the while, you made do what you would carry in memory when the race against the other sharp end of the blade concludes your surrender.

the mornings a ritual of brief existence: awake hours before maekar who slept in your arms so unaware to how you carved each feature of his in mind for later. finger tracing the slope of his nose, thumb gentle against his shut eyes and lips pressed in genial pecks that awakens him from dreaming.

and consistent like the man he was:

“good morning, babydoll.”

“hello, my maekar..”

those short hours of the early sun and sublime intimacy of affection follows the route of skin left with bruises of love in their awake like flowers blooming in spring— sweat like the rain for bringing and hands to touch in admiration of what belonged to one another wholly.

your eyes are glossed, lips parted and swollen as maekar pulls yet another high from the flesh within that surrounds him equally in shared pleasure during the act of union. his thrusts slowing just enough to pull you close, skin to skin, bare and raw to kiss and dote while you pant whines of losing stability in mind.

“i know.. i know, doll. i'm here, i am— just hold me.”

and you’d whine even more, melting into his embrace— maekar smiles to himself at how trusting you were, to how faith binds the both of you in utter amour that he proceeds as rush to have you more, to give himself to you just as much.

legs spread with him in between from above, thrusting in a pattern of well-knowing routine with the end of ensured glory for both; he continues to kiss you in every moan and every whimper you make— his back littered with your scratches and neck mirroring in forming blues and hues of lilacs like his eyes. hair tousled all over from movements.

“m-maekar! ‘m so close— please, it’s too muchh!” you’d whine, head shaking as you lose yourself in spirals of overwhelming satisfaction.

he’d kiss the tears away much like the mewling; fucking his throbbing cock into your warm wet cunt a little more rougher like he knew you liked.

“but you can take it, can’t you? you’re a good girl for me, right?”

oh how easy he steers you back into the proper headspace is dizzying, head nodding along with each slam of his hips against your softer ones— maekar smirks at the look in those pretty eyes staring up at him.

and he’d continue to fuck himself into your needy cunt in every position despite both echoing the room with pantings of worn and moans of ecstasy: disregarding the early hours turning into late afternoon.

those five afternoons were bliss for you.. and for him as well. in fact, the seconds spent in laughter over easy conversations varying lunch options that you ceaselessly reminded him were ridiculously overpriced to the sentimental memoirs of tasteful bondings nearly aided you far from the pressing pressure eating away in cached hunger in your mind— time is limited. time was scarce.

you shook away the reminder, allowing maekar to wrap his arms around you as the makeup brush applied in stroke the color of your concealer. smiling at him at the reflection, his lips kissing your shoulder and your nape before he settles by the slope with a charming smile.

“almost ready?”

“just a few more steps..”

“beautiful to me. always.”

evenings were much fluent in the language of fond with the sun setting west; tongues speaking of shared sentiment while eyes held the gaze of profound frisson in reflected sense of belonging to one another. you relished each touch, memorized his breathing pattern and stored away in your memories the feeling of him and him in every sense that mattered— in every regard that was sufficient in burying the gnawing grim that neared each day.

you would make love to him; have maekar deep inside of you in an almost worship that he mistakes as carnal need, yet reciprocates all acquiescent.

then you’d invite him for a bath: both so eager to touch without the lens of lust, just tenderness at each glide with soap and warm waters.

after, the tv to your living room is lit; a tub of ice cream and nearly burnt microwave cake is indulged while watching a movie of preference— which always end with your choosing because maekar allegedly has questionable taste in film.

you’d sneak pictures of him, and he would of you. an unknowing habit grown over the days that would seem like a blessing in disguise once the sand in the hourglass commences the end.

and when fatigue overcomes both physical bodies, arms like green growing vines of awaiting fruition for summer wraps each other in hold— content with staring at each other in a dim glow of city lights below, chest feeling paralleled anchor of revery that leads to easy sleep.

for maekar, at least.

- the sun rises again like always; consistent, continuous, ceaseless, promised and every synonym that may be in existence to what is proven to be true. but were you?

you seemed like a distant memory, a dream perhaps more suiting— a ghost, phantom and passing for he wakes the very morning with an empty bed. gone of you, cold without your warmth and empty with solely the wrinkles of your side in proof that you were real by the sixth day.

a countdown your lover had not been made aware of. blinded for his own sake.

maekar does not worry, not instantly that is— pitying at how naive, to how ingenious he was in assuming normalcy was ever truly an option at the complexity that is of you and him.

he rises after the second calling, eyes soft with sleep and hair all tousled. so unaware of the wick burning at it’s last ends— gaze landing at the folded paper placed in all it’s form to read. smiling at the thought of innocence, just for his heart to plummet in shattered pieces of betrayal and woe.

‘i did not wish to part ways, neither has it ever been a thought in my head that is full of you— of us and what we were. you’ve admired me plenty for my ambitions, i could only hope you continue to do so despite it being the cause of my leave. i have so much to say, yet was granted very little time to. so instead, i held it all within hopes of granting you the kindness i was not by your own blood, by your own son. aerion had been considerate in the least, an entire near week of extension spent through acts of ever-lasting love i shall carry in my heart that i could barely call mine for it beats of you and for you. maekar, i wish you could find it within yourself to forgive me for my lack of fight. i am scared, you see.. not of what aerion would do, but to whom i would be if i stayed.

an apology wouldn’t sufficed for what i’ve done, this i know. but, i wish to tell you once more even as i write this with you beside me in bed with your arm by my waist in slumber that.. you were everything to me. permanently for nothing about you was temporary. eternally carved with the scar of having you even for a short while. from the moment i allowed myself to you, the first kiss we shared, the affection you’ve given although out this passed half-year will all be cherished to no end. selfishly, i confess that i pray that i loved you in ways dyanna has not. in ways where you’ll remember me— even in abhor. it matters little to what regard.. as long as i bare for myself a place in your mind or your heart.

i love you yesterday, today, right now, tomorrow, the days that will come and the years that is inevitable. i love you, i’m certain of it— even as i live my life in quiet now, you will be who breathes life into me. my maekar, i wish we had more time.’

beside a usb with a single file– an audio depicting the quagmire his own son had gutted you with. recorded every word that aerion slurred with malintention the night you met him in the club. smart girl you are, yet maekar wishes you were brave instead.

- gone and void were his eyes, lips dry like his throat rough at the liquor he downs. maekar is lost in the spiralling dilemma of losing you; his office a witness to this new of him all within the same rise of the sun.

he does not knock, no— aerion remains arrogant and oblivious that he’s caused a split to his father’s soul. all due to greed and lusting after what he knew was out of reach, what belonged to someone else what what should have stayed as far admiration. he was anything but the latter— antonyms of his father, aerion scoffs at the state he sees maekar.

the glass of swirled dark liquor is set calmly, odd and bizarre for the turmoil clawing away deep within in scratches maekar is unsure of healing how.

“i have done everything i could to you– for you, have i not?”

confusion arrives quick in etching into expression, the younger gazing at his father in lost like his tone of question.

“what are you talking about—”

“have i not?” maekar cuts, eyes blank but cutting that aerion is rended further in fret.

the same glass is thrown towards in his direction, missing by an inch before he objects with a scowl.

“if this is about that fucking bit—”

collar fisted with his back slammed against the wall, maekar’s tall height towers over aerion whose eyes were wide and breathing stuttered from fright. only then it settles on slowly what calamity he’s done.

“you are my demise. my fucking ruin.”

“father—”

“you are everything i had turned a blind eye to.”

“father pleas—”

books placed in shelves rattle, but the picture frame of him and his father break apart in glass after he’s slammed once more by force. he watches how maekar turns his back— almost as if seeing him was punishment, almost as if his own father was repulsed by him.

“you have a day to pack everything you can.”

“w-what?”

“i'm sending you to the north and you’re to stay there until i say so.”

“dad please don’t do this—”

“go.. before i forget you’re my own blood.”

it is that very moment, the very second that it settles into aerion’s bones, the tragedy he’s inflicted for both himself and for maekar whose heart warps in immeasurable sorrow that is beyond comprehension for someone as shallow as he was.

- to say maekar surrendered at a mere letter of adieu is to renounce the immense effort exercised in finding you within the vast of the planet. nothing but grief for the woman who once he had the privilege of everything.

weeks spent in texting and in calling the number that no longer exists in possession:

‘doll, please.’

‘talk to me. i miss you, i always do.’

‘you’re everything to me, my love.’

‘come back to me. please.’

months of incessant searching for even a glimpse or a shadow of who carried his heart entirely in full— even if it beats slower each day he was stripped of you. it would be a lie to say that he was patient, for he was anything but the latter.

his group of private investigators knew, the employees in the company all silently questioning and the targaryens verbal of their concern— through it all, maekar remained steadfast in his search.

a year and two months, two weeks and three days until aspiration returns. the folder of captured photographs was placed upon his desk at exactly nine fifty-seven in the morning; the very hour where maekar is blessed with the sight of his obdurate but still so electrifying beloved— you.

he planned to seek the very location you frequented: by the south-west, in oldtown to be exact. but sir reynold had reminded him once more of your elusive behavior and it’s possible reasons. a sharp and bitter pill a man who longed for nothing but the feel of his lover once more— patience may do him well, a mantra that echoes the domes of his heart along with your name.

- so despite the hebetude he carries in weighed shoulders and even more doleful heart, maekar respected the unannounced boundaries and wish for a quiet life that you now lived.

he endured every longing at each second spent in avoiding the same restaurants you’ve both had a meal in. he endured each yearning for the day he would be granted access back into your life, even if it now sounded as a mere ambition and a prayer for the seven above. he endured the love that remained along with the anguish for the need of contentment in watching from afar. and most of all, maekar endured the vacillating misery that kept him both away from you yet all so close in metaphor.

all within those four years and a half that passed now; he has gone to the whole hog, in the name of obeying the silent ask from you in that letter he keeps in his wallet beside your picture.

maekar knows your new address, the hospital you interned for and now worked in as a diagnostician after graduating, the café you get your morning caffeine from, the grocery store you visit once a week, the vintage store that you pass by before grabbing lunch with your old friend sasha and he knows the very park you lose your time in reading books by the grass beneath an old oak tree during weekends.

his office, his study and his bedside table all carry a framed picture of you in surface; recent candid ones sent to him by his private investigator. but his favorite remained the same, even after all these years: his own candid photo of you in bed with a bare face beneath the blanket sleeping— waiting for him to come home. it’s quite comical, how the scenarios have changed for it was him now that awaits for your return. wallpaper permanently of you, all the same with his laptop and all the electronic device he owned. stares into the old photos and videos of you together while holding the velvet box containing an engagement ring he’s owned a week before you had taken leave for good.

- you knew, it was quite difficult not to when the signs appear themselves in full glory– shameless but willingly persistent in displaying only the love that continued to exist even in abrupt.

you first received flowers at your new apartment, that alone should have been a sign even when no note was given by the delivery man; only nodding to you with a proof of receiving to sign. a rather familiar situation you recalled.

they were consistent: your first day as an officially licensed diagnostician, your first successful case, finishing an entire book, your birthday, celebratory days of lovers and even in mundane days where one wouldn't expect them.

then the signs were much more apparent: delivery of pastries to your department in the hospital with nothing but a note of ‘still like sweets, doc?’, landlord laughing when you apologized for being a day late in rent before following with ‘you’re paid for the rest of the year, i received the cheque yesterday, young lady.’ and the car you were eyeing and currently saving up for suddenly delivered with a fully paid note and insurance— keys handed by the sales associate with a smile.

eyes landing onto a familiar face, your lips form a small smile in acknowledgement to sir reynold who stood at the other end of the street; almost guarding, almost like before. oh the lengths maekar would go through in order to remind you that his love remained despite the years, despite it all.

it keeps you up one late evening after a harrowing shift at the hospital, fresh out of the shower and now abed in pyjamas. the window slightly open for a breeze that you welcomed with a hum, allowing it to lull you in the much needed rest– but not before your fingers grasp in hold the heart shape locket by your chest in pendant of the necklace containing a photo of who mattered still, despite these years and despite it all.

perhaps when time is right and life is kind, paths are crossed once more in given blessing of trying again without the fear of no longer anything. free to love, free to devote and free to belong.

but for now, patience shall echo in two minds and amour shall remain in two hearts until it morphs once again in red strings from the same thread.

fin.

⌎⊰⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊱⌏

- metal racks all draped with hanging variety of colours from sweet to seductive, much like the fabrics of silk and laces— penelope squeals upon catching sight of the newly released sets of lingerie.

instantly tugging you along with a thrilled look, your friend is quite swift with grabbing whichever had passed her standard of a proper intimate wearing.

“p.. we’re here to look for a dress, not their..”

“oh come on! we will look for a dress— but i need you to try these on for me!” your enthusiastic friend shoving an armful of provoking sets.

“wait—”

“go! and do not come out unless it’s for me to judge.” penelope states quite firmly before she has the door to one of the stalls closed without leaving room for an excuse.

you sighed first, glanced to your reflection second and ultimately fall weak into the thought of purchasing as much as one could— as much as your favorite gifter had generously given. even the sudden upbringing of him in mind rends your chest with such giddiness that it does not register to your head that the first pair of soft pink lace set was on display with a cheeky smile to waiting penelope.

her jaw opens with a huff of excitement, signalling a turn that you so graciously give.

“oh my god.. yes! yes! yes! go try the rest and hurry!”

laughing with a crinkled nose, her demand is obeyed for the next set in maroon satin, in black lace, white silk and baby blue, back to the shade of red until the last pair of burgundy beneath a sheer black robe.

her lack of expression and words sends an uneasy feeling, turning shy in assumption that it was too much— that it was beyond the perception of standard appropriate. but, penelope senses the mentioned worry with a swift whisper of hers in reassurance:

“holy.. you look incredible. truly.”

“really? it’s not.. i don’t know.. too—” shy with reddening apples.

“it’s hard to believe you’re not seeing anyone, that you’re buying this for yourself only.. wow.”

“oh stop it, p..”

“i promise! if my parents weren't so traditional.. i think i would have bent you over—” she adds in a tone of flatter, instantly thrown a bra in halt.

“penelope!”

“ow! okay.. i'll shut up.. so— all of them?”

“i guess.. yeah.”

“especially that one!”

- the bunny plushy on your bed propped up all properly is witness to how your carpet is stepped over and over in cycled walking of anxiousness. thumb bitten in between top and bottom teeth while the screen of your laptop awaits to turn it’s clock from six fifty-nine pm to seven.

sat in to the chair when the hour settles in, dressed in the very burgundy pair over the black see-through robe, a deep inhale is breathe out from your lips— the pink mask now over your face in concealing identity. then the invite button is pressed by a finger to @drgnblr.t for a private call as promised.

the camera puts your pretty self in the screen of baelor’s computer, his own showcasing just below his neck and white dress shirt with three buttons undone to have a peak of his chest.

“hi..” diffident in true tone.

“hello sweetheart. you look beautiful.” baelor responds which paints those cached cheeks of yours in similar color of what you wore.

“thank you.. do you like what i'm wearing? i bought it justtt for you, mr.”

“did you? what a good girl you are. thank you.”

“you’re welcome.. want me to do a twirl?”

“please. if you would be so kind.”

and so you turned for him, posing sweetly at the end with a flying kiss and wink over that pink mask of yours. baelor swears in nearing curse to how aroused you have him by such simple acts, sighs to himself as you sat back and fix that blonde wig of yours.

“what do you think?” asked so unawarely naive that he was restricting every degenerate impulse in order to not inflict discomfort neither fear to his sweetheart— to you. so instead, baelor hums in faux ponder to tease upon hearing those whines, following it with a coying low and deep praise:

“if i could say everything i'm thinking, i might scare you away, sweetheart. so we’ll settle with a simple: you look perfect, like an angel.”

- a supposed exclusive call with mr. generous that one friday of ultimate fond memory through giggling and amused but bashing conversation stringed through two hours of direct call— ended with a dear wave and a “bye mr.” and “bye sweetheart.”

mask peeled away to reveal the blushing cheeks and smiling lips, your screen indicating a notification sent by the same man just in communication with not passing three seconds ago.

1500$ sent by @drgnblr.t with an attached message : ‘words can not describe how happy you made me feel, sweet. if you can.. and want to, i'd like to talk again on call next friday. same time.’

tongue licking wet your lips upon the text, your heart pumps abnormally when the number of money sent catches your attention. finger dancing to type in answer.

@sweetmia.x : ‘don’t know, mr.. i have to be on live and earn coins.’

@drgnblr.t : ‘i'll pay double the amount you earn in one night, sweetheart. just tell me the price to have you all alone to myself again.’

@sweetmia.x : ‘really? (˶>⩊<˶)’

@drgnblr.t : ‘yes. so please?’

@sweetmia.x : ‘fine.. only because you’re so generous.’

@drgnblr.t : ‘not because i’m your favorite?’

@sweetmia.x : ‘sooo cocky!’

@drgnblr.t : ‘pink next week?’

@sweetmia.x : ‘yes, sir.’

@drgnblr.t : ‘good girl. see you soon, sweetheart.’

it’s comical the sensation from such unforeseen affiliation with someone who perhaps may be a killer or just a plain man seeking euphoria due to the lack of it in certain areas of grey in life— you just happen to throw said dice in landing of digits sufficient in obtaining which exact puzzle piece is necessary to cover a part of yourself in void.

baelor unknowingly fit right in.

- he’s a dream; a feverish, or perhaps a distant one more appropriate in judgement of the man whose objective seemed to be quite evident from the mark he’s placed the very moment your first call ended.

as described, baelor is a man of his word— every depiction carried through generational standard suit him as not only a sophisticated member of an elusive society, but as a man entirely.

this to say: the following friday arrives as swift as the disappointed reactions of your followers to the post uploaded to your blog in excuse of seeing who you favoured more in secret.

‘unfortunately, there will be no livestream again this week due to some technical issues i am currently fixing in order to proceed for next friday of fun together. wait for me my lovelies! mucccchhh love, sweet mia! x’

just right after, your masked is slipped on with the same blond wig and the requested pink slip on lace that accentuates the slopes of your shoulders— baelor’s quick to praise.

“don’t even need to remind you, don’t i?”

“remind me of what?” all playfully twirling the front strands with a finger, smiling beneath in wait.

“instructions. you’re perfect, sweetheart.”

and two fridays turned into three.

‘my mic is nottt working :( i wish we could finally spend some time together but i want my streams to be as perfect as i am! thank you all for being so so patient with me! missing all of you just as much! mia x’

fingers typing in the keyboard forming a reply to whom gathered every attention of yours. baelor in the other end of his computer dressed in a button up in color of your choosing— a rather delightful charm of yours to rival him with the same orders of wear.

@sweetmia.x : ‘ready, mr? or do you need more time to prepare?’

@drgnblr.t : ‘always prepared for you, sweetheart.’

@drgnblr.t sent 2000$ with an attached message : ‘for being my sweet.’

@sweetmia.x : ‘oh you’re just sooo kind to me, aren't you mr? i bet you missed me.’

@drgnblr.t : ‘call me right now and i'll show you how much.’

@sweetmia.x : ‘bossy too. comingg!’

three into four.

‘something came up today in college for finals, my lovelies. so super sorry :( and iii know that i promised for a stream because you’ve all missed me and i do too! i'll make it up for everyone, i swear it! here’s some pictures of my newly bought white nightie for compensation. muchhh kisses, mia x’

lips all curled in a barely contained frisson, you entered the call where baelor awaited you in the same dress shirt in black— your favorite, with three exact buttons undone that's shown by the camera of his laptop.. along with his face enclosed by a black masquerade mask that parallels yours but red with a feather as he had personally purchased from an artisan.

both in expression of complementing utter fondness for one another in what no longer resumes a call of two but now four hours worth of intimacy via cyber. baelor breathes in memory through carved pumping flesh of blood and you— allowing every smile, every lip bite and giggle so visible through each clock ticking of demonstrated and orchestrated display of trust.

“you know how good you make me feel, sweetheart.” baelor leans closer with a sported smirk, his hand groping himself beneath where he needs you most.

“do i? i don’t know mr. b.. i think i need to see..” whispered sultry with a tilted head, blonde wig brushed away in show of bare shoulder blades with a dainty silver chain of a crescent moon— free from the slim strap of the black lace nightgown he adores.

“really? maybe next week when we call again.”

“but.. can’t next week, mrrr! you know i have others to please.. they’ve missed me.” whined with an endearing pout for effect, speaking the truth in a mellow pill for baelor to swallow.

“after your live then. we’ll call and.. talk about whatever your pretty little self wishes to and perhaps.. i'll show you just how pleased i am with you.”

“okay.. fine— but only if i get money for shopping again.”

“whatever amount, sweetheart.”

the line ends after a ritual of blowing him a kiss and a small peak of your arousing body, baelor sending you a smirk with a ‘i'll see you in my dreams.’ bottom lip bitten in between a forming smile, your cell lights up in notification— quickly grabbing in thought of being sent his text, only to receive one from a friend formed through connections.

‘hey sorry i'm texting you so late but.. do you have a sec to talk?’

‘hi cate! no worries at all, what is it?’

‘do you remember when i brought up that one summer centre for kids during one of our conversations?’

‘yess. but, what about it?’

‘..i kinda told them i knew someone interested in working this summer with me..’

‘oh cool! who?’

‘..you.’

‘me?’

‘before you get all angry at me.. think about how easy the job would be AND the amount of money you’ll make!!’

‘urghh cate!’

‘pleaseee? it’ll only be a couple of weeks babysitting rich kids cause their parents are too busy working or want good reputation cause the centre is by this government shit idk.’

rolling your eyes at her pleading, you sighed within the realization of her words. it was indeed good money, besides your favorite doner’s generosity, it may do you well to spend time outside this summer. and so you replied:

‘fine. but only if my hours are the same exact shifts as yours.

‘FUCK I COULD KISS YOU! THANK YOUUUUU! i'll make sure to confirm with my boss.’

- days of awaited and anticipated summer has arrived at last with the heat bearing most of the city’s occupant in clothing nearly sufficient of saving over the hours of the sun spent in activities you could have also been a part of. instead, you were dressed in a pair of uniform white scrubs beneath the brown apron baring a small name tag of yours.

it isn't like the first four shifts were unbearable due to every corner of the grand and private centre echoing screams and high-pitched laughter of the children you were tasked to tend after with cate. huffing mentally the tugging of spoiled ones asking for more snacks after lunch, smiling instead of teeth being gritted while correcting those that had been naughty for attention and cooing away a furtive appeasing towards a certain redhead who happened to be quite the joy of those charging shifts of yours.

he was rather diffident upon the first few initial interactions, respecting the child’s boundaries whenever it is called for, yet remaining reassurance all throughout those moments in quiet but visible gestures. sooner or later, the redhead began to ease into your presence and the environment— gaining even the courage to initiate a talk.

all shy with his hands behind his back, you felt a petite and barely there tug to your apron one tuesday afternoon for your sixth shift; eyes round and so full of color that they nearly distracted you from leaning down with a smile.

“yes, baby? what can i do for you?’

“i.. want to play the piano over there please.”

“of course! do you want me to ask for miss cate to accompany you?”

“no.. i want you to sit beside me please?”

“alright. come on, let’s get you on those keys.”

the following three shifts were consisted of the very same children in care over interactive but brain stimulating activities before and after nap time and lunch.. and a flourishing flower of furtuitous glee.

the first being:

most have been tucked into their little places of rest while you gently stroke red strands to lulling in a certain corner, the boy growing a sort of connection that merely bloomed further at each day you nursed after his every unknown demand of an absent figure— polite despite so.

“feel so sleepy..”

“yeah? sleep now, baby. we’ll play some more when you wake.”

“promise, miss?”

“i promise, baby.”

the second more advancing in ease:

brush gliding in strokes of color in manners a child much too thrilled, the canvas wet with paint that each child of ages four to eight paint over with whichever object of inspiration they deemed interest in doing. doing rounds of checking with cate, you kneeled beside your favorite boy sporting an encouraging smile and whisper.

“good job, buddy. this looks really good.’

“really? you mean it, miss?”

“i do! you work on this and.. we’ll have a little secret snack before nap time, okay?”

head nodding in obedience with a similar smile, you pat his back gently before carrying on.

and the third one much more telling to the distinctly formed bond and may haps a warning from those above.

bag straps falling gently to the child’s shoulder, small fingers tugging at the apron of yours in ask of proximity that you so kindly kneeled down in offer— taken aback at the little arms curling for a hug, laughing before you reciprocated the act.

“i'll see you next time, okay?”

“yes! yes! can't wait to play with you again, miss!”

brushing back his red strands, lips in display of a smile while you murmur.

“we’ll play as much as you wish— even play some instruments too, baby. but, be good for now, okay?”

“i wish you were my sister. bye miss!”

eyes watching the boy run away in leaving you in a state of startle, it’s a few seconds to regain composure in returning at the unfinished job to assess after their dismissal.

unbeknownst to you, a pair of bi-colored gaze follows the very way you moved from the window— opening his arms for a big embrace at the running child of his.

“papa!”

“matarys! hello, my son— how was your day with that pretty lady?”

“great papa! can we get ice cream please?”

- it’s rather unusual this sense of belonging from baelor the very second he’s laid his eyes on you that one afternoon in collecting his youngest after a day of fun in the centre. he thinks to himself that perhaps it may be well to have himself rather than his driver or assistant pick up matarys every after visit.

taking in each sway of your hips after sending the redhead boy out the door with a petite wave and a ritual hug— grasping at the very matter of the growing bind between you and his son who happened to be very vocal in his carseat at the back.

“she even helped me with my painting, papa!”

“did she now? how very kind of her then.”

“we had a secret snack and she calls me a good boy for behaving so well too!”

“that’s great, matarys. do you know her name?”

“..i…don’t know papa, sorry..”

“that’s okay. maybe next time i pick you up you’ll tell me, hm?”

repeated farewell once more to your favorite kid in the entire centre; matarys hugs you tightly with a giggle and a wave, his little legs carrying him off to where baelor stood outside already memorizing the curve of your familiar form and glistening silver chain adorning your neck— smirk forming in curl upon an unforeseen crossing.

“good day?”

“we played instruments today, papa! and miss even promised to bring me a new toy car next time.”

“did you get her name for me, buddy?”

“oh..i forgot papa.”

“that’s alright. papa will find out himself.”

- screen lit in show of the impending red button, your blonde faux strands are swept off the expanse of skin displaying the baby blue dress all too sweetly-provoking. pink mask on per always before you confirmed the live.

comments instantly flooding one by one over the chatbox, it’s a relief off of your shoulders caused by the unspoken worry that the ‘break-not-so-break’ have been far too long from those who patiently awaited for your return.

@trueloverofyox : ‘mia welcome back!’

@wh6862 : ‘where have you been, sweet? we missed you!!!!’ sent 15$

@Boldmarkk : ‘why were you gone? we were worried you quit.’

@greatckc126 : ‘I missed seeing your body holy shit.’

@youmeus62 : ‘so beautiful in that dress. take it off!’ sent 50$

@DomdddyR : ‘how are you, mia? my beautiful babygirl.’ sent 36$

@revoluwtb_27 : ‘love that dress on you! still so gorgeous after being away and teasing us with only pictures!’

@Greenforges3876 : ‘you're still my favorite in this website even if you only do little lives!’ sent 83$

@drgnblr.t : ‘i bet you’re gorgeous up close, sweetheart.’ sent 500$

huffing almost the very second a certain comment catches your attention, you roll your eyes at baelor’s words before carrying on with interacting so falsely sweet personality that all indulge into by entertaining of continuous sending in both comments and coins.

a peeking message peels your attention for a split, eyes skimming along the words creating a certain puzzled sentiment of furrowed brows beneath with pursed lips and uneasy inkling.

message sent by @drgnblr.t : ‘pretty necklace, sweetheart. do you happen to be good with children?’

effort exercised in faux composure paralleling an animal gnawing it’s own limb caught by a trap, you carried on for an hour exact— shutting everything off as quick as you could, mask thrown away with a stuttered intake for air.

a reply was never sent, neither had you properly viewed his message; much too petrified in entertaining welcome the concept of being seen beyond the screen you permitted.

searching for a glass of cold water in hopes of calming effect, it’s swallowed with a heave for breathing after— your mother’s drunken body laying in the couch where slurred invitation for holding echoes your ear.

“mama.. why did you drink? you rarely drink..” a hand to brush messy strands, her face much visible now under the influence of liquor.

“my daughter.. my sweet pea— i'm sorry.”

“for what mama?”

“i only wanted what was best for you.. truly.”

“mama.. i’m not following what you mean.”

a second, two and an entire moment of just silence between a mother slowly rotting from culpability buried by the pretense of a good act in salvation of distancing what mattered to her most and a daughter whose mind begins to tether at the wavering.

“your father— i spoke with him.”

a laugh to her face is what she receives, much amused at your mother’s drunken altered reality.

“i have no father, mama. you made that quite very clear for as long as i could think—”

“no, sweet pea.. i lied— i.. wanted what was good for you. what i thought was better away from him and his monstrous family—”

“mama what are you saying?”

“i spoke to him… just today and i'm so sorry, baby girl.. i really am. please find it within you that everything i've done was to protect you and be there for you—”

“what..”

“your father.. he’s alive and he’s.. my former boss.”

- pacing the space of the office, baelor’s phone is pressed in call with his own proper lawyer with a hand in hold of his forehead caused by stress— the renowned man finds himself in a predicament of familial strings.

“it has been twenty or so years. why would she only contact me now?”

“i am not capable of giving you a proper response, mr. targaryen. but i will reassure you with the lack of proof that the child is yours.”

“no need for that. i know her daughter’s mine.. fuck. i can't have the public getting ahold of this fucking—”

“they won’t. i will make certain of it. what did she ask of you? overdue child support?”

“she’s asking for her daughter’s right in my inheritance.. she wants equal to my sons.”

“…right.”

“how are we going to fucking deal with this?”

“i will think this through with your private team, sir. we will get back to you swiftly once we’ve thought each possibility to tackle.”

phone discarded with force at the desk, baelor’s breathing parallels the threatening horror he’s inflicted himself to you by the message left just before. the connecting string of you and your favorite not-so-anonymous gifter, and his beloved sweetheart, may be tangled proufoundly fated than both ends perception.

fin.

⌎⊰⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊱⌏

modern!father!baelor is a very logical man in every regard of life, but most especially to what he considers very dear to him.

the surname reputation, the business and his family.

but most of all, his dear last born and only daughter after two boys. you.

to say baelor did not favor you is to deny every single affection he had shown from the cradle up until the age of twenty.

you had at the tip of your fingers what most could only envision as reality in the near future: a life of utter comfort and luxury without worry of neither finance and status.

some do not bat an eye to the rather interesting development of your closeness after the divorce was processed between baelor and jena's failed marriage of nearly three decades.

valarr and matarys had both decided to stay with you in your father's house in kingslanding instead of moving away with jena back near south— education purposes.

baelor's advances began after your twentieth birthday and exactly four years after the separation.

a hand in your thigh when watching a film together, a kiss to your forehead every evening before bed, one in the cheek when you leave for lectures or promenades with friends.

no one questions the hand he possessively has at the low of your spine during attending galas or dinner celebrations with people of connection— often sending a respectful nod and smile to your direction along with a "your daughter's a beauty, baelor."

not once did your father's sudden difference in treating you rend a question of oddity in mind. how could one even put such intention to their own father's innocent display of affection?

baelor was in utter bliss. a life of no involvement with a woman he no longer valued, but instead was blessed the liberty of pursuing who carried his heart entirely.

everyday was ecstasy, until you displayed peculiar behavior towards your phone. lips curled with a smile while your fingers typed away in contact with gods forbid was a boy.

then you began coming home late; porsche newly given to you usually parked by the driveway when the clock strikes before nine pm, now clicked shut with your keys at quarter past eleven at night.

you'd been more seclusive these past couple of weeks: preferring the privacy of your own room, barely joining for meals on top of your unusual behavior.

father!baelor was not pleased by this, an argument arising between the two of you had caused a slight gap of tension in which he nearly collapse from rightful thinking when his dear daughter threatened to move out.

meaningless if anything, only to inflict fear to your father where you quickly learned just exactly the profound 'protectiveness' he had for you.

father!baelor made certain that you grasped the truth of his affections for you that very night.

how? well..

your head was as empty as your threat, thrown back with a curled moan at each thrust he fucked into your cunt. hand gripping your cheek in order to meet your eyes through the tears, smirking when you merely mewled back with a tight grip around his shoulder and bicep when asked a question:

'you really want to move away from father, hm?'

you shook your head no of course, pleading mercy with pretty glossed eyes while father!baelor continuously thrust through the third orgasm he had taken from you. lips on yours when his own arrives with a grunt of a promised reminder:

'you're mine. you'll stay with me— only with me.' he says so while his seed spills in white over your flesh from within.

and he does so in each intercourse you and him had in pursuit. whether it be in the kitchen by midnight where both brothers were in slumber of unbeknownst, in the backseat whenever father!baelor insisted in picking you up, in his study after a long day of work and in his bedroom— secretly having his way with you exactly as shared preferences were in carnal needs.

so to act surprised at the two lines of the test after a particularly harsh morning of gagging over the toilet bowl is to be ignorant.

positive. pregnant— what baelor reads before he pulls you into his arms with soft pats to the head and cooing of reassurance onto how he was going to handle it.

laying you back to your bed with a tender kiss and smile, phone already dialing his personal assistant in booking the nearest clinic for 'extraction' like the logical and reasonable man he was.. not knowing your eyes were in a darken hue of prevailing in watch.

what? you weren't naive, neither an airhead. no, if anything, you were his child— calculated and sly.

those acts of seemingly occupancy with a supposed 'boy' weeks ago? all a part of a scheme to have the sole man you have deemed worthy of you.. and father!baelor bit exactly at the bait like you knew he would.

smart girl you were. truly your father's daughter with how quick yet a new ploy in convincing father!baelor to keeping the child had formed in your head.

being a college student was the reality to most of your peers in westeros considering how it was the norm: educated in your path of choosing all while maintaining the proper standard of carrying the weight your surname brings. most face quite the difficulty alongside the charging demands of literacy all by itself; fortunately for you, the blood within your veins came from a family of comfortable living grace to the generational expectation of owning a respectable career. your father a civil engineer and your mother a business manager in a company. safe to say, life was as breezy as fresh spring wind of renewal.

you’d known a life of solitude, despite being surrounded by friends in every stage of eras passing; gaining plenty and losing some, you’ve acquainted yourself within your own bubble of safe keeping for one’s company would suffice often times than anybody would confess— at least for you it was the case. considering how no other children were conceived from your parents, cousins were rarely seen only in occasions and love.. well nonexistent in the vocabulary for as long as you were capable of remembering.

it isn't like the idea opposed nor repulsed you, may haps guardians of high standards helped or hindered any boy setting interest: too sensitive, too muscly, doesn't care enough, cares too much, unpleasant in the eyes, arrogantly stupid and the list goes on. instead, solace is found in books of various genres, films to watch while you paint your nails and toes, your father’s card slid through machines while shopping during the weekends you weren't studying and driving around to café hop with your best friend marga. oh life could not be any sweeter in the third year of college, parents both teary as they send you off once again to reach your dream of becoming an interior designer— so incredibly prideful of their twenty-one year old baby girl.

high grades from countless hours of effort in studying, a planned internship awaiting you in the summer, professors in awe of your talent in drawing and being a member of a sorority group— some describe you as the perfect girl, so sweet and kind and humble despite the life of utter bliss. even your best friend rolls her eyes to the amount of boys you reject via messages online or in the hallways.

“that’s the third one this week— and it’s only wednesday.” she chuckles beside you, heading for your lecture together in the east wing.

“and so on, mar.. you know dating isn't in my plan board.”

“when was it ever? it’s not like anybody interests you.”

“exactly. besides, we’re young. who knows, maybe my husband is—” gasping at the cold substance that reeked similarly to an energy drink, you glanced down at the now stained and wet white long-sleeve sticking to your chest.

“oh shit. sorry.”

eyes landing on the perpetrator with blonde hair and blue eyes, lips thinned in what seemed like a laugh in repressed— your glare could slice him in half with a paired scowl.

“sorry? are you serious?”

“i don’t know what you want me to say.. it’s not like i did it on purpose.” he raises his hand in mock surrender.

“it sure seems like it when you're attempting not to laugh like that, asshole.” wiping away the excess liquid with the tissues marga offered.

“hey, not my fault you’re small—” reply halted before they reach their full meaning, your book meeting his arms before a foot meets his groin; immediately on his knees grasping his manhood with a similar look of sneer up to you.

“what was that for?!”

“for wetting me, you absolute asshole. urgh!” leaving him in stomps to the other end, heading straight to the bathroom where your friend merely laughs at the boy’s groaning.

daeron gazes up to where you stormed off, eyes in slits of amusement before he scoffs and gathers himself up with a small:

“cute.”

and that random wednesday commenced a rather complicated-not-so-complicated interconnection between you and a particular blonde hair, blue-eyed targaryen who harboured a favour for alcohol, pizza from the corner store not too far from the campus, partying every friday and saturday with the rest of his fellow frat members and cute things.

the two years passed in college were seemingly easy in comparison to the third that you deemed as utterly cursed all in mercy of the former, daeron had made your life quite complex with how he found pure joy and entertainment in bringing you demise in any manner he was capable of.

from purposely crossing your paths in timed hours of the day with unnecessary comments that differed from vexing to questionably flirty:

“hey kitty-kitty, still hissing for me?”

“oh shut up and leave me alone, will you?”

“but where’s the fun in that?”

“heard you rejected my friend marco, that’s sooo mean you know?”

“i could care less about you or your friend.”

“you don’t even know my name, sweets.”

glaring at him before rolling your eyes with a sneer.

“do not plan to, asshole. now move along before i kick you where your future children reside again.”

daeron instantly grimacing in memory of the pain, hand finding his groin with a chuckle as he watches you slip away.

seeking you in the library or your program building despite it being the other direction of the campus; daeron eventually finds himself seeking you and your cute little outfits amongst the crowd— and no less than later, the blonde finds you with the cheekiest grin in prepared teasing.

“never seen you wear this before. didn't know you like other colours other than pink, white, grey and—”

a groan leaving past the gloss lips, eyes rolling as you clutch your books.

“don't you have anything better to do, you asshole?”

“i do, but i know you’ll miss me if i go a day without seeing you.”

“oh you’re not just full of yourself, but also delirious! what news!”

daeron is quick with the laugh, shadowing over your smaller form in the hallway where plenty of curious and brewing rumours were in watch.

“too mean to me, princess—”

“don’t call me that.”

“aww come on. why not?”

feet stopping to face him with a look of indignation, a finger pointing up to him with a following quiet threat:

“because.. if you do not leave me alone, i will personally contact your father with details of your failing classes in macro economics and your elective courses. we wouldn’t want that now, don’t we sweet daeron?”

stunned and speechless, he watches you walk away with a sweet smile— almost triumph in your head, so so unaware that you’ve just whirred his brains in tangles of wooing persuasion. oh sweet innocent girl, you now furthered his interest in you— not romantically of course, no, daeron was not a guy of affection. which is amusing, in mind that you were in the same standing towards the concept with who was your sworn enemy.

the party by the frat house was all but another friday evening for daeron to lose himself in carts of booze with all kinds of gin, vodka and brandy. stomach full of the liquor and laughter as he watches his dear friends play beer pong while he ties his long hair in a messy ponytail, shouting as the game recommences for a new round.

“yo, d! heard from a little birdie that a nursing student was into you.” only sipping the can of his chosen drink with his unbuttoned checkered polo.

“yeah, think her names emma.. something, i don't recall.”

“not even after fucking her?” his friend quips.

“nope. didn't do it.”

it’s mouths agape from his friends in true show of disbelief at what they just heard, all sharing a look of bewilderment as if daeron had suddenly grown a new pair of ears.

“what?”

“did any of you just heard what he said?”

“think he’s drunk out of his mind already.”

“daeron what do you mean you ‘didn't do it?’”

“exactly what i said, i didn't fuck her.” he replies as if it was anything but normal.

“why?” was all he hears, shrugging them off with a simple answer.

“didn't feel like it?”

“yeah— why?” another wave of his friends like choir over the loud echoing sounds of the party in the background.

“ehh, not my type.”

all was sat by their respective places now all in regarding they blonde friend who seemed much too insouciant than usual, sipping his can of beer again before daeron hears the following:

“what is your type then?”

he ponders, but not for long— only as if tasting the certainty in that tongue of his with a particularly hissy cat in mind where an instant smile forms within memoir only.

“small.. feisty, smart and.. hard-to-get.”

“ahhh.. seems familiar.”

daeron brushes them off with a barely expression of hindered smirk, not wanting to be anything but subtle that it was you on his mind— shaking the thoughts away, thinking the liquor was affecting him more with a peculiar reason.

and mentioned peculiarity is what brings him knocking to your dorm room entirely intoxicated in state but still forms the ability of audacity upon seeing your bare face and pairing baby shirt and shorts in pink.

“hiiiiiiii kitty cattt.” he slurs, nearly falling to his knees until you catch him with your flimsy arms.

“daeron—”

“you knoww my n-name? wow… pretty girl knowsss my name.”

you took awareness of any possible witness in threat first before sighing to yourself with a mute groan, eyes rolling as you pull him inside the safety and privacy the four walls of your dorm offered for the drunkard.. who bizarrely knew where and which the proper location was. but that was a worry for another day.

quickly grabbing a clean towel and wetting it with cold water, you leaned down to where the drunk blonde set himself all messily by the wall beside your closet to clean him free of sweat and remnants of strong liquor. finger brushing his stands back before the fabric gently cleans his face in slow strokes of kind.

you could feel his blue eyes taking your features in an almost shade of appreciation over the glaze of excess dopamine caused by the liquor he had drank, supposedly more bolder yet so pliant beneath you while being pampered. there exists no reasonable excuse as to why you hadn't shut the door to his face immediately as you should have, no causable explanation to the logic of bringing the man who’d caused no good in the past five months— only a small tug of intuition that daeron seeked you in his most vulnerable state.

“gods, you’re such trouble for me.” tucking away his hair while simultaneously cradling his cheek to properly check for remaining uncleanliness.

he pouts, daeron targaryen pouting up to you with wide glossed eyes and hands grabbing on to your hips to pull— gasping and flushing just in slight upon the new proximity before he whines:

“d’you hate me?”

“please don’t hate mee, please please?”

you quickly pull yourself up for air, head shaking while he continues to tug onto your shorts and slur his wishes further with teary gaze up to you.

“don’t leave me pleasee? please i.. i need you.” quickly apprehending just how drunk he truly was, you tried your absolute capability in lifting the taller and heavier guy up to his feet and onto your bed within a couple of attempts— panting by the end of success where daeron quickly succumbs to slumber upon your soft sheets and warm blankets.

you’d slept in the small sofa just by the window, a blanket of your own and cheek squished in hold of your stuff toy; the sun greets daeron into consciousness with a mute groan— feeling himself much cozier than usual, hangover quite vigorous in his head but it melts away upon seeing the sight of who he’d wished was a common privilege to have.

he carries you back to bed, careful and benign in tucking before he hesitates in a second or two, eventually permitting the little horned entity to press his lips into your cheek once, twice and three times until he feels himself blush to how soft and chaste you were in the eyes.

so unaware in knowing your eyes blink awake at the sound of the door closing, fingers grazing the remnants of his kiss.

it’s odd how the entirety of commencing absurdity in abrupt intercourse with daeron wreaked quite the havoc in your once smooth life; what was once days passed all alone in your dorm either studying or binge-watching preferred novellas had then become an allotted time for his sly self to visit and absolutely have his way with you and your pretty self.

seven months worth of banter in public and in display of true vexation towards the careless blonde known by nearly the entire statistics of kingslanding university, two months now of absolute mewling beneath his knowing hands of gained knowledge in the access granted by you in inflicting pleasure.

with your head thrown back in each visit he pays in scheduled days of the week: tuesday by six thirty-five pm after your visual communication lecture. daeron swiftly entering your dorm with a smirk, hand already groping your ass and carrying you in bed where his head is in between those plush thighs of yours in pulling every sweet moan by his tongue flicking in movements of guaranteed hair grabbing.

thursdays of absolute mixing in your cream around his cock pounding your cunt repeatedly in thrusts of promising highs more than you were in proper thinking to count, a hand around your mouth to dim the volume of singing melodic moaning as daeron fucks you from behind in a secluded room in the campus side of finance program— his program.

then fridays of quickies passed after sneering at him in the hallway with an eye roll, the same sassy eyes rolled back in washing pleasure of being repeatedly thrusted in back against the wall, head dropped to his shoulder and arms holding him closely with consistent whines and pleading— but his memorable ones?

those unplanned fucks where one or the other’s needs overcome the supposed spurious hatred they carried in harbor for each other. filthy texting almost throughout the day that leads to either yielding past pride in feel of hands in equal frisson.

‘east wing bathroom by four? after my lecture?’

‘you busy this afternoon?’

‘miss that pretty begging eyes, kitty.’

‘so hard rn. thinking of you in my econ class, fuck.’

‘can i come over? miss your pussy, baby.’

to which you’d often respond or initiate with:

‘soo needy. on my way.’

‘visit me tonight? nine forty pm.’

‘you’re so irritating! urgh!’

‘don’t you want me anymore :(’

‘bought new lingerie.. want to see them?’

all in conclusion of legs pressed to your chest, eyes glossy from pleasured tears in form while daeron makes you watch how good he ruins you in your own bed with his cock easing itself in thrusts slow but deep— warrants the very moan he adores from your parted kiss-swollen lips after the half-hour makeout, exactly how his inkling draws in his head so full of vows and whispered oaths.

such staged and pretentious acts of fallacious showing for others; every student invested in the daily teasing between you and daeron in true entertainment— unbeknownst by all, he had your smart-mouth-self so submissive beneath him in moments of intimacy tethering the boundaries of what is agreed as mere connection as nothing beyond secret-friends-with-benefits.

because you may not once in your life had a boyfriend of your own dote, to nurse, to spoil and to devote himself entirely to you— but daeron was the closest to one, adjacent with how he’d memorized you and every component that makes you, you. marga not once forming a question pertaining to what it may be that causes you to be so eager for the days you’d once considered exhausting— not once doubt that her best friend was in a clandestine tie with a targaryen from finance who was the exact contrast to what’d you’d declare was your type.

as for daeron, he knew— even those close around him and his circle did. how? well it wasn't like he hid his attraction to you, to his so called ‘kitty’ all forbidden by others to call over your actual name because once a friend slipped, his instincts acted upon themselves rather than him over.

“what did you say?”

“i said kitty looked good in pink today. saw her walking in the main hall—” daeron’s hand fisting the poor startled guy’s collar, sporting a small condescending smirk but the darkening of his blue hues all spoke albeit the cool expression.

“watch yourself, alright?” is all he quietly reminds before letting go, bumping his shoulder into the frightened.

he plans not to spill a word, not even when his high is all he feels and it overweighs the safekeeping of having you in shallow intimacy rather than voided nought. for daeron, you had taken up most space in his mind— petite changes in habits influenced by your studious ones and all willingly transforming what you at times mention is a straining trait of his. yet, despite so, the blonde does not thinks to himself as ambitious for he was cognitive of the truth— strung it within his very consciousness when it reveals itself once after intercourse by your lightheaded state.

you were afraid of love.

but if the sacrifice of self-inflicted longing and initiated game of waiting for what is not entirely promised as prize was the piece of his own heart barely his to pay in place of having even a slice of yours— even a sliver or glimpse, he tells himself so be it.

but would this suffice? such definitive telling of concluded choosing may waver when the moment of unpredicted arrives in which said philosophy is put in question.

the knock he hears in his dorm door perks him away from the mirror, halfway prepared to head for another saturday party in the frat house. he thinks to himself it may be a friend, opens it with the expectation not to see his girl in a look of paralleled endured ache. you enter without a word, pull him down by the fabric of his shirt quickly pealed away whilst he carries you to his bed.

daeron’s hands were occupied with pulling your own sweater to take off before he feels the warm wet tears followed by a minuscule sniff— freezing in act, he pulls away to view for himself and just as instant, his heart throbs so unpleasantly.

“hey.. hey.” he says while sitting up to his headboard, easily pulling your crying form into his chest with an arm wrapped around your waist and a hand to cradle your head.

one, two and multiples sniffing before the repressed sobs fall free in wanting to be held beyond the intentions of carnal needs. and daeron does exactly so, wait until the shivering tremble caused by weeping begins to cease before he tilts his head to your level with a tender look and low murmur:

“hey baby.. what’s wrong, hm?”

you shook your head with a pout, sobbing further with red-rimmed eyes and quivering chin with cherry cheeks of warmth and wet– oh daeron has not known amour as he stares into it now with benign strokes to your wet strands in tucking.

“talk to me, baby girl. please?’

“want to make you all better, kitty.. let me help you.”

“you don’t want to talk?” is the question you respond to with a petite nod and another sniffle, cuddling closer to him in which he nods with a kiss to your wet cheeks, to your crying eyes and to those woeful lips.

“that’s okay, kitty. that’s alright.. we’ll talk when you’re ready, okay?” cooing reassurances and fond touches to his doleful baby while tucking both of you under the blankets of his bed.

phone ringing multiple times with vibrated messages and calls from his friends in curiosity of his eta, but daeron could not bother with his friends— with anyone else in particular, not when you’re in his arms so vulnerable in a way no intercourse could ever oppose in value. he only prays then in those faint hours of intimacy that your heart speak even in slight to the depth his heart does in what both were so entirely dreadful of.

fin.

⌎⊰⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷⊱⌏