Mary Jane

Part 1, Part 2

Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Reader

Trope: Academic Rivals

Summary: You sacrificed everything to earn your place at Harvard — sleepless nights, broken friendships, relentless pressure. You were supposed to be the best. But then there’s Valarr Targaryen — brilliant, infuriating, untouchable. No matter how hard you work, he’s always one step ahead. Until...

Warnings: academic rivalry, dark academia vibes, toxic competitiveness, rough make-out, all over themselves, intense touching and kissing, fingering, overstimulation, explicit sexual scene, +18.

Author Note: Look… sometimes the characters just get a little too close, and the universe (aka me) has to step in before things spiral into full chaos mode. Sorry for the previous moments of cockblock, guys. Enjoy! 🤭

“Anyway, tell Maekar I’m not dead yet and Duncan’s got me, we’re hitting Subway for one of those monster subs, bye!”

The call finally died with Egg’s dramatic flair, and the screen snapped to black, leaving only the goofy smiling-egg icon staring back like an innocent witness to everything that had just been interrupted.

Valarr let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, the sound raw with relief and the kind of lingering headache only Targaryen family gossip could deliver. He pinched the bridge of his nose hard, silver rings catching the low light of the day that transfigured through the curtains, then dragged his palm down his face. You could see the tension still coiled in his shoulders — the way Egg’s endless stream of drama (Aerion being a dick again, Daeron forgetting pickup duty, Maekar on the verge of combustion) had trapped him tighter than he’d ever admit.

You slid off the bed without a sound and crossed the room in three quiet steps. Close enough that the fronts of your thighs brushed the back of his chair. Closer still. You leaned in until your lips hovered at the shell of his ear, breath deliberately warm against sensitive skin.

“I see how disgustingly rich your house is,” you whispered, voice low, dark, teasing. “And the family drama package that comes with it.”

He froze for half a heartbeat. Then a soft, surprised huff escaped. Half laugh, half mortified surrender. “Yeah,” he muttered, voice already fraying at the edges. His fingers twisted one of the heavy silver rings on his right hand, a nervous tic betraying him. “Kinda hard to play it down when the foyer alone could buy half the campus.”

“But you hate it sometimes, don’t you?” you murmured against his throat, pressing a quick kiss just below his jaw, then an open-mouthed one to the side of his neck. He tilted his head instantly, offering more, breath hitching as your hands slid over his shoulders and down his chest, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart beneath the thin shirt.

“Sometimes,” he admitted, voice gravel-rough and wrecked. “Most people see the house first. Or the name. Then they decide who I am before I even open my mouth. It’s… exhausting.”

You paused, lips hovering over his racing pulse. Then you stepped around the chair until you stood between his spread thighs. You sank into his lap in one smooth glide, straddling him, core settling right over the thick, straining ridge already tenting his trousers.

“Stop looking so fucking serious,” you whispered, half-smiling as your fingertips traced the flesh where his dimples were so perfectly carved. You felt him check the screen again — quick, paranoid glance — making sure the camera was truly dead. “I’m not here for the trophies…” You rolled your hips once, grinding down until his breath punched out in a low groan. “Unless you’re planning to teach me how to ride properly.”

“Careful, I take riding very seriously.”

You kissed him with a daring look, lips brushing his as you whispered, “Then show me.”

The provocation dissolved into heat.

One hand shot up your back, fingers knotting in your hair at the nape, angling your head exactly how he wanted while the other clamped on your hip, grinding you down harder against his cock. You anchored both hands in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss into your mouth. A sound that shot straight between your legs.

He stood in one fluid motion, hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing. Your legs locked around his waist; arms looped tight around his neck. You kept kissing him while he carried you the few steps to the bed and near the edge he paused, adjusted his grip with a small, controlled bounce.

“Show-off,” you teased, breathless laughing, nipping his bottom lip.

He smirked, wicked. Then he lowered you to the mattress. You braced one arm behind you while he knelt between your spread thighs. His fingers found the buckle of one Mary Jane. Torturously slow. Metal clicked. Shoe off. Sweet open kisses along the inside of your ankle, through the sheer lace of your tights. You shivered violently.

You yanked your polo over your head in one impatient motion. Tossed it. Fingers flew to the buttons of your shirt—pop, pop, pop—revealing the black lace bra beneath, sheer enough that your nipples were already visible, peaked and straining against the fabric. He switched to the second shoe — same agonising patience — kissing up the inside of your other calf. His gaze raked down your body, lingering on the black lace bra so sheer it was basically painted on, your nipples already hard peaks straining against the delicate mesh like they were desperate for his mouth.

“Someone was waiting for this,” he murmured, voice low and rough, thick with dark amusement. His thumb brushed the underside of one breast, teasing the edge of the lace without giving you what you craved.

“Shut up!” You breathed, half growl, half plea.

His hand slid up the inside of your thigh, fingertips dragging slow fire across your skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. Until he reached the damp lace between your legs. He didn’t push the pantyhose or panties aside. He cupped you through both layers, palm scorching hot and possessive, then started rubbing slow, firm circles directly over your clit.

The friction hit like lightning.

The textured lace rasped against your swollen nub with every deliberate pass of his fingers—rough and in electric teasing. Pleasure spiked sharp and immediate, shooting up your spine in white-hot waves. You arched hard into his hand on instinct, hips chasing the pressure, a broken moan ripping from your throat.

“Fuck...Valarr...oh god...humff”

He maintained the relentless rhythm, tighter and tighter circles, then long, slow movements up and down your cleft through the soaked fabric. Your thighs trembled violently; breath came in short, irregular gasps, and you were dripping, feeling the moist heat penetrating the lace stockings — hips moving desperately against his palm, rubbing, thrusting, seeking the climax, but the barrier made it all torturous. A pleasure so intense it hurt in the best possible way.

You were right there, so fucking close, moans turning high and frantic. When he suddenly pulled his hand away.

A raw, frustrated whimper tore out of you.

He winked and rose just long enough to shrug off his half-open shirt. Fabric hissed to the floor. Fingers flew to his belt, the metal clinked sharply, trousers and boxers shoved down in one impatient yank. His cock sprang free, making your mouth water. Your core clenched hard around nothing.

In one fluid movement, you rose to your knees, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him into a feverish, open-mouthed kiss. Your tongues intertwined, your hot, wet, desperate breaths mingling. He groaned deeply and gutturally into your mouth as you removed your bra and your bare breasts pressed against his chest, your nipples brushing against his skin through the lace.

His hands flew to your waist, fingers hooking viciously into the waistband of your skirt and lace pantyhose beneath. One hard, impatient tug and both peeled down together — fabric and cold rings scraping over your hips, thighs — until they bunched at your knees. You kicked them off with a frustrated sound.

Shoving him backwards onto the mattress, as he landed with a soft grunt, admiring you climbing over him, straddling his thighs, core hovering just above his leaking cock. His hands clamped onto your hips instantly, thumbs digging deep into soft flesh. “Still want that riding lesson?” he rasped, voice wrecked and dangerous, eyes locked on where you were dripping onto the head of his cock.

You were silent, but your body screamed what your voice wouldn't.

Your hand reached back, fingers wrapping tight around his thick, throbbing cock. Pulsing so violently in your palm, you felt every frantic heartbeat through the veins. You pumped him, twisting your wrist at the head, smearing the thick bead of pre come down his length until your hand was slick and glistening. He bucked hard into your fist with a raw, guttural curse.

“Fuck—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

You snickered and shoved the drenched lace of your panties aside, the fabric sticking obscenely to your swollen folds, strings of your arousal stretching and snapping as you pulled it away and lined him up. The blunt, leaking head kissed your entrance, parting your slick lips just enough to make you whimper.

Then you sank down.

The stretch was obscene. You felt every thick vein drag against your fluttering walls, every ridge catch and pull, the fat head bullying past your tight ring until inch after brutal inch disappeared inside you. Your breath hitched higher with every centimetre—eyes rolling back, mouth falling open in a silent scream—until your ass finally slapped flush against his thighs and he bottomed out with a choked, animal groan that rattled through both your bodies.

“You’re so fucking tight—gods, this little cunt is strangling me—squeezing every inch like you’re trying to kill me—” You paused, panting, walls spasming wildly around him, dripping down his balls. Then started to move; slow grinds first, making a wet squelch of your arousal echoed obscenely with every rotation. His hands clamped onto your ass, fingers bruising deep into the soft flesh, spreading you wider, helping you grind down harder until the base of his cock ground ruthlessly against your clit. Then you lifted.

Almost all the way off, until just the swollen head stretched your entrance, then dropped. Hard. You impaled yourself on him in one brutal plunge, ass slapping wetly against his thighs. You did it again. And again. Bouncing on his cock like you were starving. Your breasts bounced wildly, nipples tight and aching in the cool air, slapping against your chest with every downward slam.

“Fuck—"

You leaned back, bracing both hands on his thighs behind you, arching your spine so your breasts thrust forward, and the angle let him spear even deeper. Your walls fluttered and clenched around him. “Valarr—fuck—I’m—gonna.”

“Come on my cock—now,” He surged up with his mouth latching onto one nipple, sucking hard, while his free hand dove between your bodies. Thumb finding your clit and rubbing fast, merciless, sloppy circles through your own slick. “Let me feel it—squeeze me—fuck.”

You broke.

Your walls clamped down, spasming. A raw, shattered scream ripped from your throat as you came with thighs quaking violently, back bowing so hard it stole your breath, vision blacking out at the edges. He fucked up into you through every shuddering wave. “That’s it—fuck—good girl—coming so hard.”

His rhythm shattered. Hips jerked once, twice, then slammed deep with a low, animal roar. Hot, thick ropes of cum flooded your ass, dripping in sticky rivulets down the curve of your cheeks and onto his thighs beneath you. You collapsed forward onto his chest, hearing your hearts slamming against each other in chaotic rhythm.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing.

Then Valarr’s arms banded around you. One hand slid up your spine in slow, soothing strokes; the other cupped the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your damp hair. He pressed soft, lingering kisses to your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth — each one more tender and reverent than the other.

“My good girl.” he murmured against your skin, voice hoarse and wrecked but impossibly soft. “My smart, perfect girl…”

You melted against him, boneless and still trembling in the sweetest aftershocks, face tucked into the warm crook of his neck. He kept murmuring, low and velvet-soft, the words spilling out like he couldn’t help himself, and his palm kept moving in long, gentle sweeps down your spine while the other in your hair stayed cradling your skull, thumb brushing tiny circles behind your ear until your breathing finally began to match his.

Part 1, Part 3

Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Reader

Trope: Academic Rivals

Summary: You sacrificed everything to earn your place at Harvard — sleepless nights, broken friendships, relentless pressure. You were supposed to be the best. But then there’s Valarr Targaryen — brilliant, infuriating, untouchable. No matter how hard you work, he’s always one step ahead. Until...

Warnings: academic rivalry, dark academia vibes, toxic competitiveness, rough make-out, all over themselves, intense touching and kissing, dry humping, +18.

Author Note: Okay, so I couldn't quite give up on this story, especially after seeing so much positive feedback from readers, and I'm grateful. Since I love Valarr and you all do too (especially the modern AU 🤭), I decided to continue. Enjoy!

The lecture with Miss Oswald ended in the usual chaos: chairs scraping, laptops snapping shut, bags zipping, and the low buzz of people already mentally at whatever party was happening this weekend. You, on the other hand, just wanted to vanish.

You hadn’t heard a single coherent sentence about constitutional law. Every time you tried to focus, your eyes drifted—to the clock, to the doodles on the margins of your notes, to the back of Valarr Targaryen’s stupid silver-blond head three rows ahead. Exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes like wet concrete.

The dorm wasn’t even terrible. For what you paid, it was… acceptable. The real problem was your roommate: a walking natural disaster with a speaker permanently set to ear-bleed volume and the spatial awareness of a drunk toddler. You’d come back to find her socks on your pillow, her half-unpacked suitcase blocking your desk chair, her damp towels turning the bathroom into a combined sauna and kiddie pool. Studying there was physically impossible.

So you’d done the only thing you could: waited until she was out, then pulled an all-nighter. Highlighter bleeding across pages, phone camera flashing over paragraphs, frantic handwritten notes. All so you could return *that damn book* to Valarr today.

You weren’t about to let him think—for even one second—that he’d “saved” you. Unacceptable.

He was already standing when you looked up, messenger bag closed with surgical precision, grey wool coat draped over one arm like he’d just stepped off a Vogue autumn/winter shoot. The second he started walking—casual, unbothered, acting like yesterday in the library had never happened—something inside you snapped.

“Valarr.”

He stopped. Turned slowly. One eyebrow lifted. There was curiosity there… and something warmer. A faint flush high on his cheekbones that you hadn’t noticed before.

You gave up trying to cram the remaining books into your already bursting bag and just clutched them against your chest. You hurried down the auditorium steps.

*What the hell are you doing?*

You forced yourself to slow, to breathe, and approached him with deliberate calm—like handing over the book was an annoying chore instead of the petty victory it actually was.

Valarr’s gaze flicked from the book to your face. Back to the book. Then he let out that low, infuriating chuckle—the one that carved out his dimples and made half the room glance over.

“You’re telling me you actually finished it?”

“Not exactly,” you said, voice flat and robotic. “But I got everything I needed. And I don’t want to owe you anything.”

He slid both hands into his pockets, head tilting slightly.

“Careful, Miss I’m-So-Smart-Now. Starting to think you’re better than everyone else.”

“Shut up.”

“Touchy today, huh?”

“It’s my default setting whenever I spend more than thirty seconds talking to you.” You folded your arms, already itching to leave. “And just so we’re clear: now that I’ve finally got one over on you, good luck ever catching up again.”

You turned and started down the remaining steps, ignoring the prickle at the back of your neck that told you he was still watching.

“Grumpy and cocky,” his voice followed you. “Didn’t think you had it in you. Unless… rough night? Regrets? Missing something?”

You spun around so fast your books nearly slipped.

Regrets? He had to be joking.

Before you could fire back, your phone buzzed.

Your roommate:  “bringing 4 friends tonight ok?? they’re already on the way :)”

Of course. Last-minute. Always.

“Goddamn it,” you muttered, louder than intended.

Valarr, still idly turning the book over in his long fingers, glanced at your face.

“Need something?”

“I need people to stop pissing me off for five consecutive minutes.”

Valarr didn’t laugh this time. He just looked at you. Really looked. His usual smirk softening into something quieter, almost hesitant. The cocky edge was still there, but underneath it was this… earnest thing. Like a puppy who’d just figured out you were upset and was trying (badly) not to make it worse.

“Hey. Seriously. You look like you’re about to combust. And I’m not saying this to be a dick.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Look… reset your nervous system. And if you agree, you can come to my place. I know your dorm is a disaster zone. You’ve complained about it enough times in class for it to stick.”

He wasn’t being smug. That was the worst part. If he’d smirked or thrown in some cocky line about how you “needed” him, you could’ve shut him down instantly. Instead, he looked… hopeful. Almost nervous. His two coloured eyes are doing the puppy thing again, soft around the edges, like your answer actually mattered.

And fuck, the library kiss was still looping in your head on repeat. You’d initiated it, out of pure irritation, mostly, because he’d been so damn smug about the book. One second you were arguing, the next your hands were in his brown hair, and his mouth was on yours. Hot and urgent and way too good. Every time you closed your eyes: his dimples flashing mid-kiss, the way he’d groaned softly when you tugged his tie. And even after he left, your lipstick was still on his collar. 

God, that did something to you.

You hated that you couldn’t shake it. Hated more that part of you didn’t want to.

His place? A full-on house. (Because of course. Targaryens didn’t slum it in off-campus shoeboxes.) Certainly, it would be an old-money aesthetic: marble foyer, probably, garden big enough to stargaze without light pollution, quiet rooms where you could actually hear yourself think. And him — watching you the whole time, wanting a repeat performance, but trying (and failing) to play it cool.

“Fine.”

His whole face lit up—relief flooding in first, then excitement, that boyish grin breaking wide like he’d just aced a final he hadn’t expected to pass. “Deal.” He nodded fast, already turning toward the exit, shoulders relaxing. “Car’s out front.”

---- 1 hour after ----

The ride was quiet, but not awkward. The car smelled like new leather, the kind that probably cost more than your monthly rent. Your black Mary Janes were spotless (thank god you’d wiped the soles twice before getting in), because the last thing you needed was to leave a mark on the pristine interior of this German beast.

One scuff and you’d feel like you’d personally offended three generations of wealth.

Valarr drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. He didn’t try to fill the silence with small talk, which you appreciated. Every now and then you caught him glancing over—quick, almost shy—like he was checking if you’d bolt at the next red light.

When you pulled through the automatic gates, the house hit you like a physical force. It wasn’t just big. It was old money big. Stone facade, ivy climbing perfectly manicured walls, a driveway lined with ancient oaks that probably predated the university itself. The kind of place where people didn’t shout about money because they didn’t have to.

Inside, the foyer alone made your dorm look like a broom closet. Marble floors that echoed softly under your shoes, a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a museum, and…yes…actual staff. A middle-aged woman in a discreet uniform nodded politely as you passed: “Good evening, Mr. Valarr”, and a man in a dark jacket took Valarr’s coat without a word. You felt their eyes on you for half a second, glinting with curiosity, before they vanished like ghosts.

Valarr led you up a wide staircase carpeted thick and silent, past oil paintings that were probably worth more than your tuition, and down a hallway lined with closed doors. Your heart was hammering, but you kept your chin up, shoulders back. If this was his world, you weren’t going to shrink in it.

His bedroom door opened to something that felt unfairly cinematic.

Polished silver and gold lined a glass-fronted cabinet: equitation ribbons, fencing medals (foil, épée, sabre—he did all of them?), tennis plaques from nationals. Photos framed in sleek black: Valarr mid-jump on a sleek horse, blade extended in perfect en garde, mid-serve with that focused smirk. In almost every one, an older man with the same sharp features and silver-streaked hair stood beside him with a proud hand on his shoulder, with the same eyes. The golden son. Daddy’s favourite. 

You felt small for a heartbeat. Then you straightened, jaw set. If he wanted to see you rattled, he’d get defiance instead.

“You’re doing the thing again,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “The ‘I’m above all this’ posture.”

“Maybe because I am.”

He smiled wider, dimples carving deep. The heat crept up your neck anyway. “Want the full tour?” You hesitated, eyes flicking over him. The way the hallway light caught the silver streaks in his hair, the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose that only showed up this close. “Or do you want to start studying?” he added, almost gently, like he was giving you an out.

You swallowed. Your mouth felt dry.

“Not really.”

The words barely left your mouth before you were on him.

You surged forward, hands diving straight into his hair just like you had in the library. Your fingers curling tight, tugging him down to meet you. Your mouth crashed into his with the same reckless hunger: no preamble, no hesitation, just the pent-up frustration and want that had been eating at you since yesterday. His surprised inhale hitched against your lips, sharp and audible, before melting into that low, rough groan you already knew by heart.

The sound vibrated through you, familiar and devastating. But Valarr didn’t let it stay frantic.

His hands found the small of your back, cradling you and taking over, but in an impressively slow and lovely way. His tongue traced the familiar path along yours, slow and thorough, as though he were committing every taste, every texture to memory in case this moment vanished the second he let go. You let out a silent, trembling sigh against his mouth, savouring the way he lingered.

His hand drifted, agonisingly slow, down to your waist, fingers spreading wide, pulling you impossibly closer until your spine curved and your hips rocked forward on instinct. The motion forced you backwards; he guided you, never letting the kiss break for more than a heartbeat.

Every time his lips left yours, it was only to look into your eyes, but not for too long, like the brief separation was torture he could barely endure. Then he’d drag you back in, deeper as though the distance had only sharpened his need. And you gripped the front of his shirt, knuckles grazing the heat of his skin through the thin fabric, anchoring yourself against the slow burn building between you.

He kissed you like he had all day and all night to peel every layer away—slow drags of lips, teasing nips along the edge of your jaw, the soft scrape of teeth that made your pulse stutter.

“I thought your focus was studying,” he murmured against the skin beneath your ear.

“Shut up,” you breathed, “You’re the one who invited me here under the pretence of a ‘quiet space.’ We both know that wasn’t your real plan.”

The backs of your knees met the edge of the bed.

A small, involuntary gasp slipped out. He caught it with his mouth, swallowed it whole, and eased you down onto the mattress with careful control. You braced yourself on your elbows first, then let your back meet the sheets fully as he followed—his body a warm, solid line above you. One knee settled between your thighs, nudging them apart just enough; the other foot stayed planted on the floor, giving him leverage to hover without crushing you. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, thumb stroking slow, maddening circles over the sensitive skin there, while the other fisted the sheets beside your head, restrained, holding himself back so he could focus entirely on taking you apart.

The room shrank around you. The gleaming trophies on the shelf dulled to nothing. The distant hum of the house faded until there was only the sound of your breathing, his breathing, the rustle of fabric and the wet slide of mouths. Everything else dissolved.

His lips left yours to map the side of your neck—hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down, teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch. You tilted your head without thinking, offering more skin, more access, biting your own lip hard to trap the sounds threatening to spill out. But your hands were already restless, impatient: shoving at the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath until your palms met bare skin—the tight plane of his abdomen, the faint ridges of muscle that jumped and tensed under your fingers.

He groaned low against your collarbone, the vibration traveling straight through you.

The soft, deliberate graze of his teeth over the spot just below your ear sent a jolt down your spine. And his weight shifted, pressing you deeper into the mattress, and your hips lifted off the bed in helpless response. Your legs parted wider on instinct, thigh brushing the inside of his, and he settled more firmly between them, the hard, insistent line of him pressing against you through too many layers of fabric. A soft, broken moan escaped before you could swallow it back.

It felt good.

Too good.

The kind of good that made your head spin and your thighs tremble, that blurred the line between want and need until you couldn’t tell which was winning. Every slow roll of his hips, every careful drag of his mouth, every time his fingers tightened on your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.

It only wound the tension tighter, hotter, until it felt like the next breath might snap something inside both of you...And then the monitor on the desk flared to life, vibrating against the wood.

“Egg” blinked across the screen in cheerful block letters, and a ridiculous cartoon egg with googly eyes and a massive grin stared straight at you both.

Valarr froze mid-kiss. A beat of stunned silence.

He pulled back reluctantly, every line of his body screaming how much he didn’t want to. He sat up, raking a hand through his wrecked hair, tugging his shirt back down where you’d shoved it halfway up his ribs. Shot you an apologetic look that was equal parts exasperated and helplessly fond.

You propped yourself on your elbows, chest still heaving, lips swollen and tingling. The mood had shattered into something absurd and oddly tender.

He wheeled the chair over, dropped into it, and hit accept.

“Yo, Egg,” he said, voice still rough around the edges.

A young voice burst through: “Valarr! Finally! Duncan’s talking about becoming a PE teacher again, and Aerion’s being a dick as usual, and Daeron forgot to pick me up—Maekar’s losing it—”

Part 2, Part 3

Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Reader

Trope: Academic Rivals

Summary: You sacrificed everything to earn your place at Harvard — sleepless nights, broken friendships, relentless pressure. You were supposed to be the best. But then there’s Valarr Targaryen — brilliant, infuriating, untouchable. No matter how hard you work, he’s always one step ahead. Until...

Warnings: academic rivalry, dark academia vibes, toxic competitiveness, rough make-out, public setting, all over themselves, intense touching and kissing, +18.

PS.: I want to thank @crazytom0712, who created one of the best fanarts I've ever seen and gave me the inspiration to write about Valarr Targaryen, preppy boy style.

Harvard Law was supposed to be your proving ground.

You clawed your way here — sleepless nights, ruthless discipline, top grades, a near-perfect LSAT, flawless recommendation letters. You belonged.

But belonging didn’t mean winning. Not when Valarr Targaryen existed.

He topped every curve without apparent effort. The one professors turned to when they wanted a scalpel-sharp answer that gutted any bullshit in the room. You were consistently second or third whenever some overachieving second years decided to flex. It burned. Not because you were mediocre. You were exceptional. You worked harder than anyone.

Valarr didn’t work. He simply reigned. Silver spoon, silver-streaked dark-honey hair that fell exactly where it should, that effortless aristocratic ease.

Today it was the dark argyle polo, the sleeves rolled to those unfairly veined forearms, and dark trousers that probably cost more than your rent, and that ridiculous vintage watch catching every stray beam of light as he wrote. He sat perfectly still, never fidgeting, never glancing sideways. His laptop screen looked suspiciously clean while yours was a battlefield of highlighted paragraphs, red-inked notes, and neon Post-its.

You hated the real estate he occupied in your mind.

Professor Langford—former federal prosecutor, terrifyingly precise—paused mid-lecture on standing doctrine, hands in pockets, scanning the room like a predator choosing prey.

“Alright. Someone explain why Lujan v. Defenders of Wildlife gutted environmental citizen suits.”

Your hand shot up before your brain fully processed the question. Across the aisle, Valarr’s was already raised, his rings glinting while the arm extended lazily like he was doing the class a favour. He didn’t even look up from his screen.

Langford’s gaze bounced between you both.

“You.” He pointed at Valarr. Of course.

That low, measured voice, faint upper-class drawl making every syllable feel inevitable. “Lujan requires concrete, particularised, actual or imminent injury. The Court held that generalised environmental grievances don’t confer standing. Plaintiffs failed to show distinct, personal harm—”

You didn’t wait. “They did show personal injury. Affidavits proving regular use of the affected habitats. The majority simply decided aesthetic injury wasn’t enough.”

“Affidavits saying ‘maybe I’ll visit someday’ aren’t imminent.” Valarr finally turned, eyes drinking in your anger with faint, amused hunger. “The Court called it speculative. You’re conflating desire with injury.”

“I’m not conflating anything. You’re cherry-picking the holding to pretend injury has to be economic or physical. Scalia wrote the opinion narrowly on purpose—”

“Scalia wrote it correctly,” he countered, still infuriatingly calm. “You want standing for anyone vaguely disappointed by policy? That’s not Article III. That’s judicial overreach dressed up as access to justice.”

The room went graveyard quiet. Everyone watching the rally.

Heat crawled up your throat. “I want standing for people who can actually demonstrate injury. Not just those who can afford private jets to the Galápagos.”

Scattered snickers. Valarr’s mouth twitched—almost a smile, but colder.

He turned forward again, dismissing you like background noise. Leaned back slightly. “I don’t need to raise my voice. My argument speaks for itself.”

The room felt ten degrees hotter. Langford cleared his throat, amused. “Moving on. Graded exams are posted in the corridor.”

You simmered for the rest of the hour, staring at the back of his head where that rogue silver streak curved perfectly behind his ear.

You packed fast, pulse hammering. Valarr rose with that maddening grace. He barely acknowledged the orbit of sycophants trailing him. The polite, impatient smiles for the trust-fund kids who thought proximity to a Targaryen bought social capital.

The list was alphabetical by section. Your eyes flew down the column.

Your name. 98.

His name, two lines below. 96.

For the first time in three semesters, you beat him.

Breath caught. A stupid, triumphant grin split your face before you could stop it.

Then you felt him, warmth at your back, that expensive cedar-and-arrogance cologne wrapping around you.

“Finally,” he murmured, voice so close his breath ghosted the shell of your ear.

You spun. He stood there, hands in pockets, posture relaxed, but his eyes burned brighter than usual—molten amber.

“Finally what?” you snapped, chin high.

“You managed to pass me.”

Before you could fire back, he walked away. Spine straight, owning the corridor like his family could buy the entire building if they felt like it.

Bastard.

Langford had mentioned a treatise on federal jurisdiction—key for the seminar paper. You headed straight to the library, determined to claim it first.

The stacks were nearly deserted, heavy with the scent of old leather and dust. You prowled the dim aisles for twenty minutes, cursing under your breath, until you rounded a corner and there he was.

Valarr.

Seated at a long oak table, reading the exact book you needed, occasionally jotting notes while glancing at that damned watch.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He didn’t startle.

“Looking for this?” He lifted the volume slightly, calm as ever.

You strode over, dropped your bag onto the table with a thud. “Do you ever stop?”

“Do you?”

Silence stretched, thick and electric.

“I need it.”

He finally met your eyes. “There’s only one copy.”

“Then give it to me.”

“I already requested it.”

Fuck him.

“You’re shaking,” he said softly, setting his pen down, feigning innocence so perfectly you wanted to slap it off his face.

“I’m furious.”

“Are you?” His voice dropped, velvet provocation.

“You couldn’t handle it,” you hissed, stepping closer. “Me beating you.”

His gaze darkened.

“For how long?”

Your palms slammed the table. The book jumped.

“You think you’re untouchable. Because your last name is Targaryen and your family has more money than God, no one can touch you. Guess what? I just did. Two points. And it felt so fucking good.”

Something flashed across his face—surprise, maybe. Or hunger.

He rose slowly. Too tall. Too close. Closed the book with a sharp snap and turned to leave. “Congratulations,” he murmured. “And I said *finally* because I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

You didn’t think.

Your hand shot to his tie—black-and-crimson silk, knotted with infuriating precision—and yanked hard, forcing him to turn and bend until his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle. It was months of frustration exploding—teeth clashing, tongues warring, raw need. He groaned low and rough against your lips, startled and starving, and his hands found your waist instantly, hauling you flush until your back hit the cold metal shelf behind you.

Books rattled.

“Quiet.” he breathed against your mouth, voice dark and dangerous. “Library rules.”

“Fuck the rules.” you hissed, already dragging his sweater up, exposing the hot, taut skin of his abdomen.

You bit his lower lip hard enough to draw a sharp hiss. He retaliated, fingers threading into your hair, yanking your head back so he could drag open-mouthed kisses down your throat, teeth grazing, sucking marks that would bloom purple by morning. Your lipstick smeared across his collar, staining the crisp white beneath.

His hands slid to your thighs, gripping through the thick fabric of your black trousers, thumbs pressing firmly into the sensitive inner crease until you arched involuntarily, hips seeking him.

“Always so argumentative,” he whispered against your collarbone, voice wrecked with want. One broad palm slipped under your blouse, searing against your ribs, climbing until it cupped the underside of your breast. His thumb brushed over the lace, slow deliberate circles that made your nipples pebble instantly, aching.

You arched harder into his touch, a stifled moan slipping free.

“Say it.” His voice was gravel now. “Say you want this.”

“I hate you,” you gasped, even as your fingers tore at his belt buckle.

He laughed—dark, breathless. “I know.”

His other hand returned between your thighs, palm pressing flat against your center through the fabric. The friction was immediate, devastating—slow, firm circles exactly where the ache lived. Heat flooded you, wetness soaking through, hips rolling shamelessly against his hand, chasing more.

Your boots scraped the floor as you tried to widen your stance, but he pinned you in place, controlling the rhythm, torturing you with pressure that promised release and delivered only enough to fray your nerves.

Your own hand found him—sliding over the straining bulge, feeling him throb thick and hot beneath your palm. You squeezed slowly, deliberately, dragging a choked groan from his throat against your neck.

For long moments you stayed locked like that—panting, hands roaming, bodies fused, the ever-present risk of footsteps around the corner sharpening every sensation. His heart slammed against yours. Your thighs trembled.

Then he slowed—reluctant, deliberate. Withdrew his hand. Straightened your blouse with fingers that still shook faintly. Stepped back.

“Still hate me?” he asked, almost tenderly, lips swollen, hair mussed for once.

You smirked, breathless, legs unsteady. “Ask me again after I beat you on the final.”

His laugh was low, ruined. “Challenge accepted.”

He kissed you once more—slower, deeper, savoring the mutual surrender. Then he pressed the book into your trembling hands.

“Chapter seven,” he rasped, voice still thick. “It’s the best part.”

You took it, fingers unsteady.

Part 3

Oak’s hands gripped her waist, fingers searching for the laces at the back of her dress. With only a few impatient tugs, longing to feel her skin, the sound of fabric tearing filled the air.  

Even amidst the feverish tangle of kisses and muffled moans, Oak began to loosen the knots with those deft fingers of his while she busied herself with his clothes. She shrugged off his coat first, the terrycloth still carrying traces of their playful moments in the snow. Then, with more urgency, she pulled off his red-carved gold doublet, her own breathing growing more erratic with every layer that separated them.  

Meanwhile, Oak had successfully undone the laces of her dress. The knots had been tightly secured — so much so that he realised she must have tied them herself. Holding the fabric in place, his lips brushed her shoulder, then began their slow ascent along her skin, scattering delicate kisses as they made their way to the curve of her neck. 

Instinctively, Wren tilted her head back, granting him more access.  And then — he stopped.  

Her eyes waited in anticipation, and her breath hitched as she felt him shift just enough to tug the dress further down, baring the soft expanse of her shoulders.

If he stopped again, she swore she’d bite him, her hands moved to his shirt, fingers working to unfasten the fine buttons. The fabric was smooth beneath her hands, undoubtedly soft — fitting for a prince.  

Wren huffed, her fingers fumbling with the buttons. "Do all princes wear such impractical shirts?"

Oak chuckled, his breath warm against her skin. “No, but watching you struggle is rather entertaining.”

She shot him a glare, though it held no real bite. "If you keep stalling, I might just rip it off."

His smirk widened. "Careful, little frostbite. I’d love to see you explain to the royal tailor why my best shirt is in shreds.”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “I’ll just say a reckless prince got in my way.”

Lost in the moment, she never even pulled his shirt off completely. It hung loose around his shoulders, forgotten, as her bare back met the thick fur blankets beneath them, the chill of the air was quickly replaced by the warmth of his body, their skin now pressing together, the heat intensifying as his hands roamed lower.  

Oak’s mouth travelled down, lips exploring the valley between her breasts, his tongue occasionally licking each of her nipples. But Wren was barely paying attention to that, her mind was focused on the movement of his hand, the slow descent of his fingers, heading exactly where she wanted him.  

When he finally pushed a finger inside her, a low moan escaped her lips. Her hand instinctively shot to his golden curls, gripping tightly, making him grunt as her nails dug into his scalp.  

Her eyes fluttered shut, pleasure clouding her senses, and she let out a small breathy whine. A second finger joined the first, his pace growing more frantic, brushing against her clit in a light motion.

Desperate to contain her moans, she bit down on her lower lip “Oak, please… I’m almo…most there…” Her voice trembled with urgency, but mercy was not something Oak was willing to grant.  

So he stopped, once again. 

The loss of sensation was so abrupt that Wren’s eyes snapped open, the frustration on her face was visible and Oak liked it, more than that he loved watching her breathless and flushed cheeks.

“Are you serious?” propping on her elbows, dripping with disbelief and barely-contained rage.

Oak leaned back slightly, smug satisfaction written all over his face. “You sound upset, frostbite.” His fingers, still glistening with her arousal, traced lazy patterns on her inner thigh. “You were saying something? Something about being close?”

She let out a growl, her hands balling into fists against the sheets. “Finish what you started, princeling.”

Oak hummed, tilting his head as if considering it. “Hmm… I don’t know. I quite like seeing you like this.” His amber eyes burned as they raked over her trembling form “Desperate...Needy.”

“Shut up.”

Oak sniggered, but she moved fast, catching him off guard as she pushed him onto the bed. She could feel his body react beneath hers, his breathing slightly unsteady.

Wren slid him inside of her in a slowly deliberate motion making both of them grasp, and his hands instinctively found her waist, feeling the subtle tremor that ran through her body.

"Oh... So that's how it's going to be?" he murmured, his voice dripping with amusement and difficulty as her movements picked up.

"If you like seeing me desperate," she whispered, leaning in closer, her lips barely brushing against the heated skin of his neck while she continued to bounce on his length.

Oak let out a suffocated chuckle, his grip on her waist tightening slightly. "I'm curious to see just how far you'll take this." the tension between them thickened, electric, every movement a silent battle, a struggle for dominance disguised by teasing touches and charged glances.

She let her hands glide over his chest, pressing him down against the bed. Her teeth grazed his shoulder, the urge to bite overwhelming.

"Bite me."

But she hesitated, perhaps she didn’t want to hurt him then he moaned. Loudly. So loud that she couldn't control herself sharp teeth piercing his skin.

“Yes,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. “Bite me… go on… draw blood, my sweet wilderness.”  Oak’s hands roamed down her back, gripping her waist, then squeezing her ass, like a silent encouragement for her to bite him harder. 

Her hips moved frantically now, her slickness allowing him to thrust into her with ease. The more she lost herself in the pleasure, the more she felt a wild hunger awaken inside her.  

At some point, she pinned his wrists down as she rode him. His amber eyes locked onto hers, his face flushed, his body completely at her mercy.  

“Oak… please…” Her moans grew louder, nails digging into the skin of his wrists, leaving behind crescent moon marks.  

“I'll make you cum” he rasped, barely able to get the words out between his own gasps. “As you desired.”  

A shiver ran down her spine at his words, a spark igniting deep within her, urging her forward. Her cunt was so wet that it slid perfectly with his thrusts that now met her riding movements.

"Then do it," she whispered, the challenge laced with anticipation.

A slow, knowing smirk tugged at his lips, even as his breath hitched. And then, just as she thought she held all the power, he shifted beneath her, planting his feet on the mattress and gripping her waist he started fucking her harder and faster.

She could feel it, her release crashing over her, waves of pleasure sending her into a trembling mess “Oak, please... oh please" her hand moved to his chest for support "I’m cum… cumming,” she gasped, and when he joined with a grunt and furrowed brows, a wicked grin ghosting her lips. 

They lay beside each other, their bodies still burning with leftover heat, the only sounds in the room were their ragged breaths. Silence stretched between them, heavy yet comfortable.  

Wren was the first to break it, her voice a teasing whisper. “So… look at you. All warm now, huh?” she traced lazy patterns over his chest, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.  

“You’ve got me here…” he murmured, arms lacing with her waist “Warm and all.”

As they walked toward the palace, Oak’s breath still came in shaky bursts, and he couldn’t help but glance over at Wren every few seconds. The snow crunched beneath their feet, and Oak could still feel the ghost of Wren’s lips on his. The kiss had been fleeting, so brief he could have convinced himself it never happened—but the heat it left behind was undeniable.

Oak shivered, pulling his cloak tighter around himself, though it did little to keep the chill at bay. "You know, you'd think after all these months, I'd have adjusted to this frozen wasteland."

Wren smirked, barely sparing him a glance. "You complain as if I forced you to stay."

Oak let out a dramatic sigh. "Face it, Wren, who else would make your nights just a little bit warmer?" He smirked, voice dipping lower. “I’m the sun that warms your heart… Admit it, you need me."

She knew that he had spent a lifetime under golden sunlight, surrounded by the hum of the forest, where warmth was abundant and the earth itself felt alive beneath his hooves. Here, in this land of ice and wind, it was as if the cold had settled into his very bones, refusing to be forgotten.

She chuckled, shaking her head. "I will admit, I’m impressed you've lasted this long without turning into a permanent icicle.”

"If I do, I hope you at least give me a proper memorial."

By the time they reached the towering doors of the palace, his fingers were numb, his breath coming in small puffs of mist. The moment they stepped inside, warmth enveloped him like a lover's embrace, though the stone walls still pulsed with an ever-present chill.

"You still look miserable," Wren observed, her voice carrying a note of amusement as she glanced at him over her shoulder.

"I feel miserable," Oak admitted, flexing his stiff fingers. "Though I’d say your hospitality is improving slightly."

Her lips twitched, but she said nothing, leading him through the winding corridors until they reached her chambers. With a gentle push, she opened the ornate door, revealing a space both luxurious and untamed.

Heavy furs covered the bed, their softness beckoning against the cold. A fire roared in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of burning wood mingled with something faintly sweet—her scent, he realized, intoxicating and familiar all at once.

"You can warm up here," Wren said, stepping inside without hesitation. "Unless you’d rather freeze out there."

"It wasn’t this what I meant," he said, his hooves clicking against the ice-slick floor.

Wren turned to face him, one hand resting lightly on the bedframe, her gaze steady, unreadable. “Oh? So what do you intend to do?”

Oak stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until he was close enough to see the way the firelight danced in her eyes. He reached out, placing his hand atop hers, his fingers brushing against her skin with a casual confidence that belied the quickening of his pulse.

"I mean," he murmured, tilting his head slightly, "that if I’m expected to suffer through these frozen hallways every day, I at least deserve the royal treatment when I get here."

Wren raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a smirk. "And what exactly does the 'royal treatment' entail?"

Oak leaned in just enough to feel the warmth radiating from her. "For starters, I think I should get the first pick of the blankets, maybe even control of the fire. Come to think of it, I should probably get the whole bed. You wouldn’t want me catching a cold, would you?"

Wren scoffed, but her fingers didn’t move from under his. "That’s bold, even for you."

"Well, I do live here now," Oak reminded her with an easy grin. "I think that entitles me to some perks."

She studied him for a moment before smirking. "Perks, huh? You do realize you’re lucky I haven’t made you sleep in the stables."

Oak clicked his tongue in mock disappointment. "Now that would just be cruel. Besides, I’d miss our little bedtime chats."

Wren lifted her free hand and placed it lightly on his shoulder, the touch was firm, but with a gentle pull, she made him incline his head toward her. Their faces were close now, the warmth of the fire casting a golden hue over her skin.

“Bedtime chats," she echoed, voice laced with something unreadable. "Is that what you call them?"

Oak’s grin deepened, and closing the last of the space between them brushed his lips over hers. It was a slow sweet kiss, the kind that sent a slow burn coursing through his veins. The fire crackled in the silence between them, but neither of them paid it any mind. 

Oak hummed against her lips, pulling back. "Should I consider that an invitation?"

Wren exhaled a quiet laugh, her fingers tugging him just a fraction closer. "You’re already here, aren’t you?"

Oak's smirk faltered for just a second, his breath catching as Wren's fingers worked their way into his coat, pulling him in closer. The space between them felt almost unbearable now, each inch of their bodies charged with anticipation. 

His hand found its way to her waist, fingertips grazing the soft fabric of her dress before slipping underneath, his touch and kisses burning against her skin brushing against her ear as he spoke in a low murmur, "You make it hard to resist." Wren’s response was a soft gasp as she tilted her head to the side, exposing more of her neck to him.

Her hands slid up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under her palms. With a small but deliberate motion, she pulled him back in, pressing her lips more firmly to his this time, the kiss deepening, urgent, as if they had both been waiting far too long for this moment.

Oak could feel the heat of her body seeping into his own, every nerve on edge, every instinct telling him to push further. But he held back, savouring the taste of her lips, the way her body responded to his, the way she didn’t pull away even as the tension built between them.

"Tell me to stop," he breathed, his lips brushing over hers, barely a whisper away.

Wren's eyes flickered open for a brief moment, locking onto his with a mixture of challenge and something darker. "I don’t think you will," she whispered back, her voice laced with a quiet dare.

The cold wind was unforgiving, biting at Oak's skin, his fingers felt as if they might freeze off despite his constant rubbing and the warm air he blew into them.

It was no use.

Because even beneath the heavy layers of clothing, his body trembled, the chill gnawing at his bones, and every step he took was a cruel reminder that no amount of fabric could shield him from the relentless cold.

In stark contrast to his suffering, Wren stood unaffected — a vision of ease and grace. She wore nothing more than a flowing dress that barely skimmed her ankles, her bare feet sinking into the freezing ground without a hint of discomfort. 

‘She wasn’t even flinching.’

"Seriously, how do you do it?" he asked through chattering teeth, his voice a mix of incredulity and frustration.

Wren didn't even look his way, keeping her eyes forward, her long hair swirling in the wind. "I told you already," she replied casually, voice almost mocking, "I live here. The cold doesn't bother me. It’s... familiar."

She glanced sideways at him, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "You, on the other hand... You look like you're about to freeze into a block of ice."

Oak scoffed, looking at her as if she were the one being unreasonable. "I’m about to," he muttered under his breath. "You can’t expect me to survive in a place like this, Wren."

Despite her regal bearing as the Ice Queen, there was a wildness about her, something untamed that reminded Oak of the mischievous fae he had met as a child. It was that same untamed essence that seemed to hover around her now as if the very air bent to her will.

His thoughts were interrupted by her voice, cool and devoid of amusement. "What is it?" Wren asked, tilting her head slightly, voice cool, devoid of amusement.

"Nothing," Oak replied quickly, though his words carried a note of incredulity. "I was just admiring how incredibly wrong it is that you don’t seem to feel any discomfort in this vast white torment."

She stopped just a few steps away from Oak’s shivering form; she could even hear his teeth chattering. "Maybe I should start thinking more carefully about the decisions I make."

Wren chuckled, a soft, musical sound that seemed to cut through the harsh wind. "You’re just soft, Oak. And you’re too dramatic. It’s all in your head."

He shot her a look, his irritation rising. "If my head says my body is about to freeze, I’m inclined to believe it." Without warning, she placed a hand over his, her touch like ice against his already frozen skin. Oak’s heart skipped a beat, but not for the reason he expected.

"Ah!" he gasped, jerking his hands away, his face twisted in surprise and indignation as he quickly tucked them back into his coat sleeves. 

"Don’t you dare touch me again, Wren! I might actually freeze to death if you do. And I’d prefer not to turn into a statue of frost…though I’m sure I’d make a rather charming one."

Wren arched an eyebrow, clearly amused. "I didn’t realize you were so sensitive, Oak." Her voice was laced with mockery. "Maybe next time, you should bring more than just layers of fabric. Or better yet, try living in the cold. You might find that it has its perks."

"You're impossible." Oak muttered, forcing himself to focus on anything other than how the chill contrasted with the warmth radiating from her. 

He scrunched down like a tiny hedgehog protecting himself from the cold, but something stirred in him while watching the vast white beneath his feet, and then, unable to resist, he scooped up a handful of snow and hurled it at her, hitting her lightly in the side.

"There. Now we’re on equal footing."

Wren barely reacted. She simply turned, one brow raised. "Oh? Is that how this is going? Because I happen to be more resistant than you?"

Before he could answer, she scooped up her own handful of snow, packed it into a perfectly round ball, and hurled it at him with impressive force. It struck him squarely in the chest.

And what started as a playful exchange quickly escalated into an all-out snowball fight. Laughter mingled with the howling wind as they pelted each other with snow, their playful rivalry pushing them further. Oak ducked behind a snowdrift, catching his breath, but every time he glanced over, he saw her — grinning, relentless, and always one step ahead.

But then, as Oak stepped out from behind cover, Wren was suddenly there. Before he could react, she lunged forward, knocking him off balance, they tumbled into the snow together, the world spinning before coming to a halt.

Oak found himself beneath her, his back pressed against the frozen ground. Wren hovered just above, her long hair cascading around them, little pieces of snow clinging to dark strands. 

Her lips parted slightly, and he could feel the heat between them despite the cold, for a moment, she hesitated. The warmth of his body beneath her, the way his breath came in shallow bursts, the way her lips were so close... Oak could sense the shift in the air between them.

His voice was rough when he finally spoke. "You could have warned me about that move."

Wren smirked. "Where’s the fun in that?"

Then, without thinking, she leaned in slightly, her lips grazing his in a fleeting, heated kiss before she pulled away. It was brief, almost as if it hadn’t happened, but it left Oak breathless.

"If I freeze," he whispered, "it’s your fault."

Wren pushed herself up gracefully, brushing snow from her dress. "You really need to stop freezing in these situations."

He swallowed hard. "I need to warm up," he muttered, the words coming out more strained than he intended. Or perhaps exactly as he meant.

"Maybe I should do something about that." Her smile deepened, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Or maybe I want you to freeze."

Then she turned and walked away, leaving Oak staring after her, his thoughts a tangled mess.

"Don't leave me here.” he muttered, his teeth chattering as he scrambled to his feet.

She glanced over her shoulder. "Hurry up, then."

Without another word, he chased after her, heading toward the palace, his pulse still unsteady.

So I was thinking about this small one-shot with Suren and Oak for some time because there is very little writing we have about them and I wanted to contribute both to the fandom and to the ship itself. Even though I love Cardan and Jude (read my works about them) I loved the dynamics of Oak and Suren and I want to read about them so guys please write about them. Also I’m writing a smut about them 😉

You already know my English is not the best, but I try. 

------------------------------------- " ---------------------------------------

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the tangled sheets. But it wasn’t this that made the prince wake, in fact for him it was hard to fall asleep alongside the beautiful queen of winter, so he spent almost the time looking at her features, her cheeks that were flustered because of their previous actions. 

A lazy smile tugged at his lips as he brushed a strand of hair from her face, she looked almost ethereal, even here, in the mundanity of an apartment in the human world. 

He trailed his fingers along her exposed back, not to wake her but simply because he couldn’t help himself, but his thin rings cold against her hot skin, making her stir in her sleep and wake. 

A soft hum escaped her lips as she blinked sleepily up at him “Morning.” 

“Morning,” he echoed, his grin deepening. “You’re gorgeous like this, you know

When she rolled her body to face him, he had a wild smile on his face “What?” Wren’s flustered face and furrowed brow made him grin even wider.

“Nothing, just admiring you,” he murmured, his knuckles brushing against her cheek. He placed a gentle kiss on her skin, making her sigh. “My fallen queen.”

She scoffed lightly, shifting under the sheets. “You’re always so poetic.”

“Am I?” Oak propped himself up on one elbow, looking at her with a lazy smirk. “You should be grateful. Not everyone gets to wake up to such flattery.”

Wren rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. “Lucky me.”

Oak trailed his fingers along her arm absentmindedly. “What were you dreaming about? You had this little frown.”

She hesitated for a moment. “I think it had something to do with… oh, you’re going to laugh.”

“Absolutely,” he confirmed. “But tell me anyway.”

She sighed defeated but joyful as she remembered “Fine. I dreamt that you turned into a fox.”

Oak blinked. Then burst into laughter. “A fox? Was I at least a beautiful one?”

Wren smirked, poking his chest. “Oh, you were very fluffy and… clever. Too clever. You kept charming people left and right, leading them in circles, making them do your bidding with just a glance.”

Oak grinned, pleased. “Sounds about right.”

She playfully shoved him, and he caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Would you have kept me?” he asked.

Wren pretended to consider. “I don’t know… You were particularly mischievous. Always stealing things, vanishing when I needed you, only to reappear smugly.”

“I’d make an excellent fox,” he mused. “A regal one. Like a prince of foxes.”

“Oh, sure,” she teased. “Prince of stolen trinkets and smug grins.”

“Exactly.” He leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to her lips. “You wouldn’t be able to resist me.”

She hummed against his lips before pulling back. “Debatable.”

Oak lowered his head and started kissing her shoulder making her groan but didn’t pull away, and he took that as encouragement, continuing his slow assault of lazy kisses along her arm. 

They stayed like that for a while, wrapped in the warmth of each other, until the quiet of the apartment broke with the sound of jingling keys and the front door opening. The distinct noises of voices filled the space. 

Wren bolted upright. “Someone’s here.”

Oak could hear the laughter of Vivi and Heather, the sound of Taryn scolding Leander, who was laughing hysterically, and Jude snapping at Cardan for some insufferable joke he must have made.

The prince, still stretched out and very much unclothed, barely spared a glance toward the door. “Mm. Probably just Vivi.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” she hissed, already scrambling to find her scattered clothes. “We’re naked, Oak.”

He propped himself up on one elbow, amusement clear in his gaze. “Are we? I hadn’t noticed.”

She shot him a glare, tugging an oversized hoodie over her head. Oak, however, remained unfazed, watching her struggle with lazy amusement.

Just as she was about to yank on her jeans, he caught her wrist and pulled her toward him.

“What are you doing?” she murmured, resting her hands on his shoulders.

“Don’t worry, we have plenty of time, my sweet fairy.” Oak placed more kisses on her cheeks, jaw, and neck, making her falter.

She groaned but didn’t pull away, surrendering to his touch for just a moment before snapping out of it. “Oak, seriously, we need to get dressed.”

After a long session of stolen kisses, they finally got dressed and made their way into the living room. As expected, they weren’t alone anymore. Jude, Madoc, and Leander stood in the center of the room, shopping bags in hand. Leander was proudly holding up a new board game while Madoc and Jude bickered over something trivial. It was an oddly domestic scene.

Jude turned first, her sharp gaze flickering between Wren’s rumpled hoodie and Oak’s infuriatingly smug expression. A slow smirk spread across her lips.

“Did we interrupt something?” she asked, her tone far too amused.

Wren turned red. “No.”

Oak, however, slung an arm around her shoulders. “Maybe.”

Vivi, looking genuinely surprised, stepped forward and hugged Oak. “Finally awake you two” Her gaze shifted to Wren, friendlier than Jude’s scrutinizing stare.

“Well, that must have been quite a night?” Cardan questioned, receiving a displeased look from his wife. “And so silent.”

Oak just grinned at the implications of his uncle’s words and looked at Wren, who was visibly nervous, but as soon as his hand found hers, she seemed to relax. He led her toward the sofa, settling beside Leander and gesturing toward the board game.

“So, what did you buy at the mall?” he asked, effortlessly shifting the conversation.

Leander beamed. “Something amazing. And I’m going to destroy you all.”

Oak smirked, exchanging a glance with Wren. She was still flustered, but he could see the beginnings of a smile at the corner of her lips.

For those interested, I'm writing a Dazai x Reader fanfic on my Ao3 account (Archive of Our Own).

OK LISTEN GUYS... Chifuyu and Chat Noir.

Just imagine how beautiful and cute Chifuyu would be dressed as Chat Noir from Miraculous Ladybug.

Jude knows about Oak

In the royal chambers, the High King and High Queen were trying to relax from royal duties with a hot bath in the enormous bathtub.

"Cardan, if you don't stop this immediately, we'll soon run out of water. " - Jude said sternly, trying to get her husband to stop splashing her with the water that was pouring out of the tub onto the floor.

"I really love that disapproving face of yours"

"It's not disapproving, but if you continue with this prank there will be no water or soap bubbles that will resist." - said the tall queen taking a soap bubble in her hand and examining it as she reclined on the edge of the bath.

Cardan notice her worried face and it clearly wasn't about her husband sinking the bathroom.

"What's up with that my sweet poison face?"

She doesn't talk only shrugs her shoulders, her eyes are not on him but still on the soap bubble. He strides to her and when he's near her he blows so the bubble fades away and she puts her full attention on him.

"Now tell me what annoys and infuriates you" Jude sighs and looks at his dark eyes, does eyes are like an abyss, she can't lie to him as easily as before.

Her body is completely reclined on the edge of the tub. Cardan's arms hold her somehow, comfort, she feels.

"I'm just worried about Oak... it's been a while since we've heard from him and I'm honestly afraid something has happened."

"Worry not my feral queen, Oak is very intelligent and promising in the art of fighting... better than I. - he touches his forehead with hers and she smiles at the statement.

"I'm sure everything will be fine."

"But if..."

"Don't worry your head with that we are here to relax a bit are we not?" she nods slowly and calmly.

"So let us enjoy then, every minute... (a kiss on her cheek) every second... (a kiss on her nose) of each other's company"- he states kissing her lips, pausing to see her reaction.

Jude has a soft smile on her face and pushes him for a long and passionate kiss.

How they missed these little moments in each other's company, so many problems and duties to solve and let them perform with very little time for these delights. Tragic delights as Cardan liked to call them. Suddenly a knock on the door is heard but not strong to separate them or made them stop.

A more rushed and strong knock it's heard and the high queen stops pushing her husband away.

"Come in" - she allows the person to enter hoping it's some news about Oak. Jude knows that she isn't decent to receive someone but she's the queen and she's very nervous too.

A pixie maid and a guard enter the room the maid has a letter in her hands.

"Your majesties, I beg your pardon to interrupt but this letter came with the maximum urgency to the palace" - she puts the letter in Jude's hand which was already stretched ready to open.

While she reads attentively, Cardan catches the wine goblet on a table near the bathtub and dismisses the maid and the guard. Sipping the sweet wine he keeps looking at his wife for a change of mood but he only can see her bare back.

"Tell me my sweet Goddess" - I put my hand on her back tracing circles. "What..."

"We have to move quickly" - Jude stands up suddenly still naked in all her glory looking for a robe to cover her body - "Here, get ready."

Cardan looks at her angry face and tries to understand what is going on, he reads the letter attentively.

A devilish smile appears on his face. He quickly arrives in the bedroom where his wife is all dressed up looking at him with a determined face. "Looks like someone underestimated my Queen"

"It won't stay like this, I assure you, they will regret having underestimated us, all of them they will regret the ground they stepped on."

Her rage's really motivating and makes Cardan feel proud of her leadership.