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Jason was sitting on the terrace outside, having a dinner by himself. Suzie Su, his bodyguard wasn't always near him, keeping the distance but kept an eye on him. He sipped his champagne, watching the Sun set below the horizon and enjoying the quiet moment of solitude. He thanked himself and Blanc for deciding to invest in soundproof walls. With their help, people outside weren't disturbed by the noise.

When he was finishing, Jason noticed with a side glance his assistant approaching him.

"Excuse me for disturbing your dinner, sir."

"Nah, I'm almost done already, what is it?" Jason turned his attention to him, putting the fork aside.

His assistant glanced at his tablet before speaking again. "The special guest I've told you about two days ago is here. The one who ordered a separate table in the VIP area. He… made a wish to meet you."

Jason rose his eyebrows. Now it's getting interesting.

"Huh, what's his name?"

"Dacre Bell, model manager and promoter from local fashion modelling agency. He's accompanied by four other models that are appearing on Gotham Fashion Week."

Jason sighed. "Can you please tell him that I'm currently busy and cannot have any conversations."

Tell him to fuck off for me in a formal way please.

"Sir, as much as I know you find such conversations unpleasant, they affect the whole image of Iceberg Lounge sometimes."

Todd closed his eyes, running a hand down his face. "You find them crucial?"

"I find them useful." His assistant smiled with corners of his lips.

Sometimes he reminded Jason of certain somebody from his "past" life.

Jason exhaled, standing up. "I'll be in a minute, Mark."

Mark nodded and retrieved.

The air on the second floor of the nightclub felt hotter than on the first. And served cool drinks didn't help. You were sitting right next to Dacre. One your friend and co-worker was sitting on your right, other two were sitting on Dacre's left. The proximity felt uncomfortable. Not because of your friend Tara, no. Since you came in this nightclub after dinner in restaurant on East End, Dacre multiple times attempted to wrap hand around your waist and every time you gently were pulling him off you and multiple times he brought his face closely to yours to say something. So close you could sense the smell of his awful menthol gum. As "polite" as you could be, you kept pushing him back in his chest, creating distance between you two. You rarely went out with him and when you did. his behaviour was often the same.

You noticed Tara's sympathetic looks on you, but you said nothing. At least 18-year-old Larissa —who was sitting on the other side of the couch — wasn't bothered. She kept looking around curiously, sipping her soda.

People were passing by, not even trying to hide their staring at you and other girls.

Suddenly in the VIP section appeared tall figure of the young man. His silk burgundy shirt and a black suit strongly contrasted with the whole cold icy vibe of the nightclub. Your gaze followed him approaching your table as you kept sipping your dirty martini.

You knew who it was. You saw his face before in celebrity magazines and newspaper. You could recognise this white streak of hair easily.

New proprietor of Iceberg Lounge and Bruce Wayne's ward he doesn't mention often. Jason Todd.

Prince of Gotham as somebody in the media called him once.

For once, Dacre stopped rambling and gave mister Todd a wide smile. The right hand that was laying behind you on the back of the couch leaned to squeeze the hand. "Ah, mister Todd. Pleasure to finally meet you. Your manager warned that you might be very busy."

Jason sat in front of him on the square ottoman stool, smiling shortly. "Yeah, well. I always try to find time for our guests. And you wanted to… talk to me?"

You and Tara exchange glances.

Figures

Jason Todd still remains a new persona to Gotham "elite". And Dacre wants to intervene with his "partnership" thing.

Like he always does.

You take a deep breath and when Dacre attempts to touch you again, you stand up taking your purse. "I need fresh air. I feel like I'm suffocating here."

Tara just nodes. Dacre makes a mocking sad face, pouting. "Oh, come on, honey, we just started."

You look at him down with mildly irritated look. "I'm tired and need some time for myself." Dismissing Jason, you leave the table.

Before you reached stairs, you heard your "promoter" saying to mister Todd. "That was [Name] [Last name], our little Stargirl."

"She's actually a sweetheart, but can be difficult sometimes." added another model Antonia. "Don't read into it much"

The last thing you heard was mister Todd replying. "Right…"

You move between bodies, quickly. Heels' clicking is getting deafened by techno. You unintentionally hover over some people which makes easier for you to go through. You could feel piercing looks on your back. Of people who were recognising a celebrity in you, but most looks were different. Straight up staring, that could make somebody shiver.

Those were from men.

As soon as you stepped on the terrace balcony, you took a deep breath. From this place was opening a huge view at the city.

Shining and so deeply flawed Gotham.

You looked around searching for the smoking area. The balcony was wide. There was an area with tables and chairs, empty area with railing to enjoy the view. And the area to smoke.

It was in another corner enclosed by glass walls without the ceiling. There were some people sitting there, but not so much. Clicking of your heels causes men's attention inside. Their gaze follow you as you take a seat on the couch across from them right near exit with a heavy sigh. Smell of expensive tobacco was hanging in the air. LED strip lights were creating a cozy atmosphere.

You take the vape out of your purse and try to inhale a few times. To your misfortune, its battery was low. You curse under your breath, taking a pack of cigarettes out that you often kept just in case. You take one out of the pack and press it between your lips. And suddenly multiple lighter flame appeared in front of you. They were so fast, you didn't even have time to take your own lighter.

Your eyes trace each men. Way older, maybe in their 40s and some of them look smug. How many of them have wives at home waiting for them? How many of them portray themselves as "family men", while also hitting on young women in the nightclub? Are their wives oblivious, don't care about it or actually the same as their husbands? Absolutely disgusting.

You almost roll your eyes and huff, ready to draw them away from yourself, when suddenly they retrieve themselves on their own. And looks on their faces say that it's someone "big".

"Not very gentlemanly to disturb the lady." says the person.

You frown and lift your eyes. Mister Todd.

He was literally talking to Dacre a few minutes ago, why is he here?

Did he follow you or something?

"It would be even better if you all left. Like right now." He smiles at them mockingly.

And they actually rush to leave, putting out their cigarettes in ashtrays and leave.

When they're gone, you lift your at him again. And he looks at you back and doesn't break an eye contact.

Huh

You finally lighten a cigarette and the first drag relaxes you immediately. You lean back on the couch, crossing your legs.

He keeps standing, but then for some reason he decides to stay and sits down.

"That was dramatic." You break the silence first.

"I would've called it effective." He smirks.

"Oh, definitely. Accept my gratitude. Though I thought you were occupied with conversation with my manager." You exhale a smoke in opposite way of him.

"I was told by my assistant that one of my bodyguards noticed a situation." He replies with confidence, mirroring your position.

"That so? And you decided to check it yourself? Wasn't a conversation important?" You keep asking.

He smiles with corners of his lips. "It wasn't. Not to me at least."

Was it too bad that you were happy about Dacre's games not working on Todd? You often heard that mister Todd was detached in some way. He wasn't caught in any drama and that is what led to speculations around him. There were two or three intrudes when he just started running the place, but that was it. After, there was nothing major.

The smoking area falls into silence. You keep smoking, lost in your own thoughts. Your hand with the rehearsed grace that clings to you like a second skin. From time to time you shake the ash off in the tray and press the cigarette back to lips. You smoke and feel his gaze on you. But it's not heavy or creepy. It was a gaze of someone who tries to learn a person in front of him.

Maybe you should've asked him to leave, but you didn't see the point. He wasn't bothering you, didn't pry. Just sat n front of you casually.

"You seemed not to be interested in that either." Mister Todd speaks again. "That conversation, I mean."

"I get tired when I'm around people a lot. And… I also expected you talking to be as usual. Business, fake smiles and promises about future partnership or something, don't get me wrong." You reply, shaking the ash off. You were almost done with a cigarette.

He hums, saying nothing.

You squint your eyes. "And why are you still here?"

He gives you this small smile again. "Just making sure no one dares to disturb you again. Guests' comfort is always the top priority."

You smirk faintly and after last drag put the cigarette out. "Well then, I'm ready to go back into chaos again." You stand up, fixing your mini dress. "Thank you, again. I would also advise you to say something to Dacre later. I bet he found your actions weird. He doesn't like to be dismissed so fast."

Mister Todd simply nods and goes to exit first. He stands right outside, offering his hand to help to go down two or three stairs. Both of you know it's not needed. But you still give your hand. And he still keeps his eyes on you before you say goodbye.

"Maybe we will have a chance to meet again. Gotham is small." You give him last smile and disappear inside.

Later at night Jason was sitting in his office, looking through his papers, and then opened the Internet to search up about this Dacre Bell.

Something in conversation with him earlier that night felt off. The way he positioned himself, his manner of talking, his status in Gotham. Heavy on status. He gave an impression of cocky, arrogant and very assertive person. In the web was nothing major. Nothing that could catch Jason's eye.

Numerous interviews with him about his work, how he "helped" to make a name for many models in the industry, his influence as a whole. And one of those articles led to you. You were standing next to Dacre on some carpet, head taller than him, looking directly at the camera.

Young woman on this photo and who he saw earlier today weren't same. On the photo your gaze is confident, daring even, small smile is glued to your lips. Today he saw exhausted and quite vulnerable in some way person for who it became too loud in the crowd and they craved space.

Jason told to himself that it's just natural curiosity, surfing your pictures. Runway shows, red carpets, event paparazzis. Confident, graceful and smiling, always smiling. Always genuinely approaching fans for a picture and autograph, warming hugs with cancer patients and young girls, visits in Gotham youth centres, refugee camps in different regions of the world.

Truly people's sweetheart

"Remarkable person, isn't she?" Mark entered the office. "Though, as far as I heard, she remains very private about her life and rarely does interviews that have to do with something personal."

Jason didn't expect him to appear so sudden. "You should warn when you come in, Mark. I was just… curious."

His assistant smiled. "My apologies. I came to say that I didn't find anything special on mister Bell. He seems to be clean."

Jason turns to him. "Still would like to keep an eye on him. Something eventually may come out. He doesn't seem very trustful to me."

The way he was treating models that were accompanying him tonight didn't sit right with Jason either. Especially you. Jason didn't sit with them very long after you retrieved, but he noticed unnecessary nicknames and backhanded jokes. when you weren't around. Not only towards you, but also towards the other three ladies that were there.

Mark saw his boss's serious demeanour and nodded. "Of course." Photo of you on the Vogue Cover was still opened on Todd's desktop. "About miss."

Jason lifts his eyes. "What about her?"

"This week in Gotham takes place Fashion Week Show as I told you earlier. And miss [Last name] will perform for the brand on Wednesday."

Jason frowns. "Are you offering me to visit the show?"

Mark's lips twitched in smile. "The invitation to the show is still up. If you remain curious, might as well get to know the Miss better."

He hums, looking back at his desktop.

"Maybe we will have a chance to meet again. Gotham is small"

Jason rubs his chin for a moment and then nods. "Can be useful to learn more about Bell from the inside."

"Right, Bell, of course."

Todd doesn't miss his assistant's teasing, but decides to say nothing.

"Alright. Fashion Show it is…" he mutters and closes his desktop.

You climb the last flight of steps up to the fourth floor of your apartment building, stomping each stair into submission as you go. You’re still fuming from the blind date you just escaped. That is the absolute last time you ever let Erin set you up with one of her stock broker bro coworkers. You don’t care how hot or rich they are; you are done. Done, done, stick a fork in you. You love your bestie but by God does the woman have terrible taste in men or what.

Both of the pricks she handpicked for you were narcissistic know-it-alls with egos the size of Texas; a pair of swine in designer suits (who, to Erin’s credit, were smoking hot but that’s beside the point.) Once the pig from tonight decided that you weren’t trophy wife material he became far more interested in his phone than he was in you. And the last pig coddled you like you were a delicate, empty-headed damsel in distress who was lucky to be granted the honor of his company and conversation. You should’ve learned your lesson after that first failed date with Dalton Rockefeller-Vanderbilt (or whatever old money asshole last name he had) but you’ve been feeling lonely lately, especially after Ash introduced you to the fab guy she’s dating (an accountant with a perfectly plebeian name of Abe).

You glare down the hallway as you ascend enough to peek over the top of the stairs. Oh great, you think sourly, pursing your lips, your face hardening into a study in once I step inside that door I’m downing a shot of whiskey before turning up an overflowing glass of wine. You stare molten daggers at the tall, brawny guy in your sights. It’s the hot asshole who lives beside you; the last person you want to see tonight. He’s standing, hunched as ever, in front of his door, key poised for the deadbolt, wearing that same teal baseball cap and red hoodie that he never seems to take off. Your jaw tightens. You’ve tried to be nice to the brute—flashing him a smile, saying hello—but all you’ve ever gotten in return was a scowl, if he deigned to acknowledge you at all. Well, you’re fresh out of smiles tonight, jerk.

A flutter of unease tickles your tummy as you step onto the landing, into the narrow hallway with him, your back turned to the only exit, a six foot tall sus man between you and your apartment. You stand up straighter, squaring your shoulders, trying to make yourself look and feel taller. It’s late, and your building is eerily quiet while the city is abuzz with incessant sirens. The usual ensemble of notorious nutjobs are fighting yet another battle in their never-ending war with their rival nutjob who dresses up like a Bat.

Nutjobs like this guy…

You reach into your handbag and grab your keys in your fist, sliding the sharp ends between your fingers, ready to stab at some eyeballs. (You regrettably didn’t have room for your taser or mace in this bag so you have to improvise.) It’s your own fault that you suspect the guy’s a sociopath lying in wait to jump you. You made up a serial killer backstory for him—the result of one too many true crime podcast binges—despite not even knowing the guy’s name. You can’t help it. He gives off serious Ted Bundy vibes. Well, maybe that’s unfair to Ted. Ted would’ve at least smiled at you before bludgeoning you with a crowbar. This guy though…

This guy doesn’t have a scowl for you tonight. Actually, he seems startled by your sudden appearance in the hallway, dropping his keyring to the floor with a clatter that shatters the uneasy silence, causing you to jump. He ducks his red-hooded head between his hunched shoulders as you pass by, warily eying him, ready to stab those icy blue eyeballs of his if he tries anything.

You arrive at your door and take out your keyring, sighing with likely unnecessary relief as you slide the key into the lock. The guy’s probably a harmless weirdo incel who never learned how to talk to a woman. You steal one last peek over your shoulder at him, and watch as he stabs at his deadbolt with his key, hitting everywhere but the keyhole because, you realize with surprise, his hand is shaking too much to hit the target. This dude’s a disaster, you say to yourself as you turn the key in your own deadbolt. Then, as he misses the keyhole yet again, you hear yourself ask, “Do you need help?” in an annoyed tone. You didn’t mean to sound so bitchy but whatever. He shouldn’t be such a bitch to you.

He seems to jump at the sound of your voice, and his keyring clatters to the scuffed wood floor again. You stare back at him incredulously. Is he wasted or something? You wonder as that unsettling feeling creeps back in, prickling the hairs on the back of your neck. Your grip tightens around your doorknob as your pulse picks up speed.

“I’m fine,” he mumbles in response without sparing a glance in your direction.

“You don’t look fine,” you grumble back at him, the flames of irritation rekindled by his rudeness. Why should you care if the jerk’s too drunk or stoned to get in his apartment. Let his rude ass sleep on his doorstep. You shove open your door and take a stomped step across the threshold—you really need that glass of wine. Out of the corner of your eye you see him bend down to pick up his keys, then hear him groan like he’s in pain. You poke your head back around the doorframe, curious, and notice he’s doubled over now, clutching at his heaving chest, breathing hard and fast like he just ran a 5k or—your heart leaps inside your own chest—like he’s having a fucking heart attack. You watch, mouth agape, brows furrowed, as he sinks to his knees, a handful of red fabric still clenched in his trembling fist, then falls forward onto his free hand while he struggles to get control of his labored breathing. Crumpled on the floor like this, fighting for a breath, makes him seem so small, vulnerable, and not the least bit threatening; more like a boy who needs your help and less like an NFL quarterback who murders women on the side for fun.

Just go into your apartment, pour that extra large glass of merlot you’ve been fantasizing about since John Preston Anderson III introduced himself with his full name. Curl up on the sofa with In Cold Blood or a horde of shirtless, oiled, bronzed, and heartily-muscled Dothraki in your Game of Thrones rewatch. Who cares if the hot asshole serial killer next door has a heart attack? But you care apparently because you rush over to him instead, ignoring The Stranger Beside Me audiobook narrator inside your head warning you that this is a textbook Ted Bundy ploy, you idiot. You bend to help him, to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, and when your fingertips brush against him his entire body jerks away from you, like you zapped him with your taser. He throws up an arm to warn you off. “Don’t,” he snaps breathlessly before gulping down a lungful of air, then rasps: “Please don’t touch me.”

You bristle at his harsh rebuff but keep your temper in check since the guy’s clearly in crisis mode. “Should I call an ambulance? You look like you’re having a heart attack.”

“It’s… it’s not a heart attack… it just… feels like one.” He bites off each word, every breath precious. The fingers of his free hand dig into the hardwood floor.

“At least let me unlock your door for you,” you suggest shortly, biting your tongue before you can add: since you weren’t able to manage that yourself, then feeling guilty for even thinking that. What had the poor guy done to you tonight except happen to be standing in your shared hallway after some other asshole pissed you off?

He gives you a small, grudging nod so you retrieve his fallen keyring, wondering why a man needs so many damn keys. “The bronze one,” he grunts, as if he read your mind.

You unlock his door with the bronze key then push the door open while he drags himself to his feet behind you, huffing and groaning. The dimly lit apartment that greets you is sterile, spartan; that doesn’t help the serial killer vibes at all. One of the furnished units, you presume, since the furniture looks like it was plucked from the lobby of your building. The walls are white and bare; no art or posters or photos of him scowling beside a lover. And the place is spotless—you’d assume it was vacant if you didn’t know otherwise. A vision suddenly fills your mind, a vision of him on his knees, bright yellow dishwashing gloves pulled halfway up his muscular arms, an uncapped bottle of industrial bleach at his side as he scrubs at a puddle of blood while the lifeless corpse of the last girl who wandered in here lies wrapped up in blood-stained plastic behind him. Oh God, you even smell the bleach. But then you notice the stacks of paperback books here and there, the open sketch pad on the sofa with pencil-scribbled notes and drawings, some charging AirPods beside an iPad, another red hoodie—one that zips up the front—hanging from the back of a dining room chair, a gym bag, and atop the kitchen island, a rather happy-looking houseplant which, you have to admit, is kinda cute.

Before you can take in the rest of his place he staggers past you, bumping into your shoulder with a bruising force that knocks you sideways and nearly off your feet. Then with one last little wheeze, he topples over like an uprooted oak tree in a windstorm, smacking face first into the hardwood with a meaty thud that rattles the floor beneath you.

“Oh my God!” You squeal, covering your mouth with both hands. 

A shot of adrenaline pumps through your veins, spurring you into action. You snatch your phone from your bag with rubber fingers, nearly flinging it aside in your panic, and frantically dial 9-1-1, forgetting all about the emergency shortcuts created for just such an occasion. Your stomach dips at the sight of the bulky body lying prone at your feet, still and silent as the grave. As the phone rings—the long-familiar trilling sound now seemingly drawn out as if it will stretch into eternity—you kneel beside him to check his pulse and see if he’s still breathing, praying he isn’t a corpse, when you spot something that knocks the breath from your lungs and stops your heart dead in its tracks. With a cold, trembling hand you push up the tail of his hoodie…

“9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The operator asks by rote, voice booming through your phone’s speaker, but you barely hear it over the alarm bells clanging inside your head. You’re gaping at the gun tucked into the waistband of his pants, unable to form any sort of response around your heart lodged in your throat.

“Hello?” the operator asks irritably.

“Hi, uh,” you start with a squeak, eyes still fixed on the textured grip of that deadly weapon, but then smack your lips shut. What are the cops gonna think when they see that gun? And what if he’s wanted for a crime or something and you get him arrested? He said it wasn’t a heart attack, acted like this had happened to him before. You can always call back if he’s actually dead or dying…

Why the hell does it matter if he gets arrested?? Your brain shouts back at you. Why are you even here in the first place when there’s an unopened bottle of merlot waiting for you in the safety of your apartment only a few footsteps away, where there’s not an unresponsive armed man who’s built like a tank, who doesn’t even need the gun when he could snap your tiny neck with those massive hands of his? Could the universe give you any clearer signals that “you in danger, girl”? Have you learned absolutely nothing from hours upon hours of Karen and Georgia? “Stay sexy and don’t get murdered”—this guy isn’t even nice to you! Don’t you dare hang up that phone…

“Um, I’m so sorry. I thought my neighbor was having a heart attack but-but he’s fine actually. False alarm. Sorry to bother you!” Your words tumble out in a rush then you smash the “End Call” button before you can get questioned further or chewed out for wasting their time. In the back of your mind you hear the recording of this 9-1-1 call replaying on the My Favorite Murder episode starring you, before the hostess pair warns their listeners not to make the same foolish mistake you just made.

You sit back on your heels, clammy hands kneading your knees while that chunk of baleful metal glares back at you from his waistband, like a coiled rattlesnake peeking out from beneath a rock. Your mind is racing as fast as your heart through scenarios that all end with you getting shot. Then your hands are moving with minds of their own, fingers curling around the textured grip, getting your dainty fingerprints all over the murder weapon as you slip it free. It’s heavier than you expected, you note as you grip it tighter, careful not to get your finger anywhere near that trigger. Heavy, but not heavy enough for something that can end a life in an instant. The thought makes you shudder. You place the gun on the floor then give it a shove, eager to be rid of it, praying that the damn thing won’t go off automatically as it slides across the hardwood floor out of reach. You’ve never touched a gun before this moment and have zero interest in shooting yourself in the face.

Now your attention shifts back to the poor guy who's still out cold. You lay your hand on his back and feel its steady rise and fall. Still breathing, thank God. Then with a grunt of effort and a mighty heave you manage to flip him over on his back. Immediately your hand shoots back to cover your mouth and you suck in a horrified breath as his pale face, previously hidden beneath the shadow of his hat and hood, becomes visible in the lamplight. 

You were expecting the weals on his chin and forehead, the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his bottom lip swelling from where it busted when he fell flat on his face. What you weren’t expecting to find was dried blood smeared across his cheek up to his ear, or the J-shaped scar beneath his eye that you’d noticed before (it’s unfortunately hard to miss, despite his best efforts to hide it) weeping beads of fresh blood from where someone traced over it with a knife you assume, carving deep into his skin. But it wasn’t the sight of the blood or the crimson J that pulled the gasp from your throat and made your stomach nosedive like you were on a rollercoaster. Nope, that was your reaction to the angry red furrows encircling his throat around his Adam's apple, deep indentations where someone wrapped rope or wire or cable around his neck so tight that it embedded in his skin; ligature marks from where someone fucking strangled him.

You grab your phone then pause, biting at your lip. Maybe you should call 9-1-1 again. What if his windpipe is crushed? What if that’s why he was breathing so hard, why he fainted? Those marks are so deep… he could be seriously injured. But if he was seriously injured, why had he returned to his apartment instead of going to the ER? It seems like he made the choice for you.

“Bets! Everyone bet for your favorite!” the bookie shouted over the roar of the crowd before your friend pulled out a twenty. She quickly shot you a look.

“You have to bet” she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. How could it be? You had no idea who was fighting anyway. You took a quick glance at the torn poster by the entrance:

THE REPTILE VS. THE HOOD.

You shrugged and without thinking much, you slid five dollars across the table.

“The Hood” you murmured.

“Ah... you have good intuition, I see” your friend smugged a second before a heavy bass started rumbling through the concrete walls.

The Reptile made his entrance. He was a human wall, his skin thickened by scars and tribal tattoos. You wouldn't want to be the guy fighting this man. The music stopped and the announcer spoke through a screeching megaphone, presenting your fighter.

“And in the red corner... the ghost of Crime Alley! They call him THE HOOD!”

He wasn’t like any other man you’d ever seen. His jet-black hair made a harsh contrast with his pale skin, a canvas mapping a lifetime of rough choices, covered in jagged scars that followed the heavy frame of his body. His muscular arms and broad, bruised back moved with an intimidating weight. He wore nothing but crimson red boxing shorts, standing out against the suffocating filth of the venue.

The only other color on him was the sharp, borderline radioactive green of his eyes, which you could’ve sworn you saw glowing when he dedicated a fraction of a second to look at your row. The raw guitar solo accompanying his walk down looked just like him: wrecked, heavy, and moving something violent and deep inside your chest.

And so, the first round started.

Every punch he threw wasn't athletic, it was personal. The other guy was heavier, but the Hood moved with a cruel, rhythmic elegance. You watched the sweat and the first drops of blood drip from his brow under the green lights. He didn't use standard gloves, just thick layers of black gauze and electrical tape wrapped tightly around his knuckles.

The sound of his hands hitting the giant’s jaw was a sickening, dry crack that made the front row flinch. He took a heavy hook to the ribs, coughing out a spray of spit, but he didn't even blink. He just smiled, wiped his mouth with the back of his taped hand, and countered with a lethal three-punch combination that sent the giant crashing against the ropes.

After a few minutes of pure butcher poetry, his opponent was flat on the canvas. The Hood gave one final look at the screaming crowd, a sharp, arrogant smirk cutting through his bleeding lip before disappearing down the dark corridor with his small crew.

Twenty-five dollars. That's what you made with your five-dollar bet.

The second fight was about to begin when your friend thought it was a good idea to go grab a beer, and you saw it as the perfect chance to slip away to the restroom. It was supposed to be simple: your friend went right toward the crowded bar, you went left toward the back exit. The problem was that when you pushed open a heavy unlabelled metal door, you found yourself inside a dim, quiet locker room.

You sighed, instantly ready to turn back around when you saw him sitting over a blue plastic cooler. The boxer. Up close, he looked like someone who had crawled his way back from the dead. What luck you had.

He looked you up and down before frowning. You definitely didn't look like you belonged in a Gotham underground fight. Your clothes practically screamed New York luxury instead of Gotham grime.

“I think you’re lost, sweetheart. Real fights are downtown” he spoke, his voice low, raspy, and completely exhausted before clicking a silver lighter to light a cigarette. You could’ve nodded and walked out, but god forbid you knew when to keep your mouth shut.

“Actually, you just made me win twenty-five bucks... so, thanks” you tilted your head, your eyes dropping to his hands. You noticed the fresh, dark blood filtering through the white bandage of his knuckles.

He scoffed, letting the thick gray smoke filter through his nose before chuckling softly. “Yeah? No problem. Just try to make a bigger bet next time. Five dollars is barely enough to pay for my cab home”

It was your turn to scoff. “What makes you think I’m coming back?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. At the end of the day, you had seen enough sweaty people fighting and pissing where they shouldn't to understand that maybe this wasn't exactly your vibe.

This time he narrowed his eyes, looking genuinely offended. “Why wouldn't you?” His smirk returned, slower this time, as he leaned his broad back against the rusted locker behind him. “Or what? Your little designer boots are too delicate to be in a place like this?” He let out a dry laugh, trapping the cigarette between his lips again. Oh, fuck him.

“Okay... twenty dollars next time. But if you lose, you’ll owe me forty” you smirked down at him.

A smirk that quickly vanished from your face when he stood up. Jesus. He walked right until he was standing a mere inch in front of you, towering over your frame. He was so much bigger than what you had imagined from the bleachers. He smelled like copper, cheap cologne, and cold rain.

He leaned down slightly, his green eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly dark playfulness.

“Make it fifty and I won't owe you anything, because I don't lose. Next Friday at nine. You're sitting in my corner” he took one last drag of his cigarette, blew the smoke right above your head, and walked past you into the hallway. He turned his head back one last time just before disappearing into the shadows. “Ah, and make sure to dress more... accordingly”

He gave you one final, infuriatingly attractive smile before leaving you alone in the cold room.

You stared at the empty doorway, your heart hammering against your ribs. You closed your eyes and let out a long, defeated breath as the realization hit you.

The bastard hadn't just flirted with you. He had just dictated your plans for next week. And the worst part? You knew you were going to show up.

And then you saw him.

Jason Todd, sprawled in a booth across the restaurant, his arm draped over the shoulders of a woman with honey-blonde hair and a smile worthy of a toothpaste ad. She was laughing at something he said, her hand resting on his chest, and Jason — your Jason, the one who never let anyone touch him like that — was letting her. Leaning into it. Smiling that crooked smile you hadn't seen in two years.

Your chest caved in. You felt it, a physical collapse, like someone had reached inside you and pulled out your ribs. Marcus was still talking, something about his boat, but the words were underwater. All you could see was the way Jason's fingers traced lazy circles on the blonde's shoulder. The way he looked at her like she was the answer to a question he'd been asking forever.

You wanted to scream. You wanted to march over there and slap that smile off his face, or maybe slap yourself for still caring. Instead, you finished your wine, excused yourself to the bathroom, and stared at your reflection in the mirror until your hands stopped shaking.

You're on a date. You're moving on. You're fine.

But you weren't fine. You were never fine.

The first time you slept with someone after the breakup, it was a guy you met at a bar. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a scruffy jaw that reminded you of Jason in the worst way. You took him home, let him fuck you against the headboard, and when it was over, you lay there staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but a hollow ache where satisfaction should have been.

That became the pattern.

One-night stands.

Blind dates.

Friends with benefits.

You threw yourself into every bed that opened its doors, hoping that if you fucked enough people, you'd eventually fuck the memory of Jason out of your system. You told yourself it was liberation. This is what moving on looks like. But every time a man groaned your name, every time his hands grabbed your hips, every time he buried himself inside you, you found yourself comparing. He doesn't kiss like Jason. He doesn't hold me like Jason. He doesn't make me feel like I'm falling apart and coming together at the same time.

No one ever did.

After the restaurant, Marcus suggested a drive. "Got the old man's Cadillac," he said, grinning, his hand on the small of your back. "Plenty of room in the back seat."

You knew what that meant. You knew it the second he said it. And you agreed, because that's what you did. You said yes to the drinks, yes to the charm, yes to the sex that followed like a well-rehearsed script. You let him take you to the parking lot behind the restaurant, let him open the door for you, let him slide in beside you.

Now his mouth is on your collarbone, his hand sliding up your thigh, and you're staring at the ceiling of the Cadillac, counting the tiny perforations in the fabric. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen...

"Okay?" he murmurs against your skin.

"Mm-hmm."

He takes that as encouragement. His fingers find your cunt, and you gasp — not from pleasure, but from the shock of it, the intrusion. You're wet, because your body doesn't care about your heart. Your body is a traitor. It responds to touch the way it's been trained to, opening up, welcoming him in.

He pushes inside you, and you close your eyes.

And then you're gone.

You're back in Jason's apartment, the one in the Bowery with the busted radiator and the stack of books on the floor. It's late, maybe two in the morning, and you're straddling his lap on that worn-out couch, his hands gripping your ass, his mouth hot and hungry on yours.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he growls against your lips.

You laugh, breathless. "Good. Then I'll have you all to myself."

He flips you onto your back, pins you to the cushions, and looks down at you with those eyes — green and fierce and so full of want it makes your stomach flip. "I love you," he says, and he says it like it hurts. "I love you so goddamn much it scares me."

"Then don't push me away," you whisper, your fingers threading through his hair. "Let me in, Jay. Please."

He doesn't answer. He kisses you instead, deep and desperate, and you let him. You let him because you think that's enough, that his body can say what his mouth can't. He fucks you slow that night, like he's memorising the shape of you, every curve, every sound. When he comes, he buries his face in your neck and shudders, and you hold him, convinced that this time will be different.

It wasn't.

Marcus is moving faster now, his breath ragged, his grip tightening. "God, you feel good," he grunts.

But you always went. Because staying meant seeing the walls he built, night after night. It meant watching him shut down, push you away, lock himself in his own head. It meant loving someone who wouldn't let himself be loved.

But you don't feel it. You feel nothing except the ghost of Jason's hands, Jason's mouth, Jason's cock. You didn't mean to compare every guy to Jason, you tried not to.

You remember the way he used to take you from behind, one hand fisted in your hair, the other splayed across your stomach, pulling you back into him. You remember the way he'd whisper filthy things in your ear, things that made you blush and burn and come undone. You remember the way he'd hold you afterwards, his chest pressed against your back, his lips on your shoulder, his voice soft: Stay. Don't go. Please don't go.

So you left.

And you've been running ever since.

The breakup happened on a Tuesday. It was raining, because of course it was. You'd been fighting for a month straight — stupid things, really. He forgot to call. You were too clingy. He said you "deserved better." You said you didn't want better, you wanted him. But he wouldn't hear it. He'd already made up his mind, the same way he made up his mind about everything: alone, in the dark, without consulting anyone.

"Just go," he said, standing in the doorway, his jaw tight, his hands shoved in his pockets. "It's better this way."

"For who?" you wailed, tears streaming down your face. "For you? Because it sure as hell isn't better for me!"

He didn't answer. He just stood there, a statue carved from grief, and watched you walk away. You waited for him to call you back. You counted to ten, twenty, thirty. But the door clicked shut, and that was it.

Two years.

Two years of waking up alone. Two years of pretending you were fine. Two years of letting strangers fuck you into mattresses and back seats and kitchen counters, hoping that if you filled yourself with enough bodies, you'd forget what it felt like to be filled with him.

But you haven't forgotten. You'll never forget.

Marcus is close. You can tell by the way his rhythm turns frantic, the way his fingers dig into your hips. "I'm gonna... fuck..."

"Come inside me," you say, because that's what you're supposed to say. That's the script. The words fall out of your mouth like a reflex, hollow and rehearsed.

He groans, thrusts deep, and stills. You feel the warmth spread inside you, and you close your eyes, trying to feel something, anything, but there's only a cold, yawning void. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard, his weight pressing you deeper into the leather.

"Wow," he mutters after a moment. "That was..."

"Great," you finish for him. "Yeah."

He lifts his head, looks at you with that post-coital softness. "You okay?"

No. I'm not okay. I'm never okay. I'm lying in the back of a Cadillac, covered in a stranger's cum, and all I can think about is the man who broke my heart two years ago, and I hate myself for it.

"Yeah," you say, forcing a smile. "I'm good."

He kisses your forehead, and you let him. You let him pull you closer, let him whisper sweet nothings in your ear, let him pretend this means something. Because that's what you do. You let them pretend. You let yourself pretend. And when it's over, you go home, shower until your skin is raw, and start the cycle all over again.

But tonight, something is different. Tonight, the illusion cracked. You saw Jason with someone else, and it sliced you open in a way you didn't think was possible. You thought you'd numbed yourself enough. You thought the sex, the drinks, the constant motion had sanded down the edges of your grief.

But all it did was polish it. Make it shine brighter. Make it hurt more.

You slip out of the Cadillac an hour later, after Marcus has dressed and driven you back to your apartment. He kisses you goodbye, asks if he can call you again, and you say yes, because why not? Another name in your phone. Another body in your bed. Another night you'll forget by morning.

But when you get inside, when you're alone in the dark of your empty apartment, you don't head for the shower. You don't pour yourself a drink. You sink to the floor, back against the door, and let the tears come.

You cry for the girl you used to be, the one who believed in love, who thought that if she loved hard enough, she could break through anyone's walls. You cry for the woman you've become, the one who fucks strangers to feel whole, who smiles through the pain, who tells herself she's fine when she's falling apart. You cry for Jason, for the way he looked at that blonde, for the way he never looked at you like that in the end.

And you cry because you know, deep down, that you'd still take him back. Even after everything. Even after the years of silence, the hurt, the walls. You'd crawl back to him on your hands and knees if he asked.

But he won't ask. He never does.

The memories play in your head, over and over again. Like a movie premiere replaying the worst moments of your life on the big screen for your personal viewing displeasure.

You press your palms to your eyes and let the darkness swallow you.

It's going to be a long night.

Daeron Targaryen who studies business management at Kings Landing University, who attends maybe two classes a week but any party going, purely because he knows where exactly he will end up in the world no matter how seriously he takes life.

You who also studies business management but knows exactly where you want to end up in the world, just without the funds to secure your place there. Sure you partied, but nothing infuriated you more than the son's of the best businessmen in Westeros doing nothing more than drinking and whoring, knowing no matter what they did they would end up on top in the world.

That being said, the Hightower boys always knew how to throw a party, everyone knew it. So finding yourself in their estate on a saturday night was not an uncommon activity for many local students, what was uncommon for you however, was to be bent over the bathroom sink by daddy's boy Daeron Targaryen.

"Any louder from you sweetheart and someone might think you're actually enjoying yourself." He grunted, hands kneading the fat of your ass-cheeks as he watched his cock disappearing into your dripping heat, you let out almost a squeak of a moan in an attempt to be quiet, though he only chuckled lightly. Your mini-dress was bunched up to your hips and his jeans hung low on his own as he fucked you, the obscene sound of your combined sex as he pummelled into you would surely have drawn ears by now had the music from the party not been rocking the very foundations of the house.

"Don't give yourself the satisfaction. You're nothing more than fucking irritating." You quipped, suddenly angered by the brazen mirror in front of you, likely giving him the view he desired of how pliant you were. Just because his cock felt good didn't mean you hated him any less, this was purely for selfish benefit. Again he laughed, palm coming into contact with your ass-cheek leaving several red angry welts in its wake due to the expensive rings that adorned his fingers. "Fucking irritating huh? If that's what you'd like to think." His teeth found the skin of your shoulder, digging in next to the strap of your dress forcing a whine from your throat, "so how many of these men you find fucking irritating do you let fuck you? Hm?"

"Just you."

"Yeah. That's what I fucking thought you little slut." His hand that wasn’t digging into the fat of your hip tangled itself into your hair almost painfully tight, pulling you upward to bare your throat to his lips as red-purple blooming marks begun to adorn the skin there, occasionally he couldn’t help his teeth digging in because you were just right there and it was almost too easy.

“Go on, let me hear you.” He ordered, but you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, you bit down on your lower lip until you drew blood as he leant in to nibble at your earlobe. “Keep lying to yourself baby, telling yourself that you hate me. Turns me on.”

“I do hate you.” You spat, the tears in your eyes threatening to spill from how utterly overwhelmed by his touch, and intoxicated by his being, were more than enough proof for him to believe differently. “Your mouth’s saying one thing but your body’s telling me another. Listen to her, what she’s letting me do to her.” Another moan slipped past your lips at his words, he just felt too good, you hated that he was so good because you knew on monday in your lectures he’d likely stare right through you, but you couldn’t even bring yourself to care as you selfishly chased your orgasm against him, fingers circling your own clit rapidly.

“Fuck.” You clenched around him as obscenities muddled with praise fell from his lips, mouth working overtime as he continued his assault on your neck, devouring like he was deserving of you so intimately. But it shouldn’t have been as intimate as it felt, it shouldn’t have felt as good as it was, because you hated this man and all he represented. Yet you were willingly letting him destroy you in some cramped bathroom at a house party. Maybe it should have been mortifying, or maybe you should just live and let live. But who knows, because the pleasure was too overwhelming for you to even consider stopping.

“I bet you don’t even know my fucking name.” You whined, yet his only response was praise muttered against your skin “You’re taking me so well.” Your name fell naturally behind causing you to hiss as he continued “you think I’d fuck a girl whose name I didn’t know? Hm? I won’t pretend to be a gentleman but I do have common courtesy.”

“Daeron.” You mewled, nothing savour his name could overwhelm you just as much. “Yeah? You think I don’t see you in your little shirts, tits practically spilling out for any guy to gawk at. Skirts barely covering up to your arse. Or how about that pretty blue dress you whore to the charity gala at uni last december?” He peppered kisses along your jaw before further yanking your head back to join your lips, biting that place on yours where you had drawn blood only minutes earlier. “That’s right pretty girl. I know your fucking name. Know a lot more than that too.” His eyes clenched shut as he tried to hold out a little longer, he wanted you to cum first, he wanted to prove he had that over you. Maybe you were smarter academically, more intelligent, but he’d be damned if he let you think you were better in bed, no matter if this was the best sex he’d had in a long fucking time.

And he had won, because you were clenching around him like a vice as you came undone, his lips pressed to your own as he grinned in satisfaction, “don’t think I can’t feel you princess, cumming without permission.”

“I don’t need your fucking permission.” You grunted, riding out your orgasm as he spilled into the condom still inside of you. He heaved a breath pulling away, more than satisfied with his work. “If this is going to become a regular thing we’re gonna have to sort out that foul mouth aren’t we.” He had already pulled out and discarded the used condom into the bin under the sink, pulling his boxers back into place and zipping up his jeans. You were still catching your breath, a grip so tight on the marble of the sink you thought it might break under you. “This isn’t a regular thing Targaryen.” You pulled your panties back into place yet he pulled your dress back down to cover your ass, smacking it softly before speaking “might want to fix that makeup then, don’t want the whole party knowing you were getting fucked by a Targaryen if you hate me so much.” And with that he opened the door and left, the music shifting to unnecessarily loud as the door swung open. Thankfully the hall was empty yet you locked the door again anyway, cleaning yourself up, he had been honest about not being a gentlemen clearly. Yet with your makeup fixed and your hair as untangled as you could make it, you braved the hoards of party goers again, getting far drunker than you’d like to admit.

You did hate him, and his bratty attitude .

To say monday was mortifying would at the least be an understatement. Not because he spoke to you, rather because he didn’t. He looked right through you when he walked past on campus, and when Professor Baratheon informed the entirety of your class that you were being paired up for the upcoming end of term presentation, a gnawing feeling settled deep into your gut. Somehow this was definitely not going to go your way.

“I will send around an email after today’s lecture with the spread sheet for your partner’s and presentation topic.” Baratheon concluded, earning murmurs of slight annoyance from many students. More often than not everyone wanted to work on their own, the corporate industries claimed they needed teamwork yet to get your way anywhere it was a single ladder only one person could climb, meaning group projects more often than not counted for very little when applying for jobs and internships.

A competitive industry needed a competitive mind, that was what you liked to tell yourself anyway.

Thankfully however, that had been your last lecture of the day. So you left campus back to your shitty little third floor apartment that was either too hot or too cold, but it was all that you could afford given you worked as a waitress as many hours as you could afford to a week. Not ideal but the landlord was a decent enough lady who was more lenient on rent for the uni students she accommodated, as finding shared housing in King’s Landing was like finding a needle in a haystack, especially since so many of the students were trust fund babies with personal drivers and multiple houses around the country.

One person you could always count on however, was Rowan. She was just like you, a girl from a small town near the Reach who had moved to the city on a whim in hopes of a degree from her work in the weekdays and getting pissed on the weekends. So you roomed with her in the two-bed flat, and complained about the price of the food shop and heating bill- because though nobody says it King’s Landing gets fucking cold in the winter.

Rowan studied finance, a more specialised degree yet equally as competitive. She was far more intelligent than she ever gave herself credit for, though that didn’t mean she had the smarts when it came to other things. Like not realising leaving the bathroom light and extractor fan on all night costed money. That had been your first argument as roommates, finally out of halls and feeling like first time adults, receiving your first electricity bill.

“But it shouldn’t be this much!” She yelled, “I only leave the fan on when I shower late, fan’s don’t cost money the light does!”

“Rowan, fans run on electricity. And you need to leave the light on for the fan to run. And you’ve done that nearly every night this month.” You explained, taking the bill from her and laughing lightly. You could both cover it, but it couldn’t become a regular occurrence. “Ugh.” She groaned, leaning back to lie on the living room rug. “I’m gonna get so rich one day my children will never have to work a day in their life. This is hell.”

“Cheers to that.”

It did happen again occasionally, but it was still amusing nonetheless. You tried not to stress about money, let it control you probably the way it should. But you always worked it out in the end so what was the big deal?

You didn’t even have time to check your emails before getting changed for work. Your lecture finished at four thirty and you started work at five, including changing and a ten minute walk you were cutting it fine. But it was a monday night, hardly the busiest day of the week unless there was a birthday or celebration being held at the restaurant. It was certainly a decent place, highly favoured by many in the city for its nice atmosphere. Was it the nicest place to work however? No. Not even close. Managers who changed the schedule last minute and acted like they’d done it three weeks in advance, bartenders who preferred to flirt over do their job, and chef’s who yelled at you over customer dietary preferences that were quite literally out of your control. But it was minimum wage and guaranteed hours, as good as you were going to get for now.

Arrival time? 4:58pm.

Cutting it fine technically but who wants to hang around when they’re not being paid? That was what you told yourself anyway. An easy enough shift, phone turned off in the back pocket of your trousers because gods forbid you even take it out to check the time, your manager would have you written up for improper conduct in the workplace. When you started your walk back far later than necessary, that was when you checked your phone. Twenty eight emails and two text messages from an unknown number.

UNKNOWN

Ignoring me now are you?

Were the emails not enough I had to chase down your phone number.

You shook your head in confusion before opening your emails, twenty six of which were from one consistent address; [email protected]

You shook your head lightly with a scoff, scrolling through what could only be described as consistent spam from his singular email address before finding the spreadsheet sent from Professor Baratheon, tied to the presentation: Strategic Management.

“Oh fuck me.” You mumbled, getting your keys out of your bag as you turned the final stairs to your flat door- the lift had been out of order since you’d moved in. Rowan was lounging on the sofa when you entered, “how was work?”

“Crap.”

“Yeah. I was expecting that. Come watch, Couples of Westeros is on.” Dropping your bag you complied, kicking off your shoes and settling onto the couch. It was a shitty love show, focused on pairing up people who all seemed highly incompatible in hopes to find a match that would win fifty grand. Most went on for fame, but it was occasionally amusing nonetheless. Your eyes remained glued to your phone however, agitation creeping into your skin from the audacity of the man who had spent the better part of three hours trying to get ahold of you. You’d only been at work for five and a half. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve been paired up with bloody Daeron Targaryen for my end of term presentation.” You complained, resting your head on her shoulder. “Oh babe. Have fun with that one, he won’t do fuck all.”

“Don’t you think I know that! Ugh!” You shut off your phone finally and relaxed, watching some shitty tv and eating take away pizza.

In truth you hadn’t expected much from Daeron to help, so you started alone in the library tuesday afternoon after your lectures, seeing as Daeron hadn’t bothered to show up to those you figured there was no use in asking him if he intended on helping at all today. Yet he waltzed in like it wasn’t absurdly late to be arriving when he had no lectures and sat down at your table like he fucking owned it. You cast your eyes to him briefly, “can I help you?”

“You didn’t answer me.” He replied, taking out his phone and showing you the increased amount of messages he had sent you since last night, you only managed an eye roll in response. “Yeah I was busy.”

“Doing what, it was a monday night.” He asked like it was a matter of fact, that because he did nothing on a monday night, nobody should be doing anything on a monday night. “Working.” You replied curtly, you weren’t in the mood for his antics you had two weeks until the end of term and that was two weeks to perfect this presentation and maintain your slightly above average grades and he certainly was not going to dim what you had worked so hard to ignite. “Oh.” He said, shaking his head lightly. “Anyway. This project, what do you need me to do.”

“Stay out of it and let me do it. I’ll send you a transcript of what needs to be said.”

“Mmm no. It’s my grade too.”

“And you haven’t submitted a piece of work since first year, your father’s been paying off the professors.”

“I didn’t know that was public knowledge.” He grinned lightly in amusement, as if him wasting such a privilege of education was nothing short of a running joke.

“It’s not exactly hard to figure out is it.” You quipped, turning back to your laptop to look over the notes you had planned out for what would take place where. “So you do pay attention to me then.” He raised an eyebrow, again still all too amused for your liking.

“Yes because there’s not someone having a conversation over the top of the rest of us trying to pay attention.” You replied curtly, “Listen you’re gonna pass anyway, I actually need to work for this. So if you don’t mind I’d just like to get on with it.”

“And I’m here to help.”

“You’re not a help you’re a hindrance.”

“Harsh.”

“Go. Away.”

With a sigh he admitted defeat and rose from the table, before reading over your shoulder. “Credited references, very sophisticated.”

“Go!”

His laughter was inescapable as he left the library, not a care in the fucking world. At least he was giving you that privilege, you supposed.

The days that followed were painful, when Daeron did contribute in the partnered work on campus, it was only to distract you. He had made you late to work twice, nearly late a further four times, meaning somehow in the span of two weeks you had been put onto a final warning with management. Not to mention when he didn’t show up he was messaging you. You had half a mind to block his number but you knew if the pair of you didn’t have communication for your project it could be used against you if he went to Baratheon about why he wasn’t involved. So you shared your ideas, guided him on what to say, and hoped for the best. However your best was not enough, because on the friday of the presentations Daeron did not show. All he had to do was stand there, say three sentences, and be marked as present in order for you both to pass. And he did not do it. He had confirmed with you not even an hour beforehand and he still did not show. To say you were beyond angry was an understatement. All of your hard work was now for nothing, because your presentation (although alone) had been flawless, but because he did not participate or give reason for absence, you were both failed for the assignment. A cruel reality about how if there was not clear equal participation, both parties were failed for not completing the assignment as it was instructed.

You stayed behind at the end to speak with Baratheon himself, waiting until the last had exited the hall. The lecture had run late due to the presentations so you were already cutting it fine, but you were going to fight your case and you were going to fight it fair.

“I already know what you are going to say, but it is in the task assignment and I cannot change it.” Baratheon begun, he was somewhat sympathetic, but it was just another harsh reality. Though he did feel bad that this harsh reality had been a lesson for you, as it would not affect Daeron in the slightest. “Professor please, I’ll take anything, a fail grade, the lowest percentage you can. I presented you can’t mark down I did not complete the assignment whatsoever that’s lower than a fail, I spent weeks on this!” You pleaded, you were shaking with anger. “He told me he was coming not even an hour before- he was supposed to come he’s chosen not to he’s done this to me on purpose! You and I both know I’m the only one who will suffer for this.”

“I’m sorry. But this is how it works. Take it up with him. There’s nothing I can do for you. I can give you an independent feedback statement but it won’t count for anything.” He explained, yet you huffed in annoyance. How utterly useless was he? There had to be some extenuating circumstances in this type of situation. Daeron had done this out of pure spite, there was no way he hadn’t. However glancing at your phone screen and seeing 4:48pm was another kick to the gut. You turned on your heel and headed for the exit without further word to Baratheon, clearly he didn’t care for your education, technically why would he? But you expected more help than he had provided.

A quick message to your manager was all you could hope would spare you the wrath of what would face you when you arrived to work. Yet somehow you knew today was absolutely not your day. A rushed getting changed and sprinting along the cobblestone streets to make it to the restaurant, only to get inside and be taken to the managers office. Geoff wasn’t unfair, but he wasn’t all that nice either. He’d let you off twice now and you knew what was coming. So you pleaded. “I know I’ve messed up and I’m sorry- it’s this one project at uni but it’s over with now and I swear none of it will ever interfere again.” You needed this job, it wasn’t that you wanted it, you needed it to survive.

“Go home.” Was all he said, he turned back to his computer and continued typing, causing you to frown.

“But I need this shift.”

“And you are no longer an employee of this establishment. It is five eighteen, your shift started at five. Three strikes of incompetence in two weeks is not good enough. You’re a lovely girl, but you know the rules.” He explained, printing out something on a piece of paper, folding it and handing it to you. You mentally cursed, tears welling in your eyes. This could not be happening.

“Listen. There’ll be other places hiring soon. Just hang on until summer.”

“I can’t hang on until summer.” Your lip quivered involuntarily, this was quite literally your worst case scenario.

“I had to fire Emmy last month for being late, and Leon before her for the same. It’s not personal, I just have to uphold a standard.”

All you could manage was a nod, and a meek thank you for the opportunity before turning on your heel, you wouldn’t burn your bridges yet, despite knowing in your heart you would not be taken back.

Upon you returning home sniffling twenty minutes later, Rowan had cheered you up in the only way she knew how. An invitation to the Lannister house party. So you put on your slutty little outfit, as Rowan liked to call it, and headed to go catch the tube. “We are so not making the last train home.” You mumbled, holding onto the pole next to you as the train jolted. She laughed “Then I guess we’re drinking till the sun comes up.” Not out of question for the pair of you, you’d certainly had quite some nights since moving in together.

To say the Lannister estate was full would be an understatement, you’d arrived late, sure, but the house was certainly overflowing. “Come on.” She grabbed your arm and hauled you up the driveway, past the people making out on the front lawn and other’s doing some questionable activities. Once you’d settled and got yourself some drinks was when the real party started, you didn’t especially care for how much you were drinking. It was free.

However after making out with some random guy and drinking enough that your eardrums were pounding, you headed to find a bathroom to try and sober up. Opening the first one you found, you were greeted with the sight of Daeron making out with some girl sat on the sink. You grimaced and shut the door almost immediately, looking for another bathroom. Daeron did not hesitate to discard of the poor girl and call your name down the corridor. You pretended not to hear him and continued walking through the maze these people called a house, finding one of the unoccupied guest bedrooms you went inside and slammed the door. Daeron forced it open anyway, likely equally as intoxicated as you with his fucking dopey smile. You wanted to hit him. Knock out his perfect teeth and make something about the way he looked less fucking perfect. Make him suffer for hurting you in a way that was more than personal, a way that literally compromised the way you lived.

“What’s the matter with you?” He mumbled, caging you against the wall as you pushed against his chest. “What’s the matter with me?” You voice rose, pupils constricted to an obscene level from the pure anger radiating through you, sobering up significantly by the minute, the tone of your voice forcing him to do the same.

“You hurt me!”

“Seven hells it was one stupid project.”

“That has failed me for an entire term of hard fucking work! I lost my fucking job because of you!” You yelled, tears of anger welling in your eyes as you couldn’t quite help it.

“It’s one term, so what.” He discarded it like it was nothing, like you hadn’t been overworking yourself to get to this point, that you weren’t living off of cheap meals, coffee and enough money to barely survive the week. You were overworked, overtired and overwhelmed by life. “So what? I worked my ass off, you didn’t have to do anything but show up and you couldn’t even fucking do that! It was an automatic fail Daeron, all of that counted for nothing not to mention I lost my fucking job because miraculously in only two weeks of being around me you managed to make me late to the point that I got fired for fucking incompetence!”

“Should have bought a watch.”

A scoff of disbelief left you, you couldn’t believe how he could just not care. How you were there, present in front of him, so filled with emotion practically trying to draw something out of him, some part of him had to care. But it was like drawing blood from a fucking stone.

“I fucking hate you! In two weeks you’ve managed to fuck up my entire life because of how you are! You’ve fucking spoiled you don’t care about anyone but yourself!” You spat, yet again. He didn’t care.

“At least now you know what real hatred feels like.”

You sobbed lightly, the alcohol and anger becoming an overwhelming fix. “What so all of this was just to give me a fucking reason? Prove me right for what I already knew?!”

“No. Just a bit of fun really.”

“Destroying my life was just a bit of fun?!”

“Don’t be so dramatic.” He chided, hands grasping your wrists and pinning them against the wall. “Your life isn’t ruined it’s one fucking assignment. Getting another job you’ll do that easy.”

“You just don’t get it.” Another sob escaped you, even if this could be fixed in some way it was still starting over, and you were not a person who enjoyed unexpected change.

“But you still want me don’t you baby? That’s why you hate it.” His lips found your jaw, you turned your head from him yet he chased you with his lips. “No. I don’t fucking want you, I never did.” You hissed, yet you couldn’t help but whimper as his lips connected to your throat. You didn’t want to want him, he had hurt you so badly in ways that were inexplicable yet you were so close to just giving in entirely.

“Hit me, push me away. That’ll work. But telling me you hate me isn’t going to make me want to stop.” He kissed back up to your jaw, then your cheek, until you were eye to eye once again. “You want me. Say it.”

“I don’t want you.” Your tears had stilled now, biting into your lower lip as you gazed up at his eyes, his pupils wide with anticipation. “But do you want me to fuck you?” He asked, he was drawing you closer to submission, he wouldn’t touch you unless you asked, you knew he wouldn’t. But you were too damn stubborn to give him the satisfaction.

“Come on, you had so much to say.” he pried, hands letting go of your wrists just to see if you’d push him away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t bring yourself to. You kissed him instead, grabbing his face and pulling him close. “I still fucking hate you.”

“I’m not fucking you unless you ask me to, say you hate me all you want but I won’t touch you.” It was like an order, he wanted to keep that control. Make you say that you wanted him. “Say it.” He whispered, teeth finding your earlobe.

You caved, “please fuck me.”

“There’s my girl.” He responded, allowing you to push him back to the bed as he kissed you, only breaking as he let himself fall onto his back as you straddled his hips atop the mattress. “You’re gonna use your fucking connections and you’re gonna get me a new job offer.” You were telling him, not asking. His family owned restaurants and clubs purely for the sake of owning, all it needed was one word of needing an extra set of hands and with your CV you’d be in. You were usually against such things but in these circumstances you needed the money and it was the least he owed you. “Yeah. Yeah I will.” He nodded, pulling your top over your head as his hands immediately went to your breasts, palming at them needily. You grabbed his hands and pulled them off of you, his mouth forming into a pout as you did so. “Undress.”

“Yes ma’am.”

He didn’t need telling further lifting his hips, and you, to rid himself of his clothes, shirt coming off last as you removed what you were wearing. You leant down to kiss him again, grinding against his already hard cock “this isn’t going to fix anything.”

“Yeah.” He whined, “yeah I know.”

“I’m not fucking you without a condom.” You told him, you knew he probably slept around and you were not taking that risk either way. You watched him fumble to put it on, only then did you resume your touching, without letting him reciprocate.

“Don’t be cruel, let me touch you.” He complained, again trying to palm your breasts but you didn’t let him, smacking his hands away as you guided his cock to your dripping entrance. “You hurt me.”

“I know baby, I know I did but please I’ll make it right.” He pleaded, you pulled his hair lifting his head so that he could meet you in a devastating kiss as he bottomed out inside of you with a groan. “But tonight isn’t going to fix anything. Because you ruined everything.” And with that being said you begun to ride him, well, rock against him rather. Seeking your own pleasure as your clit bumped against his pelvis, the hair as the base of his cock tickling you.

You were using him he realised. And he was going to take it as you were giving it because he certainly wasn’t going to get anything better.

You’d never heard a man whimper quite like Daeron, he released it needy and unrestrained. It was beautiful. If he wasn’t such an easy person to hate you might have admired how freely he let himself enjoy sex. But still, you chased your own pleasure against the gratification of his own, yet he seemed to be enjoying himself all the same as you clenched around him, your sex growing wetter and sloppier by the second. You refused to say his name, give him that satisfaction, yet yours fell freely and consistently from his lips as he threw his head back in pure ecstasy.

“Come on princess let me help you.” He whined, his hands digging into the fat of your hips as he planted his feet into the mattress, knees bent, pushing himself impossibly further inside of you. “Don’t need your help.” You mumbled, eyes clenched shut as you felt your release draw close. You both knew it, you let him ignore your instruction. “I know you don’t but let me.” He begun to thrust upwards into you, forcing you forward as your breasts pressed against his chest and his arms circled you, pinning you against him as you moaned. “You gonna cum for me yeah? Let me feel you whole again, give it to me.” He asked, cut off by his own grunts as he forced himself to hold back for your sake. You nodded “yeah- yeah fuck, oh fuck!”

“That’s it. Don’t fight it. I want you to cum on my cock princess, all f’me.”

You didn’t hold back, you felt all too much at once, eyes clenched shut as he drew his lips against your temple as his own release begun to run through him. He let out a strangled moan as he filled the condom inside of you once again, panting against your hair as he rubbed your back softly, muttering “you’re too good to me.”

“Nothings changed.” You mumbled into his chest, letting his hands wander to feel every inch of your being. “I think something has.” Was all he could bring himself to say as you tore yourself from his embrace and gathered yourself, still catching your breath as you stood on shaky legs to find your clothes. You were going to get as far away from him as possible, purely on the basis of principle. And you did. Dressing in a hurry as he watched the door then slam shut behind you.

He discarded the condom, lying back he ran a hand through his hair, before pinching the bridge of his nose. He had truly believed you would stay, as naive as it sounded. He thought maybe this would change something, and it had for him, he couldn’t doubt that. Yet for you, he still couldn’t quite work you out as much as he’d have liked to by now. So he stayed led there, naked in all his glory, running through every possible outcome of how he could change probably his biggest fuckup in a long damn time, and get you to truly want him without the hatred making the pair of you just sex.

A/N: probably gonna be a lot of modern AU’s coming from me atm because that’s my latest obsession so i might make a general modern AU taglist alongside my general taglist for anyone who only wants to be tagged in modern AU’s, so if anyone wants to be added lmk!!

also i’m kind of obsessed with spoiled daddy’s boy’s daeron + aerion like ughhh i love writing them so there will likely be an aerion version coming! [+ if anyone has any requests for other akotsk characters modern au's pls feel free to submit bc im so into this at the moment!!]

anyway as always: likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions at all are always always appreciated - take care everyone

DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used in general and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold no rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.

general akotsk taglist:

@noone1233nobody @antobooh @mikariell95 @kravitzwhore @vanillafan6 @ae-gax @galactict3a @aleemendoza2425-blog @feral-postings @n3rdybirdee @mossthedevouring @loveslide @serduncansdelight @seekingtherapyasap @moonlights-muse @icebearcucumber @poisonedsultana @qardasngan

daeron targaryen taglist: tbc (message me or comment asking to be added!!)

modern akotsk au taglist:

@ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3

(message me or comment asking to be added!!)