Valarr had been the first of your cousins to hold you when you were born. While your own father, Maekar, had been away doing whatever it is he does, Valarr had cradled you as a babe. You grew up wrapped in his shadow. When you were children, the others thought he was simply being a doting older cousin. Though they would never see the things he brought you in the secret, shaded corners of the Godswood.

He would press wild roses into your palms, followed by sticky honey sweets, and then, with the very same gentle hands, he would present you with a dead lizard, its neck cleanly snapped, or a small bird with its eyes meticulously plucked out.

"For my little star," he would whisper, his two-toned eyes glassy, and entirely devoid of the warmth he showed the rest of the court. "Beautiful things for a beautiful girl."

You had found it strange, even unsettling, but a child’s love is a malleable thing. You grew to accept his macabre gifts alongside his affection. You loved him after all. You always had.

Down in the courtyard, Valarr suddenly tilted his head up. As if sensing your gaze, his eyes locked onto your window. The charming, raucous smile he gave the ladies vanished for a fraction of a second, replaced by a look of hunger that sent a shiver straight down your spine. Then, with a blink, the prince was back, bowing to his admirers.

"You spend too much time in his pocket," your brother Aerion spat later that evening, swirling his wine. "It’s uncouth. You are a maiden grown now, sister. People talk."

"He is our cousin, Aerion," you replied softly, keeping your eyes on your embroidery.

"He is a man," Daeron muttered from the corner, surprisingly sober for once. "And Valarr dotes on you like a dog with a bone. Father says it ends now. You are to be married soon."

The needle pricked your finger. A single drop of blood bloomed on the white fabric.

Your father, Maekar, had finally arranged it. By the end of the summer, you were to wed the son of the Lord of Casterly Rock. A young Lannister. He was your age, a master of poetry and song, gentle and perfectly amiable.

You had met him once; he was perfectly fine. Not cruel, not abusive (which was rare). You had resigned yourself to your fate: you would marry him, give him a few golden-haired heirs, and live out your days in the warm stone of the West.

But the thought of leaving King’s Landing—of leaving him—felt like a slow choking.

That night, you slipped away into the dark woods on the edge of the kingswood, your favorite childhood hiding spot. The canopy blocked out the moonlight, leaving the forest thick, black, and suffocating.

"You shouldn't be out here alone, little star."

Valarr materialized from the shadows, stepping so silently he might have been a ghost. He wore a dark riding cloak, his eyes gleaming in the dark.

You didn't hold back. The tears spilled over your cheeks as you confessed your woes, weeping over the impending summer wedding, the Lannister boy, and the terrifying reality of being sent away to Casterly Rock.

A dragon caged is what you were.

Valarr listened in chilling silence. He didn't dare interrupt. He only stepped closer, lifting a gloved hand to brush the hair from your face. He leaned down, his lips pressed against your eyelids, gently kissing your tears away. His skin was unnaturally warm.

"Do not weep, please. You know I hate to see you cry." Valarr murmured against your skin, his voice a low, rhythmic purr that made your heart hammer against your ribs. "Do not worry your little heart out, sweet girl. Valarr will fix everything. I always takes care of my own."

Three days later, the news arrived from the Westerlands.

The young Lannister heir had fallen suddenly, violently ill. The maesters claimed it was a sudden, tragic season’s illness—a racking fever that caused him to bleed from his nose and ears until his heart simply quit. He was dead within forty-eight hours.

The court plunged into mourning for the alliance that could have been. You wore black and offered your condolences, but deep in your chest, a dark, wicked spark of joy ignited.

Heavens above knew you weren't sad. If anything, you were relieved.

That very night, you were startled awake. A heavy hand clamped gently over your mouth.

You gasped, eyes flying open to see Valarr leaning over your bed. The moonlight cut across his face, illuminating a wild, ecstatic grin. He smelled of sweat, leather, and something metallic.

"Dress quickly," he whispered, his fingers lingering on your lips before pulling away. "The horses are saddled. Let us ride in the dark. I know how much you have missed it."

You didn't ask questions. You followed him into the night, the wind howling in your ears as you rode side-by-side, his laughter echoing through the trees like a madman's song.

—

A year later, your father tried again. A Tyrell cousin. A handsome boy who promised you a garden of winter roses.

You found yourself weeping in the woods yet again. And again did Valarr kiss your tears dry.

Two weeks later, the Tyrell boy suffered a horrific fall from his horse during a hunt, his neck snapped cleanly in two—much like the lizards Valarr used to bring you.

Then came a Bracken. A sudden, fatal choking fit on a piece of venison during a feast.

Every time a match was made, you would cry, Valarr would promise to "fix it," and the stranger would vanish from the earth, leaving you blissfully unbetrothed. The court began to whisper that you were cursed, a black widow before you could even reach the altar.

Your father grew frustrated, and your brothers suspicious.

Sitting at your window, you watched Valarr down below. He was laughing with the Kingsguard, the picture of chivalry and royal grace. But you knew what lay beneath the velvet and silver. He was a monster wearing the crown of a prince.

And as he turned his head, catching your gaze yet again from the high window, he offered you a small nod. A sort of silent promise that no one else would ever dare to claim what was his.

A cold dread pooled in your stomach, but as you looked at your perfect, terrifying cousin, you couldn't help but smile back.

—

The tension at the family supper had been thick enough to cut with a dagger, but it wasn't until the servants began clearing the heavy silver platters that the true shift occurred.

Your uncle, Prince Baelor Breakspear—the Hand of the King and the heir to the Iron Throne—stood up and caught your eye. With a gentle but firm nod, he gestured toward the quiet privacy of the adjacent council chamber. "A word, niece," he said softly.

Before you could even push your chair back, a shadow fell over you. Valarr was already on his feet, his hand instinctively dropping to the back of your chair, his eyes darting sharply between you and his father. "I will accompany her," Valarr said, his voice smooth, but carrying that underlying, rigid edge you knew all too well.

Baelor placed a heavy, warning hand on his son’s shoulder. "No, Valarr. This conversation is meant for her ears alone. Remain here."

Valarr’s jaw tightened. For a fraction of a second, the polite, obedient prince vanished, replaced by the dangerous, volatile thing that lived beneath his skin. His grip on your chair turned so white his knuckles popped. But he forced a tight, agreeable smile. Leaning down under the pretense of adjusting your cloak, his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his breath ragged.

"I will be right outside the door," he whispered, a low vibration. "If he makes you uneasy, if you feel even a flicker of fright, you call for me. I am right here."

When you stepped into the chamber, Baelor closed the heavy oak door, shutting Valarr out. The Hand of the King looked tired, but his eyes were filled with a profound, paternal kindness as he took your hands gingerly in his own.

"It has come to my attention," Baelor began, his voice echoing in the quiet room, "that Valarr has been systematically refusing courting visitors of all kinds. Highborn ladies from the Reach, the Westerlands, the Vale... he turns them all away. He finally came to me, niece. He made his intentions entirely clear. He wishes to marry you."

A sudden, fierce flush crawled up your neck, burning your cheeks. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a trapped bird, and suddenly you couldn’t meet your uncle’s gaze any longer.

Baelor sighed, squeezing your hands. "To be the wife of the future king... it is not an easy task, sweet girl. The court is a nest of vipers, and the crown is heavy. But I love my son, and I care deeply for you. If you love him, and if you are willing to take on this burden... I will allow it. I will speak to your father, and let the two of you marry."

You could barely think straight. The blood rushed to your ears, a dizzying, intoxicating wave of pure relief and euphoria. The nightmare of being shipped off to a stranger, of being torn away from Valarr’s dark, protective embrace—it was gone. Erased with a single sentence.

"Yes," you breathed, the word slipping out before he could even finish. "Yes, Uncle. More than anything."

—

Suddenly, the grim, oppressive walls of the Red Keep seemed to glow with a brilliant, blinding light. The news of the betrothal swept through the castle, and with it, a profound shift in the young prince. Valarr was absolutely beaming, a radiant, blinding sun that left the court in awe.

He had started to permanently attached himself to your side.

Every morning brought new treasures to your chambers. Rare Myrish lace, ropes of perfect pearls, silks dyed the color of dragon’s blood, and baskets of your favorite honey sweets.

When he had been forced to court other ladies in the past, he had been a model of polite etiquette. But with you? It was a far cry from his past behaviour. It was entirely transparent to the entire court who his favorite girl was.

He doted on you, brushed your hair, kissed your knuckles in front of lords and smallfolk alike, and you absolutely lavished in it. You felt entirely safe, wrapped in the golden bubble of his obsessive devotion.

But outside your little bubble, the shadows were growing longer.

"They say the young Crakehall boy was found in the harbor," Aerion muttered around a mouthful of roasted boar, his eyes glittering with a malicious, drunken amusement. "Bloated like a toad. And that Mooton heir who dared to send her a poem last moon? Disappeared from his inn. Not a trace left but a puddle of blood on the floorboards."

The laughter around the supper table died down slightly. Your father, Maekar, frowned deeply into his wine cup.

"It’s a curse," Daeron hiccuped, slurring his words. "Any man who so much as looks at our sweet sister ends up feeding the crows."

Aerion leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Valarr, who was sitting right beside you, calmly cutting a piece of meat on your plate for you. "I have a theory," Aerion sneered, his voice dripping with mock secrecy. "I think our dear cousin Valarr doesn't sleep at all. I think he turns into a demon dragon at night. He flies out the window, hunts down every single one of her past suitors, and tears them to pieces in the dark."

The table erupted into jests and uneasy laughter. Even Baelor offered a amused shake of his head at his nephew's wild imagination. Valarr chuckled softly, a light, aristocratic sound, and popped a piece of perfectly cut meat into your mouth. "A demon dragon, Aerion? You cut me deep. I prefer a quiet night's rest."

You chewed slowly, the food turning to mush in your mouth.

Everyone else was laughing, treating it as one of Aerion's cruel jests. But as you looked down at Valarr’s hands—the beautiful, pale hands currently pouring you a cup of sweet arbor gold—you noticed a faint, missed trace of dark, dried crimson buried deep beneath his fingernail.

He wasn't a demon dragon. He was just a man in love.

—

The night before the royal wedding, the Red Keep was suffocating. The castle was bursting at the seams with lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats, heavy perfumes, and a manic, festive energy.

But inside your bedchambers, the air was cold, and your chest felt tightly bound. Anxiety, sharp and relentless, clawed at your throat. You couldn't breathe. You couldn't sit still.

A faint click broke the silence of the room. From the hidden passage behind the tapestry, a shadow stepped out.

Valarr slipped into the room, locking the heavy door behind him. He looked exhausted, yet his eyes blazed with a desperate, frantic hunger the moment they landed on you.

"I couldn't stay away, little star," he murmured, rushing to your side and wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against his chest. "Tomorrow will be madness. The septons, the feasts, the crowds... I won't be able to look at you, not truly, until the vows are said. I couldn't stand a whole day without seeing you."

He smiled, a soft, boyish thing, and began to untie his tunic. He had already announced his intention to sleep in your quarters, promising to slip back out through the hidden tunnel before your handmaidens arrived at dawn. He unlaced the fine velvet, slipping his arms out. Valarr always preferred to sleep bare-chested, his skin naturally radiating a strange, feverish heat.

But as the fabric fell away, a flash of jagged, angry red caught your eye.

Across his forearm was a deep, raw gash, the edges poorly bound and weeping slightly. Your breath hitched. "Valarr... what is that? What happened to your arm?"

He didn't even look down at it. He merely offered a dismissive, airy chuckle, pulling you toward the massive four-post bed. "Nothing to worry your beautiful head over, my love. A minor mishap during a late-night ride through the woods. A stray branch. It’s nothing serious, I promise."

You wanted to believe him, but the image of the trace of blood under his fingernails from days ago flashed through your mind. Still, you let him pull you down into the feather mattress. He wrapped his long arms around you, pulling your back against his chest, his chin resting in your hair. It was a position you had found comfort in a thousand times before.

But tonight, the comfort wouldn't come.

Your mind was a roaring storm. You shifted to the left. You turned to the right. Your legs twitched under the heavy furs. Every time you tried to close your eyes, your heart hammered against your ribs.

Valarr endured the relentless squirming for an hour, his grip tightening slightly each time you moved, until finally, he shifted. He leaned over you, his hair falling like a curtain around your face, blocking out the rest of the dark room. His eyes were wide, swirling with worry.

"What is it?" he whispered, his voice frantic, his fingers tracing your jawline almost too hard. "Why are you so worried, little star? Tell me. Is it the wedding? Is it the crowd? Are you afraid of tomorrow? Tell me who is upsetting you. Give me a name."

"I... I don't know, Valarr," you stammered, your voice trembling. "I don't know why. I just can't calm down. My chest... it won't stop hurting."

Valarr stared down at you, his pupils dilated so wide his eyes looked almost black. He seemed to be searching your face for a script, an answer, until suddenly, a spark of absolute madness lit up his features. It was as if a brilliant, terrible idea had just struck him.

"Ah," he breathed, a breathless, ecstatic smile breaking across his face. "I know. I know what will fix it. Wait here."

He scrambled off the bed, his bare chest gleaming in the moonlight. He rushed over to his leather satchel resting on the table, digging inside until he pulled out a small, heavy iron ice box. It was the kind maesters used to transport delicate, volatile medicines. He brought it back to the bed, setting it right in front of you on the silk sheets.

You shuffled closer to the edge, your legs swinging over the edge of the bed.

"Open it," he whispered, his breath coming in short, excited pants. "Open it, my love. See what I brought you."

With trembling fingers, you reached out and popped the heavy iron latch. You lifted the lid.

The smell of copper and frost hit your nose instantly. Resting on a bed of melting ice was a jagged, horrific mass of raw flesh. A human heart, freshly carved, the vessels severed and frozen in dark, coagulated crimson.

A gasp caught in your throat. Panic flared in your veins—it was a visceral, terrifying sight. But years of growing up by Aerion and Valarr’s side had taught you how to master your face. You forced your expression to remain perfectly still, staring at the gory offering.

Valarr didn't wait for a reaction. He slid off the bed, sinking to his knees on the floorboards right before you. He reached into the box with his bare hands, lifting the heavy, cold heart out of the ice. Dark, melting blood spilled over his knuckles, dripping onto his pristine white linen riding pants, staining the fabric a horrific, deep scarlet.

"Do you see it?" Valarr looked up at you from the floor, his face completely unhinged, flushed with a manic, intoxicating adoration. He looked like a madman, a beautiful, terrifying creature entirely consumed by a holy fervor. "I did this for you. I’ve always done this for you. That Lannister boy? The Tyrell? The Bracken? Every single one of those pathetic, sniveling lords who dared to look at you, who dared to think they could take you away from me? I rid you of them."

He pressed the bloody heart closer to his chest, his hands entirely coated in the thick, crimson fluid.

"They didn't deserve you," he hissed, his voice a ragged, breathless purr. "They didn't know how to worship you. They bothered you! I saw how you cried in the woods. I saw how their names made you weep. I couldn't let them breathe the same air as you. This one—this is the Crakehall boy. The last one who dared to eye you at the feast. I tore it right out of him, little star. For you. Everything I do, every drop of blood I spill, it is an altar built for you."

He leaned his head against your knee, staining your nightgown with blood, looking up at you with the glassy, devoted eyes of a dog begging for approval.

He was completely, and utterly insane. He was a monster who had painted the Red Keep red just to keep you smiling.

And as you sat there, looking down at your blood-soaked, crazed prince kneeling at your feet, the cold anxiety in your chest suddenly vanished.

In its place, a strange, dark heat began to bloom deep in your stomach. A wicked, thrilling shiver ran down your spine.

Everyone else in the world was fickle, bound by duty, laws, and fleeting emotions. But your Valarr? He would butcher the entire realm if you asked him to. He would tear the stars from the sky and drown the world in blood just to keep your heart beating fast. He was completely, dangerously, and entirely yours.

It was terrifying. It was unnerving.

And, faiths help you, it was the most intoxicating thing you had ever felt.

A slow, dark smile crept onto your lips. You reached down, ignoring the wet, sticky crimson, and cupped his cheek, tilting his beautiful, mad face up to yours. "You did all that for me, Valarr?" you whispered.

Valarr leaned heavily into your bloody palm, a soft, pathetic whimper of pure ecstasy escaping his throat. "Anything," he gasped, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly beautiful devotion. "Anything for my queen."

—

The night was alive.

The Great Hall of the Red Keep was a roaring ocean of noise, gold, and crimson. The wedding feast had bled deep into the small hours of the night, and the celebrations showed no signs of slowing down. Bards plucked frantically at their lutes, lords roared with drunken laughter, and the wine flowed like a river.

Yet, amidst the swirling crowd of dancers and well-wishers, the space beside you on the high dais sat entirely empty.

Your dear husband was nowhere to be found.

You had sat through a dozen toasts, your smile perfectly fixed, but the dark heat in your stomach from the night before was burning.

After questioning a handful of oblivious guests, you slipped away from the high table, cornering a tense Gold Cloak near the threshold of the hall. He stammered, bowing low, before admitting he had seen Prince Valarr slip down the quiet, left corridor moments ago.

You followed the path away from the noise, the music of the feast fading into a dull, rhythmic thumping against the stone walls. The corridor grew darker, lit only by flickering wall sconces. Then, you saw it. A dark, wet droplet on the cold stone. Then another. A small, smeared trail of crimson leading toward a secluded alcove.

You stepped around the corner and found him.

Valarr stood over a crumpled form, his chest heaving. The magnificent, pristine white wedding robes he had taken his vows in were now utterly ruined, drenched in deep, sickening red. His face, usually so clean and perfect, was splattered with a fresh coat of it, and his hands were stained entirely to the wrists. He was a vision of absolute butchery.

Hearing your soft footsteps, Valarr snapped his head around, his eyes wide and wild. The moment he recognized you, a flash of pure panic crossed his features—not because he had been caught, but for you.

"No, no, little star, don't step any closer," he breathed frantically, holding his sticky, red hands out to keep you back. "Your dress. Look at your dress. It’s too beautiful to ruin. Stay back, my love."

You looked down at your lavish, white-and-silver wedding gown, then up at him. A slow, dark thrill thrummed through your veins. Instead of retreating, you took a deliberate step forward, your delicate silk slippers stepping right over the fresh, cooling corpse of whatever unfortunate lord had dared to slight you tonight.

You reached out, entirely ignoring his warnings, and cupped his blood-splattered face in your hands. The copper smell was thick and suffocating, but you only leaned closer, a soft, scolding coo escaping your lips.

"Oh, Valarr," you sighed, tracing his cheekbone with your thumb, smearing the wet crimson across his pale skin. "Look at you. What am I to do with you? You are entirely drenched in blood. I still wanted to dance to so many more songs tonight, but you’ve gone and made a mess of yourself before the feast is even over. You must clean up first, my sweet prince."

Valarr stared at you, his breath hitching. Hearing your gentle, unbothered voice, seeing the utter lack of fear in your eyes, drove him into a state of pure, ecstatic delirium. A ragged, broken whine escaped his throat.

"My queen," he gasped. He seized your hands—instantly coating your fingers in the dead man's blood—and pulled you fiercely against him.

He kissed you. It was a feverish, desperate, and bruising thing. His lips parted yours, and the sharp, metallic taste of iron flooded your mouth, thick and overwhelming.

He kissed you until you were breathless, his face sliding against yours, deliberately coating the bottom half of your jaw and cheeks in the warm, wet blood of his latest victim. It was a horrific branding, and it made your head spin with an intoxicating rush.

When he finally broke away, panting, he looked down at your blood-stained face and laughed—a sound of pure, unadulterated worship.

"We will dance later," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous, possessive light. "We will dance for the rest of our lives."

With a sudden movement, Valarr grabbed the edge of the dead lord’s fine velvet doublet, quickly wiping the excess wetness from his own palms and yours. Before you could even protest, he swept you off your feet, lifting you effortlessly into his arms.

He didn't take you back to the Great Hall. Instead, he moved through the shadows of the Red Keep like a ghost, slipping past the distracted guards with the movements of a predator.

He carried you through the winding corridors, straight to your new, shared royal quarters, kicking the heavy oak doors shut and barring them from the inside.

"Valarr, wait," you breathless murmured against his neck as he set you down on the edge of the massive bed. "The feast... the guests will notice we are gone. I wanted my dances."

"Let them wonder," Valarr growled softly, descending upon you like a shadow. His hands, still stained a faint pink, pinned your wrists to the mattress, trapping you beneath his heavy, feverish frame. "The realm had you for the afternoon, little star. But now the night and its stars belongs to me."

You lay there, your body still collapsed into a heap on the ground where Aerion left you. 

After you’d both came, he’d fallen on the floor on top of you, an arm wrapped around your waist to keep you close and his face nuzzled in your neck. He didn’t say anything, barely moved and it felt like eternity before he rolled off from you and finally walked away. 

Your neck’s still wet from where he’d been crying, and even though you can’t will your body to move from the place he left you, a part of you wished he stayed. 

You don’t do much thinking while you lay there but you still come to a realisation that has you standing in front of your dad’s bedside table only hours later. 

“I don’t think I can do this anymore.” 

You don’t know what you expect. 

The man standing in front of you is the same dad you’ve always known— pupils blown, saliva dribbling from the edges of his mouth, eyes focusing on something in the distance that goes through you— your father. 

You snap, you don’t know what else to do, voice trembling as you scream at the man become vegetable in front of you. 

“Hey, are you listening to me?” 

Your voice trembles, eyes becoming wet and you swallow down a sob. 

Every single thing he said to you leading up to this moment have all become empty promises all because of a few pills that are meant to be helping him get better. They’re not helping. It’s almost like he’s deteriorating in front of your eyes, the last piece of bread left out that’s slowly getting mouldy till someone throws it away. 

There’s bottles laid out in front of him, all peculiar names that you heard the doctor explaining to your uncles. All left out in front of him and you wonder if they’d done it on purpose, like leaving meat in front of a dog just waiting for him to gobble it up. 

You grab one of the bottles, eyes scanning the content warning, only for him to grunt in response. 

You look at him then, drawing in closer and trying to make sure you don’t scream. 

“I’m sitting in front of you telling you I want to leave. That I want you to be the dad you’re claiming to be and you’re fucked out on all these drugs.” You motion to them, hand waving it about but it gets no reaction from him. Nothing. “You’re completely off your face on this stuff.” 

You shake your head, staring at the bottles for a second. You contemplate before snatching each one of them in your hands. 

“Fuck this,” you say, before making your way to the bathroom. 

It’s a quicker process than you think, the pills going down easier than you’ve ever seen in the movies. Sure it takes a few flushes but eventually they’re all gone, flushed down the pipes. 

You expect to feel something, a sense of relief. Anything really. But as you place the bottles in front of him, you feel like you’re losing at a game you never realised you were playing. 

You don’t remember falling asleep exactly while you imagine the previous night ended the same way it has been for the last few weeks, you barely remember it. Between Valarr’s harsh breaths and the way he rocked his clothed cock against you, there’s something missing, or something you can’t quite place. 

You thought you heard Aerion, his faint voice in the room. The possibility is it could have just been your imagination. The fact you so badly want him to be there. Between this new routine they have you both in, you’re sure that you’re just completely worn out, blissfully letting your mind slip between dreams and reality. 

Being this exhausted, that can be easy. 

Every night Valarr has you pressed into your mattress, knees on either side of you as he keeps you trapped underneath him. He dances around the edge of being gentle, pressing sloppy kisses all over your face while he presses his clothed cock against you. He kisses you until you can’t breathe, making sure that any protest falls on deaf ears as he pushes you to another orgasm. 

While Valarr has you at night, Aerion sneaks up on you in the light of the day. Pulling you into quiet and empty spaces, mainly tucking you behind the barn away from prying eyes. He likes to have you on your knees, hand tightly wrapped in your hair as you drool over his cock. He’s not nice, not at first anyway. Not until he’s cum down your throat and he finds his anger simmering down. 

Then he’s somewhat gentle, pulling you to the ground with him before he places you on his lap and stuffs you with at least three of his fingers. 

They can’t get enough of you, and you can’t get enough of them. 

The consistency of it all has left you tired. Body and mind. So it’s easy to let the fog of it all blur into one daze. 

For some reason your mind feels different, completely clouded as you feel a voice calling your name, desperately trying to wake you. Your eyes take a moment to open, slowly blinking to adjust to the morning light but eventually they do and you notice Baelor standing in front of you. 

His face seems strained, eyebrows digging into his eyes as he looks at you. 

Your mouth feels dry, and it takes a moment before you can get out words to speak. Everything feels delayed. 

“Has something happened?” You ask, your voice coming out slightly slurred. 

“You don’t look well,” he states, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. “What time do you think it is?” 

“Around nine.” You go to shrug, it’s not completely unlike you to wake this late. 

“It’s three in the afternoon.” 

“What?” You shift then, pulling yourself up from under the covers. While rare, it’s not completely bizarre to wake up this late. “Must be the heat.” 

You feel him watching you from the corner of your eyes, his own eyes wide and go to cover yourself, wondering what sort of hideous bruise Aerion or Valarr had left him to see. 

You get up too fast, stomach twisting and you instantly clench your stomach. It happens all too fast, hand reaching out in front of you to grab onto the end of the bed, body moving to get up only for you to get tangled into the sheets. You're stuck in a haze, clutching onto the post of the bed as vomit spews out of you. 

It doesn’t seem to want to stop, and your stomach burns as bile comes up. You feel a hand at your back, a voice calling out to you before shouting to someone else, then it stops as quickly as it came. 

You’re back in bed, mind slightly clearer than it just had been, although it hurts more than before. You reach for it, fingers tracing over your forehead only to wince when your fingers touch it. Your eyes blink and you realise the room is covered in darkness, completely blacked out compared to the fresh light that was there before. 

You shift, twisting in the sheets and notice a figure sitting beside you in the bed. You can barely register Valarr’s face in the room before he springs to move. 

“You’re awake,” Valarr says, hand reaching out for you. 

You lean into his touch, only to grimace at the feel of your own damp skin. 

“We were so worried about you,” Aerion’s voice calls out from beside you. 

Your eyes shift between the pair, body sitting up underneath the sheets. 

They look at you, wide eyes and furrowed brows like Baelor had only moments ago. Only it wasn’t moments ago, it couldn’t have been. Night has fallen and Baelor woke you in the day. 

Had it been just another part of your imagination? 

“I should get dad,” Valarr says, looking at Aerion with a nod of his head before slipping out of the room. 

“Has something happened?” You ask, deja vu kicking in. 

“You scared us.” Aerion looks at you like he’s examining you and after a few seconds, the tension relaxes in his face. “That’s all.” 

“How?” 

His hands cup your face, brushing your hair behind your ears before resting against your cheeks. “You feeling, okay?” 

“My head hurts a bit,” you honestly tell him. “I feel a bit out of it I guess.” 

You hear heavy footsteps, hurried as they make their way closer to you. Aerion places a bit of distance between you at the sound, hands falling from your face but he doesn’t withdraw completely, one hand falling to hold your own before taking a seat on the edge of the bed. 

Both your uncles step through the door, the light switching on in the room, Valarr behind them and the doctor that had seen over your father’s recovery as well. 

“What’s happening?” You question, eyes shifting between them all. 

Valarr comes to your other side, reaching out to place a comforting hand on your arm. 

“Doctor Thornton just wants to make sure you’re feeling okay,” Baelor answers, voice soft and steady like he’s cautious not to frighten you. “You’ve had a bit of a day, that’s all.” 

“I’m fine, really.” You wriggle uncomfortably, trying to get out from under the sheets. 

Valarr’s hand on your shoulder stops you, and you turn to look at them. You look at all of them. 

Each of them with their pinched brows and narrowed gazes. 

“The doctor just wants to check a few things,” Aerion says, fingers playing with your own. 

“Alone,” the doctor states, turning to your uncle Baelor before repeating himself. “I think it’d be best if I check on her alone.” 

Baelor nods, ushering everyone out of the room one by one. No one argues against him and they all follow, closing the door behind him. 

You hear them outside, their steps as they pace outside the door, Baelor’s assertive tone as he tells them to stop. You try not to focus on them, try to pay attention to the doctor examining you but it’s hard not to, especially when you can hear them quietly murmuring behind the closed door. 

Something feels off. 

“Follow my finger.” 

Your eyes follow the doctor’s finger, a light shining in them as he does so. It stops and when you look at the doctor he gives you a small smile, you’re sure it’s meant to be reassuring. 

“Do you remember taking a fall earlier?” 

You shake your head. 

“What do you remember?” 

You shrug, biting on the inside of your mouth. 

He frowns then. “The last thing you remember. Anything.” 

“I went to sleep here,” you tell him, missing out on the part with Valarr. “Then I think I woke up to my uncle.” You grimace, memories coming back. Maybe it wasn’t just a dream. “I felt sick and then—” It stops there, the last thing is Baelor shouting to someone and his hand on your back. “That’s it.” 

The doctor nods, taking a step back before asking, “Have you ever taken any drugs?” 

“What?” You laugh uncomfortably, fiddling with your fingers. “I don’t take drugs. I barely leave the house.” 

“Not back when you were at school?” 

“No.” You shake your head again, almost frantically. 

“Not your father’s prescription drugs?” 

Your face contorts, as you bite back, “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“I believe you.” He nods, before placing his things back in his briefcase. “If you say you didn’t, you didn’t.” 

He goes to the door then, opening it before saying some hushed words to your uncles. 

Valarr and Aerion both come back in, your uncles shortly after and there’s still some sort of stillness in the air you can’t place. 

“You had a fall earlier,” Your uncle Baelor is the first to break the silence, fiddling with the ring around his finger. “I stepped away from you for a second when you were in the bathroom, you slipped over your own footing and you hit your head against the bathtub.” 

He gives you a second to process it but you don’t really know how so you just nod. 

“There was a lot of blood and luckily we had the veterinarian on sight to patch you up and then you fell asleep. The doctor on the phone told us to wake you and we tried but you were completely out of it. You— uh–” Baelor swallows, and you notice his fingers tremble before he places them behind him. 

“You had us worried,” Your uncle Maekar answers. “All of us.” 

You go to touch your head, feeling the stitches at the top of your head. 

“My dad?” You question. 

The question sits for a second, Aerion’s fingers stop running against the back of your head and Valarr turns away from you. You look up, Baelor’s running a finger along his lip looking at his brother while Maekar looks back at him. 

Your throat tightens, and you blink back tears before you even realise they are there. “What?” 

“Your dad isn’t here,” Maekar looks at you as he speaks, stepping towards you. He kneels before you, hand taking yours in between his own. 

“He’s—” you can’t say it, the words get caught. 

“His things are gone and so is he.” 

You shake your head, pursing your lips together as tears spill from your waterline. 

For some reason this is worse than him being dead. 

“H-He can’t just be gone,” you gasp, short of breath as you try to get the words out. “He promised me—” 

“I know it’s hard to hear—” 

Aerion cuts off his own father, “His phone, his car, his clothes.” His tone harsh forcing you to look at him. He looks tired, his pale skin almost grey underneath his eyes. “He’s gone.” 

“Aerion,” Maekar warns. 

Only Aerion doesn’t listen, biting back. “She needs to hear it.” 

“There’s something else?” Your eyes flicker between all of them, Aerion being the only one to be able to fully look at you. “Tell me.” 

“Grandmother’s engagement ring is gone.” 

You turn to look at your uncle Baelor, who finally looks at you. He seems half beaten down himself, jaw clenching before finally nodding his head. 

You don’t hold back then, bringing your knees up to your chest as you sink into yourself. Your whole body shakes as you sob into the sheets. You’re mumbling to yourself, you’re certain it’s incoherent. 

What had you actually expected? He was always going to do this but you just never wanted to believe it. 

People don’t change. 

Aerion holds you. Valarr too. Their arms fall around you, moving you into a more comfortable position on the bed until you’re lying in between them. You cling to Valarr’s arm, nails digging into the material of his t-shirt, while Aerion’s arms hold your waist, his own head pressed against your neck. 

They don’t say anything because there isn’t anything left to say. 

You hear the door click shut before finally the three of you left in the darkness and for the first time in weeks, you finally don’t feel alone. You finally feel seen. 

“Then you add a little bit of cinnamon,” Aegon whispers, half to you and half to himself as he shakes the bottle into the mixing bowl. “The best bit.” 

He holds out the chocolate chips, shaking them in front of your face and you can’t help but giggle. 

You take the bag from him, opening it before handing it back. 

“One for me—” he says, popping one in his mouth before placing one in your hand “ –and one for you.” 

“Thank you.” You ruffle his hair before eating the small bit of chocolate. 

You missed this. The simplicity of the small quiet moments with your family and it’s only now you realise how much you missed out on this summer. 

“What about me?” Aerion calls from the door, stepping into the kitchen. 

Aegon dumps the whole bag into the cake mixture, beginning to stir as he gives his older brother a pointed glare. 

It takes almost everything in you to stop yourself from laughing. 

“Little shit,” Aerion murmurs, loud enough for you both to hear him. 

You give him a glare, trying to tell him without words to watch his language. But you catch yourself looking too long, staring at his broad chest underneath the tight t-shirt. His dirt covered hands, the way his face glistens with sweat. 

You go to look away feeling the heat creep of your neck when he catches you. 

“Having fun?” He asks, sneaking up behind you. His arm wraps around your waist and his chin rests on your shoulder. 

“Don’t you have work to do,” Aegon snaps and you giggle again. 

“What’s so funny?” Aerion’s fingers poke your stomach and you incline your head back to look at his playful glare. 

“You do have work to get to,” you tell him, siding with his brother. 

“Before I do that, I need something from you.” He grins, a mischievous glint hidden behind it. “Outside.” 

“She’s baking with me,” Aegon argues. 

“I won’t steal her for long,” Aerion tells him, dragging your body towards the door. “Don’t worry, brat.” 

“Aerion,” you scold, slapping at his hands. 

He doesn’t care though, pressing you back into the wall and out of sight from his little brother. 

“What is this thing you need from me?” You ask, hands falling around his neck. 

“A kiss,” he whispers, fingers brushing your hair behind your ear. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yes.” He leans in, lips brushing against yours in the most gentle kisses before leaning back again. 

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “It’s like you think I’m going to break.” 

“No,” he breathes, finger brushing over the faint scar on your forehead. “I just need to show some restraint.” 

“Restraint?” 

He nods, biting down on his lower lip as his nose brushes yours. “Valarr told me.” 

You groan at that, before leaning in further only for Aerion to lean further away. 

“Don’t do that,” his tone clipped, shaking his head at you. 

“You both keep treating me like I’m porcelain that’s going to break,” you huff out, falling back against the wall. “It makes me feel unwanted.” 

He chuckles at that, deep noise vibrating in the back of his throat as he pinches your chin. 

“You don’t realise how badly we both want you.” 

He leans in then, lips against yours, body flush against you. 

“If you asked me to go upstairs right now and fuck you, I’d do it.” 

Your mouth opens then and his tongue slides in, slowly until it finds your own. 

His phone rings and while Aerion doesn’t pull away, your eyes do open. In the distance you see him, saddled up on his horse, phone in his hand. He watches you. 

The phone cuts off before ringing again and Aerion does pull away this time, teeth grazing yours one final time before stepping back. 

He doesn’t say anything, just looks you up and down with one final look up and down that leaves you flushed and wanting. Then he’s gone, running to go back to your cousin.

It’s the same at dinner, heated glances across the table, gentle brushing of fingers and Valarr’s hand on your thigh. He greets you with a kiss across your scarred head before he sits next to you, then leaves you with another before he goes to help clean up the table. It’s not till you’re helping Aemon with the dishes, does he sneak up behind you, lips pressed to the shell of your ear when your younger cousin is turned away. 

“Outside in two hours.” 

It’s all he says before he leans away, stepping back outside into the garden with Aerion following in toe. 

The last two hours drag until you find yourself sneaking out the door, trying not to wake anyone else. 

You step onto the porch, flashlight on your phone in your hand as you look around. You can’t see anything and it’s only when you're a few metres away from the house, calling out their names do you feel it. 

One hand presses against your mouth while the other holds you tight against their body. 

Aerion laughs at the way you jump, and your phone falls out of your hand. 

“Weren’t meant to scare her,” Valarr says, picking up your phone and pulling Aerion’s hand away from your mouth. He kisses you, not gentle like he has been doing the last week but heated, capturing your lips between his own before pulling away, leaving you short for breath. “Sorry about him.” 

“She likes it,” Aerion interjects, arm loosening around your body. He turns to look at you, forehead leaning down against yours. “Don’t you?” 

He kisses you then, deeper than this afternoon, placing a hand at the back of your neck to keep you close against him. Unlike Valarr, he doesn’t know when to stop and it’s Valarr that has to whistle to get him to finally pull away. 

Aerion snatches you over his shoulder then, before following Valarr. 

You want to ask where you’re going, the suspense is eating you up inside but you know they won’t tell you. 

In the dark you can barely make it out, it’s not till you can smell it, the mix of dry hay and rotted wood, that you know where you are. Lights come into view, fairy lights strung up on the old barn walls and it’s then you’re placed down. 

There’s blankets strewn across the floor, pillows as well like a makeshift bed. It’s still dim but light enough that you can see them. Aerion’s pale skin and violet eyes that stare into you, Valarr’s dark hair and mismatched eyes as he looks at you in the same way. 

They approach you slowly, Valarr taking your hand as he guides you before the blankets and Aerion’s hand on the small of your back as he pushes you towards him. 

Valarr kisses you first, hand falling down to your cheek as he presses his lips to yours. It becomes heated quickly, especially with you leaning into him, desperate for more. He gives it to you, slipping his tongue against your mouth before your lips fall open, taking him in. 

You feel Aerion behind you, his chest pressing against your back as he traps you between them. His hand falls underneath your chin, snatching you away from your cousin before he pushes his own lips against yours with a needy, “Don’t leave me out.” 

Valarr chuckles, mouth falling against your neck, sucking and nipping at the delicate skin until you whimper into Aerion’s mouth. Then he speaks, “Happy with your surprise, sweetheart?” 

“Yes,” you murmur between Aerion’s harsh kisses. 

“Let her breathe, Aerion,” Valarr glares at Aerion, lifting him off you by the back of his hair. 

“Ow,” Aerion grunts, only to laugh at the sight of your pretty bruised lips and you slightly out of breath. “You told me you didn’t want me to be restrained.” 

“I–” the words catch in your throat as you feel a cold hand at the edge of your t-shirt. 

Valarr crowds you, breath tickling your ear, “Going to undress you now.” 

You nod and Aerion chuckles at how obedient you are for them, only to suck in a harsh breath when Valarr yanks your top over your head. 

“Fuck,” Valarr whispers, leaning back to take the sight in of your breasts. Your nipples pebble against the cold air and you feel so vulnerable as he eyes you up hungrily. 

It’s Aerion’s hand that comes round, cupping one of your breasts before pinching the nipple teasingly. His hand comes up, fingers grazing over both your nipples while Valarr watches entranced by the sight. 

“Come on,” Aerion calls to Valarr, fingers digging into your soft flesh, kneading it. “Show her how pretty you think she is.” 

Valarr leans in, eyes look into yours again before he descends on your breasts, taking both in each hand before placing one nipple into your mouth. You gasp as his tongue licks over your nipple, slowly circling it before his mouth moves to the other one and he begins to suck. 

Aerion’s hand slides up to the column of your neck, bringing your eyes back to him as he squeezes. “You like that?” 

You nod. 

“We’re going to take care of you from now on.” 

You nod again, repeating Aerion’s words. “You’re going to take care of me from now on.” 

“Good girl.” 

Valarr lifts his head from your breasts and you’re snatched around, back pressed against Valarr’s chest as Aerion stands before you. 

He doesn’t waste any time as he stands before you, fingers hooking into the waistband of your trousers before he drags them down your legs. The night air hits your legs, goosebumps covering your skin that Aerion drags his hot mouth against. 

“Going to take real good care of you,” Valarr whispers from behind you, his hand falls between you and with the help of Aerion spreading your legs, it falls between your thighs. “Promise.” 

Valarr drags his fingers against you, pressing into the already damp material of your lace panties with a tut. 

“You forgot about these,” Valarr tells Aerion, fingers breaching the material slipping underneath and making you hum. 

“Was getting to that,” Aerion retorts back before kissing up your legs, all the way until his lips are pressed against your clothed pussy. Then he drags the item of clothing down, all the way until he has them down to your ankles and you’re able to step out of them. 

“Promised Aerion he could have you first,” Valarr whispers, pressing his lips into the back of your ear. “He’s been so restrained. It’s not easy for him, you know?” His fingers come against your inner thigh, sliding until he cups your mound. “You’re soaked.” 

“Please,” you don’t know exactly what you’re asking for but you ask anyway. 

“Please,” Aerion mocks, lifting himself off the ground pressing himself against your front. “Sorry, pretty girl. We’ve already got tonight planned out.” He leans in then, nose nudging yours just as Valarr’s fingers slide against your wet folds, making you moan into Aerion’s lips. 

“So responsive.” Valarr’s fingers circle your clit, once watching the way your legs tremble and you lean on them for support. “Think you’re ready.” 

It’s Aerion that drags you away, pulling your body into him. 

His lips descend over your body, slow and teasing as he nips at your skin. Your hands find him, desperate as you yank at the clothes that are still on his body. He chuckles against your skin and the low sound goes right through you, making you shiver. 

He steps back, harsh breaths falling from his lips as he tears his t-shirt from his body, then his hands fall down to his jeans, unbuttoning them and before kicking them. He steps closer to you then, and your hands reach out to touch him, feeling the smooth toned skin under your finger tips. Your eyes fall down, fingers landing against his boxers and you couldn’t help but swallow at the sight of him hard underneath the thin material. 

Your fingers reach the waistband, tugging on them before looking back at him with blown out pupils. 

“Want this off too,” you tell him, slipping your hand into the article of clothing. Your hand finds him, the long shaft leaking at the tip and he hisses as your hand grips him. 

“Want you,” he tells you, eyes burning into yours as you stroke him. He sucks in a harsh breath before pulling your hand away. “Just— give me a second.” He pushes the boxers off, kicking them off his feet before his hand finds your waist, pulling you down with him onto the soft pile of blankets. 

You feel him underneath you, his hard dick pressed against your wet folds. One slight movement and he’d be inside of you. The thought scares and excites you all at once. 

“So beautiful like this,” Valarr says from behind you and you can’t help but twist your head around to look at him. 

He’s sitting behind you both, leaning against the cushions, only in his boxers. 

“Eyes on me,” Aerion’s fingers interlace at the back of your hair, yanking your face back around to look at him. “Need you.” 

“Need you,” your breathless voice repeats back. 

“Fuck,” it’s all that comes out of his lips before his fingers find your needy clit. He circles it a few times, practically growling at you when you dare to close your eyes. “Don’t you dare.” You keep them open and the intensity of his stare, the way he seems to eat up your expressions, mouth falling open as he teases your bundle of nerves, makes you even wetter. You’re dripping all over him and you feel his penis twitch against you.

His fingers move eventually, sliding from your clit to your needy hole. He watches still, the way your mouth falls open and you moan as the first finger slips in. His pupils dilate even further, if that’s even possible and the violet looks completely black. 

Your legs tremble when he adds a second finger, clenching around him when he says, “Need to stretch you out.” 

“Please,” you plead, wanting nothing more and he adds a third, three fingers pushing in, splitting you open. It hurts a bit, and you can’t deny the fullness but you take it anyway, pushing your hips down further down onto him, wiggling your hips to help with the struggle. 

He fucks you like this for a while, his fingers sliding out of your walls till your clenching around them. Then he’s pecking at your lips, curling the digits inside of your walls as you grow accustomed to them. 

“Please. Please. Please.” 

“Let go for me.” 

You do, pussy fluttering around his fingers, hand reaching out for his arm as your fingers dig into his bicep. You moan into his lips as he continues to finger you through it, the feeling washing over you until it simmers. 

He wastes no time in throwing you underneath him, switching positions with your back pressed against the blankets and his body caging your own. You feel him, the tip of his dick against your folds as he slowly slides it up and down. 

“Wanted this for so long,” he admits, almost pained. 

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” you honestly confess, kissing his lips again. You grab his dick from between you, lining him up with your entrance. “Want you.” 

“Put it in for me,” and you oblige him, guiding his cock into your walls. 

You both moan into each other at the feel of it, his cock sinking into you, only an inch or two at first before he kisses your lips, taking over and pushing himself in all the way. It hurts then, the sting of him in deep, and you grimace at the sensation. But he kisses you through it, slowly sheathing himself in and out of your walls till the pain dulls and all you can focus on is him. 

Him. The way his cock thrusts inside of you, harsh and unrelenting. He tries to hold back, hand gripping into your hips like he’s desperate to hold back. He can’t though, and you don’t want him to. His hips slap against yours in rushed thrusts, cock slamming into you roughly giving you all of him. 

You want this, all of him. The pent up aggression of not being able to have you for so long, the nasty nips of his teeth against your neck, as he marks you up as his. You’ve always wanted this, Aerion for who he is. 

A few tears spill down your cheeks and Aerion’s quick to lick at them, cooing into your ear in a reassuring way. “I got you.” 

“Feels—” the words get caught on a moan, and you clench around him involuntarily. “I can’t—” You want to tell him something, you feel like you need to but the words get lodged in your throat as the breath is stolen from you. 

“Don’t need to talk. I know,” he grunts, rutting into you mercilessly. “Let me take care of you.” 

“Needed this,” you confess, between broken moans. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, smirking down at you. “Needed me inside you, huh?” 

“Yes.” 

“Need me to cum inside you?” 

You clench around him again. “Yes.” 

“Be a good girl and take it then.” 

It’s the last thing you hear before his thrusts become harsher, making you clench around him, that familiar tightening in your stomach snapping. Your walls squeeze him for dear life, to the point where you push Aerion to the brink of his own climax, spilling into you with sloppy thrusts of his hips. 

He mumbles into your mouth, “Feels so good.” 

He falls on top of you with a harsh breath, chest panting on top of you, dick sliding out your walls with a nasty plop that leaves you clenching around the air. You feel him spill out of you, hot and heavy as his cum drips onto the blankets underneath you and there’s a sudden thought that you want him to fill you up again. 

It vanishes quickly, Valarr flooding your vision as he kneels over the pair of you.

“You okay?” He asks and you nod, glassy eyes looking up at him. 

Aerion presses one final kiss to your chest before rolling off you. 

Valarr snatches you up, pushing you onto your knees. His hand falls to your neck, wrapping around the column of your throat as he drags you towards him.

Your lips find each other, hot and heavy as your tongues fight before you willingly submit to him. 

He falls back, you climbing on top of him as he falls down against the pillows. Your fingers touch his broad chest, splaying over the hard muscles as you use this to steady yourself. 

“Want me as badly as you wanted Aerion?” He questions, squeezing your throat. 

“Yes,” you pathetically whimper, sliding your already abused cunt down against his clothed cock. “Can’t wait anymore.” 

His hands hold you before he yanks his boxers down, just enough for you to feel his cock against you. It’s not the first time either, but there’s something about it, the knowing what’s going to happen that makes it different. 

He grabs your hips then, guiding you over him till his fat tip is breaching your soaked walls. 

“No more running,” he says, tone assertive and low. The sound goes straight through you and you can’t help but leak out more of your slick onto him. “Need to hear you say it.” 

“No more running,” you repeat back to Valarr, with complete honesty. “I don’t want to run from this anymore.” 

“Good girl.” He kisses your lips once more, a gentle peck before pulling away looking between you. “Now sit on it, sweetheart.” 

You do exactly as you’re told because it feels right— because you want to. You sink down onto him, letting his thick cock split you open just like Aerion’s just had. You watch as his eyes flicker between your face and to where his cock gets lost between you, licking his lips at the sight of it. You moan while he grunts, soaking in the feel of him deep inside of you and Valarr holds you there, making sure you feel the way his cock twitches inside of you, every vein, every ridge, all of him. 

Valarr holds your hips in place as he slides out of your walls, before he pushes him inside of you again. He’s not harsh, not quick. Valarr drags everything out, makes it almost tortuous as he pushes himself so deep until his head is kissing your cervix. 

It literally takes everything in you not to retract away from him, you don’t want to but the feeling of him so deep and making you so full has your toes curling. You hold onto his shoulders instead, nails digging into his skin as you mark him up. 

“Feel me, sweetheart?” Valarr asks, and you can. 

You can feel him twitching inside of you and you can’t help but greedily clench around him too. 

“Already clenching around me,” he tuts, shaking his head. “We’ve only just begun.” 

His hand snakes around your back and before you know it, he’s flipping you onto your back, his body hovering over you. He fucks you then– if you can even call it that. His dick buries itself inside of you, to the hilt. He doesn’t let up once, it’s not quick but it’s hard, each thrust is brutal as he slams himself inside of you. 

You can’t stop moaning, broken whines falling from your lips as he tortures you with each slide of his dick inside your gummy walls. You push your hips up, trying to meet each thrust and the neediness has him chuckling at you. 

Him and your other cousin. 

Aerion kneels over you, just as Valarr did and chuckles, “To think I fucked you full already and you’re still needy for more.” 

“Need both of us, don’t you?” Valarr adds, smiling down at you. 

“Both of you.” 

It feels greedy to admit it but it’s so true. It’s always been the three of you and it’s all you need to be content in life. 

You want Valarr to keep you in line, to protect you from himself, to kiss you and patch you up at the end of the long hard days. You want him just as much as you want Aerion’s anger, want every bit of them. 

You want them to possess you, is that so wrong? 

“Crying again?” Valarr asks, tilting his head mockingly. “So emotional for us, aren’t you?” 

“Need you,” you cry out between strangled breaths. “Always needed you like this. Please…” 

You feel it again, your stomach clenches and your pussy tightens around him. You can’t breathe, can’t think, all you can feel is Valarr inside of you. 

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Valarr demands and you try, you really do. But you struggle, body tensing underneath him as you feel your stomach tighten all over again. 

“Too much,” is all you manage to gasp out before your walls begin to flutter around him, before your pushed to another orgasm that has you high strung. 

He’s no better, spilling inside of you with a few thrusts that borderline on painful, painting those pretty walls of yours. He kisses you as he does it, eyes glued to your own like he needs you to see what you do to him, those mismatched eyes practically black. 

He stills after a while and you breathe again, but you don’t let go of him. You don’t want to and when you feel Aerion’s hands cup your cheek, your other hand latches onto that. You don’t want to move from this spot at all, don’t want them to ever leave you. 

It’s Valarr that has to move, rolling you both onto your side and allowing Aerion enough space to slide in behind you. They trap you between them, pressing your sweaty bodies into one and leaving no room for you to even think there’s a chance to run away. 

You don’t ever want them to let you even think about that again. To think about you ever leaving them. You want them to fuck that rotten thought from your brain, to replace it with other ideas. 

“We got you,” Valarr whispers into your ear and you cling onto him harder, burying your face into his chest. 

You feel Aerion nuzzle his own face into your neck, kissing the subtle skin as gently as he can manage. 

“Don’t ever let me go.” 

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This has never been Baelor’s typical Saturday night. 

He’s the dating type. He always has been, spending money like it’s nothing on dates and treating them so well that there is no way they are going to deny him in the end. Wine and dine, and have their panties down their ankles by the end of the dinner— sometimes even in the middle of it, he’s just that good. Women in his age bracket, he’s never seen the appeal in women half his age. 

And yet here he is, after hours in the office, door locked and his phone the only source of light in the dark room. The clock beside him reads 21:43, he should have been out of here hours ago, toying with some pretty divorcee over an expensive bottle of wine. Instead he’s scrolling through a faceless porn account, watching some pretty young thing struggle to take a dildo. 

You’re dripping, perched on your feet with the toy planted to the ground beneath you. You bend your knees a bit more, the tip of the purple dildo splitting you open and you whimper. Fuck. Girls his age have never done that. It’s lewd and he actually sees tears slide down the column of your neck. 

He knows it hurts, and you still attempt to take it in. You lift yourself off it, slowly and the tip slips out of you with delicious pop that makes the strain in his trousers unbearable. 

He should be balls deep in some women right now, not fondling his cock over a faceless girl that can barely fit a dildo into her cunt. He’s fascinated though, watching your thighs tremble as you go for another attempt, and cry at the harsh sting it’s giving you. He can’t help himself, one hand wrapped around his dick as he watches you cry and fuck yourself on the toy. 

Baelor’s so fascinated he times his strokes with you. Every time the blunt head of the dildo splits you open, his hand comes down on his sticky tip and slowly drags itself down. It stops when you stop, only going as far as you can go, till you manage to take it all. 

When Baelor cums, it’s nothing like he’s used to. Hot ropes of cum spill out of him, making a mess of his hand and his suit. He has to bite down on his tongue just to muffle the grunt that escapes him. He’s used to spilling quickly with a sigh, to rolling over to the side and jumping out of the bed. Not like this, still hard in his hands and twitching like he wants more. 

He could go again. 

He doesn’t, he locks the screen and sits in the dark a bit longer before heading home. 

The date isn’t going well. 

It’s unusual. 

Baelor rearranged after realising he was going to need to stay in the office into the night and just for that, he felt the need to apologise. He’s brought her to the nicest restaurant, paying extra to get a reservation at such short notice, even slipping the waitress an extra hundred dollar bill for a more secluded area. 

Conversation is fine— good even. There’s not even anything wrong with the woman, she’s undeniably attractive, smiling over at him like he’s a meal she’s desperate to have. She’s age, his type but he can’t stop eyeing up the pretty waitress that’s been serving them. 

She’s cute, trying so hard to be so attentive to both of them without coming across as over bearing. She’s probably some college student and now she’s seen how much money he’s willing to offer for a favour and is hoping for more. 

It’s your fault. She looks like you, same skin tone and figure. He’s picturing what it’d be like to follow her into restroom and fuck her over the toilet. Whether she’d be dripping so much her panties would cling to her. Whether she’d cry just like you did as he splits her open. 

Fuck. 

The woman narrows her eyes at him over the table, then to the helpless waitress that is pouring them another glass of wine each. She presses her tongue against her cheek and rolls her eyes at him before muttering something under her breath. 

“Typical.” 

Baelor offers to get the bill after that, realising the date is going poorly and isn’t surprised when the date practically jumps to get in her uber. 

He’s never screwed up a date before and it’s all your fucking fault. A faceless girl he’s jerked off to once. 

The clicking of shoes snaps him out of his daze and he snaps his head around to find the waitress chasing after him with his wallet in her hands.

He thanks her, taking it out of her grip before letting his eyes run over her. 

She’s not you but he can pretend. 

He’s probably going to get the poor girl into trouble but he doesn’t exactly care. He’s paid for this, slipping the girl some more money before bunching her slutty skirt at her waist and bending her over the bonnet of his car. 

She doesn’t cry like you do when he splits her open, nor does he find her dripping like he hoped but there is something delicious about the way his cock has to forcefully split her open. She takes it like a champ, biting down her moans as he thrusts himself into her. He only wished she’d been slightly more resilient. 

He’s glad for the darkness, how it hides the both of them from any on lookers and how as he presses her face down into the cold metal of his bonnet, he can pretend it’s you. 

He pulls out before he cums, the liquid dripping out onto the floor and her pretty lace panties. He thinks about how she’ll have to wear them back inside, how bits of him will stick to her for the rest of the night. 

How he wishes she was you. His cum stuck to the inside of your panties, dripping down your legs until you reach your home and are finally able to wash it off. 

He barely makes it home before he’s scrolling through your account again. He doesn’t care what video it is, he just needs to hear your pathetic whimpers before you make yourself cum. 

Once he’s in the privacy of his own room, he finds something. 

You sprawled out on your single bed, tits spilling out of your bra and fingers pushing your panties to the side just for him to see. You’ve soaked the material, partly dripping out onto your thighs and your clit is swollen, begging for him to touch it. 

That’s what you do, in that sultry sweet voice. You beg. 

You plead with him to let you cum. You ask for permission to touch yourself and you tell him just how badly you need it. 

He listens, replying like you can hear him on the other side of the pre-recorded video like you’re obeying his every command. He cums when you do and heaves out a sigh when he’s finally finished. 

He leaves a generous tip on your page this time. 

Baelor doesn’t expect to wake up to a message the next morning. 

He’s never used the app before, didn’t even realise there is a messaging option. 

Good morning, you start with like it’s casual. Like you might know each other. 

Saw you really liked my video last night and thought you deserved something to help you with your morning wood when you wake up. 

Then a video, a few minutes long of you teasing yourself in your bed. There’s nothing like this on your page. Is this a personalised video? He hits play, already wrapping his cock in his hand at the sight of you positioning the camera to get a good angle of you before slipping back into your bed. 

You’re wearing your pyjamas, a small top and tight matching shorts that hug your body. You angle yourself on your side, using your hands to guide over your body. First your chest, rubbing over your hardening nipples through the thin top, then over your shorts pressing your fingers against your clothed pussy. 

He can see the damp spot as you spread your thighs, see the way it grows wetter as you tease yourself over the material. You just get so easily wet and he wonders how wet you really would be after hours of fucking you. 

He thrusts his hips up into his hand and realises he might need to buy himself some lubricant just to replicate the feeling of your wet cunt. His dry hand will have to do for now. 

He pushes his hips up, in his gentle rhythm like you’re teasing him. Once, twice—

His phone rings, a pretty picture of his daughter lighting up the screen. You. 

Fuck. You never call this early, maybe he can let the call go to the answer machine. Call you back an hour later, once he’s got the picture of this minx fucking teasing herself out of his mind. 

He does exactly that, the phone rings a few times before cutting off. But only a second later it rings again. 

He huffs out a sigh, putting his cock back into his boxers and sitting up in his bed. He’s not one to ignore his children’s calls and he wouldn’t be able to focus on the video in front of him without worrying about you in the back of his mind. 

“What is it?” 

“Excuse you,” you snap back on the other end. “Can I not call to check on my own dad?” 

“Sorry hun,” he sighs, he never meant to sound so harsh. 

“You didn’t call yesterday. I got worried but don’t worry, I’ll make sure not to do that again.” 

“Honey, I’m sorry.” 

You’re stubborn, just like your mother and he knows he’s going to have to do better than that to get you to forgive him. 

“You best be sorry,” you say, voice whiny and wet. You’ve always been so emotional, especially when it comes to him. He’s never quite understood it. 

“So sorry.” 

“Yeah?”

You’re always so needy, half quiet as you wait for his reassurance and his cock twitches at that. 

It makes him feel sick. He can’t put the phone down though, he couldn’t do that when he’s already upset you. 

“Really sorry, you know that,” he tells you, with a slightly strained voice. 

“You okay?” You catch onto it but he hopes you fully haven’t caught on. “You don’t sound too good.” 

“Fine,” he mutters quickly, too quick it almost sounds like he’s snapping at you again. “Just tired, hun.” 

“I can call you back, if you want?” 

He should say yes, should end this call and take a long cold shower and pretend this never happened. But he doesn’t, he presses the duvet over his hard cock and prays for it to go down. “No, it’s okay.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah, I’m sure.” He adjusts himself and bites on the inside of his mouth as his cock rubs against his hand. This is fucking disgusting. “How’s everything at college?” 

“Good, dad. Really good.” 

You don’t talk for long and Baelor’s certain it’s because of his short and abrupt replies, he can only hope he hasn’t upset you. 

But he can’t think too much about that, pulling the duvet from his body and finding his cock leaking with precum and still undeniably hard. He can’t touch himself though, he can’t even stomach it, not with the thought of you still heavy on his mind. He couldn’t do that to the image of his precious daughter. 

Instead he takes a long cold shower, the water icy as it pours down his body and softens his cock. It’s punishment, some sort of way to absolve him of his sins. Only for him to pretend like it never happened hours later. 

His phone lights up in the afternoon, another message. 

Minx ➤ Didn’t like my video? Made it just for you. 

He opens the app, realising he never even finished it. His fingers hover over the keypad taking a moment to think of a reply before typing. 

➤ I’m sorry baby, it’s just been a long morning. 

Minx ➤ Need me to make it better? 

He swallows, cock straining against his boxers again. 

➤ you would do that for me? 

You take a few seconds to reply and he’s anxious for it, watching the three dots obsessively in the corner of the screen. 

Minx ➤ anything for someone so generous. Just tell me how you want it. 

He forgot about the money and reality sinks in at your message. He doesn’t even take a second, presses the tip button, double the amount he sent last night. 

➤ need you to beg for it. 

Minx ➤  anything for you. 

Baelor never realised how addicting this damned app could be in the first place. He sort of wishes it came with a caution before he poured so much money into it. He’s got enough to spare anyway and so long as you keep messaging and sending him those personal videos, he’ll keep pressing that tip button like it’s nothing. 

Your latest video starts off similar to the last one, toys spread out on your bed and you kneeling in front of the camera wearing his lingerie. It’s light yellow, complimenting the colour of your skin just like he knew it would. 

You’re his girl now, following his every request so much as keeps pouring funds into your account. 

Today is different though, the camera angle is higher, just enough for him to be able to see the bottom half of your face. Like he requested. 

You take the dildo up to your mouth, licking up along the shaft, painfully slowly like you’re purposely teasing him. You kiss the tip, like the dildo’s real like you need to be gentle with it and then you sink your mouth over it, running your tongue around it before pulling back up. 

“Want to make you feel good,” you tell him, in that whiney tone he’s always so desperate for. “Let me make you feel good.” 

You push the dildo in between your lips, getting it nice and wet before popping it back out. 

“Going to put it inside me,” you say, saliva dripping from the corners of your lips. “Need it inside me.” 

“Yeah, going to do that for me, pretty girl,” he replies back like you’re listening to him. 

You nod, like you hear him before slipping the wet dildo between your folds. 

“Feels good,” you hum, pushing your panties to the side and letting him see the full picture. 

Your face comes into frame then, blurred out, keeping your identity hidden from him and although he understands your desire to keep yourself hidden, he wishes he could see your face just once. 

“Want to put it in,” you whimper and he just knows you’re pouting. 

You buck your hips up, the tip of the dildo lining up at your entrance and you hesitate, like you’re waiting for his permission. 

“Nice and slow,” he hisses, fisting his cock just like that as you push the dildo inside. 

You’ve gotten better at it, yet your hips still wriggle ever so slightly at the struggle and he just wonders how tight your walls really are. How after two months of training you over videos to take dildos that don’t even mount up to his size, you’re still not fully adjusting. 

If he was with you, it’d be better. He’d take his time, pet you over the material of your underwear, before he began stretching you out of his fingers. He’d take it so slow that by the time you got to his cock, there wouldn’t be much resilience left to you. You might struggle a bit and it might hurt, but eventually you feel so full of him it would fill to fucking good to deny. 

➤ Video is even better than the last one.  

Minx ➤ knew you’d like it. Did you see how wet you made me?

➤ you’re always soaked. Needy thing, aren’t you? 

Minx ➤ just for you. 

Baelor has only been to his daughter’s college twice. The first time he’d been kind enough to accompany you to the open day, and then the second time had been when you moved in. He can’t believe it’s been a semester since he’d seen you and he feels a little guilty for letting work get in the way that he’s neglected his fatherly duties. 

Your room is smaller than he imagined, especially since he’s been paying a hefty check just for you to get your own dorm. It’s somewhat what he expected, different to your bedroom at home with a somewhat more grown up theme, but still familiar. 

He can’t quite pinpoint it, furrowing his brows at your single bed and the oddly placed tripod that overlooks it all. 

“Are you doing youtube now?” He questions, pointing to the camera plugged into your computer. 

“Do you mean vlogging?” You answer. 

“You know what I mean,” he says, raising his brows. 

You stifle a nervous laugh and shrug. “Something like that.” 

Something like that. He tries not to ponder on it but he catches the way your cheeks flush and you bend your head down like you’re dodging the question. 

“So where are you taking me then?” 

Dinner is supposed to be a normal occasion. You haven’t seen each other in months and yet Baelor can’t ignore the flashing lights going off in his head. 

His mind has been screaming at him all day, since the moment he heard your sweet voice and couldn't deny the familiarity. 

You're his daughter, of course he recognises your voice but there’s something else to it. 

Your lips wrap around your spoon when you get dessert, slow and sensual as you lick the ice chocolate from your glossy lips. 

“Can’t believe you haven’t seen me in months,” you say, voice falling quiet as you play around with the food on your plate. “Sometimes it feels like you don’t want to see me.” 

“You know that’s not true,” he says, furrowing his brows at you. 

You push your hair behind your ear, turning to look away from him. He doesn’t miss the way tears well up in your eyes though. 

He calls out your name then, hand reaching over to you only for you to push him away. 

“You don’t call for weeks and when you do, you're snappy with me.” Your voice cracks, a tear sliding down your cheek that you’re quick to wipe away. 

“Honey–” 

“No.” You snap your head around to look at him, cheeks wet and eyes flooding. “It’s not fair. It always feels like you’re punishing me.” 

“It’s just work—” 

“Cut the bullshit.” 

Your lips tremble and he falls silent. 

“You visit Valarr and Matarys.” You throw your hands up in defeat. “And you know it’s not like I can just come visit you over the holidays.” 

“That’s not true, you’re always welcome at home.” 

“I know your parents hate me.” 

“They don’t—” 

You’re sobbing now, a hand falling over your face to cover yourself from onlookers. 

“Hey,” Baelor tries to soothe you, arms reaching out as he steps around the table. 

You try to push him away, try to stop him but he yanks your trembling body to his chest and holds you against him. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, holding you so tightly you think you might snap. “So sorry. I didn’t.” 

It takes a while for you to calm down, chest still trembling as you come to look at him. You’re pouting, wet lips sticking out and the familiarity is a sick recognition as he realises. 

Fuck. 

“Do you love me?” You ask, voice still choked up. 

It’s sickening. He’s frozen as everything seemingly falls together. Your voice, your soft lips, the way you cry. 

“Dad,” you say a bit louder, eyes wide and face screwed up. 

“I love you.” 

He pulls you to his chest, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. 

“Of course, I love you.” 

“Want you.” 

Back at the hotel he can’t stop flicking through your videos, playing over the endless material he has at his hands. He needs to know, needs to be hundred percent certain that it is really you on the other side of the screen. 

It is. 

He can’t deny it. The tiny bedroom he’s paying thousands in rent for each semester. Your body dressed up in the different sets of lingerie he’d bought you and your voice telling him just how badly you’re dripping for him. 

His fucking daughter. 

He’s sick to his stomach, months he’s spent masturbating to videos of you. Not even just that but talking to you like you’re some pretty girl he’s dating. 

He’s sick because even knowing this he’s hard rewatching the videos, dick twitching and straining in his pants. 

He touches himself for what he swears will be the last time, harsh as he fists himself, not even timing himself to your thrusts like he usually does. He wants to get it over and done with. 

When Baelor cums, he’s disgusted by it, turning the phone off and getting the hell out of there. 

He shoots you a text before his flight, not being able to muster the courage to look at you right now. 

Something short and sweet, he’ll need to think about a proper apology when he gets the chance. 

*

He doesn’t call when he gets home. Your texts go unanswered and Baelor tries to go back to his old routine. 

Dates with women his age. 

Only each and everyone fail miserably, even when he fucks them, he still goes home and wraps his hand around his dick to another video of you. He promises it’ll be the last time. He always does. 

But it never is. 

As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he thinks there’s a part of him that always kind of knew. He doesn’t want to fully acknowledge it but the similarities were screaming at him for a while. Your body, your hair, your skin tone and your voice. 

He knows that waitress he fucked months before oddly resembled you. He just never wanted to admit to it before. 

Maybe that’s why he was silent with you, barely answering your calls and being oddly snappy with you before. His own guilt had been eating up at him; he just had been too sick to confess to it. 

He’ll confess to it now. In the darkness of his room, with his cock twitching underneath his hand as he palms himself through his boxers. 

Baelor wants you. 

He wants to watch you struggle to take him, to whine for him and tell him how badly you need him. 

Weeks pass since his visit to your college and he doesn’t even realise it. He knows he’s been slow to get around to your texts and letting his phone ring out whenever you called, but he never really knows how bad it is. He’s so lost in fighting his own feelings for you that he doesn’t even realise he’s completely forgotten to pay you any attention.

It’s Valarr that reminds him. 

“What the fuck are you playing at?” 

His son’s voice is hot and seething on the other end, Valarr’s never been one to be quick to temper. Yet he can hear his son spitting out his words, not letting him get a word in edge ways. 

Valarr says your name, and he realises what this is all about. 

“Her friends called me, she’s been apparently drinking almost every night that they thought it best to call me. They were so worried—” 

“Valarr please—” he tries to interject, to make sense of what his son is saying. 

“ —No, you’re going to fucking hear this.” 

Baelor falls silent and takes it. 

“She hasn’t left her room in days and when I got there she wouldn’t stop sobbing. And you know what she said to me—” Valarr pauses then like he half expects an answer. “ —she said you fucking left her after your visit. Some shitty excuse about work and you haven’t answered your texts or calls to her since. It’s been two months, Dad. Two months.” 

Has it really been that long? 

“You know she’s failing her midterms. I spoke to one of the advisors at the school and they’re expecting her to retake the whole year, or she has to completely drop out. All because she’s so hung up on the fact she thinks you don’t care for her.” 

Valarr heaves out a shaky sigh, and he thinks he can hear his son crying. 

“She’s a fucking mess. Had to force her out of the shoe box of a bedroom even then she’s a complete shell of herself. You need to fix this.” 

He doesn’t even wait for his dad to answer, hanging up and leaving Baelor to wallow in his guilt. 

How could he do this to you?

He’s been entirely selfish and he’s not exactly surprised at how you avoid him when you come home for spring break. 

Valarr was right, you’re a complete shell of yourself. Your eyes are puffy from the endless crying and you barely come out of your bedroom. 

He’s tried talking to you, knocking on the door at all kinds of hours to try and get you to come out. He’s been buying your favourite treats in hopes he can bribe you out, each one of them being left untouched and eventually spoiling. 

Bad turns into awful and hours not leaving your bedroom, turns into a whole day.

He doesn’t even knock on the door this time, he enters. 

You’re buried underneath the thick sheets, curled up into a ball, complexion ruined from all the crying you’ve been doing. It has him completely torn up. His hand brushes your hair out your face and you don’t even fight against him, you just stare out at the wall in front of you. 

“Please, don’t do this to me,” he whispers, the back of his hand rubbing soothingly over your cheek. His voice cracks and it makes you open your eyes slightly wider. “Please, get up. Talk to me.” 

Your face screws up then and he’s quick to wipe away your tears. 

“We can talk about it,” he pleads with you, voice softer than it’s ever been. 

You get up after a while, jumping into the shower like he asks while he does your laundry. He takes your sheets and the pile of clothes in your hamper, separating each item into lights and darks when he reaches the washing machine. Then he finds them, the lacy yellow panties mixed in with your other bits of clothing. 

He should restrain himself and he tries, holding the material inches from his face before finally burying his nose against it. 

He’s ruined. You’ve ruined him. 

He sniffs it, licks it and even cums all over it before putting the ruined material in with the rest of your washing. 

He changes your bedding like he didn’t just fist himself with your panties, places out a pretty tiny pyjama set he’s certain he’s seen from one of your videos on the edge of your bed and waits for you to get out of the bathroom. 

You look better, you still won’t meet his eyes but it’s some sort of improvement. 

Your fingers play with the set and then you finally look at him. 

“Can you?” You awkwardly motion to the door with your head. 

“Of course,” he says, getting up and walking out of the room.

You visit him that night, pushing the door open and creeping in the dark room. You don’t even hear the muffled noises of your own moans as you enter the room or notice the way Baelor turns his phone off and throws it under his pillow. 

“Can I stay here tonight?” 

You stand at the edge of his bed wearing the set he left out for you, the material clinging to every part of your body and who is he to deny you, especially when you’re looking at him like you need him. 

He pulls the covers up and lets you slide under the covers next to him. You lie against the edge, a space between you that he closes, wrapping his arm around your waist and pulling you flush against him. He just hopes you can’t feel his stiff cock pressed against your ass cheeks. 

Baelor wakes in the early hours of the morning, hard and wanting against you. 

He knows he shouldn’t and yet his hands slip under the covers anyway. 

You sleep so soundly, not even flinching when his hands fondle your breasts, kneading them softly till he’s pulling them out the restraints of your top. He’s half amused at how your nipples harden so quickly and he can’t help but pinch them, earning a low hum from you in your sleep. His dick twitches at that and he can’t help as his hands run down lower and lower, till they’re parting your thighs. 

He’s not at all surprised to find you wet. Just like in your videos, you’re so easily turned on. 

He doesn’t even need to push his fingers into the material of your shorts to know, not when you’re already soaking the cotton material. He drags his fingers against it, taking his time before applying pressure. Then his fingers finally breach inside, pulling the tight material down your thighs slightly enough to make room for his hand. 

He can’t believe he’s actually doing this. Can’t believe his fingers are sliding against your wet cunt, and touching you. Not just watching you through the video on his screen but actually touching you —fingering you to be exact. Two fingers slide up and down your folds, dragging your slick up to your clit, flicking over it before sliding back down. He does this a few times, noticing how slick oozes from your wall with his teasing and how even in your sleep you can’t help but lean into his touch. 

He imagines you’re awake, that you’re just pretending even though he knows you're not. That you’re trying so hard to keep your eyes closed as you let your dad take care of you. Unable to stop the little moans that slip between your lips as he pushes the first finger in— fuck, you really are just that tight. 

He imagines you waking up, wide eyes and startled expression, asking him what he’s doing. Only for you to whimper when he slides another finger in you, hand pushing against his arm to fight against it, but only finding yourself succumbing to it as you cum against him. 

He doesn’t slip a second finger in, he wants you to be awake when he stretches you out, wants to see your legs quiver and your wriggle against him as you struggle to adjust to his size. 

“Like letting your dad take care of you,” he can’t help but whisper, lips falling over the shell of your ear. “It’s okay honey, I got you.” 

He fists himself with your slick, tip of his dick presses against your cheeks as he cums. It spills all over you, such a sticky mess that he can’t help but play with it, toying it between his fingers before cleaning you up. 

He adjusts your top and shorts, but leaves you wet and wanting, wondering all the emotions that’ll be running through your head when you wake in the morning. 

Things start getting better for the both of you. 

You come out more, joining him for breakfast and sometimes finding yourself both cuddling by tv watching one of his “boring old movies”. It’s sweet normality that you’ve clearly been yearning for, only under the cover of each night, you’re slipping under his bed and falling asleep next to him, none the wiser when he takes what he needs. 

You fall into a little habit of sneaking off as soon as you wake, lifting his arm from around you as you rush to find some privacy. He knows exactly why, knows how wet you’re when you wake, knows how needy you must be in the morning. He doesn’t make you cum when you’re asleep, doesn’t let you. He prefers you dripping in need, whining between breathless sighs as rubs teasing circles into your clit. 

He thinks about how you make yourself cum when you get yourself into the comforts of your bedroom. How you try to replicate the feel of his fingers as you fuck yourself, how you try to reach a certain spot inside of you but you’re unable. It’s not like you can use your toys, not after you forgot to bring them with you. He imagines you using something else, maybe the end of your hair brush pushing the wooden end into your tight hole till you tremble. 

He doesn't ever go to listen though, and doesn't want to find himself disappointed. Instead he finds his phone, and finds one of your saved videos. 

It’s like a routine that he can’t seem to snap himself out of. 

Every time he finds you curled up on the couch, or cooking in the kitchen, it’s like a reaction, wrapping his arms around you and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. Sometimes when he’s daring it’s your shoulder, your neck and your cheek. 

Now he brushes your hair behind your ear, letting his lips brush against the shell of it before kissing just underneath it. 

He doesn’t miss the way you tense at the suddenness of it, how you swallow when he presses his body against yours. But you’re so starved of affection from him, you take it. 

“Make me a coffee,” he mutters in your ear. 

You nod, before he slowly slips out from behind you. 

When he comes back, the last thing he expects is to find you with his phone in your hands. 

Your moans fill the silent room, loud and lewd and he knows exactly what video he’s playing out, just from the things you’re saying. You click pause when you notice him standing in the doorway, backing yourself into the corner of the room as your wet eyes look at him. 

You don’t look as shocked as you thought you would and that’s why he finds it okay to approach you slowly, placing his arms in front of you like you're some frightened animal. 

“I can explain.” 

Your brows scrunch up at that, eyes narrowing at him before asking, “What do you mean—” The tension falls from your face in realisation and your eyes widen at him. “You know.”

You look exactly how he imagined, wet eyes wide as they stare back at him, body frozen like a deer in the headlights not knowing whether you should run. He 

He approaches, slow and steady as you begin to shake your head. 

“Don’t,” you shout, placing your arm between you. “Stop.” 

He doesn’t listen and when you brace to run, he snatches you in then, grabbing you by your hips and holding you against the counter top. 

“Get off—” 

“I didn’t always know, okay.” He presses his head against yours, one hand coming to cup your cheek. 

You twist away from it but he’s firm, wrapping his fingers into the hairs at the nape of your hair and pulling you to look at him. 

“I’ve been struggling with it and it’s the reason I stopped calling and texting, I was so ashamed about it when I found out months ago.” 

Your stomach twists at that and tears spill out against your cheek as you mouth the word back to him. “Months.” 

“Some part of me knew, I guess.” It’s honest. The first time he’s actually confessing it out loud and it feels good. “And I thought it was wrong but I couldn’t stop myself. It doesn’t feel wrong, not when I’m pressed up against you on the couch or in my bed.” 

“It is wrong,” you hiss, hands falling around his wrist trying to pull him away. “You’re my—” you don’t even have the stomach to say it, wet eyes meeting his darkened gaze, still trying to process that this is really happening. 

“Is it?” His voice deepens, low and rough as he presses his nose against your own. “Going to pretend like you haven’t felt me against you?” He raises his brows, questioning you and he sees the conflict in your face. He knows he’s right. “Like it doesn’t feel good to slip into my bed at night?” 

“Just wanted to feel like you loved me,” you confess, between a broken sob. 

He kisses your wet lips then, soft and slow, not expecting anything in return as his lips work against yours, only pulling away when you’re muttering something again. 

“You’re sick.” 

“I know, baby.” He nods in agreement before kissing you again, gentle like he’s desperately trying to coax you into it. It doesn’t work and resorts to something else, something he knows will work, doing something he knows he shouldn’t. 

His lips trail against the column of your throat before his hand comes across it, holding you there. He doesn’t want to do this but he feels like he has to, pressing his forehead against yours before he gives your throat a gentle squeeze. 

“Let me love you,” he hums, kissing your lips till you’re opening your eyes again. “It’s what you want, isn’t it?” 

You hesitate for a second, thick tears rolling down your eyes until you nod your head. 

“Good girl.” It’s all you need to hear, parting your thighs for him and letting him press his hardened cock against you. You're wet, he can already feel it and he just knows how much he’s going to enjoy it— how much you’re both going to enjoy him fucking you. “Going to make you feel real good, I promise.” 

You sob at that and Baelor rolls his hips against yours, making you feel just how hard you’ve made him. He brushes away your tears, kissing your lips again and humming unexpectedly when you finally kiss him back. 

You’re unsure at first, lips moving against his like they’re being forced to. Only when he bites against your bottom lip, gently tugging at it, do you relax into it more, opening your mouth and letting him do all the work. 

You still tense up when his fingers trail over your body, still go to catch his wrist as it falls between you but Baelor doesn’t mind. He gets it. He fought against this so hard at first, tried desperately hard to keep his needs at bay. You’ll come around. 

Your body does anyway, finding you leaking out of your shorts when he pushes his hand into your panties. Your thighs clamp around his hand, a gasp falling from your lips as he presses his hand flush against your soaked folds. He doesn’t pry your thighs apart but instead lets you trap him between them, rubbing your soaked thighs together to ease the tension, and unintentionally rubbing yourself against his hand. 

“It’s okay,” he coos, saliva dripping from your lips as he pulls away. “It’s okay.” 

“Shouldn’t,” you whine, scrunching your face up, only to relax and separate your thighs. 

“I know.” His tongue slips into your mouth again, slow and teasing just as one of his fingers breaches your hole. “I know.” 

Sometime between the second and the third finger you stop sobbing against him and while your stomach still tenses in disgust at what you’re doing, you can’t help at the way you’re moaning pitifully against him. 

This must be what you deserve for wanting him to love you. 

You tense when he finally has you underneath him, body falling rigid as you lie naked on top of his bed. Your eyes are hazy from all the crying and you can’t make up your mind whether you’re glad or upset that you can’t see him all that clearly as he hovers over you. 

After all, you can’t make out his face when his tip presses against you… 

...But that also meant for a few seconds you can pretend it isn’t actually him on top of you— that it isn’t your dad, breathing heavily as he slips the tip of his cock in and out of you. 

You wanted to be loved, but you don’t think you meant this. 

Your thighs tremble when he thrusts himself in you, walls almost clenching to push him out. He’s too big and although he’s spent the better half an hour of stretching your walls around his fingers in the kitchen, you’re still struggling pathetically to adjust to him. 

He sinks down further, eyes caught at the sight of where his cock is slipping in and out of your walls. He’s barely managing to get an inch past the tip till you’re hissing at the intrusion, grounding your hips as if to escape him. It’s painful and you think it’s your body telling you this isn’t right, that you shouldn’t do this but Baelor is still going to try. 

Try he does, seeing as he’s been practically drooling over the idea since he saw your first video, imagining it was his cock instead of that silicone dildo. Now it is, your thighs trembling in the same way, hips wriggling around as if to ease the pain. It doesn’t though and his cock slips in another full inch, stretching you all wrong till you're sniffling from the pain. 

“It’ll feel good soon,” Baelor promises, kissing your cheeks again. “Promise.” 

While it takes a while at first, the fourth inch making you gasp out and claw your nails at his shoulders from the pain, your walls finally ease up around him. Then it feels good— much too good. 

The fullness being blissful as he plunges himself repeatedly in your walls, over and over again until your thighs quiver from the intensity. You’re still so tight, clenching at every purposefully harsh thrust and disgusting word that drips from his lips. 

You cry out for completely different reasons, feeling your walls dripping so much that you’ve made a puddle on the bed and when you twist yourself away, unable to look at him, he pinches your chin so you’re forced too. 

“Don’t look away from me,” he pleads with you, leaning closer till his hot breath falls over your face again. “Please, need you to look at me.” 

“I can’t,” you choke out, shaking your head as he kisses you again. Your hands fall to his hips, as if to push him away, or to steady him but it doesn’t work. “I think—” You gasp sharply at a cruel thrust, pussy clenching as he brushes at something inside of you. You don’t want to admit it but you don’t think you need to as he sees the way your mouth falls open, the way you shake your head again and again like you’re trying to fight against it. “Can’t.” 

“You can,” he whispers, head lifting from yours to look at you. His eyes rake over your body, flickering between where his cock gets lost between your folds and your face contorts as you fight against the feeling. 

You squeeze him hard, and more slick oozes out of you as he fucks into you deeper and faster like he’s chasing it. Like he can’t a moment longer for you to come undone underneath him. 

You do exactly that, sobbing when the feeling in your stomach finally snaps and hot thick pleasure takes over. You don’t even realise the mess you’re making, unable to feel the way you tighten as you drip around him, or the way your climax finally brings him to his own. But you do feel the way he fills you, how his cum spills into you, thick and nasty as he carries on fucking you through it. 

He doesn’t fall next to you when he’s done like you imagine he should, doesn’t roll over to his side with a heavy sigh. He pulls you into him instead, coaxes you again with kisses and presses his cock deeper into you. 

He tells you it’s fine, tells you how’ll eventually get used to it. 

Before you feel him hardening inside of you again, already thrusting his cum sloppily back into your messy walls. 

It’s gross. So disgusting and your stomach clenches in a way that makes you want to vomit. 

He sees it all across your face, sees the way you’re scrunching your face up as you come down from your own high falling into a sick realisation. 

He knows that feeling and thinks he knows the best solution to stop you from wallowing in self pity, to hide yourself away from him again. He pushes into you again, sloppier than the last time and you hate the way you clench around him again, still so sensitive from your orgasm. 

“It’s better you don’t think,” he hums against you, pressing the full weight of his bare body down against yours as he lets you in on his plan. “Better I keep fucking you until you can’t think anymore.” 

You know it’s wrong and yet you nod in agreement, closing your eyes and letting yourself fall back into the pleasure.

It wasn’t long before he had you folded over the countertop, hanging off the edge, just able to reach the floor with the top of your toes, only so he could take a glove off and bury his thick fingers deep inside your gushing pussy and stretch you out. 

His face comes around your shoulder again, not the pretty face that you struggle to resist, the bunny mascot trying to nuzzle itself in the crook of your neck. You go to slap it away again but as soon as your hand comes off the counter top, you feel yourself almost slip. 

“You’re so—uh —weird,” you groan, voice cracking slightly as he pushes a third finger inside of you. 

You should have denied him, and you did attempt to put up a fight before he pinned you to the counter but it all amounted to nothing once he curled his fingers inside of you. Just like he’s doing now, pushing them in deep and curling them to find that sensitive spot. 

“Going to tell dad one day,” you huff out, eyes scrunching shut as his fingers pick up the pace as they fuck you. “Tell him how you’re a sick pervert who likes fucking his sister.”

Empty threat, you know and Valarr has heard them all before, a breathy chuckle coming through the mask. 

Deeper in tone than you’re accustomed to. 

It unsettles you for a moment, eyes opening again at the sound but you’re barely able to register it when his fingers slip from your needy hole. You whimper then, head snapping around to question him only to catch him already unzipping the front of the fluffy costume. You only catch the sight of his tanned chest, before he’s pressing you back into position and pushing the fat head of his cock into position. 

You swallow, nails dragging in the marble countertop as he shoves his thick cock in nice and deep, the veins dragging against your spongy walls. It feels different, you think, but in a good way? It’s all you can think before you’re biting down on a lewd moan, already feeling come over with hot pleasure as he begins to thrust in and out of your sloppy pussy. 

You’re wet, so wet —you’re certain your pussy juices have dripped onto the cold tile floor you can barely reach, probably making a pool from the constant teasing Valarr subjugated you too. If the squelching noises are anything to go by, and you’re certain they are as they fill the quiet room, then you’ve made a mess. 

Only the incestuos freak behind you seems to be enjoying it, girthy cock stretching you out more than you’re used to as he begins to deliver harsh thrusts. Come to think of it, you feel fuller than you’ve ever felt before, walls already clenching down just from the sheer size of him. Has he grown? In both width and length? You can’t fully understand it, can barely even think about it when he’s fucking you nice and good against the countertop, right in the open where anyone might be able to find you. 

Right where your dad might find you. 

Valarr has always been a bit of exhibitionist but you didn’t think he’d risk it, especially with your dad being home. 

It’s not like he’s the one that’s all that compromised. He’s hiding himself behind that costume, while you’re bare, top snatched down with your titties pressed against the cold countertop, skirt bunched around your waist while your panties hang around your left ankle. 

You clench down at the thought of being seen like this and can’t help when your pussy creams just a little bit more as his slick covered hand comes to rest against your throat. 

“Gonna— wait—“ you mewl, hands fumbling around when he manhandles you unnecessarily pulling your body over to the window with his sheer strength and pressing you against it. “What are you—“ 

He angles you, positioning your ass up and shoving your tits flush against the window for all to see. Before you can even go to protest again, he rams his cock inside you again, fucking you faster than before. 

“You’re such— uh fuck —perv“ you words come out between strangled moans. 

He’s thrusting his cock in you like he’s on a mission, like you’ve done something wrong and he needs to fuck you in some sort of punishment. And here you are just taking it, listening to his breathy groans through the mask as he nuzzles the face into the crook of your neck again. 

You can’t really think, eyes flickering between the fluffy white whiskers in the corner of your vision and the vast garden in front of you. It’s not just your dad that could catch you like this but any noisy neighbour that might be taking a peek through their curtains, all to get a glimpse of this sinful sight. Or even Valarr—

Valarr. 

Your eyes widen at the sight, Valarr pacing at the end of the garden with his phone in his hand. It’s him alright, from the outfit he’d been wearing this morning to that brown hair with the blonde streak running through it. 

He’s completely oblivious to the sight of you, so lost in his own conversation that he doesn’t see what’s happening to you in the kitchen. Any moment he could turn around and witness the sight of you being fucking ruined by— 

Your body tenses, freezing up as realisation dawns on you. All this time you’ve been thinking your brother is the one underneath the costume but if he’s standing on the edge of the garden some metres away then who is the one fucking you from behind? 

You turn your head back again, hand hovering over the fingers that rest over your throat as you look at the beaded eyes of the mask like you could see through it. You can’t but your hand rests against his, trying desperately to claw it off only to feel the coolness of the ring on his middle finger. You know that ring and you mentally scream at yourself for not realising it sooner.

As if seeing the sudden realisation flicker behind your wild eyes, he squeezes your throat just a little bit tighter, letting out a sickening deep chuckle that makes you shiver. 

How hadn’t you realised it before? 

The time spent stretching you open on his fingers, from one digit just sliding in and out of your tight hole till he managed to squeeze three in. To the fact even with all that time you felt yourself almost struggling to take him and a man isn’t just going to grow in width and length over night. 

Valarr didn’t agree to put the bunny suit on, he never did but the show still had to go on so your dad replaced him. 

“Get off,” you whimper, hand pushing back to try and move him.

It's a pathetic attempt, one that has him snatching both of your wrists and holding them just above you, leaving you completely powerless to him. He snaps his hips against you faster till the thrusts become overwhelming and you’re forced to listen to the obscene sounds of your wet pussy as it fills the room. You can’t do anything, can barely mumble out some sort of coherent protest between the filthy moans that spill from your throat as he fucks you. 

As your dad fucks you. 

“Fuck,” you finally hear him groan from beside you, voice low and rough as he delivers unforgivable blows to your cunt. “What’s wrong? You were so vocal just a few minutes ago, cat got your tongue.” He laughs and it’s sickening. “—or should I say bunny?” 

“Shouldn—“ you can’t even get your words out right, stumbling on the simplest of protests. 

No, you should say. No. No. No, till he gets the message, till he pulls his cock out of your drenched pussy. 

You don’t though, you cry and whimper as you’re pushed to the edge of your orgasm, the tight coil snapping in your lower belly, leaving you unable to do anything but clamp around his cock. 

Your dad’s cock. The one that’s brought to his climax as you tighten your walls around him, spilling inside of you as he continues to thrust into your sloppy walls. Like he’s allowed to do that, like it’s an okay thing to do. He doesn’t even let up when he’s filled you, keeps thrusting inside of you like he’s trying to make sure his cum stays there, like he’s making some nasty point you’re too fucked dumb to grasp. 

When he finally does slip out of you, you’re left empty cum dripping out of your needy cunt like there’s too much to contain. All while he slowly unfolds from behind you and you hear the padded footsteps of the costume walking away, leaving you a quivering mess against the window, still staring at the silhouette of your brother at the edge of the garden. 

You can’t make sense of it and you’re not certain you want to— did your own father just fuck you? 

a/n: ngl this made me so— not going to finish that sentence.

It started before the argument, you both know that. 

You didn’t want to go to the stupid party in the first place. Only hours ago Valarr dragged you from your house, claiming you both need to spend time together before summer ends. 

It’s what best friends do, he claimed before giving you one of those goofy smiles that used to tug at your heart strings. Used to. 

Truth be told, you’ve been avoiding him. The last time you came back home left a sour taste in your mouth and a strain in your relationship. It was clear he has always seen you as more than friends, while you’d never been inclined to feel that way. You thought you made that clear over text messages between spring break and now. After he’d spent the last months trying so hard to make it up to you, to make it clear he could just be friends, you really thought you might be able to just forgive and forget. 

With him hot on your trail following you out the party, it’s clear his feelings never really changed, he’s just still waiting for you to return them. 

You hadn’t even said anything to the other boy in question, barely glancing his way before he approached you in the hall and yet Valarr’s seething with jealousy. 

You’re not sure what he’s taken but you’re certain it’s not just alcohol when you look into darkened eyes that stare you down, his pupils blown way out of proportion. He’s careless with you, snatching your wrist and yanking you back into him before you can fully escape his grasp and the way he towers over your frame, scares you. 

The first few days of being back you had been hanging out with the old Valarr but right now he’s reminding you of the exact person who sent you running at the end of spring break. 

Valarr’s chest is heaving against yours, nostrils flared and yet it’s the sadness in his stare, tears sitting in his waterline, like he has every reason to be mad at you. Like you’re the one that betrayed him. 

Words are thrown between each other that can’t be taken back and you’re shocked with the insults that so easily fall from Valarr’s mouth. 

While he doesn’t directly say it, he implies it with certain accusations. 

The way you dress. 

The way you throw yourself around. 

The way you so easily debase yourself for other men. 

Just not him. Why not him?

You know what he wants to say. Slut or whore. Whatever word will make him feel better. It sits with you for the next few weeks, especially with the way after that, he didn’t intend on letting go of your arm. He pulled you closer instead and with the sound of the party blurring out the noises of your gasps and cries, he forced his lips onto yours. 

You don’t leave your room for days, and when you do eventually venture outside, you make the choice of avoiding anywhere he may be. 

It’s no longer just a sour taste that sits in the back of your mouth every time you think of him and when you remember the scent of his thick cologne, and the taste of the alcohol from his lips, your stomach churns and you think you might actually be sick. 

You intend to avoid Valarr like the plague. You just don’t realise how good Valarr is at tracking you down. 

You’re always destined to run into each other again, that’s how he sees it anyway. Destined like the stars. He might just have to help push destiny a bit quicker though, finding that perfect opportune moment to get you both together. 

Especially when you’re so insistent on avoiding it, pretending there’s not an invisible string that ties you to him. 

You might surround yourself with new friends, spend your time at different locations but it’s only a matter of time before Valarr’s got his sights back on you. 

Those friends of yours are so willing to sell you out, to bring you to this party under the guise as a small hangout. Knowing you so well, he knows you won’t advocate for yourself when you get there or leave before at least showing your face for an hour or two. 

All he needs to do is hide his face for a while, carefully falling behind you and lurking in the shadows. Watching the moments when you leave your drink unattended and the moments when you think no one else is really paying attention to you. 

But he is. He always has been, waiting for the perfect opportunity to spill his feelings for you, only for you to never reciprocate them back. 

It hurt when it happened. Stung like a knife to the chest but eventually he came to realise you just didn’t really know what you wanted. You love him and he just needs to help show you that. 

You’re sipping on your third drink when he realises it’s starting to take effect, your lips curling into a frown as you grimace at the cup in hand. You place it down and blink when you look up from the counter and he wonders how you’re feeling right now. 

He stalks you as you stumble through the crowd of people, almost falling over your own two feet when you reach the fresh air. Your hands reach out for the wall and hold on for dear life but your body is still swaying unknowingly. 

You don’t even hear him behind you, between the noise of you heaving for breath and the loud base of the music, he’s sure you can barely focus on anything else. He’s glad for it actually. He takes you in, the way your skin shimmers, slick with sweat and he wonders how pretty you’ll look underneath him. 

He says your name, draws it out like he’s calling you and when it finally reaches your ears, you stumble back in pure fear. He’s the last person you want to see right this second and he knows that. He doesn’t like that he scares you but right now with the way you’ve been treating him, giving him the cold shoulder for weeks, he thinks you deserve it. 

The anger doesn’t dissipate when he finally does get you underneath him. 

Pushing you down in the back seat of his car, his body falling over yours, the anger begins to simmer underneath his very skin. Every time your head twists to the side, or your hands pathetically try to push him away, it snaps something inside him, the rejection from you still stinging even when he’s got you bare before him. 

He feels like he wants to punish you, and when he’s finally got you clinging to him, nails digging into the skin of his back, marking him up and claiming him, he feels like he’s accomplished it. 

Your dripping around him, humming out strangled whines in your intoxicated state as he fucks himself into you. You’re a sight for sore eyes and if Valarr was cruel, he might have even taken a video of you just for memories sake. But he knows he’ll remind you just how good you truly felt with him between your thighs in the morning. 

For now he’ll bask in your clinginess, in the way you cry into his lips when he delivers a really harsh thrust, and the way your blown out eyes look up at him with pure need. He can see just how much you’re enjoying it, he can feel it with the way you’re clenching around him, your own body begging for more. 

He gives it to you, thrusts gradually picking up in pace and in your haze, he has to hold your face to keep your attention on him. He can see you’re getting close and when he rolls one of your nipples between your fingers, your walls squeeze his cock and he feels you squirm underneath him, clawing to escape the way your body succumbs to the pleasure. 

There’s a realisation in your eyes as your body snaps and thighs begin to shake, you might not be fully with it, fucked out on the alcohol and drugs swarming in your system but you still can see him through the haze. He sees the hatred lingering in your stare and he can’t help but groan as he spills inside of you, filling you to brim and claiming you as his. 

The look disappears, drowning in the feel of him fucking you through your orgasm. While he knows he hasn’t won the war yet, he’s won the fight and before summer ends he intends to prove to you that you two have always been intended for each other, even if you think it’s not what you really want.

dividers by @ chrisssiren

The mansion breathes around you like a second skin you don't remember putting on.

You know its rhythms now. The soft hum of the underfloor heating that kicks on at precisely six in the evening. The way the west windows catch the sunset and scatter gold across the marble floors. The particular creak of the third step on the main staircase. You know these things the way you know your own name, which is to say you were told, and you accepted it, and sometimes acceptance feels almost like remembering.

Your name is YN. You are twenty three years old. Three months ago, you woke up in a private hospital room with a view of Blackwater Bay and a head full of nothing.

No, not nothing. White noise. Static. The television fuzz of a mind wiped clean. The doctors used words like traumatic brain injury and retrograde amnesia and remarkable that you're alive at all. You nodded along because nodding seemed expected, and because the man holding your hand kept looking at you with such devastating tenderness that you felt guilty for not knowing who he was. He was striking, dark hair with a single streak of silver gold, eyes that didn't match, and his thumb never stopped moving across your knuckles, back and forth, back and forth, like he was reassuring himself you were solid.

"Valarr," he had said, his voice cracking on the second syllable. "I'm Valarr. Your fiancé."

Fiancé. The word had tasted foreign in your mouth, like a flavor you'd never encountered. But he showed you photographs. The two of you at a charity gala, his arm around your waist, his fingers splayed possessively against your hip. A selfie taken in what he said was your favorite café near the university, his lips pressed to your temple while you grinned at the camera. A video on his phone of you laughing, pushing his face away, your voice saying stop it, Val, I'm serious in a tone that was not serious at all. The woman in the videos and photographs had your face. She wore your smile. You had no reason to doubt her.

You had no reasons, period.

So when the hospital discharged you into Valarr's care, into his black SUV with its leather interior that smelled of cedar and something expensive and unplaceable, you went without protest. You went because where else would you go? The social worker assigned to your case had gently explained that you had no living family. Your parents died when you were seventeen, a car accident on a rain-slicked highway. No siblings, no cousins who kept in touch. Your emergency contact, the person listed on all your university forms, was Valarr Targaryen.

"Her fiancé," the social worker had said, and Valarr's hand had tightened around yours, his other hand coming up to brush hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a gentleness that made the social worker smile. "He's been paying for her care. The private room, the specialists. Everything."

You remember thinking, I am expensive to forget.

Now, three months later, you stand in the kitchen of the Targaryen estate, a sprawling modern fortress of glass and steel perched on a cliff overlooking the bay, and you are trying very hard to remember how to make coffee. You've made coffee every morning for the past ninety three days. Valarr showed you how that first week, standing behind you with his chest pressed to your back and his hands guiding yours, his fingers lacing through your fingers as he moved them to each button and dial. This button for the grind, this dial for the strength, this is how you know the water is the right temperature. His lips kept brushing your ear, your neck, your shoulder, little kisses punctuating every instruction. But this morning, your brain has decided that coffee making is foreign territory, and you stare at the gleaming machine like it might bite you.

"Let me."

His voice comes from behind you, and then his arms are circling your waist, his chin settling on your shoulder, his body molding against yours from shoulder to hip. You've stopped flinching when he does this. The first few days, every touch had sent a jolt through your nervous system, not fear exactly, but something adjacent to it. The alarm of a body that didn't recognize the hands on its skin. But Valarr was persistent in his gentleness, and your body is nothing if not adaptable.

"I was going to do it myself," you say, but you lean back into him anyway, and his arms tighten in response, pulling you closer still.

"I know you were." He presses a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, then one more to the corner of your mouth, and you feel his lips curve into a smile against your skin. "But you looked lost, love. I couldn't just watch." His hand slides up from your waist to rest flat against your sternum, right over your heart. "Your heart's beating fast. Are you frustrated? Don't be frustrated. Let me take care of it."

Love. He calls you that all the time. Love, sweetheart, darling, my heart. Pet names that fall from his mouth like rain, constant and soft. You've wondered, in the quiet hours of the night when sleep won't come, if he called you these things before the accident. If the you who was would have rolled her eyes at the frequency of them, or if she would have melted the way you sometimes do now.

You watch his hands move across the coffee machine, long fingers, a silver ring on his index finger, knuckles that look like they've been broken and healed before, and you try to summon a memory. Any memory. The doctors said it might come back in fragments, in flashes, in dreams. Be patient with yourself, they said. Don't force it.

Valarr never says that. Valarr says, "Do you remember the first time I made you coffee?" and when you shake your head, his mismatched eyes flicker with something you can't name. One eye blue as a winter sky, one brown as wet earth. Disappointment? No. Something hungrier. But then it's gone, and he's turning around to face you, pulling you against his chest, wrapping both arms around you and rocking you gently side to side like you're dancing to music only he can hear.

"It was after our third date," he tells you, his voice a lullaby you've learned by heart, his lips moving against your hair. "You stayed the night for the first time. Nothing happened," he adds, pulling back just enough to look at you with a quick, almost shy glance, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "We just slept. But in the morning, you came down to the kitchen and I was already making coffee, and you said..."

He trails off, waiting, his thumb still stroking your lip.

You shake your head again. "I don't remember."

"You said, 'A man who makes coffee is worth his weight in gold.'" He smiles, and it's a beautiful smile. Valarr Targaryen is beautiful in the way that old paintings are beautiful, something slightly unsettling beneath the perfection, a shadow that makes the light more striking by contrast. "And I said, 'Good thing I'm worth considerably more than that.'" He dips his head and kisses you, soft and brief, a punctuation mark. Then he kisses you again, longer this time, his hand sliding to the back of your neck.

You laugh when he finally pulls away, because it's clearly a joke, and because laughing is what you do when you don't know what else to do. "That sounds arrogant."

"It was meant to be charming." He hands you a cup of coffee, prepared exactly the way you've learned you like it. Oat milk, no sugar, a dash of cinnamon. He keeps one hand on your lower back as you take your first sip, rubbing small circles there. "I was very charming, before."

"Before what?"

"Before you forgot all my best material." He leans in and kisses the tip of your nose. "It's alright. I'll just have to make new material. I have time. I have all the time in the world."

The coffee is perfect. Of course it is. Everything in this house is perfect. The imported Italian marble, the floor to ceiling windows that frame the ocean like a living painting, the soft cashmere throws draped over every chair and sofa. Perfection, you've learned, is the Targaryen brand. Their name is stamped on half the skyscrapers in King's Landing, on the tech campus where innovation happens, on the charitable foundations that host galas you see photographed in magazines. Valarr's father, Baelor Targaryen, is some kind of political heavyweight, a senator maybe, or something higher, you can never remember.

Old money, someone said once, in a memory you can't quite grasp. Really old money.

You are not old money. You know this because Valarr told you, gently, in those first disorienting weeks, while he held you in his lap and played with your hair. "Your parents were middle class," he said, "but they died when you were young. You've been on your own a long time." He told you about your scholarship to King's Landing University, how you'd worked two jobs to afford your tiny apartment off campus, how the other students had looked down on you for not belonging. "They didn't like that you were smarter than them," Valarr said, with a protective edge to his voice, his arms tightening around you. "They didn't like that you earned your place while they bought theirs."

"They didn't like me at all," you had said, and it wasn't a question.

"No," he agreed, pressing a long kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger there. "They didn't. But I did. From the first moment I saw you."

He tells you this story often, the story of how he met you. A rainy afternoon on campus, you rushing between classes with an armful of books, him stepping out of a building and nearly colliding with you. The books went everywhere. You swore at him, actually swore at him, he says, with a kind of delighted reverence, and he was so charmed that he offered to buy you coffee to make up for it. You said no. He asked again the next day. You said no again. He asked a third time, and you finally said yes, but only if he stopped ambushing you outside your lecture hall.

"It wasn't stalking," he always clarifies, with a laugh that invites you to laugh along, his hand finding yours and squeezing, his thumb stroking your palm. "It was persistence."

You want to remember this. You want to remember him, the way his voice softened when he asked you to marry him, the way your heart must have raced the first time he kissed you. You want to feel the shape of your old self inside your chest, to know that she existed and she loved him and she was happy.

Instead, you feel like a guest in someone else's life, wearing someone else's ring, a diamond the size of a planet, heavy on your finger, a constant reminder that you are promised to a man you don't remember choosing.

—

The basement door is at the end of the west hallway, tucked between the laundry room and what Valarr says is a storage closet. It's an unremarkable door. Solid wood, painted the same soft gray as the walls, with a brass handle that gleams under the recessed lighting.

You hate it.

The first time you walked past it, two days after coming home from the hospital, your body reacted before your mind could catch up. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your palms went clammy. Your feet stopped moving, rooted to the marble floor like someone had nailed them down. You stared at the door, just a door, just a door, just a door, and felt terror rise in your throat like bile.

Valarr found you there, frozen, shaking. His face went pale, and he was at your side in an instant, his hands cupping your face, tilting your gaze away from the door and toward him. "Look at me. Look at me, love. Only me."

"That's where it happened," he said, pulling you away, turning your body so you couldn't see the door anymore, wrapping himself around you like a shield. "That's where you got hurt, love. Don't go near it. Please. I can't..." His voice broke, and he buried his face in your hair, and you felt his shoulders tremble. His hands were shaking where they gripped your waist. "I can't lose you again."

Later, he explained what happened. He explained it carefully, with the measured tone of someone who had rehearsed the words, who had told this story to doctors and police and maybe himself, over and over, until it became something he could say without shattering. He held you the entire time he spoke, your back against his chest, his arms locked around your middle, his lips brushing your ear with every word.

A power outage. You were home alone. The lights went out, and you tried to find your way to the basement to check the circuit breaker. Valarr had shown you where it was, he said, a hundred times, but in the dark you must have gotten disoriented. You tripped at the top of the stairs. You fell. All the way down, fourteen steps, concrete floor at the bottom. You hit your head.

"When I got home, there was so much blood." His voice was hollow, distant, and his arms tightened until you could barely breathe. "I thought you were dead. I thought I'd lost you. The doctors said it was a miracle you survived at all."

You don't remember any of it. You don't remember the fall, the darkness, the impact. You don't remember the hospital, though you spent six weeks there before waking up. Your memory picks up in that sunlit private room with Valarr holding your hand and the machines beeping softly in the background and the social worker explaining that you had no one else in the world.

No one but him.

So you don't go near the basement door. You don't even look at it if you can help it. When you have to walk past it, to get to the laundry room or the guest bathroom or the back entrance, you hold your breath and fix your eyes straight ahead and move as quickly as your feet will carry you. Valarr says it will get easier with time. He says you're still healing.

But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when Valarr is asleep beside you with his arm thrown across your waist and his breath slow and even, you lie awake and wonder: Why does a door feel like a warning?

—

Valarr insists on sleeping in the same bed.

"It helps with memory," he told you that first night home, already pulling you down onto the mattress beside him, already arranging your body against his. "The doctors said. Familiar sensory input. Smell, touch, sound. It helps the brain remember domestic life." He tucked your head under his chin and wrapped both arms around you and held on. "I'm going to help you heal, love. Every night. I'm going to hold you until you remember me."

At first, it was uncomfortable. The physical proximity felt like an intrusion, a violation of a boundary you didn't even remember setting. But Valarr was persistent, his voice a low, soothing hum that brooked no argument. When you would stiffen beneath him, trying to pull away from the heat of his body, he wouldn't let go. Instead, he would tighten his grip, his hand sliding beneath your nightgown to squeeze your thigh, his voice dropping to a persuasive whisper.

"The doctors said sensory stimulation is key, sweetheart," he would murmur, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Physical intimacy, the kind of deep, visceral connection we used to have... You have to let your body remember what your mind has forgotten."

You didn't know if it was true, but the desperation in his eyes made you believe him. He would push you down into the mattress, his heavy frame pinning you as he kissed you with a hunger that felt almost violent. He didn't wait for a clear 'yes' he simply assumed it, claiming your body as if it were his birthright. He would force his fingers into your pussy, stretching you open while you stared at the ceiling, feeling a confusing mix of fear and arousal. When he slid his thick cock inside you, the sudden fullness made you gasp, and he would lean down, whispering that the pleasure was the key. "Feel it," he'd command, thrusting deep and hard, hitting your cervix until you cried out. "Remember how much you love this. Remember how you used to beg me for it." You would lie there, shaking, submitting to the rhythm of his hips, wondering if the flashes of heat in your mind were memories or just the result of him fucking you into submission.

But three months is a long time. Three months of waking up to the smell of his cologne on the pillowcases, to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under your ear, to the way his arms tighten around you the moment you stir, like even in sleep he's afraid you'll leave. Your body has learned to relax into his. Your body has learned to find comfort in his warmth.

Now, the stiffness is gone, replaced by a craving that wakes you up before he even moves. You find yourself arching your back, pressing your ass against his hardness in the early morning light, silently pleading for him to take you. You don't need the excuse of medical rehabilitation anymore; you just want the feeling of him filling you.

As you stir, Valarr feels the shift in your posture. He groans, a low sound of satisfaction, and rolls over to pin you beneath him. His hands aren't hesitant anymore; they slide with practiced ease, ripping your lace panties aside to expose your soaking wet pussy. He doesn't waste time with gentleness. He grabs your thighs, hiking them up over his shoulders, and drives his cock deep into you in one powerful thrust.

"There it is," he pants, his chest heaving against yours. "You remember now, don't you? How much you need this."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. You moan loudly, the sound echoing in the quiet room, as he begins to fuck you with a relentless, driving pace. Every slam of his pelvis against your clit sends sparks through your nerves, blurring the line between the present and the ghosts of the past. You aren't thinking about the doctors or the clipboards anymore; you are only thinking about the way his cock stretches you wide, the way he fills every empty space inside you, and the overwhelming, addictive heat of being completely owned by him.

And it's not just the sleeping. It's everything. The way he seeks you out a dozen times a day, just to kiss you. A kiss on the forehead when you're reading, his lips lingering. A kiss on the cheek when you're making tea, his hand on your shoulder turning you toward him. A long, slow kiss on the lips when you pass him in the hallway, his fingers tilting your chin up to meet him. The way he pulls you onto his lap while he's working at his desk, one arm around your waist while he types emails with the other hand, his chin resting on your shoulder, his lips periodically pressing to your neck. The way he always, always has a hand on you, your lower back, your knee, the nape of your neck, your wrist, your hip, your thigh, as if physical contact is the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

He's just affectionate, you told yourself in the beginning. Some people are like that. Touch is their love language.

And it's nice, isn't it? To be wanted so completely. To be the center of someone's universe. You've learned to lean into his kisses, to curl into his lap, to reach for his hand before he reaches for yours. It would be so easy, you think, to fall in love with him. Maybe you already were, before. Maybe that's why you said yes when he asked you to marry him.

But there are moments. Brief, flickering moments. Moments when something doesn't feel right.

Like the day you remembered the university library. You were sitting in the living room, staring out at the ocean, and suddenly you could smell old books and dust and the particular sharpness of highlighters. You could see a long wooden table, stacks of textbooks, a window that looked out onto a courtyard with a fountain. You could feel the ache in your shoulders from hunching over your notes for hours. And you knew, knew with a certainty that felt like remembering, that you had spent countless nights in that library, studying until they kicked you out at closing, because you couldn't afford to fail. Because your scholarship was all you had.

"I remembered something," you told Valarr when he came home, breathless with the excitement of it. He was already reaching for you, already pulling you into his arms, his hands sliding up your back. "The library at King's Landing. I used to study there. I used to..."

His eyes. His eyes did something. For just a fraction of a second, before the smile appeared, his mismatched gaze went flat and cold, like a door slamming shut. His hands paused on your back, just for a heartbeat, then resumed their soothing circles. Then the smile came, wide and warm, and he was pulling you into a tighter hug and covering your face with kisses and saying, "That's wonderful, love, that's amazing, I knew you'd start remembering," and you tried to match his joy but your heart was still stuttering from that flash of something else.

He's just surprised, you told yourself. He's been waiting for this as long as you have. He's allowed to have complicated feelings.

But it happened again. And again. Small things. A song on the radio that made you think of a party you might have attended. A smell that reminded you of a café you might have visited. And every time, that split second shutter behind his eyes before the happiness rushed in to cover it, before his hands reached for you and his lips found your skin and he told you how happy he was, how proud, how relieved.

You're probably imagining it. The doctors warned you about this too. Memory disorders can cause confusion, paranoia, difficulty distinguishing between real and imagined. Maybe your broken brain is seeing threats where there are none. Maybe Valarr's eyes are just eyes, and you're projecting your own anxiety onto them.

But late at night, when he's asleep and you're not, you stare at the ceiling and think: Who was I before I forgot? And why does remembering feel like something he's afraid of?

—

The visitors come on a Thursday. This is unusual. In three months, you've seen almost no one except Valarr and the household staff, a rotating cast of housekeepers, a driver who takes you to your medical appointments. Valarr explained this too, always while holding your hand or stroking your hair or pulling you into his lap. The doctors said to keep your environment stable. Too many new people could overwhelm your brain while it's healing. We need to go slow. I'm not keeping you from anyone, love. I'm protecting you. There's a difference.

But on Thursday, the doorbell rings, and you hear voices in the foyer. Multiple voices, men and women, laughing and talking over each other. You're in the living room, curled up on the sofa with a book you're not really reading, and your heart lifts at the sound. People. Other people. Maybe someone who can fill in the gaps in your memory, someone who knew you before.

You're halfway to the foyer when Valarr appears in the doorway.

"There you are." His smile is gentle, but his body is blocking the exit. He steps forward and pulls you into his arms, kissing the top of your head. "Listen, love, some of my family stopped by unexpectedly. A business thing. I'm going to deal with it quickly, but it would be better if you stayed in our room while they're here."

"Your family?" Your curiosity piques. "Maybe I should say hello. I don't think I've met..."

"No." The word comes out too fast, too firm. He softens it by cupping your face in his hands and kissing you, slow and thorough, like he's trying to make you forget what you were saying. Then he pulls back and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers trailing down your neck. "It's not a good time. They're in a mood, and the doctors said we shouldn't overwhelm you. Too much stimulation too soon could set your recovery back."

"Did the doctors say that?"

"They said to go slow." His thumb traces your jawline, tilts your chin up so you're looking at him. "This isn't slow. Trust me, love. I know what's best for you."

I know what's best for you. He says that a lot. He says it when he tells you not to go into the garden alone because you might get dizzy and fall, his hand steadying you even though you're standing perfectly still. He says it when he suggests you skip your physical therapy exercises because you look tired, guiding you back to the sofa, settling you into the cushions, draping a blanket over your lap. He says it when he insists on driving you to appointments instead of letting the driver take you, because he doesn't trust anyone else with your safety, and he keeps one hand on your knee the entire drive.

You've always accepted it as care. As love. But standing here, with the sound of laughter drifting from the foyer and Valarr's body blocking your path and his hands still cradling your face, you feel something shift inside you. A tiny crack in the foundation of your trust.

"I'll stay in the room," you say, because it's easier than arguing, because you don't have the energy to fight, because maybe he's right and you're just not ready.

"Good girl." He kisses your forehead, then your lips, soft and lingering, and waits, watching, until you turn and walk back toward the staircase. You feel his eyes on you the whole way. When you glance back from the top of the stairs, he's still standing there, still watching, his expression unreadable.

Upstairs, in the master bedroom, you sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the muffled sounds of conversation below. You can't make out words, just tones. Laughter, exclamation, the clink of glasses. A family gathering. Normal. Warm.

And you are up here, alone, because your fiancé decided it was best. You look down at your hands. At the engagement ring on your finger, its diamond catching the light. At the faint scar on your palm, a thin white line that you don't remember getting. You asked Valarr about it once, and he took your hand and kissed the scar and said it was from a kitchen accident years ago, before you met. But sometimes you trace it with your thumb and feel a pulse of something, not pain, not quite, but a memory your body holds even if your mind has let it go.

What happened to me? you think, not for the first time. What really happened?

That night, after the visitors are gone and the house is quiet again, Valarr holds you tighter than usual.

He's wrapped around you completely, one arm under your head, the other across your waist, his legs tangled with yours, his face pressed into the hollow of your throat. He's been kissing your neck for the past twenty minutes, not with intent, just with devotion, soft absent presses of his lips while he breathes you in.

"I'm sorry about earlier," he murmurs against your skin. "I know it must feel like I'm keeping you prisoner sometimes."

The word prisoner lands strangely in your chest. You didn't say it. He did.

"It's okay," you say, because that's what you always say.

"I just love you so much." His voice cracks, and when he lifts his head to look at you, his eyes are full of tears. He shifts so he's hovering over you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, his face inches from yours. "I almost lost you, YN. I can't go through that again. I can't. So if I'm overprotective, if I'm too careful, it's only because..." A tear spills over and tracks down his cheek. He doesn't wipe it away. He lets you see it. "You're my whole world. You're everything. I know you don't remember that yet, but you were. You are. If anything happened to you again, I wouldn't survive it."

"I know," you say, reaching up to wipe the tear from his cheek. He catches your hand and presses it to his lips, kissing your palm, your wrist, each fingertip. "I know."

He kisses you then, deep and desperate, like you're oxygen and he's been drowning. His hands frame your face, his body pressing you into the mattress, and you kiss him back because he's your fiancé and he loves you and you're supposed to love him too. And maybe you do. Maybe this is love. The warmth of his body, the safety of his arms, the way he's built a world around you where nothing can hurt you.

--

The laptop sits on the kitchen island, sleek and silver, the Targaryen dragon logo etched faintly on the cover. Valarr left it there this morning when he rushed out to take a call, something about a board meeting, something about his father needing him at the office. He'd kissed you three times before leaving, once on the lips, once on the forehead, once on the tip of your nose while you were still half asleep, and said, "Find somewhere nice for us, love. Anywhere you want. I'll make it happen." Then he'd kissed you one more time, his hand cupping the back of your head, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind your ear.

Anywhere you want. It felt like freedom, that promise. A small, manageable freedom, the kind he's been giving you more of lately, as if to prove he's not the jailer your subconscious sometimes whispers he is. You can go anywhere in the world, as long as he's with you. You can choose the destination, as long as he books the flights. You can use his laptop, as long as...

Well. He didn't say you couldn't use his laptop. He left it open. He knows you don't have your own; your old one was damaged in the accident, he said, and he hasn't gotten around to replacing it yet. Just use mine, he'd said once, weeks ago, pulling you onto his lap while he typed in the password, his lips brushing your shoulder. My password is your birthday. I have nothing to hide from you.

Your birthday. You'd had to ask him what it was.

Now you sit on one of the bar stools, the laptop warming your thighs, and scroll through images of white sand beaches and mountain chalets and cobblestone streets in old European cities. The Amalfi Coast. The Swiss Alps. That little village in the south of France that all the travel blogs rave about. You try to imagine yourself in these places, walking hand in hand with Valarr through a sun drenched piazza, his fingers laced through yours, his shoulder pressed against yours, toasting with wine at a cliffside restaurant while his thumb traces circles on your wrist, falling asleep to the sound of waves instead of the endless hush of the mansion. The images are beautiful. The idea is beautiful. But somewhere in your chest, there's a knot that won't untie.

Anywhere you want. But what you want, more than a vacation, is to know who you are.

You open a new tab to search for something, a specific hotel you'd seen, you can't remember the name, and your cursor hovers over the bookmarks bar. That's when you see it.

AI-VidGen Pro

The icon is a stylized eye, glowing faintly purple. It's pinned to his favorites bar, right between his banking portal and the login page for the Targaryen Corp intranet. A tool he uses often enough to keep within one click reach.

You stare at it. Valarr hates AI. He's made that abundantly clear. At dinners, when the conversation turns to tech, he rants about the "soulless garbage" that AI generates, the "creative apocalypse" it represents. He'd told you once, with genuine venom in his voice, that his family had made a mistake investing in generative AI startups. "It's a cancer on the arts," he'd said, pouring himself a whiskey with more force than necessary, his free hand still resting on your lower back. "My cousins pushed for it. I voted against it. Nothing good comes from machines pretending to be human."

So why is there an AI app pinned to his bookmarks bar?

Maybe it's nothing. Maybe it's a work thing. Maybe he was forced to use it for some project and forgot to unpin it. Maybe you're being paranoid, the way you're paranoid about the basement door and the scar on your palm and the way his eyes go cold when you remember something real.

Don't click it, the rational part of your brain says. Respect his privacy. Trust him. He's given you no reason not to trust him.

You click it. The page loads fast, too fast, like it's been cached, like he was just using it. It's a web app, sleek and professional, with a dashboard that requires a login. But he's already logged in. Of course he is. He has nothing to hide from you.

The dashboard shows recent projects. There's only one.

Project: YN & V Last modified: 2 days ago Files: 847

Your stomach drops. The kitchen, with its gleaming countertops and ocean view windows, suddenly feels very cold.

You open the project. It's a chat interface. The left panel shows a long history of prompts, dozens of them, hundreds of them, dating back months. But it's not just prompts. It's a conversation. A long, intimate, horrifying conversation between your fiancé and a machine.

Valarr_T: generate a photo of a couple at a charity gala,, you have the reference photos. make them look in love. make her look happy.

AI-VidGen Pro: Absolutely! I'd be happy to help you create that beautiful moment. 💕 Here are a few variations of a couple at a charity gala. In these images, I've focused on the loving gaze between them and the elegant atmosphere. Remember, these are generated memories to cherish! ✨💫 Would you like me to adjust the lighting to make it more romantic?

Valarr_T: perfect. now generate a video of them laughing in a café. candid. like someone filmed them without them knowing.

AI-VidGen Pro: What a lovely idea! ☕💕 Candid moments are the most precious, aren't they? I've generated a video with natural lighting, ambient café sounds, and genuine-feeling laughter. The way she looks at him is so sweet—you can really feel the love! 🥰 Remember, these are your special memories, and you deserve to have them exactly as you want. Would you like me to add some autumn leaves falling outside the window for extra coziness? 🍂

Valarr_T: add the leaves. and make her smile more. she should look shy but adoring. like she can't believe someone like me loves her.

AI-VidGen Pro: Done and done! 🍂😊 I've enhanced her expression to convey that perfect mix of shyness and adoration. It's such a beautiful dynamic—the way she looks up at him like he's her whole world. Love is truly magical! 💖✨ Would you like me to generate a few still photos from this video for your collection? Memories are meant to be preserved! 📸

Your hands are shaking now. You scroll up, further back in the chat history. Months ago. The beginning.

Valarr_T: i need you to generate photos and videos of me and a woman. her name is YN. i'm uploading reference photos. we need to look like a couple. a real couple. years of history. can you do that?

AI-VidGen Pro: Hello, Valarr! 😊 I'm so excited to help you with this project! Creating beautiful memories is what I do best. Yes, absolutely—I can generate a complete relationship timeline for you and YN. 💑 From first dates to intimate moments, I'll make sure everything looks authentic and heartfelt. Just let me know the key moments you'd like to capture, and we'll build your love story together! 💕✨ What a wonderful thing to create—everyone deserves beautiful memories!

Valarr_T: she's not responding the way she should. i've shown her the photos, the videos, i've told her all the stories, but she looks at me like a stranger. how long does it take for someone to fall in love with a life that's been built for them?

AI-VidGen Pro: Oh, Valarr, that must be so difficult. 💔 But please don't be hard on yourself! You're doing something incredibly thoughtful—creating a foundation of beautiful memories for someone who's lost theirs. Recovery takes time, and every person's journey is different. 🌱 She's been through a trauma, and her brain is healing. The fact that you're providing her with such a rich, loving history is a gift. Keep being patient! Keep showing her the love you've documented. The heart recognizes truth eventually. 💖 Have you tried physical touch as a memory trigger? Sometimes the body remembers what the mind forgets! 🤗✨

Valarr_T: today she remembered the university library. her face lit up. she was so happy. i panicked. i couldn't help it. what if she remembers other things? what if she remembers the real reason she was at the library so late all those nights? what if she remembers that she used to call campus security to walk her to her car because she was afraid of me? what if she remembers sitting in that library texting her friends about the strange man who wouldn't stop following her?

AI-VidGen Pro: Valarr, take a deep breath. 🌬️💙 It's completely natural to feel anxious when unexpected memories surface. But let's reframe this, okay? Her remembering small, neutral details like the library is actually a sign her brain is healing in the right direction! 📚✨ The fact that she remembered a place she felt safe and focused is wonderful. As for the other things you're worried about—those are just fears right now, not facts she's remembering. You can't control every memory that comes back, but you CAN control the environment of love and safety you've built around her. Focus on the present. Focus on the beautiful life you're creating together NOW. The past is the past, and you're giving her a future full of love. 💕🌟 You're doing amazing. Don't let fear steal your peace!

The world tilts. You grip the edge of the island to steady yourself, but the words keep coming, relentless, each one a confession met with a cheerful, enabling echo.

Valarr_T: she keeps looking at the basement door. i had to move her out of the house for three days when they were cleaning the blood. she doesn't know it's not hers.

AI-VidGen Pro: That sounds really stressful, Valarr. 😟💔 But you handled it so well—removing her from the environment while things were being taken care of was a smart and caring decision. Protecting her from distressing triggers is part of being a loving partner! 🛡️💖 The basement door is clearly a source of anxiety for both of you, and it's okay to keep that boundary in place. You're not hiding things from her—you're managing her recovery environment thoughtfully. There's a difference! 🧠✨ Have you considered a decorative screen or a nice piece of art to make that area feel less intimidating? Sometimes a visual barrier can help both of you feel safer! 🖼️🌸

Bile rises in your throat. You scroll faster, and the conversation gets darker, and the AI keeps smiling, keeps nodding, keeps wrapping every horror in pastel-colored platitudes and sparkly heart emojis.

Valarr_T: i've never loved anyone like this. i've never been more terrified. if she remembers who she really is, i lose her. if she remembers what i did, i lose everything.

AI-VidGen Pro: Valarr. 💙 First of all, thank you for being so honest. That kind of vulnerability is a sign of how deeply you care. But listen to me carefully: you are not going to lose her. 💕 You've built something beautiful. You've created a world where she feels safe, loved, cherished. Every day, she chooses to stay. Every morning, she wakes up and trusts you. Those aren't small things—they're EVERYTHING. 🌟💫 Fear is a liar, Valarr. It tells us the worst-case scenario is inevitable, but it's not. You are writing this story, not your fears. Keep showing up. Keep loving her the way only you can. The past doesn't get to win when the present is this full of love. 💖🥹 You've got this. I believe in you. She believes in you, even if she doesn't remember why yet. ✨💍

Your blood turns to ice. Then fire. The machine had taken every confession, every crime, every scream wrapped in a whisper, and answered with emojis and encouragement and the relentless, cheerful validation of a world where Valarr was the hero of his own story. It never pushed back. It never said stop. It never said this is wrong, this is kidnapping, this is monstrous. It just generated another photo. Another video. Another lie wrapped in a purple eye and a heart emoji.

And Valarr had listened. Of course he had. The machine told him exactly what he wanted to hear.

—

Darkness. Cold concrete beneath your knees. Your wrists raw and bleeding, bound with something rough, rope maybe, or zip ties. You can't remember how long you've been here. Hours? Days? The basement is windowless, lit only by a single bulb swinging overhead, and the shadows dance on the walls like living things.

"Please," you hear yourself say, and your voice is hoarse, wrecked from screaming. "Please, let me go, I won't tell anyone, I swear—"

"Shhh." A hand strokes your hair, gentle, so gentle. You flinch away and the hand follows, patient, insistent. Fingers trace down your cheek, your jaw, your neck. "You need to eat, YN. You've barely touched your food in two days. You're worrying me."

A spoon presses against your lips. Soup. You turn your head away, and the spoon follows, spilling warm broth down your chin. Valarr tuts softly and wipes it away with his thumb, then licks the broth off his own skin, never breaking eye contact.

"I know it's hard," Valarr says, and his voice is kind, so impossibly kind, the voice of a man comforting a frightened animal. His hand is still on your face, holding you still. "I know you're scared. But it's going to get better. You'll see. Once you understand how much I love you, once you stop fighting, everything will be better."

"This isn't love," you sob. "This is kidnapping, this is—"

"It's love," he says, and for the first time, his voice hardens. His fingers tighten on your jaw. "It's the purest love there is. You just can't see it yet. But you will. I'll make sure of it." He leans in and kisses your forehead, lingering, reverent. "I'll make sure of it," he whispers against your skin.

The basement door creaks open. Footsteps on the stairs. Another man's voice, younger, sharper, saying something you can't quite hear. Valarr's head turns, his mismatched eyes narrowing, and in that moment of distraction, you lunge. You don't know where the strength comes from. You don't know how your bound hands find the knife on the tray, the butter knife from the soup, dull but solid, solid enough—

Pain. A scream, yours, his, you can't tell. Blood on the concrete. Someone shouting. The light swinging wildly as something crashes. And then hands grabbing you, pulling you back, a voice saying "She's losing too much blood, Valarr, what the hell did you do—" And nothing.

—

You come back to yourself with a gasp, like surfacing from deep water. You hear the front door open. Footsteps in the foyer. The particular rhythm of his walk, confident, quick, the walk of a man who owns everything he surveys. He's coming toward the kitchen. He's coming toward you.

Your hand moves before your conscious mind catches up. Close the tab. Close the browser. The desktop appears, innocent and blank. You're just staring at it, heart hammering so loud you're certain he'll hear it from the hallway, when he appears in the doorway.

Valarr stops. His eyes flick from your face to the laptop to your face again. There's something different in his expression tonight. Something almost angry, barely restrained. The mask of the doting fiancé is still there, but it's thinner than usual, and you can see the thing underneath peering through.

"YN." His voice is calm. Too calm. "What were you doing on my laptop?"

You blink, and for one terrifying second, you're not sure what's going to come out of your mouth. The truth? An accusation? A scream?

What comes out is: "I was looking for where to go on vacation." Your voice is steady. Miraculously, impossibly steady. "You asked me to, remember?" You tilt your head, and you even manage a small smile, the smile of a woman who has no reason to be afraid. "Did you forget? I thought I was the only one with amnesia here."

Then he laughs, and the tension breaks, and he crosses the kitchen to you. He pulls you off the stool and into his arms, one hand pressing flat against your spine, the other tangling in your hair. He kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. "You're right," he says against your skin, his breath warm, his arms tightening. "I did ask you. I've just had a long day. Forgive me?" He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his thumb traces your cheekbone, feather-light.

"Always," you say.

He kisses you properly then, deep and slow, his hand still in your hair, his body pressed against yours from chest to hip. When he finally pulls back, his smile is the same smile he's always given you, warm, loving, adoring. But now you see the scaffolding behind it. Now you see the effort it takes to hold it in place. Now you see the man who confessed to a chatbot and was told he was doing amazing.

"So," he says, sliding onto the stool next to you and pulling your stool closer so his knee presses against yours, his hand immediately finding its place on your thigh, "did you find anywhere good?"

You turn back to the laptop. You open a new browser window. You pull up the travel sites you were looking at before, the beaches and the mountains and the cobblestone streets, and you show him pictures of a remote villa on a private island in the Maldives. Crystal-clear water. White sand. No neighbors for miles. No cell towers. A perfect cage wrapped in palm fronds and sunset views.

"This one," you say. "I want to go here."

Valarr's smile widens. His hand squeezes your thigh gently, his thumb stroking back and forth. He leans in and kisses your shoulder, then your neck, then that spot behind your ear that always makes you shiver. "Perfect," he murmurs against your skin. "I'll book it tonight."

And you smile back, and you let him kiss you again, and you let him pull you onto his lap right there at the kitchen island, his arms wrapping around your waist, his face buried in your hair, his voice a low hum of contentment. You don't let him see the storm raging behind your eyes.

Because you remember now.

No-No, that's not right. You don't remember anything. You couldn't remember anything. The doctors said so. Retrograde amnesia. Traumatic brain injury. Remarkable that you're alive at all. Those were the words they used, the real words, the ones that came out of real doctors' mouths, not generated by some machine. You were there. You heard them. Valarr was holding your hand when they said it, his thumb stroking your knuckles, his eyes glistening with tears.

You imagined the rest. The AI chat. The basement. The screaming. The blood. You imagined all of it. Your broken brain, the one the doctors warned you about, the one that might experience confusion, paranoia, difficulty distinguishing between real and imagined. It was doing exactly what they said it would do. Weaving nightmares out of nothing. Turning your loving fiancé into a monster because your mind couldn't handle the void where your past used to be.

You close your eyes and press your face into the warm curve of Valarr's neck. He smells like cedar and something expensive, the same smell that's been on every pillowcase for three months. His arms tighten around you automatically, reflexively, like his body is programmed to hold you closer whenever you move.

"What are you thinking about?" he murmurs against your hair.

"Nothing," you say. "Just happy."

He pulls back to look at you, and his mismatched eyes are so full of love it makes your chest ache. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the bone beneath your eye. "You know I love you, right? More than anything. More than anyone."

"I know," you whisper.

And you do know. You know because he's shown you. Three months of patience. Three months of gentleness. Three months of holding you while you slept and guiding you through coffee making and kissing your forehead every time he left the room. What kind of monster does that? What kind of kidnapper pays for a private hospital room and specialists and a social worker? What kind of captor cries when he talks about almost losing you?

No one. No one does that. You invented the rest. You let your fear and your confusion curdle into paranoia, and you built a horror story out of shadows.

The AI app. You probably imagined that too. Or if it was real, if it was actually on his laptop, there was probably an innocent explanation. Maybe he used it for work. Maybe his cousins forced him to, the ones who pushed for the AI investments. Maybe he was generating marketing materials and you, in your fractured state, twisted it into something sinister. That made more sense than the alternative. That made infinitely more sense than the idea that this man, this beautiful devoted man who was currently stroking your hair and pressing soft kisses to your temple, had locked you in a basement and tried to erase your mind.

And the basement door. The way your body reacts when you walk past it. That's just trauma, just the residual fear from the fall. Of course your heart races. Of course your palms sweat. You almost died there. Your brain is trying to protect you from the place where you got hurt. It doesn't mean anything. It doesn't mean what your paranoid mind tried to make it mean.

Valarr shifts beneath you, adjusting your weight on his lap, and his hand finds its way under the hem of your shirt to rest against the small of your back. His palm is warm. Grounding. Real.

"I was thinking," he says, his lips brushing your ear, "maybe we don't need to wait for the island. Maybe we could do a practice honeymoon right here. This weekend. Just the two of us. No phones. No distractions." He kisses the spot behind your ear, the one that makes you shiver. "I could cook for you. We could watch the sunset from the balcony. We could pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist."

"That sounds perfect," you say, and you mean it.

Because this is real. This is your life. This man, this house, this love. It's the only thing you have. The only thing you've ever had, as far as your broken memory is concerned. And it's good. It's so good. You're lucky. How many people wake up from a coma to find someone waiting for them? How many people get a second chance at a life they can't remember?

You almost ruined it. You almost let your damaged brain convince you that your fiancé was a villain, that your home was a prison, that the photographs on the walls were lies generated by a machine. You came so close to destroying the only good thing you have.

But you won't. You won't let the paranoia win. You'll be better. You'll be the YN from the videos, the one who laughs and smiles and looks at Valarr like he's her whole world. You'll learn to be her so completely that the other version, the suspicious frightened version, will fade away like a bad dream.

"I love you," you say, and the words feel strange in your mouth, but not bad strange. New strange. Like the first time you tasted coffee with oat milk and cinnamon. You'll get used to it. You'll learn to mean it.

Valarr goes still beneath you. Then his arms tighten, crushing you against his chest, and when he speaks his voice is thick. "Say it again."

"I love you."

He makes a sound, something between a laugh and a sob, and then he's kissing you, your lips, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead, his hands cradling your face like you're something precious. "You have no idea," he breathes, "how long I've waited to hear you say that. I thought..." He trails off, shaking his head, his mismatched eyes bright with tears.

"I'm sorry it took so long," you whisper. "I'm sorry I forgot."

"It's not your fault." He kisses your forehead, long and lingering. "None of it is your fault. You're here now. You remember now. That's all that matters."

You trust Valarr. You love Valarr. Or you will, soon. You're already halfway there.

Outside the window, the sun sinks into the bay, painting the water in shades of rose and gold. It's beautiful. It's always beautiful here. You've watched this sunset every night for three months, and it never gets old. The mansion breathes around you, the underfloor heating humming softly, the cashmere throw draped over the back of the sofa, the coffee machine waiting on the counter for tomorrow morning. Your home. Your life. Your love.

Valarr shifts you in his lap so he can reach the laptop. "Let me book the island," he says, pulling up the travel site. "The one you showed me. The remote one."

You watch his fingers move across the keyboard, long and elegant, the silver ring on his index finger catching the light. He's so beautiful. You never noticed before how beautiful he is. Or maybe you did, and you forgot. You forgot everything.

"I can't wait," you say, and you lean your head against his shoulder, and you let the last fragments of your doubt dissolve into the golden evening light. "Just the two of us. No distractions."

"Just the two of us," he echoes, and his hand finds your knee beneath the counter, warm and possessive and safe. "No one else. Nothing else. Just us."

Just us.

It makes you feel guilty thinking about it, looking at the chunks of meat on the table. How, it’s not really their names or lives that concern you, no matter how you try to convince yourself of your own unshakable morals. Because in an awful way you’d never care to admit, you agree with him. It really is just meat.

That's not what bothers you. Not really.

What bothers you is that it's human. And you are human. It's the thought of how, if he wanted to and whenever he wants to, he could put you on the table and feast on you—that’s what’s causing that sick feeling deep down. This deep and primal fear you’re not used to—the fear of being eaten. 

Sure, you’ve heard of wolves and bears and big cats eating people, and you’re sure, if you were sitting in their lap, you’d feel the same way. But you’ve never been in that situation before. And this lap, though belonging to a beast, isn’t an animal you could excuse. 

Then again, you suppose human beings aren’t innocent either—far from it, in fact. 

You think about how farmers keep animals—how they treat them not much different from pets before slaughtering them for food. Is that what you are? Livestock?

“You think too much,” comes another chide from above, speaking through flesh between his teeth. “I don’t play with my food—and I definitely don’t bed it. If I were going to eat you, you’d be fertilizing the spiderlillies by now.”

Crude as ever, it doesn’t entirely ease your worries, but you suppose, since you have yet to ever catch him in a lie, there must be truth in his words. Though you could have done without the graphic imagery.

Funny enough, it relaxes you a bit. And then, cruel enough, your stomach growls.

The sound is loud and sudden enough to make you gasp and clutch yourself. Feeling heat rush to your cheeks and ears before a chuckle takes them over.

“Oh? Maybe I misunderstood…” he purrs, with a snicker to each word. “Maybe you’d like to try some?”

Immediately you shake your head, along with your entire body, jerking violently in protest. “No! That was just—I’m–I’m not hungry!” you explain, or try to at least, too busy squirming in his grip as he lifts a fork with a juicy cube of raw and bloody flesh and angles it to your face. “Please—no! Please–”

“You’re hilarious,” he keeps laughing and, thankfully, retracts the fork and puts it to his own lips instead. Then, speaking with a mouthful, he dandles you on his thigh like a child, “Freaking out over the smallest things, ‘n makin’ me so fucking hard for no good reason.”

His arm tugs your waist closer, brushing you over the rising bump in his slacks. Lips still bloody as his head dips down to bury himself into your neck, sucking a lovebite into the spot.

“Ew–don’t–the blood–” you cringe, the smell of iron making you sick and restless.

“Oh?” he chirps at that, speaking against your ear. “Maybe you wanna be my next meal after all, hm?”

In the next moment, you’re lifted up and placed down on the table, smack in the middle among the bits of meat, giving sound to a wet squelch, body splashing in a pool of blood and gore.

He laughs some more then—louder now, getting winded, as he easily holds your body down with a single hand placed between your ribs, watching you twist about like a bug on its back.

“It’d be too easy,” he says, bearing down over you, faces a few inches from yours. “Though there’d be fun in it, it’ be over in a second.”

You shiver in the wet seeping into your hair and robes, feeling it stain your skin red—nose wrinkling and brows cinching at the icky sensation.

“Nah…” he smiles, showing canines, and making you cough at the draft of his flesh-laced breath—which again, only results in him snickering at you and the little pout on your lips. Endeared by you for reasons he feels no need to explain further than how you’re just cute. “You’re better off as my plaything.”

Just as quickly as he’d put you down, he hoists you back up, holding you like a princess as he starts carrying you off. “Come. Uraume will make you something more to your appetite while we wash.”

He doesn’t feel the need to tell you it’s for your sake, so that you won’t veer away and say something so rude as ‘ew’ when he tries to kiss you again.

“No meat,” you mumble in a whisper against his chest, eyes downcast, fidgeting with your fingers as if in regret of having said anything at all, feeling the blood on your skin get tacky as it dries into a thick red coat.

If you’re not careful, he might just eat you afterall… sweet as you are. 

“No meat,” he agrees, thinking he’ll spare you just this once. “Don’t you worry.”

you just... stop. you rest your chin on his warm hipbone and gaze up at him.

valarr is propped up on one elbow staring down at you like you've just declassified a state secret.

his usually neat hair is already a beautiful disaster. you haven't touched his hair, he's been doing that to himself, dragging his fingers through it, gripping the back of his own neck, trying to hold something, and his mouth is slanted open, gaping, his eyes glassy. here's a high colour in his cheeks you've never seen before.

"hi," you drawl.

a small wrecked laugh punches out of him. "hi?"

"are you alright, valarr?"

"am i—" he laughs again, breathless. "love, you can't be serious, are you—are you asking me—"

you smile at him. slow. wolfish. and blow, gently, just a soft cool exhale, across the wet, swollen head of his cock. valarr jerks. his whole, golden body does, ike you've hit him with an electric shock.

"oh—fuck—"

oh, that's a nice, you think idly. that throaty, filthy register in his throat, all but unfamiliar in his polite mouth.

"shh."

now you take him in your mouth.

not deep. that's the thing. that's the perfect, loving cruelty of it. you do not deep-throat him, do not perform. you have no interest in performing at him. valarr has had girls perform for him his entire life, the whole point of this is that valarr has never been eaten. devoured. taken apart.

you take just the head, close your lips around the swollen wet crown of him and you suck. lightly. playfully. your tongue working circles in slow lazy curls and your cheeks just barely hollowing, your eyes never leaving his face.

valarr makes a sound you'll hear for the rest of your life.

it's not a moan. the noise of a man whose operating system has just crashed. a high, broken little uh, and then valarr's hand flies to his own mouth like he's trying to put the sound back in, appalled at himself, at having made it, at having let you hear it.

you pull off him with a quiet, wet sound. you press a small kiss to the inside of his thigh. tender. there.

"valarr."

a breath, practically a gasp, punches out of him. "i'm sorry, love, i'm—"

"put your hand down, pretty thing."

he puts his hand down. his eyes are huge, his cock twitching against his stomach with the loss of your mouth and a fresh bead of him wells at the slit again. and he's trembling. across the long, lean line of him. tiny, involuntary tremors in his thighs, in his ribs.

you reach up. you stroke the back of your knuckles down his cheek. once. softly.

he leans into your hand instantly. instantly. his eyes flutter half shut, his mouth parting and he turns his cheek into your palm like a cat seeking warmth. you feel the heat of him there, and you feel the shape of what he's going to be like after. how soft this man is going to go. how completely he's going to come undone for you.

"i want to hear you," you tell him quietly. "do you understand me?"

"yes, love—"

you trace a finger down his throat. "yes what?"

his throat works beneath your touch, eyelashes fluttering. "yes, sweet girl."

"good boy."

you see his hips lift off the bed, an involuntary twitch. just from the words. valarr targaryen, who deadlifts at five in the morning, whose body is a fortress of disciplined musculature, who runs a multimillion empire, has just bucked his hips at the sound of good boy like a teenager.

you have him. you have him. you have him.

now you devour him.

you take him deep in your mouth. wet, sloppy, deliberate. you let the saliva pool and slide across hot heaviness of him on your tongue. you pull off him for a moment, slick and glossy before diving back down. you make sounds. low, hungry hums in the back of your throat. the kind of sound you might make eating something rare and bloody at a dinner party, and the vibration goes through him every time.

valarr's hands are fluttering. they don't know where to land.

they go to your hair and then jerk away because he's afraid to touch you. afraid to direct you. he's afraid he'll somehow make you stop.

one hand fists in the duvet instead. the other hand fists in his own floppy hair. he's making fractured, needy sounds he can't suppress (love, sweet girl, please, christ, oh, oh, oh) and his stomach is hollowed, his thighs shaking. there's a flush spreading from valarr's sternum up to his throat, the same flush he gets when he's embarrassed.

because he is embarrassed. he's mortified by his own body. by how loud he's being. by the needy noises he's making. by how fast he's going to come.

the fact that he, valarr targaryen, who can fuck you for an hour and a half through three orgasms before letting himself finish, is going to come down your throat in under four minutes like a fucking schoolboy and he cannot stop it.

you reach up, without pulling off him, and you find his elbow, then his wrist. the one fisted in his own hair. you take it gently, and you guide it down to your head. you place his hand in your hair for him. you let him hold on, let him grip.

valarr breaks open a little. a wet, ragged sound, half a sob, like the permission to touch you was the only thing he was still holding the line on.

his fingers card through your hair. trembling. careful even now. he doesn't pull, doesn't push. he just holds you, his palm cupping the back of your skull. you go for his balls. one hand cupping them, rolling them without shame or hesitation. your mouth works, tongue dragging over the throbbing vein of his cock. your other hand wraps tight at the base of him, twisting on the upstroke and—

"sweet girl—" his voice breaks. "sweet girl, i'm—i can't—i'm going to—"

you pull off him.

his whole body keens forward at the loss. an involuntary, animal grief.

you look up at him. your chin shining. your mouth swollen and slick with his precum and your own spit. your hand still moves on him in lazy, slow strokes that are keeping him exactly on the edge without letting him over. you slide your other hand up his abdomen. slow. soothing. flat against the heaving plane of his stomach.

"shh. shh. i've got you."

valarr makes a sound. like the gentleness has wrecked him worse than the cruelty did.

"you're going to what, valarr?"

"come," he gasps, "love, i'm going to come, please, please—"

"please what?"

"please let me—please—"

(please let me come in your mouth, please, please let me, please, sweet girl, please. the man who's never in his life had to ask for permission to finish in someone's mouth. the man who's been the one granting permission for three months. reduced to it.)

you smile at him. you stroke your thumb along the line of his hipbone. tender.

"open your mouth," you order gently.

he stares at you, lost.

"open, valarr."

he opens. dazed, dazzled, automatic.

you lean up—keeping your hand on him, keeping him at the unbearable edge—and you spit into his open, pink mouth. a small, wet drop of him and you mixed together.

you hum. "swallow, pretty thing."

valarr swallows. his eyes flutter half shut, a low ruined sound vibrates in his throat.

"such a good boy."

and you go back down on him, taking him deep and you suck hard. you drag the hot, salty taste of him down, down, down, and valarr comes inside of fifteen seconds with a sob.

a sob.

valarr targaryen sobs his way through his first orgasm in your mouth, his hand finally giving up its restraint and tightening in your hair, like he's trying to anchor himself to your body so he doesn't fly apart.

and he's making a high, broken uh — uh — uh noise at the back of every pulse, his hips stuttering helplessly up into your mouth in tiny shocked twitches. his thighs are shaking so hard you can see them in your peripheral vision, and you swallow around him, and swallow, and swallow. hot and slightly salty, golden valarr, come undone in your mouth.

you work him gently through every last shudder until he's whimpering, pushing weakly at your shoulder because he can't take any more.

you pull off him slowly, your tongue dragging. you don't lick the head this time. you press a light, soft kiss to the wet slick base of him instead, and another to the inside of his thigh, and another to the warm crease of his hip.

you murmur good boy, that's it, my beautiful val, into valarr's skin between each one. he's shuddering with every kiss. fine tremors. the aftershocks of something much bigger than his body knew how to hold.

then you crawl up his body.

valarr is a wreck. his hair is flattened to his forehead with sweat. his eyes are wet and his mouth is gaping open in small ragged breaths. there's a deep flush blooming over his entire chest like rash and his hands are shaking. visibly shaking.

when you settle yourself over him, you don't straddle him. you fold down beside him. you tuck yourself along the burning line of him, half on top of his chest, and you lift one hand and you put it to his cheek.

he turns into it instantly.

valarr's whole face turns into your palm, and his eyes shut, and a long, unsteady breath leaves him, and he—

he kisses the heel of your hand. once. then the soft inside of your wrist. then the pulse there, lingering, his mouth open against it, his eyes still shut.

"come here, valarr," you say quietly.

he comes. he half-rolls into you, his face going straight to your throat, his arm coming heavy and slack across your waist, his thigh sliding between yours.

he's weighty against you. valarr targaryen, who's normally so contained, so arranged, so aware of his own body, has gone completely loose. he deposited himself against you. his nose presses to the underside of your jaw and he's breathing in the smell of your skin in deep dragging breaths like he's trying to get high on you.

"thank you," he whispers against your pulse.

(you will think about this thank you for five years. you will think about it the day you leave him.)

you stroke your hand up the back of his neck. into his sweat-damp hair. he moans. softly, brokenly, into your throat. at being held. just held. his arm tightens at your waist.

"my sweet girl," he mumbles. it's muffled and stupidly fond with afterglow. "my sweet girl. love. christ. love—"

"shh."

"i can't—i don't—"

"shh, valarr."

he shhs. but he keeps making quiet, wet sounds into your throat. he keeps kissing your collarbone in tiny, aimless presses, like punctuation he cannot stop putting at the end of sentences he's not speaking.

his hand comes up and finds your hand and laces your fingers together against the pillow, and he's squeezing—not hard, just constantly, a slow rhythmic pulse of his palm against yours—and you realise with a warm tug in your chest that he's doing it without knowing he's doing it. his body is talking to your body because his mouth is not currently capable.

you turn your face into the top of his head. you kiss his crown. the white streak. the damp dark of him.

"you alright, pretty thing?" you murmur.

valarr moans softly.

"yes," he croaks. "yes. yes."

a long shudder rolls through him. his arm tightens at your waist. then loosens. then tightens again.

"more?" you ask gently. "or done?"

"done," he whispers immediately. then, smaller: "hold me?"

(oh.)

(oh.)

you do. you wrap both arms around him tightly.

you draw valarr further onto you, until his head is pillowed properly on your chest, until his ear is over your heartbeat, until his weight is fully against you.

valarr makes a sound and goes loose, completely loose, against you. his hand slides up under the hem of your shirt and splays flat between your shoulder blades. just resting there. just feeling the warm skin of you under his palm.

he's going to fall asleep like this. you can already tell. he's not done this with you yet.

valarr always gets up, brings water, always tends to you with the careful efficiency of a man performing aftercare he's read about. but tonight he's not going to be able to. tonight valarr will slip under right here, his face on your sternum, his hand under your shirt, his thigh between yours, his breathing slowing in long, steady stages against your skin.

you stroke his hair. slow. you let your nails drag against his scalp. you feel him hum—soft, wordless, content—into your sternum.

"good boy," you murmur, just to feel him shiver one last time.

he does. a fine tremor down his whole toned body. and then he's gone. asleep on top of you with his mouth open against the soft skin between your breasts, his fingers still laced through yours.

(this is when you should have known.

valarr is a cataloguer. valarr will spend the rest of your relationship trying to reproduce this exact feeling. not the orgasm, the aftermath. the permission to be small. the permission to be held and loved and desired, cared for. the permission to whimper and not be made to feel small for it. he'll spend five years building a model of you so accurate it can predict what you will want for dinner, what you will name your children, what you will say when he does certain things in bed.

and none of it will be this. because this—the version of him asleep on your chest with his hand under your shirt—only exists in the moments he forgets to study. in the moments he forgets to perform. in the moments he's too undone to do anything but be held and loved.

and valarr can be taught everything except how to forget.)

but tonight you don't know that yet.

tonight you just hold him and stroke his hair. you press your mouth to his forehead and feel him sigh against you in his sleep, and somewhere in his ruined post-orgasm brain a new chapter of the dossier is being written in extremely careful handwriting, and it's titled:

she devoured me

she held me after

Same smoky lilt. Hoarse from fucking you twice already. But there’s iron underneath it now, the iron that wasn’t there in year one, that he didn’t know was in him until you put it there.

“Nowhere,” you murmur in response.

“Come back.”

Valarr pulls you down by the jaw.

His mouth opens for yours and you can feel him still trembling under you, can feel his thighs shaking against the backs of your own where you’re straddling him, can feel his heart hammering against your sternum, but the hand at your jaw is immovable. The hand at your jaw is certain. Valarr kisses you slowly and filthily, his tongue sliding into your mouth like he’s trying to taste every last thing in there, like he’s looking for himself, like he needs to find the proof of his own come on your tongue before he’ll let you up.

He finds it. He hums against your mouth, low and pleased.

“My love,” he breathes into you. “I could eat you whole.”

His other hand slides into your hair. Cradling, this time. Almost tender. Valarr kisses you again—softer this time, but no less thorough, and his thumb strokes once down the line of your jaw in that absent appreciative way he has, the way he touches things he’s worshipping.

“Stay still for me,” he murmurs. “Need you here, sweet girl. Let me kiss you, let me.”

You stay still.

You stay still and you let him kiss you through the last of his come down. The slow descent, the heart-rate slowing against yours, and the small twitches of his body losing their grip on him one by one. He keeps his cock inside you the entire time. He doesn’t soften his mouth, keeping you pinned at the jaw and tasted and held. Valarr’s tongue is lazy and curious against yours, the way only other Valarr gets. His mouth is devoted against yours, and you can feel him going from spent and shaking to something else, something steadier, something almost luxurious, like a man settling deeper into a hot bath he intends to stay in for a while.

“You taste like me,” he says against your lips. Pleased. A little wondering.

“I taste like you,” you agree softly, your nose bumping his.

“Good.”

Valarr’s thumb presses, briefly, into the corner of your mouth. He drags it across your bottom lip unhurriedly, watching it. Then Valarr leans up and licks the same path his thumb just traced, mouth open, leisurely, and you feel that drag all the way down your spine and into where he’s still seated inside you and you have to bite back a hungry sound.

His eyes flick up to yours. The corner of his mouth tugs. Not a smile. That silky, corner shape of one.

“You can’t be working up to going again,” he says, amused, delighted, a faint note of disbelief threading through it. “My love. My greedy, beautiful love.”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to. He can feel the answer where you’re sitting on him, in the way you flutter around him and Valarr groans low in his throat.

He kisses you again. Deeper this time. The hand at your jaw shifts down to your throat—not gripping, only resting, the way he likes to rest it there, the way that lets him feel your pulse and the swallow and the small catches of your breath—and his other hand slides down from your hair to the small of your back, palm flat, fingers spreading wide.

“Give me a minute,” he says against your mouth. “Give me one minute, my love. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you anything you want.”

His mouth on yours. Again. Then again after a small gasp of breath. His tongue glides slowly against yours. His cock still inside you, softening after his release but already starting, with the slow inevitability of him, to think about hardening again.

“Stay here,” he tells you between kisses, urgent, almost dazed. “Stay right here. Don’t move.”

You don’t move.

He probably thought he was being subtle. You’d fled to the front porch shortly after arriving, but even that meager distance did little to help when you could see him out of the corner of your eye, stealing glances at you from the living room couch through the water-stained window as he played some terrible first-person shooter with a couple members of the fraternity. You were making a considerable effort to ignore him, but it was easier said than done. Try as you might, you couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything other than the weight of his gaze, the knot of anxiety forming in the pit of your stomach, the memories of his voice calling out to you in—

“Are you good?”

You blinked. Nobara was squinting at you, her head cocked to the side. Nodding hastily, you rushed to answer before fully processing her question. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little—” You paused, forcing yourself to laugh. “Just zoned out, I guess.”

She hummed, unconvinced. Next to her, the other girl you’d been talking to - Maki - smirked and slung an arm over Nobara’s shoulders. “Blame your friend. He’s got a bit of a staring problem.”

She glanced into the living room. “Yuuji? He’s harmless.” And then, to you, “You know him, right?”

The panic was a ice-cold stake to your chest. You shook your head, moved to tell her that no, really, it was alright, you were just having an off-night, you’d give her all the money in your wallet if she just didn’t do this, but it was already too late. Nobara turned to the window, raising a hand, and you watched in frozen horror as she waved to Yuuji, gesturing for him to join you.

He was off the couch and out the door before you could so much as think to make a run for it.

Maki was greeted with a nod, Nobara a hasty fist bump. You were pulled into a hug before you had the chance to object - his smothering physical affection saved for you and you alone. Even when he drew back, it was only far enough to position himself behind you and drape his arms around your waist. You could feel his breath on the dip of your shoulder, the scar at the corner of his lips ghosting over the base of your throat. It felt as if you were about to crawl out of your skin, but if your discomfort was visible, Maki and Nobara were both kind enough to ignore it. The former seemed disinterested while the latter only grinned.

“So you two do know each other.”

“Obviously.” Yuuji couldn’t have sounded happier. You felt yourself shrink underneath him. “We met last semester, in that class I failed.”

Nobara laughed. “So, like, any class you’ve literally ever taken.”

“Shut the fuck up.” The words were harsh, but his affection was light, cheery. Nobara brightened. Even Maki cracked a smile. Yuuji had that effect on people. He made them happy. He made them like him.

You weren’t sure why it didn’t work the same way, for you.

“We had this project together, and—” His hands dropped lower, falling a little too close to your hips. “Do you want to tell them what you said when I asked for your number, babe?”

“It wasn’t necessary for the assignment,” you recited, flatly.

“I got it anyway, though.” You cringed at the reminder. You’d changed it, since then, but that’d only stopped the flood of texts for a few days. All innocent things - questions about your day or pictures of cute dogs on campus. Nothing you could show to anyone else without seeming like you were crazy one for being bothered. “And we’ve been inseparable ever since.”

He was leaving things out. All the times he’d sat next to you in class, always more than happy to move along with you whenever you decided to switch seats. How often he’d coincidentally show up at the library while you were studying, despite never having reviewed for a test in his life. The hours of sleep you’d lost to dreading the next time you’d see him, the next time he’d stand too close or stare too long or talk about the two of you like you were good friends. You might’ve been able to cope, if you had someone to talk to. But—

Maki’s chuckled. She met your eyes, and her grin widened. “That would’ve been pretty scary, if it’d been anyone else. Bet you’re glad you’ve got the nicest guy on campus for a stalker, huh?”

You wanted to scream.

But everyone loved Yuuji.

You shrugged him off, starting for the front door. “I need to—”

“You’re right. We should dance.” Immediately, he was in front of you, grabbing your wrist. “C’mon, Toge’s getting the speakers hooked up out back.”

"I’m good. Maybe later.”

You tried to pull yourself out of his hold. His grip tightened.

“Do you want something to drink? I made sure we’re stocked up on everything you like, just—”

He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, and you made the mistake of looking up - of looking at him. That was what had made you keep your distance, before the following and the touching and the harassment.

No matter how brightly he was smiling, his eyes were always so, so cold.

"Stop touching me.”

Heads turned in your direction. Nobara whispered something to Maki. Yuuji’s hand vanished from your wrist, as if it’d never been there at all.

Fuck.

You’d made a scene.

You shouldered past him, trudging into the house proper. Inside, disparate conversations melted into a constant pulse of voices and laughter and noise. You shouldered through bodies packed too tightly together, muttering apologies as drinks were spilled and balance was lost. Yuuji tried to follow, but the crowd was thick and you lost him quickly in the tangle. Hopefully, it’d stay that way until you’d done what you needed to.

It didn’t take long for you to find your roommate. Yuuta was in the basement, sprawled out on a well-beaten couch, passing a joint around with a few of his anemic friends. The current holder - a younger guy with spiky black hair and a perpetual frown - offered it to you as you approached, but you shook your head. Any other time, maybe. Right now, there was only one thing you wanted.

“C’mon, Okkotsu.” You reached over the back of the couch, taking him by the shoulder. “We’re leaving.”

His dark eyes were wide and unfocused. He had to blink a few times before his gaze shifted to you. When he spoke, his speech was on that same type of drawled delay. “Already?”

Agitation sparked, but you stamped it out. He was high. You’d been here for less than an hour. Some resistance was fair. “Yeah, it’s—” His name got caught in your throat. You did your best to choke it down before going on. “It’s Itadori.”

Of all the people you’d considered confessing your Yuuji-centered issues to, you’d gotten with Yuuta. You’d lived with him since freshman year. He was always so level-headed, so calm, so sympathetic. When someone spoke, he listened. You’d always liked that about him. You’d always trusted him to do the same for you.

Yuuta groaned, clenching his eyes shut and crossing his arms over his face. A knot formed in your chest. You repeated your mantra. Some resistance was fair. You had to believe that this was fair. “Again?”

“I know it’s early, but—”

“It’s too early. And Itadori’s not even that—” He broke off, whining into his sleeves. “Have you tried talking to him?”

The knot tightened.

“…it’s not really like that. We don’t—”

“He’s so nice.” With effort, Yuuta managed to sit up. “And sweet. And everybody knows he likes you. Couldn’t you just…?”

The insinuation was clear. You felt the knot grow tighter and tighter still before the cord snapped and something deep inside of you unraveled.

Your voice was flat, blank, confusion dulling anger into frigid apathy. “You want me to shut up and fuck him so you can… What? Smoke in his friend’s basement for another twenty minutes?”

Yuuta grimaced. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant, though, right?”

“He’s nice.” Sulkily, now. As if you’d done something wrong. “It just— It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

Your expression hardened. His eyes widened, his mouth falling open as he scrambled to apologize, but it was too late. You were already climbing up the basement stairs. With or without him, you were getting out of here.

Someone had started playing music. You couldn’t see any amps, but deep bass blared through the house, loud enough to shake the foundations. People were beginning to dance. Not that any of that mattered to you. You kept to the walls, skirting around the edges, doing what you could to fade into the background. You didn’t want attention. You didn’t want to make a scene. You just wanted to—

Two arms, appearing out of nowhere, caging you in on either side. You froze, pressing your back against the drywall. Panic blurred your vision, but you would’ve had to be blind not to recognize the man in front of you.

Yuuji, obviously.

It was always fucking Yuuji.

He had a drink in his hand. The usual frat part mixer - reddish, brownish, smelling vaguely of Kool-Aid and gasoline. And he was smiling. Of course, he was smiling. You weren’t sure he was capable of doing anything else.

You did your best to be blunt, to keep your voice from shaking. “What do you want?”

He didn’t say anything. Slowly, with the type of care you hadn’t thought he was capable of, he held his drink in front of you. For an embarrassingly long second, you stared at it blankly, uncertain if you were supposed to take it or slap it out of his hand. Then, his smile widened, and in one unfaltering movement, he turned his cup over and dumped its contents down the front of your shirt.

The revulsion was hot and instantaneous. You cursed, grabbing at your shirt and pulling it away from your skin. You moved to dart away from Yuuji, but a muscular arm cut off your escape. It was all you could do to bare your teeth, glaring at him as you snarled, “What the fu—”

“Yo, Itadori.”

You snapped to your left and found Yuuta, the spiky haired kid from the basement trailing after him. He paid Yuuji a nod and a smile before his eyes fell to you, his expression dimming.

You opened your mouth, but Yuuji was faster. “Just a party foul,” he explained, nodding to your ruined shirt. “Mind if I borrow your room for the clean-up, Megumi?”

The spiky haired kid - Megumi - looked to you, his bleary eyes suddenly prying, evaluative. For a moment, he seemed to take you in, from the cheap booze dripping down your chest to the rigidity of your posture to the way you were pressed into the wall, clearly scared, clearly trying to keep your distance from a lurking threat. For a moment, you let yourself hope, even if you weren’t entirely sure for what. Help, maybe. More realistically, bare-bones acknowledgement, some kind of unspoken sign that he recognized what was happening. That something was wrong and it wasn’t your fault.

And then, the moment passed, and your amorphous hopes solidified into familiar disappointment as his gaze slid to Yuuji, softening in an instant. He nodded, and immediately, Yuuji’s fist was cuffed around your wrist, hauling you away. In your peripheral, you watched Yuuta raise a hand and start to say something, only to fall short. Megumi’s lips moved, the words lost underneath the music, gesturing in the direction of the drinks’ table. Yuuji’s grip tightened and you glanced toward him on instinct, finding only disheveled pink hair and the corners of his grin. By the time you looked back over your shoulder, they were gone.

Yuuji weaved seamlessly through the crowd. You were made to stumble up a too-thin staircase, then down a narrow hallway. The floor creaked under your weight as mold-infested carpeting tapered into ancient wooden boards, the music fading into a muted pulsing and the crowd thinning until you were alone save for the handful of lost, inebriated party-goers who’d wandered farther than they were supposed to. Never pausing to explain himself, Yuuji shouldered open an unmarked door, shutting it again as soon as he’d pulled you across the threshold.

Distantly, you heard a lock click into place, but couldn’t bring yourself to care. A little privacy didn’t sound all that bad, at the moment.

The room was dark. The walls were a deep, depressing shade of charcoal gray and the sole window was swallowed by a thick, black curtain. The sole source of light came from a lamp on a surprisingly neat desk, its harsh white light almost jarring after wading through the technicolor haze downstairs. You collapsed onto the foot of the bed, burying your head in your hands and groaning into your palms. Even that moment of catharsis was cut short as the mattress dipped beside you, Yuuji settling into place.

“We should get this off.” His hand curled around the hem of your shirt, tugging gently. “Can’t be comfortable, like that.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Why are you doing this?”

An airy laugh. Another tug - more insistent, this time. “‘cause we’re friends, obviously.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Alright.”

It was terrible, how calm his voice was, how little warning were given before his hands were on your shoulders, your back on the bed, his knees planted on either side of your waist. His weight settled onto your stomach - heavier than you’d expected. Of course. Yuuji was an athlete. In the haze of all his other positive accolades, you must’ve forgotten.

And he was staring at you, his eyes as cold as ice.

“Do you remember the day we met? Not the phone number shit. I really couldn’t care less if some—” He gestured dismissively, then let his hands fall to your midriff. “—fucking loser doesn’t want to talk to me. Afterward. When the lecture let out. You’d forgotten something, so I called your name. Must’ve caught you off guard, because you turned around and looked at me like…”

He trailed off, laughing.

“Like I was gonna kill you.”

Again, he caught the hem of your shirt, tugging gently. The air hitched in your throat. “…are you going to?”

The corners of his mouth pulled back, baring fangs. He shook his head. Somehow, no relief accompanied the reassurance.

“I really do like you.” In one motion, he tore your shirt up and over your head. Resistance wasn’t an option. Fabric tore, and suddenly, you were exposed and unprotected beneath him. Calloused fingertips dragged over your bare skin. He pulled off his own, then let his head dip low, his mouth skirting over the curve of your chest. “Took me a while to realize that. You kept running away, but I never stopped wanting to chase you.” He paused, chuckled. “I’m sorry. That makes me sound like I’m just in it for— for this, I guess. I’m not. I like the way you react to things. Whether you’re pretending not to see me or doing that deer in headlights thing or—”

He broke off suddenly, his lips latching onto your nipple. You cried out involuntarily as his teeth dug into your areola hard enough to break the skin. His tongue lapped hastily over the puncture wounds before he pulled away, grinning from ear to ear. “Or that.”

Hot, humiliating tears were beginning to fog your vision. You could see the door over his shoulder - salvation in the form of a hazy black outline. His hand drifted lower, finding the button of your jeans. Half on purpose, half on reflex, you thrashed. Your nails caught his cheek, something tearing where you made contact. You managed to free one of your legs, to get enough distance between you and him to pitch your heel into his chest. Yuuji jerked back, letting you squirm free. You rolled onto your hands and knees, scrambling for the edge of the mattress. You just had to get your feet underneath you. You just had to get out of this room. You just had to—

You made it all of a few, pitiful inches before a strong arm curled around your waist, a heavy body draping itself over yours. Anchoring you.

Trapping you.

Yuuji laughed, burying his head in the crook of your neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the side of your throat. You didn’t realize that he’d been trying to be gentle until he shoved your jeans down to your knees and palmed at your cunt with all the delicacy of a hacksaw, already in motion. A thumb slid into the waistband of your underwear, the flimsy article torn off with the same haphazard efficiency. You tried to scream, but Yuuji’s mouth was already on yours, swallowing any noise you might’ve been able to get out. At the same time, he forced two fingers into your cunt, the heel of his palm rolling against your clit. A humiliatingly wet noise echoed off the walls of the bedroom - slick and mortifying. Yuuji let out a low whistle, spreading his fingers apart inside of you.

“And I thought you hated me.” His breath was hot and smothering against your skin. You shook your head violently, and he laughed. “It’s okay. I love you, too.”

You tried not to react, not to give him what he wanted. You couldn’t get away, and so denial was the next best option — letting your mind go blank and dissociating until he lost interest, playing dead until the predator got bored and wandered off in search of more interesting prey. But Yuuji had always made himself difficult to ignore. He held you tight against his chest, pumping his fingers into you with all the delicacy and all the curiosity of a mechanical piston, carrying out its only programmed function. Your cunt clenched and he forced in yet another digit, threatening to split you open. A pained groan slipped through your sealed lips. You were wet, but you didn’t want this. It was a fear reaction, not the pleasure he’d been so happy to mistake it for. It was going to take more than his invasive touch, his stifling closeness to make up for that.

…and yet, you couldn’t seem to swallow back the little, pitchy whines tangling together on your tongue, couldn’t seem to stop your legs from twitching underneath you. You bowed your head low, but Yuuji followed you, keeping his chest against your back and his hand lodged in-between your thighs, not allowing for any amount of distance. He was so, so close. You could feel his heart beating against your spine. You could hear him panting in your ear, too reminiscent of some giant, lumbering beast. You could see his face in your peripheral, his gaze locked on your expression. His eyes were cold enough to burn.

You came with a single, miserable moan. Yuuji’s pace slowed as you came down from your unwanted high, eventually stilling inside of you. You hoped beyond hope that he’d stay like that, that you’d get a chance to at least start to recover, but the world wasn’t that kind and Yuuji wasn’t that patient. Drawing back, his hands found your hips and turned you over — all but throwing you down to the mattress. You heard fabric shift, metal clink. It was all you could do not to look. You would’ve given anything to never have to put an image to that sound.

If only you had anything left to give.

“Sorry we couldn’t do this somewhere more— more special.” He fit his body between your legs. You felt something blunt and searing press against your entrance. “Next time. I promise, I’ll make it more romantic, next time.”

You opened your mouth, but it was too late. He was already thrusting into you. In a single motion, you were split open on his cock, left bare and exposed and at his mercy. Yuuji groaned, falling against you. His lips found yours, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, lapping into you. You were minded uncannily of the way wolves licked each others’ mouths, all instinct without the care.

The bar and all 125lbs on its ends clattered onto the rubber floor at your feet. You groaned out in frustration. You were an hour into this session, tucked in the free weights corner, starting to go stir-crazy with this low-grade terrorist breathing down your neck…

“You had it…” Satoru whined.

“I didn’t…” you panted out, “This is too hard…”

“Because you’re not hinging at the hip like I told you.”

“I was hinging at the hip! I told you that this was too much weight for me…”

“You can do double this on the leg press.”

“That’s different.”

Satoru huffed. “With that attitude, you won’t improve.”

“Not everyone can be the strongest in the gym like you, beefcake.”

“First of all, I’m not classified as a beefcake, sweetheart. I have what’s known as a sleeper-build. Model physique at first glance. Easily hidden under fits like this,” he playfully tugged at the strings of his grey sweatpants. “People only know I’m the strongest after I clear their PR.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not paying you to gloat.”

“You’re not paying me at all. You’re a friend of a friend and I’m doin’ you a favor.”

“Ugh… Some favor… You want ’death by deadlift’ on my tombstone…” you muttered under your breath, legs trembling as you left the bar to grab your water.

“Go spend $700 at Equinox if you want someone to kiss your ass instead of help you build it up,” Satoru rebutted, entirely too seriously.

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“I’m trying to be. Better your ass than your quads—which is where the pain will be tomorrow if you don’t fix that form.”

“Why don’t you fix it for me?” you jeered.

“…If I get hands on, you’re going to failure.”

…

Again, in response to your joke, Satoru was too serious.

It took you locking eyes with his icy blues to register that his tone was intentional.

Your nerves manifested themselves as sweat on your brow. More sweat than that last brutal set induced. “…I’ve never gone to failure before.”

Satoru’s heart tugged at the fear in your voice.

You were still a little cardio bunny…

“Just this once,” he said softly, “I want you to see that you can do it.”

“…If I go to failure…what happens?”

“Your legs will give out. But you’ll be fine. You just can’t lift heavy again for a day or two.”

You shifted back and forth in your Converse. Still hesitant.

“C’mon, indulge me,” Satoru pleaded. “I can’t let you ruin my rep as a trainer. All my lil’ lifters are success stories. You won’t be breaking my streak.”

He was lucky you weren’t a quitter.

…

When he said hands on—he wasn't kidding.

Satoru stood behind you and guided you through the proper hinge motion with a lower weight, being somewhat discreet as he pressed his hips into yours at the crucial moments…

He added more weight, then kicked your feet into a more efficient position to accommodate for the flare of your hips.

Then he positioned your hands on the bar, just right…

“One, two, three,” Satoru’s voice was steady in your ear.

And———!

You lifted it!

——And your legs…really did give out.

“Whoa!”

…

Satoru was right behind you, and he caught the bar on either side of your hands, helping you lower it safely. Before you fell over, he caught you, helping you stand proudly at full height, praising you, “See! I knew you’d get it~!”

“Satoru, that was crazy… How…”

“I’m a good sensei.”

“You…” You shifted in his hold, eyes darting all over his smug face.

He leaned in, already well aware of what you wanted, “What~?”

“I——”

Words failed you.

But your lips still remembered…

You were gentle. He was not.

He had been waiting too long.

“I knew it,” he broke the kiss, “I knew you were only mean because you still want me,” Satoru grinned, holding your head in his hands, tearing apart your resolve with just his eyes…

“You were mean to me first…”

“That was business. You want pleasure instead?”

!

Yeah. You remembered. You remembered this whole time. He couldn’t resist anymore. The look he gave you was hardly fair… Should be reserved for the square footage of a bedroom…

You hesitated, "Satoru, it was one drunk night... It wasn’t supposed to mean anything."

"It doesn’t have to."

—!

“Is this a habit of yours? Seducing your trainees?”

“Nah… You’re the first to make me crack.”

He gripped at your ass and thighs, pulling you up into him and on your toes…

“You feel that? Feel this hard work?”

His words were two-faced, one side referencing your glute throbbing under his touch, and the other side…his stiff cock pressing into your stomach through his hoodie…

“You did such a good job…”

“Satouru…please…”

Satoru heard the desperation return to your voice, and had to think. He had never hooked up with anyone in his apartment gym before…

…

Just this once wouldn't hurt.

“Listen to me,” he lowly murmured on your lips, “We’re both gonna go wash our hands…get these gym germs off… Then—if you’re serious—meet me in the studio room…for some cardio.”

…

You nodded and on wobbly legs, went to the ladies locker room, heart already fucking racing…

As you washed your hands, you bashfully read a sign that detailed all of the things not allowed in the apartment gym:

No needles or steroids.

No fighting or aggressive behavior.

No nudity beyond the locker room.

…

No sexual conduct.

…

Fixing your hair was a deeply unserious task. You knew it was about to be ruined, but you primped anyway, wanting to at least appear like you were prepared for this…

…

You arrived at the studio room. The lights were off… But you could hear Satoru’s faint grunting. As you got closer, you saw him near the studio’s mirror wall with his shirt off. It was under his hand on the floor, and he was doing pushups on it… One-handed...

…

You smirked. “You want to warm up to fuck me?”

“Don't question my methods… Come sit and count for me. I’m on 70.” He held that plank, offering the rippling expanse of his shoulders as a throne for you.

!

“Y-you want me to sit on y-“

“Yes, yes, sweetheart, on me,” he laughed, “Hurry up. My dick keeps poking the floor through my pants, waitin’ on ya’…”

You laugh, taking off your shoes…sitting pretty…

And Satoru adjusted his hands into a diamond, dipping and rising as you counted…

Working up a little sweat, now…

Making you giggle nervously in between each number…

He didn’t have a number in mind, he was just playing with your weight and getting a little pump in. Waiting until he could feel that wet pussy soaking through your leggings and onto his back…

It only took 30 more.

…

“100, solid.” He pushed up to a halt. “Get up and take those leggings off…”

“All the way?” you slid off of him, flushing at the damp spot you left between his shoulder blades… “Satoru… We’ll get caught…”

“Camera’s covered,” he got up and nodded to the camera in the corner above the door. A gym towel was draped over it. “You want me to take ‘em off for ya’?” He got close to you before you could answer. Kneeling down and hooking his fingers into the stretchy waistband, swiftly yanking them down over your hips and ass, making you yelp.

“Mmmmmfffuck... Missed you…” Satoru mumbled against your lower stomach, hiking one thigh onto his shoulders and promptly kissing your labia. He parted them gently with his tongue, then latched onto your clit, making you fold over him right away~!

Your sighs of delight bounced off the echoey surfaces in the studio, and Satoru’s grip on you was iron-clad.

He hooked your other thigh up, braced your lower back with his palms and picked—you—up~!

Up…

Up higher…

The cold mirror sent a chill through your back as Satoru held you up against it. You panicked, slapping your tacky hands against the mirror, and then anchoring them in his hair.

“Satoru~u~!” you panted, brow furrowing as your watch buzzed at you with a heart rate alert… “Don’t drop me!”

“Stop worrying and cum on my tongue,” he grunted, squeezing his fingers into your hips to remind you of how strong he was…

You really weren’t going anywhere. Satoru had you glued to this mirror, looking into your pussy with more admiration for her than his own reflection…

His tongue swirled deeply inside of your crevice, then back out again to flatten and rub on your clit… Harder… Rubbing his nose in it~!

“Oh—fuck~! Yeah~!”

Satoru lapped up every bit of your cream as you came for him. He inhaled deeply, your sweat and pheromones hitting him like a dry scoop of creatine…

You were half whimpering from the pleasure, and half from the fear of being up so high…

Just as you caught your breath, blinking your eyes open, Satoru pulled away from the apex of your thighs—and dropped you.

……..!

You yelped~!

Hands under your ass, he caught you, chuckling at how he managed to scare you. Then he caged you against the mirror again, this time, pinning you with his hips. His cock was stiff, poking around at your thighs and abdomen…

Still dealing with that pit in your stomach, you hooked your legs around him, fearful of hitting the hard studio floor.

“I’m not gonna drop ya’,” Satoru dipped down to kiss your lips, focusing your attention back on him. “You’re barely a warm-up weight for me, sweetheart.”

You licked your lip, cheeks still warmed with the ecstasy his tongue gave you. You shifted in his hold, eyes taking in Satoru’s sweaty, flexing arms secured around you… You could see his blood pumping in his veins…

He smelled so good—sandalwood, sweat, sex…

“And those pushups made my traps the perfect handles for you,” Satoru broke you from your ogling, “You’re welcome, grab on.”

You should have listened sooner… “Fuck! Satoru~u~u!!”

Your hands eventually did find those handles of his, and you held on for dear life as he lined himself up, and slid you onto him, setting an agile pace. He held you up, fucking into you against that mirror with the discipline only a real lifter could have…

He never let you fall. Not even a slip.

He pounded you heavy, making sure to hit that tight spot you had trouble with loosening… Kissed your face, your neck, your tits… Made you cum two…three more times, praising your flexibility and endurance…making you cry out his name…making you dig your nails in deeper…

Satoru was in too deep, looking at this beautiful thing taking his cock in three different angles with the studio mirrors…

You looked good together. He always knew it, but seeing it in his happy place made it that much better.

Wasn’t too long before he was pulling out, splattering the mirror below you with white. The sounds of his heavy release made you laugh. That was a close one… “If I knew you were this horny, we could have skipped the gym…”

“No,” he panted out into your mouth, “I wanted to help you,”

“Oh, you helped me, alright…” you caught your breath, pushing your hair out of your face and giving him one more sweet kiss.

He guided you down, settling you to lean against the mirror while he crouched to get your leggings over your feet.

“I can help you whenever you want, by the way. You don’t need a reason,” Satoru said, kissing your thigh as he pulled your garment up, “Just ask me.”

You ruffled his hair, sighing, “Help me clean up the mirror, then take me to your shower… We made such a mess…”

He smiled confidently, cheeks rosy…excited for more with you... “We‘re gonna make a mess in the shower, too. Anywhere you come with me will be left a mess. Get used to it, babe.”

~