mmriel

bully!gojo who drinks too much at a party and he just can’t stop thinking about you.

you wake up to him stumbling into your room at some ungodly hour. it’s takes you a moment to realise it’s him, and you quickly sit up.

“toru? wha-, how did you get in here?” you whisper shout. he freezes, his big blue eyes locking onto yours.

“shit, s-sorry baby. didn’t mean to be noisy.” his words slur, and a faint blush covers his face. he eventually gets to your bed and sits down, his hands planted to balance himself.

“are you okay? you seem a little off?” you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. gojo giggles, a sound you’ve never heard.

“i’m just a liiiiitttttle tipsy. sukuna brought jelly shots.” he giggles again and its like his eyes cant seem to look away from you.

“oh, was it a fun night?”

“hm, no. everyone so boring.” he pouts. “this girl kept trying to take off my belt.”

“o-oh.”

“yeah. i kept saying i had a girlfriend, but she won’t listen.” he says. his eyes seem almost glossy, and you can almost feel a sense of shame from him.

you really shouldn’t do this. he literally broke in, and treats you like shit nearly every day. plus, if your parents found out there was a boy in your bed, they would kill you.

“do, do you wanna stay here?” you whisper.

he lights up again, a smile slowly covering his face.

“y-you’d let me? but i’m so mean.”

“it’s okay, i’ll forgive you for just this once.”

he looks at you again before crawling over to you and getting under the covers. he wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close against him.

“thank you. you’re really nice to me.”

“go to sleep toru.”

“y’know, i’d, i’d give you anything.”

“you don’t know what you’re saying.”

“do you want a big house? with a pool? i’ll g-get one for us. promise. a-and kids.”

“shhhh, bedtime.”

“okay. goodnight.”

“goodnight.”

“i love you.”

“………..”

“y/n?”

Dark Valarr x reader

SUMMARY: A devoted wife. A loving mother. A life that looks perfect from the outside. You have everything he promised would make you happy. So why, after all this time, do you still feel haunted by the woman you could have been?

CW: RAPE/NON-CON, marital rape, misogyny, power imbalance, coercion, golden cage, verbal threats, infidelity/emotional cheating, emotional sabotage, manipulation, gaslighting, implicit stockholm syndrome, jealousy, déjà vu, economic and emotional dependence.

WC: 10. 9 K

Part one

You woke wrapped in warmth.

Not merely the warmth of morning light filtering through the tall windows, nor the lingering comfort of blankets tangled around your legs. It was a different kind of warmth. Familiar. Constant. Woven so deeply into the fabric of your life that it had become impossible to separate from it. Valarr’s arm rested securely around your waist, keeping you close even in sleep, as though years of marriage had trained his body to seek yours without conscious thought. For a few moments, you remained completely still, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing behind you and the distant murmur of a house that, for once, had yet to awaken. No children racing through the halls. No hurried footsteps. No voices demanding breakfast. Only silence and the rare luxury of existing within it. A silence that felt almost sacred after so many years of family routines, hectic mornings, and small responsibilities that began long before sunrise. For a handful of minutes, the world seemed to have paused solely for the two of you.

Slowly, you opened your eyes and allowed yourself to enjoy the moment. The room was bathed in a soft golden glow; the first rays of dawn stretched lazily across the polished floorboards and rumpled sheets. Beside you—or rather, behind you—rested the man who had occupied nearly every chapter of your adult life. Husband. Father of your children. The person whose presence had become so familiar that sometimes it surprised you to remember there had once been a version of yourself who had never known him. A version who had slept alone, dreamed alone, and planned a future without ever imagining Valarr Targaryen at the center of it. It felt strange to think about now. Strange to remember the young woman you had been before he became such an absolute constant. Because after so many years, after so many shared memories, after so much time spent building a life together, it was difficult to tell where your story ended and his began.

A small smile touched your lips.

Even now, after all these years, he still slept exactly the same way.

Possessively.

Not cruelly. Never that. Rather with the unconscious certainty of someone who had spent years loving the same person and saw no reason to stop. One arm around your waist. One hand resting lightly against your stomach. As though, somewhere deep within sleep itself, he still refused to allow too much distance between you. As though even in dreams there remained a part of him that needed to feel you nearby in order to be completely at ease. It was an old habit. One of many he had developed during the early years of your marriage and never abandoned. Some people stopped reaching for each other after enough time had passed. Valarr had never been one of them.

Carefully, trying not to wake him, you turned your head slightly to look at him over your shoulder.

The effort was pointless.

Valarr had always been absurdly aware of your presence.

Almost immediately, his brow furrowed faintly. Then he opened his eyes. For a second he seemed disoriented, caught somewhere between sleep and reality, suspended in that hazy space where thoughts were slow to form. Then he saw you.

And smiled.

The transformation was immediate.

It was not the smile the public knew. Not the polished expression that appeared in photographs, meetings, interviews, and charity galas. This one was softer. Warmer. Younger, somehow. A private smile reserved for very few people in the world.

Entirely yours.

“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

“Good morning.”

His gaze lingered on yours for another moment before he leaned forward and pressed a lazy kiss against your shoulder. The gesture was so automatic, so natural, it nearly made you laugh. As though his first instinct upon waking was still to seek you out. As though the years had not diminished in the slightest that quiet need to show affection even in the simplest moments.

“You’re awake.”

“So are you.”

“Unfortunately.”

That earned exactly the reaction he wanted.

Your laughter broke the silence of the room, soft but genuine, and the satisfaction that appeared on Valarr’s face was immediate. As though making you laugh remained one of his favorite accomplishments. Perhaps it always would. There was something almost boyish in the way he seemed to treasure every one of your smiles, something that had never entirely disappeared no matter how many years passed or how many responsibilities settled onto his shoulders.

Without warning, he pulled you closer.

You protested weakly when your back collided once more with his chest.

“Valarr.”

“No.” He protested.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I know exactly what you were going to say.”

“Oh, do you?”

“You were going to suggest that we get up.”

You paused. “Maybe.”

“Terrible idea." His arms tightened slightly around you.

“You’re a grown man.”

“I am.”

“You have responsibilities.”

“I do.”

“You have meetings.”

“I know.”

“And three children.”

Valarr buried his face in your hair. “I’ve decided to ignore all of those facts.”

Another laugh escaped your lips.

The house would awaken soon. One of the boys would inevitably start an argument before breakfast. Your daughter would probably demand everyone's attention at once. There would be schedules to follow, obligations to attend to, and people waiting for both of you. The world would begin moving again, and you would each return to the roles you had been playing for years. Parents. Spouses. Responsible adults. But not yet. There were still a few stolen minutes left before the day truly began. A brief space where no responsibility could reach either of you.

For now, only this existed.

The warmth of the morning. The quiet comfort of familiar arms wrapped around you. And the simple, suffocating certainty that, after all these years, Valarr still held you as though he could not quite believe you were real.

Morning arrived slowly, pouring golden light across the tangled sheets and the comfortable silence of the bedroom. Neither of you seemed particularly eager to leave the bed. After so many years of marriage, there existed between you a familiarity so deep that it no longer required words to sustain itself. Valarr remained stretched out beside you, watching you with the same quiet attentiveness he had always reserved for you. One hand rested on your waist while the other absently traced the smooth fabric of the silk nightgown he himself had bought for you months earlier. The material slipped beneath his fingers like water.

For several minutes, nothing else happened.

And yet, it was enough.

Valarr tilted his head and pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. Then another near your jaw. Another beside your neck. Slow, absent-minded kisses, born more from affection than desire. As though he simply enjoyed your existence. As though he still found it impossible to fully comprehend that after all these years you remained there, sharing his bed, his surname, and his life. His lips barely brushed your skin as the morning unfolded around you. Every gesture seemed as natural as breathing.

“Good morning,” he murmured against your neck.

“Mmm.”

“Fascinating response.”

“You already wished me good morning.”

That earned another smile from him.

For a while, you remained exactly like that, barely moving, enjoying the rare tranquility offered by a house that had not yet fully awakened. The children were still asleep. The staff had not yet begun filling the hallways with activity. For a few minutes more, the world seemed to belong solely to the two of you.

Eventually, you opened your eyes completely and turned your head slightly to look at him.

“You should get up.”

Valarr immediately frowned. “No.”

“You have a meeting.”

“Later.”

“Valarr.”

“Not yet.”

“Valarr.” You insisted.

“You’re a tyrant.”

That drew a small laugh from you. “You have an investors’ meeting in two hours.”

“Two hours is plenty of time.”

“Not for someone who takes forty minutes deciding which tie to wear.”

His offended expression appeared instantly.

“That happened once.”

“Three times.”

“Twice.”

“Four.”

Valarr sighed dramatically before leaning forward to place another kiss beside your jaw. “I was trying to be romantic.”

“And I’m trying to stop you from being late.”

“Your priorities are questionable.”

Even so, he eventually surrendered. He almost always did when it came to you. With obvious reluctance, he finally abandoned the comfort of the blankets and allowed you to drag him toward the breakfast waiting downstairs.

And breakfast, like everything else in that house, was already prepared. The dining table had been arranged long before either of you descended the staircase. Fresh fruit. Warmly baked bread. Coffee. Tea. Fresh juices. Everything positioned with impeccable precision by people whose entire existence seemed devoted to anticipating needs before they were even voiced.

The mansion operated like a perfectly calibrated clock. There was cleaning staff who kept every room immaculate. Personal chefs responsible for every meal. Gardeners. Drivers. Tutors. Nannies when necessary. Nothing was ever lacking.

And nothing was lacking for your children, either.

All three were growing up surrounded by extraordinary privilege. They received the finest education available. They studied languages, music, literature, history, and art from an early age. Their personal libraries contained more books than many schools could afford. They had never known financial insecurity. Never gone hungry. Never wondered whether there would be enough money for something essential. Everything they needed appeared before they even had to ask for it.

From the outside, your life appeared perfect. Perhaps that was why nobody saw the cage. Because the most effective cages rarely look like prisons.

You did not work. Nothing was ever denied to you, so no one questioned why. The professional opportunities you had once pursued with such determination had slowly disappeared behind years of marriage, motherhood, and comfort. The need for a career of your own had gradually dissolved beneath reasonable arguments, practical decisions, and promises that there would always be time later.

Later.

Always later.

Meanwhile, the days continued to pass.

You could not leave the property without informing someone first. You did not have a mobile phone of your own beyond the house line. The television channels available were limited. Access to the internet depended almost entirely on Valarr’s computer, when he allowed it or when he happened to be present.

There was always a logical explanation for every restriction. Security. Privacy. Protection. Convenience.

It never looked like control. It never looked like a prohibition. It never looked like an order. And that was precisely what made it so difficult to identify.

Valarr loved you.

That much was undeniable.

He adored you with an intensity that remained obvious even after all these years. He showered you with affection. Surrounded you with comfort. Listened to your preferences. Remembered your likes and dislikes. He still bought you books, dresses, flowers, and small gifts inspired by conversations you yourself had forgotten.

And perhaps that was the cruelest part of all. A prison built by someone who loved you was still a prison, even when its walls were lined with silk.

And some nights, when the house finally fell silent and the rest of the family was asleep, you would find yourself staring into the darkness beyond the windows, wondering what your life might have looked like if you had boarded that plane all those years ago.

The question never lingered for very long.

Because by morning, Valarr would be kissing your cheek again, the children would be racing through the hallways, and the house would awake, and the cage would begin to feel like a home again.

The feeling vanished almost as quickly as it had arrived.

The distant sound of a door opening somewhere in the house, the muffled voices of the staff beginning their morning routines, and the faint rustle of Valarr’s footsteps disappearing briefly toward the dressing room eventually pulled you back into the present. As happened almost every time, the uncomfortable thoughts were pushed into a quiet corner of your mind, buried beneath the familiarity of routine. There was breakfast to share. Children to wake. An entire day waiting beyond the walls of the estate.

By the time you finally descended the stairs a few minutes later, the dining room was already flooded with morning light. Vast windows allowed golden rays to spill across the long polished table, illuminating the flawless tableware, the freshly arranged flowers, and the abundance of food that had been prepared long before any of you appeared. Fresh fruit. Warm bread. Homemade preserves. Eggs. Coffee. Tea. Fresh juices. Everything arranged with the impeccable precision that characterized a household where needs were met before they were even expressed. The scent of freshly brewed coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the aroma of warm bread and melted butter. Everything looked perfect.

Too perfect.

You took your seat as a maid discreetly filled your coffee cup, and for a few brief seconds, you enjoyed the rare silence that preceded chaos.

It lasted exactly that long. Seconds.

“Mom!” The voice echoed through the house before you even saw its owner.

Your daughter came racing down the hallway at full speed, her hair still slightly tousled from sleep and carrying an amount of energy that seemed physically impossible for someone who had only just woken up. She launched herself directly at you without the slightest intention of slowing down, forcing you to open your arms just in time to catch her before she collided with the table. The little girl immediately settled against your side, wrapping her arms around you.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

“Good morning.” The response was immediate. “Dad wouldn’t let me stay up late!”

At the opposite end of the table, Valarr did not even look up from his coffee. “Because it was eleven at night.”

“I wasn’t tired.”

“You fell asleep on top of a book.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“It counts exactly the same.”

The outrage that appeared on your daughter’s face was so genuine that you struggled to suppress a smile.

A moment later, the boys arrived. With them disappeared any remaining possibility of peace. The two of them crossed the dining room arguing at full volume about something that had clearly begun long before they entered the room.

“I’m telling you, you can’t win a war using only cavalry.”

“Yes, I can.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Valarr closed his eyes. “Good morning to you two as well.”

Neither responded, far too occupied with proving the other wrong. That earned a small laugh from you. Some things never changed, and the stubbornness of those two boys was one of them.

Little by little, breakfast unfolded amid overlapping conversations, endless questions, and constant interruptions. Your daughter insisted on telling you about an extraordinarily complicated dream involving a dragon, a gigantic library, and a pink horse that, for some reason, could speak several languages. One of the boys was trying to convince Valarr to let him participate in an academic competition the following month. The other argued with both of them simultaneously while attempting to prove he was right about a historical event he had read about the night before. Voices blended together. There was laughter. Complaints. Dramatic protests. Resigned glances.

Chaos. Beautiful chaos.

For a while, it became easy to forget everything else because this, too, was real. The children’s laughter. Small hands reaching for yours across the table. The way your daughter unconsciously leaned toward you while she spoke. The way the boys sought their father’s attention even while pretending to argue with him.

And Valarr. Always Valarr.

Seated at the far end of the table with a cup of coffee in his hands, watching the children whenever he thought no one was looking. There was something almost endearing in those fleeting expressions. Pride. Affection. Satisfaction. A quiet happiness he rarely showed the rest of the world.

This was real. More real than any dream. More real than any lost opportunity. More real than any career.

“Mom?” Your youngest son’s voice pulled you from your thoughts.

You blinked. “Yes?”

“What did you want to be when you were little?”

The question arrived with such complete innocence that, for a moment, time itself seemed to stop. The knife you had been using to cut fruit remained suspended above your plate.

Across from you, Valarr seemed to go still as well. Only for a second. Long enough.

“Why do you ask?” his voice carried from behind the rim of his coffee cup.

“Our teacher asked us to write an essay.” He shrugged. “I want to be a historian.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Last week you wanted to be an astronaut,” you added.

“I can be both.”

“No, you can’t.”

“Yes, I can.”

The argument immediately resumed, but you barely heard any of it because you were still trapped inside the question.

What did you want to be when you were little?

The answer came at once. You remembered perfectly.

That girl who studied until dawn. The brilliant student who had arrived at university determined to conquer the world. The young woman who dreamed of international offices, constant travel, ambitious projects, and a career built entirely through her own merit.

You remembered her. You still did.

Even though she seemed to grow more distant with every passing year.

“Mom.”

You blinked again. “Yes?”

“You didn’t answer.”

You smiled. A small smile. Polite. Practiced. “I wanted to work very hard.”

“That’s not a profession.”

The laughter was immediate.

“I know.”

The conversation carried on as though nothing had happened. The boys returned to their debate. Breakfast continued. The moment seemed to dissolve into the familiar noise of the morning.

And yet, when you lifted your gaze, you found Valarr watching you from the opposite end of the table.

He wasn’t smiling, wasn’t speaking. He was simply looking at you.

As though he had heard the answer you never actually gave. As though both of you knew exactly what that answer had been. And for one brief moment, far too brief for the children to notice, something heavy passed between you.

Then your daughter asked for more jam. One of the boys launched into yet another absurd argument. The room filled with voices once more.

And the morning moved forward as it always did.

—

The following morning, Valarr left the house with an unusual sense of urgency.

It was not something obvious. In fact, to anyone who did not know him as well as you did, it would have seemed like an entirely ordinary morning. He woke early, kissed the children on the forehead before they came downstairs for breakfast, reviewed several documents while eating, and answered a few brief phone calls regarding an important meeting scheduled for that afternoon. Everything appeared routine, predictable, perfectly integrated into the orderly machinery that constituted his life.

And yet, when he finally rose to leave, he left the plate in front of him untouched. Not the coffee—the coffee he finished down to the very last drop. But the eggs, fruit, and toast remained practically untouched.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

Valarr barely looked up from the papers in his hands. “I don’t have much time.”

“Val." An uncomfortable pang of worry settled in your chest.

“I’ll eat something at the office.”

He said it with the same casualness someone might use to comment on the weather before leaning over your chair, pressing a distracted kiss into your hair, and walking out of the dining room without a backward glance.

The conversation should have ended there. And yet, as you stared at the abandoned plate, a small feeling began to take root inside your chest. It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous, but over the years you had grown accustomed to taking care of him in ways so small that sometimes you barely noticed them yourself: reminding him to rest, forcing him away from work when he had been awake for too many hours, making sure he ate during particularly demanding periods. Valarr was brilliant—extraordinarily brilliant—but he was also perfectly capable of forgetting basic human needs whenever something captured the full extent of his attention.

So, sometime around midday, you made a decision.

You would bring him lunch.

You spent far longer getting ready than was strictly necessary. Much longer. Perhaps because you had not truly left the house in weeks. Perhaps because the idea of stepping outside your daily routine felt pleasant. Or perhaps because some part of you still enjoyed the expression that appeared on Valarr’s face whenever you made a particular effort with your appearance.

The dress you chose was elegant without being extravagant, crafted from a light fabric that moved softly around your legs whenever you walked. Your hair was arranged with care, and your makeup was subtle and refined. Natural enough to appear effortless, deliberate enough to highlight exactly what you wanted highlighted.

When you finished studying your reflection, you felt something close to satisfaction. It had been a long time since you had dressed up simply because you wanted to. A long time since you had looked at yourself as a woman and not exclusively as a mother.

Afterward, you collected the lunch the chefs had prepared for Valarr and left the estate.

The corporate headquarters dominated several entire blocks of the financial district. Glass. Steel. Money. Power.

Even after all these years, it remained impressive. The building seemed to rise above everything around it, reflecting the sky across its gleaming façade and projecting a presence so imposing it was impossible to ignore. The car had barely come to a stop before you stepped onto the sidewalk, surrounded by executives, assistants, and employees moving in and out of the main entrance with the accelerated efficiency characteristic of large corporations.

And that was when you heard your name.

“Y/N?”

You turned. Recognition came immediately.

It was the student from the Aegon Foundation Ball. Or, more accurately, the former student.

Years had passed. The university boy was gone, replaced by a man in an immaculate dark suit, a corporate identification badge hanging around his neck, and a confidence far more settled in the way he occupied space.

For a moment, both of you seemed equally surprised. Then he smiled. A genuine smile.

“Well.” Amusement lingered across his features as he looked at you. “I wasn’t expecting to run into you here.”

“Neither was I.” The gears in your mind scrambled to remember his name. “I don’t mean to be rude, but your name was...?”

“Robert,” he finished for you. “It’s been years.”

“Yes.”

“A lot of years.” His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice carried an unexpected warmth. “You look— incredible.”

The sincerity of the compliment drew a small smile from you.

“Thank you.”

“I mean it.” His eyes studied your face as though trying to reconcile the woman standing before him with the memory he carried of the university student you had once been. “I don’t think you’ve changed at all.”

“That is objectively false,” you protested.

“No, seriously.” He shook his head. “You’re magnificent.”

A faint warmth rose to your cheeks. Not necessarily because he was flirting, but because it had been a very long time since someone outside your immediate circle had looked at you that way. As an individual. As a woman. Not simply as Valarr Targaryen’s wife.

“Do you work here?” The question came casually, almost innocently, and yet it caught you off guard.

“I…”

The answer died before it could fully form. Because no. You did not work there. You did not work anywhere. You had no office. No position. No access badge. No name engraved on a glass door. Nothing besides your husband's last name as access to this life.

The uncomfortable feeling appeared for only a moment before you managed to conceal it.

“I’m here to see my husband.”

The smile returned immediately. “Your husband works here?”

You nodded. “He is the owner. Valarr Targaryen.”

Recognition was immediate. “Oh.” For a second, he looked surprised. Then not so surprised. As though, after considering it for a moment, it made perfect sense. “I don’t know why I feel like I should have guessed.”

That made you laugh. “Is it that obvious?”

“A little.” His smile widened. “Definitely a little.”

The conversation continued for several more minutes. You talked about the weather, former classmates, professors you both remembered, and the years that had passed since graduation. It was an easy, pleasant conversation. The kind you rarely had with anyone outside your immediate family.

And before leaving, he pulled a card from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“By the way.” He offered it to you. “I doubt you want to spend hours talking about corporate economics, but if you ever want to grab a coffee, catch up, or just get out of the house—” The pause was brief. Deliberate. "Call me.”

You looked at the card. Then at him. Finally, you smiled and accepted it.

“Thank you.”

By the time you reached Valarr’s office, he was already working.

The transformation that crossed his face the moment he saw you was immediate. A smile appeared before you had even reached his desk, warm and sincere in a way very few people were ever allowed to witness.

“There you are.” He sounded pleased. As though he had been waiting for you.

He abandoned the documents he had been reviewing and rose to his feet while his gaze traveled slowly over your figure, lingering on the dress, your hair, and every small detail you had taken care with that morning. The satisfaction in his eyes was so obvious it was almost ridiculous. “You look beautiful.”

That earned a half smile from you. Not magnificent, as Robert had said. Beautiful.

“Good morning to you too.”

Valarr rounded the desk and approached, taking your face gently between his hands before kissing you slowly, with the easy familiarity of someone who still found pleasure in doing so after all these years.

“You brought me food.”

“Someone had to.” You murmured, "Don't want you to starve to death in the middle of a meeting."

“How lucky I am.”

“Very.”

“I know.”

The afternoon unfolded in an absurdly familiar way.

First, Valarr insisted that you stay.

Then he insisted that you sit with him.

And eventually, he decided that sitting with him meant sitting directly in his lap, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps for the two of you, it was.

For hours, you remained comfortably settled between his arms while he reviewed reports, signed contracts, participated in virtual meetings, and answered phone calls. One of his hands almost always rested somewhere against you, at your waist, on your arm, or laced through your fingers, as though he needed constant reassurance that you were still there. Every now and then, he would lower his head to press a kiss against your shoulder, your cheek, or your hair, small displays of affection scattered throughout the afternoon with such complete naturalness that they no longer seemed like conscious gestures at all.

It was near the end of the workday when you finally spoke.

“Val.” Your voice was soft.

“Hm?”

“I don’t like depending on the house phone.”

The hand resting at your waist stilled for the briefest moment, just enough for you to notice.

“I want a phone. My own phone”

The silence that followed was not uncomfortable. It was thoughtful. Valarr studied the documents in front of him for several seconds before lowering his gaze to yours.

“A phone?”

“Amazingly enough, yes.”

The corner of his mouth curved upward. “What a revolutionary concept.”

"I know"

“The world isn’t ready.”

You rolled your eyes. And, to your surprise, he simply nodded. “All right.”

You blinked. “All right?”

"Yes.”

“Just like that?”

Valarr smiled. A quiet smile. An unusually gentle one. “If you want a phone, you’ll have a phone.” His thumb brushed lightly across your side. “My wife will have everything her heart desires.” He leaned down and kissed your forehead. “I’ll take care of it this week.”

For a moment, nestled against his chest while the city began to illuminate beyond the towering windows and the final rays of sunlight disappeared between the buildings, you felt something close to relief.

Small. Insignificant. Real.

Without realizing that, inside your handbag, the business card that man had given you was still there.

Waiting.

—

During the first few weeks, it did not even feel like a conscious decision. It simply happened.

You had only received the phone a few days earlier, and although Valarr had agreed to give it to you without argument, without imposing any visible conditions and without even asking exactly what you wanted it for, something inside you still reacted to the small device with a caution that was difficult to explain. Perhaps because you had not owned one in years. Perhaps because, after so long living within other people's schedules, implicit permissions and carefully defined routines, even the simple possibility of holding a private conversation still felt strangely forbidden. That was why you never texted when Valarr was home. Not because he had ordered you not to. Not because he constantly monitored you. Not even because there was any concrete threat. It was something much subtler. Much older. A habit built over years. A learned reflex that made you slip the phone away the moment you heard the familiar sound of his car passing through the front gates or the staff announcing his arrival.

Never when he was there, so your conversations with Robert always happened during the day. While the children attended lessons. While Valarr worked. While the enormous house remained submerged in that elegant silence that sometimes felt comforting and other times unbearably empty.

At first, the messages were sporadic. Small. Harmless. A conversation about the Aegon Foundation. A casual question. A comment about an economic article. Then other things began to appear.

Memes. Far too many memes.

And you quickly discovered that the internet had evolved considerably during the years you had spent enclosed within that mansion.

Robert

I need to know something.

You

What?

Robert

Do you understand this meme?

[image]

He attached a picture of a terrified-looking cat sitting in front of a computer while a loading bar remained frozen at 99%.

You

Is it worried because the download isn't finished?

Robert

...

Oh my God

You're adorable.

You

Why?

Robert

That wasn't the answer.

You

Then I don't understand it.

Robert

I know.

That's what makes it better

That type of conversation began repeating itself with alarming frequency. Robert seemed to find endless amusement in your complete inability to understand modern references. Every meme became an improvised lesson. Every absurd video somehow led to an even more absurd explanation.

Robert

Look at this.

He attached a video.

A man dressed as a shark was dancing in the middle of an office while electronic music blasted in the background.

You

Why are you sending me this?

Robert

Because it's art

You

No.

Robert

Yes

You

No.

Robert

Your inability to appreciate contemporary culture concerns me.

You

I think you're the one who should be concerned.

Robert

Impossible

I'm too busy being iconic.

You

What does that even mean?

Robert

Exactly my point.

Little by little, you began looking forward to those messages. Not because you were in love. Not because you were seeking anything specific. Simply because they were light.Because nobody expected anything from you. Because Robert spoke to you as though you were merely a person and not a wife, a mother or an extension of someone else's life. Not reduce the wife of Valarr. Sometimes the conversations stretched on for hours. Other times they consisted of nothing more than ridiculous exchanges.

Robert

Have you seen Shrek?

You:

Yeah

Robert

Good

Then we have a solid foundation for this friendship.

You

Is that how you determine your friendships?

Robert

Absolutely.

Some people have standards. I have Shrek.

You

How reassuring

Robert

Thank you.

And for the first time in years, you found yourself laughing alone at a screen. Without realizing it. Without overthinking it. That small window into the outside world was slowly reminding you of a version of yourself you had forgotten.

At first, Robert never asked why you disappeared every evening. Eventually, he noticed. Because it happened at exactly the same time without exception.

Robert

I have a theory

You

That's concerning

Robert

You disappear exactly when the workday ends

You:

That's not true

Robert

It's 5:46.

I'll bet twenty dollars you disappear within an hour.

You

I won't

Robert

We'll see 👀

At 6:52, you stopped replying.

At 8:15, another message arrived.

Robert

HAHAHAHAHA.

I knew it.

Over time, it became a private joke. Robert began referring to your disappearances as the blackout. He sent memes of employees clocking out. Soldiers leaving battlefields. Astronauts losing communication with Earth.

Robert

Signal lost. The captain has abandoned the mission.

F.

You

What does F mean?

Robert

I can't keep doing this

You

Robert.

Robert

It's a reference

You

To what?

Robert

One day I'll give you an intensive internet course.

You

I'd rather learn quantum economics.

Robert

That's exactly why you need the course.

And yet, beneath all those jokes, the same silent rule remained. You never texted when Valarr was home.

Never.

The phone disappeared the moment you heard his car entering the driveway. Conversations ended immediately. Notifications were silenced. As though some part of you still believed it needed to remain hidden. Perhaps because you knew it did. Perhaps because you did not want to ask yourself why. And that was precisely why the mistake caught you completely off guard.

That afternoon had been unusually quiet. The children were occupied with their tutors. Valarr was attending a meeting that, according to his schedule, would last well into the evening. You were seated beside one of the library windows while Robert sent an endless stream of ridiculous videos that you barely understood.

Robert

Look at this

THIS IS IMPORTANT.

The video showed a man falling off a treadmill while dramatic music played in the background.

You

Why is this funny?

Robert

Because he fell. Are you blind?

You

That looks painful.

Robert

Oh my God

You're impossible

You

I don't understand the internet

Robert

It shows.

It's fascinating to observe you.

You smiled despite yourself. And kept texting. What you did not notice was the notification that appeared several minutes later.

Val ❤️

How is your afternoon?

The message disappeared beneath the others. Not because you intended to ignore it. You simply did not see it.

The conversation with Robert continued. One meme led to another. One question led to a story. Then came absurd photographs from a conference he was attending and sarcastic commentary about one of the speakers. Time slipped away unnoticed until, eventually, you heard the distant sound of a car entering through the front gates.

Your heart gave a small jump.

Instinctively, you locked the phone. Habit. Always habit.

Valarr arrived home approximately twenty minutes later. You found him at dinner. Impeccably dressed as always. Tired, though attempting to conceal it. Handsome in a way that was almost irritating. The children monopolized much of the conversation, recounting world-changing developments involving lessons, books and sibling disputes.

For a while, everything seemed perfectly normal.

Until dinner ended. That was when he spoke. Not immediately, he punished you with the wait. Not accusingly. Simply when the two of you were finally alone.

“Everything alright this afternoon?”

You looked up. “Of course.”

“Really?” Something in his tone sharpened your attention immediately.

Valarr remained leaning against the back of his chair, watching you with that calm expression that had always been far more difficult to interpret than any open display of anger.

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know.” His voice remained soft.Too soft. “I texted you.”

Understanding hit instantly. The phone. The message.

“I’m sorry.” The apology came quickly. Honestly. “I must have— I must not have seen it.”

Valarr held your gaze for several seconds. “You didn’t see it.”

“No.”

“You were online.” That made you blink. It did not sound like a question. It sounded like a fact.

“I saw that you were online.” The silence that followed was small. Brief. Enough.

For the first time since you had begun talking to Robert, you felt an uncomfortable sting move through your chest. Valarr smiled. He did not look angry. That was precisely what made it unsettling.

“It just seemed strange.”

“I have the right not to answer immediately.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them, and the moment they settled between you, you knew it had been a mistake.

Not because it was untrue. Because it was true. A simple truth. A normal truth. A reasonable truth.

Something shifted in Valarr’s eyes only for an instant. Only a shadow. So brief you could almost have convinced yourself it had never been there. Then it vanished.

“Of course you do.” His smile returned immediately. Perfect. Impeccable. Familiar. “I was only... asking.”

Yet, as the conversation continued and the evening moved forward with apparent normality, an uneasy feeling remained lodged somewhere in the back of your mind. For the first time since you had received that phone, you had the strange impression that Valarr had not merely noticed that you failed to answer.

He had noticed exactly when you didn’t.

—

The gala unfolded with the carefully constructed perfection of events that seemed to exist solely to demonstrate how much money could be spent in a single evening without anyone feeling guilty about it. The main ballroom shimmered beneath a cascade of crystal chandeliers whose reflections multiplied across polished marble floors and champagne glasses held by impeccably manicured hands. An orchestra played soft music from an elevated platform at the far end of the room, subtle enough not to interrupt conversations, elegant enough to constantly remind everyone that this was no ordinary gathering. Business executives, politicians, philanthropists, investors, and heirs drifted between carefully curated groups, exchanging greetings, business cards, and promises with the same ease that other people discussed the weather. Everything smelled of exclusive perfumes, fresh flowers, and old money. Everything was refined. Everything was immaculate. Everything was exactly the sort of environment in which Valarr seemed to breathe with insulting ease.

You, of course, looked exactly as you were supposed to look. The gown had been chosen weeks earlier by a designer whose fees likely equaled the annual salary of many families. The jewelry was understated yet impossibly expensive. Your makeup was flawless. Your hairstyle remained untouched despite the passing hours. The image was irreproachable. The perfect wife. The mother of his children. The elegant figure standing beside him in photographs, magazine covers, and charity events. You had learned to play that role so effortlessly that most people would never suspect the effort it required. You smiled when you were supposed to smile. You listened when you were supposed to listen. You contributed to conversations with precisely the right amount of intelligence and charm. No one saw the cracks. No one saw the exhaustion. No one saw the questions that still lingered in the quietest corners of your mind.

Meanwhile, Valarr moved through the crowd as though he had been born specifically for evenings like this. He greeted people whose names you barely remembered. He carried on simultaneous conversations with executives, investors, and political representatives without ever losing the thread of a single one. He smiled. Charmed. Persuaded. Shined. And yet, even in the middle of all of it, he still found ways to make sure you remained close. A hand briefly settling against the small of your back as you crossed the room. A fleeting brush of his fingers against yours. A quick glance from the opposite side of the ballroom to locate you among the crowd. Small gestures. Familiar gestures. So constant that they had become part of the landscape of your life. Most women would have considered them romantic. You no longer knew what to think of them.

It was during one of those conversations that you met Emma, the woman from the news.

At first, she seemed like just another guest among the dozens of people you were introduced to at events like these. Elegant. Self-assured. Intelligent. The kind of woman who naturally belonged in environments where important decisions were made over exclusive dinners and private meetings. Yet as the conversation progressed and you began listening to her speak about her work, something uncomfortable started stirring inside you.

Emma managed international projects. She traveled constantly. She supervised teams spread across different countries. She spoke casually about negotiations in London, meetings in Singapore, conferences in Berlin, and opportunities in places you had once dreamed of visiting when you were still a student. She did so with the effortless confidence of someone who had built that life herself and was barely aware of how extraordinary it actually was. As you listened to her describe multimillion-dollar contracts, strategic decisions, and flights booked with only a few hours' notice, you began to feel something you could not immediately identify.

Because Emma resembled someone.

Not physically.

Not in the way she dressed.

Not even in the way she spoke.

Emma resembled the person you had once imagined becoming.

The student who stayed awake until three in the morning because she was convinced that one day she would lead important projects. The young woman who had received an impossible international job offer. The girl who had believed the entire world was waiting for her.

Every word that left Emma's lips seemed to open a small window into a life that had ceased to exist before it ever truly began. And the longer you listened, the harder it became to ignore the uncomfortable feeling growing slowly beneath your ribs.

Then Emma smiled. A kind smile. A sincere smile.

And she said something that shattered whatever emotional stability you still had left.

“I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

You blinked lightly. “Me?”

What was so special about you that this woman, so successful, so prosperous, wanted to meet you in person?

“Of course.” Her laugh was soft. “You two are practically a legend.”

The comment drew an automatic smile from you. The polite one. The social smile. The smile you offered when you did not know what else to do.

Emma shook her head gently. “No, I’m serious.” She picked up a champagne glass from a passing tray. “You’re so lucky.”

The statement was so casual that it took you a moment to process it.

“Lucky?”

“Of course.” Emma shrugged. “If a rich, attractive man who was completely in love with me asked me to give up everything to be with him...” She smiled. “I’d do it happily.”

The feeling was immediate.

Like a stone sinking to the bottom of a lake. Heavy. Cold. Inevitable. Emma continued speaking without noticing a thing. To her, it was a compliment. An expression of admiration. A romantic fantasy.

“I mean, look at him.” She discreetly gestured toward the other side of the ballroom. Valarr was surrounded by people. Smiling. Listening. Shining beneath the lights, as always. “There are women who would kill to have a life like that.”

And perhaps that was the worst part. Emma was not being cruel. She was not trying to diminish you. She was not trying to hurt you.

She was just looking at your life from the outside and seeing exactly what everyone else saw. A perfect marriage. A perfect house. A perfect husband. A perfect family. A happy ending.

And suddenly you discovered that the image exhausted you.

For one brief second, you wanted to ask her whether she would still admire that life if she knew what it had cost. Whether she would still call it luck if she understood what it meant to abandon a part of yourself so important that, even years later, it still surfaced in your thoughts when you least expected it. Whether she would still envy you after hearing about the dreams you had buried in order to build that happiness.

But you said nothing. You simply smiled. The same perfect smile. The same smile that had spent years replacing more honest answers. And not long afterward, you found an excuse to leave.

You wandered through the ballroom without any real destination, weaving through clusters of guests you barely registered. The music continued to play. Conversations continued to unfold. Laughter continued to fill the room. Everything remained exactly the same, and yet you felt as though something inside you had shifted slightly out of place. Eventually, you found a nearly empty side terrace, sheltered from the main crowd by enormous glass doors. The night air brushed against your face the moment you stepped outside, and for several seconds you stood perfectly still, trying to recover a composure you did not even understand why you had lost.

Then it happened. Not dramatically. Not spectacularly. You simply realized that you were crying.

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks as you stared at the city lights stretching across the distance. No sobbing. No noise. No visible collapse.

Exactly like university. Exactly like exam season. Those nights when you locked yourself inside a library because the pressure felt unbearable and you could not afford to fall apart in front of anyone.

Those tears. The same ones. And perhaps that was what hurt the most. Because they reminded you of who you had once been. How desperately you had wanted certain things. How fiercely you had fought for them. And how much they still mattered.

You remained there for several minutes. Then you breathed. You wiped your face. You breathed again, and you pulled yourself back together. As you always did. As you always had.

When you finally found Valarr again, he smiled the moment he saw you approaching. That smile disappeared almost immediately.

He knew you far too well, had learned to read even the smallest changes in your expression years ago.

“What is it?” His voice was soft. Concerned. Genuine.

“I don’t want to stay any longer.” The words came out quietly. Controlled. They were enough.

Valarr studied you for only a moment before nodding. He didn’t argue. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t try to persuade you to remain. He simply extended his hand toward you. “Let’s go.”

And so you did.

The limousine glided through the illuminated avenues while the city drifted past the darkened windows in an endless procession of lights and shadows. For several minutes neither of you spoke. Valarr sat beside you, watching you from the corner of his eye, clearly trying to decide how much he should push. Eventually, he was the one who broke the silence.

“It didn’t seem like a bad evening.”

You didn’t answer.

“Did someone say something?”

Silence.

“Are you alright?”

You kept your gaze fixed on the window. Then he began talking about other things. The children. A meeting scheduled for the following week. A new project. Anything that might fill the silence without forcing you to respond.

And you simply listened.

If you spoke, you risked saying something irreversible. Something you had spent years avoiding. Something that sounded far too much like the truth. Eventually, Valarr fell silent as well. His hand found yours on the seat between you. He held it. Gently. Tenderly. Lovingly.

And as the limousine continued its journey through the darkness, you realized something infinitely more painful than any argument.

Valarr still loved you, more than ever.

And that was precisely why you could not stop wondering whether it was possible to love someone deeply and still miss the person you might have become without them.

—

That night, after the gala, Valarr did not press.

He did not try to pull explanations out of you, nor did he demand that you put into words something you were clearly not ready to name. During the drive home, as the limousine moved through the city's illuminated avenues and golden reflections from the skyscrapers drifted across the darkened windows, he remained beside you in silence. At first, he spoke a few times, asking gentle, cautious questions with that carefully measured patience he tended to adopt whenever he sensed something was hurting you, but every attempt was met with brief, distracted answers—or silence altogether. Eventually, he stopped trying. He understood that you did not want to talk. He understood that any additional words risked pushing you even farther away. So he simply stayed there, occupying the seat beside you, watching you discreetly when he thought you weren't paying attention, while you kept your eyes fixed on the city lights and pretended that the tears shed in that secluded corner of the ballroom no longer existed.

When you arrived home, he didn't ask, either. hat was precisely what made it so difficult to stay angry with him.

Valarr could be controlling. He could be confident. He could be unbearably certain of himself. But he was also capable of recognizing when a wound needed silence more than solutions. Over the years, he had learned to read you with unsettling accuracy. He knew when to argue with you, when to challenge you, and when to simply sit beside you and wait.

That night, he chose to wait.

Later, while the two of you were getting ready for bed, he found you standing in front of the master bathroom mirror, motionless, staring at your reflection without truly seeing it. Your makeup was gone. Your gala dress lay abandoned over a chair. All that remained was the emotional exhaustion left behind by a conversation that should not have meant anything and yet had somehow managed to pry open a crack you had spent years trying to ignore.

You didn't hear him enter.

You only noticed his presence when he appeared behind you and his hands found your waist with the familiarity of someone who had spent more than a decade loving you.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke. He simply stood there, holding you. The weight of his body against your back felt warm. Safe. Familiar.

Home.

Slowly, Valarr rested his chin on your shoulder as he looked at your reflection beside his in the mirror.

"You're thinking too much."

A small, humorless laugh escaped your lips.

"How observant."

His fingers intertwined over your stomach. "I don't want you to be sad."

It should have been a simple sentence. An innocent one. And yet something about it caused the knot you had been carrying in your chest for hours to tighten even further. Because you believed him.

Valarr could make monumental mistakes. He could hurt you. He could suffocate you without realizing it.But you had never doubted that. You had never doubted that he loved you.

His lips brushed your temple. Then your hair. Then your cheek. Small, absent minded kisses. Affectionate. As though he were trying to piece you back together little by little.

"Come to bed."

And you did.

That night, he held you while you slept, one arm wrapped around your waist and the steady rhythm of his breathing warm against the back of your neck, as though he wanted to protect you even from the things he could not understand. For a few hours, it worked. For a few hours, Emma disappeared. The woman you might have become disappeared.

The cage felt like a home again.

Until the phone vibrated at two seventeen in the morning.

The sound was insignificant. Almost imperceptible within the absolute silence of the room. Enough.

Valarr's eyes opened almost immediately. Years of responsibility had trained him to react to any interruption in the night, and for several seconds he remained still in the darkness, trying to identify the source of the noise while the glow of a screen faintly illuminated the bedside table.

Beside him, you remained deeply asleep, your head buried in the pillow, your breathing slow and even, completely unaware.

The phone vibrated again. Valarr frowned slightly. It wasn't normal. Most people who needed to contact you used the house line. Almost nobody texted you at that hour.

Without thinking much about it, he picked up the device. The screen lit up. And the name that appeared was enough to erase every trace of sleep.

Robert.

A new message.

For several seconds, he simply stared at the name. He opened the conversation.

At first, he read calmly.

Then he kept scrolling. And scrolling. And scrolling. The memes. The private jokes. The absurd conversations. The messages exchanged over entire weeks. The little details. The photographs of books. The references that only the two of you understood. The conversations about history. About films. About abandoned dreams. About things you had never mentioned in front of him.

Nothing was explicitly romantic. Nothing constituted an affair. That was precisely why it began to infuriate him. Because this was not desire. It was intimacy. It was trust. It was time. It was a part of you that existed completely outside of him, and Valarr was not accustomed to that.

By the time he finished reading, the expression on his face had become impossible to decipher. Then the phone vibrated again. Another message.

Robert

I'm starting to think your husband has you locked up 😂

Something dark crossed Valarr's face, he slowly turned his head toward you, and woke you up.

"Wake up." You didn't react. "Y/N."

Your brow furrowed slightly. "What...?"you murmured sleepily.

"Wake up."

The restrained hardness in his voice finally pulled you completely out of sleep. You blinked several times. Confused. Disoriented.

And then you saw the illuminated screen held in front of your face. You recognized the chat. Every trace of sleep vanished instantly.

Valarr held your gaze. "Explain it to me."

You slowly sat up. "What are you doing going through my phone?"

"Explain it." He repeated it.

"H-he's my friend."

A short laugh escaped him. There was no humor in it. "Your friend?"

"Yes." The words were spat out awkwardly, unnaturally.

"Interesting. You've never mentioned him."

"Because I knew exactly how you'd react."

Something hardened in his expression. "Like what?"

"Like this." You pointed at the phone. "As if I've done something terrible."

"And what exactly am I supposed to think?"

"Think that I have a friend."

"One you text every day?"

"Yes."

"One you keep hidden?"

"I didn't hide him!" Your voice rose a fraction.

"I had to find out at two in the morning, my love. If that isn't a secret, I don't know what it is."

The silence that followed was heavy. Uncomfortable. Valarr stood and began pacing across the room, he needed to vent this anger. He would vent it or it would explode on you like the tide against the sand.

"What does he have that I don't?" The question sounded sincere. Too sincere.

"This isn't a competition—"

"Then explain what it is." You stared at him for several seconds. Then you answered.

"He listens to me."

Valarr went rigid. "I listen to you."

"Do you? Really?" Your voice began to harden. "Then tell me when the last time was that you asked me what I wanted to do with my life."

That silenced him.

"Y/N..."

"No. Answer me." He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He had no answer.

"I don't work."

"Because you don't need to."

"I have no independence."

"You have everything."

"That's not the same thing."

"You have this house."

"It isn't mine."

"You have security."

"It isn't freedom—"

"You have a family."

"And I love them." Your voice trembled. "I love them more than anything, I love our children, I love their chaotic laughter and the boys' debates." Silence settled between you. "... But I lost myself too."

Those words seemed to strike him physically, they were the only words he had never wanted to hear.

"Is that really what you think?"

"I think I've spent years trying not to." For the first time since the argument began, Valarr looked away.

"Everything I've done has been for you." He revealed the truth so that you would come closer to scrutinize it. So that you would approach it with a magnifying glass and, with the utmost care, discover the truth.

"I know."

"Everything."

"I know."

"Then why does it sound as if I'm the villain in your story?" The question hung between you, heavy and suffocating. "Do you know what bothers me the most?" he continued. "The way you talk as if I'm the one who took something from you. As if I'm responsible for everything you regret. You accepted the ring. You chose the wedding date. You—"

"Valarr..."

"No. You listen to me for once." He pointed the phone at you.

"I gave you everything. The house. The children. Security. Opportunities. A life most people will never have." He moved closer to the bed, his anger carefully restrained.

"I never said you didn't."

"You act like none of it matters." His eyes dropped to the screen. Then he read aloud. "'Sometimes I think you would've been incredible running a company. You have that kind of mind.'"

Your stomach dropped.

"'You have that kind of mind,'" he repeated slowly. "Is that what you want to hear? That you could've conquered the world?"

"Stop doing this."

"Doing what?"

"Turning it into something it isn't."

"What I see is a man telling my wife exactly what she wants to hear. Looking for approval."

"He's my friend—"

"He's a man."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Of course it means something." The response came immediately. "Men don't spend weeks listening to a married woman's problems for no reason."

Your eyes locked onto his. "Do you hear yourself?"

"I'm being realistic."

"No. You're being insulting."

"I'm telling the truth."

"What truth, Valarr?" you demanded, meeting his gaze. "That women can't have friends?"

"I didn't say that."

"You implied it."

"I'm saying you're naïve."

Naïve.

The word landed between you. Again. The same word from the Aegon Foundation ball. The same superiority. The same constant need to correct you.

"Do you know what the real problem is?" you asked at last. "Every time I try to talk about something that hurts me, you end up reminding me of everything you've given me. Not because you want to understand me. Because you want me to feel guilty."

For the first time, something faltered in his expression. Only for a moment. Then he answered.

"Because you should be grateful."

The silence that followed was absolute. He seemed to realize what he had just said a second later. Too late. You were still staring at him as though you were looking at a stranger.

"You owe all of this to me," he continued. "This entire life. The house. The name. The opportunities. The stability. The security."

Each word sounded worse than the last. Crueler. More honest. Closer to something that had been buried for far too long.

"Without me, Y/N, you wouldn't have any of this."

Your breathing became uneven. He kept talking.

"Without me, you wouldn't have this house. You wouldn't have this position. You wouldn't have this life." Then came the final blow. "Without me..." His voice dropped into something cold and terrible. "You wouldn't be who you are, I built you" Something inside you broke. "You chose to be with me, Y/N," he said. "You let me put a ring on your finger. You accepted my name. You said yes when the priest asked whether you would take me as your husband."

The tears continued to slide down your cheeks as you tried uselessly to wipe them away. Every time you brushed one aside, another seemed to take its place immediately. The exhaustion of entire years felt lodged inside your chest, crushing everything beneath its unbearable weight.

It wasn't just Robert anymore. Or Emma. Or even the argument you had just had. It was something larger. Something older. Something that had been growing in silence for far too long. Valarr watched you for several seconds from the other side of the room. He was still angry.

You could see it in the way he refused to look away from you, as though doing so might mean losing control of something. You could see it in the tension of his jaw, in the stiffness of his shoulders, in the measured rhythm of his breathing as he forced himself to remain calm when he clearly wasn't.

Finally, he crossed the distance between you. He did it suddenly, as though remaining still for one more second had become impossible. You instinctively stepped backward until the edge of the mattress struck the backs of your legs. Valarr stopped in front of you.

Too close, invading a space he normally respected when he was angry. The argument still burned between you. You could see it in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his jaw tightened, and in the fixed stare that never left your face.

When you tried to move around him, he stepped in the same direction.

He didn't touch you, but he didn't let you escape the conversation either.

"Valarr." His name came out exhausted.

That was when his hands found your arms and he pulled you into a sudden embrace. Not careful. An embrace that was too tight, too desperate, as though he were trying to convince himself that you were still there.

You immediately tensed.

Valarr felt it. Of course he did. And yet he didn't let go. Not when you pushed against him. He rested his forehead against your hair and closed his eyes "What am I supposed to do?" he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Because I don't know what else to give you anymore." His arms remained around you as he continued speaking, each word more vulnerable than the last. "I've tried to give you everything. Everything I thought would make you happy." He whispered against your hair. "But there's still hope. "You've always been stubborn. You were in college," he inhaled from your hair, drawing in your scent. "That's why I fell in love with you, because of your stubbornness. Your inexhaustible denial of scarcity, your hunger for more, your... Your sharp rejection."

Suddenly, almost at the same level as that unexpected embrace, he placed his palm on your neck, and with a movement as deliberate as it was abrupt, he turned your face toward the large mirror beside the bed. You saw everything. How the anger still inhabited his body, the weight he imposed on yours, the fear that accompanied your features. "No please, no, no Valarr—" The hand on your neck moved over your mouth with a thrust. A plaintive whimper tried to escape your lips. It couldn't.

"Keep it to yourself. I've heard enough from you and your bitchy behavior." His other hand lifted your nightgown. You didn't make the mistake of resisting; you learned long ago that it wasn't worth it. You cried as you always did since that time in his car on graduation day: silently. His digits pressed against your clothed intimacy, awakening worldly sensations in your core. You could see it.

He didn't bother to remove the fabric. Just folded it to one side, a finger abruptly entering your sex, thrusting against your rubbery walls. Tears streamed from your cheeks into the palm of his hand. Again and again and again you felt his fingers slide in and out of you. You couldn't complain. You weren't going to complain. You just needed to take it, that's what you'd done from the beginning. "Look at yourself," he said, pressing your face against the mirror. Strong. Needy. "Robert will never have this. He doesn't love you. He loves what he thinks you represent, "The successful girl from college, The brightest mind on campus. The promise" grazed your clitoris with his thumb, your pussy squeezed his finger. "You're not that girl anymore. You're my wife."

He withdrew his finger from your hole, now wet with sexual instinct, not desire or arousal. He lowered his pants and boxers to his thighs, just enough to free his erect cock. He brought his hips closer, and the rubbing against your sex served as medicine for his desire. Those eyes, so different and kind, were pools of primal desire. "I love you... God, how I love you" He confessed against your lips. "Don't make this any harder for both of us."

He entered. His cock fitting inside you. It felt just like he always wanted it to, wet, tight, and undeniably his. While he was thrusting into your very being, your eyes were fixed on the reflection in the mirror. Life was an eternal paradox, you thought.

A few years ago, you sensed it in his lingering glances as he walked through the university hallways. In how he condemned you after the student council president election. It was there when you rejected him under the moonlight. It spoke after your conversation with Robert at the Aegon Foundation ball. Reflections don't lie, and now, with the indelible image in front of you as his hips slammed against you, you saw it.

You could see the monster you had for a husband. Tangible.

Dark Valarr x reader

SUMMARY: Everything you have ever wanted came wrapped in your acceptance to King's Landing University: prestige, opportunity, and a future worth fighting for. Yet, you never imagined the thing threatening it would look so much like love.

CW: RAPE/NON-CON, power imbalance, notions of poverty, nepotism, imposter syndrome, manipulation, jealousy, misogyny, forced pregnancy/baby trapping.

WC: 11.2 K

Part 2

The suspense was killing you.

It wasn't an exaggeration. You felt it in every corner of your body: in the constant bounce of your knee beneath the desk, in your nails bitten down to nothing, in your absolute inability to focus on anything else over the past few weeks—months.

You checked the date. The response was supposed to arrive today.

Or tomorrow.

Or maybe in a week.

That was precisely the problem: nobody knew for certain.

The screen of your phone illuminated the room as you lay on your bed, staring once again at your application to King's Landing University. You knew it by heart. You had opened that page so many times that you could navigate every section with your eyes closed.

Your application was still there. Intact. Unchanging. Cruelly devoid of answers.

Application Status: Under Review.

The words seemed to mock you.

Under review.

Still.

After months of waiting. After countless nights studying until dawn filtered through your bedroom window. After exams, interviews, essays and recommendation letters, after nights spent wondering what the hell you had been thinking when you filled yourself with enough confidence to apply, crying until your eyes hurt and rebuilding yourself afterward.

After everything.

You let out a sigh and dropped the phone onto your chest. The ceiling returned a silent stare.

You had tried to distract yourself.

You really had.

You had read.

You had gone for walks.

You had even started a new book that you abandoned after three pages because you ended up imagining what your name would look like in an acceptance letter.

King's Landing University.

The dream. The opportunity. The future.

The most prestigious university ever known. The kind of place people spoke about with admiration and envy at the same time. The kind of place where the children of ministers, businessmen, judges, and nobles built the connections that would follow them for the rest of their lives.

And you wanted to be there.

No.

You needed to be there.

Because that acceptance meant far more than a university. It meant independence. It meant proving that all those years of effort had amounted to something.

It meant that the nights spent studying, the sacrifices, the extracurriculars, the humiliating pleading to Mrs. Betty for a recommendation letter, surviving on coffee and expectations would finally have a reward.

Now more than ever, you needed meritocracy to be real and not that social construct born as an incentive for the proletariat to serve capitalism. Please.

The phone vibrated against your chest.

The sound was so sudden that it startled you. For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to stop. Your heart lurched violently against your ribs and all the blood in your body seemed to rush to your ears. You remained still, staring at the illuminated screen as though any movement might make it disappear.

It couldn't be.

Or maybe it could.

Your hands trembled as you picked up the phone. Your fingers felt strangely clumsy, as if they had forgotten how to function. Part of you wanted to look immediately. The other wanted to delay the moment for a few seconds longer, clinging to the uncertainty before discovering whether all those years of effort had been worth it or not.

The notification occupied the center of the screen.

An email.

Sender: King's Landing University Office of Admissions.

For a moment, you stopped breathing.

You had imagined it so many times that the moment felt unreal. You had fantasized about opening that email during class, during dinner, before going to sleep and when you woke up. You had imagined hundreds of different scenarios, from tears of happiness to the devastation of a rejection. Yet now that it was actually happening, your mind seemed incapable of processing it.

Your eyes traced the university's name again and again.

King's Landing University.

King's Landing University.

King's Landing University.

It was real.

Real.

Your thumb hovered over the screen for several seconds before you finally gathered enough courage to open the message. The application took only a few moments to load, but they felt endless. You could feel your pulse pounding in your throat as you watched the white screen slowly appear. Every second stretched your anxiety to unbearable limits. And when the Wi-Fi, taking pity on you, decided to work, you saw it.

Office of Admissions

Dear Miss Y/N,

It is with great pleasure that we inform you of your acceptance to King's Landing University for the upcoming academic year.

After careful consideration of an exceptionally competitive pool of applicants, the Admissions Committee has unanimously recognized your academic excellence, dedication, and remarkable potential.

We are delighted to offer you a place among the next generation of scholars at King's Landing University.

Your achievements have distinguished you as a candidate of uncommon promise, and we are confident that your contributions will enrich both our academic community and the legacy of this institution.

In recognition of your outstanding academic record and exceptional promise, it is also our honor to award you the King's Scholar Scholarship, the highest merit-based scholarship granted by King's Landing University.

Reserved for a select a student once a year, the King's Scholar Scholarship is awarded to individuals whose achievements exemplify excellence, leadership, and intellectual distinction.

The Admissions Committee would also like to acknowledge the historic significance of this award. Since the founding of King's Landing University, the King's Scholar Scholarship has been granted exclusively to male recipients. Your selection marks the first time in the institution's history that a woman has been chosen as a King's Scholar. This distinction reflects not only your extraordinary academic accomplishments, but also the exceptional determination, intellect, and character that set you apart from an already remarkable pool of candidates. We are confident that future generations of scholars will look upon this moment as a milestone in the history of our university.

As a recipient of the King's Scholar Scholarship, you will receive:

• Full tuition coverage for the duration of your undergraduate studies.

• A generous monthly stipend intended to support your academic pursuits and living expenses.

• Residence in the prestigious King's Scholar Hall, including a private suite among the largest and most distinguished student accommodations on campus.

• Priority access to academic mentorship programs, research opportunities, and university-sponsored events.

• Eligibility for exclusive internships, fellowships, and international academic programs through the university's distinguished partners.

• Complimentary access to university libraries, archives, laboratories, and scholarly resources beyond those ordinarily available to undergraduate students.

These benefits shall remain in effect for the entirety of your studies, provided that you maintain the academic standards and conduct expected of a King's Scholar.

The Admissions Committee believes that you possess the talent, determination, and character necessary to uphold the legacy of this prestigious award. We look forward to witnessing your achievements and contributions to our academic community in the years to come.

Welcome to King's Landing University.

Sincerely,

The Office of Admissions — King's Landing University

Knowledge. Duty. Legacy

You had done it.

The words repeated themselves again and again in your mind as you stared at the screen blurred by tears. Accepted. King's Landing University. King's Scholar. The first woman in the university's history to receive that scholarship.

It was too much.

Too good.

Too big.

An incredulous laugh escaped your lips at the same time tears began sliding down your cheeks. You brought a hand to your mouth, trying to contain the emotion, but it was useless. Years of effort, sacrifice, and impossible dreams had just condensed into a few lines of text.

And then you stood.

The phone remained clenched in your fingers as you ran toward your bedroom door. The emotion overwhelmed you completely, driving away every rational thought. There was only happiness. There was only the desperate need to share it.

You crossed the hallway without barely feeling your own footsteps.

"Mom, I got in!"

Thanks, meritocracy.

—

The first weeks at King's Landing University felt like living inside a world that had previously existed only in your imagination. Even after receiving the acceptance letter, even after moving into the dormitory assigned through your scholarship, a part of you kept expecting to wake up and discover that it had all been a particularly cruel dream. The university was even more impressive than any brochure or website had managed to convey. Buildings of pale stone rose above vast, meticulously maintained gardens; marble fountains adorned entire courtyards, and pathways lined with rose bushes connected faculties whose names frequently appeared in newspapers, history books, and political speeches. There were students arriving in vehicles that cost more than the average house, sons and daughters of ministers, business magnates, and families whose surnames seemed capable of opening doors on their own. Yet for the first time in your life, you found yourself among them not as a spectator, but as an equal.

Privilege was present in every corner of the campus. It could be seen in the multi-story libraries whose shelves seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance, in laboratories equipped with cutting-edge technology, and in student residences that resembled private apartments more than university housing. Your own suite within King's Scholar Hall was larger than some homes you had known. It contained a private bedroom, a small sitting room, a dark wooden desk positioned before an enormous window, and a privileged view of the eastern gardens of the campus. During those first days, you often caught yourself staring at the room with a mixture of pride and disbelief, unable to fully accept that the space belonged to you. Every time you placed a stack of books on the desk or hung a photograph on the wall, it felt as though you were claiming a life that had once seemed impossibly out of reach.

The scholarship had transformed your university experience in ways you were only beginning to understand. You did not have to worry about tuition. You did not have to calculate every expense or wonder whether you could afford the next semester. The monthly stipend covered your needs comfortably and allowed you to focus entirely on the reason you had come there in the first place: learning. For the first time in a very long while, the future no longer seemed like a vague threat lurking behind a mountain of uncertainty. It seemed tangible. Attainable. Something you could build with your own hands.

And yet, as impressive as the buildings, academic programs, and opportunities were, what fascinated you most were the people. Every student appeared to have arrived there through an entirely different story.

It was during one of those early weeks that you attended the seminar that would end up changing far more than you could possibly imagine.

The conference was being held in Visenya Hall, one of the most prestigious auditoriums within the Faculty of Economics and Business. The venue was already crowded long before the event began. Row after row of students filled the tiered seating while the title of the lecture was projected across the main screen: Emerging Markets and Business Leadership in a Global Economy. You had arrived nearly thirty minutes early and still barely managed to find an available seat near the middle of the auditorium.

It was while waiting for the lecture to begin that you felt a presence occupy the empty seat beside you.

You did not look up immediately. You were reviewing notes you had taken about the guest speaker when the murmur of the room seemed to shift subtly. Not disappear exactly, but redirect itself. As though a small portion of the collective attention had suddenly found a new focal point.

You frowned slightly and lifted your gaze.

The young man who had just taken the seat beside you appeared completely unaware of it.

He was dressed elegantly without appearing ostentatious. His posture carried a quiet confidence cultivated over many years, the kind of assurance that did not need to announce itself because it was accustomed to being recognized. As he settled a folder onto his lap, several people seated nearby greeted him with a familiarity tinged with respect.

It did not take long to understand why.

The identification badge hanging from his neck displayed a name that even you recognized instantly.

Valarr Targaryen.

For a brief moment, you froze.

The Targaryens were not merely an influential family.

They were THE influential family.

For generations they had built a fortune so old that tracing its precise origins had become nearly impossible. Their companies operated in practically every imaginable sector: transportation, energy, technology, finance, media. Their names appeared on boards of directors, foundations, government organizations, and universities throughout Westeros. Entire buildings, libraries, and academic programs had been funded by them. Even King's Landing University owed part of its modern prestige to the substantial donations made by the family over the decades.

The Targaryens belonged to that category of people who seemed to exist above the ordinary structures of the world. Surnames that opened doors before they were even touched. Surnames that appeared in newspapers long before their owners learned how to walk.

And that young man was sitting directly beside you.

Valarr appeared focused on a collection of documents when his eyes briefly dropped toward your identification badge. He studied it for a moment before looking again, this time more carefully. A small crease formed between his brows until, with a spark of recognition in those distinctive eyes, he spoke.

"You're the King's Scholar." It wasn't a question. His tone carried a kind of genuine curiosity.

You glanced down at your own badge, where the scholarship's golden insignia appeared beside your name. "Yes."

For a moment, you assumed the conversation would end there. Instead, Valarr continued looking at you. Not in the uncomfortable way many of the wealthy, idle students in the faculty seemed to regard you, as though you were some peculiar exhibit displayed in a museum, but rather like someone who had stumbled upon something unexpected.

"I'd heard about you." The statement caught you off guard. It seemed unlikely, especially considering you had only been at the university for a few weeks. He appeared to notice your expression. "Everyone had." A faint smile appeared on his lips. "The first woman to receive the King's Scholar Scholarship tends to attract attention. I'm Valarr—"

"—Targaryen. Second in line to inherit the family empire. Current president of the student council and the Debate Club. Holder of a perfect 4.0 GPA. Or someone with a net worth extravagant enough to surpass the combined wealth of everyone currently present."

A look of astonishment crossed his face, only for an instant, a slight crack in his composure. His heterochromatic eyes—only now did you notice—created a striking effect, perhaps as he attempted to decipher you. He did not seem offended. If anything, he appeared surprised to encounter someone who had not been impressed by the implicit power of his surname.

The smile returned to his face. Softer this time. "I suppose introductions are unnecessary."

"A little."

"And here I thought I was being humble."

That earned a raised eyebrow from you.

Humble?

With a deliberate movement, you adjusted the notebook resting on your lap, positioning it neatly across your thighs with a black pen balanced on top before maintaining eye contact with him.

"If I had your surname, Valarr, I would be anything but humble."

Before he could answer, the lights in the auditorium began to dim. The general murmur gradually faded as the conference prepared to begin. Valarr shifted his attention toward the stage, though not before offering you one final silent observation.

Cataloguing. Taking note of something.

—

During the first few weeks, the university continued to feel like a borrowed place, as though at any moment someone would discover an administrative error had been made and politely ask you to leave the campus. You walked through the marble hallways with the same caution one uses when wandering through an art gallery: admiring everything, afraid to touch something that does not belong to them. Yet impostor syndrome gradually began to loosen its grip. It did so every time you raised your hand in class and your answer turned out to be correct. Every time a professor praised one of your papers. Every time you earned one of the highest grades in your cohort. The minimum required to maintain the scholarship was a 4.0. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Without realizing it, you began to put down roots.

The campus pathways stopped resembling labyrinths and became familiar routes. You learned which libraries were the quietest, which cafés served the best coffee, and which buildings remained open until late into the night during exam season. Your name began circulating among professors, researchers, and students. Not as a passing curiosity, but as someone who genuinely deserved to be there.

And that was precisely what fascinated Valarr most.

At first, it had been simple curiosity. Nothing more. The King's Scholar. The girl who had made history. The student everyone talked about. Yet the more time he spent observing you, the more difficult it became to reduce you to a university headline because you were not what he expected.

You lacked the arrogance that so often accompanied exceptional students. You were not pretentious. Nor did you carry that desperate need to constantly prove your worth. You had arrived at the university carrying something far rarer: a genuine hunger for knowledge. You attended seminars even when they offered no academic credit. You remained after class to ask questions. You read for pleasure texts that others could barely tolerate reading out of obligation.

And perhaps most bewildering of all, you seemed completely oblivious to the attention you generated. While other students carefully cultivated their reputations, you appeared far too busy building your future to concern yourself with them. A fish among sharks.

Valarr began seeking you out without meaning to. At first, they were coincidences. An empty seat beside you during a lecture. A casual conversation after class. A chance encounter in the library. But the coincidences began accumulating too frequently to continue calling them that. Gradually, your presence became incorporated into his routine so naturally that he stopped questioning it. He looked for you among rows of students whenever he entered an auditorium. He could identify your voice in a crowded room. He knew your favorite study spots. He knew roughly what times you visited the main café.

And most dangerously of all, he began anticipating those encounters. Because with you, it was easy to forget who he was.

For most of his life, Valarr had been aware of the weight of his surname. He had grown up surrounded by expectations, invisible protocols, and people who seemed to see the name Targaryen before the man behind it.

You didn't.

You argued with him whenever you believed he was wrong. You mocked his pretentious remarks. You interrupted his arguments during club meetings to point out flaws nobody else dared mention. And every time you did, something inside him felt absurdly relieved. Alive.

As though, for a few moments, he could exist simply as Valarr. Not as an heir. Not as a public figure. Not as a political or corporate promise.

Just Valarr.

Or Val, as you began calling him.

The first time happened by accident. At least that was what you claimed afterward.

You were leaving a particularly tedious lecture on corporate legislation when you mentioned something about him in the middle of a sentence.

"Val said exactly the same thing last week."

The silence that followed lasted only a second. Long enough. Your own eyes widened slightly when you realized what you had just said.

Valarr stopped walking. "Val?"

Heat immediately climbed into your cheeks.

"It wasn't intentional."

"Of course it wasn't."

"I mean it."

"Naturally." The smile that appeared on his face made it unbearably difficult to defend yourself.

"Don't start."

"Start what?"

"That."

"What exactly am I doing?"

"Enjoying it."

"Perhaps a little."

That smile followed you for the rest of the afternoon.

And, unfortunately for you, so did the nickname. It never disappeared.

At first, it was a habit born from convenience. "Valarr" felt too formal for someone with whom you shared so many hours of university life, too long for hurried conversations between classes or messages exchanged at two in the morning during exam season. Without realizing it, you began calling him Val more and more often. First in private. Then in front of friends. Then in cafés, auditoriums, and libraries.

Nobody else seemed to do it. Professors called him Mr. Targaryen. Student council members referred to him as President. Even people who had known him for years used his full name. Only you had shortened it. He never corrected you.

He never asked you to stop. He never mentioned that the small alteration caused a strange warmth to settle in his chest.

For the first time in a very long while, someone seemed to see him as a person before seeing him as a surname. That was rarer than it should have been. It was foolish. A beautiful, absolute foolishness. But emotions were rarely reasonable.

One autumn afternoon, several months after that first encounter in the seminar, Val found that feeling waiting for him inside the central library. The enormous room was bathed in golden afternoon light. Tall windows cast long shadows across the study tables, and the library's usual silence was interrupted only by the occasional turning of pages or the soft tapping of keyboards. Exhausted students hid among endless shelves while the semester marched inexorably toward exam season. He found you exactly where he expected to.

Seated beside a window, surrounded by books, papers scattered across the table, completely absorbed in your work, those beautiful brows furrowed in concentration amidst academic chaos. For a moment he remained still, watching you from a distance.

It was not the first time.

He had begun developing an unsettling ability to find you across campus. Libraries. Cafés. Lecture halls. Gardens. He always ended up locating you.

His senses had learned to seek you even before he became consciously aware of it.

A small smile appeared on his face. Minutes later, he returned carrying two coffees. He knew your order by hear without truly intending to, he had begun memorizing many things about you. The way you took notes (the Cornell method, efficient). Your study schedule (a morning review session devoted entirely to theory. Practice at night). The subjects you loved most (history. Especially ancient civilizations).

The expression you made whenever a reading frustrated you. The little details. Always the little details.

He gently placed one of the cups beside your laptop. Only then did you look up.

And smile. That simple, carefree smile that always seemed to arrive effortlessly.

"Val." The same warmth. The same absurd feeling. The same inexplicable need to hear it one more time.

"I'm beginning to suspect you live here."

Your lips curved. "Says the man who survives on constant study sessions."

"Semantics." Just as he did in class, he sat down to your right. It was as natural as breathing. "What are we studying now, dear?"

"Dear?"

"Would you prefer Your Academic Highness?"

You rolled your eyes. "That doesn't even make sense."

"Many things I say don't."

Who was he trying to fool?

"For the first time, we agree."

Valarr let out a small laugh as he glt comfortable in the chair.

The library was particularly quiet that afternoon. Most students were focused on the approaching midterms, and the enormous windows allowed golden light to flood the study tables. The air smelled of aged paper, ink, and freshly brewed coffee. Val picked up one of the books stacked in front of you. Examined it. Then another. Then a third.

"Are you trying to earn a second degree in a single week?"

"I'm writing an essay."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Because the answer is no."

"Not yet."

Your lips curved slightly. He always did that. Turn ordinary conversations into absurdly long debates.

"Political economy."Val read the title of one of the open pages. "How thrilling."

"It is." Your hands wrapped around the coffee he had brought you. Almond milk, cinnamon, and two spoonfuls of sugar. Perfect. Your lips left a visible lipstick mark on the rim.

"And here I thought spending an afternoon studying emerging markets was a sophisticated form of torture."

"That explains a lot about you."

"Such as?"

"Your personality."

Valarr's smile widened.

He rested an elbow on the table and began absentmindedly flipping through one of your articles. For a moment neither of you spoke. The silence between you was comfortable. Familiar. As though it had been built from months of endless conversations, study sessions, and afternoons shared in that very place.

It had.

Eventually, Valarr looked up again. "Do you know what's fascinating?"

"That depends entirely on what you're about to say," you murmured while extracting a passage from the article.

"Empires."

You sighed, feigning indifference. "Of course it's empires."

"Hear me out."

"That's exactly the problem."

Completely ignoring you, he continued. "Everyone thinks empires fall because of wars or revolutions."

"Don't they?"

"No."

His fingers tapped lightly against the book's cover. "First they stop adapting. Then they stop listening. Then they begin believing they're too big to fail."

"That applies to corporations too."

"Exactly."

"And governments."

"As well."

"And student council presidents with inflated egos."

Valarr narrowed his eyes. "That was a personal attack."

"It was an academic observation."

"Cruel."

"Accurate."

That earned a laugh. A genuine one. Not the polite smile he wore during conferences or meetings. Not the carefully measured expression that appeared in photographs and institutional events. A real laugh. And for a moment he seemed younger. Less heir. Less Targaryen. Simply Val.

Something in your chest softened at the sight. Because you were beginning to discover that there were two versions of him. The one that belonged to the rest of the world. And the one that appeared only when the two of you were alone.

Valarr seemed to notice it too. His gaze lingered on you a second longer than usual. Not long enough to be uncomfortable. Long enough to be conscious.

The sounds of the library seemed to drift away for a moment. The occasional rustle of pages. The keyboards. Distant footsteps among the shelves. Everything faded into a distant murmur.

"What?" you finally asked.

"Nothing."

A lie.

But you didn't press. Because you weren't entirely sure you wanted to know the answer. And because, for some reason, the way he had been looking at you had just made your heart beat a little faster.

"I'm going to the bathroom," you announced before doing exactly that.

Valarr looked at your cup, the one he had given you, studied the faint pink lipstick mark now decorating the rim, and, with all the fervent devotion such an act required, drank from that very spot. Perfect.

—

The campaign began almost by accident.

Not because you had never considered the idea before, but because you had never allowed yourself to take it completely seriously. For months, you had participated in student meetings, organized academic events, worked alongside university associations, and advocated for proposals designed to improve conditions for scholarship students. Little by little, without realizing it, you begun building a reputation that extended far beyond the King's Scholar Scholarship. People knew your name. They knew your achievements. They knew your opinions. And, more importantly, they respected them. So when someone suggested that you run in the Student Council elections, the idea was not met with laughter or disbelief.

It was met with enthusiasm. And that proved far more dangerous. It was one thing to hear a suggestion casually thrown into the air. It was something entirely different to discover that hundreds of people genuinely seemed to believe you could win.

The following months were consumed by the campaign. Posters bearing your name began appearing all over campus. Academic buildings, student residences, and even cafés transformed into improvised political arenas where students debated policies, budgets, and candidates with a passion that would have made more than one national parliament blush. For the first time since your arrival at King's Landing University, you ceased being merely an exceptional student and became a public figure. University newspapers published interviews with you. Professors discussed your candidacy. Students approached you to express their support or ask questions about your platform. Every passing week seemed to reinforce the feeling that something important was happening.

And for the first time, the name appearing beside yours was not the name of a scholarship.

It was Valarr Targaryen's.

The student press wasted no time turning the election into an irresistible story. On one side stood Valarr, the perfect heir. The incumbent president. The brilliant student whose surname had spent generations shaping the political, economic, and social history of Westeros. On the other side stood you: the first woman to receive the King's Scholar Scholarship, the student who had risen through effort, intelligence, and a determination that seemed inexhaustible. Tradition versus renewal. Continuity versus change.

The headlines practically wrote themselves.

The strangest part was that behind all those articles and debates, the two of you remained friends. You still shared coffee. You still studied together. You still sent each other academic articles at absurd hours of the morning.

Sometimes you would leave a public debate where you had just dismantled each other's arguments in front of hundreds of students and end up having dinner together barely an hour later. The contradiction bewildered practically the entire campus. Nobody understood how you could be political rivals and friends at the same time.

Nobody except the two of you.

Because neither of you ever allowed the campaign to destroy what you had built.

Or at least, you tried not to.

Election night arrived wrapped in almost unbearable tension. The Grand Auditorium was completely full. Rows upon rows of students occupied the seats while professors, student journalists, and council members waited for the results to be announced. The energy in the room was electric. Every conversation seemed to unfold in nervous whispers. Every gaze was fixed on the enormous screens suspended above the stage.

You stood among the other candidates, attempting to project a calm you did not feel.

For the first time, victory seemed like a real possibility.

Not a fantasy. Not an impossible dream. A possibility.

The first results began appearing, and the auditorium immediately erupted.

Your name led the count by a small margin. Enough. The next results arrived minutes later. Your lead increased. Then another student district reported its votes. And you remained ahead.

The murmurs grew louder. So did the smiles.Even a few professors exchanged glances filled with anticipation. Everyone was thinking the same thing. You could do it. You could win.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to imagine it. The presidential office. The meetings. The projects. The opportunity to leave a permanent mark on the university. The opportunity to prove you belonged there. The opportunity to keep breaking barriers.

And perhaps that was your mistake, allowing yourself to believe it.

The final ballots were the ones that changed everything. Cruelly. Your lead began shrinking vote by vote.

At first only by a few percentage points. Then by fractions. Then by almost nothing at all. The entire auditorium watched the screens in absolute silence as the numbers continued to shift. Each update seemed to take something from you. Each new figure eroded a little more of the hope that had begun growing inside your chest.

Until it finally happened.

Valarr took the lead.

And never lost it again.

When the final result appeared on the screens, the silence lasted only a fraction of a second before being replaced by an explosion of applause.

Valarr Targaryen — 73%

Y/N — 27%

The applause still echoed throughout the auditorium when you finally looked up at him. Valarr was surrounded by students, professors, and council members. Some shook his hand. Others congratulated him. Photographers captured every smile, every gesture, every moment of victory. The center of attention. Golden boy. And yet, his eyes still found yours as they always did.

The distance between you was not great, but for the first time since you had met him, it felt immense. While everyone else saw the newly re-elected president, you saw something else entirely.

You saw privilege. You saw money. You saw generations of accumulated power. You saw a surname capable of opening doors that would never open for anyone else.

Something bitter settled in your throat. You had worked just as hard. Perhaps harder. You had devoted entire months to that campaign. You had visited every student residence, attended every debate, answered every question, and built every proposal through your own merit.

And yet you had lost to a man whose surname was practically an institution within Westeros.

You filthy, cheating bastard.

Valarr began walking toward you. With every step, the resentment grew a little stronger until he finally stopped in front of you.

"Hey."

His voice was soft. Careful. Indulgent. He knew exactly how you felt, which only made you angrier.

"Congratulations." The words left your lips with a coldness that surprised even you, and Valarr frowned slightly.

"Y/N—"

"No." Your smile appeared instantly, and it was entirely false. "Seriously. Congratulations. It must feel nice."

Something shifted in his expression. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

A short laugh escaped your throat. "Incredible."

"What is incredible?"

"Even now you're pretending not to understand."

The tension began spreading between you. Around you, the celebration continued, but it felt as though it were happening in another universe.

"Then explain it to me."

"Oh, gladly." You crossed your arms. "Do you know what's most frustrating about all of this? That you never even had to compete on equal footing."

Valarr's eyes hardened. "Be careful."

"Why? Because I'm about to say something everyone already knows?"

"Y/N."

"Your family funds half the campus."

"That had nothing to do with this."

"Of course it did." The answer came out faster than you intended. Sharper. More painful. "It always has something to do with it."

Silence fell between you. For the first time since you met him, Valarr looked genuinely irritated.

"I didn't win because of my surname."

"Didn't you?"

"No."

"Then I suppose it's just a coincidence that the Targaryens have held leadership positions at this university for decades."

"I worked for this."

"So did I." Your words struck him harder than expected. Because they were true, and both of you knew it. "I worked for this too, Val." His name sounded strange between you now. No warmth. No familiarity. Only disappointment. "And for once, I would've liked to lose to someone who didn't have the entire system built around him."

The muscles in his jaw tightened. "That's unfair."

"Unfair?" A bitter laugh escaped you. "You're talking about unfairness after winning because of your family's legacy?"

"That's not what happened."

"Then tell me what did."

Valarr held your gaze for several seconds. "Maybe they simply voted for the more qualified candidate."

The remark made you blink in disbelief. An obvious insult. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

"It means being an inspiration and being a leader are not necessarily the same thing." The distance between you narrowed.

"Think it. Use that pretty brain of yours," with his angular finger he tapped your forehead. "Being the symbol of change and being capable of leading an institution are not the same thing. Sometimes people like seeing a woman on the stage. Not necessarily in charge."

The blow was precise. Calculated. And deeply vile.

Because hidden beneath those words was an old idea you had spent your entire life fighting. The idea that women had to prove twice as much to be considered half as capable. The idea that you were exceptional... for a woman. The idea that your story was admirable, but that true leadership still belonged to men like him.

Understanding slowly appeared across your face. And when it did, something close to horror briefly crossed Valarr's eyes. He realized too late how it had sounded.

"That's not what I meant."

"Sure."

"Y/N—"

"Enjoy your presidency." You took a step back. Then another. "I'm sure you inherited it honestly."

The bitterness in your voice was impossible to ignore. Before he could answer, you turned on your heel and left him standing there.

—

Valarr began apologizing the very next day.

Not because he believed a few words could repair what had happened. He knew you far too well for that. He knew the problem had not been only the argument. It had not been only the election. It had been the way he had made you feel. The way he had reduced your accomplishments to an exception. The way he had, for a few moments, become exactly the kind of man you claimed to despise.

So his apologies did not arrive solely in the form of words. They arrived as gestures. The first appeared outside your dormitory door: a bouquet of white camellias, your favorite flowers. They rested carefully wrapped in ivory paper and tied with a dark blue ribbon. There was no signature. None was necessary. Valarr was the only person on campus who would remember a trivial conversation that had taken place nearly a year earlier during a visit to the botanical gardens of King's Landing.

You had mentioned then that white camellias symbolized pure, sincere, unpretentious love.

He had remembered. Of course he had remembered.

The small card contained only two words written in flawless, elegant handwriting.

I'm sorry.

The flowers ended up on your residence desk. You had not accepted them, but neither could you find the resolve to throw them away. Two days later, a coffee appeared. Your coffee. The exact blend you ordered during examination periods. Two packets of sugar. A touch of cinnamon. Almond milk.

You let it grow cold.

The following week, a box arrived. Inside rested a delicate silver bracelet adorned with tiny white pearls. Beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful.

You returned it that very afternoon.

Then came books. Desserts. Notes. Small details. Small memories. Small apologies. Every gift seemed assembled from fragments of conversations you had forgotten ever having. A favorite author mentioned once during a late-night study session. A pastry you had tried during your first semester. A special edition of a novel you had wanted to purchase months earlier.

And that was precisely what made everything so difficult.

These gifts proved something you did not want to acknowledge. Valarr listened. He always listened. He remembered everything. Absolutely everything.

Your preferences. Your fears. Your dreams. Your habits. The little things. Especially the little things. For the first time since you had met him, it was not endearing. He wasn't chivalrous. It was exhausting. Every object seemed to contain the same message.

Look at me. Forgive me. Come back.

Finally, a week later, he appeared in person. He found you leaving an advanced economics lecture. Crowds of students flowed through the hallways while he remained motionless beside a window, waiting, as though he knew exactly what time your class would end.

He probably did.

“Y/N.”

You did not stop.

“Y/N.”

This time, you turned only because you knew he would not stop calling your name. Valarr looked tired. More tired than usual. The dark circles beneath his eyes were visible even from a distance. He looked wrecked.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Finally, you sighed. “Val.”

Something resembling relief briefly crossed his face. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then talk to me.”

“I don’t want to.”

That seemed to surprise him. “Why?”

You folded your arms.

“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“Y/N—”

“No.” Your voice was firm. Firmer than you intended. “I need time.”

The words lingered between you.

Valarr remained still. Waiting. As though there were more to come. There wasn’t.

“How much time?”

The question emerged softer. Vulnerable. And that made a part of you—the part that still wanted that closeness with him—want to surrender immediately.

You had never seen Valarr ask for something. Demand it? Yes. Take it? Yes. Ask for it? Never.

Still, you answered. “Two and a half weeks.”

Silence returned. At last, he nodded once. “Alright.” A weary smile appeared on his lips. “Two and a half weeks.”

And he honored it.

Surprisingly. Painfully. He honored it.

No more flowers appeared. No more gifts arrived. No coffees were left outside your door. No messages. No phone calls. No excuses to see you. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just absence.

And you discovered something deeply irritating. You missed him.

You missed the arguments.

The messages.

The jokes.

His presence.

The ease with which he always seemed to find a place beside you.

The two and a half weeks passed slowly.And when they finally ended, Valarr returned like the tide. Not violently. Not forcefully. Simply returning until he rose around you once more.

First, it was a greeting during a lecture.

Then a brief conversation in the library.

After that, a shared coffee.

Later, lunch.

And before you realized it, he was once again occupying space in your life. Not exactly the same space, but something very close to it.

The difference was that now he seemed more careful. More attentive. As though he had learned something from all of it.

Or at least was trying to.

It was approximately a month later that the invitation to the Aegon Foundation Ball arrived, a charitable gala held every year to raise funds for low-income students and research programs.

It was one of the university’s most prestigious events. Politicians. Business leaders. Alumni. Donors. Everyone attended.

And, of course, the student council president and the first female King’s Scholar recipient were expected to attend as well.

The invitation arrived on an otherwise ordinary afternoon. No flowers. No jewelry. No letters, just Valarr sitting across from you in the library, watching you over a mountain of books.

“I need a date for the ball.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What a devastating problem.”

“It is.”

“I’m sure half the campus would say yes.”

“Probably.”

“Then ask them.”

Valarr closed the book in his hands and looked directly at you. No humor. No teasing. No hiding behind anything.

“I don’t want to ask them.”

The silence that followed felt strange.

You understood exactly what he meant.

For the first time in a long while, hearing it did not make you angry. Only tired. And fond. And something dangerously close to forgiveness.

You released a long sigh. “It’s just a ball.”

The smile that appeared on Valarr’s face was immediate.

Small. Sincere. Extraordinarily rare.

“Does that mean yes?”

You rolled your eyes.

“Yes.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, the tension that had lingered since the election began to dissolve. Not because the damage had vanished. Not because the wounds had healed completely. But because, against all odds, you had decided to give him another chance.

And Valarr, above all things, had always been very good at taking advantage of the opportunities he was given.

—

The Aegon Foundation Ball was exactly the kind of event King's Landing University adored hosting.

Everything about it seemed designed to impress. The grand ballroom had been transformed until it was nearly unrecognizable. Massive crystal chandeliers descended from the vaulted ceiling, scattering warm light across hundreds of guests dressed in gowns and suits whose value likely equaled several semesters' worth of tuition. The walls were adorned with carefully curated floral arrangements, while an orchestra performed classical pieces from an elevated platform at the far end of the hall. Through the enormous windows, the city glittered in the distance, turning the night skyline into a natural extension of the gala itself.

The university had gathered students, professors, business leaders, alumni, and benefactors in a single place. It was a celebration of prestige, influence, and power; exactly the sort of environment in which Valarr moved with an ease that bordered on offensive.

And yet, that evening, he barely seemed to notice any of it.

He was watching you.

Not obviously. Not constantly. But often enough that, had you been looking for the signs, you would have found them.

Every time you disappeared into the crowd, his eyes followed. Every time someone stopped to speak with you, he found himself glancing in that direction. Every time you laughed—even from the opposite side of the ballroom—he seemed to notice.

At first, it went entirely unnoticed.

Until he appeared.

A graduate student from the Economics Department whose name you barely remembered. He had attended several seminars with you throughout the past year and, after exchanging a few words during a recent conference, decided to come over and say hello.

The conversation began innocently enough. Comments about the gala. A recent research project. The student elections.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

The young man proved pleasant, intelligent, and even amusing enough to draw several genuine smiles from you as the two of you spoke beside one of the tables near the dance floor.

And that was precisely when Valarr saw him.

It was neither rational nor elegant nor mature.

The feeling appeared so quickly that he barely had time to recognize it.

Jealousy.

Dark, unpleasant, deeply irrational jealousy.

That student was occupying a space Valarr considered his. The way you leaned forward slightly whenever something genuinely interested you. The way your eyes brightened during an intellectual discussion. The small smiles that appeared whenever someone managed to surprise you.

Valarr knew every one of those expressions.

He had memorized them over semesters, and seeing them directed toward someone else sparked an immediate irritation that began spreading through his chest. The conversation continued for several minutes.

Too many minutes.

From the other side of the ballroom, Valarr watched as the student seemed to grow more confident. Watched him lean slightly closer. Watched him make you laugh again.

And something inside him finally snapped.

When he appeared beside you, the smile he offered was flawless. Far too flawless.

“Am I interrupting something?”

The other student stiffened almost immediately. After all, it was difficult to ignore the presence of Valarr Targaryen.

“We were just talking.”

“I see.” The politeness in his voice was far more unsettling than outright hostility could have been. Beneath it, something far less pleasant had begun to gather.

A few minutes later, he found an excuse to pull you away. A meeting, perhaps. An appointment. You could not even remember which excuse it was. Suddenly, you were following him through the side corridors of the building while his pace became increasingly quick.

“Valarr.”

He did not respond.

“Valarr.”

This time he stopped. He turned toward you near the private restrooms reserved for the event's organizers. The polished mask he had worn all evening—perhaps all his life—was beginning to crack.

“What was that?”

You looked at him, confused. “What was what?”

“You know exactly what I'm talking about.” His voice was low. Controlled only because he was making a visible effort to keep it that way.

“I don't.”

“The student.” The word emerged laced with disdain.

“What about him?”

Valarr let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Are you really going to pretend you didn't notice?”

“Notice what, exactly?” The silence stretched long enough for you to understand perfectly where this conversation was headed, which was precisely why you chose to continue pretending. To play dumb.

“He was being nice.”

“Sure.”

“He was.”

“Men are rarely nice without a reason.” That response made one of your eyebrows arch. Valarr continued before you could answer. “Especially when they think a woman is giving them attention.”

There it was. The real reason.

Not the student. Not the conversation. But he idea that someone else might approach you. That someone else might claim your attention. That someone else might eventually matter to you.

“I think you're overreacting.”

“I think you're far too naive.”

The response came immediately. Automatically. For several seconds, the silence that followed was almost uncomfortable. Both of you knew exactly what had just happened.

Valarr had just spoken to you as though he knew better than you did about your own decisions. As though he needed to correct you. As though he needed to protect you from something you yourself were incapable of seeing.

Your eyes locked onto his. For a moment, he seemed to realize it. The tension eased ever so slightly, enough for his expression to shift. Enough for something resembling regret to appear. Before he could say anything, you smiled. A calm smile. A polite smile.

A perfectly false smile.

“Well.” You smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from your dress. “I'm glad to know you've thoroughly analyzed the situation.” Your heels clicked against the marble floor as you stepped closer to him. Close enough that barely an inch separated your noses. “I am not your girlfriend or your partner for you to direct this ridiculous display of jealousy at me. I am not yours, Valarr. Get that through your head. I'd rather drag myself through the mud than be with you, you misogynistic cheating idiot—” The words escaped before you reined them back in. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I intend to return to the ball.”

The smile never left your face.

As though nothing had happened.

As though you had not just called Valarr an idiot.

As though that conversation had meant nothing at all. And that, more than any argument, ended up frustrating Valarr. As you walked back toward the ballroom illuminated by crystal chandeliers, he realized that you had understood everything. Absolutely everything, which was far worse than any fight.

—

The penultimate semester arrived with the same cruel speed with which all good things seem to arrive and disappear. For months, you had lived immersed in classes, projects, seminars, student council meetings, and an absurd amount of coffee. Graduation had begun to take shape on the horizon in an increasingly tangible way. It was no longer an abstract idea reserved for older students; it was something real, something approaching with unsettling speed. That night, however, neither of you seemed willing to think about the future. The campus was nearly deserted. Most students were either preparing for final examinations or celebrating the end of the semester at one university party or another, while the academic buildings glowed in the distance beneath the lamplight, transforming into small islands of gold suspended in the darkness.

You and Valarr were lying on the grass in one of the university’s more secluded gardens. The lawn still held traces of the night's moisture, and the cool air drifted softly through the trees, carrying the faint perfume of the flowers lining the nearby pathways. Above you, the sky stretched vast and immeasurable, covered in a scattering of stars so numerous it seemed impossible that a city existed only a few miles away. Neither of you had any real desire to return to your residence halls. There was something strangely comforting about the stillness, about the absence of obligations, about the feeling that for a few hours the academic world could continue turning without either of you.

“Did you know there's an experiment designed to make two people fall in love?”

Valarr’s voice broke the silence with such casual ease that you turned your head slightly to look at him.

“That sounds scientifically questionable.”

“Probably.”

“Then continue.”

A smile appeared on his lips. “It consists of a series of questions. 36 Questions on the Way to Love.”

“The New York Times ones?”

“And sustained eye contact.” He replied.

“That is definitely pseudoscience.”

“Do you want to play or not?”

You stared at the sky for a few seconds before smiling. “Go ahead.”

Valarr folded his arms behind his head and began asking the questions. At first they were simple. If you could have dinner with anyone in the world, living or dead, who would you choose? What was your favorite childhood memory? What dream had you abandoned while growing up? The answers came easily and were often accompanied by laughter. You chose your mother for the first question, prompting Valarr to immediately accuse you of cheating. He chose his grandfather, explaining that he had spent his entire life hearing stories about him without ever having the opportunity to discover who he truly was behind the surname and the legend. That surprised you more than you were willing to admit.

As the night deepened, so did the questions. They left behind amusing anecdotes and lighthearted memories, venturing instead into far more delicate territory. You spoke about fears. About regrets. About the things you valued most in friendship. About losses that still hurt. About the decisions you would change if given the opportunity to go back. Time seemed to dissolve gradually around you. The hours slipped by unnoticed as you exchanged answers you rarely shared with anyone else. Perhaps because there was no need to pretend. There was no student council president and no first King’s Scholar. No titles, responsibilities, or expectations. Just two people lying on the grass in the middle of the night, speaking about themselves with a level of honesty that felt equally comfortable and dangerous.

Eventually they reached one of the final questions. Valarr studied the card in silence for several seconds before reading it aloud.

“What is your favorite memory of us?”

The question settled between you, changing the atmosphere immediately. It was not just another question, both of you knew it.

You remained focused on the stars as you considered your answer. There were too many years between you. Too many conversations, too many arguments, too many shared moments. Choosing only one seemed impossible.

Finally, you smiled. “The library.”

Valarr turned his head. “The library?”

“The first coffee.” Your smile widened slightly. “I don't know why.”

You did know why, you simply had no intention of admitting it. “I still remember how terrified you looked.”

“I was not terrified.”

“Valarr.”

“Yes?”

“You looked like a man facing a public execution.”

The laugh that escaped him was immediate. Genuine. The kind he reserved for very few people. Hearing it caused something warm to settle in your chest.

“And you?” you asked.

For the first time that night, Valarr hesitated.

“I don't have one.”

You frowned. “That’s cheating.”

“No.” His gaze remained fixed on you. “I have too many.”

The silence that followed was different from all the others. Heavier. More aware. For the first time since the conversation had begun, you became fully conscious of the distance separating you—or perhaps of how little distance truly existed between you. The air seemed denser, slower, as though even the world itself were holding its breath.

Valarr was still looking at you, and you were still looking at him.

His eyes briefly dropped to your lips before returning to your gaze. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, yet impossible to ignore. Your heart began pounding against your ribs with ridiculous force. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you seemed to want to.

“I think the experiment may have worked a little.”

The observation escaped your lips before you could stop it, a slow smile appeared on Valarr’s face.

“Has it?” His voice was gentle.

“Maybe.”

“What a relief.”

The remark caught you off guard, and you could not help but frown slightly. “Why?”

For the first time that night, something vulnerable appeared in his expression. Something unguarded. Something he rarely allowed others to see.

His answer came quietly.

“Because I've been ahead of the experiment for years.”

For a second, you forgot how to breathe, the world seemed to stop. The stars, the grass, the university—everything blurred into background noise. Only those words remained suspended between you, carrying years of silences, unspoken gestures, and feelings neither of you had ever found the courage to name.

Then Valarr shifted slightly closer. You saw him do it. You had enough time to understand what was happening, and yet you remained motionless. Perhaps because a part of you had spent far too long imagining what that moment would be like.

Perhaps because another part of you was not ready to face it. His hand brushed against yours in the grass before he closed the remaining distance.

The kiss was gentle. Tentative. As though even he, so certain about so many things, was not entirely certain about you. For a moment, you remained still, surprised by the reality of it. Then you kissed him back. Only a little. Just enough for something warm to move through your chest. Just enough for the world to disappear for one brief and dangerous moment. That was precisely why you pulled away.

Not abruptly. Not angrily. Quickly enough to regain a little air, a little distance, a little control before the moment became more real than you were prepared to accept.

Your eyes immediately found his. Both of your breaths were slightly uneven. Neither of you spoke.

But the rejection, gentle as it had been, hurt far more than Valarr was prepared to endure.

—

Graduation.

Graduation arrived wrapped in such an immense sense of triumph that, at times, it was difficult to believe it was real.

For years, you had pursued that moment with an almost obsessive determination. You had survived impossible exams, entire nights without sleep, and the constant pressure of a university that seemed specifically designed to separate the exceptional from the merely talented. You had arrived at King's Landing University carrying a historic scholarship, impossible expectations on your shoulders, and the persistent fear of discovering that everything had been a mistake. Yet four years later, you were there, seated among the most accomplished graduates of your class, watching endless rows of students dressed in identical black gowns while families filled the stands and cameras captured every moment of a ceremony that would mark the end of an era.

And you were not just another student among that crowd.

You were the one chosen to deliver the graduation speech.

When your name was announced, a wave of applause swept through the auditorium. It was not the polite applause offered out of obligation. It was long. Sincere. Earned. As you walked toward the stage, you felt hundreds of eyes following you, but for the first time in a very long while, it did not intimidate you. You had worked too hard to stand there. You had sacrificed too much.

Before you stretched an entire generation of students preparing to leave the university and face the world.

And you gave the speech . You spoke about effort. About uncertainty. About the fear of failure. About the invisible sacrifices no one saw when they looked at a brilliant résumé or a graduation ceremony. You spoke about opportunity. About privilege. About perseverance. About the people who believed in you when you could not yet believe in yourselves.

And when you finished, the entire auditorium rose to its feet. The ovation was so immediate that, for several seconds, you remained motionless behind the podium, unable to process what was happening.

This was real.

All of it was real.

The university. Graduation. The diploma.

The future. Especially the future.

If the ceremony represented the end of one chapter, what came next was even more exciting. During the previous months, you had received job offers from some of the most prestigious companies on the continent. International firms. Consulting agencies. Corporations whose names appeared constantly in financial magazines and economic newspapers. Any one of them would have been enough to change your life forever.

But you had achieved something better. Much better.

The offer you truly wanted. The only one you had wanted from the very beginning.

An international company based overseas had offered you a position that most graduates spent years trying to reach. The salary was extraordinary. The opportunities for growth even more so. For the first time in your life, the future seemed to open before you without visible limitations.

In one week, you would board a plane. In one week, you would begin a new life. In one week, you would be able to start sending money home. Helping your family. Easing burdens that had weighed on your father for years.

Fulfilling promises you had spent far too long making to yourself.

The thought alone brought a smile to your face every time someone mentioned the job.

That night, you could barely contain your excitement.

The celebrations continued long after the ceremony ended. There were photographs, toasts, embraces, and farewells. Professors congratulating you one final time. Classmates promising to stay in touch. Proud parents watching their children with tears in their eyes. The entire campus seemed suspended in a kind of collective happiness, as though no one wanted to admit that this chapter was coming to an end.

When the hours began to pass and guests gradually started leaving, you discovered that part of you did not want to leave either.

King's Landing University had been your home. Saying goodbye to it was more difficult than you had imagined.

It was close to midnight when you found Valarr.

Or perhaps he found you.

He stood beside his car in one of the more isolated parking lots on campus, his hands tucked into his pockets and an oddly calm expression resting on his face. By then, the crowd had nearly disappeared. Only a few scattered students remained, along with the distant echoes of the final celebrations.

For a moment, the two of you simply stood there, looking at one another. Two people who had shared entire years of their lives.

Two people who were about to walk different paths.

“I suppose this is goodbye.”

The smile that appeared on your lips was soft.

“Not permanently.”

“No.”

Something in the way he answered made the word sound different. Heavier. Sadder. Evaluating. Weighing.

You pushed the feeling away before it could settle. Tonight, you did not want to think about goodbyes. You only wanted to hold on to your happiness a little longer.

“Are you going to accept the job offer?” His blue eye seemed to gleam with an analytical, calculating light.

“What kind of question is that? Of course I am. It’s... it’s a dream come true.” You smiled.

“I’m happy for you.”

Valarr offered to drive you home, and you accepted without thinking much about it. After all, it was Valarr. He had been a constant in your life for years. A presence so familiar that imagining university without him felt impossible.

The interior of the car remained quiet as you left campus behind. Through the window, you watched the illuminated buildings slowly disappear into the distance. Every street felt like a farewell. Every traffic light, a countdown toward the future.

At some point during the drive, Valarr picked up a cup of coffee from the cup holder and handed it to you.

A small smile appeared on your face.

“Since when do you keep coffee in the car?”

“Since I met you.”

The answer made you laugh. It was true. If there was one thing Valarr knew about you, it was your almost unhealthy dependence on caffeine. You accepted the cup without suspicion.

The warmth immediately seeped into your hands. Comforting. Familiar. Safe.

As the city lights continued sliding past beyond the window, you lifted the coffee to your lips and took a long, carefree sip.

“It’s perfect.”

Valarr only hummed softly in acknowledgment before pulling the car over on a deserted corner.

“Sorry—could you grab my wallet? It’s in the back seat. We need to buy fuel. I’m afraid we might end up stranded in the middle of the city.”

You nodded.

Unfastening your seatbelt, you turned around toward the back seats. You leaned forward enough so that your dress hugged your bottom. You looked around the seats for the wallet, but there wasn't one; he pushed you hard against the leather surface, his chest pressed against your back, twisting one of your wrists behind your back.

You let out a groan. "Valarr—what are you doing—" You thrashed, trying to break free from him. You heard a small click behind you before he pulled you further forward, and taking your other wrist, he tied them together with his belt. Air left your lungs and was replaced by a knot in your chest. "Valarr, this is not funny—"

"Shh" He murmured from behind. You could feel his breath, his heavy breat, right where your face and jaw met. With the same force as before, he pressed your face against the seats. "All you do is talk. You chatter, chatter, chatter," he sounded frustrated, you still trying to break free.

You produced unintelligible sounds against the seats, heavy tears sliding against your eyes, ruining your mascara, wetting his seats.

"Don't make this harder than it is," he whispered, placing a soft kiss behind your neck. With one hand, he brushed your hair aside, trailing kisses down to the zipper of your dress.

"Valarr, please—"

"You'll enjoy it, I can assure you that. In a few years, when we're sitting at a family dinner and one of our children asks, "Mom, how are babies made?", and you'll blush so much, you'll blush so hard that the red will paint your ears, your neck, your cheeks." His fingers lowered the zipper with a slow, appreciative sway. "You'll do it. You'll like it. It will live in your memory forever." You leaned back to move him away. He put all his weight on you.

His kisses descended from your back like the tears that slid down your cheeks. You hated it. You hated his kisses, his caresses disgusted you, despised yourself for the faintest hint of pleasure that stirred within you.

"I've waited so long—God, you know I have." He sounded happy. Content. Relieved. He flicked his warm tongue from his mouth, licking your exposed skin. It felt slimy. Disgusting. Bad. "You've played hard to get for so long, love. I can't lie to you, it equally excited and frustrated me." His wet kisses reached the very end of the opening. A sound of pure desperation escaped his throat.

"Valarr—" You cried.

"Enough." You couldn't see it; perhaps that was your only consolation. The fact that you couldn't witness the abomination that sweet, golden boy Valarr who adored you and gave you coffee every day, was. "I told you to stop being difficult— let me have this. Just take it"

He took the sides of your graduation dress, something so special, and ripped it in two. The sound was heartbreaking. Real. This was real. His kisses trailed down the rest of your back. His lips kissed your buttocks, one hand kneading the other as you wept. What else could you do? You'd let him take what he wanted, and you'd take that plane to London. To your dream life. Yes. That's what you'd do.

That viscous fluid trickled down the crack of your ass, pausing to suck on your sweat soaked hole. His words were nothing short of obscene. He let out a pleased sound as he tasted your wet folds. "You taste delicious." He went back in there, slipping his tongue between your lips, bothering you. You hated him, especially the involuntary swaying of your hips. "See?" he whispered before gently biting one of your lips. "You love it. You're so wet. I can't wait, I need you. Can't wait"

You didn't hear him pull down his pants, but you felt him enter you. The combination of his saliva and your fluids was lubricating enough, but it didn't ease the pain of his cock tearing through your vagina. It didn't erase the unbearable burning. It didn't soothe your tears.

Valarr grunted with satisfaction at the sensation. "It's better than I imagined—God, you're so tight." Your silent weeping continued. You had to endure it. You had to resist. He would take what he wanted, do with you as he pleased, and then leave you alone. Yes. He would leave, and you would erase this from your memory. You'd crumple up this page of your story and throw it in the trash.

His left hand cupped your breast, his right your hip. The rhythm was slow, deep, and steady, his tip pounding inside you. You hated it. You hated how your cunt clenched, as if you were made for this, as if your mind and body existed on two different planes, as if, after all your intelligence, you were nothing more than a wild woman in need of a cock.

Valarr rested his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged, his moans punctuated by soft whispers. He placed gentle kisses on your neck and cheeks as he took your virginity. "You feel so good, my love," he traced kisses down to your ear. "Love it— love you so much."

His cock trembled inside you. You would let him do it, let him ejaculate inside you, allow his seed to rest on your thighs, and tomorrow, when the sun rose, you'll buy a contraception.

"I'm coming—" he groaned against your skin. And with a guttural growl he came inside you. White liquid staining your walls, tears illuminated by the car's headlights, his breath on the back of your neck. His still-half-hard penis slipped out of your walls. He appreciated the way his semen slid out of your cunt and dripped onto the leather of his seats. Not satisfied. Hungry. Needy. Amazed.

He smiled against your skin. His member, now fully erect, rubbed against your ass. His large hand on your hip moved down to your clit, massaging it in small circles. You hadn't come yet. And he, who knew no limits to his greed, wanted to feel it. See it. Have it.

—

His hand rested on your swollen belly, massaging small figures against your skin.

Who would have guessed it? Three months pregnant by Valarr, your belly was beginning to show, and he couldn't have been happier. You would bring life into the world, his seed, his legacy. The girl of his dreams, pregnant by him. He sighed happily against your hair.

The wedding would be in a month. That's what you decided, and he agreed with a gentle "as you wish." The diamond felt heavy on your finger.

You seemed spellbound in the news broadcast on the enormous big screen of the even more immense living room, listening attentively.

"And in this week's surprises, Miss Emma Renoir has become a business phenomenon after achieving a 22.3% increase in sales following her arrival. These gains equate to approximately $12,000,000 millions. She—" The reporter's solemn voice vanished into a black hole.

You turned. Valarr was holding the remote, he left it next to the sofa and then looked at you with those gentle eyes of his.

No. You didn't take that flight to London a week after graduation. You didn't solve your family's financial problems, didn't get to the offices of your dream job.

Valarr did it for you. He fixed your life, your family.

Instead, you were living the dream life.

✶ SHITTY BABY DADDY!

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ imagine aerion being your shitty baby daddy.

including ⠀! ⠀ aerion targaryen. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ concept/part 1? dead dove : do not eat. psychological thriller. modern au. fem reader. teen pregnancy. obsession. aerion being a narcissist as usual. physical abuse. sexual abuse. psychological abuse. stockholm syndrome. masterlist. english is not my first language. based on real life relationships. this fic should not be romantize, it's meant to be disturbing. if you see this type of dynamic in real life or you're experiencing it, please get help. ✶

He wanted custody of your fucking kid.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

After eight years. Eight years of double shifts and overdue bills and falling asleep in your work uniform because you were too tired to take it off. And he shows up in a suit that costs more than you made last year and takes your son.

The boy you raised alone. The boy you fed while you went hungry. The boy who learned to walk in a rented room with no heat while you counted coins for the gas bill.

And now he has the nerve—the audacity—to come back and try to take your son from you.

As if he has any rights.

As if he’s anything but a monster.

After everything he put you through. After he left you with nothing but a screaming baby in a house with no heat. No money. No support. Just a mattress on a moldy floor and a body that didn't feel like yours anymore.

You were nobody when he met you.

You were fifteen. He was seventeen. Beautiful. Silver gold hair and violet eyes that made girls in your neighborhood turn stupid. He could have had anyone. And he chose you. A girl from nothing. A girl with hand me down shoes and a mother who worked doubles at a laundromat.

He told you his father disowned him. Threw him out with nothing. Cut him off from the family fortune. Why? Because he fell in love with you.

"I gave up everything for you," he said, holding your face in his hands, eyes wet with tears you thought were real. "My inheritance. My family. My future. I chose you."

And you believed him. You were young and starving for someone to want you, and here was this golden prince saying you were worth more than a world.

You would have died for him.

You almost did.

You didn't know back then. You couldn't have known.

He started isolating you before you even noticed it was happening.

Your friend said something he didn't like. "She's disrespecting our relationship," he said. "If you loved me, you wouldn't let her talk to you like that." So you stopped talking to her.

Your cousin texted you too often. "She's obsessed with you. It's not healthy. She's trying to pull you away from me." Blocked.

Your sister said she didn't trust him. "She's jealous of what we have. She's always hated that you're happy. If you choose her over me, then you don't really love me." You chose him.

Within a year, he was the only person in your life. No friends. No family. No classmate who knew your name. Just him. He'd check your phone while you slept. He'd show up at your school unannounced to make sure you were really there. He'd time how long it took you to get home from the bus stop.

"If you ever leave me, I'd have nothing," he'd say. "You're all I have. I'd die without you."

It felt like love. You were too young to understand monsters don't have hearts.

When you got pregnant, he moved you to a different city. Somewhere nobody knew you.

A rented house with peeling linoleum and mice in the walls and neighbors who give you the disgusting look. He said it was a fresh start. He said he wanted to be a father. He said you'd be a real family.

You'd lie in bed at night and listen to rats scratching inside the drywall, feel them run across the floor inches from your head.

But he held you close and whispered, "This is just temporary. We're building something. You and me against the world." And you believed him. You pressed your face into his chest and inhaled his scent and told yourself love was supposed to be hard.

He couldn't keep a job.

He'd get one, hold it for maybe two weeks, then come home pissed. His boss was an idiot. His coworkers were out to get him. No one understood his potential. So you worked. Eight months pregnant, belly so heavy you couldn't see your feet, standing twelve hour shifts at a diner where the fry cook grabbed your ass and the manager docked your pay for bathroom breaks.

You'd come home with bleeding feet and swollen ankles, and he'd be on the couch, and he wouldn't even look up.

"You're late."

"The bus broke down. I swear."

"Did you talk to anyone? You smell like cigarettes. Were you at a bar? Were you letting men buy you drinks?"

"No. No, baby. I would never. I came straight home. I swear on the baby."

"Come here."

You'd kneel in front of the couch. He'd grab your chin, fingers digging into your jaw, and turn your face side to side like he was inspecting livestock. Then he'd let go and stroke your hair, gentle again.

"I just love you so much it makes me crazy. You know that, right? If you ever left me, I'd have nothing. I'd die. You don't want me to die, do you?"

"No. Never. I love you. I'm sorry I scared you."

"You're my good girl."

You couldn’t help but admire him from time to time. tracing his side profile in your head before doodling it down in the margins of your notebook — the one he had personally bought for you after an accidental coffee spill that ruined your previous one. Not like you had any important notes listed on there to begin with. But that was when something sparked between the two of you, at least, on your end. 

& you definitely couldn’t help but let your feelings for him grow despite each other's social status. 

His white hair mirrored the snow that poured down on the December evening. You waited patiently in the library, silently stalking his figure as it made its way inside the building. Today would mark your last studying session, making your heart feel a tad bit heavy. 

A smile crept up to your face once the doors opened after a minute or so. Quickly patting down your skirt that was above your see through tights, the smile faded when you saw who he had entered with. 

Utahime, a classmate you knew was in your astrophysics class as well. She was majoring in something you knew you couldn’t even be able to understand. point being, she was highly intelligent just like satoru was. 

And they looked incredible together. 

Why has the pairing never clicked to you?

Earlier this week, you recalled jealousy rising in you when utahime interrupted your little rambling with satoru so she could ask for a pen. & it definitely wasn't the first time you've felt possessive over your tutor.satoru smiled at her, laughing at whatever she had said. What made matters worse was when his hand reached up to her raven black hair to pick out fallen snowflakes. 

You felt like throwing up.

Of course he liked her. Everything made sense now. Every small wave given to each other in the hallway, every time they’ve partnered up together in class for a project before you came along.

Why would he waste his time with a wannabe sorority girl who needed extra support for a class deemed easy for both him and utahime? why would he ever consider going out with you of all people. If you were to be in high school, you’d definitely poke fun at him. Hell, you still did before actually getting to know him. He only tolerated you because you paid him for his service at the end of the day. Right?

pairing: boyfriend jungkook x fem reader

word count: 9.2k

genre: smut, pwp

summary: you thought he ended the live…gasping & moaning out loud while he fucks you, the hearts and comments flooding the screen while you stare at it with wide eyes.

warnings: drunk!horny jungkook x fem reader, explicit sexual content, dub-con, jk is very mean & horny, dumbification heavy degradation, he fucks you with the beer bottle, very dom jk, usage of slut & whore, spitting, edging, clit rubbing, pussy eating, mock sympathy, spitting in mouth, praising, condescending dirty talk, nipple play, mild choking, cum eating, manipulation, multiple orgasms, rough sex, overstimulation, fingering, penetrative sex, creampie.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂˚₊┈┈୨୧┈┈‧₊˚⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂

dark!husband!aerion x wife!reader

summary: a trip to the market lifts your spirits

tw: abusive marriage

wc: 6.2k

********************************************

THE SHADOW OF THE

BROKEN SPEAR

Dark Valarr Targaryen x (Baelor’s) Baseborn Daughter

WC:6.2k

WARNINGS: Dark Romance, Toxic Obsessive Behaviour, Incest (Half-siblings), Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Sexual Content/Degradation, Toxic Comfort, Anguish, Forced Affection, Angst.

ADULT CONTENT NOTICE: This is a heavy, yandere-themed work with strict age restrictions. Minors are not permitted to read. Please check the content warnings below before continuing.

SUMMARY: When the silence of the chamber, steeped in her father’s memories, shatters at midnight, the thin line between loathing and obsessive love bleeds away entirely. The rustle of silks melts into the ancient Valyrian fire burning within his mismatched eyes.

AN: This is a purely fictional piece of creative writing, intended strictly for mature entertainment and dark fantasy exploration; the author does not condone or romanticize any of the toxic or non-consensual behaviors depicted within this work. It was inspired by Prince Valarr Targaryen, taking a darker twist on the lore established in George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire lore. Please read with caution and personal responsibility. Please do not copy my work.

And also, English is not my first language, so please forgive any mistakes!! your comments and likes are greatly appreciated! Enjoy! 🖤

The sun was shining high above you over the rose-filled gardens of Summerhall, yet you could see nothing but darkness.

There you sat, perched upon a heavy, high-backed chair of dark oak, its armrests intricately carved with silver vines that bit into your palms. You may sleep in silk and dine from silver, yet the truth remains stark. You were a bastard of the blood royal, born on the wrong side of the sheets. This truth brought you bitter pain everytime you think,—to be the poisoned fruit of a forbidden love meant that the venom would, sooner or later, seep out. And that, no man could stay. Your purple eyes were fixed on the horizon, your thoughts entirely consumed by the towering shadow of your father—Prince Baelor, the Great Varis, the only man who had ever looked at you with a gentle gaze.

You were waiting. Waiting for a raven, a sealed parchment, a letter. a single word from him to you. A sigil of a royal house. Your father’s sigil. The three-headed Targaryen dragon, quartered with the sun and spear of House Martell.

But the letter you so desperately starved for would never come.

Across the realm, in the muddy, blood-soaked sands of Ashford, the realm’s ultimate justice had turned into a slaughter. Prince Baelor Break-spear was now, dead. his skull shattered in a Trial of Seven, his noble life snuffed out before he could ever send for his bastard daughter. And back in the gardens of Summerhall, the roses kept blooming, completely unaware that the shadow of the dragon was about to grow infinitely darker.

Instead, another letter arrived, one that shocked you deeply and almost kept you from mourning. A letter had come from your half-brother—the new heir to the throne.

In truth, it hadn’t always been this way. Once, you were in the Red Keep, right by your father's side. But of course, it didn't last very long. Memories of Valarr clouded your mind.

You were drawing the brush through your hair before the looking glass, slow and rhythmic. By rights, a maid of such tender years should have been dreaming of sweetmeats, of walking the bustling streets of Westeros with her septa, or running her fingers through the glossy mane of the courser Ser Raylon had readied in the stables by your royal father’s command. Yet, your mind held no room for such childish whims; it belonged solely to Valarr. Day in and day out, he flung your bastardy into your face like dirt. You did your best to avoid him, keeping mostly to the confines of your chambers. You possessed a sharp wit, far beyond your years, and it was that clever tongue alone that stayed his hand from worse cruelty.

Crushed beneath the suffocating weight of those thoughts, it was the sudden, breathless clutch of hands that dragged your soul from the drowning fires. A sudden tremor racked your bones, cold as if you had been flung naked into the shivering depths of the Sunset Sea. The comb slipped from numbed fingers, clattering uselessly against the floorboards. You could not turn; your very wit froze to ice within your skull. You know who it was. You knew it then, as surely as a hound knows winter. There was no mistaking that sharp, woody scent of his skin, nor the sour tang of spiced Arbor wine that clung to his breath like a shroud.

He tangled his long, heavy fingers into your hair, shoving you forward until his thigh pressed hard against your hip. As if he had been waiting for this very moment, he forced your face down toward the roaring, red fury of the fire. In terror, your hands clawed at his arms, struggling, your entire body trembling violently—but it was no use. He was far larger, far stronger, his massive frame trapping you from behind until you could see nothing but the hungry flame, He took a cruel pleasure in your thrashing. A low, mocking purr escaped his lips as he leaned in close to your ear. ”If you truly possess the blood of the dragon, you will not burn,” Valarr whispered, his voice laced with venom. “But we both know what you are.” You are darkness—a wretched, mistaken common blood, You belong wherever I choose to cast you. Do you truly believe my father will save a baseborn whelp like you? You are less than nothing—a stain upon his name. You will hide in the shadows for the rest of your life; that is all you are fit for.”

“My prince, p-please,” was all you could choke out, your throat tight with a suffocating knot. Silently, you begged for your handmaiden to walk through the door, your eyes spilling scalding tears that ran beneath his fingers and soaked into your gown. He paused for a moment. His gaze searched the sharp lines of your face before his thumb slid from your hair down to the soft curve of your jaw, brushing it with a touch so gentle it was terrifying. His expression remained unreadable, but his voice was a low, dark promise.

“You may weep,” he whispered, his thumb catching a stray tear, “but those tears belong to me. You will shed them only for me.” It was as if he had been waiting for this moment for a very long time. 'No no, It was as if he had been prepared for this very scene. I cannot resist you,' he breathed…his eyes blending with the light of the fire. You could not fathom which was hotter—and the very thought burned you, too.

Yet, there were times he would do things that truly startled you. Another memory surfaced in your mind. For he claimed to hate you, yet he still brought you these hidden wonders. He would wander through the shadowed gardens of King’s Landing, his eyes tracking your every move, tracing the path you walked. Now and again, he would emerge from the greenery like a ghost, a single rose held between his long, noble fingers.

“This is for you,” he would murmur, his voice as smooth and dark as Valyrian silk.

He would brush the soft petals against the tip of your nose and across your lips before pressing the stem into your hand.

His unpredictability was a beautiful terror, keeping your heart trapped in a cage of sweet anticipation. But his gaze followed you even where the sun could not reach. Upon returning to your chambers in the dead of night, you would find those very same roses—resting on the edge of your bed, or left upon your wooden desk, their petals bleeding into the candlelight. Sometimes, such things would happen; he would bring you jewels and silks from across the realms—but only until he played with you like a dornish puppetters.

Of course you also remembered his hand in sending you here; how could you forget it? it had filled your heart with a cold fire. He had orchestrated it all himself, using your own father to keep you writhing. No matter what you did, you had failed to convince your father. Valarr moved like a shadow through your world, slipping into your most private sanctuary while you slept, leaving behind a fragrant, crimson reminder that you were entirely, utterly surrounded by him.

“My father loves his honor, and because he loves his honor, he fancies that he loves you. But dear Uncle Maekar’s sons are whispering in the shadows. Aerion looks at you and sees a common whore to use; Daeron sees a stain to be wiped clean. I told my father that the Red Keep is no longer safe for a baseborn girl. I told him that your presence here breeds nothing but strife among the princes.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. No.

He wept, “you know,” Valarr continued, his purr filling the quiet room like poison. “Gods be good, they know how noble my Father is. He wants to keep his precious little mistake safe from his brothers' wrath. So, when the decree comes tomorrow, do not weep to him. It was by his own hand, by his own seal, that you are being sent away to Summerhall. He thinks he is saving you from the wolves.”

Valarr took a step closer to the door, his hand resting on the iron latch.

“But there are no wolves in Summerhall,” he whispered, plunging the room into a cold, dead silence. “Only me. I am the one who built that for you, and I am the one who will hold your love. Sleep well, my sweet. Your exile begins at dawn.”

You remembered it as if it were yesterday. You did not know how long he had labored over this plan; in truth, it mattered little whether you knew or not, for he obtained everything he desired from you anyway.

As you took your first steps into King’s Landing for your father’s funeral, a strange coldness washed over you. It had been so long since you last walked these grounds. You desperately wished to avoid the gaze of the other nobles; you knew their whispers would trap you in a cage of the mind, never letting you free. You were here only to honor your father’s memory and to see Valarr—the heir to the throne, the very man who had summoned you back.

Why you longed to see him was a mystery even to yourself. Though he had ruined your soul, you knew that with your father gone, Valarr would be the only one left to protect you. It was a twisted truth to bear, for in reality, he was the one who had sent you away in the first place, using your own father to do it.

Naturally, the first place you sought was your own chambers. No matter how much you had steeled your heart, the moment you crossed the threshold, you broke. Your tears flowed like a torrential river. Everything remained untouched, exactly as you had left it. It was not even dusty—a strange detail that made it feel as though you had only been gone for a fleeting moment. The fabric of your blue skirt brushed against the heavy carpet, creating a sharp contrast in the quiet room. Outside, birds chirped their hollow songs as the sun began its slow descent, bleeding gold across the sky.

As you approached your desk, you saw it: a single rose. The irony of it was so sharp that a bitter laugh nearly tore through your sobs. Gently, as if terrified of bruising it, you took the stem between your fingers and breathed in the scent of the soft petals. It had been freshly plucked; it was still alive. But just as the memories threatened to consume you, the door burst open—unannounced and sudden.

In strode the Crown Prince. His dark brown hair fell across his brow, save for that unmistakable, gleaming Targaryen streak. He closed the distance between you in two long strides. It had been so long. You could not speak; you offered no curtsy, nor did you utter his name. You merely stood frozen, staring at him, your heart heavy with your father's grief. To the realm, Valarr wore the flawless mask of the noble, mourning prince. Yet the very instant he was alone with you, that mask shattered—as it always did.

His fingers found your cheek, and your skin shuddered at the touch, forcing your eyes to close. He looked down at you with a strange reverence, his expression utterly unreadable. You still could not fathom why he had summoned you here himself. "It has been a long time," he murmured, his gaze scanning every line of your face, tracing every change. Suddenly, fueled by a burst of reckless courage you did not know you possessed, you asked, "Why did you summon me? It was you who sent me away, so why am I here now?" You were no longer a child, after all.

"First, I willed you to leave; now, I will you to return."

“My father died for nothing, for some hedge knight.” He Said, his voice turning mocking, repulsive. "And you are all that remains—carrying that infuriating goodness of his."

Yet, his words could ever replicate the lie. He had missed you fiercely, more than his proud tongue would ever admit. In the arms of the other women he bedded, it was your face he conjured in his mind; it was your likeness he craved. Yet, none of them could ever replicate the piercing storm that raged within your violet eyes—that fierce, defensive fire. The haunting sorrow etched upon your face in that moment was a prize worth conquering all Seven Kingdoms just to possess.

His hands traveled up to your slender neck. Tilting his head slightly, he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Once, he used to grip you cruelly by that very hair; yet now, in twisted contrast, he was so terribly gentle. His nostrils flared slightly as he drew in the scent of your skin. You pulled back just an inch, wanting to declare that you were only here for your father, but his presence already held you captive. Oh... how you had missed drowning in those colored eyes. No matter how desperately you tried to deny it to yourself, this was the absolute, undeniable truth.

His grip tightened around your wrists until it bruised, but then the expression on his face shifted instantly. He grimaced, releasing his hold as if burned. In urgent haste, you widened the distance between you. Rolling his eyes, he strode out of the chambers. Once more, he had shattered your heart,,,yet he had bound your very soul to his…

Days bled into one another, and you seldom ventured outside your chambers, constantly drowning in the shadows of your memories. Your maiden arrived to inform you that the Crown Prince demanded your presence at the feast, and several lords offered to accompany you for a stroll down The Street of the Loom, yet you politely declined them all. You hid behind the safety of excuses—whispering of a sudden illness, claiming you felt unwell, or stating that you merely wished to sleep. Inexplicably, Valarr pursued you no further. He granted you your solitude, yet his presence remained an inescapable ghost within your walls. Every evening, your supper was delivered to your chambers, and beside the silver platter lay a single, freshly plucked rose. It was a silent, intoxicating torture.

It was a wicked, carnal game; he was consuming you from afar, making you crave the very hands that had bruised your wrists, leaving you to drown in the agonizing warmth of his absence.

To escape the suffocating gaze of the other nobles, and most of all, Maekar and his children during your stay in King’s Landing, you resolved to visit the library of the Red Keep just as you used to do in the old days to remain unseen. The very walls of your chambers were closing in on you, and you could bear the confinement no longer.

You possessed not a single fond memory within any corner of this palace. Yet, your feet carried you to that place you knew by heart. Even the Kingsguard looked upon you with hollow eyes, pretending not to recognize your face, and you, in turn, avoided any semblance of dialogue whenever possible. Aerion had cornered you a few times; one did not need much wit to read the dark, twisted lust gleaming in his eyes. Every single time, by some miracle, you managed to escape his grasp—gods be thanked. But however, with Valarr’s eyes constantly upon them, there was little they could do. Sometimes, you would spot Daeron wandering through the gardens in the dead of night from your balcony, and you would quickly step back into the shadows to remain unseen. As for Aegon... the Seven knew where he had vanished to, though whispers echoed through the halls that he had ridden off with that towering, massive hedge knight.

You stood in the library, accompanied only by the rustle of your silks, when you pushed open the heavy door of the library, it groaned on its ancient hinges. As you crossed the threshold, the fresh, woody scent of old parchment and bound leather enveloped you. It was a vast, timeless sanctuary. In truth, within the entire expanse of the Red Keep, you loved this place—and only this place.

You sank into the wide leather chair that still stood exactly where it always had, pulling a random tome from the shelf, and began to read. But the peace was fleeting. The silence of the library shattered as the heavy doors groaned once more. Footsteps echoed, slow and deliberate, until a shadow fell over your pages. You looked up to find Valarr standing over you, a wicked, knowing smile playing upon his lips.

"Are you hiding from me, my pretty sister? The Crown Prince summons you to his table, and you dare to not come?” he murmured, his voice a low purr.

my pretty sister... The word struck your mind like a bolt of lightning. Sister. For years, this man had broken you, trapping your body and soul within the cold walls of dishonor and illegitimacy—and now, he claimed you were his own blood. Against the wild turns of his mood, you had no shield left but your tears.

What are you reading?" he asked, as though nothing had transpired between you. He appeared utterly at ease as he slithered into the seat beside you, his leg pressing firmly against yours. Your face flushed, burning hot beneath his proximity. You swallowed hard, whispering the title of the tome: "The Loves of Queen Alysanne."

A derisive, mocking sound escaped Valarr’s throat. "What could you possibly know of love?" he sneered. Then, without warning, his voice sharpened, cutting through the air like a blade. "To whom did you open your legs for in Summerhall?"

The words struck you like a physical blow. You slammed the book shut with a resounding thud, drawing a sharp, ragged breath as you fought with every ounce of your being to hold back your tears. You turned to him, your gaze thick with a mixture of loathing and utter despair. “Of what are you accusing me?" you retorted, harboring a dangerous amount of boldness of late. Yet, he only tilted his head; the back of his hand traced the line of your cheek before he caught your palm in his, squeezing it tight.

"Or did you save yourself for me? How generous of you, my darling.” he murmured, his mismatched eyes now darkened into a singular, abyssal black. Void of all color.

Without a single word, you bolted from your seat, lunging toward the safety of the exit. But in a flash, his hand lashed out, gripping your wrist so violently that you stumbled. He pulled you close enough to feel his breath as he whispered, "I shall come to you tonight."

A jolt of electric terror coursed down your spine. Wrenching your hand free from his grasp, you burst through the heavy doors and fled into the corridor, your chest heaving with emotions you could neither name nor control.

By late afternoon, the stifling boredom had grown so heavy that you decided to steal away for a walk within the sprawling, grand gardens of the Red Keep. Courteously, you declined the company of a few lingering lords and your handmaidens, eager to be left to your own thoughts. As you stepped down the wide, sun-drenched stone stairs that led into the gardens, the heavy silk of your white gown swept the dust beneath your feet, its rich weight clinging to your body. Near the stables, a pair of Kingsguard knights inclined their heads in silent, solemn respect as you passed. It was a strange, almost unbelievable thing for a bastard girl to command such reverence from the court—but then, such was the power of having a father like Baelor Breakspear.

Beyond the stairs, the great gardens of the Red Keep unfurled, a paradise built upon blood and ancient secrets. The gravel path was lined with crushed mint, its heavy fragrance filling the warm air. On either side, pale ivory roses bloomed alongside the deep purple of nightshade, their stalks standing tall like tiny spears. Weathered stone fountains spewed a cool mist into the heat, yet the splashing water could not drown out the distant clinking of mail and the heavy tread of the Gold Cloaks guarding the walls.

Ancient lemon trees leaned heavy against the stone cliffs overlooking the salt-bitter waters of the Blackwater Rush. Their golden fruits gleamed like stolen jewels amidst the dark leaves. You had a fondness for the fruits of this garden, you recalled; your father would ever insist that you be the one to pluck them from the boughs. But whenever the sharp sea wind rustled through the branches, the shadows beneath them only seemed to grow deeper, hiding the secrets of the court. Sometimes, Valarr would seek you out here. Your laughter would fill the garden then, you thought, the memory bittersweet. He would take your hand, stroke them gently, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles, the ghost of his touch still lingering on your skin. Showering praise upon your violet eyes. It was hard to believe what he had become, hard to look upon your present self and see the ghost of who you used to be. Yet more often, it was your father with whom you walked in here, each step heavy with the weight of it, dragging you down into the ruins of what once was. At the far edge of the greenery, where the great oaks and tangled briars formed a natural wall, the suffocating silence of the Godswood began—a place where the court’s pretty laughter died, and the true, dark games of the castle were played in secret.

Toward the far edge of the grounds, the Godswood loomed a silent, primordial wood keeping the ancient secrets of the old kings. You had read histories detailing just how much blood magic had been wrought within these walls since the dawn of the Targaryen dynasty. The air grew thick and cold, smelling of damp earth and rotting leaves. Overhead, sentinel pines and ancient oaks blocked out the bleeding sky, plunging the wood into a grey twilight. At its heart stood the great heart tree, its bone-white bark gleaming like a corpse in the gloom, its deep-red, weeping eyes staring into the souls of those who dared tread upon its roots. The silence here was absolute, broken only by the caw of a distant raven.

Then, through the suffocating stillness, a low, rhythmic murmur drifted through the trees, like the rumble of distant thunder. Your heart gave a violent thud against your ribs. You knew that voice; you knew it as well as you knew your own name. It was Valarr’s voice, thick and dark, speaking to someone in low, urgent tones. A jolt of adrenaline snapped you back, breaking the spell of the past.

Carefully, your fingers trembling, you gathered the heavy silk of your white skirts, lifting the hem just enough to keep it from rustling against the dead leaves. You pressed your back against the rough, moss-covered bark of a massive oak, slipping into the shadows to hide. A frantic voice inside your head screamed that this was madness, an absolute folly. To spy on anyone in the Red Keep was dangerous, but to eavesdrop on the conversations of the direct heir to the Iron Throne meant losing your head, no matter whose blood ran through your veins.

It was Bloodraven. A blackfyre. Another bastard. Like you.

Bloodraven had come to Baelor’s solar under the cover of a chill twilight, but it was Prince Valarr who met him in the shadows. The young prince’s face was a mask of cold fury. “If you wish to seat your children upon the Iron Throne, you must pluck the weeds before they choke the garden.” bloodraven says, "I want them rooted out," Valarr hissed, his voice low and jagged. "Branch and stem. I want their line ended, Brynden. Completely wiped out.

Your hands flew to your mouth in frantic haste, stifling a gasp as your knees trembled from the sheer shock of what you heard. Whose line was he speaking of rooting out? What was his game—would he truly slaughter his own cousins for the Throne? If so, it meant only one thing: your turn would come next.

His eyes fixed his single, blood-red eye upon the prince. A cruel, knowing twist touched his pale lips. "And what of the bastard girl?" Rivers asked, his voice a low rasp that seemed to carry the scent of old graves and sorcery.

Valarr went rigid as Valyrian stone, every muscle in his frame tightening like a drawn bowstring. Beneath his collar, the veins in his neck pulsed violently, a war drum heralding a slaughter.

Bloodraven watched him, the crimson orb of his eye gleaming in the dark. He thought of the girl—no longer a child, but a wench grown into a perilous, intoxicating thing. The sort of beauty that births songs, he thought, and ends dynasties.

"Perhaps I should make her my own," Bloodraven murmured softly.

Valarr’s gaze drove into the sorcerer’s lone eye like a poisoned spear. Heavy and deliberate, the prince's hand dropped to the pommel of his castle-forged steel, his knuckles turning white against the grip. He did not draw the blade, but the wind itself seemed to hold its breath. It was a silent vow; one more word from the bastard's mouth regarding her, and the solar would run red with sorcerer's blood.

“Make her yours, and I will not merely take your head," the Prince whispered, the words smooth as silk and heavy as a death sentence.

“Keep your eyes on the ground where they belong," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dark purr. "For if those eyes wander to her again, I will carve them from your skull before I take your head. You want to wear the Hand’s badge upon your chest? You want to rule my realm? Then remember your place. Some treasures are meant only for dragons.”

The young prince did not wait for Bloodraven’s reply, nor did he grant him another glance. Leaving the icy weight of his words hanging in the air, he turned away with slow, deliberate steps.

The sight before you choked the very breath from your throat, leaving you praying that your own eyes were playing tricks on you.

The air in the chamber was thick with the scent of old cedar, lavender, and the bitter dust of things left behind. It was a room born of a father’s love, untouched by the cruel passage of years in King’s Landing, yet walking into it felt less like a homecoming and more like a sentence. The ghost of him lingered in every corner, a memory so sharp it caught in the throat like smoke.

You sank onto the great, soft bed, your fingers trailing over the fine silks. To be back in the shadow of the Red Keep without him was a heavy, hollow thing.

Seeking comfort in the familiar, you pulled a nightgown from the cedar press. It was a wicked piece of silk, dyed the color of bruised plums, the back plunging so low it bared the smooth curve of your spine down to the very swell of your hips. As the cool fabric slipped over your skin, your thoughts drifted into dangerous waters. Valarr. Bloodraven’s shadow hung long over Summerhall, and after the butchery at the Dragonpit, the Hand's cold eye was a threat to everything you held dear. “Would he strike at Valarr? Or Maekar—“

The thought broke like glass.

A hand, warm and calloused, brushed the bare skin of your spine.

You leapt, a gasp catching in your throat as your heart hammered wildly against your ribs. But before you could cry out, a pair of strong arms enveloped you from behind, pulling your back against a broad, solid chest. The scent of him washed over you—leather, smoke, and that sharp, masculine musk you knew better than your own soul.

"Ssh-h," a low voice purred against your ear, a sound like velvet dragged over steel. "It is only me. I told you I would come to you."

The touch turned agonizingly gentle, his fingers tracing the sensitive line of your neck with a feather-light stroke that made your skin prickle with heat. Slowly, deliberately, he gathered the heavy mass of your hair, brushing it over one shoulder to leave the long, pale expanse of your throat completely bared to the firelight.

Did you don this lovely silk for me?" he whispered, his breath a hot caress against the bare skin of your shoulder. “You wicked, beautiful thing.”

You tried to lift your gaze to look at his face, but his grip tightened, refusing to let you turn your head away. "Do not look at me with those eyes," he whispered, his fingers pressing bruised lines into your skin as he forced your stare to remain locked with his. "You tremble like a snuffed flame, yet you burn hotter than all the fires of Valyria.”

His hands began to wander, slow and possessive, tracing the sharp curve of your collarbone before sliding down the silk of your gown, mapping every inch of your body as if claiming a kingdom he had conquered. His palms were warm, burning through the thin fabric, demanding everything you had to give.

“Your Grace…stop it……you, I- We can’t do this…”breathed, your voice trembling like a leaf in a winter gale. You pressed your hands against his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thud of his heart. "You must stop- I will-“

He did not pull away. Instead, his grip tightened, his fingers pressing into your hips with a sudden, bruising force that made you gasp. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, as if the very scent of you was the air keeping him alive.

“Stop?" Valarr murmured, his voice dropping into a dark, obsessive register that vibrated against your skin. "I could tear this city down stone by stone, but I could never stop loving you. Let the red keep watch. Let them see what they made." He pulled you back against him, his embrace so fierce it stole the breath from your lungs.

“You think I hate you?" he whispered, his lips brushing your earlobe with a terrifying tenderness. "Perhaps I do. I hate how you rule me. I hate that my soul belongs to you, and not to the Iron Throne. But you are mine. Every inch of this beautiful skin, every breath you take in the dark. I would burn the Seven Kingdoms to ash before I ever let another man look upon you in this gown. Tell me to stop again, and I will only hold you tighter."

The harder you strained against him, the tighter the trap closed. His arms were iron bands, crushing the breath from your lungs until the silk of your gown felt like a shroud. There was no gentleness left in him now; the slow, honeyed prince had vanished, replaced by something wild and starved.

When you turned your head to breathe, you saw his face in the dying embers of the hearth. His breath came in ragged, animal gasps, and his eyes—those strange, mismatched eyes the gods had cursed and blessed him with—were burning.

The fire, you thought, a cold dread pooling in your belly. It is the same fire.

Whenever he looked at you, that purplish-dark flame flickered in his gaze, a madness born of Old Valyria that threatened to consume everything it touched. Now, those eyes seemed to pierce straight through your flesh, stripping away your pride, your will, your secrets, until you were nothing but bare skin and beating heart beneath his gaze.

You felt yourself drowning in the sheer, suffocating weight of his presence. His scent filled your nose, his heat baked your skin, and the terrible truth of it washed over you like a wave on the Blackwater. He was taking you. Not with a blade, but with a possession so absolute it left no room for retreat. You were in your room, surrounded by the quiet dead, but Valarr was the only living thing that mattered, a predator claiming his prize, and you had no strength left to stop him. His hands slid beneath the thin plum silk, cold against the rising heat of your skin, before one crept upward across your belly to find your breast. He squeezed with a bruising, desperate force that wrung a sharp gasp from your lips. Before you could find your footing, he thrust you back against the heavy oak vanity—the same mirrored table that had stood here since your childhood, unyielding and timeless. His movements were swift, jagged with a starved ferocity. In this room where he had once brought you pain, he was now bringing you to your knees, worshipping you like a pagan god at a bloodstained altar.

He pressed his full weight into you, pinning you against the hard edge of the wood until the breath left your lungs. He was fighting to close every inch of distance between you, striving to melt two bodies into one. With a sudden, downward jerk of his hands, he ripped the straps of the gown away, pooling the fabric at your waist. The cool air of the chamber hit your bare flesh, and a hot, crimson flush rushed to your cheeks. Shame and desire warred within you; you tried to bring your hands up to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinning them flat against the dusty wood on either side of your hips. You fumbled with his clothes, trying with clumsy desperation to shed them, but Valarr caught your hand, pressing a swift, feverish kiss into your palm. In a blur of movement that seemed almost unhuman, he ripped his own tunic free and cast it away into a distant corner of the room.

He leaned down, the tip of his tongue tracing the soft curve of your earlobe, savoring you as if he meant to devour you whole. He wanted every inch, every taste, every secret your skin held. Down his mouth wandered, finding the fluttering pulse point at your throat. Your heart hammered wildly beneath his lips, a trapped bird trying to break free. His gentle grazes turned to wet, lingering kisses, and those kisses sharpened into biting nips, leaving fierce, dark marks upon your pale skin—stamping his sigil into your very flesh.

He took your right hand in his, forcing your fingers down between your bodies until they brushed against his trousers. You felt the heavy, rigid length of him, shifting and hot beneath the cloth. your breath hitched, and a deep, aching sensitivity bloomed in your chest. With every heavy rub of his hips against yours, a slick heat pooled between your thighs, betraying your terror.

"Look at what you do to me," he growled, his voice thick with a dark, intoxicating lust. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered those terrible, beautiful promises. "I will make you as my wife. I will grant you legitimacy. You will bear me sons. You will give me my heirs."

"No... I—" the protest died in your throat, weak and trembling.

"Yes," he rasped, the word a heavy blade cutting through your defiance.

His free hand gripped your jaw, forcing your face up until your eyes met the silvered reflection in the ancient mirror. "Look at how beautiful you are," he murmured, his voice cracking with an obsession that seemed to choke him. "I have dreamed of this in the dark... for so long."

A shiver of pure, unadulterated pleasure broke through your shock, a soft cry escaping your lips.

"Ah... so beautiful," he whispered.

Then came the sharp clink of metal—the heavy buckle of his belt being undone. He discarded his trousers with a swift, impatient movement, his eyes never leaving yours. It was the look of a wolf that had finally cornered its prey, triumphant and starved. No, not a wolf. A dragon.

“Kneel,” he said, and the word fell between you like a command spoken from a throne.

Something had changed in him.

Desire had carved new lines into his face, softened some things and sharpened others. His eyes seemed darker than before, bright with a heat that bordered on dangerous. You had seen anger kindle behind those lilac eyes like wildfire set loose upon a summer field. You had seen sorrow settle upon his shoulders like a winter cloak. You had heard him laugh, had watched cruel amusement dance across his features when some lord or fool made a spectacle of himself. Or perhaps you had simply never been close enough to see this..

This was something else.

Something older.

Something far more dangerous.

The candlelight clung to the sharp planes of his face, gilding silver-gold strands of hair and casting shadows where shadows had no right to linger. For a moment, he seemed less a prince than the memory of one of Old Valyria’s dragonlords, returned from ash and ruin.

“Don’t look at me with those eyes.”

His voice came low, scarcely louder than a murmur.

He wrapped his hand around his cock and stroked it slowly, once, twice, then again. A groan tore free from his throat, deep and warm, the sound of a man surrendering himself to pleasure.

Your hands found his thighs, fingers trailing over hard muscles. You were losing yourself now. The world beyond the room seemed distant and unreal. There was only him, only the heat between you. You opened your mouth without hesitation and took his warmth into it.

You opened your mouth and took him in.

A shiver passed through him, fleeting as a gust of wind across still water. His hand found your hair at once, fingers threading through the strands before closing tightly around them. Yet he did not pull. He merely held you there.

A sharp breath escaped from Valarr.

You pleasured him with your mouth while your hands moved in tandem, and the sight of it drew another low groan from him. Every now and then, his grip tightened and he nudged you forward, subtle but unmistakable.

The effort made your throat tighten. You struggled against the reflex, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. Moisture glistened upon your lips and spilled down your chin, It dripped upon the rug, pooling there as if the tapestry of time itself had paused to bear witness to the fall.

Then, with a soft pop, he withdrew and wrapped his hand around his cock once more. Looking down at you, he brushed it lightly against your lips several times, the gesture unhurried, almost contemplative, as though savoring the sight before him. The faint curve of his mouth spoke of satisfaction, and perhaps of something darker still—a victory long anticipated and at last won. He hauled you to your feet with brutal swiftness and stepped behind you. At that very moment, your stomach churned, utterly sickened by the torrent of conflicting emotions crashing through you.

Valarr hooked his fingers behind your knee, lifting your leg and resting it high upon the dark wood of the vanity. You yearned to touch him, yet he refused to grant you leave to turn. "No," he commanded, "I mean to watch." He had entwined his venomous vines about your very soul; there was no escaping him now. He pressed himself against your thigh, rubbing his wet, rigid steel against your opening once, twice, maddeningly slow, tormenting you with the promise of what was to come.

A sharp cry escaped your lips as his mouth fell upon your shoulders, leaving a trail of hungry, wet kisses against your skin. Then, as he began to push slowly inside you, your entire body trembled with the sudden sting of pain. Another gasp tore from your throat, and through the heat of the moment, Valarr murmured against your ear, his voice thick and rough, "Ah, yes... make a sound for your prince."

His hands gripped your hips with a bruising force, each deep, heavy thrust striking with a fierce intensity that felt almost too much to bear, tearing through your defenses. He buried his face in your hair, breathing in your scent as the initial pain began to blur, slowly melting into a blinding, overwhelming pleasure.

He kissed every single inch of your skin, his mismatched eyes looking almost entirely black in the dim light of the chamber, consumed by a wild Valyrian fire. As he drove you closer and closer to the edge, your own vision began to darken at the corners, the world spinning away until there was nothing left but him. Right as the peak approached, his hands moved up to find your breasts, catching the sensitive tips between his fingers, squeezing and twisting as he claimed you completely. There was no escaping his grasp now; the venomous vines had long since bound you tight.

The mingled moans of you both dissolved into the heavy air of the room. At one point, a sudden knock echoed against the wood, yet because the Crown Prince was within, no soul dared to intrude. Your muffled gasps soon surrendered to vocal cries, and your cries turned into sharp, piercing screams of ecstasy. With agonizing effort, you turned your head toward Valarr. A bead of sweat rolled from his forehead, tracing down toward his eyelashes. Breaths coming in ragged gasps, you parted your lips to speak, but he noticed instantly. Devouring the invitation, he pushed his tongue deep inside, invading the very depths of your throat. His hands clamped around your breasts with such a bruising, merciless force that it was certain they would leave the dark imprints of his fingers behind.

You were so utterly lost to ecstasy that you began to move in perfect rhythm with him, delicious moans spilling from your lips.

“Ah... do not stop, p-please...”

you whimpered. He quickened his pace, the feverish slap of flesh against flesh growing louder, more violent. Then, with a deep, guttural groan, he came inside you, filling your womb with his wet seed. As the warmth began to seep down between your thighs, trickling toward the floor, your legs gave out completely. You sloped back, leaning your entire weight against him.

Bent over you from behind, he bit your hip with a force that brought a sharp cry of pain to your throat, his fingers tracing the tender skin behind your knees. You groaned, and in that shattered silence, He bowed before you as if in the presence of a king, stealing the very breath from your throat, his eyes never straying from yours. His naked body mirrored the ancient majesty of Valyria.

he whispered words you never, in all your life, expected him to say:

INSOLANCE IN VAIN

Dark Aerion Targaryen x Noble (fem) maid reader

WC:7.7k

WARNINGS: Dark Romance, Toxic Obsessive Behaviour, Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Sexual Content/Rape Degradation, Toxic Comfort, Anguish, Forced Affection , Angst Poison/Venom themes.

ADULT CONTENT NOTICE: This is a heavy, yandere-themed work with strict age restrictions. Minors are not permitted to read. Please check the content warnings below before continuing.

SUMMARY : In the shadows of a quiet room, an educated but caged and humiliated mind and a dangerous prince collide in a fierce, intoxicating struggle for possession.

AN: This is a purely fictional piece of creative writing, intended strictly for mature entertainment and dark fantasy exploration; the author does not condone or romanticize any of the toxic behaviors depicted within this work. It was inspired by the cruel, volatile nature of Aerion Brightflame as established in George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire lore. Please read with caution and personal responsibility. Please do not copy or share my work.

And also, English is not my first language, so please forgive any mistakes!! your comments and likes are greatly appreciated! Enjoy! 🖤

The Great Council chamber of King’s Landing was suffocating, thick with the smell of old parchment, melting wax, and the heavy, lingering dread that followed Prince Aerion Targaryen like a shroud. You stood quietly in the shadows, your fingers cold and numb around the heavy silver pitcher, doing your best to remain entirely invisible to the lords of the realm.

Brightflame lazily flicked his wrist, tilting the silver goblet in his hand in a silent, demanding gesture. For a fraction of a second, his cruel, lilac eyes cut through the dimness, locking onto yours with an unsettling intensity. Your heart seized. Holding your breath, you stepped out from the safety of the dusty shadows, desperate to make as little sound as possible as you moved across the room. Every eye in the chamber felt like a weight, but your focus was entirely on the terrifying figure seated at the absolute head of the heavy oak table.

"The smallfolk are growing restless along the borders," Prince Baelor Targaryen spoke, his calm, authoritative voice commanding the room as he gestured to the maps with his ringered fingers.

The voices around the table were growing increasingly heated. The lords leaned forward, their tones sharp and urgent as they tried desperately to convince the Crown Prince of a crucial political move. Your father had once commanded the foremost seats in councils such as these, you reminded yourself, the memory a bitter taste on your tongue. He had possessed a sharp, calculating mind for the game of polities a gift that had lined your family’s coffers until your house rivaled the dragons themselves in wealth. But the gods are fickle, they flipped a coin, just to watch men bleed for the flip of it, and the Targaryens had won. Now, held fast in this gilded cage, your kin were as distant as the stars. You wondered where they had scattered, if any still drew breath, or if the roots of your family tree had been severed entirely, leaving you the last leaf to wither in the draft. Yet, Brightflame seemed entirely detached from the heavy weight of their words.

He mindlessly toyed with a dagger of pure Valyrian steel, turning the dark, rippled blade over and over, lazily caressing the deadly edge with his fingertips as his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

His gaze was fixed on the massive stone hearth across the hall. His deep lilac eyes seemed to burn with the reflection of the roaring fire, his white eyelashes twitching slightly against the amber glow. A slow, sinister smile spread across his full, pink lips, the look of a man who constantly reminded himself that he was a dragon born of ash and fire. In the shifting play of light and shadow, his sharp aristocratic jawline and high cheekbones looked almost divine.

Yes, he was divine, you thought with a sickening shudder. You absolutely hate him. A dangerous, suffocating beauty. He was the pure, unadulterated evidence of Valyrian majesty.

But contrasted so sharply with that ethereal beauty was the dark, rot-like cruelty that festered just beneath his pale skin.

Lord Caron shifted uncomfortably in his high-backed seat, pulling at his thick, brindled beard as he cleared his throat to break the tension. "Your Grace," the old lord ventured, his voice raspy from the smoke of the hearth. "We must first look to Casterly Rock. If we secure their backing and march along the southern flank, we might yet—

The old man’s council was abruptly cut short.

With a sickening, panicked slip of your numb fingers, the heavy silver pitcher betrayed you. It lurched violently from your hands, tilting mid-air before crashing onto the table. A sudden, cruel arc of dark red Arbor gold splashed heavily across the immaculate, silver-embroidered cloak of Prince Baelor.

The entire room turned to stone. The heated arguments died instantly in the throats of twenty proud lords. Even Aerion Targaryen, whose eyes had been lost to the flames, slowly turned his gaze toward you, his white eyelashes narrowing as a dangerous stillness settled over his features.

Your heart hammered against your ribs like a frightened dove trapped in a wicker cage, its wings beating so frantically that the sheer terror of it seemed to physically shove you forward. Your arm collided with the edge of the heavy oak, sending an intricate, stag-horn inkwell tumbling onto its side. Black ink bled instantly across the precious vellum maps, mingling with the pool of red wine.

Panic, blinding and absolute, swallowed you whole. You dropped heavily to your knees, your bones cracking against the cold stone floor as you buried your face in the shadows of the table. You had learned through bitter, bloody lessons what it cost to disobey. The fire of vengeance burned hot within your chest, but you could not let it consume you—not yet. Not yet.

"I—I beg of your forgiveness your Grace!" a jagged, pathetic sob rising from your chest as you wept at the feet of the heir to the Iron Throne. "Please, Your Grace... it will not happening again!”

Aerion didn't reach for his dagger. Instead, he leaned back into the shadows of his high chair, the sinister smile returning to his pink lips, He took immense pleasure in watching you in this pathetic state. thoroughly tasting the exquisite flavor of your public ruin. He extended his empty silver goblet over your shaking form, his voice cutting through the suffocating silence of the hall, dripping with a casual, aristocratic malice that felt heavier than a death sentence.

"You know..." he murmured, his words deliberate, ensuring every lord from the Wall to Dorne would hear his vulgarity, "had I not slaughtered your family, I would have bent you over this very table and taken you right in front of them."

A collective, horrified chill ran through the council chamber. A few lords choked on their breath; others stared fixedly at the ruined maps, a tense, heavy sweat breaking out beneath their velvet and fur collars.

Prince Baelor’s dark brows snapped together, a hard, dangerous line grooving his forehead. His face, usually defined by the gentle, just stoicism of the Breakspear, hardened into pure steel. He looked at his nephew, his eyes flashing with a deep, royal disgust that needed no words to rebuke the prince's sickening cruelty.

With quiet, immense dignity, Baelor placed his ringed hand over the stained fabric of his cloak, entirely ignoring the black ink and red wine ruining his clothes. He looked down at you, his voice low, steady, and cutting through the suffocating air like a cool wind.

"You may go," Baelor commanded softly, giving you a singular, firm nod that was less an order and more a sudden shield against the dragon's madness.

As you scrambled out of the Great Council chamber, your knees bleeding and your hands still stained with black ink and Arbor gold, you collapsed into the dim, drafty corridor outside. Your breath came in ragged, terrified gasps. Prince Baelor had given you permission to leave, but you knew the tragic truth of King's Landing, Baelor’s mercy ended at the council doors, And that crushing weight collapsed onto you once more. The sickness in your belly… the bruises on your body ached, the very bruises the prince never allowed to fade. It wouldn't leave you alone in your dreams at night; the moment your mind went blank, it hit you like a whirlwind—no, no... it trapped you beneath the screams of the other slaves you had once reached out a helping hand to back in Essos, But now, in King's Landing, you were nothing but a lowborn, serving in the prince's chambers.

Everyone in the Red Keep knew of the Prince’s sickening obsession with you.

"Remember this every time you scrub my floors until your fingers bleed whore. Your house didn't just fall. I crushed it. And the only reason you still draw breath in King’s Landing is because I enjoy watching a fallen bird try to fly in a cage of my making.”

Those had been his first words, a single, sharp lash that cut deeper than any blade. In your naivety, you had stared at the stone floor and wondered what could possibly be worse. You thought you had felt the absolute bottom of the abyss. You had not foreseen the cruelty that lay waiting in the shadows of his mind.

But the worse came. It always did in King’s Landing. Your brother always used to tell you stories, but he was gone now, In the eyes of the Seven Kingdoms, your father had been branded a traitor. Your brother, having made the fatal choice to stand alongside Ser Duncan the Tall in the Trial of Seven, became the chief quarry of Prince Aerion’s venomous wrath. Both of their heads had been struck off, left to rot upon iron spikes. As for your sister, you knew not her true fate; only the sickening whispers that she had been sold into some wretched brothel. Your house, which had once held its head as high as the dragons themselves, was cast into the dirt, its very name struck from the maps of the realm.

They remembered the very day he took your innocence and stripped away your remaining dignity. Aerion had gathered the lords and the nobles of the realm into his chambers, forcing them to stand as witnesses to his depravity. Behind a thin, white silken curtain, lit by the flickering amber glow of candles, they had all seen your naked, broken silhouette—shaking and bleeding as you wept into the sheets. Aerion had stood before that curtain with a dark, lustful satisfaction on his face, worshipping all over your body, openly parading your ruin as a trophy of his absolute power.

After that day, he had formally made you his personal cupbearer and maid, And every single time, he reminded you of exactly why you were reduced to this state.

Crushed beneath the suffocating weight of everything you had endured, you dragged your feet down into the damp dark of the cellars, toward the bleak corner that was now your quarters. With every step upon the cold stone, you fashioned new ways to slide poison into the prince’s wine. You did it often mulling over sweet sleep, or the strangler’s agonizing choke—yet every time your eyes met the white cloaks of the Kingsguard, a cold doubt bled into your chest, whispering that your blade would shatter before it ever touched his skin.

You pulled the greasy wool blanket to your chin, shivering as the dampness of the stones seeped into your aching bones. louder than the scratching of the rats in the walls. You closed your eyes, clutching your bruised ribs, and prayed to whatever gods were listening that the poison in your mind would one day find its way to his throat.

Dawn arrived without mercy, bleeding a cold, grey light through the high arched windows of the Red Keep. Your ribs still ached from the night before, each breath a sharp reminder of the stones beneath the Great Council table. Yet, there was no time for healing. A servant’s life was measured in paces and duties, and Prince Aerion’s chambers awaited. You dressed yourself with haste, taking swift strides toward the corridors of the heirs to face the tedious tasks you were bound to perform each day, and the countenances you wished never to behold—as though such speed might make you invisible.

When you pushed open the heavy oak doors, the scent of stale summerwine, musk, and spent tallow rushed to greet you, turning your stomach sour.

Those chambers…you were forced to enter every single day in here where he had stripped away your dignity, where a violent shudder took hold of your body every time you crossed the threshold; those cold walls that bore witness to the first night he fucked you so brutally.

On the massive four-poster bed, draped in heavy crimson silks, Aerion lay tangled in linen sheets. Beside him was a girl a young thing with tumbled flaxen hair, her bare shoulder gleaming in the morning gloom. She was a daughter of some minor house, no doubt, or perhaps a high-priced whore from the silk shops of the Street of the Sisters, She was tangled around the prince like ivy, her soft, round thighs draped over his hip, her fingers idly tracing the line of his collarbone. She shifted, pressing her naked breasts against his bare chest, her lips parting to murmur a sleepy, breathless endearment against his throat, desperate to stoke the dying embers of his desire for another taste of a prince’s favor.

You kept your gaze fixed firmly on the floor. You did not look at the bed. You did not look at her. To look would mean remembering that night, and every terrible night that came after. To look was to exist, and your only survival lay in being a ghost.

Aerion’s reaction was instant, driven by a volatile, shifting madness.

The lust that had consumed him hours before turned into a low hiss of utter loathing. He gripped the girl's soft wrists with biting strength and threw her arms off him as if she were a bloated corpse that had washed ashore. He bolted upright, his magnificent, sharp features twisted into a mask of pure disgust.

"Get out," he spat, his voice a venomous rasp that shattered the morning quiet.

The girl blinked, startled and trembling, clutching the silk sheets to her chest. M-my prince? I thought—

"I told you to leave!" Aerion roared, his deep lilac eyes flashing with a dangerous, unstable fire. He didn't look at her; he looked past her, his gaze snapping directly to where you stood by the washing basin. “Your breath stinks of sour wine and common blood. Wash yourself or drown in the Blackwater, I care not. Out!”

Weeping into her hands, the girl scrambled from the bed, gathering her discarded shift from the floor in a panic, and fled the chambers barefoot, the heavy doors slamming shut behind her.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

You moved like an automaton. You approached the large cedar wardrobe to prepare his attire for the day. You fetched a fresh tunic of black velvet, embroidered with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen in shimmering red thread, alongside his fine boiled-leather riding boots.

As you worked, you felt it—a heat against the back of your neck that had nothing to do with the hearth.

Aerion had not moved from the bed. He sat amid the ruined silks, his pale, aristocratic chest bare, his silver-gold hair falling like spun glass over his shoulders. His lilac eyes followed your every movement, tracking the heavy sway of your hips beneath your rough, woolen gown, the elegant curve of your throat as you reached for his garments, and the small, trembling grace of your ink-stained fingers.

Beneath the rot of his cruelty, beneath the madness that whispered of dragons and wildfire, lay a dark, unspoken truth. He didn't just want to break you; he was consumed by a feral, morbid, possessive fixation. To him, you were not just another servant to be discarded like the girl who had just fled. You were the blood of a fallen house, a rare, exquisite bird whose wings he had clipped himself. In his twisted mind, your silence was a challenge, your quiet dignity a prize more valuable than any throne. Even considering the state you now found yourself in, the weight of your education and intellect, paired with the prince’s renowned standing across the Seven Kingdoms—ensured you had known it to be true from the very moment you first laid eyes upon him. He hated how much he desired the very creature he had reduced to ash, and that desire only made him more dangerous.

He watched you lift the heavy black tunic, his white eyelashes narrowing as a slow, deliberate smile cut across his lips.

“You did not look at her." Aerion murmured softly from the bed, his tone almost conversational, yet dripping with that familiar, aristocratic malice. “Tell me, my sweet little ruin... did it please you to see how easily I discard those who are not you?”

You kept your gaze firmly on the fine fabric of his tunic, refusing to look into his eyes, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of a single word. A reply, even a whispered plea, was a luxury you could not afford. You knew with absolute certainty that one wrong breath, one defiant syllable, and he would have your head struck off and sent straight to join your father in the dirt.

No, you thought, your chest tightening around a cold, hard knot of hatred. Not yet. I will live to see him burn first. I cannot let my family's blood wash away into nothing.

As his words hung heavily in the air, Aerion raised his arms in a fluid, regal motion, silently demanding that you begin the task of dressing him. He sat back slightly, his lilac eyes gleaming with wicked amusement as he watched your frantic, mechanical movements. He took immense pleasure in your silent desperation, thoroughly enjoying your clear, agonizing haste to finish the chore and flee the suffocating confines of his chambers.

Turning your back to him for a single second to retrieve an intricate silver button from the top shelf of the cedar wardrobe, the air behind you suddenly shifted.

Before you could step away, a sudden, heavy warmth bloomed against your skin. His palm was large, burning hot, and ruthlessly possessive as his fingers splayed out, completely cupping the entire curve of your butt cheeck right through the coarse fabric of your gown. A violent, electric shudder tore clean through your body, freezing the breath in your throat. Before you could even gasp, his other hand slid smoothly around the narrow curve of your waist, his long fingers trailing up your ribs with a sickening, lazy familiarity.

"You tremble so beautifully," he whispered, his hot, wine-scented breath ghosting directly against the shell of your ear, sending a sickening chill down your spine.

The sheer terror of his touch, mixed with the memory of that brutal night, broke through your restraint. With a sudden, panicked jolt, you pulled away, stumbling half a step backward toward the heavy wardrobe to break his hold.

Aerion’s features hardened instantly. The lazy, amused smile vanished from his pink lips, replaced by a dark, volatile fury that twisted his divine jawline into something monstrous. His white eyelashes narrowed to dangerous slits.

“Do you dare?” Aerion hissed, stepping out of the bed, his bare chest heaving as he closed the distance between you like a predator cornering a wounded animal. ”Do you dare defy a prince of the realm?”

His eyes flashed with a hideous, burning spark, as though his very blood were simmering with an unstable, volatile heat. In his fury, those magnificent lilac eyes darkened until they were almost black, swallowing the light of the room.

Before you could even turn around, his hands slammed onto your waist from behind, his fingers digging like iron claws into your hips as he violently forced you down across the table. “No!”-Stop, your majesty I - “ you gasped, trying to push him away, but he didn't budge an inch.

The wooden basin and the silver buttons you held clattered and crashed noisily onto the stone floor, scattering into the shadows. He pressed the full, suffocating weight of his body against your back, pinning you flat against the wood. A soft, breathless groan escaped his mouth, a sound of pure, carnal satisfaction that turned your stomach sour.

He leaned down, his hot breath ghosting over your neck before his mouth found your earlobe. He caught the soft skin between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to bruise, sending a sharp jolt of pain through your jaw, As he pressed his entire length against you, the absolute filth of his touch made you feel physically sick. You could feel the rigid, dangerous heat of his desire through the coarse fabric of your woolen gown. He was doing this on purpose not just out of lust, but to remind you exactly who held your life in his hands. Every morning, the cruelty grew heavier; every single day, he increased the dose of your torment just to see how much it took to make you break.

The venom of your hatred finally boiled over. You choked down the sob in your throat and turned your face just enough to bare your teeth at him.

"I am no whore," you hissed, the words cutting through the quiet room like a poisoned blade.

Aerion paused, his teeth still brushing against your ear. For a second, the room went deathly still. Then, a low, cruel laugh rumbled deep in his chest a sound filled with so much aristocratic mockery it made your blood run cold.

“No?” Aerion murmured, He seemed to taste your audacious words upon his tongue. his grip tightening on your waist until you gasped from the pain. He slid one hand slowly up your ribs, his fingers tracing the fragile line of your collarbone with terrifying possessiveness. "Your father died as a traitor, and your house is nothing but ash and crows. You breathe because I allow it. You eat because I feed you.”

“In Westeros…..a whore gets paid for her flesh," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear once more, dripping with venomous amusement. "You do it to keep your head on your shoulders. Tell me... does that not make you the cheapest whore in the Seven Kingdoms?”

He didn't permit you to say a word, while your heart leaped into your throat. Without a word of warning, his hand shot down, shoving the coarse wool of your skirt upward. His burning fingers slipped beneath the fabric, sliding directly between your thighs until his palm brushed against the slick, undeniable dampness in your enterence. You strained to resist, but your efforts were entirely futile.

A small, breathless whimpering gasp escaped your lips before you could choke it back, echoing helplessly through the quiet room.

Prince Aerion let out a short, low laugh—a sound of pure triumph and aristocratic malice that cut half in you. He paused his hand there, his fingers possessively mapping your heat.

“Just as expected of a whore,” he murmured against between your neck and shoulder, his lips curling into a cruel, knowing grin. “Your body knows its master, my lovely lovely little dove. You can whisper lies of hatred all you please... but your flesh doesn't lie to me. —I give n-“

The heavy oak doors groaned as Ser Donnel of the Kingsguard rapped his armored gauntlet against the wood. He bowed his head and paid his respects before the princeling. His muffled voice cut clean through the frantic beating of your heart. “Forgive my insolence, Your Grace. King Daeron requests your immediate presence in the Small Council. The lords from Riverrun have arrived.”

The interruption was like a bucket of ice water over the prince's madness. Aerion stopped, his fingers freezing against your thigh, his breath ragged and hot against your bare shoulder. Your wide, striking eyes wandered over the dark silhouette of the prince, for one agonizing second, you thought he might ignore the guard completely, that he would rip your gown away and consume you anyway. A cold, biting shame washed over you, swallowing you whole.

For a single heartbeat, he faltered. You could see the sharp cruelty lingering in his gaze as he planted a lingering kiss upon your naked shoulder.

Before he pulled away, he pressed the wettest heaviest and loudest kiss against your lips aswell, the sound echoing sharply in the tense silence of the room. He slowly dragged his hand out from beneath your skirt, slick with your undeniable moisture, and lifted his glistening fingers to your face, holding them right before your eyes.

“Open your mouth.” he commanded, his voice dark and dripping with anticipation.

You clenched your jaw tight, refusing to obey, staring back at him with unyielding defiance. But Prince Aerion did not like to be kept waiting. Instantly, his other hand shot up, his iron fingers wrapping ruthlessly around your throat, squeezing just enough to cut off your air. The sudden, agonizing rush of pain forced your mouth to open automatically in a desperate gasp for breath.

Taking immediate advantage, he slid his wet fingers past your lips, forcing them deep into your mouth. He made you taste your own ruined, betrayed body-forcing you to swallow the very evidence of your and his desire.

“Mmm... “Aerion hummed, a low, vibration of pure satisfaction rumbled in his chest as he watched your eyes wide with tears and fury. Beautiful he thinks. So beautiful.

He let out a soft, pleased chuckle at your utter humiliation. Slowly, his grip on your throat loosened, his fingers trailing lazily down your neck. He leaned in one last time, pressing a hard kiss against the sharp curve of your soft chin. His lips felt as though they were tasting your skin.

This was his routine, and you knew it all too well. He manipulated you with the precision of a master musician playing a tragic song. First, he would break you, crushing your pride and ruining your spirit beneath his boots, and then... he would whisper those intoxicating, beautiful words into your ear to piece you back together. Every single time, he left you utterly ruined and turned upside down.

Smoothing down his tunic, he turned toward the Kingsguard who stood waiting at the door but as he passed your side, his hand shot out with lightning speed, delivering a sharp, mocking smack across your butt cheecks. And he disappeared before the wide silhouette of the Kingsguard.

Your whole body shook with rage at yourself. You hated that you couldn't control your own body. Every time you saw the prince, you felt like you were betraying yourself, betraying your family, your house. And you hated that you were completely helpless to stop him.

You curled into yourself on the floor, weeping silently in the dusty morning light, knowing that no matter how much you prayed for his death, a part of you was already rotting in his cage. Yet, you would not yield. You would not grant him that victory.

While the entire court whispered of nothing but Baelor Targaryen’s ascension to the Iron Throne, and the palace shook with rumors of the ailing King I. Daeron you were tasked with overseeing the clearing of the dungeons under the cover of the chaos. It was there, A familiar face. amidst the damp shadows, that you came face-to-face with Ser Varamon Grafton. You could not believe your own eyes for a moment, Had the gods finally deigned to hear your prayers after all this yearning?

The man who had served as your father’s loyal squire for as long as you could remember. He was a mountain of a man, Toppling him would be no easy feat, of course. A tempest of indescribable emotions stirred within your chest; for the first time since you had set foot in King’s Landing, you were looking upon one of your own kind. You found yourself wondering, with a lingering sense of awe, how he had ever managed to survive though now he appeared wasted and gaunt in the deep gloom of the dungeons; yet, he had lost none of his terrifying silhouette. You could not speak with him for long—in truth, you had barely spoken at all—for the guards were crawling everywhere, and the very instant they noticed you, it would have been the end of you both. But he was a sharp man, and the moment his eyes fell upon you, he understood. A sudden, fragile hope swelled within your chest, knowing you were no longer entirely alone in this den of vipers. Yet, the freezing truth struck you just as quickly, turning your blood to ice: Ser Varamon was now the only soul left alive of your fallen house.

Leaving the dungeons, through the great balcony-corridor where the palace's breathtaking view and the dazzling Valyrian stonework framed by its sweetest-scented flowers met, you were going to the kitchen as fast as possible, almost running, with the adrenaline of the shock sinking into your very depths. In your head, many plans were spinning, everything was tangled—after the happiness of seeing Ser Varamon and even, thank the Gods, speaking with him, you were happy for the first time since you had been in King’s Landing.

You were drowned so deeply in the dark well of your thoughts that you failed to note the blood of the dragon passing right before your eyes. In the next heartbeat, your brow collided with a stone wall in a sharp, resounding burst of agony, and the bucket in your hand went clattering against the floor with a deafening rattle. When you forced your head up, a pair of mismatched eyes-two different colors, one green one blue. sharp and probing were already staring down at you. His arms were extended to either side, not yet touching you, and yet the sheer weight of his presence made you feel far more than any physical touch ever could.

Like everyone else within the walls of this treacherous court, he knew your story. Prince Valarr, too, watched you from time to time—to see how you fared, or perhaps merely because he was bored. Who could say? He was his father’s son through and through—shrewd, quiet, and wrapped in a veneer of gentle courtesy, yet he carried an undercurrent of danger that was no less threatening. He did not bleed a paralyzing venom with every breath like Aerion did, but his stillness alone was enough to remind you of the dragon sleeping beneath the skin.

You bit your lip in burning shame and bowed your head toward the stone floor. "Forgive me, Your Grace," you pleaded, You made sure your voice sounded fragile; “I have been working long hours and the weariness overtook me. I did not see you, truly. It shall not happen again.” that was how things worked here. The fewer problems you caused the highborn especially those of royal blood—the less suspicion you would draw.

For now, you had to play your part well and breed no trouble; otherwise, there would be no escaping the strangling grip of these poisoned vines. You had already drawn too many eyes upon yourself of late. You needed to gather your wits, steel your resolve, and find a path out of this living hell before the castle swallowed you whole. No no, not the castle, Aerion Targaryen.

“Calm yourself, girl," he said, his voice a cool, steady murmur that seemed to quiet the frantic beating of your heart. "There is no need for such trembling. The Red Keep has a way of stealing a body’s wits when the nights grow long and the chores turn heavy.”

As he spoke, his gaze lingered upon the violet and crimson bruises that marred your neck, stark and impossible to hide against the pale brilliance of your skin. He had noted them—of course he had. It was Aerion’s sigil, you thought bitterly; a signature everyone within the keep recognized on sight. It was his marking. The mark he made on purpose. For a fleeting second, a memory from a time before clawed it’s way back into your mind; you could feel his wet breath against your ear as if it were happening all over again, Those searing, venomous words and barbed glittering eyes whispering, “Everyone will know you are mine. You have nothing left to lose anyway. Just as I took everything you owned, I have taken you as well. They will know you writhe for me, that you burn for me. They will know how meekly you obey.”

Yet no one, not even those who shared his dragon blood, dared to speak of it; they preferred to keep their distance, desperate to shield themselves from the court's venomous intrigues. A sudden wave of shame washed over you, striking your body like a physical jolt. Your flesh flushed a deep, burning crimson, rising to match the very color of your wounds. You tried, with desperate care, to tug your collar higher to hide the shame, but the young prince merely shook his head. His demeanor cooled, hardening into an even more distant reserve, and with a tight, subtle nod of his head, he left you ruined beneath the weight of his silence.

In a manner you could not divine—especially now, while he sat chained and rotting in the depths of the dungeons he had managed to slip the Tears of Lys to you by way of a kitchen maid. It astounded you that even from behind iron bars, his reach could extend into the light, utilizing the keep’s hidden, shadowed veins and silent conspirators to do his bidding. He could move like a ghost through a court so teeming with life, never once drawing a glance. Your father’s faith in him had been well-earned, after all. But You had to tread with utmost caution; Aerion and his rabble were watching your every move, their eyes following your every breath.

The sun was a sinking wound on the horizon when you brought the prince his evening meal. You had weighed the danger over and over in your thoughts, steeling yourself to find the exact, lethal moment to strike. Yet, the instant the door swung open, a hellish heat crashed against your chest, making the very air too thick to breathe. The chamber was drowning in warmth, a heat furnace. You refused to look at him, keeping your eyes averted as you set down his supper and made ready to flee the chamber. The air was so thick with that infernal heat that your cheeks burned as if caught by a stray spark.

And there he bided—the prince, idly carving the stifling air with a blade of dark, rippled Valyrian steel.

You found yourself fumbling, your hands shaking as a breath caught and withered in your throat. It was a familiar torment, arriving without fail. Did it spring from terror? From grief? From loathing? Or did your only hope of escape lie hidden within their very midst? Or was your soul torn apart by the weight of them all combined? You wanted nothing more than to break from his gaze and vanish into the shadows outside. You spun around quickly and made for the door;,

“Stay.”

he commanded, his voice catching in his throat as his eyes crawled slowly down your body, taking you in inch by inch. With your head bowed low, you turned back toward him, offering no words and never once lifting your eyes to meet his face.

His gaze lingered upon your flushed cheeks, before dropping lower to the hard, His eyes dropped to your full, heavy breasts beneath the fabric, and finally settling upon your lips’ bitten raw and bleeding from your own anxious teeth. He lingered there a while in that fashion, suspended in the quiet of his own thoughts.

Then he sank slowly back into the velvet cushions of his chair, his breathing ragged, his lilac eyes dark with a feverish, feral hunger. He opened his legs and patted his thighs with a slow, deliberate stroke, never once breaking his gaze from you as a breathless smile twisted his lips.

“Come here.” he urged, his gaze burning through your clothes, you can feel it absolute. His eyes stripped you bare, a brazen and unmistakable invitation to the horrors yet to come.Looking you through the dim candles. “Do not make your prince beg. Come, sit, and quench this fire. Is the room a bit warm for you?” He asked,

a cruel amusement dancing in his voice.

“Has the dragon’s blood made you uncomfortable?”

Never once did you speak, keeping your chin tucked in silent rebellion. Aerion bided his time for a moment, his breathing quickening as the temper flared within him; As his fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger, the sharp, scraping shriek of steel and the near-white strain of his knuckles bore grim witness that his patience had been stretched to its absolute limit. With a sudden roar of movement, his hand struck the wood, sending ink and dark wine spilling noisily onto the ground. He was on his feet in a flash, closing the distance between you so fast your senses reeled, a sudden chill washing over your entire body.

No, you were done enduring this. Refusing to let history repeat itself, you spun toward the door to run. But you only made it a single step before Aerion snared your arm, spinning you back as his palm struck your cheek with a force that surely echoed through every stone of the castle. This cheek was certainly going to bruise you think, a sour taste filled your mouth for a moment, Your lip had burst, you supposed. Your sight went black for a terrifying second. Your mouth felt like ash, your lip had burst open, and your head reeled from the sheer weight of the blow. “Let me go!” Your voice came out thin and broken, a shattered thing. but in this room, only the prince’s word was law. You tried to scream, but your throat was caught in a knot. For a fleeting moment, a pathetic look crossed his face, his brows knitting together in an unexpected frown, you almost thought he would let you go, but then the illusion shattered, leaving only the hollow, ancient malice that truly ruled him.

He trapped you between his massive frame and the door. The guards were out there, close enough to touch, you’re so sure of that but the silence from the hallway was absolute. The dagger in his hands was a cold line of steel against your throat, contrasting with the hot, spiced air of his breath on your cheek a touch both feather-light and crushingly heavy. The moment his lips brushed your skin, his lashes trembled it bore the look of a lover finally reunited with her beloved but it was only a look, for this was Aerion, an unpredictable and unmeasurable force. A savagery that held cruelties no one could even begin to imagine. He began to kiss the very cheek he had slapped, his lips moving with a slow, meticulous focus that soon covered your entire face. He tasted your skin and the blood in your trembling lips, not merely for pleasure, but because he wanted it to seep into the very marrow of every bone in your body. You couldn't see his expression through the veil of your tears; everything was just a terrifying, dark silhouette. Your jaw throbbed, your lip stung, and his tongue forced its way against your lips, demanding surrender.

Your frantic struggles meant nothing to him. The blade pressed tighter into your skin, drawing you to the brink. Yet, with a sickening tenderness that made his previous violence unbelievable, his free hand gently caressed your hair, And now, he was squeezing the soft flesh of your leg.

“You always push us to this edge.” he whispered, his patience wearing thin. An alliance with the blood of the dragon is a sacred honor. You should be proud that it is you I want.

“Take your hands off me! You are hurting me!”

you shrieked, the words tearing from your throat.

But the sheer hunger in his gaze was a physical heat, and combined with the sweltering room and the deceptive gentleness of his mouth, your own body betrayed you—growing damp and heavy with a desire you never asked for. a treacherous warmth began to pool between your thighs. You loathed him, but your pulse raced to meet his touch anyway. In that horrific moment, the deepest hatred you felt wasn't for the prince, but for yourself, completely paralyzed by a twisted betrayal of your own flesh.

The dagger left his hand with a dull thud upon the wood as his palms clamped around your waist, forcing your steps backward until the edge of the bed caught your knees. He pulled you against his chest with a desperate, crushing strength, leaving no space between you. His mouth tore into the crook of your neck, his lips devouring the soft, heated skin with a primal lust. The bruises already there were deepening even further. In his mind, there was no woman more beautiful, you were only his. Only.

His grip moved from your waist to the curve of your hips. He coveted them fiercely; so many times he had paused just to watch those hips shift as you bent to your tasks, using the memory to pleasure himself in the dark. That you dared to deny him, that you did not run to his chambers the instant he wished it, made his blood boil. he left bites from your neck down to your breasts. He took your already hardened nipple into his mouth through the cloth, He did not bite hard; instead, he took it into his mouth with immense softness and pleasure, sucking gently through the fabric. My prince, d-don't," you tried to push him away, but it was in vain he was definitively stronger than you, and you could not move. A tense snarl tightly locked Aerion’s jaw as his hands tightened their fierce grip. A tense snarl tightly locked Aerion’s jaw as his hands tightened their fierce grip. "Save that sweet tone of yours for when I fuck you ruinous.”

With a savage twist of his wrists, he ripped the coarse fabric of your dress right down the seam, flinging the ruined threads away until you were left bare.

You tried to shield your nakedness, your tears weeping blindly into the rich silk pillows. Yet, he pulled your hands away, gently turning your palms upward to press his lips against the soft skin. The sheer madness of his gentleness a stark, terrifying contrast to the monster he had been a moment prior left your senses reeling. He had used you before, but never with a gentleness behind which you could not guess what lurked.

“You are beautiful.” he whispered, laying you back upon the bed like a conqueror claiming his finest spoils.

His palms captured your full breasts again, his teeth catching and biting your nipple until a soft gasp tore from your throat. Your hands reached up, embedding themselves in the thick silver of his hair. He tilted his face, his cruel Valyrian violet eyes locking onto yours while his mouth remained fastened to your skin. And then, his fingers slipped into the slick, heavy heat between your legs, suddenly driving deep inside you. A broken sob escaped your lips as the terror and pain slowly began to blur, overtaken by the dark, unwanted tide of ecstasy.

His fingers slid deep inside your tight cunt within the slick, wet sound. and the ecstasy dragged you under like a dark quicksand. Your vision trembled, your thoughts blurring into nothingness. When he raised his face to press his lips against yours, you didn't pull away this time, you met his mouth, he entwined his tongue with yours in a fierce, possessive swirl and Aerion laughed into the kiss, drinking down the soft, broken whimpers that spilled from your throat.

"You can only take what is never truly yours.” you panted, faltering for a brief moment, the words scarce louder than a sigh. “Yet you are here, beneath me.” he answered, his purple eyes burning with a terrifying triumph as his hands moved fiercly aganist your skin to seal his claim. He seemed so radiant, so consumed by that dragon heat; in the shadows of the room, brilliant green flames seemed to leap from his eyes. You thought your mind was playing tricks on you, a mere trick of the light—but no, he felt more like a myth than a real man.

His mouth drifted lower, searing the line of your neck, your collarbone, and the soft slope of your stomach before burying itself between your inner thighs. Keeping his eyes locked onto yours, he pressed wet, deliberate kisses into your skin, his teeth nipping cruelly until it stung, savoring the absolute power he held over you. You were entirely undone; your moans broke free into the quiet room, your gaze drifting as your fingers twisted desperately into the heavy fabric of the bedding.

He rose slowly to his feet, discarding his breeches and his tunic in swift, fluid motions. Free of his clothes, his cock sprang forth as if finally drawing breath its head angry, twitching, and already slick with precum. In that dim light, he looked more breathtakingly beautiful than any of the gods from the old books your father used to read to you about the Andals.

With a brutal ease, he hooked your legs over his broad shoulders, the muscles across his chest tightening with the movement. He pressed a surprisingly sweet kiss against your ankle, though his face remained dark with unbridled lust. By now, the desperate ache in your belly had turned into a torturous pain, and as you writhed beneath him, Aerion did not miss your agony.

“That’s my pretty whore.” he murmured.

You were trying not to look at his face as much as possible; his hand found your chin and locked your gaze into his eyes. He positioned himself at your slick entrance, then suddenly threw his full weight forward, driving deep inside you as a delicious groan tore from his throat. His eyes rolled back with sheer ecstasy as his cock forced its way into your very depths. But you felt no joy, but the pleasure you felt just a moment ago suddenly disappeared sharp pain pierced through you.

“A-Aerion!”

The prince tightened his iron grip upon your legs, his eyes flashing. ”What makes you think you may speak my name?” He demanded.

A bitter whimper spilled from your lips as he began to quicken his pace, his thrusts growing harder. With every brutal stroke against your pelvis, the biting pain began to blur, turning into a sweet, aching throb of pleasure. His heavy hands remained clamped upon your chest, kneading and squeezing the soft flesh of your breasts.

With every savage thrust, his breaths grew heavier, turning into low, ragged growls. You were caught so deeply in the swelling tide of ecstasy that all speech was stolen from you, each powerful drive causing the heavy bed to creak and groan beneath his weight. He looked down, his eyes filled with a fierce, possessive adoration as he watched your breasts bounce with his movements. His thumb found your clitoris, stroking it harder with every thrust. A wave of pleasure consumed your body, your eyes tried to shut, but you couldn't close them as your tears had completely run dry.

“Touch yourself," he commanded suddenly. The words were steeped in a thick, lustful heat, dripping from his lips like warm honey.

Your hands moved instinctively, finding your own breasts and belly, to pinch and caress your tight, hardened body. Aerion threw his head back with a sharp grunt of satisfaction. After a few final, deep strokes that drove into your very core, he spent his seed inside you, holding himself flush against your hips to ensure not a single drop escaped. He let his full weight settle over you, remaining utterly still for a long moment as his mouth buried itself in the crook of your neck, suckling the damp skin. Your body shook violently in the aftermath, trembling like a lone leaf falling from a winter tree. Neither of you spoke a heavy, breathless silence hung between you, thick with a lustful tension that said far more than any words ever could.

He drew himself out slowly and rose from the tangled sheets, crossing the room to lift the half-spilled goblet of wine from the table. He took a slow sip, his lips curling into that familiar, mocking sneer.

“Perhaps, a dragon’s seed make you noble once more.” he murmured, finding his own words so amusing that a sharp bark of laughter broke from his chest.

But you could scarce even hear him through the thick, suffocating fog that filled your mind.

Aerion’s voice murmured on, but the words meant nothing to you now. You lay there, watching the firelight twist into grotesque shapes against the ceiling beams, your flesh still tight with a lingering, throbbing warmth. He slid back beside you with sluggish indifference, talking into the quiet. dark. Perhaps he took you once or twice more, but your mind had already drifted far beyond his reach.

art cr @ kimama__12 on x

18+ MDNI, aged up!megumi, perv!megumi, established relationship, solo masturbation, panty kink. abstract, fushiguro megumi was doing a perfectly fine job at being your boyfriend. normal, respectful, composed. unfortunately, his dreams, his shikigami, and one very cute missing pair had other plans.

꣑ৎ MEGUMI HAD ALWAYS THOUGHT HE WAS A DECENT PERSON :)

quiet, maybe. emotionally constipated, according to nobara, which felt rude but not entirely false. he was blunt when embarrassed, painfully calm when he didn’t know what to do with his feelings, and weirdly committed to pretending he didn’t care whenever you stole his hoodies, even though he kept leaving them in places you could easily find.

then he started dating you.

and apparently, dating you had reduced him to some sort of victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.

three months into the relationship, and megumi still acted like your touch needed a warning label. you could kiss his cheek outside the campus library and he would look away like he had just been caught committing tax fraud. you could lean against his side during movie night, warm and sleepy, and his whole body would go still for half a second before he remembered that boyfriends were, in fact, allowed to be held.

you thought it was cute.

megumi thought he needed professional help.

because it wasn’t just the soft things anymore. it was the way your shirt slipped off your shoulder when you stretched. the way your thighs pressed together when you sat on his bed. the way you looked after training, skin warm from the sun, hair messy, laughing with your water bottle pressed to your lips like you weren’t personally dragging his self-control behind a building.

he wanted to be normal about you. really, he did. you were his girlfriend, not some divine punishment sent to test whether his dignity could survive physical affection. you deserved a boyfriend who was calm, respectful, and not quietly combusting every time you hugged him a little too close.

megumi tried very hard to be that boyfriend.

unfortunately, wanting you had started eating through his self-control like a curse with expensive taste.

the dreams came first. vivid, feverish, humiliating things that left him waking up with a harsh gasp, his hips jerking up into the mattress to chase a ghost. your voice would linger near his ear. your skin would press flush against his. your mouth would be somewhere it shouldn’t be yet, sweet and needy and completely unfair. the details always blurred as reality crashed in, but the physical aftermath was painfully clear. he’d snap awake aching and rock hard, his chest heaving in the quiet dark, the front of his sleep pants ruined and uncomfortably sticky. he would just lie there, face burning into his pillow, before dragging himself out of bed to wash the evidence away, feeling like an absolute criminal by morning.

every time, it was you.

of course it was you.

you were his first serious girlfriend. the first person he actually wanted to be good for. the first person who made him think about things he immediately wanted to bury under concrete and never speak of again. maybe, hopefully, someday you would be his first in other ways too.

the thought alone made him shove his face into his pillow and silently consider becoming religious.

oh, he was so cooked.

the worst part started after evening training.

the campus field was still warm from the afternoon sun, grass damp beneath everyone’s shoes, the air filled with the sound of yuji complaining that nobara kept aiming for his head. you had dropped your gym bag near megumi’s by the benches, half-zipped because you never really closed anything properly, then wandered off to refill your water bottle.

megumi had summoned rabbit escape for control practice. nothing serious, just a few white rabbits scattering through the grass while yuji tried not to step on them and nobara accused him of weaponizing cuteness. one of the rabbits, smaller than the rest and apparently born with no morals, hopped toward your open bag.

megumi saw the flash of pink before anyone else did.

his body went very still.

the rabbit tugged something soft from the side pocket and sat there proudly, your panties caught between its little teeth like it had just won a prize.

megumi moved so fast he almost tripped.

he scooped the rabbit up, turned his back to the field, and pulled the fabric away before yuji could glance over. his heart was beating too hard for something that was, technically, laundry. just laundry. normal laundry. laundry that absolutely should have gone straight back into your bag like a normal boyfriend with a normal brain would do.

“don’t,” he whispered to the rabbit.

the rabbit blinked.

you called his name from across the field, smiling as you lifted your water bottle. “gumi, you okay?”

megumi panicked.

he shoved the fabric into the pocket of his track jacket.

“yeah,” he called back, voice flat enough to pass as normal if nobody looked too closely. “fine.”

just for now, he told himself. he would put it back later. when nobody was looking. when his pulse stopped acting like he had robbed a bank.

꣑ৎ DECENT PERSON, MY ASS.

that night the dorm room was too quiet. megumi sat on the edge of his bed with the lights off, only the faint glow from the campus path outside slipping through the blinds. the pink panties were still in his pocket. he hadn’t even taken his jacket off yet. his fingers brushed the soft fabric when he finally reached in, and the second he pulled them out his stomach flipped.

he should throw them back in the drawer. he should wash them. he should do anything except what he was about to do.

instead he leaned back against the pillows, breath already shaky, and unfolded the delicate pink material. the little bow caught on his thumb. the scent of you—warm skin, faint floral detergent, the ghost of your body—hit him so hard his cock twitched instantly in his sweats.

“fuck… i’m sorry,” he muttered, like you could hear him. like apologizing to the empty room would make this less pathetic.

he shoved his sweats and boxers down just enough, his cock springing free, already flushed and leaking. he wrapped the panties around his length slowly, the silky fabric cool against hot skin, and the first stroke pulled a quiet, broken sound from his throat. the little bow dragged under the head and his hips jerked up without permission.

megumi closed his eyes and let the thoughts flood in.

he imagined you in his lap, thighs spread over his, wearing nothing but that exact pair. the way you’d smile at him all teasing and fond when you felt how hard he was. the way you’d rock against him, grinding the soft fabric right against his cock while you kissed that spot under his jaw that always made him weak. your voice in his ear, low and sweet, calling him “gumi” like you knew exactly what you did to him.

his hand moved faster, twisting a little at the head, the soaked panties sliding obscenely over his shaft. pre-cum darkened the pink almost immediately. he pictured pushing the fabric aside, sliding his fingers through your slick folds instead, hearing that tiny gasp you made whenever he touched you somewhere new. he wanted to bury his face between your thighs and stay there until you were shaking. wanted to hear you moan his name while he finally pushed inside you, slow and careful and so fucking deep.

“shit— you’d feel so so hng g-good,” he whispered, voice hoarse. his strokes turned messy, desperate. the wet sound of fabric and skin filled the room and it only made him harder. “so warm… so tight… f-fuck, i want you so bad—”

the guilt twisted sharp in his chest, but it only made the heat worse. he was disgusting. he was a terrible boyfriend. and still, he couldn’t stop. he pressed the panties tighter in his fist, close enough to feel the soft fabric against his palm, imagining your hand instead, your mouth, the way you’d look up at him with that bright, wicked little smile while you took him apart.

his thighs tensed. his free hand fisted the sheets. when he felt himself getting close, some ridiculous, half-functioning part of his brain still had the nerve to panic.

not on them.

megumi jerked the fabric away at the last second like it was something precious, something he had no right to ruin, and buried his face into his forearm as the feeling hit him hard and sudden. his hips stuttered, breath breaking into a choked sound he barely managed to swallow, body trembling through every shaky wave until the room went quiet again.

for a long moment, he just lay there, chest heaving, staring at the ceiling like it might offer judgment. it didn’t, duh.

which was rude, honestly.

the pink panties were still clutched safely in his hand, untouched and soft, still carrying that faint trace of your perfume, your laundry soap, you. megumi looked at them through half-lidded eyes, flushed and ruined and still careful enough to fold them against his chest like that somehow made any of this less insane.

megumi, once again, told himself he would return it before this got any worse.

꣑ৎ JOKE’S ON YOU.

by the next afternoon, it had gotten worse.

not because of the drills, though they were annoying. not because yuji kept trying to turn sparring into a competition no one had agreed to. worse because you were sitting beside megumi on the bench, digging through your gym bag with a frown while he wrapped tape around his wrist and pretended the top drawer in his dorm didn’t exist.

“this is actually so annoying,” you said.

megumi kept his eyes on the tape. “what is?”

“my new pink pair is gone.” you pushed aside your towel, lip gloss, and spare shirt with growing offense. “i swear i put it in here after changing yesterday. it had a little bow and everything. very cute. now it’s missing.”

megumi’s fingers paused for one single heartbeat.

“maybe you left it in your room.”

“i checked.” you sighed like you had suffered a real tragedy. “twice. i think the campus laundry ghosts have chosen me.”

“sorry for your loss.”

“thank you. i’ll need snack compensation.”

“for underwear?”

“for emotional damage.”

he looked at you then, and you looked so genuinely annoyed that guilt twisted through him, sharp and hot. you weren’t suspicious. you weren’t accusing him. you were just talking to him the way you always did, dragging him into your little complaints because he was your boyfriend and that was supposed to mean something simple and safe.

megumi swallowed.

he would return it tonight.

probably.

training picked up again after that, saving him from having to speak. the two of you sparred under the sun until sweat slid down the side of his face and his black shirt stuck lightly to his back. you were quick today, playful, laughing whenever he dodged too easily and calling him a show-off when he pinned your wrist for half a second longer than necessary.

by the time you both stopped, megumi was warm, tired, and dangerously close to forgetting how to act normal.

he turned away and lifted the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.

the movement exposed his stomach.

you went quiet.

megumi lowered the fabric just enough to see you staring, eyes fixed on the lean lines of muscle along his abdomen and the sharp dip disappearing beneath the waistband of his sweats. your expression changed slowly, surprise melting into something bright and wicked.

“wow, ’gumi,” you said, stepping closer. “i didn’t know you had nice abs.”

his whole body locked. “don’t say it like that.”

“like what?”

“like you’re enjoying this.”

“i am enjoying this.”

that should not have affected him as much as it did.

you reached for him before he could escape, fingertips brushing the exposed skin near his ribs. megumi’s breath hitched so quietly he prayed you didn’t hear it. your touch slid lower, still teasing, still light, tracing the firm plane of his stomach until your fingers grazed the line near his hip.

his body betrayed him immediately.

megumi caught your wrist, quick but gentle, and shifted his hips back just enough to save what remained of his dignity. you blinked up at him, then smiled like you had just discovered something valuable and planned to become a menace about it.

“sensitive?” you asked.

“annoying,” he said, voice too low.

“you’re blushing.”

“it’s hot outside.”

“mhm.” your eyes flicked down for half a second. “sure.”

he was going to die on this field.

then yuji’s voice cut through the air like divine punishment. “are you two flirting or are we training?”

megumi let go of your wrist so fast it was embarrassing.

you only laughed, bright and shameless, before stepping back like you hadn’t just put him through five stages of grief in public. nobara, of course, saw enough to make her grin sharp.

“they’re flirting,” she said. “badly, but still.”

“we’re training,” megumi muttered.

“sure,” you said, attempting to tease him. “whatever helps you sleep at night.”

it did not help him sleep at night.

꣑ৎ SPICE UP UR LIFE, COME GET A FREAK LIKE ME(GUMI)...

later that day, after practice ended, megumi returned to his dorm alone and opened the top drawer. he stared at the folded pink fabric tucked beneath one of his shirts. outside his window, campus lights glowed soft and yellow. on his desk, his phone buzzed.

y/n: still mourning the pink pair </3

y/n: she was cute, she was soft, she was taken too soon ☹

y/n: snack compensation tomorrow? ✌︎㋡

megumi stared at the message until the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.

then he looked at the drawer again. “i’m a terrible person,” he muttered.

from the corner of the room, one of the rabbits twitched its nose like it agreed.

he should have shut the drawer. he really should have.

instead, megumi opened it again, slow enough that the wood barely made a sound. the pink fabric sat folded beneath one of his shirts, soft and damning, carrying the faintest trace of your scent. his fingers curled around it before he could talk himself out of it, and for one shameful second, he pressed the fabric directly over his nose and mouth. his eyes fell shut as he dragged in a long desperate breath.

your scent—warm, sweet, and intoxicatingly familiar—flooded his lungs, pulling a low, ragged groan from the back of his throat. his knuckles turned white as his grip tightened.

oh, he was disgusting.

worse than that, he was hopeless.

because for all his restraint, all his discipline, all his quiet little attempts to be the perfect boyfriend you deserved, fushiguro megumi had one serious problem.

he was a freak for you.

and you still had no idea.

aerion loves to make out in semi-public ⊹ ࣪ ˖

the corridors were not, by any stretch of the imagination, a place for trysts. they are cold, drafty, and perpetually echoing with the footsteps of guards and servants. yet, it had become aerion's favorite place in the red keep.

at any moment, at any time, he had you pressed against the stone wall, his body a warm, solid shield from the castle's chill. his lips were soft, his tongue coaxing, and he tasted of the lemon cake you had shared at supper.

your hands, which had been nervously twisting in the fabric of your gown, now rested tentatively on his chest.

Aerion Targaryen x reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Your uncle guards the royal family with his life, and yet when the prince turns his attention to you, it derails your whole life. What happens behind closed doors becomes a pattern no one names, and a claim no one dares to challenge.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, coercion, unprotected sex, fingering, loss of virginity, she's like incredibly innocent and inexperienced, corruption (!), dub-con/non-con vibes, this is DARK so reader discretion

A/N: i apologise i got very carried away with this fic, its like dark af. ive been sat watching the olympics marinating in my Aerion obsession, so yeah theres been plenty of time for writing <3

MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 6.0k

co-parent jk x bratty y/n

one shot - tension, smutty — 13k>

warning: slutty dilf

—

whoever told you coparenting was hard was a fucking loser.

a concept you truly couldn’t bring yourself to understand in any capacity, considering your coparenting situation was one most dreamt about.

you know you were probably privileged considering the horror stories you’d heard online that felt more like a nightmare than actual reality - you’d never experienced any screaming matches over custody, no passive aggressive texts sent at heinous hours of the night, no awkward handovers that made you uncomfortable. you had your ex husband wrapped around your little finger; a fact both you and he relished in openly.

in fact, your initial divorce from jeon jungkook had only confused people. despite the signed papers between you symbolising an end of the relationship over two years ago, nothing about your dynamic functioned as though you were exes.

you were both polar opposites, two people that came from a different walk of life and so it was a well known fact that neither of you would last as a married couple, and yet here you were, orbiting one another as though the prospect of otherwise was too foreign to entertain.

the best way to describe jungkook was manly. he embodied the very meaning of it - half mechanic, other half beast with rough edges and broad hands, grease permanently smeared on his skin. his large frame was covered in tattoos, beefy arms flexing as he’d work whilst his dark hair would constantly fall into his eyes because he’d forget to go to the barber until you all but forced him to go.