my RECOMMENDATIONS of one shot - serie de aerion targaryen!!
ONE SHOT MDNI!!
- earned loyalty by @maybestrid33
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.
- DARLING UNCLE! by @imeow33
summary: you and your uncle, aerion, are very close, some might even say a bit too close.
- the prince's whore by @darktargslut
summary: kidnapped as a child and presumed dead, you survive years of abuse before becoming the kept woman of Prince Aerion Targaryen, in a world where survival means loving a monster, your fragile sense of safety shatters when your past resurfaces in the worst possible way.
- one softer flame by @bellvirine
summary: to the rest of the red keep, prince aerion targaryen was a monsterâcruel, arrogant, and utterly untamed, but to his twin sister, he was both a protector and a beautiful snare from which she could never escape,
when noble lords from every corner of Westeros arrive at king's landing to court the princess, they remain blissfully unaware that approaching her means invoking the dangerous wrath and fire of the brightflame.
- dragon or man by @veridian-dreams
summary: you tread carefully when you start working in aerion's home, you have heard the rumors about him after all, you attempt to go unnoticed, and you hope you will succeed as your fellow maid tells you that aerion looks at no one who isn't of targeryan blood, you an orphan from flea bottom are certainly not that, so why does he keep looking at you with those angry violet eyes? and why do you feel those angry violent eyes on you everywhere you go?
- INSOLANCE IN VAIN by @vaeliia
summary:Â 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.
SERIE MDNI
- chosen by @loveobx
summary: you live your life trying to avoid your husband as much as possible, but find yourself facing his wrath after committing an accidental offense
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
bully!gojo who drinks too much at a party and he just canât stop thinking about you.
you wake up to him stumbling into your room at some ungodly hour. itâs takes you a moment to realise itâs him, and you quickly sit up.
âtoru? wha-, how did you get in here?â you whisper shout. he freezes, his big blue eyes locking onto yours.
âshit, s-sorry baby. didnât mean to be noisy.â 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.
âare you okay? you seem a little off?â you ask, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. gojo giggles, a sound youâve never heard.
âiâm just a liiiiitttttle tipsy. sukuna brought jelly shots.â he giggles again and its like his eyes cant seem to look away from you.
âoh, was it a fun night?â
âhm, no. everyone so boring.â he pouts. âthis girl kept trying to take off my belt.â
âo-oh.â
âyeah. i kept saying i had a girlfriend, but she wonât listen.â he says. his eyes seem almost glossy, and you can almost feel a sense of shame from him.
you really shouldnât 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.
âdo, do you wanna stay here?â you whisper.
he lights up again, a smile slowly covering his face.
ây-youâd let me? but iâm so mean.â
âitâs okay, iâll forgive you for just this once.â
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.
âthank you. youâre really nice to me.â
âgo to sleep toru.â
âyâknow, iâd, iâd give you anything.â
âyou donât know what youâre saying.â
âdo you want a big house? with a pool? iâll g-get one for us. promise. a-and kids.â
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, dĂŠjĂ 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. Valarrâs 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 youâor rather, behind youârested 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.
âGood morning,â he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
âGood morning.â
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.
âYouâre awake.â
âSo are you.â
âUnfortunately.â
That earned exactly the reaction he wanted.
Your laughter broke the silence of the room, soft but genuine, and the satisfaction that appeared on Valarrâs 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.
âValarr.â
âNo.â He protested.
âYou donât even know what I was going to say.â
âI know exactly what you were going to say.â
âOh, do you?â
âYou were going to suggest that we get up.â
You paused. âMaybe.â
âTerrible idea." His arms tightened slightly around you.
âYouâre a grown man.â
âI am.â
âYou have responsibilities.â
âI do.â
âYou have meetings.â
âI know.â
âAnd three children.â
Valarr buried his face in your hair. âIâve decided to ignore all of those facts.â
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.
âGood morning,â he murmured against your neck.
âMmm.â
âFascinating response.â
âYou already wished me good morning.â
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.
âYou should get up.â
Valarr immediately frowned. âNo.â
âYou have a meeting.â
âLater.â
âValarr.â
âNot yet.â
âValarr.â You insisted.
âYouâre a tyrant.â
That drew a small laugh from you. âYou have an investorsâ meeting in two hours.â
âTwo hours is plenty of time.â
âNot for someone who takes forty minutes deciding which tie to wear.â
His offended expression appeared instantly.
âThat happened once.â
âThree times.â
âTwice.â
âFour.â
Valarr sighed dramatically before leaning forward to place another kiss beside your jaw. âI was trying to be romantic.â
âAnd Iâm trying to stop you from being late.â
âYour priorities are questionable.â
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 Valarrâs 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 Valarrâs 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.
âMom!â 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.
âGood morning, sweetheart.â
âGood morning.â The response was immediate. âDad wouldnât let me stay up late!â
At the opposite end of the table, Valarr did not even look up from his coffee. âBecause it was eleven at night.â
âI wasnât tired.â
âYou fell asleep on top of a book.â
âThat doesnât count.â
âIt counts exactly the same.â
The outrage that appeared on your daughterâs 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.
âIâm telling you, you canât win a war using only cavalry.â
âYes, I can.â
âNo.â
âYes.â
âNo.â
âYes.â
âNo.â
âYes.â
Valarr closed his eyes. âGood morning to you two as well.â
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 childrenâs 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 fatherâs 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.
âMom?â Your youngest sonâs voice pulled you from your thoughts.
You blinked. âYes?â
âWhat did you want to be when you were little?â
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.
âWhy do you ask?â his voice carried from behind the rim of his coffee cup.
âOur teacher asked us to write an essay.â He shrugged. âI want to be a historian.â
âNo, you donât.â
âYes, I do.â
âLast week you wanted to be an astronaut,â you added.
âI can be both.â
âNo, you canât.â
âYes, I can.â
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.
âMom.â
You blinked again. âYes?â
âYou didnât answer.â
You smiled. A small smile. Polite. Practiced. âI wanted to work very hard.â
âThatâs not a profession.â
The laughter was immediate.
âI know.â
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 wasnât smiling, wasnât 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.
â
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 coffeeâthe coffee he finished down to the very last drop. But the eggs, fruit, and toast remained practically untouched.
âArenât you going to eat?â
Valarr barely looked up from the papers in his hands. âI donât have much time.â
âVal." An uncomfortable pang of worry settled in your chest.
âIâll eat something at the office.â
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 brilliantâextraordinarily brilliantâbut 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 Valarrâs 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.
âY/N?â
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.
âWell.â Amusement lingered across his features as he looked at you. âI wasnât expecting to run into you here.â
âNeither was I.â The gears in your mind scrambled to remember his name. âI donât mean to be rude, but your name was...?â
âRobert,â he finished for you. âItâs been years.â
âYes.â
âA lot of years.â His gaze dropped briefly before returning to your eyes, and when he spoke again, his voice carried an unexpected warmth. âYou lookâ incredible.â
The sincerity of the compliment drew a small smile from you.
âThank you.â
âI mean it.â 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. âI donât think youâve changed at all.â
âThat is objectively false,â you protested.
âNo, seriously.â He shook his head. âYouâre magnificent.â
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 Targaryenâs wife.
âDo you work here?â The question came casually, almost innocently, and yet it caught you off guard.
âIâŚâ
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.
âIâm here to see my husband.â
The smile returned immediately. âYour husband works here?â
You nodded. âHe is the owner. Valarr Targaryen.â
Recognition was immediate. âOh.â For a second, he looked surprised. Then not so surprised. As though, after considering it for a moment, it made perfect sense. âI donât know why I feel like I should have guessed.â
That made you laugh. âIs it that obvious?â
âA little.â His smile widened. âDefinitely a little.â
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.
âBy the way.â He offered it to you. âI 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 houseââ The pause was brief. Deliberate. "Call me.â
You looked at the card. Then at him. Finally, you smiled and accepted it.
âThank you.â
By the time you reached Valarrâs 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.
âThere you are.â 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. âYou look beautiful.â
That earned a half smile from you. Not magnificent, as Robert had said. Beautiful.
âGood morning to you too.â
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.
âYou brought me food.â
âSomeone had to.â You murmured, "Don't want you to starve to death in the middle of a meeting."
âHow lucky I am.â
âVery.â
âI know.â
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.
âVal.â Your voice was soft.
âHm?â
âI donât like depending on the house phone.â
The hand resting at your waist stilled for the briefest moment, just enough for you to notice.
âI want a phone. My own phoneâ
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.
âA phone?â
âAmazingly enough, yes.â
The corner of his mouth curved upward. âWhat a revolutionary concept.â
"I know"
âThe world isnât ready.â
You rolled your eyes. And, to your surprise, he simply nodded. âAll right.â
You blinked. âAll right?â
"Yes.â
âJust like that?â
Valarr smiled. A quiet smile. An unusually gentle one. âIf you want a phone, youâll have a phone.â His thumb brushed lightly across your side. âMy wife will have everything her heart desires.â He leaned down and kissed your forehead. âIâll take care of it this week.â
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.
â
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 đ
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 â¤ď¸
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.
âEverything alright this afternoon?â
You looked up. âOf course.â
âReally?â 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.
âWhy wouldnât it be?â
âI donât know.â His voice remained soft.Too soft. âI texted you.â
Understanding hit instantly. The phone. The message.
âIâm sorry.â The apology came quickly. Honestly. âI must haveâ I must not have seen it.â
Valarr held your gaze for several seconds. âYou didnât see it.â
âNo.â
âYou were online.â That made you blink. It did not sound like a question. It sounded like a fact.
âI saw that you were online.â 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.
âIt just seemed strange.â
âI have the right not to answer immediately.â 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 Valarrâs eyes only for an instant. Only a shadow. So brief you could almost have convinced yourself it had never been there. Then it vanished.
âOf course you do.â His smile returned immediately. Perfect. Impeccable. Familiar. âI was only... asking.â
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 didnât.
â
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.
âIâve always wanted to meet you.â
You blinked lightly. âMe?â
What was so special about you that this woman, so successful, so prosperous, wanted to meet you in person?
âOf course.â Her laugh was soft. âYou two are practically a legend.â
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. âNo, Iâm serious.â She picked up a champagne glass from a passing tray. âYouâre so lucky.â
The statement was so casual that it took you a moment to process it.
âLucky?â
âOf course.â Emma shrugged. âIf a rich, attractive man who was completely in love with me asked me to give up everything to be with him...â She smiled. âIâd do it happily.â
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.
âI mean, look at him.â She discreetly gestured toward the other side of the ballroom. Valarr was surrounded by people. Smiling. Listening. Shining beneath the lights, as always. âThere are women who would kill to have a life like that.â
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.
âWhat is it?â His voice was soft. Concerned. Genuine.
âI donât want to stay any longer.â The words came out quietly. Controlled. They were enough.
Valarr studied you for only a moment before nodding. He didnât argue. He didnât ask questions. He didnât try to persuade you to remain. He simply extended his hand toward you. âLetâs go.â
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.
âIt didnât seem like a bad evening.â
You didnât answer.
âDid someone say something?â
Silence.
âAre you alright?â
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.
â
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 answersâor 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 đ
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 competitionâ"
"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 freedomâ"
"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. Youâ"
"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 friendâ"
"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 naĂŻve."
NaĂŻve.
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 Valarrâ" 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.
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 weeksâmonths.
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 â 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.
â
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 Valarrâ"
"âTargaryen. 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 eyesâonly now did you noticeâcreated 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.
â
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 cafĂŠs 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 cafĂŠ.
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 cafĂŠs, 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. CafĂŠs. 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.
â
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 cafĂŠs 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 â 73%
Y/N â 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/Nâ"
"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/Nâ"
"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.
â
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.
âY/N.â
You did not stop.
âY/N.â
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. âVal.â
Something resembling relief briefly crossed his face. âI donât want to fight.â
âNeither do I.â
âThen talk to me.â
âI donât want to.â
That seemed to surprise him. âWhy?â
You folded your arms.
âI donât want to talk to you right now.â
âY/Nââ
âNo.â Your voice was firm. Firmer than you intended. âI need time.â
The words lingered between you.
Valarr remained still. Waiting. As though there were more to come. There wasnât.
âHow much time?â
The question emerged softer. Vulnerable. And that made a part of youâthe part that still wanted that closeness with himâwant to surrender immediately.
You had never seen Valarr ask for something. Demand it? Yes. Take it? Yes. Ask for it? Never.
Still, you answered. âTwo and a half weeks.â
Silence returned. At last, he nodded once. âAlright.â A weary smile appeared on his lips. âTwo and a half weeks.â
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 universityâs most prestigious events. Politicians. Business leaders. Alumni. Donors. Everyone attended.
And, of course, the student council president and the first female Kingâs 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.
âI need a date for the ball.â
You raised an eyebrow. âWhat a devastating problem.â
âIt is.â
âIâm sure half the campus would say yes.â
âProbably.â
âThen ask them.â
Valarr closed the book in his hands and looked directly at you. No humor. No teasing. No hiding behind anything.
âI donât want to ask them.â
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. âItâs just a ball.â
The smile that appeared on Valarrâs face was immediate.
Small. Sincere. Extraordinarily rare.
âDoes that mean yes?â
You rolled your eyes.
âYes.â
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.
â
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 laughedâeven from the opposite side of the ballroomâhe 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.
âAm I interrupting something?â
The other student stiffened almost immediately. After all, it was difficult to ignore the presence of Valarr Targaryen.
âWe were just talking.â
âI see.â 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.
âValarr.â
He did not respond.
âValarr.â
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 eveningâperhaps all his lifeâwas beginning to crack.
âWhat was that?â
You looked at him, confused. âWhat was what?â
âYou know exactly what I'm talking about.â His voice was low. Controlled only because he was making a visible effort to keep it that way.
âI don't.â
âThe student.â The word emerged laced with disdain.
âWhat about him?â
Valarr let out a short, disbelieving laugh. âAre you really going to pretend you didn't notice?â
âNotice what, exactly?â 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.
âHe was being nice.â
âSure.â
âHe was.â
âMen are rarely nice without a reason.â That response made one of your eyebrows arch. Valarr continued before you could answer. âEspecially when they think a woman is giving them attention.â
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.
âI think you're overreacting.â
âI think you're far too naive.â
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.
âWell.â You smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from your dress. âI'm glad to know you've thoroughly analyzed the situation.â Your heels clicked against the marble floor as you stepped closer to him. Close enough that barely an inch separated your noses. âI 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 idiotââ The words escaped before you reined them back in. âNow, if you'll excuse me, I intend to return to the ball.â
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.
â
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 universityâs 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.
âDid you know there's an experiment designed to make two people fall in love?â
Valarrâs voice broke the silence with such casual ease that you turned your head slightly to look at him.
âThat sounds scientifically questionable.â
âProbably.â
âThen continue.â
A smile appeared on his lips. âIt consists of a series of questions. 36 Questions on the Way to Love.â
âThe New York Times ones?â
âAnd sustained eye contact.â He replied.
âThat is definitely pseudoscience.â
âDo you want to play or not?â
You stared at the sky for a few seconds before smiling. âGo ahead.â
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 Kingâs 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.
âWhat is your favorite memory of us?â
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. âThe library.â
Valarr turned his head. âThe library?â
âThe first coffee.â Your smile widened slightly. âI don't know why.â
You did know why, you simply had no intention of admitting it. âI still remember how terrified you looked.â
âI was not terrified.â
âValarr.â
âYes?â
âYou looked like a man facing a public execution.â
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.
âAnd you?â you asked.
For the first time that night, Valarr hesitated.
âI don't have one.â
You frowned. âThatâs cheating.â
âNo.â His gaze remained fixed on you. âI have too many.â
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 youâor 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.
âI think the experiment may have worked a little.â
The observation escaped your lips before you could stop it, a slow smile appeared on Valarrâs face.
âHas it?â His voice was gentle.
âMaybe.â
âWhat a relief.â
The remark caught you off guard, and you could not help but frown slightly. âWhy?â
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.
âBecause I've been ahead of the experiment for years.â
For a second, you forgot how to breathe, the world seemed to stop. The stars, the grass, the universityâeverything 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.
â
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 rĂŠsumĂŠ 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.
âI suppose this is goodbye.â
The smile that appeared on your lips was soft.
âNot permanently.â
âNo.â
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.
âAre you going to accept the job offer?â His blue eye seemed to gleam with an analytical, calculating light.
âWhat kind of question is that? Of course I am. Itâs... itâs a dream come true.â You smiled.
âIâm happy for you.â
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.
âSince when do you keep coffee in the car?â
âSince I met you.â
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.
âItâs perfect.â
Valarr only hummed softly in acknowledgment before pulling the car over on a deserted corner.
âSorryâcould you grab my wallet? Itâs in the back seat. We need to buy fuel. Iâm afraid we might end up stranded in the middle of the city.â
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. "Valarrâwhat are you doingâ" 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 funnyâ"
"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, pleaseâ"
"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 longâGod, 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.
"Valarrâ" 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 difficultâ 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 imaginedâGod, 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 itâ 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 comingâ" 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.
â
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. Sheâ" 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.
synopsisââ :: â imagine aerion being your shitty baby daddy.
includingââ ! â aerion targaryen. âś
contentsââ ! â 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. âś
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 nerveâthe audacityâto come back and try to take your son from you.
As if he has any rights.
As if heâs 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."
When you caught him cheating, he didn't apologize. He blamed you.
"You're never here. You're always working. What am I supposed to do? You left me in this disgusting house. This is your fault."
"But I'm working for usâfor the babyâ"
"I gave up everything for you!" He screamed it so close to your face you felt the spit. "My family. My future. I threw it all away for you, and you can't even be here when I need you. You're selfish. You're a worthless, selfish bitch."
You were the one who cried. You were the one who apologized. For working too much. For being pregnant. For being tired. For being ugly. For being a bad girlfriend. You begged him not to leave you. You promised you'd do better.
He let you cry for a while. Then he pulled you into a hug and kissed your forehead.
"Shh. I forgive you. I love you so much it makes me insane. You're my everything. You know that, right?"
"I know. I'm sorry. I'll be better."
"You're my good girl. Now get off the floor. You look disgusting."
The physical abuse escalated slowly.
A shove during an argument. A grip on your arm that left a mark. A slap when you talked back. And each time, it was your fault. You made him do it. You knew how he got when he was stressed. Why did you push him?
Giving birth was a nightmare.
You tore during delivery. Badly. You were in so much pain you couldn't walk. You couldn't sit without screaming. You were bleeding through pads every hour, feverish, your milk coming in so hard your chest felt like hot stones.
He sat in the corner of the hospital room, bored.
"Can you stop? You're embarrassing me. The nurses think I did something to you."
"Baby, I'm sorry, I can'tâI can't walkâ"
"You're being childish. Women give birth every day. Get up."
"B-But I can't."
Five minutes later, he grabbed your armâthe same arm where the IV had just been removed, still bruisedâand yanked you out of the bed. You hit the floor. Your stitches ripped. The pain was so white hot you didn't even make a sound. You just opened your mouth and nothing came out.
He dragged you to the car by your hair while you bled through your hospital gown.
At home, things got worse.
The baby cried. Babies do that. But Aerion couldn't stand it.
If the baby woke him up, it was your fault.
If the baby needed feeding while he was trying to talk to you you, it was your fault.
If the baby was colicky and screamed for hours while you walked circles in the dark, Aerion would come out of the bedroom, grab you by the throat, and slam you against the wall.
"Shut that thing up or I will."
If you were too exhausted to have sex with him six weeks postpartum, it was your fault.
"After everything I gave up for you," he'd say, fist clenched. "You can't even spread your legs? You're useless. Disgusting fucking pig."
The beatings became routine.
Not slaps. Closed fists. Steel toed boots. A cast iron skillet once, right across your lower back. You still can't stand for more than an hour without pain.
He broke your fingers one by one over the course of a year.
Your pinky first, because you burned his toast.
Your ring finger, because you forgot to buy his cigarettes.
Your middle finger, because you looked at him wrong.
Your index finger, because you asked him to please get a job.
Your thumb, because you flinched when he raised his hand, and flinching meant you thought he was a monster, and thinking he was a monster meant you didn't love him.
He dislocated your shoulder twice.
The second time, he refused to take you to the hospital.
"You'll tell them. You'll lie and tell them I did this and they'll take you away from me."
So you sat on the bathroom floor for four hours, arm hanging wrong, while he stood over you saying, "See how much I love you? I can't even let you go to the doctor because I can't lose you."
He shoved your head through the drywall in the hallway. The hole stayed there for months, and every time you passed it, you'd feel your skull pulse with the memory.
He once pressed a lit cigarette into your inner thigh while you were sleeping. You woke up screaming and he clamped a hand over your mouth and whispered, "Shh, you'll wake the baby."
One time you talked back.
Just once.
You said "please stop" during a beating and he interpreted that as defiance. He duct taped your mouth shut, zip tied your wrists to the radiator, and left you there for fourteen hours. You pissed yourself.
You cried until you couldn't breathe through your nose. When he finally cut you loose, he held you like a baby and cried and said he was so sorry, he just loved you so much, you made him so crazy, why did you make him do these things.
And you comforted him.
You, with the broken fingers and the bruised ribs and the piss soaked jeans, you held him and told him it was okay. That you forgave him. That you knew he didn't mean it.
The isolation deepened.
He took your phone most days. He disabled the internet. He told the neighbors you were mentally ill, unstable, that they shouldn't talk to you if you came knocking. He convinced the landlady you were a drug addict so she'd ignore any complaints.
You were trapped. Completely, utterly trapped in that house with him, and no one was coming.
He has "needs."
He didn't wait the six weeks the doctor told you. He didn't even wait two. You were still bleeding, still stitched, still leaking milk through your shirt, and he pushed you onto the mattress.
"I have needs. You're my girlfriend. This is your job."
When you cried, he said you were being dramatic.
When you bled through the sheets, he said it was disgusting and you should clean it up.
When you went numb and silent and stared at the ceiling until it was over, he kissed your forehead and said,
"See? That wasn't so bad. You're so good for me."
He'd wake you up in the middle of the night by climbing on top of you. Sometimes you didn't even fully wake upâyour body just learned to disassociate. You'd float somewhere near the ceiling while he did what he wanted.
He'd choke you during sex.
Not the playful kind. The kind where your vision went spotty and your hands clawed at his wrists and he'd whisper "shh, shh, almost there" while you fought for air.
Once, he held a pillow over your face the entire time. You clawed at his arms, your lungs screaming, and when you finally went limp, he pulled it off and kissed you and said,
"See? You can take it. My good girl."
He filmed it sometimes. On his phone.
He said it was for him, for when you were at work. He said it was proof that you loved him. You found out later he'd shown some of the videos to the girls he was cheating with. A little entertainment. A little "look at what my bitch lets me do."
He cheated constantly.
Openly. In your bed. On your couch.
He'd bring girls home while you were cleaning, hand them a drink, gesture at you like you were furniture.
"That's just my girlfriend. Don't mind her."
And you'd keep scrubbing. Keep your head down. Because if you said anything, you'd pay for it later in bruises.
One girl felt sorry for you.
"are you okay?" She asked when he went to the bathroom.
You didn't answer. You couldn't.
The next week, you saw her at the corner store with a split lip. He'd found out she'd talked to you. He'd gone back to "set her straight."
He told you about it later, proud. "No one disrespects my girl."
The mind games were worse than the beatings, in some ways. Because bruises fade. Broken bones heal. But the way he messed with your mindâthat never really went away.
"You're so fucking ugly when you cry. Look at yourself. Who would ever want this?"
"You're lucky I stay. No one else would touch you. Disgusting pig."
"I'm the only one who loves you. Your own mother doesn't call anymore. Your friends forgot you exist. You have nothing without me. You are nothing."
"If you ever left, I'd find you. And I'd kill you. And then I'd kill myself. And our son would be an orphan. Is that what you want? You want our son to be alone because you're too selfish?"
"I hit you because I love you. If I didn't care, I wouldn't bother. You make me feel so much it drives me insane. No one else has ever made me feel this way. You're special. You should be grateful."
"You drove me to this," he'd hiss, hands around your throat, thumbs pressing into your windpipe. "You made me like this. Before you, I was fine. I was happy. I was going to be someone. Now look at me. Living in this shithole with a pathetic cunt who can't even keep me satisfied. You ruined my life. You fucking ruined my life."
And you stayed quiet. You stayed small.
You covered the bruises with drugstore concealer and long sleeves in summer.
You smiled at the neighbors. You let him cheat. You let him mock your body in front of his friends.
You let him call you a whore, a pig, a worthless piece of shit who should be grateful he even let you breathe the same air.
Because you believed him.
God, you believed him with your whole heart.
You'd ruined him. You'd destroyed this beautiful, brilliant boy. He gave up his inheritance, his family, his entire world, and you couldn't even keep him happy.
So you kiss his fists after he hit you. You'd apologize for making him angry. You'd promise to be better. You'd promise to be good. You'd promise you'd never, ever leave.
"You love me?" he'd ask, voice suddenly soft, childlike, after the storm passed. "You really love me?"
"More than anything. More than my own life."
"Even after what I did?"
"You were upset. You didn't mean it. I know you love me."
"I do. I love you so much. You're the only one who understands me. You're my soulmate. We're going to be together forever, right? Promise me. Promise me you'll never leave."
"I promise. I swear on the baby. I'll never leave you."
Until one day he just... left.
You came home from the grocery store and his clothes were gone. His car was gone. The little bit of cash you'd hidden in the cereal box was gone. He left a note on the kitchen counter, written on the back of a takeout menu:
"You can keep the brat. I'm done."
It was after he left that you found out about the debt.
He had opened credit cards in your name. Seven of them. He'd maxed them all out and never paid a cent. Loans. Payday advances. A car loan for a car you never saw. He'd forged your signature on everything.
Your credit was destroyed. Your name was dirt. Collection agencies called you every hour, screaming, threatening. You couldn't rent an apartment. You couldn't get a loan. You couldn't even open a bank account.
He destroyed your life.
But your son kept you alive. Your beautiful boy with his silver hair and his serious little frown. He had Aerion's face but your heart. You knew it. You saw it every time he smiled at you, every time he patted your cheek with his sticky little hand and said "I love you, Mama."
You worked three jobs. You lived on ramen and tap water. You did everything you could. You never let him see you cry.
And now Aerion wanted to take him.
You'll never forget that courtroom. The wood paneling. The flag. The seal of the state. Aerion on the stand, lying through his perfect teeth.
"Yes, your honor, she kept my son from me for years."
"Yes, your honor, she has mental health problems."
"Yes, your honor, I just want what's best for my son. "
You sat in that courtroom and listened to them describe you as neglectful. Unhinged. A danger to your own child.
They brought up the eviction. The food stamps. The time you had a panic attack at parent teacher meeting and had to leave early. They twisted every scar he'd given you into proof that you were insane.
And Aerion sat there with his hands folded, looking sad. Looking disappointed. Looking like he genuinely love your son.
You started screaming.
You don't remember what you said. You just remember the bailiff's hands on your arms.
You remember your son's face in the back of the courtroom, crying.
You remember Aerion's smile â quick, flickering, gone before anyone else could catch it.
You lost.
The day they came to take him, your son held onto your legs and screamed so hard he lost his voice.
"Mama, please, please don't let them take me, I'll be good, I promise I'll be good, please mama pleaseâ"
You couldn't save him.
You watched them buckle him into Aerion's car.
You watched his little hands pressed against the window.
You watched him mouth I love you through the glass.
And then they were gone.
And you were alone.
And the silence was louder than anything you'd ever heard.
Two days later, they send you an email.
Official. Signed by his lawyer.
"Pursuant to the custody agreement, you are hereby ordered to pay child support in the amount of $1,200 per month, effective immediately."
Ha.
Look at that.
Aerion fucking Targaryen â trust fund baby, the man who's family had more wealth than you'd see in ten lifetimes â
Wanted you to pay child support.
At least he lets you see your son.
Two hours a week. Every Thursday. Supervised visitation in a cold, gray room at a county facility. No contact outside of that. No phone calls. No letters. No nothing.
With him sitting right there.
Watching.
He's always there. He doesn't have to beâhe has money now, Daddy's money, he could pay someone, he could trust the systemâbut he comes anyway. Every single week. He sits in the corner with his legs crossed and his hands folded and he watches you like a hawk watches a mouse.
Your son is across the room today, building something with blocks. You're trying to focus on him, trying to memorize every detail of his face in case this is the last time you see it. But you can feel Aerion's eyes on you. You can always feel them.
"Your father took you back, I see."
You don't look at him. Your voice is flat, dead.
He chuckles. It's a soft, musical sound. He used to laugh like that when he'd buy you things after a bad night.
Here, baby, I got you these earrings. Don't they make up for it? Don't they?
"Of course. He's my father, after all."
After eight years. After everything. The prodigal son returns. All is forgiven. The poor can rot.
"You look tired," he says, tilting his head. His voice is light. Conversational. Almost pleasant. "Still working those dead end jobs, I assume?"
"Bills don't pay themselves."
"No. I suppose they don't. Especially not with your... situation."
He waves a hand vaguely, as if your entire existence is a minor inconvenience.
"I do hope the child support payments won't be too much of a burden. I made sure the court was reasonable."
You let out a short, hollow laugh. "Reasonable. Right."
"I could have asked for more. I didn't. You're welcome."
You just stare at him. The audacity.
"I bet the Lannisters aren't happy about it," you laugh. "I mean you almost killed their precious girl."
His smile shifted. Widened. Turned almost fond.
"Oh, you're jealous, I see."
Jealous?
He thought you were jealous. Of the fiance he'd put in the hospital before he ever touched you, the actual reason he was kicked out.
You open your mouth but nothing comes out.
What can you even say to a narcissist like him?
His gaze drifts over you. Lingering. Dissecting. You can feel it crawling over your skin, invasive and foul.
âSo...â he murmurs, tilting his head.
Hmm?
âYou got a boyfriend or something?â
If you want to be in my "shitty baby daddy" taglist let me know :)
Š yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
A girl such as yourself â popular, confident, & a total party animal â should be with any boy other than your private tutor. Yet, you found yourself head over heels for satoru gojo, whom you had hired last second to help your astrophysics grade come back up after prioritizing parties and shopping sprees over it.Â
You couldnât 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 â 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.Â
& you definitely couldnât help but let your feelings for him grow despite each other's social status.Â
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.Â
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.Â
Utahime, a classmate you knew was in your astrophysics class as well. She was majoring in something you knew you couldnât even be able to understand. point being, she was highly intelligent just like satoru was.Â
And they looked incredible together.Â
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.Â
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 theyâve 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, youâd 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?
Your eyesight began to get blurry, forcing you to blink rapidly. satoru said goodbye to utahime, approaching where you sat. He adjusted his glasses that had gotten foggy, pulling out a chair.
âwearing a skirt in this weather?â he commented. âat least you actually put on tights this time. Getting smarter I see.â you stayed quiet, just nodding, flipping your textbook to the assigned page. Satoru's playful smirk flickered at the lack of response. âeverything alright?âÂ
âYeah. Can we just start?âÂ
you never just started studying. satoru would have to deal with your usual gossiping first, then watch as you showed pictures of all the new clothes you had gotten over the weekend. âIs everything okay..?âÂ
you wanted to yell that no, not everything was okay. That your feelings were eating you alive and that you just wanted to oh so desperately smash your lips onto his until he forgot every algebraic formula.Â
âI just had a long day.â you simply said.
satoru stared intently, knowing that it was more than just a âlong day.â he reached over to close the book, moving you by your chin to look at him. if it were to be any other day, the butterflies in your stomach would be freaking out. but they were still.Â
he had a thing for touching you in ways that were beyond âfriendly.â Now you wondered if what you thought were reserved actions for just you were also used on her.Â
âdoll,â his personal favorite nickname to use on you. âits definitely more than that. talk to me. youâre always there for me when im upset, let me be here for you too.âÂ
it was true that youâd tentatively listen to satoru whenever he had a bad test or when his astronomy club was acting up. It's the least you could do in return.Â
âThere's nothing wrong.âÂ
satoru sighed, feeling himself grow frustrated at your inability to confess to what was eating you up.Â
your eyes accidentally scanned the room, landing on a familiar red bow. utahime was sat at the computers, posture perfectly straight, clicking away at the keyboard. The look on your face was enough to make satoru turn around. before you could stop him, he figured out immediately what was going on.Â
his eyes widened in realization. âhey..â he quietly said, reaching for your hands only for you to pull away. you felt embarrassed, knowing what was about to come. rejection.Â
never in your life were you afraid of being rejected by a guy. you could have anyone you wanted, really. all the frat boys shamelessly flirted with you at parties. but you didnât want them.Â
satoru was internally panicking. overtime, his crush on you has doubled in size. no, tripled. he was crazy over you. you were the only thing his few friends would hear about every day whether it be the cute outfit you wore or how you mistook astronomy with astrology.Â
âDo you like her?â your voice trembled, making satoruâs heart crack. He immediately shook his head. âno, no god no. utahime?â he pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. âhell no.âÂ
you didnât want to believe it just yet. âbut the way you walked in with her-â
âWe've been friends since childhood. I swear sheâs like a sister to me. besides, sheâs with shoko right now, theyâre going out.â
oh.
you felt embarrassed.Â
After a moment of silence, he spoke again â.. did the thought of me going out with her bother you?â he asked, hopeful. His blue eyes stared into yours, somehow making you feel more vulnerable. The library was the last place youâd want to confess to him in, but it really was the place that started it all anyways.Â
âYeah, it did. A lot, actually.âÂ
satoru fought back an excited smile. âwhy?âÂ
âbecause.. I like you.âÂ
there it was. the confirmation of the reciprocated love. satoru looked around the place, checking that no one was staring into your direction before placing his lips on yours.Â
He was a sloppy kisser, of course. The lack of experience really showed but neither of you cared. Your eyes widened, shutting as you let yourself melt into him. His chair had scooted next to you, allowing him to wrap his arms around your.
âI like you too. so much.âÂ
âŽ
âFuck, is this what youve been dying to do to me?â satoru slammed your body down onto his aching cock, loving the yelp that came out of your bruised lips. His teeth sank down your neck, savoring you as best as he could. Your hips were giving out with every thrust you gave, requiring his assistance to continue riding him. âSatoru..!â You couldn't even finish your sentence without cringing at the wet noises that were unfortunately coming from your needy cunt.Â
His hands kneaded at your ass, forcing you to keep up with the pace he had set. His glasses were missing from his face, now being set on the side table of his bedroom. âCanât believe you were jealous over me.. Now yâknow how I feel every time I see one of those stupid frat guys approach you.âÂ
âYouâre too deep!â You gasped, shutting your eyes close, feeling hot ropes of seed shooting into your womb. âI know,â Satoru hugged you close, fucking his cum back into you. âI know baby, but you can take it.âÂ
Your clit brushed against his white pubes, tickling you in a way. âY-you were jealous too..â You managed to ask. Your brows furrowed in pleasure, your stomach knotting in warning.Â
Satoru moved the two of you, going from having you ride him to putting you in a mating press. âYeah, I was.â He had you seeing stars when his cock reached areas you deemed unreachable. Who would've guessed this geek knew how to give a great fuck? Mustâve been all the hentai heâs consumed over the years. He just recently began to imagine the pretty girls in slutty outfits as you, making it easier for him to jerk off late at night.Â
The bed wouldn't stop creaking. And you wouldn't stop moaning.Â
Satoru groaned, thrusting in meanly, entranced with the way your tits bounced. âWanted to walk over and fuck- did you get tighter huh? I wanted to punch all of them.â He hunched over to kiss your lips, swallowing every sound.Â
You had grown tighter, because all he needed to do was deliver another drag of his cock to have you coming all over it. Satoru sighed, pecking you lightly now. âYouâre mine.âÂ
summary: you thought he ended the liveâŚgasping & 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.
ââOpen your legs wider, baby. Donât act shy on me now.â
His voice was low, laced with amusement...as his tattooed hand came down against your left thigh in a firm slap, urging your legs farther apart.
Heat bloomed beneath your skin, your cheeks burning as you reluctantly obeyed. You parted your legs just enough to satisfy your own embarrassment, but not his.
Jungkook raised a brow, his gaze lingering on the hesitant space between your thighs before it flickered back to your face. A smile, equal parts teasing and knowing, tugged at the corner of his lips.
âAre you shy, baby?â he murmured. âI thought you wanted me to play with your little pussy.â
âKooââ
âSpread them wider,â he said lazily, his gaze dropping to your legs with a mocking stare. âLet me see how wet you are, hmm?â
Jungkook was drunk.
Not the kind that left him stumbling over his own feet or slurring every other word. Just enough alcohol lingered in his veins to loosen the restraint he usually carried so wellâto make him needier, bolder, hungrier.
Only an hour earlier, he had been live on Weverse with a bottle of beer resting comfortably in his hand, laughing with his fans as if the night belonged to all of them. He sang a handful of song requests, talked about his day, shared little fragments of his life, and even offered glimpses behind the curtain of an industry that rarely allowed him to slow down. It was one of those rare evenings where work wasn't suffocating him, and he looked lighter because of it.
While he remained blissfully occupied with the thousands of people watching him through his phone screen, you had quietly let yourself into his hotel room.
A cute little surpriseâŚone he'd been far too distracted to notice.
Earlier that evening, you had told him you were busy. It was a harmless lie, one you rarely ever told him.
Every nightâŚJungkook would call you. It didn't matter if he had spent the entire day rehearsing, performing, or traveling from one city to the next. No matter how exhausted he was from tour, he always found a pocket of time to hear your voice, to tell you about his day, and to ask about yours.
Tonight was no differentâŚexcept you answered his call with a sleepy voice, telling him you were tired and that you would probably head to bed early.
The truth was far more exciting.
While he believed you were curled up beneath your blankets, you were already slipping into the backseat of a cab, your destination set to the hotel where he was staying.
The smile that tugged at your lips refused to fade throughout the drive.
Beneath the long coat wrapped around your body hid a short velvet dressâone you knew he'd appreciate the moment his eyes landed on you. The soft fabric skimmed your thighs, warming you just enough against the cool night air as anticipation fluttered pleasantly inside your chest.
Getting inside had been easier than expected.
Jimin, already aware of your little surprise...had quietly helped you get hold of a spare keycard without so much as a second question. His only request was that you record Jungkook's reaction afterward.
You laughed under your breath at the memory as the hotel room door clicked shut behind you.
He hadn't noticedâŚhis back was still turned toward you, completely absorbed in the live broadcast.
Jungkook sat comfortably on a wooden chair cushioned in soft white fabric, his phone carefully propped up on the table in front of him. A small potted plant filled the background of the frame, giving the stream an almost homey warmth despite the unfamiliar hotel room. Beside him rested a couple of half-finished beer bottles and a plastic container of takeout, abandoned between stories and song requests as he smiled at the comments rolling endlessly across his screen.
He was still wearing the matching denim jacket and jeans from the concert, making it obvious he had gone live the moment he returned to his hotel room, not even bothering to change out of his stage clothes.
Smiling to yourself, you carefully slipped your coat off your shoulders, revealing the short velvet dress hidden beneath it. The soft fabric settled against your skin as you quietly draped the coat over a nearby chair before making your way to the bed. Every movement was slow and deliberate, careful not to interrupt him while he remained completely immersed in the live.
His voice drifted through the room as he sang another request, occasionally glancing at the flood of comments racing across his screen. Watching him like this...relaxed, smiling, blissfully unaware of your presenceâmade your chest swell with affection.
You quietly settled onto the middle of the bed and bent down to slip off your heels, but the moment your fingers brushed against your small purse, it slipped from your grasp.
A soft thud echoed against the carpet.
It wasn't particularly loud, but in the quiet of the hotel room, it felt deafening. Your heart immediately lurched into your throat as one terrifying thought crossed your mind.
The live must've picked that up.
His singing came to an abrupt halt as his dark eyes landed on you, silently taking in the unexpected sight before him. They wandered over your figure with unmistakable disbelief, lingering on the short velvet dress, your bare legs, and the heels still dangling from your fingertips before finally returning to your face. For a long second, neither of you spoke.
You forced a nervous smile, but the excitement that had carried you all the way to his hotel room quickly melted into panic. Nervous that you might ruin his career by your stupid surprise.
Jungkook merely shook his head at the camera, an easy smile settling on his lips as he dismissed the noise. "Probably something from outside," he said casually before excusing himself for a moment. He set his phone down on the table and disappeared from the frame.
The moment you heard his chair scrape against the floor, you let out the breath you'd been holding. A grin spread across your face as you stepped away from the bed, smoothing the front of your dress before standing a little straighter.
"Jungkookie!" you chirped, unable to contain your excitement. "I was about to surprise you. Hehe... my bagâ"
The rest of your sentence dissolved into a startled gasp.
Before you could take another step, his hand found the hair gathered at the nape of your neck, his fingers curling around it just firmly enough to stop you in place. His other hand drifted lower, absentmindedly brushing along the hem of your short velvet dress, his fingertips grazing the fabric as though testing just how much of a surprise you had planned for him.
"Thought my baby's busy?" he asked, one thick brow lifting in quiet amusement.
His eyes, darkened by the beer still lingering in his system, wandered over you without the slightest hint of restraint. They traced every curve the dress hugged, lingering with unmistakable appreciation before finally returning to your face, where they met yours with a knowing smile that told you he'd already begun piecing together the night's little deception.
You couldn't help the little pout that tugged at your lips.
"W-Well, I wanted to surprise you andâ"
"Really?" he interrupted, the corners of his mouth lifting into a teasing smile. "What were you gonna do?"
He closed the already small distance between you, leaving barely enough space for another breath to fit. The warmth of his body seeped into yours, and when he spoke again, his hot breathâtinged with mint and the lingering bitterness of beerâfanned softly across your face, making your thoughts stumble over themselves.
You blinked up at him, "Uh... I-I was gonnaâ"
"Spread your legs and play with your little pussy while I'm on live?" he cut in, amusement coating every word as his fingers tightened ever so slightly around the hair gathered at the nape of your neck, drawing you a little closer.
Your eyes widened almost instantly. "N-No, Koo!" you protested, your voice coming out smaller than you intended. "I just wanted to surprise you by being here."
Panic settled heavily in your chest.
From the very beginning, you had known what loving Jungkook meant. His career was bigger than the two of you, his name carried a weight few people could truly understand, and the moment you agreed to be his girlfriend, you also accepted that your relationship would remain hidden from the world.
You never resented him for it.
You understood how demanding his life was, how carefully every move he made was watched, and how quickly the smallest rumor could spiral into something neither of you could control. It wasn't the live itself that frightened youâit was the possibility of someone hearing your voice, catching a glimpse of you in the background, or noticing something that shouldn't have been there. It only took one screenshot, one clipped video, one curious fan to start asking questions.
Questions neither of you were ready to answer.
That's why you had planned tonight so carefully.
You hadn't come here to interrupt him. If anything, your plan had been to wait quietly until his live ended before revealing yourself. You had spent far too long getting ready, slipping into your cutest velvet dress beneath your coat, fixing your hair, touching up your makeup, wanting to be the first thing he saw when he was finally done. You knew how much he missed you, just as you missed him through every city, every flight, and every late-night phone call that never seemed long enough.
The surprise was supposed to be for him. Instead, one careless sound had your heart lodged somewhere in your throat.
A low chuckle escaped Jungkook's lips, though there wasn't an ounce of humor behind it. His fingers caught the hem of your dress, slowly tugging itâand you...closer until your body rested flush against his chest. The warmth radiating from him seeped through the layers of your clothes, his grip possessive without needing to tighten.
"Aww," he cooed, the praise dripping with mock sincerity. "What a sweet girl you are."
The words should've sounded affectionate. Instead, they carried that familiar edge you had learned to recognize over time.
You looked up at him, and that's when it hit you.
The soft, doe-like gaze you adored had all but disappeared, replaced by pupils blown wide beneath the dim hotel lights, his irises nearly swallowed by the darkness. A faint flush dusted his cheeks, and the scent of beer lingered on every slow breath that brushed against your skin.
He was fucking drunk.
Not completely gone, not enough to lose himself, but enough for the alcohol to blur the lines around his usual restraint.
You'd seen this version of Jungkook before. Whenever he drank a little too much, he became impossibly clingy, forever reaching for you, wanting you close enough to touch. And beneath that affection always lingered something elseâa quiet neediness that settled into every glance, every smile, every lingering brush of his hands.
You couldn't help but pout. ''Cause I missed you, Kookie...wanna spend time with my boyfriend."
Your fingers found the collar of his denim jacket, fidgeting with the fabric as nervousness crept back into your chest. You smoothed an invisible wrinkle with your thumb, too shy to meet his eyes for more than a second.
He didn't say anything right away. He simply watched you, his dark eyes trailing every small movement of your hands as though they fascinated him.
His head tilted, curiosity dancing behind his dark eyes.
âYou miss your boyfriend?â
Your teeth caught your lower lip almost instinctively. Heat crept up your neck and settled across your cheeks every time he called himself your boyfriend, as though the title still carried the power to fluster you no matter how many times he'd said it.
When you gave him a slow, timid nod, something shifted in his expression.
His fingers released the fabric of your dress only to cradle your face instead, pinching your cheeks together until your lips parted obediently for him.
A startled gasp escaped you the moment he spat into your open mouth.
Before you could even process it, he leaned in. His tongue brushed against yours, slow yet demanding, pushing the warmth of his saliva deeper while his tattooed hand held your head firmly in place, leaving you nowhere to retreat.
âSit on the chair and spread your legs,â he ordered, his voice rough around the edges. âShow me how much you missed me.â
Oh, he's horny.
Your eyes softened as you lowered yourself onto the same chair he had occupied only minutes earlier during his live, settling into it like the good girl he expected you to be.
You looked up at him through your lashes, watching as he bent toward the table. His fingers curled around another bottle of beer, the denim jacket hanging effortlessly from his frame. Worn over bare skin, it left the smooth expanse of his chest and the defined planes of his stomach completely exposed, drawing your gaze before you could think to look away.
Your lips parted, your small fingers instinctively gathered the hem of your velvet dress...clutching the fabric tightly as heat blossomed beneath your skin.
Jungkook tipped the bottle back without ever looking away from you.
His adam's apple bobbed with every slow swallow, the muscles of his throat working beneath warm, honeyed skin. When the bottle was half-way, he wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand before tilting his head ever so slightly, his dark eyes lingering on you with quiet expectation.
âThought you missed me?â the words dripped with quiet condescension.
He took another lazy sip, in no rush whatsoever, as though he already knew exactly what your next move would be. All that was left was waiting for you to gather the courage to make it.
You swallowed hard.
Something about the way he was looking at you made your stomach tighten. His pupils had nearly swallowed the warm brown of his eyes, leaving behind a darkness that only ever surfaced when alcohol loosened the last threads of his restraint.
It wasn't cruelty that the alcohol brought out of him, but hungerâraw, possessive, and impossible to ignore. A side of him reserved only for moments like these. A side of him that never failed to leave your heart racing, your thoughts unraveling, and your body aching for whatever he decided to do to you next.
Slowly, almost hesitantly...you spread your legs wider.
Heat rushed to your cheeks the moment the damp patch on your panties came into full view, the fabric clinging embarrassingly against your already wet pussy. Your dress had ridden dangerously high, bunching around your waist with the movement, leaving you far more exposed than you ever thought you could bear. Your fingers curled tightly around the armrests, your grip firm enough to whiten your knuckles.
Jungkook simply watched.
Leaning lazily against the edge of the coffee table, he absentmindedly twirled the half-empty bottle of beer between his fingers, his gaze never once leaving the space between your thighs. There was no urgency in him. Only quiet patience, as though he knew you would eventually give him exactly what he wanted.
âCome on, baby.â he teased, the corner of his lips lifting into a knowing smile. âYou know what I wanted to see...you're my smart girl.â
âKoo...â the protest barely left your lips.
Unable to endure the weight of his gaze any longer, you slowly lifted your legs onto the armrests, spreading them wider until there was nowhere left for your embarrassment to hide.
A shaky breath escaped you.
Warmth bloomed across your face, crept over your ears, and settled along the back of your neck as the realization of just how exposed you were settled deep in your chest. Every inch of you was laid bare for him to admire, your wet underwear the only thing standing between his eyes and what he truly wanted to see.
And perhaps what embarrassed you the most was how your pussy responded.
The quiet submission of obeying him, of letting him look his fill, only made the wetness between your thighs deepen.
The corner of his mouth curved upward as his gaze lingered on the darkened fabric between your thighs.
âWhat a pathetic little slut.â
The words left him with a quiet chuckle, rich with amusement rather than surprise, as though your flustered state had been exactly what he'd expected the moment you walked through the door.
His eyes wandered unhurriedly over your body before settling between your thighs, where the damp patch blooming against your panties betrayed every ounce of your desperation. The smug curve of his lips only deepened, wearing the kind of confidence that made your humiliation burn even hotter beneath your skin.
âDid you get all wet and needy because you missed me, baby?â he teased, lifting the bottle to his lips for another slow swallow. âYou couldn't even wait for me to finish, I bet you would rub that little cunnie of yours while waiting for me to end the live.â
There it was. The filthy mouth that only alcohol seemed capable of coaxing out of him.
You bit down on your lower lip, shaking your head as you struggled to swallow the embarrassed whimper threatening to slip past your lips.
A soft chuckle rumbled in Jungkook's chest.
He set the nearly empty bottle on the table with a quiet thud before turning his full attention back to you.
âMy sweet baby,â he teased, his voice warm with drunken amusement. âGetting wet just from opening your legs for your boyfriend.â
âKoo...â you pouted, your voice barely above a whisper.
âTake off your panties, baby.â his eyes drifted between your thighs before returning to yours. âLet me see that little pussy that's been waiting for me.â
Your fingers hesitated at the waistband for only a moment before you obeyed, slowly guiding your underwear down your legs until the delicate fabric pooled around your ankles.
The cool air brushing against your bare cunt made your breath catch.
He bit his lower lip. "My pretty pretty pussy, can you open your folds for me baby?"
You hesitated, your cheeks flushing a deep crimson. But the fire in his eyes was impossible to ignore. Slowly, you parted your pussy lips...giving him a clear view of your most intimate place. His eyes darkened, and a low growl rumbled from his throat as he took in your glistening folds, already slick with your creamy juices.
"Poor baby," he muttered, licking his lips. "All wet and tight for me to play with," he reached out, trailing a single finger along your slit, drawing a soft gasp from your lips at the sudden contact.
"Go on, youâre not dumbâŚrub it.â
With growing shyness, you reached between your legs, your fingertips finding your swollen clit. You rubbed your bud in slow, careful circles at first before your movements grew rougher, matching the pace you knew he liked best, all while remaining painfully aware of his eyes following every motion.
âThatâs it, baby.â he praised, his voice wrapped in mock sympathy that only made the words sting more. âRub yourself good and hard, like the needy little whore you are. Show me how you make yourself come when Iâm not here to do it for you.â
Your breath faltered, each shaky inhale caught somewhere in your throat before leaving you in uneven gaspsâŚyour chest rising and falling faster with every passing second. Your body betrayed you so easily, responding despite the heat blooming across your face, despite the humiliation curling low in your stomach.
The corners of your eyes began to sting. "Oh, Koo-"
You blinked rapidly, willing the tears away before they had the chance to fall. Stopping wasn't an optionânot when his eyes remained fixed on your pussy with that unwavering patience, waiting to see whether you would obey.
And you always did.
You wanted to please him. Even if it meant surrendering every ounce of your pride beneath the weight of his gaze.
âYou look so pretty,â he murmured, the corners of his lips lifting with cruel amusement as he watched your cunt. âYou pathetic little thing.â
The words should have hurt. Instead, they settled somewhere beneath your skin, sending an unfamiliar warmth coursing through your veins, twisting together embarrassment and longing until you could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
You were his.
The realization came as quietly as it always did, wrapping itself around every frantic beat of your heart.
Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson, the warmth spreading from your face down to your chest as you continued rubbing your clit with growing urgency. The rough pads of your fingers slid over your sensitive slit, each desperate stroke accompanied by the soft, slick sounds of your creamy juices filling the room.
Your fingers moved faster, the circles growing tighter as the pressure increased. Pleasure coiled deep inside you, building with every passing second until it became almost unbearable. Your body tensed as you climbed higher and higher, your breaths breaking into short...shaky gasps, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you struggled to keep up with the overwhelming sensations coursing through you.
Tears gathered at the corners of your eyes...you were completely exposed before him, vulnerable in every sense, and yet you couldn't stop. You wanted to give him everything he asked for, to show him just how desperately you needed him.
Your fingers became a blur against your aching clit, every touch sending another wave of pleasure through your body. You were so closeâjust a few more seconds, just a few more strokes...
And thenâ
"Slow down, baby," he said, his voice a low...commanding purr. "Let me watch you longer, hmm?"
You took a deep breath, your fingers pausing for a brief moment before resuming their motion. This time, you rubbed slowly...tracing gentle circles around your swollen clit, barely grazing the sensitive nub. Your body responded immediately to the change in pace, your hips shifting instinctively in search of more pressure, more friction.
He chuckled, the low, dark sound sending a shiver racing down your spine. "That's it, baby...just like that. Nice and slow for your boyfriend." he reached out, his fingertips trailing up your thigh, leaving goosebumps in their wake. "You're so sensitive, aren't you? I can see your tight hole twitching already."
Heat rushed to your cheeks once more, a soft moan slipping past your lips as you continued to touch yourself, your movements slow and deliberate. Every gentle stroke, every careful rub of your fingers sent another wave of sensation through your body. You felt everything with startling clarity, your body hypersensitive beneath his gaze. Your breaths settled into soft, steady pants, your chest rising and falling with each measured inhale and exhale.
âI-I'm close, Koo...please.â you breathed, your voice trembling as the words barely made it past your lips.
His smile widened, his eyes never leaving your wet pussy.
âAwwâŚthat fast, baby?â he murmured, his voice rich with condescension. âCome for me, then. Show me how much you love being used and degraded by your boyfriend.â
The knot low in your stomach tightened. Your breathing turned shallow, every muscle in your body drawing taut as though the anticipation itself had wrapped around your limbs. You couldn't hold back any longer.
Pleasure crashed over you in relentless waves, your body shuddering as you came. Your back arched instinctively, a soft cry escaping your lips while your movements lingered, prolonging the overwhelming sensation that rippled through you. Embarrassment, exhilaration, and the weight of his words tangled together until they became impossible to separate, leaving your thoughts deliciously hazy.
Slowly, the intensity began to ebb.
You blinked your eyes open, your vision still blurred around the edges, only to find Jungkook standing between your parted legs. The teasing smile had long since disappeared.
Something darker settled behind his gaze instead, the lingering amusement giving way to quiet hunger as he looked down at you, taking in every shaky breath, every flush painted across your skin.
âMy good girl,â he breathed, the word falling from his lips almost absentmindedly as he watched you. âCumming so hard and making me so proud.â
His gaze drifted back down to your cunt, a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
âMy poor little pussyâŚso tired and puffy from my babyâs small fingers.â
You shook your head almost instinctively, your body still trembling in the aftermath, yet already yearning for more.
âKookie, please...â you whimpered.
A pleased hum rumbled in his chest as he knelt before you, leaning back slightly. His eyes remained locked on yours while he slowly spread your folds apart with his fingers.
Your eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping your lips as you felt your twitching hole being exposed to him even more. You could feel the cool air against your wetness, and you knew he could see your thick white cum leaking out, coating his fingers.
He let out a low growl of approval, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of your arousal. "Look at you, baby..youâre leaking so much." he scooped your warm cum and brought his fingers to his mouth, never breaking eye contact, and wrapped his lips around them.
You watched, your heart pounding in your chest, as he slowly tasted you, his tongue swirling around his tattooed fingers. His eyes fluttered shut for the briefest moment, a soft moan escaping him before he opened them again, a satisfied smile tugging at his lips.
âMmm...â he groaned. âYou taste so good.â
The sight alone made your stomach flutter. Jungkook leaned down, his face hovering just above your cunt, his warm breath ghosting across your swollen pussy as his gaze searched yours.
"Do you want me to eat your pussy?â he murmured.
You could only manage a weak nod, your cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of red. Embarrassment and anticipation swirled inside you, but you would do anything he asked of you.
âTell Koo, what you want him to do to your little cunnie.â his lips curled into a teasing smile. âBe a good girl and ask nicely.â
Your heart skipped. Heat rushed to your face all over again, your shyness rooting you to the spot. The words lodged in your throat, refusing to come out no matter how badly you wanted to obey him.
âP-Please, Koo...â you stammered, your voice scarcely more than a whisper. âLick my pussy.â
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes, a knowing look settling across his features.
âLouder, baby.â he raised a thick brow at you. âKoo, can't hear you when you're being so shy.â
You bit your lower lip, gathering what little courage remained.
âPlease... lick my pussy,â you repeated, the words leaving you a little steadier this time, though your voice still trembled around the edges.
A quiet chuckle escaped him as he slowly shook his head.
âWhat was that, baby?â he teased. âI didn't catch that.â
For a long moment, all you could hear was the frantic pounding of your own heartbeat. You drew in a slow breath, swallowing the last of your embarrassment before finally forcing yourself to meet his eyes.
âPlease...â your voice quivered despite your efforts to steady it. âP-please lick my cunnie.â
His expression softened into quiet approval, a subtle smile replacing the teasing one he'd worn moments before.
âThere you goâŚmy obedient slut.â he praised. âSo well mannered for Kookie.â
He leaned in, his tongue flattening against your wet slit before dragging a long, unhurried stripe through your folds.
A sharp gasp escaped your lips. Your fingers instinctively curled around the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening as pleasure rippled through your body in slow, relentless waves. He groaned against you, the vibration melting into your skin, shooting another pulse of pleasure straight through your already trembling pussy.
"Oh, my..."
Your voice came out broken, the aftermath of your earlier orgasm still lingered...your body caught in that delicious in-between where every lick bordered on too much. And somehow, it only made you crave more.
A low chuckle rumbled from deep within his chest, the sound muffled against your soaked cunt.
"Greedy little thing, aren't you?"
The words barely left his lips before he buried himself between your thighs once more.
This time, there was no teasing.
His fingers slipped between your legs, gently pulling your hood back, opening you up more beneath his gaze before his mouth found your puffy clit.
His tongue traced slow, deliberate strokes through your slickness...savoring every little sound you gave him. He sucked your clit with growing hunger, each languid movement gradually giving way to something needier, more desperate, until your head tipped back against the chair.
He lost himself in you, messy, wet and sloppy...slurping every milky white cum that you released.
His lips glistened with your arousal, his chin damp, his tongue refusing to leave your wet pussy for more than a heartbeat before finding your clit again. He didn't seem to care about anything beyond the way your body reacted beneath him, the quiet catches of your breath, the involuntary tremble of your thighs, the way your hips tried to follow every movement of his warm mouth.
He spat softly against your pussy, the warmth of it blending with the slickness already coating you. His thumb spread it with slow, practiced circles, rubbing it into your sensitive slit until everything glistened beneath his touch.
"There..." he murmured, almost to himself. "Much better."
You moaned, your hips instinctively bucking in search of more friction, more of his mouth, more contact. But Jungkook was quick to stop you, both hands settling firmly around your hips and holding you still against the chair. His grip was unyielding, leaving you no room to chase your own pleasure, forcing you instead to surrender to the pace he had chosen. His mouth found your bud again, sucking it between his lips as his tongue flicked over the sensitive clit with practiced precision. A cry tore from your throat, your back arching as your body convulsed beneath the sudden rush of pleasure.
He didn't stop. If anything, your reaction only seemed to encourage him. He continued licking, spitting and sucking with an almost greedy determination, gradually pushing you higher with every languid stroke of his tongue. Then you felt one finger ease inside your tight hole, followed by another, stretching you open before curling upward to brush against that familiar spongey spot that immediately stole the air from your lungs. Your fingers tangled through his hair, clutching at the dark strands as your thighs trembled around his shoulders. His rhythm never faltered, steady and relentless, patiently working you toward another release despite the way your body still quivered from the last one.
"Koo... I'm... I'm close..." you panted.
At that, he finally looked up. His lips glistened, his chin damp, his dark eyes shining with quiet satisfaction as they met yours.
"I'm not done," he growled, "Let me eat your cunnie more, yeah?"
You squirmed at the suggestion, a soft whine escaping you before you could stop it. "Koo, pleaseâ"
Your body was unbearably sensitive from your earlier release, every brush of his tongue sending a sting of pleasure through your nerves that bordered on overwhelming. Yet he only tightened his hold on your thighs, anchoring you exactly where he wanted you.
"Shh," he murmured, his warm breath ghosting over your slit. "I'm not done with you yet, hold your cum."
Your lashes fluttered as you forced yourself to meet his gaze, your lips parting around a shaky breath. "But I just... I can't..."
A knowing smile spread across his face. "Oh, you can," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low groan. "You can take more, baby. You're my good little slut."
Each word was followed by the slow drag of his tongue, eating you more till your pussy was so wet from his spit and your juices. The pleasure unfurled through your body in steady waves, drawing helpless little sounds from your throat despite how sensitive you already were. Your hips lifted instinctively, chasing more of his mouth, but the movement only earned you another amused chuckle.
"Stay still, baby." he chuckled, the corners of his lips curling before he buried himself between your thighs again.
He was messy, unapologetically so...yet he made no attempt to slow down or clean himself. If anything, it seemed to encourage him.Â
Jungkook opened your folds again, a harsh thick spit landed against your tight hole...his middle finger gathered it, pushing it deeper and deeper. They slipped through your arousal with effortless ease, gliding in practiced strokes that left your body trembling beneath him.
"You like that, don't you?" he asked, his voice roughened by desire, âYou like it when I'm rough with you...when I take what I want."
Fully submitting to himâŚyour thighs quivered around him, every involuntary twitch answering for you long before your voice ever could.
He pushed his saliva deeper until your hole was overflowing, pushing slow enough for you to feel every inch before a second finger joined it, stretching you around them with practiced ease. They began to move in a steady rhythm, slipping in and out of your tight hole as your breathing gradually lost its rhythm, each thrust coaxing another broken gasp from your lips, your creamy cum spilling like a broken faucet.
"Watch me." he groaned, "Watch how I stretch your pussy."
His fingers curled upward, deliberately brushing against that familiar spot inside you, and your head immediately tipped back against the chair.
Your eyes fluttered shut, even as you tried so hard to keep them on him...your grip tightening in his hair as another rush of pleasure coursed through your body. He felt the way you reacted, the way your pussy trembled around his fingers, and a satisfied smile settled across his lips.
"You like that, baby?" he murmured, never once slowing his pace. "Like how your boyfriend's fingering you?"
You whimpered, every slow curl of his fingers tightened the knot low in your stomach, winding it a little tighter until your muscles began to tense all over again.
"Jungkook..." you breathed, the syllables catching between uneven gasps. "I'm... I'm close..."
Your fingers threaded deeper into his hair, unconsciously holding him there, as though the simple act of touching him could somehow steady the overwhelming pleasure steadily consuming you.
"I know, baby," he said, his voice thick with want. "I know you're close, youâre getting tighter."
And then, just as the pressure threatened to spill over, he withdrew them.
The sudden emptiness stole the breath from your lungs.
A quiet whimper escaped before you could stop it, your body instinctively chasing the warmth that had just been taken away. Every muscle still trembled with need, caught between relief and frustration, but one look from him was enough to keep you still. His gaze lingered on yours, silently demanding your patience.
Without breaking eye contact, Jungkook slowly rose to his feet. He reached for an unopened bottle of beer on the table, curling his fingers around the chilled glass before deftly twisting off the cap with a practiced flick of his wrist.
He brought the bottle to his lips and tilted his head back, taking a long drink. His throat worked with every swallow, his adam's apple bobbing steadily as he let the silence stretch between the two of you.
As he lowered the beer from his lips, his gaze never strayed from yoursâŚpinning you in place long before his fingers found the button of his jeans. He undid it with unhurried precision, each small movement deliberate enough to make your pulse stumble.
"Watch me, baby." he ordered with authority.
"Watch me touch myself while you keep those pretty legs open for me."
Your breath caught, your eyes widening for the briefest moment. Your legs remained spread exactly where he had left them, warmth pooling between your thighs, your juices gathering beneath you until it dampened the seat below.
He pushed his jeans down just enough to free himself, and his cock sprang into the cool air, already hard and throbbing. The mushroom tip glistened with beads of precum that caught the light, while thick veins ran along the length of his shaft. His balls hung heavy beneath him, a clear testament to just how aroused he'd been from the very beginning.
His hand closed around his hard cock with practiced familiarity, giving it a slow, measured stroke that seemed intended less for his own pleasure than for yours. His eyes never left yours, as though he wanted to watch every reaction unfold across your face.
He rolled the foreskin back with deliberate ease before his thumb glided over the sensitive tip, squeezing another bead of thick milky precum. It gathered at the crown before slowly trailing down the shaft, leaving his cock glistening as more juices followed...until it shone with the evidence of just how aroused he'd been all along.
"Do you like that, baby?" he grunted, squeezing his mushroom tip more. "Do you like watching me touch myself while you're all wet and open for me?"
âY-Yes, Kookie.â you whimpered, like a dumb little whore while watching him touch his hard cock.
You were getting wetter.
The sight of himâŚso drunk with desire, his eyes heavy-lidded and his lips slightly partedâmade your breath catch. His hand glided steadily along his wet shaft, each slow, deliberate stroke tightening the knot low in your stomach until every coherent thought slipped away. The only thing left in your mind was how desperately you wanted to feel his hard cock buried inside your already spent pussy.
He smirked, a wicked glint flashing in his eyes. "Be a good girl and pinch your nipples for me, baby. Make my cock harder."
Your cheeks flushed, slowly...your fingers found your hardened nipples beneath the soft fabric of your favorite dress. You pinched them, a soft moan slipping past your lips as a sudden jolt of pleasure shot through you.
"Harder, baby," he growled, his hand moving faster along his cock. "I want to see you hurt yourself for me."
You obeyed, tightening your fingers around your nipples until the sharp sting blended with the pleasure. Your back arched instinctively, your body yielding to the intoxicating mix of pain and desire. He groaned, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before opening again, his gaze darker than before, filled with unmistakable hunger.
"That's it, baby," he encouraged, his voice thick with approval. "Keep those legs open, keep pinching those pretty little nipples. Show me how much you love watching me touch myself, how badly you want my cock inside you."
Your body trembled, each breath leaving your lungs in ragged gasps as you followed every one of his commands. Your eyes never strayed from the sight of him stroking himself, your pussy pushing your old release and releasing more fresh juices.
He was rightâyou could take more. You wanted more. And you would do anything he asked, just to please him, just to make him proud.
Your body was on fire, every nerve ending alight with need. You could feel another orgasm building, your breath coming in short, broken gasps as your fingers pinched your nipples harder, your hips bucking slightly like a needy whore.
âI-Iâm close, Koo,â you panted, your voice shaking with need. âPlease⌠I want to cum again.â
He chuckled, a low, cruel sound that sent a shiver down your spine. âNot yet, baby.â he said, his hand moving faster on his cock. âYou donât get to cum until I say so.â
You whimpered in protest, your body aching with the need to release, but he only laughed again, that wicked glint still sharp in his eyes.
âYou're such a slut aren't you?â he murmured, gaze dragging over your bare cunt. âI always fuck you but youâre acting like a needy virgin.â
Your breath hitched, your body trembling harder at his words.
âKoo⌠pleaseâŚâ
He smirked, leaning in closer until his face hovered over yours, close enough that you could feel every word. âDo you want me to fuck you? I bet you want that tight little cunt of yours wrapped around my cock while you beg me to let you cum.â
You whimpered, your body already aching with the need to feel him inside you. He reached out, his hand wrapping around your throat, his thumb brushing against your lips as he tilted your chin down. âSpit on my cock, baby,â he ordered, his voice low and commanding. âLubricate me with that pretty little mouth of yours.â
You swallowed hard, your tongue darting out to wet your lips before you leaned in. Parting your lips, you gathered saliva on your tongue before letting it fall over his length, coating his throbbing cock in a slow, messy trail.
He groaned under his breath, his cock twitching in his hand. âGood girl, always doing what she's told.â
He spread your spit over his hard cock, his hand resuming its motion, faster now, his breathing turning rougher with every stroke.
You watched him, your body tightening with need as he jerked himself off in front of you.
His hand moved in long, deliberate strokes, tight around his shaft, fingers brushing the head on every upstroke. He was messy, unrestrained, moving with a rhythm that made your own body respond instinctivelyâyour hips shifting, your fingers pressing harder into your nipples as your breath came faster.
Jungkook groaned, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment before opening again, that hunger still burning in his gaze. âFuck, baby, Iâm close,â he panted, his hand moving faster, grip tightening around his swollen mushroom tip.
âShow me your swollen nipples baby...Iâm going to cum all over your tits, mark you as mine.â
Your body tensed, breath breaking into short, helpless gasps as you pushed your dress down for him...your own orgasm still hovering just out of reach, teasing you. You wanted it to happen together, wanted your body to convulse in sync with his as he spilled himself over you.
But he had other plans.
He suddenly released his cock, his hand moving instead to grip your thighs and gently push them farther apart. He leaned over you until his face hovered just above yours, his warm breath fanning across your sensitive skin.
"You were gonna come, huh?" he taunted.
You gasped, your eyes already glassy with unshed tears, your lips parted as another shaky breath escaped you. Your body ached from being kept on the edge for so long, anticipation leaving you trembling and drooling beneath him.
âB-But-â
âYouâre gonna cum around my cock, I want your tight pussy to convulse around me.â
You gasped, your body aching harder at the promise of him, at the way he looked at you like he already owned the moment. He guided himself at your twitching hole, the head of his mushroom tip sliding against your wetness, rubbing through it slowly as he coated himself with you, dragging out the anticipation until it made your chest feel tight.
âDo you understand me?â
âYes, KooâŚâ you answered, your voice shaking as the need overwhelmed you.
He smirked, his eyes never leaving yours as he slowly pushed inside you, his cock stretching your pussy inch by inch. A gasp tore from your throat, your body arching into him as your fingers abandoned your breasts to grip the edges of the chair.
âFuck, baby,â he groaned, his voice thick with pleasure. âSo warm...all wet and tight for me to love and use, yeah?â
He began to move, his hips thrusting forward, his cock sliding in and out of your wet pussy in a steady rhythm. His mushroom crown brushing against your spongey spot deliciously, the sound of wet squelching noises filling the hotel room.
âYears of fucking you, and your pussyâs still so tight.â he leaned down, capturing your parted lips in a hungry kiss...his tongue pushing inside your mouth, tasting, exploring and claiming.
When he pulled back, his lips were glistening with your saliva, his breathing uneven.
"Open your mouth and show me your tongue."
Like a good slut, you opened your mouth for him, your tongue lolling out in silent obedience as he instructed. Your body bounced with every firm thrust, each push of his hard cock sending another jolt through you, your lips parting around shaky breaths as you struggled to hold yourself together.
He spat harshly into your tongue. âSwallow it, baby.â he ordered, âShow me whoâs my girl.â
You obeyed, your body trembling as you swallowed. The taste of his warm saliva, laced with the lingering bitterness of the beer, made your head spin. When you finished, you parted your lips and stuck out your tongue, silently showing him that you'd done exactly as he'd asked.
"What an obedient little slut." he slapped your cheek lightly.
His hips snapped harder now, his rhythm growing more insistent as he kept you suspended between pleasure and denial. He drew his cock all the way out before thrusting back in with a single, smooth motion, his shaft already coated in your creamy arousal, each stroke leaving it glistening.
âGonna make me cum, baby,â he panted, his voice strained with need. âIâm going to fill you up, make you my little slut...my little cumdump.â
Your body tensed as your orgasm finally crashed over you, pulling you under in a wave of heat and release. At the same time, he spilled himself inside you, filling your pussy with his hot creamy cum...his cock pulsing as his body shuddered, trying to push his cum deeper and deeper, his hips rolling against yours like he wants his cum to stay inside you.
He collapsed onto your body, pressing you into the chair...his lips finding yours again in a rough kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth as he tasted and explored you.
Slowly, he withdrew from your body. His cock glistened in the dim light, coated with the combined proof of your arousal and his release. You thought he was finished, your body already beginning to melt into the warmth of his embrace, until you looked up.
His eyes were still dark, still burning with that unmistakable hunger. Sweat beaded along his brow, and his chest rose and fell with slow, measured breaths.
"Cup your pussy," he instructed, "Don't let my cum fall."
Confusion flickered across your face, but you obeyed without question. Your trembling hand slipped between your thighs, gently cupping your trembling pussy.
Warmth pooled against your palm, the slick mixture of his release and your own arousal coating your fingers as you fought to keep it from spilling.
Without another word, he pushed himself to his feet. His gaze never left yours as he reached for the opened beer bottle resting on the table. Tilting his head back, he took a long drink...his throat working with each swallow before he lowered the bottle, now half-empty.
Then he stepped back between your parted thighs.
Slowly, he lowered himself onto one knee, his eyes fixed on the hand cupping your warm pussy.
He looked up at you, his pupils blown wide...a hint of mischief dancing in his eyes. "Would you let me put this bottle inside your pussy, baby?" he asked in a low voice, holding up the cold, beer bottle.
You gasped, caught off guard by his boldness, but your body betrayed you, a wave of heat washing over your skin. "Yes, Kookie," you whispered, your voice barely audible.
A slow, predatory smile spread across his lips as he gently removed your hand from between your thighs. He positioned the cold, wet neck of the bottle at your entrance, lifting his gaze to yours in silent confirmation. You nodded, your breath catching as he eased it forward, the narrow neck slipping inside you and stretching your hole just enough to leave you feeling deliciously full.
"Push my cum for me, baby." he instructed, his voice thick with desire as he guided the bottle a little deeper.
You bit your lip, hesitating for only a moment before bearing down, pushing his warm, milky cum out of you and into the bottle. You watched with a mixture of fascination and disbelief as it slowly filled with your shared releases. He watched you just as intently, his eyes never straying from your pussy, his breathing growing heavier as you pushed out the last of his cum.
When you were finished, a soft whimper escaped your lips as he nudged the bottle a little deeper, the cold glass brushing against your sensitive walls and sending a shiver racing through your body. A low, dark chuckle rumbled from his chest.
"Can you take more?"
You bit your lip again, taking a moment to consider before giving him a small nod. "Only a little bit, Koo." you admitted with a small pout.
A slow smile spread across his lips. He leaned down, pressing soft kisses along your inner thighs, his tongue tracing the delicate skin with deliberate slowness. Then he eased the bottle farther inside you, its wider body settling within you as the cold beer sloshed gently inside the glass. You could feel the chilled liquid shifting against the bottle, the unfamiliar sensation flooding your nerves all at once. Your toes curled instinctively, and your fingers tightened around the arms of the chair as you fought to keep yourself still.
When he was finished...he slowly pulled the bottle free, earning a loud shriek from you as the cold glass dragged against your sensitive flesh. He rose to his feet, watching the remaining beer mixed with his cum and your arousal. He studied it for a moment, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, before lifting it to his mouth.
You watched with wide eyes as he drank it, swallowing the mixture of your shared releases mixed with the cold beer. Then he leaned down, gently squishing your cheeks between his hands before capturing your lips. A soft gasp escaped you as you felt him transfer the liquid from his mouth into yours.
The bitter taste of the beer lingered on your tongue, mingling with the salty tang of his cum and the sweetness of your own juices. He pushed his tongue deeper, urging you to swallow every last drop as he explored your mouth with slow, possessive strokes.
When he finally pulled away, you were left gasping for air, your body flushed and your heart pounding against your ribs. He smiled at you, your complete submission melting something deep inside him.
Setting the bottle aside, he cupped your cheeks with surprising tenderness.
âIâm so proud of you,â he murmured against your lips, âI love you, baby.â
Leaning down, he pressed soft kisses across your cheeks, your forehead and your nose.
âStretched you so good, didnât I?â
Heat rose to your cheeks at his words, your body still trembling faintly from the aftershocks of your orgasm, the sensation still echoing in soft, fading waves beneath your skin. He shifted back slightly, studying you for a moment, concern softening the sharp edges of his features.
âAre you alright, baby?â he asked gently, voice dipping lower. âI didnât hurt you, didn't I?â
You shook your head, a small, breathless smile forming. âNo, Koo...â you giggled weakly. âIâm fine⌠it was perfect,â you said shyly, almost like the words cost you something.
Jungkook smiledâŚbefore pressing a gentle kiss to your nose, humming softly at your sweetness. âLetâs get my baby cleaned up,â he whispered softly as he rose to his feet and walked over to the table.
He reached for the phone, its screen still facing down, and picked it up with an easy, unbothered motion that didn't immediately register as anything unusual.
âI just checked that thudâdecided to mess with it because it was behaving badly,â he chuckled lowly.
Your brows knitted together in confusion, but before his words could fully register, he suddenly flipped the screen.
The camera was already pointed at you. Panic seized you as your eyes landed on the displayâon the flood of comments, hearts, and reactions pouring in so fast they blurred into a glowing chaos.
âHer. Right over there. Can you not recognize her?â
You pretend not to notice the man pointing your way.
âThatâs the wife of Aerion the Monstrous.â
The way they speak your husbandâs name sends shivers down your spine.
âThe vile bastard. How dare she comes here.â
You continue your way down the crowded street. The royal guards surround you, forcing a path forward and keeping pedestrians at a distance.
The guards are enough to draw the attention of those you pass by. The Royal emblem they wear makes all the stares become hateful.
You hear a scoff. âThe nerve of these royals. How dare she walk through this town after all the blood spilt by the vile Targaryens.â
You try to pick up your pace. It is difficult with the guards blocking your way.
Another man further back mentions, âThe Ashfords welcomed this barbaric family with honor. I would rather see them hung in the streets-â
He was hushed quickly by a woman nearby, warning, âShh. They could hang you for saying such a thing.â
You ignore the prickles of fear that encompass you as you are escorted past angry citizens. You were granted temporary freedom, and this time, you would not take it for granted.
âGo to the market. Buy new bathing oils. Something that smells sweet. I despise that floral scent they keep putting on you.â
You repeated the command in your head, over and over, so that you wouldnât forget it.
âHave yourself prepared for me by this evening. I have already told you I dislike braids in your hair. Fix it by the time I arrive.â
You take out your braids as you walk, letting your hair fall down your back.
Nearing the market, the street becomes even more crowded. More eyes cast your way.
Whispers follow you as you go. It should not bother you to be talked about so often. You should be used to it, seeing as you are a royal now. But even with a royal title, you still have the same sensitivity that you were born with.
Growing up, your mother always chided you for being so soft and easily angered. One of the many reasons she was so terrified for you to be married to a man who was just as angry.
There is giggling laughter trailing behind you. You glance in that direction. A woman stares at you. Your face burns red, yet you do not know why. It makes you feel weak to be getting this riled up by what others do.
âYou will stay here,â you command the soldiers once you reach the busier area. âJust outside the market tent.â
âWe must stay by your side,â one informs you.
You do not want that. People will continue to stare and point. You feel so small under their pointing.
âIt is dangerous for me to go through the crowd with guards,â you try to say. âThey will assume me rich and try to rob me. Stay here, where you can keep an eye on me, but you are not to follow unless I need help.â
âI am afraid that is not possible. We must stay by your side.â
You try not to show weakness. Men always tried to push their control when you showed weakness.
Aerionâs words return to your mind. âYou are a Targaryen now. A commonerâs word will never outweigh yours.â
A knight was not a commoner, but you tried anyway. âYou will stay here. It is an order.â
âLady (Y/N), with all due respect-â
âMy husband is very insistent on me having privacy for my shopping,â you say to him. âIf you have an issue with it, then perhaps you should find him and ask him about it.â
The knight goes quiet. A burst of satisfaction rolls through you.
They would never dare seek out Aerion and you know it.
They are scared of him. It is soâŚdifferent to use someoneâs fear against them. You are so used to fear only being used against you.
You like it, you realize. You like that these men, the ones who left you alone in the tent at Aerionâs mercy, have suddenly been placed at your mercy.
âLine the tent,â you command them. âDo not enter unless I permit it.â
âYes, Lady (Y/N). As you wish.â
Youâre even more satisfied, relishing in the power you never knew you had.
The guards line themselves by the entrance. You pull your scarf over your head and enter the tent.
Your hair and head garment hide your face. You made sure to not wear any Targaryen colors.
You try to muddle yourself in the crowd. After a few moments, you seem to blend in, no one turning your way any longer
Itâs not as if anybody knows you. They know drawings theyâve seen of you with your husband. Without the guards, you were sure you were nobody to these people.
The first thing you do in the market is buy what Aerion has ordered you to buy.
New bathing oils. Sweet ones that remind you of warmth.
The market is hot and humid. The thought of another bath excites you.
âThe oils can go in the ends of your hair as well,â the sales woman tells you. âWould you like a hairbrush to go with it? We sell ones that hold the oil longer.â
âYes,â you say. You browse the booth without a care. âThese ribbons as well.â
You do not care how much it costs. You hope you spend all his money. You hope you spend so much that his father chides him about his spending habits.
Glancing at the end of the market, you can see the guards staring inside. They are far too far to hear you.
âHave you been...watching the tourney?â You curse yourself for sounding so nervous. It was a simple question.
âA bit. My husband is more interested in it than I am.â
âDoes he know any of the knights?â
âA few.â
âDoes he perhaps know aâŚâ You pause your words, wondering whether or not this saleswoman has a loose tongue. Probably. All salespeople do. Yet you ask anyway, ââŚSer Duncan the Tall?â
âNever heard the name in my life.â
Your spirits drop. And once again you find yourself wondering why this stranger of a man is controlling your mood so dramatically.
âJust these items then,â you tell her, a lower pitch in your voice.
You pay the woman, and she begins wrapping your purchases for you.
âDid you say you were looking for Ser Duncan?â a voice calls out.
A scandalously dressed red-haired woman nears you, a basket slung on her hip. She picks up an object from in front of you, eyeing it, before carelessly dropping it back into the pile.
âThe tall one?â she continues. âBig oaf of a fella? Goes by Dunk?â
Your eyes light up, and you finally find some proof he is still real. âYes. That is the one.â
She laughs. âWhatcha wantinâ him for?â
The sound of laughter prickles at your survival instincts. Laughter is always followed by violence with Aerion.
You are careful, reminding yourself that no one in this city is to be trusted. âI was only wondering which day he will joust.â
She lets out a humored snort. âProbably never. That oneâs still begginâ to get on the lists.â
A frown forms on your face. âHeâs not signed up yet? The tourney is half over.â
âHe says his knighthood wasnât properly filed or somethinâ of the sort. Heâs not recognized by the castle yet.â She shrugs. âHe could just be sayinâ that, I suppose. Not the first man to lie about being a knight.â
âHe does not seem like a liar to me.â
You defended him too quickly, and she notices. The womanâs expression changes. She glances over you, and you see her eyes pause on the clothes you try to keep covered with your scarf. âYouâre right. He donât.â She leans against a wooden table, not caring about the fruit she leans on. âYou donât look like youâd know him. You look a little too...posh to hold that manâs company.â
Her eyes continue to devour your appearance, as if trying to match you to a memory.
A scenario enters your mind, one where she may see you by Aerionâs side one day and recognize you. If she did, she may sell information about you, spread gossip that you are fancying some hedge knight. You tilt your head down. âI was only asking. That is all.â
âI hear heâs havinâ a shield painted by a girl that does puppets.â Another shug. âMaybe check the Dornish tent if you needa find him.â
âThe Dorish tent?â
She raises an eyebrow. âDo you know what a Dornish tent looks like?â
âYes,â you mumble. You wonder how pitiful you look for her to have to ask. âYes. Thank you.â
That was all the information you needed. Your best bet was to leave before she could get a better look at you.
But something else gnawed at you.
You knew what she was.
No, it wasnât very obvious to most people, but it was obvious to a noble lady. She is dressed in a way you were always told not to dress, because people in those clothes attracted the wrong attention.
The woman before you was a prostitute, and she was somehow familiar with Ser Duncan. It should have been obvious why she knew him, yet your hopeful nativity tried to tell you there could be other reasons. Reasons beyond the usual man seeking a wenchâs body.
âDo you mind if I ask-â You feel shy continuing, eyes glancing down at her dress clinging to her hips. âI was only wondering, how do youâŚknow Ser Duncan?â
âHow do you think?â
You get an unpleasant feeling in your stomach. It is not your business, but your selfishness makes you confirm, âHe has paid for your...services?â
A chuckle. âYou sure are a proper girl, arenât ya? Canât even hardly say the words.â
Embarrassments hit you again, like so many times before. It is bad enough being laughed at by men, women laughing at you stings sharper.
âI apologize. It is not my place-â
âHe hasnât laid with me, if thatâs what youâre scared of. I helped him get in contact with a knight he was looking for.â
You feel yourself relaxing. So wrapped up in feelings for a man you hardly knew.
Duncan sought help from a prostitute. Only the most mature of men could do such a thing.
She smiles at your visible relief. âAre you some lovergirl of his?â
âNo.â You hurry the refusal. âI have a bet placed in the tourney, that is all.â
âMhm.â
âThank you for your help,â you tell her. You recall the coin purse in your pocket, you reach into it, and pull out two coins. You hold them out. âLet him know there is a noble lady who wishes him luck, if you see him before I do.â
You do not need to leave your name. He will know.
She snatches the coins from you, smiling. âIâll do just that.â
As you leave the market, you feel a happiness that you havenât felt since the last time you saw with Ser Duncan.
Oh, how childish you feel. Daydreaming of a man youâve had less than five run-ins with.
âI have another stop to make,â you inform the guards.
âYes, Lady (Y/N).â
You feel in control for the first time in a long time.
Walking along the busy city, you spot a tent with large paintings along the side of the canvas. Dornish paintings of puppets and dragons.
You imagine it is these beautiful paintings that drew Duncan in.
Cheeks blush crimson as you picture Duncan finding this place, his kind heart being amazed by pretty paintings in the way other men werenât.
âYou will stay here,â you order the guards. âI have private business to attend to.â
One argues back, âLady (Y/N), we cannot allow you to be out of sight.â
âIt will take no more than five minutes. If I am not out by then, you may enter.â
âPrince Baelor instructed us to stay exactly by your side,â one insists, his tone becoming impatient. âWe allowed you in the market where we could see you, we cannot allow you to enter a tent alone. You could be accused of anything, and we are meant to be your witnesses.â
Your confidence in the idea slowly dwindles.
âStand near the entrance,â you eventually say. âI will be no longer than a moment. I have to speak of confidential things involving Prince Aerion, and he will be very angry if he learns there were any eavesdroppers.â
Once again, it works. They feared Aerion more than Baelor.
Who didnât?
They line the entrance of the tent, and watch you as you enter.
It is cooler inside. Cooler than the sun, and much cooler than the market.
You spot a woman. It is only one, and you are grateful. You would feel shy if there were more than one.
It is a tall, slender woman, one that holds herself elegantly, even hunched over and working
She does not hear you come in. She bends over a table, pressing down fabrics. You clear your throat. âPardon me-â
You flinch as she whips around, the fast movement reminding you too much of your explosive husband.
But she is not rude at all. All she asks is, âYes?â
âYou areâŚone of the puppeteers?â Again, you chide yourself for how awkward your voice is.
âI am. Are you looking to buy a ticket?â
You glance out the tent. The guards cannot hear you from this distance, yet you still drop your voice to a lower volume. âI was told that you know Ser Duncan the Tall.â
âOh. Dunk.â She nods. âYes. I do.â
âHe is having you paint a shield for him?â
She looks over you like the other woman had. âYes.â
âHow much are you charging him?â
She frowns. âI am not overcharging, I assure you.â
âNo, no,â you quickly say. âI was not suggesting that. I only ask because-â You pull the coin purse from your pouch. âI wish to pay for it for him.â
ââŚYou do?â
âWhat is the price?â
She tells you what she is charging him.
You reach into your coin purse and pull out double. Handing it to her, you say, âPlease, make sure you do your best job on it.â
She stares down at the coins, before asking, âHow exactly do you know this knight?â
âHe is a friend of mine.â
Once more, she looks you up and down. âYou must be the âprincessâ.â
You frown. âNo, I fear youâve mistaken me.â
âDunk told me that he is riding with the favor of a âprincessâ,â she informs you. âAnd that is why he knows he is destined to enter the lists.â
Did he think you were a princess? He had seen you with the royal family at your arrival. Did he think you to be a blood Targaryen?
âI am no princess.â
She laughed. Not like the others. In a kinder way. âI told him there were no Princesses in Ashford. Then again, he spoke the title with moreâŚadmiration than formality. As if he knew he were the only one to call you such.â
You were no princess. Not even your parents referred to you as so. The main thing you were called growing up was âdifficultâ and âmelancholyâ.
You tell her, âPerhaps he speaks of someone else.â Because that is what your self-doubt tells you.
She holds up a finger, before moving behind the table. âWhen Dunk first came to me, he requested a shield painted. A symbol. A shooting star over a tree. Said it meant something important.â
âDo you know what?â
âNo.â She knelt down to gather something. âBut just the other day he told me that he was given favor by a princess. He told me that he was not allowed to speak her name, but he wanted to find another way to thank her for her generosity.â
Generosity? She had not done anything generous prior to paying for his shield.
The woman stood to her feet. You could see now that she was holding a shield. She turned it to show you. âIt is unfinished, but as you can see, he requested I add a few apples to the tree.â
Warmth falls on your heart like a blanket in the winter.
Your lips part in surprise as she presents the shield to you.
âI tried to explain that I had not drawn an apple tree,â she laughs. âBut he did not care. He said the princess would recognize it as a thank you.â
You stare at the painting. It is beautiful to you. Not just because of the picture, but because of what it is.
She had painted proof that someone had seen you. The only proof in the realm that someone had known you.
Not a single gift of yours, not from your childhood, not from your wedding, certainly not from your husband, had ever captured a part of you in the way this had.
The man who let you hide behind him to eat apples, now wore apples proudly on his seal of knighthood.
Ser Duncan has made you feel more like a princess than your royal husband ever has.
You stare at it for another moment, for the first time in your life, you feel too overwhelmed to speak.
âI hope you like it-â
âI do,â you quickly tell her. âI very much like it.â You clear your throat, snapping out of your haze to hand it back. âYou are doing a marvelous job. Thank you for helping him with this.â
Placing down the shield, she pulls out the coins you have given her. She holds some out to you. âI am glad to have your satisfaction, but I must inform you that you have overpaid. It is too much-â
âKeep it,â you beg. âAs a thank you for helping him.â
âI cannot accept this amount,â she tells you. âIt would not be right.â
âTake it as a donation to the puppetshow.â Your eyes gaze upon the half painted dragon. âIt looks like hard work.â
She smiles. âCome see it. The main show will be in two nightâs time.â
âI fear Iâve grown somewhat tired of tales of dragons.â
âPerhaps you will like this one. The dragon dies in the end.â
*****
You took great effort in perfecting your appearance that evening.
You spent nearly an hour in the bath, the servant girls brushing through your hair with the new oils, others plucking the hair off your body.
If being beautiful and quiet is what it would take to keep Aerion from getting violent with you, then so be it.
A beautiful, quiet, submissive wife. If that is what your husband wants, that is what you will force yourself to be.
âLips sealed,â you tell yourself. âNo replies, no rebuttals, and no backtalk.â
Your hair falls long down your back. You hold up your foggy hand mirror. A smile forms on your lips.
You look like a princess. A princess who dresses in the most beautiful of gowns in case she passes her knight in shining armor on the street.
You are so happy with the thought of Duncan that the smile stays on your face for a long time, dropping only when two visitors enter the room.
Ser Thenty and Madam Pricher. The sight of the woman makes your stomach hurt.
âGood evening, Lady (Y/N),â Ser Thenty greets with a quick bow. âI trust you got much needed rest today.â
âI did. Thank you. Were you able to rest as well?â
âAbundantly. Prince Baelor gave us the entire day to revive our energy. Your thoughts are appreciated.â
You risk a glance at Madam Pricher. She meets your eye with a sharp gaze. You look away.
Madam Pricher intimidates you in a way no one besides your husband does. She could get you killed one of these days. She has practically tried to already. She went behind your back to tell Aerion about Valarr approaching you the day prior, and you are lucky it did not end with another split lip.
âThey brought in wine,â you tell Ser Thenty. âI will be called to dinner soon and have no way of finishing it. Please, have some.â
You are fond of Ser Thenty because he reminds you of Ser Donnel, as well as the other knights at home. He is the first knight of the Targaryen castle that is truly kind to you, and you hope that rewarding him for his kindness keeps him from turning into the devilish type of man the other knights were.
Yes, he is kind. But not as kind of Ser Duncan. You suppress another childish smile that starts to form at the thought of the tall man.
You begin to pout Ser Thenty a cup. âYou are welcome to partake in any of the refreshments brought to me-â
âYou are not to serve wine to a man that is not your husband,â Madam Pricher chides.
The thought of Aerion dulls you, but you try not to show it. âI merely mean to show him my gratitude-â
âAerion will not be pleased when I tell him that you and Ser Thenty are sharing drinks together.â
Spiteful bitch, your mind screams.
âYou will not bother my husband with such things.â
âI certainly will.â
You speak to her as you spoke to the guards earlier. âMy husband tells me I can place orders on you,â you insist. âAnd I order you to be silent. If you fail to do so, you will have to answer to him.â
âI look forward to answering to him. Answering any questions he may have about your behavior.â
In a single moment, all the power you felt that day has been stripped down to nothing.
You feel like a nobody again. Nothing more than a misbehaved pet thatâs being trained on how to act properly.
âI need no wine, Lady (Y/N),â Ser Thenty tells you. âHave some yourself. It will calm your nerves for your husbandâs arrival.â
You know you cannot dare drink the wine. You cannot risk any drunkness. You must be hyper aware whenever Aerion is around.
âYour hair should be braided,â the older woman tells you. âIt is improper to have it undone while you are a guest at a feast.â
âMy husband enjoys my hair when it is down.â
âI have seen the things your husband enjoys, and they are classless.â
You burn with hate for her. âAerion wants it down,â you insist.
You will do what Aerion wants. Her insults will never hurt as much as your husbandâs fists.
Out of spite, you add, âBut I will be sure he knows how classless you find him.â
You want her to be scared. Instead, she laughs. âI have known Prince Aerion since he was a small boy. There is no insult I have not given him straight to his face.â
Another feeling of hopelessness settles over you. You donât understand how a maid is able to make you feel so powerless.
Even more so as Madam Pricher says, âIf you intend to control me with your husband, you will fail. I answer to Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar. That spoiled Aerion has no hold over me.â
She has read right through you. She has seen your plans, and is letting you know that you have failed them. Your shoulders slouch.
You will never get a break from the cruel torture that is life.
Dinner was still half an hour away. Aerion was still ordered not to come near you yet. You spend the rest of the time in silence, counting down the minutes you have left before your tormentor returns.
Aerion arrives the exact moment the bells ring for evening dinner. It was if he was waiting directly outside the tent until the very second he was allowed to come back to bother you.
Your husband entered the tent with a smug smile, and overflowing confidence.
âMuch better,â is the first thing he says to you.
You despise him.
Aerion stops himself just in front of you, eyes on your dress as his fingers graze over the fabric. The dark red seems to reflect in his eyes.
Aerion touches your hair next, running a hand through it and moving it out of your face. He leans in and places a kiss on your neck.
His face lingers as he inhales the scent of you. He is checking to see if you have obeyed him, if you have found new bathing oils. You wonder what the punishment would have been if you had not.
Pulling away, he seemed satisfied with the new scent. âYou have listened to me for once, (Y/N). I am glad. I would have had to cut the dress off your body had you still been in the wrong color.â
You wish you could cut the heart out of his chest and watch him die in front of you.
Your husbandâs eyes land on his second favorite thing in the room. âHave you not touched your wine? I had it chosen specifically for you.â
âI poured a cup,â you tell him.
He moves to the desk, and begins to pour a glass for himself. âYou did not like it? Tell me now if that is the case. I will reprimand the boy that suggested it.â
You lie, âI liked it-â
âShe poured a glass for Ser Thenty, Prince Aerion, not herself. She has not drank any.â
Your heart drops.
Aerion pauses.
Your lips part in mere shock at the comments. Ser Thenty seems just as startled.
Your husband slowly turns to you. âYou gave my gift to your knight-?â
âI offered him a glass but he refused,â you rush out. âHe did not have it.â
His jaw sets. âWhy was my gift offered to him?â
A lie comes to you fast. âIt-It is customary in my homeland for a guard to drink any open liquid before we drink it ourselves. The wine was sent unsealed, I did not want to risk sickness. That is why I did not drink any, because he refused.â
Aerion stares at you. One moment, two moments, three moments. Then, you hear a low scoff. âYou think I would allow something to reach my wife without going through poison prevention? Do not be so stupid.â
He gives you a glass, and you take it without complaint. You will be obedient, as long as you are able. You take a sip as he watches you.
âWhere did you go today after you left me?â he asks you. His voice is casual, the tinge of suspicion in his eyes is not.
âTo the market,â you tell him. âAnd to the baths.â
He pours wine of his own. He takes larger drinks of it. You pray he will not be drunk tonight. âOnly those two places?â
You knew the guards saw you at the Dornish tent. They would most likely inform someone. You quickly add, âI tried to stop by a tent for a puppet show. They told me they are only held at night, so I left.â
He halts the cup in his hand, frowning. âA puppet show?â
âI went in and left. I was there for only a few minutes. You can ask the guards, those are all the places I went.â
âWhat interest do you have in a puppet show?â
âThey are...interesting.â
âThey are childish. Do not seek one out again.â
He canât even let you have that? It was a fake interest, yet he will not allow you to have it?
âAs you wish, Prince Aerion.â
He finishes his wine, and he takes your cup from you as he realizes you have only sipped from it. He finishes it for you. Carelessly dropping the empty cup to the floor, he says, âMy father is expecting us at dinner with Lord Ashford. Need I remind you of your rules?â
Your eyes go to the floor. âNo, Prince-â
He snaps his fingers in your face. You flinch, eyes flying back to him. âDo not look away while I speak to you. Need I remind you of your rules?â
You quickly shake your head. âNo, Prince Aerion. I remember them.â
âStop looking so cowardly and pale. Stand up straight and act like a woman.â
You stand straighter.
âYou have been a royal for almost a year yet you still hunch like a peasant.â
Half a year. You wish to correct him, but your mind screams at you not to. You stay silent.
He snaps his fingers at you again to say, âLet us go.â
He leads you out, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty trailing at a distance, three other guards following as well.
âValarr won his match today,â Aerion informs you. âBut his competitor was hardly any competition. Sometimes, I wonder if his father pays for him to receive the worst knights to joust.â
There was a hint of disdain in his voice. He seemed disappointed he was not the only victor.
To combat his shifting mood, you tell him, âYou also won your match today.â
A flicker of a smirk rises on his lips. âNot that anyone doubted I would.â He whistled behind you. âPick it up, you old hag.â
You glance behind the two of you. Madam Pricher is struggling to keep up with his fast pace. You do not care to defend her. In fact, you hope she passes out from the exertion.
âPick up your skirts when you walk,â Aerion commands you. âYou are not a maid. You should not drag your clothes on the ground.â
You hold them higher, and say, âYes, husband.â
He sends a look your way. âUse that mocking tone on me again and youâll receive a slap to the face.â
You truly do not understand him.
Does he want you submissive, or does he find it mocking? Does he want you kind, or does he find it false?
You make a mental note in your head of the tone you used. It might have been too high pitched, or perhaps too soft. It was not a tone he believed, so you would make sure not to use it again.
You do your best not to make eye contact with anyone as you enter the Ashford Castle. You keep your eyes on the ground, where Aerion seems to like them.
The two of you are announced as you enter the dining hall.
âPrince Aerion and Lady (Y/N).â
You put so much work into keeping your head down, you had no idea who was at the table until you were fully seated.
It is an eight seat table.
Prince Baelor and Prince Maekar hold the ends of the table. Besides Baelor, on the opposite side of you, is Valarr. He does not look at you this time. You are grateful.
Aerion sits beside Maekar. The rest of the seats are empty. You risk glancing around, wondering if the Ashfords are late for the meal.
âThe Ashfords are not coming to dinner,â Valarr says to you. âIf that is who you are looking for.â
Aerionâs head snaps your way. You quickly stare at your lap, pretending as if you do not hear Valarr.
âLord Ashford thought it best not to bring his wife and daughter,â Valarr continued, âAfter learning Aerion would be arriving.â
âValarr,â Prince Baelor says cooly.
Aerion is staring at you, you can feel it, waiting for you to make a reply. You do not. You continue to pretend no one is speaking to you. The reaction seems to satisfy him.
âYou sound spiteful this evening,â Aerion tells his cousin. âAre you angry that you were not the only one who won their match today?â
âI am more proud over the fact that no animals were harmed.â
Maekar hums in disapproval. Aerion chuckles. âYou know, we may face each other eventually, cousin.â
âIf you make it as far as I do,â Valarr nods.
âPerhaps we will be the finalists.â
âThis tourney will be going longer than expected,â Baelor speaks. âMany knights entered the lists after learning of our presence here. I assume many men wish to apply for our royal guard. I estimate another week of jousts.â
Your blood runs cold.
Another week?
Another week of this torture of sharing a bed with Aerion?
The idea sounds horrid. YetâŚanother week in the same city as Ser Duncan the Tall does not.
âThat is your doing,â Maekar tuts. âYou allow in every knight that begs to enter.â
âEvery rightful knight.â
âAnd you know them to be rightful?â Maekar asks. âLike the hedge knight that had not even a witness to his knighting?â
âI told you, I recall the Ser Arthur he spoke of.â
âEven the worst knight wouldnât have thrown knighthood onto that giant brute.â
The word âgiantâ catches your attention. You suppose it always will from now on.
âRegardless, he is entered.â
âPerhaps you should enter your favorite knight,â Aerion says to his uncle. âSee if he is as brave as he pretends to be.â
Baelor barely glances at Aerion. He lets out a low sigh. âAnd who might my favorite knight be, in your opinion?â
âSer Thenty, is it not?â
Your eyes widen, and you turn to see Ser Thenty is tense as he waits along the wall.
âHe must be if you have chosen him to watch over my wife.â He turns to you. âAnd you find yourself very fond of him, yes-?â
Maekar made another sound of irritation. âEnough.â He snapped his fingers before his son could continue. âWe have waited too long. Bring out the food.â
A serving boy asked, âAre we not expecting anyone else, Prince Maekar-?â
âNo. Serve the food now.â
âNo other guests are comfortable dining with the family,â Valarr begins. âHere we are, in someone elseâs castle, yet no one else wishes to dine with us-â
Maekar slams his hand on the table.
Valarr falls silent.
The whole room falls silent.
It is so interesting for you to see how much power Maekar holds over this family, despite being the younger brother. Baelor will inherit the throne one day, yet his brother commands the rooms.
âSpeak of the tactics used during your match today,â Baelor tells his son.
Valarr does so. He speaks of the books heâs been reading on jousting, how heâs been practicing holding his lances at different angles, how heâs taken notes.
Valarr is finally behaving like a calm scholar, the one others in the kingdom so often describe him. He is said to be a good man that is right and just, and finally you begin to see it. In fact, all the men seem to finally be able to converse without argument.
Except, Aerion isnât conversing much. He is only listening.
Listening, and watching you, as if waiting for you to misbehave so he can put you in your place.
Again, the family seems to read right through you. Dinner is halfway over when Baelor says, âAs you can see, Lady (Y/N), this family is capable of sharing a decent meal together. It is not often the boys bicker so much, I hope you do not see them in a bad light because of this.â
You do not answer him, especially not while Aerion stares right at you.
Baelor then says, âI hope you were able to enjoy Ashford more today. My guards tell me you made your way around town.â
He speaks to you, but it is your husband who answers.
âYes, she came to watch my match,â Aerion tells him. âShe helped me discard my armor, and recover from my soreness.â
You hear Valarrâs voice, âIâm sure she was thrilled to be there.â His tone held thick sarcasm.
Aerion seemed amused by it. âShe was. She came on her own accord, even after your father tried to banish me from seeing my own woman.â
You clench your skirt fabric in your fist. You hate when they do this. When they speak about you as if you are not there.
You tense when he reached over and brushed his thumb over your cheek. âShe brought me much luck.â
All eyes have fallen on you once more. You think of what to do. Your husband lives for flattery, so you give him flattery. âYou had no need for my luck, Prince Aerion, you win every match you are in.â
You have pleased him with the comment.
Dinner ends smoothly. You are proud of yourself for your silence.
When the two of you return to your tent, Madam Pricher and Ser Thenty stand near the entrance. You try to pretend they do not exist.
âYou did well tonight, wife,â Aerion says to you. âYou will be rewarded for it.â
The reward he gives you is his mercy.
He does not rip your clothes when he strips you. Instead, he unbuttons them and places them on the table.
He does not shove you onto the bed to fuck you, he merely lays you down and gets on top of you.
His hands do not grab and pull at you, they merely brush over your skin.
When he enters you, it is not brutal and all at once, it is slow, and the pain is lessened.
Aerion kisses you. And when he kisses you, you are able to flutter your eyes closed, and you pretend he is another man.
Dark Valarr Targaryen x (Baelorâs) 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 fatherâs 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. Martinâs 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! đ¤
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,âto 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 fatherâPrince 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 fatherâs 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 realmâs 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-brotherâthe new heir to the throne.
In truth, it hadnât 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 fatherâs 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 violentlyâbut 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. âIf you truly possess the blood of the dragon, you will not burn,â Valarr whispered, his voice laced with venom. âBut we both know what you are.â You are darknessâa 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 nothingâa stain upon his name. You will hide in the shadows for the rest of your life; that is all you are fit for.â
âMy prince, p-please,â 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.
âYou may weep,â he whispered, his thumb catching a stray tear, âbut those tears belong to me. You will shed them only for me.â 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 breathedâŚhis eyes blending with the light of the fire. You could not fathom which was hotterâand 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 Kingâs 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.
âThis is for you,â 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 rosesâresting 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 realmsâbut 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.
âMy father loves his honor, and because he loves his honor, he fancies that he loves you. But dear Uncle Maekarâs 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.â
Your breath hitched in your throat. No.
He wept, âyou know,â Valarr continued, his purr filling the quiet room like poison. âGods 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.â
Valarr took a step closer to the door, his hand resting on the iron latch.
âBut there are no wolves in Summerhall,â he whispered, plunging the room into a cold, dead silence. âOnly 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.â
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 Kingâs Landing for your fatherâs 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 fatherâs memory and to see Valarrâthe 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 dustyâa 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 openâunannounced 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 shatteredâas 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."
âMy father died for nothing, for some hedge knight.â He Said, his voice turning mocking, repulsive. "And you are all that remainsâcarrying 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 eyesâthat 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 hisâŚ
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 excusesâwhispering 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 Kingâs 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 graspâgods be thanked. But however, with Valarrâs 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 placeâand 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?â 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 illegitimacyâand 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 Valarrâs 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. âOf 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.â 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 courtâbut 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 beganâa place where the courtâs 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 Valarrâs 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 Baelorâs solar under the cover of a chill twilight, but it was Prince Valarr who met him in the shadows. The young princeâs face was a mask of cold fury. âIf you wish to seat your children upon the Iron Throne, you must pluck the weeds before they choke the garden.â 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 gameâwould 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 girlâno 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.
Valarrâs gaze drove into the sorcererâs 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.
âMake her yours, and I will not merely take your head," the Prince whispered, the words smooth as silk and heavy as a death sentence.
âKeep 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 Handâs badge upon your chest? You want to rule my realm? Then remember your place. Some treasures are meant only for dragons.â
The young prince did not wait for Bloodravenâs 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 fatherâs love, untouched by the cruel passage of years in Kingâs 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. Bloodravenâs 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. âWould he strike at Valarr? Or Maekarââ
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 youâleather, 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. âYou wicked, beautiful thing.â
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.â
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.
âYour GraceâŚstop itâŚâŚyou, I- We canât do thisâŚâbreathed, 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-â
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.
âStop?" 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.
âYou 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 eyesâthose strange, mismatched eyes the gods had cursed and blessed him withâwere 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 vanityâthe 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 skinâstamping 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... Iâ" 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 metalâthe 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.
âKneel,â 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 Valyriaâs dragonlords, returned from ash and ruin.
âDonât look at me with those eyes.â
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 stillâa 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.
âAh... do not stop, p-please...â
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:
âDo not lay me beside my father, for he chose the light... Let them leave me in your darkness, buried only within your heart. I will die for you.â
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. Martinâs 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! đ¤
The Great Council chamber of Kingâs 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 familyâs 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 yetâ
The old manâs 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 youânot yet. Not yet.
"IâI 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!â
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 Baelorâs 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, Baelorâs 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 whirlwindâno, 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 Princeâs 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 Kingâs Landing is because I enjoy watching a fallen bird try to fly in a cage of my making.â
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 Kingâs 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 Aerionâs 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 silhouetteâshaking 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 princeâs wine. You did it often mulling over sweet sleep, or the stranglerâs agonizing chokeâyet 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 servantâs life was measured in paces and duties, and Prince Aerionâs 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 beholdâas 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 chambersâŚyou 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 princeâs 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.
Aerionâs 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 thoughtâ
"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. âYour breath stinks of sour wine and common blood. Wash yourself or drown in the Blackwater, I care not. Out!â
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 itâa 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 princeâs renowned standing across the Seven Kingdomsâensured 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.
âYou did not look at her." Aerion murmured softly from the bed, his tone almost conversational, yet dripping with that familiar, aristocratic malice. âTell me, my sweet little ruin... did it please you to see how easily I discard those who are not you?â
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.
Aerionâs 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.
âDo you dare?â 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. âDo you dare defy a prince of the realm?â
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. âNo!â-Stop, your majesty I - â 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.
âNo?â 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.â
âIn WesterosâŚ..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?â
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 laughâa sound of pure triumph and aristocratic malice that cut half in you. He paused his hand there, his fingers possessively mapping your heat.
âJust as expected of a whore,â he murmured against between your neck and shoulder, his lips curling into a cruel, knowing grin. âYour 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. âI give n-â
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. âForgive my insolence, Your Grace. King Daeron requests your immediate presence in the Small Council. The lords from Riverrun have arrived.â
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.
âOpen your mouth.â 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.
âMmm... âAerion 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 Targaryenâs 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 fatherâs 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 Kingâs 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 longâin truth, you had barely spoken at allâfor 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 tangledâafter 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 Kingâs 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 timeâto see how you fared, or perhaps merely because he was bored. Who could say? He was his fatherâs son through and throughâshrewd, 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; âI have been working long hours and the weariness overtook me. I did not see you, truly. It shall not happen again.â that was how things worked here. The fewer problems you caused the highborn especially those of royal bloodâthe 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.
âCalm 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 bodyâs wits when the nights grow long and the chores turn heavy.â
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 themâof course he had. It was Aerionâs 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 itâs 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, âEveryone 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.â
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 divineâespecially 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 keepâs 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 fatherâs 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 bidedâthe 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;,
âStay.â
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 lipsâ 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.
âCome here.â 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. âDo not make your prince beg. Come, sit, and quench this fire. Is the room a bit warm for you?â He asked,
a cruel amusement dancing in his voice.
âHas the dragonâs blood made you uncomfortable?â
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. âLet me go!â Your voice came out thin and broken, a shattered thing. but in this room, only the princeâs 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, youâre 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.
âYou always push us to this edge.â 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.
âTake your hands off me! You are hurting me!â
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 youâgrowing 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 Aerionâs jaw as his hands tightened their fierce grip. A tense snarl tightly locked Aerionâs jaw as his hands tightened their fierce grip. "Save that sweet tone of yours for when I fuck you ruinous.â
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.
âYou are beautiful.â 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.â you panted, faltering for a brief moment, the words scarce louder than a sigh. âYet you are here, beneath me.â 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 lightâbut 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.
âThatâs my pretty whore.â 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.
âA-Aerion!â
The prince tightened his iron grip upon your legs, his eyes flashing. âWhat makes you think you may speak my name?â 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.
âTouch 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.
âPerhaps, a dragonâs seed make you noble once more.â 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.
Aerionâs 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.
Yet when his muffled groans and his finely sculpted form finally smoothed into the heavy, rhythmic breathing of deep slumber, the distant shouts from the taverns in the streets of Kingâs Landing, breaking through the midnight air, brought you back to yourself. The pale moonlight crept through the shifting curtains, casting a long shadow that seemed to rouse your senses. Perhaps the hour had come at last. You slipped slowly from beneath the prince's heavy arms, he stirred a little, but did not wake. A pain as sharp as a sudden dagger-thrust shot through your body. Your hand frantically flew to your stomach, drawing yourself up to look upon the small vial hidden just behind the trencher of food he had left untouched.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
come get a đٞđđđđđ like me-gumi . . .
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.
ęŁŕ§ 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 didnât know what to do with his feelings, and weirdly committed to pretending he didnât 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 wasnât 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 werenât 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 shouldnât be yet, sweet and needy and completely unfair. the details always blurred as reality crashed in, but the physical aftermath was painfully clear. heâd 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 everyoneâs shoes, the air filled with the sound of yuji complaining that nobara kept aiming for his head. you had dropped your gym bag near megumiâs 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.
âdonât,â he whispered to the rabbit.
the rabbit blinked.
you called his name from across the field, smiling as you lifted your water bottle. âgumi, you okay?â
megumi panicked.
he shoved the fabric into the pocket of his track jacket.
âyeah,â he called back, voice flat enough to pass as normal if nobody looked too closely. âfine.â
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.
ęŁŕ§ 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 hadnât 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 youâwarm skin, faint floral detergent, the ghost of your bodyâhit him so hard his cock twitched instantly in his sweats.
âfuck⌠iâm sorry,â 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 youâd smile at him all teasing and fond when you felt how hard he was. the way youâd 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 âgumiâ 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.
âshitâ youâd feel so so hng g-good,â 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. âso warm⌠so tight⌠f-fuck, i want you so badââ
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 couldnât 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 youâd 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 didnât, 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.
ęŁŕ§ JOKEâS 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 didnât exist.
âthis is actually so annoying,â you said.
megumi kept his eyes on the tape. âwhat is?â
âmy new pink pair is gone.â you pushed aside your towel, lip gloss, and spare shirt with growing offense. âi swear i put it in here after changing yesterday. it had a little bow and everything. very cute. now itâs missing.â
megumiâs fingers paused for one single heartbeat.
âmaybe you left it in your room.â
âi checked.â you sighed like you had suffered a real tragedy. âtwice. i think the campus laundry ghosts have chosen me.â
âsorry for your loss.â
âthank you. iâll need snack compensation.â
âfor underwear?â
âfor emotional damage.â
he looked at you then, and you looked so genuinely annoyed that guilt twisted through him, sharp and hot. you werenât suspicious. you werenât 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.
âwow, âgumi,â you said, stepping closer. âi didnât know you had nice abs.â
his whole body locked. âdonât say it like that.â
âlike what?â
âlike youâre enjoying this.â
âi am enjoying this.â
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. megumiâs breath hitched so quietly he prayed you didnât 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.
âsensitive?â you asked.
âannoying,â he said, voice too low.
âyouâre blushing.â
âitâs hot outside.â
âmhm.â your eyes flicked down for half a second. âsure.â
he was going to die on this field.
then yujiâs voice cut through the air like divine punishment. âare you two flirting or are we training?â
megumi let go of your wrist so fast it was embarrassing.
you only laughed, bright and shameless, before stepping back like you hadnât just put him through five stages of grief in public. nobara, of course, saw enough to make her grin sharp.
âtheyâre flirting,â she said. âbadly, but still.â
âweâre training,â megumi muttered.
âsure,â you said, attempting to tease him. âwhatever helps you sleep at night.â
it did not help him sleep at night.
ęŁŕ§ 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 âš
y/n: snack compensation tomorrow? âď¸ăĄ
megumi stared at the message until the corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
then he looked at the drawer again. âiâm a terrible person,â 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 scentâwarm, sweet, and intoxicatingly familiarâflooded 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.
aerion making out with his shy girl in the castle halls so much that the guards start subtlety complaining to maekar while trying so hard to avoid being accused of treason !! #ineedtgatcookiesobaf
aerion loves to make out in semi-public ⚠࣪ Ë
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.
you were melting into him, your shyness burning away under the intensity of his affection. a soft sigh escaped your lips, and he swallowed it with a gentle hum of approval.
"you taste sweeter than the wine," he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to look at you. his eyes, usually so sharp and arrogant, were soft and hazy in the torchlight. "i could taste you forever."
you buried your face in the crook of his neck. "aerion, someone will see."
"that is no concern of mine, nor should it be yours," he whispered, his hand moving to the small of your back, pressing you even closer. "let them see how much i adore my wife."
down the hall, two kingsguard stood as still as the stone statues they guarded. this was the fourth time this week they had been forced to witness their prince's...devotion.
ser gerold cleared his throat, a low, discreet sound. "my prince," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "the hour grows late. your father requested your presence after supper."
aerion didn't even turn his head. "he can wait," he said, his voice muffled by your hair as he pressed a kiss to your temple. "i am occupied with matters of state."
the other guard shifted his weight, the leather of his boots groaning softly. he caught gerold's eye and gave a minuscule, almost imperceptible shake of his head. don't push it. they both remembered what happened to the last guard who had complained too loudly about the prince's "distractions." a reassignment to the night's watch was a fate worse than death for most.
later that night, when the castle was finally quiet, ser gerold found himself standing before prince maekar in his solar. the prince was poring over maps, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"your grace," gerold began, choosing his words with the care of a man walking on eggshells. "i bring a report. a... logistical concern, regarding the prince's... security detail."
maekar didn't look up. "spit it out, ser gerold. i haven't got all night for you to dance around the issue."
"it is... well, it is the corridors, your grace. prince aerion has developed a fondness for... lingering. in the halls. with the princess." gerold paused, sweating under his armor. "it makes it difficult to maintain a secure perimeter. the constant... stopping. it creates blind spots. and the guards, they do not wish to witness such... private moments, for fear of disrespecting the princess, or... of being accused of treasonous thoughts."
maekar finally lifted his head, a flicker of something- amusement? annoyance?- in his dark eyes. he stared at the knight for a long moment.
"so my son is so besotted with his wife that he forgets his duty, and your men are so flustered by a kiss that they fear for their heads?" maekar's voice was dry. "gods save us all from love and fools." he waved a dismissive hand. "tell your men to look at the floor. and tell my son that if he must behave like a love-struck squire, to do it behind a closed door. now get out."
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
The hall is loud in the way it always is when the court gathers. There are too many voices layered over one another, silk brushing stone, the faint clatter of cups and plates as servants move through the crowd.
You stand where you are meant to stand, just behind your uncle's shoulder, hands folded neatly before you.
This is familiar ground.
You have learned how to make yourself small in rooms like this, how to take up as little space as courtesy allows.
Your uncle speaks to another member of the Kingsguard, you listen without really hearing, eyes drifting over banners and torchlight, the gold-threaded dragons that catch the glow and throw it back. The heat of the room settles against your skin.
You think, distantly, about how long you will be expected to stand here before you are dismissed.
Aerion Targaryen has also been bored for most of the evening.
The faces blur together from his vantage at the high table; lords too eager to be seen, ladies too careful with their smiles. He watches them with the faint disdain of someone who has learned the shape of courtly games and found them wanting. His attention drifts, idle, over the room.
It snags on you by accident.
Not because you are loud. Not because you are remarkable in any way the court would name. You are standing half a step behind your uncle, head inclined, eyes lowered in the practised manner of someone who has learned where to place herself.
It is the ordinariness of the gesture that catches him, the way you seem to exist as an extension of another manâs duty.
He knows your uncle well enough. Knows the shape of his loyalty, the steadiness of his service. He has bled for the crown; he has knelt for it. The thought that this, too, belongs to that service; your quiet presence at his shoulder, settles into Aerionâs mind with a peculiar weight.
You glance up at the banners and then away again, attention already moving on. Your face holds no awareness of him. The lack of recognition is almost refreshing.
Aerion leans back in his seat, gaze lingering.
He notes how young you look in the soft torchlight, though not a child, grown enough that the court would not question your presence here, grown enough that your name might one day be spoken in negotiations and favours.
He imagines it spoken now, just to himself. He already knows it, of course. He knows where you come from. He knows what family you are an extension of.
You shift your weight slightly as the crowd moves, a small adjustment to keep from being jostled. Your uncle's hand comes up briefly, a quiet, unconscious check that you are still there. The gesture is so ordinary it almost goes unnoticed.
Aerionâs mouth curves, faintly.
He looks away after that, attention drawn back to the hall, to the murmur of the court and the empty words traded in his presence. But the image of you settles into him and does not quite leave.
That night, you think you are alone.
The fire has burned low, leaving your chambers wrapped in a soft, wavering half-light. You have already unpinned your hair and changed into a thin shift meant only for sleep. The quiet is heavy in the way it always is when the castle settles for the night, the Red Keep sighing around you with distant footsteps and murmured guards.
You are brushing out the last of the tangles when you feel it.
Not a sound or movement.
Just that sudden, pricking awareness of being watched. Your breath catches. You turn slowly, heart stuttering in your chest.
He stands just inside the door.
Aerion Targaryen does not look as though he has crept in. He stands with the easy confidence of someone who has never learned to fear being anywhere he wishes to be. The door is closed behind him.
You do not remember hearing it open.
For a moment, your mind refuses to make sense of what your eyes are telling you. This is not a place princes come. Not unannounced, and definitely not unguarded. Your first instinct is that you are about to be reprimanded for something you cannot name, that you have somehow done wrong without knowing it.
You drop the brush, and it hits the floor with a soft thud.
âMy prince,â you breathe, the words coming out thin. You sink into a hurried, awkward curtsy, pulse roaring in your ears. Your thoughts scatter; your uncle serves the crown, your house is loyal, you have never even spoken to him before. You have done nothing wrong.
His eyes move over you in an unhurried sweep. Not leering. Not hurried. But assessing. You are acutely aware of how little the thin fabric hides, how undone you are, hair loose around your shoulders, no jewels, no silks, nothing that marks you as courtly or prepared to be seen.
âSo this is where they keep you,â he says mildly.
The words land wrong. Not cruel. Not kind. Possessive in a way that makes your stomach tighten.
You do not know what to say. You have been taught how to speak to princes in daylight, in halls full of witnesses. You have not been taught how to speak to one who appears in your bedchamber after dark.
âI- if you need something, I can fetch my uncle-â
He takes a single step forward. The room seems to shrink around him.
âNo,â Aerion says softly. âYou wonât do that.â
Your breath stutters. The command is not loud. It doesnât need to be. There is something in his tone that suggests refusal is not a thing that exists between you and him.
He comes closer, slow, deliberate. You find yourself backing up without quite meaning to, until the edge of the bed presses into the backs of your knees. Your heart is pounding so hard you are certain he must be able to hear it.
âYou donât look like you expected a visitor,â he remarks.
You swallow. âI didn't.â
A flicker of amusement crosses his face. âYou will learn.â
His gaze lifts to your face at last. It is sharp, unsettlingly intent, as though he is trying to read something in you. Fear, perhaps, or innocence.
The shape of how easily you might bend.
You have the terrible sense of being seen in a way you never have been before, not as someoneâs niece, not as a polite presence in the background of court, but as something singular.
âYou donât even look at me,â he notes.
You realise you have dropped your eyes again without meaning to. You force yourself to raise them, meeting his gaze for the briefest moment before it feels too heavy to hold.
He notices that too.
âSo sheltered,â he murmurs, almost to himself. âThey keep you all soft and unknowing, donât they?â
Your hands curl in the fabric of your shift. You are not sure whether you are being insulted, or something else entirely. The room feels too warm.
He steps close enough now that you can feel the heat of him, the solid reality of his presence. You are acutely aware of the difference between you, his height, his certainty, the way he fills the space without effort.
âI noticed you tonight,â he says, simply.
Your chest tightens. You do not remember doing anything to be noticed.
âYou stood where you were told. You kept your eyes down. You didnât even realise I was looking at you.â His mouth curves. âThat is either very wise or very foolish.â
"I meant no disrespect, my prince"
His hand lifts.
For a second, you think he is going to strike you. The thought flashes bright and terrifying through your mind. Instead, his fingers catch a loose strand of your hair, lifting it, letting it slide through his hand.
The touch is light, but the effect is not.
âYou will learn to look where I tell you to look. To stand where I place you. To understand what is expected of you.â
âYou belong,â Aerion finishes, eyes dark on yours, âto me now.â
The silence stretches between you like a drawn blade, and in that terrible quiet, understanding finally crashes over you like a cold wave.
His eyes, those pale violet eyes that have been watching you with such unsettling intensity since he entered your chambers, drop deliberately to your mouth, then lower still, tracing the line of your throat and neckline of your nightgown.
When his gaze returns to yours there's something preying in his expression, something that makes your breath catch and your heart hammer harder against your ribs.
"You've only just realised," Aerion says softly, and there's dark amusement threading through his voice. "How innocent you truly are."
You take an instinctive step backward, but there's nowhere to go. He remains perfectly still, watching your retreat with the patience of a predator who knows his prey cannot escape.
"My prince, I-" Your voice emerges barely above a whisper. "It's late. If someone were to find you here-"
"No one will disturb us." He says it with absolute certainty, and you realise with a sinking feeling that he's right.
He's a Targaryen prince.
Who would dare question his presence anywhere in the Red Keep? Who would dare protect you from him?
"You're trembling," Aerion observes, taking a single step toward you. You force yourself not to retreat again, though every instinct screams at you to run. "Are you frightened of me?"
The honest answer catches in your throat.
Yes, I'm terrified.
But you can't say that to a prince, can you? You've been taught your whole life to be gracious, obedient, and respectful to your betters.
"I'm... uncertain of your intentions, my prince," you manage, trying to keep your voice steady.
His mouth curves into something that might be a smile if it reached his eyes.
"Uncertain." He repeats the word as though tasting it. "Such a diplomatic answer. You've been well-trained." Another step closer. "But I think you know exactly what my intentions are. You simply don't want to acknowledge them."
"The crown has been generous to your family," Aerion continues, his voice soft and terrible. "Your uncle serves in the Kingsguard. Your father holds his lands by royal decree. Everything you have, everything you are, exists because the throne permits it."
He's close enough now that you can see the silver-gold of his hair in the candlelight, feel the warmth of his body. "Do you understand what I'm telling you?"
You do. You belong to the crown as surely as any piece of property, any holding or title. And he is the crown's son.
"Yes," you whisper, because what else can you say?
"Yes, what?"
Your throat tightens. "Yes, my prince."
"Good," the word is almost gentle. His hand rises, and you flinch involuntarily, but he only traces one finger along your jawline, tipping your face up to meet his gaze. "You're lovelier up close."
"Thank you, my prince," you manage to answer, mostly because you're scared of the consequences if you don't.
"So innocent," he murmurs, his thumb brushing across your lower lip. "So sheltered. Tell me, has anyone ever touched you?"
The question sends mortification burning through you. You try to look away, but his hand on your jaw prevents it. "Answer me."
"No." The word emerges small and ashamed. "No, my prince."
"No one?" His eyes gleam with something dark and satisfied. "Not even yourself?"
"My prince, please-"
"Answer the question."
Tears of humiliation prick at your eyes. "No. I- I wouldn't. It would be sinful."
"Sinful," he repeats, and now he does smile, sharp and cruel. "Oh, my sweet, obedient little dove. The things I'm going to teach you tonight will make you reconsider your definition of sin."
Your breath comes faster now, panic rising in your chest. "Please. I'm not- I don't-"
"You don't what? Want this?" His other hand settles on your waist, possessive and sure.
You shake your head against his hand, "No, of course not, my prince, I would be honoured but-"
"It's irrelevant. You belong to me now. I've decided it. Do you think your wants matter against a prince's claim?"
"Someone will hear," you try desperately. "Someone will know-"
"And they'll say nothing." His certainty is absolute. "Because I'm Aerion Targaryen. Who would risk my displeasure to defend you from dishonour?" His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you closer. "Your uncle? He's sworn to obey the royal family. Your father? He's too far away and too dependent on the crown's favour."
The terrible truth of it settles over you like a shroud. He's right. You're alone with him, and no one will help you, and he knows it.
"But perhaps," he continues, his voice dropping lower, "you don't want to be saved. Perhaps there's a part of you that's curious. That wonders what it would be like to be touched by a prince, to be claimed by dragon's blood."
His hand moves up your spine, and despite your fear, despite everything, your body responds with a shiver that has nothing to do with cold. "There it is. Your body knows, even if your mind hasn't accepted it yet."
"I don't-" But your protest dies as his mouth descends to your throat, pressing against the pulse point there. The sensation is unlike anything you've ever experienced, warm and wet and intimate in a way that makes your knees weaken.
"Don't lie to me," he murmurs against your skin. "I can feel your heart racing. I can feel you trembling. Fear and desire aren't as different as you might think."
His teeth graze your throat, and a sound escapes you, half gasp, half whimper. Shame floods through you at your body's betrayal, but you can't control it. You've never been touched like this, never even imagined being touched like this.
"That's better," Aerion says approvingly. "Stop fighting. Accept what this is. You might not believe it, but I'm not here to hurt you." His hands move to the ties of your nightgown, and your own hands fly up instinctively to stop him.
"Please," you whisper, one last desperate plea. "Please, my prince. I'm not ready. I don't know-"
"I know." He catches your wrists easily, holding them in one hand while the other continues its work. "That's what makes this perfect. You're mine to shape, mine to teach. No one else has touched you. No one else ever will. Only me."
The ties come loose, and cool air touches your skin as he draws the nightgown down your shoulders. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to watch your own ruin, but his voice cuts through the darkness.
"Look at me."
You don't want to, you do not know how.
"Look. At. Me." Each word is a command, and you find yourself obeying despite everything, opening your eyes to meet his gaze.
"Good girl. You're going to watch. You're going to see exactly what I do to you, so you never forget this night."
The nightgown falls away completely, pooling at your feet, and you stand before him naked and exposed. His eyes travel over you with undisguised hunger, possessive and thorough.
You've never felt more vulnerable in your life.
"Perfect," he breathes. "Absolutely perfect. And all mine."
He releases your wrists to touch you properly, and you stand frozen as his hands map your body; shoulders, collarbones, the curve of your breasts. When his thumbs brush over your nipples, you gasp at the shock of sensation, and he makes a satisfied sound.
"Sensitive. I thought you might be." He does it again, watching your face as you struggle not to react. "Your body is honest, even when you try to hide. See how it responds to me? How it knows what it was made for?"
"My prince, we should not be doing this. It is wrong," you whisper, even as heat pools low in your belly.
"This is inevitable." He lowers his head, and his mouth closes over one breast, hot and wet. Your hands come up to his shoulders, to push him away, you tell yourself, but instead you find yourself gripping the fabric of his doublet as your knees threaten to give out entirely.
He takes his time, lavishing attention on your breasts until you're gasping and shaking, until the fear has tangled so completely with sensation that you can't separate them anymore. Then he straightens, and his hands move to his own clothing.
"Help me," he commands, and when you hesitate, "Now."
Your fingers fumble with the fastenings of his doublet, clumsy and inexperienced. He watches you struggle with that same dark amusement, making no move to help, forcing you to participate in your own undoing.
When you finally get the doublet open, he shrugs it off, then guides your hands to the ties of his shirt.
"You've never undressed a man before," he observes. "Never even seen one naked, have you?"
You shake your head mutely, face burning.
"Another first I'm taking from you. Another thing that will always be mine."
When his chest is bare, he catches your hand and places it flat against his skin. His body is warm, solid, real in a way that makes this all undeniably happening. You can feel his heart beating under your palm, steady and sure where yours is racing.
"Touch me," he says. "Learn what a man feels like. What I feel like."
You don't want to, but your hand moves anyway, exploring tentatively. His skin is smooth over hard muscle, so different from your own softness. He watches your face the entire time, reading every flicker of emotion, every hint of reluctant curiosity.
When he begins unlacing his breeches, you look away, but his hand catches your chin.
"Watch," he reminds you. "You don't get to hide from this."
So you watch, heart in your throat, as he reveals himself completely. The sight of him, fully aroused and clearly intent on you, sends a fresh wave of panic through your system.
"Don't look so frightened," he says, though there's satisfaction in his voice, some twisted part of him that enjoys your fear. "I'll make it good for you. Eventually." He steps closer, and you feel him against your belly, hard and hot and impossible to ignore. "But first, you need to understand something. This-" his hand slides between your legs without warning and you whimper in shock, "-belongs to me now. Your innocence, your body, your pleasure. All of it. Mine."
His fingers explore you with a kind of confident familiarity. The sensation is overwhelming, too much, and you try to close your legs, but he prevents it easily.
"Stay still," he orders. "Let me feel you. Let me see how wet you are for me despite all your pretend protests."
Shame burns through you as his fingers slide through your folds, discovering the evidence of your body's betrayal. You are wet, despite your fear, despite your hesitation, and he makes sure you know he's noticed.
One finger circles your entrance, teasing, and you tense in anticipation of invasion. But he doesn't push inside yet, just continues that maddening exploration, building sensation despite your resistance. "I could take you now. Throw you on that bed and claim you quickly, get it over with. But where's the pleasure in that? No, I want you desperate first. I want you begging."
"I won't," you gasp out. "I won't beg you for this."
His smile is cruel. "We'll see."
He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, then pushes you down onto it. You land on your back, and he follows you down, covering your body with his. You turn your face away, and he allows it this time, his mouth finding your throat instead.
"I'm going to touch you until you're trembling," he murmurs against your skin. "Until you're so desperate for release that you forget to be afraid. And then, when you're ready, when your body is ready, I'm going to take your maidenhead and make you mine in truth."
His hand returns between your legs, and this time his touch is more purposeful. He finds a spot that makes you jerk and gasp, and he focuses there, circling and stroking with maddening patience. The sensation builds despite your attempts to resist it, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your core.
"That's it," he encourages darkly.
You bite your lip, trying to stay silent, but small sounds escape anyway, whimpers and gasps that you can't control. Your hips move without your permission, seeking more of that terrible, wonderful friction.
"Look how quickly you learn," Aerion says with satisfaction. "Stop fighting it."
His finger finally pushes inside you, and the intrusion makes you tense. It's strange, uncomfortable, foreign. But he works you patiently, adding a second finger, stretching you while his thumb continues its work on that sensitive spot.
The dual sensations war within you, discomfort and pleasure, violation and need.
"So tight," he breathes. "So perfect. You're going to feel exquisite around my cock."
The crude words make you flush, but your body clenches around his fingers in response, and he laughs softly.
"You like that. You like hearing what I'm going to do to you." His fingers curl inside you, finding some spot that makes you cry out. "There it is. Your body has so many secrets, and I'm going to learn every one of them."
He works you with skilled precision, building the pleasure higher and higher until you're writhing beneath him, until the fear has been consumed by sensation, until you're making sounds you've never made before.
Your hands clutch at the bedding, at his shoulders, seeking anchor in the storm of feeling.
"Please," you hear yourself gasp, though you're not sure what you want.
"Please what?" His voice is dark with triumph. "Please stop? Please continue? Please make you come? You need to be specific."
You can't answer, can't think, can only feel as he drives you higher. The pleasure builds to an unbearable peak, "Come for me," he commands. "Just let go. Let me feel it."
Your body obeys him as though it belongs to him already, and the release crashes over you in waves. You cry out, back arching, inner muscles clenching around his fingers as pleasure whites out your vision. "What was that you said about not begging?"
He works you through it, prolonging it, until you're gasping and oversensitive and trembling. "Beautiful," he murmurs, withdrawing his fingers. "Absolutely beautiful. And that was just my hand. Imagine what it will feel like when I'm inside you properly."
You're still floating in the aftermath, mind hazy, when you feel him position himself between your legs. The blunt pressure of him against your entrance brings reality crashing back.
"Wait," you gasp. "Please, wait-"
"No more waiting." His voice is firm. "You'll be fine."
He pushes forward, and the stretch is immediate. You cry out, hands flying to his chest, but he catches your wrists and pins them above your head.
"Breathe," he instructs. "Don't fight it. Accept it."
But it hurts, the invasion too much, too large, splitting you open. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as he continues his steady advance, claiming you inch by inch.
"That's it," he soothes, though there's possession in his voice, not comfort. "Take me. Take all of me."
When he's fully seated inside you, he pauses, letting you adjust to the fullness. You're breathing hard, tears on your cheeks, and he leans down to lick them away.
"You're mine now," he whispers against your skin. "Completely, irrevocably mine. No one else will ever have this. No one else will ever know you like this." He begins to move, slow withdrawals and deep thrusts that make you gasp. "Say it. Say you're mine."
"I'm yours," you whisper, because it's true now, because he's made it true.
"Again."
"I'm yours, my prince."
"Good girl." His pace increases, and the pain begins to fade, replaced by a strange fullness, a building pressure. "Such a good, obedient girl. Taking your prince's cock so well."
His words should shame you, but instead they send heat through your system. Your body adjusts to him, accepts him, the pleasure begins to build again.
It shouldn't feel good, shouldn't feel like anything but violation, but your body responds to the friction, to the fullness, to the way he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you.
"You feel it, don't you?" He reads your body like a book. "You're going to come on my cock. You're going to come while I take your maidenhead, and you'll never be able to deny that your body wanted this."
"No," you protest weakly, but he's right. The pleasure builds despite everything, despite your shame, despite your fear. His body moves over yours with practiced skill, taking you with deep, possessive strokes that claim you utterly.
"Yes," he counters.
One of his hands releases your wrist to slide between your bodies, finding that sensitive spot again. The added stimulation is too much, and you feel yourself climbing toward that peak again, helpless to stop it.
"Come," he orders. "Come for me while I'm inside you. You can do it."
Your body obeys, clenching around him as pleasure crashes through you again. You hear yourself cry out his name and his answering groan of satisfaction as your body milks his.
"That's it," he gasps. "That's perfect. You're perfect."
His thrusts become harder, more erratic, chasing his own release. You lie beneath him, overwhelmed and oversensitive, as he uses your body for his pleasure. When he finally reaches his peak, he buries himself deep and spills inside you with a groan, marking you internally as surely as he's marked you in every other way.
He collapses over you, breathing hard, and you lie there stunned and trembling, trying to process what just happened. What you just did. What you just became.
After a long moment, he withdraws, and you feel the evidence of your lost innocence between your thighs. He looks down at it with dark satisfaction.
"There," he says softly. "Now it's done. You're no longer an innocent maiden." He traces a finger through the mess on your thigh, then brings it to your lips. "Taste it. Taste what we made together."
You turn your face away, but he's insistent.
"Taste it, or I'll take you again right now, while you're still sore and sensitive."
Reluctantly, you part your lips, and he slides his finger into your mouth. The taste is strange, copper and salt and something else, and you feel tears slide down your temples at the degradation of it.
"Good girl," he praises, withdrawing his finger.
He settles beside you on the bed, pulling you against his body in a mockery of tenderness. You lie rigid in his arms, mind reeling.
"This is just the beginning," Aerion murmurs into your hair, hand sliding possessively over your hip. "I'll visit you whenever I please. I'll take you whenever I want. And you'll accept it, won't you?"
You close your eyes, unable to answer. Your body still tingles with the aftermath of pleasure, even as your mind recoils from what happened.
And the worst part, the part you'll never be able to admit aloud, is that some dark, hidden part of you loved it.
Wanted it.
Wants him still.
"Sleep," he commands softly. "You'll need your strength. I'm not nearly done with you yet."
You belong to Aerion Targaryen now, in every way that matters.
And there's nothing you can do about it.
It becomes a pattern.
Not announced nor acknowledged. But inevitable, the way storms are inevitable once the air turns heavy enough.
Aerion comes to you at night.
Sometimes he arrives when the Keep is still loud with distant laughter and music, when courtiers linger too long over wine and secrets. Sometimes he comes when the halls have gone quiet, when even the servants have learned to walk softly.
You never hear him approach. You only ever realise he is there when the door is already closed and the air in the room feels different.
Your uncle stands guard in the corridor.
The knowledge sits in your chest like a stone. You know the sound of his boots. You know the rhythm of his breathing when he pauses at the far end of the hall. You know that he believes he is protecting you from intruders, from drunken lords, from the careless dangers of court.
He does not know he is guarding the door against a prince.
The first time it occurs to you, really occurs to you, you feel faint with it. The wrongness. The way duty and betrayal sit side by side, impossible to untangle.
You lie awake one night, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet shift of movement beyond your door, and you wonder what it would mean if he ever knew. If you would be ruined. If your house would be.
Aerion laughs when you finally whisper your fear to him.
âThey would thank me,â he says lazily, as though you have said something amusing. He is seated at the edge of your bed, boots still on, crown discarded somewhere you cannot see. âYou are safer with me than with any number of old men with swords.â
It is the way he says safer that unsettles you.
âYou donât want them to know,â he tells you, fingers idly tracing the line of your wrist. âThe court is cruel. They chew soft things to pieces. I am sparing you that.â
You think of the way eyes linger on you during the day now. The way conversations falter when you enter a room. The way someone laughed too sharply behind their hand when you passed last week. You do not know what they know, but you know they sense something.
Being chosen leaves a mark, even when no one can name it.
And then there are some nights when you tell yourself you should refuse him, but the thought never survives the sound of his voice at your door.
There is a terrible relief in the regularity of it.
In knowing when the world will narrow to the size of your chambers, to the weight of his presence, to the certainty of his attention.
âIt suits you,â Aerion remarks one evening, watching you with that sharp, considering gaze. âThis waiting. This quiet obedience.â
You bristle at the word obedience, but he only smiles, smug and unrepentant.
âDonât pretend you donât like being kept,â he adds. âI see the way you look when you hear my steps.â
It is humiliating, how true that is.
âYou should be grateful,â he tells you, not unkindly. âI could leave you to the mercy of rumour. Instead, I keep you close.â
You always feel guilty in the quiet hours before dawn, when the Keep is hushed and your thoughts have room to turn on you. Guilty for the ease with which you let this become your reality. Guilty for the way part of you thrills at being singled out by someone so dangerous, so untouchable. Guilty for the strange, unwanted comfort of knowing exactly where you stand with him, even if that place is beneath.
âYou are mine,â Aerion repeats, he does so every time you see him, as though it is the simplest truth in the world. âAnd I take care of what belongs to me.â
The arrangement settles into something that feels almost⌠stable.
It is dangerous. But it's also intoxicating.
A couple of weeks later, the hall is too bright for secrets.
Torchlight glints off gold and polished stone, off goblets raised in careless toasts. Music spills across the floor in slow, measured rhythms meant for noble couples and careful steps. You stand at the edge of the crowd, doing what you have learned to do best; be present without being seen.
It does not work tonight.
You feel the shift before you see him. The way conversations falter. The way heads turn, then turn away too quickly.
Aerion enters the hall like a disturbance in still water, and the court parts around him without thinking. He is dressed for spectacle, black and gold, the dragon stitched into his shoulder, every inch a prince.
His eyes find you immediately.
The look is not subtle.
Your stomach tightens. You tell yourself not to react, not to let the heat of his attention show on your face. You lower your gaze, as you have taught yourself to do, but it does not seem to matter. He is already crossing the floor.
When he reaches you, he does not bow. Does not offer polite words. He takes your hand.
The contact is casual to anyone watching. Familiar enough to be remarked upon, not scandalous enough to be protested. Your fingers curl around his, breath catching as he draws you out of the safety of the shadows and into the open space of the dance floor.
âYouâre hiding,â he murmurs, low enough that only you hear. âThat no longer suits you.â
The music swells. The dancers part for you both, forming a loose circle of watching faces. You feel every eye on your back, on the way his hand settles at your waist as though it has always belonged there. The placement is deliberate. Possessive.
Too intimate to be mistaken.
Your heart is hammering. âPeople are watching.â
âGood,â Aerion says lightly.
He guides you into the dance without asking. His hand is firm at your lower back, fingers splayed. You move because he moves you, your steps falling into rhythm with his as the court looks on. You have never been this visible in your life.
The taboo hums in the air between you.
It is not forbidden, not truly. Your blood is noble. Your house stands high enough that no one can cry scandal without inviting dangerous questions of their own.
There are rules, yes, but rules bend for princes. The wrongness of it is softer than rumour, sharper than law. No one can say it is wrong.
They can only watch.
Aerionâs thumb presses into your side as you turn, a subtle reminder of where you belong in his orbit. He draws you closer than the dance requires. Too close. Close enough that you can feel the heat of him through layers of silk and brocade.
âYou feel them staring,â he says, a smile in his voice. âYou always do.â
You swallow. âThis isnât discreet.â
He laughs quietly. âIâm tired of discreet.â
The word is a dismissal of the small mercy he once pretended this was.
You catch your reflection in the polished surface of a nearby goblet as you turn, a flash of your face, too flushed, too aware, his hand too sure at your waist. The visual of you together is stark. Prince and girl. Dragon and something caught in its shadow.
You see the way it must look to them, the imbalance written into the very way you stand.
Aerion does not care.
He guides you through the final turn of the dance and does not release you when the music softens. His hand remains at your back. His gaze lingers on you, unapologetic, daring anyone to speak.
Let them see, the look says.
Let them understand what cannot be undone.
The whispers start before the music has even faded. You feel them like a current, brushing past your skin, carrying your name on mouths that do not dare speak it too loudly.
Aerion leans in, close enough that his breath warms your ear.
âYouâre done being hidden,â he tells you. âAnyone who has eyes can see what you are to me.â
The claim is not shouted. It does not need to be.
The court has already heard it.
idk what happened here i like blanked lol, im working on like 2 fics atm, one is a part 2 to 'marked by gold' which seems to be in high demand <3
whoever told you coparenting was hard was a fucking loser.
a concept you truly couldnât 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 youâd heard online that felt more like a nightmare than actual reality - youâd 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 heâd work whilst his dark hair would constantly fall into his eyes because heâd forget to go to the barber until you all but forced him to go.
he owned his own mechanics company, the biggest in the city, which meant he worked like a dog but he earned good enough money to spoil you rotten. nothing had really changed after the divorce other than a formal understanding. he paid for your entire lifestyle, making sure you used his card for the groceries, the upkeep of your once shared home, your stupid skincare orders and of course, your sweet children.
jungkookâs only rule pending the divorce was made incredibly clear to you. he was the sole provider. him and only him.
you genuinely wondered whether his personal nightmare consisted of you working a shift with the way heâd get angry at you spending your own money, queuing another heavy argument that had you all but icing him out for a full day. enough to have him kissing down your neck in apology, all whilst groping your ass the way you secretly loved.
truthfully, he had never known how not to provide for you.
it lived somewhere deep inside of him, carved into his very being and instinct, so much so he thought it defined him as a man. once you had birthed your twin children, it was like something had switched in his brain to amplify it all that much harder. despite no longer being his wife, he supported you and the children, telling you it was the one thing he wouldnât let you fight him on.
you were a princess to the core. manicured nails, weekly blowouts and a shopping addiction that only spurred jungkook on to work harder - you were his polar opposite, never having worked too hard a day in your life and he wanted to keep it that way. even your children were a gift from above, so well behaved and sweet that you had never struggled with them, loving nothing more than to pamper and shower them with all of your love.
you were an odd family unit, even you could recognise that, with your coparenting dynamic meaning he had unrestricted access to your home. he was over multiple times a week after work, always using the excuse of wanting to see the kids which of course was half true, but really, any access to you was worth making the journey over. you kept his stomach full and his annoyance high, just how he liked it.
no matter how well you were together, being married just didnât work. he worked too hard, you pushed too much - you both wanted things from the other that seemed impossible, leaving you in limbo where all youâd do is argue. it would always end with him inside of you, but sex could only fix so much. somehow, not being together had only strengthened the tension between you as you made it your life mission to keep him on his toes, and he made sure youâd feel his presence no matter what.
in theory, you were perfect for each other.
because the thing about jeon jungkook is he liked his woman difficult.
liked when you bitched at him with glossy lips and french tips all curled onto your hips, scoffing at whatever he was telling you before taking his card to online shop. it was even better when youâd stomp around the house in your flimsy little pyjamas, pretending to be annoyed at him over stupid things he knew had no merit - it had him hardening beyond words.
you were his little minx, and he fucking loved it.
â
âmamma, daddy said i could stay up until nine today.â your son, minjae, giggled from his seat beside his sister on the couch, their favourite show playing on the screen.
âdaddyâs stupid, baby. we donât listen to him.â you cooed back as you handed them their snacks, the sound of your kids giggling enough to put a grin on your face.
âheard that.â
the deep voice came before you actually saw him, followed by the sound of heavy work boots by the door of your home. within seconds, you watched as he appeared by the doorway, in all of his obnoxiously masculine glory.
jeon jungkook practically swallowed your doorway whole as he stepped into the living room. broad shoulders were the first thing you saw as they stretched the material of his work t-shirt, his brand logo clear on his chest, the navy a fitting contrast to his tanned skin. his hair was messy, pulled back from his face, faint traces of grease still staining his forearms where he had scrubbed clean just minutes ago.
he was just so big. big hands, big biceps, big thighs - his muscles were something that you could never really get over, something he was very much privy to. he was the sort of man who reached for things on the top of the shelf without thinking, carrying both children with such ease that it had you malfunctioning in real time. his voice was low, gruff. the type that had people listening as though he was a natural leader.
a beast of a man.
âdaddy!â minji, your little girl, squealed as she carefully placed her plate next to her before scurrying away to launch herself at him.
jungkookâs entire face softened, letting out a soft laugh as he picked her up, all whilst minjae copied his older sister, instead cupping his legs, much shyer than his overexcited sibling.
he cooed at them, his voice dropping low whilst he ruffled his hair affectionately. your children absolutely adored him, both sweet little things that glowed whenever their dad would appear.
you could never get over how good of a father he was, and despite your relationship not always being the best, he prioritised your children the way you wanted. even the way he provided for you, as the mother of his children, was beyond generous and underneath the bitchy attitude, you were grateful tenfold. he treated you three like you were a natural extension of him.
but unfortunately for him, you were simply unable to let him live in peace.
âyouâre late.â you murmured casually from the couch, going back to filing your nails.
jungkookâs eyes lifted to yours. narrowing. he lingered, looking you up and down openly, hungrily, as though the prospect of you getting on his nerves whilst looking the way you did was straight out of a fantasy.
âtraffic.â
âmm.â
âwhatâs that supposed to mean?â he scoffed a little.
ânothing.â you hummed again, all too casual, but he could see what you were doing.
that didnât stop him falling victim to it.
âbeen here three seconds and youâre already being bitchy.â
you gasped dramatically, pointing your nail file in his direction as it became your turn to narrow your eyes into slits. âwatch your mouth in front of the children!â
âbut mamma, you called daddy stupid.â minjae, your sweet angel inquired with a tone of genuine confusion, the two words falling into the same category in his mind.
jungkook watched as you cooed at him, getting up from your seat to plant a big kiss to his cheek, before reciprocating it with his sister too who giggled.
âthatâs because your daddy is stupid, my love.â
he scoffed again at you with a shake of his head, muttering something under his breath that earned him a hefty glare from yourself. he put minji down finally, his hand still on minjaeâs head affectionately only for the pair to grab at his hands in a shared babble, leading him over to the couch to show him the cartoon they had just been watching out of excitement.
and despite being exhausted, jungkook was utterly weak at the knees for his kids, and thus, followed along immediately.
you watched him, having moved to the kitchen where you got a clear view of them from your position near the doorway. his big body sunk into the couch whilst minjae shuffled closer, settling into his fatherâs side. the entire vision was enough to tug at your heart as you fought down your cuteness aggression - especially with the way he just looked too large for the area he was sat in, with all the cushions surrounding him, his two kids. he looked silly.
particularly with the way minji was now climbing all over him whilst explaining the plot with deadly seriousness.
âand then she lost her crown.â she informed him sadly.
âshit,â jungkook remarked with raised eyebrows. âthatâs bad.â
âdaddy!â
âsorry. shoot.â
you rolled your eyes as he looked up, meeting your gaze momentarily with a sheepish grin, before you looked away, settling over the stove once more.
it happened every time.
youâd spend all day mentally preparing yourself to be annoyed at him only for jungkook to walk in through the door and utterly transform. he became so soft, so gentle when it came to your pair and it was a constant reminder that the one good thing that came out of this situation was you had picked the perfect father.
heâd listen to them properly - never offering them a half assed version of himself, especially since you had both come from such broken homes. always listening properly, no distractions, despite the fact he would work gruelling shifts that had him using his body for hours on hours. even now, heâd always have his hand rubbing up and down minjaeâs back as his sister yapped and yapped, knowing he was the quieter one of the two and therefore the shyer one.
your chest squeezed at the thought.
âyou feedinâ me tonight, or what?â
you swore if you rolled your eyes any more that night, theyâd pop out of your skull.
âyouâre so romantic.â
âbeen thinking about your food all day.â he grunted, walking into the kitchen properly to allow the kids their time on the tv, and of course, his time to terrorise their mother.
âthatâs because you eat like an animal.â
âworked twelve hours today.â
âwhoâs fault is that?â
he couldnât help the smirk on his face. he loved you bratty. âyours. youâre milking me dry.â
you narrowed your eyes, stirring his food in the pot, though youâd never admit you cooked solely for him and his taste, despite it being more than clear. behind you, you could hear the soft sounds of the familiar cartoon playing mixed with the twinsâ occasional giggle, though it wasnât long until the heavy sound of jungkookâs footsteps became louder and louder, souring your mood.
of course. the man couldnât survive without being near you when given the option.
âyouâre extra bratty tonight.â he observed casually, leaning against one of the counters, though his voice was twinged in exhaustion.
âyouâre projecting.â you hummed back.
âam not.
âare too.â
âyou text me a thumbs up earlier.â
âand?â
jungkook scoffed before coming to the counter closest to you, leaning, despite your refusal to look at him.
âyou know i hate that fucking shit.â
instead, you chose to feign ignorance, going so far as to prettily turn your back to him with a flick of your hair. you couldnât help but wind him up, it was genuinely your favourite thing to do considering his reactions were always just so worth it. a man you knew could ruin you in seconds holding back because he knew he truly didnât have access to you anymore, and until you gave him the green light needed, he was stuck in limbo.
lord knew whenever you gave him a faraway nod, heâd have you up on the counters and in between your thighs in seconds, always telling you it was the only way he felt satisfied anymore despite not being touched.
your hand reached upwards to grab a plate from the cabinet above your head. before you could even touch it, your feet on their tip toes, a large arm reached over your head instantly.
his chest brushed your back in the process in a way that felt accidental at first, but immediately, you found yourself pressed almost harshly into the stove, his front pushing your back against him cheekily.
fucking ridiculous.
jungkook grabbed the plate effortlessly, barely having to raise his hand whatsoever. instead of handing it to you immediately, he merely pressed against you further, your eyes widening just a fraction as you felt every inch of him behind you, warmth bleeding through the very thin material of your tiny pyjama top.
he was always so warm after work, it made your head spin.
âcouldâve got it myself.â you murmured under your breath, cheeks hot.
âyeah?â he dipped his head down, lips grazing your ear. âlooked like you were struggling.â
you hated how much you loved it - how big he was compared to you, how he towered over you. jungkook made you feel tiny in a way that genuinely fucked with your head, all broad muscle and rough hands, and sheer overwhelming man. even now, one of his thighs nudged between yours absentmindedly as he reached around you to place the plate down for you.
âyouâre in my space.â you shifted, pretending like you werenât enjoying it.
he could read you like an open book.
âyour space?â he let out a small laugh.
you wanted to push him away, annoyed at his amusement at your words and even more annoyed at the way he so casually touched you, especially considering he knew what it did to you. it made you weak everywhere, to the point where you were utter putty in the palm of his hands and he relished in the feeling - the woman he obsessed over equally as ruined by something he did without thought.
you opened your mouth to speak only to feel his too large hand suddenly slide over to your stomach, digits digging into your skin before yanking you back into him. you were no longer pushed against the stove, now completely entirely into him, meaning you could feel every inch, including the harsh bulge that had begun to form just by speaking to you.
a squeak nearly left you before your eyes fell into slits, huffing as you smacked his hand meanly. fucking brute.
âjungkook!â you immediately snapped at him, but it did nothing to deter him as his fingers spread wide, practically covering every inch of the skin on your stomach all whilst he held you to him like he had every right.
âstop moving.â he muttered against your ear.
âugh, youâre such a brute!â
âhard to do that when youâre walking around our house looking like this.â
your mouth fell open.
âour house?â you hissed, though he couldnât help but realise the way your shoulders had dropped a little, almost at ease at his words despite your words. âi divorced you, this is my home.â
âstupid divorce.â he huffed a little under his breath, face dropping into your neck as he breathed in your scent. âworst fucking decision of my life.â
the words came out flat - immediate, as though they were plain fact. it constantly knocked you of breath whenever he talked like that, knowing that deep down you agreed too, that despite the problems between you, the divorce was also a big regret of your own. perhaps that was why neither of you acted like it had actually happened, simply playing house as though you were still together.
âyou wear these shorts on purpose?â
you hummed at him then, looking over your shoulder at him just as he pulled away from your neck, your eyes connecting. âtheyâre just pyjamas.â
his hand, however, slid over to your hip with a grunt, squeezing.
âyouâre killing me walking around like this.â
you rolled your eyes so hard, your head hurt. âjust had a twelve hour shift and itâs my shorts that are killing you?â
âyeah,â jungkook replied instantly, with no hesitation whatsoever, eyeing you almost meanly. âyou know what youâre doing. cut the innocent shit.â
you scoffed dramatically despite the heat travelling up and down your body. âyouâre so embarrassing!â
âyouâre a fucking minx.â
his teeth grazed the curve where your shoulder met your neck before he bit down, teeth sinking into your skin just enough to have you jolting. immediately, you smacked him on his arm with a hiss despite the utter mess between your legs, your brain growing hazier by the second.
âow! you dog!â
âkeep being mouthy,â he muttered against your skin, gently sucking on the area he bit, planting heavy kisses before dragging his lips to your ear once more. âwatch what happens.â
the threat settled low in your stomach.
you could feel it everywhere, deep between your thighs and in the thump of your heart, all whilst your mind malfunctioned in real time. jungkook watched you slump against him, knowing how badly you were affected when he spoke like that. vulgar. nasty. all heavy hands and filthy promises heâd whisper into your skin like they belonged there. you couldnât help how your body reacted to him, not when he was the only living thing that knew exactly which buttons to press to have you fall on your knees for him, to shut your pretty little mouth up with ease.
you twisted in his hold, finally managing to part from him just enough to actually turn in his hold, trying your best to glare at him despite the hazy look in your eye. he wanted to devour you, head dropping low to properly meet your gaze, feeling his breath against your lips.
âyouâre disgusting.â you weakly rebutted at him.
âyou like it.â his mouth curled.
he could take you now, right here, and he knew youâd let him - knew youâd open up your pretty little legs for him to give way for all of the things he had wanted. he also knew you werenât ready for it, and despite the heavy tension between you and the thick want that clouded every conversation, heâd never push until you were the one that initiated.
that was the rules afterall.
you had told him as much, plainly. he could eat you out as much as he wanted, and lord knew he did with absolute glee, but no sex, no kisses. you simply used him to get off, grinding on his hardened cock through his work trousers late in the evening, his hand on your mouth to muffle the loud moans you couldnât keep inside. he was a mere toy, happy to be at your disposal.
the smug bastard let out a low hum before finally releasing you, his fingers squeezing your stomach one last time to remind you of his hold on you, before grunting lightly, stepping back. you watched him, openly, one hand going down to adjust the growing bulge that had formed whilst he took a seat at the table, just like you had wanted him to at the beginning, still palming himself as he watched you as though it was perfectly normal.
you turned, plating his food despite your warm cheeks, all whilst your ex husband sat there, massaging his cock at the sight of your ass openly. you knew that to anyone else, the dynamic was batshit crazy, but to you? this was all you wanted, all you ever needed - a fucked up lover who managed to match you, none of that sappy shit. you wanted a man, and a man you had gotten indeed.
you turned, placing it in front of him, already turning to walk away before a large arm darted out, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you down onto his lap, against the very bulge that was growing and growing and growing. he knew how messed up youâd get just from grinding on him, and he had every intention of making you cum tonight, multiple times hopefully. the thought thrilled him.
âget off!â
his hand flattened against your back as your legs came up onto the side of him, your core nestled so perfectly against his clothed cock that it pulled a tiny gasp from your throat, a hitch of breath that had him openly bucking his hips into you so you could feel it more prominently. the man was obscene, genuinely obscene and the worst thing was that you were equally as sick, capitalising off of the interaction by grinding right back down on him, as though his food wasnât there, as though he wasnât exhausted from the day heâd just had.
âalways fucking mouthing off.â he muttered darkly, lips now grazing your jaw in sweet kisses. âthen look at you..â another grind, heavier now. enough to have you whimpering a little, the friction of his heavy duty trousers delicious against your barely there shorts. âget so sweet when i put you on my lap like you belong.â
at that, you shut your eyes, unable to rebut or saying more when you knew it was the truth.
no matter how mouthy you were, jungkook always put you in your place the same way each time. a roll of his hips, a thrust of his tongue - you were his girl through and through, no matter what you told him. it was his obligation, his duty, to satisfy you in the ways youâd let him and god did he exploit the fuck out of those decisions.
heat flooded your entire body, just as you spread your legs for him properly, straddling him the way he liked, your head on his shoulder, hands on his chest. you watched him eat, eyeing his adamâs apple half in hunger yourself, only for him. only ever him. he was filth personified, what with his obsessive and controlling tendencies but it was what made you want him so badly - even now, he found himself feeding you from his own plate despite being starved, always putting your comfort in front of his.
all whilst forcing your clothed cunt down on him harder.
you spent the next few minutes like that, in a state of bliss like you hadnât just spent the last ten minutes being mean to him for no apparently reason, but he loved it, holding you tight to him as he indulged in your needy tendencies. he didnât care what you did, or how you chose to use him as long as it was him you selected.
you were his fucking girl, and heâd never let you forget it.
â
shopping had easily become one of your favourite hobbies after the divorce.
that wasnât to say you didnât indulge prior, but having jungkookâs debit cards in your pink chanel purse post divorce meant you could spend as frivolously as you wanted with full knowledge that he couldnât complain or youâd revoke all access to yourself. it was pure evil coming from you, that much you could agree, but it wasnât like you cared to be honest - he wanted to give you his money, who were you not to spend it at dior?
it was his fault, really, considering jungkook had managed to make the separation somehow more beneficial than the actual relationship.
his cards sat so pretty in your bag, begging, yearning to be used by you and you, of course, were never one to deny your soul of what was so easily accessible to you. how could you deny a gift when given with so much love, so freely as though it was what he had intended in the first place.
and so, you found yourself on your weekly shopping spree, humming under your breath. dressed in your cute little skirt, top accentuating your breasts in a way you know would have jungkook passing away if he saw you, all whilst your big heels clicked and clacked on the pavement; you indulged in the strip of shops that had become home to you.
fendi, gucci, louis, hermes, chanel, prada - you knew them all, and oh, how they knew you.
you had already spent an ungodly amount.
a new perfume just because the bottle was pretty, alongside some high end skincare you secretly knew was utter bullshit. two sets of expensive heels that accentuated the length of your legs so deliciously, youâd be a fool not to purchase them. countless dresses and cute little jumpers for your sweet babies too, things you knew that they would love and feel comfortable in all whilst sporting a hefty price tag.
the best thing about all of this? jungkook didnât give a fuck.
if anything, you were the sure he had something clinically wrong with him considering the way he would ask you what you had purchased, notification after notification plaguing his phone and despite seeing the ridiculous price tags, it never deterred him from making sure he worked hard enough to accommodate you. ex wife or not, you were his to provide for - you just came with a specific price.
you knew he was genuinely crazy when you had bought a whole new wardrobe full of clothes after a horrible day, needing some retail therapy more than anything else, spending an ungodly amount only to see a single text from him in response.
âgood girl.â
god, you had nearly moaned.
spending his money seemed to satisfy something deeply primitive in him. the bastard was everything you had ever wanted.
still, despite being an utter bitch to him any chance you got, even you recognised that there were rules and boundaries.
you knew that jungkook would let you buy whatever you wanted, to your hearts content no matter how stupid, but your heart still ached whenever he would come utterly exhausted after a particularly gruelling shift at the shop. being a business owner was one thing, having the largest mechanic shop was another - being the head mechanic, and actually getting your hands dirty each and every waking day from morning till night? that was a whole different ballpark, and you often found yourself returning things secretly, or putting things down whenever youâd get the familiar feeling of guilt.
unfortunately for you, said feeling was no where to be seen when all you could think about was how pretty the pink bag in front of you was.
it was ridiculous, completely and entirely - even you knew that.
the second you saw it, your hands darted out, fingers gently grazing the gold hardware, pink leather soft against your touch all whilst your heart began to beat in that all familiar way. you wanted it. needed it.
oh, how your chest fluttered at pretty things. you had always been this way, no matter the price tag, and jungkook had done nothing but absolutely untrue it throughout your relationship so really, you had no one else to blame but him.
and so you stood, bottom lip jutted out slightly as you tapped your manicured finger against your chin in thought, humming lightly before looking over to the sales assistant. even she knew this was out of your typical budget, which wasnât to say you couldnât afford it because with jungkookâs work ethic, you could do whatever you wanted. this was just a large amount, all at once, all on one thing.
with a little huff, you pulled out your phone.
god this was humiliating. never a day in your life had you asked jungkook for permission on anything, especially not when it came to your shopping purchases, but that horrible gnawing feeling all too similar to guilt was already finding home in your stomach. you were simply going to inform him because you were so nice.
you werenât even sure why you were feeling this way when he had never even uttered the word no in your presence.
your eyes dragged to the price tag one last time before letting out another huff, finding his contact and pressing the ring button all whilst grumbling.
the phone rang.
once.
twice.
three times.
your mouth fell open. nothing.
you immediately called again, now suddenly feeling even more humiliated, and more annoyed with each passing ring. once the second call rang out too, your eye officially began twitching.
you were the love of his life, the mother of his children - the only person he could cum to the thought of and yet here was, not answering your calls? what, did he have a new girl? someone else to keep him company? was that it? spoiling another girl with his bank card so he could get hard?
the deluded thought had you almost shaking as you took your furious fingers over to your messages, texting out immediately.
âhello?????â
silence.
âi need youâ
silence again - you were starting to feel seriously pissed off. who cared about a job this much?
âanswer your phone, dickheadâ
your eye was fully twitching in annoyance at the consistent blue messaging bubbles in front of you, all decorated with a single word at the bottom. delivered.
then, because you knew nothing else other than being a natural nuisance to him, you began spamming.
âjungkookâ
âjungkookâ
âjungkookâ
âjungkookâ
still nothing. the audacity of it all.
you wanted to sit and deflate before the very bag of your dreams, heart half hurting over it not already being in a shopping bag with your name on it and other half straining at the thought of jungkook not providing the attention you so desperately needed from him to live. he always had his phone on him, you thought, mind going into a million different conclusions that each felt as warped as the next.
you couldnât remember a single instance where he hadnât answered you - meetings, working, mid shower, mid wank. no matter the inconvenience, heâd be quick to hear your voice even if it was so you could bitch at him because even you knew he was down bad when it came to you. the man could have been elbow deep in an engine and somehow still find a way to have the phone on speaker next to him.
you could physically feel yourself growing more and more irritated the more you demanded for his attention, all whilst each message sat unread, until you let out a small whine. you had never done this before - never begged for him to look at you, focus on you and now? youâd be lying if you said you didnât feel a horrible twinge of anxiety in your stomach at the thought of you dropping in his priorities.
he was your jungkook, afterall.
in that hazy train of thought, you put your phone away, turning sharply on your heel and towards the door, making your way outside with your multiple bags on your arms. the shop was only a few streets away, and you were quick on your feet. you wouldnât usually walk so much in these heels, but these were trying times and you didnât have a moment to waste.
it wasnât even about the bag anymore. it was the principle.
at least, that was what you kept telling yourself.
-
the horrible mixture of irritation, brattiness and insecurity swirled deep inside your chest as you practically marched over to the mechanics shop, your hair bouncing with each step all whilst your insane heels clicked loudly. your multiple shopping bags were beginning to hurt your arms, another thing you were sure to take out on jungkook despite the fact it was a self inflicted problem.
your shoes, ones you never really had a problem with, were beginning to dig into your feet and you were sure it was because you were already annoyed. they had long stopped looking cute and started feeling devilish, but unfortunately for you, your pride well outweighed the hassle of it all.
you marched right inside, only to be hit with the all too familiar smell of oil and metal. it lived permanently in the walls and into your ex husbandâs clothing, and no matter how much you denied it, it felt like home - comforting beyond means, so much so that you found yourself craving to be wrapped in it whenever you would see him.
the large workshop was busy despite the afternoon dragging on with engines high in the air, toolboxes scattered on each section, concrete floors muddied and dirtied whilst you could hear someone on the far end of the room call out about a missing wrench. again, it felt like home.
a few heads lifted immediately upon your arrival, with all six raising as you stepped forward a little. the move instantly changed, as all of them greeted you warmly, some waving, sweet jin even going so far as to take the bags off of your arms and put them in jungkookâs office.
you knew them all personally, of course. you had been here for years, when your ex had first opened the shop, hiring all of them. you had brought lunches, been pregnant with your babies here, waddling around whilst they all debated baby names with you. a family dynamic that resulted in there being no sense of awkwardness whatsoever, despite the divorce.
your gaze swept around the garage, looking, searching, finally finding him.
your breath caught. annoyingly.
because, unfortunately for you, no matter how many years had passed between you, no matter how many arguments where youâd poke and prod, and certainly no matter how many times you pushed him to brink of genuine desperation; the sight of him was always enough to have butterflies erupt in your stomach as though it was the first time.
your heart skipped a beat as you watched him, lowered over an engine with a tool in hand, grease and something dark smeared on his hands all whilst his work t-shirt stretched around his torso unfairly. his biceps were bulging, your kryptonite, all whilst he seemed completely focused on what he was doing.
it wasnât until he could hear everyone greeting you that had him looking to the side, where you stood, giving you full access to his face. the same dark substance was smeared slightly on his jaw, his dark hair pushed out of his face all whilst his tatted frame turned to fully face you.
if you thought you had been undone by a mere look at you, it was jungkook who felt his entire life stop.
you, his minx of a girl, dressed in a skirt too tiny for his liking with a cute matching top, one that pushed your breast up, giving him the perfect view despite the distance between you. the way your hair sat, your lips plump with lip gloss he longed to kiss off of you, and your high heels that still couldnât match his height.
he was assessing you hungrily, a darkened look on his face as he admired you head to toe over and over, openly for everyone to see. he had no shame, he didnât give a fuck when it came to you - you might have divorced him but you were every inch his wife and you knew it too.
you recognised that look, and with each heavy step towards you, it simply expanded to every one of his limbs. he was a man starved, hungry for one thing in his life and that was you. he still looked at you like it was the first time seeing you, even after all these years.
his jaw was harsh, tightened, as though your presence here had fucked him.
good, you thought bitterly, still annoyed. you wanted him to suffer.
he grabbed a rag on his way to you, cleaning his hands of clinging grease before shoving the cloth over his shoulder. once he was in front of you, you readied yourself, lips parting to no doubt spit some venom at him over your own insecurities but he offered no time. instead, jungkook grabbed you by your waist and pushed you firmly in the direction of his office, no words exchanged.
âjungkook!â you hissed, turning a little as your body was all but forced to walk in a direction, the click of your heels heavy on the dirty workfloor.
he didnât respond, eyes meeting yours in heavy warning, a reminder that this was his workplace, where he was a working professional, where his rules reigned first and foremost. you hated how badly the thought swirled in your stomach, coaxing you out of your negative thoughts and straight back where you felt most at home.
once you were in his office, he turned to close the door. with a single flick of his finger, the lock turned, confining you into the space, all whilst you narrowed your eyes at him. with a small huff, you turned around, flicking your hair at him before walking over to his large seat behind his mahogany desk, sitting down on it as though it belonged to you.
it was laughable, really, how easily you managed to rile him up. just the sight of you, bare legs crossed and high heeled feet - he wanted to fucking ruin you just to remind you that you were all his.
âyou should clean up.â you huffed once more, fingers pushing the stacks of contracts away from your space, annoyingly mixing up important papers.
he simply stood in front of the door, before walking over to the desk, resting on the corner of it, eyes meeting yours. he didnât bother even looking at what you were doing, despite it no doubt causing him problems in the future - he couldnât keep his eyes off of you.
âyou walked here.â
it wasnât a question. a loaded statement no doubt used to coax you into revealing your full emotions.
your eye twitched. âi have legs.â
âyour heels are new.â
âand?â
his lips quirked up slightly. âtheyâre hurting your feet.â
âno they arenât.â you snapped back, despite your toes hurting slightly.
his eyebrows lifted. you were such a liar, dressed in sin. he wanted to kiss you.
jungkook pushed off of the desk, walking past the pile of bags that jin had placed in the office for you no longer than a few minutes ago, his eyes still trained on you as he refused to look away. your own eyes faltered, dropping onto the bags momentarily as that familiar feeling of guilt wrapped around your stomach before it returned to his gaze, insecurity wrapped in anger only coming back harder.
he looked like he was approaching a skittish animal, as though he was trained to deal with you entirely. unfortunately for him, you had claws.
âdonât.â you hissed.
âdonât what?â
âdo that.â
âdo what?â he was fighting a dimpled grin.
you grit your teeth. you extended your hand, finger pointing at him harshly, accusatively, all whilst he walked over to you, until your digit was actually pressing into him. your nail dug into his stomach, not by your own doing, but his as he pushed his skin harsher against you, the sting a healthy reminder of how much he yearned for your touch.
âreal scary, baby.â
you nearly shuddered, his voice heavy and loaded.
âiâm serious.â
âyeah, i know.â
you hated when his voice did that, low and certain all whilst his eyelids drooped just from looking at you. you retracted your finger, only for his own hand to dart out and grab a hold of your own until it was pressed against his stomach completely flat.
âyou ignored me.â you murmured in annoyance, all whilst you let him manoeuvre you. âdid i?â
âmhm.â
he nodded, half condescending and other half fucking enamoured by you. âand thatâs why youâre here?â
âdonât act stupid.â
your hissing had his eyes narrowing.
âcareful.â
the single word landed heavy, your mouth snapping shut. if anyone was to ask you your favourite quality about jungkook, it would always be the sheer dominance he radiated without even trying - all man, half assertion and other half brute, he plagued your every thought and yet it still never felt enough.
his grip on your hand harshened, as though he needed to feel you on him in a way that hurt, with fingers digging into his skin through his t-shirt. you gulped a little at the feel of his warmth.
âwalked into my garage wearing this shit, your feet hurting, and youâre not gonna tell me whatâs got you so bratty?â he muttered down at you, voice low.
your eyebrows pulled at his choice of words, peering down at your outfit. this was the exact clothing choice that had you guys arguing so often, what with your breasts accentuated and your ass barely hidden by the cute skirt - you couldnât help the fact that you liked things on the shorter and tighter side, especially when theyâd rile him up so bad.
âyou ignored me.â you repeated, with a frown imbedded into your skin.
ânever ignored you a day in my fucking life. what you talking about?â he scoffed a little down at you, all whilst your head had to tilt just to look at him from your seated position.
âcalled you twice, jungkook, and i text you.â it was your turn now to push your finger into him willingly. âyou ignored me, so donât pretend like you didnât. iâm not an idiot.â
âi was under a car.â
âyou always answer.â you rebutted.
his eyes narrowed. there really wasnât any winning with you, he knew that better than most, but he also wasnât an idiot. you wouldnât have marched here for no reason, especially over a missed call or two whilst he was at work considering he never really had his phone on him. he had a receptionist out front, practically hired for the sole reason of being able to inform him whenever you needed him. you knew that, so why was this so upsetting to you now?
âdonât look at me like that.â you huffed.
neither of you mentioned the way his hand on top of yours began to caress your skin, intertwining your fingers as he continued to press further into himself.
ânot looking at you like anything.â
âyeah you are, like iâm being stupid.â
he cursed under his breath as he took his other hand and rubbed it up and down his face, as though this was the cherry on top of a long and stressful day. you could feel your blood pressure rising in annoyance at the thought - he had no right to be annoyed with you, not when you were too busy being annoyed at him. how dare he?
ây/n.â he warned lightly. âthis shit is pissing me off. you ignore me every chance you get, so why the fuck are you so upset?â
you felt your cheeks begin to heat, half in embarrassment and other in deeper annoyance at being called out. was it your fault that you rolled your eyes whenever he text you, too busy grumbling to actually respond? the nasty feeling in your stomach only grew as he watched you swallow harshly, too humiliated to tell him the real reason all whilst he refused to read between the lines until you actually said something.
the office felt too small, and for the first time during the entire interaction, jungkook swore he could read genuine discomfort on your face.
it was as though the conversation at hand was something you werenât expecting, simply assuming this was another instance where heâd bow down and allow you to be bratty but, alas - he could see this time that this was different. you werenât annoyed, you werenât even upset; you looked hurt.
it was an emotion he couldnât quite understand, knowing fully he had absolutely done nothing wrong, not having even seen his phone since lunch time. rationality mattered little between the both of you, especially whenever it concerned you, but this was strange even for you. your sudden silence, your lips pressing into each other as you looked away from him, eyes unsure, gaze confused - it had his stomach dropping.
the humiliation was heavy in your frame as you realised how stupid you were being. you had marched here in these heels, a pair that were currently ruining your feet as you spoke, wincing a little as you shifted your toes to make it more comfortable. twenty minutes of amping your own emotions up only to arrive and realise the disgusting, simple fact of jungkook had been divorced by you.
you. you alone.
you had made the decision.
you had chosen to kick him out, break up the marriage over petty arguments that were a norm if anything.
you had done that, with the full expectation of him still fulfilling his husbandly duties as though you had any right to him, any access.
that alone was a horrible pill to swallow.
unfortunately for you, if anyone knew you inside and out, it was the very man in front of you. he reached over to you, tilting your chin forwards, and then up, so that your unsure eyes met his, all whilst you maintained your bratty nature by keeping your mouth shut. he wanted nothing more than to ruin your lips for even starting with him today, with that sleek gloss covering each inch of surface.
you hated when he looked at you like this, as though he was able to dismantle the corners of your feigned disdain, softening them, eroding them until all that was left was you. only you.
before you could look away, you watched as your hunk of an ex husband, all muscle and all tattoos, dropped to his knees in front of you. his arms came around your waist, yanking you forward until either of your legs were around him, his hands heavy on your back. your skirt rode up naturally, allowing him to slot in against you, forcing you to maintain eye contact despite the intimate position.
you flailed for a moment, gasping, everything happening so suddenly but his grip on you was harsh, mean even.
âyou thought i was with someone else?â he immediately challenged.
his eyes were narrowed, scowl evident on his lips as he looked at you harshly, as though the notion was enough to genuinely piss him off. despite his nature, he wasnât one to ever get angry with you, usually directing his annoyance elsewhere but in moments like this, you exasperated him enough that he had no option but to tell you.
âjungkook-â
âmissed two fucking calls,â he hissed at you, pulling you closer, harsher. âand youâre already mapping random shit in your head? you trying to piss me off on purpose?â
heat flooded your face in embarrassment, already feeling heat in your chest with the way he looked so annoyed. you hated how attractive he was.
âthatâs not what i said.â
âyeah?â he scoffed at you openly, one hand moving to the side to grip your waist instead. âyou walked over here in those heels over nothing?â
you hid the insecurity on your face underneath a layer of annoyance, bratty to the core even when you knew you werenât in the right.
âwhatâs it to you? if you donât want me visiting, i wonât come again.â you huffed, pressing him by his shoulders to push him back and away from you.
unfortunately for you, jungkook was made half from stone - unmovable, with biceps thicker than your head, chest and shoulders so broad that it often had your eyelashes fluttering up at him even when you didnât realise.
âdonât try that shit with me, y/n. youâre in your own head about something that isnât real, and youâre taking it out on me.â
his tone was laced with something that had your throat swallowing a lump, your eyes struggling to maintain eye contact due to the heavy, and intense heat in his gaze. he was openly pissed off, and you wished you werenât battling so many emotions at the same time, instead wanting to capitalise on it.
instead of responding, you huffed a little, looking away despite it all. you lifted your chin slightly, ignoring your wandering fingers that were already tracing his tattoos out of habit, grumbling a little under your breath. you hated that he had managed to figure you out so easily, as though he knew the ridges of your brain far more than you yourself, able to peel apart each nasty thought that occupied your thought simply because he could.
you couldnât let him win. you wouldnât.
âmaybe i wouldnât think like this if you just answered your phone.â you huffed back at him, returning the eye contact once you had finally settled into your usual bratty self. âgod forbid i assume my ex husband might actually move on one day. how am i supposed to know what you get up to all day here?â
you laughed once. sharp. mean. defensive.
âwouldnât exactly be shocking, would it?â you hissed once more. âweâre divorced.â
for a moment, silence filled the room, all whilst jungkook remained awfully still in front of you.
a sick part of you felt rewarded in thinking you had managed to hit him right where it hurt, to act as a reminder that despite everything, you were the one in control, but that emotion completely slipped away once you watched him stand up.
he stood to his full height, causing you to tip your head back to maintain the eye contact from your sat position. instead of moving back, his hands dropped from your back and waist.
his left hand rose, fingers immediately darting until they reached your throat, wrapping firmly. enough to push your head towards his, and not enough to hurt, his darkened eyes showcasing the same scary, obsessive streak that had you moaning into your pillow every night.
you could feel dampness between your legs, your heartbeat quickening immediately at the showcase of such dominance above you, your eyelids growing almost hooded whilst he leaned down until your breaths were mingling.
âcareful.â he reminded, for the second time that night, long fingers digging into either side of your neck.
you, who had never learnt a lesson for long enough to actually make a difference a day in your life, couldnât help the look of utter petulance on your face.
âor what?â you spat at him.
within seconds, you were put in a state of vertigo as you were yanked up from your seat. before you could realise what was happening, jungkook had you in his lap, yanked forwards so that your ass was jutted out into the air. your skirt had been pushed up, leaving your tiny panties on show.
âj-jungkook!â you squeaked but he took no notice, your arms going up to wrap around his neck all whilst he planted his palm heavy against your now bare ass.
smack.
you squeaked louder.
he didnât bother saying anything, soothing your ass cheek as though he hadnât just smacked it. that was, until he repeated his action, the noise sounding off of the walls of the office.
smack.
over, and over, and over, and over.
he didnât stop, repeating his action of soothing your ass only to slap it harder, all until you were a mewling mess, whimpering at him like a wounded puppy, his eyes harsher than youâd ever seen him. you felt sore, both of his hands now massaging you despite his growing annoyance.
the office was silent apart from the sound of your shaking breath, all whilst you clung to him, your eyes still matching his in a heavy, tension filled gaze that neither of you could look away from. he wanted to coo at you, wanted to hold you, kiss it better but fuck; he wouldnât have you thinking like this ever again.
âthe problem with you is you think a piece of paper changed shit between us.â he whispered down at you suddenly, voice meaner than youâd ever heard him. your eyelashes fluttered. âmakes you think a judge signing off on some fucking divorce means youâre any less mine.â
âkook..â you whined quietly, causing him to massage deeper.
âthatâs not how this works, baby. get that through your thick skull before i fuck it back into you, you understand me?â he warned, all whilst pushing his head against yours.
your noses touched, rubbing together almost romantically as he nuzzled against you, positioning you better on his lap despite the incessant sting on your ass. he slid your legs over his legs as he brought you closer and closer, his intensely large frame entirely engulfing you.
âweâre not together though..â you whispered at him, the horrible insecurity that remained deep in your bones, the same one you refused to ever show him, bleeding into your tone. âitâs only a matter of time before you meet someone new. even i know that.â
your admission was raw, honest - far more than youâd ever been in a very long time. he knew that, he could see it, especially with the way you felt utterly scared at even letting the words leave your mouth, nibbling on your lip immediately after as though you almost regretted being so truthful.
âwhat you want, y/n? want a ring? iâll marry you today.â he scoffed down at you, as though your words were utter bullshit, anger still heavy in his veins. âyou are my girl. you hear me? you. youâre mine, every bit of you, and iâm yours.â
you swallowed down the lump in your throat, as he began to kiss at your cheek, your nose and jaw, planting promises deep into your skin so that youâd absorb them as truth. he didnât care that you guys werenât together due to a technicality - you were his wife, entirely, fully. no one would ever be able to take that away from him.
the next few hours were spent in a way that felt like home.
he had first spent the first hour just holding you, watching you trace the tattoo peaking from his chest, the colours up and down his arm all whilst nuzzling deeper into him like you hadnât been a bitch to him for no reason. his hands had roamed up and down you, cupping you warmly, touching you at times inappropriately just to have your usual brattiness shine through.
alas, work called, and so he placed you onto the couch in the office, murmuring something about ordering you food before kissing your head, turning to leave. the whine you let out was enough to have him curse under his breath, knowing he spoilt you far too often and thatâs why you were doing what you were.
it wasnât until you were dragging him back to you that he understood exactly what you wanted.
it had been two years since the divorce - no intimacy beside him going down on you here and there, but apart from that, it was all hidden kisses down your neck and gropes on your ass whenever heâd walk past.
that didnât stop him from leaning down, one hand on the head of the sofa beside your head and pressing his lips to yours.
the breathy sound that escaped you from being kissed by him was truly enough to drive a man like jungkook wild, his lips moving, guiding, encouraging you to catch up with him. you did exactly that, hands yanking him further down until you could wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him as though this was the most natural thing you knew how to do.
he was your husband, after all.
parting from his lips, you both watched as a thin string of saliva separated you.
standing up tall had your eyes falling to the evident bulge in his utility trousers, your eyelashes fluttering up at him as you pretended to be indifferent to it. you hummed a little, raising your hand. âyou can go now.â
the corner of his lip lifted.
such a fucking minx.
the rest of the day had him popping into the office, bringing you food, spending time with you whenever it was quiet. you gave him a haul at one point, showing him all the things you had bought with his hard earned money, even mentioning the bag you had eyed up earlier.
his response?
he had tilted his head in confusion, asking you why you didnât buy it despite you telling him the price tag.
you had never been wetter.
by the time the garage was closing, he had you in the car, bags already put into the boot, whilst a heavy hand sat on your thigh, driving you home.
it felt like something had completely shifted between you now the unspoken had been spoken. it made you feel good, but you wanted more, craved it - you had spent so long pushing him away, even when you were married, that you had forgotten what it was like just to give into his affections. even slightly, it felt fulfilling in a way that left you hungry.
once your driveway came into view, you already knew he was gonna stay the night. it was common enough, usually forcing him to stay in the guest room like you wouldnât be up all night wishing he would just come in already. alas, you had married, and divorced, a respectful man.
âkids coming back tomorrow morning?â he asked as he parked up, both of you walking to the door, all of the bags in his hand.
âafternoon.â you corrected over your shoulder, eyes meeting his. you watched as his eyes lifted from your ass in your tiny skirt, cheeks already slightly bruised and red from your earlier spankings, only for his gaze to lift back up to you.
he didnât respond, simply following you in, locking the door behind him as you slipped off your heels.
âmy feet hurt.â you huffed a little to yourself whilst flexing your toes a little.
he let out a slight laugh, placing your bags down on the kitchen table before grabbing you by the waist, lips attacking your neck almost immediately. your back hit his chest as he took a hold of your personal space, breathing in your floral scent now that you were all alone, with no one to interrupt.
no kids.
no garage.
nothing but the two of you and the dying tension between you.
âugh!â you huffed, brattiness at an all time high, despite tilting your head so he could kiss you further. âyou stink.â
âyeah?â he continued his kisses, fingers digging into your hips. âgonna join me in the shower?â
you rolled your eyes, just as he twirled you, towering over you so easily that you found yourself tilting your head just to be able to meet his gaze. his hardened jaw, the feel of his abs where your hands sat on his stomach - you hated him.
âyou wish.â you retorted, just as his hands drifted down to your ass.
a large hand smoothed your ass, causing you to wince up at him a little, falling further into his chest causing him to laugh. you swatted his chest with a huff, hissing at him.
âmeet me in there in two.â he whispered into your ear, squeezing once more before you huffed again, walking upstairs to your own room.
within the next five minutes, the water had been turned on, and jungkook had pulled his t-shirt off, grunting a little as he undressed in what he had always deemed to be a too small bathroom. it wasnât until the door opened and he watched you walk in, just as the water had begun to spray down onto his chest, that he felt his stomach tighten.
he watched as you undressed, clothes pooling at your feet, your bra and panties dropping in seconds all whilst you joined him in the shower, almost paying him no mind as though he too wasnât here. it wasnât until you stepped back into him, letting the water hit your body instead of his that he properly yanked you back, bodies suddenly flushed against each other.
he tilted your head for the millionth time that day, lips grazing over your pulse, kissing as though he truly couldnât get enough. he hummed against it, tongue tracing over it as his hands openly began running up and down you, clutching your breasts, your thighs, your stomach.
he loved when you acted like this. all snooty, as though he was beneath you despite your legs parting just as his hands drifted down. his, bratty girl. what a dream.
âmissed this.â he whispered into your ear, just as you reached for the body wash.
âneed to wash my body.â you huffed back, looking over your shoulder at him in that familiar bitchy way, only for him to lean downwards towards your face.
he grinned, twisting you properly in his arms so that you were actually facing him. the glare you gave him was enough to have his cock twitching against you, causing you to look down momentarily.
you could have sighed out of content, feeling it against you, so, so thick. so large, pressed against his stomach as he openly admired you, his own hands roaming over you as though he had every right.
the last time you had both hooked up was after you had signed the divorce papers. he had pounded you in the courthouse bathroom, with a hand over your mouth, and a hiss in your ear reminding you that no matter what, you still belonged to him, to which you had nodded, promising him. you were both so fucked for each other it was unreal.
queue two years later, you hadnât actually seen his cock in so long despite having craved it for what felt like eons. despite what you felt, you knew you couldnât bring yourself to cave in, yearning for something more than just sex and you couldnât afford to get attached without it.
here you were, with that exact thing.
you were both so fucked in the head when it came to one another, with jungkook even going so far as to make a dildo for you that replicated his cock, just so you could pleasure yourself the exact way you wanted. it killed him inside to know you used it every night instead of using him, but with you in his arms right now, he hardly gave a fuck.
he watched as you lifted one of your hands, fingers brushing against the tip, all whilst your big eyes fluttered up at him in a sort of faux innocence. he cupped your hand, bringing it to his lips, before wrapping it around his cock properly.
you let out another sigh of content as you pumped him, up and down, all whilst water cascaded down onto both of your bodies. his head pressed against yours, lips brushing against one another so naturally it felt innate to the both of you.
his breath hitched just slightly as you used both hands, your heart fluttering at the feel of him so intimately against you.
âmy pretty girl.â he pressed sweet pecks to your lips, whilst you tilted your head up at him, his hands openly massaging your ass again.
âso big.â you whispered back at him with a little sigh, thumb tracing over his slitted tip. âyeah? been stretching yourself out every night on your own?â
âtrying to.â you mumbled back. his hand cupped yours, guiding you faster. âjust too big sometimes to do it on my own.â
his eyes closed at your words, letting out a shaking breath, gripping you so much tighter before opening them up once more. he nudged his nose against yours, before pressing his lips harshly to yours.
your lips immediately moved in unison, bodies aligning as you both pumped his cock as though you couldnât get enough of one another. tongues wrapped until they became one, your soft moans gliding through the falling water as jungkook pushed, and pushed and pushed until you were pressed against the wall.
by the time he was parting from your lips, you were a panting mess, your chest rising and falling. your hand dropped from his cock as he lifted you in his arms, your back pressed against the cool tile whilst he took your left breast in his mouth. sucking, biting, moaning - he was a mess against you, your hands pulling at his long strands that were growing damper by the second from the falling water.
the moan of his name on your tongue had him hissing, moving to your right breast. you had become a mural, a physical manifestation of his morbid love as he decorated you in purple bruises, your big eyes closing in sheer pleasure.
âdonât wanna wait anymore.â you whimpered at him, shaking your head as you began to pull his hair off of you.
he hissed a little from the shot of pain, not afraid to admit his cock twitched from the shock of it. at that, he gave your ass another smack, watching the way you squeaked before narrowing your eyes at him with a loud huff.
âneed to stretch you out before i fuck you.â he grunted at you, both of your cheeks flushed from the steam of the shower.
âi donât care. want it now.â
âstop being a fucking brat.â he hissed again, spanking you for the umpteenth time, your poor ass bruised.
you slid down from his arms, narrowing your eyes at him as you cheekily turned away. he stuck his tongue deep into his cheek as he watched you, soap suds washing down your body before you reached for a towel, sliding out before he could even stop you, only to watch you slip out of the bathroom immediately.
he wanted to curse. his cock had never been so hard in his life, and oh, the things he wanted to do to you - he felt like a born again virgin, having been celibate the second you had pushed him away after the courthouse fiasco. he matched your movements, washing his body before grabbing a towel, drying himself off and walking to your room.
the sight of you on the bed, sat, still in the towel, huffing a little as you checked your nails, pretending to be completely disinterested in him had his jaw ticking again. such a fucking brat.
you opened your mouth, no doubt to spew some utter bullshit to rile him up, but he didnât give you a chance. within seconds, he had his hands on you, dropping you fully onto the bed, hovering over you, both towels on the ground almost immediately.
the sight of him on top of you, inbetween your legs had you rendered speechless for the first time in eons, a shaking gasp leaving you. it was the feel of his cock running up and down your already weeping pussy that had you actually letting out loud whimpers and whines, rotating your hips in hopes you could finally get what you wanted.
âspoilt rotten. thatâs your fucking problem.â he hissed at you, grabbing your face with one of his hands, forcing you to look at him. âalways get what you want.â
âbecause you always wanna give it to me.â you whimpered back at him, grabbing onto his shoulders before raising your legs higher, begging for more.
he hated how true your statement was.
before you could think, jungkook lined himself and began to push inside, all whilst watching your eyes widen only for them to shut tightly.
euphoric. that was the only, single emotion he could describe the feeling of his cock being hugged by your velvet walls after so long, your pussy clinging to him almost as desperately as he pushed and pushed until he was entirely inside of you. you couldnât breathe, not when you swore you could feel him inside your stomach, your fingers digging so deeply into his shoulders you swore youâd scar him.
even when you masturbated on your own with the dildo, you struggled to take him fully, but having him all but bullying his cock inside of you, making sure you took it all? nothing had never felt better, with his sheer size stretching a home deep inside of you, one that you had missed more than anything else.
âjungkook.â you mewled out, lip already about to quiver.
god.
he had dreamt of this exact situation.
you, underneath him, chest rising and falling whilst your tits were decorated in bruises, symbols of his devotion to you. his cock, thick and heavy, deep inside of you as he watched you quiver trying to accommodate for him despite knowing it was all too much. god, he had dreamt indeed and yet it paled in comparison to what he was seeing.
two years.
two years of being denied this, and here he was, finally claiming his girl once more.
instead of letting you adjust, jungkook grabbed the bottoms of your thighs, lifting them slightly before beginning to thrust.
had you been a normal girl, he would have been gentler, kinder, maybe even sweeter but he knew you better than anyone else. you were a slut for him, through and through - couldnât cum unless he was mean to your pussy.
and so, he did what any good ex husband would do.
he pounded.
your moans turned into loud whines of pleasure, back arching as jungkook set out a pace that you certainly couldnât keep up with, scratching over his shoulders and biceps almost desperately. the chant of his name echoed around the room, only adding to his pace, his head pressing against yours.
âlook at you.â he grunted loudly, hips slapping against hips, skin smacking against skin. âneeded this so bad, didnât you?â
âso bad.â you whined, with a shaking nod.
âthatâs my girl.â he kissed your nose almost romantically, only making you whimper as he pushed your thighs against your chest, before pressing down on you.
the new position had your back curling upwards as you somehow managed to feel him so much deeper, your hands now shaking in the confinements of his hair. you couldnât stop thrashing, as though all of the begging to get him to fuck you without actually prepping you were all stupid ramblings now that you couldnât take it.
he loved the sight. there was nothing jungkook loved more than watching you grow more cockdrunk by the minute, what with the way your eyes were rolling to the back of your head, drool beginning to drip by the corner of your mouth.
he had never been more in love with you.
he pounded you over and over, coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you until you were an overwhelmed mess, sobbing in his arms whilst trying to shut your legs around him, the overstimulation only gripping you by the throat meanly. by your fourth orgasm, you were babbling utter nonsense, a mixture of tears, mascara and drool all over you.
he had tapped your jaw with his hand, only for you to open up, watching him spit in your mouth. you clenched around him hard just as you swallowed, the sight something he knew heâd replay for time to come over and over over.
âso fucking tight.â he hissed down at you.
your positions had changed, with the both of you on your sides as he thrusted into you, his lips attacking the side of your face and shoulder all whilst you clung to the pillow in front of you, poor pussy leaking on either side of him. you were being ruined in real time.
âgonna get you nice and round baby. youâd like that, hm? like it when kookie fucks his cum into you?â he cooed down at you, condescending enough to have your brain begging for mercy. all you could muster was a loud moan, back arching into him at the promise of another baby. âplease. want it so bad.â
âyeah?â he hissed, thrusts only getting meaner. âfuckâŚgotta put a ring on your finger first.â
at that, your legs began to shake.
âgonna take you out tomorrow morning. gonna cum nice and deep inside of you, and take you ring shopping so you can get what you want, hm?â he hissed down at you through his heavy breaths. âgonna be a good girl for me?â
âmhm..iâll be so good, k-kookie. promise.â you whimpered.
jungkook gave you a hard thrust. he knew it was a lie.
âshouldâve never let you go, baby. been missing my girl so much. shouldâve kept you nice and full like you deserve.â he bit down on your shoulder. âbut jungkookâs gonna fix it. just need you to cum for me, sweetheart.â
it was like he had control over your mind and body. your orgasm erupted through your body, clamping harshly onto his cock, causing him to choke as his thrusts faltered, already on the edge. waves of excruciating pleasure ran through you, grabbing you at every angle all whilst you coaxed him into his own orgasm, his loud grunts echoing off of the walls.
you could feel his hot cum reach all the way into your womb - a promise of what was to come, an assurance for the future. the thought of having more of his children only stretched out your orgasm as you cried out his name, his large fingers harsh on your clit to really force you over the edge.
by the time you were both settling down, you were a shaking mess.
cum plugged inside of you as he refused to pull out just yet, your bodies both sweating, hair a mess, makeup utterly ruined. jungkook had never seen you look so pretty, wanting nothing more than to propose to you right then and there, but even he knew you deserved far better than that.
it was when only ten minutes later, he turned you fully after pulling out, did he plant soft kisses to your face, all whilst fingering his cum back inside of you. you cried in oversensitivity, only causing him to coo at you, whispering sweet nothings about how good you had taken him, about how he needed the cum to stick to get you round and pregnant.
you could feel your eyes drooping as he took care of you, manoeuvring your body until it was utterly engulfed by his, your body sore and mind free.
for the first time in two years, you felt like you were home.
â
true to his promise, you were both out of the house by the early morning.
also true to his word, you were currently stuffed with cum, littered in an array of hickeys both from the previous evening and that morning, causing you to choose an uncharacteristically modest outfit for the day. you had hissed at him all the way to the shop, huffing at having to hide your body in full length clothing only for him to smirk quietly to himself.
he couldnât get enough of you.
still bitching, still whining - he had stopped pretending like he didnât like it, especially when you could see right through him. he was yours, yes, but oh how you were his. he had woken you up to his mouth on your clit, coaxing you to a sweet orgasm before fucking you with the promises of a life even grander than the one you were currently living. that alone had gotten three orgasms out of you.
now, you were in the ring shop, frowning, flicking your hair and rolling your eyes at him with every ring you were shown, rudely grumbling over how it just wasnât the one.
the one you had on was beautiful, which only irritated you more.
you made the effort of moving your hand in three separate angles, turning it to the light, turning your wrist away. the diamond caught every flicker, as it shon and sang to you, all whilst you pursed your lips.
âi donât like it.â
the jeweller openly frowned at you.
this had been the tenth ring he had shown you, and none of them made you happy. none were the ring you had envisioned, wanting something different and yet something classic, the oxymoron killing you from the inside out.
whilst the man behind the counter was quite startled by your behaviour, jungkook was certainly not.
he stood beside you, t shirt stretched over his figure deliciously, arm heavy around your waist as he maintained you flushed against his figure no matter how bitchy you were being with him. it only had him tightening his fingers on you.
you continued your comments to the jeweller as he showed you more and more rings, before he sensed the growing tension, leaving you both be for a moment. once you were alone on the shop floor, jungkook nudged you a little so youâd look up at him.
âenough.â
the word was quiet. commanding. enough to have your pussy clenching despite how sore you already were, not that it was enough to stop you wanting him in every single way. unfortunately, despite your lapse in demeanour the night before, you werenât willing to let it show easily again.
you huffed. ânone of these are right.â
âyouâre being nitpicky on purpose.â
âmaybe i just have standards.â you rolled your eyes at him, making a show of crossing your arms across your chest.
it was his turn to make his eyes narrow down at you meanly.
âyou done?â he asked, with a small hiss. âyour ass not sore enough, y/n?â
you grit your teeth as you willed yourself to be quiet, wanting nothing more than to rebut at him but even you knew jeon jungkook was certainly not above spanking you in a jewellery shop, especially if it meant youâd actually shut up. so, instead, you found yourself huffing a little at him again, picking at your manicure.
âjust donât wanna pick the wrong one.â you admitted in a much smaller voice, refusing to meet his eyes as you ruined your french tips, frown heavy on your face.
the admission was quiet, barely above a mumble but it hit jungkook right in his chest, knowing that despite the rushed nature of everything, this symbolised something so much bigger. starting again when the first time around had been a rush in itself was scary, especially when the stakes were so much higher this time. sure, you had been divorced once and you were marrying him again but you knew this meant you guys would actually have to work through your annoyances with one another.
the thought honestly scared you.
his devotion, his obsession, his incessant need to have you in his arms whether you liked him or not was reciprocated heavily by yourself, only masked with an air of indifference.
âbaby.â
he pulled you out of your thoughts, making you look up through your lashes.
âbuy as many as you fucking want. you want seven, huh? all days of the week?â he narrowed his eyes down at you. âthere isnât a wrong one, so get that out of your head.â
for the first time in that interaction, you properly turned into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck with a soft sigh of content at his words. good answer, you thought, as you nuzzled into his neck, all whilst he pushed you against the jewellery counter.
by the time the owner had come back, you had finally made your selection, feeling almost shy as you watched jungkook pay for it. sure, you spent his money without thinking, but you were quickly realising how much better it felt with him beside you actually taking charge of the transaction part. the thought began to fester all over you as he signed the receipt, turning to walk you out as the jeweller began sizing the rings immediately.
unfortunately for him, you pressed your lips to his cheek in the sweetest action you could muster. judging from the flip in your eyes, the way affection swirled in them, he knew you wanted something.
âwhat?â he grunted.
âso..remember that bag?â
â
my babies!! iâm back!!
my first fic / one shot since the mature label got slapped on my page which means half of my followers wonât see this but iâm keeping optimistic!!
as usual, let me know your thoughts, i loveeeee reading your guysâ comments and asks so feel free to keep me in the loop with what youâre thinking
if you wanna support a bad b pay her london rent, my kofi is here <3
please recommend fanfics or one-shots featuring aerion targaryen x reader with yandere or possessive vibes, i need to suffer, like in ultraviolence of lana del rey
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
a/n: lost the request but this is for the anon that requested toxic frat!eren x nerdy reader <3 lowk he not toxic cuz idk how to write toxic men they must be a bitch to everything i say.
warnings: frat!eren x nerdy sub!reader, unprotected sex, p in v, degradation, spanking, pet names, he rough wit it, all dat good stuff đ enjoy freaks âĄ
MINORS DNI
eren never spared a pathetic girl like you a second glance.
high-hoisted ponytail swinging ridiculously, meticulously ironed dress shirt buttoned to the top, plaid skirt the specific length right before it crosses any suggestive lines. books always tucked in your arm, lipstick smudged because you're always biting your lips, deep in thought in some intellectually-challenging literary prompt and he's never about all that.
eren's never about the type of girls like you, up-tight and know-it-all but too shy to speak up, your head high and your shoulders straight when you saunter across the courtyard. he's the kind of animal that stares at you while you strut to class through the front widows of his trashed frathouse, 8am and holding a 750ml bottle of absolut. the kind that opts for girls with dark lipliner and low cut shirts, inch-long shorts, ones that go to his parties instead of group study sessions and god knows you'd never dare miss a group study session.
but it's easy for him to choose you over all those other girls when you're so close like this, puckering your glossed lips and losing patience as you walk him through a calculus problem (that he didn't really need help with in the first place). smelling like vanilla and candy and god. he didn't know that you were so easy.
eren believes that it was fate that brought him to choose a seat next to yours in the calc 3 lecture room, and eren believes that it is the same fate that leads to you face down ass up on his bed right now, choking on your own sobs as he slowly pushes inside you, your small body struggling to accommodate him.
"she's trying to hard to fit me," he grunts, grabbing your hair out of your face. your mascara stains your lids black and your mouth hung open, eyes squeezed shut as if it would help. "you always a try hard baby? on all those fucking assignments and on my dick?"
"'ren!" you cry, nails digging at his sheets for purchase as the feeling overwhelms you, full and filled to the brim but he's still pushing, forcing you to adjust. "urrgg...go slow 'ren! p-please! please, ple-"
eren reaches down and yanks your head roughly up by your french braids. "you take what i give you," he says simply, ignoring your squirming and tiny whines. "okay princess?"
he drops your head, and bottoms out. you scream, noise muffled against the navy-blue sheets, and every sensation feels like it's being intensified ten-fold. you're so stuffed it hurts, and the stretch knocks over to pleasure and your head spins, trying to decide on what it wants. your rational part wants to stop, it's too much and tears burn your eyes from how overwhelmed you are, but the other part, the one eren somehow unlocked screams for him to move, to slide and slam into you and use you like his own personal doll.
"you're so tight, fuck," eren groans, watching his dick nestled between your pretty plump ass, modest skirt rolled up to your hips. "who knew the campus nerd was such a freak? huh? giving yourself up the first time we're alone?"
eren hates being honest with himself and hates admitting that you've always been, begrudgingly to him, the center of his attention. you were untouchable and unreachable, keeping to yourself and always silently preening to yourself every time you get a shoutout by a professor (which is all the time). he refused to acknowledge that he was looking that one time you bent over to retrieve a pen and your skirt hitched up the slightest bit, just enough for him to catch a peak of your polka dot underwear and the curve of your ass. refuse to acknowledge that he somehow always sees you when he's fucking his hand pathetically in the middle of the night, staring at him with your head tilted like it always is and that curious, innocent expression on your face.
he hit jackpot when you reluctantly agreed to the study session he set up (more like begged) and if he had known how easy you were to rile up, he would've done it forever ago. who knew the campus nerd is this hungry for cock, rutting against him like a whore and moaning like a fucking star.
he really did hit jackpot.
you whine loudly, clearly embarrassed by his words but your body betray you, body moving so that you begin fucking yourself on his cock, your sopping pussy creating dirty, lewd noises that fill the room. he spanks your ass and you cry to each one yet humiliatingly wiggle back for more, wanting more of anything, everything. "you greedy slut," eren hisses, digging his nails into the plush of your ass, guiding you onto bouncing on his dick and forcing you deeper, until his fat tip slams against your cervix. "you're a fast learner, sweetheart. 's that why you so smart? so much better than everyone?"
you visibly perk up at the praise, small breaths falling out of your mouth as you work yourself up and down his cock, chasing the high that's piling at the pit of your stomach. cheeks warm and mind fuzzy. it's rare in moments that you can't think straight, and this is definitely one of them.
eren suddenly moves, swiftly flipping you onto your back and pushing your legs up to his shoulders. he finally gets a good look at you, debauched and fucked-stupid, tear stains on your cheeks and drool glossy over your lips and you're not one bit like the girl he checks out everytime he sees you on campus. your white dress shirt is wrinkled and see-through from sweat, tits spilling out of the leopard print bra you're wearing underneath and skirt hiked all the way up your torso, looking so much better than he had fantasized.
"such a stupid girl," he says, hips slamming into yours and you moan loudly enough to cancel the noise out, your cheeks blushed a poppy red. "fucked so stupid can't even speak. that's all you are, doll, just a stupid," he pulls out nearly all the way and slam into you and your eyes roll to the back of your head. slam. "fucking," slam. "doll. ain't that right?"
"mmm yes! yes yes yes stupid, 'm a stupid girl! 'm yours yours yours-" you've officially lost it, babbling incoherently and eyes wild. your body begs for release. "'m so close eren, please-feels so good, wan' cum-"
his pace never falters. pretty, pretty eyes stare at you, waiting until you snap and it knocks into you all at once--what's happening, eren's gaze, his heavy cock that slides in and out of you with every sob of your pussy, the study session, the kiss, him knocking you into bed.
"cum for me, slut," eren mutters, leaning down, teeth nipping at your lips. "my dumb slut. she's takin me so well, you're being such a good girl for me, y/n."
"f-fuck!" his words tips you over and your orgasm rips through you. everything feels overstimulating all at once, hot flashes of pleasure and your body convulses, dizzying and feeling oh so fucking good. your pussy clamps down on him hard, pulsating and aching and you're no longer in control of what the hell you're saying. so when your stupid mouth blubbers out the words "love you eren, i love you, love you!" you had no choice but to let them go, brain too fuzzy to even comprehend the damage you'd just done.
one last thrust into you and eren pulls out, his length red and angry. he's cumming all over your tummy, pretty strings of white coating your sweat-sheened skin, belly rising hurriedly as you take sharp breaths. his heart beats fast, as if its trying to escape out of his ribs and run away. panic and dread settles into an uneasy feeling at his chest and every organ in his body beats loudly, the audio of what you said repeating again and again in his head.
thinking about timid boy yuji who wants to cum on your face so bad but heâs too shy and nice to ask. ・Ëâ mdni.
he thinks heâs filthy for itâ tainting your pretty gorgeous face with spurts of his warm sticky cum, wanting to watch it just ooze and dribble down your cheeks while you look up at him with those blinking doe eyes he loves so much, you on your knees and just taking all that he gives youâŚ
but heâs just too embarrassed to ask you for it, ashamed that his horn dog mind could ever crave something like this from you, not when you were just the sweetest and cutest little thing everâŚ
but thatâs exactly what made him want it more.
heâs sick in the head heâs awful heâs disgustingâ
âyu whatâs wrong? you feeling sick?â
yuji jumped from his spot on the couch and whipped his head in your direction, eyes wide in alarm.
âoh! nâ no iâm fine baby.â he attempted to laugh it off, but the strain in his jeans was getting unbearably fucking tight christâ
âyou sure?â you frowned, pouting a little as you began to crawl closer across the couch, yuji immediately stiffening up in alarm and fidgeting, eyes darting between your concerned pretty face and the soft swell of your breastsâ a perfect view of them from your low cut top.
how he of all people managed to get such a hot girlfriend he genuinely didnât fucking know, the fact being the greatest and one of his biggest accomplishments, though at the same time a heavenly double edged sword with how his cock was permanently rock solid and never breathing when you were around.
âyou look a little flushed baby.â you sat back on your knees and took his face in your hands, cupping his warm cheeksâ your frown deepening at the look of his blown pupils.
âiââ
you lifted his face a tad to examine.
âyouâre worrying me yu⌠you feel warm likeâ really warm⌠you coming on with a fever?â
your voice was so soft and caring, and yuji couldnât help but imagine that same honeyed tone edging him on to dump his cum all over your faceâ
shut the fuck up shut the fuck upâ
âno! iâmâ iâm okay angel! honestly hehâŚâ he gently took your hands from his cheeks and lowered them, watching as you pursed your cute lips to the side in dissatisfaction, and his limbs twitchingâ feeling his stupid dick gush out a bit of precum in his pants at the sight.
âitâs justââ he swallowed, shakily breathing through his nose. âmâjust a little achy is all.â
you tilted your head in confusion.
âachy?â you placed your hands on his shoulders, squeezing carefully before sliding your palms down his arms, yujiâs breathing picking up then, chest ragged as you kept dragging your hands further, inspecting over him to see what was wrong.Â
âfrom what yu? tell me whereââ
god why was he like this?
you were innocently just trying to figure it out and help him⌠it was him that was being a sick foul pervert that was potentially about to pounce on you and scare you off.
âitâs nothing baby i swearââ
your palms slid down to his lower abdomen and he sprang up from the couch, you jumping back in alarmâ drawing your hands to your chest as your eyes stretched wide.
âthe gym! the gym! iâm aching from the gym theââ
yuji looked at you and a guilty pang shot through his heart once he realized he fucking startled you, you staring up at him with a shaken expressionâ breaths quick, and him feeling his soul actively burning off his body because of it.
stupid stupid idiot stupidâ
âfuck iâm sorry baby jesus.â his big hands came down to cup the sides of your head, you slowly easing a little at his reassurance. âi didnât mean to scare you like that iâm sorry⌠iâm just being dumbââ
he paused.
fromâ from the way you were positioned, and from the way he wasâ holding your faceâŚ
your pretty plump lips were perfectly aligned with his bulging freaking dick.
yuji instantly went to rip himself away from you when you reached for his hips and stopped him midway, a choke tumbling from his throat as you firmly held him in place.
he could practically feel your breath through his jeans dear godâ
âwhat hurts yu?â you sweetly asked, soft and airy and yuji could only frantically shake his head no.
you pouted.
âplease.â you leaned the side of your cheek on his thigh, and he just about saw the heavens himself. âiâ i wanna help yu⌠i donât care what it is. i promise.â
yujiâs skin was tingling and itchy all over, a giant lump in his throat that he couldnât pass no matter how many times he swallowed, his clammy hands then returning to your cheeksâ lifting your head so heâd get a proper look at you. Â
he couldnât take it anymore.
yuji was about to look like a vile fucking freak.
âmy⌠my dick babyâŚâ he softly explained, voice shaky as he used his thumbs to caress your cheeks, trying to bite down the embarrassment that rose up his system at the way your cheeks went red. âitâs justâ a little tight butâ itâsâ itâs okay! iâll deal with it laââ
âcan i help..?â
his pupils blew out and he stopped breathing.
âplease.â you finished off with a little timid smile, your kind glimmering eyes not once breaking from his. âi want to⌠if thatâs okay.â
it was more than fucking okay.
âyou wannaâ help me baby?â he gave your cheeks a loving squeeze before letting your face go, taking your eager nod as a sign to keep going.
âokayâŚâ yuji took a step back. âcanâ can you get on your knees for me angel..?â
you nodded once more, shuffling a bit to get down on your knees, your skin padded against the soft fur rug of your carpet.
slowly⌠he shakily popped open his jeans and unzipped them, willing and begging his cock and mind to relax or else he was going to cum just by how gorgeous you looked on your knees for himâŚ
âjustââ
his dick literally jumped out from the confinements of his pants and you blushed, his own neck growing uncomfortably hot as he stared down at you with wobbly lips.
âjust⌠suck for me a little?â yuji gave his length a languid pump, his tip already swelled up and irritatingly glistening. âyou donât have to do all of it baby⌠i donât want you to hurt yourself.â
you parted your lips then and carefully took him into your mouth, suckling on the sticky tip and yuji having to inhale a sharp breath at how warm your tongue feltâ fluttering and gliding along his slit before you sunk your lips a little further down his cock bit by bit.
âfuuuckk yes baby just like thatââ
yuji shuddered and gripped tighter at the hem of his shirt, keeping it in place just above his abs to keep it out of your way, groaning at your mouth bobbing up and down his veiny dick, tiny bubbly suds of spit coating his base.
âgod please donât stop pleaseââ he threw his head back and heaved, placing a trembling palm to the back of your headâ gently guiding you through your wet mouthful slops that filled his ears so deliciously, your cheeks hollowing as you took it upon yourself to suck harder, you moaning through it and the vibrations making him that much more sensitive.
âshit!ââ
he snapped his head back down and went lightheaded, your pretty little swollen lips wrapped around him so good and slurping him up so insanely messily, drool trickling down your chin as you made it your mission to help him feel better and relieve the ache he felt moments prior.
to be good for him.
âangel if you keepâ sucking me like that mâgonna cum alreadyâ hic!â holy shit please slow down pleaseââ
but you only went faster, bobbing your head without stopping even when you chocked on his cock through particularly deep swallows, him struggling to catch his breath and keep his balls from exploding and draining down your throat, jaw hardening in restraint as his abdomen stiffened up.
because thatâs not where he wanted it.
jerking his hips back, yuji slipped his dick off your mouth in one swift motion with a pop!, you plopping down on your ankles and gasping for air at the sudden action, hands quickly coming up to wipe at your saliva coated lips.
âdid iâ do something wrong?â you panted, your doe eyes sincerely so uneasy that he nearly fell to his knees at how cute you were.
âiâmâ iâm sorry yuââ
âgod no baby you were fuckinâ perfect.â he breathed out, licking over his lipsâ half lidded ditzy eyes looking down at you as he pumped his cock over your face. âalways so so perfect for meâŚâ
and you beamed, a sweet smile spreading across your cheeks that made his balls twitch and stiffen, jerking himself faster.
âcan i justââ he struggled on a moan, small tiny strained whimpers rumbling through him as he pumped, sticky obscene shlicks! echoing through the room that only made your face grow pinker in need.Â
âcan i please please cum on your face angel?â yuji panted. âi wonâtâ shlick shlick shlickâ make a mess i promise you i justâ youâre so so pretty and youâd look so good with my cum on your faceââ
without hesitation you nodded, and he wildly grinned at your permission, feeling fucking floored that his dream was coming true and heâd finally get to unload all over you like heâd nastily wanted for so long.
âthank you thank you!ââ
yuji cupped a hand under your chin and gently brought your face up to keep you in place, his fist gripping his cock so hard and suffocating it as he jack hammered, babbling utter nonsense with his fogged horny brain entirely focused on you.
âstay just like this for me okay?â he was sweating, a tingling sensation twisting through his limbs that started manifesting from his pulsing tip. âcan youâ can you stick your tongue out baby? please? fuck mâgonna cum mâgonna cumââ
you quickly stuck your tongue out and laid it flat, the way you were so obedient absolutely ruining him from where he stood, moans grumbling through him that only grew louder and louder the closer he tipped over the edge.
âyouâre so fuckinâ good to me babyââ
the grip he had on your jaw was subconsciously tightening, so much so that your cheeks were now mushed up between his fingers and making you look sluttier than before, his feral eyes brightening at the sight.
âyouâll let me do this again right?â he gulped, thin stringy lines of cum seeping from his slit and dangling lightly over your face. âyouâll let me cum on you? onâ on your tummy maybe?â
âuh huh!â you spoke through your open mouth, and he basically criedâ breathing erratic and the pacing jerk he had going on so insanely fast that it was borderline animalistic, endless strings of high pitched whimpers slipping from his lips.
âfuuuuccckkk! fuck fuck i love you i love youââ
his rhythm was relentless, sticky slicks sliding and pulling over his wet cock, until a white flash blurred his vision and yujiâs entire body locked up, a cold prickle washing over him then as he shot hot spurts of his load over your stunning awaiting face, gooey and thickâ dripping over your flushed cheeks as you took it with one eye blinking shut.
yuji moaned so loudly, his gaze stuck watching you like glue and refusing to look away as he painted you, squeezing everything he had out of his cock to drown you in his release, up until the very last dribbling drop.
he swallowed and tried to catch his breath, speaking up after a few panting moments, letting his softened cock rest against the side of your cheek.
âyouâ you okay baby?â yuji wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his hand, a tired smile breaking out once he heard you giggle.
âmhm! i am yu.â
you licked up cum from your lips and his balls almost swelled in size again, his gaze still permanently trained on you.
âyou look so pretty like this angelâŚâ he murmured, and your heart fluttered, him collecting some of his white cum from the corner of your mouthâ thumbing it through your suckling lips. âso so prettyâŚâ
just like heâd imagined.
maybe next time he could do it on your tits!
a/n: IM OVULATING !!!!!! ALSO HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY TO MY SWEET MAN !!! - mdni, wc 2.1k, all characters aged up, cherry heart divider by @/angeliicide !! <3