#modern!valarr

Being a bartender meant dealing with creeps. The kind of guys who thought the low-cut tops you wore were an invitation to flirt, to touch, to act like they owned you even when you wore them both for yourself because you liked them and because you got better tops that way. 

            Being a bartender meant that every night, you were confronted with exactly what men thought of women. Thought of you. But it paid the bills, subsidized your tuition and kept everything going. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t glamorous, but it was something and something is always better than nothing. 

            The only thing that made bartending worthwhile was your favorite customer, Valarr. He came in every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, just at the start of your shift and stayed for a few hours. Those few hours were the best that you had in your job because he was a customer, nothing more and nothing less. He didn’t make crude comments, he didn’t flirt and he didn’t leave his number scrawled on the napkins. 

            What he was, was polite and kind and a great tipper. The most he’d ask for were a few moments of conversation, something to delay his return to his table whenever he was out with his monstrous cousin, Aerion. And it was such a simple request that you obliged every time. You didn’t see the harm in it; you didn’t see the possessive glimmer in his eyes or the way his hand tightened on his glass every time someone flirted. 

            He was just a customer to you. 

            He was the one who stumbled in a few years ago, his arm looped around his cousin Daeron as he carried him to a table and you’d watched, tossing your towel over your shoulder, yelling out to the people at the bar, “two minutes!” 

            “Need help?” you’d asked, walking over to them, hands on your hips as you surveyed the scene of the impossibly drunk man whose limbs were so weak that he was practically liquid, spilling out across the booth he’d been unceremoniously dumped in by the shorter man with the dark dark hair, save for a single white streak that glimmered in the sepia tinted lights of the bar. 

            “Coffee, please,” he’d said, voice lilting with an accent, the kind you heard in the upper crust of King’s Landing, the one not heard so much among where you worked, your neighbourhood. “A lot of it.”

            “Yeah,” you’d replied, “you got it. I’ll bring a bucket too…mainly cause I don’t want to clean up his vomit at closing time.” You’d turned and ducked back behind your counter, lifting the divider up and dropping it down as you disappeared back into the kitchen, turning the coffee machine on, setting some beans up in the grinder. 

            You’d gone back out as the coffee brewed, mixing drinks and serving shots, laughing under your breath at the pickup lines some boys used at the bar on other people, pickup lines that should have been left in the vault, dusty and unused. When you heard beeping, you’d readied the pot and put it on a tray, a bucket in your hand, hip bumping the divider up as you walked back to the booth. 

            “Coffee,” you’d announced, setting the rubber, circular carrying tray down with the pot and the old, chipped white porcelain mugs. “And a bucket.” You’d set it down and turned to go when you felt fingers curling lightly around your wrist, your muscles going rigid at the touch. It wasn’t unusual for men to touch you, but never when you were outside of the bar, when you were serving, mainly because they wanted you to hurry up and get back behind the counter and make more drinks. 

            “Thank you,” you’d heard the shorter, sober boy say and you glanced over your shoulder at him, lips pressed thin as you nodded and pointedly removed your hand from his grip, walking back to the bar, back to the job you hated and enjoyed at the same time. 

            But when you were closing up that night, you found a thousand dollar tip at the booth with a note in elegant, expansive cursive. One that read I meant the thank you. The money cannot accurately express my gratitude, my feelings, but it’s an attempt.

            For you, he’d been the best customer. For him…you’d been something else. 

            For him, you’d been his. From the moment he’d laid eyes on you, he’d understood that he’d never before felt love because it was all designed for you. 

            His soul was yours; his life was yours and yours was his. He knew it and you would too, in time. He was willing to give you that even if everything in him had him needing you, needing to press you against the wall and mark your neck with his teeth, leave something that those pigs at the bar could see. So that they could understand that you were his. 

            But he refrained. 

            He refrained because he understood that, perhaps, you were too busy, worried and stressed to let yourself see what was before you. He understood that you would need time and he was willing to give you that. He was willing to give you time if that’s what you so needed because he would still remain. Always there. 

            Whether you knew it or not. 

            It was merely him protecting you, his love, that had him follow you home, set surveillance upon you so he knew where you were and what you did every moment of every day. He knew your favourite colour, favourite movie before you could tell him, but when you did in those precious few moments of conversation, he felt like the sun had smiled upon him, like the universe was telling him that soon, Valarr. Soon she will be yours. 

            And truthfully…

            He could not wait any longer for you to be ready. 

            He’d make you ready.

            “Good luck!” Red says, her hand clapping down on your shoulder as she steps out from behind the bar, untying her apron and tossing it onto the storage shelf just behind the divider. 

            “That bad?” you ask, side-stepping her and slipping behind the bar, hands shifting, pulling down your ever rising up top, the one that shows a bit more skin than you’re comfortable with without the apron on. 

            “Worse,” she says, slipping into the back hallway, the one you just came from, the lockers there, stuff stored before shift, retrieved after shift, the back exit there, ready for your escape at the end of a long, long shift. “But you can handle it, tough girl! I have faith.” She disappears around the bend in the hallway, her long red hair the last bit of her you can see as you reach and grab your apron, the half-one that you tie around your hips, looping it back around the front, the ties far too long for any apron and you refuse to have anything that someone can pull on. Trap you. Cage you with. 

            Worse than bad was never good at this place. It meant that the creeps were in top form and wouldn’t stop no matter how many times you reiterated, not interested. 

            “Hey, pretty lady!” And so, it began. 

            “Just a minute, please, sir,” you call out, stepping into the bar area, glancing behind you, taking note of the bottles, of the ones low, high. What’s been popular and what’s been avoided. Vodka and tequila, good. Whiskey, bad. 

            “You single?” you hear someone call out and you can feel as your jaw tightens, teeth grinding together as you turn around, eyebrows raised, arms crossing. 

            “Anything I can get for anyone?” you ask, cursing yourself as soon as the words leave your mouth, a man to the right of you leaning forwards, eyes tracing your figure. You can feel his eyes on you, feel the way he’s tracing your figure with his eyes. The worst part is, is that he won’t even tip well. 

            “Your number,” he says and his voice is just as disgusting as the way his eyes feel on your body. The way his stare makes your skin crawl like a thousand spiders and their ten legs are skittering all over your skin. 

            “This is a bar, not a speed-dating exercise, sir,” you say, turning, biceps flexing against your fingers as you look at him. “I’m happy to provide you alcohol, but my number is not something on offer at this establishment.”

            You wish that had been the end of it, but the guy is relentless, making comment after comment about your body, about what he could do to you, make you feel. It doesn’t matter how many times you say no, not interested, please stop, he just keeps going. 

            Your manager is no help, never has been. He values profit over employee safety and the more the guy verbally assaults you, the more drinks he buys. 

            “Sir, no!” you yell out, his last words, last sentence having struck a chord. Something about his dick and your tits and you stopped listening because you just can’t stand it. You hate the objectification; you hate that to wear anything that you feel good in is to invite commentary from men. 

            A bit of tequila from the shot you’ve slammed down on the bar top splashes out but the group of girls here for Saturday’s karaoke night don’t notice, simply slamming them back and running all together, shiny and glamorous for now, up to the stage, Britney Spears spilling through the roughed up speakers. 

            “I believe,” a silk smooth voice calls out, the bell above the door chiming open, “that the lady said no.” You didn’t notice Valarr come in, only taking notice of the bodyguard hovering in the doorway.

            “What’s it to you, man? She yours?” Valarr steps up into the spot vacated by the gaggle of girls, flashing you a brief, heart-stopping smile before leaning his elbow on the counter, body turned to face the creep. 

            “She is hers,” he whispers, tone calm, but a kind of calm so calm that it’s terrifying. Only the creep is too drunk to notice. 

            “Then it don’t matter if I flirt or not,” he says and Valarr reaches forwards, his hand curling into the neck of the man’s white tee, pulling him forwards, mouth hovering over his ear as he whispers something that has the man blanching. He pushes forwards and the man stumbles back, looking from you to Valarr and then running off, shoving past the security guard into the cool, not-so-clean air of Flea Bottom. 

            “So sorry that happened to you, love,” Valarr says now, turning back, both elbows on the counter as he looks at you, lips drawn into a tight smile, a glimmer of seething, roiling anger in his eyes. The depth of that anger almost scares you, but he blinks and it’s gone. 

            Like it was never there at all. 

            “Happens all the time,” you tell him, nodding at a man who holds up his empty glass, asking for a refill. “Do you want something from the bar?”

            “Oh no,” he says, “I’m simply here for you.” 

            The words both make you want to smile and hide, run and yet stay, but it must just be a slip of the tongue…right?

            That man had no right to look at you, let alone speak to you! He didn’t even deserve to breathe the same air that you breathed! Occupy the same space as you! You were his! You were above all of them! Above everyone because you…you are everything!

            It was anger that loosened Valarr’s tongue, had him grabbing the man and whispering a promise, not a threat into his ear. 

            “If you are not locked up in your home at the end of the night, I will find you and I will make you pay for daring to make my love uncomfortable. Do you understand?”

            “You don’t listen well, do you?” he calls out now, the man’s form slumped against a wall, a blunt held between his fingers. 

            “I-I’m s-sorry! D-don’t hurt me!” the man calls out, his voice rising and falling, a cry contained in those words. Pathetic, he did not care that he hurt you. No, he cares not for anyone but himself. 

            “I made you a promise,” Valarr whispers, stepping forwards, hands on his knees, pulling his trouser legs up as he crouches down before the man, removing the blunt from his fingers and tossing it aside, into the gutter, removing a dagger from his jacket pocket and lifting the man’s right hand. “And I always keep my promises.”

            And then he takes his knife to the index finger, pressing the blade through the flesh, the finger falling onto the ground, blood leaking from it, spurting from the place where it had previously been on his hand, the man screaming, screaming, screaming, screaming. 

            Valarr then lifts the knife to the middle, cutting through every single finger on his right hand. Only once all the fingers rest on the ground does he step back, wiping the dagger off on the man’s pant legs and tucking the knife back into his pocket. If the occupants of Flea Bottom know one thing, it’s that a Targaryen done crime never happened at all. 

            “Take the index finger,” Valarr orders his guard. “Dispose of the rest.”

            “What do I do with the finger, sir?”

            “Put it in a fancy gift box. I have a gift for my girl.”

            It’s the doorbell that rouses you from your sleep, your dreams haunted by the remnants of the creep, of Valarr and his declaration of being there for you. The doorbell sounds through your house, ringing through the stillness as you slide out of your bed, too lazy to throw the covers back, rather slithering down and out, feet on the floor as you push to a standing, padding down the hall towards your door. 

            “COMING!” you call out, drawing your hoodie sleeves low over your hands, the heating in your house being on the fritz, meaning that you’re sleeping in a hoodie and fleece pants with socks because it’s winter and your heating sucks. You reach the door, pulling it open, to reveal a porch that has no one standing on it, rather a pretty box tied with a bright iridescent bow. 

            You crouch, lifting it up and looking left and right for the person who left it, but seeing no one. You step back into your house, bumping the door closed with your hip and walking into the kitchen, setting it on the counter. 

            There’s a card, your name in flowing calligraphy which you pull down, flipping it over, reading in Valarr’s neat, elegant and ever recognizable writing, My good girl; your loyalty delights me. It tells me that you know as I do, that we are meant to be. A forever match. Enjoy the gift. I’ll pick you up at 8 for our date. Wear the necklace and wear something in red, you look best in red.

            You can feel your stomach twist at the words on the card and you step it aside, pulling the bow open, the walls of the box falling flat, revealing the contents. The first is a pretty necklace made of silver with a deep red ruby pendant, but the chain is so short that you realize…it’s a collar. A way to mark you. 

            Something to show ownership of his good girl. 

            The second is a jar, one covered with a cloth and you lift it from the box, the cloth falling away to reveal a cut off finger suspended in liquid. 

            It’s like a horror movie, your heart is pounding, lungs constricting with your throat and you’re screaming, but you don’t even realize that you’re screaming, don’t even realize that your hand has opened, the jar slipping from your hand and shattering on the floor into a million tiny pieces, formaldehyde splashing over the gritty, yellowing tiles of your kitchen floor, the finger rocking side-to-side like a possessed talisman. 

            The only real thought in your mind is what would happen if you hadn’t been his good girl?

You could guess the thought no doubt running through their minds: how did you pull such a catch?

You smiled inwardly.

Oh they only knew the half of it.

“Give us a good look then darling.” Valarr reached out for your hand and held it above your head, prompting you to perform a small twirl for him. You fought the blood that rushed to your cheeks, feeling equal parts sheepish and smitten. He had a way of always making you feel like a princess.

You obeyed of course, and when you completed your spin and faced him head on again, he used his interlaced fingers to pull your body forward and meet you midway for a light kiss. It was sweet and juvenile, but he didn’t pull away directly afterwards. Instead, he stayed pressed against you a moment longer, his bottom lip brushing your cheek as he whispered, “I think your boss knows better than to ask you to work overtime now.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re an idiot you know that,” but you welcomed his arm as it wrapped around your lower back and maneuvered you beside his hip. Side by side, you began your walk through the golden light of the day, sharing details of your mundane days and laughing over alleged workplace gossip.

The easy conversation and casual intimacy made quick work of the journey, and before you knew it your feet delivered you to the front steps of The Dragon’s Stone. Only, the wooden tables lined out front were filling up quickly. It seems you weren’t the only ones with such a great idea.

“Save us a spot will you? I’ll be right back.” Valarr spoke gently, before adorning your temple with another soft kiss. At his instruction, you turned towards the beer garden in search of empty space along the benches.

After confirming with other customers that the empty spot were not reserved for anyone, you sat down on the plank of wood and laid your jacket to the side.

A few minutes later Valarr returned with the drinks. He held three pints between his two hands, gripping the glasses with outstretched fingers. He carefully made his way over to you, his brows twisting in an effort to not accidentally drop a glass. You smiled at the creases that formed on his forehead, finding his concentration endearing.

Even though you had a career of your own and a decent salary to match, you couldn’t remember the last time you paid for any food or drinks when you went out with Valarr. He simply wouldn’t allow it. He lived to serve those close to his heart.

He set the glasses on the table with a gentle thud and took his seat opposite you.

“I thought he’d be here already. I know he didn’t have any work today.” Valarr huffed, his voice dripped with disappointment.

“Well we won’t have to wait long,” you answered, a smile making it’s way to your lips as you eyed the spiky head of silver hair approaching your position.

Before Valarr had a chance to shift in his seat and follow your field of vision, two lanky arms slithered around his front and pinned him to his spot. Aerion rested his elbows on Valarr’s shoulders as he addressed the both of you, “Miss me?”

Valarr didn’t dare give him the satisfaction of telling him he did in fact miss him already, and just groaned at his arrogance.

“You’re lucky you came in the nick of time. We would’ve finished ours by now,” you countered trying to appear nonplussed about his arrival.

He gave you his shit-eating grin, “Bollocks. You would’ve waited until it was as warm as piss I tell you.”

That’s all it took to break your mask. You couldn’t help but laugh at his self-assuredness. And well-he was correct.

Aerion dragged his hands back up Valarr’s chest and gave his shoulders a squeeze before making his way to the bench on the other side. He wore a cropped shirt and low-waisted black jeans, revealing a fair part of his abdomen-and underwear. Life as an entrepreneur meant that he needed never succumb to the formality of boring office wear. You picked up your jacket- which had been instrumental as a reservation tactic-and wrapped it around your waist to make space for him.

As he settled in you handed him his pint, and the three of you toasted together, “CHEERS.”

After a few sips, Aerion fixated on Valarr once again, “Gods you look stiff you know that.”

Valarr just huffed out of his nose, his eyes half lidded. He had grown accustomed to Aerion’s signature style of flirting, which was of course: hurling out insulting jests.

You hummed in agreement with Aerion, “Too right. You’d best take some of that off.”

Valarr looked across the table with one eyebrow cocked. The people seated opposite him were acting like anxious puppies, all to see him start stripping. If he squinted he could almost imagine their tails wagging.

He took another swig of his drink and then leisurely took his suit jacket off, gently folding it and laying it across his lap.

Aerion reached across the table and grabbed the end of Valarr’s red tie in one swift motion, pulling Valarr flush against the table, “Hmm still look like a proper git to me.” Valarr narrowed his eyes in annoyance but Aerion stayed strong, boring into his eyes in contest.

Seeing as there was no way around it, Valarr used his fingers to elegantly undo the cufflinks near his wrist, and pushed the fabric of his dress shirt up to his elbows. On both arms.

Feeling satisfied with the display of skin, Aerion played with the tie like a long piece of ribbon in the hands of a child and finally released it, letting it flop atop the table.

“Not quite,” you added, and pointed to his collar.

Valarr scoffed but obliged. His ring-adorned fingers crept their way inside the Windsor Knot at the center of his collar. You could make out the veins on his exposed forearms now as he tugged on the fabric and loosened the constraint. To top it all off, he made quick work of unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt, deciding to beating you two to the punch of what would most likely be your next demand.

At the sight of his of the exposed collarbones you gave a low catcalling whistle and you could’ve sworn you saw the tip of his ears tinge with red.

The next half hour passed in a blur. Soon enough, you needed another round to cool down from the full sun. Valarr-once again-paid.

As he returned with the latest refreshments, Aerion piped up “Ooh daddy’s money over here.”

“I think you mean a banking career, mate.”

“Ah I’m your mate now, is that it?” Aerion gave him strained look.

“Like you’re one to talk.” You dipped your head towards Aerion. “Isn’t your father also a man of big importance or some such?”

Aerion lifted his chin up in a dignified manner, like he hadn’t heard what you just said. “I like to think of myself as an independent purveyor of artistic insights. A real grassroots movement of truth,” he declared, somehow with no shame or embarrassment. You bit your tongue to stop from laughing.

“Seven hells.” Valarr muttered under his breath.

“See now that’s what every Eton-educated prick would say.” You teased in a light-hearted manner.

Valarr looked over his left and right shoulder before inching closer towards you. With his hands covering his mouth in mock discretion, he egged you on. “You know he only bought that flat in the East End for the grunge edge it gave his personal brand. He actually stays at one of his father’s homes in Mayfair most weekdays!”

You made an over-exaggerated and theatrical gasp, “No!”

Aerion still pretended not to hear you both. But his jaw seemed tighter somehow.

Valarr tried to get Aerion’s attention focused on him again. “What even is a creative director?”

Aerion decided to entertain his train of inquiry. “It’s a valued contribution to society,” he asserted and cocked his head to the side.

A devious smirk plastered Valarr’s face as he continued, “Ah is that what they’re calling taking half nude portraits nowadays.”

Aerion didn’t rise to the bait this time, and coolly responded, “I could fit you two into my schedule some time if you like.”

Valarr just smiled and replied, “I think you have enough portraits of us at home.”

“Maybe a special video of us then…”Aerion let the suggestion hang in the silence between you three. You began to consider what he proposed. A homemade movie of the three of you-maybe even shot on some of Aerion’s artsy 35mm film. Imagine. The rolls and rolls of miniature frames of your bodies enmeshed together. It would probably measure from one hallway to the next. Talk about one hell of a trophy.

Aerion’s voice snapped you back to the present, “Oi this one’s looking about as red as her knickers.”

You gave him a hard shove at his side but he only laughed louder.

“So you are wearing those ones. No doubt with the uh matching…” He made a motion in the air circling your nipples from afar and you slapped his hands away.

Your body felt physically hot from all the embarrassment.

And the arousal.

“Alright enough of that. We need to address the really important world events happening soon, like my birthday! You lot better have the most perfect gifts ready for me.” You put on your best smug look as your head swiveled between the two.

“Why else do you think I was running late?” Aerion mentioned offhandedly, more into his pint than anything else, and you felt your heart skip a beat. Although he tried to put on a tough exterior, you knew he was a deeply attentive and passionate person. No doubt he was making you a gift by hand, some original piece of art that he had spent weeks on.

Aerion was everything Valarr was not: spontaneous, impulsive, and temperamental. He brought out a daring side in you, one you thought you had buried long ago. They tempered each other; the heat against the cool.

“Everything will be ready for this weekend,” Valarr added.

“Perfect! I’ve been thinking about it and I want to throw a little party this Saturday to celebrate with all my favorite people.”

“But we’re your favorite people?” Aerion rebutted. Valarr mimicked his mannerisms, so both of them were laying their heads against their fist, their eyebrow raised in your direction.

“Well you’re the top two,” you reassured them, “but I mean my other favorites as well! Tanselle is coming early-”

“Ughhhh.”Aerion let out a guttural groan.

“Hushhhh,” you slurred trying to refocus the conversation once more. “Tanselle is coming over early on Saturday to help with the decorations. Aerion, I know how you two fancy a good debate but please, maybe we can dispense with the verbal jousting, just for this weekend.”

“So long as she doesn’t insult me first.”

“That was ONE TIME. Also I’m inviting Duncan so get your disapproval out of your system now while-”

Before you could even finish that sentence you were overpowered by two obnoxious wails. To be expected honestly.

“Stop this whinging. I’ll have you know he’s very sweet! You two might try to get to know him better. At the very least, try to carry a civil conversation with him.”

“A whole conversation? With the oaf?” Aerion pondered, genuinely perplexed.

“He is a bit thick,” Valarr murmured.

“Hard to believe he’s from the same Galway that birthed my glorious KETTAMA.” Aerion sighed, with a sort of longing and adoration that you couldn’t tell if he was taking the piss or not.

You shook your head at all the dramatics displayed before you.