虚人

“Red,” he said, offering one. “The Pentosi varietal the sommelier recommended. Viserys ordered twenty cases for the cellars.”

“Of course he did.”

Daemon’s mouth twitched. “He’s planning a gala for the autumn. Apparently, Alicent has been nagging him about entertaining more. Networking.” He pronounced the word with a particular disdain, the way another man might say vermin.

You took the wine, mostly because you needed something to do with your hands. “Alicent’s networking is called ‘securing her position.’ She’s smart.”

“She’s a social climber with a spreadsheet and a prayer book.”

“Daemon.”

“What? It’s true. You know it’s true. Even Rhaenyra knows it’s true, and Rhaenyra is pathologically incapable of thinking ill of anyone her father deigns to marry.” He took a long drink of his wine, his eyes fixed on the horizon. “I still don’t know what Viserys was thinking. Otto Hightower’s daughter. It’s like bringing a fox into the henhouse and handing it a napkin.”

You wanted to argue, mostly on principle, but you were too tired. Three days of enforced proximity to Alicent’s brittle smiles and Viserys’ oblivious paternalism and Rhaenyra’s increasingly desperate attempts to play peacemaker had worn you down to a nub.

Rhaenyra was the only one of Daemon’s family you genuinely liked, she was fierce and funny and surprisingly self-aware for a woman who’d been raised to believe she was the center of the universe, but even she had been grating on you today. She’d cornered you at breakfast to ask if everything was “okay” between you and Daemon, her violet eyes too knowing, too sympathetic. You’d deflected, but barely.

It was Daemon’s fault. All of it. If he hadn’t insisted on moving the family back into the Targaryen ancestral pile, if he hadn’t dragged you into his obsessive crusade against Alicent’s influence, if he hadn’t treated your unhappiness like a software glitch that could be patched with shopping and sex and those devastating smiles he deployed like weapons...

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Daemon observed.

“I’m thinking about divorce.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink. “The storm’s getting worse. We should go inside.”

“Daemon.”

“The boys are waiting for dinner. Viserys wants to eat at eight, which means Alicent wants to eat at seven-thirty, which means if we’re not in the dining room by...oh, the look on her face.” He grinned, sharp and wicked. “It might almost be worth being late.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Her face goes all pinched, like she’s sucked a lemon. Rhaenyra and I used to have a drinking game around it.”

“Daemon, I want a divorce.”

This time, he did react. A tightening around his jaw, barely perceptible. The way his fingers flexed against his wine glass. But his voice, when he spoke, was perfectly even. “We’re not having this conversation on a balcony in Pentos while our children are inside.”

“We’re not having this conversation anywhere. That’s the problem. You refuse to engage with it. You act like if you ignore it long enough, I’ll forget.”

“Will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Forget.” He turned to face you, and there it was again, that flicker of something raw beneath the arrogance, gone so fast you might have imagined it. “Will you forget that you love me? That we have a life together? That we have two sons who adore you and a home and a history and...” He stopped himself, jaw working. “No. You’re right. We’re not doing this here.”

He drained his wine and walked back inside, leaving you alone with the storm.

Dinner was excruciating.

The dining room was all white tablecloths and soft candlelight and sweeping views of the coastline, the storm pressing against the windows. Viserys sat at the head of the table, beaming benevolently at his assembled family as if he’d personally arranged the weather for their entertainment. Alicent was at his right hand, her auburn hair pulled back in an elegant twist, her expression one of careful serenity that you knew from experience masked a constant, low-grade anxiety.

Rhaenyra and her husband Laenor were visiting from their place in Spain, their three boys seated between them in various states of restlessness. And then there was your family: you, Daemon, and the two small boys who were currently attempting to build a fort out of bread rolls.

“Aegon, stop that,” you said quietly, removing the roll from his hand before it could be added to the precarious structure. “We don’t play with food.”

“Uncle Laenor said the Pentosi build forts to keep the sea monsters away,” Aegon protested.

“Did he.”

“It’s true,” Laenor said, his expression perfectly solemn. “Ancient maritime tradition. Very sacred.”

Aegon turned to you with the triumphant expression of a child who had just been validated by an adult, and you made a mental note to have a word with Laenor later. Probably with a heavy object.

“How are you finding the resort?” Alicent asked, her gaze fixed on you with an intensity that suggested she was already composing a report for some internal database. “The spa here is supposed to be excellent. I booked a hot stone massage for tomorrow morning, if you’d care to join.”

“That’s kind of you,” you said, “but I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh, you should go,” Rhaenyra said, leaning forward. “I went yesterday. There’s a sauna and everything. Very relaxing.” She caught your eye and added, with just a hint of emphasis, “Good for stress.”

You smiled tightly. “I’m sure it is.”

Daemon, seated beside you, had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout the meal. He’d exchanged a few barbed pleasantries with Alicent, agreed with Viserys about the superiority of Westerosi wine, and otherwise devoted his attention to his plate with the air of a man who was planning something. You knew that look. You’d seen it before board meetings, before confrontations with business rivals, before the night he’d decided to move your family into Dragonstone Manor without consulting you. It was the look of Daemon Targaryen marshaling his forces.

It made you nervous.

“I heard the most interesting thing today,” Alicent said, and something in her tone made the entire table go quiet. “About the Ashford deal.”

Viserys looked up from his lamb. “My dear, perhaps business at the dinner table...”

“It’s just that I understood we weren’t pursuing Ashford anymore. The board voted on it, I thought. And yet I received a rather curious email from our legal team this afternoon suggesting that Daemon had reopened negotiations.” Her smile didn’t waver. “On his own authority.”

Daemon set down his fork very carefully. “The board voted to table the discussion, not to abandon the acquisition entirely. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“There is to anyone who actually understands corporate governance.”

“Daemon,” Viserys said, a warning note in his voice.

But Daemon was already leaning forward, his eyes glittering in the candlelight. “The Ashford portfolio is worth forty million pounds. Their logistics network alone would give us a foothold in three new markets. I wasn’t about to let it slip away because the board is too risk-averse to see past next quarter’s earnings report.”

“The board is risk-averse because we’re still recovering from the Dornish expansion,” Alicent said, her voice cool. “Which you also championed. And which went significantly over budget.”

“It went over budget because we were sabotaged by incompetents you personally recommended for the project.”

“I recommended no one. I suggested a shortlist of candidates, which Viserys approved.”

“After you’d spent three months whispering in his ear about how essential they were.”

“That’s enough,” Viserys said, and for a moment he sounded like the patriarch he was supposed to be, his voice carrying the weight of decades of authority. “We’re not discussing this here. We’re on holiday. There are children present.”

Everyone looked at the children. Aegon had abandoned his bread fort and was now trying to teach Viserys the younger how to balance a spoon on his nose. Neither of them had appeared to notice the adult tension crackling around them.

“I’m just saying,” Alicent said, her tone now one of wounded reasonableness, “that it might be wise to keep the family informed of major business decisions. For the sake of transparency.”

“Transparency,” Daemon repeated. “Rich, coming from someone whose father just happened to acquire a significant stake in the shipping company we use for all our Narrow routes. Purely coincidental, I’m sure.”

Alicent’s face went stone cold. “My father’s investments are his own business.”

“Are they? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks an awful lot like a conflict of interest. Or would, if anyone were looking.”

“Daemon.” This time it was Viserys, his voice heavy with disappointment. “We talked about this. Otto’s investment was vetted by our ethics committee. There’s no conflict.”

“The ethics committee that reports to you. And that you appointed. After Alicent suggested the members.”

The silence that followed was the kind that made you want to crawl under the table. Rhaenyra was studying her wine glass with intense fascination. Laenor had developed a sudden interest in the storm outside. Even the children seemed to sense something was wrong; little Viserys had stopped his spoon-balancing attempts and was looking at his father with wide, uncertain eyes.

You reached for your wine and took a very long drink.

“I think,” you said, into the silence, “that we should perhaps change the subject.”

Alicent’s gaze snapped to you, and for a moment you saw something ugly there: resentment, perhaps, or suspicion. It was no secret that she considered you an extension of Daemon, his ally in whatever Valyrian power struggle was currently consuming the Targaryen family. The fact that you’d spent the last several months trying to extricate yourself from precisely that role was not something you could exactly explain over lamb and roasted vegetables.

“You’re right, of course,” Alicent said, her smile returning like a curtain falling back into place. “I apologize. This was entirely inappropriate dinner conversation.” She touched Viserys’s arm with practiced tenderness. “I’m sorry, darling. I let my concerns get the better of me.”

Viserys patted her hand. “No harm done. Daemon, we’ll discuss the Ashford matter tomorrow. Privately.”

“Can’t wait,” Daemon said, in a tone that suggested he would rather have oral surgery.

The rest of dinner passed in a haze of forced small talk and barely concealed hostility. By the time dessert arrived, some elaborate chocolate confection that you ate without savoring the taste, you had a headache building behind your eyes and a desperate longing to be anywhere else. Alone. Away from Targaryens and their endless, exhausting drama.

You caught Rhaenyra’s eye across the table, and she gave you a small, sympathetic smile. She, at least, understood. She’d grown up in this family. She knew what it was like to be caught in the crossfire.

But even Rhaenyra’s sympathy couldn’t pierce the cold knot of resentment that had settled in your chest. Because this, this dinner, this family, this entire suffocating situation, was exactly why you wanted out. Not because Daemon was a bad man. Not because he didn’t love you, in his way. But because being married to Daemon Targaryen meant being constantly, endlessly embroiled in Targaryen affairs.

The feuds, the power plays, the ancient grudges dressed up as business disagreements. Alicent’s machinations. Viserys’s willful blindness. The way the entire family seemed to orbit around some invisible sun of their own making, pulling everyone else into their gravitational field.

And Daemon, for all his talk of protecting you from it, was the worst of them all. He didn’t just participate in the drama, he was the drama. He generated it, cultivated it, fed on it like some kind of chaos vampire. And now he’d dragged you back to the family estate, back into the heart of the storm, and expected you to just…endure it.

You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

After dinner, you put the boys to bed in the adjoining room of the suite. Aegon went down with minimal protest, exhausted from a day of swimming and running and terrorizing his cousins with a water pistol. Viserys was fussier, clinging to you with sticky fingers and demanding a third bedtime story, but eventually even he succumbed to sleep, his small face slackening into that angelic expression that always made your heart clench.

You stood in the doorway between the children’s room and the master bedroom, watching them sleep. Aegon had kicked off his blankets already, sprawling across his bed like a starfish. Viserys was curled around the stuffed dragon he refused to sleep without, the one Daemon had bought him when he was born, its silver wings worn soft from years of clutching.

They were the reason you’d stayed this long. The reason you’d tried so hard. Every time you’d been ready to walk out the door, you’d looked at their faces and thought: I can endure a little longer. For them.

But you were starting to wonder if enduring was actually doing them any favors. If growing up in a house with parents who were slowly, silently falling apart was any better than growing up in two houses with parents who were, at least, honest about what they were.

Behind you, the door to the suite opened and closed. You didn’t turn.

“They’re asleep,” you said.

“Good.” Daemon’s voice was quiet, stripped of its usual sardonic edge. “I’m sorry about dinner. Alicent has a talent for getting under my skin.”

You turned then, leaning against the doorframe. He was standing in the middle of the room, his jacket discarded, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos that snaked up his forearms, dragons, of course, and something in High Valyrian that he’d gotten in his twenties. His silver-gold hair was disheveled from running his hands through it, a nervous habit he’d never been able to break.

“She gets under your skin because you let her,” you said. “You seek her out. You look for fights.”

“Someone has to. Viserys won’t.”

“It’s not your job to protect your brother from his own wife.”

“It’s not about protecting Viserys. It’s about protecting the family. The company. Everything our forefathers built.” He moved closer, and you caught the scent of his cologne, woody and dark and infuriatingly familiar. “Alicent and her father are parasites. They’ve been trying to sink their hooks into Targaryen holdings for years, and Viserys is too besotted to see it.”

“And what does that have to do with us? With our marriage?”

He stopped. “Everything. You’re part of this family. What affects us affects you.”

“I don’t want to be part of this family.” The words came out harder than you intended, but you didn’t take them back. “That’s the point, Daemon. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life watching you wage war against your sister-in-law over business deals. I don’t want to raise our sons in the middle of a battlefield. I want a normal life.”

“Normal.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “What does that even mean? A house in the suburbs? A nine-to-five job? Bake sales and PTA meetings? That’s not who we are. It’s never been who we are.”

“Maybe it’s who I want to be.”

“No.” He was close now, close enough to touch, his eyes burning into yours with that intensity that had first drawn you to him all those years ago. “You think you want that, but you’d be bored within a month. You’d miss this. You’d miss me.”

“You arrogant...”

“I’m not being arrogant. I’m being honest. You married me knowing exactly who I was. You knew what my family was like. You knew what you were getting into.” His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “You’re just tired. It’s been a long year. Let me take care of you.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me. I need you to listen to me.”

“I am listening.”

“No, you’re not. You’re waiting for me to stop talking so you can tell me why I’m wrong.” You pulled away from his touch, stepping back into the children’s room and pulling the door partially closed behind you. “I’ve been trying to tell you for months. I’m done, Daemon. I want a divorce.”

His expression shifted. The mask slipped, just for a moment, and you saw what lay beneath. Fear. Then it was gone, and he was the Daemon Targaryen everyone saw, the charming rogue, the untouchable prince.

“We’re not discussing this tonight,” he said. “The boys are right there.”

“They’re asleep.”

“I said, we’re not discussing this.” And then, softer, almost a plea: “Not tonight. Please.”

You had never heard Daemon Targaryen say please before. Not like that. Not as if the word had been dragged out of him against his will.

The storm was directly overhead now. Lightning flashed outside the window, bright enough to cast the room in stark white relief, and you started counting instinctively, one, two, and the thunder cracked so loud and so close that the windows rattled in their frames. Two seconds. Right on top of you.

In the children’s room, Viserys whimpered in his sleep. You slipped back inside to soothe him, stroking his silver-blond hair until he settled, your heart pounding from more than just the thunder.

When you returned to the master bedroom, Daemon was standing by the window, watching the storm with his hands in his pockets. He didn’t turn when you approached.

“Do you remember our honeymoon?” he asked quietly. “The villa in Myr. There was a storm like this on the third night. You said you’d never seen lightning so beautiful.”

You remembered. You remembered everything, the way the rain had hammered against the shutters, the way the candles had flickered every time the thunder rolled, the way Daemon had pulled you onto the bed and made love to you until the storm passed and the sky cleared and the stars came out like scattered diamonds. You’d thought, lying in his arms afterward, that you’d never be happier than you were in that moment.

You’d been right.

“That was a long time ago,” you said.

“It was eight years. That’s not so long.”

“It feels like a lifetime.”

He turned then, and the look on his face made your breath catch. He looked older, suddenly. Tired. The weight of all those years pressing down on him, on both of you.

“I know I’m difficult,” he said. “I know I’m not…easy. To be married to. I know I drive you up the wall.” A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “You’re not the first person to tell me that.”

“Daemon...”

“Let me finish. Please.” He took a breath. “I know I’ve been…distracted. The situation with Alicent, with the company, it’s consumed more of my attention than it should have. More than you deserved. I can see that now.”

“It’s not just the company. It’s everything. The way you handle things. The way you handle me.”

“I know.”

“You throw money at problems and expect them to go away. You treat my concerns like they’re inconveniences to be managed. You make decisions that affect our entire family without consulting me.” The words were pouring out now, a dam finally breaking. “You moved us to Dragonstone Manor without even asking me. You just...announced it. Like it was a done deal. Like my opinion didn’t matter.”

“I was trying to protect you. All of you. Viserys was already changing, Alicent was already getting her hooks in, and I needed to be closer. I needed to be able to watch what was happening.”

“And what about what I needed? What about what our children needed? Aegon had just started at his school. He had friends. I had a life in London. And you ripped it all away because of your paranoia about your brother’s wife.”

“It wasn’t paranoia. Everything I suspected has turned out to be true.”

“That’s not the point!” You were almost shouting now, and you forced yourself to lower your voice, acutely aware of the children sleeping in the next room. “The point is that you didn’t talk to me. You never talk to me. You just…act. You decide what’s best and you do it, and I’m supposed to just fall in line.”

Daemon was silent for a long moment. The storm was moving past, the thunder growing more distant, the lightning flickering further away. Rain drummed steadily against the windows.

“You’re right,” he said finally.

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re right. I should have talked to you. About Dragonstone. About everything.” He ran his hand through his hair again, and this time the gesture seemed less nervous than helpless.

“I’m not asking you to stop being who you are. I’m asking you to include me in it. To treat me like an equal instead of an accessory.”

“I know.” He moved toward you, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. “I know. And I’ll try. I swear to you, I’ll try.” He stopped in front of you, close enough to touch but not reaching out. “You want to leave Dragonstone? Fine. We’ll leave. We’ll move back to London, or anywhere else you want to go. You want me to step back from the family business? I’ll step back. Viserys can handle his own mess. You want me to stop antagonizing Alicent at every family dinner?” A wry smile. “That one might take some practice. But I’ll try.”

You wanted to believe him. You wanted it so badly it was a physical ache in your chest.

“I’ve already spoken to a lawyer,” you whispered.

Something flickered in his eyes, but he didn’t look away. “I know.”

“You...how?”

“The retainer on the new black card. I’m not an idiot. You think I don’t check the statements?” He shook his head. “I’ve known for months. I’ve just been…hoping you’d change your mind.”

“Daemon…”

“I’m not going to make this easy for you.” His voice was steady but hollow. “I’m not going to sign papers and smile and pretend this is what I want. It’s not. I want you. I want our family. I want to grow old with you and watch our sons become men. I want all of it. Every messy, frustrating, complicated part of it.”

“Then why didn’t you say that? Instead of just...ignoring me and hoping I’d give up?”

“Because I’m a coward.” He laughed shortly. “I was terrified. Terrified that if I actually talked about it, if I actually acknowledged what was happening, it would become real. And I couldn’t bear that.”

Another flash of lightning, further away now. This time you didn’t count the seconds.

“I’m not saying I’ll withdraw the petition,” you said. “I’m not saying everything is fixed. There’s too much damage for one conversation to repair.”

“I know.”

“But I’ll…think about it. About whether there’s something left worth saving.”

His eyes lit up. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The storm was dying now, the thunder reduced to a distant grumble, the rain softening to a gentle patter against the glass. The room felt different than it had an hour ago. As if the lightning had cleared something in the air.

Daemon reached for you, and this time you let him. His arms came around you, pulling you against his chest, and you felt the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear. He was warm and solid and so familiar it made your eyes sting.

“Come to bed,” he murmured against your hair. “We don’t have to sort out everything tonight. Just…come to bed.”

You should have said no. You should have slept in the children’s room, or on the sofa, or anywhere that wasn’t wrapped in Daemon’s arms. But you were tired, and you were sad, and despite everything, you still loved him. You had never stopped loving him. That was the problem.

“Fine,” you said. “But I’m still angry with you.”

“I know. You should be.”

“And I’m still thinking about divorce.”

“I know that too.” He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Let me try to change your mind.”

The hotel bed was vast and soft, dressed in linen that smelled faintly of lavender. Daemon undressed with his usual careless grace, tossing his clothes onto a chair in a way that would have annoyed you if you hadn’t been so tired. You changed into your nightgown in the bathroom, taking longer than necessary, staring at your reflection in the mirror and trying to decide if you were making a terrible mistake.

Your reflection stared back, offering no answers.

When you emerged, the room was lit only by the intermittent flashes of lightning and a single lamp on Daemon’s side of the bed. He was already under the covers, propped against the pillows, watching you with an expression you couldn’t quite read.

“Get in,” he said. “You’re letting the cold in.”

You climbed into bed beside him, keeping a careful distance between you. The sheets were cool against your skin. Outside, the storm was circling back, the thunder growing louder again, the lightning more frequent.

“Remember how we used to count?” Daemon asked quietly. “Between the lightning and the thunder. When we were first married.”

“I still do it,” you admitted. “I can’t help it. It’s automatic.”

“Me too.” He turned onto his side, facing you. “What do you think? How far away is this one?”

As if on cue, lightning split the sky, illuminating the room in stark white. You counted, one, two, three, and the thunder rolled, a low, grumbling bass note that vibrated through the windows.

“Three seconds,” you said. “About more than half a mile.”

“I think it’s closer. Two seconds at most.”

“You’re wrong.”

“We’ll see.” Another flash, brighter this time. One, two, and the crack was immediate, sharp and loud. Daemon smiled. “Two seconds.”

“That one doesn’t count. It was a different bolt.”

“Lightning moves. It’s getting closer.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You love me anyway.”

You didn’t answer that. You couldn’t. Because he was right, and you both knew it.

The next flash came almost immediately, and this time the thunder followed so fast it was nearly simultaneous, a tremendous crash that made you jump despite yourself. Daemon’s arm came around you, pulling you closer, and you didn’t resist.

“Right on top of us,” he murmured. “The hotel probably has lightning rods.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

His hand was moving on your back now, slow circles that were probably meant to be soothing but were doing something else entirely. You could feel the heat of him through your nightgown, the familiar geography of his body, the way you fit against him.

“Daemon.”

“Hmm?”

“This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you.”

“I know.” His lips brushed your forehead. “This doesn’t mean anything. We’re just two people in a bed, waiting out a storm.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

“For now.”

His hand slid lower, tracing the curve of your spine, and you shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the cold. You knew what he was doing. You’d always known. Daemon Targaryen had many weapons in his arsenal, and seduction was one of his favorites.

You should have stopped him. You should have pulled away and reinforced your boundaries and reminded him that nothing was resolved, that you were still furious, that sex wasn’t going to paper over the cracks in your marriage.

But his hand was on your hip now, his thumb pressing into the hollow there with expert precision, and you were tired of fighting. Tired of being angry. Tired of the endless, exhausting distance between what you wanted and what you had.

“Come here,” he said, and it wasn’t a command but a plea, raw and honest in a way Daemon rarely allowed himself to be.

You went.

His mouth found yours in the darkness, and it was like coming home after a long, lonely journey. Familiar and strange all at once, the taste of him, the way his hand cradled the back of your head. You’d kissed him thousands of times, millions, maybe, but this kiss felt different. Desperate. As if he was trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into the press of his lips.

“I love you,” he breathed against your mouth.

“Daemon...”

“Let me finish. Please.” He pulled back just enough to look at you, his violet eyes dark in the dim light. “I know I’ve failed you. I know I’ve been selfish and arrogant and dismissive. I know you have every right to walk out that door and never look back. But I’m asking you, begging you, to give me a chance. Not because of the children. Not because of the family. Because of us. Because what we have is worth fighting for.”

Thunder crashed outside, shaking the windows, but neither of you flinched.

“I’m so tired of fighting,” you whispered.

“Then stop. Stop fighting me. Stop fighting this.” His hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized you’d shed. “Let me take care of you. Let me love you. Let me prove to you that we can be better than we’ve been.”

“And if we can’t? If we try and it’s still not enough?”

“Then I’ll let you go.” The words seemed to cost him a lot. “If we try, really try, and you’re still unhappy, I won’t fight the divorce. I’ll sign whatever you put in front of me. Just please, let's strike a truce for now.”

Part 2: coming soon...

a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to the taglist. Also, I lowkey hate the title of this fic, so if anyone has a better idea, let me know.

And you clung to that, devoting yourself to Zayne and he with you. That was how you lived for thousands of years, guiding your people side by side in the Heavens and on Earth. You had believed that these peaceful moments would last forever until that little goddess appeared.

New gods and goddesses weren't unusual, gods were born from human desire, and sometimes formed the same way mortals were formed, through that was unusual. You had no children with Zayne, neither did you want or need any, he was all you needed and wanted in this life.

You liked and admired her even, her carefree and wild ways, something you don't ever remember being, tied down by duties from the moment of your creation. She was kind-hearted too, answering the prayers of mortals herself.

That was why you did not begrudge Zayne spending time with her, of the way he walked more often among the mortals you ruled. It was good to see things from closer up after all, and all the better if he had a friend to do it with him, even if said friend tend to rope him into doing odd things. You trusted him then, your beloved, your fated one, your other half.

Your trust in him did not waver, even as the other gods gossiped, not even when your sister came to you, worried about your relationship with Zayne. He would not betray you, you would say every time someone brought it up in your vicinity. How could he when he was your other half?

Even when Zayne left with her on a trip to collect materials before her divine statue was erected on a whim, you trusted him. It was something you used to do together when you needed a break from your duties, but now you were here, fulfilling both of your duties as he galivated around with her.

*

"How was it?" You asked calmly, admiring your husband as he shed his clothing, getting ready to rid himself of the grime from travelling.

"Fine," he grunted, as if he was trying to chase you away by being as uncooperative as possible.

"Oh Zayne," you sighed as you approached him, running your hand down his back as you helped him remove his clothing. "I promise that it was not asked with any intentions but to know about my husband and his trip."

'Husband' the word made Zayne feel a wave of guilt but not towards you, towards MC. You were his wife yet why did it feel like he was cheating on MC by allowing you to help him. Intellectually, he knew that it's the opposite yet his heart and mind are no longer one, have not been one since he had met her.

"You don't have to help me," he uttered curtly as he rid himself of the last piece of clothing, entering the water so that he may rid himself of your touch.

He felt your gaze on him, your hurt and confusion even as you tried to hide it, so long had your companionship been that he could read you like a papyrus scroll. "I understand, I will tend to my duties then," You uttered, composed if not for the faint trembling of your hands clasped in front of you before bending into a bow. MC would have screamed, he thought, or at least pouted, but you had always been a picture perfect image of composure.

Truthfully, he was angry at himself, at how he was treating you even when you have been nothing but trusting, paying no heed to the gossip that filled the halls. He was angry that you had so easily taken upon both of your duties upon yourself with nary a complaint, when you had every right to do so. He found himself wishing that you trusted him less, that you would scream and rage at him, perhaps then this guilt would be easier to bear.

*

It wasn't that Zayne didn't love you, he did love you in his own way. He loved you in the way that companions do, in the way love feels when it was a duty. He was made for you, and you for him, and he had loved you in that way for all the years of your companionship.

It helped that the two of you were similar, two peas in a pod. He loved you in devotion, in the way you you were both devoted to your duties and your people, in the way you were devoted to him. He loved you in composure, in the way that your love did not ruin your composure, and neither did his love ruined his. He loved you in silence, in the way that shared silence was not war, but peace.

He truly did not mean for this to happen, for the relationship between him and MC. Sometimes, he wished that he had never met her, if only because those quiet days with your companionship was not a bad way to continue his divine existence. He loved you like a duty, and loved her like it was a choice.

*

As you stared at Zayne and her, watching a final sunset together as if you never mattered, you thought about the last time you had seen your sister and the terrible screaming match you had. She had begged you to see sense, that the husband you had devoted your very existence to was no more, and you had so very coldly told her that if she did not stop slandering your husband, you would not forgive her, even if she was his and your sister. She was gone now, you were sure, she and all the other gods and goddesses, and you would never get a chance to apologise to her. That hurt as much as Zayne's betrayal of not just your relationship, but the entire premise of your godhood. He has forsaken everything and everyone simply for one young minor goddess.

Your only comfort was that you would be joining them soon, your strength waning by the second. You wondered if this was how mortals felt as they died. It was unpleasant, to say the least, and not a sensation you ever thought that you would encountered as a divine being.

Even now, you couldn't find it in yourself to hate Zayne. You were created to love him, and that is not something easily erased even if you wished that it could be. With the last of your strength, you granted Zayne and MC the gift of rebirth. May they find happiness together in another life was your last thought as darkness consumed you, unknowingly cursing yourself to repeat this scenario over countless lifetimes.

Your soul is bound to his, as long as he exists, so would you. In your last fleeting kindness, you have doomed yourself.

~♡~♡~♡~

"Doctor [Name], are you alright?" You heard a nurse ask, and suddenly you are back in the hospital.

You murmured your assent before tearing your eyes away from the patient, all but sprinting into your office, trying not to let your emotions show. You only managed to hold on for as long as the run to your office, crumbling once you shut and locked the door.

You remembered your first life, where you had doomed yourself, and every life after that. Luckily, you and Zayne weren't married in this life, or even dating, just best friends, even if you keep wishing for something more.

You sobbed into your arms, mourning the grief across countless lifetimes all at once. No matter what your roles were, or what your relationship with him was, married, married with children, dating, he would choose her when she appeared, and you would be left behind. Once, you had believed that what you had was strong enough, that this time would be different, that the children you had together would be enough for him to stay, and he had crushed that hope, forsaking everything for MC over and over again.

You somehow stopped your sobbing when a nurse knocked on your door, reminding you that you needed to make your rounds. Even then, you spent a week in a haze, wondering around like a mindless zombie and sobbing whenever you were not needed, trying to process countless lifetimes all at once all while avoiding Zayne.

By the end of the week, you managed to pull yourself out of the pit you had found yourself in with the cold clarity that you were known for, except for when you were with Zayne. You didn't hate him, you couldn't, when he was simply choosing MC because it was ingrained in him, just as choosing him was ingrained in you.

However, you could leave. It would hurt like hell, you were sure, tearing yourself away from your best friend and your lover over countless lifetimes, but you don't think that you could endure watching him fall for MC again.

With an action plan, you quickly drafted a resignation letter and handed it to your superior. Despite being in different departments, you were sure that Zayne would hear about it soon. And you were right, he was at your door not even 2 hours after you handed your resignation letter to your superior.

Zayne looked like his restrain was on its last breath, gripping your desk until his knuckles were white, his hair messy as if he had ran his fingers through it too many times in the matter of hours, his chest heaving like he ran to your office once he heard the news even if Zayne never ran in the hospital. You had never seen him like this before, even after back to back shifts and your heart betrayed you with how fast it was beating.

"You avoided me for a week and now I find out from Greyson that you are resigning. Why?" He asked you, his tone low and dangerous as his eyes bore into yours.

You tore your eyes away from him with great effort before answering him. "I need a different environment, that's all." You didn't trust yourself not to spill all of your secrets, or worse, burst into tears if you looked into his eyes any longer.

"I see," was all he curtly said before he marched out of your office, once again the cold and restrained Doctor Zayne everyone knew, his walls no longer down with you, your door shutting behind him like the final nail on the coffin that was your relationship with him.

You crumbled into tears again, because Zayne would never choose you, he would never fight for you because you aren't his fated one, even if he is yours.

*

If Zayne was an honest man, he would admit that he felt your absence on the first day. Your absence was like an itch, a disruption to his schedule. You were a constant presence through his life, your parents were friends, and the two of you spent a lot of time together as a result. Hence, it was no wonder that he noticed your absence immediately.

However, he did nothing about it, simply noting it down and going about his day. Maybe you were just busy with your work, although his mind whispered that you had never been too busy to spend a few minutes with him before. Still, he did nothing about it until Greyson told him about your resignation.

He had ran to you, hoping that it wasn't true, and even if it was, why did you not discuss it with him first. Weren't you each other's closest friend? And when you confirmed it? His heart had broken to pieces and the only thing he knew how to do was throw up his walls. If you could leave him so easily, you clearly did not deserve to be on his side of the wall.

He dreamt of you that night, not the version of you he knew, but different versions of you, some begging him to stay, some resigned and tired but all because of him leaving you.

As he watched you pack the last of your things, waving to the interns who came to wish you well from his window, he wondered if you would have stayed if he asked. He wondered if you would have stayed had he agreed when his parents mentioned arranging a marriage with you instead of brushing them off. In the end, he could only wonder, because he did not act on it, because Zayne never knew how to make a choice when it came to you.

~♡~♡~♡~

itoshi rin

(you already know each other, and rin's crush is so painfully obvious to everyone except him.) 

rin agrees to ride the disco pang pang under protest. after all, he takes one look at it and immediately decides it's stupid. 

"people pay money for this?" 

"people pay money to watch you kick a ball for over an hour." 

"that's different." 

he spends the first few minutes sitting with his arms crossed while everyone else is having fun. 

then the ride starts speeding up. 

maintaining his mysterious aura becomes significantly harder when he's being thrown around like loose change in a washing machine. he's already annoyed. 

then you accidentally fall into his lap! 

now he's experiencing a brand new emotion: pure, concentrated panic. 

you’d be surprised since rin can handle world-class defenders. he can handle media pressure. he can handle thousands of screaming fans. he can handle more than the average person basically. but apparently he cannot handle you sitting on his lap for 3 seconds. 

he’s just frozen while you're trying to get up. the ride refuses to let you. every time you attempt to move away, another sharp turn sends you right back into him. 

"sorry." 

"..." 

"rin?" 

"..." 

"did you die?" 

the worst part is that his face remains completely blank. from the outside, he looks calm. inside, however, his thoughts have become the audio equivalent of somebody screaming into a microphone. 

at one point, you grab his shoulder to stop yourself from sliding away. rin nearly ascends. 

he spends the rest of the ride staring straight ahead like he's witnessing classified government information. 

afterward, he walks away without saying a word. 

"wow," bachira says. "he looks traumatized." 

"i'm not." 

"your ears are red." 

rin leaves. 

itoshi sae 

(complete strangers.) 

sae gets on the ride because he's curious. that's it. there’s really no deeper reason. 

so he certainly doesn't expect his entire afternoon to get derailed by a random pretty stranger. 

then the ride starts. 

you seem to be having the time of your life. unfortunately though, your balance is terrible. sae notices this almost immediately. mostly because every sharp turn sends you sliding halfway across the platform to the empty space next to him. 

"you okay?" 

"absolutely not." 

he actually laughs. which is already shocking. 

then comes the turn that changes everything. the operator hits the controls with the enthusiasm of a man purposefully trying to launch passengers into orbit. you lose the battle against physics horribly. 

and end up falling directly into sae's lap. 

the silence afterward is deafening. now you're horrified. and sae is just staring, like his brain is wondering how did this become my problem? 

"i'm so sorry." 

"it's fine." 

the ride is not done humiliating you tho. every attempt to move away immediately fails. one turn sends you right back. another sends you into his shoulder. a third nearly throws both of you sideways. 

at this point, you're laughing from embarrassment. sae finds himself laughing, too. that should be the most shocking event of the day. 

when the ride finally ends, you stand up and brush yourself off. "well, thanks for letting me use you as a human seatbelt." 

"you didn't exactly ask." 

you grin. sae thinks that might be his problem. 

then you wave goodbye and start walking away. for about 5 seconds, sae lets it happen. then he gets up and follows you. because unlike certain people he knows, he's not letting an opportunity walk away. 

"hey." 

you turn around. 

sae pulls down his mask and lifts his cap a little. "look, i wasn't planning on introducing myself today." 

"oh wow. clearly." 

"but it'd be kind of stupid if i let you leave without getting your number." 

for the first time since meeting him, you're the one who freezes. and sae has to hide a smile when you take the phone from his hand. 

nagi seishiro

(mutual crushes, neither of you has done anything about it because that would require effort.) 

nagi doesn't want to ride the disco pang pang. he doesn't want to stand in line. he doesn't want to walk to the ride. he doesn't want to leave the house. in fact, if given the option, he'd prefer to become one with his mattress permanently. reo drags him there anyway. 

then you show up. only NOW nagi becomes significantly more cooperative and curious. very curious, actually. 

the ride starts moving. within 2 minutes, nagi discovers an incredible pattern: every time the ride throws everyone sideways, you somehow end up next to him. 

what a beautiful coincidence. what a miraculous event. surely, fate itself is at work (reo thinks he's delusional). 

then the biggest turn of the ride happens. you practically get launched into his lap. nagi catches you automatically. and then makes absolutely no effort to let go. 

"sei." 

"hm?" 

"you can release me." 

"why?" 

"because i'm sitting on you…?” 

"doesn't bother me." 

reo has never considered jumping off the ride more. 

the funniest part is that nagi isn't even flustered. no, he's thriving. if anything, you are the one overheating. every time you try to scoot away, another turn throws you right back. 

eventually, nagi gives up pretending. "you should probably stay here." 

"why?" 

"safer." 

unbelievable liar. 

reo spends the entire ride watching this train wreck unfold. 

once you’re all back on ground again, he immediately tells you both to either start dating or stop making everyone else (him) suffer. 

mikage reo

(he has the biggest crush imaginable and everybody knows except you.) 

reo is excited for the ride. he's excited for the carnival. he's excited for breathing. that's just how reo operates. 

unfortunately, being excited becomes a problem when the person you like suddenly falls into your lap. now he's experiencing approximately 18 emotions at once. 

the ride starts normally enough – you're sitting nearby, reo is already trying to act cool. emphasis on the word trying. 

then the operator spots you both and senses weakness. i don’t know, carnival employees can smell crushes from a mile away... 

the ride suddenly speeds up. you lose your balance. and next thing you know, you're landing directly on reo. 

"OH.” that's all he says. it’s all he can say because his soul temporarily disconnected from his body. 

"sorry!" 

"NO, IT'S FINE!" 

why is he shouting? nobody knows, not even reo himself. 

he becomes increasingly flustered every time the ride throws you back toward him. at one point, you accidentally grab his arm. reo nearly gives away a million yen on the spot. 

his body enters fight-or-flight mode. except neither fighting nor fleeing are options. 

then comes the true nightmare. the operator notices. and decides to ruin his life. 

"LOOK AT THESE TWO!" 

the entire ride turns. people start cheering. 

reo immediately covers his face. "i'm moving countries." 

"reo, relax." 

"i can't." 

"it's not that serious." 

"for you maybe 😭” 

by the end of the ride, everyone is laughing at him. including you– no, especially you. 

somehow that's the exact moment reo realizes he's never recovering from this crush. ever. 

bachira meguru

(you already know each other + he's had a crush on you for so long that everyone around him is exhausted.) 

taking bachira to a disco pang pang ride is like handing a toddler a monster energy drink and hoping for the best. 

before the ride even starts, he's already standing on the platform, waving his arms around, challenging random strangers, and acting like he's about to enter the world championships of getting thrown around by carnival equipment. 

"meguru, sit down." 

"why?" 

"because that's how rides work?” 

"but that's boooring." 

he only listens because you physically grab his sleeve and pull him down next to you. 

but that turns out to be your first mistake. how come? bachira spends the next 3 minutes sitting way too close. 

every time the ride jerks, his shoulder somehow ends up touching yours. 

every time you move away, he somehow ends up next to you again. you're starting to suspect he's cheating. 

then the operator decides everybody's having too much fun. the ride suddenly swings sideways with enough force to make half the passengers scream. 

and before you can react, you're sliding directly toward bachira. hard. you basically crash into his lap. 

for one glorious moment, bachira's entire personality disappears. there’s no jokes. no teasing. no laughing. complete system failure. 

yes, he's imagined this before. frequently, actually. but usually those thoughts happened at 3 in the morning when he couldn't sleep. not in broad daylight with 20+ witnesses. 

"OH MY GOSH, I'M SORRY!" 

girl. bachira is staring at you like somebody just handed him a winning lottery ticket. 

"this is crazy." 

"meguru." 

"this is actually crazy." 

"MEGURU." 

then the ride throws you back into him again. and this time he starts laughing. not a normal laugh tho. i mean the kind of laugh where he physically cannot stop. tears are forming. people are staring. but who cares? he's having the best day of his life. 

"why are you so happy?" 

"because every time you leave, the ride gives you back." 

"and?"

"it’s a sign!” 

by the end of the ride, he's completely unbearable. he spends weeks mentioning it at every opportunity. you'll be discussing groceries. somehow he'll bring it up. you'll be talking about soccer. somehow he'll bring it up. eventually, isagi threatens to throw him into traffic if he mentions it one more time. 

bachira still brings it up. 

shidou ryusei

(you already know each other + the universe made a catastrophic mistake by letting this happen.) 

the moment shidou sees the disco pang pang ride, his eyes light up. finally, a chance to become a public nuisance. 

"this looks dangerous." 

"that's exactly why you shouldn't be allowed on it." 

"too late." 

from the second the ride starts, he's causing problems. he's laughing at strangers. he's intentionally letting himself slide around. he's somehow making friends and enemies simultaneously. 

then karma finally catches him. but except instead of punishing him, karma rewards him. how? the sharpest turn of the ride sends you directly into his lap. 

"OH WOWIE." 

that's all he says at first. then a grin slowly appears. and your stomach drops. you know exactly what's coming. 

"well, this is definitely the best carnival i've ever been to." 

"don't." 

"don't what, hm?" 

"whatever you're thinking." 

"i wasn't thinking anything." he absolutely was. 

the ride keeps moving. every attempt to get off him fails. every turn sends you right back. every single time, shidou becomes more entertained. 

"you keep choosing me." 

"I'M NOT DELIBERATELY CHOOSING YOU." 

"that's not what the universe says." 

the worst part is that people nearby start noticing. and once shidou realizes he has an audience? it's shidover. he starts waving, posing, acting like he just won the world cup. you're debating whether prison would be worth it. 

then the operator notices. and loudly shouts: "AWW, LOOK AT THEM!" 

shidou sees god. "SEE? HE GETS IT." 

"I'M GOING TO PUSH YOU OFF." 

"that's basically flirting." 

the ride only lasts 5 minutes. somehow it feels like 5 years. 

afterward, shidou spends the rest of the day introducing you as "the love of his life." 

you spend the rest of the day threatening him. 

karasu tabito

(strangers + immediate chemistry through mutual annoyance.) 

karasu notices you before the ride even starts. not exactly because he's interested, but because you're arguing with the employee running the ride. 

"there's no seatbelt?" 

"no, ma’am." 

"that feels unsafe." 

"i promise that you'll be fine." 

"that wasn't very reassuring." 

karasu laughs. 

you hear him and turn around. "what's so funny?" 

"nothing." 

"you were laughing." 

"that's unrelated." 

from that moment onward, the two of you are already annoying each other. 

then the ride begins. and somehow your ongoing argument continues… right up until the platform suddenly jerks sideways. you completely lose your balance and end up landing directly in karasu's lap. 

the silence lasts approximately one second. i say one second because karasu starts smirking immediately. 

"damn." 

"don't start." 

"buying me dinner first would've been polite." 

"i regret surviving that turn." 

that only makes him laugh harder. 

every time you attempt to leave, the ride sends you right back. every single time. without fail. 

at one point, you're literally halfway across the platform. then one sharp turn later you're sitting on him again. neither of you can stop laughing. 

"this thing has favorites." 

"don't flatter yourself." 

"too late." 

the funniest part is that karasu doesn't even seem flustered. he's way too comfortable, like this is just another monday and the two of you aren’t spending the entire ride exchanging sarcastic comments, making each other laugh, and accidentally learning way too much about each other. 

by the time it ends, you're both smiling. then karasu stands up, looks at you, and says: "well, since you've already sat in my lap, i feel like we're past introductions." 

somehow that line works. and he never lets you forget it. 

kaiser michael 

(strangers + unfortunately for you, he's having the greatest day of his life.) 

kaiser gets on the disco pang pang ride with the confidence of a man who believes the universe personally revolves around him and him only. and well, after 5 minutes of watching him, you're not entirely convinced he doesn't. 

while everyone else is nervously gripping the railings and preparing for disaster, kaiser looks like he's posing for a photoshoot. his hair still looks perfect. his posture is straighter than a ruler. he's treating a carnival ride like a runway. it's irritating. 

then the ride starts moving. 

at first, it's manageable. people slide around a little. a few screams. nothing too big of a deal. 

then the operator decides peace was a mistake. the platform suddenly swings so hard that half the passengers lose whatever dignity they had left. you are one of them. 

one second, you're trying to stay upright. the next second, you're sliding directly across the platform directly into kaiser's lap. the impact nearly knocks the breath out of you. 

kaiser looks down at you. then up at the sky. then back at you. and starts laughing with his head tilted back. like this is the funniest thing that's ever happened to me. 

"mein gott, seriously?" 

"I'M SORRY." 

"why are you apologizing?" 

"because i just crashed into a complete stranger." 

"but he’s okay with it because you’re a very pretty stranger, apparently." 

you immediately wish the ride would launch you into the sun. he says it so casually like he's commenting on the weather and not like he didn't just make your brain short-circuit. 

unfortunately, things only get worse. every time you manage to move away, another turn immediately sends you right back. 

after the third time, kaiser is openly amused. after the fourth time, he's resting his chin against his hand like he's watching his favorite show. after the fifth time, he's convinced fate is personally doing him a favor today. 

"you know," he says, "most people usually introduce themselves first." 

"most people don't get launched across a moving platform." 

"fair point." 

then the ride throws you into him again. and this time, even you're laughing. because at this point, what else can you do? 

every single attempt to escape fails. every single turn ends exactly the same way. the two of you have become the ride's favorite joke. 

you eventually find out that kaiser is ridiculously easy to talk to. like you expected him to be arrogant, and he is, but he's also annoyingly funny. the kind of funny that catches you off guard. you're both sitting there laughing while everyone else is still fighting for survival. 

"this is embarrassing." 

"for you maybe." 

"what's that supposed to mean?" 

kaiser glances at you and smiles. "i'm having a fantastic time." 

"of course you are." 

"a beautiful girl keeps falling into my lap." 

"you are impossible." 

"so i’ve been told." 

by the time the ride starts slowing down, neither of you wants the conversation to end, which is ridiculous considering you've known him for approximately 9 minutes. 

then the ride finally stops. people start standing. everyone begins filing toward the exit. 

you brush yourself off, still laughing from the absolute disaster of the last few minutes. "well," you say, "sorry again for repeatedly falling on you." 

kaiser stands up completely unbothered like he didn't just spend the last 9 minutes enjoying himself far more than he should have. 

"don't be." 

"don't be sorry?" 

"if anything, i should thank the ride." 

"the ride?" 

"i got your attention, didn't i?" 

you stare at him. this man cannot be serious right now. but he’s grinning. and that grin gets even worse when he realizes he's making you laugh. 

then he pulls out his phone and holds it out with the confidence of a man who has already decided how this conversation ends. 

"go ahead." 

"what?" 

"put your number in." 

"that's awfully bold." 

"i know." 

"what if i say no?" 

kaiser shrugs. "then i'll be forced to spend the rest of my life wondering about the girl who got launched into my lap 6 separate times." 

that might be the most honest thing he's said all day. 

and judging by the smile on his face when you take the phone from his hand, kaiser knows he's already won. 

ness alexis

(strangers + somebody please save him.) 

ness boards the ride completely normal. he leaves the ride a changed man. cuz unlike kaiser, who immediately thrives under these circumstances, ness completely falls apart. 

everything is going great at first, right? he's balanced, calm, collected. 

then the ride suddenly jerks sideways. you land directly in his lap. the poor guy nearly experiences a factory reset. 

"OH MY GOODNESS, I'M SORRY." 

"I'M SORRY, TOO." 

"WHY ARE YOU APOLOGIZING?" 

"I DON'T KNOW." 

he really doesn’t know. the poor boy’s brain has stopped working because of one reason and one reason only: you're pretty. ridiculously pretty. 

and now you're close enough that he can notice little details – your perfume, your eyes, the way you're trying not to laugh at his panicking. 

every time the ride throws you back toward him, ness loses another piece of his ability to function. 

eventually, he's struggling to maintain eye contact. struggling to form sentences. struggling to remember his own name. struggling to remember the ABCs. 

"you okay?" 

"yes." he's lying terribly. 

then the ride hits another sharp turn. this time, he's the one who almost falls. you instinctively grab his arm as a result. ness shuts down. now you are helping him. that's even worse. 

by the time the ride ends, he's already accepted that he'll never see you again. tragic. heartbreaking. devastating. he's mentally composing a eulogy for the relationship that never happened. 

then as you're about to leave, you smile and ask for his number. 

ness stops. he doesn’t do anything for a solid 30 seconds. doesn’t breathe, blink, talk. 

then he immediately fumbles his phone so hard that it bounces off the floor. you have to help him pick it up. the whole interaction somehow flusters him even more. but now he has your contact info and a crack in his screen protector! 

later that night, kaiser is forced to listen to the entire story 6 separate times. and every single retelling starts with: “okay, but you don't understand how pretty she was." 

chigiri hyoma

(you already know each other + he has a crush that he manages to hide surprisingly well... until today.) 

chigiri actually thought this ride would be fun. after all, he saw people laughing and sliding around. it looked like harmless chaos. 

then he got on it and immediately realized he'd made a mistake. 

"this thing is trying to kill me." 

"you're an athlete.” 

"exactly. i value my knees." 

unlike certain idiots around him, chigiri is actually trying to stay balanced. he's doing a pretty good job, too… right up until you lose yours. 

one particularly aggressive turn sends you sliding across the platform directly into his lap. 

and chigiri discovers that there are, in fact, things more dangerous than the ride. namely you. because you're currently sitting on him. and you're way too close. 

"help i'm so sorry." 

"it's okay." 

his voice sounds normal. but internally? internally he's fighting for HIS LIFE. 

every time you try to get up, another turn immediately sends you back. 

eventually you give up and just grab his shoulders. this is worse. now you're laughing directly in front of him. close enough that he can see every detail of your face and be suddenly very aware of where his hands are on your hips. 

"this ride hates me." 

"i don't know." he smiles. "i think it likes me." 

for the first time all day, you're the one who gets flustered. 

afterward, bachira swears he caught chigiri smiling to himself. 

chigiri denies everything. 

barou shoei

(you already know each other + absolutely nobody is prepared for how possessive this man becomes.) 

barou already hates the ride before it starts. well, he hates everything. he hates the noise. he hates the crowds. he hates the fact that random strangers keep bumping into him. honestly, he probably hates gravity, too. 

"why am i here?" 

"because you agreed to come." 

"clearly i wasn't thinking." 

the ride starts moving. barou immediately plants himself in one spot like a king defending his throne. it works at first. everybody else is getting tossed around. barou barely moves. 

then you get launched directly into him. and the immovable object meets the unstoppable force. 

you land squarely in his lap. barou stills. for about half a second. then his hands automatically move to steady you before you can fall. 

"watch it." 

"I'M TRYING." 

(un)fortunately, the ride keeps deciding otherwise. every attempt to leave immediately fails. every turn sends you right back. 

and while you grow increasingly embarrassed, barou starts looking increasingly pleased. not that he'd ever admit it. 

"this is humiliating." 

"for you maybe." 

"what does that mean?" 

"nothing." liar. 

the worst part is that anybody who looks over immediately assumes you're together. mostly because barou looks like he's daring people to say something. 

one guy accidentally stares too long. barou stares back. the guy immediately looks away (out of fear). 

afterward, when you apologize again, barou rolls his eyes. "you've apologized like 20 times." 

"because i spent 5 minutes sitting on you." 

"and?" 

if that response isn’t more dangerous than the ride itself, then i don’t know what is. 

yukimiya kenyu

(strangers + this man turns every interaction into a romance drama.) 

yukimiya notices you before the ride starts, mostly because you're standing nearby taking selfies with your friends. and also because you're gorgeous. he's only human. 

then he gets on the ride. then you get on the ride. and fate decides to start acting suspicious. why? within 3 minutes, you're sitting in his lap. 

"oh my gosh." 

"well." 

"WELL?" 

"this is one way to introduce yourself." 

he says it with such a warm smile that you immediately start laughing. yukimiya has the unfair ability to make everything sound charming. 

every time the ride throws you back against him, he somehow manages to make you feel less embarrassed. it shouldn't be possible. 

"i promise i'm not doing this intentionally." 

"that's a shame." 

"wait what?" 

"nothing." 

he's smiling. you're smiling. everybody nearby is rolling their eyes. the chemistry is becoming obnoxiously obvious. 

by the end of the ride, it feels less like two strangers awkwardly sharing a seat and more like the opening scene of a romance film. 

afterward, yukimiya asks for your number with the confidence of a man who already knows the answer. it works. 

otoya eita

(strangers + professional flirt meets unfortunate victim.) 

otoya notices you immediately. i mean of course he does, noticing pretty girls is basically his only hobby besides soccer 💔  

the problem is that he wasn't planning on talking to you. 

then the ride starts. and you accidentally get launched into his lap. and that makes talking to you very easy. wayyy too easy. 

"wow." 

"i'm sorry." 

"don't be." 

"don't be?" 

"i've definitely had worse people fall into my lap." 

"that's… not reassuring." 

otoya laughs. flustering you is already becoming fun. 

every turn sends you bouncing right back toward him. every turn gives him another opportunity to flirt. and unfortunately, he's very good at flirting. 

"you know, most people usually ask for my number first." 

"can you shut up?" 

"make me?" 

despite your best efforts, he's actually funny, so by the end of the ride, you're laughing more than you're panicking. 

afterward, otoya offers his phone. "go ahead." 

"what?" 

"put your number in." 

"you're awfully confident." 

"wouldn't be offering if i wasn't." 

annoyingly enough, that confidence works. 

aiku oliver

(strangers + this is basically his dream scenario.) 

aiku spends the entire wait in line chatting with random people, making jokes, making friends, somehow learning everybody's life story. 

then he notices you… and immediately decides you're pretty. that's it. simple. 

eventually, the ride starts. within minutes, you're accidentally thrown into his lap. 

aiku doesn't even look surprised. if anything, he looks delighted. 

"well, hello." 

"i hate this ride." 

"personally, i'm starting to love it." 

"of course you are." 

every attempt to move away ends exactly the same way. another turn. another collision. another amused smile from aiku. 

he's making conversation like this is the most normal situation in the world. asking questions. making jokes. getting you to laugh. turning an embarrassing accident into an actually fun conversation. 

at one point, you're laughing so hard that you accidentally grab his shoulder. he notices. and oh boy, the smug smile afterward tells you everything. 

"having fun?" 

"i hate to admit it, but yeah." 

"that's all i needed to hear." 

by the end of the ride, the two of you are talking like you've known each other for hours instead of minutes. 

when the ride fully stops, aiku stands up. stretches. and immediately hands you his phone. "here." 

"what's this?" 

"’m saving us both time." 

"you're ridiculous." 

"yet you haven't said no. so?" 

he's lucky he's handsome. 

hiori yo

(you already know each other + he has a crush that absolutely nobody notices because hiori is physically incapable of being dramatic about anything.) 

hiori agrees to ride the disco pang pang because you asked. that's literally the only reason. 

if anybody else had invited him, he would've politely declined and found a quiet place to sit while playing games on his phone. but you wanted to try it. so now he's here. 

unfortunately, hiori quickly discovers that the ride is basically controlled chaos. people are screaming. people are sliding everywhere. somebody nearly falls over within the first 3 seconds. 

hiori watches all of this happen with the same expression he uses when his game glitches – mild disappointment. 

"this seems unsafe." 

"you're still here." 

"because ya are." 

the answer slips out so casually that it takes both of you a second to process it. 

hiori immediately looks away. you pretend not to hear it. everybody survives (barely). 

then the ride suddenly jerks sideways. hiori manages to stay balanced. you do not. one second, you're sitting across from him. the next, you're landing directly in his lap. 

the funniest part is that hiori actually catches you completely on instinct. one arm quickly wrapping around your waist before you can slide right off the platform. 

for a moment, neither of you move. but that means now you're both painfully aware of how close you are. and hiori is suddenly very aware that you're sitting in his lap. 

"sorry." 

"it's okay." 

"i'm crushing you." 

"yer really not." 

sadly (or not), every attempt to move immediately fails. every time you scoot away, another turn sends you right back. eventually you just give up. hiori does, too. 

it feels more dangerous because now you're sitting there talking, laughing. hiori is left looking at you with that soft little smile he gets whenever he's genuinely enjoying himself. a smile that's incredibly rare. 

"you know," you say, "you're taking this surprisingly well." 

"i play online games." 

"what does that have to do with this?" 

"nothin’ that happens here can hurt me anymore." 

you laugh so hard you nearly fall over again. hiori catches you a second time. 

for the rest of the ride, his hand never really leaves your waist. purely for safety reasons, obviously. but absolutely nobody believes him. 

nanase nijiro

(you already know each other + he's had a crush on you for ages and is the worst person imaginable for this situation let’s be so fr.) 

nanase is already nervous before the ride even starts. yes, he's scared of the ride. but also you are sitting next to him. 

he's been crushing on you for months. maybe longer. and despite his best efforts, he becomes a complete disaster whenever you're involved. 

"you okay?" 

"yeah!" he's not. his voice just cracked. 

the ride starts moving. nanase gets even more nervous. every turn keeps bringing you closer. every bump keeps making your shoulders brush. every accidental touch adds another 10 years to his lifespan. 

then comes the worst turn imaginable. the ride swings sideways. you lose your balance. and oh! you're sitting directly in his lap. 

nanase completely stops functioning. genuinely. he looks like somebody unplugged him. 

"nijiro?" 

"..." 

"hello?" 

"..." 

"did i kill him…?” 

"I'M ALIVE." he practically shouts it. now everybody nearby is looking. 

nanase is red. ears. face. neck. all of it. 

every time the ride sends you back into him, he apologizes. nobody knows why, not even him. 

soon enough, you're laughing so hard that tears start forming. meanwhile nanase is experiencing the most intense emotional event of his life. 

afterward, he spends the entire day replaying it in his head. 

when somebody asks why he's smiling at nothing? he walks directly into a wall and gives himself a concussion. 

iglesias bunny

(strangers + he thinks he's smooth until you accidentally ruin his composure.) 

bunny gets on the ride completely confident and relaxed. he’s charming so he’s convinced he's going to have a fun afternoon. 

then he notices you. and all of a sudden, the ride isn't the most interesting thing there anymore. 

you're gorgeous. annoyingly gorgeous. the kind of gorgeous that makes even him look twice. 

still, he's got this. he's bunny iglesias. talking to pretty people is practically second nature. 

then the ride starts. you accidentally get launched directly into his lap within the first 5 seconds. and he does not got this anymore. at all. 

why? the one thing bunny wasn't prepared for was having the prettiest person he's seen all week practically fall out of the sky and land on him. 

"oh geez, i'm so sorry." 

"wow." 

"pardon?" 

"nothing." 

"why did you say wow?" 

"because this is probably the best thing that's happened to me today." 

"you don’t even know me???" 

"i'd like to fix that." 

he says it so naturally that you start laughing. and that's when bunny realizes he's in deep trouble. your laugh might actually be his favorite sound. 

every failed attempt to move away becomes another conversation. another joke. another excuse to keep talking. by the halfway point of the ride, you've gone from strangers to teasing each other like you've known each other forever. 

"be honest." 

"about what?" 

"did you secretly pay the operator?" 

"to throw me into your lap?" 

bunny grins. he’s enjoying every single insult and conspiracy. 

by the end of the ride, getting your number feels less like a possibility and more like a requirement. 

for once, he's not being cocky. he just genuinely doesn't want the conversation to end. 

hugo vivian

(strangers + one unfortunate ride becomes the start of a very expensive crush.) 

hugo originally comes to the carnival because he's curious. that's it. there’s really no other reason. 

he sees a crowd gathered around the disco pang pang ride and decides to see what all the fuss is about. 

then he notices you. and immediately forgets why he came. standing a few meters away is quite possibly the prettiest person he's ever seen. 

how unfortunate. he's supposed to be minding his own business. guess fate decided subtlety is overrated. 

the ride starts. a few minutes pass. his eyes remain on you almost the entire time… so he watches in full focus you flying directly toward him. 

despite being a pro soccer player, hugo barely has time to react before you land in his lap. the impact nearly knocks the breath out of both of you. 

then comes the silence. you're horrified. and hugo is staring. he’s not being rude or annoyed at all, no. his brain has temporarily stopped processing information. all it sees is: “error! error!” bzzt zzzt. 

"i'm so sorry." 

"don't apologize." 

"i literally fell on you." 

"i survived." 

that makes you laugh. 

now hugo immediately becomes obsessed with making you laugh again. 

every time the ride throws you back together, he finds another joke. another comment. another reason to keep you smiling. 

he quickly realizes that talking to you is ridiculously easier than it should be and easier than talking to most people. 

by the end of the ride, he's genuinely disappointed when it starts slowing down. it means the conversation is ending. 

then the ride stops completely. people start standing up. 

you thank him for putting up with the accidental lap invasion and begin walking away. 

hugo lets you get about 3 steps. then immediately follows you. there is absolutely no universe where he's allowing the most interesting person he's met all year to disappear. 

"hey." 

you turn around. "yeah?" 

"i think we've reached the point where i need your number." 

you raise a brow. "need?" 

"need." 

"that's a strong word." 

"i sat through 10 minutes of emotional turmoil." 

"emotional turmoil?" 

"you fell into my lap and then laughed at all my jokes." 

"that was turmoil?" 

"for me, yes." 

by the time you're entering your number into his phone, hugo is already planning how he's going to convince you to go out with him. 

knowing hugo? he's probably already picked the first date location, too. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

itoshi rin

rin swore he would act normal. 

he did not act normal. 

he actually spent the entire week beforehand annoyed at himself because why did he care what some celebrity thought of him? pathetic. embarrassing. disgusting behavior. 

and yet he still knew your favorite drink order. because he “accidentally” memorized it from interviews. sure. 

the first meeting happens backstage at an awards ceremony. he’s leaning against the wall looking all cold and untouchable until you walk up smiling and introduce yourself. 

and this idiot just stares. 

too long. long enough that you tilt your head a little like “um… hello???” 

he finally mutters your name under his breath like he’s checking if it’s real. 

the thing is, rin’s version of being a loser in love is becoming even MORE awkward. more stiff. more intensely aware of every movement he makes. 

you ask if he’s nervous for the ceremony and he immediately says, “no.” 

then walks directly into a table. 

not even a little bump either. full force. LOUD. 

the silence afterward is catastrophic. 

you trying not to laugh makes it worse because now his ears are pink and he knows you noticed. 

the viral clip though? oh it destroys him. 

during a red carpet interview, the interviewer asks which celebrity he’d want to collaborate with someday and before rin can dodge the question, his eyes drift toward you across the carpet for literally half a second. HALF A SECOND. 

internet detectives catch it instantly. 

then the camera cuts to him realizing the audience noticed and he physically clenches his jaw. 

people on tik tok and instagram start zooming in with captions like: “the way he looked at her omg.” “HE’S TRYING SO HARD TO ACT NONCHALANT LMAO.” “rin itoshi caught lacking bro is NOT tuff.” 

his fans are losing their minds because rin almost never reacts emotionally in public. 

meanwhile your fans are crying laughing because every clip of him near you looks like either a feral cat being shown affection for the first time or someone trying to survive a hostage situation. 

there’s also a famous fancam compilation titled: “rin itoshi vs. his own feelings.” 

it’s 10 minutes long. 

itoshi sae

sae is usually smooth. usually. 

but apparently all his composure evaporates when you’re around because the first thing he says after meeting you is: “you’re shorter than i expected.” 

which sounds rude. horribly rude. 

except he says it while looking weirdly fascinated, like he genuinely didn’t expect you to exist in three dimensions. 

you burst out laughing though, thank god, and suddenly sae looks slightly less tense. 

i say slightly because he’s still a loser. just in a different font. 

the interaction happens during a luxury brand event where you’re both ambassadors. sae had fully planned on keeping things professional and detached. 

instead: he keeps glancing at you mid-conversation. he forgets to answer questions immediately. he lets you steal his drink without complaining. he actually smiles at one of your jokes and the photographers nearly collapse on site. 

because sae smiling naturally is apparently a once-in-a-century astronomical event. 

the clip that detonates online happens when you casually fix his crooked tie during an interview. that’s it. that’s all. 

but sae stills completely. COMPLETELY. 

he just looks down at you with this unreadable expression while you fix it, and when you finish he quietly says “thanks” in the softest voice imaginable. 

internet GONE. absolutely gone. 

his fans are like: “HE LOOKS SO GENTLE WITH HER.” “sae letting someone touch him voluntarily?????” “oh he likes her BAD.” “the eye contact just impregnated me spiritually.” “pause.” 

your fans are even worse because they immediately decide the tension is cinematic. 

people start making fake wedding edits within HOURS. 

someone tweets: “they look like divorced royalty reconnecting at a gala.” 50k likes in 5 minutes. insane. 

nagi seishiro

nagi’s crush on you was already public knowledge to literally everyone except you. 

reo knew. chris knew. the entire manshine team knew. 

because nagi had absolutely no shame about watching your livestreams during practice. 

he once said “wait she uploaded” in the middle of reviewing match footage. 

so when he finally meets you at a gaming sponsorship event, everybody’s waiting for him to embarrass himself. 

and he DELIVERS. 

first of all, he accidentally says “hi, i love you” instead of “hi, i love your work.” 

reo is choking in the background. 

nagi is staring into space processing what he just said. 

but you’re laughing so hard you nearly fall out of your chair. 

and instead of recovering, he just sighs and goes “… well. too late now.” 

HE’S SUCH A LOSER, BUT YOUR LOSER.  

then he proceeds to follow you around the event like a sleepy cat. 

sitting beside you. handing you snacks. leaning over your shoulder to look at your game screen. mumbling little comments only for you. 

the internet clip that explodes is when you excitedly grab his arm after winning a round and he literally rests his forehead on your shoulder for a second because he’s overwhelmed. 

the camera catches his expression, too. completely soft. completely gone. like he’s melting alive. 

people start calling him “the nation’s laziest simp.” 

his fans actually adore it though because nagi’s usually lazy and detached about everything, but around you he suddenly seems awake. attentive. clingy. 

your fans think it’s hilarious because: “she adopted a giant housecat.” “he’s attached to her by an invisible string.” “that man would follow her into traffic.” 

the edits become unavoidable. 

especially the ones where they compare: nagi with everyone else: 😐 nagi with you: ☀️🌸💍✨ and it gets you every time. 

mikage reo

reo thought he had this completely under control. 

he’s rich, charming, attractive, socially polished. he talks to celebrities all the time. 

except YOU specifically apparently turn him into a disaster. 

he meets you at a fashion week event after-party and genuinely starts tweaking the second you compliment his outfit. because the compliment was detailed. 

you noticed the watch. the WATCH. 

now he’s internally spiraling because “she noticed the watch” has become the only thought in his head. 

he starts trying too hard after that. so hard. 

offering you drinks every 5 seconds. pulling chairs out for you. laughing before you finish jokes. accidentally bragging because he wants to impress you then immediately hating himself for it. 

the funniest part is that reo’s usually smooth enough to hide his emotions, but around you he gets this ridiculously lovestruck look in his eyes. like full disney prince. 

and EVERY camera catches it. 

the viral clip happens when you touch his necklace while asking where it’s from. 

reo literally stops mid-sentence. paused mid-smile. 

then he answers way too quietly: “… you can keep it if you want.” 

THE INTERNET SCREAMS. 

because why did he say that like a man returning from war. 

his fans are posting: “he folded instantly.” “reo mikage giving away luxury jewelry over hand contact.” “bro saw his future wife.” 

your fans think he’s painfully cute because despite being rich and confident, he acts like a teenage boy with his first crush around you. 

and the shipping becomes violent. 

there are fan cams. analysis threads. body language experts. people tracking how often he looks at you during interviews. 

reo absolutely reads all of them, too. 

then sends the funniest ones to nagi late at night like: “do you think we looked obvious…” 

and nagi replies: “u looked one marriage proposal away from fainting. now stop asking.” 

bachira meguru

bachira is the worst kind of celebrity-crush-haver because he has absolutely ZERO shame. none. 

the second he finds out he's meeting you, he's already telling everyone. 

isagi's tired. rin's annoyed. the staff are regretting inviting him. 

"i'm gonna make her laugh." "that's nice, bachira." "and then we're gonna be best friends." "..." "and then maybe she'll let me borrow her makeup." 

the confidence is insane considering he has never spoken to you once. 

then he actually meets you. 

and somehow becomes even weirder. 

because instead of introducing himself normally, he immediately blurts out: "you're real!" 

which sounds absolutely even more insane… 

you laugh though, which bachira treats like winning the lottery. 

after that, he's attached to your side the entire event. showing you random videos. asking a million questions. telling you stories that start with one topic and somehow end somewhere completely different. 

the viral clip happens when you laugh so hard at one of his jokes that you accidentally grab his shoulder. 

bachira immediately throws both hands over his face and starts spinning in a circle. A FULL CIRCLE. like an excited golden retriever. 

people nearby are crying laughing. 

twitter titles the clip: "professional athlete experiences positive reinforcement.” 

his fans think it's adorable because bachira's always affectionate, but this is different. 

he's nervous. he's excited. he keeps checking whether you're still listening when he talks. 

your fans notice immediately. "HE KEEPS LOOKING TO SEE IF SHE'S HAVING FUN.” "he's literally wagging his tail.” "someone put him on a leash before he follows her home.” 

the edits are ridiculous. 

people start calling you "the monster's favorite person." 

bachira absolutely saves every single one. 

shidou ryusei

meeting his celebrity crush is unfortunately a public safety hazard. 

because shidou does not know how to act normal. 

you walk into the room. he sees you. and immediately slams both hands onto the table. 

"OH MY MAMAS." 

everyone jumps. including you. 

"YOU'RE EVEN PRETTIER IN PERSON." 

staff members are already developing migraines. 

shidou doesn't care. he's grinning so hard his face probably hurts. 

the entire interaction feels like a live grenade rolling around the room. he keeps complimenting you. keeps making you laugh. keeps getting distracted mid-conversation because he's too busy staring. never leaves your side for a single second. 

at one point, you ask him a simple question. 

he doesn't answer. because he forgot the question. because he was looking at you. because he's a loser. 

the viral clip is catastrophic. 

during a group photo, you casually link arms with him. 

shidou reacts like someone injected pure electricity into his bloodstream. 

he physically JUMPS. then immediately starts yelling. 

"DO YOU GUYS SEE THIS?" 

everyone sees it. the cameras see it. the internet sees it. 

his fans are dying. "he folded faster than laundry.” "the strongest striker in blue lock defeated by one pretty girl.” "he's giggling bro.” 

your fans are mostly entertained because shidou isn't even trying to hide it. 

he's not subtle. he's not mysterious. 

he's basically wearing a neon sign that says: I HAVE A CRUSH AND I’M PROUD. 

karasu tabito

karasu spends years making fun of other people for being down bad. years. then karma arrives. and it arrives in the form of you. 

he meets you at a sponsored charity event and immediately realizes he's in trouble when he starts fixing his posture. 

karasu never fixes his posture. ever. 

suddenly he's checking his hair. adjusting his sleeves. thinking before he speaks. absolutely humiliating. 

he's still smooth though. or at least… he tries to be. 

the problem is that every time you smile at him, he completely loses his train of thought. 

you'll ask him something simple. he'll start answering. then halfway through he'll forget where he was going. 

which is how he ends up saying things like: "yeah, so i started playing soccer because... because..." 

there’s long pause. you’re smiling. 

"... wow." "wow?" "yeah. wow." 

absolutely finished. 

the viral clip comes from an interview. you're sitting beside him. the interviewer asks a question. karasu answers. except the entire time he's looking at you instead of the interviewer. the ENTIRE TIME. 

netizens immediately create side-by-side compilations. the evidence is overwhelming. 

his fans are screaming because karasu usually notices everything around him. but around you? he notices literally nothing else. 

your fans think it's hilarious. "he looks like he's listening to wedding vows." "that man is studying her face like it'll be on the final exam bruh." "awww karasu got hit by a truck called love 😍" 

kaiser michael

kaiser's plan was simple. he would charm you. you would be impressed. everything would go according to schedule. 

unfortunately for him, you walk in and suddenly he can't remember half his prepared lines. 

which is terrifying. because kaiser ALWAYS has lines. 

he introduces himself with his usual confidence. flashes the smile. does the eye contact. everything's perfect. 

then you compliment his rose tattoo. and this man forgets how conversations work. 

he literally goes: "... thank you." 

and then nothing. empty thoughts. the emperor has fallen. 

kaiser spends the rest of the event trying desperately to regain control. 

except every time he thinks he's recovered, you say something cute and he's back at square one. 

the viral clip absolutely ruins him. during a photoshoot, you reach over and brush something off his shoulder. that's it. tiny gesture. totally harmless. 

except kaiser freezes. and for a split second, just one second, his expression softens. completely. all the arrogance disappears. all the confidence disappears. he just looks… hopelessly gone. 

the camera catches everything. 

the internet’s reactions? "WHO IS THAT MAN?” "THAT IS NOT MICHAEL KAISER.” "SOMEBODY CHECK HIS TEMPERATURE.” 

his fans lose their minds because kaiser's entire brand is confidence. seeing him vulnerable for even half a second feels like discovering classified government documents. 

your fans immediately become obsessed. 

the edits hit 20 million views, it’s crazy. 

ness alexis

OH NO. NAUR. 

ness is somehow worse than everyone else. because unlike the others, he genuinely prepared. 

he researched your interviews. your favorite movies. your hobbies. not in a creepy way. but rather, to make a good impression. 

the problem is that all preparation disappears the second you actually speak to him. 

you smile. say hello. 

and this poor man starts buffering. 

every sentence comes out awkward. every answer is slightly too enthusiastic. he keeps accidentally agreeing with everything you say. 

you could say: "i think pigeons are funny." 

and ness would immediately go: "YES." 

why? he doesn't know. 

the clip that goes viral is devastating. you're both participating in a challenge video. at one point, you laugh and lean against his shoulder for balance. 

ness immediately stops functioning. his face goes bright red. his eyes get wide. he forgets what game you're playing. for nearly 15 seconds. 

everyone notices. especially kaiser, who is standing in the background looking disgusted. 

internet captions: "bro entered cardiac arrest.” "he's fighting for his life.” "someone get him water.” “ref wya.” 

ness's fans actually find it really sweet because beneath all the chaos, he's genuinely trying his best. 

he listens carefully when you talk. remembers little details. looks excited whenever you include him in conversations. 

your fans adore him almost immediately. "he's actually so cute.” "look at him trying not to smile.” "he acts like she hung the moon.” "HE'S BLUSHING IN 8K!!” 

the funniest part? months later, people are still making compilations titled: "alexis ness surviving interaction with his celebrity crush [name] (impossible challenge).” 

and every single time one pops up on his timeline, he closes the app and stares at the ceiling for a good 10 minutes. 

You had only been trying to help clean him up, giggling that he couldn’t go to training with his face covered in icing. Valarr had been indulging in lemon cakes all morning even though he knew he wasn’t supposed to, and since your husband was quite the messy eater, he had gotten it all over his face

You didn’t think twice to use your fingers to wipe it away and considered it a sweet, innocent gesture. But something in Valarr’s eyes darkened as he watched you bring your fingers to your mouth, sucking them clean before removing them with a pop!

He stared at your glistening digits and his cock immediately began to stir in his breeches. In an instant, Valarr found himself unbelievably hard at the sight, his training forgotten as he pulled you into his arms

Sweet lips met yours, tasting of lemons and sugar and a dark desire to consume you. Valarr kissed you with a passion you had not tasted yet, a bruising thing that you eagerly accepted. You had no idea what brought this upon your husband or why but you liked it, kissing him back with equal desperation

In no time, you found yourself naked, moaning as Valarr slid into you with one stroke. His thick cock stretched you out deliciously, and you wrapped your legs around his back to encourage him to move inside of you

As he did, rocking into you at a steady pace, you moaned and suddenly found his fingers in your mouth

“Suck them,” your husband commanded, pupils blown as he stared down at you. It seemed that you had finally found the reason for his sudden desire and your eyes widened but you were quick to obey

You wrapped your lips around his digits and sucked, enjoying the filthy moan that left him as you did so. The sight of you, innocently sucking his fingers while taking his cock did unexplainable things to him. Valarr felt himself nearly black out with pleasure as he moved faster, angling his hips to pound deeper inside of you

He whimpered and groaned as you clenched around him, coming around his cock with a force that had your back arching off of the bed. You squeezed him so goddamn tight that no sooner did that happen did his own peak come, nearly blinding Valarr with the pleasure it brung

Afterwards, when Valarr had cleaned you up and blushed at how unruly he had become, you thought about how something so…small had completely unmade your husband. A small smile crossed your face as you thought about it, and you made note that if he ever needing cleaning again, you’d be sure to use your fingers to do it

Maekar Targaryen

Marrying an older man was quite often the fear of many ladies in the realm. Growing up, it had always been your friends and even your fear in your youth to be forced off to an old, balding drunk that smelled like sweat and cheese. But when you married Maekar Targaryen and became his second wife, you began to see that being married to an older man wasn’t so bad after all

The ultimate perk was being with a man that knew exactly what he was he was doing. Knowing exactly how to please you in ways only a man of his age and experience would

Maekar knew the right spots to lick, to suck, and to pleasure your body to bring you to your peak. You never knew such a greatness even existed until you married Maekar, and despite what people thought of him, your husband was extremely generous

You whined as he situated himself in between your legs, his skilled tongue and fingers making good use of his experience. You had already come—twice now—but it seemed that wasn’t enough for your husband. He wanted more, demanded more despite your cries and pleas of being overstimulated

“Quiet woman. I’ll have none of that,” he waved you off, and the sensation of his pleasure was so strong that you couldn’t help yourself

You reached down and in a desperate attempt to ground yourself, you accidentally grabbed Maekar’s hair and pulled—hard

The silver strands were firmly in your grasp, your fingers curled in them as it was the only thing that you could do to anchor yourself through another orgasm

Honestly, you didn’t even notice that you were tugging on them until Maekar suddenly growled, his movements stopping as he propped himself up

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He panted, breathless as his violet eyes grew dark. He looked like a true dragon above you. Full of fire and ready to devour you

“I…” you swallowed thickly, your throat suddenly dry. You didn’t know what to say to your husband about your impulsive actions, and you didn’t mean to upset him. “I-I’m sorry, my prince. I did not mean to. I merely got carried away.”

Your breath hitched, sure that that he’d be mad and curse you for doing such a thing. Your fingers pulled back, ready to grip the sheets if need be but Maekar caught your hands and stopped you in an instant

“Nonsense. Do that again,” he demanded, his voice full of lust

You were shocked and rightfully taken off guard by his request. You never thought that Maekar of all people would like his hair to be pulled but the way he growled again as you complied with his wishes told you that he more than liked it. He loved it

“Gods woman. You’ll be the death of me one day,” Maeker groaned, and that’s how you learned that the feeling of your fingers tugging on his silver hair spurred him on like no other

Aerion Targaryen

You discovered your husband’s weakness for being worshiped at quite literally at the worst possible time

It was in the sept, while you were praying during mass and asking the gods for good fortune, a healthy baby, and a long life

Aerion had never been keen for such a thing, nor he did actually believe in the Andal gods but he entertained it for the sake of appearance and let you be, if that’s what you wished

He had never given the sept or you much attention while you were doing your prayers, preferring to sit in the corner and brood but one day you kneeled in front of him and he was gone

He watched, half shocked and half aroused as you bent over to his feet, repeating:

“And may the father protect my husband, may the warrior make him strong, and may the mother guide his soul as she does with all her children.”

He had been caught so off guard that he could barely speak, and when you rose to your feet and looked at him he was harder than he’d ever been before

“Are you ready to leave now, my prince?” You had asked innocently, but little did you know that the thoughts running through your husbands mind were anything but

Aerion couldn’t get that image of you out of his head. Of you kneeling before him, submitting to him like you were worshiping him. Praying to him like he was your god and—fuck. He needed to see that again, now

You’d scarcely made it back to your chnambers before Aerion descended upon you, kissing you with a wild glint in his eyes and pushing you on the bed

His hands were frantic as he tried to strip you of all the clothing you had on, cursing your bloody maids for making everything so tight. It took him longer than he wanted to get you naked, to get you bare and spread out for him

He marveled in the sight, like he always did, but when you tried to lay back and open yourself for him, he did something unusual

“Kneel,” he said, no, demanded as he looked at you with glazed over violet eyes. They were so dark that they almost looked black. Wild and crazed at the idea of watching his thoughts come to life. Of watching his sweet pretty wife show him her devotion. “Make me your god,” he continued, “kneel before me and worship me as a dragon should be.”

He was in utter delight as he watched your body obey; confused, but obedient nevertheless. You got off the bed and did as your husband said, sinking to your knees and blinking up as he stood above you

Already, Aerion had freed himself from his breeches, his cock springing out to brush against your lips. When you reached out and darted your tongue across the tip he moaned, gripping the back of your head and pulling you closer

“Well, go on then. Worship my cock like you do your gods and we’ll see which one shows you the heavens first.”

Spoiler alert: it was him. After you finished praising him and milking him with your mouth, Aerion placed you on the bed face down and brought you to your pleasure

He took you from behind and fucked you like you deserved, making you see stars as he pounded into you

He was consuming you, chest pressed firmly against your back and whispering in your ear. He spoke softly, encouraging you to say a prayer for your release and you did

You screamed his name, chanting it over and over again until it was the only the word you had left. You babbled and mumbled as your husband’s cock took your higher than the heavens, and afterwards you took his seed as a reward for your devotion

Aerion knew, no, he swore that by the time he was done with you, you would have no need for gods

After all, everyone knew that Targaryens were the closest thing among men. And luckily for you, you were married one—a dragon coated in flesh

Baelor Targaryen

You’re not sure when the habit started really

Mayhaps in some meeting or another, one that your duty required you to attend but didn’t permit you to enjoy. You’d probably sat beside Baelor as he endured the same torture with you, hiding behind polite smiles and chivalrous words while on the inside you were nearly bored to tears

There wasn’t much entertainment while you were listening to complaints and grievances from various different Lords, so you supposed picking up on the habit of holding Baelor’s hand and fiddling with the rings on the them was natural

It gave you something to do to occupy your mind while you sat and listened to men whine like women. A small thing that you could enjoy, and you were sure that Baelor didn’t mind either because he never complained. In fact, he often encouraged you, slipping his hand under the table for you to grab and sometimes giving you a light squeeze

It was such a small thing that you did, really, that no one could blame you for missing how it drove your husband absolutely insane

Baelor had always been good at keeping his composure; after all, it had been expected of him since he was a child. He didn’t break easily or falter when something got to him, but it seemed that one day something about you finally caused him to break

Alas, it was after one of your meetings that Baelor finally grabbed you with a sudden urgency

You had been in the middle of complaining about something, slumped in your chair and completely unaware of the hunger on his face, when all of a sudden your husband pulled you to his chest and kissed you

Your complaints were silenced at once, your jaw going slack at Baelor’s sudden advances

Now, your husband wasn’t exactly a square when it came to your marriage activities, but he was mindful and normally only took you in the confinement of your chambers. Never before had he been so open, so eager to devour you in public and it took you for a shock almost as much as it excited you

Quickly, you returned his affections and moaned as his tongue slipped into your mouth, your back hitting the stone that his desk was carved out of

One hand came to slip underneath your dress, hitching your leg up, and you moaned as Baelor’s fingers brushed against your sex

“Here?” You asked breathlessly, pulling away to look at him with wide eyes

Baelor nodded, “Here,” he said, and you gasped as his fingers slipped into your small clothes. Your core was already aching and slick with arousal. You took your husband’s fingers well, clenching around them as pleasure traveled through your lower half

This new side of him was absolutely maddening. Baelor had never been this desperate before, this willing to be risky and it drove you wild

Anyone could have walked through the doors of his solar and saw him pleasuring you. Saw their prince, their future king with his fingers stuffed in his wife’s cunt. The risk made it all the more exciting, and it had your heart pounding with anticipation

You could feel your peak rising as Baelor’s skilled fingers worked their magic, but you didn’t get there. Instead you whined as Baelor pulled them out, scrunching your face up in disappointment

“Keep going, I was almost there,” you begged him, but Baelor shook his head

“Not yet,” your husband panted, and in the next moment he loosened his breeches and turned you away from him. You took this to mean that he would take you from behind, right up against his desk. Your mouth drooled as his cock dragged along your slick folds, mouth falling open as he pushed inside of you

“Fuck,” the vulgar curses that fell from his lips made you even wetter, your cunt easily spreading apart for his cock

From behind you, Baelor set out at a steady rhythm, fucking into you while your chest hugged the stone. The sound of wet skin slapping filled the room, along with curses that would have made a Septon blush

This new position proved to be overwhelming for the both of you and you could tell that neither of you would last long. Your core clenched with every drag of his cock, your peak threatening to rise again

“My love,” you gasped out, fingers clawing at stone, trying to find something to ground you as that familiar wave of pleasure hit. “I’m…I’m going to…”

You never even got the words out. Instead they were replaced by a loud whine, your mouth dropping open and your rolling back

You came shamelessly around your husband’s back and he followed suit, cursing and groaning as he did. He held onto your hips to steady himself and that’s when you felt it—the cool metal of his rings pressing against your hot skin

When the two of you had settled down, cleaning yourselves up and rearranging your husband’s desk to make it look like you hadn’t just been fucked there, you asked him about it with a shy grin on your face

“Is this what has spurred you on, husband? All this time—playing with your rings has riled you up? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Baelor, with a grin on a face and a twinkle in his eye, only chuckled. “I feared you’d stop, wife, if you knew the terrible effect it had on me. I didn’t want that. After all, I had to have something to get me through such dreary meetings.”

Ser Duncan the Tall

Traveling together on the open road meant that you and Dunk spent a lot of time together, and in that time you had each picked up on the mannerisms and habits of the other

You knew Dunk practically like the back of your hand, and there wasn’t much that he could do or hide from you, which was why you started to notice immediately his lingering stare whenever you braided your hair

Weaving the threads together had become second nature while you were on the road, as it was way to keep your hair from getting filthy and out of your face. Nothing special about recreating a hairstyle you had been doing since your youth but Dunk, for some reason, loved it

He loved sitting beside you as you worked, tattling off about something or the other. You suspected that he didn’t actually pay attention, too focused on your hair and the way that your fingers moved to digest your stories

At first, you simply thought that it was just fascination, with Dunk being curious about the ways of a woman

It seemed innocent enough, but slowly you began to notice the way he changed

Once he was able to sit beside you while you twisted your hair, watching intently but never bothered. Now though, Dunk seemed visibly uncomfortable by something every time you touched your hair around him and you couldn’t quite figure out why

It made no sense why he seemed unable to focus, always shifting beside you like a jitterbug. More often that not, he would excuse himself afterwards and then come back a few minutes later, looking more relieved than before he’d left

He never explained or said why, and he always seemed to stutter out some half excuse that you didn’t believe. As you said, you knew Dunk which was why you knew that he was hiding something

You didn’t figure out what until one day you decided to spy on him

It had been a spur of the moment decision, deciding to pause your braiding to sneak away after him and see what his problem was. You were merely curious, that’s all, so imagine your shock when you stumbled upon Dunk, cock in hand and moaning as he pleasured himself

He had his eyes closed, so he didn’t see you as watched flabbergasted. Never in a million years did you guess that this was what he was up to, but you weren’t entirely upset about it

In fact, you felt something stirring inside of your core as you heard him calling out your name, shamelessly pleasing himself to the sound of it

It was obvious that he was thinking about you, but why? What had brought this on, you wondered?

If Dunk was as thick as a castle wall then your head was as hollow as the moat surrounding it. Filled with water instead of sense, your Nan used to say, as when you stepped forward, your curiosity and desire compelling you to do so, you still did not realize that it had been your hair that spurred him on

Instead you called out his name, “Dunk?” With a shy smile, hoping that you could get to the bottom of this and possibly help him

Dunk’s eyes flew open and the look on his face looked like a rabbit that had been caught in a snare. He instantly panicked, stammering and sputtering out. You thought that he might have been trying to say words but they failed him, and now he was as red as a tomato as you sauntered towards him

“What are you doing?” You asked him, though your head wasn’t that hollow. You knew the answer but rather you were asking why? You weren’t angry. That was apparent by the smirk adorning your face, but it was an embarrassment to Dunk all the same

He tried unsuccessfully to pull his pants up, but his hands were shaking too much and he ended up not being able to get them past his ankles. In a desperate attempt to conceal himself and save his honor, he tried to force them but the act left him unbalanced and he stumbled

Had you not steadied him, your body pressed firmly against his, he might have fallen and broken something

“M-M’Lady, I was just…I was not,” ever the chilverous knight, you both knew that you were no lady but he still referred to you as such. He was trembling underneath your touch, his eyes closed and his head shaking as if he was disappointed in himself. “I-I didn’t…I didn’t mean…”

He was cut off by the touch of your hand as you softly cupped his cock, the action causing a sharp gasp to leave his lips. His eyes flew open and his lips formed an ‘O’ shape, in disbelief that you were stroking him

“Y-Y/N, what…?”

“Shh,” you grinned deviously as you sank to your knees, an idea forming in your head that could not be resisted. You meant to help your traveling companion with his problem, excited by the idea of him being hard for you

Dunk was sure that you were trying to kill him when your tongue darted out to taste his cock. He closed his eyes and let out a moan, not knowing what he had done for the gods to allow this but thanking them anyways

Your hot mouth felt like heaven wrapped around him, so tight and wet and warm. Your head bobbed and you looked up at him with such innocent eyes that he almost collapsed

Quickly, the pleasure threatened to consume him. Dunk had only ever used his hand before and this new sensation was driving him insane. He was seeing stars already, his release fast approaching

From below him, you felt the way he shook and decided to tease him, swirling your tongue around his slit before taking him deep again, hollowing your cheeks while you sucked. You took his balls into your hands and gently massaged them, feeling satisfied when Dunk lost it

He let out a groan that he was sure all of the Seven Kingdoms would be able to hear, and without thinking he reached down and tangled his fingers in your braid to steady himself. His grip was tight, a little confusing to you until it clicked and suddenly you realized what had spurred this all on

Dunk had always seemed to disappear after you’d finished braiding. Oh gods, you hadn’t noticed before, but it was your hair! Playing with your hair had been what riled him up

You reckoned that all those times he’d been watching, eyes dark and unable to focus, what he really was thinking about was this moment. Gripping your hair whilst you sucked him off and you felt ashamed of yourself that you hadn’t realized sooner

“Head as hollow as a moat. Filled with more water than sense,” your Nan’s voice rang

baelor breakspear

— baelor always prided himself on being the dutiful son, the perfect heir who never put his own desires above the realm.

— he never expected to be the type of man to steal away a bride, but seeing you dressed for a match meant to secure a political alliance he engineered himself broke something inside him. the duty that always defined him suddenly felt like a cage, and the thought of another man holding you was the one thing his noble heart couldn't endure.

— the planning was meticulous, handled with the same precision he used on the battlefield. he didn't trust anyone else with the logistics, mapping out a quiet, midnight escape from the red keep through old tunnels that even the master of whisperers had overlooked.

— when he met you at the hidden postern gate, he didn't say a word at first; he just wrapped his heavy traveler's cloak around your shoulders to hide your bridal silk and pressed a firm, reassuring kiss to your forehead, his hands trembling just a fraction.

— he chose a ruined, secluded hill overlooking blackwater bay for the ceremony, a place where the wind howled through ancient stones. there were no lords or septons, just the two of you under a dark sky, exactly as he wanted it.

— baelor was incredibly solemn during the valyrian rites, his voice deep and steady as he spoke the ancient high valyrian words. he looked at you not as a prince looking at a subject, but as a man giving up his carefully built reputation for the only woman he ever truly desired.

— as he cut you to bind your blood with his, his touch was incredibly tender, his thumb instantly wiping away a stray tear. he whispered soft, soothing words in your ear, promising that the pain would be the last he ever caused you.

— when he pressed his bleeding mouth to yours, the taste of copper and the warmth of his breath sealed the vow so fiercely it left you breathless.

— wrapping the traditional dragonglass-clasped mantle around your shoulders felt more sacred to him than any crown he would ever inherit; he swore a silent oath to the old gods of valyria that he would shield you from the wrath of the king and your jilted betrothed.

— the morning after the wedding, he didn't look back toward king's landing with regret. instead, he held you tightly against his chest in a small room at an inn, watching the sunrise and softly telling you that he would face a hundred trials at court just to keep you by his side.

— he kept the piece of blood-stained silk from your wedding garment hidden in his breastplate, right over his heart, carrying the physical proof of your secret union into every tourney and council meeting he attended afterward.

— whenever the lord you were supposed to marry was mentioned at court, baelor’s usual polite smile would turn dangerously sharp, a silent warning that he had claimed you completely and would cut down anyone who questioned it.

— he loved the absolute privacy of your life; away from the weight of the iron throne, he became just baelor—a man who would happily brush your hair by candlelight and whisper that choosing love over duty was the best command he ever gave.

maekar targaryen

— maekar spent weeks watching your betrothal feast with a dark, suffocating fury building in his chest. he was always the brother left in the shadows, but he refused to let the woman who actually understood his bitter heart be handed over to some soft, arrogant lord.

— his approach to eloping was abrupt and demanding; he cornered you in the godswood the night before the wedding, gripped your wrists with desperate strength, and told you plainly that if you didn't leave with him right then, he would kill your betrothed in single combat.

— the ride to dragonstone was fast, with you riding pillion behind him on his warhorse, pulling you so close against his armor that you could feel the frantic, terrified thumping of his heart.

— he insisted on a traditional valyrian wedding because he despised the faith of the seven that his brother championed. he wanted something raw, old, and undeniably yours, a bond that no fat septon or political decree could ever dismantle or declare void.

— during the blood exchange, he didn't flinch when his his own flesh was cut. his eyes were locked on yours, fierce and burning with a possessive intensity that made it clear he was laying claim to your soul just as much as your body.

— when it came time to cut your skin, his rough hands became surprisingly gentle, his breathing hitching as he pressed the dragonbone blade against your skin, whispering a harsh, raw apology in high valyrian before making the mark.

— the moment your blood mingled with his, a dark, triumphant smile broke through his usual scowl. he kissed you with a desperate, hungry passion, tasting the iron on your lips and cementing the fact that you were finally his, completely beyond anyone else's reach.

— after the vows were spoken, he wrapped you in a heavy mantle of black and red, holding you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the frantic, heavy thud of his heart finally slowing down into relief.

— maekar knew his brother baelor and his father would be furious, but he faced the eventual confrontation with a grim, defiant pride, standing before the iron throne with his arm clamped around your waist.

— he took a dark pleasure in the scandal, relishing the look of utter defeat on your former betrothed's face when maekar bluntly announced that the blood rite had already been consumed and could never be broken by any mortal law.

— in your shared bedchamber at summerhall, he becomes a different man, pouring all his unspoken devotion into quiet, intense embraces, constantly reminding you that he chose you over his own duty.

— he becomes fiercely protective of you after the elopement, never letting you out of his sight when guests arrive and keeping his hand permanently resting on the pommel of his sword whenever anyone dares to look at you with pity or disrespect because of the elopement

— in the quiet hours of the night, he would hold you so tightly it almost hurts, burying his face in your neck and admitting in low, muffled tones that he had never been truly happy until the moment you chose him over a comfortable life.

valarr targaryen

— valarr was usually the golden, obedient grandson, but the thought of you marrying someone else turned him into a rebel overnight. he couldn't bear the thought of your smile belonging to another man, and his usual desire to please his father completely vanished under the panic of losing the only person who truly understood the pressure of being the future heir’s heir.

— he approached the elopement with a sort of frantic, youthful romanticism, slipping a silver ring and a note into your hand during a crowded court session, telling you exactly where his horse would be waiting at midnight.

— he was incredibly nervous during the escape, constantly looking over his shoulder and checking your cloak to make sure you weren't cold, his boyish charm melting into a fierce, protective focus as he guided you away from the castle.

— the traditional valyrian wedding was something he had researched in secret, bringing an ancient text from the red keep's library to ensure every single word spoken was exactly as their ancestors had done before the doom.

— he chose a secluded cliffside on dragonstone where the waves crashed violently below, wanting the ancient elements of fire and water to witness the truth of his love when the rest of the world was forcing a lie upon you.

— his voice cracked slightly as he recited the high valyrian vows, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears of pure relief because he could scarcely believe you actually chose him over your duty and your family's wishes.

— the blood binding terrified him a little because he hated seeing you in pain, but he knew it was the only way to make the marriage unbreakable under old valyrian law. he kissed your forehead repeatedly to distract you before drawing the blade.

— when he tasted your blood during the final kiss, it felt like an awakening; all his doubts about being a good heir disappeared, replaced by a fierce, driving ambition to become strong enough to protect you from the consequences of your flight.

— he laughed with pure, breathless joy the moment the ceremony was over, lifting you off your feet and spinning you around on the dark beach, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders now that you were his wife.

— back in the capital, he had to endure his father’s quiet, disappointed looks, but valarr never broke under the pressure; he just looked down at his boots, thinking of you waiting for him in his private chambers, and felt entirely justified.

— he bought you exquisite gifts with his own coin—silks from lys and old valyrian scrolls—shattering his own allowance just to see you comfortable and happy in the hidden life you had to lead for the first few months.

— he loves combing your hair before bed, whispering sweet, idealistic promises about how one day, when he sits on the iron throne, he would crown you his queen in front of the entire realm.

— every time he looks at the faint, silver scar on your forearm from the ceremony, his eyes would soften completely, and he would press his lips to the mark, reminding you that he belongs to you just as much as you belong to him.

daeron targaryen

— daeron was already a man plagued by terrible, prophetic dreams, but the vision of you clad in another house's colors, weeping at an altar, was the one nightmare he refused to let come true. it gave the usually timid prince a sudden, reckless courage.

— he didn't plan a grand escape; instead, he came to your window in the dead of night, his eyes wide and anxious, begging you to leave with him right then because he had seen a dream where you were lost to him forever if you stayed.

— he was drinking heavily to steady his nerves before the ceremony, but the moment he looked at you beneath the moonlit sky, he set the flask down, his eyes clearing with a rare, sharp lucidity that he only ever possessed when he was with you.

— the valyrian wedding was his idea because he believed the old dragon gods were the only ones who could protect you from the terrible things he saw in his dreams. he wanted a bond written in fire and blood, something the mortal lords couldn't touch.

— his hands shook terribly as he held the dragonglass knife, his voice trembling as he spoke the high valyrian words, but there was a deep, underlying devotion in his tone that made the ancient phrases sound like a desperate prayer.

— when his lip was cut, he pressed his mouth to yours so hard you could taste the iron immediately. the kiss was messy, desperate, and filled with a profound relief that made him sob against your lips.

— he cried softly when he had to draw your blood, murmuring endless apologies against your skin as he made the shallow cut, his tears mixing with the red droplets on your arm before he bound the linen around it.

— after the ceremony, he collapsed against you on the grass, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your lap, muttering that the dark shadows in his mind had finally gone quiet now that you were bound to him.

— he spent his days pretending to be his usual, useless self to throw off suspicion, drinking in appearance while actually spending every spare coin on food and comforts for you.

— he loves listening to you read to him in the dark; your voice is the only thing that could keep his dragon dreams at bay, and he would sleep peacefully only when his head was resting against your chest, listening to your heartbeat.

— he views his scar from the wedding as a badge of honor, often tracing it with his finger as a secret comfort, knowing that whatever terrible future awaited his house, he had managed to save the one piece of light he cared about.

aerion targaryen

— aerion viewed your upcoming marriage to another lord as a personal insult to his royal blood; he believed you were a creature of creature of old valyria, meant only for a true dragon like him, and his arrogance quickly mutated into a wild, obsessive need to take you.

— his method of elopement was chaotic and terrifying; he essentially abducted you from your chambers in the middle of the night, laughing like a madman as he carried you down the castle walls, entirely unbothered by the guards he had to bribe or threaten.

— he took you to the ruins of an ancient targaryen outpost, a place smelling of old stone and sulfur, where he had prepared a lavish altar adorned with dragonglass candles and wild, dark silks.

— he demanded the most ancient, extreme version of the valyrian rites, dressing himself in elaborate crimson silks and insisting that the gods themselves were watching his triumph over the lesser lords who dared try to steal his prize.

— his eyes danced with a frightening, erratic light during the vows, his high valyrian spoken with a dramatic, theatrical flare that made the ancient words sound like a dark, beautiful spell meant to bind you to him for eternity.

— when he cut his lip, he didn't just make a small scratch; he sliced it deeply, his smile turning wicked as the blood spilled, before slamming his mouth against yours in a fierce, bruising kiss.

— he took an almost unsettling pleasure in drawing your blood, his eyes widening as he watched the red line form on your skin. yet, his touch was strangely possessive, his fingers trailing the blood down your arm before he licked a drop from his own knife.

— he draped a heavy cloak of black and scarlet over you, declaring you his dragon-wife and laughing maniacally at the thought of the look on your father's face when he realized his daughter had been claimed by a true prince of valyria.

— he didn't care about hiding the marriage for long; he flaunted your presence in his quarters, daring anyone to challenge him, his volatile temper flaring violently whenever a courtier even looked in your direction.

— he treats you like a precious, stolen relic, showering you with stolen jewelry and demanding that you wear nothing but the colors of house targaryen, effectively erasing any trace of your former life and identity.

— he took a cruel delight in taunting your former betrothed, sending the lord a letter written in your shared blood to inform him that his prize had been taken by a true god of the realm.

— in his quietest, rare moments of vulnerability, his madness would soften into a fierce, almost desperate dependency, where he would press his face into your hair and whisper that you were the only one who truly understands his greatness.

— he made you promise that if the world ever turned against him, you would burn with him, showing you his scar from the wedding as proof that your fates were permanently intertwined in blood and fire, never to be parted by man or god.

His eyes glared at the water as if he could command the fish to bite by sheer noble decree.

“They won’t bite if you keep scowling at them,” a bright voice chimed from behind him.

Aerion stiffened, his jaw tightening. He turned his head sharply, expecting a person sent by his father to drag him back to his lessons.

Instead, he saw you.

You were the daughter of Maekar’s most trusted ally, having arrived only an hour ago.

While the adults spoke of their business, you had wandered out into the sun, your heavy skirts already trailing in the damp grass.

You looked entirely out of place among the solemn guards, a little burst of warmth against the grey stones of summerhall.

“Go away,” Aerion snapped, turning back to the water, “You’ll frighten them.”

“You’re the one frightening them,” you retorted easily, completely unbothered by the venom in his tone.

You marched right up to his rock, your slippers squelching in the mud, and plopped down beside him without asking. “My father says that fishes can sense when someone is angry. They don’t like the energy.”

“Your father is a fool, and so are you,” he hissed, expecting you to cry or perhaps run back to the castle.

But you didn’t seem bothered as you tilted your head, watching the bobber dance on the ripples. “You’re doing it wrong anyway. The bait is too high.”

Aerion opened his mouth to deliver a cutting remark—something about how a dragon did not take lessons from a silly girl—but before the words could leave his lips, your smaller, warmer hands brushed against his.

You reached out, bypassing his defensive posture, and gently adjusted his grip on the handle, lowering the tip of the rod so the bait sank properly into the water.

The prince froze. No one touched him without permission. No one dared.

Yet, as the silence stretched between you, the bobber suddenly dipped aggressively. A heavy tug yanked the line down, nearly pulling the rod from his hands.

“See!” you gasped, your face lighting up with a blinding grin. “Pull, Aerion! Pull!”

Forgetting his pride, Aerion yanked the rod back with all his boyhood strength. A massive trout broke the surface, thrashing wildly and splashing mud and lakewater directly across his pristine tunic, and right into your face.

Aerion braced himself for the screaming. Noble girls and boys always screamed when they got dirty.

But then a bright laughter echoed across the banks. “Look at the size of it! We caught it!”

Aerion looked from the wiggling fish to your mud splattered face. His lips twitched, fighting a smile before he forced his features back into a proud mask.

“I caught it,” he corrected, though his voice lacked any real bite. “You merely watched.”

“We caught it,” you insisted, bending down to take a closer look at the trout.

Your father’s visit ended shortly after, and the brief, strange kinship evaporated into memory as the years pulled you both down separate paths.

Years slipped by like water through fingers, and when you finally returned to court as a young woman, the boy by the lake had become a man feared by the entire realm.

Aerion was breathtakingly beautiful, and notoriously cruel. He walked through court with a sharp tongue and a sharper temper, but that did not faze you.

From afar, Aerion watched you navigate the treacherous nature of court. You were a vision of light, offering warm smiles to the guards, listening patiently to the older women, and showing unfaltering kindness to everyone you crossed.

To him, it was grating. All noble ladies were trained to be sweet, performing acts of grace to secure a good match or win the favour of higher lords.

He waited for you to finally lose your cool.

But the day never came. No, the reality of your kindness crashed directly into him one afternoon near the small council chamber.

You were walking down the corridor with a butterfly that had landed on your arm when the doors of the chamber burst open.

A flurry of lords tumbled out into the hall, fleeing in terror. Among them was the master of coin, frantically wiping dark ink from his doublet with his bleeding hands, his face pale as death.

“Seven hells,” one of the other lords whispered hoarsely, scurrying past you. “The prince has lost his mind entirely!”

You stopped, watching the chaotic retreat. Instead of turning back like any sensible person would, you set the butterfly on a nearby branch and stepped through the heavy doors.

An iron candelabra laid overturned on the floor, dark wax spilling across the polished wood, and an inkwell had been shattered against the wall.

Aerion stood by the high window, his back to you. His shoulders were incredibly tense, and his chest was rising and falling with heavy, angry breaths.

“I thought I made it clear,” Aerion growled without turning, “The next soul to disturb me will lose their tongue.”

“Then it is a good thing I am capable of writing. I do not need my tongue.” you responded lightly, closing the heavy door behind you.

Aerion went still. He turned slowly, his stormy eyes dark with lingering rage. When his gaze landed on you, he let out a harsh, bitter scoff.

“Come to play the saint for me too?” he sneered, maintaining his distance. “Save your sweet smiles for the lords in the hall. I have no patience for your endless charity.”

You took a few measured steps into the room, keeping a respectful distance yourself.

“I don't think they don’t understand how stressful it can be,” you said softly, ignoring his cruel words. “they whisper and push, expecting you to sit quietly while they try to manage your family’s rights. It makes sense that you’d lose your patience when they refuse to listen.”

He stared at you from across the room, his mind struggling to process what he was hearing. He had expected an admonishment, or at the very least, fear.

“They are parasites,” Aerion muttered, his posture unlocking just a fraction. “They look at me as if I am mad because I refuse to let them dictate my bloodline’s terms.”

“I can see that,” you replied gently, giving a small smile. “They may be stressed as well, but no one should have to bend to their whim.”

The room went silent before you spoke again.

“Whenever the court gets too loud for me, I find that walking around the gardens helps. The fresh air is always calming.. maybe it would help you too. It’s quiet out there.”

The fire in his eyes flickered, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. He stared at your face, the lines of his memory remembering the specific curve of your smile.

A breathless laugh escaped him.

“The gardens?” Aerion repeated, his voice dropping the edge it possessed just moments ago.

He took a step forward, assessing your form. “You haven’t changed at all, have you? Years ago at Summerhall, you told me the fish wouldn’t bite because of my ‘anger.' Now you’re trying to herd me into the bushes to calm down.”

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You remember that?”

“I remember a girl pushing my hands around and getting me covered in mud,” he murmured.

He then let out a soft click of his tongue, turning to look at the doorway. “Fine. We will walk the gardens. But only because your previous method somehow worked.”

“Of course,” you smiled.

As the weeks progressed, a unique friendship blossomed between you.

Aerion still remained difficult as ever to the rest of the world, but your presence seemed to simmer that down.

The shift did not go unnoticed by the ladies of the court, leading to an afternoon that they wouldn’t stop gossiping about for days.

You were walking through the outer courtyard with a small retinue of noble ladies, the daughters of prominent lords from the Reach. They were talking endlessly, giggling as they spoke of whatever irrelevant topics crossed their minds.

“You must be careful, my dear,” one of the ladies said, leaning in closer to you. “Prince Aerion may be amused by your novelty but once he grows bored of playing with his new toy, you will be left with nothing but yourself.”

“He is a prince of the blood,” another lady chimed in, her voice tight. “They take what pleases them for a moment and cast it aside. Do not mistake a tyrant’s passing curiosity for actual regard.”

“Aerion simply values sincerity,” you replied, offering an unbothered smile. “There is no game being played.”

“You are far too gullible–” the former lady was cut when Aerion walked out from the room beside.

The ladies instantly adjusted their posture, immediately dropping to curtsies as he approached, each of them desperately hoping to catch the prince’s favour despite their previous warnings to you.

Aerion ignored them, his eyes locking firmly onto you.

Without a word of greeting, and completely disregarding decorum, he walked into the center of the group and stepped right into your space, his frame towering over you.

“You’re late,” his voice was low—meant strictly for you, though it carried across the hall.

“Late for what, my Prince?” you asked, tilting your head up to meet his gaze with your beaming expression.

“I am going to the cliffs, and you are coming with me,” he stated flatly.

Behind you, a collective intake of breath echoed from the ladies. Here he was, actively seeking you out, his attention consuming you and utterly shattering their spiteful claims that you were just a passing game.

You looked back at the girls, giving one last smile before parting from them. “Very well, my Prince, if you insist.”

“I do,” Aerion tilted his head, turning on his heel to fall into step right beside you, his side brushing against yours as he guided you out of the yard.

That would not be the first or last time the court would witness the two of you separating from the rest of the world.

During one evening, after failing in your search for Aerion through the whole castle, you found him alone in the secluded parts of the library.

He was sitting alone, staring dead at a massive volume of ancient Valyrian history.

“I am not in the mood for company,” he hissed out, “leave.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in worry before approaching and setting down a small plate of pastries on the corner of the table. You pulled out the empty chair beside him and sat down despite his request.

Reaching over the plate, you picked up a small pastry and held it right in front of his face, completely disregarding his brooding glare.

“Eat,” you insisted gently as Aerion still refused to acknowledge you. “You always go for these specific ones. I know you like them.”

His fingers that had been gripping the edge of the book twitched, and he finally turned his head to look at you.

The weight on his shoulders gradually disappeared as he looked at the pastry, then up at your fond expression.

Aerion didn’t move to take it from your hand. Keeping his intense gaze locked firmly onto yours, he leaned slightly forward.

Then, totally unprompted, he took a bite right out of the pastry while it was still held between your fingers.

A tiny giggle slipped past your lips, a bright warmth blooming all the way to the tips of your ears at the sheer intimacy of it.

You tried to bite your lip to hide your surprise, but your shoulders shook with quiet amusement as you looked into his smug face.

Aerion chewed slowly, the corners of his lips twitching at your giddy reaction.

“You are ridiculous,” he murmured as he swallowed.

“Maybe,” you agreed, your heart fluttering as you set the remaining half down onto the plate. “But it worked. You feel better already, don’t you?”

Aerion stared at you for a moment, drinking in your presence. He did feel better—the tight, suffocating knot in his chest had already unraveled. But it was certainly not because of the pastry.

Slowly, he hesitantly reached out across the small space between your chairs. With one deliberate movement, he dragged your chair until it hit his.

Then, his hand moved to flip over on the table with his palm facing up, his fingers sprawling open in a silent, stubborn invitation.

You, on the other hand, did not hesitate. You slid your hand into his palm, your fingers easily weaving through his.

Aerion squeezed your hand, his rings pressing firmly against your skin, though his touch was surprisingly careful.

However, the true demonstration of expanse that you two had built played out before the entire court during a grand feast, where Aerion’s attempt to maintain his reputation crumbled.

The feast was deafeningly loud.

You were seated next to Aerion by Prince Maekar.

Aerion had spent the first half of the feast interacting with other lords while you conversed with other ladies.

He was glaring at a group of lesser lords when he noticed your sudden silence. Just then, some of the lords he had been talking to earlier called out to him and he tried to force his eyes back on them.

Aerion was aware that you two were the topic of conversation as of late. He couldn’t let the people of court think he had gone soft. At least that was what his pride told him.

But the sight of your fragile form pulled at him like a physical anchor, shattering his resolve. His demeanor instantly changed.

He turned fully in his seat toward you, his cold stare evaporating.

“You’re pale,” Aerion murmured, voice stripped away of anything harsh. “What is it?”

“Just… a headache, Aerion,” you whispered softly, giving him a tired smile. “The noise is particularly loud tonight.”

Aerion didn’t waste a second as he gently used his hand to cradle the back of your head.

His fingers began combing through the loose parts of your hair, his thumb tracing circles down your temple to ease the pressure.

The chatter around the surrounding tables died down, dozens of eyes tracking his movements, yet no one dared to disrupt. They watched as Aerion paid no mind to everything else the moment you showed discomfort.

You leaned into his touch, a smile returning to your face. “Aerion… everyone is watching.”

Aerion let out a defeated sigh as he grinned. “Let them stare,” he concluded, his fingers tucking in a strand of hair behind your ear. “You’ve broken me anyway.”

Shifting his broad shoulders, he blocked the rest of the room from view, shielding you from prying eyes.

“You are tired,” he paused, “if anyone breathes a word about that, I will have their heads.”

“You can’t murder the entire court,” you teased, lifting your head up for a moment.

He kisses your nape. Warm, reverent. Then again, lower, where your neck meets the curve of your shoulder, lingering, his lips parting against your skin like he means to leave something there.

His arm tightens until there's no space left between you at all. His knees fit into the hollows behind yours. He's wound so tight you can feel it even in the way Valarr holds you, a fine tremor running through him.

You don't say anything.

You let him have it. Let him hold you and breathe you in and press those quiet kisses into your skin. Because you understand, in the wordless animal way you understand most things about Valarr, that he needs this more than he needs you awake.

He needs to arrive. To come home in his body, not merely on his calendar. So you keep your breathing even and your eyes shut. You let him pour six days of want into the back of your neck in the dark.

His breathing slows. The tremor fades little by little. The last of the week leaves him in one long exhale, and somewhere in the warm dark before you both go under, his lips move against your nape one final time.

"My love," he whispers, like a man setting down something he'd been afraid to lose.

You sleep with his arm a dead weight across your waist and his mouth still buried in your hair.

You wake, hours later, before Valarr does.

The light is grey, the first thin wash of it through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the apartment quiet around you.

You've turned in the night. You're facing him now, the duvet pooled around your waist. Valarr sleeps on his back with one arm flung up across the pillows and the other still curled, even unconscious, toward the warm dent where you'd been.

You look at him.

You allow yourself this, in the rare grey hours when he doesn't know you're doing it: the luxury of looking at Valarr Targaryen without performance, without his mismatched eyes on you cataloguing every flicker of your reaction, without the game the two of you are always, on some level, playing.

You let your gaze move over him the way his moves over you when he thinks you aren't watching.

He's beautiful. An almost insulting quantity of it for one man to carry, the kind that made you think, the first time you watched him cross a room toward you, oh, that face is going to be a problem.

The dark hair ruined against the white pillow, falling across his forehead. The white streak at his temple that you know runs coarser to the touch than the rest of the floppy strands. The long sweep of his dark lashes. The pink mouth gone soft in sleep.

It is, perhaps, the most dangerous thing about Valarr, for what comes out of it.

Next comes the dips and lines of his trained, maintained body. Every inch of it claimed and tasted by you.

But this morning there's something else, too.

He didn't shave in Essos. Hasn't shaved, you'd guess, in four days (overrun, he'd said on FaceTime, drowning, back to back, I'll call again when I surface, love) and he never surfaced, never sent the usual photographs. The week swallowed him whole.

So the lower half of his face has darkened. A heavy shadow of stubble crowds along his jaw, his chin, above the bow of his lip, the clean architecture of him roughened and obscured, the boyish gloss sanded clean off.

It changes Valarr completely.

The golden dragon is gone.

The polished, attentive boy who brings you tea with honey and in his place is a dark jawline, a harder set of hollows beneath the cheekbones. A face with weight and shadow in it. The other Valarr. The silky dark one who slips loose when you fist your hands in his hair, when you growl low in your throat, when you push your fingers into his mouth and watch the brown eye go black. When you ask him to fuck you so hard you can't walk the next day.

The one you've spent three years coaxing into the light, luring up out of deep water inch by inch, nurturing the edge of him your father once glimpsed under all that shine and called the dragon, deep beneath. The one you love no less than the golden one. Perhaps more, in some senses, because he's the one Valarr lets no one else in the world see.

He looks, asleep with four days of stubble in the grey light, like the man who lives underneath the man.

You want to touch it.

So you do. You lift your hand and lay your palm flat against the side of Valarr's jaw, against the rough dark grain of him, and the texture catches and drags at your skin, coarse and entirely new under your fingers.

His eyes flutter open.

By degrees, unfocused at first, the blue one catching the light first. Then they find your face and sharpen. Valarr takes in your expression, whatever it is, whatever you didn't have the warning to school it into, and a deep, knowing pleasure unfurls across his features.

"Good morning, my love," he says, his voice wrecked from sleep, dropped half an octave and rough at every edge. "You're staring."

"I am."

"You like it." His mouth curves into something that isn't quite the golden boy's smile. He turns his face into your palm, drags the stubble across it deliberately, and watches you feel it. Takes in the small, involuntary thing your eyes do. "Tell me you like it."

You don't answer right away. You trace your thumb along the dark line of his jaw, learning the rasp of it. Valarr's eyes hood, his attention sharpening on you with the lazy, predatory patience that belongs to the other one.

"Don't shave," you tell him.

He laughs, low and delighted, the sound rumbling up out of his chest. "No?"

"No." You drag your thumb across his lower lip, feeling the place where smooth gives way to rough. "I want you like this."

"Like this," he repeats, tasting it. He catches your wrist, and turns his head to press his mouth to the heel of your hand. The stubble scrapes, his eyes never leaving yours. "Tell me what this is, then. Be specific. What is it you want, sweet girl?"

"You know what it is."

"I want to hear you say it out loud."

You hold his gaze. Neither of you blinks; you've never been the one to blink first, and he's learned not to expect it. "It's the other one," you say evenly. "The one you keep underneath. He's closer to the surface like this. I can see him from here."

An emotion moves through Valarr's face at that. The pleasure goes darker, banked-coal warm, the brown eye dropping a full shade, and his grip on your wrist tightens by a fraction that says he heard exactly what you meant.

"Then come and get him," he says huskily, and it isn't a request.

"I'm right here."

"Not close enough, my love. Nowhere near."

He's already drawing you in, his arm sliding around the small of your back, gathering you across the short distance until you're flush against the bare warm length of him under the duvet, every inch against every inch.

"Six days. Do you have the faintest idea what six days does to me?" Not a question. Valarr's mouth is already moving. Your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your jaw, leaving that rough new abrasion wherever it lands. "I needed you in every room I walked into. Every meeting. Every dinner. I'd be mid-sentence, closing the deal I flew out there to close, and all I could think was your hands. The sound you make when I first—"

You kiss him quiet.

Valarr kisses you back like a man surfacing from underwater. Nothing careful in it, nothing of the I won't presume he gave you in year one. Just open and immediate and starving, his hand coming up to cradle the back of your skull and hold you exactly where he wants you.

And the stubble burns. It scrapes your mouth, your chin, the soft skin around your lips, raw and hot, and Valarr does it on purpose. You feel the intent in it. Feel him angle his jaw to grind the rough of it across your cheek, watching for your reaction even with his eyes half-shut and his mouth fused to yours. When you moan into the kiss, when the sting of him drags a low, helpless sound up out of your chest, you feel Valarr's mouth curve against yours in dark satisfaction.

"There it is," he murmurs. "I've missed that sound. I've been starving for it, sweet girl."

He does it again. Harder. Drags his jaw down the line of your neck, the burn blooming heat across your skin in a spreading wash, and you tip your head back and bare your throat to him and let him, your fingers driving up into his hair.

The sound Valarr makes against your throat is nothing like the boyish, contented murmurs you usually coax out of him in the half-dark. It's lower than that. It has teeth in it. It belongs to the other one.

"Missed your skin," he breathes into the hollow of your throat, mouthing at the pulse. "Missed the heat of you, my love. Missed every noise I can pull out of you once I stop being polite." His mouth travels down, the rasp of his jaw scoring a hot path to your collarbone and you arch into the sensation with a sigh. "I'm not doing this quickly. I've thought about it for a week. I've earned the long version."

"Val—"

"Six days," he says against your sternum, and keeps moving down, peeling off your linen sleeping shirt.

Valarr kisses the soft swell of each breast, dragging his rough jaw against the tender underside until you arch off the sheets and gasp. He works lower, open-mouthed and wet down the curve of your ribs, the trembling plane of your stomach.

He's leaving that scrape everywhere he's been so your whole body lights like a struck match, nerve by nerve. Valarr's hands settle on your hips and spread wide, thumbs hooking into the points of bone. He kisses one, then the other. Then rubs his stubbled jaw against the soft inner skin of each thigh, back and forth, watching your face the entire time. Until you're squirming under the weight of his hands, slick and aching, your breath frayed into ragged uneven pulls.

Then he settles between your legs and lifts those shadowed eyes to your face.

"Hands off the sheets," he say, low, certain, your golden Valarr momentarily away. He takes your wrists and sets your hands in his hair himself, deliberate, then flattens his palms over your hips and pins you to the mattress. "Hold on to me instead, sweet girl. I want to feel it when you come apart for me."

The first stroke of Valarr's tongue tears a sound out of him that's worse than yours.

A deep, broken, drowning groan against your core. The noise of a man tasting the only thing he's wanted for a week and finally being allowed to have it. He moans into you. He keeps moaning into you. The flat of his tongue, then the point of it, slipping between your folds, relearning you as though he's been kept from this for years and not days.

He's drunk on it, you can feel him going under, the careful man dismantled by the first taste of you, leaving only this: a starving creature with his face buried between your thighs, breathing you in like he can't remember how to do it any other way.

And he uses the stubble. The calculated contrast of his hot, soft mouth and the raw burn of his unshaven jaw against the most sensitive skin of your inner thighs. He sucks on the nub, pressing his cheek against the crease of you, pleasure and sting braiding into something so acute you cry out and your fists clench in his hair.

He won't let your hips move. Every time you try to chase more friction, Valarr presses you flat down, holding you precisely where he wants you, making you take it at the pace he's decided on. His eyes stay on your face through all of it: fevered, drowned-dark, drinking down every helpless thing it does.

"Valarr—"

He hums against you, low and ragged, the vibration bowing your spine off the bed. "I know," he slurs, kissing the swollen folds gently. He sounds raspy, half-pained "I know, sweet girl. God, I know. Let me—just let me have you. I need you."

And then he goes deeper into you. You feel him slip the last of his composure like a coat dropped to the floor.

Whatever was left of the boy is gone; what surfaces is the dark thing he keeps buried, the worshipful animal at the bottom of him, and it doesn't kiss you so much as it adores you.

He noses against you, dragging his open mouth through you bottom to top. Valarr's tongue twists, slower now, then ravenous again, no rhythm any more, only hunger. There's nothing elegant about it now. It's wet, his tongue working you furiously, your arousal dripping into his awaiting mouth.

Valarr keeps making sounds against you, low and broken, sounds that aren't meant for you to hear, the unguarded noises of a man undone by what he's tasting.

"My love," he breathes against you, reverent, dazed. "The taste of you... I've been parched—"

And that's when you feel it: Valarr starting to rut down into the mattress beneath him, helpless, instinctive, grinding the aching length of himself against the sheets because the want has overrun him entirely.

Because eating you out has reduced him to something primal and shaking. He doesn't seem to know he's doing it. His hips move on their own, a slow, shameless grind he isn't aware of. His fingers dig harder into the flesh of your hips, and his whole body has gone fevered and greedy for more. Lost in the taste of you with four days of stubble searing your thighs and both pupils blown to black.

Valarr drags his mouth back just far enough to speak, chin slick, lips swollen like your cunt, eyes barely focused. "More. Give me more. Pull—pull my hair—please, I need to feel it—"

You fist both hands in his dark hair and you yank. Hard enough to sting.

Valarr groans—wrecked, grateful, half-feral, the sound vibrating straight through you and making you clench—and the pull snaps something loose at the core of him.

He drags you back against his mouth and goes after you with a renewed, ravenous greed, his jaw working, the stubble searing. Valarr's tongue turns relentless and exact, and the edge comes rushing up faster than you can brace for.

You tighten your fists until the dark strands strain through your fingers, and you arch off the bed. Your insides clench, coiling, and he takes you over the edge with his hands pinning you down and his mouth never once relenting.

You come apart with his name torn out of your throat and the rough burn of him branding the inside of your thighs, your whole body drawn taut as wire and then breaking. Valarr makes a sound against you that is purely starving, a deep desperate groan as the first wave of you hits his tongue, and he laps at you, parched, greedy, refusing to miss a single drop.

He licks you through it like a man drinking after days in a desert. His tongue working slow and devout against the slick of you, gathering every shudder, every pulse, every spill, drinking down every last thing your body gives him. He doesn't gentle, not really. Valarr worships, drunk and patient in his devotion. Kissing where he's been licking, licking where he's been kissing, refusing to let go of you until you're trembling and oversensitive, whispering his name and he's certain he's had all of it.

Only then does his mouth soften, turning gentle, pressing one final lingering kiss to the trembling inside of your thigh.

You lie there undone, your limbs still trembling, your hands still loosely tangled in his ruined hair, your chest heaving.

"Val," you whisper, when you find your voice.

He crawls back up the length of your body, and there's something dark and unhurried in the way he does it. Almost predatory. His mouth finds yours and you kiss him deeply, holding his face to you. A wet kiss, sloppy, finesse abandoned, you tasting yourself on his tongue, the stubble blazing against your already-tender lips, and neither of you cares in the slightest.

"You're going to be raw," Valarr murmurs against your mouth, sounding obscenely pleased about it. "Every time you feel it today you'll think of me, sweet girl."

"That's the idea," you tell him, and he makes a low sound and kisses you harder.

He's hot and solid above you. He's also, you note with a slow curl of satisfaction, still achingly hard. His length presses to the crease of your hip, untouched, ignored, leaking against your skin.

You reach down between your bodies and close your hand around him.

Valarr hisses sharply through his teeth, hips jerking into your grip.

You hum, low and pleased, and kiss the corner of his mouth tenderly, working him in a firm, unhurried stroke, feeling him pulse hot and heavy in your fist. "You missed me," you say against the rough line of his jaw. Not a question.

"Yes." Valarr's smooth voice is destroyed. He says it the way the dark one says everything—quiet, certain, more dark silk drawn taut than golden charm. "More than anything. More than is reasonable. More than I—" His breath catches and breaks as your hand twists at the wet head of him. "It was a sickness. The whole week. I'd have burned the deal to the ground to come home a day sooner if I could've found good enough excuse. I lay in that hotel every night and reached for you but you weren't there and it was... unbearable, love. You unmade me from an ocean away."

The admission lands somewhere low and bright in your chest, and you bare your teeth at it, pleased to your bones. You roll him.

You roll Valarr onto his back beneath you in one clean motion, legs wrapped around him, and Valarr blinks up at you, startled. For half a heartbeat the golden boy surfaces, the reflexive courtesy, the you've only just—

"Love," he starts, his hand finding your hips. "You don't have to, you just came apart, you—"

"Quiet."

You set your mouth to his throat.

You kiss down the strong column of his neck, dragging your lips over the jumping pulse, and Valarr's protest dies unspoken in his chest. You press your mouth to the curve of his jaw, the hollow under his ear, the spot beneath his jaw that never fails to undo him.

"Val," you say against his throat, and you let him hear the raw need in your voice. "I missed you too. Every night. I kept turning over to feel for you and you weren't there. The bed was wrong and the room was wrong and I was wrong without you." You kiss the corner of his jaw. "Do you understand me? I missed you the entire week."

Valarr groans deep in his chest, a wrecked thing, and his arms come up around you immediately. Both of them, urgent, gathering you in.

He's trying to pull you flush against him, trying to fold you in close, his hand splaying wide between your shoulder blades like he means to crush you to his chest and hold you there. The dark Valarr has gone vulnerable in an instant. The hunger has folded itself around something softer.

He wants to bury his face in your hair and breathe you in and stay like that, just hold you, just have you against him, the way he held you when he first slid into bed last night.

You feel him try to pull you up.

You stop him.

You set your palm flat to his sternum and you press him back to the mattress, kissing his pulse one more time. Then you start moving down.

"Sweet girl—" his voice cracks. "Love, come up—come back up here, let me hold you, that's all I want, just let me hold you—"

"Not yet."

"I don't need anything else, I swear, I only want you in my arms—"

"I know, pretty thing." You kiss the centre of his chest. "And you'll have that. After."

You move lower. The sharp line of his collarbone, then lower still, your mouth finding one flat, pink nipple and closing over it. His hand fists in your hair, no longer pushing you off, holding you to him now, his breath gone short and uneven.

"Sweet girl, please, I'm fine, I don't need—"

"Val." You lift your head just enough to meet his eyes. The blue one is glassy. The brown one is gone black. "I want to taste you too. I've been waiting six days. Let me have my turn."

The sound Valarr makes at that is wrecked. His head drops back against the pillow. His hand stays buried in your hair, holding tight.

"Fuck," he breathes at the ceiling. "Yes. Yes... anything. Yes."

You drag your open mouth down the centre of his chest, his stomach, feeling each band of lean muscle leap and tense beneath your lips. The sharp catch of his inhale, the way Valarr's whole body has drawn taut and trembling and waiting under you.

"There he is," you murmur, pleased, against his skin, giving him his own words back. "Closer to the surface now, isn't he?"

A broken sound is your response, his hand tightening in your hair.

You reach the jut of one hip bone and press your lips there. Then the other, kissing each one in turn, letting your teeth graze the bone, and you feel his stomach hollow out on a sharp indrawn breath, his fingers trembling against your scalp.

"Sweet girl," he rasps again, and there's no refusal left anywhere in it.

It's a plea, low and dark, the golden one and the silken one finally collapsed into a single, helpless want.

The gallery had opened a small exhibition on Valyrian portraiture and devotional painting. Oil studies of silver-haired saints. Small tempera panels of dragons curled around halos. A rare triptych depicting the Doom as a wound of red light across a blackened sky.

There were private family portraits too, all long throats, pale hair, and violet eyes rendered in fading varnish. Beautiful things. Haunting things. Paintings that made old blood look holy and violence look inherited.

Targaryen money, Targaryen faces, and Targaryen provenance were threaded through half the exhibition, so perhaps you should not have been surprised when an actual Targaryen appeared among the paintings.

You were standing before a large oil painting, guiding Lady Redwyne through its provenance.

The piece was one of the exhibition’s quieter treasures: a devotional portrait of a Valyrian woman in mourning, her silver hair unbound, one hand lifted toward a dragon-shaped reliquary painted in faint, flaking gold. The varnish had darkened with age, turning the background almost black, but the eyes still held their original violet-blue brightness.

You were explaining the restoration notes, pointing out where the old pigment had been stabilized along the edges of the veil, when a familiar voice spoke behind you.

“Careful, Lady Redwyne. If you praise it too much, my family will start demanding the painting back.”

You turned.

Aerion Targaryen smiled at you.

For one stupid, reflexive second, your chest tightened because of the the family resemblance.

Then your heart corrected itself.

Not Valarr.

Aerion.

He was not as beautiful as Valarr.

That was the first uncharitable thought you had, and you hated yourself for it.

Then you corrected that too.

No, he was beautiful. Just differently.

Where Valarr looked carved from old grief and discipline, Aerion looked like pleasure had dressed itself in a leather jacket and come to cause problems. His silver hair was shorter than you remembered, his skin warmer from Lys, his collar too open for the weather, his mouth too quick to smile.

He had the Targaryen eyes.

That was unfortunate.

“Aerion,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His smile widened. “You remember me. I’m touched.”

Aerion Targaryen had never been the sort of man one simply met once and forgot. You had known him for years in the strange, inconvenient way one knew the relatives of one’s closest friends. He had been there at university parties, family dinners you had no business attending, charity galas where Valarr disappeared to argue with his father and left Aerion to entertain you with terrible jokes and worse opinions.

He had always liked you.

Or at least, Aerion had always liked making you laugh.

And for the past two months, he had been in Lys.

A trip, he had called it, though with Aerion that could mean anything from business to exile to a pleasure tour conducted with no regard for consequence. The last you had heard, he had sent Mya a picture of himself on a balcony overlooking the sea with the caption: Still alive. Regrettable for several governments.

“You’ve been gone two months, not dead.”

“People have mourned me for less.”

Lady Redwyne looked between you with open interest.

You remembered yourself.

“Lady Redwyne is considering acquiring the piece,” you said, because you were at work and work had rules, even when Aerion Targaryen appeared behind you looking like trouble with excellent bone structure.

Aerion’s smile sharpened.

“Then I adore her already.”

Lady Redwyne, who was eighty if she was a day and absolutely not immune to handsome men, blushed.

The conversation went smoothly after that because Aerion was shameless, newly returned from Lys with a tan and stories he absolutely should not have been telling donors, and old women loved shamelessness when wrapped in good breeding.

When Lady Redwyne finally wandered toward the next room, Aerion looked at you.

There was less amusement in his face now.

“Hello, darling.”

You stiffened.

“Don’t call me that.”

His brows rose.

“Still?”

“Especially now.”

“Noted.”

You looked back at the display case.

“If Valarr sent you—”

“He didn’t.”

“Are you lying?”

“Frequently, but not currently.”

You glanced at him.

Aerion held up both hands.

“I came because I returned from Lys yesterday and was greeted by three invitations, two furious voicemails from my aunt, and one exhibition promising free champagne and questionably acquired family artifacts.” Aerion’s eyes moved over you, his smile tilting. “Finding you here, looking like a tragic Pre-Raphaelite ghost, is simply the first pleasant surprise I’ve had since stepping off the plane.”

“I don’t look tragic.”

He leaned in slightly.

“You look like someone broke your heart.”

Your throat tightened.

You turned away.

“Stop. I’m working.”

“I can see that.”

“Then let me work.”

For a moment, you thought he would tease again.

Instead, he stepped beside you, hands in his pockets, gaze on the silver prayer disc.

“He’s a mess. Auntie Jena doesn't know what to do.,” Aerion said.

You closed your eyes.

“Don’t.”

“I’m not here on his behalf.”

“Then don’t talk about him.”

Aerion was silent for three breaths.

Impressive, for him.

Then he said, “All right. Let’s talk about you.”

“No.”

“Also fair.”

You almost smiled.

It annoyed you.

Aerion noticed, of course.

He had that same family sickness.

Attention like a blade.

“Has anyone told you,” he said, “that you’re allowed to enjoy punishing him?”

You looked at him sharply.

He smiled, but not kindly.

Not unkindly either.

Knowingly.

“That’s what you’re doing, isn’t it? Blocking him. Returning sweaters. Refusing letters. Part of you is healing. Part of you is making sure he feels every inch of the distance he taught you to endure.”

Heat rose to your face.

“That’s cruel.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not cruel.”

“No.” Aerion tilted his head. “But you’ve been wounded by someone crueler than you. That creates interesting little imitations.”

You hated him for that.

You liked him a little for it too.

Because he did not soften the truth until it became useless.

You looked back at the display case.

“I don’t know how to make him understand.”

“Understand what?”

“That I’m not his.”

Aerion said nothing.

You expected a joke.

He didn’t give you one.

After a moment, he asked, “Do you believe that?”

You looked at him.

His face was calm now.

Too calm.

“I want to.”

“Ah.”

You swallowed.

“I am not his.”

“Legally? Spiritually? Psychosexually?”

“Aerion.”

“Ah, so that's why he calls you princess. There’s the temper.”

You glared.

He smiled.

Then, more softly, “You’re not his. But you have been living like a country under occupation for so long that independence feels unnatural.”

The words slid under your ribs.

You hated how Targaryen men could say awful things beautifully.

“What do I do?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Aerion’s eyes gleamed.

“Oh, dangerous question.”

You shook your head.

“No. Forget it.”

“No, no. Too late. I’ve been summoned.”

“No, you have not. You just got back from Lys and immediately decided to make yourself everyone’s problem again.”

“So I’ve been told by priests, professors, and two separate customs agents.”

Despite yourself, you laughed.

It felt strange.

Rusty.

Aerion’s expression warmed, briefly and unexpectedly.

“There,” he said. “That. Start with that.”

“With laughing?”

“With remembering you can do it when he isn’t in the room.”

You looked away.

Aerion did not press.

That was the beginning.

Not of the plan.

Not yet.

Just Aerion returning from Lys and appearing at the edge of your new life like a bad idea with excellent timing.

He came to the gallery again the following Friday.

Then to a group brunch where Mya gave him a suspicious look and Jeyne asked if he had ever committed tax fraud.

“Define committed,” Aerion said.

Jeyne pointed at him.

“I don’t like him.”

“You will,” Aerion said.

“I will not.”

“Give it two mimosas.”

You laughed again.

Across the table, Mya watched you with careful eyes.

After brunch, Aerion walked you to the corner while your friends pretended not to observe from the café window.

“You know they think I’m corrupting you,” he said.

“Aren’t you?”

“Not yet. I like to build anticipation.”

You shook your head.

He glanced down at you.

“Has he tried to see you?”

Your smile faded.

“No.”

Not directly.

That was somehow worse.

Valarr had become a presence even in absence.

You saw signs of him everywhere.

A black car parked too long near your street, pulling away before you could be certain.

Your favorite bakery suddenly had your usual pastries boxed and waiting before you even reached the counter, the girl at the till waving away your card with a nervous smile and saying it had already been taken care of.

It was convenient.

Too convenient.

No waiting in the morning queue. No standing behind students and office workers while your coffee went cold in your hand. Just your order ready, paid for, impossible to refuse without making a scene.

An then a meeting you had been chasing for months with a famous painter who never answered anyone’s emails, suddenly offered to you through his studio manager with no explanation.

You had been trying to convince him to donate a piece for the gallery’s youth program fundraiser. One painting. One work from his private archive. Anything with his name attached to it would have secured enough attention, enough donors, enough money to keep the project alive for another year.

You had mentioned it to Mya once, exhausted and half hopeless, after another polite rejection from his team.

A week later, the artist’s studio called.

Not only was he willing to donate a piece, they said. He would donate one of his most sought-after works.

No fee.

No conditions.

Just support for the program.

You knew.

Of course you knew.

Valarr was trying to care for you without touching you.

Trying to fix the problems around you because he was no longer allowed to reach for you directly.

It made you furious.

It made you ache.

Aerion studied your face.

“He’s still trying to be useful.”

“Yes.”

“That must be maddening.”

“It is.”

“Because it works?”

You looked at him.

Aerion smiled faintly.

“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe.”

“I don’t want it to work.”

“But it does.”

You said nothing.

He leaned one shoulder against a lamppost.

“Then make him useless.”

You frowned.

“What?”

“Stop letting his usefulness matter. Let someone else walk you home. Let someone else buy your coffee. Let someone else make you laugh in public.”

Your pulse quickened.

“Someone like you?”

He spread a hand over his chest.

“I volunteer my services for the noble cause of ruining my cousin’s week.”

“This is not a joke.”

“No,” Aerion said. “It’s theater. Different thing.”

You should have walked away.

Instead, you asked, “What would we do?”

His smile turned wicked.

“Slowly? Nothing obvious. Obvious jealousy is easy. Valarr can dismiss that as a stunt. No, what will make him insane is uncertainty.”

The word sent a chill through you.

Aerion continued, almost idly.

“Coffee first. Somewhere people will see. Then dinner. Nothing romantic enough to be undeniable, nothing innocent enough to be harmless. Maybe I touch your hand. Maybe I fix your necklace. Maybe I become familiar enough that he hears about it from three different people before he sees it himself.”

You stared at him.

“You’ve thought about this.”

“My darling, I have been in Lys for two months surrounded by diplomats, degenerates, and bored aristocrats. I was born for intrigue and tragically underutilized by peacetime.”

“Don’t call me darling.”

“Right. Apologies.”

People moved around you in their ordinary lives, carrying flowers, coffee, shopping bags. No one knew that you were considering using one Targaryen man to break another.

It should have felt beneath you.

Instead, it felt like the first plan that did not involve waiting.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” you said.

Aerion’s brows lifted.

“Devastating. I’ll notify my ego gently.”

“I mean it.”

“So do I. My ego is very delicate.”

“Aerion.”

His expression softened.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to use you like that.”

“You are absolutely using me like that.”

You winced.

“But,” he added, “I am consenting to being used. Enthusiastically. With flair.”

You studied him.

“Why?”

Aerion looked past you toward the café window, where Mya and Jeyne immediately pretended to be fascinated by the menu.

“Because Valarr has spent his whole life with this twisted belief system. It made him him morally serious.”

You blinked.

Aerion looked back at you.

“I would like him to learn that desire is not destiny. Preferably while suffering.”

“You do love him.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled faintly.

Aerion held out his hand.

Not to take yours.

To shake.

“Rules, then.”

You looked at his hand.

“What rules?”

“You decide what I can touch. You decide when we stop. If you cry, truly cry, we stop immediately. If you are doing something only to hurt yourself, I say no.”

“That seems hypocritical.”

“I contain multitudes.”

You hesitated.

Then shook his hand.

His grip was warm.

“Rule for you,” you said.

His smile widened.

“Oh?”

“You don’t enjoy it too much.”

Aerion laughed.

“I cannot agree to that in good faith.”

//

The plan began with coffee.

Not a date.

Not exactly.

Aerion took you to a little place in the Crownmarket where the tables spilled onto the pavement and everyone who mattered seemed to pass by eventually.

He ordered espresso. You ordered tea.

“Tea,” he said, scandalized.

“You drink espresso because you have a personality disorder.”

“I drink espresso because I enjoy suffering in concentrated form.”

“You’re definitely related to Valarr.”

Aerion placed a hand dramatically over his heart.

“Cruel.”

You smiled.

He noticed but did not point it out this time.

That was how he was clever.

A lesser man would have teased you for every smile and made you retreat.

Aerion let them happen.

He made you talk about the gallery. About your mother. About the books you wanted to read but never finished because Valarr always distracted you by calling at the wrong time.

He did not let you talk about Valarr for more than five minutes at once.

“Rule three,” he said when you slipped for the third time. “If his name appears too often, you owe me a secret.”

“A secret?”

“Yes. Something small. Something that belongs to you, not him.”

You thought about it.

“I hate champagne.”

Aerion stared at you.

“You drink it constantly.”

“Because everyone orders it.”

“That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It is not.”

“It is. From now on, you drink what you like.”

“What if I don’t know what I like?”

Aerion’s gaze softened.

“Then we find out.”

That was the second part of the plan, though you did not understand it yet.

It was not only about Valarr seeing you with someone else.

It was about you seeing yourself without Valarr beside you, deciding for you, ordering for you, warning men away from you, calling your innocence rare while keeping you untouched by anyone but his almost.

Aerion took you to restaurants Valarr hated.

Bars Valarr would never enter because the lighting was bad and the chairs were uncomfortable. Because those places were beneath him.

Art shows where no one cared about Targaryens unless they were donating.

He coached you like a conspirator and his apprentice

//

Meanwhile, Valarr spiraled.

You heard about him in fragments, handed to you by people who did not know whether they were warning you, comforting you, or reopening a wound you were trying to keep closed.

Willas said Valarr had stopped going out.

Mya said he had called her once and said nothing for so long she thought the line had dropped. When she finally said his name, he had exhaled once, unevenly, and ended the call.

Jeyne said Damon received an apology letter so formal, so coldly devastating in its politeness, that he had sent back only, I accept, but please never contact me again.

That one made you laugh for nearly a minute.

A real laugh.

Helpless. Startled. Almost bright.

Then the laugh broke in your throat, and you cried into your hands because even the ridiculous things still led back to Valarr.

Valarr stopped sending flowers after you told Mya you hated them now.

You knew she had told him. You pretended not to.

After that, he sent nothing.

No lilies.

No roses.

No irises like little storms.

Nothing.

And somehow, that was worse.

His silence became another kind of presence. A controlled absence. A punishment he was giving himself and making you feel anyway.

Once, at the gallery, you found a small envelope on your desk.

No gift.

No grand gesture.

Just a card.

I did not send flowers because you said no flowers. I miss you, princess. — V

You stared at it for a long time.

Long enough that the words blurred.

Then you put it in the drawer with the other letters.

You had stopped tearing them.

That felt like weakness.

Or maybe it was only exhaustion.

//

King’s Landing had always been a city with too many windows and not enough shame.

They noticed Aerion at your side in the Crownmarket.

They noticed how often he leaned down to say something close to your ear, not quite whispering, but close enough to make it look intimate.

They noticed his hand at your elbow when you crossed the street.

Not possessive.

Not like Valarr.

Aerion touched you like he was asking a question every time.

A hand offered, not placed.

A brush of fingers, not a claim.

He touched your wrist when he made you laugh. He fixed the clasp of your necklace outside a restaurant while you stood very still, pretending your pulse had not jumped because you knew exactly how it would look to anyone watching. He rested his hand lightly against the small of your back when guiding you through crowded rooms, and the pressure was always brief enough to be deniable.

That was the genius of it.

The cruelty too.

Nothing Aerion did was enough to condemn.

Everything Aerion did was enough to imagine.

And Valarr had always been very good at imagining.

People noticed you laughing with Aerion outside a bookshop, your head tipped back, your hand pressed against his sleeve as if you needed him to hold still while you caught your breath.

They noticed Aerion taking the coffee from your hand to taste it, grimacing theatrically, and you laughing again, softer that time.

They noticed him walking you home in the rain beneath one umbrella, your shoulders almost touching.

They noticed, most importantly, that Valarr Targaryen was not there.

In King’s Landing, absence was gossip too.

Absence made them creative. And Valarr heard all of it.

A mention at a private club.

A cousin’s careless joke.

A photograph sent by someone who thought they were being helpful.

A pause in conversation when he entered a room.

He collected every fragment of you and Aerion the way a starving man collected crumbs.

Then he tortured himself with them.

Aerion laughing with you outside the gallery.

Aerion touching your elbow.

Aerion beside you at dinner.

Aerion carrying your bag.

Aerion knowing what you ordered.

Aerion making you smile in public, easily, as if it cost him nothing.

That was the part that undid Valarr.

The ease.

For years, Valarr had treated your happiness like something private. Something he could summon with a look, a hand at your waist, a quiet joke murmured into your hair. Something that belonged, if not to him, then near him.

Now Aerion had it in public.

Aerion made you laugh where anyone could see.

Aerion stood too close and did not seem to fear the privilege of it.

Aerion touched you without looking like he was burning alive from the restraint of not taking more.

And Valarr watched himself become unnecessary in pieces.

A photograph appeared online late one Thursday night.

Not in a paper.

Not scandalous enough for that.

Just someone’s social post from a rooftop bar.

In the background, slightly blurred beneath strings of warm lights, you stood beside Aerion. His head was bent toward yours, silver hair catching the glow. One of his hands rested on the railing beside your hip, not touching you, but close enough to suggest that he could have.

Your face was turned up toward him.

You were smiling.

Not with that brittle, wounded smile Valarr knew too well.

You looked happy.

That was what made it devastating.

You did not look healed.

You did not look in love.

You did not look like you had forgotten him.

But you looked happy enough to convince a stranger.

And Valarr saw it.

He saw it alone in his flat, long after midnight, because sleep had become something that happened to other men.

At first, he did not understand what he was looking at.

His thumb stopped on the screen.

His eyes found Aerion first.

Then you.

Then Aerion’s hand near your hip.

Then your smile.

His breath went out of him.

For a moment, there was no anger.

Only disbelief.

A strange, white emptiness opening beneath his ribs.

You were smiling at Aerion like that.

Aerion.

His cousin. His blood. The careless, laughing, reckless thing Valarr had spent half his life dismissing as unserious.

Aerion, who did not deserve to know how your face looked when you forgot to guard it.

Aerion, who had not sat with you through exam panic at three in the morning.

Aerion, who had not memorized the exact pitch of your voice when you were about to cry.

Aerion, who had not spent years wanting you so badly he had mistaken restraint for virtue.

And yet there you were.

Smiling at him.

Valarr enlarged the photograph.

A mistake.

He saw the details then.

The loose strand of hair near your cheek.

The tilt of Aerion’s head.

The way your body angled toward him, not fully, not consciously, but enough.

Enough.

Valarr’s grip tightened around the phone.

His mind began supplying what the photograph did not show.

Aerion’s fingers brushing your hair back.

Aerion’s mouth near your ear.

Aerion making some filthy little joke just to watch your eyes widen.

Aerion touching the inside of your wrist the way Valarr used to.

Aerion learning how easy it was to make you laugh when you were tired.

Aerion walking you home.

Aerion being invited upstairs.

No.

Valarr stood so abruptly his chair scraped hard against the floor.

No.

He looked at the photo again.

You were still smiling.

That was the insult his mind could not survive.

Not Aerion’s closeness.

Not even Aerion’s hand near your body.

Your smile.

The proof that Valarr’s absence had not destroyed the world.

The proof that you could stand beneath lights with another man and laugh.

The proof that someone else could give you a moment of softness while Valarr sat alone, useless and unchosen, with your number blocked and your silence pressed against his throat like a blade.

His vision went sharp at the edges.

He told himself to put the phone down.

He did not.

He stared until the image became unbearable.

Then he threw the phone against the wall.

It hit hard enough to crack the screen and dent the plaster before falling to the floor.

The sound should have satisfied him.

It did not.

Nothing did.

Not the broken phone.

Not the silence after.

Not the fact that, for one violent second, he had done something instead of simply enduring.

He stood in the dark, breathing too hard, hands flexing open and shut at his sides.

Empty again.

Always empty now.

//

Taglist

You walked out through the alley gate instead of going back through the restaurant.

You did not say goodbye to your friends.

You did not wait for a car.

You walked three blocks in heels that cut into your feet before Mya found you, breathless and panicked, her coat thrown over her dress.

“Did he—”

“No,” you choked. “No. He didn’t.”

Mya’s face tightened. “What did he say?”

You laughed, but it broke apart into tears. “He offered to teach me.”

For a moment, Mya only stared at you.

Then she took your face in both hands, furious and gentle all at once. “I’m going to kill him.”

“Mya—”

“No. Come on. You’re coming with me.”

“My bag is still inside.”

“Jeyne will get it.”

And then Mya took you home. And since she knew Valarr all too well.

Tonight home was not your apartment.

Hers.

//

For years, you had always returned.

Back to the booth where he waited like nothing had happened. Back to the party with your throat tight and your pride bleeding quietly beneath your smile. Back to his car. Back to his bed. Back to the warm, humiliating safety of being wanted by him, even when wanting you was never the same as choosing you.

You always came back after he hurt you.

Sometimes in silence, your pain held carefully behind your teeth. Sometimes with wounded eyes that would not meet his for too long. Sometimes with a brittle little smile, so brave and so ruined, it made something inside him twist until his hand flexed uselessly at his side.

As if he could reach into your chest and press his thumb to the bruise he had left there.

As if he could smooth the ache away.

As if he had not been the one to put it there.

No matter how badly he wounded you, no matter how carelessly he pushed, you always came back.

But not that night.

That night, after he offered to teach you how to give away the one part of yourself you had been saving for love, something in you seemed to close. Not break. Not shatter.

Close.

You looked at him as if you had finally understood him. As if the last soft, foolish piece of hope inside you had gone cold.

And then you left through the side gate.

No goodbye.

No dramatic last look.

No plea for him to understand what he had done.

Just the sharp click of your heels against wet stone, fading farther and farther away, and the black swing of the alley gate shutting behind you.

Valarr stood there long after you were gone.

Still.

Silent.

Not quite breathing.

The garden heater hissed beside him. Music thudded faintly through the brick wall. Somewhere inside, Willas laughed at something, and the sound seemed obscene.

Valarr looked down at his own hands.

Empty.

That was the thing that stayed with him.

His hands were empty.

For years, he had touched you like a man testing the limits of his own restraint. Your hair. Your waist. Your knee beneath crowded tables. The inside of your wrist when he guided you through a room. He had made a religion out of almost. Almost holding you. Almost claiming you. Almost letting himself want you in a way that meant something.

And now, when he finally reached for you, he was too late.

You were gone.

By the time he got back inside, your friends already knew.

Mya’s chair was empty. Jeyne was standing, your bag clutched in one hand, murder in her eyes. Willas took one look at Valarr’s face and stopped smiling.

“What happened?” he asked.

Valarr did not answer.

Jeyne stepped toward him.

“You're an absolute idiot.”

Valarr’s gaze moved to the bag in her hand.

“Where is she?”

“Not here.”

“Jeyne.”

“No, Valarr.”

His eyes sharpened.

It was the tone that usually made people remember his last name. The tone that bent waiters, assistants, men twice his age in boardrooms.

Jeyne did not bend.

She looked him dead in the face and said, “You do not get to use that voice tonight.”

Willas went very still.

Valarr stared at her.

For one second, something ugly moved behind his eyes.

Then it broke. Not into softness.

Into panic.

“Where is she?” he asked again, and this time it was not a command.

That was worse.

Jeyne looked startled by it.

Then angry again, because pity for him felt like a betrayal of you.

“With Mya,” she said. “And if you follow them, I will call your father myself and tell him his heir is harassing crying women outside restaurants.”

Valarr’s jaw locked.

“You think I care about that?”

“No,” Jeyne said. “That’s the problem because no one can reason with you.”

He moved past her.

Willas caught his arm.

“Val.”

Valarr looked at the hand on his sleeve as if he did not recognize it.

Willas lowered his voice.

“Don’t.”

“She is crying.”

“Yes.”

“I need to—”

“No, you need to give her space. Away from you.”

The words struck him strangely.

Away from you.

As if there was any version of your life where his absence did not count as a wound.

As if he had not been the person you called when you were sick, drunk, lonely, frightened, bored. As if he had not known the exact way you took your coffee, which sweaters scratched your skin, which streets made you nervous at night.

As if the world had the right to contain you without him in it.

Valarr looked toward the door you had not used.

The front one. The ordinary one. Then toward the side exit. The one you had vanished through.

His hand shook once at his side.

Willas saw it.

Valarr did not.

“Give me her bag,” he said.

Jeyne almost laughed.

“Absolutely not.”

“I need to talk to her.”

“She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“She is upset.”

“Because of you, Valarr!”

Valarr’s mouth tightened. Then he turned and walked out. Willas followed him halfway to the door.

“Where are you going?”

Valarr did not look back.

“To fix this.”

But there were some things that could not be fixed no matter what.

//

Mya took you home to her flat because she did not trust you alone, and she trusted Valarr even less.

Not near your building. Not near your door. Not with that voice of his, low and careful and devastatingly gentle when he wanted something badly enough.

She did not say any of that.

She only kept one hand around your wrist the whole way up the stairs, as if afraid you might fall apart if she let go.

You sat on the edge of her guest bed in borrowed pajamas that smelled like detergent and lavender, your hands loose in your lap, your hair still pinned from the party. You looked absurdly put together from the neck up. Lipstick faded but still there. Mascara only slightly smudged. Earrings still catching the light.

But below that, you were undone.

Mya knelt in front of you without a word and reached for the buckle of your heel.

The first strap came loose.

Then the second.

The leather had bitten into your skin during the walk. Thin red lines carved around your ankle, angry and raw. You had not felt them when you were walking. You had barely felt the cold. Barely felt the wet stone beneath your feet. Barely felt anything except the terrible hollow place in your chest where your hope had been.

But when Mya’s thumb brushed the mark, gently, almost by accident, something inside you gave way.

Your face crumpled.

And then you cried.

Not beautifully. Not softly. Not the way heroines cried in films, with luminous tears and trembling mouths and music swelling beneath the scene.

You cried like a child trying not to be heard.

Small, broken sounds pressed into the back of your throat. One hand over your mouth. Shoulders shaking as if your body was ashamed of its own grief.

Mya froze for half a second.

Then she put your shoes aside and climbed onto the bed beside you, gathering you against her chest with the fierce, wordless tenderness of someone who knew there was nothing to fix. Not yet. Not tonight.

You kept saying the same thing.

As if saying it enough times would make it stop being true.

“He didn’t say he loved me.”

Mya’s hand moved over your hair, slow and steady.

“I know.”

“He heard me say it.” Your voice cracked so badly the words barely came out. “He heard me say it, Mya. He heard everything, and he didn’t say it back.”

“I know, baby.”

“He just looked at me.” You shut your eyes, but it did not help. You could still see him. That beautiful, ruined face. That silence. That pause where love should have been. “He looked at me and said nothing.”

Mya’s arms tightened around you.

“He didn’t choose me,” you whispered. “Even then.”

Mya said nothing.

And somehow that was worse.

Because before then, some desperate, humiliated part of you had still been trying to save him. Still digging through the wreckage for a softer explanation. Maybe you had misunderstood. Maybe his voice had been too rough and your heart too loud. Maybe he had meant to be tender and only fumbled it because Valarr had never been good at saying things plainly. Maybe you had heard cruelty because years of wanting him had made you cruel to yourself first.

Then you said the last part.

“He offered to teach me.”

Mya’s hand stilled in your hair.

Only for a second.

Only long enough for you to feel the truth pass through her.

Then she continued stroking your hair, gentler now.

“Oh, honey.”

And there it was.

That was the moment you understood it had been as awful as it felt.

Not dramatic.

Not imagined.

Not the wild overreaction of a girl who had wanted too much and received too little.

It had been cruel.

Even if he had not meant it that way.

Maybe especially then.

Because Valarr had known you. He knew the shape of your silence. He knew what it meant when your hands shook. He knew how carefully you had kept that part of yourself untouched, not because you were afraid of desire, but because you had been foolish enough to make it sacred. Foolish enough to save it for love.

For him.

And when you had finally placed your heart in his hands, bare and trembling and humiliatingly honest, he had answered as if your longing was a problem of experience.

As if your love was something to instruct out of you.

Your phone began ringing at 1:13 a.m.

The sound cut through the dim room like a blade.

You both looked at it.

Valarr.

His name filled the screen, bright and impossible.

For one terrible second, your whole body reacted before your pride could stop it. Your breath caught. Your hand twitched. Your heart, stupid loyal thing, lurched toward him as if he had not just broken it open.

You stared at his name until the screen went dark.

Then it lit again.

Valarr.

Again.

Valarr.

Again.

Valarr.

Mya looked at you, waiting.

You whispered, “I can’t.”

Your voice was so small you hated it.

“I know,” she said.

So she took the phone.

She did not answer.

She did not scold you for wanting to. She did not tell you to be strong. She only turned the screen face down on the bedside table and sat with you until the ringing stopped.

Then started again.

Then stopped.

Then started again.

By morning, the sky outside Mya’s curtains had gone pale and dirty blue. You had not slept so much as drifted in and out of exhaustion, your body heavy, your mind cruelly awake.

There were seventeen missed calls.

Eleven texts.

One voicemail.

You did not listen to it.

You told yourself you would not read the texts either.

Then you did, because you were weak.

Because loving someone for years did not end just because they had finally given you a reason to stop.

Valarr: Where are you?

Valarr: Please answer me.

Valarr: I need to know you are safe.

Valarr: I didn’t mean it like that.

Valarr: I know what it sounded like.

Valarr: Please let me explain.

Valarr: Princess.

Valarr: Don’t do this.

Valarr: Please.

Valarr: I love you.

You stopped breathing.

The room went very still around you.

I love you.

There it was.

The thing you had wanted for years.

The thing you had imagined in a hundred pathetic, private ways. In his car. In his bed. In the dark between almost and never. You had wondered what it would sound like in his voice. Whether he would say it softly or desperately. Whether he would look ashamed of it, or relieved. Whether he would touch your face when he said it. Whether the whole world would tilt, finally, into place.

And now it was here.

Not in his voice.

Not with his hands on your face.

Not when it could have saved you.

It sat in a blue bubble at 3:42 a.m., small and glowing and almost obscene.

After you had walked away.

After he had watched your face collapse under the weight of what he had not said.

After he had made you feel like a body before a beloved thing.

After the damage.

Only after the damage.

Your vision blurred. For one wild, aching second, the words went straight through every defense you had managed to build overnight. They found the softest part of you. The foolish part. The part that had waited and waited and waited.

He loves me.

Then, almost immediately, another thought came.

No.

He is afraid.

And somehow that hurt more.

Because you could see it too clearly. Valarr standing somewhere in the dark, jaw tight, control slipping from his hands for once. Valarr realizing you had not gone home. Valarr realizing you were not answering. Valarr realizing, perhaps for the first time, that you could leave and stay gone.

So he had reached for the one thing he had never given you.

Not because he had finally understood your heart.

But because he wanted to calm you down.

Because he wanted the crying to stop. The silence to stop. The consequence to stop.

Because he thought those three words might bring you back to him.

And God, the worst part was that once, they would have.

Once, you would have answered before the second ring. Once, you would have forgiven him before he finished explaining. Once, you would have held that little blue confession against your chest like proof that the years of ache had meant something. Like proof that he had only been slow, not cruel. Frightened, not selfish. Yours, just not ready.

But now the words felt different.

They did not feel like a confession.

They felt like panic wearing love’s clothes.

A rope thrown after you had already drowned.

A bandage pressed over a wound he had refused to stop making.

Your thumb hovered over the message.

I love you.

You wanted to believe it.

That was the humiliation of it.

Even now, after everything, some broken, tender part of you wanted to curl around those words and let them warm you. You wanted to imagine him meaning it. You wanted to imagine him suffering. You wanted to imagine that somewhere between the garden and 3:42 a.m., he had finally understood what he had done.

But wanting had ruined you once already.

You looked at the message until the letters stopped looking like words.

Then you handed the phone back to Mya.

Your hand was shaking.

“Block him,” you said.

Mya’s face softened with something like grief.

“Are you sure?”

No.

You were not sure.

You were heartbroken. You were exhausted. You were still in love with him. You were still the same girl who had waited years for that message and had finally received it too late.

But you thought of his silence.

You thought of his offer.

You thought of the way love, from him, only seemed to arrive when you were already halfway out the door.

So you swallowed the sob rising in your throat and nodded.

“Block him,” you said again. “Before I answer.”

//

The first week was the hardest because your life still expected Valarr.

Your body expected him.

At eight in the morning, you expected a message complaining that you never ate breakfast.

At noon, you expected him to ask whether your gallery director was still being incompetent.

At six, you expected the black car he sometimes sent without warning if it was raining.

At night, you expected him to call with some ridiculous complaint about Matarys, or his father, or the way you always stole his better pillows and then denied it.

Silence did not feel like absence.

It felt like impact.

A bruise pressed over and over.

You went back to your flat after three days. Mya said she could keep you forever but not if you were going to haunt her guest room like a Victorian widow.

Your apartment smelled faintly of the candle Valarr hated.

Peony and vanilla.

“Smells like a brothel for cupcakes,” he had said the first time he came over after you lit it.

You had thrown a cushion at his head.

He had caught it, laughing, and stretched across your sofa as if he had paid for the furniture.

Now the cushion was still there.

The sofa still held the faint dip of him.

In the bathroom, his spare toothbrush sat beside yours.

In the kitchen, his preferred coffee was in your cabinet because he said yours tasted like burnt soil.

In your closet, one of his sweaters hung between your coats.

You touched the sleeve.

Dark grey cashmere.

You had stolen it during a cold snap in university, and he had pretended to be annoyed while wearing visible satisfaction for an entire week.

You took it off the hanger. Pressed it to your face.

It still smelled like him.

That was when you almost unblocked him.

Almost.

Your thumb hovered over the settings. Your breath shook.

Then you remembered his face in the garden.

Not loving.

Not confessing.

Offering.

Let me teach you.

You threw the sweater into a laundry bag, tied it shut, and shoved it into the hall closet.

//

On the fourth day, the flowers began.

The first arrangement arrived at your apartment just before noon.

White lilies and pale winter roses, arranged so beautifully, Once you would have told there were romantic. Not anymore. Just precise. Expensive. Valarr.

You stared at them from the doorway for a long moment while the delivery man held out the card.

You did not take it.

“Miss?”

“Leave it,” you said.

He placed the arrangement on the small table beside your door and left.

For nearly an hour, the flowers sat there untouched, filling your hallway with their soft, funeral-sweet scent.

You did not open the card.

You already knew who it was from. You already knew what he would try to say.

The second arrangement came to the gallery.

Blue irises.

Your favorite.

Because once, years ago, you had told him they looked like little storms. You had not even remembered saying it until Lysa carried them toward your desk with wide eyes and a poorly hidden smile.

“Someone’s very sorry,” she said.

You looked at the flowers.

Something in your throat closed.

They were beautiful. Of course they were beautiful. Valarr never missed details. He remembered things no one else remembered. The name of the artist you liked. Which flowers made you stop walking past a market stall just to look.

He remembered everything except how to love you when it mattered.

“Put them in the back room,” you said.

Lysa’s smile faded. “Should I read the card?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

Your eyes stayed fixed on the irises. Those little storms.

“No.”

The third arrangement came to Mya’s apartment, though you were no longer staying there.

The fourth went to Jeyne’s office.

That was when you understood Valarr had stopped trying to reach only you.

If he could not get past the silence directly, he would send proof of himself into every room connected to you. He would make your grief bloom on your desk, in your friends’ hallways, beside their computers and coffee mugs. He would force his remorse into the lives of everyone who loved you until one of them softened enough to carry it back.

Jeyne called you after that one.

“I’m going to set them on fire.”

“Don’t,” you said quietly.

“Then I’m going to invoice him for emotional labor.”

“That’s fair.”

“He wrote a card.”

“Don’t tell me.”

A pause.

You closed your eyes.

“Jeyne.”

“I won’t.”

“Did you read it?”

“Yes.”

You pressed your lips together until they hurt. “Was it bad?”

“No.”

That was worse somehow.

Jeyne exhaled softly.

“It was… not bad.”

Your hand tightened around the phone.

“I can’t.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it.” Your voice broke despite how hard you tried to hold it steady. “I can’t hear it. Not now. Not when I’m still this weak.”

“You’re not weak.”

“I am with him.” The confession came out small and raw. “If he says the right thing now, I’ll forgive him because I want to. Not because he deserves it. Not because he’s changed. Just because I miss him.”

Jeyne went quiet.

For a moment, all you heard was the low hum of the gallery around you. Footsteps. The distant murmur of visitors. Someone laughing softly in the next room, as if your heart had not become something you had to physically hold together.

Then Jeyne said, “You’re being smart. I’m so proud of you.”

A weak, startled laugh slipped out of you.

“Thank you?”

“You’re welcome. I’m still keeping the flowers, though. They’re expensive, and I’m petty.”

The letters started after the flowers failed.

He could not text you.

He could not call.

So he wrote.

The first envelope appeared beneath your door.

You recognized his handwriting before you even bent to pick it up.

That was the awful thing about loving someone for years. Their handwriting could hurt you. The slope of a letter. The careless confidence of his name. The dark press of ink where his hand had lingered too long.

You left the envelope on the floor for six hours.

Then twelve.

Then you moved it to the kitchen counter because stepping over it began to feel like stepping over a body.

Then, when you could not bear seeing it there either, you put it in the drawer beside the sink.

You did not open it.

Not that day.

The second letter came by courier.

The third was handed to Mya by a man in a suit, which made Mya so furious she nearly slammed the door on his hand.

The fourth arrived at the gallery, tucked inside a book you had mentioned wanting months ago.

That one nearly broke you.

Because he had remembered the book.

Of course he had.

Valarr remembered everything that made leaving him harder.

You opened one letter on the eighth day.

Not the first.

Not the one slipped beneath your door, because that one felt too much like begging in the place you lived. Not the fourth, because the book still hurt too badly to touch.

You opened the third.

Just because.

Just because you were tired.

Just because you missed him.

Just because grief made bargains with you in the dark, and that morning you lost one.

The paper was thick and cream-colored. His handwriting was neat at first, controlled the way Valarr always was when he was trying not to show his hand.

Then, halfway down the page, it began to loosen.

As if the control had started failing him.

My princess, My love, I do not know if I am allowed to call you either of those things anymore. I do not know if I am allowed anything. I keep thinking of your face when I said it. Not love. Not the thing I should have said. The other thing. The unforgivable thing. Let me teach you. I have heard myself say it every hour since. It was cowardice dressed as restraint. Possession dressed as care. Jealousy pretending to be protection. You told me you loved me. I heard the thing I have wanted most in the world, and I answered like a man more afraid of being vulnerable than of hurting you. There is no explanation I can give that will not become an excuse if I let it. So I will only say this. I am sorry. I love you. I should have said it first. — V

You read it once.

Then again.

Then a third time, slower, as if there might be some hidden cruelty between the lines. Some proof that he still did not understand. Some reason you could use to hate him cleanly.

But there was none.

That was the problem.

It was not perfect, but it was close enough to what you had needed that your heart turned toward it before your pride could stop it.

He knew.

He knew exactly what he had done.

And somehow that did not make it easier.

It made it worse.

Because if he understood it now, why had he not understood it then? Why did your pain always have to become unbearable before he learned how to be gentle with it? Why did love, from Valarr, always arrive late and bleeding?

You folded the letter carefully.

Then you tore it in half.

Then you stared at the torn pieces in your hands and began to cry because you had torn it.

Because some part of you still wanted to keep it.

Because some part of you wanted to press it to your chest like proof.

Because some part of you still loved him enough to mourn the destruction of his apology.

That was the rhythm of the second week.

Trying to move on was not dramatic.

It was practical.

Small.

Humiliating.

It was changing your sheets because they still smelled faintly like him.

It was taking his preferred coffee out of your cabinet and giving it to Lysa, who accepted it with the solemnity of someone receiving contraband.

It was throwing away the takeaway menus from restaurants he always ordered from because you could not bear seeing his usual circled in black pen.

It was deleting the draft of a message you wrote at two in the morning that said only, I miss you.

It was surviving your own weakness in increments.

One hour.

Then another.

Then another.

You returned his sweater through Willas.

You could not send it by courier. That felt too cruel, too formal, too much like pretending Valarr was only some man whose things you needed removed from your life.

But you could not bring it to him yourself.

So Willas came.

He stood in your doorway looking unusually subdued, one hand shoved into his coat pocket, his eyes dropping to the paper bag in your hand.

For a moment, neither of you said anything.

Then you held it out.

“His sweater.”

Willas took it carefully.

Too carefully.

As if it were something fragile.

As if it were not just dark grey cashmere, folded badly in a paper bag, but a piece of your life you were trying to return before it could undo you.

“He hasn’t been sleeping,” Willas said.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the door.

“I didn’t ask, Willas.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t tell me.”

He looked down at the bag.

You should have closed the door.

You should have said goodbye. You should have protected yourself from the part of you that still wanted to know whether Valarr was suffering. Whether he was sorry. Whether he missed you in a way that punished him.

Instead, you heard yourself ask, “Is he really that bad?”

Willas’ expression changed.

Softened.

And there was your answer before he even spoke.

“He’s… not himself.”

You laughed once, without humor.

“That sounds healthy for everyone.”

“He went to work yesterday.”

“Good,” you said. “Then he’s still functional.”

Willas hesitated.

You hated that hesitation.

“He sat in his office for six hours,” he said. “Didn’t turn on the lights. Didn’t take meetings. Didn’t answer his father. Baelor came in, looked at him, and walked back out.”

Despite yourself, you pictured it.

Valarr in that perfect office high above the city. All glass and steel and inherited power. Valarr at his desk in the dark, immaculate and ruined, surrounded by every weapon he had ever known how to use.

Money.

Influence.

Charm.

Control.

None of it useful now.

None of it able to force your name back onto his screen.

None of it able to make you answer.

You hated that the image hurt you.

You hated that some foolish, tender part of you wanted to go to him. To turn on the light. To touch his face. To say, I’m here. I’m still here.

You hated yourself most for that.

“He’ll get over it,” you said.

Willas looked at you.

Quietly, too gently, he asked, “Do you want him to?”

The question struck exactly where you were weakest.

Because no, you did not want Valarr to get over you.

You wanted him to ache.

You wanted him to understand.

You wanted him to miss you so badly it remade him.

You wanted him to suffer enough to prove that losing you meant something.

And you hated that too.

So you did not answer.

You only took one step back and closed the door in Willas’ face before he could see you cry.

//

That night, you dreamed of Valarr’s hands.

Not in the way you used to.

Not with heat. Not with want.

Worse.

You dreamed of something ordinary.

You were standing in a queue somewhere, maybe for coffee, maybe outside some crowded bar, and Valarr was behind you. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back. Close enough that his fingers had found your hair without asking, dragging slowly through the curls as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

In the dream, Mya stood beside you, watching.

You smiled too brightly and said, “We’re just friends.”

And all the while, Valarr’s fingers moved through your hair with the quiet, intimate confidence of a man who knew that was a lie.

You turned to him then.

Your pride was gone. Your anger was gone. There was only the bare, pathetic truth of you, standing there in the middle of the dream with your heart in your throat.

“Please love me,” you said.

Valarr looked down at you.

Softly. Almost wounded.

“I do.”

For one suspended second, you believed him.

Then you woke up.

The bed was empty.

No hand in your hair.

No warmth at your back.

No Valarr.

Only the pale morning light against the wall and the cruel ache of having been loved perfectly by a dream.

By the third week, your friends had begun treating Valarr like weather.

Something dangerous.

Something everywhere.

Something you had to plan around even when you could not see it.

Mya saw him outside your gallery first.

Not directly outside. Valarr was too careful for that. Too controlled. Too aware of how things looked.

He stood across the street beneath the black awning of a closed jewelry shop, coat collar turned up against the rain. He was not looking at the gallery door.

He was looking at its reflection in the opposite window.

That detail made you feel sick.

Because it was so him.

Careful even in ruin. Watching without appearing to watch. Close enough to know whether you came out safely, but far enough away to tell himself he was respecting your space.

As if distance made it less frightening.

As if the problem was how close he stood, and not the fact that he could not make himself leave at all.

“He didn’t approach you?” you asked.

Mya shook her head. “No.”

“Did he see you see him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He left.”

You were quiet.

Mya sat beside you on the sofa, folding one leg beneath her. She looked tired in a way that made you feel guilty, as if your heartbreak had spread outward and started bruising everyone who loved you.

“I think he’s trying not to scare you,” she said.

A laugh caught in your throat, sharp and humorless.

“He is scaring me.”

“I know.”

“If he knows, why does he keep doing it?”

Mya looked down at her hands.

For once, she did not answer immediately.

That scared you more than anything else.

“Mya.”

She exhaled slowly. “Because I think he loves you.”

Your face went still.

“No.”

“I’m not saying that makes it right.”

“No.”

“I’m not defending him.”

“Then don’t say that.”

“I have to,” she said softly. “Because I think it’s true.”

You pulled back as if the words had touched you.

Mya’s expression tightened, but she kept going.

“I think he loves you. I think he really does. But I also think the way he loves you is…” She stopped, searching for the least cruel word and not finding one. “It’s not simple. It’s not clean.”

Your throat tightened.

“He doesn’t love me. He wants control.”

“I think he wants both.”

You looked at her.

Mya’s voice lowered. “I think he loves you, and I think that love has nowhere healthy to go inside him. So it turns into watching. Into protecting. Into deciding he knows what is safest for you. Into standing across the street in the rain because he has convinced himself that as long as he doesn’t approach you, he’s not doing anything wrong.”

Your eyes burned.

“Mya—”

“I think he is terrified something will happen to you if he isn’t close enough to stop it. And I think he is terrified you will be okay without him if he gives you enough room to breathe.”

The words settled between you.

Heavy.

Awful.

True in a way you did not want them to be.

Mya reached for your hand, but stopped before touching you.

“That’s what scares me,” she admitted. “Not that he doesn’t care. If he didn’t care, this would be easier. If he was just cruel, we could hate him and be done with it.”

You swallowed hard.

“But he does care,” she said. “Too much. Badly. Possessively. Like care and claim got tangled together somewhere inside him, and now he can’t tell the difference.”

You looked away.

Outside, rain tapped against the window in soft, uneven threads.

“I think he believes he has a right to worry,” Mya continued. “A right to know where you are. A right to make sure you’re safe. A right to remove anything that might hurt you before you even decide whether it hurts.”

Your voice came out small.

“That isn’t love.”

“No,” Mya said gently. “Not by itself.”

You looked at her then.

Her eyes were sad.

“But I think love is in it,” she said. “That’s the problem. I think he loves you, and I think he’s using that love to justify everything else.”

Something in your chest twisted.

Because simple would have been easier.

If Valarr only wanted to own you, you could hate him cleanly. If every soft thing he had ever done had been a lie, you could gather those memories up and burn them. If his tenderness had only ever been another form of control, then you could stop grieving the love and only grieve the damage.

But you knew better.

That was the cruelty.

Valarr had taken care of you with real tenderness.

He had warmed your hands between his when you forgot gloves. Walked you home without making a performance of it. Stayed up with you during panic attacks before exams, talking you down in that low, steady voice until you could breathe again. He remembered your mother’s birthday. Sent soup when you were sick. Held your hair when you drank too much and never once teased you for it afterward.

He knew when you were tired before you said it.

He knew when a room made you uncomfortable.

He knew how to stand beside you in a crowd so you never felt alone.

He had told every room, without ever using the words, that you mattered.

And still.

And still.

Love did not absolve him.

Love did not make watching you from across the street romantic.

Love did not make his fear your responsibility.

Love did not make his protectiveness harmless.

Love did not make it okay that he had wanted you like something precious but treated your heart like something he could postpone.

You pressed the heel of your hand against your chest, as if you could hold the ache in place.

“I don’t want to be protected like that,” you whispered.

Mya’s face softened.

“I know.”

“I don’t want to be loved like something he’s afraid to lose.”

“I know.”

“I wanted him to choose me.”

Your voice broke.

“Not guard me. Not manage me. Not hover around the edges of my life like I’m something that might disappear if he looks away.”

Mya finally took your hand.

This time, you let her.

You repeated the truth to yourself like prayer.

Love did not absolve him.

Love did not absolve him.

Love did not absolve him.

//

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