"Don't you know, that men are naturally submissive?" Gojo ponders out loud, as you furrow your brows while seated into his lap, wondering where he's going along with this.
He isn't as stern as he could be with you, that much you can gather, but that doesn't mean you ever have any leverage in any capacity. He overpowers you, and apparently every other living, breathing creature inhabiting the Earth. It doesn't matter what strategy you implement; he's going to come out on top. He is always going to say 'checkmate.'
So where the hell is he going with this, then?
"Why do you think we're the ones mainly enlisting in the military, or going into fields where we're told what to do all the time? We want to be told what to do and how to do it. It's what men are wired to do. I can go as far as to say that's what humans in general want. Do you really think just because I'm the strongest in my world, that I'm the boss? It sadly doesn't work that way," he rambles on and on, "I am perfectly capable of resetting the society with the snap of my fingers but we're not at a point for that yet. Until I know my students are able to surpass me in terms of strength, I can't make that move yet... but that's going off on a tangent."
His hands snake down to grip the meatier areas of your thighs and that signals you to spread them wider, not daring to question him.
"What I'm trying to say is, in life, there are people who lead, and people who follow..." he whispers into the shell of your ear. "And maybe I want you to call the shots sometimes. I bet you've been thinking about how badly you want to get back at me for all of this, and I can offer you an outlet. Though I can't say how effective that might be. I think I might just laugh the whole time because you'll be too cute about it."
At that, he pinches your cheek and you grimace against your better judgment. He doesn't miss that look. With those eyes, he can't miss a damn thing. He may not be a mindreader even with abilities like those but he can take an adequate guess.
"You can't negotiate your way out of whatever it is we do," he starts again, nipping your cheek as his free hand snakes down to tap the pad of his thumb against your clit through your panties. He catches the way your breath hitches, a wicked grin gracing his features. "But I can be your dog tonight, Princess. Especially if it'll get a little smile out of ya."
His voice darkens almost menacingly. "I've been so tired of watching you wear that fucking look on your face. That look of pure defeat. It's uninspiring. Pitying. I like you enough not to want to dull your sparkle, so take this offer."
A gasp strokes your lips when his thumb pushes hard against your clit.
"Well?"
"If that's what you want," you manage through tears pricking the corners of your eyes.
"What I want is for you to like me too," he states like it's the simplest request in the world but it really isn't. "I want you to love me back. What's so wrong about being with me?"
Everything, you want to say but don't dare part your lips to bark back at him.
"Please, Satoru..."
"Hmm? Tell me what you want, Princess. I'll do as you say," he vows as his hand holding your face ghosts down your hip until it rests on your thigh. "Just tell me what you want me to do."
"I want this to stop."
Satoru breathes through his nose, one hand gripping tighter onto your thigh and the other still fiddling with your clit through your panties already becoming damp. Almost looks like he's trying to refrain from doing something he might regret with the way his eyes flash with something ominous and not good for you.
"Try again."
"Y-you'll lie down," you stammer, "And you let me ride your cock, but you won't get to cum. Not once. Because you don't deserve i-it."
"That's more like it," he purrs, his face brightening with delight as he nuzzles his cheek against yours. "I'll do as I'm told. The stage is yours."
mihai, the most reclusive member of the convenire, has been wary of you since you arrived. fear continues to drive you apart but it might just bring you closer together when you're forced to face a common enemy.
->meanvamps featuring mihai. contains mind control, power imbalance, feral behavior. also on ao3.
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According to A Comparative Study of Kin Metaphysics, witch telepathy and nightbound telepathy don’t work the same way. This is the case for all techniques you share. Their bodies process, store and harness magic differently than yours does, and many chapters in this musty yellow doorstop of a tome are dedicated to meticulously cataloguing and contrasting these peculiarities. You’re not here for all that. You just want to know about telepathy because according to the section on “mental magics,” witch telepathy can be especially aggravating for nightbound.
Athanasius, you think, trying to call out to him with only your thoughts. No answer. No metaphysical stir in the back of your head. You focus your thoughts, picturing him in your mind, but you never get a response or any sense that he heard you. You frown and flip to the next page.
You have the parlor to yourself this evening. No hatchlings are around to complain about the light so the chandelier overhead shines the burnt gold of dusk, just bright enough to read by. Stretched out on the sofa with a bowl of snacks in your lap and a pile of books spread across the coffee table, you study intently how to be a more effective nuisance.
The nightbound need a connection to speak in their minds, a bridge of mesmerism for meaning to travel along. All a witch needs is a target, a bit of magic, and something they want to say. The book warns that inter-kin telepathy should be initiated by the nightbound to avoid irritation or discomfort. Young and inexperienced witches can be loud, their thoughts chaotic, their clumsy attempts at communication headache-inducing. There are mental magics for shielding the mind and preventing unwanted intrusion, complex skills you’ve made a note to return to once you have a better grasp on your magic, but the nightbound’s principles are more limited in scope.
In other words, there’s no tuning you out. It’d be like having a megaphone or cranking up the TV too loud. There are other spells you could be learning, enchantments you should try to memorize, but testing Athanasius’ patience is one of the few simple pleasures remaining in your life. This absolutely has to come first.
Athanasius! you try again. You imagine threads, roots, slithering tendrils of connection, your thoughts unspooling like spidersilk. You don’t know if it helps. You can’t tell if you reach him or not. With a frustrated huff, you abandon your study hovel and trudge the mansion’s halls in search of him. Maybe you need to see him first and keep the distance small until you get the hang of it. Maybe it’ll help if you know what it feels like first. Maybe—
Something shrieks.
You freeze. It sounded close. Not inside but nearby, maybe out in the garden. Was that one of the hatchlings? Are you in danger? You call for Athanasius with your mind again, then feel hot with shame when you realize you’ve done it. He doesn’t answer anyway. You wait to see if it happens again. You can’t figure out which way to go if you don’t even know where it’s coming from.
Then something moves in the dark. Your pulse picks up. Someone’s here, inside with you. Not Orion; he would’ve said something. Probably not Renaud, either, he’d come closer and tell you what he wants or keep moving wherever he’s going. Caught in the long, windowed corridor where the moonlight trickles through in curtained slivers, you stare down the person you least wanted to see. Mihai is easy to miss. He keeps to the dark space between windows and silver light, the glint of his eyes partially hidden by long, unruly bangs. He’s the smallest of the hatchlings, shorter and slighter in build than either Orion or Renaud. You would’ve missed him entirely if he hadn’t moved.
Was that on purpose? Did he want you to know he was there? You stare at each other in the dark. He stands perfectly still in the middle of the hallway like he doesn’t intend to let you pass.
“Hi,” you say awkwardly. You don’t particularly want to talk but the silence feels oppressive and dangerous. Mihai shifts slightly; a nod. “I’m looking for Athanasius.”
He makes a rumbling, almost animal noise, a throaty, “Hm,” that’s not quite a hum or a growl. He says something else you don’t catch, a quick, hoarse rasp too quiet to decipher. When you continue to stare, uncomprehending, he huffs. Like a dog, you can’t help but think. It’s the exact noise a puppy makes in the face of mild inconveniences.
“You’re loud,” he repeats irritably. “And I’m not a dog.”
It’s working! you think excitedly, which makes Mihai groan and clutch his head. “Oh. Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “I didn’t mean for the whole house to hear me.” You shut your eyes and imagine everything folding back inward. Flowers closing; seams stitching shut. When you open your eyes again, Mihai has crept closer. He stays just out of arm’s reach, a single stripe of moonlight falling through the curtains between you. “So have you seen Athanasius?” you try again.
“Hm,” he says with a curt nod.
You wait a moment but he doesn’t continue. “Where?” you ask.
“Outside.”
You peer through the curtains but don’t see anything. Mihai lurks in your periphery, staring intently. “Where outside?”
Another bloodcurdling screech makes you both flinch. It’s not a human noise. Mihai looks in a seemingly nonsensical direction, staring at the wall, but you trust his hearing. Whatever’s going on, it isn’t happening on the front lawn. “He was in the garden. Now…” He pauses, tilting his head. You watch him turn, tracking something you can’t see. “Hm. He’s handling it.”
“It?” you echo.
He doesn’t answer. He steps back from you, tilting his head sharply in a beckoning gesture. “Follow,” he orders. When you don’t move, he really does growl. “Athanasius sent me to get you.”
“Why?” you ask.
“House meeting.”
“Why didn’t he tell me about it himself?”
Mihai scowls. He lets out another long-suffering, dog-like sigh and starts to hum under his breath. You’re confused, trying to make out if you recognize the melody or not, when your awareness suddenly goes fuzzy at the edges. It’s the pleasant fogginess of waking up without urgency, luxuriating in blankets and birdsong on a day when you have nothing to do. Your muscles unclench, your shoulders sag, and your eyelids flutter shut. Your head is full of warm fur and soft moss.
That’s right. That’s how it is right now. There’s nothing you need to do. Nothing to worry about in the meadow of your mind. There’s only whispering leaves and clattering branches and the song the wind carries. Nothing more.
“Sacrament?”
You look up. There is the canopy, the leaves almost blue in the night, and stars in the spaces between, and him, lovely and wise. The leader of the flock strokes your cheek with a soft, adoring smile and you lean into his touch with a contented sigh.
“Mihai can be rather heavy-handed with his mesmerism. But it is pleasant, is it not?” You have some sense of movement; of the world tilting, adjusting, another body and mind folded around yours. You feel caged and protected. You hear the flutter of great wings. “Focus on my voice. I will help you back to the surface. Mihai, if you would—yes, very good. Gently now.” You feel yourself rising, carried skyward in the grasp of sheltering shadows. You drift higher, beyond the leaves and branches of the canopy, beyond the clouds, into silver light, into crimson stars, into eyes wide open, eyes upon wings upon a nightmare, hunger of eons, destroyer of dynasties, King-Breaker, Blood Dancer, He Who the Ancients Dread—
“Sacrament?” Athanasius says.
“Huh?” You blink, bleary-eyed. You feel heavy and half-asleep. You find yourself in the little seating area just outside the kitchen, potted plants and patio furniture scattered around a wooden table. You sit up slowly, rubbing focus into your eyes. Athanasius looms over you, examining you with a patient smile.
“Back with us?” he asks.
The hatchlings are all across the table. Orion and Renaud both sit hunched and guilty-looking, avoiding each other’s eyes. They’re shirtless, showing off Renaud’s tattoo sleeves and the scrapes and bruises mottling their chests. Mihai sits between them but he stares at you. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, plain black and slightly too big for him. The sleeves fall all the way to his knuckles and he seems content to leave them there, nothing but his fingertips and sharp, claw-like nails peeking out.
“What was that for? You could’ve just asked me to go with you!” you snap.
Mihai shrinks back like you lunged at him but there’s anger mixed in with the fear, his face marred by a glaring snarl. “You were defiant,” he says. His voice never rises above a hoarse murmur. “Waste of time arguing with you.”
“You may blame me, sacrament. I would have retrieved you myself, but there were other matters that required immediate attention.” Athanasius looks pointedly at the hatchlings. Orion and Renaud carefully look anywhere else. “You have all made tremendous progress since arriving at the convenire. I am proud of you. But these recent incidents must not go unaddressed. Orion.”
The hatchling flinches. He sneaks a look at you and then quickly looks away.
“Orion,” Athanasius repeats more gently. “Now would be a good time to apologize.”
Orion stares at the table. “Uh. Right. So.” He clears his throat. “Sorry for, uh. You know. The whole, like, coercion thing. And trying to make you like me more. And not letting you go when, um, you wanted to.”
You glance back and forth at all the nightbound seated at the table. You’re not sure why Orion’s the only one apologizing. They’ve all used their mesmerism in ways you find distasteful and the one most at fault for not letting you leave isn’t a hatchling. Then again, Athanasius has been careful about everything. There’s a schedule, a hierarchy, a particular way things are meant to go under his roof. Orion must’ve crossed a line when he cornered you in the hallway the other day.
“Do you think I’m weak?” he asks suddenly.
You’re completely blindsided by the question, even more shocked by the expectant looks you get as the silence stretches on. Are you supposed to answer that? Orion watches you so intently that it makes you nervous. “Uh. No?” you say.
“But you like him better even though I’ve been nicer. Is it because I’m the youngest? You don’t think I can protect you? But if that’s all it was, you would’ve fucked Athanasius by now.” Orion frowns at you, eyes darting around to every micromovement of your expression as your face twists in confused embarrassment.
“Or perhaps,” Athanasius says gently, “every witch is different. And because we are not traditionalists, there is no need for a witch to offer themselves in the hopes of ensuring survival, nor is there any need for these dominance scuffles you keep initiating. This convenire is safe for the sacrament and for you, Orion. All of you are safe in my care.”
Orion smiles half-heartedly and shrugs. He doesn’t believe him, you realize. Is that why he’s been so clingy, following you around and acting friendly? Does he think he can get you in bed that way? Does he think that’s normal? Is that how it was, wherever he came from?
Does he miss it? you wonder nervously.
“Renaud,” Athanasius says.
Renaud takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly and resignedly. “Yes, sir,” he says.
“I am concerned for your health. You have become avoidant again since your last incident.”
“I’m drinking—”
“Proper blood,” Athanasius stresses. “Cannibalism will starve you slowly.” Renaud doesn’t take the accusation well. He gets out of his chair, glaring, and opens his mouth but never gets the chance to speak. “Do not lie to me. You reek of your dalliances when you return from the bar. You gorge yourself on that which cannot sustain you and you do so with malice. There are many humans who are eager to feel our bite—”
“I don’t want them,” Renaud insists. He hunches over the table, rubbing a hand over his own face in embarrassment. “I don’t…can I talk to Rowan? Here? Not just over the phone.”
Athanasius’ gaze softens. “Rowan has yet to return from Envred, but he has assured me he will be here as soon as he is able. I can arrange something with Dr. Griffiths in the meantime.”
“I’ll wait,” Renaud says quietly.
No wonder the household is such a wreck. They’ve all got the same counselor and he’s apparently out of town. You shift in your chair uncomfortably and look at the door to the kitchen. Do you really have to be here for this? You feel like you’re lurking at the edge of someone else’s therapy session, hearing things you’re not meant to.
“Mihai,” Athanasius says.
“Hm,” you hear. Then a choked sound, an awkward clearing of the throat. “Y…yes, sir.” Athanasius looks pointedly between you as if Mihai has looked anywhere else this entire meeting. His gaze steadily burns into yours. “I can’t apologize. I’m not sorry,” he says bluntly.
Orion snorts, stifling it when Athanasius glances at him. “What, precisely, are you not sorry for?” Athanasius asks.
Mihai blinks slowly. That’s a cat thing, isn’t it? He doesn’t look particularly friendly or trusting right now. “Any of it,” he says.
“What bothers you more? My inattentiveness, or the potential danger the sacrament poses?” Athanasius asks.
“Both,” Mihai says immediately. Then he frowns, glancing away from you for the first time and looking meekly at Athanasius. “No. It’s the witch. But you’re not careful enough, either. Witches are dangerous, elder. Especially the young and willful.”
You’re surprised that Mihai speaks so boldly to Athanasius, and even more surprised that Athanasius tilts his head in consideration. “And yet you subdued them easily. You held them so deeply in your thrall that it took both of us to bring them back out again. What did you see while they were unguarded?”
Mihai looks at you again. He’s still nervous, studying you the way a person studies anything volatile and potentially fatal, but there’s pity there, too. “Sadness,” he says quietly, “and profound loneliness. A lifetime of fear, of isolation. Of searching and never finding anything. A desire for destruction, for…vengeance. And yet a reluctance to do true, lasting harm.”
You’re too stunned to even try refuting him. Are you really that easy to read? Do they all see that whenever they peek into your mind, or just when they go looking for something specific?
“We probably won’t be killed in our sleep,” Mihai says, not sounding fully confident. “But most animals bite when provoked, and you like provocation.”
Athanasius smiles. “Then your ire shall be for me alone. Are we agreed, sacrament?”
You look at him and he looks back at you, and something stirs in the connection between you. He doesn’t send a message or an image through telepathy or try to nudge you into any particular answer, but there’s something there. Wisps of emotion. A feeling unfurling. It feels vast and endless, smothering, consuming. It fills your mind and tingles across your skin. The word “mine” never fully takes shape but you sense the implication; the shape of hands. The weight of chains. Slits of light and dark, sky and birdcage bars.
He wants you with such ferocity that it leaves you speechless, frozen in fear until he repeats, “Are we agreed?”
“Uh. Yeah. Sure, yeah,” you say nervously, squirming in your seat. Mihai is unreadable but he’s watching carefully.
The rest of the meeting is thankfully uneventful. Athanasius spends some time reassuring the hatchlings, praising them for the things they’ve done well. Orion’s coworkers at the bakery are enamored with him. Virgilio was recently mentioned by name in a travel vlog after he gave a tourist nightlife recommendations.
“And Mihai,” Athanasius says proudly. “The Lord Regent tells me the Council greatly appreciates your insight. I would not be surprised if you are approached for an advisory position of some sort in the near future.”
Mihai shrugs, letting out a quiet, almost shy, “Hm.” Dismissed, the hatchlings drift back inside. Renaud leaves first and Orion waits a while before he follows dejectedly, giving you one last thoughtful look. Mihai lingers and so do you. Making peace has been in your best interest so far so you let him stare as hard as he wants and clear your throat.
“So,” you say.
“Hm,” he says.
“You must be pretty, uh…” Interesting? Knowledgeable? What’s he helping the Council with, anyway? “I didn’t know they let hatchlings join the Council.”
“They don’t,” he says.
You blink. He doesn’t. Mihai glances up at Athanasius like he wants or expects him to step in, but Athanasius is too busy tucking in Orion and Renaud’s chairs, pretending he isn’t eavesdropping.
“I’m…older,” he says slowly. “Renaud and I are similar. Hatchlings by other definitions.” He stands up suddenly, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, sounding seconds away from turning into a pile of leaves.
“Hey, okay, no problem,” you assure him. Curiosity gnaws at you but you’ll leave it alone for now. “Well. It was nice to meet you. You know, properly. We haven’t really talked much before.”
He cocks his head in the sharp nightbound headtilt. It’s the first time you’ve seen it on him. Somehow, it strikes you as more intimidating than usual. His gaze is piercing. You feel like he sees things the other hatchlings miss. The dog comparison comes to mind again, but now it seems insufficient. That’s a wolf, you think. He’s been skittish but now that he’s tested you, sniffing around and prodding to see what you’ll do, he’s getting bolder.
“Hm. We’ll speak more,” he says. For once, he walks away instead of shapeshifting and stealthily vanishing. His movements make your pulse pick up. He doesn’t walk like Orion or Renaud, confident, graceful, but ultimately human. He looks like Athanasius. Like Virgilio or Avudim. That’s a beast barely constrained by human skin, a predator that’s tasted centuries of blood.
Whatever technicalities make him a hatchling don’t matter to you. Mihai is an elder. The moment you’re struck by the realization, he looks back like your dread makes a sound he can hear. The wary look on your face and your hunched, defensive posture make his eyes narrow in something like satisfaction.
I need lord superman to manhandle me in a gentle way
Unlike our regular yan clark, I do think lord superman likes to flex his strength and prowess as means to intimidate you into obedience. Manhandling you just enough for you to see just how strong he is and how good is to you for having some restraint. He’ll even toss you on your very plush bed with one arm before caging you in and he likes to envelop you completely. His favorite position would be laying flat on top of your back and tucking his face into the crook of your neck while holding your wrists together against the bed. Just absolute dominance over you.
TW: AFAB!Reader, No Curses/College AU, Non/Con, Long-Term Stalking + Harassment, Obsessive Behavior, Consensual Touching, and Social Isolation.
You shouldn’t have come to this stupid party.
This was a fundamental truth that you were glaringly, depressingly aware of from the second you stepped through the frat house’s cheaply painted door. The lights were dimmed in a way that came off as less of an attempt at ambiance thing and more of a tripping hazard. The AC was broken and you were dressed in too many layers for the thick, moist air of a frat party in the tail end of spring. You only knew two people here, including your roommate, and you were only on speaking terms with one of them.
Worst of all, Itadori Yuuji hadn’t stopped staring at you in the better part of an hour.
He probably thought he was being subtle. You’d fled to the front porch shortly after arriving, but even that meager distance did little to help when you could see him out of the corner of your eye, stealing glances at you from the living room couch through the water-stained window as he played some terrible first-person shooter with a couple members of the fraternity. You were making a considerable effort to ignore him, but it was easier said than done. Try as you might, you couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything other than the weight of his gaze, the knot of anxiety forming in the pit of your stomach, the memories of his voice calling out to you in—
“Are you good?”
You blinked. Nobara was squinting at you, her head cocked to the side. Nodding hastily, you rushed to answer before fully processing her question. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little—” You paused, forcing yourself to laugh. “Just zoned out, I guess.”
She hummed, unconvinced. Next to her, the other girl you’d been talking to - Maki - smirked and slung an arm over Nobara’s shoulders. “Blame your friend. He’s got a bit of a staring problem.”
She glanced into the living room. “Yuuji? He’s harmless.” And then, to you, “You know him, right?”
The panic was a ice-cold stake to your chest. You shook your head, moved to tell her that no, really, it was alright, you were just having an off-night, you’d give her all the money in your wallet if she just didn’t do this, but it was already too late. Nobara turned to the window, raising a hand, and you watched in frozen horror as she waved to Yuuji, gesturing for him to join you.
He was off the couch and out the door before you could so much as think to make a run for it.
Maki was greeted with a nod, Nobara a hasty fist bump. You were pulled into a hug before you had the chance to object - his smothering physical affection saved for you and you alone. Even when he drew back, it was only far enough to position himself behind you and drape his arms around your waist. You could feel his breath on the dip of your shoulder, the scar at the corner of his lips ghosting over the base of your throat. It felt as if you were about to crawl out of your skin, but if your discomfort was visible, Maki and Nobara were both kind enough to ignore it. The former seemed disinterested while the latter only grinned.
“So you two do know each other.”
“Obviously.” Yuuji couldn’t have sounded happier. You felt yourself shrink underneath him. “We met last semester, in that class I failed.”
Nobara laughed. “So, like, any class you’ve literally ever taken.”
“Shut the fuck up.” The words were harsh, but his affection was light, cheery. Nobara brightened. Even Maki cracked a smile. Yuuji had that effect on people. He made them happy. He made them like him.
You weren’t sure why it didn’t work the same way, for you.
“We had this project together, and—” His hands dropped lower, falling a little too close to your hips. “Do you want to tell them what you said when I asked for your number, babe?”
“It wasn’t necessary for the assignment,” you recited, flatly.
“I got it anyway, though.” You cringed at the reminder. You’d changed it, since then, but that’d only stopped the flood of texts for a few days. All innocent things - questions about your day or pictures of cute dogs on campus. Nothing you could show to anyone else without seeming like you were crazy one for being bothered. “And we’ve been inseparable ever since.”
He was leaving things out. All the times he’d sat next to you in class, always more than happy to move along with you whenever you decided to switch seats. How often he’d coincidentally show up at the library while you were studying, despite never having reviewed for a test in his life. The hours of sleep you’d lost to dreading the next time you’d see him, the next time he’d stand too close or stare too long or talk about the two of you like you were good friends. You might’ve been able to cope, if you had someone to talk to. But—
Maki’s chuckled. She met your eyes, and her grin widened. “That would’ve been pretty scary, if it’d been anyone else. Bet you’re glad you’ve got the nicest guy on campus for a stalker, huh?”
You wanted to scream.
But everyone loved Yuuji.
You shrugged him off, starting for the front door. “I need to—”
“You’re right. We should dance.” Immediately, he was in front of you, grabbing your wrist. “C’mon, Toge’s getting the speakers hooked up out back.”
"I’m good. Maybe later.”
You tried to pull yourself out of his hold. His grip tightened.
“Do you want something to drink? I made sure we’re stocked up on everything you like, just—”
He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, and you made the mistake of looking up - of looking at him. That was what had made you keep your distance, before the following and the touching and the harassment.
No matter how brightly he was smiling, his eyes were always so, so cold.
"Stop touching me.”
Heads turned in your direction. Nobara whispered something to Maki. Yuuji’s hand vanished from your wrist, as if it’d never been there at all.
Fuck.
You’d made a scene.
You shouldered past him, trudging into the house proper. Inside, disparate conversations melted into a constant pulse of voices and laughter and noise. You shouldered through bodies packed too tightly together, muttering apologies as drinks were spilled and balance was lost. Yuuji tried to follow, but the crowd was thick and you lost him quickly in the tangle. Hopefully, it’d stay that way until you’d done what you needed to.
It didn’t take long for you to find your roommate. Yuuta was in the basement, sprawled out on a well-beaten couch, passing a joint around with a few of his anemic friends. The current holder - a younger guy with spiky black hair and a perpetual frown - offered it to you as you approached, but you shook your head. Any other time, maybe. Right now, there was only one thing you wanted.
“C’mon, Okkotsu.” You reached over the back of the couch, taking him by the shoulder. “We’re leaving.”
His dark eyes were wide and unfocused. He had to blink a few times before his gaze shifted to you. When he spoke, his speech was on that same type of drawled delay. “Already?”
Agitation sparked, but you stamped it out. He was high. You’d been here for less than an hour. Some resistance was fair. “Yeah, it’s—” His name got caught in your throat. You did your best to choke it down before going on. “It’s Itadori.”
Of all the people you’d considered confessing your Yuuji-centered issues to, you’d gotten with Yuuta. You’d lived with him since freshman year. He was always so level-headed, so calm, so sympathetic. When someone spoke, he listened. You’d always liked that about him. You’d always trusted him to do the same for you.
Yuuta groaned, clenching his eyes shut and crossing his arms over his face. A knot formed in your chest. You repeated your mantra. Some resistance was fair. You had to believe that this was fair. “Again?”
“I know it’s early, but—”
“It’s too early. And Itadori’s not even that—” He broke off, whining into his sleeves. “Have you tried talking to him?”
The knot tightened.
“…it’s not really like that. We don’t—”
“He’s so nice.” With effort, Yuuta managed to sit up. “And sweet. And everybody knows he likes you. Couldn’t you just…?”
The insinuation was clear. You felt the knot grow tighter and tighter still before the cord snapped and something deep inside of you unraveled.
Your voice was flat, blank, confusion dulling anger into frigid apathy. “You want me to shut up and fuck him so you can… What? Smoke in his friend’s basement for another twenty minutes?”
Yuuta grimaced. “That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant, though, right?”
“He’s nice.” Sulkily, now. As if you’d done something wrong. “It just— It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”
Your expression hardened. His eyes widened, his mouth falling open as he scrambled to apologize, but it was too late. You were already climbing up the basement stairs. With or without him, you were getting out of here.
Someone had started playing music. You couldn’t see any amps, but deep bass blared through the house, loud enough to shake the foundations. People were beginning to dance. Not that any of that mattered to you. You kept to the walls, skirting around the edges, doing what you could to fade into the background. You didn’t want attention. You didn’t want to make a scene. You just wanted to—
Two arms, appearing out of nowhere, caging you in on either side. You froze, pressing your back against the drywall. Panic blurred your vision, but you would’ve had to be blind not to recognize the man in front of you.
Yuuji, obviously.
It was always fucking Yuuji.
He had a drink in his hand. The usual frat part mixer - reddish, brownish, smelling vaguely of Kool-Aid and gasoline. And he was smiling. Of course, he was smiling. You weren’t sure he was capable of doing anything else.
You did your best to be blunt, to keep your voice from shaking. “What do you want?”
He didn’t say anything. Slowly, with the type of care you hadn’t thought he was capable of, he held his drink in front of you. For an embarrassingly long second, you stared at it blankly, uncertain if you were supposed to take it or slap it out of his hand. Then, his smile widened, and in one unfaltering movement, he turned his cup over and dumped its contents down the front of your shirt.
The revulsion was hot and instantaneous. You cursed, grabbing at your shirt and pulling it away from your skin. You moved to dart away from Yuuji, but a muscular arm cut off your escape. It was all you could do to bare your teeth, glaring at him as you snarled, “What the fu—”
“Yo, Itadori.”
You snapped to your left and found Yuuta, the spiky haired kid from the basement trailing after him. He paid Yuuji a nod and a smile before his eyes fell to you, his expression dimming.
You opened your mouth, but Yuuji was faster. “Just a party foul,” he explained, nodding to your ruined shirt. “Mind if I borrow your room for the clean-up, Megumi?”
The spiky haired kid - Megumi - looked to you, his bleary eyes suddenly prying, evaluative. For a moment, he seemed to take you in, from the cheap booze dripping down your chest to the rigidity of your posture to the way you were pressed into the wall, clearly scared, clearly trying to keep your distance from a lurking threat. For a moment, you let yourself hope, even if you weren’t entirely sure for what. Help, maybe. More realistically, bare-bones acknowledgement, some kind of unspoken sign that he recognized what was happening. That something was wrong and it wasn’t your fault.
And then, the moment passed, and your amorphous hopes solidified into familiar disappointment as his gaze slid to Yuuji, softening in an instant. He nodded, and immediately, Yuuji’s fist was cuffed around your wrist, hauling you away. In your peripheral, you watched Yuuta raise a hand and start to say something, only to fall short. Megumi’s lips moved, the words lost underneath the music, gesturing in the direction of the drinks’ table. Yuuji’s grip tightened and you glanced toward him on instinct, finding only disheveled pink hair and the corners of his grin. By the time you looked back over your shoulder, they were gone.
Yuuji weaved seamlessly through the crowd. You were made to stumble up a too-thin staircase, then down a narrow hallway. The floor creaked under your weight as mold-infested carpeting tapered into ancient wooden boards, the music fading into a muted pulsing and the crowd thinning until you were alone save for the handful of lost, inebriated party-goers who’d wandered farther than they were supposed to. Never pausing to explain himself, Yuuji shouldered open an unmarked door, shutting it again as soon as he’d pulled you across the threshold.
Distantly, you heard a lock click into place, but couldn’t bring yourself to care. A little privacy didn’t sound all that bad, at the moment.
The room was dark. The walls were a deep, depressing shade of charcoal gray and the sole window was swallowed by a thick, black curtain. The sole source of light came from a lamp on a surprisingly neat desk, its harsh white light almost jarring after wading through the technicolor haze downstairs. You collapsed onto the foot of the bed, burying your head in your hands and groaning into your palms. Even that moment of catharsis was cut short as the mattress dipped beside you, Yuuji settling into place.
“We should get this off.” His hand curled around the hem of your shirt, tugging gently. “Can’t be comfortable, like that.”
You crossed your arms over your chest. “Why are you doing this?”
An airy laugh. Another tug - more insistent, this time. “‘cause we’re friends, obviously.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Alright.”
It was terrible, how calm his voice was, how little warning were given before his hands were on your shoulders, your back on the bed, his knees planted on either side of your waist. His weight settled onto your stomach - heavier than you’d expected. Of course. Yuuji was an athlete. In the haze of all his other positive accolades, you must’ve forgotten.
And he was staring at you, his eyes as cold as ice.
“Do you remember the day we met? Not the phone number shit. I really couldn’t care less if some—” He gestured dismissively, then let his hands fall to your midriff. “—fucking loser doesn’t want to talk to me. Afterward. When the lecture let out. You’d forgotten something, so I called your name. Must’ve caught you off guard, because you turned around and looked at me like…”
He trailed off, laughing.
“Like I was gonna kill you.”
Again, he caught the hem of your shirt, tugging gently. The air hitched in your throat. “…are you going to?”
The corners of his mouth pulled back, baring fangs. He shook his head. Somehow, no relief accompanied the reassurance.
“I really do like you.” In one motion, he tore your shirt up and over your head. Resistance wasn’t an option. Fabric tore, and suddenly, you were exposed and unprotected beneath him. Calloused fingertips dragged over your bare skin. He pulled off his own, then let his head dip low, his mouth skirting over the curve of your chest. “Took me a while to realize that. You kept running away, but I never stopped wanting to chase you.” He paused, chuckled. “I’m sorry. That makes me sound like I’m just in it for— for this, I guess. I’m not. I like the way you react to things. Whether you’re pretending not to see me or doing that deer in headlights thing or—”
He broke off suddenly, his lips latching onto your nipple. You cried out involuntarily as his teeth dug into your areola hard enough to break the skin. His tongue lapped hastily over the puncture wounds before he pulled away, grinning from ear to ear. “Or that.”
Hot, humiliating tears were beginning to fog your vision. You could see the door over his shoulder - salvation in the form of a hazy black outline. His hand drifted lower, finding the button of your jeans. Half on purpose, half on reflex, you thrashed. Your nails caught his cheek, something tearing where you made contact. You managed to free one of your legs, to get enough distance between you and him to pitch your heel into his chest. Yuuji jerked back, letting you squirm free. You rolled onto your hands and knees, scrambling for the edge of the mattress. You just had to get your feet underneath you. You just had to get out of this room. You just had to—
You made it all of a few, pitiful inches before a strong arm curled around your waist, a heavy body draping itself over yours. Anchoring you.
Trapping you.
Yuuji laughed, burying his head in the crook of your neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the side of your throat. You didn’t realize that he’d been trying to be gentle until he shoved your jeans down to your knees and palmed at your cunt with all the delicacy of a hacksaw, already in motion. A thumb slid into the waistband of your underwear, the flimsy article torn off with the same haphazard efficiency. You tried to scream, but Yuuji’s mouth was already on yours, swallowing any noise you might’ve been able to get out. At the same time, he forced two fingers into your cunt, the heel of his palm rolling against your clit. A humiliatingly wet noise echoed off the walls of the bedroom - slick and mortifying. Yuuji let out a low whistle, spreading his fingers apart inside of you.
“And I thought you hated me.” His breath was hot and smothering against your skin. You shook your head violently, and he laughed. “It’s okay. I love you, too.”
You tried not to react, not to give him what he wanted. You couldn’t get away, and so denial was the next best option — letting your mind go blank and dissociating until he lost interest, playing dead until the predator got bored and wandered off in search of more interesting prey. But Yuuji had always made himself difficult to ignore. He held you tight against his chest, pumping his fingers into you with all the delicacy and all the curiosity of a mechanical piston, carrying out its only programmed function. Your cunt clenched and he forced in yet another digit, threatening to split you open. A pained groan slipped through your sealed lips. You were wet, but you didn’t want this. It was a fear reaction, not the pleasure he’d been so happy to mistake it for. It was going to take more than his invasive touch, his stifling closeness to make up for that.
…and yet, you couldn’t seem to swallow back the little, pitchy whines tangling together on your tongue, couldn’t seem to stop your legs from twitching underneath you. You bowed your head low, but Yuuji followed you, keeping his chest against your back and his hand lodged in-between your thighs, not allowing for any amount of distance. He was so, so close. You could feel his heart beating against your spine. You could hear him panting in your ear, too reminiscent of some giant, lumbering beast. You could see his face in your peripheral, his gaze locked on your expression. His eyes were cold enough to burn.
You came with a single, miserable moan. Yuuji’s pace slowed as you came down from your unwanted high, eventually stilling inside of you. You hoped beyond hope that he’d stay like that, that you’d get a chance to at least start to recover, but the world wasn’t that kind and Yuuji wasn’t that patient. Drawing back, his hands found your hips and turned you over — all but throwing you down to the mattress. You heard fabric shift, metal clink. It was all you could do not to look. You would’ve given anything to never have to put an image to that sound.
If only you had anything left to give.
“Sorry we couldn’t do this somewhere more— more special.” He fit his body between your legs. You felt something blunt and searing press against your entrance. “Next time. I promise, I’ll make it more romantic, next time.”
You opened your mouth, but it was too late. He was already thrusting into you. In a single motion, you were split open on his cock, left bare and exposed and at his mercy. Yuuji groaned, falling against you. His lips found yours, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, lapping into you. You were minded uncannily of the way wolves licked each others’ mouths, all instinct without the care.
He was smiling, when he pulled back. For the time, you thought it might’ve reached his eyes.
x reader should be (and, generally speaking, often is) the most accepting fanfiction space because its consistently, and almost exclusively an expression or fantasy of being desired or wanted or wanting—or in an even more basic sense, considered. even if you dont explicitly self-insert, even if there’s a an oc thats just you but better or a faceless insert u make - it starts with the same premise. which is wanting to be seen or desired by some extension of who you are. or wanting to fantasize explicitly about a life that isn’t yours, any life but yours. its admitting more openly than other mediums—i want someone to want some part of me. to take interest in me sexually or romantically or platonically. i want this element of myself to be considered or thought of. sometimes that is accomplished through writing, and sometimes that is accomplished through reading and seeking to bits of yourself in other peoples. the other half is having space to want and yearn for something else. how liberating it is to admit that you’d like to be somewhere else.
and it is hardly a flawless medium and im really, really simplifying it but i do think that there is something uniquely enjoyable and freeing about it. i want agency in the stories i love. i want my presence to haunt this fiction like a ghost. i want to be loved, i want to be interesting. i want to experience hundreds of lives that aren’t mine. i want i want i want. this a story of you. this is a story of me.
ughhhh nothing gets me quite like a yandere making their terrified, shaking darling give them a little ‘thank you kiss’ after they just enacted horrific unasked for violence in your name
Kaiser always liked messing with you, but you didn't think he’d take things so far.
(Warnings: noncon kissing, noncon touching, threats, power imbalances, yandere)
Working for Bastard München was a dream come true.
You’d been a soccer fan all throughout your life. You even played a bit in high school, though your talent never got you far. Nevertheless, your passion for the game lasted all throughout middle school, high school, and college. It was how you got to work for one of the greatest teams across the globe.
Seeing Noel Noa in person nearly made you faint, but your fellow managers kindly assured you it was a pretty common feeling. That was another thing you enjoyed about the league: everyone was so nice and friendly.
Except for one person.
The coach blew out the final whistle just as the ball flew into the net. The practice game was over, and there was one clear winner. Kaiser’s grin was feral as his team crowded around him, celebrating his amazing shot. It was an incredible play; you could hardly believe he pulled it off. Despite your reservations about the guy, he was incredible on the field.
You wish he could just stay on it forever.
The team gathers on the sidelines to take their much-deserved breaks. You’re quick to get to work, trailing behind the other managers as they begin to pass out towels and water bottles to the players. You make a beeline to Ali. He’s the biggest talker on the team; everyone hates being near him once he gets going. Maybe if you can get Ali to ramble about birds or something, he might not be too keen on bothering you.
He steps in front of you. You nearly collide with his chest. He’s so tall, you have to crane your neck up just to look him in the eyes. You think that he especially enjoys that. His blue eyes sharpen with delight.
Kaiser tilts his head. “Got anything for me?”
You look down at the water bottle and towel in your hands. Accepting defeat, you hand them over. His fingers brush over yours deliberately. As always, Kaiser makes a show of it. He languidly wipes at his neck and face. He downs the water like it’s liquid gold. Just when you’re about to attend to the next player, he snaps his fingers.
Reluctantly, you look back at him.
“Thanks.” He tosses you the towel. You barely manage to catch it.
He pats your shoulder just before he passes you. “What would I do without our sweet little manager.”
His tone is so condescending that you feel yourself heat up from embarrassment. Out of all the team managers, you’re the only one he calls that.
Players aren’t supposed to return towels to managers; they’re supposed to put them in the bin. Kaiser, however, treats you more like his servant than as your actual job title suggests. You have to ball up your anger as you trek to the rag bin.
One of your fellow managers gives you a sympathetic smile. You toss the dirty rag and grab another water bottle.
“That bad, hm?” She asks.
“No, just the usual amount of shitty.” You mutter.
“He’ll get better,” she tries to assure. “He just needs a bit more time, since you’re new and all.”
Yeah, more time.
They’ve been saying that for the past year and a half.
You’re not sure why Kaiser has a hyperfixation on you. You’re pretty average, all things considered. Despite your normalcy, Kaiser has made it his personal mission to whittle you down.
Everyone has acknowledged his behavior as abnormal. He’s never picked on any of the non-players of the team. He used to pretend they never existed until you came along.
He’d make jabs at your clothes, ghost touches that lingered on inappropriate if he was any slower, and that dreaded title: ‘sweet, little manager’.
“Ignore it.” Another fellow manager comes up to tell you. “He’ll stop eventually.”
You shrug. You glance out the corner of your eye.
Kaiser’s already staring at you. His grin is infuriating.
“Yeah,” you say, “eventually.”
~
You’ve talked to Noel Noa twice in your life.
First: the day you got hired.
Second: the day you turned in your resignation.
He’s still staring long after you stopped rambling. His stare is so heavy, practically crushing you, and yet you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Even as he studies you from his chair, he still feels bigger than you.
He’d stepped down from playing a couple years ago, but even as head coach of the team, he’s yet to lose his intimidating stature.
“Are you sure about this?” He finally asks,
Noa has yet to glance at the slip you dropped on his desk. You drafted your resignation letter with a bold black pen and the neatest handwriting you could. He barely acknowledged it.
“I am.” You tell him. “Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll forever be grateful for all the experience I learned from this team.”
It sounds rehearsed because it is rehearsed. You practiced in the mirror, mouthing the words over and over so you wouldn’t flail in front of Noel Noa.
He only tilts his head, scanning you up and down. You wonder what he’s searching for.
“Did anything particular happen that made you want to resign?” He prompts.
You think of blonde hair with bright blue tips. A blue rose.
“No.” You smile with tight lips. “Nothing at all.”
He doesn’t believe you. You can tell.
“It’s a shame to see you go.” He says anyway, standing up and reaching out his hand. “You were a wonderful asset for this team.”
“Thank you so much, Sir.”
You shake his hand with all the confidence you can muster. You loved this team. You really did.
But it wasn’t worth it.
He wasn’t worth it.
~
When you leave the office, you aren’t surprised to find Kaiser waiting for you.
He’s leaned against the wall, watching with sharp eyes as you continue to stare at the ground. Stupidly, you hope that if you continue to ignore him, he might not try to start anything.
If anything, that makes him more eager.
“Hey hey.” He grabs your arm, forcing you to stop. “Where do you think you’re going?”
Your lips curl into a sneer, but you’re forcing it back down.
“Kaiser, I have work.” Your voice is quiet even to your own ears. It prompts Kaiser to lean down closer to your face.
“Hm? What’d you say?” His grin is even wider.
You try to pull away, but he’s crowding you against the wall, lightly pushing at you. You're forced to take a step back, then another, then another until your back hits the tile.
“I don’t have time for this.” You say, just as quiet. The bite in your words is mute. He relishes this. Kaiser grins, showing white teeth that glint.
“Aw, C’mon.” He mockingly pouts and you bite your lip. “You were in the coach's office for a while. I was getting worried.” He cocks his head, assessing you.
“You didn’t get in trouble or anything, did you?”
“No,” you say firmly, “Stop it. I need to go–”
“Go where?” He prods, and you feel his hand rest on your upper thigh, daring to creep up.
You freeze.
He’s saying something else, but all you can think of is his fingers drifting over your thigh. He gives a firm squeeze.
“Get the fuck off me.”
You push him away. He stumbles back. It’s not strength that gets him off of you. Your burst of anger just surprised him. He’s used to your meekness, willingness to be pushed around. You use it to your advantage, immediately turning away before he can say anything else.
He doesn’t follow. You don’t hear the second echo of footsteps as you walk off. Relief singes at your fingers.
Just for a moment, just for a peek, you glance back.
He’s still standing right where you left him.
His smile is gone.
~
For the next few days, things are strangely peaceful.
There’s no more beratement from Kaiser. You never suffered any more unwanted touches or annoying quips. It was like you were completely erased from his world.
You weren’t complaining. For the first time in a while, you actually looked forward to working with the entire soccer team, rather than just huddling with the other non-players. It was a nice change of pace.
It’s a shame the change only happened right when you were leaving.
A few days before you officially left, your little team of managers promised you a farewell party. You were looking forward to it. One last hurrah with your co-workers before you move into a new section of your life.
Things were finally looking up.
After hours, the club is pretty quiet. Most players just want to shower and go right home. You know, some like to stay behind to do a little more practice, but this is mostly when staff use the time to reorganize locker rooms and such.
You like working alone. Someone else was with you earlier, but you’d kindly waved her off, insisting you could handle it. It was less than an official storage room and more of a closet. You stood in front of the equipment, your trusty clipboard in hand. Someone mentioned that the team was running low on some items. You might have to edit some orders if they were true.
Loud footsteps echo behind you. You pay them no mind. Probably a coach. A player who’d forgotten their bag.
They stop right behind you. You don’t even bother to look.
“I’ll be just a second.” You tell them, assuming they wanted to set up some cones for last-minute drills.
“You’re leaving?”
Your fingers tighten on the clipboard.
Slowly, you turn to look at Kaiser. He’s still in his uniform. The smell of sweat and rubber is faint in the air. His breaths are slow as he glares down at you. Your eyes trail to his hand.
Your resignation letter is crumpled in his hand.
Something keeps strumming through your arms and legs. You want to fidget: shake your leg, flex your fingers. You feel nervous, though you aren’t sure why.
“Yes.” You respond as curtly as you can. “But that’s none of your business–”
“The fuck it is.” He crowds you, forcing you to back up into the storage room.
You’ve seen Kaiser angry before. On the field, or with his teammates. Never at you. There’s no reason to be angry at you. In his world, you barely exist.
Kaiser wasn’t angry.
That’d be too tame a word to describe him.
His blue eyes almost glow with the way he looks at you. Kaiser has always forced you to feel many things: embarrassment, discomfort, anger, and frustration.
Not fear. Never fear.
Until now, at least.
“You think you can just run from me?” He asks, but you don’t think he’s talking to you. His voice sounds rampant, unfocused. “You think there’s somewhere you can escape to? That I’d just let you walk away from me?”
The way he speaks makes something awful grow into the pit of your stomach. His tone is vile, possessive, and something else you’d rather not name. You feel small, like you’re a toy a child is no longer allowed to play with anymore.
You open your mouth, and then his lips are on yours.
There’s no softness, no gentleness. Kaiser is nothing but harsh and full of teeth. By the time you’re able to pull away, your lips are sore and bitten.
He lets you stumble back, reaching up to wipe your blood off his lips.
You should’ve taken that time to run, but you can’t. Your feet feel like they’re cemented into the ground as you continue to stare at him. Your lips sting. Something burns across your face as he advances forward.
You should’ve run. Even as he shut the door behind you two with a final thud, you knew that.
The tiny sliver of light barely gives you a glimpse of his figure before you feel him against your chest, shoving you against the wall.
“What are you doing?” It’s all you can say, all you can think. “Kaiser–what–what are you doing–”
“It’s my fault,” he says, but it sounds more like he’s talking to himself than talking to you, listening to the words form in his mouth. “I was too lenient on you. Everyone else saw it, and I thought that was enough.”
There’s a click of his tongue. “It’s clear you need to have some things spelled out for you.”
Fingers crudely snap in your face. You flinch, trying to back up against the wall, but there’s nowhere to run. Maybe that was the case from the first moment he saw you.
“Here’s how things are gonna go: You aren’t leaving. You are never leaving me. The minute you try, I’m dragging you right back kicking and screaming.”
You wordlessly stare back at him. Kaiser isn’t finished.
“If you want to try, I’ll make you understand just how hard things will get for you.”
The threat is clear and laced with venom that stings. You stop breathing, but your timid fear isn’t enough for Kaiser.
He leans into your space, lips right at your ear.
“Do you understand?”
Something about his tone makes your body snap up at attention. You close your eyes and nod, pressing yourself further up against the wall.
“Okay.” You find yourself saying. “I–I won’t….okay.”
You keep your eyes closed until you no longer feel him breathing down your neck. Even then, he doesn’t let up on his closeness. Strangely, his presence feels smaller, like he’s slowly calming down. You can still feel the rage emanating from his body, but the heat is a bit more bearable.
“Better.” He tells you. You flinch as he lightly pats your cheek, like you were some rowdy mutt.
“There’s this new restaurant that just opened up. It's too Americanized for me, but the food’s pretty good. Wanna go?”
You blink at him. He’s back to how he acted just hours ago, slightly leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, casual with the slightest hint of a playful tease.
How was he so casual about this? Why was he so unafraid? The minute you got out of here you planned on reporting him until he got arrested. You should have done that weeks ago, but why was he so confident you wouldn’t.
You glance down at his shoes. Yours were cheap, but you took care of them as much as you could. You wanted them to last. His were rugged and muddy and barely held together, but the brand was expensive. It probably cost an entire month of your salary. He’d easily buy another pair.
Ah, that was why.
That’s why the other managers brushed off his harsh words even though they edged on harassment. That’s why you still hesitate to say anything even though you desperately want to. You’re just a Pawn on the chessboard.
Kaiser is the King.
When you give a wordless nod, Kaiser preens, satisfied. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, jostling you to his side as he drags you out of the suffocating closet. You shrink under his hold, reluctantly following along as his head dips into the crook of your neck.
“Should’ve done this sooner. Everything's so much easier now that you understand,” he says, his voice muffled by your neck.
“After all, what would I do without my sweet, little manager.”
Pairing: Yandere!Dick Grayson x Reader (+Batfam) [DC].
Word Count: 3.8k.
TW: Non/Con, Fem!Reader, Omegaverse, Alpha!Dick, Beta!Reader, Kidnapping, Forced Mating, Knotting, Panic Attacks, Suicidal Ideation, Forced Proximity, Fingering, Group Sex, and Nonconsensual Touching. Dead Dove: Do Not Eat.
Every morning, you woke up underneath Dick Grayson.
That was to be expected from an alpha, or so you’d been told. They tended to be clingy, physical, never satisfied unless their mate was within their sight or, better yet, in their arms. It was perfectly natural, but knowing that did little to alleviate the hot, damp weight of him on your back, didn’t make the smell of sweat and bodies that dragged you from your sleep any less smothering. His arm was a steel bar across your waist, his legs a pair of writhing snakes that tangled around and immobilized yours. Regardless of how much distance you put between yourself and him in the night, his face always seemed to find the crook of your neck, his mouth never more than an inch or so from your mating mark.
The mating mark you, biologically, weren’t supposed to have. But you guessed what was ‘natural’ mattered more for him than it did for you.
Worst of all, he always woke up after you. It was a shared symptom of his late-night patrols and the domestic, homebound instinct most alphas felt to make their den and maintain it. You were left to lie awake for the better part of an hour, swallowing back the feeling that you ought to find a way to crawl out of your own skin, before he began to stir – groaning as he groggily lifted his head. He squeezed your body against his once before rolling over to drag a hand over his face, wiping away lingering exhaustion. You savored the distance the same way an alcoholic savored fine wine: already desperate for another glass.
You made a valiant effort to get away, shuffling towards the edge of the mattress as you muttered some excuse about showering or brushing your teeth. Of course, Dick was quick to stop you and of course, his chosen method of persuasion was touch-based. He sat up, resting his back against the headboard. An arm lashed out, curling around your midriff and dragging you into his lap. Your knees landed on either side of his waist, your ass slotted against his crotch. You could feel his cock pressing into you, stiff and leaking. Your revulsion must’ve shown on your expression, because Dick laughed and rolled his hips against you.
“Can’t help it,” he muttered, voice still thick with sleep. “You just smell so good in the morning. Guess you wouldn’t know that, though.”
Right. Obviously. Because, of the two singular drawbacks to being a beta, there was only one Dick would ever dare to mention out loud. He loved holding your weak sense of smell over your head, reminding you that there was a whole, invisible world defined by scents and pheromones that was entirely inaccessible to you. It’d never been an issue before you met him. From what you’d heard, pheromones were just another way to tell how a person felt, easily replaced by a keen eye for micro-expressions or a careful ear for tones, and you didn’t find being able to tell the exact notes of a person’s unique musk all that appealing.
Then again, if you did have a better nose, you might’ve been able to tell Dick (or, rather, Nightwing, at the time) was going into a rut the night you met, the night he saved you from an armed robber and so heroically offered to walk you home. You might’ve been more aware of the pheromones you were radiating – scared, helpless, in need of protection – and what they would do to alpha at his most eager to lay claim. You might’ve been able to get away from him before he pinned you down on the floor of your living room, dug his teeth into your throat, and bound you to him permanently. His family had told you, afterward, that splitting up a bonded pair was dangerous. Separation from his mate could make Dick irritable, obsessive, hyper-violent. No part of you liked being stuck with him, but the Waynes had promised that you would like version of him that distance bred less. Moving in with his pack, playing mate – that was the safer option. The more humane option.
It also conveniently ignored the second drawback to being a beta: your unwavering preference for your own company. You weren’t supposed to have a mate. You weren’t supposed to join a pack. That was for alphas and omegas with their primal, hormone-driven brains; the ones too busy sucking and fucking to notice people like you quietly keeping society on-track in the background. You’d been made for long periods of isolation, peaceful nights in empty beds, the muted tranquility of mental silence. Crowds made you anxious. Too many voices in one room left you on the verge of hyperventilating. The thought of gushy, romantic sex (the type with lots of skin-to-skin contact and so, so many fluids) made you want to throw up. These were undebatable facts of your existence and traits which Dick trampled over daily with no small amount of zeal.
He grinned, easy and loose, as he slipped a hand into your panties. Two fingers found your slit, tracing over it as the heel of his palm ground into your clit. Sex, real sex, was thankfully off-limits. His dick (or, more accurately, the knot at its base) would kill you. Literally. His constant, pleading pawing wasn’t much more bearable, though.
“It’s stronger in the morning.” Right. Back to your scent. His fingers slipped inside of you, pushing in to the knuckle. “I mean, I can always pick it up, but right now, I don’t even have to try. ‘s like I’m drowning in it.”
You swallowed back a whimper, forcing your tongue to work the way you needed it to. “That sounds terrible.”
“It’s perfect.” He curled his fingers, interrupting his otherwise lazy pumping, then ground into your clit with that much more force. “You’d drown in me if you had the chance to, right?”
You could hear your own slick noises echoing off the walls of his bedroom. “I’d rather just drown you.”
He laughed, bowing his head and pressing an open-mouthed kiss into your collarbone. “I wouldn’t mind.”
Irritation sparked, hot and fierce. Your hands shot for his neck, but Dick’s grin only widened. Without pulling out of you, he rolled over – throwing you down to the mattress and landing on your back. His arm was trapped underneath you, but he didn’t seem to care, didn’t let it slow down the harsh way he flicked his wrist or the invasive curling of his digits inside of you. You thrashed, then when that failed, clawed at the sheets, as if tearing through silk and cotton would do anything to get him off of you. Not that your resistance lasted long enough to matter. It only took short, pitiful seconds for him to make you cum – dragging a miserable whine out alongside your climax. Immediately, you went limp underneath him, and Dick kissed the nape of your neck, humming as he pulled away. Over your shoulder, you could hear an awful, wet sound, like a tongue running through fingers. You did what you could not to put an image to the noise.
When he was done, Dick rested a hand on your back, rubbing circles in your shoulder blade. “Sorry, baby,” And then, stifling another laugh, “You’re just so cute when you’re all—”
His touch drifted south, skirting over the length of your spin. You shrieked into the mattress, arching your back on reflex. Trying to get away from him. Dick sighed.
“Can’t run from me forever.” As if to prove his point, he gathered you up in his arms, pushing himself to his feet and starting in the direction of the en-suite. “One day, I’m gonna have to make you see that.”
You could only groan in response.
~
Breakfasts at Wayne Manor were always difficult to get through.
Late in the morning, after the brunt of the pack had a chance to sleep off the worst of last night’s patrol, every available member of the family gathered around a single, narrow table to clack utensils against porcelain and scrape chairs across the floor and speak to each other as loudly as they possibly could. The others were allowed to choose seats at random, but somehow, you always seemed to end up near the head of the table, stuck between Dick and the Pack Alpha, Bruce.
You hated it. You hated the proximity, too many bodies crammed into too small of a space. You hated the paranoia, never able to eat in comfort knowing another hungry mouth could steal the food off your plate at any time. Most of all, you hated the volume. So many voices layered on top of one another, you couldn’t be bothered to differentiate between Stephanie’s laugh and Cassandra’s quiet hum, Jason’s sardonic drawl and Tim’s mechanical droning. After a while, it was all just noise.
You felt a headache coming on. This was to be expected at this point in the day and thus, warranted no reaction more apparent than a half-hearted scowl and a pair of eyes narrowed toward your plate.
As always, you ate too quickly and were forced to stay too long. When you tried to get up from your seat, Dick’s hand found its way to your thigh, gently urging you back down. He was smiling, again – the golden boy grin, all clear blue eyes behind dark, disorderly hair. You hated that smile more than you hated every other part of Dick combined. Without it, you never would’ve trusted him. You never would’ve let him into your home. You never would’ve found yourself trapped in his.
You never would’ve let him touch you.
You started to turn to him, to make it clear that you were finished and you needed to leave, but someone cleared their throat to your right. Of course.
How could you have forgotten about Bruce.
You braced yourself before turning to him. Dick squeezed your thigh by way of reassurance. It didn’t help.
Bruce Wayne was the Pack Alpha of secondary sex bio-essentialists’ collective wet-dream. Well over six feet tall with the build to match, he towered over the rest of his family with an air of calm, analytic judgement. Even his gaze felt too heavy, as if a weighted pole had been dropped onto your shoulders whenever he deemed you worthy of a stray glance in your direction. Your loathing for him was no less intense than the loathing you held for Dick, but the tone of it was different. You hated Dick because of what he’d done to you, what he continued to do to you. You hated Bruce because of how easily he could fix it and how consistently he decided not to.
“Don’t forget your medication,” he started, slowly, drawing out each word as he gestured to the small collection of multi-colored pills on the edge of your plate. Supplements, you’d been told, to make up for the general lack of activity in your current life. You tried not to take them when you could get away with it, if only because it was one of your precious few ways to maintain your independence. “You won’t like that happens if you miss a dose.”
An order, albeit not a cruel one. He was talking to you like one of his children. Like a member of his pack.
Your head pounded.
“I—” You paused, swallowing. The juxtaposition was dizzying. He was an older man and you were in his home. You wanted to do what he said and be done with it. He was an alpha and you were nothing. You wanted to do anything but listen to him then run as far as you possibly could. “I don’t want to.”
His cold gaze flickered from you to the rest of his table. In turn, the others went quiet, their attention naturally gravitating to Bruce, who then directed it to you. The noise had been unbearable, but the silence was worse. Six pairs of eyes, all focused unblinkingly on you. You would’ve sat through a thousand family meals if it meant they would all stop looking at you like that.
With shaking hands, you snatched up the pills and choked them down dry. Bruce nodded. Dick beamed.
You wanted a long second for their attention to disperse, then another. It never did. Your vision blurred around the edges as you scrambled out of your seat, muttering excuses. This time, no one stopped you.
You wanted your bedroom – safe and dark and isolated – but the kitchen was closer. Your temples throbbed. Your heart threatened to beat out of your chest. So busy trying to steady your own frantic breathing, you didn’t notice the footsteps until you were leaning over a counter, eyes clenched shut and hands flat against the cool marble. You thought it might be Dick, at first, come to check on his upset mate. You should’ve known he wouldn’t be so attentive, that the world wouldn’t be so kind.
A lean arm wrapped around your midriff, its owner’s chest soon pressed against your back. You saw a flash of gold in your peripheral, felt soft lips on the shell of your ear.
Stephanie. Another alpha. Perfect.
She was surprisingly quiet. There was a slight hum, a breath of a laugh, but nothing else as she nuzzled into your shoulder. Rather than an act of mercy, her silence came off as a show of further sadism. It meant you had to be the catalyst for your own misery.
“What are you doing?”
“Comforting you.” A purr started up deep in her throat. You felt the reverberations against your skin. “You should see the pheromones you’re releasing, right now. I’ve rescued hostages giving off weaker distress signals.”
Another set of footsteps, another body placing itself too close. You glanced to your left and found Tim pulling himself onto the counter, his dark eyes wide. He was an omega, but that did little to endear him to you. Alphas tended to be more aggressive, but there was something about the cloying, saccharine way omegas held themselves that made you uneasy. They went through life expecting to be loved. Your lack of affection was regarded less as an inability and more as stubbornness. Something meant to be resented or, better yet, overcome.
“It really is strong,” he mumbled, edging that much closer to you. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s nice. Calming.”
Stephanie snickered. “Don’t listen to him. He says you smell like the ocean.”
Your nose wrinkled. Every soul born and raised in Gotham knew the coastline’s dead-fish, rotting-trash stench by heart. Tim scowled.
“I did not. It’s more like—” He cut himself off, pausing to think. When he went on, his voice was more distant, as if drawing from a well-loved memory. “Bruce took me to Italy for a case, once. The air was so—so fresh. There was salt, and sunlight, and something sweet, like—”
“Caramel,” Stephanie finished. Her purring was getting louder. Her hands began to wander, slipping under your shirt and pressing flat against your stomach. She was unbearably warm, and you could feel her palms sliding up, up, her breath against your throat as she sought out your—
“Please,” You were so quiet, you could hardly hear yourself above the static in your ears. “Stop.”
Her grin pressed into the curve of your neck. “Why would I do that, sweetheart?”
“I don’t like being touched. It’s not—” Your body was too hot. You were burning alive. “It’s not right.”
She laughed – loud and bold and searing. “Of course it is, honey. This,” She dragged her blunt nails over your chest for emphasis. “is how we show we care. Don’t you want us to care about you?”
No. You didn’t. You wanted something, anything else. You opened your mouth to say as much, to scream, but Tim was fast.
“Let her go, Steph.” Sweet, soft, nearly pleading. Obediently, Stephanie pulled away, and you sucked in a deep breath. Those piercing, beady little eyes of his never fell away from you. It seemed to turn the air hostile, filling your lungs with acid in the place of relief. “She’ll come around, soon.” And then, quietly, almost to himself, “She’ll have to.”
His words rang in your ears for seconds. She’ll have to.
Meaning, they’d make you.
All the warmth left your body at once. It was strangely calming – the rush of cold; the way your heart beat so fast, it might as well have not been beating at all. Without a word, you slipped out from underneath Stephanie, and she let you. Tim whispered something and Stephanie laughed, but the details were lost in translation. It didn’t really matter. They’d said what they needed to.
You couldn’t get to the roof, so you settled for Bruce’s office. It was on the uppermost floor, with a balcony that looked out over the manor’s gardens. His door was unlocked, so you let yourself in. Bruce was at his desk. You passed by him without acknowledgement.
He only got to his feet as you stepped outside. The guardrail was tall enough to press into your stomach as you peered over it. Fifty feet to the ground, more or less. You’d been hoping for more, but it would do the trick.
You leaned forward, bowing your head low and using your arms to better ease your body over the side. Eventually, your center of gravity tipped, your feet kicking off the ground as you teetered on the railing and started to—
A fist curled around the collar of your shirt, jerking you back and throwing you to the ground. You blinked, and then, Bruce was kneeling above you, his hand around your neck and his gaze steely. Your skin crawled underneath his palm.
“I had higher hopes for you,” he muttered. His free hand slipped into his coat pocket, drawing out a thin black box. “We thought you were coming along.”
You hesitated to respond, but there was only one thing you were ever going to say. That you could say, anymore. “Please don’t touch me.”
He scoffed, the noise dry and humorless. The box was placed next to your head, the lid carefully removed. You saw the flash of something long and silver in your peripheral, felt a pinch at the base of your neck. Heat flooded into your veins, thick and primal. You caught the distant scent of something sweet, and then, you were gone.
~
The room stank of sweat, salt, and sugar.
You came into consciousness slowly, only able to take in one foggy detail at a time. You were in an unfamiliar bed, too large to be your own. Dick was above you, kneeling in between your legs, his face flush and his hands planted on either side of your head. In the corner of your eye, you could see Tim and Stephanie on the other side of the too-big mattress – Tim on his back and Stephanie moving above him, bouncing on something you couldn’t see. Behind them, of course, was Bruce. He leaned back in his armchair, expression bored but cold eyes watchful. The Pack Alpha, residing over the rituals of lesser creatures.
Dick’s breath hitched and you realized, rather belatedly, that he was inside of you. Really, actually inside of you. Deep, deep inside of you.
Oh no.
Your hands shot to his shoulders, nails burrowing into muscle. “Dick, Dick, you have to—”
He hushed you, falling that much lower. His lips found the curve of your neck, ghosting over a patch of scarred skin. Your mating mark. “’s alright, baby. You’re so—” He moaned, rolling his hips against yours. “So tight.”
“You need to pull out.” You could feel it – beating against your entrance, a swollen mass at the base of your cunt. It was too thick, too hard, too big. He was going to split you open. He was going to fucking kill you. “I’m not supposed to—”
“But you are, baby. You are.” He pulled away, his pace falling into something blissfully lethargic. A hand slipped between your body and his, two fingers finding your clit. Dread and pleasure pulsed through you in tandem. You didn’t want this. You couldn’t. It wasn’t in your nature. And yet, your hips bucked against him and your cunt ached. Your mind was suddenly in the backseat, watching in horror as your body begged to be taken care of.
“Tried to let the pills do their work, take things slow, but B decided it was time to go all the way.” He grinned, kissing your forehead. You could smell something on him, underneath the sweat and closeness. Sharp mint and chalk in sunlight. Then, below that, something else. A steady, indescribable reek that seemed to whisper ‘love me, love me, love me’ into the back of your skull. Your pussy clenched that much tighter around his cock. “Tim even offered to help. Having another omega’s pheromones to copy should make the first time a little easier.”
Another omega? He made it sound like Tim wasn’t the only—
Understanding dawned on you, cruel and terrible. Of course. The pills. The shot. The pack’s insistence that, one way or another, you’d come around. It was all you could do to blink up at Dick. Your voice was weak, when you finally found it. Cloying and submissive. “I’m a beta.”
“You used to be,” he sighed, the contentment in his voice only rivaled by his sheer, unrelenting joy. One of his hands fell to your hip, steadying you. “I couldn’t stand to watch you suffer like that. Not when we could make it so much easier.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but all that came out was a long, desperate whine. You’d never felt so empty, so cold, so in need of something hot and warm and filling. Dick seemed to sense the change. He groaned as he thrust into you, forcing your cunt to take him to the hilt, then deeper still – bullying his knot into your unwilling body. You stretched to accommodate him. It was painless.
It was natural.
You felt him pulse against the walls of your cunt, locking your bodies together. Something hot and thick flooded into you, filling you up in a way you’d never thought to conceive of. Above you, Dick panted, his hair hanging over his face and his eyes half-lidded. His smile was pulled wide enough to strain.
You took a deep breath and regretted it immediately. It hung thick in the air, inescapable despite your best attempts to block it out.
Sea salt and caramel – so strong and so defined, you could only wonder how you’d never noticed it before.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6i | Part 6ii |
Pairing: Dark Valarr Targaryen x Reader (Modern AU)
Warning: Possessive Behavior
Word Count: 7.1K
Synopsis: Every time a new Targaryen is born, the gods toss the coin in the air and the world holds its breath to see how it will land. Valarr Targaryen turns out to be soft spoken and charismatic. When he set his eyes upon you, you were charmed.
Part 1
He had always looked most dangerous when he was being kind.
That was the first thing people noticed about Valarr Targaryen, long before they noticed the money, the lineage, the impossible old-world glamour of his family, the way his name still carried the weight of inheritance and legacy and expensive silence. He was beautiful in the way a cathedral was beautiful—cold stone, stained glass, something built to humble you. He smiled easily. He spoke softly. He remembered names, birthdays, preferences. He sent flowers to widows and expensive champagne to men who had just closed deals with his father. He charmed board members, old family friends, waiters, charity committees, the press.
He could make a room feel blessed merely by entering it.
And when he looked at you, people always seemed to think you were lucky.
They did not see the way his hand would settle at the back of your neck, gentle as a caress and heavy as a claim.
They did not hear his voice in the dark, low and patient and so very reasonable, as he asked why another man had texted you after midnight.
They did not watch him smile at your friends while memorizing which ones encouraged you to be difficult.
They did not understand that his sweetness had edges.
You had loved him for three years.
You had broken up with him three months ago.
And Valarr Targaryen, who had accepted business losses with grace and public humiliation with a smile that made journalists praise his composure, had never once accepted losing you.
He was going to get you back.
He had decided that before you even realized you were leaving him.
//
When you ended it, he had stood very still.
That was what you remembered most afterward—not shouting, not rage, not some dramatic smashing of crystal and snarled threats the way people imagined men like him must unravel. He did not unravel. Valarr did not do anything so untidy.
He stood in the middle of the kitchen of the townhouse he kept in the city, one hand braced against the marble island, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, his tie already loosened from dinner. There was rain tapping against the windows. A bottle of wine sat open between you, untouched now. The overhead pendant lights cast a warm pool over the black stone counter. Somewhere in the house the sound system was still playing soft jazz, obscenely elegant, as though the evening had not just split open.
You had been rehearsing the words for a week.
For longer, perhaps.
For months, if you counted all the nights you had lain awake with your throat tight and your thoughts racing, telling yourself that love was not supposed to feel like asking permission to breathe.
“I can’t do this anymore,” you said.
You had not cried. You were proud of that now, even if you had cried later. In the car. In the shower. Into your pillow with your phone on silent because you knew he would call and you were afraid that if you heard his voice you would go back and apologize for trying to leave him.
Valarr only looked at you.
“What exactly,” he asked after a moment, “can’t you do?”
It would have been easier if he had yelled. Easier if he had given you something crude to push against. Instead there was only that terrible calm, the composure that made everyone think him civilized.
“This.” You laughed once, short and brittle. “Us. You.”
His face changed very little. A blink. A slight shift in posture. That was all. But you knew him well enough by then to see the danger in how still he had gone.
“You’ll have to be more specific, sweetheart.”
“I am tired of being watched.”
His brows lifted almost imperceptibly.
“Watched?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No,” he said softly. “I want to hear you say it.”
You stared at him, fury beginning to burn through your fear. “You track everything. You know where I am before I tell you. You ask questions in that calm voice like you’re being reasonable, but somehow I always end up explaining myself to you like I’ve done something wrong. Every time I go out without you, you know who I was with. If a man speaks to me twice, you know his full name by the next morning. If I’m five minutes late, you call until I answer. You send drivers when I don’t ask for them. You send gifts when I tell you I need space. You make problems disappear before I even know they exist, and then I find out later they disappeared because you made them.”
His jaw flexed once.
“That is called taking care of you.”
“No,” you said. “It’s called control.”
Something dark flickered under his expression then. Brief but unmistakable. The thing most people never saw because Valarr kept it hidden under polish and old money and an almost princely self-command.
“And who,” he asked, “has been putting these ideas into your head?”
You almost laughed again, except there was nothing funny in it.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“That.” Your voice rose. “That thing you do. I say something about how I feel and you turn it into someone influencing me. Like I couldn’t possibly have my own thoughts unless somebody else gave them to me.”
He pushed away from the counter. “You are upset.”
“I am breaking up with you.”
The words hung there.
Rain against glass. Music from the speakers. The faint hiss of the stove where candles had dripped wax earlier and left residue on the metal grates. The whole gorgeous house holding its breath.
Valarr stared at you.
Then he smiled.
Not because he found it amusing. That would have been easier too. No—he smiled because he had put on that face so often it had become its own kind of armor. Calm. Elegant. Controlled.
“No,” he said.
Your stomach dropped.
“No?”
“No,” he repeated, almost gently. “You’re angry. You’re overwhelmed. Something has frightened you, or someone has gotten into your ear, or you’ve worked yourself into thinking my concern is something uglier than it is. But you are not leaving me.”
You had known he would not make it easy. Still, hearing it said so plainly chilled you.
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“Of course I do.” He took a step toward you. “Because I know you. Better than anyone. Better than you know yourself when you get like this.”
“Do not come closer.”
He stopped.
That was almost worse—how readily he obeyed, how he could make compliance feel like generosity.
His voice lowered. “Tell me what you want changed.”
You shook your head.
“Tell me.”
“I want out.”
He went silent.
Then, very carefully, “That isn’t an option.”
Something in you finally snapped.
“Do you hear yourself?” you demanded. “Do you hear how insane you sound? This is exactly why I’m leaving. You don’t love me, Valarr—you possess me. You watch me like I belong to you. You decide what is best for me. You punish people for getting too close to me. You make me feel like I’m doing something wrong every time I choose myself over you.”
The silence after that was dense and awful.
His eyes—those strange, beautiful eyes everyone talked about—were fixed on your face with such intensity it felt like heat.
When he spoke, his voice was nearly inaudible.
“You are mine.”
The room seemed to contract around you.
You had heard echoes of it before, in jokes and murmurs and kisses against your temple. Mine. My girl. My sweet thing. Words people wrapped in affection until they forgot those words could also be shackles.
But this time there was no softness disguising it.
You felt suddenly cold.
“I’m not,” you said, quieter now. “And that’s the problem.”
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then he nodded once, as though arriving at a conclusion.
“All right.”
You frowned. “What?”
“If that is what you need to do,” he said, voice smooth again, “then go.”
You did not move.
He folded his hands in front of him. His expression was calm, almost remote now. “I will not beg you.”
You ought to have felt relief.
Instead dread slid slowly down your spine.
Because you knew him.
Valarr never lost control in the moment. He absorbed. He calculated. He planned.
“Okay,” you said, because what else was there to say?
You went upstairs on shaking legs and packed a bag while he remained below, and when you came down twenty minutes later he was on the phone in the study, speaking in that low, efficient tone he used with lawyers and staff and men who solved delicate problems for the family. He did not look up as you passed.
That was what frightened you enough to make you leave faster.
Not fury.
Not heartbreak.
Administration.
By the time you reached your sister’s apartment, you had blocked his number.
By morning, there were white roses on the doorstep and a note in his handwriting.
You’ll come home when you’ve calmed down.
//
You did not go home.
You moved twice in the first month.
The first time because he found the address in four days.
The second because your landlady, charmed into glowing helpfulness by “such a lovely gentleman from such a nice family,” mentioned that your ex had stopped by to make sure the building was secure and ask whether anyone suspicious had been hanging around.
Valarr never crossed the line in ways that would have been easy to prove.
He did not pound on doors. He did not leave bruises. He did not scream in public or drag you into alleyways or send messages so explicit your friends could point and say there, there’s the threat. Men like him were too intelligent for that. Too well-trained in optics. Too familiar with how power worked best when it wore gloves.
Instead he sent things.
Flowers you did not ask for.
A first edition of a book you had mentioned wanting six months ago.
Your favorite pastries from the little bakery across town—the one you had stopped visiting because he always somehow knew when you were there.
A scarf when the weather turned colder. Concert tickets. A bracelet. A set of keys to a car you had never wanted, with a note that said I worry about you taking cabs at night.
You returned what you could. Refused deliveries. Blocked new numbers. Deleted emails unopened.
He adapted.
A package arrived from a charity auction you had never entered. The item was a painting you had paused in front of once at a gallery, and the enclosed receipt showed anonymous payment already processed in your name.
An old professor mentioned in passing that Valarr had made a generous donation to the department and asked after you with such concern.
Your manager at the boutique consulting firm where you worked told you, with a little laugh, that one of the Targaryen family offices had inquired about poaching you because apparently you had made an impression at one of their holiday galas last year.
You left that job before anything could happen, because by then every coincidence had begun to feel like a hand closing around your ankle.
Your friends told you he was trying too hard.
That men like him always did.
That if you ignored him long enough he would get bored.
Men like him did not get bored.
Valarr became interested.
And interest, in him, was a dangerous thing.
//
He did not think of what he was doing as stalking.
That was a crude word. Vulgar. Used by people with no understanding of devotion.
Valarr thought of it as stewardship.
He sat in the back of the car outside your new building, one ankle crossed over his knee, phone in one hand, the city glowing past the tinted glass in ribbons of gold and red. His driver kept his eyes politely on the street. The man in the passenger seat, one of the security consultants retained by the family office for sensitive matters, was speaking in low, clipped sentences about schedules, known associates, routine changes.
Valarr listened.
You had cut your hair.
Not much. Just enough that the ends sat differently around your shoulders. Enough that he knew some impulsive little part of you had wanted to mark the separation. Reinvention through inches.
It did not matter.
He knew your walk from half a block away.
“Who is he?” Valarr asked.
The man in front glanced at the tablet in his hand. “Coworker. Jon Penrose. Thirty-two. Senior analyst at—”
“I don’t care about his résumé. I asked who he is to her.”
“No indication of a relationship.”
Valarr watched through the window as you laughed at something the man beside you had said. Your face turned up toward him, unguarded. Bright. There it was—that softness you had once given him so freely. That open expression he had been starving for since you left.
A sensation like acid moved through his chest.
Your coworker touched your elbow to guide you around a puddle.
Valarr’s fingers tightened around his phone.
“You said no indication.”
“Nothing confirmed.”
His smile was slight. Terrible.
“Confirm it.”
The security consultant went still for half a beat. “Understood.”
Valarr kept watching until you disappeared inside the building.
Only then did he lean back.
The city lights moved over his face in pale bands.
He had let you run.
That had been his first mistake.
At the beginning, he had believed in correction. Time. Distance just long enough for you to feel the consequences of life without him—the ugliness of ordinary inconvenience, the vulnerability, the strain. He had believed you would grow tired and frightened and lonely and then return, chastened, into the shelter of what he offered.
Instead, you had become obstinate.
He admired that in you, sometimes. Your spirit. Your foolish little courage. It was one of the reasons he had chosen you so quickly and so thoroughly. Most women around him were taught to bend toward wealth and power and glamour. You had looked him in the eye as though he were simply a man, and at the time he had found that thrilling.
Now it was exhausting.
Still, he loved you.
That was the inconvenience.
If it had been mere appetite, he could have found something else to ruin.
But no one else calmed him. No one else irritated him in precisely the way that made him feel alive. No one else made him want to be good and monstrous in equal measure.
You were his.
You simply had not accepted that yet.
He tapped the screen of his phone and opened the folder his assistant had sent an hour earlier—your updated work information, apartment lease details, gym membership, new preferred coffee shop, the names of the friends you saw most frequently now that you had pared your life down to people he had less reach over.
Temporary information.
All temporary.
Valarr’s gaze drifted back to the building entrance.
“Jon Penrose,” he said softly. “I want him removed from her orbit.”
The man in the front seat hesitated. “Removed in what sense?”
Valarr’s expression did not change.
“Do not insult me.”
“Of course.”
“A transfer, a better offer, a personal complication, an old indiscretion surfacing at the wrong time—I truly do not care. I simply don’t want him near her.”
“And if she asks questions?”
Valarr smiled to himself.
“She won’t get answers.”
//
The first time you realized he was still actively rearranging your life, you almost vomited.
Jon did not show up to work on a Thursday.
By lunch, people were murmuring that he had accepted an offer in The Riverlands. Last minute. Stunning package. Couldn’t say no. He had apparently known about it for weeks and told no one because he did not want to jinx it.
By evening, you had his goodbye text.
Sorry for the abruptness. Bit mad. Wish I’d taken you out before all this. Take care of yourself.
You stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Wish I’d taken you out.
You had never gone out with Jon. He had flirted, lightly, the way men did sometimes when they mistook your politeness for invitation. You had kept him at a distance because even now, after three months, some raw frightened part of you believed any man who got too close would suffer for it.
And yet here it was—a text that sounded almost apologetic, almost wistful, as though a door had quietly shut before it could even open.
Your phone rang ten seconds later from an unknown number.
You froze.
It rang again.
And again.
You answered on the fourth call because some instinct stronger than good sense told you who it would be.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then his breathing. Low. Controlled.
Your blood went cold.
“Valarr.”
“Sweetheart.”
You almost hung up at the sound of his voice.
Three months and he could still do that to you—make your whole body react before your mind caught up. Your pulse jumped. Your skin prickled. There had always been something terrible in how easily he could reach inside you.
“What do you want?”
“To hear your voice.”
“Don’t call me.”
A soft exhale. Amusement, maybe. Or patience.
“I’ve been very patient with you.”
You gripped the phone harder. “Did you have something to do with Jon leaving?”
“I don’t know who Jon is.”
“Liar.”
That quiet laugh. The one that used to make warmth move through your stomach. Now it made you feel sick.
“You never liked dishonesty.”
“No, I don’t. So let’s try again. Did you have something to do with it?”
He was silent just long enough that you knew he was enjoying this.
Then, “He wasn’t right for you.”
Your knees nearly gave out.
You sat abruptly on the edge of your bed.
“You can’t do this.”
“I already did.”
Something in his tone made the room seem suddenly smaller.
“You are proving my point,” you whispered.
“No,” he said. “I am reminding you that there are consequences to pretending you can live as though I do not exist.”
Tears stung unexpectedly at your eyes, born more of fury than fear. “You don’t get to decide who is right for me.”
“Don’t I?”
“No.”
He sighed, as though you were being difficult over something simple.
“Listen to me carefully. I have allowed this tantrum to go on because I love you and because I know pride matters to you. You wanted to prove you could survive outside the life I built for you. Fine. You’ve proven it. Congratulations. Now stop embarrassing both of us and come back.”
Your vision flashed white with anger.
“Embarrassing us?”
“Yes.”
“There is no us.”
“There is,” he said quietly. “There has only ever been us.”
You stood, pacing now because if you stayed still you thought you might break something.
“You are insane.”
“I’m in love with you.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No,” Valarr murmured. “For me it is.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” you said, voice shaking. “If you were cruel all the time, I would hate you. If you were obvious, if you yelled, if you hit me, if you gave me something ugly and clear to point to, maybe I would have left sooner and stayed gone easier. But you hide it. You wrap it up in care and concern and gifts and protection until I sound ungrateful for noticing there’s poison underneath it.”
For the first time, his voice sharpened.
“I have never poisoned you.”
“You have strangled me.”
Silence.
Breathing.
Then a softness so complete it was almost frightening.
“You say these awful things to me,” he murmured, “as though I am not the person who has loved you most faithfully.”
“That isn’t love.”
“It is the only kind worth having.”
Your chest ached. Your eyes burned.
“Leave me alone.”
“No.”
The word was gentle.
Absolute.
You pulled the phone away and ended the call with a shaking thumb.
Then you blocked the number, turned the phone off, and sat on the floor beside your bed with your arms wrapped around yourself like someone trying to survive winter.
//
There were good days after that.
You clung to them with embarrassing gratitude.
A week in which nothing arrived, no calls came, and no strange intersections of coincidence made your stomach clench. A brunch with your sister that stretched into afternoon shopping and laughter. A night out with two friends where you danced badly and drank too much and let yourself believe, for a few bright hours, that your life was becoming your own again.
On those days, you almost felt foolish.
Maybe he was tiring of it. Maybe the family had pulled him back into their own orbit of politics and money and obligation. Maybe there was some new beautiful woman with old blood and excellent breeding smiling up at him across candlelit tables while society pages speculated about the inevitability of their marriage.
Valarr had options. Endless ones.
That thought hurt more than you wanted it to, because leaving him had not magically killed your love for him. It had only made loving him painful in a different direction.
You still remembered the good things.
That was the problem with men who could play at tenderness so well.
You remembered Sunday mornings in bed while the rain hit the windows and he read the papers aloud in a mocking aristocratic accent until you laughed into his shoulder. You remembered him taking your chilled hands into his coat pockets on winter walks. The first time he had cooked for you himself, rolling up his sleeves in that bright kitchen while you sat on the counter drinking wine and teasing him for measuring garlic with military precision. The nights he had held you so carefully you felt breakable and precious and safe, when he kissed your forehead in the dark and spoke to you with such aching softness it made you think perhaps you had imagined the rest.
You remembered how he looked at you in crowded rooms.
As though all the light there belonged to you and he was simply standing guard over it.
Sometimes you hated yourself for missing him.
Sometimes you hated him for knowing you would.
Then came the gala.
You should not have gone. You knew that now.
But your friend Elara had begged, and it was for a museum initiative you actually cared about, and Valarr had not appeared at a public event you attended in weeks. You checked the guest list twice and his family name was nowhere on it. Not even adjacent through foundations or subsidiaries or some discreet arm of philanthropic empire.
So you went.
It was held in the upper atrium of a renovated cultural center downtown—glass ceilings, floating staircases, old stone and modern steel all married together in the kind of carefully curated grandeur the wealthy loved because it made them feel tasteful rather than merely rich. You wore black silk. Understated. Hair pinned up. Gold at your ears and throat. You looked lovely in the mirror and felt, briefly, like yourself.
People smiled. Champagne flowed. A quartet played near the sculpture wing. The city glittered beyond the windows.
You were twenty minutes into a conversation with a donor about grant access in underserved school districts when every nerve in your body pulled tight at once.
No sound announced him.
No one said his name.
And still you knew.
It was the way the air changed around him. The subtle shift in attention. The unconscious straightening of spines, the warmth of admiration moving through the room like heat.
You turned.
Valarr stood at the foot of the staircase in a black tuxedo, one hand in his pocket, the other lightly resting against the rail as he spoke to the museum director with that easy, devastating smile. His hair was brushed back. His expression was composed. He looked immaculate. Untouched.
Your heart gave one violent, traitorous thud.
He had known you would be here.
Of course he had.
His gaze lifted.
Found you.
Held.
The museum director was still speaking but Valarr was no longer listening. You knew that look. That unnerving stillness beneath his polish when his focus narrowed to a single point and everything else became irrelevant.
You set down your champagne flute so carefully it almost made you laugh.
“Elara,” you said without turning your head.
Your friend glanced over. “Oh.”
“Did you know he’d be here?”
“What? No.”
You believed her. That almost made it worse.
Across the room, Valarr excused himself from the director with a murmur and began walking toward you.
People moved for him without seeming to realize they were doing it.
Your palms went damp.
“I’m leaving,” you said.
“You can’t,” Elara hissed. “You’re one of the event leads.”
“Watch me.”
But before you could move, he was there.
Not close enough to touch. Never that, in public, unless he wanted witnesses to think intimacy rather than ownership. Just near enough that the scent of him—cedar, spice, something darker underneath—wrapped around you and pulled at memory like a hand through silk.
He inclined his head to Elara with exquisite courtesy.
“Would you excuse us?”
Elara looked between you and him, uncertain.
You should have said no. You knew you should. But there were eyes on you now. Curious. Socially hungry. The city loved beautiful tension when it belonged to other people.
“It’s fine,” you heard yourself say.
Elara squeezed your hand once before drifting away.
Valarr looked at you.
You hated how your body still responded to him. The rush of alertness. The awareness. As though every hidden instrument in you had been tuned to his frequency and could not forget it.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
“Go away.”
His mouth curved very slightly. “That dress is new.”
“Why are you here?”
He glanced around the room, as if surprised by the question. “Must I have a reason to support the arts?”
“Don’t.”
The softness left his face a little.
“I’ve missed you.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.”
You folded your arms, more to keep from shaking than from defensiveness. “Are you enjoying this?”
His brows drew together almost imperceptibly. “What?”
“Cornering me in public because you know I can’t make a scene.”
His gaze sharpened. “You think so little of me.”
“I think exactly enough of you.”
A pause.
Then he smiled again—that infuriating civilized smile that made strangers think him gracious.
“Dance with me.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
“Then the answer is still no.”
For one long second something dangerous flashed in his eyes.
Then it was gone.
He stepped closer, voice dropping to something intimate enough that nobody watching would hear.
“You are trembling.”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re afraid.”
You held his gaze. “Shouldn’t I be?”
That landed. You saw it. A tiny fracture in the perfect surface.
When he answered, his voice was very quiet.
“I have never wanted to frighten you.”
“Intent doesn’t change impact.”
“Such therapeutic language,” he murmured. “Who’s teaching you now?”
You almost slapped him.
He must have seen it in your face, because something darkly pleased moved across his own.
“There you are,” he said softly. “My angry girl.”
“I’m not your anything.”
His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth. Rose again.
“You can repeat that lie as often as you need.”
Before you could answer, a man approached from your left—a trustee’s son, you thought vaguely, someone clean-cut and forgettable whom you had met twice already that evening.
“There you are,” he said to you, smiling. “I was hoping to steal—”
He noticed Valarr fully then and faltered.
Valarr turned toward him with such polished pleasantness that, to anyone else, he looked charming.
“I’m afraid she’s occupied.”
The man laughed awkwardly. “Right, of course, I just thought—”
Valarr’s gaze rested on him. Calm. Beautiful. Ruinous.
“I know what you thought.”
The other man went pale.
You stared.
It happened so quickly you might have imagined it if you did not know Valarr so well—the minute alteration in his tone, the subtle pressure he could put on a room, on a person, until charm became threat without ever losing its smile.
“I—well. Another time, perhaps.”
“No,” Valarr said.
The man nodded too quickly and vanished into the crowd.
You rounded on Valarr. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
His expression cooled. “He was looking at you.”
“We are at a gala. Everyone is looking at everyone.”
“Not like that.”
“You do not get to police who speaks to me.”
“And yet,” he said, “here we are.”
You should have walked away.
Instead you stood there, furious and shaking and absurdly close to tears, because he had always been able to reduce you to this awful, helpless mixture of rage and longing.
Valarr looked at your face for a moment, something unreadable passing through his own.
Then he said, very softly, “Come outside with me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
That stopped you.
He almost never said please to you when the matter truly mattered to him. Not because he lacked manners—God, no. He was impeccably mannered. But when it came to things he considered inevitable, things he believed belonged to him, he did not plead.
You hesitated.
That was all the invitation he needed.
He guided you—not touching, merely steering with presence and expectation—through a side corridor and out onto one of the museum terraces overlooking the city. Cold air hit your skin. The noise of the gala dimmed behind glass doors. Below, traffic flowed in streams of white and red. Above, the night hung dark and clear over the skyline.
The terrace was empty.
Of course it was.
You turned on him immediately. “Did you orchestrate this?”
He leaned one shoulder against the stone balustrade, infuriatingly composed. “I knew you’d come.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No,” he said. “I did not arrange the gala merely to speak to you. Though the donor list was easy enough to influence once I knew you’d be involved.”
Your mouth fell open.
He looked almost bored by your outrage.
“You admit that like it’s normal.”
“It is normal for me.”
“And that doesn’t horrify you?”
“No.” His eyes held yours. “Why should it? Influence exists to be used.”
You took a step back.
For the first time all evening, something close to weariness touched his face.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Move away from me like I’m filth.”
A bitter laugh escaped you. “That bothers you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He went still.
The cold sharpened the edges of everything—the city, the terrace rail, the line of his jaw. He looked like one of those old carved saints who might open his mouth and speak blasphemy.
“I have been patient,” he said.
“You keep saying that like it should earn you a medal.”
“It should earn me your gratitude.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
He pushed off the rail and came closer at last, close enough that you had to tilt your head to keep looking at him.
“I let you leave because I believed you would come to your senses. I let you rage, hide, perform your little independence. I allowed you your dignity.”
“Allowed?”
“Yes.” The word cracked like ice. “Because if I had wanted this handled differently, it would have been.”
Fear moved through you then, cold and unmistakable.
He saw it.
You wished he had not.
Because immediately his face changed—softening, regret sliding over it like silk over steel.
“No,” he said quietly. “No, don’t look at me like that.”
“You just threatened me.”
“I did not.”
“You implied—”
“I told you a truth.” He lifted a hand, hesitated, then let it fall instead of touching your face. “I have held myself back in ways you do not even understand.”
Your throat tightened.
“That is not comforting.”
“It should be.”
“Why?”
“Because it means I love you.”
You laughed then, a terrible broken sound.
“Do you hear yourself? You say these things like they prove devotion, like your restraint is some gift I should appreciate. Do you know what healthy people call this?”
His mouth thinned.
“I am not interested in healthy,” he said. “I am interested in you.”
Tears stung your eyes again, more out of sheer frustration than sorrow.
“I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No.” You shook your head. “No, I can’t. I spent three years twisting myself into knots trying to make sense of you. Trying to tell myself your jealousy meant passion and your control meant protection and your need to know everything meant love. I am tired, Valarr. I am so tired.”
Something in him seemed to flicker at that. Briefly. Pain, perhaps. Or annoyance that your exhaustion was not the useful kind.
“I never asked you to be tired.”
“You asked me to be small.”
His jaw clenched.
“I asked you to be safe.”
“You asked me to belong to you.”
“Yes,” he said.
The honesty of it hit you like a slap.
The city noise below seemed suddenly very far away.
Valarr looked at your face and said, softer now, “I still do.”
You closed your eyes for one helpless second.
When you opened them, he was watching you with a terrible kind of tenderness.
“You are not meant for men like those boys inside,” he said. “Those harmless, temporary little creatures who want an interesting girl on their arm until something easier comes along. You are not meant for rented apartments and late trains and office politics and friends who disappear when things become inconvenient. You are meant to be adored. Protected. Kept.”
Your pulse thudded painfully.
“That sounds like a cage.”
He almost smiled.
“Only if you insist on calling it one.”
“I do.”
“You won’t forever.”
The certainty in his voice chilled you more than the night air.
“How can you stand there and say that?”
“Because I know you.”
“No, you know the version of me you prefer.”
A beat.
Then, very softly, “And what if I do?”
You stared at him.
He stepped closer still. Not touching. Near enough that the warmth of him brushed your skin in the cold.
“I know you when you’re frightened and stubborn and pretending you do not still think of me before you sleep. I know the sound you make when you are trying not to cry. I know you still check your locks twice because you never felt vulnerable until you left my house. I know you miss me. I know you.”
“You monitor me.”
“I watch over you.”
“You make it impossible to live.”
“I make it impossible to forget.”
Your breath caught.
There it was. The truth, naked at last. Not care. Not correction. Not reconciliation.
Punishment.
He looked at your face for a long time, and when he spoke again his voice was almost unbearably gentle.
“Come home.”
You shook your head.
He waited.
You shook it again, harder.
“No.”
The softness left his eyes.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just a gradual withdrawal of warmth until what remained was something colder and far older than anger.
“All right,” he said.
Dread pooled in your stomach.
“You said that last time.”
“Yes.”
“And then you ruined every attempt I made to move on.”
A slight tilt of his head. “Did I?”
“Stop it.”
“I’m asking.”
“You know you did.”
He considered you, expression unreadable.
Then he said, “You are making this much harder than it needs to be.”
A laugh of disbelief escaped you. “For whom?”
“For yourself.”
The doors behind you opened.
Both of you turned.
A museum staff member stepped out, looking apologetic. “Sorry to interrupt. They’re about to start the remarks inside.”
You moved immediately, grateful for the interruption, but Valarr caught your wrist.
Not hard.
Just enough.
The staff member froze, eyes flicking between you both.
Valarr released you at once and smiled that beautiful public smile. “We’ll be right in.”
The staff member nodded too quickly and disappeared.
Your wrist burned where he had touched it.
“You see?” you whispered.
His gaze dropped to your hand.
When he looked back up, something strange had entered his expression. Hunger, maybe. Or hurt.
“That I touched you?”
“That you can’t help it.”
“No,” he said, voice low. “That even now you let me.”
Before you could answer, he stepped aside, granting you space to pass.
You hated that you took it.
You hated more that when you brushed past him, the scent of him and the nearness and the memory of his hand nearly made your knees weaken.
Inside, the gala resumed around you, bright and civilized and oblivious.
Valarr did not speak to you again that night.
He didn’t have to.
You felt him everywhere.
//
Three days later, your apartment was broken into.
Nothing obvious was taken.
That was the worst part.
The lock had been expertly bypassed. No shattered wood, no dramatic mess, no overturned drawers. Just small things wrong enough to make your skin crawl.
A scarf folded on the wrong chair.
Your bathroom cabinet slightly ajar.
A framed photograph on the shelf in your bedroom angled toward the bed as though someone had picked it up and set it back carelessly.
You stood in the middle of the living room with your phone in your hand and terror blooming hot and nauseating through your body.
The police officer who came was polite and tired and practical. No signs of forced entry. No evidence of theft. Maybe the landlord entered for maintenance and forgot to mention it. Maybe you had done it yourself and were anxious because you lived alone.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
You nodded and thanked him and said yes, perhaps, while every inch of your skin screamed no.
That night you slept at your sister’s place with the lights on.
At two in the morning, a package was delivered to the front desk downstairs.
No sender.
Inside was your scarf.
The one that had been folded on the wrong chair.
Wrapped around it was a note in Valarr’s handwriting.
You should lock the balcony doors too.
Your sister nearly called the police again. You stopped her because what were you going to say? That your ex-boyfriend from a family with private security, old political ties, and a legal department larger than some firms had found a way to make you feel insane from a distance? That he had probably entered your apartment only to prove he could?
By the time you crawled into the guest bed before dawn, you were shaking so hard your teeth hurt.
You dreamt of him.
Valarr in the dark at the foot of the bed, immaculate as ever, looking at you with unbearable tenderness while you lay frozen beneath the sheets.
You woke with a gasp to your sister touching your shoulder and sunrise bleeding pale through the curtains.
“I can’t do this,” you whispered.
“You shouldn’t have to,” she said.
“You don’t understand.” You covered your face with both hands. “He’ll never stop.”
Your sister went very still.
Then, carefully, “Do you think he’d hurt you?”
You thought of the kitchen. The terrace. The phone calls. The gifts. The impossible exactness with which he inserted himself into your life without ever giving the world a clear bruise to look at.
“He thinks he loves me,” you said.
She did not answer.
That was answer enough.
//
Valarr knew fear was a delicate instrument.
Too much and people fled beyond reason. Too little and they grew reckless.
He did not want you broken.
He wanted you pliant.
The line mattered.
He stood in his office on the top floor of the family’s building in King's Landing, one hand resting on the back of a leather chair as his chief of staff outlined the latest issue with a Westeros acquisition. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city spread beneath them in winter gray. The office smelled faintly of espresso and paper and expensive wood polish. Everything in it was clean-lined and old-blood elegant. His grandfather’s signet ring glinted on one long finger as he listened.
He made three fast decisions, signed two documents, and barely registered any of it.
His mind was elsewhere.
On you.
On the photo feed from the external building cameras at your sister’s block. On the report from the investigator confirming you had not returned to your own apartment since the note. On the message from his housekeeper that he had not eaten the dinner laid out in the townhouse kitchen, because appetite had become an irritation.
“You’re distracted,” his chief of staff said when the meeting ended.
Valarr looked up.
The older man had worked for his family since before Valarr was born. He was one of the few people who spoke plainly to him.
“I’m bored,” Valarr replied.
“With the acquisition?”
“With all of it.”
The older man studied him. “This is about the girl.”
Valarr’s expression cooled almost imperceptibly.
“She has a name.”
“I know.” The man paused. “You should let this end.”
“Should I?”
“Yes.”
Valarr smiled.
It was not a pleasant smile.
“I am not asking for moral guidance.”
“You are risking sloppiness.”
That landed more than the moral judgment would have.
Valarr went silent.
He knew the man was not entirely wrong. He had grown careless in his frustration. Allowing himself to call you directly. Appearing at the gala. Sending the scarf instead of merely letting you wonder. Small indulgences. Emotional ones.
And emotional decisions were beneath him.
He straightened a paper on his desk that did not need straightening.
“I know my limits.”
“Do you?”
Valarr’s gaze lifted.
The older man held it for a moment, then nodded once and left without another word.
When the door shut, silence filled the office.
Valarr moved to the window.
Far below, the city continued indifferent and bright and ugly. People rushed through intersections with coffee in paper cups and scarves at their throats. Cabs honked. Somewhere a siren wailed. The machinery of ordinary life.
You wanted that.
That was the insult.
You wanted the smallness of it. The vulnerability. The inconvenience. A life where you were not adored properly, not sheltered properly, not watched over by a man powerful enough to bend circumstances around you.
He could have forgiven a lot.
Not that.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his investigator.
She’s going back to the apartment today. Noon. Alone.
Valarr read it once.
Then again.
A slow calm settled over him.
At last.
He picked up his coat.
//
Tumblr did let me post this all in one so I had to split this into two parts. I hope you enjoyed!
ughhhh nothing gets me quite like a yandere making their terrified, shaking darling give them a little ‘thank you kiss’ after they just enacted horrific unasked for violence in your name
baratheonpilled
andulkaphoto
yousharknotpass
kaledo-art
snowghoul
discoholicmusic
vaporwave
