raya writes

[rainfeather13]

Everyone SHUT UP she’s TRENDING !!!!

[isntmoney]

me trying to convince ryan condal that gwayne hightower should adopt daeron, helaena and jaehaera and live on a farm with chickens and their dragons all while respecting women

[queendayne]

targtower kids + the four fear responses

[da2019]

Why does love sometimes still fail to become courage?

Pairing: Prince Valarr (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her) | Prince Aerion (Modern AU) x Reader (She/Her)

Part 1: You Were Never the Problem | Part 2: Can we try? | Part 3: He was reaching for both of them. | Part 4: You brought yourself. That’s enough. | Part 5: The First Thing He Ever Asked For | Part 6: The One That Looked Like It Could Never Break | | Part 7: Why does love sometimes still fail to become courage? [you are here]

Word Count: ~11.3K

Summary:

Valarr is done being reasonable when it comes to love. Aerion refuses to surrender the one life that has begun to feel worth living. Baelor and Maekar know this bloodline has never known how to love without turning it into something dangerous, beautiful, and impossible to survive unchanged.

Warnings: angst, yearning, emotional vulnerability, crying, overstimulation, tenderness, kissing, intimacy, implied sexual content, emotional conflict, family tension, and looming heartbreak.

The elevator doors had barely shut before the shape of the hallway seemed to change.

For one suspended second, Baelor remained where he was, staring at the polished steel as though he might still stop it, still call his son back, still undo the last thirty seconds by sheer force of will. But the lift was already descending, taking Valarr with it, and the silence that followed felt wrong in a way power could not correct.

He stood very still.

Then, slowly, he turned away.

When he returned to the boardroom, every man present had perfected the art of pretending not to have witnessed anything. Papers had been straightened. Pens lifted. Neutral expressions arranged with all the cowardly elegance of men who hoped composure might absolve them of seeing another man’s pain.

Baelor hated them for it, a little.

He resumed his seat, said what needed saying, and drove the meeting to its end with clipped efficiency and not a breath more than necessary. They were wise enough not to question him. By the time the room emptied, his temper had cooled into something harder and more exacting.

He found Valarr two floors down in one of the private offices no one used unless they wished very badly not to be found.

The lights were off, save for the dim glow of the city pouring through the glass. It silvered the line of his son’s shoulders, the sharp edge of his cheekbone, the hand braced flat against the desk as though the dark wood were the only thing in the room keeping him upright. His suit was still immaculate, dark and perfectly cut, the collar crisp, the cuffs untouched, but the man inside it looked as though he had been holding himself together by habit alone.

Baelor closed the door behind him.

Valarr did not turn at once.

“I assume,” he said after a moment, his voice restored to something controlled though not quite steady, “that you’ve come to tell me I embarrassed you.”

Baelor watched him.

“No,” he said. “You managed something rarer than embarrassment.”

Valarr let out a short, humourless exhale.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is meant to.”

Only then did Valarr turn.

The polish was back on him, but it had been reapplied too quickly. Baelor could see the strain beneath it, the fatigue, the rawness not yet properly hidden. His son looked expensive, coldly composed, every inch the heir people expected. He also looked like a man who had come apart in private and had not been given enough time to put the pieces back in their proper places.

Baelor folded his hands behind his back.

“Who,” he asked, “is she?”

For one brief second, surprise crossed Valarr’s face. Then it was gone, replaced by wariness.

“You already know the answer to that.”

“No,” Baelor said. “I know only that my son, who has spent the greater part of his life behaving as though need were a vulgarity, looked at me in that hallway like a man standing at the edge of ruin.”

Valarr’s jaw tightened.

Baelor took one step nearer.

“And I know,” he said more quietly, “that Kiera has never once inspired that expression.”

A long silence followed.

Outside, the city moved on in indifferent glitter. Somewhere far below, a siren rose and fell, then was swallowed by distance.

When Valarr finally spoke, the effort of it showed.

“It was Aerion.”

Baelor’s expression changed, though only slightly. “Aerion.”

“Yes.”

The word came flat and bitter, as though it had been chewed on too long and left a foul taste behind.

Baelor studied him. “He answered her phone.”

Valarr looked away.

That, more than anything, confirmed it.

For a moment, Baelor said nothing at all. He knew Aerion’s name well enough, knew what Maekar’s second son had once been and what he had, to everyone’s continued surprise, become. He knew, too, of the recent absences, the carefully managed distance, the curious way Aerion had fulfilled duty without ever offering devotion. He had not, until now, considered where all that absence had gone.

“She is with him,” Baelor said at last.

Valarr laughed once, low and ugly.

“She is somewhere with him,” he corrected. “I know that much. Whether she knows who he is in the full sense, whether she knows what he is to me, I don’t know. Whether he knows what she was to me—”

He stopped.

Baelor heard the break in that sentence like glass underfoot.

“What was she to you?” he asked.

Valarr’s face changed then, not with anger, but with something far worse. A kind of exhausted honesty. The sort men offered only when holding it back had become more painful than confession.

“Everything that was mine,” he said quietly. “And nothing I was brave enough to keep.”

Baelor did not move.

Valarr’s gaze had drifted back to the city now, but Baelor knew he was not seeing it.

“She used to make soup when I came in late,” Valarr said after a moment, as though the memory had risen unbidden and refused to be swallowed again. “Not because she had planned some performance of care. Not because she wanted anything from me. Just because I was tired and she noticed.” His mouth pulled faintly at one corner, but there was no real humour in it. “She would tuck blankets around me as if I were too stupid to understand cold. She talked to me like I was a person, not an arrangement. She made that tiny apartment feel more like home than any place I have ever paid for.”

He swallowed.

“And I left her standing outside my life like something precious I was too cowardly to claim in daylight.”

Baelor felt something tighten in his own chest.

Valarr went on, quieter now.

“I loved her.”

The simplicity of it made it land harder.

“Not a little. Not conveniently. Not in some way that could be folded away when it became inconvenient to the family. I loved her, and still, when the moment came, I thought first of timing. Optics. Consequence. I thought of the board, the company, the name, the expectation, every fucking thing I was taught to think of before myself.” His voice roughened. “And she stood there asking for ordinary things. Dinner. A weekend. Her mother and brother meeting me properly. A life that did not need to be pre-approved like a merger.”

Baelor closed his eyes for one brief second.

When he opened them, Valarr was staring at nothing again.

“Why does love sometimes still fail to become courage?” he asked.

The question was not rhetorical. It was too raw for that.

Baelor stood with it for a moment before answering.

“Because men like us,” he said slowly, “are taught fear in the language of duty.”

Valarr’s throat moved.

Baelor continued, the words coming harder than he liked, as though something old and rusted in him was being forced open.

“You were taught that hesitation was prudence. That silence was discipline. That putting the family first was virtue in all cases, under all circumstances, no matter what it cost you. You were praised for endurance so often that you began mistaking it for wisdom.”

Valarr looked at him then, sharply.

“And whose fault is that?” he asked.

Baelor accepted that blow because it was deserved.

“Mine,” he said.

The word sat between them, unsoftened.

Valarr stared at him for a long moment, as though unsure whether he had heard correctly.

Baelor did not look away.

“At least in part, mine,” he amended. “I taught you how to carry this family. I do not know that I taught you how to set it down long enough to keep anything else alive.”

That did something to Valarr. Not enough to break him, perhaps, but enough that the rigid line of his shoulders altered by a fraction.

He pressed the heel of his hand briefly against his brow, then let it fall.

“All I know,” he said, “is that she is with Aerion now. And maybe he does not know she was the only woman I have ever truly loved. Maybe she does not yet know what he is to me. Maybe neither of them understands the shape of this at all.” His eyes darkened. “But I do. I know what I did. I know what I let happen because it was easier to disappoint one woman than an entire dynasty.”

He broke off, then gave a short, bitter laugh with no warmth in it at all.

“And the ugliest part,” he said, “is that I have spent years being sent to fix him.”

Baelor went still.

Valarr looked back toward the glass, toward the city lights smeared pale against the dark, and his voice took on that dangerous calm it always had when anger had been refined into something cleaner and colder.

“A year and some months ago they sent me halfway across the world because Aerion had vanished again. The Silver Stag. Rain still on my coat when I walked in. A receptionist nearly shaking apart at the desk because she knew exactly who I was and exactly what it meant that I had come asking for him.” His jaw flexed. “I had to threaten half the hotel hierarchy just to get his suite key. I found him in a room that stank of liquor, sweat, smoke, sex, and whatever narcotic he’d decided to drown himself in that week. Clothes on the floor. Bottles open. Some stranger in his bed. And I was the one expected to walk in, clear the room, cover him up, feed him in the morning, shove a newspaper in front of his face, and remind him that no matter how badly he wished otherwise, he still belonged to this family.”

Baelor said nothing.

Valarr’s expression did not change, but the strain under it sharpened.

“I have been doing that for years. Fixing Aerion. Translating Aerion. Containing him. Going where no one else wanted to go because I was the one trusted to keep my head while he lost his. When he changed his name, when he tried to step outside the line and still keep one hand in its wealth, when he disappeared into scandal and drugs and women and headlines, who do you think they sent?” He looked at Baelor then, and there was something terrible in the steadiness of it. “Me.”

The room felt smaller.

“I was always the one made to understand him,” Valarr said. “Always the one asked to be patient. To be strategic. To remember what he meant to the structure. To remember that he mattered, even when he behaved as though none of us did.”

Baelor’s mouth tightened.

“And now,” Valarr said, more quietly, “he gets to be reclaimed.”

For the first time since Baelor had entered the room, something near helplessness showed cleanly through.

“He gets to stagger through ruin and be called redeemable. He gets to disappear, disgrace himself, make a mockery of his name, and somehow still be granted the dignity of a return.” Valarr’s laugh this time was softer and somehow worse. “And I know, I know, I know that I am not blameless here. I know I failed her. I know I chose cowardice dressed up as responsibility. But tell me how it is that he is allowed destruction and recovery both, and I am expected to lose the only woman I ever loved and call that maturity.”

Baelor inhaled slowly.

Valarr looked away again before he could answer.

“Do you know what the worst of it is?” he asked. “I did everything that was asked of me. I cleaned his messes. I protected the family. I held the line. I was reasonable when reason was the only thing anyone ever wanted from me. And for what?” His voice dropped lower. “So that in the end he could have the one thing I could not make myself brave enough to keep.”

Baelor felt something cold settle in his own chest then, because this was no longer just grief. It was grief sharpened by years of obedience, years of discipline, years of being useful in precisely the ways that hollow a man out.

Valarr dragged a hand over his mouth and exhaled.

“I did not tell him,” he said.

Baelor’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Tell him what?”

“That she was mine. That she mattered. That if he has touched even the edges of what I lost, he is standing in the path of something he does not yet understand.” His expression hardened. “I did not confront him. Not then. Not when I first realised. Not now.”

Baelor watched him carefully. “Why?”

“Because I know myself too well.” Valarr’s answer came flat and immediate. “And because if I had gone to him with this still fresh in me, it would not have been a conversation. It would have been old history, old rage, old family poison with her caught in the middle of it. She deserves better than to become the site of another Targaryen civil war.”

Baelor’s stare did not move from his face.

“What have you done, then?”

Valarr hesitated only once.

“I scheduled a meeting. Seperately.”

Baelor went very still.

“When?”

“A week from now.”

The words fell with frightening neatness.

Baelor studied him, and for the first time there was something like alarm beneath his composure.

“With her?” he asked.

“With her first,” Valarr said. “And with him, if it comes to that.”

If it comes to that.

It was the sort of phrase men used when trying to dress violence in civility.

Baelor knew his son too well not to hear the edge beneath it.

“A week,” he repeated.

Valarr’s face remained unreadable. “Yes.”

“That is a long time to sit with this.”

“It is,” Valarr said.

“And what, precisely, are you planning to do with those seven days?”

Valarr’s mouth flattened. “Make certain that when I speak, I do it clearly.”

Baelor’s concern deepened rather than eased.

There was something more frightening than a man who exploded. It was a man who had chosen not to, and had instead begun arranging his fury with care.

Valarr seemed to read some part of that in his face, because his expression altered slightly, not into softness, but into something grim and tired and almost self-mocking.

“I know how this sounds.”

“Yes,” Baelor said. “You do.”

Valarr gave the smallest nod.

“I am trying,” he said, and that was somehow the most human thing he had admitted yet. “I am trying very hard not to do this in the ugliest way available to me.”

Baelor absorbed that in silence.

Then Valarr drew in a breath, and when he spoke again, the words came lower, steadier, and with a force that had less to do with temper than decision.

“I am tired, Dad.”

Baelor felt himself go still.

“I am tired,” Valarr repeated, “of behaving as though the only life worth protecting is the one this company can account for on paper. I am tired of watching everyone in this family call sacrifice 'love' when what they really mean is 'obedience'. I am tired of pretending that if I lose her quietly enough, it becomes noble.”

His voice thickened, but he did not stop.

“I am not going to put her last again. Do you understand me? I won’t. Come what may, I will fight for her. This company has taken too much from me. This family has as well. And I will not go to my grave having lived exactly as expected and calling that a life.”

The room seemed to change around them.

Baelor had heard his son command rooms, dismantle men, negotiate numbers, and sharpen silence into weaponry. He had not, perhaps ever, heard him speak with so little armour.

For a moment, he saw not the heir, not the brilliant strategist, not the future everyone had measured and prepared for, but the boy who had once followed him through corridors because usefulness was the only form of love he knew how to offer.

And suddenly Baelor hated that.

Not the boy.

The lesson.

“She agreed to meet with me. She wants to talk,” Valarr said at last. “She didn’t want to handle something like this over the phone. Apparently, Aerion answered one of the calls meant for her, and she didn’t even realize I had tried to reach her until today, when she was going through her call logs. She called back asking if I was—somehow—alright…” He wet his lips. “She doesn’t know who Aerion is to us. Remember, he doesn’t carry the Targaryen name anymore, but somehow everything about him still moves through it, still benefits from it.”

He paused.

“And I have not said a word to him. Other than to set up a meeting” His eyes lowered for only a second before lifting again. “Not because he is owed consideration. Not because I mean to spare him. But because this time I will not let my first instinct be to fix him, manage him, or clean up after him before I decide what I actually want. I have done enough of that for one lifetime.”

Baelor heard the finality in that and felt, beneath everything else, a sharp and unwelcome thread of fear.

Not merely for the scandal.

Not even for Aerion.

For Valarr himself.

For what happened when a man that disciplined finally decided he had nothing left to lose.

When Baelor spoke again, his own voice had roughened almost beyond his liking.

“Then do not fight cleverly.”

Valarr blinked.

Baelor held his gaze.

“You have tried cleverness already. It made sense. It preserved order. It cost you the woman you love.” He took another step forward, and for once it was not chairman to heir, nor father to polished son, but simply one man addressing another too long denied gentleness. “If you mean to fight for her now, then do it plainly. Do it fully. Do not send another half-measure and call it courage.”

Something flickered across Valarr’s face. Pain. Relief. Disbelief. Some mixture of all three.

“And if I am too late?” he asked.

Baelor’s answer came honestly.

“You may be.”

Valarr closed his eyes.

“But if you are,” Baelor said, “let it not be because you chose silence again.”

He let the words settle, then added, quieter now, “And do not mistake restraint for weakness. If you are waiting this week because you mean to be honest rather than cruel, then good. But if you are waiting only to make the blow land cleaner, then I am afraid for you.”

That made Valarr look at him sharply.

Baelor did not flinch.

“I know that look,” he said. “I know what you become when you decide to act only after feeling has been cut down into something neat enough to carry. You are never more dangerous than when you are calm.”

A long silence followed.

Then, at last, Valarr looked away, the city glass throwing pale light across the severe line of his face, his dark suit, the tired elegance of a man holding himself upright by will alone.

“That,” he said quietly, “is probably true.”

For a long moment they stood there in the dimness, father and son and all the years between them.

And Baelor, looking at the stillness in his son, thought with sudden certainty that a week was either enough time to save something—or more than enough time for everything to become irreversible.

Valarr had been sent home.

Baelor had watched him go with the uneasy, helpless sensation of a man dismissing something dangerous into the dark and having no certainty whether he had just prevented a disaster or merely postponed one. The lift doors had closed. The silence had returned. And for all the power he possessed in every room that bore the family name, he had been left standing in the office with the distinct and humbling knowledge that he could no longer direct this matter as though it were a negotiation, a vote, or a problem to be contained by timing.

So Baelor remained where he was.

For a little while, at least.

He stood alone in the private office Valarr had left behind, the city stretched out beyond the glass in a thousand cold points of light, and tried to steady the shape of his own thoughts. His son’s words had not left him. They hung in the room like smoke.

I am tired, Dad.

Not the anger of it. Not even the threat in it.

The exhaustion.

That was what stayed.

Eventually, because standing there changed nothing and because the night had not yet finished taking from him, Baelor left the office and went in search of the only other man in the building who might understand the weight of what had just happened.

Maekar was still there when Baelor found him.

Of course he was.

His younger brother had always worn endurance like an insult directed at sleep itself. He was in one of the smaller executive lounges, jacket discarded over the back of a chair, tie loosened, though not enough to look careless. A glass of whisky sat untouched at his elbow beside a spread of briefing papers, but he looked less as though he were reading them than glaring them into submission. The lamplight caught the hard lines of his face and threw the rest into shadow, leaving him looking older than he had that morning and more like the man their father had shaped him to become.

He glanced up when Baelor entered.

“That expression does not promise pleasure,” Maekar said.

Baelor shut the door behind him with more care than the words deserved. “I was not aware I needed to.”

Maekar sat back slightly, one brow lifting. “You look like someone has either insulted the company or confessed feelings in your vicinity.” His mouth flattened. “Which is it?”

Baelor gave him a flat look.

Maekar exhaled through his nose. “Gods,” he said. “Feelings, then.”

“Must you make everything tedious before it has even begun?”

“It is a gift.”

Baelor did not sit at once. He stood by the windows for a moment instead, one hand in his pocket, the other loose at his side, looking out over the city while he gathered words he had not expected to say aloud tonight. Below them, traffic moved in slow red and white streams through the dark, indifferent as blood through veins.

“It is Valarr,” he said at last.

Maekar’s face altered at once, though subtly. That alone said enough.

“What has happened?”

Baelor let out a quiet breath.

“He is in love,” he said, and because that sounded almost absurd when laid beside everything else they had built their lives around, he added, “Truly, I think.”

Maekar stared at him.

Then, to Baelor’s surprise, he laughed once under his breath.

“That sounds less like disaster than the way you are telling it implies.”

“It would not,” Baelor said, “if he had not managed to lose her first.”

That silenced him.

Maekar set his glass down untouched. “Ah.”

Baelor moved farther into the room at last and sat opposite him. The leather chair gave softly under his weight, though there was nothing soft in the moment.

“For years,” he said, “I thought I had raised him well because he asked for nothing. Because he endured. Because he made himself useful before he made himself known.”

Maekar was quiet.

“And tonight,” Baelor said, “for the first time in his life, he asked me for something.”

Maekar’s gaze sharpened. “What?”

“Room,” Baelor answered. “Time. The right not to lose her because I wanted him in a boardroom.”

Maekar’s jaw shifted.

“And you gave it?”

“No,” Baelor said.

The honesty of it sat heavily between them.

Maekar leaned back. “Then I assume you are here because that no longer feels like a triumph.”

Baelor looked at him with some exhaustion. “Do not be clever.”

“That is rich coming from you.”

Neither smiled.

After a moment, Maekar said, “Which girl?”

Baelor’s gaze sharpened. “You know something?”

“I know Aerion has not been vanishing into thin air for months.” Maekar’s mouth flattened. “I also know he has been less impossible than usual, which should have warned me that a woman was involved or a miracle had occurred, and I do not believe in miracles.”

Baelor studied him.

“You knew?”

“I suspected there was someone,” Maekar said. “Not who. Not how serious. And certainly not…” He paused. “Not that she had once belonged to Valarr.”

“Belonged is the wrong word.”

Maekar’s eyes flicked to his brother’s face, registering the correction and everything inside it.

“Yes,” he said after a beat. “I suppose it is.”

Silence gathered again, thick and low and tired.

Then Baelor said, more quietly than before, “Do you ever think we have failed them?”

Maekar looked almost offended by the question.

“Regularly,” he said. “I simply do not usually say it aloud.”

That drew the barest huff of breath from Baelor. Not quite laughter. Close enough to remember the shape of it.

Maekar reached for the whisky then, took a measured sip, and looked into the amber as if it might answer for him.

“Aerion learned too early that if he could not be the son expected of him, he might as well become the one no one could control,” he said. “Daeron learned that charm and retreat could make disappointment softer at a distance. Aegon…” He stopped, and for the first time that evening something gentler touched his voice. “Aegon still comes to me sometimes as though I am merely his father. I do not know what I did to deserve that mercy.”

Baelor listened.

“And Valarr,” Maekar said, “became perfect.”

The word was spoken with a kind of contempt. Not for Valarr. For the necessity of it.

Baelor’s mouth tightened.

“We praised them,” he said slowly, “for being easy to build with.”

“We praised them,” Maekar corrected, “for bleeding inward.”

That landed too cleanly to ignore.

Baelor looked down at his own hands. In another setting they would have looked steady. Here they only looked practiced.

“I taught my son to be formidable,” he said. “Tonight I realized I may also have taught him that love was something to postpone until the dynasty finished with him.”

Maekar stared at him for a long time.

Then, very quietly, he said, “That is because it is what we were taught too.”

There was no comfort in that. Only inheritance.

Baelor rubbed a hand once across his mouth.

“He asked me,” he said, almost to himself, “why love sometimes fails to become courage.”

Maekar’s eyes narrowed slightly, not in judgment, but in recognition of the wound beneath the phrasing.

“And what did you tell him?”

“The truth,” Baelor said. “That we taught them to confuse fear with duty.”

Maekar went still.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the low hum of the climate system and the faint murmur of the city beyond the glass.

Then Maekar let out a long breath.

“If Aerion has any sense left in him,” he said, “he will not make a sport of this.”

Baelor’s gaze lifted sharply. “You think he knows?”

“I think Aerion notices more than people credit him for.” Maekar’s expression darkened. “Whether he understands all of it is another matter. He has a talent for stumbling into the middle of things that were bleeding long before he arrived.” His mouth hardened. “However, I cannot truly say whether he knows the extent of her connection to Valarr, or what she is to him.”

That, unfortunately, sounded true.

Maekar sank back more heavily into the chair then, not in comfort, but like a man whose body had finally remembered its own exhaustion and resented him for ignoring it. Some of the force seemed to leave him all at once. He set the whisky down and stared past Baelor for a moment, into nothing, and when he spoke again there was an unfamiliar reluctance in him.

“There is more,” he said.

Baelor felt something in himself brace.

Maekar’s fingers moved once against the arm of the chair, then stilled. “Aerion messaged me earlier.”

Baelor said nothing.

“He said the paparazzi have overstepped boundaries again and that he wants to discuss a permanent gag order.”

Baelor’s expression changed very little, but Maekar knew him well enough to see the shift.

“I am inclined to support it,” Maekar continued. “Aegon has been heavily affected by the scrutiny, and the girl Aerion is so taken with has been as well. From my understanding, she is a good person. If anything, both Aegon and Aerion have defended her rather ardently.” His mouth tightened. “I have not met her yet. And by some cruel intention of the gods—and of Aerion, perhaps—I do not think I ever will.”

Baelor’s gaze sharpened further. “Why?”

Maekar looked tired then. Not weak. Not diminished. Just tired in that rare and dangerous way men like them only allowed when the room was shut and blood was all that kept it private.

“Because he has asked to move north.”

The words seemed to alter the air.

Baelor went very still.

Maekar continued, more quietly now. “She graduates in a year and a half. She has done well for herself. There are prospects for her there—real opportunities, from what he says. And Aerion is intent on following her.”

For one suspended second neither man moved.

Then Baelor said, “He is serious.”

“Yes.”

Maekar’s voice carried no mockery at all now.

“He is serious,” he repeated. “More serious than I have heard him sound in years.”

He looked down at his own hands, picking once, absently, at the edge of a nail, the small human gesture strangely out of place against the sharp dignity of him.

“I am proud of him,” he admitted, and the confession seemed to cost something. “God help me, I am. He has gone through so much and come out stronger than I expected. In that strength he has found his boundaries, and his voice, and for once he is asking not how to survive a life but how to choose one.”

He gave a short exhale.

“But the path he has chosen is not one I can follow him down. Nor, I suspect, is it one where I am particularly wanted.”

Baelor heard more in that than the words themselves.

For all Maekar’s hardness, for all his exactitude and pride and impossible standards, there it was beneath the surface: the hurt of a father recognizing that his son had built the shape of a future beyond his reach.

And then, of course, came the other horror.

If Aerion meant to leave—truly leave, not disappear in one of his usual fits of self-destruction, but choose a life elsewhere for the sake of a woman—then Valarr’s narrow window was even narrower than Baelor had feared.

From what Valarr had said, she was an amazing woman. Not merely because he loved her. Not merely because losing her had broken something open in him. But because even in pain he had spoken of her with that terrible simplicity men reserve for the rarest kind of person: the ones who make a life feel warmer, smaller, more human, more possible. The ones who do not ask for grandeur, only truth.

And truth, Baelor thought bleakly, had arrived rather late.

“She must be extraordinary,” he said at last.

Maekar looked at him.

Baelor held his gaze. “From what Valarr has said.”

Some understanding passed over Maekar’s face then, old and unwelcome and plain.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I expect she is.”

Maekar’s gaze drifted away for a moment, toward the darkened glass, where the city shone back at them in cold, fractured light.

“I think she is good for him,” he said at last, and the admission came reluctantly, as though dragged up from somewhere pride had hoped to keep buried. “Perhaps better than anything else has been in years. He sounds…” He paused, almost irritated by the difficulty of the word. “Steadier. Less at war with himself.”

Baelor said nothing.

Maekar’s mouth tightened. “But that does not make me easy.”

His fingers tapped once against the arm of the chair, then stilled.

“I do not know how to think like an ordinary father about these things. I look at a woman near one of our sons and my first thoughts are never simple ones. I do not only wonder whether she is kind, or clever, or whether he loves her. I wonder whether she can survive this family. Whether she can bear what comes with him. Whether she can keep him happy without being destroyed by the effort of it. Whether she can protect him—or whether he will destroy himself trying to protect her.”

That settled heavily between them.

“He has suffered enough,” Maekar said more quietly. “More than I ever wanted for him, and certainly more than I ever knew how to prevent. So yes—I think she is good for him. I think she may be the best thing that has happened to him in years. But I do not know whether goodness is enough. With men like ours, with a name like ours, love is never left alone to remain merely love.”

Baelor’s expression darkened.

“No,” he said. “It never is.”

Maekar let out a slow breath.

“And if Aerion has finally built something clean out of all that wreckage,” he said, “he will not release it lightly. Not now. Not after everything it took to drag himself out of hell. He may have once thrown away whatever came near him, but not this.” His eyes lifted to Baelor’s. “Not if he believes this woman is the shape of the life he fought to have.”

Baelor held his brother’s gaze and felt the truth of it land with sickening clarity.

“I know,” he said.

And he did.

He knew what it meant that Aerion, who had once treated his own life as something disposable, had at last found a reason to defend it. He knew what it meant that Valarr, who had spent years swallowing want until it became discipline, had finally chosen to fight for something of his own. He knew, too, what kind of men both of them were when love ceased to be theory and became something living, threatened, and real.

Valarr had a fight in front of him.

Aerion would not yield easily.

And for one grim moment, with the city burning cold beyond the glass and the old weight of blood thick in the room, both brothers were afraid of the same thing: not simply that one son would lose, but that whichever one won would drag ruin behind him, and none of them would escape it clean.

Baelor rose at last.

Maekar watched him. “What will you do?”

Baelor thought of his son in the dark office. Of the immaculate suit and the wreck beneath it. Of the way he had said I am tired, Dad, as if he had reached the end of something much longer than this one night.

“At this point,” Baelor said, “I think the better question is whether I can keep from making it worse.”

Maekar gave a humourless half-smile.

“A noble ambition for our family.”

Baelor moved toward the door, then stopped with his hand on the frame.

Behind him, Maekar spoke again, the words reluctant enough to sound almost painful.

“For what it is worth, if Valarr means to fight, I would sooner he do it now than wake at fifty with everything he was promised and nothing he ever wanted.”

Baelor glanced back once.

It was not tenderness, exactly.

But it was close enough to count.

When he left, the corridor outside felt quieter than before, the polished floors pale beneath the late hour lights, the whole building wearing the expensive stillness of power after midnight. Somewhere far below, a lift chimed. Somewhere else, a door shut. Life continued in neat, muted sounds, as though nothing in the world had shifted.

But everything had.

And somewhere else in the building—or perhaps already beyond it—his son was moving at last not like an heir being directed, but like a man who had finally decided that if love was to have any dignity left in it, it could no longer remain polite.

When Valarr left, the corridor outside felt quieter than before, the polished floors pale beneath the late-hour lights, the whole building wearing the expensive stillness of power after midnight. Somewhere far below, a lift chimed. Somewhere else, a door shut. Life continued in neat, muted sounds, as though nothing in the world had shifted.

But everything had.

Somewhere beyond that building, moving through the night with all the terrible resolve of a man who had finally chosen not to surrender quietly, Valarr was stepping toward a future he did not yet understand.

He did not know the woman he loved was carrying his child.

He did not know he was already on the edge of becoming a father.

He did not know that love had already rooted itself more deeply into his life than loss alone.

And if he had known, he would have understood at once how little of himself still belonged to the life built for him. Not because a child would have been the first reason to choose her—he had loved her long before that, deeply enough to grieve her while she still breathed—but because the truth would have stripped away every last excuse. There would have been no more talk of timing. No more illusions about duty first and love later. If he had known, he would have crossed mountains to keep them. He would have torn his life up by the roots before he let the dynasty devour what was his again.

But he did not know.

And ignorance had always been one of fate’s cruelest tools.

Behind him, in the glass-and-steel stillness of the tower his family had built, Baelor and Maekar remained with the older knowledge: that to be a Targaryen was, too often, to learn that love and ruin rarely arrived separately. That power did not spare a man from grief. That legacy did not teach peace. That men of their blood were raised to mistake endurance for virtue, silence for dignity, and sacrifice for love until they no longer knew how to reach for happiness without feeling they had stolen it.

To be a Targaryen was to be born into fire and taught to call the burning duty. They had all been raised beneath the old family shadow that their blood was a cruel gamble—that greatness and ruin so often lived side by side in them, that brilliance could curdle into obsession, that love itself could turn sharp in the hand if held too tightly. It was to inherit beauty and damage in equal measure: pride, hunger, longing, and the old brutal instinct to survive one’s own heart by mastering it. To stand straight while suffering. To make pain look elegant. To bleed inward and call it strength.

And yet mastery had never saved them.

Not really.

It had made them formidable. It had made them feared. It had set glory and wealth at their fingertips, old prizes of blood and inheritance, ardently defended from one generation to the next. It had made them excellent at carrying sorrow with straight backs and beautiful manners.

But it had not made them gentle.

It had not made them whole.

And it had very rarely made them happy.

Perhaps that was the real struggle of their kind: not to conquer, not merely to endure, but to find some graceful way out of the inheritance. To remain decent in spite of it. To love without destroying. To be powerful without becoming cruel. To become, somehow, a good man before becoming a legend.

And somewhere else in the dark, Aerion too was standing before that same old fire.

He had dragged himself out of hell in pieces. Out of scandal. Out of grief. Out of the long, private ruin that teaches a man to expect himself to spoil everything he touches. And now, for once, he had something he meant to keep clean. Something he had chosen not in defiance, not in appetite, not in self-destruction, but in hope. He had a life beginning to prosper beneath his hands for the first time in years, and he meant to protect it.

That was the misery of it.

One man moving toward love too late, not knowing fatherhood was already racing toward him in silence.

Another finally holding something good and refusing to let the world drag it back into the dark.

And behind them, the older men were left with the bitter truth of their blood: that for Targaryens, love so rarely arrived as peace. More often it came as reckoning. As wound. As fire.

Some families passed down land.

Some passed down wealth.

Theirs passed down beauty, pride, damage, and the terrible habit of mistaking suffering for worth.

So often, the real fight was not merely to keep love.

It was to keep from turning love into ruin.

And somewhere beyond their reach, two sons were already moving toward the same storm from opposite sides of it.

One did not yet know he was a father.

The other had finally built a life he meant to defend.

And perhaps that was the cruelest truth of all: that even when love came real and human and worthy of being kept, it almost never came gently to men like them.

It came as fire.

And asked whether they would burn as they had been taught—

or dare, at last, to become something better.

[starsdoll]

no way back — ii.

pairing: modern!aerion targaryen x fem!reader | modern!valarr targaryen x fem!reader

summary: … you always thought aerion was cruel. until valarr tried to leave ⟢

wc: 10.1k | part one - can be read on its own

content warning: 18+ mdni | smut | established relationship | infidelity | love triangle | emotional affair | lying & deception | emotional manipulation | guilt | angst | fingering | protected & unprotected p in v | slight???? cumplay | dirty talk | praise | fingers in mouth | reader is, again, genuinely twisted i'm sorry valarr!! (these are not good people. i don't condone cheating, please)

Six weeks. Six weeks of lies. Six weeks of stolen afternoons and locked bedroom doors. Six weeks of kissing Valarr goodbye for the day, only to spend the evening tangled up in his cousin’s sheets. Six weeks of promises to stop. Six weeks of promises broken.

The worst part was how normal it had all become. That was what frightened you most when you allowed yourself to think about it for longer than a few seconds. Not the affair, not even the guilt, the normality of it.

At some point, sneaking around with Aerion had stopped feeling shocking. You knew which days Daella stayed late after classes, even though she knew. You knew which excuses worked best when Valarr called unexpectedly. You knew how long Aerion’s cologne lingered on your skin and exactly how many times you needed to wash the bedsheets before the guilt stopped clawing at the back of your mind.

You had become good skilled at it.

That realization carved its way up through your chest and made a home there.

Aerion was sprawled across your bed now, one arm behind his head as he watched you move around the room.

"You’ve folded the same shirt three times."

You looked up from your pile of laundry—Valarr's shirt.

"I know."

"No, seriously." A lazy smile tugged at his mouth. "I’ve been watching."

You threw the shirt at his face.

Aerion caught it effortlessly. "Very mature."

"I hate you."

"No you don’t."

Unfortunately, he sounded entirely too confident about that. The smile never left his face as he tossed the shirt back toward you and began scrolling through his phone.

Outside, late afternoon sunlight filtered through the curtains. Inside, everything felt warm and comfortable. Dangerously comfortable.

Valarr was supposed to be in Braavos for another four days. You knew because he’d called yesterday morning. You knew because you’d listened to him talk about meetings and investors while Aerion slept beside you.

You knew because afterward you’d spent ten minutes staring at the ceiling trying not to think about the fact that your boyfriend had ended the conversation by telling you he loved you.

A sharp knock echoed through the apartment.

You froze.

Aerion looked up.

Neither of you were expecting anyone. Daella had her key, and your friends usually texted.

The knock came again. Three slow raps on the heavy oak door.

Your throat tightened.

"Expecting company?" Aerion asked.

"No." Something felt wrong. You couldn’t have explained why. Just a feeling. A sudden shift in the air.

The sort of instinct that made the hairs rise on the back of your neck, and had your stomach twisting in on itself like you'd had five drinks too many.

You walked toward the living room on instinct. Aerion followed a step behind you, shirtless, barefoot, and entirely unconcerned.

Then you saw it through the peephole. Dark brown hair. Broad shoulders. A face that had haunted your thoughts since the day you met him.

Valarr.

Valarr, who was supposed to be in Braavos. Valarr, who was standing outside your apartment at three in the afternoon on a Thursday.

Your breath caught in your chest. "Fuck," you whispered. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"It's fine, just... shut up. I'll go to my sister's room." Aerion was already moving, his hand on your shoulder. "Breathe. Don't panic."

Don't panic. As if that were possible. As if the world wasn't tilting sideways beneath your feet.

You unlocked the door, forcing your face into something resembling a smile. Your hands shook slightly as you pulled it open.

Valarr stood there, duffle bag slung over his shoulder, looking exactly like he always did—beautiful, composed, and so out of place in this moment that you felt like you might be sick.

He blinked when he saw you, then smiled in that way that made your stomach flip.

"Hi," he said. "Surprise."

He stepped forward, arms opening to hug you, and you were stuck.

Every nerve in your body screamed at you to step back. To stop him from touching you before the truth became impossible to hide. But you couldn't move or speak. Could only stand there as he wrapped his arms around you and breathed in the scent of your hair.

"I missed you," he murmured against your neck. "The Braavosi are insufferable. I cut the trip short. Thought I'd surprise you. Are you... okay?"

He pulled back slightly, searching your face with those mismatched eyes—the blue one and the brown one that had looked at you with such tenderness so many times before. Now, they held a flicker of confusion.

"Yeah, of course," you lied. "I'm just... surprised. Really surprised."

You stepped back, putting space between you. Your mind raced, trying to calculate how much time you had. Whether Aerion could slip out through the fire escape. Whether there was any way to salvage this.

Valarr stepped inside, setting his bag down by the door. His gaze swept across the room, taking in everything.

His eyes paused on the second coffee mug on the kitchen counter. The one you hadn't put away yet.

"I'm sorry, do you have friends over? I should have called ahead. I didn't think—"

I'm sorry. He's sorry.

"No! It's fine, Val. Just Daella. She had a free morning, and we had breakfast together."

"Oh, of course," he nodded, and you could have cried with relief when he seemed to accept your explanation. "Is she going to be gone long? I feel like I haven't seen her in ages. Any of my cousins, really. Speaking of, I told Aerion to bring you some groceries before I left. Did he? He can be useless sometimes."

You smiled, hating yourself for how easily the lie came. He practically handed it to you on a platter. "He did. Two days ago, actually. We still have plenty of food."

Maybe it was the relief, or the guilt, or maybe you were just stupid, but you leaned in to kiss him then. To ground yourself in something familiar. Something that wasn't this sinking feeling in your chest. His mouth was warm against yours, his hand finding the small of your back like it always did.

He pulled you closer, and for a moment, you almost forgot.

Almost forgot that Aerion was somewhere in your apartment, probably losing it in Daella's room. Almost forgot that you'd been with him less than an hour ago, his hands in places Valarr's were now holding, doing things you'd never let yourself imagine with anyone else before this mess began.

Valarr's hand moved up your back, his fingers threading through your hair. The kiss deepened, and you kissed him back with an intensity that surprised even you. As if you could somehow make up for everything with this one moment of honesty.

"Someone missed me," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours.

You forced a laugh, your hands still clutching the front of his shirt. "I'm always missing you."

The words weren't entirely a lie. That was the worst part.

He kissed you again, softer this time, then pulled back with a sigh. "I need to drop off some documents at the office. I came straight here from the airport. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours, two or three. Then I'm all yours for the rest of the night. We can order that Volantene food you like so much."

"Perfect," you managed to say, though your voice sounded thin even to your own ears. "I'll be here."

He studied your face for a moment longer, then nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Good. I've been thinking about you all week."

He kissed your forehead, grabbed his briefcase from beside his bag, and headed for the door.

You followed him, feeling like you were moving through water.

"Val?" you called just before he opened the door.

He turned back with one eyebrow raised.

You wanted to tell him everything. Right there, in that moment. To let the words spill out and deal with the consequences. But you couldn't. It just wasn't in you.

"I'm glad you're home early," you said instead, and it wasn't a lie. Not completely. Because no matter how much you felt for his cousin, you still wanted Valarr.

His smile, his stupid, trusting smile, was warm enough to melt you. "Me too," he said, and then he was gone.

The moment the door clicked shut, you collapsed against it, your head falling forward as you took deep, shaky breaths.

By the time Valarr returned, the panic had mostly worn off. Though every now and then your stomach still tightened when you thought about how close it had been. How close Aerion had been to opening Daella’s bedroom door at the wrong moment. How close Valarr had come to deciding he wanted to stay instead of returning to the office. How close everything had come to collapsing because of one unexpected flight home from Braavos. But close wasn’t the same thing as happened.

And nothing had happened.

The apartment was spotless now. The second coffee mug was gone. Aerion had left nearly two hours ago after making several extremely unhelpful jokes about your impending death and stealing one of the pastries you and Daella kept on the counter. The bedsheets had been changed, twice. All of the laundry had been folded. Everything was exactly as it should be, which meant you had finally stopped feeling like you were about to throw up.

The knock came around seven, just as you were considering whether to order dinner ahead or just wait for Valarr so you could do it together. Your heart did a little flip when you heard it, a complicated mix of happiness and guilt and that familiar feeling that made you want to be close to him immediately.

When you opened the door, he was standing there with takeout bags in hand and that soft smile he saved for you. The one that made you feel like the only person in the world who could see him like this.

"I come bearing gifts," he said, holding up the bags. "Volantene crab stew, that flatbread you like, and tiramisu from that place by my office."

You let out an embarrassingly happy squeal and stepped aside to let him in, immediately reaching for the bags. "You're perfect," you declared. "I was just about to starve to death."

"A tragic end for sure," he agreed, toeing off his shoes. "I couldn't let that happen."

As he followed you into the kitchen, you felt his eyes on you, watching as you unpacked the containers. When you turned around, he was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, studying you with an intensity that made your cheeks warm.

"What?" you asked, suddenly self-conscious.

"Nothing," he said, but the smile playing on his lips suggested otherwise. "Just... I really did miss you."

The sincerity in his voice hit you harder than it should have. You set down the food and crossed the small space between you, wrapping your arms around his waist. His arms came around you immediately, one hand smoothing down your back as you pressed your face against his chest.

"You're awfully sweet tonight. Is this how it's going to be every time you go away? Should I expect romantic declarations upon your return?"

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. "Don't get used to it. I'm tired from traveling. My defenses are down."

"Noted," you said, tilting your head back to look up at him. "I'll take advantage while I can." You reached up, running your fingers through the streak of silver in his hair. "You're growing this out."

The corner of his mouth quirked up. "Is that a complaint?"

"No," you said quickly. “I like it. Makes you look... distinguished."

"Distinguished," he repeated, amused. "I'm hardly old enough for distinguished, my love."

You shrugged, stepping back to finish unpacking the food. "Doesn't have to be an age thing. Could be a status thing. Heir to a huge empire and all that."

"Ah, so it's my position you're attracted to." He moved to help, retrieving plates from the cabinet. "Good to know."

"Among other things," you said, giving him a pointed look that made him laugh again.

As you moved around each other, preparing the small feast, you felt the familiar comfort of domesticity settle over you. This was what you loved most about your relationship with Valarr—the ease of it, the way you fit together without effort. The way he knew to put extra parmesan on your plate without asking. The way you knew to pour his wine first.

You were just sitting down at the small dining table when your phone buzzed on the counter. You glanced over, saw Aerion's name on the screen, and felt a familiar knot of guilt twist in your stomach.

"Are you going to get that?" Valarr asked, already serving himself.

"It's just Aerion," you said casually, trying to sound unconcerned. "He can wait."

Valarr raised an eyebrow. "Everything okay with him? I tried calling earlier but he didn't pick up."

You forced a laugh, scooping some of the crab stew into your bowl. "Probably hungover. He was out last night... according to Daella. She says he smelled like he'd bathed in whiskey."

Valarr made a disapproving sound. "He needs to get his life together. He's not twenty anymore."

You smiled, relieved to be on familiar conversational ground. "You sound like his father."

"Someone has to," Valarr replied, taking a sip of wine. "His actual father certainly doesn't."

The comment surprised you into a real laugh. Valarr rarely spoke so bluntly about his family, especially not about Maekar. "That's harsh."

"True, though." He shrugged, his expression neutral. "Aerion's capable of more than he shows. He just doesn't care to apply himself."

You hummed in agreement, though your mind was half on the text message still lighting up your phone screen. Aerion didn't typically text unless he wanted something, usually something inappropriate. The timing tonight couldn't be worse.

As if reading your mind, Valarr asked, "Do you see him much when I'm away?"

The question was casual, but you felt a flicker of nervousness. "Sometimes. I live with his sister, remember? He stops by occasionally."

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "Good. I worry about him being alone too much. He gets... ideas when he's left to his own devices."

You almost choked on your wine, the irony of his statement hitting you with uncomfortable force. If only he knew just what kind of ideas Aerion got. “Ideas?" you managed after swallowing.

"Business schemes," Valarr clarified. "Last year he tried to convince me to invest in some ridiculous app that was basically just Tinder for dogs."

You laughed, the sound coming out slightly too high. "That sounds like him."

"He's brilliant when he applies himself," Valarr said, and there was genuine affection in his voice despite his criticism. "Just needs motivation."

The conversation moved on after that, flowing naturally to other topics—his trip, your classes, plans for the upcoming weekend. You listened attentively, responded appropriately, but part of your mind kept drifting back to your phone on the counter.

When dinner was finished and you were clearing the plates, Valarr caught your wrist gently.

"Leave those," he said. "Come sit with me."

You let him pull you toward the couch, your pulse quickening slightly at the look in his eyes. It had been weeks since you'd been alone together like this, with no looming departure or early morning to worry about.

He sat down, pulling you with him until you were straddling his lap, your hands on his shoulders. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs stroking the skin just above the waistband of your leggings.

"Hi," he murmured, looking up at you with those sweet, beautiful eyes.

"Hi," you whispered back, feeling that familiar warmth spreading through your chest.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you down for a kiss that had you sighing into his mouth. It was soft and sweet and deepening by the second, his tongue tracing your bottom lip before slipping inside to meet yours. You shifted closer, the position bringing your core against the growing hardness in his pants.

"Valarr," you breathed when the kiss broke, your forehead resting against his.

"Hmm?" His hands were moving now, sliding down to cup your ass, encouraging you to rock against him.

"Missed you," you said, the words barely audible as you moved your hips experimentally. The friction sent sparks of pleasure through you.

"I can tell," he replied, his voice lower than before. One hand slipped beneath your shirt, finding bare skin. "You're so warm."

You bit your lip, continuing to move against him slowly. "It's been a while."

"Too long," he agreed, his other hand coming up to tangle in your hair, guiding your mouth back down to his.

The kiss this time was hungrier, more demanding. You could feel the restraint in him, the careful control he always maintained even when you tried to push him past it. Tonight, you didn't want careful. You wanted him undone.

You broke the kiss, sitting back slightly to reach between your bodies. His eyes darkened as he watched you unbutton his shirt, pushing it aside to run your hands over his chest.

"Take this off," you demanded softly.

He complied, shrugging out of the shirt and tossing it aside. Your hands immediately returned to his skin, tracing the lines of muscle, the scattered silver-white scars from his youth, running your fingers through the hair that trailed down from his navel.

"You're so beautiful," you murmured, leaning down to press kisses along his collarbone.

He made a sound that might have been amusement or pleasure as his hands gripped your waist tighter. "I think that's my line."

You smiled against him, continuing your exploration downward. When your lips reached his nipple, you flicked your tongue against it experimentally. His sharp intake of breath encouraged you to do it again, more deliberately this time.

"Where is this coming from, sweet girl?"

You looked up at him through your lashes. "Can't I just appreciate my boyfriend?"

"You can," he said, his thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "But you're being particularly... appreciative tonight."

You shrugged, moving to his other nipple and giving it the same treatment. "Hm, guess I'm feeling grateful."

His laugh turned into a groan as you shifted against him again, grinding down on his erection. "Fuck, don't stop doing that."

You didn't plan to. You continued moving against him, establishing a rhythm that had his head falling back against the couch, his eyes closing in pleasure. One of his hands moved up to cup your breast, his thumb circling your nipple in time with your movements.

"Valarr," you gasped, feeling your own pleasure building. "I need—"

"Tell me," he demanded, his eyes opening to meet yours. "What do you need?"

"You," you breathed. "Inside me. Please."

The words seemed to break something in his composure. Suddenly he was moving, lifting you and flipping your positions so that your back was against the couch cushions and he was hovering over you.

"Better?" he breathed against your mouth, his hips pressing between your thighs. "Is this what you need?"

You nodded desperately, your hands pulling at his belt. "Yes, please. Don't make me wait."

He kissed you again, harder this time, as he helped you remove his belt and unfasten his pants. When his cock sprang free, you reached for it eagerly, stroking him from root to tip. He groaned into your mouth, his hips thrusting slightly into your hand.

"Fuck, that's good," he panted. "But not what you asked for, is it?"

You shook your head, releasing him to push your own leggings and underwear down your hips. Valarr helped, tugging them off completely and tossing them aside before settling between your thighs again.

He reached between you, and the sound of his fingers sliding through your wetness made you blush.

"So ready for me," he murmured, bringing his glistening fingers to his mouth and licking them clean with a satisfied hum. "My eager girl."

You whined in protest, pulling him down for another kiss. "Stop teasing."

"I’ll be right back," he said, kissing the corner of your mouth. "Don't move."

He disappeared into your bedroom, returning moments later with a condom, which he quickly opened and rolled on. When he positioned himself at your entrance, you were practically trembling with anticipation.

"Look at me, my love," he commanded softly, waiting until your eyes met his before pushing forward.

The first thrust had you gasping, your hands clutching his shoulders as he filled you completely. He paused, giving you time to adjust, his forehead resting against yours.

"You feel incredible," he whispered. "I hate being away for so long."

You couldn't form words, could only nod and lift your hips, encouraging him to move. He did, pulling back almost completely before sliding back in slowly. Each thrust was measured, hitting places inside you that had you whimpering his name.

His pace gradually increased, one hand braced beside your head while the other gripped your hip, holding you exactly where he wanted you. The sounds of your pleasure filled the room—his deep groans, your higher-pitched cries, the wet slap of his hips against yours.

When his thumb found your clit, pressing and circling with just the right pressure, you felt your orgasm approaching rapidly. "Valarr," you gasped. "I'm—"

"Come for me," he urged, his rhythm never faltering. "Want to feel you, sweet girl."

The combination of his voice, his touch, the relentless pace of his thrusts pushed you over the edge. Your body arched beneath him as you came, your inner walls clenching around his cock as waves of pleasure washed over you.

"Gods, that's it," he groaned, moving a little faster. "So beautiful when you come."

A few more thrusts and he followed you, his body tensing above you as he found his release with a guttural moan. He collapsed against you carefully, his weight feeling perfect as you both caught your breath.

You lay tangled together for several minutes, your fingers running through his hair as his face rested against your neck. The scent of sex mixed with his cologne filled your senses, making you feel drowsy and content.

Finally, he stirred, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone before sitting up. "Let me clean up," he murmured, disappearing briefly to dispose of the condom and return with a warm washcloth.

The gentle care he took as he cleaned you made your heart ache with affection. When he was done, he pulled you against his chest, arranging your limbs comfortably together on the couch.

"Better than being away," he said into your hair, his hand stroking up and down your back soothingly.

"Much better," you agreed, feeling sleep beginning to claim you despite the early hour.

You were nearly drifting off when your phone buzzed again on the kitchen counter. This time, it was impossible to ignore in the quiet of the room.

Valarr shifted slightly. "Aerion again?" There was no suspicion in his voice, just mild curiosity.

"Yeah, probably," you mumbled, not wanting to move from your comfortable position. "I'll check it later."

"It might be important," he said, but made no move to let you go.

"Nothing's more important than this," you replied, nuzzling closer to him.

His chest vibrated as he laughed. "Flatterer," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "Go to sleep, my love. I've got you."

As you drifted off in his arms, your last coherent thought was that maybe everything would be okay. Maybe you could find a way to navigate the complicated mess you'd created. Maybe you could love them both in different ways, and maybe that didn't have to break anyone.

It was a comforting thought, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew it was just that—a thought. Just a pretty lie to help you sleep.

The next morning, you woke up alone in bed, which wasn't unusual. Valarr had always been an early riser, especially when he had work to catch up on after traveling. He must have moved you to the bedroom. The scent of coffee brewing drifted through your small apartment, bringing a smile to your face as you stretched lazily.

You stayed in bed for a few more minutes, enjoying the rare luxury of a morning without classes. Taking the time to finally go through all the messages from last night.

Aerion had sent several texts—initially checking if the coast was clear, then growing increasingly suggestive as the evening progressed without a response. By midnight, the messages had turned to complaints about your neglect and dramatic declarations of how he was "dying of blue balls” because you’d kicked him out.

You rolled your eyes at his theatrics but couldn't help smiling. The last message, sent just after two in the morning, simply read:

Hope you're having fun with lover boy. Call me tomorrow, baby.

The term of endearment sent a pleasant shiver through you, even as the guilt followed close behind. It was new, something he'd started using only after you'd confessed your feelings for each other. You typed out a quick response:

Alive and well. Will call after breakfast. Miss you.

After hitting send, you climbed out of bed and pulled on one of Valarr's shirts that you'd "borrowed" during his last stay. The familiar scent of him clung to the fabric, bringing another smile to your face.

In the kitchen, you found Valarr standing by the sink, coffee mug in hand, already dressed for work. The morning light highlighted the sharp planes of his face and that irresistible silver in his dark hair. He turned as you entered, his expression softening when he saw you wearing his shirt.

"Good morning," he said, setting his mug on the counter and opening his arms.

You went to him immediately, fitting yourself against his chest like you belonged there. "Morning," you mumbled against his collarbone. "You should have woken me."

"You were sleeping so peacefully," he replied, his hands moving to rest on your lower back. "Besides, I enjoy watching you sleep."

"Creep," you teased, but tilted your head up for a kiss anyway.

He obliged, bending down to press his lips to yours. The kiss was gentle, unhurried, the kind that made you feel cherished. When he pulled back, his eyes were warm with affection.

"I have a proposition for you," he said, his hands sliding down to cup your ass through the thin material of his shirt.

"Oh?" You raised an eyebrow, leaning into his touch. "Is this a business proposition or a personal one?"

"Personal, of course." He nuzzled your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "My morning meeting got cancelled, which means I have about two hours before I need to be at the office."

You pulled back slightly to look at his face, a smile tugging at your lips. "And what do you propose we do with these two hours?"

"I was thinking," he began, his hands moving to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly so you were sitting on the counter, "that I could make you breakfast, and then we could go back to bed."

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "That sounds suspiciously like you just want sex."

He laughed, the sound rich and genuine. "I always want sex with you. But I also genuinely want to make you breakfast."

"You're so romantic," you teased, threading your fingers through his hair. "How did I get so lucky?"

"Must be your sparkling personality," he deadpanned, making you swat at his shoulder.

"Asshole."

"My favorite term of endearment," he grinned, leaning in to kiss you again. His mouth moved against yours with intent, his hands sliding up your thighs beneath the shirt you were wearing.

You gasped against his lips as his fingers found you. "Cheater," you accused breathlessly. "You planned this."

"Guilty," he admitted without remorse, his fingers stroking you expertly. "I have excellent ideas when it comes to you."

Your head fell back as he worked you with those skilled fingers, your hips moving unconsciously to meet his touch. One hand gripped his shoulder for support while the other tangled in his hair.

"Valarr," you whimpered when he pressed inside you, crooking his fingers to hit that spot that made your vision start to blur. "Gods, don't stop."

"Wasn't planning on it," he murmured against your neck, his thumb finding your clit. "You're so responsive in the morning. I could play with you for hours."

The thought of that—hours of his hands on you, bringing you to the edge over and over—nearly undid you right there. As if sensing how close you were, he increased his pace, his mouth finding yours again to swallow your cries as you came against his hand.

When the pleasure finally subsided, you were left completely sated, your forehead resting against his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.

"That," you managed after a moment, "was not breakfast."

He laughed softly, withdrawing his hand and bringing his fingers to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he licked them clean. The sight was so erotic it almost made you want him again immediately.

"Appetizer," he corrected, stepping back and reaching for the coffee maker. "The main course is coming right up."

You watched him move around your small kitchen with easy familiarity, marveling—not for the first time—at how different he was in private compared to the serious executive the world saw. Here, in your apartment, he was just Valarr—your Valarr—who made terrible jokes and burned toast sometimes and looked at you like you were the most precious thing he'd ever seen.

"What?" he asked, catching you staring as he cracked eggs into a bowl.

"Just thinking," you said, hopping down from the counter and moving to lean against him. "How lucky I am."

An arm came around your shoulders automatically, pulling you against his side as he continued cooking. "How sweet," he said, pressing a kiss to your hair. "Though I'm the lucky one, obviously."

You laughed, nuzzling against his chest. "Obviously."

It was like this for the next few days with Valarr, a blissful bubble of domesticity and passion. You fell asleep in each other's arms, woke up tangled together. Sometimes you made love, sometimes you just talked for hours about everything and nothing. It was perfect, the way things had been before everything got complicated.

In the afternoons, while Valarr was at work, you met with Aerion. Those encounters were different—more intense, more urgent, as if you were both trying to squeeze a lifetime of emotion into these stolen moments. He'd show up at your door with a cocky grin and leave hours later with his hair ruined and your teeth marks on his skin.

It should have felt wrong, this division of your time and heart, but somehow it didn't. With Valarr, you felt cherished and secure. With Aerion, you felt desired and exciting. They fulfilled different parts of you, and for now, that arrangement worked.

The bubble burst on the fifth day of Valarr's return. You were in his penthouse apartment, lounging on the couch while he made dinner. Your phone buzzed on the coffee table, and without thinking, you picked it up to check the message.

It was from Aerion: a simple Miss you, baby. Come over tonight?

You were still smiling at the message when Valarr returned from the kitchen, two glasses of wine in hand. He set them down and glanced at your phone, his expression changing subtly.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah," you said quickly, locking the phone and setting it aside. "Just Daella asking about weekend plans."

He nodded, but something in his eyes had shifted. "I see." He picked up his wine glass, taking a sip as he watched you still over the rim. "You've been texting a lot lately."

You felt uneasy, then. "Just keeping up with friends. You know how it is."

"Of course," he agreed, but there was something in his tone that made you more nervous. He moved to sit beside you, close but not touching. "I just noticed you smile more when certain messages come in."

Your heart rate picked up. "What are you implying?"

He turned to look at you directly, those mismatched eyes studying your face with an intensity that made you want to squirm. "I'm not implying anything," he said quietly. "Just making an observation."

"Valarr," you began, not sure what you were going to say.

"I trust you," he interrupted, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was gentle, but you still noticed the slightest bit of suspicion in his expression. "I just... want to make sure you're happy. That I'm making you happy."

The insecurity in his voice surprised you. Valarr wasn't typically insecure about anything, least of all your relationship. "Of course I'm happy," you said, reaching for his hand. "You make me incredibly happy."

"Good. That's all that matters."

The moment passed, the conversation shifting to other topics, but the seed of doubt had been planted. That night, as you lay in bed with his arm draped over your waist, you couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed. That the careful balance you'd maintained was starting to wobble.

The next morning, while he was getting ready for work, you made an excuse about meeting Daella for breakfast and left Valarr's apartment earlier than usual. Instead of heading to campus or your own home, you went straight to Aerion's place.

He answered the door in nothing but sweatpants, his hair disheveled from sleep, looking exactly like you needed him to look—uncomplicated and entirely focused on you.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" he asked, pulling you inside and immediately backing you against the door.

You reached up, pulling his head down for a kiss that was more desperate than you intended. His hands were on you immediately, lifting your shirt, unfastening your jeans.

"Missed you," you gasped against his mouth when he broke the kiss to pull your shirt over your head.

"Obviously," he grinned, his hands cupping your breasts through your bra. "But something's wrong. What is it?"

You hesitated, then decided there was no point hiding it from him. "Valarr suspects something."

The grin faded slightly from his face. "What kind of something?"

"I don't know. He's just... watching me more. Asking questions." You reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, pushing them down his hips. "He saw me smile at a text from you yesterday."

"You smile at my texts? Very cute." Despite his teasing tone, there was concern in his eyes as he stepped out of his pants and pulled you toward the bedroom. "Did he say anything specific?"

You shook your head, following him into the darkened room. "Nothing direct. But he's not stupid, Aerion."

"He's also not omniscient," Aerion replied, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling you between his legs. "We've been careful."

"Have we?" You ran your fingers through his hair as he unhooked your bra, letting it fall to the floor. "Sometimes I feel like I'm not hiding it well at all."

"That's just guilt talking." His hands moved to your hips, guiding you to straddle him. "You know I hate it terribly when you feel guilty."

You did know, which was why you rarely showed it around him. Aerion preferred to keep things simple, uncomplicated by messy emotions like remorse.

"Fine, maybe I’m just being paranoid." You leaned in to kiss him, your hands exploring his bare chest. "But we should be more careful anyway."

"We will be," he promised, his hands sliding down to grip your ass. "But not right now. Right now, I need you to stop talking and ride my cock."

You laughed against his mouth, but finished undressing yourself and positioned him at your entrance. As you sank down onto him, his head fell back with a groan.

"Fuck, that's it," he breathed. "Just like that, baby."

You moved slowly at first, savoring the fullness, the way he stretched you so perfectly. Aerion's hands roamed your body freely, touching you everywhere with none of Valarr's careful restraint. He pinched your nipples, gripped your hips, slid his fingers between you to where you were joined, making you choke on your own breath.

"Look at you," he murmured, watching where your body met his. "So fucking beautiful taking me like this. My perfect girl."

The praise sent a rush of heat through you. You increased your pace, riding him harder, chasing the pleasure that built with each movement. Aerion's hands moved to guide you, setting the rhythm he wanted.

"Come here," he demanded, pulling you down for a deep, claiming kiss that left you breathless. "Fucking love how you feel on top of me."

You moaned into his mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders as you moved faster. The angle was perfect, hitting exactly where you needed it most. When his hand slipped between you again to rub your clit, you knew you wouldn't last much longer.

"Fuck, Aerion," you whimpered, your forehead dropping to his shoulder.

"That's it, baby," he encouraged, his voice rough with desire. "Let go, I know you want to come. Need to feel you squeezing my cock."

His words pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm hit hard, your body clenching and trembling around him as the pleasure crested. Aerion continued to move beneath you, his thrusts becoming more erratic in search of his own release.

"Where?" he gritted out, always asking even though he knew the answer.

"Aerion, please," you begged, too lost in pleasure to form a complete thought.

He understood anyway, pulling you down hard against him as he came with a muffled curse against your neck. You could feel him pulsing inside you, the sensation prolonging your own pleasure.

As he pulled out he laid you down on your back, spreading your thighs to watch his cum drip out of you. "Fuck, that's the prettiest fucking sight," he murmured, dipping his fingers into the mess to push it back inside. "Never gonna get tired of seeing this, baby. My cum inside you. So fucking perfect."

The primal satisfaction in his voice made you blush, even as you squirmed beneath his touch. He brought his fingers to your mouth, and you obediently sucked them clean, tasting the both of you.

"Such a good girl. My good girl—"

"Aerion? Your father asked me to drop off those documents for the merger, he said—" The voice cut off abruptly as Valarr appeared in the doorway, freezing at the scene before him. Aerion hadn't locked the front door.

For a moment, nobody moved. Time seemed to stop as the three of you realized what was happening.

Then Valarr's expression changed from shock to something else—something cold and controlled that frightened you more than anger ever could. His eyes moved from your naked body to Aerion's, to where his cousin still knelt between your spread thighs, his fingers still in your mouth.

"Get out," Valarr said quietly. Too quietly. The kind of quiet that preceded storms.

Aerion moved first, covering you with the sheet before standing and grabbing his discarded sweatpants. "You’re not kicking me out of my own fucking house, Val."

Valarr stepped into the room, his eyes never looking away from your face. The betrayal in his eyes made your chest hurt so badly you could barely breathe. "Get dressed," he said to you, his voice still eerily calm. "We're leaving."

The next hour passed in a blur of shame and regret. You dressed in silence, unable to meet Valarr's eyes. Aerion hovered, trying to talk to Valarr, but his cousin refused to engage beyond short, clipped responses.

In the car on the way back to your apartment, the silence was suffocating. You tried to speak several times, but no words came. What could you possibly say?

When Valarr finally pulled up outside your building, he turned off the engine but didn't look at you. "I'll send someone for my things tomorrow."

The finality in his voice broke something inside you. "Valarr, please—"

"I need some space," he interrupted, still staring straight ahead. "I'm not... I can't talk about this right now."

You nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. "Okay."

You got out of the car, and before you could close the door, he finally looked at you. The hurt in his face was almost more than you could bear. "I trusted you. Both of you."

Then he drove away, leaving you standing on the sidewalk feeling more alone than you had in months.

You stumbled upstairs to your apartment, barely noticing that Daella was home until she appeared in the living room, her expression shifting from casual curiosity to concern.

"What happened?" she asked, following you to your bedroom.

You collapsed onto the bed, not even bothering to take off your shoes. "He knows," you said, staring at the ceiling. "Valarr knows everything."

Daella's gasp was sharp. "How?"

"Walked right in on us." You closed your eyes, feeling tears threatening to spill. "Gods, it was so humiliating."

She sat beside you, her hand on your shoulder. "What happened then?"

"Nothing. He barely said anything. Just brought me home." You turned to look at her. "Have you heard from Aerion?"

She shook her head. "He's probably trying to fix things with Valarr."

The thought made you feel worse. "I've ruined everything, haven't I?"

"Don't say that." Daella squeezed your shoulder. "It's complicated, but it's not ruined. My cousin cares about you, you know that. So does Aerion."

"I care about him too," you whispered. "And Valarr. I don't know what to do."

"For now, just breathe," she advised. "Everything else can wait."

You nodded, letting her guide you to change into something more comfortable and get into bed properly. As she left to make you tea, your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A message from Aerion.

Val's not taking my calls. You okay?

Not really. He's devastated. I've never seen him like that.

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times before his response came through.

Give him time. He'll come around. I'll fix this.

You weren't sure what he meant by that, but you didn't have the energy to ask. Instead, you set the phone aside and curled up under the covers, trying not to think about the look on Valarr's face when he'd seen you with his cousin. Trying not to wonder if you'd just lost the two men who meant more to you than you'd realized until they were slipping away. The only way you got through the rest of the afternoon was telling yourself that it was a terrible nightmare, and that when you woke up everything would be fine.

You were still telling yourself that when you fell into an uneasy sleep against your pillow, damp with tears.

You'd been sitting in the same spot on the couch for hours since you woke from your nap, if you could even call it one. The sky outside had shifted from a bright, cheerful blue to the soft pinks and oranges of sunset, and now it was darkening into deep purple. You hadn't moved from the couch except to use the bathroom and let Daella fuss over you with tea and blankets.

Your phone had buzzed repeatedly throughout the day—messages from your mother wondering why you'd cancelled your weekend visit, and several from Aerion. You'd ignored them all.

The last message from Aerion had come a half hour ago.

I'm coming over. Don't fight me on this.

Part of you wanted to tell him not to bother. But another part of you—the part that had grown accustomed to having him near when you were upset—felt a small flicker of relief at the thought of not being alone tonight.

When the knock finally came, you considered pretending you weren't home. Daella had gone out with friends, leaving you with the perfect excuse to avoid everyone. But he had a key, so the knock was really just a courtesy.

"Come in," you called, not bothering to get up.

Aerion entered, his usual cocky confidence more subdued. He looked around the darkened living room, spotting you curled up on the couch with a blanket pulled up to your chin.

"You look like shit."

"Thanks," you replied flatly. "Your compliments always brighten my day."

He crossed the room and sat beside you. "Have you eaten?"

"No."

"Of course not." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'll order something. Pizza? Your usual?"

You shrugged. You weren't hungry, but you knew he'd insist. "Fine."

As he pulled out his phone to place the order, you studied his profile in the dim light. He looked tired, the lines around his mouth more pronounced than usual. The guilt you'd been trying to suppress all day rose up again.

"Have you talked to him?" you asked quietly.

Aerion's jaw tensed. "Not since this morning. He won't answer."

You nodded, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. "He looked so hurt, Aerion. I've never seen him like that."

"I know," he said, putting his phone away. "I was there, remember?"

The edge in his voice made you flinch slightly. "I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant," he interrupted, softer now. He moved closer, finally touching you—his hand covering yours where it gripped the blanket. "I'm sorry. This is... not how I wanted things to go."

"Neither did I," you whispered, your voice breaking slightly.

He turned fully toward you then, gathering you into his arms. You resisted for a moment, then collapsed against him, letting the tears you'd been holding back all day finally fall.

"I ruined everything," you cried into his shoulder. "He'll never forgive me. He'll never forgive either of us."

Aerion held you tightly, one hand stroking your hair. "Don't say that. It's not ruined. It's just... messy right now."

You pulled back slightly to look at him, your vision blurry with tears. "How can you be so calm about this? Your cousin just caught us having sex. He probably hates us both."

"He doesn't hate you," Aerion said firmly, cupping your face in his hands. "He's hurt and angry, but he doesn't hate you. He loves you. That's why it hurts so much."

"And you?" you asked, searching his eyes. "How do you feel about all this?"

"Conflicted," he admitted. "I feel guilty as fuck for hurting him. But I don't regret us. I can't." He leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. "I love you, and I know you love me too. That has to count for something."

His confession made fresh tears spring to your eyes. "I do love you," you whispered. "But I love him too. How is that fair to either of you?"

He kissed your forehead, then your cheeks, tasting your tears. "Oh, baby. It's not about being fair. It's about what we want, what we need. And right now, I need you to stop crying because it's breaking my fucking heart."

You managed a watery laugh, leaning into his touch. "You're terrible at comfort."

"Absolutely the worst," he agreed, pulling you back against his chest. "But I make up for it in other areas."

The attempt at humor helped ease some of the tightness in your chest. You stayed like that for a while, listening to his heartbeat, letting his presence ground you.

There was a knock, announcing the pizza's arrival. Aerion paid and brought the boxes to the coffee table, opening them and offering you the first slice.

"Eat," he commanded gently. "You'll feel better."

You took a small bite, not because you were hungry but because he looked so hopeful. "I still feel like the worst person in the world. You said you’d fix it, Aerion. He… I don’t want to lose him.”

"You haven't lost him," he insisted, though he didn't sound as confident as he had in his text message. "He just needs time to process. We both do."

"What does that mean?" you asked, setting down the half-eaten slice.

"It means..." He ran a hand through his hair again, a nervous habit you'd come to recognize. "It means I need to figure out what the fuck I'm doing. What we're doing."

You felt a pang of anxiety. "So you’re leaving too? You both are just gonna walk away and leave me here feeling like shit?”

His eyes widened. "That's not what I'm saying. I'm not going anywhere, baby. I just... I need to think. About Valarr, about us, about what this all means."

"So you regret it." It wasn't a question.

"No!" He reached for your hand, his grip tight. "Don't do that. Don't fucking put words in my mouth. I don't regret being with you. I regret how it happened, how we hurt him, but not us."

“You’ve never in your life cared about hurting anyone,” you pointed out. It was true, and you both knew it. Aerion had always been self-centered, doing what served him best without much consideration for others. That was what made this whole situation so bizarre.

The jab hit its mark. He looked away, his jaw clenching. "That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" you asked, pulling your hand from his. "You've never cared about anyone but yourself before. Now suddenly you're torn up about Valarr's feelings?"

His eyes flashed with anger. "Because he's my fucking cousin! He's family, and I love him even when he's being a self-righteous prick."

"And me?" you challenged. "Where do I fit in this family drama of yours?"

"You fit with me," he said, his voice low and intense. "That's never changed."

The doorbell rang again, interrupting whatever he might have said next. Aerion stood up, running a hand over his face. "Daella forgetting her keys again?"

He opened the door, but it wasn't your roommate standing there.

It was Valarr.

The three of you froze, time seeming to stop as you processed the impossible chance of being in this situation twice in one day. Valarr looked from Aerion to you. He didn't even look surprised. It was making you sick, the way he just stared at you, not like he hated you, but like he was trying to memorize your face. To save it in his mind before he walked away.

"Can we talk?" he asked quietly, his eyes on you.

You nodded, not trusting your voice. Aerion stepped aside, letting Valarr in. The tension in the room was suffocating, three people who knew each other so well suddenly reduced to awkward strangers.

Valarr closed the door behind him, his movements careful, deliberate. He looked at Aerion. "Alone, if you don't mind."

Aerion hesitated, then nodded. "I'll be at the bar downstairs if you need me." He turned to you, his expression softening. "Call if you need anything."

When he left, you were alone with Valarr for the first time since yesterday. The silence stretched uncomfortably.

"Valarr—"

"I'm not here to yell at you," he interrupted, his voice calm, which somehow made it worse. If he had been angry, you could have handled it. This was terrifying.

He moved to sit on the armchair across from you, maintaining careful distance. "I've spent the last few hours thinking," he began. "About us, about you and Aerion."

You twisted your hands in your lap, waiting for the blow to fall.

"I thought about how I should feel—betrayed, angry, hurt. And I am those things. But mostly, I'm just... sad."

Your eyes filled with fresh tears. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," he nodded. "I believe you are. But that's not why I came here."

He leaned forward, his mismatched eyes locking with yours. "I came to ask you something, and I need you to be completely honest with me. Can you do that?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

"Do you love him?" The question was asked so simply, as if he were asking about the weather.

You hesitated, then nodded again. "I think so."

He closed his eyes briefly, as if the confirmation caused him physical pain. When he opened them again, his expression was carefully neutral. "And do you love me?"

"Of course I do," you said immediately, leaning forward as if proximity could somehow convey the depth of your feelings. "I never stopped loving you, Valarr. That's what makes this so horrible."

"I see."

The silence that followed was unbearable. You couldn't stand the distance between you anymore. "Please say something," you begged. "Yell at me, call me names, just... don't be quiet."

His mouth quirked in a ghost of a smile, so familiar it made your chest ache. "I can't do that. Even when I'm angry with you, I could never be cruel to you." You hated that even in the worst possible moment, he was still so perfect. You’d be happy for the rest of your life if you could make him laugh. One little laugh.

"I don't deserve you," you whispered, fresh tears falling.

"You don’t," he agreed, his tone softening. "I’ve been nothing but good to you, and you betrayed me. But I still love you, which makes me either a saint or a fool."

"Val..."

"Let me finish," he said gently. "I've made my decision. I'm not going to be the reason you're unhappy. If you want Aerion, if he makes you happy in ways I can't..." He paused, swallowing hard. "Then I'll step aside."

The sacrifice in his words broke you completely. "No, you can't do that," you cried. "I don't want you to step aside!"

"Then what do you want?" he asked, his voice strained for the first time. "Because you can't have us both. I won't share you, not like this. It's not right."

"I don't know!" The admission tore from you. "I love you both, and I'm so fucking confused. I never meant for this to happen. Valarr, please— you… just fucking yell at me or something. Anything but this."

He stood up then, crossing the room to kneel before you. He took your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him.

"I'm not going to yell at you," he said softly. "I'm going to let you go, because I love you enough to want your happiness, even if it's not with me."

The tears were falling freely now. "Valarr, what the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t fucking let me go! Don't you dare let me go."

A hint of his usual self-assuredness returned as his thumb brushed your cheek. "Is that an order?"

"Yes," you sobbed, grabbing his wrists. "I love you. I love you so much it hurts. I was so stupid, and I'm sorry, but please don't let me go."

“I’ll drop off your things tomorrow when I send someone for mine,” he said softly, but you shook your head vehemently, refusing to accept it. The thought of him packing up his life with you, all the little memories scattered throughout his apartment, makes you sick. You can't lose him like this.

"No, Valarr, please," you begged, your voice breaking. You leaned in, trying to close the distance between you, but he held you in place. "Don't go. Don't leave me like this. I'm so sorry for hurting you; I swear I never meant to. I love you, only you, I swear—"

He cut you off with a quiet, heartbroken laugh. "Don't say that, not when it's not true." His hands slid from your face to your shoulders, holding you but not pulling you closer. "You're the most selfish person I've ever met, you know that? And somehow I still can't bring myself to hate you for it."

"Then don't let me go!" You were now pleading, gripping his arms tightly. "Stay with me. We can fix this; I know we can. I'll do anything, just... please."

He looked at you for a long time, his expression torn. Then, slowly, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead. It was so gentle, so full of love and goodbye, it tore at what was left of your dignity.

"Goodbye, my love," he whispered, standing up and stepping away.

You watched him walk to the door, each step feeling like a blow to the chest. When his hand touched the doorknob, something inside you snaps. The fear of living in a world where he isn't yours became more terrifying than anything else. You couldn't let him leave, not like this.

"Valarr," you called out, your voice shaky but determined. His back was to you, still, but he stopped. "I'll marry you."

It was embarrassing, truly, how far you were willing to go.

"What?"

You stood up on unsteady legs as he turned, facing him across the room. "I'll marry you. Tomorrow, today, whenever you want. I don't care about Aerion or anyone else. I just want you."

"That's not how this works," he said, but there was a crack in his composure now. A crack you wanted to dig your fingers into and pull apart until he was yours again. You knew he had wanted to marry you; it was only a matter of time. He had even mentioned it before his last trip, how he saw you in his future, the mother of his children. He loved you, even more than he loved his pride. And you, to your detriment, had spent more than enough time with his cousin to learn exactly what buttons to press.

"I don't care how it works!" you insisted, taking a step toward him. "You were going to propose anyway, weren't you? You told me you saw a future with me, children, a family. I want that too. I want it with you."

He stared while you approached; his expression was guarded, but the look in his eyes betrayed him. "And Aerion? What about him?"

"He was a mistake, Valarr! Gods, I was so fucking stupid. I don't want him, not like I want you. You're the one I want to spend my life with. Please believe me."

You were standing directly in front of him now, close enough to touch him. So you reached for him, tentatively placing your hand on his chest over his heart. "I love you," you whisper. "Only you. I swear on everything I have."

He looked down at you, and for a moment, you thought you'd lost. Then his hand came over yours, pressing it more firmly against his chest.

"You're manipulative," he said, a hint of admiration in the way he said it. "And you'll probably regret this tomorrow, when the guilt sets in."

"I won't," you promise, moving closer until you're pressed against him. "I've regretted every moment I've spent with him instead of you. Don't make me regret losing you too."

His resolve was clearly weakening. You could feel his heart racing beneath your hand, see the desire in his eyes warring with his pride. You're almost there. You know it better than you know anything in the world. Everything about him is an open book to you, if you look hard enough. The way his jaw had tightened meant he was thinking, not angry. The way his thumb continued absentmindedly stroking the back of your hand meant he hadn’t truly decided to let you go yet. The way he hadn’t stepped away—hadn’t removed your hand from his chest, hadn’t broken the space between you—meant there was still something left to fight for. You knew him. You had spent years learning him.

You knew which smile was genuine and which one he wore to reassure other people. You knew that when he grew quiet, he wasn’t withdrawing from a conversation; he was choosing his words carefully enough that they wouldn’t become another regret. You knew that every future he had ever spoken about somehow ended with you standing beside him. It was what you had been counting on as you looked up at him.

You leaned in again, pressing soft kisses along his jaw, feeling him tense and then slowly relax. "Please," you murmured against his skin. "I'll make it up to you, I swear. Every day for the rest of our lives."

His hands moved to your waist, gripping you firmly. He made a slight move to push you away, but you felt the hesitation in it, so you pushed closer instead. Your hands slid up his chest and around his neck.

"I'm yours," you whispered against his ear. Hook. "Valarr, you're the only one I want to belong to. I'll be so good to you." Line. "Your good girl, all for you. Please."

Sinker.

You can feel the exact moment in which he breaks. It's in the way his grip on your waist changes, pulling you flush against him. It's in the groan that escapes his lips when you kiss your way back to his mouth.

[hiraya-writes-a-thing]

Weird ass experience: studying whilst waiting for that person you though you loved for so fucking long just so that you can break their heart.

Jeez, I never thought I'd become the villain yet here we are. Here's to hoping we'll both be able to say what we actually feel 🍷

[twitchywitchywizard-deactivated]

oh, nothing… just the addams family and their roommates to lovers pipeline

[k1tk4ttt]

How I feel reading smut while being scared of intimacy in real life

[hiraya-writes-a-thing]

Genuinely terrified about the fact that I'm falling in love rn. It's too fast. Yes, it's been three months and yes, I've been in love with him for longer.

But knowing that he loves me back?

That's terrifying. Absolutely terrifying.

[nualasdream]

just for tonight ✩｡⋆⸜ nuala and dream

summary: nuala is leaving the dreaming, not by choice but because her brother has come to take her back to faerie. before she goes, morpheus offers her a boon, and she asks for the most selfish thing she can: one night with him, as if he loved her. it is meant to be a performance, a farewell untouched by the future ahead… but as the night unfolds, sweetness and longing blur into something more real than either of them expected.

word count: 6.8k

˒ᯓ PLEASE EXCUSE ANY MISTAKES, ENGLISH ISN’T MY FIRST LANGUAGE. ˒ 𝄞

The Dreaming’s light is different tonight… softer, as though the realm itself senses that she is leaving and wishes to make her farewell easier. Or perhaps it is only her eyes, heavy with the weight of what has just passed.

She had thought, foolishly, that she might have more time, that she might remain here until she chose to leave of her own accord. But Cluracan had arrived, every inch the charming emissary, speaking for the Queen as if his words did not scrape her raw.

The details of his request… no, his summons, blur in her mind. What she remembers instead are moments: the cold ribbon of dread winding through her chest, the way her brother’s smile faltered when he dared look at her, and the low, measured tone of Lord Morpheus’s voice when he told her she should go.

For her safety… those had been his words, but they had carried a finality that struck deeper than any command. She had seen it in his face: the quiet resignation, the kind that belongs to someone who has already counted his losses and knows his time is short.

And the knowledge had burned in her like ice, because she could not shake the thought that this might be the last time she would stand before him.

Then, almost unexpectedly, he had offered her a boon… a gift of her choosing before she departed the Dreaming. The gesture had caught her off guard, as if for a fleeting moment she could feel some faint pulse of fondness beneath his cool composure. And she knew, that if she let this moment pass, it would haunt her for the rest of her days.

So she had asked: not for freedom, not for protection, not for some political favor to bargain with back in faerie. She had asked for something far more selfish… a single night. One night in which he would act as if he loved her, as if she mattered to him in a way that was not bound by the laws of the Dreaming or the courtesy owed to a guest.

It was foolish, it was dangerous, and was the most honest request she had ever made. And when he had agreed, with that same unreadable stillness, something inside her had twisted tight: hope and sorrow tangled together until she could no longer tell them apart.

He does not come for her immediately. Nuala spends the time waiting in her chambers, pacing the length of the room like a caged bird that knows the bars are closing in. Her gown rustles softly with each turn, the sound seeming too loud in the heavy quiet. She half-expects one of the palace’s dreams to arrive instead, to tell her the Lord of the Dreaming has reconsidered, or to politely suggest she ready herself for departure.

But it is him, the door opens without sound, and the air changes, cooler, richer, as if the room inhales at his arrival. Morpheus stands there, framed by the spill of corridor light, and for a moment she can do nothing but look at him. He wears no crown, no armor of ceremony, just black… simple and severe, the kind of unadorned presence that makes the surrounding world dim.

“Nuala,” he says, and it is not a question or a summons, it is just her name, spoken in a way that feels like a pause in the endless turn of the Dreaming. She dips her head, not trusting her voice. He steps inside, the door whispering shut behind him. “Will you walk with me?”

It is not an order, though they both know she would obey one. There is something in the way he offers his arm, a subtle bend, a slight angle of his wrist, that feels almost courtly. She hesitates, not because she doubts him, but because the gesture makes her heart ache… she takes his arm.

His sleeve is smooth under her fingertips, but it is the warmth of him she notices most, steady and unyielding. They begin to walk, their steps unhurried, the silence between them neither hostile nor entirely easy. She finds herself acutely aware of each point of contact: his forearm beneath her hand, the faint brush of his shoulder when the corridor narrows, the way his stride subtly slows to match hers.

“You are… certain this is the boon you wish?” he asks after a while, his voice quiet enough that it almost seems meant for the stone and shadow rather than her. “Would you rather I asked for something else?” she replies, attempting lightness, though her tone wavers.

His gaze slides to her briefly, unreadable as moonlight. “I would rather you asked for nothing at all.” She swallows. “And yet you offered.” A flicker, barely there, touches his mouth, as if he might almost acknowledge the truth in that. “I did.”

They pass beneath one of the high arches that open onto the Dreaming’s gardens. The scent of night-blooming flowers drifts toward them, and she feels the ghost of a breeze curl around her hair.

He reaches out, without looking, without fanfare, and brushes his fingers lightly through a strand that’s caught against her cheek. It is nothing, really, a casual thing, and yet her pulse trips over itself. “Your hair has grown,” he says. Nuala’s lips curve faintly. “You noticed.”

“I notice more than you think.” She wants to ask what else he notices, she wants to demand why those things are locked away behind his silence… but the words lodge in her throat, and they walk on.

The corridors begin to change, less public now, less gilded. The walls here are darker, warmer, as if the stone remembers the shape of firelight. She realizes where they are going only when they reach the final turn, and the great black doors stand before them like the threshold to another kind of dream: his chambers.

Morpheus pauses, looking down at her as if to grant her one last chance to change her mind, but she only meets his gaze, her chin lifting the barest fraction, and he opens the door.

Inside, the room is a study in shadow and quiet luxury: deep blues and greys, the faint shimmer of starlight spilling in through tall windows, shelves lined with volumes whose spines glow faintly in the dim. A low table is already set with a decanter of dark wine and two glasses, as if the Dreaming itself had anticipated their arrival.

He leads her in with a light touch at the small of her back: steady, grounding, achingly intimate in its restraint. “Sit,” he says softly.

She does, the fabric of her gown whispering against the velvet chair. Her fingers knot together in her lap as he pours the wine, the liquid catching the starlight as it streams into the glass. He hands it to her, his fingers brushing hers in a way that feels almost accidental but lingers a fraction too long.

She takes a sip, it is sweet, just as she likes it. “You remembered,” she murmurs. “I remember everything that matters,” he says. Her chest tightens and she wonders if he hears how easily he could undo her with such a simple truth.

The wine settles on her tongue like liquid dusk, sweet and lingering. She watches him pour his own glass, his long fingers precise even in so small a task. Morpheus takes the chair opposite hers, not the throne-like seat she has seen him use for audiences, but something lower, closer. His knees angle slightly toward her, and the starlight catches in the planes of his face, softening what the shadows can’t quite touch.

They drink in silence at first. It is not awkward, silence with him rarely is, but she feels the edges of it pressing in, as if every unspoken thing between them has taken a seat at the table as well.

“You should know,” he says eventually, his gaze steady on her, “I do not offer boons lightly.” She smiles faintly into her glass. “I imagine not… I wonder what the other dreamers and monarchs of realms past have asked for when you’ve given them one.”

“Many things.” His tone is almost wry. “Immortality, power, riches beyond counting, the undoing of enemies…” “And yet I asked for none of those.”

“Yet you did not ask for nothing.” Her lips quirk in a humorless smile. “No, I suppose I am greedy in my own way.” He studies her over the rim of his glass. “Greed is… not the word I would choose.”

She wants to ask what word he would use, but the thought of hearing it aloud, of what it might mean, makes her hesitate… instead, she lets the wine fill the pause.

Morpheus reaches across the low table, lifting the bottle again, and this time he pours without asking, the faint brush of his fingers against hers as he passes the refilled glass sends a small jolt through her. She tells herself it is the wine.

Another gesture follows, small but deliberate: his hand lifting to adjust the fall of her hair where it has slipped over her shoulder, tucking it back with a touch that lingers a beat too long. The warmth of his palm against the side of her neck sears into her, and she knows she will remember it long after she leaves the Dreaming.

It is sweet, achingly so, and yet every kindness makes something twist in her chest. She begins to second-guess the truth of it. Would he be doing this if she had not asked? If she had not, in her own way, cornered him into playing this role for a night?

Perhaps he is simply… good at this: a skilled actor, performing a part to satisfy the terms of her request. And if that is so, if every soft word, every gentle touch is nothing more than a duty, then she is only deepening the cut she will have to live with after tonight.

Her gaze drops to the dark surface of her wine, her reflection caught and warped in the curve of the glass… he notices, of course he notices…

“Nuala.” His voice draws her back up, and when she meets his eyes there is no trace of offense, only a patient, piercing awareness. “You are thinking something that is not true.” Her fingers tighten on the stem of the glass. “Am I?”

He leans forward slightly, the space between them contracting until it feels as though his presence wraps around her. “Boon or no boon,” he says, each word deliberate, “I would not be here, by your side, if I did not wish to be.”

The sentence is spare, without flourish or poetry, but it feels heavier than anything he has said to her before. And for a heartbeat, the part of her that has doubted all night goes quiet.

Her breath leaves her in a slow exhale, as if the words have loosened something deep in her chest. She sets the glass down, the faint chime of crystal on wood swallowed by the room’s hush.

“Then I will believe you,” she says, and for once she doesn’t lace the words with challenge or humor. A ghost of a smile passes over his face, so slight that if she blinked she might miss it. Then he stands, fluid and unhurried, and extends a hand toward her. “Come,” he murmurs.

She takes it without hesitation, and his fingers close gently around hers, warm and sure, as he guides her away from the table. They cross the chamber to where a long couch rests beneath one of the tall windows, its cushions deep and dark, half in shadow. The starlight beyond spills across the floor, tracing silver over the black weave of the rug.

He does not release her hand until she is seated, and even then, his palm brushes along her knuckles before withdrawing. When he lowers himself beside her, the distance between them feels smaller than it should.

For a time, they simply sit. The Dreaming moves beyond the glass, clouds that curl like ink in water, constellations rearranging themselves in slow, deliberate arcs… but inside, the moment holds still. “You have been… a part of this realm,” he says, his voice quieter now, shaped for her alone. “It will not be the same without you.”

The admission catches her off guard, enough that her lips part without forming a reply. He turns his gaze toward the stars, as if granting her the space to collect herself. His profile is etched in pale light, and she finds herself tracing every line, every shadow.

She wonders how many mortals, how many fae, have sat where she sits now and seen this same face, how many have been allowed this closeness. “I will miss it,” she says finally. “…the Dreaming.” There is a pause, before she adds, softer. “And you.” The last two words hang between them, unflinching.

When he looks at her again, there is a depth in his eyes that she cannot name, something that feels like the echo of a touch not yet given. His hand lifts, slowly, as if giving her every chance to draw away, and he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture is simple, almost mundane, but his fingers linger just long enough that it becomes something else entirely.

She leans into it before she can think better of it, her cheek brushing the inside of his palm, and Morpheus does not pull back. His thumb traces once along her cheekbone, feather-light, and then he lets his hand fall, only to take hers again.

This time, he does not merely guide, he folds their fingers together, his grip warm and steady, grounding her as if he could anchor them both against the pull of everything that waits beyond tonight. No part of this feels like performance, no part of it feels like the hollow echo of a request granted. This is him, in whatever way he can be, offering her something unmarked by the weight of the crown or the shadow of his fate.

His voice is quiet when it comes. “Then let us not speak of what comes after.” She nods, grateful. “Just tonight.”

“Just tonight,” he echoes, and somehow, with those two words, the edges of the world seem to blur, the future slipping mercifully out of reach.

They sit like that for a while, her fingers curled loosely between his, the weight of his hand anchoring her in the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty. Outside, a star drifts lazily across the sky, bright as a lantern. She watches it trace its slow path and feels the urge to make a wish, ridiculous, when she already has hers for the night.

But the thought sparks something else in her, a desire to fill this stillness with something that will leave a warmer mark in her memory than silence. Her eyes slip from the stars to him. “Dance with me,” she says.

Morpheus’s head tilts slightly, as though the words are in a language he hasn’t heard in centuries. “Dance?”

“Yes.” She smiles faintly, though her pulse is quick. “We have the space… and I’ve heard there is no finer partner in the Dreaming.” That earns her the smallest shift at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, not quite denial.

“I am not… in the habit of such things,” he says, but there’s no real dismissal in his tone. “You were not in the habit of granting boons, either,” she points out gently. “And yet here we are.”

He looks away, the faintest hint of a sigh escaping him, though she knows it is not from irritation… more like the soft surrender of someone already halfway convinced.

When his gaze returns to her, it’s caught, held, by the way she’s looking at him. She knows her expression is open, unguarded in a way it rarely is, and she doesn’t try to hide it. She lets him see the hope there, the unashamed longing for this one more thing.

And something in him bends. “Very well,” he says, his voice low. He rises first, his fingers loosening from hers only to offer his hand again, palm up, inviting her into the space between them. She takes it, her own fitting into his with an ease that makes her chest ache.

There is no music at first, only the faint hum of the Dreaming beyond the glass. But then, as if answering his unspoken will, a thread of melody drifts through the chamber: soft, slow, the kind of tune meant for movements that linger rather than hurry.

He draws her close with a care that is almost ceremonial, one hand finding the curve of her waist, the other holding her hand just firmly enough to guide without confining.

They begin to move, and she is surprised at how natural it feels, as though the two of them have done this a hundred times before in some life neither remembers. His steps are measured, but not stiff, each one seems to find its place around her, adjusting to her rhythm without effort.

Her skirts whisper over the rug, brushing his boots with each turn. The starlight shifts across them, catching in his hair, sliding over the line of his jaw when he glances down at her. “You do this well for someone ‘not in the habit,’” she teases softly.

His eyes meet hers, and there is the faintest spark there, as if he takes a certain satisfaction in proving her wrong. “Perhaps,” he murmurs, “I simply required the right partner.” The words settle between them, warm, and she feels herself hold them tighter than she should.

The melody winds around them like a ribbon, thin and silver, as though the Dreaming itself knows to keep its distance and let them have this space. Her hand rests lightly against his shoulder, fingers splayed over the soft black of his coat, and she can feel the subtle shifts of his body beneath the fabric as they move.

Each step, each turn, brings them a fraction closer, until her skirt brushes fully against his legs, until the faintest whisper of his breath grazes her temple when he leans into a turn.

He does not hurry, if anything, he slows, the rhythm of their steps stretching to match the unhurried pulse of the music. His hand at her waist shifts fractionally lower, the curve of his palm resting more firmly, steadying her as though he means to keep her exactly where she is.

“You are smiling,” he observes quietly. “Am I?” she murmurs, though she already knows she is. It’s not the practiced smile she has worn in courts, or the one she summons for diplomacy: it’s smaller, unguarded, the kind that grows without permission.

“You are,” he says, and there is no judgment in it, only something that feels dangerously like fondness. They turn again, and this time she looks up at him rather than past him, meeting his eyes fully.

The space between their faces narrows without conscious thought, the motion of their dance becoming more sway than step. His thumb strokes once over the side of her waist, subtle but deliberate, and her breath catches.

The music changes, just slightly, slowing as if it, too, feels the shift in them. Her free hand drifts from his shoulder to the line of his collar, the edge of her fingers brushing the skin just above it. She feels him inhale, steady and deep, but he does not pull back, if anything, he draws her a touch nearer, his forehead almost brushing hers.

Neither of them speaks, thr air between them is thick with all the words that would only ruin this perfect suspension of time. The heat of his body seeps into her, and she can feel the faint, steady beat of his heart beneath the layers of cloth and darkness.

When the last notes fade, they don’t stop, they stand there in the quiet, his hand still at her waist, her fingers still curled lightly in the fabric of his coat. The absence of music only makes the silence heavier, more intimate.

His gaze drops to her mouth for the briefest moment before returning to her eyes, and it’s enough, more than enough, to make her pulse race. “May I?” he asks, voice low, each syllable shaped like an offering.

Her breath catches at his question. It is not the words themselves, though she cannot remember the last time someone asked her for permission with such care, but the weight of them: the fact that they came from him.

“You may,” she says, and the faint tremor in her voice does nothing to hide the truth in it. The distance between them dissolves. His lips meet hers slowly, almost cautiously, as though he means to give her every chance to decide this is not what she wants after all. But when she leans into him, his hand at her waist draws her closer, eliminating the final gap between them.

The kiss is warm, unhurried. His mouth moves against hers with a deliberation that feels less like restraint and more like reverence, as if he means to memorize the shape of this moment. The faint taste of the sweet wine lingers between them, mingling with the soft exhale he lets out when her fingers curl more firmly in his coat.

Her free hand rises, threading into the dark silk of his hair, and she feels the give of it under her fingers, the way it slips and tangles, and he tilts his head slightly to deepen the kiss. Even then, there is no rush, no force, just the steady build of something that feels both like an opening and a farewell.

When he finally draws back, it is only enough to rest his forehead against hers. His breath brushes her lips when he speaks. “I would have kissed you long before now, had I thought you would welcome it.” She smiles faintly, though it wavers. “I would have.”

Something passes over his face, relief, perhaps… or regret, and he presses another kiss to her, softer this time, before straightening enough to guide her toward the couch’s edge. His hand slides from her waist to her back, warm through the thin fabric, steady as he helps her to her feet.

Neither of them speaks as they cross the chamber. The only sound is the faint whisper of her skirts and the muted thud of his boots over the rug. The bed dominates the far wall, draped in layers of deep blue and shadow, its headboard carved with constellations that glimmer faintly in the starlight spilling through the tall windows.

When they reach it, he turns to her rather than stepping away. His hands find her shoulders, fingertips brushing down the length of her arms until they meet her hands again, he holds them as though they are something precious, his thumbs stroking lightly over her knuckles.

“If we do this,” he says, voice low, “it will not be as a performance of your boon, it will be because I wish it.” The words pierce through her lingering doubt like sunlight through fog. She searches his face, looking for any hint of falseness, and finds none, only him… only this.

Her answer is simple: she leans in and kisses him again. This time there is more heat behind it, more need, though still tempered by that same gentleness. His hands release hers only to frame her face, his thumbs brushing along her jaw as if he means to hold her steady while the world tips and turns beneath them.

When he finally urges her backward toward the bed, it is done with the same unhurried care, step by step, his body a constant presence against hers, his mouth never straying far from hers for long.

When her knees meet the edge of the mattress, he breaks the kiss just long enough to look into her eyes. No words, no questions… just a silent offering of choice.

The mattress yields beneath her as she sits, the deep-blue coverlet cool under her palms. Morpheus remains standing for a breath, framed by the dim spill of starlight, as though memorizing the sight of her here. Then he moves, fluid and deliberate, lowering himself to the bed so that his knees bracket hers.

He leans in, his hands braced on either side of her thighs, and kisses her again. This one is deeper, more certain, the press of his mouth coaxing hers open. His tongue brushes against hers with a tenderness that makes her shiver, tasting her slowly, like the sweet wine they shared was only the prelude.

Her hands rise to his chest, sliding over the firm lines beneath his coatc she feels the steady rise and fall of his breath under her palms, the solid heat of him soaking through the fabric. When her fingers find the edge of his lapel, he lets her tug him closer until his body presses fully against hers, his weight a welcome anchor.

One of his hands leaves the mattress, gliding over her hip in a slow arc before settling at her waist. His thumb strokes there, barely moving, as if mapping the shape of her through the thin material. The other hand comes to her face again, tilting her just so, deepening the kiss with a languid certainty that leaves no room for doubt: he wants this… he wants her.

When he finally breaks away, it is only far enough to trail his lips along her jaw, down the line of her neck. His mouth is warm, his breath a soft counterpoint to the faint scrape of teeth that follows, gentle enough to make her sigh. “Lie back,” he murmurs, and the low timbre of it sends heat coiling in her belly.

She does, the coverlet cool against her spine, the starlight shifting across the ceiling above. He follows, one knee on the mattress, one hand at her hip, guiding himself down until he’s over her. His hair falls forward as he kisses her again, one hand sliding beneath the fall of her skirt to rest against the smooth skin just above her knee.

The touch is reverent, fingers tracing upward with a slowness that makes her breath stutter. His palm glides over the curve of her thigh, the pads of his fingers brushing higher, inch by inch, until they find the edge of her underthings. He pauses there, his eyes on hers, waiting.

She nods once, wordless, and the tension in his shoulders loosens. His fingers slip beneath the fabric, the heat of his hand startling against the softness of her skin. He strokes her gently at first, learning her with each careful pass, the pace steady and unhurried.

Her own hands find the fastenings of his coat, pushing the black fabric back over his shoulders. He lets it fall away without protest, revealing the lean lines of him beneath. She smooths her palms over the crisp shirt, feeling the subtle flex of muscle as he moves against her.

When his fingers slide lower and press into her more firmly, her breath catches against his mouth. He swallows the sound with another kiss, his tongue stroking hers as his hand works her toward a slow, building ache. “Tell me what you need,” he murmurs against her lips, his voice deep and quiet, like the space between dreams.

“You,” she answers, without hesitation. The faintest smile ghosts across his mouth before he kisses her again, his hand withdrawing only long enough to hook into the waistband of her underthings and ease them down her legs. The fabric pools on the floor in silence, forgotten.

Her breath hitches as the last barrier falls away, the air cool against her bare skin until his hands find her again. His palms are warm, steady, sliding up the length of her thighs in a slow, deliberate sweep. It’s not just touch, it’s the way he looks at her as he does it, his eyes dark and intent, as though he’s etching her into himself.

He lowers himself, the weight of his body settling more fully over hers. The contact is grounding, the heat between them blooming in the quiet. She runs her hands over his chest, down his sides, feeling the long lines of muscle through his shirt until the need to see him, really see him, becomes too much.

“Let me,” she whispers, fingers finding the buttons at his collar. He doesn’t speak, but he nods, leaning back just enough to give her room.

She works each button open with care, her knuckles brushing the cool expanse of his chest as she goes. When the last one comes undone, she pushes the shirt from his shoulders, her palms sliding over his skin… i’s smooth and cool in some places, warm in others, alive beneath her touch.

Morpheus bends to kiss her again, and as his mouth moves over hers, his hands begin a slow exploration: over her hips, the curve of her waist, up to cup her breasts with a reverence that makes her shiver. His thumbs brush lightly over her nipples, coaxing a sigh from her that he swallows with his next kiss. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, so soft she almost thinks she imagined it.

She arches into his touch, her fingers finding the fastening of his trousers. He shifts, helping her ease them down his hips, until the last of the barriers between them falls away. The heat of him against her bare thigh makes her breath catch, her body tightening in anticipation. He pauses there, his forehead resting against hers, breathing her in. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she answers, the word certain and steady despite the racing of her heart. He kisses her once more, slow, deep, like a seal on her choice, before lowering himself, his hips fitting between her thighs. One hand cradles her face, the other steadying himself as he presses forward. The stretch is slow, careful, every inch deliberate until he is fully seated in her.

For a moment, neither of them moves. She holds onto him, her hands framing his face, memorizing the feel of him here, the weight and heat and solidity. His eyes close briefly, a flicker of something almost vulnerable passing over his features before he begins to move.

Each thrust is unhurried, measured, the kind of rhythm meant for savoring rather than racing toward an end. His body fits to hers with a precision that feels inevitable, as if this was always where they were meant to meet. His hand strokes up her side, his thumb tracing idle circles at her waist, grounding her even as each motion builds the heat between them.

She tangles her legs around his hips, drawing him closer, deeper. The shift pulls a low sound from him, quiet but raw, and she feels it reverberate in her own chest. “Nuala,” he breathes, as though the name itself is an anchor.

Her fingers thread through his hair, pulling him down to kiss her again, her lips parting under his with a desperation that is still somehow tender. The world beyond this bed… the summons to faerie, the shadow over his fate, falls away entirely, leaving only this moment, only them.

The pace between them stays unhurried, as though they both know the moment they give in fully, it will tip them closer to the end. His hips roll into hers with a measured rhythm, each stroke deep and deliberate, his body moving in perfect sync with the soft, involuntary sounds she makes against his mouth.

Every thrust draws her tighter around him, every brush of his hand against her waist or thigh grounding her even as her pulse climbs. Her nails skim his back, just enough to make him breathe a little harder, and the sound sends a fresh wave of heat through her. He kisses her again, slower now, his tongue sliding lazily against hers as if tasting her is as important as the way their bodies fit.

When his mouth leaves hers, it travels to her neck, the hollow beneath her ear, down over her collarbone. Each kiss feels like a deliberate mark, not possession but memory. She tilts her head back, giving him more, and his hand slides between them, fingers finding her with the same patience he’s kept all night. Her breath stutters. “Morpheus…”

“Let go,” he murmurs, low and steady, his forehead pressing to her temple as his fingers work in perfect counterpoint to his thrusts. It builds slowly, the pressure winding higher and higher until it feels like she’s suspended on the edge of something vast. The care in his movements makes it sharper, almost unbearable in its intimacy, like he’s not just touching her body but holding every fraying thread of her together.

When it hits, it’s like falling into a tide that’s been waiting for her all along. Her body tightens around him, the rush of pleasure pulling a soft, startled cry from her lips. He follows her down into it, his hips pressing deep one last time before he groans quietly, the sound rough and almost reluctant, spilling into her with a shudder that seems to sink into his very bones.

For a long moment, neither of them moves, the only sounds are the slowing of their breaths and the faint hum of the Dreaming outside the windows. His weight is warm and solid above her, his face buried briefly against her neck as if he can hide there from the inevitability waiting for them.

When he finally shifts, it’s only enough to ease them onto their sides, his body still wrapped around hers: one arm curls beneath her head, the other draped over her waist, holding her close as if the act alone could keep the morning from coming.

She rests her forehead against his collarbone, her eyes closed, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing. His fingers trace idle lines over her hip, over the dip of her back, never straying far, as though even in stillness he needs the reassurance of her presence. “Thank you,” she whispers, though she’s not sure if she means for tonight, for the boon, or for letting himself be this with her at all.

He doesn’t answer right away, instead, he presses a slow kiss to the crown of her head. “You will not be forgotten,” he says at last, and though it is not quite a promise, it feels close enough to one that she lets herself believe it.

In the dark quiet of his chambers, with his arms still around her, Nuala lets herself pretend, for tonight only, that there is no leaving, no parting, no shadow waiting for him… there is only this.

The night folds in around them, the kind of darkness that feels more like shelter than absence. Nuala drifts in and out of sleep, never fully slipping from the awareness of his body against hers: the steady, grounding weight of his arm draped over her waist, the faint rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek.

When she wakes enough to shift, he adjusts without stirring fully, tucking her closer as though some part of him refuses to let her go even in dreams. When the pale light of false dawn begins to creep across the chamber, she knows it’s time. She can feel it in the subtle tightening of his arm around her, in the way his breathing changes, not the deep, even rhythm of rest, but the measured quiet of someone already bracing for the inevitable.

She opens her eyes to find him watching her, his expression unreadable except for the faint shadow of something she doesn’t often see in him: reluctance. “Morning,” she says softly, though it feels strange to name it in a realm where time bends and folds as it pleases.

“Morning,” he echoes, his voice low, still softened by the night. Neither of them moves for a long moment, the silence feels fragile now, as if the smallest wrong word might shatter it into something sharp.

Eventually, he shifts, his hand smoothing once over her hair before he draws back enough to sit, and the absence of his warmth is immediate. She follows him up, the sheets pooling around her waist, watching as he reaches for the shirt discarded the night before. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, but they carry the quiet finality of someone preparing for parting.

When they stand, they face each other in the wash of early light, the faint gleam of the constellations carved into the headboard still glimmering behind them. She wants to reach for him, to anchor herself in his presence just a little longer, but she forces her hands to remain at her sides.

“I won’t ask for another boon,” she says, her voice steadier than she feels. “I won’t ask for a promise you can’t keep.” He tilts his head slightly, studying her as if waiting for the rest.

“I will only ask this,” she continues, her eyes holding his. “Try to survive… for yourself, if not for me, just… try to keep yourself alive. Don’t give up hope.”

Something flickers in his expression, a ripple of emotion that moves too quickly to name, before he nods once, slow and deliberate. “I will try.” It’s all she can ask.

He steps forward then, closing the space between them, and cups her face in both hands. His kiss is brief, but it holds the same care as the night before, the same unspoken weight. When he lets her go, it is with a touch that lingers at her jaw before falling away entirely.

And then the moment is over, and the Lord of the Dreaming stands before her again, every inch the figure she first met, except now she knows the warmth he can hold, and she carries it with her as she leaves.

He lets her go with that final touch, and the quiet in the room settles heavy between them. Nuala draws in a slow breath, willing the burn in her throat to ease, she will not leave him with the sight of her falling apart: she will not stain this night with anything that might cheapen it.

Morpheus does not follow as she turns toward the door, but she can feel his gaze on her with every step. The black wood parts at her approach, opening onto the long corridor beyond, where the pale light of the Dreaming’s dawn seeps in through the high windows.

Her feet carry her through familiar halls, each turn a reminder of the life she is about to leave behind: the vaulted ceilings she has walked beneath countless times, the soft, dreamlike air that always smelled faintly of starlight and earth after rain… every step seems louder than it should, the echo of her boots on stone cutting through the stillness.

She passes the gardens, the archways framing glimpses of moon-pale blossoms and silver fountains. The flowers sway gently in the breeze, though there is no wind, as if the Dreaming itself knows she is going and is offering its farewell. Her fingers itch to reach out, to touch one of the blossoms and let its cool petals anchor her here for one more heartbeat, but she doesn’t… she keeps moving.

Ahead, the great doors to the palace loom, their carved panels shifting subtly in the dim light, scenes and shapes rippling like memories. Two sentry-dreams stand on either side, motionless, their eyes following her without comment.

Just before she crosses the threshold, she hesitates. Slowly, she turns her head, looking back down the long stretch of corridor… he is there.

Far away, at the opposite end, framed by shadow and the faint spill of morning light, Morpheus stands where she left him. He hasn’t moved, and though she can’t make out the details of his expression, she knows he is still watching her.

For a moment, it feels like the Dreaming holds its breath. She gives him the smallest of nods, not a bow, not the formal farewell of a subject to her ruler, but something quieter: personal. He inclines his head in return, just enough for her to know it is meant for her alone.

Then she turns away, stepping out into the pale air beyond the palace doors. The great panels close behind her with a muted, final sound, and though she does not let the tears fall, her hands curl tightly at her sides as she walks, holding herself together until she is far enough from the gates that the Dreaming can no longer see her face.

[detailspecialist]

father!

THE PITT (2025-)

[hiraya-writes-a-thing]

Wtf wtf wtf he wants to say that he loves me wtf wtf wtf

[hiraya-writes-a-thing]

Finding out that your boyfriend's ex is actually a (kinda) friend??? Tis very great, methinks until I found out that they had a rocky breakup. Now, all is well but I do hope no one else asks HAHAHA

[throatgoat4u]

GUYS OMG! so im like a huge lucy x schroeder lover (from the peanuts) and i really want to make like an au with matt for them. should i?

also if you guys like the idea and say yes, comment or like this post and i’ll make a taglist!

THEY’RE SO CUTEEEE ☹️☹️☹️☹️

???

YESSSS MAKE THEM

no…. i hate the peanuts

make it for chris

Voting ended onJan 13, 2025

[gotham-at-nightfall]

V A D E R

By Brandon Ward

[rhaenyratargeryen]

Like father, like daughter

[discworldwitches]

[sergeantpixie]

@purplesigebert