monzie @iammonziee - Tumblr Blog

TOTALLY EDUCATIONAL — ! modern akotsk fanfic

part.02 I words count: 7.4k

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summary: her life starts falling apart, and in trying to fix it, she makes a wild plan that lands her drunk, out of her comfort zone and face to face with someone unexpected.

──── SHE WOKE UP TO THE SHARP vibration of her phone against the nightstand.

For a moment she didn't move. Her neck throbbed as she shifted slightly against the pillow, the dull ache running down into her shoulders. She winced, groaning quietly, and pressed her face deeper into the sheets as the phone buzzed again.

And again.

"Rowan..." she muttered hoarsely.

With a sigh, she forced herself to reach out, fingers blindly searching until she found the phone and dragged it toward her. The screen lit up painfully bright in the dim room.

ARE YOU ALIVE

She squinted at the screen, brain still sluggish with sleep.

yes

A reply came instantly.

good because i might not be

She let out a quiet huff of air, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hand before pushing herself slightly upright. The movement made her neck protest again and she winced.

Gods. Why did everything hurt? Fragments of last night flickered through her mind. Raymund driving. Rowan half-asleep and slumped dramatically against the car window. The streetlights passing in soft blurs.

And the crash.

Her stomach twisted faintly at the memory of it. And him.

She shook the thought away quickly and typed again.

what does that mean

Three dots appeared immediately.

my head hurts my dignity is gone and raymund told me you CRASHED MY CAR

She closed her eyes briefly.

Right. That.

YOU WERE DRUNK

IRRELEVANT

A small smile tugged at her mouth despite herself. She stretched slightly, rolling her shoulders before glancing at the top corner of the screen.

Her brain froze.

9:03 AM

She stared at it for a full second then bolted upright.

"Fuck."

Her shift. Her shift started at 8:30.

"Fuck, fuck fuck!"

She scrambled out of bed so fast the blanket tangled around her legs, nearly sending her crashing to the floor. Her phone slipped from her hand onto the mattress as she rushed toward the closet, already dragging a shirt over her head.

How had she slept this late?

Her heart was pounding now as she pulled on jeans, hair still a complete mess from sleep. Her mind raced through the consequences.

The bookstore opened early. Her boss hated lateness. And she needed this job desperately.

Rent didn't pay itself.

Her parents helped where they could, covering a part of the rent and sometimes groceries, but the rest was on her. Tuition, bills, everything else.

And being late was not a good look.

Her phone buzzed again on the bed.

Rowan.

She snatched it, quickly typing as she shoved her feet into her shoes.

I have to go I'm late to work

Another message came before she could even lock the screen.

WAIT WAS THE GUY HOT OR DID I HALLUCINATE THAT ???

She groaned under her breath, grabbing her bag and heading for the door.

Now was really not the time But despite herself, the memory flashed again.

The mismatched eyes. The freckles. That silver streak in his hair. And that ridiculous, devastating smile.

Heat crept up the back of her neck as she shoved the phone into her pocket.

"Focus," she muttered to herself, already rushing out the door.

She was late and the time she reached the bookstore, she felt every eye on her, though she knew it was probably just her imagination. Her hair was a tangled mess from rushing, no time for even a brush-through, and her face was bare; nothing to hide behind. She hadn’t even had time for the tiniest swipe of mascara.

Her outfit… well. Let’s just say it had been thrown together in a panic: a loose sweater over a tank top, jeans wrinkled from sleeping in them, sneakers instead of something slightly more “presentable.” She looked like she had wrestled her wardrobe in the dark and lost.

She groaned quietly, adjusting the bag on her shoulder as she stepped inside. The bell above the door jingled, announcing her arrival, and immediately the manager’s eyes flicked toward her.

“Late,” he said flatly, voice sharp enough to make her wince.

“I… I know,” she started, voice trembling slightly. “I- there was… a reason-”

Her boss held up a hand, cutting her off before she could finish. “It’s over,” he said flatly, eyes cold.

“What?” Her mouth fell open. “Over?”

“You don’t work here anymore,” he replied, crossing his arms. The words landed like a punch.

“No! No, no, no- wait!” she said, stepping forward, panic rising fast. “I need this job! I have rent to pay! I can’t- if I lose my apartment, I have to go back to my parents’ house, and the school… the one I want to get into… it’s too far! I’ll have to… I’ll have to abandon the whole idea!”

Her words tumbled out in a frantic rush, like a dam had burst. She could feel heat rushing to her cheeks, chest tightening, and her hands trembling slightly as she gripped the bag strap.

Her boss didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. Didn’t blink. “I said it’s over,” he repeated, voice flat, almost bored. “You were late. Again. I’m done explaining.”

She felt her knees weaken. “But I… please! I’ll do better! I’ll- just… don’t fire me please!”

He shook his head, stepping past her as if she wasn’t even there. “Rules are rules. I can’t have someone unreliable handling the store. You're fired.”

Her chest heaved and she pressed her fingers against her forehead, fighting back tears. She had worked so hard for everything; rent, bills, even her tiny apartment and now it was slipping through her fingers because of one bad morning.

Her thoughts raced. No, no, no… I can’t go back. I can’t. I can’t give up. I’ve worked my whole life for this school…

She stepped closer again, desperation clawing at her throat. “Please! I’ll do better, I promise! I’ll come early every day, I’ll-”

Her boss’s voice cut through hers, louder this time, sharp and unyielding. “Enough!”

She flinched, the volume shocking her. “Go back to your miserable parents’ house for all I care,” he snapped, eyes narrowing. “This is the third time this month. We needed someone reliable, not someone who shows up late and makes excuses!”

Her stomach dropped. Her apartment. The rent. The small, fragile life she had built for herself in King’s Landing. All of it felt like it was crumbling.

“I… I can’t!” she whispered, almost to herself. Her hands trembled around her bag strap, her voice barely audible. “I can’t go back there. I… I have to make this work. I… I have to get into the school!”

Her boss didn’t move, didn’t soften, didn’t even blink. “Then I suggest you start being reliable. But right now? You’re done. Go.”

She stared at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving, feeling trapped. Every plan she had, every small step toward her dreams, felt like it was slipping away, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

A lump formed in her throat. She pressed her hands to her face, trying not to cry in front of him. “I… I can’t lose this,” she whispered. “I just… I can’t…”

The bell above the door jingled behind her as her boss left, leaving her standing in the middle of the bookstore like she had been dropped into another world.

She sank slightly to the floor, staring at the ground. She had lost her job.

What could she do now? Rent wasn’t going to pay itself. In just a few weeks, the owner would come knocking if she couldn’t keep up, and then… she’d be forced to move back to her parents’ house. Far away. Too far to commute. Too far to chase her dream of getting into King’s Landing Journalist School.

Her chest tightened and her knees felt weak. It was like the world had tilted, leaving her sliding helplessly down a cliff she hadn’t seen until now. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, blurring her vision as she pushed herself upright.

She stepped outside into the harsh morning light, still trembling, the streets buzzing around her like a world moving forward without her. Fuck. How did it come to this? Why hadn’t she set an alarm? Why hadn’t she- anything? Why was she so stupid sometimes? Her thoughts tumbled, chaotic and unstoppable.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She barely registered it and kept walking, letting the cold air sting her cheeks. Another buzz. She pulled it out, almost afraid of what it might be.

Unregistered Number: Got home safely, no crash?

Her heart skipped. She froze mid step, phone in trembling hands.

Valarr.

Then the memory hit her like a punch: the crash, his car, Rowan’s car… the insurance. She didn’t have any. She didn’t have the money. She hadn’t even thought about it because last night had been a whirlwind, and now… oh fuck.

Her hands trembled violently as she gripped the phone tighter, chest hammering. She started walking again, faster now, panic clawing at her, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

The weight of everything pressed on her; lost job, rent, the apartment, the assignment, the school, the car crash. She felt like she was spiraling, powerless and completely alone.

And yet… the text glowed in her hands. A single line of calm amidst the chaos.

Got home safely, no crash?

She cursed herself silently and muttered under her breath: No. No, I didn’t. Not really. And I’m about to pay for it in so many ways.

By the time she finally reached what she could call home; though she’d only been here for less than a month, renting the tiny apartment she could barely afford, she felt utterly spent. She sank into the sagging cushions of her cheap sofa, letting her bag drop to the floor beside her. The memory of the bookstore, the crash, the assignment, Valarr’s text… it all hit her at once.

“How is life so… shit right now?” she muttered, voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers absently traced the worn fabric of the couch as if grounding herself would make any of this make sense.

The apartment smelled faintly of old books and leftover takeout, a mix that somehow felt fitting for the chaos of her life. She let her head fall back against the cushion, eyes staring at the ceiling, mind racing a mile a minute.

Rent. Her apartment. The bookstore job she’d just lost. The assignment for King’s Landing Journalist School. The Targaryens. The cars. Valarr. Aerion.

It was all too much.

Her phone buzzed again. She barely had the energy to pick it up, but when she did, the glow of the screen made her heart skip.

Just making sure you survived the morning.

She froze. Valarr again.

She bit her lip, staring at the message. She wanted to answer, to explain everything but the words tangled in her mind. How could she explain that she had lost her job and had no idea how she was going to pay it back and pay her rent without sounding completely incompetent?

She dropped the phone onto the couch beside her, letting it light up the dull room.

“Ugh,” she groaned, pressing her face into her hands. “How did it all get so… out of control?”

Her phone buzzed again. She picked it up, fingers shaking.

I called my insurance by the way. They said they can’t cover either car since I’m not held responsible for the accident. I’m really sorry.

She froze. Wait… what?

It clicked. She was responsible. Both cars. Rowan’s cheap hatchback and… his car.

Her chest tightened. That silver, perfect nightmare of a car; the one she had crashed, the one that gleamed like it had been built for a prince, maybe the prince of a whole city and now she had to pay for it. She didn’t even know how much that could cost.

She pressed her face into her hands, letting out a strangled groan. Her cheap apartment, her rent, the bookstore job she had just lost: everything was colliding in a chaotic mess. She couldn’t breathe for a moment.

Another message buzzed.

Will you manage?

She stared at the screen. Manage? How the hell could she manage this?

Her mind raced. I don’t even have insurance. I don’t know anything about cars. One of the two is worth more than my entire life savings. I… I can’t…

Rowan’s car would be fine, eventually she could pay her friend back but his car… his car…

She muttered under her breath, voice trembling, “How is this my life? How am I supposed to pay for both? One of them looks like it costs the price of a whole fucking city…”

Her fingers trembled as she typed, every word feeling absurdly heavy.

Yes it’s fine.

She hit send before she could stop herself.

Immediately, panic clawed at her chest. Fine? Nothing is fine. She could already feel her pulse racing, her stomach twisting into knots. How was she supposed to manage this?

Without thinking, she grabbed her phone again and dialed Rowan’s number.

It rang twice before Rowan answered, voice still groggy and carrying that unmistakable hangover drawl.

“Hello? Hello! Who is this?!”

“It’s me, Rowan! I need- no, I desperately need your help,” she blurted out, voice shaking.

“What happened?!” Rowan’s voice suddenly sharp, alert.

“I- It’s the cars! Both of them! His… and yours! I don’t have insurance! I… I don’t even know how much the damage is!” She felt tears prick her eyes, frustration and panic bubbling over.

Rowan groaned loudly on the other end. “Ohhh… Shit. Okay, okay, calm down. We’ll figure this out. Just… breathe. Tell me everything from the start.”

She sank further into the sofa, hugging her knees. “I… I don’t even know where to start. His car- Rowan, it looked like it cost the price of a whole fucking city. I… I’m screwed.”

There was a long pause on the line then Rowan sighed, a little exasperated but clearly still awake enough to take charge. “Alright. First, slow down. Second… you’re not dead yet. Third, we make a plan. And yes, that means me helping you pay. Don’t panic. We’ll start there.”

She let out a shaky laugh, half sobbing, half relieved. “I… I don’t even know how I’m going to survive this week.”

“Of course you’ll survive,” Rowan said firmly. “Don’t be stupid. You always do.”

She shook her head, feeling the panic clawing back. “No, Rowan… this is different. I lost my job today, my apartment’s barely holding together, the cars- everything! My life is a fucking mess. I don’t even know if I should… just disappear or… or die.”

There was a sharp, shocked intake of breath on the other end. “Whoa. Whoa, don’t say shit like that! You scare me.”

“I’m scared too,” she admitted quietly, pressing the phone to her ear like it could somehow hold her together.

Rowan’s voice softened, but the mischief was still there. “I have a plan.”

Her brow furrowed. “A plan? There’s no damn plan that can fix… everything.”

“Yes, there is,” Rowan said, tone sly. “Why don’t you… find a rich husband?”

“Please, Rowan,” she groaned, “this is not the moment. I mean, jokes really?”

“I’m not joking,” Rowan said firmly. “Well… maybe the husband part, but think about it. What good is a guy if he can’t buy you things or give you money?”

She stayed silent, blinking at the ceiling as if it might offer an answer.

“Don’t you get it?” Rowan pressed.

“No…” she whispered, voice small.

“Find a fucking guy who has money and is stupid enough to give it to you,” Rowan said, almost shouting, excitement bubbling through the line.

“Who the fuck is stupid and rich?” she muttered, incredulous.

“You know damn well,” Rowan replied, voice dripping with amusement.

Her stomach dropped. She stared at the ceiling. “…Oh no. You’re not serious…”

“Yes. I am serious,” Rowan said, her voice sharp but steady.

She groaned, pressing the phone against her temple. “I’m not talking to him again. The first time was humiliating enough. This… this is the last time. I’m not going to beg him for money.”

“Do you want to keep your apartment? Secure a place in your dream school?” Rowan shot back, tone sudden, urgent.

“…Yes?” she whispered, voice trembling.

“Then fucking act!” Rowan shouted, a little wild but filled with conviction. “Who the hell cares if it’s embarrassing? Your future is on the line, genius. Your entire future!”

Her chest heaved, panic still tugging at her, but Rowan’s words hit something deep. The fear, the shame, the embarrassment; it was nothing compared to losing her dreams. Losing her apartment. Losing the one shot she had at King’s Landing Journalist School.

She took a shaky breath, sitting up straighter on the sofa. “…Okay,” she muttered, more to herself than to Rowan. “…Okay. I’ll… do it.”

“Good,” Rowan said, triumphant. “That’s my girl. Now get your ass together. Make a plan. And remember, the world doesn’t give a damn if you blush like a fool. You do this, or everything else falls apart. Got it?”

“…Got it,” she whispered, trying to steady her shaking hands.

Rowan laughed softly. “Good. Now breathe, get your brain in gear, and go fix this mess. And yes… that means him too.”

Her stomach twisted again, a mix of dread and determination. It was terrifying. Absolutely mortifying. But there was no other choice.

Her future depended on it.

──── ROWAN HAD, OF COURSE, been very helpful once she committed to the idea.

Apparently, Rowan had squeezed the information out of Raymund earlier that day of where he might be tonight, what places he usually went to, what kind of crowd he hung around.

“Just do the same thing you did last night,” Rowan had said confidently over the phone. “Wear something attention-grabbing. Something that doesn’t make you look like everyone else.”

Which was exactly how she ended up standing in front of her mirror an hour later, staring at herself like she had just possessed someone else’s body.

Her wardrobe… was not exactly designed for this.

Most of her clothes screamed underpaid bookstore employee who drinks tea and reads investigative journalism essays, not dangerously confident woman with a mysterious agenda.

But Rowan’s wardrobe?

That was another story.

She looked down at herself again.

The black skirt was… scandalously short. Rowan’s, obviously. She had never worn it, and now she understood why; it was slightly too small and rode up every time she breathed.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself, tugging it down. “Great start.”

The neon pink crop top was somehow worse.

It practically screamed I am a horny bitch, which… was not exactly the message she had intended. She had been going for something closer to charming and mysterious woman who might flirt for financial stability.

Still.

Too late now.

Under it, the push-up bra Rowan had insisted on made her chest look… frankly suspicious.

She tilted her head at the mirror.

“…When did I even have that much cleavage?” she murmured.

The black heeled boots also borrowed from Rowan made her taller and forced her posture straighter. Her hair fell in loose curls down her shoulders, and the makeup was heavier than anything she had ever worn: eyeliner sharp, mascara thick, contour dramatic, lipstick bold.

She blinked at her reflection.

“Will he even recognize me?” she asked the empty room.

The girl in the mirror definitely didn’t look like the one who had crashed two cars and lost her job twelve hours ago.

She looked… dangerous. Or at least like she was trying to look dangerous.

She struck a pose. Hip out. Chin up.

“…I’m a sexy bitch who needs money,” she declared to her reflection.

Then she immediately burst into laughter.

“Oh my god, I can’t do this.”

She tried again, straightening. Hand on hip with a slow, confident smile.

“I am mysterious,” she whispered dramatically. “And possibly expensive.”

Pause.

“…But also deeply in debt.”

She groaned, covering her face.

“This is a disaster.”

But when she lowered her hands, the girl in the mirror was still there: tall boots, bold makeup, scandalous skirt, neon pink confidence.

And beneath the embarrassment, beneath the ridiculousness of the situation, there was something else. Determination.

She grabbed her bag, took one last look at herself, and pointed at the mirror.

“Okay,” she told her reflection firmly. “You are a sexy bitch who needs money.”

A beat.

“…And tonight you’re going to go get it.”

Of course, the place Rowan had sent her to was not somewhere quiet, classy, or remotely appropriate for someone who had spent most of her life shelving books and drinking cheap tea.

No. It was a nightclub. Not just any nightclub either; King’s Landing’s biggest one.

She had heard Rowan talk about it for months. Mostly in the form of dramatic retellings over cheap noodles.

"The guys there are insanely hot," Rowan had once declared, pointing her chopsticks like she was giving a lecture. "Like criminally hot. Honestly, if I didn’t have a boyfriend I’d fuck half of them. Maybe more."

At the time she had laughed, assuming Rowan was exaggerating. Now, standing a block away from the glowing neon lights and the thumping bass she could already feel through the pavement…

She suspected Rowan might not have been exaggerating at all.

She had only ever been to a nightclub once before. Rowan had practically dragged her there, insisting it would be “character development.”

It had not been character development... It had been loud, sweaty, overwhelming and she had spent most of the night awkwardly holding a drink while Rowan disappeared with strangers on the dance floor.

She hadn’t loved it but tonight was different. Tonight Rowan wasn’t forcing her, she was forcing herself.

So she adjusted the tiny black skirt that still felt illegal to wear in public, shoved her headphones deeper into her ears and started walking.

People stared. Of course they did. The neon pink top alone could probably be seen from space. A group of guys walking past did a very obvious double take. Someone whistled but ignored them all.

Her music blasted in her ears; songs she normally would never listen to. Loud, confident, shameless music. The kind Rowan called “main character energy.”

Normally she preferred quiet playlists and investigative podcasts. But tonight she was, apparently, a sexy bitch who needed money so she had to commit to the role.

She walked all the way to the entrance like that, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in her stomach. The line outside the club was long, glowing under purple lights. Music pulsed through the walls like a heartbeat.

When she reached the door, the bouncer barely glanced at her before gesturing to the payment.

She paid and the moment the last of her coins disappeared from her account, the reality hit her.

That was it. Her last money.

“Great,” she muttered under her breath. “No pressure.”

Then the doors opened and the sound hit her. The music inside was loud.

Not just loud; violently loud. Bass shook the floor. Lights flashed in electric blues and pinks. The air smelled like perfume, alcohol, and something vaguely expensive.

The crowd was massive. People dancing. Laughing. Bodies moving together in a chaotic blur.

For a moment she just stood there, blinking, slightly stunned.

“Okay,” she murmured to herself.

Then she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and stepped further inside.

The crowd swallowed her almost immediately. Bodies everywhere. Moving. Grinding. Laughing.

She blinked in disbelief. How were people even dancing when they were packed this close together? It felt suffocating, like the air itself was thick with heat and noise.

The bass vibrated through the floor, up her legs, straight into her ribs.

“Okay… okay…” she muttered under her breath, trying to squeeze past a group of girls who were dancing like they had forgotten gravity existed.

She murmured apologies every few seconds.

“Sorry sorry excuse me, sorry-”

But she doubted anyone could hear her. The music was so loud it felt like it was living inside her skull.

People stared as she pushed through the crowd. Some looked casually curious. Some looked… very curious. A few men openly eyed her in a way that made her skin prickle; slow glances from head to toe, lingering a little too long on the skirt, the neon pink top, the suspicious amount of boobs.

One guy raised his eyebrows at her in a way that was so blatantly sexual she nearly tripped over someone’s foot. She pretended she hadn’t noticed and kept moving.

Eventually she reached something resembling the center of the dance floor and stopped, standing there awkwardly while everyone else kept moving around her like water around a rock.

She tried to look confident. She was fairly certain she looked like a confused flamingo. A guy appeared beside her a minute later. Tall. Dark hair. Smiling a little too smoothly.

“Hey,” he leaned close to her ear to be heard over the music. “You want a drink?”

“No thanks!” she shouted back.

He grinned wider. “Come on.”

“I’m good!”

He didn’t move. Instead he lifted the cup he was holding, clearly trying again. “Just one.”

He was being very, very insistent. She stared at him for two seconds then she sighed, grabbed the cup from his hand, and downed the entire thing in one go. The alcohol burned like liquid fire down her throat.

She coughed once, wiped her mouth, and handed the empty cup back. “I drank it now move the fuck away now,” she told him.

The guy blinked then he chuckled, clearly amused, raised his hands in surrender, and disappeared back into the crowd.

She exhaled slowly as the alcohol settled in her stomach like a small explosion. Gods, that had been strong. But honestly? She didn’t complain. If anything, the burning warmth helped slightly with the overwhelming chaos of the room.

She straightened again and scanned the crowd. Silver hair. That was what she needed. Except under the flashing lights, purple, blue, pink, red everyone’s hair looked like every color imaginable.

People kept moving. Dancing. Blocking her view.

She turned in a slow circle, trying to spot something familiar. Nothing.

“Great,” she muttered.

She tried asking a few people. Or at least she attempted to.

“Have you seen-”

“What?”

“A guy with-”

“Huh??”

“…Never mind.”

The music swallowed every word she said. She tried again with someone else. No success. After ten minutes she had accomplished absolutely nothing except getting elbowed twice and stepped on once.

She groaned quietly. How the hell was she supposed to find one person in this ocean of bodies?

After a while, she stopped trying.

The alcohol was starting to crawl through her system now, warm and dizzying, like her brain had been dipped in something soft and slow. The noise didn’t feel quite as violent anymore. The lights didn’t stab her eyes quite as badly.

Instead everything felt… distant. Floaty. Like she was slightly above the floor rather than standing on it and suddenly, she realized something strange. Nobody cared. Nobody cared about the neon pink top she was wearing that showed half her boobs. Nobody cared about the ridiculous skirt. Nobody cared that she probably looked like a hooker.

Everyone here looked like a bad decision and the thought made her laugh. Actually laugh.

A loud, slightly hysterical laugh that disappeared instantly into the music. “Fuck my life!” she screamed suddenly, throwing her arms up toward the flashing lights.

No one reacted which somehow made it even funnier because really, what was left? She wouldn’t find him. She wouldn’t get the money. She wouldn’t fix the cars. She wouldn’t get into her dream school.

So fine. Fine.

Tonight she would stop thinking. Tonight she would let herself breathe.

Tomorrow could ruin everything but tonight… Tonight she would dance. And so she did.

At first awkwardly then less awkwardly then recklessly.

The bass pounded through her ribs as she moved with the crowd, bodies pressing against her from every direction. She danced with strangers, laughing breathlessly as the room spun in flashes of pink and blue.

Guys moved close to her, too close. Sometimes she felt hands wandering under the edge of her skirt, sometimes fingers brushed her waist. Her thighs. Her back. Her ass.

Normally she would have shoved them away but tonight she barely processed it. She was too drunk to care. Too drunk to even really notice the faces around her.

People talked to her, flirted with her, pulled her into dancing but everything blurred together into one chaotic stream of noise and movement and heat.

She was a mess. A complete, ridiculous mess.

At some point she wasn’t sure when she kissed someone. Just suddenly a guy leaning close, shouting something in her ear and then she was kissing him. Messy and sloppy. Like the way Rowan kissed Raymund when she was drunk; too much saliva, teeth bumping, skin pressed too close together.

She pulled away laughing then someone else kissed her then another. It all blurred together into a ridiculous, dizzying loop of music and bodies and alcohol.

She felt disgusting and strangely free at the same time.

Like none of it mattered. Like she had stepped outside of her real life for a few hours.

At one point, strong hands suddenly wrapped around her waist from behind, pulling her backward through the crowd.

She let it happen. Why not? Her head lolled slightly as she leaned back against whoever it was.

A voice spoke close to her ear. “What are you doing here?”

The words barely reached her through the haze. She blinked slowly, trying to process them but her brain didn’t bother. “Shut up,” she slurred, turning toward him clumsily. “And kiss me.”

But the guy didn’t move, didn’t lean closer, didn’t kiss her. She blinked again, trying to focus on his face. It was blurry under the flashing lights.

Dark. Silver. Familiar? Her brain struggled to catch up.

“I said,” she shouted loudly, grabbing the front of his shirt to steady herself, “fucking kiss me!”

Still he didn’t kiss her. The realization came slowly, pushing through the haze of alcohol and noise in her head. For a moment she just stared at him, blinking like the world had glitched.

Nobody had refused her all night. Not the first guy, not the second, not the third. But this one just stood there, unmoving, his hands still around her waist to keep her from tipping over as the crowd shoved past them.

“You’re drunk,” he said. His voice was calm, almost bored, but close enough to her ear that she heard it despite the music.

She squinted up at him, offended. “Yes,” she replied, like that explained everything. “Which means you should kiss me.”

“That’s not how it works.”

She frowned deeply at that, as if trying to solve a complicated math problem. “Well it should,” she muttered.

The music pulsed around them, the crowd shifting and pressing like waves, but he didn’t move. His hands stayed firm on her waist, keeping her upright while she swayed slightly in place.

He studied her for a moment before asking, “Why are you drunk?”

She blinked at him, then let out a small laugh that sounded more tired than amused. “Because life is shit,” she said simply.

He didn’t argue with that. In fact, he gave a small, almost thoughtful nod. “Fair enough.”

Encouraged by what she interpreted as agreement, she leaned closer, grabbing the collar of his shirt with one hand and tugging him toward her.

“See?” she said triumphantly. “You understand me. Now kiss-”

He turned his head just in time and her lips met empty air.

She froze for a second, then slowly pulled back, blinking at him in confusion. “…Why did you dodge?” she demanded.

“Because you’re drunk.”

“So?”

“And you’ve probably kissed half the club tonight.”

She straightened a little at that, looking deeply offended. “Excuse you,” she corrected, raising three fingers in front of his face. “Only three.”

He glanced at her raised hand. “That’s more than enough,” he replied flatly. “You don’t need to add another one.”

She squinted at him suspiciously. “Why do you care? Nobody in this club fucking cares,” she continued, gesturing vaguely around them. “Everyone’s kissing everyone Everyone's fucking everyone. It’s like… a public service.”

His mouth twitched faintly, though whether it was amusement or disbelief was hard to tell.

She leaned closer again, peering up at him like she was trying to read a very confusing book. “Who are you?” she asked.

That seemed to surprise him as his brows drew together slightly. “You don’t remember me?”

She stared at him. Really stared this time, her drunken brain trying very hard to cooperate.

She leaned in closer, squinting. “…Should I?” she asked slowly.

He stared at her for another second, as if deciding something then, without a word, he grabbed her wrist.

She yelped in surprise. “Hey- what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. He just started moving. And because the crowd was thick and she was still very drunk, she stumbled after him whether she wanted to or not.

“Hey! Wait-” she protested, trying to pull her hand back, but his grip was firm and unbothered by her attempts. “Where are you taking me?!”

He pushed through the crowd with the kind of ease that suggested he was used to this place, people parting just enough as he guided her along behind him. She bumped into shoulders, nearly tripped twice, and spent most of the journey trying to keep her balance in the ridiculous boots.

“Excuse me- sorry- hey!” she kept saying, though she wasn’t sure anyone heard.

Eventually the crowd began to thin.

The music was still loud, but less suffocating. The air felt cooler, the flashing lights dimmer as they moved toward the hallway that led to the restrooms. He finally stopped outside one of the doors and before she could ask anything else, he pulled it open and guided her inside.

Her brain, already operating on half capacity, immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion.

“Oh! Wait- wait, wait, wait-!” she blurted, trying to brace her feet against the floor. “I tried to kiss you, yes, but that doesn’t mean I want to do anything sexual with you!”

She was babbling now, words spilling out faster than she could think.

“I mean not that you’re ugly or anything, you’re actually very... well, I can’t see properly but still! That’s not the point! I just don't wanna fuck-”

The door closed behind them with a solid click and she stopped mid-sentence.

Her eyes lifted and immediately widened. Because standing by the sinks, leaning casually against the counter like he had been there the whole time, was a man she recognized instantly.

Tall. Sharp and completely unmistakable. Silver hair catching the harsh bathroom lights.

Her heart dropped straight into her stomach. “Oh-”

The alcohol fog in her brain shattered like glass. “Oh no.”

Her gaze snapped back to the man who had dragged her in here then back to the silver-haired one then back again.

Panic spread across her face. “…Oh my god.”

He crossed his arms and tilted his head, the faint smirk returning to his lips. “Recognize me now?” he asked.

Her cheeks flamed hot, heat spreading all the way up her neck. Of course she did. Totally, undeniably. The thought nearly made her stumble.

Totally fuckeable Aerion Targaryen… right here, standing in front of her, in a bathroom, once again. And somehow, this time, it was worse. She was wearing less than the last time, drunker than ever, hair loose and falling over her shoulders. The neon pink crop top practically screamed at the ceiling and the skirt… she couldn’t even think about it without cringing.

“I… I needed… I needed to find you,” she stammered, clinging to her balance and trying to sound somewhat coherent.

He raised an eyebrow, exhaling slowly. “Right… And what exactly do you want from me now? Are you going to ask me some dumb ass questions like the last time?” His tone was sharp and he already started to turn away.

“No! No, it’s not about that!” she blurted, grabbing his shoulder firmly, almost desperately. “I’m not here to interview you. I’m not going to ask stupid questions, I swear! It’s… it’s something else!”

He paused mid-step, flicking her a look of mixed curiosity and boredom.

“Yes!” she blurted, almost spilling her drink of courage in her hand. “I… I just… I need help.”

He straightened fully, sighing sharply, annoyance clear in the lines of his face. Tired, too she noted the faint dark shadows under his eyes.

“Help? Why the fuck would I help you?” he snapped, voice low.

“I… I need… money,” she admitted, voice trembling despite the bravado.

He scoffed, a sharp, humorless sound that made her stomach twist. “Of course. Another dumb bitch trying to use me for money. I should’ve guessed,” he muttered, shaking his head, already shifting to leave.

“Wait!” she barked, grabbing his arm more firmly this time. The grip was desperate. “I… I don’t want money to buy clothes or makeup or whatever people do with free money! It’s… it’s for a good cause.”

He froze for a fraction of a second, brows knitting. She hesitated, then plunged ahead, words tumbling out too fast to edit.

“My life… it’s… it’s completely crumbled today,” she started, voice shaking. “I lost my job, I’m about to get kicked out of my apartment, I… I crashed two cars- one of them really expensive and I have no insurance, no money, no plan. If I don’t fix things… I can’t even get into King’s Landing Journalist School. Everything I’ve worked for- gone!”

She gulped, gripping his arm like a lifeline. “I’m… I really need your help.”

He tilted his head slightly, dark eyes narrowing, clearly unimpressed. “You think I’m a charity worker?” he asked, voice flat. “Fuck off. You’re not getting my money.”

She shook her head, panic threatening to overwhelm her. “Wait! Listen!” she insisted. “I… I need your help as much as you need mine.”

He raised an eyebrow, expression sharp, incredulous. “Why the fuck would I need your help?”

She gulped, trying to steady herself, and blurted out, “Please… don’t get mad, but… I, uh… I Googled you. Like… four hours last night.”

His eyes narrowed sharply and she panicked instantly. “Wait! No, no, I’m not a freak! Not a stalker! I was just… desperate!”

She pressed on, words tumbling over each other. “I read… I mean, I don’t know if it’s reliable, but… that you’ve been involved in… scandals.”

He rolled his eyes, a long, exasperated sigh escaping him. “Of course. Great. Here we go again.”

She ignored him, pressing further. “I know you’ve had problems… with drugs, alcohol, sex… and that your family… your family is very powerful.” She paused, blinking rapidly. “I… I’m sorry if it’s not true, what I read. That would be… super embarrassing but… uhh… I read that you’ve never been with a woman properly,” she added quickly, stumbling over her words. “I mean… in a real relationship. Not hookers, not...uh, anything like that… real girls.”

He arched an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, but said nothing.

“So… here’s the idea,” she rushed on, voice shaky but determined. “I could… be with you… for good image. Help you fix your… reputation. And in return… you give me the money I need to… fix things. Seems… fair?”

He blinked at her, annoyance and disbelief clear in the tilt of his head, but a small smirk threatened the corners of his mouth. Then he let out a mocking laugh.

“You think I need help with my image?” he asked, tone dripping with amusement and exasperation. “Fuck. You’re stupid.”

He leaned closer, lowering his voice, sharp and precise. “I don’t want your stupid ass talking about my scandals or whatever. Got it?”

She should have been embarrassed, hurt, maybe even intimidated but the alcohol and adrenaline made her braver than she thought. She shot back without thinking, voice rushing out in a heated blur.

“Well, maybe I am stupid! But at least I’m not lying to get your money!”

She realized she’d raised her voice a bit too loud, the music outside pounding through the bathroom walls, but she didn’t care. Her chest heaved, words tumbling out before she could stop them.

“You don’t get to talk to me like I’m nothing!” she snapped, stepping closer, hands shaking. “You don’t have to be such an ass with me! I’m just… struggling! I need a way out, and you don’t even know what that feels like! My life… my life is about to get fucking ruined and now when I’m trying to find solutions, I get talked to like I’m nothing! You know how that feels?”

He blinked at her, expression unreadable for a split second. Then, cold, sharp without hesitation: “No I don't know how that feels but maybe you should’ve been less stupid in the first place, then none of this would’ve happened!”

Something inside her snapped and before she even realized it, her hand shot out.

Slap.

The sound echoed in the small bathroom. She froze immediately, staring at her own hand as if it had betrayed her.

Aerion Targaryen. The same Aerion Targaryen whose family owned FireTube, who probably had enough money to buy the world and she had just slapped him.

He stared at her, expression unreadable at first and then slowly lifted a hand to touch the side of his face.

Her heart plummeted. “…Oh… fuck,” she muttered, cheeks heating so fast she felt like she might combust.

He didn’t move, didn’t yell, didn’t hit back. He just looked at her annoyed, maybe slightly impressed, and undeniably calculating as if weighing the absurdity of the situation against the sheer audacity of her.

Her legs felt weak. She pressed her hands against the counter, trying to steady herself. “I… I’m so sorry,” she stammered, chest rising and falling far too quickly, breaths coming out loud and ragged. “…I… I slapped you, right?” she asked, voice cracking, almost like she was laughing at herself through the panic.

He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t answer. But she knew. She had slapped him.

Her stomach twisted. She was making her life even more miserable than it already was. And gods… if she could just disappear, she would. Right now.

She lifted her gaze to his face, expecting anger, a glare, maybe even a slap in return. Anything to match the chaos in her mind.

But… there was nothing. Nothing at all.

Just… him. Calm. Controlled. And yes… hot. Ridiculously, devastatingly, impossibly hot. Smoking. 'Fuckable'. Rowans’s words echoed somewhere in her head, and she internally cursed herself for thinking about that right now.

She blinked, stomach twisting further. “Aren’t you… gonna say something? Talk back? Raise your voice at me? Slap me back?”

He shook his head slowly. Calm. Unmoved.

Her brows furrowed. “…Why?” she asked, voice quivering. “I- just a second ago I was acting like a complete bitch, I shouldn’t have-”

“Stop talking,” he interrupted, cutting her off with a calm, firm edge that made her pause mid-sentence. “You talk too much.”

She froze, blinking at him. Panicking, flustered, and somehow, more aware of him than she had been a second ago. “…I… I’m sorry,” she whispered, heart hammering. “I really am…”

Aerion sighed. Not dramatically, not angrily; just tired. Like the whole situation had drained something out of him.

He glanced down for a moment, then reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cigarette. The movement was familiar. Almost identical to the last time they had ended up together in a bathroom.

He placed it between his lips and lit it without a word.

For a few seconds, the only sound was the faint click of the lighter and the distant thump of music outside.

She watched him.

Gods.

He looked… unfair. The harsh bathroom lights caught the pale strands of his hair, making the silver almost glow. It framed his face perfectly, sharp features carved like something unreal. Too perfect. Too composed. Way too hot to exist in the same messy world she lived in.

Her brain, traitorous as ever, supplied Rowan’s voice again.

Fuckable.

Yes. Extremely.

He took a slow drag from the cigarette, the ember glowing briefly, then exhaled toward the ceiling. Only then did he speak.

“How much do you need?”

The question hit her so suddenly she blinked. “What?”

He looked at her briefly, unimpressed. “Money. How much.”

She opened her mouth. Closed it again. She actually… had no idea.

“…A lot?” she said weakly.

He didn’t react. Not even a little. He simply took another drag from the cigarette, considering something for a moment before giving a small nod, like that answer had somehow been sufficient.

Then he spoke again. “When are we starting?”

She blinked again, slower this time. “…Starting what?”

He lowered the cigarette slightly and looked at her like the answer was painfully obvious.

“Faking dating,” he said flatly. “When are we starting?”

Her brain completely short-circuited.

“Wha- what?” she whispered, mouth opening, then closing again as if the words might escape and betray her.

“Dating,” he repeated, calm, sharp. “Fake dating. Isn’t that the plan? You said you’d help my image. So when do we start being… girlfriend and boyfriend, or whatever shit you call it?”

Her stomach dropped. Her head spun. Aerion Targaryen… dating? Fake or not, the absurdity of it hit her full force.

“…You… you mean me?” she stammered, almost laughing through the panic. “You… want me to… to…?”

He gave a flat look, cigarette dangling from his lips, perfectly patient and maddeningly calm. “Yes. You. Or were you lying the whole time ?”

She blinked, trying to process it, heart hammering in her chest. The situation was ridiculous, funny, terrifying… all at once.

“…Gods,” she muttered under her breath. “…Fake dating Aerion Targaryen. My life… my life is a complete disaster.”

He raised a brow, unimpressed, like he was waiting for her to collapse into incoherent babbling.

“No! I mean… yes? I didn’t… not mean it that way!” she rushed out, words tumbling over each other. Her cheeks burned hotter than ever.

She cleared her throat, took a shaky breath, and tried to straighten herself. “…We’re starting dating… tomorrow,” she said, forcing the words out like a declaration.

He studied her for a long moment, eyes sharp, cigarette forgotten between his fingers. “…Tomorrow,” he repeated, almost like testing her, his tone flat but deliberate.

“Yes,” she said quickly, nodding, biting her lip. “Tomorrow. We officially become girlfriend and… boyfriend.”

He let out a low hum of acknowledgment, expression still unreadable, though she could swear she caught the faintest flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Her stomach churned, panic and absurd excitement mixing, as she realized just how completely ridiculous and yet enviable her life had become. Fake dating Aerion Targaryen. Tomorrow.

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