✮ daria ;3

21 ✮ she/her ✮ it's so confusing sometimes...to be a girl

[amorieile]

CAUGHT IN A LOUSY WEB! ⸝⸝ oneshot

SUMMARY. . . You'd made a habit out of chasing Spider-Man across the city, phone in hand with your heart in your throat, just to catch a glimpse of him. Peter knew it was stupidly reckless. He also knew he should have stopped encouraging it. But when you look at him in that way, something in him gives way.

pairing: peter parker/spiderman x reader

content warnings: reckless behavior, kinda stalker-ish behavior, reader repeatedly chasing active crime scenes, danger, explosions, injuries, blood, peter parker being chronically stressed, near-death experience, protective spider-man, arguing, down bad pining, emotional vulnerability, identity secrecy, tracking apps, disastrous flirting, light hurt/comfort, panic and fear, bruises and minor injuries, kissing, making out, masked kisses, peter parker's severe boundary issues & reader's even worse self-preservation instincts, accidental emotional confessions, possessive undertones, references to violence and crime, PLEASE MDNI! 18+, smut. creampies, cockwarming, degradation/praise, dirty talk, doggy style, dry humping, groping, hair pulling, marking/biting, missionary, multiple rounds, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, rough sex, secret identities (mask stays ON! until it doesn't), sensory deprivation (m!&f!), sensory overload (m!&f!), slight manhandling, teasing, unprotected p in v sex, lmk if i missed anything!

comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !

w/c: 13k (she's a big girl im sry </3)

a/n: big credits to @rip-quizilla who gave me the idea for this, and all my other friends/moots who helped me spent so long watching me lose my mind over finishing this. guys, please do NOT do anything you see in this fic, this is purely for fictional purposes sakes 😭

The first time you saw Spider-Man in person, you hadn't meant to follow him.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

You had been two blocks from the laundromat, carrying a plastic bag of warm clothes against your hip while your phone buzzed violently in your hand. The tracking app had lit up with a sudden red pulse near Delancey, a messy little cluster of comments flooding beneath it.

SPIDEY NEAR ESSEX. CAR CHASE??

NO WAY HE JUST FLIPPED OVER A BUS!

You had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone had muttered behind you annoyed, and stepped around your laundry bag. The city kept moving in every direction, yellow cabs pushing through the intersection, steam curling from a grate, somebody laughing too loudly outside a bodega. But your attention had narrowed to that blinking dot.

You had only meant to look. Just for a second. Just to see if the app was accurate, because people exaggerated online all the time and half the sightings turned out to be drones, cosplayers, or blurry red jackets photographed from four avenues away.

Then something had swung overhead.

A blur of red and blue cut between the buildings, so quick your breath caught before your mind could name him. The air shifted with him. People on the sidewalk looked up in scattered bursts, phones rising, mouths open, one man yelling, “Yo! Spider-Man!” like he was calling to a friend across the street.

You had craned your neck so hard it hurt.

He landed on the side of a brick building as if gravity had simply made an exception for him. One hand stuck to the wall, knees bent, white lenses angling down toward the street. Below him, a black SUV fishtailed hard around the corner, its bumper half-torn loose, sparks spitting from beneath the frame.

Spider-Man pushed off the wall.

Your bag split somewhere behind you. A white sock escaped onto the curb. You didn't bother going back for it.

You had run.

Not toward the SUV exactly, because you were not stupid enough to run into traffic on purpose. Not then, at least. But you ran in the same direction, weaving through pedestrians, shoes slapping pavement, pulse climbing higher with every shout and honk. 

By the time you reached the next block, the SUV was webbed to a lamppost, the driver was dangling upside down from a fire escape, and Spider-Man was crouched on top of a dented mailbox with one hand pressed to his ribs.

He looked smaller up close than you expected. Not small, exactly, but strangely human. 

Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling. Suit scuffed dark along one thigh. A tear near his side showed a thin line of skin beneath before he twisted away from the cameras.

You stood behind the police tape with everyone else, hair sticking to your face, lungs burning, and one sock missing from your laundry life forever.

He turned his head.

For half a second, those white lenses landed on you.

You knew he couldn't have recognized you. There was nothing to recognize. You were just another girl in a city full of people who wanted to see a miracle and then post about it before the adrenaline wore off.

Still, your stomach dropped.

Then he lifted two fingers in a quick salute to the crowd, shot a web, and vanished between buildings.

You downloaded two more tracking apps that night.

After that, seeing him became less of an accident and more of a bad habit you pretended was harmless.

You learned the patterns the way other people learned train delays. Robberies traveled fast through comment sections. Sirens became invitations. Helicopters meant something serious. If three different users posted the same grainy red-blue blur within five minutes, you grabbed your jacket before the app could refresh again.

Sometimes you missed him completely and arrived only in time to see cops clearing debris or tourists replaying videos at full volume. Sometimes you caught him from far away, a streak against the gray of the sky, no closer than a rumor. But sometimes you got lucky.

Lucky meant standing across from a jewelry store with shattered glass glittering over the sidewalk while he webbed a man’s wrists to a parking meter.

Lucky meant watching him swing down to stop a delivery cyclist from being clipped by a fleeing van.

Lucky meant hearing him talk.

That was the part nobody could capture right in videos. The way he sounded in person. Younger than the headlines made him, sharper when he was annoyed, and funny even when he was clearly in pain. He filled dangerous moments with words, like if he talked fast enough nobody had time to panic.

“Okay, so, quick note,” he told a guy holding a crowbar outside a pawn shop one wet Thursday evening, “if your getaway plan involves running directly into a bike lane during rush hour, I do think maybe crime isn’t your strongest career path.”

The guy swung at him.

Spider-Man ducked, webbed the crowbar to a street sign, and added, “Oh-kay, so that was a growth opportunity that you just missed.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

His head snapped toward you.

You were standing too close. Not past the tape, not exactly in the line of fire, but close enough that a cop had already told you twice to move back. Rain dotted your cheeks. Your hood kept sliding off. Your phone was clutched against your chest, recording nothing because you had forgotten to press the button.

Spider-Man stared at you for one beat too long.

Then he pointed at you.

“You,” the words were barely clear to your ears. 

Your face warmed so fast it felt humiliating. “Me?”

“Yes, you. With the…” He gestured vaguely at your entire existence. “The enthusiastic crime tourism thing.”

A few people nearby turned to look at you. Someone snorted. You should have been embarrassed enough to leave. Instead, you smiled.

“You noticed?”

His lenses narrowed. Somehow, they managed to look exhausted. “That is not the takeaway I was hoping for.”

You lifted your chin as if that proved something to him. “I’m behind the tape.”

“You are practically dating the damn tape.”

“I respect boundary lines!”

His tone turned slightly incredulous. “You followed a man with a crowbar into a rainstorm.”

The correction came quickly on your lips. “I followed you.”

“That is relatively worse.”

It should have ended there. He should have swung away and become a story you told yourself later, replaying every word until the edges wore smooth. But the man webbed to the street sign started yelling about unlawful restraint, the cops moved in, and Spider-Man hopped backward onto the side of a parked van.

Before he left, he looked down at you again.

“Go home,” he said as if you needed the reminder. 

You had grinned like an idiot. “Will you be there?”

There was a pause.

Not long, just enough for him to register the line, process it, and decide he absolutely did not want to touch it.

“Nope,” he sighed, voice flatter than before. “Wow. Okay. Definitely go home.”

Then he was gone, leaving you with rain in your eyelashes and the distinct, dangerous realization that Spider-Man could be flustered.

Peter remembered you after that.

He didn't mean to.

He remembered plenty of people in flashes: New York was made of recurring characters if you paid attention long enough.

But you, you became hard not to notice.

You were at the edge of too many scenes, always just outside safety, and always pretending you had arrived by coincidence while breathing like you had sprinted ten blocks. Sometimes your hair was pulled back messily. Sometimes you wore work shoes that were really not made for running. Once, you showed up with a grocery bag still looped around your wrist, and had a bunch of cilantro sticking out the top while an armored car smoked behind you.

He saw the app open on your phone once when he swung low past a bus shelter.

That made his stomach twist.

The city had always watched him, but the tracking apps made it worse. They turned danger into a scavenger hunt. They pulled kids, tourists, thrill-seekers, and people with too much faith in his reflexes toward scenes they should have been running from. 

Peter hated them in the abstract way he could. 

He hated yours specifically because you looked at the screen like it was a promise.

He told himself he was not responsible for your choices. He told himself he had bigger problems than one reckless woman with quick comebacks and bad self-preservation instincts. He told himself a lot of things while dragging stolen cars out of intersections, yanking weapons from hands, and getting punched in the same bruised shoulder three nights in a row.

Still, every time Peter landed somewhere and spotted you in the crowd, his first reaction was not annoyance.

It was relief.

Then anger, quick and hot behind it, because relief meant he had started looking.

“You’re here again,” he sighed again one night, landing on the fire escape above you after a group of teenagers tried to rob a closed pharmacy.

You looked up, breath fogging in the cold. There was a knit scarf wrapped around your neck and one glove missing from your hand. You had probably lost it running.

Your response came instinctive in its quickness. “You say that like you’re not also here again.”

Peter pinched at the bridge of his noise as if that could stifle his second sigh. “I’m working.”

“So am I.”

He tilted his head, looking down at you with clear disbelief. “Your job is standing under active crime scenes?”

Your chin tilted back up in a counter measure. “My job is none of your business.”

“Fair. Is your hobby standing under active crime scenes?”

You tucked your ungloved hand into your sleeve and looked around with fake surveying. “Maybe I’m a concerned citizen.”

His words came out too quick and too impulsive. “You are a concerning citizen.”

That got a smile out of you, small but entirely pleased, and Peter hated how quickly he noticed the shape of it. He was hanging upside down from the railing, one knee hooked around metal, and blood drying uncomfortably under the torn fabric near his elbow. The cold bit through the suit where it was damp. Below, police lights washed your face blue, then red, then blue again.

“You’re bleeding,” you faltered slightly when your gaze caught on the blood. 

He glanced at his arm and the white lenses dilated before going back. “It’s not mine.”

You gave him a look that had him sighing. “It’s mostly mine.”

You stepped closer before you were cut off. “Do you need—”

“No.”

A scoff left you. “You didn’t even know what I was going to offer!”

Peter felt the need to run his hands through his hair to stifle the whirlwind of exasperation you made him feel instantly. “Unless it was ‘a renewed commitment to staying several blocks away from felonies,’ no.”

You shifted your weight. The crowd had thinned behind you. People were still filming from across the street but the immediate danger had passed, and with it came that strange hollow quiet after a loud thing ended. Sirens faded. Glass crackled under people's boots. 

You looked up at him with your scarf covering your chin, your gaze narrowing suddenly. 

“Do you ever get tired of doing that?” 

“Bleeding?”

“Deflecting.” The word landed too cleanly, you saw it in real time. 

Peter’s fingers flexed against the railing. The easy answer was right there. A joke about reflective surfaces, maybe. Something stupid and quick that would let him swing away before the conversation took on weight.

Instead, he looked past you toward the pharmacy windows. Fluorescent lights flickered inside. A display of cough drops had toppled near the door, someone would have to sweep all of that up. Someone would have to call insurance. Someone would wake up tomorrow and deal with the ordinary consequences of extraordinary panic.

“Go home,” he repeated, though it was quieter this time.

Your expression changed, not much. Just a pause around the eyes. “You always say that.”

Peter's exasperation came back tenfold. “Because you never do it.”

A face got made instantly at the words. “I do eventually!”

“Eventually is not good enough.”

You hugged your arms around yourself, and the words came out light. “You worried about me?”

“Yes,” he scoffed before he could stop himself.

The answer sat between you, plain and unarmored.

Your mouth parted slightly at the unexpectedness of it.

Peter pulled himself upright too fast, his boots sticking to the fire escape. “I mean—generally. In the way I worry about all civilians who make terrible decisions near blunt objects.”

“Right,” you nodded, but your voice had taken a slight tone that had Peter instantly regretting the words even more. 

He pointed toward the subway entrance with intensity. “Home.”

You glanced at his arm again, seeing the material start to soak up the darker redness. “You too.”

Peter let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”

He swung away before you could say anything else, before he could do something stupid like ask your name.

You told yourself the chase was harmless because Spider-Man always won.

That was the lie at the center of it.

You knew he got hurt. You had seen him limp. You had watched him press a hand to his side and pause on rooftops when he thought nobody was looking. You had noticed how he changed after harder fights, how the jokes thinned out, and how his head turned sharply at sudden noises. 

He wasn't invincible.

But he survived so consistently that survival became part of the spectacle. People cheered before the danger fully ended. Phones came out before the weapons were down. The city trusted him with the unreasonable ease of people who needed someone to trust.

You were worse than most because somewhere along the way, your fascination had stopped being abstract and freeformed.

It was not just the suit, though the suit did something humiliating to your ability to think clearly near him. It was not just the swing of him between buildings, the impossible strength, the quick hands, or the way he landed with a dancer’s balance and a boxer’s readiness.

It was the pauses he had. 

The way he crouched beside frightened strangers and made his voice gentler. The way he checked on shop owners after the crowd moved on. The way he sometimes stayed an extra second after saving someone, hand hovering near their shoulder but not actually touching unless they leaned in first. The way he seemed both everywhere and entirely alone.

That was what kept pulling you closer to him. 

The app buzzed late on a Friday, when the city had already loosened into nightlife. You were in a corner booth at a diner, poking at fries that had gone soft with vinegar, half-listening to your friend complain about a coworker who microwaved fish in the break room.

Your phone lit up.

Three alerts. Then five. Then too many.

SPIDEY SIGHTING NEAR 42ND. BIG GUY WITH TECH??

STAY AWAY FROM 9TH AVE. EXPLOSION HEARD.

Your friend stopped talking.

“No,” she reached for you immediately when she saw you were already reaching for your jacket.

She grabbed at your sleeve with intent. “Are you serious?”

“It’s close.”

A groan left her from knowing you too well. “That’s the problem.”

“I’ll stay back!”

She didn't seem convinced. “You always say that.”

The echo of his words should have slowed you.

It didn't.

Outside, the air was sharp with exhaust and fried food from a halal cart. You ran until your lungs burned, cutting through clusters of people spilling out of bars, and ignoring the tightness that formed under your ribs. The closer you got, the more the city changed. Laughter thinned. Traffic tangled. People moved in the opposite direction with their heads turned back, faces lit by emergency lights.

Then something slammed into the side of a parked car half a block ahead.

The impact folded the roof inward. Windows burst. People screamed and scattered.

You froze.

For once, your body understood before your obsession did.

Spider-Man hit the pavement hard beside the car, rolled, and barely got a hand under himself before a heavy metal device skidded after him, sparking violently. It looked homemade and expensive at the same time, all black plating and unstable blue light. A man in a reinforced jacket limped into view, one arm fitted with some kind of mechanical brace that whined when he lifted it.

Peter saw you from the ground.

Even through smoke, flashing lights, and the chaos of running bodies, he found you standing beside a newspaper box with your phone in your hand and fear finally catching up to you.

His blood went cold.

“Move!” he shouted with a loud rasp.

You did not.

Not because you refused, but because for one terrible second, you couldn't even tell where to go. People shoved past you. A cab jumped the curb. The device near Spider-Man pulsed brighter, high-pitched and wrong, and the man with the brace swung his arm toward the street.

Peter fired a web at you before he thought about gentleness.

The strand hit your waist and yanked.

Your feet left the ground and the world snapped sideways. Your shoulder clipped something hard, maybe a signpost, maybe somebody’s elbow. You gasped, more startled than hurt, and then you were against him, one of his arms locked around you as he twisted midair and slammed both of you behind the concrete mouth of a subway entrance.

The street exploded white-blue.

Heat washed over your back and the sound swallowed everything.

For a moment there was only his body curved around yours, the texture of his suit under your fingers, the hard rise and fall of his breathing. Dust rained over the steps. Someone was crying nearby, your ears rang so badly the world seemed underwater.

Spider-Man lifted his head first.

“Are you hit?” he demanded with his grip tightening to pull you back enough to look at you. 

You stared at him, and apparently it must've been a flatter look than you had tried to express. 

“Hey.” His hand came up to the side of your face, not tenderly, not quite. He turned your head enough to check you, fingers firm along your jaw. “Are you hit?”

The world returned to you in pieces and you shook your head enough to move. “I—no. I don’t think so.”

Peter's voice came out strangled before he tried to reign it in. “You don’t think so?”

You emphasized better. “I’m not.”

His white lenses narrowed and the hand at your jaw stayed for half a second longer than necessary, then dropped.

He pushed himself up and looked over the edge of the subway entrance. The man with the brace was running now, injured but still moving. Peter’s shoulders tensed with the need to follow.

Then, he looked back at you.

You were covered in dust. Your phone was certainly gone. There was a scrape along your cheekbone where something had caught you, and your eyes were too wide, your breath coming shallow in a way that finally made you look as scared as you should have been all along.

The anger hit him so hard it almost steadied him.

“Stay here,” he all but demanded

You nodded because it seemed like it was necessary to do so. 

He pointed at you, sharper now. As if you weren't truly listening. “No. I need you to hear me. Stay. Here.”

“I heard you.”

“Because if I turn around and you are not exactly where I left you—”

“I’ll stay.”

Peter really didn't believe you.

But someone shouted from the street, and the brace whined again, and it was clear he had to go. He launched himself back into the fight with his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

You stayed.

For three minutes, maybe four, you sat on the subway steps with dust in your mouth and your hands shaking in your lap. You heard the impacts, webs snapping tight, and Spider-Man’s voice cutting through the noise in strained bursts.

“Hey, buddy, quick question—did you build that in a garage, or was there a coupon situation?”

A crash came next.

“No? Cool, cool, just asking because it’s very explode-y for something near civilians.”

Another loud noise of impact.

You pressed your palms together to stop them from trembling.

The fight ended with a sound like metal tearing away from itself, followed by a heavy thud and a chorus of relieved shouting. When Spider-Man came back where he left you, he was limping.

Badly so.

He dropped into the subway entrance hard enough that one hand hit the tiled wall to steady himself. His suit was scorched along one side. Dust clung to the webbing pattern across his chest. One lens had a faint crack through it, thin as a hair.

You stood up too quickly, instincts taking over. “you’re hurt.”

Peter laughed but it was entirely without humor. “You have got to be kidding me.”

The frown came instantly. “I’m serious.”

His answer came too quick. “So am I.”

The space between you seemed smaller than it had before. The city kept roaring above, but down here everything echoed: footsteps, sirens, your breathing, his. 

He stepped closer.

“What is wrong with you?”

The words were not shouted. That made them even worse somehow. His voice was rough, scraped thin at the edges, and controlled only because he was forcing it to be.

You swallowed because he seemed actually upset this time, and you figured it wasn't time to poke the bear. “I know—”

“No, you don’t. You don’t know.” The words had your head flicking up in surprise for their intensity. “You keep showing up with your phone and your big eyes and your little comments, and you think because there’s a crowd, because there are cops, because I’m there, that nothing can happen to you.”

Your throat tightened and you opened your mouth but shut it when he pointed up toward the street. “That was not a photo op. That was not a cute story. You almost got turned into collateral damage because you ran toward an explosion.”

“I didn’t know it was going to—”

“That’s the point!” His voice cracked around the words. He stopped, breathed hard, and tried again. “You don’t know. You never know. Hell, I barely know half the time.”

You looked down at his hand because the movements caught your attention. His fingers were flexing open and closed, like he wanted to grab something and couldn't decide whether it should be the railing, his own temper, or you.

“I’m sorry,” you stopped him from going further and he went still.

Maybe it was because you had never said it before. Not really. You had flirted, teased, and smiled your way around his warnings until they became part of the game. But there was no game left in your voice now because there wasn't in his. 

“I am,” you continued quieter and immediately hated it because of how exposing it felt. “I know it’s stupid. I know you keep telling me to stop.”

Peter's voice loudened before he could've controlled it. “Then stop!”

You looked up again quickly with widening eyes. 

There was dust on his shoulder, a rip near his ribs, and a dark stain spreading slowly through the fabric at his side. He was standing in front of you like he could hold the entire city back by force if he had to, and yet he would not give you one ordinary piece of himself. 

Not a name. Not a face. Not the truth behind the voice that kept finding you in crowds.

“I just wanted to know you,” the words came out smaller than you meant them to.

Peter forgot how to breathe.

Not because nobody wanted to know Spider-Man. Everybody wanted that. They wanted the picture, the secret, the headline, the face under the mask. They wanted proof, access, even ownership. They wanted to solve him.

But that was not how you said it.

You said it like you had already noticed the part he worked hardest to hide. The pauses. The pain. The loneliness that leaked through the jokes no matter how quickly he patched over it.

You said it like knowing him didn't mean unmasking his whole identity. 

You said it like you had been chasing danger for the stupid, impossible privilege of standing close enough to ask if he was okay.

Peter hated how easily that worked on him.

He hated that after everything, after the blast and the blood and the fear still souring his mouth, some tired part of him wanted to believe you.

“You don’t,” he scoffed, but it was smaller this time. 

Your brows drew together immediately at the insinuation. “I don’t what?”

“Want to know me.”

You made a face, and answered just as quickly as he stopped. “I do.”

“No.” He shook his head once, and even the movement had him straining, you could tell by the way he held himself in tension. “You want the guy who swings in at the right second. You want the banter and the upside-down thing and whatever version of me lives in your phone notifications.”

You stepped forward again and forced a huff away when he shot you a pointed look that had you stopping short. “That’s not fair—”

Peter cut you off. “It’s accurate.”

You found your voice again, because you kept letting it be cut off by him. “You don’t know what I want.”

“I know you don’t want the rest.”

You stared at him, anger beginning to push through the shock. Good, Peter thought. Anger was safer than that open, aching look you had given him.

“The rest?” you asked with your brows twitching together in a face that wasn't clear in its expression. 

He laughed again, though more bitterly this time. His head kept moving, looking around the emptiness of the place between you too as if that gave him a refuge.  “The blood. The missed calls. The lies. The never showing up on time. The disappearing without explaining because if I explain, someone gets hurt. The fact that I know where you live because I’ve followed you home twice to make sure you got there safely, and I hated myself both times.”

The confession landed badly.

You blinked blankly, the movement was fast and clearly unexpected.  

Peter realized what he had said half a second too late when your lips parted. “You know where I live?”

“No.” His answer came too quick and that only spurred you on more. 

Your lips opened and let out a puff of air. “You just said—”

Peter's hand went up to the back of his neck, immediately cutting you off again. “I said a lot of things. Head injury, probably.”

“You followed me home?”

He looked up to the sky and felt his eyes shut tightly. “Not in a creepy way.”

You threw him a well deserved glance of judgement. “That is exactly what someone says when it is a creepy way.”

“I was making sure you were safe.”

Your expression shifted. The fear had not left you completely, but something warmer and more reckless, moved beneath it. You took one careful step closer.

“You know where I live,” you repeated, breathless now, almost vindicated by the confession. 

Peter pointed at you again, but there was less force behind it. His jaw strained again just from listening to you throw his words back at him. “Do not make that sound romantic.”

You kept going, your voice turning more observational by each passing second, but not losing its tone. “You noticed me that much.”

“I notice threats.”

“You think I’m a threat?”

His answer came swift. “To yourself? Constantly.”

“To you?” He didn't answer fast enough.

Your gaze moved over him, slower now that the immediate danger had passed. He felt it through the suit in a way he should not have. The cracked lens, the torn fabric, the blood near his ribs, even the tense line of his shoulders. He knew what he looked like after a fight. He knew people saw the damage and either flinched from it or turned it into a bigger moment.

You looked at him like the damage made him harder to ignore, not less.

“Let me help,” you softened again because it was hard not to when looking at him. 

The response came expected, but still unwelcome. “No.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed.”

You let out an exasperated groan,  one hand coming up to knead through your hair and the other stretching it towards him. “Then let me do something.”

“You can do something.” Peter willed his voice to be sharpened again. “You can stop chasing me.”

Your jaw tightened and a scoff escaped you. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”

“It should be.”

“Well, it’s not.” The honesty of it hung there, inconvenient and too human.

Above you, officers shouted to each other. The subway tiles gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, grime caught in the grout, and had old posters peeling at the corners. Peter could smell smoke, rain, metal, and the faint sweetness of your perfume beneath the dust.

He should have left.

He should have just webbed up to the street, given one last warning, and removed himself from whatever this was before it became another thing he could ruin.

Instead, the only thing that came out was, “You’re impossible.”

You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “So you’ve mentioned.”

“I’m not joking.”

You finally quieted down when he did, the air felt still. “I know.”

“Do you?”

Not entirely, but you just nodded. “Yes.”

He stepped closer this time.

You had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Up close, he was all controlled tension, every line of him caught between staying and going. The white lenses hid his eyes, but they didn't hide the way his attention dropped briefly to your mouth and snapped back up.

Your pulse jumped and you figured Peter saw that too.

“Don’t,” he rasped out quickly after you opened your mouth again, but the word had no clear target. Maybe it was to you, or maybe to himself.

You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to move away. And when he didn't, your fingertips touched the center of his chest, light enough that it should not have mattered.

It mattered.

The suit was warm from his body, textured beneath your fingertips, and damp in places from rain and sweat. His chest rose sharply at the contact.

“You’re really here,” you let slip out with your voice barely above a whisper.

His laugh was low and strained. You had a feeling his expression mirrored that. “That explosion did a number on you.”

Your voice hadn't lost its lightness,  but you paused for a moment. “I’m serious.”

Peter let out a wry exhale to himself. “That’s what worries me.”

Your fingers drifted, not very far, just over the red fabric where dust had settled into the raised black lines. He caught your wrist before you reached the torn place near his side. His grip was firm, but not painful though.

It was a warning with a pulse.

“Careful,” he murmured and the word ran through you in a way it should not have, roughened by exhaustion and the edge of pain.

You looked at his hand around your wrist. It felt tingly for all the right reasons. “You always sound like that when you’re mad?”

His fingers flexed slightly against you.“No.”

“When you’re hurt?”

Peter attempted repetition for it to stick. “No.”

You decided to push more. “And when you’re trying not to be?”

He went quiet.

That was answer enough for you.

You should've apologized again. You should've stepped back, let him have the distance he kept asking for, promised to delete the apps and mean it. Some responsible part of you knew that. And some part of you was still sitting on the subway steps with shaking hands, understanding far too late that your fantasy had edges sharp enough to cut.

But he was still holding your wrist.

And, he hadn't let go.

“Tell me to leave,” you all but challenged him and Peter didn't bother containing the groan that left him. 

“I did.”

“Tell me again.”

Peter’s grip tightened for half a second. You felt his fingers twitch against the inner area of your wrist. 

Under the mask, his jaw shifted. You could see the shape of it where the fabric clung to him, could see the movement of his throat when he swallowed. He was close enough now that you heard the faint hitch in his breathing, and betraying close enough that the city above felt less real than the narrow pocket of space between your bodies.

“You need to leave,” he said instead, but still, he didn't move away. 

Neither did you.

The misunderstanding was almost laughable, except neither of you laughed or probably could've. His words said one thing. His hand said another. His body, angled toward yours despite every reason not to be, said something else entirely.

You reached up with your free hand.

This time, you touched his jaw.

Not skin, not yet at least. Just the mask, the red fabric pulled taut over the hard line of him. His whole body went still, frighteningly still, like even breathing had become a choice.

“Don’t take it off,” he commanded and the intensity of him sent prickles up your spine.

Your fingers settled where his jawline rested, and your head tipped back slightly when your eyes fluttered shut.“I wasn’t going to.”

Peter tilted his head slightly at you from the proximity, his face did a funny thing that mixed genuinity with suspicion. “No?”

“No.”

That seemed to undo something in him more than if you had begged for his face.

You did not want the reveal, not right now. Not in this way, in a dirty subway entrance with sirens overhead and blood drying beneath his suit. You wanted what he was willing to give. The covered jaw beneath your palm. The breath he was trying to control. The impossible nearness of him.

Peter let go of your wrist only to catch your waist.

The motion was sudden enough that you inhaled sharply. He turned you, backing you against the tiled wall beside an old transit map, his hand braced near your shoulder before your spine met cold ceramic. He left you space to pull away. Barely, but still enough that the choice remained yours and his restraint remained visible in the strain of his posture.

“Tell me no,” he exhaled and you had to tear your eyes away from where the material of his suit strained against his shoulders. 

Your voice came out unsteady. “No to what?”

“To this.”

You looked at him then almost incredulous, at the cracked lens, the scorched suit, and the careful violence of how still he held himself.

“I’m not saying no.”

Peter's head dipped on bodily instinct the second his ears registered the words. 

He stopped an inch from you.

The pause was unbearable. Awkward in the way real wanting often was, full of breath and doubt and the tiny adjustments of two people realizing they had crossed a line before either had agreed where it was. Your hand slid from his jaw to the edge of his mask.

Peter caught your fingers again.

“Mask stays on,” he murmured with warning. 

Your voice came breathless in its agreement. “I know.”

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He searched your face for something. A trick, maybe. Regret. Fear. A demand he could refuse so he could return to familiar ground. You gave him none of those things. You were breathing too fast, still dust-streaked, but your gaze held steady in truth.

Peter reached up and tugged the mask just high enough to bare his mouth and jaw.

Only that.

The reveal was smaller than you had imagined and somehow more intimate for it. A cut marked his lower lip. His jaw was tense, faintly shadowed, skin flushed from exertion. He looked painfully real in pieces.

You didn't reach for more despite your inner voice. 

His mouth found yours before you could say anything.

The kiss was not gentle at first. It was too full of everything that had nowhere else to go: anger, fear, adrenaline, the weeks of him telling you to run and you refusing, the awful second when he had seen you frozen in the path of the blast. Peter kissed you like he was still furious with you for almost dying. Like he was furious with himself for caring. Like the only way to stop the argument was to take it apart with his mouth.

You made a small sound against him when he nipped at you with the sharpened corners of his teeth, and he pulled back immediately. “Too much?”

You shook your head, fingers curling into the front of his suit. Your eyes were blown wide by the chain of actions and the unmistakable grip of him on you. “No.”

“You sure?”

You nodded again, almost embarrassingly eager and his breath left him unevenly. “You are so bad at self-preservation.”

“You keep saving me.”

Peter pulled away despite his best efforts to stand still, and felt that familiar pathetic exasperation creeping back in. “That is not a plan.”

Your lips pulled into a lazy grin as you tried to chase the space he made away. “It’s worked for me so far.”

He gave you a look, or he tried to. With the mask half-up and the lenses still covering his eyes, the effect should have been ridiculous. It wasn't because his mouth was still too close for your to.focus on anything else. His hand at your waist was too warm and his voice had dropped into something lower, rougher, stained by the night.

“You’re so not funny,” Peter shut his eyes behind the mask and looked back to the sky as if that would prove his point more heavily. 

You disagreed with that. “I made you pause.”

His scoff came absentminded, and so did his words. “You make me do a lot of stupid things.”

You smiled despite the tremor still living under your skin, and Peter was already weary of that smile even more now. The path you fingers trailed up on his abdomen was careful, as if trying to coax a street cat into staying longer. “Like what?”

He answered by kissing you again.

This time, it built slower. Still hungry and edged with frustration, but less like impact and more like surrender dragged unwillingly into the open. His gloved hand slid along your waist, then stopped, fingerpads flexing once as if he had to remind himself of the shape of restraint. Your hands moved over his chest, careful around the torn places, less careful when he made a quiet sound into your mouth and pressed closer.

The tile was cold through the back of your jacket. His body was warm everywhere he touched you. Smoke clung to him and rainwater dripped from the ends of your hair. New York kept shouting above, honking, and demanding. Down here, your world shrank to the scrape of his breath, the brush of his bare jaw against your cheek, the strange intimacy of being kissed by a man who still wouldn't even let you see his eyes.

When he pulled back, his forehead almost touched yours. The mask’s fabric brushed your brow.

“You have to stop chasing me,” Peter found the words finally after catching his breathe. 

The words were softer now, which made them harder to deflect. You looked down at your fingers that were still hooked in his suit, holding on like he might disappear if you didn’t. “I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I get it.”

“You could’ve died tonight.”

You sighed with your head tipping back against the solid frame behind you. “I said I get it.”

Peter exhaled through his nose, frustrated by your agreement because it left him nowhere to put the rest of his fear. His thumb moved once against your waist before he seemed to realize he was doing it.

“You can’t know me by getting yourself killed,” he said and you looked back up at him.

There it was again. Not the superhero or the symbol, just the simple person beneath the suit, saying the closest thing to please that he would allow himself.

“Then let me know you another way,” you let out quickly and instantly regretted it when you saw his mouth tighten alongside his jaw. 

For a second, you thought he would step back. Pull the mask back down. Make a joke mean enough to end the moment. It would have been easier for him, maybe even kinder in the long run.

Instead, he lowered his head until his mouth brushed the corner of yours.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking,” Peter murmured and found himself crazy for even leaning back in. 

You closed your eyes for half a breath. “Then tell me.”

His silence moved over you slowly.

He didn't tell you his name or give you any truth clean enough to hold. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe that kind of trust did not arrive all at once in a stairwell after sirens and smoke.

But his hand left the wall and settled against your cheek, careful of the blooming scrape there. His thumb hovered near the bruise without touching it. The tenderness of that restraint did something to you more than the roughness had.

“I’m not good at this,” Peter finally spoke up once more when he realized you were waiting. 

Your reply came back softer. “At what?”

“Letting people stand this close.”

Your fingers loosened against his chest and a stupidly placed smile grew on your lips. “Yeah, I can tell.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound was tired and real against your ear drums. “That obvious?”

You gave a merciful nod. “A little.”

“Great.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really not.”

You smiled faintly because you knew what he meant. “No. Probably not.”

That earned you another silence, but this one was different. It was less defensive. He stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.

“I’ll take you home,” Peter inhaled once, quickly and reminding. 

A lighter breath left you alongside the silent, almost wondrous laugh that bubbled from your throat. “You know where that is.”

He groaned and did that thing where his jaw tensed and head tilted back in resignation. “Please never say that with that tone again.”

“What tone?”

“The tone that says you’re about to make my severe boundary issues into some sort of a compliment.”

You bit your lip, mostly to stop the small smile that grew because there was no telling if he wouldn't run off just yet. “You have severe boundary issues?”

Peter fought and lost the urge to throw you a disbelieving glance. “I wear spandex and fight strangers on rooftops. What do you think?”

“I think you’re avoiding.”

“I think you’re concussed.”

“You asked if I was hit.”

His words came back mumbled. “And I’m revising my assessment.”

You laughed then, breathless and completely unsteady, and some of the tightness in his shoulders eased.

He looked at your mouth again.

You noticed.

This time, Peter didn't pretend he hadn't.

The kiss that followed was quieter than before, but it carried more danger because it felt less accidental. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, feeling the strength there and the tremor of fatigue beneath it. He leaned into you for one brief second like he needed the support, then seemed to hate that he needed it and kissed you harder.

You gave back as much as he took.

That surprised him. You felt it in the way his breath caught, the way his fingers tightened at your waist, the way his mouth paused against yours before continuing with darker intent. He was careful with his strength, but not soft. He let some of the frustration show in the press of his body, in the angle of your chin guided by his gloved hand, and in the low sound he made when your fingertips traced the edge where his mask had been pushed up.

“Careful,” he said again.

This time, you understood he was not only warning you about him. You were both quiet for a moment. Then you decided to break the silence, “I don’t need to be another person with a video of you.”

His hand stilled on impact of your words. 

“I don’t want proof,” you continued bevause it felt necessary. “I don’t want your face because I won some game. I just…” You searched for the right words and found none that didn't sound too exposing. You tried again.  “I wanted you to feel real. And then you did. And I didn’t know how to stop wanting more.”

Peter listened without interrupting.

That felt worse to him somehow. It was easier when he was joking. Safer when he was pushing back. But he only stood there with the mask covering most of him and his bare mouth pressed into a line, taking in what you said like it had cost him something too.

Finally, he cursed faintly and tried to circle back, “You can’t use danger to get close to me.”

“I won’t.”

His voice came low and questioning. “You mean that?”

You nodded with more energy than you'd expected. “I mean it.”

He studied you for another long second. Then, he leaned in, not quite kissing you yet, and said, “If I see you at another active crime scene—”

You cut him off with that all too familiar pleased look. “You’ll lecture me?”

Peter scoffed at your sheer ability to get on his nerves all over again. “I’ll web you to the nearest bus stop.”

“That seems really excessive.”

“Yeah? I’ll leave a note too.”

You tilted your head, the movement making his own tip into yours. “What would it say?”

“Please return reckless civilian to sender.”

You smiled against his mouth before he kissed you again, and this time there was something almost relieved in it. It was still heated and messy. Still far too much for a subway stairwell while police lights strobed faintly above. But beneath the hunger, there was a fragile shift, a thread pulled taut between warning and permission.

Peter did take you home.

Not immediately, though.

The route blurred into faint fragments: his firm grasp around your waist, the startling lift of your feet leaving the ground, and your face tucked against his shoulder because the height stole the breath from you. Wind tore tears from your eyes and the city flashed beneath you in streaks of light and shadow, rooftops silvered by old rain, and apartment windows glowed with lives that had nothing to do with yours.

Peter moved differently while carrying you.

Less flashy and more controlled. He avoided the busiest streets and landed twice to check his side, though he insisted he was fine both times in a tone that made the lie obvious.

By the time he reached your building, your nerves stopped feeding into the adrenaline. 

Mostly.

He landed on the fire escape outside your apartment window with a soft metallic creak. You stared at him, then at the window, then back at him. 

A laugh escaped you before you could control it.  “You really do know where I live.”

Peter scrubbed a palm at his temple. “I am begging you to focus on the part where I brought you here safely.”

Your brows twitched together slightly. “You brought me to my window.”

“It seemed less awkward than the lobby.”

The question came with instinct now. “You’ve thought about this?”

“No.” A pause. Peter cursed when he met your diluted pupils.   “Not in a way I’m discussing.”

You laughed softly, and he looked away toward the alley like the brick wall had suddenly become intently more fascinating.

The window stuck, as usual. You had to shove it twice before it groaned open. The ordinary annoyance of it grounded you so abruptly that you almost felt embarrassed. Your room waited beyond the sill, cluttered and warm, a sweater thrown over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, even shoes abandoned near the closet. 

Evidence of a life Spider-Man had no business knowing and yet somehow did.

You climbed in first, turning back when he remained crouched on the fire escape.

“You’re not coming in?”

Peter looked at the window frame, then at you with clear weariness. “That is a bad idea.”

You pointed it the obvious. “You’ve had a lot of those tonight.”

“You were most of them.”

“Still.”

His mouth twitched up before he willed it away. The mask was still pushed up just enough to show it.

You reached out before you could overthink it, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. Peter could have resisted without any real effort on his part. But instead, he let you draw him closer to the window.

“Just for a minute,” your lull came strong. 

Peter knew that was how bad ideas survived. They dressed themselves as small things. One minute. One kiss. One exception. One person who looked at him and didn't ask for the mask.

He really should have said no.

But your room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever candle you had burned earlier. Your cheek was scraped because of him and not because of him. Your fingers were warm around his wrist. The city had spent the whole night taking pieces out of him, and here you were, offering one quiet moment where he didn't have to be a symbol or a headline or a blur in someone else’s footage.

Peter climbed through the window before reason could take hold of him.

The room felt too small with him in it.

Not because he was larger, though he seemed broader here than he did against the skyline. It was the impossibility of him among ordinary things. Spider-Man standing beside your desk. Spider-Man ducking slightly to avoid the curtain rod. Spider-Man glancing at a stack of books and a mug with chipped paint as if he had crossed into a place more dangerous than the street outside.

“You’re nervous,” you couldn't help but gape at the clear display of nerves bundled in red and blue. 

“I’m injured.”

You made a face and tilted your head with an all too pleased expression. “That’s not what I said.”

Peter scoffed with little humor. “It’s what I’m choosing to answer.”

You stepped closer.

He watched you do it.

The air changed again, slower than before. There were no sirens here. No crowds. No urgent reason to pretend this was only adrenaline. Your radiator hissed, a car passed below in the street, and somewhere in the building, a neighbor’s TV murmured through the wall.

Your hand rose to his chest, then paused.

“Is this okay?” you asked hesitantly,  more hesitant than you'd have imagined. 

Peter looked at you for a long moment, then he covered your hand with his.

“Yeah,” he cleared at his throat, rough and quiet. “It’s okay.”

The kiss in your room felt different from the ones taken in the subway, less stolen from disaster and more chosen in spite of it. Peter backed you toward the edge of your bed, stopping when your knees touched the mattress, giving you that narrow sliver of space again. You took it away yourself, pulling him closer by the front of his suit.

A low sound left him.

“Still terrible at self-preservation,” he muttered when your hand reached for anything that could be used to pull him in closer. 

Your hand landed on the back of his neck, with your thumb pressing into his collar to bring him in nearer. “You like it a little.”

The refusal came expected once again. “I absolutely do not.”

Peter kissed you before you could smile any wider.

His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, careful but firm, angling you up to meet him. The mask stayed where it was, bunched above his mouth and tight over his nose, his eyes still hidden behind white lenses that made every exposed inch feel more deliberate. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the cut on his lip lightly enough that he went still.

“That hurt?” you whispered against him.

“No.”

A laugh escaped you, all quiet and breathless. “You liar.”

“Maybe.”

Your thumb brushed his jaw and he turned his face into the touch despite himself, and the motion was so tired, so unguarded for one brief second, that your chest ached.

Then his hand caught your waist again, and the softness sharpened into heat.

He kissed you deeper quickly after that. Your back met the mattress, and he followed only as far as you pulled him, bracing one hand beside your shoulder so his weight didn't crush you. The suit rasped beneath your palms. His breath came unevenly against your mouth. Every time you touched too close to an injury, he flinched and pretended he had not, which made you slow down until he grew impatient and kissed you harder for it.

“You’re impossible,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation.

“You keep kissing me.”

His mouth hovered above yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved after that.

The truth of that sat in the dim light between you. He had come back. Again and again. To warn you, to argue, to make sure you got home. 

Peter lowered his head until his covered forehead rested near your temple.

“You can’t chase me anymore,” he said it softer this time, catching your attention more than any other shout could. 

Your tongue slid over your teeth and finally exhaled when his silence felt defeating. “I won’t.”

Peter pushed. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

“And if you see me on that app—”

You turned your head up to point a finger up at him to answer. “I’ll close it.”

He lifted his head slightly, giving you a such a pointed grasp of his silence that you could only sigh. “I’ll delete it.”

“Now.”

You blinked, his request caught you off guard. “Now?”

“Yes.”

Your tongue looked at the inside of your cheek now, clearly trying to stall under the weight of his stare. “You’re very demanding for a man bleeding on my comforter.”

Peter didn't take the bait just yet. “I’ll bleed less judgmentally after you delete it.”

You stared at him in confliction, and despite everything, you laughed.

He climbed off you enough to let you reach for your phone with begrudging fingers. The screen was cracked from where it must have hit the pavement, but it still worked. You opened the app under his silent, watchful stare. For a second, your thumb hovered over the icon of the app.

It felt strange to let it go.

Not because you needed the app itself, but because deleting it meant admitting that what you wanted from him could no longer be taken by chasing red dots across a map. If he came back after this, it had to be because he chose to.

You deleted it.

Then the second one.

Then the third.

Peter said nothing while you did so. 

When you set the phone down, he was looking at you with an unreadable stillness that made your pulse climb again.

“There,” you let an exhale of breath out and narrowed your eyes at him with no real spite.  “Happy?”

“No.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “Of course not.”

“I’m…” Peter stopped, like the word he wanted to find was difficult to translate through the mask. His bare mouth pressed together, then softened. “Slightly less actively horrified.”

Despite your better judgment, you let your grin form again. “That’s romantic.”

“I’m known for that.”

You reached for him again and this time, he came willingly.

The kiss deepened slower, then became not slow at all. His restraint was still there, visible in every careful placement of his hands, but the darkness you had sensed in him edged closer to the surface. It was something more conflicted than plain cruelty or defensiveness. It was hunger tangled with fear. 

He held you like he was still deciding whether he was sure he could and you kissed him like the decision had already been made. And for you, it had. 

Peter's mouth crashed back into yours with a low sound that vibrated through the mask and straight into your chest. The second your lips parted he pushed his tongue in, deep and wet, tasting every inch like he was starving for it. Your back sank deeper into the mattress under his weight, the mattress springs creaking as he braced one hand beside your head and let the other slide down your side.

His suit scraped against your palms when you grabbed at him again, your fingers curled into the textured fabric over his ribs. You tugged hard, trying to work it up, but the material barely budged. Peter made a rough noise into your mouth and suddenly caught both your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.

"Nuh-uh," he muttered against your lips, his voice low and amused. "You don't get to strip me just because you're feeling greedy."

“That can't be fair.” You scoffed and tried to twist free, your hips rolled up to grind against the hard line of his cock through the suit. The pressure dragged a hiss out of him. He pressed his hips down in answer, grinding slow and deliberate to let you feel every inch of him trapped behind the fabric. The suit was warm from his body heat, slightly rough where it rubbed your inner thighs.

"Fuck, look at you," he breathed out with forehead pressed to yours. "Already trying to climb me like you can't wait five seconds."

“You're hard, isn't that contradicting?” You bucked harder, chasing friction and he smacked your hands away again, this time letting them fall to the sides so he could shove his knee between your legs and grind it up against you through your clothes. The pressure was perfect and not nearly enough. 

You gasped into another kiss and Peter swallowed the sound, and had his tongue sliding deep again while his hips kept that slow and punishing roll.

Every time your fingers crept back toward the edge of his suit he caught them, smacked them away, or pinned them down. The teasing only made you even more worked up. You could feel how pent-up he was in the way his breathing stuttered every time you ground up against him. It was in the little involuntary jerks of his hips when you would moan into his kisses.

"Fuck," you whispered with your voice shakier than you'd meant it. "Please—"

"Please what?" He dragged his mouth down your jaw and had his teeth scraping against your skin. "Please let you rip my suit off so you can ride me? Not happening. You get what I give you."

Peter rocked his hips harder, grinding the thick line of his cock right against your clit through the layers between you. Your back arched and he caught the movement and pressed you flat again with his body, one hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you squirmed.

"You're so fucking eager," he groaned and his voice cracked with how turned on he was. "Been driving me crazy for months and now you're just—fuck—spreading your legs the second I touch you. You like this? Like me holding you down, keeping the suit on, making you work for it?"

You nodded frantically and had your hips jerking up to meet every grind in tandem. Peter kissed you again, deeper and messier this time, the mask brushed against your cheek every time he tilted his head too high. His free hand slid down to grip your thigh with his fingers digging hard as he rocked faster, keeping the friction building until you were panting into his mouth and clutching at his shoulders.

"That's it," he whispered against your lips, though it was followed by a chuckle that had your stomach tightening. "Be a good girl and take it. Show me how bad you want it. Maybe if you keep being this eager for me I'll let you come like this, grinding on my cock through the suit. Maybe."

He kissed you again before you could answer, he tried to swallow every desperate sound you made while his hips kept that relentless rhythm that had you completely at his mercy.

“You're annoyingly mouthy.” A weak scoff escaped you and your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You peeled it upward in one impatient motion, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. The cool air hit your skin just before his palm did, landing firm and flat against your ribs.

"Slow down," Peter muttered, the words half-laugh, half-warning. His hand slid lower, smacking lightly at your hip. "Lift."

You lifted up obediently, hips rising off the mattress. He hooked his fingers into your waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull, leaving your panties exactly where they were. The cotton clung to you, already damp, and Peter made a low sound when he saw it.

"Look at that," he inhaled with his voice tight. "Soaking through already."

"Maybe stop teasing me then," you shot back, breath hitching when he pressed his palm flat against your sternum and shoved you back down flat. The mattress dipped under your weight. His hand stayed there, pinning you in place while his other hand worked the last of your bottoms off your ankles.

"You're the one who can't keep still," he only answered, reaching for the pillow beside your head. He shoved it over your face without ceremony, muffling your next protest. "Keep that there. If it comes off, I'm gone. You won't see me again. Understand?"

You nodded hard against the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric on either side of your head. The threat landed somewhere between fear and heat, making your thighs press together. Peter watched the movement, then pushed them apart with his knee again.

"Good girl," he repeated quieter now. His hand left your sternum. You heard the faint rustle of fabric shifting, then felt the mattress dip as he settled lower between your spread legs.

The first press of his mouth landed through the thin cotton of your panties. Hot, open, and unhurried. He licked a slow stripe from bottom to top, pressing the fabric against your clit until it was plastered to you. The wet heat of his tongue dragged again, firmer this time, soaking the material until it clung obscenely. You moaned into the pillow, hips twitching up toward his face.

Peter cursed under his breath, the sound was rough and conflicted. His tongue flattened and dragged again, then curled, tracing the shape of your folds through the soaked fabric like he was trying to memorize it. Every pass made the cotton wetter, until you could feel every ridge of his tongue pressing through. Peter sucked at the fabric, pulling it tight against you, then released it with a wet sound that made your face burn.

"Fuck," he hissed, pulling back just enough to hook two fingers into the side of your panties. He tugged them aside, exposing you to the cool air for half a second before his tongue was back. This time there was nothing between you. The flat of his tongue dragged up through your folds in one long, messy stroke, then curled at the tip to flick over your clit. He did it again, slower with his lips sealing around you while his tongue worked in deep, filthy strokes.

“Fuck, woah—don't, don't do that!” Peter breathed out a chuckle when he felt you shake under him, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. Your grip on the pillow tightened until your knuckles ached. Every time his tongue curled just right you whined into the fabric, hips rolling up to chase the pressure. Peter didn't let you have it easy. He pulled back when you got too close, licked around your clit instead of on it, then dove back in with that same hungry rhythm.

The mask came off.

You felt the shift in pressure first, the way his hand shoved the pillow harder against your face as he used the other to yank the fabric up and over his head. The sudden absence of the mask's texture against your inner thigh made you gasp into the pillow. Your body went loose for a second, boneless, before instinct kicked in.

One hand stayed obedient on the pillow. The other reached out blindly, fingers searching for his shoulder, his hair, anything. You barely brushed skin before his hand snapped around your wrist, grip tight enough to make you still.

"No," Peter stopped, and had his voice raw and mean. "You don't get to touch. Keep that hand on the pillow or I stop."

“Fine, whatever. Just, fuck—don't stop.” You nodded frantically, pulling your hand back to clutch the fabric again. Your whole body trembled as he lowered his mouth once more, tongue dragging through you in those same messy, desperate movements. Peter groaned against you like he hated how much he wanted it, the sound vibrated straight through your core.

Your moans came out muffled and broken now. Every time his tongue curled just right your hips jerked, and every time he pulled back you whined like you were begging without words. He kept you right there, shaking and soaked until your thighs were quivering and your grip on the pillow was the only thing keeping you from reaching for him again.

“Holy shit, I'm so close—” Your fingers dug into the pillow, flexing and twitching as you tried to form words, but every attempt dissolved into broken moans that the fabric swallowed whole. Your hips rolled up against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and the tension coiled so tight in your belly that when it snapped it hit like a live wire.

You came hard, thighs clamping around his head as your whole body jerked. The orgasm tore through you without warning, soaking his face in a sudden rush that hit his cheeks and chin, dripping down his jaw. Peter groaned against you, his tongue still working through the mess, and his lips parting to lick at the slick coating his mouth. 

Every flick of his tongue sent another twitch through your over-sensitive folds, and he gave your clit a few light, wet smacks with his fingers, watching the way your hips jumped at each one and the slick connecting at his fingertips before breaking apart in stands. 

The sound of fabric shifting reached you through the haze. His suit peeled away in sections, the material sliding over skin until you felt the sudden press of bare warmth against your inner thighs. His chest, his stomach, the hard line of his cock brushing your slick folds. You reached again, one hand lifting off the pillow in desperate need to touch, and he caught your wrist with a low, raspy laugh.

"Fuck, you're shaking," Peter breathed out with his voice turning rougher by the second. He brought your palm to his mouth and kissed it, lips dragging over your skin before he let your hand slide down his side. Your fingers traced the hard muscle of his abdomen, feeling the heat of him, the faint tremor in his body as he held himself back. He let you explore for a few seconds longer, then shoved your hand back to the pillow and pressed down harder on the fabric covering your face.

"Keep it there," Peter warned, though the edge in his voice wavered. "Didn't I tell you that already?"

“Shit, sorry—” The apology came mindless, distracted by the frantic muffled agreement vibrating against the pillow. He shifted between your legs, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your soaked slit in one slow, teasing pass. 

The contact made him hiss through his teeth, and had hips jerking forward like the restraint was finally cracking. He pushed in deep on the next stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

The pace turned brutal fast. Deep, heavy strokes rocked you up the mattress, each one forcing a broken sound out of you that the pillow barely contained. He watched the way your body jolted with every thrust, the way your tits bounced, the way your thighs trembled around his hips. Peter's hand stayed firm on the pillow, keeping you blind and muffled while he fucked into you like he'd been starving for it.

"God, listen to you," he murmured with a humorless chuckle. "So fucking wet. You like this? Being held down, can't even see me, can't touch?" He drove in harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. "Been holding back too long. Lonely too long, God I'm going insane. Fuck—"

Your hands went slack against the pillow, fingers twitching uselessly as the intensity built again. He noticed the moment your grip loosened and pressed the pillow down harder, the fabric smothering every whimper. The control should have felt demeaning, but it only made the heat spike hotter, making you clench around him like your body was begging for more even as your mind spun from the overwhelming sensation.

Peter kept the rhythm punishing, having hips snapping forward with a desperation that matched the conflict in his voice. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge again, and every time you tried to reach for him his free hand caught your wrist and pinned it back down. The threat hung between you, unspoken but heavy: touch him and he'd stop. Don't touch and he'd keep going until you couldn't think straight.

Your moans turned frantic, muffled and wet against the pillow and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through his chest as he drove into you again, chasing the feeling without letting himself finish just yet.

He finally pulled out with a wet drag that left you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making your hips twitch back toward him. And before you could even form a protest his hands were on you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks as he flipped you onto your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight when he pressed your knees apart and yanked your hips up, forcing your hips into the air while your face stayed buried in the pillow.

"Fuck, look at you," Peter exhaled, and his voice cracked between a laugh and something unintentionally darker. "So eager. You want it this bad?"

You tried to push up on your elbows, twisting to look back at him, but one of his hands slid up your spine and pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you back down. The other hand gathered at the base of your neck, tugging just enough to arch your neck as he leaned over.

"Can't fault you. I'm not doing much better," his voice hit your ear though the words came out shaky. His cock dragged through your folds again, the head catching on your entrance before he sank back in with one rough thrust that stuttered the air away from your lungs. The angle was deeper like this, hitting something that made your thighs shake. "God, you're tight. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."

His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, skin slapping wetly against skin while his free hand roamed under your body to grab at your tits, squeezing hard before sliding lower to rub tight circles over your clit. Every thrust rocked you forward, your muffled moans vibrating into the bedspread as he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside.

"This is so fucked," Peter breathed out against your spine with his lips dragging hot and open-mouthed down the curve of your back. He kissed each vertebra like he was apologizing for how hard he was pounding into you, even as his cock kept driving deep enough to make your vision blur. "I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. But fuck, you feel too good. Can't stop."

You managed to prop yourself up on your elbows again, and your voice was hoarse when you gasped out, "Then don't stop. Please, keep going—"

His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed into you harder, the pace turning almost frantic. "Don't say it like that," Peter groaned to himself, conflicted and desperate all at once. "Makes me want to stay. Makes me want to ruin you."

The hand under you kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles while his cock pistoned in and out, the wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. Every time you tried to push back against him he shoved you forward again, controlling the angle, the depth, the pace. His breath came in ragged pants against your skin with his lips still trailing kisses down your exposed skin even as his thrusts grew rougher and more desperate.

"Been too long," Peter admitted between thrusts, and he could hear his voice turn thick with frustration. "Lonely too long. And you—fuck—you're so wet. So fucking perfect. I can't—"

His words cut off into a broken moan as you clenched around him. Your body responded to every rough stroke with another rush of slickness. He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, having his hips stuttering for a moment before he caught himself and started at you even harder, like he was trying to outrun whatever guilt was eating at him.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, even as his hand in your hair pulled tighter and he drove in deeper. "Tell me this is wrong. Because I can't make myself leave."

“Told you, don't stop—” the words hung there frantically in their plea, and you pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of your hips. The sound he made was half-laugh, half-groan. "Yeah," Peter breathed against your shoulder. "That's what I thought.”

His fist tightened in your hair again, yanking your face up from the pillow until your neck arched and your spine bowed. The sudden pull made your vision swim, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut, forcing yourself to obey even as every instinct screamed to look back at him.

"Good girl," he rasped against the shell of your ear and his voice shredded. "Keep those eyes closed. You feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?"

You nodded frantically, a broken whimper escaping as he dragged out slow and deliberate before slamming back in. The angle had you seeing stars, each thrust punching the air from your lungs in sharp little gasps.

"Fuck—I'm—"

"Don't look," Peter tried to warn again, but his voice cracked on the words. His lips found the back of your neck, having his teeth scraping before he sucked hard enough to bruise. The wet pull of his mouth made your clench around him, and the groan that tore from his chest vibrated straight through your spine. "Christ, you're squeezing me so tight. Like you want me to lose it."

You tried to be good. Really tried. But when his teeth sank into the side of your throat, just below your ear, your hand twisted back on instinct. Your fingers found his hair, soft, sweat-damp curls that brushed against your knuckles, and you buried your hand in them, tugging him closer even as your eyes fluttered open for half a second.

"Fuck, I knew it," Peter breathed, catching your wrist and pinning it to the small of your back. His pace never faltered like his voice, hips continuing to snap forward in that relentless rhythm that had your thighs shaking. "Told you not to touch. Told you to be good. But you can't help yourself, can you?"

"I'm sorry," you gasped and your voice was hoarse, you shook your head at nothing as you continued. "I won't look, I swear! Just—please don't stop. Please, I need—"

His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades again, his exhales came breathless and ragged against your skin. "I shouldn't have taken the mask off. This is so fucking stupid. You could—god, you feel too good. Been too long since anyone—fuck—"

The words dissolved into a guttural curse as you clenched around him again, your second orgasm building fast and sharp in the pit of your stomach. Every thrust dragged across that perfect spot inside you, and the lack of allowance from him made it worse. It made every touch electric. You could feel his cock throbbing, feel the way his rhythm stuttered when you squeezed him, and feel the desperate way his free hand grabbed at your hip hard enough to bruise.

"You're close," Peter groaned into your ear, and he sounded completely wrecked now. "I can feel it. Fuck, you're dripping everywhere. Making such a mess."

Your eyes rolled back despite yourself, and a broken moan tore from your throat as he bit down on your shoulder. The sensation of his teeth marking you while he relentlessly pounded into you pushed you right to the edge. Your hand twisted in his hair again, fingers tightening in frenzied motion and this time he didn't stop you.

"That's it," Peter panted and cursed wordlessly when his hips stuttered at the feeling. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Been so fucking lonely, and you—god, you're just fucking insane—"

His words cut off into a choked groan as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. Your whole body seized; your thighs shook violently as you came with a broken cry, and the feeling of you clenching around him dragged a wrecked sound from Peter's chest.

"Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His hips jerked erratically, his pace faltering as he fought to hold back. "You're gonna make me come. God, I can feel every fucking pulse. Don't—don't look back, fuck."

Peter buried his face in your neck, sucking another bruise into your skin while his cock throbbed inside you. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your face turned away even as his body trembled against yours, every muscle tight with the effort of holding back his own release.

"You're too good," he whispered against your ear, all hoarse and desperate. "Too fucking perfect. I can't—"

His hips snapped forward one more time in a loss of control, burying himself to the hilt as he fought to regain control, his breath coming in harsh pants against your marked throat.

A broken gasp tore from your throat as his hips stilled, the thick length of him buried to the hilt inside you. Instead of pulling back, he ground forward, rolling his pelvis in a slow, deliberate circle that forced another inch of him deeper. Your walls fluttered around him, oversensitive and raw, and the sensation made your vision blur even with your eyes squeezed shut.

"Fuck, too much—" The words came out ragged and barely coherent. Your body had gone limp in his grip, head only held up only by his fist in your hair and the arm banded around your waist. Every nerve ending sparked like live wires, the stimulation making your head spin.

"I know," Peter groaned against your ear with overwhelming rasp. "I can feel you shaking. God, you're so fucking tight around me. Can't stop—need to feel all of it."

You tilted your head back desperately, blindly seeking his mouth. "Please, need—"

His palm came up rough and warm, fingers splaying across your eyes to keep you from looking, and then his lips crashed into yours from the side. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and shared gasps. Peter swallowed your whimpers as he started to grind again, short, shallow rolls of his hips that kept him buried deep while the head of his cock dragged against that oversensitive spot inside you.

"Fuck, fuck—I'm—" His voice cracked. You could feel it happening from the way his abs flexed hard against your back, the tremor that ran through his thighs, and the way he throbbed inside you like a heartbeat. His rhythm stuttered with his hips jerking in shallow pulses as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through your spine.

You felt every pulse of it. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with each weak thrust. Peter kept fucking it deeper, grinding the mess back into you while his hand stayed clamped over your eyes and his mouth devoured yours in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.

"God—god—" He panted against your lips, and his hips kept twitching in movement.

Your hand reached back blindly, fingers finding his hip and your nails dug into his skin as you held onto him. He was shaking against you, every muscle tight, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. The hand over your eyes softened, thumb stroking your temple as he slowly came down, his cock still twitching inside you with aftershocks.

"You okay?" Peter whispered with his voice strained after the moment quieted down, his high climbing down in shallow breaths. His forehead dropped to your shoulder against your marked skin. "Did I—fuck, tell me you're okay."

You nodded weakly, still floating in feeling, still feeling the slow leak of him between your thighs. "Don't pull out yet," you managed with your voice barely audible. "Just—stay. Please."

Peter's arm tightened around you, pulling you closer even as his own breathing started to even back out. The hand he had over your eyes slid down to cup your jaw, gentler now, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "Yeah, okay," he murmured. "Just for a while."

The room was quiet except for your mingled breathing and his lips pressed soft kisses along your shoulder, soothing the bite marks he'd left, and you could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of his body as he held you through the afterglow.

The last thing you registered was the slow drag of his cock easing out of you, the wet slide of his cum following in its wake, and the gentle press of his lips against your shoulder. Then everything went soft and dark.

You didn't even feel yourself slipping under.

Consciousness returned in pieces.

Firstly, it came with the weight of the sheets tucked up to your chest, cool cotton against your bare skin. Then, with the faint ache between your legs, a deep, pleasant throb that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. Your thighs felt sticky, but when you shifted, the sensation was clean. There was no dried mess, just the ghost of it cleaned away.

Your eyes cracked open.

The room was dim at first, the only light filtering in from the streetlamp outside your window. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cool. And he was gone.

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, wincing at the pull in your hips, and spotted the bottle of water on your nightstand. Beside it, a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across the front in handwriting you recognized: messy, rushed, and unmistakably his.

You reached for it, unfolding the note with fingers that still trembled.

Drink water. Eat something. Don't let me see you at any more crime scenes.

Beneath it, smaller, almost an afterthought:

P.S. If you behave, maybe you'll see me without those stupid apps.

A laugh bubbled up in your throat immediately after reading it, all hoarse and disbelieving. You pressed the note to your chest, letting your head fall back against the pillows with a soft thud.

"Well," you muttered to the empty room, voice scratchy from use, "guess I finally deleted the right thing."

Your body sank deeper into the mattress, sore in all the right places and light in a way that made no sense. The ache between your legs was a reminder, the faint scent of him still clinging to your sheets. You closed your eyes, the note crinkling softly against your skin, and smiled.

The ball was in his court now, and you couldn't wait to see what he'd do with it.

other links: ▪︎ my masterlist

[agirlwithapen]

when I'm small

your close friend peter parker x reader

warnings: a little creepy on peters end. he's also using an alias and that is the only name reader knows him by but i, author, refer to him as peter while writing him. reader is also unknowing, kept in the dark so if thats not your thing then you know what not to do (open this fic is what not to do)

a/n: back from a slighty slight hiatus, hoping this hits the right dashboards. alias inspo was uncle ben and aunt mays surname. also this drabble is sfw, pretty tame drabble. p much spitballing ideas, 18+ for any dark content even if sfw

Peter Parker, who you knew as Ben Reilly and who the world knew as Spider-Man, befriending you at a get-together down in Brooklyn. An hours drive from his own place in Queens.

Peter Parker, who was benevolently at your rescue a few times here and there. Like the day you couldn't pay the fare, and he pushed through a sea of people, finding your secluded worries on a bench. Which, of course, ended with him paying your bus ride home.

The few times he'd clean up the frayed webbing above your doorframe, where you grew increasingly worried of an infestation after the second time.

Or that one morning you were tasked with your team's coffee run—an iced something, a frozen something, all too many somethings for one person on a twelve minute trek to their internship. And if weren't for the man clouding your peripheral, one that was calling your name and freeing your worn knuckles of a heavy tray, you would've wobbled face first into hot pavement. Peter Parker was kind enough to walk you all the way back.

Peter Parker, who'd let you vent your pretty little heart out. He'd sit there and listen to your ramblings over the phone, grinning ear-to-ear as your relationship woes took the spotlight. He'd offer sound advice- how to confront your partner, how to defend yourself, and even if it ended with you crying into his speaker, you could only ever be so grateful for having such a caring, doting friend.

Peter Parker, who again, was always situated at your every wrong step.

This time, when your friends invited you out to some kitschy music festival in the outer-city, you turned a few wrong corners. The wrong streets, wrong apartment complexes, it left you eyeing every person that walked opposite of you. You pulled yourself against the closest wall after another wrong turn, fishing for your phone and scrolling to the contact you've grown all too accustomed to.

Brrring, click.

"Heyo," The speaker picked up a voice.

Relief, at last.

"Hey, Ben... I... I know you're probably busy or whatever but I'm," A sharp inhale on your end to keep your voice from giving out, your nostrils burning as the air rushed in.

"I went out with some friends- or I was supposed to, but then I got lost on the way there and I don't know where I am, or how far I am from anywhere, and nobody's answering their phone. I'm lost, and I'm really scared," You deliver the last part with a breathy laugh, 'scared' was an understatement.

"Alright, alright," He chuckled through static. "Stay where you are, scaredy cat. I'll only be a second." You could hear his smile, too. Which was only comforting because if there was anything about Ben Reilly, it was his assurance. But the line was dead before you could ask if he'd stay on call, and the dread was only slightly more bearable by then.

You pressed your back against uneven brick and exhaled, curious eyes trailing the figure by your sidewalk. He sported a loose fitting jacket, dark all over, obscuring his familiarity in most ways, but you could easily tell apart that mop of hair from anyone else.

Your brows furrowed as he neared, "Ben?"

His steps faltered, his spine straightening as he stilled. Brief silence flicked between you, and his eyes widened in, what seemed like, earnest surprise, "Hey, there you are!"

"What- Ben? How are- How did you get here so fast?" You're smiling as you speak. It's a wary smile more than anything, but friendly nonetheless.

"Uh... I was actually in the area," Spoken softly; disarming.

"Out here?" Your arms instinctively wrapped around themselves, the pads of your fingers gripping onto bare elbow, rubbing circles into bone.

It was the notion of pure coincidence that kept your naivety intact here. Why you both lingered on the same street, at the same time, opposite of the city you were stray to. It could otherwise be explained away by commute, but your Ben Reilly didn't have a real reason to be here and you knew him well enough to know that. And because of that, because you had a second to rake over the sheer absurdity of the situation, your comfort was soon abandoned. It withered into a judgment you hadn't once reconciled with.

Which, it would be unlike your Ben Reilly to overlook your abating warmth--discomfort taking the place of what was usually good humor.

"You called me, too," He muttered.

You couldn't tell if it was him, or the fresh crack in your rose-colored glasses, but he spoke so unconvincingly that you were sure he was saying something without really saying it.

"No, I-I know I did. I know that, but I," A stuttered inhale, your lips going dry.

"No- Hey," His voice was hushed, fragile to your worries. He took a step forward to which you responded by taking a step back, "C'mon, don't make this something it isn't."

"How did you know where I was?"

Peter's eyes fluttered at your words. Like he was bracing for impact, or like he knew you weren't really asking anything. Your stomach churned with every second he kept to himself, a selfish silence that drove you into quiet panic.

A montage of realizations swarmed your head. Your chest growing tight as it played. His face was at every corner of your best memories, and your unsuspecting willingness protected that familiarity. The familiarity of a friend, a kind friend, a giver, a protector. The get-together, the bus fare, the coffee run, all within the span of three weeks.

How could you have been so, so simpleminded?

"Ben, have you been..."

"Please."

A dry swallow, a blink. A question you didn't want an answer to.

"Have you been following me?"

[cherrybeomm]

to all the boys i've loved before | ryland grace ⋆.𐙚 ̊

summary : the love letters you’ve written weren’t supposed to be sent out. the school’s star lacrosse player, ryland grace, suddenly proposes a deal you don’t know whether to call him crazy straight to his face or actually consider. and they said junior year would be memorable?

pairing: ryland grace x f!reader 𑣲⋆｡˚

genre: to all the boys i’ve loved before au! , hopeless romantic! reader, lacrosse player! ryland grace, best friend! colt seavers, older sister! jody moreno, best friend! olesya ilyukhina, other mentions of rgcu characters for the sake of plot, coming of age, the horrors of highschool, lacrosse is not delved into deeply (i'm a fake i know), strangers to friends, friends to lovers, fake dating to real dating, they’re both idiots i fear, cliches cause i said so, ryland isn’t just a jock but a nerdy jock, colt lowkey dislikes ryland, reader isn’t a doormat and fights back kinda, mentions of sex tapes, slutshaming, betrayal, misunderstandings, sweet fluff, angst but i hate it, comfort for everything, highschooler humor cause tatbilb duh ⋆. 𐙚 ˚

taglist: OPEN! please do send an ask or comment to be added!

playlist for the series: here!

[bunny's note] ᯓ➤ oh my god hello rygo phm community! >< i've been an avid reader here on tumblr and well wanted to contribute some of my love for ryland grace! i've had this idea pop up in my head while talking with @rockylandphm (ily sue thank u sm for encouraging me!) and decided to go and write it :3 i haven't rlly wrote anything for a very long time so this is something new for me again so please be gentle! also this series of fics follows a mix of the movie and the book! (mostly the movie but bits of the book shows if you can spot it!)

dividers by @/diviniyae!

want to read more of my works? here's the masterlist!

MASTERLIST — COMPLETE!

chapter i : i like me better

⤷ ゛here! ˎˊ˗

wc : {6.3k}

chapter ii : boom clap

⤷ ゛here!ˎˊ˗

wc : {6.8k}

chapter iii : waste my time

⤷ ゛here! ˎˊ˗

wc : {13.9k}

chapter iv : everything is embarrassing

⤷ ゛here! ˎˊ˗

wc : {5.8k}

chapter v : state of grace

⤷ ゛here! ˎˊ˗

wc : {4.7k}

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗

EXTRA STUFF (last updated: 07/31/2026)

the letters (ryland, colt, ken, lars, sebastian)

1 . somebody to you

⤷ ゛here! ˎˊ˗

wc : {0.0k}

2. mom talk

⤷ ゛here! ˎˊ˗

wc : {1.0k}

3. cuddles

⤷ ゛here! ˎˊ˗

wc : {0.0k}

4. rivalry

⤷ ゛here! ˎˊ˗

wc : {1.1k}

5. sex isn't everything

⤷ ゛here! ˎˊ˗

wc : {0.0k}

6. lovesick puppy = ryland grace

⤷ ゛here! ˎˊ˗

wc : {0.0k}

7. assurance

⤷ ゛here! ˎˊ˗

wc : {1.3k}

updated taglist:

@bibigo-lover @marisolls @appletreat @soupiemeowmeow @aosky18 @julepod @spanishspeedster @alizztor @rockylandphm @qardasngan @kaiiii1009 @teaandfrogs4life @sinsilk @naxyzxyz @catastrophicbiologist @aunnic @cloudytimelapse @sipofchai @qoemchu @penglingwing @imafangirlofeverything

© cherrybeomm. no copying/plagiarizing/reposting/translation (etc) of my works.

[valarrsgirl]

tennis lessons with valarr hcs ˚ ༘ ೀ⋆🎾｡˚

a/n: me and my mom have been playing tennis almost every weekend lately, so i just had to write this with valarr + a little change of font today

cw: tennis player!valarr, fem!reader, flirting, tension, suggestive content, coach/student dynamic, kissing, implied sexual content, mild nsfw themes, possessive behavior

the first lesson

valarr is every inch the professional when he first meets you on the court. wearing a crisp white polo and tailored shorts that show off those long, muscular legs. he’s patient—surprisingly so for someone who competes at such a high level. he starts with the basics, showing you how to properly grip the racket, his calloused fingers gently adjusting your hold.

“losen your wrist,” he murmurs, standing behind you, his chest nearly pressing against your back as he guides your arm through the motion. “you’re too stiff. tennis is about flow, not force.”

he smells like sunshine and sweat and when he steps away to demonstrate a proper serve, you find yourself watching the way his body coils and releases with impossible grace.

the way he watches you

valarr is a perfectionist by nature, so he noticeseverything. the way you bite your lower lip in concentration. how you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear when you're nervous. the tiny sound of frustration you make when you miss the ball entirely.

he corrects your footwork by gently nudging your ankle with his foot. be stands behind you to adjust your hips, his hands settling on your waist to show you how to pivot. every touch is professional, technically appropriate—but his eyes linger a second too long, and his voice drops a little when he says, “good. just like that.”

the praise that makes you melt

valarr isn’t generous with compliments on the pro circuit, but with you, he can’t help himself. when you finally manage to return three serves in a row, his grin is blinding.

“there she is,” he says, and the pride in his voice makes your stomach flip. “i knew you had it in you.”

he gives you a water bottle from his bag, his fingers brushing yours. his gaze drops to your lips for just a fraction of a second before he looks away.

the first time he sees you in that skirt

you’d worn leggings to your first few lessons. practical. comfortable. but today is warmer, and you’d decided to wear a proper tennis skirt—white, pleated, impossibly short enough that it rides up when you move.

valarr nearly drops his racket.

he’s mid demonstration when you walk onto the court, and his words die in his throat. for a long, horrible moment, he just stares—at your bare legs, at the way the skirt swishes around your thighs, at the skin visible at your hip.

“valarr?” you ask, tilting your head. “everything okay?”

he clears his throat, but his voice comes out rough. “fine. let’s—let’s start with some drills.”

the distraction

he can’t focus.every time you run to retrieve a ball, the skirt flutters up, giving him a glimpse of the curve of your ass. every time you bend over to pick up a ball from the ground, his mouth goes dry. he’s grateful for the loose fit of his shorts because he’s getting hard—unbearably hard—and there’s nothing he can do about it.

he tries to correct your stance, coming up behind you to adjust your grip, but all he can think about is the heat of your body, the faint scent of your perfume mixed with sweat, the way your ponytail swings when you turn your head.

“valarr?” you glance back at him, and he realizes he’s been standing too close for too long, his chest pressed against your back, his breath hot against your ear.

he steps away, jaw tight. “sorry. lost in thought.”

the breaking point

it happens during a water break. you’re sitting on the bench, legs crossed, sipping from your bottle. valarr is standing a few feet away, trying very hard to look anywhere but at you.

but then you lean back, stretching your arms above your head, and the skirt rides up just so, and he can see the edge of your underwear—white cotton, innocent and devastating.

something snaps.

he’s in front of you before he knows what he’s doing, his hands gripping the bench on either side of your hips, caging you in. his silver streak has come loose from its tie, falling around his face, and his mismatched eyes are dark, pupils blown wide.

“do you have any idea,” he says, voice low and rough, “what you do to me?”

the locker room afterward

he doesn’t wait. he doesn’t give you a chance to answer. he takes your hand and pulls you off the court, through the back entrance, into the small locker room reserved for coaches and staff. the door clicks shut, and then his mouth is on yours—hungry, desperate, nothing like the controlled, professional man from an hour ago.

“i’ve been trying to be good,” he murmurs against your lips, his hands sliding down to your waist, gripping the fabric of your skirt. “i’ve been trying to focus on your footwork, your grip, your form—" he laughs, breathless and wrecked. “but all i can think about is bending you over the net and—”

he cuts himself off with a groan, his forehead dropping to yours. his hips press forward, and you can feel him—hard and thick through his shorts, undeniable.

“tell me to stop,” he whispers, but his hands are already pushing the skirt up, fingers tracing the inside of your thigh. “tell me, and i will."

but you don’t tell him to stop. you pull him closer, and valarr targaryen—disciplined, controlled, perfect valarr—loses every last shred of restraint.

the aftermath

later, when you’re both sprawled on the bench in the locker room, his head in your lap, your fingers carding through his sweat damp hair, he lets out a long, shaky breath.

“you’re going to be the death of my tennis career,” he says, but there’s a smile in his voice. “i don’t think i can look at that court without thinking about the sounds you made.”

he tilts his head up to look at you, mismatched eyes soft. “same time next week?”

and you both know he's not just talking about the lesson

taglist: @valarrmylight @icebearcucumber @wooceanic @baeylei @sunshineflowersandkisses @darylandbethfanforever9 @comzetogether @pinkdoeweirdo

[legonafide]

just watched #lars and the real girl and i'm thinking about his hat...it is kind of strange, there is a wide hole and his hair are peaking throught and for me it is kind of visualisation of his mental illness???

[denaebenites2]

the thing is that when you decide to watch lars and the real girl all you're gonna know ahead of time is that it's a ryan gosling movie from 2007 about a grown man who orders a sex doll online and treats the doll like it's his real girlfriend. and naturally you'll go "what a strange premise for a romcom! surely this movie will primarily be making jokes at the expense of Guy Who Pretends His Doll Is Real." and then 1.5 hours later you'll be sobbing at your stupid kitchen table about family and community and positive representations of mental illness. and youll go what the fuck just happened to me

[brutalizermp3]

Hello, happy campers!

Welcome you to your first summer at Camp Ashford! Over the next four weeks, we look forward to watching you explore, grow, and enjoy the great big outdoors! Now, some of you may have already heard the rumours that always circulate this time of year. We can absolutely assure that there is nothing to worry about. Camp Ashford has always been, and continues to be, totally safe.

Up ahead, you'll be introduced to our senior counselors and given your bunk assignments. Please note that though we understand some of you are here with your friends, we ask that you DO NOT SWITCH CABINS without permission. Our senior counselors will be keeping an eye on this, and they don't appreciate disloyalty. Otherwise, take care of your fellow campers, be open to friendships new and old alike but most importantly, have fun!

And remember, at Ashford, there are two sides to every story.

Meet Our Counselors:

☆ Valarr

☆ Tanselle

☆ Aerion

☆ Dunk

Get Cozy In Your Cabins:

☆ Syrup, Sugar, Sticky, Soda - On a mini roadtrip to get Valarr something sweet, you decide to give him an extra treat

☆ Tanselle [COMING SOON]

☆ Aerion [COMING SOON]

☆ Dunk [COMING SOON]

Don't Go Into The Woods At Night:

☆ Valarr [COMING SOON]

☆ Tanselle [COMING SOON]

☆ Aerion [COMING SOON]

☆ Dunk [COMING SOON]

[hilda-b]

Royal Literature

Pairing: Academic Rival!Valarr Targaryen x AFAB!Reader

Description: Valarr has been getting on your nerves since the start of the semester. When he gives you an olive branch you try to take it in your own way. Earning more of his attention than you bargained for.

WC: 6.7k~

<For Mature Audiences>

Warnings/MDNI: Slight Scholarship Student!Reader (sorry), Brat!Reader, Reader has slight anger issues (if you squint), ragebaiting, bit of filthy talk, Pervert!Valarr, oral (f!receiving), panty stealing, IDK lemme know if I missed anything.

AN: Academic Rival!Valarr is not my original idea and I take no credit for it. Will try to work on the tagging, but I keep thinking of Valedictorian/Business Heir Valarr and had to write something. Let me know feedback or anything I missed. Thanks!

King’s Landing University was the most elite school for the overly powerful and filthy rich. The University prided itself on its academics. State-of-the-art labs, brand new classrooms, and a canteen that served the best of the best. Classes had started a few weeks ago, or maybe it’s been a few months by now; you can’t quite remember. Students are trying to get into their habits and memorize their schedules. You’d gotten used to the courses, both the challenging ones and the ones that came more easily. You set aside more time for History and English because you noticed that those professors gave out more work than the others. Keeping your head down and nose to the books. It was different than what you were used to, difficult in ways you hadn’t expected. Trying to survive in a world of the obscenely wealthy felt impossible. It leaves you with endless days of little human contact, yet your grades have never been better. You refuse to let them slip.

It gets lonely. 

The only friend you truly had was your dorm-mate, Tanselle. Seeing as everyone else on campus really only cared about celebrity gossip or when the next Gala would be. Tanselle was a nice respite from all that with her easy demeanor and pleasant conversation about the upcoming theater show or something of the sort. Tanselle was busy with her Drama major, which alone took up all her free time. Hence, most of your time outside of class was spent in the library. It wasn’t often, or even, that you went to bars or parties. You couldn’t afford it. One wrong move and you’d be struggling to fight back to the top spot for weeks. Every day after classes, you would pick the same table in the corner and shove yourself there till the sun went down. 

Valarr had picked up on your pattern of disappearing. Top of his class, high marks, and future heir to the Iron Thrones Bank of wealth. Valarr’s life is also defined by strict schedules and rigorous timelines planned months in advance. That’s how he likes it. The discipline and structure of it are what make him who he is. He sees something that might throw off his whole plan, and he adjusts to it. Everything in his life is meticulously thought over at least three times. Obsessively so. He has to be in control of everything, and so he is. A quiet power. He can’t afford to make mistakes; he's too busy, and too many people are expecting perfection from him. In fact, his days were usually booked out and written in his planner at least three weeks in advance.

The only exclusion was you.

You who always, at any given time, were battling for top of class by a point at any given time. You who would constantly find flaws in anything he said, possibly just to argue. You who would always answer in class just to spite him when he had had his hand raised first. You were the one thing he couldn’t fully comprehend. One day he would be on schedule to be valedictorian, and the next- a new grade entered- putting him in second, you leading the top spot. It drove him wild. So the further the term went on, the longer he seemed to watch you.

His curiosity was piqued when he saw you in the library, always alone and surrounded by piles of work. While he usually preferred his own company as well, something about your isolated state bothered him. He would pass the library every day to get to his afternoon meetings or classes, and every time you were there. He can’t recall a time you weren’t.

On this particular afternoon, he found himself passing by after one of his piano lessons. The library's quiet atmosphere enveloped him as he scanned the shelves, his footsteps nearly silent on the carpet. He spotted you in your usual corner, completely absorbed in textbooks. His fingers traced along the spines of nearby tomes, pretending to browse while his gaze kept drifting back to your focused form.

You were taught very early on to be aware of your surroundings. So the looming presence nearby didn’t go unnoticed, though it wasn’t a pressing issue. People came into the library all the time. Either studying or piddling around till their friends came in, or they got bored enough to leave. So after a few minutes of scribbling at your notes, you grow more tense when the presence persists—sparing a glance, only to find Valarr Targaryen of all people. Thinking it’s a fluke, you turn back to your math worksheet and continue. Though now with the knowledge that he’s here too. 

Hovering.

Valarr had felt you look at him briefly; he plucked at a book while you returned to your notes. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly at your attempt to ignore him. Taking it as a challenge to see how close he could get before you lecture him. Because you always addressed him. Some smart comment about his views, or a correction on his opinions, whatever the case may be, you couldn’t help yourself. He moved closer, his expensive cologne now unmistakable in the quiet space. Something woody and clean, warm that fits the atmosphere. Something someone like Valarr would wear, which only grated your nerves further.

You felt him moving around, coming to lean against the bookshelf opposite your table, messing with the shelf and its contents. You had tried to keep your attention on your work, but sparing a glance you saw as he pulled out a volume of High Valyrian poetry, his silver-streaked hair catching a soft light as he skimmed over the book's contents. As if trying to decide whether or not to take that text in particular.

"I must say, the isolation suits you less than I thought it would." His voice carried that distinctive Targaryen drawl, though barely above a whisper. Something that commanded your attention against your will. He didn’t look your way, but you knew he was speaking to you. There was hardly anyone who came here in the first place. "Though I suppose even the cleverest need company sometimes." Sighing out as if the burden was his to carry.

Of course. Of course he would want to pester you; why wouldn’t he? It seems your misery amuses him.

“Is that why you’re here? To be my company??” Speaking softly, quietly in a way that respects the library’s existence and its rules while addressing his jab directly. Defeated in a way that says there would be no argument. Not today. Not if you couldn’t help it. Peeling your gaze to look up at him as you note his attire. The soft wool sweater, the perfectly tailored khakis, his polished shoes. Ever the appearance of perfect. Always the diplomat. Though you suppose he gets it honestly. Considering his family and background, it wouldn’t be good to walk around him anything less than aristocratic—a beat of studying him before you turn back to your worksheet. Trying not to think about the way his shoulders filled out the material of his sweater, or the way his chestnut hair looks so soft in the sunlight.

Valarr's heterochromatic eyes narrowed, only slightly, at your vanquished tone. Something about the way you said it stirred an unfamiliar feeling in his chest. Something he doesn’t inspect too closely but catalogs and files away somewhere to assess later. He moves attentively, pulling out the chair across from you and settling into it with deliberate grace. As if he owns the very space and you’re a guest in it. Which isn’t entirely wrong. He sets the book he pulled from the shelf onto the table, his bag next to his seat on the floor. Making himself comfortable.

"Perhaps I am simply curious about what keeps you so absorbed here all the time. This isn’t the first time I’ve seen you tucked away here." Valarr’s fingers drummed lightly on the poetry book, watching you intently. His gaze was always intense in a way that made your stomach twist in knots. One eye violet and piercing, the other chocolate and unwavering. Both are unnerving. "Though your academic dedication is impressive, to say the least." The admission seemed to pain him slightly, but there was something genuine behind his words, like the words cost him to say but not enough to dwell on it.

The silence of the library stretches.

This was odd. It’s very unlike him to come here and speak to you at all, much less like this. He doesn’t compliment you. That's not how your dynamic works. Usually, he says something wrong, and you cannot help but correct him. Which then turns into him quietly steaming while you get louder and louder with your argument. Usually put to an end when some professor gets tired of hearing you two go back and forth. He always kept his cool. Always the stoic, rigid posture of a man who’s holding back for the sake of decorum. So here and now you don’t tell him to leave, but you don’t exactly tell him to stay either.

“If you mean to keep me company, then please do so quietly.” Scribbling out some numbers you messed up, frustrated at the fact that you have a distraction at all. Because Valarr Targaryen is most certainly distracting. Though you continue on, calculating and writing down the different equations and answers that aren’t due till the end of the week. You just wanted to get them done, hunched over a thick textbook with a precision that borders on neurotic. Notes are organized in a way that is painful at times to keep up with, but helps in the long run. 

Valarr raises his brow at your blunt dismissal, but instead of leaving, he merely leans back in his seat. You can feel him watching you work. His presence remains steadfast as he gets a front-row seat to your method. So this is how you keep up with him? Hours of mental labor just to pace yourself with him? 

The late afternoon sun filters through the windows, casting long shadows across everything it touches. He observes how your fingers move with mechanical precision over the paper, logging the way your bottom lip would occasionally catch between your teeth when you were particularly focused. The rest of the library had the occasional student lingering, but never any real foot traffic. These books were old. In a time of modern technology, who needs to check out books when most are at your fingertips?

After several minutes of silence, he finally spoke, his voice softer than before. "You know, this is the first time you haven't scoffed at my existence in weeks." It’s the first thing he noticed. No arguing, no trying to prove him wrong. Just quietly studying that almost seems normal if it wasn’t coming from you.

A mistake. 

His words make you write the wrong numbers, one off, and you scratch them out in frustration. If you can’t ignore him, then you’ll just have to indulge him till he leaves. Gently set down your pencil and now give him your full attention lest your homework suffer. “This is also the first time we’ve spoken outside a lecture hall.” Pointing out with a hint of annoyance, but quickly shoving it down. He didn’t deserve your outright anger for something so trivial. He was trying to be civil. Or so it seems. You could try as well, for his sake and yours. “Is there a reason you’ve graced me with your company?” 

Valarr felt a strange mix of surprise and satisfaction at your unexpected attention. Usually he felt the opposite when talking with you, but then again this wasn’t a hostile conversation. It had sharp points but nothing like your heated debates in class. The way you put down your writing and gave him your full focus was disarming, especially with your eyes fixed on him like that. He shifted slightly in his chair, suddenly aware of how close he was to you. He tries to recall a time he’s ever sat across from you- he can’t. Clearing his throat, he tried to maintain his usual composure despite the unexpectedness of the moment. “No particular reason. Just thought I'd see what had you so thoroughly captivated here." His gaze flicked to your papers and books scattered across the table, where you'd scratched out your previous attempts. "Though I must say, your dedication to erasing mistakes is... thorough."

You blink. Letting his words sink in. He seems to be trying to make casual conversation, which doesn’t feel right. You’d assumed he wanted nothing to do with you. Seeing as you’re always poking holes in his points in class. Having settled for the outcome of his hatred a long time ago. “What are you reading?” It’s an offer. Something like a hand extended to meet him in the middle for a normal conversation. Changing the topic entirely as you try to look at the book he picked up off the shelf, if he was even planning on keeping it. Valyrian poetry. Seems unlikely he would want to read such a book for fun, unless it’s for some class, which you doubt.

He caught your quick glance, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. Picking it up, he turned it slightly toward you, showing the worn cover of ancient Valyrian. "Seven Songs of Love and Death." His fingers traced the embossed title; the gesture was unconscious but elegant. "One of the few things that's actually in my native tongue. This library has quite the collection, though this particular volume is older." Valarr watched your reaction carefully, noting how you studied the strange language.

“Your native tongue?” Trying to keep the conversation flowing, since he decided to be here anyway. You didn’t know his native tongue wasn’t English, but you knew he could speak plenty of other languages. One of the many things you hated about him. It’s not like you knew much about him, but what you did know pressed just about every button you had. He was infuriatingly calm, argumentative when he felt he was right, and effortlessly intelligent. That last part was the hardest to come to terms with. Not that he was some rich, pompous heir, but that he fit the title of it seamlessly. He wasn’t just paying his way to the top; he earned it with his own dedication and was quick enough to keep it. You’re trying not to hold any of that against him now. This whole scene was uncharted territory, and you didn’t want it to turn into an argument like usual. Not in the library, at least. “Does that mean you grew up speaking Valyrian?”

Valarr's expression softened slightly at your curiosity, a rare occurrence in your interactions. He shifted, unconsciously straightening his already perfect sweater. "Yes, though my father insisted I learn the Common Tongue as well. Something about needing to understand the people we govern." His voice carried a hint of bitterness at the last bit, quickly masked before continuing. "Though my grandfather was rather insistent on maintaining the Old Tongue." He took a moment to absorb your face, noting how it seemed to glow in the fading sunlight—making something warm in the air that wasn’t there before. 

He had willingly shared a piece of himself. However small, or even if it was common knowledge, that fact mattered. No tug-of-war for the relent of it. “So you’ve read it before, I’m assuming?” Nodding towards the book again, gently picking your pencil back up to resume scribbling. Though this time it’s just that. Scribbling. Little doodles to occupy your hands while you listen to him. It’s a nice, subtle change from the angry math from earlier. “Since you know its contents.” Lots of assuming, since he never said it directly, but the way he spoke about it made it seem so.

Valarr's gaze followed the movement of your pen, intrigued by the sudden shift from your previous obsessive note-taking to casual doodling. Leaning forward slightly, he watched as you created little patterns on the paper. "Seven Songs can be- intense. Most versions I've read are censored for the modern age." His voice dropped, with an almost conspiratorial edge. He’s bent closer over the table to speak about it as if it’s a secret in itself. "The original Valyrian tells tales of dragonlords who took multiple wives, who feasted on each other's flesh in ways that would make even some of our more... adventurous students blush."

Oh.

A subtle challenge lingered in his tone, testing your reaction to his bold words. When you don’t say anything, he takes it as permission to keep going. His eyes gleaming with amusement at the fact that you press the lead harder into the page. Avoiding looking at him entirely. He leans back, casually crossing one leg over the other under the table. His foot is brushing yours. He was messing with you on purpose.

"The modern version omits the more explicit details. In the original, dragonlords would sometimes take two to three wives, and there are descriptions of their... intimate practices." His voice remains steady, maintaining that dangerous edge of confrontation. Low enough not to draw the attention of anyone else. "They were quite creative in their debauchery, these ancient Targaryens." He watched your face carefully, the slight flush creeping up your neck. He looks much too smug with himself because of it.

The thing about Valarr Targaryen that very few people know is that he is no saint. By no means is he a perfect man. He has a temper he handles well, emotions he keeps under careful control, and a hunger he keeps on a strict leash. Because of his status, he has to make sure his image is curated exactly as a prince of the realm should be. Yet that doesn’t dismiss the Targaryen heat he still holds. He found out early on in his life that he’s been cursed with an insatiable appetite for the more carnal of desires. His worst vice. He was taught to manage it under a watchful eye and the right restrictions to ensure no scandal comes in tow. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel the itch of it. Something about seeing you this quiet, this subdued, and slightly pink does something that makes him hone in. Makes him want to press you further.

By some grace of the gods, his phone buzzes, and you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. His brow furrowed slightly at the interruption, but he pulled out his phone with practiced elegance. His expression shifted to something more controlled as he read the message. Annoyance crossed his features. "Apologies." He stands smoothly, slipping the poetry book into his bag as he picks it up off the floor. His long limbs move with a fluidity that only someone with his confidence has. "Duty calls.“ He lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, that familiar intensity in his mismatched gaze. "Though I must say, you're quite different when you're not arguing with me." It’s a simple statement. Something that shouldn’t hit you as hard as it does. He adjusts the strap of his bag before turning and heading out of the quiet and into the rest of the world.

You didn’t realize how hard your heart was hammering in your chest. Or how hot your cheeks felt. The bewildered look on your face slowly shifts from confusion to something flustered. The one conversation you have with him outside of class, and this is how it ends. Suppose it’s better than yelling. It left you with an odd feeling and an even more odd thought- could Valarr be pleasant company?

          · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You’re not entirely sure why you did it. It took time and effort away from your studies; it gave you no reward, but the gratification alone was what kept you going.

The day that book made its way back to the shelf, you checked it out. You couldn’t read Valyrian. That was the first problem, trying to translate a text as old as the country itself. Languages were difficult as is, but a language that hardly anyone spoke was even more so. There were very few resources, but you were able to find a few books and some online materials that helped you do a rough translation. Emphasis on the word rough.

The next problem was actually reading it. Words hardly make any sense. It felt less like poetry and more like blunt caveman literature. Half of what you read barely made any sense, and the other half made you blush at the crude remarks. The text spoke of dragon battles, some gore, and mainly vulgar rituals that Tagraryens performed to ensure a male heir. Though compare the text to actual history books and you’ll know that said rituals hardly ever worked.

The last problem was what to do with the information once you were done. Feeling unsettled at the fact that you couldn’t understand half of it. The purpose of doing all this, because it ended up taking two weeks, was to understand what secret Valarr was hiding with this book. If anything, you just felt more confused. Why would someone of his stature read such a thing? What did he have to gain from it? For your own peace of mind, you wrote out your own analysis on the subject. Maybe a bit too harsh. Complaining of the inconsistency, the poor subject matter, and how it was articulated. Targaryen history was part of this country's founding and therefore should be preserved, but this wasn’t worth preserving. This was just some sexual fantasy someone wanted to write down. You had said as such in your writing. Folding it up and tucking it into the book, you felt satisfied at beating such a difficult task. When you returned it to the librarian, she didn’t even flip through it before tucking it back on the shelf. Your note, which you meant to throw away, is still hiding in the pages.

Valarr had found the note tucked inside the book about a month later. At first, he wasn’t sure what it was, rambling pages on notebook paper that looked more like mad scribbles.

Scribbles.

He recognized your handwriting once it clicked; the countless sticky notes you'd left in class debates gave you away. The thought that you'd gone through such trouble to not only translate the text but also analyze the ancient script, write out your thoughts… just to place them here. For him to find. That made something stir within him. Sure, he had seen you blush before, and that left an itch he couldn’t scratch, but now you’ve done this. Now you’ve taken it a step further. He took that as some kind of invitation.

Later that evening, as he sat in his own penthouse near campus, he found himself rereading your words and trying to decipher any hidden meaning behind your analysis. He could tell it was you from the angry tone of the text. As if you were still trying to prove him wrong, even though he couldn’t understand why. The fact that you'd left no name only added to the mystery, because he knew it was you; he just didn’t have the proof for it.

The next day in class, he found himself watching you more intently than usual, wondering if you were aware he'd found your little analytical gift. Valarr caught himself staring at your focused profile. The way you took in the lecture, the way your eyes scanned the board. The memory of your note and your hidden thoughts about the book had become a persistent distraction. He had never thought about you this much before. Not in this way, with some distant pang of hunger. It seems like since that interaction in the library, he's been noticing you more and more. 

When class ended, Valarr didn’t immediately leave for whatever was next on his schedule like he normally would. As you packed up, he approached your desk with measured steps, his usual composure masking the unusual tension in his shoulders. "I see you've been exploring Valyrian literature." His voice was low enough for only you to hear—the crowd of students shuffling by for their next classes. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Your stomach drops. Denying all too quickly. Keeping your head down as you try to get your things a bit faster. Trying to beat the crowd before they completely leave you alone with him. You hadn’t meant for him to find out about your little project, but one way or another, he had. He was so intense about it, too. It wasn’t a very appropriate topic; you worried you’d say something stupid and make yourself look an even bigger fool than you are. Feeling him standing next to you, his shoulder brushing yours as he crowds your desk. Probably the closest you’ve ever been to him. It’s making you feel uneasy. “I don’t even know Valyrian.” Brushing off his accusation with the truth, or at least part of it. You didn’t know Valyrian, but you knew how to translate it. Those were different things, and only after 3 failed attempts and a YouTube video did you manage.

Valarr inches closer, deliberately invading your personal space to assert himself. The smell of him wrapped around you as he leaned down slightly; you could catch the mint of his toothpaste on his breath. Voice dropping to a whisper, sending shivers down your spine.

"Don't play coy. The note in the book was quite telling." His breath ghosted across your ear, making the hairs on your neck stand on end. His hand rested on the desk beside yours, dangerously close to brushing against you. He didn’t. He kept the space as minimal as possible, but he never broke through. "Though I must admit, your translation was entertaining."

“Entertaining? Was it truly that poor of a translation?” You spoke too soon. Snapping at his words in defense. He had done it on purpose to drag the truth out of you, which he did. As soon as the words leave your mouth, you freeze. Feeling a dread creep through your insides as you wait for his response to your blunder.

He huffed low in his throat at your guarded reaction, the sound coming through his chest. Shifting his hand slightly, his pinky brushing against yours, the contact sending an electric jolt through both of you. Subtle. Almost imperceptible, if you didn’t know any better. But you knew. He knew too. Small enough to brush off if you wanted to.

"Oh, it was certainly unique. Your interpretation was colorful, to say the least." He leaned even closer, his shoulder now almost touching yours. His proximity was maddening, making it hard for to think clearly. The feel of your soft skin against his pinky made him want to press closer, feel more of you against him. "But it did get me thinking. You must have some interesting reading habits if you decided to tackle a Valyrian erotic text for fun.” 

Your brain shut off. Something about him being this close and saying things like this made it impossible to remember what you were doing. Hands trembling as you try to continue packing up. Most of the class has already left; a few students crowded the professor's desk, but mostly alone. Alone enough, he felt comfortable to grab your pinky with his. Your breath is catching in your throat to the point you nearly choke on it. The warm appendage didn't even do anything, but it was enough. You didn’t dare look up at him. Feeling his hair tickling your skin, his breath hot and his voice low. A secret shared. Isn’t that what you wanted? “Come with me.” He doesn’t move at first, giving you time to pull away. When you don’t, he takes that as his answer. Tugging at your pinky as he gets you moving. Pulling you away from your desk to robotically follow behind him. His head is on a swivel as he watches every person, every camera in the hall, every possible thing that could catch what he's about to do, which was be reckless. Which he does not do often. 

At some point, he had let go of your pinky, opting to lead you instead as he went down halls and corners you’ve hardly seen before. The quieter it got, the more aware you were. The fact that you were following him at all felt like some kind of fever dream. The tension in his shoulders was the only thing that gave away his worry. You weren't sure where you were going, what you were doing, or anything really, but you were in too deep to stop now. Something about it felt exhilarating. There was something in the air around him that you were trying to figure out. Was he flirting? Was he angry? Was he about to blow up on you, and he didn’t want any witnesses? You can imagine Valarr finally yelling at you, and for whatever reason, it makes your hands sweaty. Why is that?

As you enter the admin part of campus, you see him spare a glance around, casual and precise. Checking all routes before unlocking a door and pushing it open. The room is dark, the windows are covered, and barely any light comes through. You don't get to look further before you're shoved in. Tripping on your feet as you stumble in, ready to spin around and shout at him for doing it until you feel his hands on you.

His hands. 

Firm, sure in their grip on your waist as he steadies you. Earning a gasp from you as his touch registers. He’s locked you in, and while your eyes try to adjust to the light, he is already moving closer. You felt him first. The heat of him. Stepping closer and closer until you had to take a step back, to which he followed. Back you up until you bumped into something and couldn't go any further. His breath fanned across your face, then your neck. It made you dizzy as you tried to keep up. “Your translation was abhorrent.” He starts, low and graveled. It sends something hot to your belly. Something embarrassing you would never admit, but he keeps going. “Not only that, but you got the plot of it all wrong. So I think we should go over it again-I’ll translate.” 

His nose brushes your cheek, and it makes you jump. The only thing you can make out is the shape of him. The quiet room, whatever this place is, is doing nothing to help you get your bearings. Hands finding his chest to try and make space. At least to breathe or something, maybe stop him. Except his lips graze your jaw- “Valarr…” It’s soft and betraying you instantly. Cursing your body for reacting so easily.

This was Valarr, for Gods sake. The man you hated, the man who made every class unbearable with his arrogance and yet-

He presses a kiss to your skin, just below your ear, as he leans even closer. You can feel him press against you. Feel the strength of him, the weight, and something hard pressing at your hip. You choose to believe it's his belt buckle. “The Mother gave her blessing to those she deemed worthy.” He starts, mumbling into your skin as his hands start to wander. From your waist to your hips, holding you still. As if afraid you might slip out of his grasp now that he's got you here. 

“Fertility and love to her followers who walked in her light. The dragonlords at the time took that to heart. Deeming the Mothers favor as they pursued fertility through lovemaking.” His lips brush against you as he speaks. Teeth dragging across your neck, wet kisses that make you tremble in his hold. Fingers digging into the fabric of his expensive shirt. Squeaking when he suddenly lifts you and sets you down on some table that creaks under your weight. “Showing their love and devotion to their wives in an effort to curry favor. They would divulge in their pleasure until pleasure could come no more, and their wives were left with nothing but pain in its stead. Only then did the past dragon riders try for their heirs.”

His words held no meaning to you as you tried to keep pace with his touch. Valarr’s intensity never let up as he kept going. Kissing and nipping until he reached your collar. To which he decided was a nuisance and tugged the whole shirt off in one swift movement. Pulling it up and over your head, and the thing is- you let him. Your arms were going up, and you were left in your bra. The cool air helps with the heat, and the dark helps hide any embarrassment you have. He kisses his way to your breast, latching on to leave a mark at the swell of them. Somewhere you could hide easily. You're grateful for that at least. Fingers come to the card through his hair, and that earns a groan. Suddenly, you're very aware of the noises in the room. Your heavy breathing, Valarr's panting across your chest. Your head's spinning-

“Tell me to stop and I will…” He offers, though it sounds pained. Like the thought of stopping hurts him on a level he was trying not to show. Nuzzling into the softness of you as he waits for your response. You were too wrapped up in the moment to even speak. The only words that came to mind were ‘more,’ and you couldn’t even manage to get that out. So you tug on the strands of hair you held hostage, and that made him snap.

Whatever you were sitting on protested with a groan as he lifted you. Just barely as he pawed at your pants. Pulling them down your hips to set you down again, ripping them the rest of the way down your legs. You felt too exposed like this, even in the dark. So, in an effort to level the playing field, you reach for his shirt. Tugging at the fabric with a little too much haste- “Off.” Grumbling out as you try to pull it over his head. Only it gets caught on his arms, and he can only give a soft chuckle, easing the intensity of the moment. 

“Impatient.” Tutting out as he helps you, pulling the garment off and tossing it somewhere into the room. As your eyes have adjusted, you realize this place is some kind of records or storage room. Somewhere, nobody would come looking for you two. Which you can only assume was his plan from the beginning. His hands find you again as you watch him kneel, settling on your thighs as the heat brands your skin. The sight of him beneath you floods your senses. Normally, the rational part of your brain would be screaming at you to stop this, to get yourself together and not indulge in such vulgar behavior on school grounds, but-

“Show me.” It’s barely a whisper, a challenge. 

“Show you?” He muses, a hint of a smile coming to his lips. Hardly visible in the dark but more than clear in his tone. Amused at your neediness. “Show you love, devotion and pleasure? That’s a tall order…” Yet he doesn't argue. That mop of brown hair dipping to press a kiss to your ribs, then your stomach, then lower-

He doesn’t stop once he reaches your ruined underwear, mouthing at the fabric with a slow reverence that sends tingles through you. Your hands find his hair again as he settles in. Sighing against you as he works more of your slick and his spit together. The contact made your mind static as you scooted closer to the edge, eager for more of what he had to offer. His hands come to tug your legs over his shoulders. Skin against skin as the sweat and molten feeling builds. Dragging it out as you grow more impatient, the longer your panties stay on. 

He grants you some small mercy when a whine slips through you, his fingers that had been playing with the waistband coming to tug them down your legs. You lift your hips to try and help him but end up bumping his jaw in the process. Your nerves are a bit too frazzled to make this ‘perfect’. It’s been a while since you’ve been touched like this. “Sorry-” Huffing out, settling back onto the table as he tosses your drawers somewhere else. If anyone were to walk in, it would be quite the scene.

“Don’t be. It’s fine, more than fine-” His voice was raspy and wrecked in the dark. Only adding to your pleasure as he wraps his arms around your thighs again. Yanking you to the edge as you gasp, and he laughs at you. Normally, you'd be peeved at such a thing. “You taste good.” He hums against you, dragging his tongue through your folds as you choke. Unsure of what to do or how to handle such feelings, he's giving you, and he can tell. Yet he doesn't stop. If anything, he goes harder. Sucking on the bundle of nerves, ever so lightly nipping, and it earns a moan. An embarrassing noise that you couldn't choke back.

“Valarr-” You start, but he sushes you. Delving in to feast you like a man starved. His tongue works your entrance as his nose grinds against your clit. Hips jerking against him as you try to keep still. One hand still in his hair, holding for dear life, while the other tries to keep you upright. A rumbled noise comes from him as your thighs gently squeeze at his head. 

The longer he goes on, the more the pleasure builds, and the more work he puts into you. The fire in your belly is only growing as he replaces his tongue with his fingers. Poking and prodding until one thick digit fills you up. Then another. “Nuhor lir gurenna” He mumbles into you, sucking on your clit. It earns him a sharp, garbled noise as he works you open. Fingers curling and pumping torturously. The pace is slow but unrelenting. As if he wanted to drag this out and take as much as possible. 

It felt like hours. He was kneeling between your legs and eating you out with such thoroughness that it left you dumb. Grabbing and grinding against him, the longer he took. Tears starting to prick your eyes the closer you got to the edge- “Please.” Whimpering out, not caring how it may look. He knew what he was doing. You knew you couldn't handle much more of it. He didn’t stop for your plea, but he did give you what you wanted. Pressing harder as he changed pace. Sloppy sounds coming from below as you watch the shape of him in the dark. That damned silver streak catching the light. You could see his muscles flex as he worked, and the sight alone sent you toppling. Over the cliff and into the plunge of pleasure as you sighed. Clenching around his fingers as he hummed against you. Only adding to the bliss that he gave. Working you through your orgasm, he carefully pulled away. Just enough to look at you.

His face glistened with your slick, and that left you mortified once your senses returned, a smug smile on his lips. Satisfied and obscenely wrecked as he looked you over. You both looked debauched. “Seems I didn’t really go over the texts very well either.” He chimes, only earning a groan from you. How could he be so ridiculous in a moment like this? You watch as he leans over to grab something from the floor, holding up your panties in the light. Except instead of returning them, he stuffs them into his pocket. “How about you get these back next time we study?” He grins, making your stomach flip.

Maybe Valyrian wasn’t so bad after all.

AN: If you've read this far, thank you! I have been trying to release better content and switching from my phone to computer has helped a ton. Please let me know if you enjoyed this and anything I can work on in future. Thanks!

[kokoch4n3l]

˗ˏˋ s3xtape ࿐ྂ "watch you weigh your powers, tempt me with hours of pleasure, take me one more time..."

summary: a measly nine-month-long relationship crashes and burns, with her spending the last six trying to break up with Valarr Targaryen. Unfortunately, now that he has her, he won't let her go. Valarr after all, has always been a patient man.

notes: modern au inspired by true events... f!oc is a middle child. lowkey a self insert, don't mind me... It's also a ramble because I've written something after so long and I lost the plot midway but yeah. Enjoy <3

warning: NOT BETA READ! implied child neglect, panic attacks, anxiety, paranoia, toxic+abusive relationships, revenge porn(only implied threats), mention of past underage drug use, suggestive themes, mature language, dub-con, non-explict sex, non consensual recording, open ending

pairing: valarr targaryen x f!unnamed!oc(can be read as x reader)

word count: 9569

Paranoia should be ranked number 1 in the top 10 worst things to feel. If there is a list like that in the first place. 

Just as she finished her final year of high school, she finally managed to break up with Valarr. 

Valarr Targaryen, her first love, her greatest mistake. 

He was perfect in the beginning, even in that weird talking stage, which teenagers fumble around nervously in. It was their last year of high school, and right at the beginning of September, when everyone returned from the summer break, he admitted he’d adored her since middle school. Hadn’t that always been her favourite book trope? Childhood friends to lovers? Valarr brought her flowers on Valentine's Day, would buy her chocolate, and ice coffee at lunch. He was rich, had more than enough money to spare on measly two dollar ice coffees from the joint nearby. It was nice like a dream or those stupid little romcom movies she could never admit to watching. 

It was around December of that year, things went to shit. It didn’t happen all at once. It would have been easier to understand if it had, but it didn’t. There hadn’t been a fight, no moment where the metaphorical violins screeched in the background and she realized she was dating the villain. Maybe she could point out the day it started. Winter break, when she went to his house for the first time, red-cheeked from the cold, greeting his father and mother with big smiles, giving them the cake she stayed up late making. His father, with mismatched eyes just like Valarr’s, smiled politely and thanked her for the cake as he pat her head lovingly. His mother kissed her cheek and called her sweetheart. You were a middle child, the mature one, the smart one, the one who didn’t need attention. So getting attention for once made you feel nice. His little brother Matarys had been eager to try the cake and complimented her endlessly. She remembered Valarr looked pleased. 

Later, alone in his room, it was warm. The windows fogged over while snow collected outside. She remembered standing awkwardly by his door, fiddling with the strings of her hoodie because she had never been inside a boy’s room before and Valarr was her first-ever boyfriend. There had been stupid things she looked at instead of him— the dragon figurines, posters, books stacked in neat towers, a guitar mounted on the wall. “Come in. What’re you standing there for?” he laughed

They hadn’t done anything. Mostly because she didn’t even if he so clearly did, his thumbs hooked in the waistband of her jeans. They just kissed, and it was so nice, his hands so warm each time they slipped under your top. She remembered laughing into his mouth because his hair kept falling in his face and tickling her cheeks. He grinned then, all soft edges and sleepy eyes, forehead resting against hers. He looked at her like she’d hung the stars herself. “I’ve got you now,” he murmured so quietly she almost missed it.

At the time, she smiled and kissed him again— all clumsy because she wasn’t good at it— because she thought it was sweet. It was funny how memory worked because thinking back to it, those words sounded different now. 

➽─────────❥

The thing is, Valarr had never been overbearing. Not like those men in the movies or TV shows. He was kind and patient and knew her limits, didn’t text a billion times a day to know where she was. She felt stupid sometimes just thinking about the way she acted, thinking that maybe it had been her own fault for getting so entangled so fast. A little bit after turning 18 she’d sent him a picture. Nothing too crazy. She had started working out past the every day gym classes at school. She looked nice, and oh she just wanted to be called pretty. It’d been hard to find the right angle after unbuttoning her jeans and undoing the zipper. The pretty little bow and lace waistband of her panties were visible. A thin silver waist chain she brought from some store was clipped around her waist and her tight crop top hiked up further. Her face wasn’t visible in it, just her body, just what she wanted him to call pretty. The photo looked like something she could find on Pinterest. She thinks it would be easy to find a similar one so no, it wasn’t crazy. Definitely not scandalous. It could easily be counted as those work out progress photos she’s seen on Instagram.

She sent it without thinking too hard about it. No, she was thinking too hard about it. She ended up putting her phone in her pocket and going to see what her family was up to so she wouldn’t die from anxiety. They barely looked at her when they came down. Her younger brother was starting high school next year, her older sister was starting her Master's and graduating after earning her Bachelor’s. There were more important things because well… She never made herself seem important. She was always the easy one, the independent one, the one who cried less, the one who adapted quicker, the one who didn’t need gluten-free, egg-free, lactose-free, and all that other bullshit eldest and youngest children need. She never needed help because she had already done it herself and never caused trouble. 

“The Targaryen boy is lovely,” her mother said

“And rich,” her father said with a snort, “if you two stick it out, we won’t have to worry about you”

She smiled weakly at them because what else was she supposed to do? That was what people did, right? When their parents reduced their future to a financial convenience and a pretty boy with good breeding. 

That night, she told herself she wouldn’t overthink the message, but Valarr left her on read, and it was making her tummy whirl with anxiety. She lay in bed, sort of shaking, contemplating deleting the photo until she saw those three dots.

fuck what the fuck you need to give me a heads up next time I nearly had a stroke you’re so fucking pretty is this what you’ve been hiding from me under your hoodies? I’m so fucking lucky you’re so beautiful

Her chest did something so wonderfully strange. Sure, it took a while but she got the validation she wanted. But now she couldn’t stop imagining his hands all over her and actually saying those things outloud. She turned on her front and screamed into her pillow. It was nice. It was so so nice feeling so wanted. That was the problem, she later thinks. Not that she wanted it— but how easily it wrapped around her ribs and convinced her it was safe. She sent more pictures the following days. Nothing with her face in it, but pretty ones that made her feel good when she looked at them too. One that looked like they belonged on Pinterest, pretty lighting, pretty bras. Nothing fully nude. Valarr would drool and get touchier when they saw each other at school, hands lingering over her waist and back. He guarded his phone more closely after that, not letting any of his friends touch like he used to. That made her feel even safer because boys their age would jump at the opportunity to show their friends. 

The first breakup happened for a reason she couldn’t remember. It wasn’t even a breakup, actually. Just her telling him she couldn’t do this anymore, that maybe it wasn’t working out. Teenagers had erratic feelings. Valarr rejected it quick and simple, telling her she was just overwhelmed with things going on at home.

The second happened after a fight about her going out with her friends, a mixed friend group with an equal amount of boys and girls that looked like a group date.

The third was her doing something stupid, making her friend dress like a boy and pretending that she was cheating by sending videos of her and her friend in compromising positions. Valarr only found it funny and caught her quickly, teasing her.

we can take prettier videos these are such low quality 

It wasn’t even anger, not really. She stared at the screen until it dimmed, then it lit again, because he was typing.

you’re so cute when you try to act like that btw don’t do that again though i don’t like sharing what’s mine even if it’s with your friends you’re too pretty for me to share

Her thumb hovered. There it was again, that word. 

Mine.

She used to think it was sweet. Like something out of a romance novel, something soft and dramatic and doomed in a good way. Like devotion. Like certainty. Like being chosen so completely it erased the edges of all the things that used to hurt. Now it just felt… tight. Like a hand around her wrist that didn’t quite leave bruises. She typed back something small.

it was a joke

The dots appeared instantly.

i know but still don’t like it you at home?

She glanced around her room even though no one had asked to see it. As if the question itself made her feel watched. The curtains were half drawn. Her laundry chair was a collapsing mountain of hoodies and jeans she kept meaning to fold. Her phone charger stretched across the bed like a lifeline she hadn’t earned.

Yeah

good call me later

Not can you, not do you want to, not even a question, just a direction. Her chest tightened again, that familiar little twist she kept mistaking for excitement when things were still good. When things were easy to label. She didn’t reply.

A minute passed, then tww then her phone buzzed again.

you seen my message?

She swallowed.

yeah

A typing bubble. Longer this time.

don’t ignore me

Her fingers went cold. It was ridiculous, wasn’t it? How fast it shifted. How quickly a conversation that started as playful could start to feel like she was standing too close to the edge of something she couldn’t see properly. She put the phone face down. That made it worse. Because now she could still feel it vibrating against the mattress like a heartbeat she wasn’t answering. When she finally picked it back up, there were more messages.

i’m not mad just talk to me you’re being weird again

Weird again. That phrase sat somewhere behind her ribs. She tried to remember the last time she had been “weird again.” It blurred together too easily—too many small moments of her pulling back, him stepping forward, her apologizing without quite knowing what she’d done wrong. Her screen lit up with a call.

Valarr 💕

She stared at his name until it stopped ringing then immediately, it started again. She answered on the third. “Hey,” she said, too quickly, too bright.

His voice came through like he was already close. “There you are.”

Not hi. Not are you okay. Not anything that sounded like concern. Just relief, threaded with ownership so subtle it almost passed for affection. “I was just—” she started.

“You were ignoring me.”

She blinked. “I wasn’t— I just didn’t see—”

“You saw it.”

Her throat tightened. “Valarr—”

“Don’t do that,” he said, softer now. Like he was correcting her. “Don’t start acting like I’m the problem.”

Silence filled the space between them, thick and immediate. She sat down on her bed without realizing she was still standing. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” she said. “It was just a joke with my friends.”

“I know.” But it didn’t sound like understanding. “You’ve just been… off lately,” he continued. “Since break up attempt number… what, three now?”

Her stomach sank. Of course he counted.  She tried to laugh but it came out wrong. “That wasn’t— I wasn’t keeping count.”

“I am,” he said lightly.

Her grip tightened on the phone. There was a sound in the background on his end—laughter, maybe, someone else in the room, music too low to identify. Sometimes she thinks Valarr has shown his friends those photos. “I don’t like when you do that stuff,” he added after a moment. “The jealousy jokes. The breaking up thing. It’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”

“No?” His tone lifted slightly, like he was humoring her. “Then what were you trying to be?”

She opened her mouth but nothing came out because she didn’t know how to answer without making it real. “I just…” she started again, then stopped. Her eyes fixed on the wall across from her, blank and pale. “I don’t know. It felt like a joke at the time.”

“You’re stressed,” he said gently, like he’d decided for her. “You always get like this when things pile up. I get it.”

That again. Explaining her to herself. She pressed her lips together. “I’m not stressed,” she said, quieter than she meant to. 

A soft exhale on the other end, almost fond. “Okay,” he said, like he was indulging her. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She hesitated. “Wait—”

“I’m picking you up after class.”

It wasn’t asked, wasn’t discussed. “I didn’t agree to that,” she said, but it sounded weak even to her own ears.

“You don’t have to,” he replied. “You’re overthinking everything lately. Just sleep, yeah?”

And then he hung up. The line went dead so quietly it almost felt like nothing had happened at all. She sat there for a long time with the phone still against her ear then she slowly lowered it. Her reflection in the darkened screen looked unfamiliar. Not different—just… slightly misaligned. Like a version of herself caught in the wrong lighting. Outside her room, someone laughed downstairs, a door closed. She exhaled shakily and told herself, very carefully, that nothing was wrong. It just felt like something was.

➽─────────❥

For a while there are no breakup attempts until one night when he says some mean things to her in his room when she came over. It’s been so long she didn’t remember what he said. Weirdly enough her tears turned to making out like those couples in the movies. She could faintly feel his phone camera capturing the moment. Close up, pretty lighting with the sun setting outside his window light them both up in gold. “Is that what I need to do to calm you down?” Valarr asked, lounging back against his pillows while she sat, straddling his hips

Her face was hot in embarrassment. “I— no, you—” she stammered like she usually did and Valarr hushed her as he twisted his fingers in the hem of her shirt “That’s not— I don’t need to be calmed down.” 

Valarr watched her for a second, eyes half-lidded, like he was bored of the version of her that hesitated. “You always do that,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

“This.” His fingers paused, still holding her shirt. “Act like I’m hurting you when I’m literally just trying to talk to you.”

Her stomach twisted. That wasn’t what she was thinking but the second she tried to correct him, she already knew how it would sound coming out. Valarr obviously thought she was going to try to fight again. To her surprise instead of his usual shushing and kissing, he pulled up the hem of her shirt, shoving it into her mouth. “There. Hold it there”  

Her breath hitched so sharply it hurt. The cotton tasted like detergent and something faintly metallic—her own panic or maybe her bath and Body Works body spray. She grabbed instinctively at his wrist, not hard enough to mean anything, just reflex. Valarr didn’t even flinch. He just watched her like she was doing something mildly inconvenient, like she was talking too much and he’d found a way to pause her. “Good,” he said, almost absently. “You always get so loud when you start spiralling.” 

She made a sound around the fabric, protest, confusion, something that didn’t translate into language anymore. Her heartbeat was everywhere at once— in her throat, in her fingers, in the spot where his hand still held her shirt bunched between her teeth. Valarr leaned back further into the pillows like he was settling in to watch a movie. “Don’t pull it out,” he added, calm. “Just stay like that for a second.”

Her eyes flicked to his face. He looked… normal. That was the worst part. Soft hair falling into his eyes. Sunlight cutting across his cheekbones. The same boy who had once bought her iced coffee and kissed her like she was something fragile and holy. “See?” he murmured. “You’re already calmer.”

She wasn’t. She was suspended, like her body had forgotten what to do except exist in small, tight pieces. Her hands hovered uselessly at his wrist, then dropped to his chest, then stopped moving altogether because every instinct felt wrong and uncertain. Valarr’s free hand came up to her jaw. He tilted her face slightly, studying her like she was something he was trying to figure out again. “I don’t get why you keep doing this,” he said, quieter now. “Breaking up. Taking it back. Acting like I’m the problem when I’m literally the only one who actually shows up for you.”

Her stomach dropped at the words, heavy and familiar. She tried to shake her head, but the fabric stopped her from doing even that properly. It came out wrong, small and desperate-looking instead of firm. Valarr sighed like she’d disappointed him. “You don’t even like being alone,” he said. “You told me that yourself.”

Her chest tightened so painfully it almost felt like relief to stop thinking. Because he was right about that part. She hated being alone. She hated the silence in her house, the way nobody noticed when she stopped talking for hours. She hated how easy it was to disappear in her own life. He shifted, pulling her closer by the waist like she weighed nothing. His eyes flicked down and she watched that mismatched gaze she adored turn dark. “Fuck. you really came to break up with me wearing something this pretty?”

She flinches, startled a little, when his thumb touches her bra, exposed because he’d lifted her shirt to shove it in her mouth. The pretty lacy one from Victoria's Secret she secretly bought. The pink lacy one with the little gem stone heart in the centre. Now she felt dumb. Why did she wear that to his house to break up with him? Maybe Valarr was right. Maybe she was being stupid. She watched him pick up his phone and snap a picture, his hand on her bare waist. “Fuck…” Valarr murmured, looking at it “You’re a fucking masterpiece”

He finally lets her pull her shirt out of her mouth before showing it to her. At least he was right. She looked good. Her face wasn’t in it. At least not the whole thing, just her top lip which was closed over her shirt. His hand looked huge on her and the sunset lit her body up so pretty, light reflecting off the gemstones in her bra. “Look at how you’re sitting on me” Valarr murmured, looking away from the picture to look at how she straddled his hips

He looked away, throwing his head back and groaning like he was in pain. Wasn’t it these moments that made her want to stay, made her falter? Being treated like this? She stopped telling her friends about it; they told her that Valarr was literally obsessed and that the fact he doesn’t share the pictures around like the other boys in their grade was a win for her. 

It’s the end of the school year when she finally accomplishes it. Their school decided to host graduation and prom on the same day. Morning time was graduation, and prom in the afternoon, more like an celecration than what it traditionally is. Valarr was valedictorian; her parents didn’t come. She started to cry at the end when Valarr’s mother took photos of her. Alone, not just with Valarr. It almost made her feel guilty that night in her prom dress as she made Valarr sit down in the banquet hall while their classmates were piling out. 

She broke up with him, and he agreed. 

He told her fine.

She told him to delete the photos of her, and Valarr's expression faltered just a bit.

Valarr said fine.

Was it?

9 months. She spent 9 months with Valarr. If you were being technical she spent 3 months with Valarr and spent the next 6 trying to leave him.

Someone like that doesn’t just… Let you leave.

➽─────────❥

She spent the summer alone. Turns out most of her friends weren’t really her friends. Because she and Valarr weren’t together, she didn’t ask him to hang out either. All by herself, she moved into the university dorms in August, loneliness crushing her as she watched her parents drive away. They were paying for everything but how were they going to pay for her loneliness?

The first week of university is supposed to feel like a beginning. That’s what everyone keeps saying. Orientation leaders with forced smile, posters with pastel fonts, people laughing too loudly in hallways that still smell like fresh paint and floor cleaner. Everything is supposed to feel like a clean slate. She keeps waiting for it to happen.

It doesn’t.

Her dorm room is small in a way that feels less like cozy and more like unfinished. Bare walls. A desk that wobbles if she leans too hard on it. A mattress that still has that plasticky stiffness underneath the sheets she brought from home. She sits on it most evenings with her knees pulled to her chest, phone face-down beside her like it’s guilty of something.

She tells herself she’s fine.

She tells herself it enough times that it almost starts to sound true.

Maybe it was the lack of support system that was making this harder. Maybe it was the fact she wasn’t paid attention to at home that made it harder. Or maybe the worst part is that everything that was wrong was someone else’s paradise. Her parents gave her money, Valarr at the end of the day had always been loving… If she told anyone, she’d sound spoiled and ungrateful. So she never did. She kept it to herself as she made friends with the girls in her dorm. They were nice. Kind. Listened when she finally opened up about Valarr. Then came the paranoia when one of her roommates, Natalie, said: “What if he didn’t delete the photos?”

That’s where it started and hasn’t stopped since.

That same week, in your criminology class the professor was talking about revenge porn. Those photos and videos couldn’t be counted as revenge porn. She remembers the lighting more than anything else. The way her room used to look in the evening when the curtains were half open and everything turned gold and soft. She remembers thinking she looked pretty. That was the whole point. Not dirty. Not scandalous. Just… pretty. Like something curated for aesthetic purposes. They were something you could find on Pinterest. Something to incite more envy than lust. But still.. it was her, and she wasn’t an influencer. “Non-consensual distribution of intimate images,” the professor says, clicking to the next slide. “Sometimes partners can threaten the distribution of these images. It’s something that happens often on campus so I hope you’re all being safe—”

On the slide is a definition, bullet points, clinical, detached language that makes it sound like something that happens to other people— people with worse luck, people who didn’t know better. 

Her fingers tremble as she pulls up iMessage on her macbook, scrolling down to find Valarr’s contact and messaging him fast.

Hey. I know it’s been a long time but it’s been bothering me Have you deleted those photos? And the videos? 

The message sits there longer than she expects it to. Delivered, not read. That tiny grey word feels like a weight pressing into her chest. She stares at it so long the screen dims, then brightens again when her cursor shifts. Her hands hover over the keyboard, then fall still. The silence in her dorm feels too loud—hallway pipes ticking, someone laughing faintly outside, a door slamming somewhere down the corridor. It’s ridiculous how quickly her brain fills the empty space he leaves behind.

He’s busy.

He’s in class.

He’s ignoring you.

You broke up with him, why would he want to talk to you?

He’s angry.

Her stomach twists at the last one because anger always meant something different with Valarr. She shuts the laptop halfway, then immediately opens it again because she remembers she was still in class and had to focus on the lecture and not if her ex-boyfriend still had those borderline nudes of her in his camera roll. Her eyes keep flicking off her Google Doc anyway, to the top right corner of the screen where the notification would appear when he answers. 

No reply.

Ten minutes pass.

Then twenty.

The notification finally appears, but it’s not the text beneath his name. It says photo attached. Without thinking, she clicked on the notification, and her heart dropped seeing a photo of herself. It was… It was one she forgot about. That one where Valarr had coaxed her to try what he called a dap pen. She’s bent over his dresser, not unclothed exactly, she just has no top on, just the pretty pink bra he loved so much and her jeans. He’s taking the picture from behind, his clothed crotch pressed to her ass, fingers under the closure of her bra. Her face is visible in the mirror just barely but it’s unmistakable that it’s her. The sound of the laptop snapping shut is too sharp for a room that’s supposed to feel safe. Heads turn. Not many—just enough. A girl at the next table pauses mid-sentence. Someone in the back shifts in their chair. The world keeps moving, but she feels like she’s been momentarily lifted out of it and set back down wrong. Her hands stay on the lid like she can press the image out of existence.

No.

No, no, no—

Her throat tightens so fast it makes her dizzy. It’s not real. It’s not happening right now. It’s old. It’s just old. It’s just old but he still has it even when he said he’d delete them. She asked about them and he sent the most scandalous one. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck— Her pulse is already sprinting ahead of her thoughts, dragging them behind like loose thread. She stands too quickly and her chair scrapes. The sound is humiliating in a way she can’t explain, like she’s already done something wrong even though she hasn’t moved yet. “Sorry,” she hears herself say automatically, to no one in particular.

She doesn’t think she’s ever left a room so fast. It was like the universe was warning her by making revenge porn a topic in lecture today. Her legs wobble as she walks back to the dorm building. Her head spun, stomach aching from nausea, as she fumbled with her key fob, getting into the building. She doesn’t remember deciding to go up the stairs. Her body just does it—like if she moves fast enough, the feeling won’t catch up. Like embarrassment has a physical speed limit, and she can outrun it.

One floor then another. Her breath keeps snagging halfway through her chest, turning into something uneven and thin. Every landing looks the same: beige walls, dull lighting, a fire safety poster she’s already seen too many times this week. In case of emergency, as if anything about this feels like something she can label cleanly as an emergency and not just… her life again doing that thing where it quietly falls apart in her hands.

By the third floor, her fingers are shaking so badly she can’t tell if it’s from fear or anger or something worse she doesn’t want to name. Finally comes the fourth floor, and then at the end of the hall, her dorm room. Her roomates her here. It was the middle of the day, barely 2 weeks into the semester, why would they be here? She stumbled to her room, locking the door behind her. “Fuck fuck fuck” she sniffled, tears falling as she let her bag fall to the floor

She sank to her knees on the floor, pressing her face to the side of her bed. Panic seized her quick, heart beating at what felt like a thousand times a minute, so hard and so fast her ribs began to ache. Pressing her hand to her sternum didn’t help either; neither did those stupid breathe in and out slowly techniques they show you on YouTube. In her head, her professor’s voice echoed and in front of her eyes were the lecture slides. 

“Crimes like these aren’t often reported due to shame and fear of double victimization—”

“Societal pressure—”

“Victim blaming—”

Her hands fumbled for her phone, opening up the text thread, hoping maybe she hallucinated it. No, she didn’t. The photo was still there. Just the photo and nothing else. Her phone falls from her hands and a pained noise left her lips. She’s been happy in the photo— high for the first time, safe with him. Nothing happened that night. Nothing. They just smoked and Valarr called her pretty and they napped and ate and made out. Nothing past that but the photo would make it look like something did happen. Her breath came in short, ugly pulls. She pressed her palms hard into her eyes until she saw color explode behind her lids—reds, whites, fractured light, anything other than the image still burning in her head.

Her phone vibrates once. She can see the message preview on her lockscreen:

Valarr Did I scare you baby?

A nervous whimper left her lips. Another vibration.

Valarr I didn’t mean to scare you

Then more vibrations but this time not a notification, Valarr’s caller ID flashed on her phone. Her hands shake as she slides to accept, no option for decline. It was like even her phone was against her. “Hey,” Valarr says softly like nothing is wrong, like he didn’t just detonate her entire chest cavity with a single image.

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Her tongue feels too heavy, stuck to the roof of her mouth. She sits there on the floor of her dorm room, knees pulled in, phone pressed so tightly to her ear it hurts. “Baby?” he prompts gently. “You there?”

Her breathing is wrong, too fast, too shallow. She tries to speak and it breaks halfway out. “Wh-why did you send that.”

She hears shuffling on the other side. “You’re crying” He says, sounding concerned “oh no, I really scared you, didn’t I? I know you told me to delete them but I couldn’t help it, pretty girl. And then you asked me and I should’ve just said ‘no I didn’t delete them’ instead of sending a photo. Were you in the middle of class?” 

Her throat tightens so hard it feels like the words might physically get stuck there. “You… you shouldn’t have sent anything,” she manages, but it comes out wrong—thin, fractured, like she’s apologizing more than accusing.

There’s a pause on the line. Then Valarr exhales, soft and patient, like she’s being difficult in a way he expected. “Okay,” he says gently. “Okay, I hear you.”

Her chest loosens for half a second—stupidly, reflexively—because that tone is familiar. The one that used to mean he was going to fix it, the one that used to mean she could stop shaking. But then he continues. “I just don’t think you’re looking at this the right way.”

Her fingers curl around the edge of her bedsheet so tightly it hurts. “What?”

Another small sigh like she’s the one slowing things down. “You’re spiralling,” he says, calm as anything. “You sent me that message out of nowhere in the middle of class asking about stuff we already talked about months ago. I got worried. I thought something was wrong.”

Her stomach drops. “That doesn’t— I didn’t—” Her voice cracks, and she hates it immediately. “I was asking a normal question.”

“You’re crying right now,” he says again, still gentle. “So something is wrong.”

Silence swells between them. In her room, the air feels too small to breathe properly in. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he adds after a moment, softer now. “But you can’t just disappear on me and then act surprised when I react.”

Her mouth opens then closes. Her thoughts are moving too fast to catch any of them properly, like she’s trying to grab smoke with her bare hands. “I didn’t disappear,” she says finally. “We broke up.” 

Valarr doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Then—almost amused, almost fond— “You’re still doing that?”

Her skin goes cold. “Doing what?”

“This thing where you act like we’re strangers,” he says. “We’ve known each other for years. We were together for nine months. You don’t just erase that because you got scared one day and said a word.”

Her grip tightens again. “I didn’t get scared,” she says, but it sounds weak even to her.

Valarr hums like he’s considering it. Like he’s grading her answer. “Okay,” he says again, easy. “Then why are you like this right now?”

She doesn’t answer. Because the truth feels too big to fit into words that won’t make her sound insane. He will tell her she’s overreacting and he’d never send those photos around, that it was only a coincidence that her professor was talking about revenge porn when he sent that old photo. “You know I wouldn’t actually hurt you,” he says softly.

Actually.

Like there’s a version of him that would, and a version that wouldn’t, and she’s supposed to feel grateful for the one she got. Her voice comes out quieter. “Then why did you send it?” 

Valarr was quiet for just long enough that she almost thought the call had dropped. But then he laughed. Not loudly, just one soft breath through his nose. "Because you asked."

She stared at the stupid Spider-Man bedsheets she bought out of nostalgia. "...What?"

"You asked if I deleted them." His voice was patient, almost puzzled by the question. "So I answered."

"That's not—"

"You wanted proof."

"I wanted you to tell me they were gone. Maybe answer with a simple yes or no—"

"I couldn't do that."

Her heartbeat stumbled. "...Why?"

Another pause. "Because I'd be lying."

The words settled over her like snowfall. Her fingers went numb around the phone. "You promised."

"I know."

"You promised me."

"I did."

"So why—"

"I couldn't." He said it so simply.

Not wouldn't, couldn't, like the difference mattered, like it excused everything. She squeezed her eyes shut. "You..." Her voice trembled. "You were supposed to delete them."

"I tried."

Her breathing hitched. "...What?"

"I tried." A small chuckle. "I even opened my photos."

He sounded almost embarrassed. There is the sound of people laughing on his side, a little shuffling like he’s walking. Maybe he’s at his own university. "I got through... maybe six."

Six.

She couldn't remember how many there actually were.

Twenty?

Forty?

More?

Every pretty sunset.

Every mirror.

Every carefully angled picture she'd spent twenty minutes taking because she wanted him to tell her she looked pretty. "I couldn't keep deleting them."

"...Why?"

"Because they're you." The answer came instantly as if he'd been waiting to say it. "I like looking at you."

She felt sick. "You don't own pictures of me."

"I know."

"No, you don't."

"I said I know."

"They're mine."

"They're both of ours."

"No." Her voice cracked. "They're mine."

"They're memories."

"They're my body."

"I know." His calmness was unbearable.

Every sentence she threw at him dissolved into the same impossibly gentle tone like she was throwing rocks into the ocean. "You think I'm some kind of monster now."

"I didn't—"

"You do."

"I never—"

"I scared you." His voice had become quieter, sad almost. "I hate that."

She swallowed. "Then delete them." Silence besides the background noise of wherever he was. "...Valarr."

Nothing. "...Please." 

Another long pause before he finally spoke. "I don't think deleting them would actually make you feel better."

She laughed but it came out broken. "What?"

"I think you'd just find something else to worry about."

Her stomach lurched. "I wouldn't."

"You would."

"No."

"You've always worried."

"I am worried because you still have them."

"I've always had them."

"You said—"

"I know what I said."

"So you lied."

"I changed my mind."

She couldn't breathe. People weren't supposed to admit things like that. Not so calmly, not like discussing the weather. "...Valarr."

"Hm?"

"I don't understand you."

"I know."

"I broke up with you."

"I know."

"We're not together."

"I know."

"So why..." She couldn't finish.

Why are you talking like nothing happened?

Why do you still call me baby?

Why does it feel like I'm the only one who remembers we ended?

His answer arrived anyway. "I've been giving you space."

Her eyebrows knit together. "...Space?"

"For the summer."

She felt the room tilt. "I thought..." He laughed quietly. "I figured you'd come back."

"What?"

"You always did."

No. No, she didn't. She— Her mind stumbled.

First breakup.

Second.

Third.

Fourth.

Every single one had ended with her apologizing.

Or crying.

Or kissing him.

Or somehow walking away still holding his hand.

Every single attempt.

Except graduation and prom.

Except—

Her stomach dropped. "...You didn't think I meant it."

"I knew you meant it." His correction was immediate. "You were hurting."

"Valarr—"

"You were overwhelmed."

"No."

"We just graduated."

"No."

"Your parents weren't there."

She froze. "...What?"

"I remember." His voice remained gentle. "You were crying while my mum took photos of you."

Her throat tightened. "You kept looking into the audience… I figured..." He hesitated. "...if I loved you enough, you'd come home."

Home.

Not back.

Home.

Something inside her ribs twisted painfully. "You told me once." His voice softened further. "'I feel safest with you.'"

She remembered saying it. She wished she didn't. It had been after another dinner where her family forgot she'd won an academic award until two days later. He'd held her, she'd cried, she'd whispered it into his hoodie without thinking. Safe. She'd called him safe. God. She had. "You said..." he continued quietly, "...that when you're with me you don't feel invisible." 

Tears blurred her vision and she just starts to sob. No wailing, just hiccuping sobs. “Oh no no no, baby” He sounded heartbroken for a second then quickly when on to console her “Hey, hey… listen listen. You know we go to the same Uni? I’m in the same dorm building… I uh… I never reached out. I waited. I kept my distance, hm. I’ve been seeing you around but I stayed away. Do you want me to tell you my room number so you can come over? We can—”

“I miss you” She whispered through tears, cutting him off

There is silence. From Valarr at least but there is still the background noise on his end. She shakily looked down at her phone. They’d been talking for 23 minutes. She didn’t realize how quickly time had passed. She shakily pressed the phone to her ear again, chewing at her thumb. "Oh, sweetheart." His voice dropped into something achingly gentle, the same voice that used to ask if she wanted the last fry, the same voice that used to tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear. “You want to come to my room?”

She finds herself nodding but then remembers he could see her. “Yes…”

“I’m on the 6th floor. Room 617… I’m pretty sure my cousin’s gone out…” it sound like he’s opening a door “Daeron!?— yeah he isn’t here. C’mon baby”

“Okay…”

➽─────────❥

The elevator is broken so she has to climb another 2 floors to the top. She’s shaking the whole time, pulling her hood over her head so the people passing her don’t see her crying. There were 6 floors for the dorm building. The floor at the top was the singular rooms you shared with a roommate. No separate rooms, just one big room and an attached bathroom. Valarr’s family was very family-oriented. Of course he’d have chosen that room to share with his cousin. Up on the 6th floor, she's crying again, quieter now. Not the sharp, panicked sobs from before. Just the kind that leak out of someone too exhausted to keep them inside.

Room 617.

The numbers blur together before she finally finds it. Her fist hovers over the wood, three knocks and the door opens almost immediately. Valarr looks as handsome as ever. His hair is shorter, the white streak almost brighter. “There you— oh no” he grabs her by her shoulders and quickly guides her inside

The room smelled like laundry detergent and expensive cologne. It looked... lived in. Two desks. One unmade bed, the other perfectly clean. A stack of textbooks with sticky notes poking from every direction. Someone—Daeron, probably—had left instant ramen cups beside a gaming console. It’s so normal-looking it hurts. The door clicked shut behind her. "Oh, sweetheart." His voice was so soft it almost hurt. "Come here."

She didn't remember moving. One second she was standing by the door, hoodie half-zipped, wiping uselessly at her face, the next she was buried against his chest. His arms folded around her like they had hundreds of times before. The crying came back all at once, ugly enough that she couldn't apologize between breaths. Her forehead pressed into his sweatshirt while his hand rubbed slow circles over her back. "It's okay," he murmured.

"I'm sorry—"

"No."

"I'm sorry, I—"

"You don't have to apologize." His hand slid into her hair after pulling her hood off, smoothing it down. "I've got you."

Her stomach tightened despite herself. "I didn't know what to do," she whispered.

"I know."

"I've been so scared."

"I know."

It’s easy for him to lift her off the ground, hands finding themselves under her thighs. She’s carried to his bed, the clean one obviously, and he sits on the edge with her in his lap, first toeing off his own shoes, then tugging hers off easily. “C’mon,” Valarr murmured and scooted backward on the bed till his back was against the wall. “Tell me what’s wrong, hm. What happened?” 

She doesn’t answer immediately. Not because she doesn’t know—there’s too much to say, it spills up against her teeth and makes it hard to breathe—but because none of it feels like it will come out right. Nothing ever comes out right with him. It always gets reshaped halfway through, like he’s already decided what she meant before she’s even finished speaking. She shivered against him as he rocked her back and forth in his arms. “I… You’ll do that thing again if I tell you…”

Valarr doesn’t move at first. There is just that slow rise and fall of his chest beneath her cheek, his hand still combing through her hair like he’s soothing a frightened animal. “Do what thing?” he asks softly

It’s that tone again. That very familiar patient, curious tone like she’s the one introducing confusion into something perfectly understandable and simple. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his hoodie anyway because even after 2 months, her body never got the memo they were broken up. “I don’t know how to explain it” she whispers

“Don’t then. Just talk; I’ll stay quiet”

It should feel comforting, but now this tightness in her ribs doesn’t match the softness of his dorm room or the warmth of his arms or the way he’s holding her like they were 17 again. “I say something and you make it sound like I’m confused and overreacting or didn’t mean it and make me feel crazy”

Valarr is quiet for a long moment, but he never stops rocking, never stops his fingers in her hair. “I… Didn’t realize I was doing that,” he murmured. “Is that why you left me?”

She freezes at the question. Not because it surprises her— nothing with him really surprises her anymore— but because of the way he says it. Soft and curious like he’s genuinely trying to solve a problem he didn’t know existed. “I…” She almost starts sobbing again

“Okay okay” He stops her, “let’s not have this conversation right now. Tell me what happened”

She swallows hard, but it feels like swallowing glass. Her throat aches from crying and her face is wet. She tries to sit up a little but his arm tightens around her waist. “I… Well one of my roommates was telling me about this girl in her hometown that got her nudes leaked” its a lie, she wasn’t about to tell him she told them about him “and then the next day— today— in my crim lecture the prof was talking about revenge porn and… And I just got nervous because it felt like those things like in the movies—”

“Uh huh”

“—a-and I just texted you because… Because… Just in case… Then you responded with the picture and n-not just any picture but that picture and i-it felt like you were threatening me” The words spilled out fast like vomit 

Valarr stared at her for a long moment then he let out a breath through his nose. It was almost like a laugh. “A… Threat?” he repeats gently like he really isn’t trying to laugh

The look on his face is filled with pity. Her stomach twisted immediately seeing it. “I didn’t… I… No…” her wobble looking at him 

“Hey hey, no” Valarr held her face “I’m just trying to understand. I can… I can see why it freaked you out. It was bad timing, my choice of photo was terrible… Fuck I’m so sorry”

He presses the hand that was on her face to her chest. “Your heart’s beating so fast…”

Her heartbeat stutters under his palm. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says quickly, as he rubs the centre of her chest. “I just—when I saw it I thought—”

“You thought I was threatening you,” Valarr finishes, still gentle.

She nods, too fast. He brings both his hands up to hold her face. “That makes sense,” he says and relief hits her so sharply it almost hurts because for the first time ever he’s not blaming her “My timing was shit. I don’t even know what I was thinking sending that to you. I… fuck… I should’ve just answered with a proper yes or no. I’m so sorry.” 

She nods too quickly; it feels safer than speaking. Valarr exhales, and his shoulders drop a fraction like the whole situation is finally resolving itself into something manageable. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay, good. Come here.”

He pulls her in again before she can decide whether she wants to move. Not forceful—never forceful in a way anyone could point to later—but immediate, certain, like the decision was already made and she was just catching up. Her cheek ends up pressed against his chest again. His heartbeat is steady unlike her own.  “I think,” he says softly, fingers sliding back into her hair, “you’ve just been alone with this for too long.” 

She lets out a shaky breath against his sweatshirt. “I wasn’t alone,” she says, but it comes out muffled.

Valarr hums. “You kind of were.”

His hand moves slowly up and down her back, measured, like he’s calming something skittish. “You didn’t tell me you were spiralling like this,” he continues. “You didn’t tell me you were getting scared again.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t mean to get scared…”

“I know… I know… But being lonely always makes you scared and you’ve been alone for two months” Valarr whispers after pressing a kiss to her clothed shoulder “But it’ll be okay. It’s going to be okay. You still have me”

“I do…?” She hates how small she sounds 

His fingers keep moving through her hair in slow, patient strokes. Not hurried. Not uncertain. Like he’s done this exact thing a hundred times and she’s only now remembering how to breathe properly under it. “Of course you do,” he says at last, as if it’s obvious. “Why wouldn’t you?”

Her throat tightens. She shifts slightly in his lap, just enough to create space between them, but his arm adjusts instantly—casual, natural—closing the gap again without making it feel like anything happened at all. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “It just… felt like I didn’t.”

Valarr lets out a soft exhale through his nose, almost amused but not unkind. “That’s because you’ve been isolating yourself. You do this thing where you disappear into your head and then convince yourself everyone else left you there.”

She opens her mouth, then closes it again. Because it sounds wrong. But also… too close to something she’s afraid to name. “I didn’t disappear,” she says weakly.

“You stopped talking to me,” he corrects gently. “You stopped talking to your friends. You broke up with me and then expected your life to just… keep feeling normal.”

Her fingers curl into the hem of his hoodie. “I didn’t stop talking to them… They stopped talking to me”

He looks down at her. “Oh? Oh… Oh I didn’t know that. You had a falling out?”

“Yeah…”

“I’m sorry” he kisses her ear

The past two months come spilling out. Saying it for the first time outloud reminds her just how miserable life has been without him. She wonders if maybe… Just maybe life was better with him? It’s so stupid. He’s terrible. She knows that. She knows it the way you know a stove is hot even before you touch it. So why does her body still lean into him like it’s remembering something safer than her brain can explain? Valarr’s hand is still moving through her hair. Slow. Certain. Like nothing in the world has ever been complicated between them. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, softer, pressing another kiss somewhere near her temple. “I didn’t realize it got this bad for you.”

Her throat tightens. He says it like what she’s describing is weather. Like it just… happened to her. “I didn’t mean for it to get bad,” she says quietly, and hates how easily it comes out like an agreement.

“You never do,” he replies, almost fond. “But don’t worry. I’m here now. It’ll be okay”

He pulls back and unzips her hoodie, easily pulling it off the rounds of her shoulders. “I missed you” The words fell from her lips a lot easier than she wanted

Because at the end of the day, life has been easier with him. 

Valarr is already shaking his head before she even finishes the sentence. “I missed you too,” he says, and there’s a small smile in it, soft at the edges, like he’s trying to make the moment safe again. “I’ve always missed you.”

Her breath catches at that. Something in her chest loosens without permission, traitorous and immediate. His hands don’t stop moving. They never really do. One stays at the small of her back, steadying her there like she might drift away if he lets go. The other smooths over her shoulder, lingering where her hoodie used to be, like he’s remembering her shape underneath it. “I didn’t know you were struggling like this,” he continues quietly. “I thought you just needed space. I thought you’d come back when you were ready.”

“I—” Her voice falters. “I did come back. I didn’t mean to. I just— I got scared and—”

“And you spiralled,” he finishes, gently, like he’s offering her the right word. “Yeah. I get it.”

She flinches a little at how easily he says it, like it’s a pattern he’s seen before and knows how to handle. Like she’s predictable in a way that makes her feel both seen and… smaller. Valarr shifts her slightly in his lap so she’s more comfortable, more settled against him. It’s careful. Practiced. He’s always been good at making things feel like comfort even when she can’t quite tell what direction she’s being guided in. “You don’t have to handle things alone,” he says. “You never did.” 

Valarr leans forward slightly, resting his forehead against hers for a second—light contact, grounding, familiar. When he speaks again, his voice is softer than before. “You don’t have to test me like that, okay?” he murmurs. “If you’re worried about something, just ask me directly. Don’t disappear. Don’t do the breakup thing. Don’t assume the worst and run.”

Her throat goes dry. “I wasn’t trying to test you,” she says. 

“I know,” he replies immediately. “You just don’t trust things staying good.”

Valarr helps her out of her clothes. It isn’t something they’ve ever done before. Maybe they’ve been only topless around each other, not this though. She’s been in a bikini around him because his house has a indoor pool but… This was a different. Her cheeks flush watching him undress to his boxers and get into bed with her. He’s still so handsome… “What are we doing?” she whispered

“Cuddling”

“We’ve never done it like this…”

“No, but it’s nice isn’t it?”

It is nice. That’s the worst part. How easily her body accepts it before her mind can argue. Valarr is already settled against the pillows, like he belongs there more than she does. Like this room was always arranged with two people in mind and she’s only now remembering her place in it. He reaches for her without hesitation, tugging her closer by the waist so she ends up half-sprawled against his bare chest. She’s half laid on top of him, nearly skin to skin for the first time. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“I’m not,” she lies automatically.

His hand pauses for half a second—just long enough for her to notice—then resumes its slow movement up her back. “You are,” he corrects gently. “It’s okay. It’ll stop soon.”

That it’ll stop soon does something strange to her. Like he’s talking about a storm passing, not her body reacting to him. She stares at the wall over his shoulder. It’s bare except for a faint shadow where something used to hang. A frame, maybe. Or a poster. The emptiness feels too intentional. “I don’t understand how we’re just…” Her voice breaks before she can finish.

“Here?” he supplies.

She nods against him. Valarr exhales, almost soft laughter without humor. “Why wouldn’t we be?”

It isn’t said like a question. More like she’s missing something obvious. Like she’s the only one confused by gravity. His fingers trace slow patterns at the base of her neck. Not quite comforting. Not quite anything she can name cleanly. “You came here,” he says. “You miss me. I miss you. We’re talking.” 

“We broke up,” she whispers again, smaller this time. Like repeating it might make it more real.

Valarr tilts his head slightly to look down at her. His expression doesn’t change much—just that familiar patience, the one that always makes her feel like she’s being gently corrected instead of disagreed with. “Do you want to get back together?”

“Yes…”

She feels a little stupid. He rubs a warm hand down her back. “Do you want me to make it better?”

She looked up at him, his mismatched eyes warm. She didn’t remember agreeing. Barely remembered anything after how and sweaty it got in his room. She knew to be worried. “What if Daeron comes back?” her voice was shaky, face flushed red as she watched him come up from between her thighs, wiping his chin and mouth

Valarr just smiled warm and soft, lowering himself over her and told her not to worry. It’s overwhelming. All of it. His chest presses against hers then against her back after turning her over. This pressure in her tummy never leaves. His weight pressed down on her mercilessly. The rush of emotions and sensations left every nerve ending on fire. She’s pressed into a deep arch that makes her muscles stretch near painfully. There is a hand on the back of her neck, holding her head down as he presses kisses going down her spine while his hips rock, knocking the breath from her lungs. “I’ll make it better. I swear I’ll make it better” Valarr whispered, tone reverent

Tears prick her eyes. “Too deep” she whimpered, voice muffled by the pillow her face was pressed into 

Every drag of him sent sparks shooting up her spine. How did she get here again? She doesn’t remember. She didn’t remember saying yes, doesn’t remember allowing him to remove her bra or panties. It didn’t seem to matter right now though as he pressed himself harder against her. “That’s it, let yourself feel it” he rasped, breath hot against her neck “forget about everything else.”

Valarr leaned down to press more open mouthed kisses along her shoulderblades, teeth grazing sensitive skin. She cries when she hears him whisper “I love you”

Those three words were enough to distract her from feeling him fumble for his phone, from seeing the reflection in her own phone, on the bedside table, of Valarr taking a video of her.

[cowsnotcrows]

For Father’s Day Bruce gets to hold his son for the first time in years 🫶

[starsdoll]

as you wish

pairing: modern!valarr targaryen x fem!lannister!reader

summary: …  valarr has the patience of a saint. you make sure he gets plenty of opportunities to prove it. ⟢

wc: 5.7k

content warning: 18+ mdni | smut | established relationship | soft dom!valarr?? | unprotected p in v | bratty/spoiled reader | fingering | teasing | orgasm denial | multiple orgasms | dirty talk | fingers in mouth | hair pulling | praise | creampie | light spanking

"Okay, Daddy."

The elevator doors slid open as you spoke, revealing the familiar interior of Valarr’s penthouse. You stepped into the apartment with your phone pressed against your ear and a tote bag slipping slowly down your shoulder as Lucien Lannister continued speaking from the other end of the line. The late afternoon sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, bathing the apartment in warm tones and illuminating the dark wood floors beneath your feet.

"Yes, Daddy."

Across the apartment, Valarr glanced up from where he sat behind his desk and immediately smiled the moment he saw you.

Something in your chest softened right then; it always did.

He looked comfortable in the way only Valarr ever seemed capable of looking comfortable. One sleeve rolled to his forearm, a glass of water resting beside his laptop. The silver running through the side of his dark hair catching the afternoon light as he leaned back slightly in his chair. For a second, a mismatched set of eyes met yours from across the room before his attention returned to whatever occupied the screen in front of him.

"I know."

You kicked off your shoes near the entrance and wandered further into the apartment.

"I said I would ... Daddy, I called Rowan three days ago."

The response that came through the phone clearly failed to satisfy you because you were still having this conversation. So your expression immediately soured.

You dropped onto the sofa with a sigh dramatic enough to qualify as performance art, stretching across the cushions while your father continued explaining that your brothers enjoyed hearing from you and that maintaining family relationships required effort. As though this were somehow groundbreaking information.

Of course Adrian and Rowan liked hearing from you. That wasn’t the point. The point was that school was exhausting, life was exhausting, and remembering to answer everyone’s messages before they became concerned was a responsibility nobody had adequately warned you about.

By the time the call finally ended several minutes later, you felt as though you had personally completed a diplomatic assignment on behalf of House Lannister.

"I love you too, Daddy. Bye."

Silence settled across the apartment. Finally. You let your phone fall onto the cushion beside you and stared at the ceiling for a moment, enjoying the simple pleasure of not being expected to participate in conversation.

Across the room, the steady rhythm of keys clicking pulls your attention away from the ceiling.

Valarr remained exactly where he had been when you arrived.

He had one hand resting against the keyboard while the other turned his glass in circles against the desk. His attention was fixed on the laptop screen before him, calm and focused in a way that suggested whatever occupied him was important enough to temporarily outweigh the rest of the world. The rest of the world being you.

You watched him. Valarr continued typing. You watched him for several more seconds. Valarr continued typing.

Interesting.

You had arrived at his apartment, survived an unnecessarily lengthy conversation with your father, had been present in his home for several minutes now, and your boyfriend appeared entirely committed to spending that time with his work. The situation, in your opinion, was becoming increasingly suspicious. How long had it been since he greeted you? Had he even greeted you? He smiled at you, but you couldn’t remember him saying a single word since you walked through the door. You would have remembered.

You pushed yourself upright into a sitting position, dropping your feet to the floor. "Val?"

His attention shifted almost immediately. A soft smile pulling at his lips as his gaze landed on you. "Hello, my love."

"Hello."

You tilted your head slightly. He watched you back with that familiar patience that often made you want to push just to see what would happen.

"Did you have a good day?"

"Yes." You watched him, waiting. Nothing happened. "Aren't you going to come kiss me?"

That smile of his widened slightly. "I will. Soon."

You blinked. Soon?

You were perfectly capable of walking across the room yourself, but that wasn't— no. The point was that you were accustomed to being greeted with kisses. Proper kisses. Not the sort of kisses delivered later once he finished whatever had captivated his attention. In fact, you couldn't remember the last time Valarr had ever responded to you this way.

He usually dropped everything the moment you arrived. Kisses first, conversation second. Sometimes kisses for so long that speaking stopped being a concern entirely. Yet here you sat, fully clothed and entirely unkissed. Unloved.

You crossed your arms. "I'm here right now."

"I see that, my love."

"And you aren't coming to kiss me?"

His mismatched eyes danced with amusement as he studied you from across the room. He knew exactly what you were doing. The problem was that he didn't seem at all concerned by it. "I'm not."

"Why not?"

"Because I am working."

You stared at him in disbelief. "You're working."

"Yes."

"Right now?"

"Yes."

"So you're not going to kiss me."

His smile softened at the edges. "I'll kiss you in a moment."

"Valarr."

"No."

Absolutely ridiculous.

You stood up from the couch and crossed the room, stopping directly beside his desk with your arms still folded across your chest. He continued watching you with that infuriatingly patient expression as you leaned over to peer at his laptop screen. A series of emails were organized neatly in his inbox. Nothing remotely urgent.

"You're answering emails."

"Yes."

"Emails are not work."

"They are."

"Emails are not important enough to prevent you from kissing me."

That earned you a quiet laugh as he leaned back in his chair. "You think so?"

"I know so."

You moved around the desk and settled onto the edge, just beside where he sat. Close enough that your knees brushed his thigh. Close enough that ignoring you should have been entirely impossible.

"Val."

"My love."

"Kiss me."

His fingers drifted to your knee. "In a minute."

"Why are you being annoying right now?"

"Because I am finishing something."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "You're not finishing anything. You're answering emails."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "They require my attention."

"They do not."

"They do."

This was absurd. You were absurd for entertaining this absurdity.

You reached out and gently pressed his laptop screen down until it closed with a soft click, removing the final barrier between you and his full attention. Valarr watched your movements with amusement, his fingers still resting against your knee in a way that was making you antsy.

"There," you said. "Now you're done."

A low chuckle escaped him as he turned his chair slightly toward you. "Are you making demands, princess?"

"Don't call me that."

"Why not?"

"Because you're being difficult."

He tilted his head, and the way he was looking at you now made it impossible to tell whether he found this entire situation charming or simply entertaining. "You think I'm being difficult?"

"I think you're avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you. I am finishing work."

"No, you were answering emails. Emails that could've waited five seconds, by the way."

"And now you have closed my laptop."

"Yes."

"So I suppose I must kiss you."

You gave him an unimpressed look. "You suppose?"

He leaned forward, bringing his face closer to yours until you could see the faint laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. "Would you prefer I didn't?"

You shifted slightly on the edge of the desk, bringing yourself even closer. "I would prefer you had done it the moment I arrived."

"Ah." His hand slid higher up your thigh, fingers pressing gently against your skin in a way that sent warmth spreading through your body and had you pressing your legs together. "You have expectations."

"I do."

"Some pretty high ones, I see."

"You set them."

"I did, didn't I?"

His other hand reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering against your cheek as his thumb brushed softly across your skin. You leaned into it instinctively, your eyes fluttering slightly at the gentle contact. He watched you with that soft, knowing smile that made your stomach twist in the most pleasant way.

"Val," you whispered.

He shifted closer still, his legs now bracketing yours as he leaned in until his lips hovered just a breath away from yours. "Yes, my love?"

"Stop teasing."

"I am not teasing."

"You absolutely are."

His lips brushed against yours in the faintest whisper of a kiss, so light it barely counted as contact at all. "Am I?"

You made a small, frustrated sound and closed the remaining distance yourself, pressing your mouth firmly against his. He responded immediately, his hand sliding into your hair as he pulled you from the edge of the desk and into his lap. He had your entire body relaxing into him within seconds the moment his tongue slipped into your mouth.

His other arm wrapped securely around your waist, holding you close as you moved to straddle his lap properly. You slid your hands up his chest and curled your fingers into his shirt as you lost yourself in the sensation of finally being exactly where you wanted to be. His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then down the column of your throat, each kiss drawing a sigh from you.

"You are ridiculous," you murmured, tilting your head back to give him better access.

His laugh vibrated against your skin. "Am I?"

"You made me wait for this, Valarr." You pressed your hips down against his, drawing a soft groan from him as his grip on you tightened. "For no reason."

"Is that what you think, pretty girl?" His lips found that spot where your jaw met your neck. "That there was no reason?"

Your hands slid into his hair, tugging slightly as you tried to focus on forming coherent thoughts. "There wasn't."

"You walked in here," he whispered against your skin, "looking like that, knowing I was working."

You blinked. "Like what?"

His hands smoothed down your back and then around to trace the hem of your skirt before sliding beneath it to rest against your thighs. "Like this. Like you belong in my lap. Like you knew exactly what you were doing."

A flush rose to your cheeks at his words. "I wasn't—"

"You were," he interrupted softly, his mouth brushing against your ear. "And you know it."

You opened your mouth to argue, to insist that you had simply been tired and wanted comfort after a long day, but his hands were moving again, sliding higher beneath your skirt until his fingers traced the lace trim of your panties. Whatever protest you might have offered died instantly as a soft gasp escaped you instead.

"Val," you whispered.

"Hmm?" His lips were on your neck again, kissing, nipping, and soothing each spot with his tongue as his fingers continued their lazy exploration.

"You're not being fair."

"Who said anything about being fair?" He shifted beneath you, and you could feel exactly how much he was enjoying this particular game. "You wanted my attention. You have it."

You moved against him, seeking friction, your body arching into his touch as his fingers pressed more firmly against you. "I wanted you to kiss me."

"I am kissing you." His teeth grazed your collarbone, drawing a shiver from you. "I'm doing much more than kissing you, actually."

You tightened your grip on his shoulders, your head falling back as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your underwear to find you already wet for him. "That's... not the point."

"The point," he murmured against your skin, "is that you walked in here knowing exactly what you wanted, and now you're getting it."

His fingers slid through your folds, circling your clit with perfect pressure, making your hips jerk involuntarily. You moaned softly, pressing yourself harder against his hand as he continued his ministrations with a maddening precision.

"You're so responsive," he whispered, his voice rougher than before. "So beautiful when you're desperate for me."

You opened your eyes to find him watching you with an intensity that made your breath catch. His mismatched eyes were dark with desire, his lips slightly parted as he looked over your face. There was something in his expression—a reverence, maybe—that made your heart pound even faster.

"Valarr," you breathed, "please."

He groaned at the sound of his name on your lips, his fingers stilling their movement. "Please what, my love?"

You rocked your hips against his hand, trying to recreate the friction he had denied you. "Don't stop."

The corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk that was both infuriating and incredibly attractive. "You want more?"

"Yes," you admitted, because at this point you were too far gone to play coy.

He shifted suddenly, lifting you as he stood before turning to place you on the edge of the desk. You gasped at the sudden movement, your hands reaching for him as he stepped between your legs. Then he was pushing your skirt up around your waist, baring you completely to him.

"Look at you," he murmured, his eyes raking over your exposed skin. "Perfect."

You reached for his belt, your fingers fumbling slightly in your haste to undo it. He let you, his hands braced on the desk on either side of you as he watched your movements, fascinated. When you finally freed him from his trousers and closed your fist around his length, he hissed softly through his teeth.

"That's it. Just like that."

You stroked him slowly, watching his face as his eyes fluttered closed momentarily. The power you held in that moment was intoxicating, but it was short-lived as he suddenly captured your wrist, stilling your movements.

"Enough," he said, his voice firm but gentle.

Before you could protest, he had your panties pushed to the side and positioned himself at your entrance, teasing you with the head of his cock, sliding it through your wetness without giving you anything else. Just a slow back and forth, down and back up. You whimpered, trying to push forward, to take him inside, but his hands held your hips firmly in place.

"Valarr," you begged, your voice breathy.

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against yours as his lips brushed your ear. "Say please."

You shuddered at the command, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Please." You hated him. Almost. The word came out as more of a breath than anything else. You hated how much you loved this.

"Again," he demanded, still teasing you with shallow thrusts that never quite pushed inside. "Say it properly."

"Please, Valarr," you said louder, desperation now coloring your voice. "Please, I need you."

That seemed to be exactly what he wanted to hear. With a groan, he thrust forward, filling you slowly, inch by inch, watching your face for every reaction. Your head fell back as you adjusted to the stretch, a moan escaping your lips as he seated himself fully inside you.

"Perfect," he murmured, his hands sliding up to cradle your face as he began to move. "You feel perfect, my love."

The pace he set was controlled, each thrust designed to draw out your pleasure as long as possible. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, matching his rhythm as the pleasure built between you. His mouth found yours again, kissing you deeply, swallowing your moans as he increased his pace.

You could feel the tension building inside you, a coil tightening with each movement, each touch. It felt good—so good it was almost overwhelming. You broke the kiss to gasp for air, your forehead resting against his as you clung to him like your life depended on it.

"I'm close," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I'm—"

"Not yet," he said, though his own breathing had grown ragged.

He took a fistful of your hair, gently pulling your head back to expose your throat. His lips immediately latched onto the sensitive skin there, sucking and biting in a way that would surely leave marks. The sharp sensation of his teeth digging into you combined with the steady rhythm of his hips pushed you closer to the edge.

"Valarr," you moaned, your nails digging into his back as the pressure became almost unbearable.

"I told you," he said against your skin, his voice strained with his own approaching release, "not yet."

He shifted his angle slightly, hitting that perfect spot inside you that made your vision blur. You cried out, your body tensing as you fought to hold back the orgasm threatening to crash over you.

Seconds later, he's spilling into you. You feel the rush of warmth as his movements become erratic, his grip on you tightening as he finds his release. The sensation of him pulsing inside you has you trembling, right on the edge—so close but not quite there.

Before you can form a coherent thought, he's pulling out of you, leaving you empty and aching. Your eyes fly open in protest, ready to beg him to finish what he started. But Valarr is already tucking himself back into his pants, his breathing still heavy as he looks down at you with dark, satisfied eyes.

You're left sprawled across the desk, your skirt still bunched around your waist, your body thrumming with a need that went unsatisfied.

"What—" you begin, but he's already moving, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead that feels almost condescending given your current state.

"I have a meeting," he says simply, as if that explains everything.

You stare at him in disbelief, your body still trembling with unspent arousal. "You can't be serious."

He straightens up, looking entirely too composed for someone who just had you unraveling beneath him. "I am quite serious, my love."

You sit up slowly, feeling a delicious ache between your legs as you do. "You're leaving me like this?"

He reaches out, toying with the hair near your temple with a smile. "I think you'll survive until tonight."

"Tonight?" you echo, incredulous. "Valarr, that's hours from now!"

He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a promise of later. Always fucking later. "Consider it motivation to behave yourself."

You huff, crossing your arms over your chest in a gesture that would feel much more imposing if you weren't still half-naked and thoroughly fucked on his desk. "This is cruel. You're cruel and evil."

The sound of his laughter follows him as he walks toward the door to grab his jacket. "You interrupted my work, remember? This seems like a fair consequence."

"It's not fair at all," you call after him, sliding off the desk to stand only to be met by your own shaky legs. "You enjoyed every second of it!"

He pauses at the door, turning back to look at you with an expression that makes your stomach flip. "I did. Very much. Be good while I'm gone, and don't be late to dinner this time."

You watch him leave, still processing what just happened. You're left alone in his home, disheveled and unsatisfied, with the taste of him still on your lips and the evidence of what you've done dripping down your thighs. It's infuriating. It's also, unfortunately, incredibly hot. The worst part is that part of you—the part that enjoys his games, his control, the way he manages to turn your own tactics against you—is already anticipating tonight when he'll finally finish what he started.

With a frustrated sigh, you smooth down your skirt and head to the bathroom to clean up, muttering under your breath about how impossible Valarr Targaryen is.

By the time you emerge, you've composed yourself enough to send him a text message.

You: I'm touching myself.

You aren't, but the satisfaction of knowing you're disrupting his important meeting is almost enough to make up for the ache still lingering between your legs.

His reply comes almost instantly, making you wonder just how important this meeting really is.

Valarr: You should be getting ready for dinner. Don't be late.

You stare at the message, equal parts annoyed and impressed by his unwavering self-control. Then, with a mischievous smile, you type out your response.

You: Would you like to know what I'm thinking about while I touch myself?

You hit send and wait, feeling a thrill run through you at the thought of him reading your message in whatever boring meeting he's stuck in.

Three minutes pass. Then five. You're annoyed, about to send another message when your phone buzzes with a new text.

Valarr: No.

You frown at the single word response. That's it? No curiosity? No demand to know what you're thinking about? You're both disappointed and, irritatingly, more turned on by his restraint.

You: Fine. I'll keep it to myself.

Valarr: Good girl.

The simple praise sends a shiver through you, and you suddenly find yourself in a much more complicated situation than you anticipated. You wanted to tease him, to get a reaction, but instead, you're the one affected, your traitorous body still wishing for him.

You take a deep breath, typing one last message before going to get ready.

I hate you.

Dinner was proving remarkably difficult to enjoy. Though not because anything was wrong with the restaurant. If anything, the opposite was true. The food was excellent. The service was wonderful. The wine was even better. Every few minutes, somebody appeared beside the table to refill a glass, replace a plate, or inquire whether there was anything else they could bring. Ordinarily, you loved places like this. Being spoiled was one of your favorite hobbies.

Unfortunately, none of it made the slightest difference when you couldn't focus on anything but the man sitting directly across from you.

Valarr had chosen the restaurant. He always chose the restaurant. He knew what you liked better than you did most of the time, which was both endearing and irritating. Tonight, he had selected a quiet Dornish place tucked into a corner of the city where the staff greeted him by name. The atmosphere was intimate, the lighting warm, the food fragrant and beautifully presented. It was romantic. It was perfect. You were miserable.

Your gaze kept drifting across the table to him. Valarr sat with his usual effortless elegance, one arm resting along the back of his chair, his wine glass held loosely in his other hand. His shirt was crisp, his hair slightly tousled in that way that made you want to twist and tug at it until your knuckles went white. He was paying attention to something the waiter was saying and nodding occasionally.

You had been paying attention to the same thing earlier. At least, you had tried. But, you had spent most of dinner replaying what happened earlier—his hands, his mouth, the way he had filled you and then left you. The memory was driving you mad. Especially since he seemed entirely unaffected.

"Another glass?" The waiter gestured toward your wine with a polite smile.

"No, thank you," Valarr answered for you.

You blinked at him. "Yes. Actually, another glass would be lovely."

Valarr's gaze shifted to you, slightly raising an eyebrow. "You've had enough."

The nerve. You leaned forward, resting your elbows on the table. "I think I can decide that for myself. Another glass, thank you."

The waiter hesitated, glancing between you and Valarr before ultimately making the wise decision to refill your glass. Valarr watched the entire interaction with his jaw clenched. You sipped your wine and smiled sweetly across the table at him.

"Is there something wrong?"

His eyes narrowed. "You're being difficult."

"Am I?"

"Yes."

"I'm just enjoying my evening."

He exhaled slowly, visibly working through something in his head. His fingers tapped once against the table before he folded his hands together in front of him. "You are testing my patience."

You tilted your head, studying him. "Why? Because I want another glass of wine?"

"I see we're still upset about earlier."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Valarr. I'm simply trying to have a nice dinner."

He looked at you for several seconds in silence, something shifting behind his eyes that made your stomach flip. "Finish your wine."

You froze. "What?"

"Drink."

There was something in his tone that had you immediately reaching for your glass without further argument. You sipped slowly, watching him over the rim as he continued watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. It wasn't angry, but it wasn't entirely a patient one either. It was something else—something that sent heat pooling low in your belly despite the frustration still simmering just beneath the surface. You knew it all too well.

The waiter returned to clear the dessert plates. Valarr asked for the bill, his eyes never leaving your face. You shifted in your seat, suddenly far too aware of how your body still felt the echoes of the afternoon—how empty you still felt.

"You're staring," you said softly, setting your glass back on the table.

"Yes, I am."

"Why?"

"Because I'm deciding what to do with you."

The simple statement sent a shiver down your spine. You watched him sign the check, his movements precise and controlled, just like everything else about him. When he stood and offered his hand, you took it without hesitation. His grip on your fingers was firm as he led you out of the restaurant, his long strides forcing you to move much quicker to keep up with him.

The car was waiting at the curb. He opened the door for you, his hand resting briefly on the small of your back as you slid inside. You watched him walk around to the driver's side, noting the tension in his shoulders, the set of his jaw. He was very attractive when he was like this. You had always thought so.

Neither of you spoke as he pulled into traffic. The drive back to his place was silent except for the soft music playing through the speakers. You sat with your hands folded in your lap, occasionally stealing glances at him as he focused on the road. The way his fingers gripped the steering wheel, the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his eyes occasionally flicked in your direction before returning to the road ahead.

When you finally arrived at his building, he parked in his designated spot and turned off the engine. The silence that followed felt heavy, charged with all the words you hadn't said. You reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped you.

"Stay there."

You froze, your hand hovering in midair. Something in his tone had your heart racing. You watched as he got out of the car, walking around to open your door with that same controlled grace. His hand extended toward you, and you took it, letting him help you from the car.

The elevator ride up was even more torturous than the car ride had been. He stood beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body, but he didn't touch you. Didn't look at you. Just stared straight ahead at the numbers climbing higher as if they held the answers to how best to deal with you.

When the doors finally slid open, he placed a hand at the small of your back, guiding you out into the hallway. His key turned in the lock with a click that sounded far too loud in the silence between the two of you. He stepped aside when the door swung open, allowing you to enter first.

You walked into the familiar space, tossing your bag onto the couch as you turned to look at him. You heard the sound of the lock engaging from the foyer where he stood.

"Valarr—" you started, but he held up a hand, silencing you.

He moved toward you slowly, his eyes never leaving yours as he closed the distance between you. When he reached you, his fingers ghosted over your cheek before tangling in your hair, tilting your head back. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough that you could feel his breath against your skin.

"Turn around," he said softly.

You blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the contrast between the gentleness of his tone and the command in his words combined with the fist currently holding you. When you hesitated, his fingers tightened slightly in your hair.

"Now."

You turned, presenting your back to him. His hands moved to your shoulders, sliding the straps of your dress down your arms. The fabric was left to pool around your waist, exposing your back to him. You felt his lips brush against your shoulder, followed by the scrape of his teeth. A soft yelp left you as his hands slid around to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened beneath his touch.

"Valarr," you breathed, pressing back against him.

His hands moved lower, pushing your dress the rest of the way down until it fell to the floor. You stepped out of it, kicking it aside as his fingers hooked into your panties, sliding them down your legs. You felt him step back, and you almost turned to face him, but his voice stopped you.

"Don't move."

You stayed still, your heart pounding as you heard the sound of his belt being unbuckled, followed by the rustle of clothes being discarded. The anticipation was driving you crazy; every nerve in your body was attuned to the sounds behind you.

When his hands returned to your body, they were warm against your waist, guiding you forward until you were bent over the back of the couch. The position left you exposed, vulnerable, and incredibly turned on. He dragged his belt up your spine, letting the leather tease your skin before it disappeared again. You felt like you could die right there without even complaining.

"Do you remember what I told you earlier?" he asked, his voice low and rough.

You swallowed, trying to focus. "About behaving?"

"Mmm." One hand smoothed down your back, over the curve of your ass. "And are you behaving now?"

"I..." You trailed off as his fingers slipped between your legs. "I'm trying."

He laughed softly, the sound sending vibrations through you as he pressed two fingers inside you. You moaned, pushing back against his hand, desperate for more. "You're not trying very hard."

"I am," you gasped as he curled his fingers inside you. "I swear."

His free hand came down on your ass, the sharp sting making you cry out. "Lying doesn't help your case."

"I'm not lying," you protested, though the words sounded weak even to your own ears.

He withdrew his fingers, leaving you empty again. You whimpered at the loss, but before you could complain, you felt the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He teased you, sliding through your wetness without entering. Again.

"Valarr, please," you begged, your fingers gripping the couch with so much force that you could've sworn you'd give yourself a cramp.

"What do you want, my love?"

"You. I want you inside me."

He pushed in just the tip. "Like this?"

"No," you moaned. "All of you. Please."

"Are you going to be good?"

"Yes," you promised. "Yes, I'll be so good."

He rewarded you by sliding in fully, filling you completely in one smooth thrust. You cried out at the sensation, your body arching back to meet his as he set a punishing rhythm. His hands held your hips, guiding your movements as he drove into you, each thrust hitting that perfect spot inside that had you seeing stars.

"Thank you," you babbled, completely lost to the pleasure. "Thank you, thank you, Valarr—"

One hand came up from your hip to wrap around your chin and jaw, his index and middle fingers coaxing your mouth open as they pushed in. You immediately sucked on them, your tongue swirling around the digits as he continued fucking you relentlessly.

"That's it," he groaned, his other hand slipping around to find your clit. "Take it all."

The dual stimulation was too much. Your orgasm crashed over you suddenly, your body clenching around him as you moaned around his fingers. He didn't stop, drawing out your pleasure until you were trembling, your knees weak.

When he finally pulled out, he turned you around, lifting you effortlessly to sit on the back of the couch. His mouth captured yours in a deep, wet, filthy kiss as he lined himself up with you again. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer as he pushed back inside you.

This time was slower, deeper, more deliberate. He kissed you as he moved, his tongue exploring your mouth as if he had all the time in the world. You melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you met each of his thrusts.

"I love you," you whispered against his lips.

"I know," he murmured, his forehead resting against yours. "I love you too."

The intimacy of the moment, combined with the physical pleasure, had tears pricking at your eyes. You buried your face against his neck, holding him tighter as he continued to grind his hips into yours.

"Valarr, please… I can't—"

"You can," he assured you, his voice gentle but firm. "One more. Give me one more, my love."

His fingers found your clit again, circling it with just the right pressure. You shook your head against his shoulder, overwhelmed by the sensations, but he didn't stop. His pace increased slightly, his breathing growing more ragged as he approached his own release.

"Are you with me?" he asked, his voice strained. “Stay with me.”

"I'm here," you promised, your body tensing as another orgasm began to build. "I'm here, I'm yours."

You were dizzy with it. The pleasure, the emotion, the feeling of being completely owned and cherished in the same moment. The second orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, your body sweating and trembling around him as he finally found his release, whispering your name against your skin as he emptied himself inside you.

For several minutes after, you remained tangled together, your breathing slowly returning to normal as you held each other. His hands stroked your back soothingly, and you pressed lazy kisses to his neck and jaw, too content to move.

You'd do this again tomorrow.

[dreamed-dusk]

moon song | Masterlist

Synopsis: In which the reader is a veterinary surgeon who helps an injured man one night.

Context: Modern!AU

Tags: Modern!AU, veterinarian!Reader, fem!Reader, reference to crime and mafia, description of wounds, patching up injuries, tension, slightly dark!Baelor, slightly dark!Targaryens, medical inaccuracies, age gap

Main Story Posts

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI (Coming Soon!)

Miscellaneous Posts

Media Post I

[nanascharms]

(S)cream for us (part1)

Ghostface!valarr x f!reader x ghostface!aerion

- this part contains SMUT, and the others parts as well. summary : With the end of exams at King’s Landing University comes a wave of brutal student murders, leaving the city drowning in fear and rumors. But when Tybolt Lannister throws a lavish Halloween party to distract the elite of the campus, the killers seize the perfect opportunity to turn the night into chaos — especially after setting their sights on you.

Tw : Murder, death, torture?, violence, threesome, rough sex, knife play, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), unprotected sex, p in v, spanking, reader has a tongue piercing, dark valarr, dark aerion, they are both obssesed with reader, stalking, reader is where she wants to be, dirty talk, she is a bit delusional cause she thinks she can fix them, she gets fucked on a crime scene (literally)

A/n : hii guys, the first part is finally here!! I decided to split it into two parts because it was getting too long..I’m not really satisfied with the way it came out but I just wanted it out of my drafts 🫩 comments and reblogs are appreciated 🫶🏻

It had already been a month since the first body was discovered in the Kingswood, not far from the prestigious University of King’s Landing.

A Hightower girl.

Barely nineteen.

The newspapers tried to call it a simple tragedy, while the police was still investigating and trying to solve the affair and put the murderer behind bars. But still, the kingswood were reputed for being safe so how such a thing could happened here?

The poor girl had been found butchered, left in the woods like a slaughtered animal. Police was still searching for any clues, anything that could help identify the murder.

But nothing.

Then another body turned up.

And another.

Before long, fear and panic settled over the city like a gathering storm. Parents too worried abd scared to wake up with the news that their child had been murdered, called every day. Sometimes twice a day. Students had stopped walking home alone after the night settled, the police had forbidden it. No students was allowed to wander too close to the crime scenes. Every unfamiliar face drew wary glances. Every shadow seemed to linger a little too long now..

Because the killer was still out there.

Which was precisely why Gerold Lannister’s idea had been met with equal parts excitement and disbelief.

A Halloween party.

A kind of massive one.

Hosted at the Lannister Manor, with half the university invited to the party.

Officially, it was meant to lift morale and provide a welcome distraction from the anxiety that had gripped the campus for weeks or whatever gerold had said.

Unofficially?

Everyone knew it was just an excuse for rich kids to get drunk, hook up, and spend a night pretending a serial killer wasn’t still roaming the streets of King’s Landing.

You had been studying in your room when your phone had rang loudly, startling you, when you saw the caller ID, you could not hold the sigh that left your mouth immediately.

Syra.

One of the first friends — if not the only— you had made after transferring from the prestigious University of the Vale.

Unlike you, Syra seemed physically incapable of staying stressed for more than five minutes at a time. you wandered how she managed that remained a mystery. You were honestly envious..

With the exams looming, a serial killer still stalking King’s Landing, and your future hanging on a scholarship, you couldn’t imagine going through life without constantly worrying about something.

Yet somehow, Syra made it look effortless.

anyway you answered your phone without taking your eyes off your notes.

As a scholarship student, you couldn’t afford to fall behind.

“Hello?” Your usual stern tone made the simple greeting sound far colder than you intended. Most people found you intimidating. But Syra knew that you were just like that and not being cold intentionally.

The moment Syra started babbling excitedly about the Lannister Halloween party, you knew answering the phone had been a mistake. And that you were doomed because this would only end in one way. You folding.

“Syra, you know I can’t go,” you sighed, as you were highlighting the key words that would help you memorize the subject faster before tossing your phone onto the bed and switched it to speaker in order to be able to continue to review your notes. As a scholarship student, you couldn’t afford to fail your exams. You were still considered rich, but unfortunately not enough to be considered the elite of KL.

“Oh, babe, shut up,” she groaned dramatically and you could picture the exact frown her face was proably making “You study enough for ten people.” You rolled your eyes at her words. Sometimes it annoyed you that she couldn’t understand that you didn’t had a choice.

“Come on. Just one night. It’ll be fun.. I promise! ”

“I don’t know,” you admitted, thinking about which words you would use “Isn’t it..like kind of weird?” That made her pause for three seconds before she spoke again. "Weird?” You could hear in her voice that she was genuinely perplexed.

“Yeah. With everything that’s happening right now. People are literally getting murdered, and everyone’s acting like a party is going to fix it.” You scoffed your argumebts as your brows were furrowed before you glanced down back to your notes, though your attention had long since drifted from them.

Syra only laughed.

“Babe.”

The way she said it told you immediately that she wasn’t taking your concerns seriously.

“I think these exams are seriously fucking with your brain.”

You huffed.

Of course.

“And that is exactly why you’re coming to this party with me.”

You weren’t sure whether to be annoyed or concerned. Perhaps both?

“I don’t even have a costume.”

It was your final argument. And you were praying this would work but unfortunately, Syra had already prepared for that.

“That’s why we’re going shopping tomorrow.”

You closed your eyes.

Of course she had.

“And before you ask—yes, I’m paying.”

“Syra—” she cut you before you could start your sentence.

“Love you, babe! See you tomorrow!”

The call ended before you could get another word in.

Bitch

You stared at your phone for a long moment before letting out a defeated sigh.

The next day, she picked you up in her ridiculously expensive car and proceeded to drag you across half the city.

Most of the shopping was done without your input.

According to Syra, your opinions were too “wrong.” Or too basic for this kind of party. So you just let her do and pick whatever she wanted.

Suspiciously, she refused to tell you what costumes she had chosen.

Only that the two of you were going to look iconic.

You should have known better.

Which was how, a week later, you found yourself staring at your reflection, dressed as a scandalously shortened version of Daphne Blake.

Meanwhile, Syra had chosen Velma.

Equally scandalous.

But indeed iconic.

You had considered refusing.

You really had.

But as Syra adjusted the wig perched on your head and put the finishing touches on her own makeup, you found yourself far too exhausted to argue.

After all, it was only one party.

And if you were being honest, the outfit suited you far better than you cared to admit.

“You are so getting laid tonight.”

Your head snapped toward her so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

Syra only grinned.

“Absolutely not.” You hit her gently on the shoulder where a bit of skin was showing.

“That’s what they all say.” that made you snort as you shake your head, she then grabbed your hand and tugged you toward the door.

“Come on.”

It was time to go.

When the two of you arrived, the party was already in full swing. Apparently, nobody had bothered waiting for you. Because groups of students crowded the front lawn, red plastic cups were already clutched in their hands. Some were already making out against walls or trees, completely oblivious to everything happening around them. Or worse, some were aware but it’s seems shame was not part of their vocabulary. From somewhere behind the manor came the sound of splashing water, followed by a chorus of drunken cheers from the pool area.

The moment you stepped through the front doors, you found yourself silently thanking Syra for choosing your costume.

Because she had been right.

Almost every girl there was dressed like a hooker. You were grateful you would probably not be noticed and would be left alone most of the night.

Some costumes were creative. Others were little more than expensive lingerie with a different name attached to it. Vampires mingled with angels, cheerleaders with witches, and more than a few people wore outfits you genuinely couldn’t identify and didn’t care enough to try to guess.

There were plenty of masks, too.

Some cheap enough to have come from the nearest convenience store.

Others were unsettlingly realistic.

Under different circumstances, you knew you might not have paid them any attention.

But with a serial killer still roaming King’s Landing, there was something deeply unnerving about being surrounded by dozens of strangers whose faces you couldn’t see and apparently your were the only smart enough to conclude to that.

For the first time all evening, you thought maybe this party wouldn’t be so terrible after all. You would finally get these exams out of your pretty head, have fun with your friend. But unfortunately that feeling lasted approximately thirty seconds.

Because the moment Syra spotted one of her popular friends across the room, she abandoned you without a second thought.

“I’ll be back in a minute!”

Those had been her exact words. And you knew that she would not come back.

Not at all..

One minute turned into five.

Five turned into twenty.

And eventually, you caught sight of her making out with some Tully boy near the kitchen.

that bitch

You rolled your eyes and took another sip of your drink.

Fine.

You were a grown woman and you could have fun all by yourself

You didn’t need supervision right? right?! You could survive a single party on your own. You could not drive home anyway you were too drunk now, and syra had driven you here.

The music from the speakers was loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath your feet as you were wandering through the manor. And you could hear your heart pounding in your head. Everywhere you looked, students were drinking, laughing, dancing, or disappearing into rooms with people they would probably regret fucking with tomorrow morning.

You were debating whether to search for Syra or simply leave her to her poor decisions when your phone suddenly vibrated inside your bag.

Your brows furrowed.

Who the hell was texting you at eleven o’clock on Halloween?

You pulled out your phone and glanced at the screen.

Unknown Number.

Don’t turn around.

For a moment, you stared at the message, frozen and convinced it had to be some stupid prank or something shitty like that but then your phone buzzed again. Same number.

Unknown Number

Seriously. Don’t. Turn. Around.

A chill crawled down your spine.

What the fuck?

And what exactly did you do after receiving a message explicitly telling you not to turn around?

You turned around.

Obviously.

It took you less than fifteen seconds to spot him.

Standing in one of the darker corners of the room was a tall figure dressed as Ghostface. The mask concealed his features entirely, but the phone in his hand told you everything you needed to know.

Hot.

So it had been him.

A smirk tugged at your lips.

The alcohol buzzing pleasantly through your system was doing absolutely nothing for your decision-making skills.

Instead of reacting with the concern any reasonable person would have felt, you slipped your phone back into your bag and started making your way toward the mysterious stranger.

After all, what was the worst that could happen?

In hindsight, that was probably a terrible thought to have in the middle of a serial killer investigation.

Unfortunately, your attention was entirely focused on Ghostface.

Which meant you failed to notice the people around you.

The collision was inevitable.

Your drink splashed everywhere as you walked straight into a broad chest.

“Oh, fuck—I’m so sorry.”

You immediately looked up, already preparing yourself to apologize to whichever rich asshole’s costume you had just ruined.

Instead, your eyes landed on a face you recognized instantly.

Motherfucking Valarr Targaryen.

Shit.

Your mouth fell open slightly.

Of all the people at this party, why did it have to be a Targaryen?

You braced yourself for irritation. Maybe an insult. At the very least, a comment about watching where you were going.

Instead, he has smiled.

Actually smiled.

“Please don’t apologize,” he said warmly. “I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going either.”

For a moment, you simply stared.

Not because of what he’d said.

But because Valarr Targaryen was being nice.

Valarr Targaryen was already unfairly attractive on a normal day.

The combination was frankly devastating.

Tonight, dressed as a vampire in an expensive black suit adorned with silver details, he looked even worse for your sanity.

Or better.

Depending on how one looked at it.

His brown hair framed his face perfectly, and the fake blood painted near the corner of his mouth somehow only made him more attractive.

Which frankly felt illegal.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his expression softening with concern. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

The alcohol in your system immediately informed you that it should be considered a crime for someone to look that good.

You were still busy contemplating that very important issue when he spoke again.

“You okay?”

His hands settled lightly on your shoulders, steadying you.

“You might want to sit down.”

“No, no. I’m okay. Thanks.”

Somehow, you managed to answer without completely embarrassing yourself.

A small smile tugged at his lips.

He looked as though he was about to say something else when a voice called out from somewhere behind him.

“Valarr!”

One of his friends was waving him over.

Valarr glanced over his shoulder before looking back at you.

“I’m sorry, I’ve got to—”

But when he turned around fully, you were already gone.

Retreat was sometimes the only option left to preserve your dignity.

you had vanished back into the crowd. as if you never had interacted with him.

For a moment, Valarr simply stared at the spot where you had been.

Then a slow smirk spread across his face.

He pulled out his phone and typed something quickly.

A few seconds later, his screen lit up with a delivered notification.

Satisfied, he slipped the device back into his pocket before returning to his friends.

Though his gaze lingered on the crowd for just a moment longer.

A terrible headache from all the drinking had eventually driven you upstairs.

Technically, guests weren’t supposed to wander through the upper floors of the manor, but at this point, you desperately needed a quieter bathroom where you could splash cold water on your face and escape the pounding music for a few minutes.

The alcohol was beginning to settle unpleasantly behind your eyes.

You tried several doors.

A study.

A guest bedroom.

A storage room.

None of them were what you were looking for.

Finally, you reached another door that looked promising and placed your hand on the handle.

Then you heard it.

A noise.

Faint.

Coming from somewhere down the corridor.

You froze.

At first, you tried to ignore it.

Your headache was already bad enough without getting involved in whatever drunken nonsense was happening elsewhere in the manor.

Just use the bathroom. Mind your business. And go downstairs.

Yet the sound came again. louder. And this time, it sounded disturbingly like a sob. Your felt your stomach tightened. you slowly turned toward the door a few yards away. The corridor suddenly felt much quieter than before. The pounding music from downstairs had become muffled by thick walls and expensive carpets, reduced to a distant thrum beneath your feet. The crying came again, you could hear the desperate and broken voice pleading for someone to help.

The closer you moved, the clearer the sounds became.

A girl...

There was definitely a girl behind that door. The music downstairs was so loud that nobody else would ever hear it. you were going to ignore it and just go down when the voice came again.

“…please…”

Your pulse quickened.

“…I’ll do anything…”

Another sob followed. the sound was raw and painful to hear, it made your whole body anxious and trembling with curiosity.

“…anything… just…”

Your hand found the doorknob before you could stop yourself. What if someone was hurt? What if you could help? What if you walked away and something happened because you had decided it wasn’t your problem?

One look wouldn’t hurt right..

Right?

You finally pushed the door open. The room beyond was dark and it seems empty from your point of view.

but only at first glance.

Moonlight was spilling through the tall windows, casting pale silver across polished wooden floors and expensive furniture. A large king-sized bed dominated the room. The sheets remained untouched. No signs of a struggle. No crying girl. No one at all.

that made you frown and then your eyes landed on an old cassette player sitting atop a table near the window.

The voice must have came from it.

You froze but the confusion was quickly replaced by panic. Silence settled over the room. the atmosphere of the room was heavy and you could yourself being looked at. you didn’t like this feeling at all, but you were stuck in place, your body refusing to turn to your right and see what your brain had refused to acknowledge first when you stepped in the bedroom. Finally a mocking laugh echoed through the darkness. the guy it seems was amused by the way every muscle in your body tensed. Your head finally snapped toward the far corner.

your eyes came across the guy you had seen earlier. he was still dressed in the Ghostface costume. Still wearing the mask.

He sat comfortably in an armchair partially hidden by shadow, one leg thrown over the other as though he owned the room. He had been waiting for you.

Watching you.

The knife twirling lazily between his fingers caught the moonlight with every rotation. A cold wave washed over you.

“No one’s ever taught you not to stick your nose into other people’s business, little doe?” he spoke firmly with an arrogance that was familiar. you knew that voice, this tone, and this arrogance, the way it striked confidently. You know you had heard it before and many times. Yet your mind stubbornly refused to connect it to a face. Instinct screamed at you to leave Immediately. You proceed to took a careful step backward, The floorboards creaking beneath your feet but unfortunately You never got the chance to take a third as your back collided with a solid chest.

A startled gasp tore from your throat as you felt the strong hold on your shoulders. At the exact same moment, the unmistakable click of a lock echoed behind you.

fuck..the door.

Someone had locked the door.

“Aerion,” a familiar voice sighed. “You’re scaring her.”

You felt your heart missed two beats

Once because you finally recognized the man sitting across the room.

And a second time because you recognized the voice behind you.

Valarr.

Slowly, you turned your head.

Valarr Targaryen stood beside the door.

For a moment, all you could do was stare.

The same charming smile he had offered you downstairs still rested on his lips. The same warm expression. The same effortless charm.

Only now, you could see what you had missed before.

The darkness lurking beneath it.

The dangerous glint hidden in his violet eyes.

You weren’t stupid.

Nor were you the helpless victim they seemed to believe you were.

You knew exactly who the Targaryen cousins were.

And more importantly, you knew what kind of reputation followed them across campus.

Your gaze drifted downward to the small brass key resting between Valarr’s fingers.

He spun it once before catching it effortlessly.

Your stomach dropped.

There would be no easy escape.

Across the room, Aerion let out an impatient hiss before finally tearing the Ghostface mask from his face.

You had actually wondered where he was tonight.

For someone notorious for attending every party, starting half the drama on campus, and leaving with a different girl at his arms every other weekend, his absence had been strangely noticeable.

Now you understood why.

Your gaze lingered on him despite yourself.

Aerion Targaryen was dangerous.

Everyone knew it.

Between the two cousins, he was undoubtedly the one you would be most careful around.

Valarr hid his intentions behind smiles and charm but Aerion never bothered. His temper was infamous and so were the stories surrounding it, and unfortunately, he was also unfairly attractive.

Silver-gold hair, Sharp features, A strong jaw, and an infuriating smirk that never seemed to leave his face. Probably the reason so many girls were willing to overlook the fact that he was a complete asshole.

Even more unfortunately…

He was exactly your type and the realization irritated you.

“What is the meaning of this?” you finally demanded and you were almost surprised by how steady your voice remained despite the adrenaline surging through your veins.

Aerion merely leaned back in his chair. Not answering only watching and studying your form. His gaze moving lazily over you as though he was trying to figure something out.

Almost like a predator observing a wounded prey. As though he already knew exactly how this encounter would end. Then Valarr stepped forward making the floorboards creak beneath his weight. You looked up at him, expecting an explanation but Instead, it was Aerion who spoke.

“Why don’t you take a seat, baby?”Something about the pet name immediately irritated you. Perhaps it was the way he said it. Or perhaps it was because he had once again ignored your question.

You folded your arms across your chest and rolled your eyes. “If you answer my question, I might consider it.” A hint of alcohol still lingered in your system, making you far less patient—and considerably more bratty—than usual.

Your response earned a small smile from Valarr. Aerion only scoffed at your tone bedore drifting his eyes downward Toward the exposed skin beneath the hem of your costume. your legs.

Heat crept up your neck. For several long seconds, neither cousin seemed interested in speaking. The silence stretched. Heavy and mostly uncomfortable.

You were beginning to wonder if either of them intended to answer when you suddenly felt a cold pressure against your back making you stiffened immediately. In all the confusion, you had nearly forgotten Valarr was standing behind you. Slowly, you glanced over your shoulder.

the knife was not pressed hard enough to hurt you or draw blood, But still close enough to remind you exactly who was holding it. Valarr was watching your reaction carefully only expecting fear and panic. Perhaps even expecting you to beg.

Instead, you were rolling your eyes as if the situation was just a small inconvenience. you turned back toward him, and released an exaggerated sigh.

“Oh please, sir,” you said dramatically. “Please don’t kill me yet. I want to appear in the credits first.” your words only brought a blank, for one brief moment, neither of them spoke.

Valarr blinked, Clearly caught off guard by your reaction, your response had completely derailed whatever reaction he had been expecting.

“What?” You looked between them innocently before widening your eyes. “Oh, sorry. My bad.”

You placed a hand against your chest.

“I meant...please, Mr. Ghostface.” The smile tugging at your lips only widened. That finally teared a small laugh from Aerion.

You weren’t entirely sure whether it was the alcohol talking or your complete lack of self-preservation. Either way, the words had already left your mouth. and the boys reactions made you painfully aware. Now you were trapped in a bedroom with two dangerous Targaryens. The logic part of your brain told you that you should have been terrified.

Unfortunately, a reckless part of you was far more interested in finding out just how much fun you could have before things inevitably went wrong.

That was why you listened to the stupid voice in your head. Slowly, almost absentmindedly, you had reached for the knife.

The metal felt cool against your fingertips. Aerion’s gaze had followed the movement immediately,

Valarr’s did too.

You could feel both of them watching you, and waiting for any of your movements and what you would do next.

The realization had sent a strange thrill through you.

Instead of backing away, you carefully placed the edge of the blade between your tits, looking up through your lashes with an expression of innocent curiosity.

As if you had no idea what you were doing. As if you weren’t deliberately testing their patience.

The room seemed to grow quieter.

You didn’t even notice the blade had nicked your skin until tiny droplets of blood began to bead along the shallow cut before slowly trailing down your cleavage.

A flash of red against pale skin.

“Oops?” The word left your lips in an almost breathless murmur. You kept up the act, tilting your head slightly before reaching for Valarr’s hand.

Your fingers were brushing against his. you could feel the warm of his digits and how they were steady against yours. When he made no move to pull away, your pulse slightly quickened.

you hold his gaze as you guided the knife upward towards your mouth, slided the blade in between your teeth and removed the remaining trace of blood from the blade with your tongue without ever looking away from him.

The silence that followed felt almost tangible. the tension was heavy and charged in the air.

you noticed how Valarr’s jaw tightened ever so slightly at your action and you almost smirked at it, Because for the first time all evening, his composure seemed to falter only for a moment

Across the room, Aerion watched the entire exchange with narrowed eyes. The amusement had not left his face. If anything, it had deepened.

Then, for the first time since you’d entered the room, you heard the scrape of wood against the floor. his chair probably as you could hear the slow but deliberate footsteps of him, walking towards you.

You couldn’t remember exactly what had led to you being pressed against the bed, except for their offer not to kill you if you let them fuck your pretty cunt.

And here you were now. laying on the kingsize bed Almost naked.

The only thing still covering you was your dress, bunched up around your waist and pushed toward your chest.

Your panties had been ripped off earlier by Valarr. Without a word, he had handed them to his cousin, who had carefully tucked them away into his pocket as though they were some rare trophy meant to be treasured and kept safe.

The memory alone made heat crawl down your core.

How ridiculous.

but yet neither of them had looked like they were joking. Not even a little.

Instead, they had spent several minutes arguing over who would get to fuck you first. The discussion had become so absurd that you had almost made a joke about it.

Almost.

You had very nearly told them to keep arguing if they wanted, considering it was only making you wetter because It seemed the alcohol was turning you into a complete slut.

Eventually, they had reached an agreement.

Valarr would go first.

Being the eldest, he had claimed it was his right, Aerion had frowned at that argument but ultimately allowed it, settling beside you on the mattress while Valarr positioned himself between your thighs.

His large hands wrapped around your legs, keeping them spread apart for him.

Neither man bothered hiding their reaction at the sight before them. The anticipation alone had left you embarrassingly aroused. Enough that both cousins immediately noticed. And judging by the low groans that escaped them, neither was disappointed by the discovery.

Valarr had begun to toy with your clit using his thumb, alternating between slow circles and gentle pinches, and fuck—you were already losing it, Because the Valarr Targaryen was playing with your greedy cunt, inserting two fingers into your tight hole, while Aerion’s lips were working against the sensitive skin of your neck, clearly experienced and knowing exactly where to find a woman’s most vulnerable spots.

The combination was already too overwhelming. your humming only seemed to encourage Valarr to pump his fingers faster into your hole, and the way Aerion was sucking a particular spot on your jaw had managed to make you lose focus on the brown.

and it seems that he didn’t enjoyed loosing your attention because he withdrew his fingers, to replace them with his skilled tongue.

The change instantly got you back.

Your gaze dropped to the man settled between your thighs. and the sight was making you shake your legs incontrolably as he was devouring your pussy like a starved man deprived from food for days.

he was lapping at your folds, Savoring each sounds coming out of your mouth satisfied to know that he was the one making you feel this good.

His tongue was moving with a maddening patience and precision before becoming almost cruel in its intensity, and you were quickly dissolving into a helpless, moaning mess beneath them. you almost sounded pornographic..

One of your hands buried itself in his pale hair, encouraging him to keep going, you hips accompanying his mmovements as they rolled on their own.

Not that he seemed to need the encouragement.

Meanwhile, your neck arched instinctively, granting Aerion better access as his lips continued their work against your skin. He seemed perfectly content to leave marks wherever he pleased. his hands were wandering under your dress and most specifically under your bra as he was fiddling with your tits, giving them the treatment they deserved.

And judging by the low sounds of approval coming from between your legs, and beside your head, the cousins were equally satisfied with the position they had claimed.

“Such a greedy girl, huh?” Aerion whispered against the shell of your ear before gently nibbling at it as he talked you through it “Come on, baby. Tell him he’s doing a great job. Tell him, he’s making you feel good or we’ll stop.”

The threat nearly made you panic.

No.

No, no, no.

They couldn’t stop.

Not now. Not when you were so close to coming. You didn’t want any of it to end anytime soon.

“Feels so good—please don’t stop!” you gasped, your grip tightening in Valarr’s hair, wanting to make sure he wouldn’t even think about trying to pull away from you greedy cunt.

You were a trembling mess between them.

With Valarr’s mouth completely focused on you, every low hum of satisfaction sent vibrations through your core. He seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself, and the realization only made your head spin even more.

The way he worked between your thighs was enough to leave you breathless.

Meanwhile, all you could do was let helpless whimpers and broken moans spill from your lips as the pleasure continued to build.

One sensation blending into another. Aerion’s lips, Valarr’s mouth. Their hands. Their voices. Everything was becoming overwhelming.

Your fingers remained tangled in Valarr’s pale hair while your body reacted on instinct, chasing every touch and every movement.

The cousins seemed to take great satisfaction in that. Every sound you made were only encouraging them further.

And judging by the approving noises coming from both men, neither of them had any intention of stopping anytime soon.

Lucky girl

You were a trembling mess between them.

With Valarr’s mouth completely focused on you, his soft hums of satisfaction filled the space between your thighs. He was truly enjoying himself—devouring you with an intensity that made your thoughts scatter.

He had been watching you. Wanting this. Dreaming about it for so long.

And now it was finally happening.

He wasn’t planning to stop.

The vibrations of his voice and mouth sent shocks through your core, and the way he was making out with your pussy was almost enough to make you green with jealousy that his mouth wasn’t on yours instead. ridiculous right?

That his tongue wasn’t fighting yours.

Instead, all you could do was fall apart between them, helpless whimpers and broken sounds spilling from your lips as the pleasure kept building and building, pulling you further under.

You were getting dangerously close to your first orgasm when Aerion finally captured your mouth in a heated kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips to swallow the sounds threatening to escape, while his cousin continued his work between your thighs. That’s when he felt the metal ball inside your your mouth.

He broke the kiss immediately.

A low breath leaving him.

“Stick out that tongue f’me,” he ordered, tilting your chin up with firm fingers.

There was no real choice in the way he looked at you. Still, you obeyed. Slowly, you let your tongue slip out, revealing the tongue piercing you had done last year.

Aerion paused.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face before something sharper replaced it.

“Hiding this from us?” he murmured, almost amused. “such a bad girl.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip as if testing the weight of your reaction. Then he kissed you again.

A bit slower this time but more deliberate.

His tongue was tangling with yours, and the moment he felt the small metal ball against him, a quiet sound escaped his throat—barely restrained. His control slipped, just for a second. Then he deepened the kiss as if nothing had happened at all.

You hadn’t even noticed earlier that Valarr had been rutting his hips restlessly against the mattress, nor the way the tension in both men betrayed just how affected they were by your reactions.

Aerion was swallowing every moan and breathless sound that tried to escape your lips, keeping your attention locked on him as the kiss deepened as his hands clenched on your tits.

It was only when the pressure inside you finally broke that everything seemed to collapse at once.

Your body tensed, overwhelmed, your grip tightening against the sheets as your breath stuttered against Aerion’s mouth.

The kiss became something heavier—more consuming—as he worked to keep you anchored to him while everything else faded into static sensation. some of your body fluids  —and perhaps valarr’s spit had damped the expensive silk of sheets under you, when you finally felt valarr emerging back from your legs, reality finally returned in fragments.

Hands still on your skin, leaning down to press small kisses on your thighs as he whispered sweet things and how you had done so good for him and what a good girl you were, in order to bring you back down from the intensity of it all.

Valarr, finally lifted his head from you, exhaling quietly.

The room felt different now.

Quieter.

Heavier.

As if neither of them were quite done with you yet.

that is when you heard it. A muffled whimper that wasn’t from the boys but could only belons to a woman’s. A desperate cry same as 20 minutes ago. Your head turned instinctively toward the sound.

And that was when you saw her.

The girl was lying behind the bed, on the carpet, hidden from view—no wonder you hadn’t noticed her when you first stepped in.

she was in a critical state, Bloodied, Trembling and Barely holding on.

Thick strips of tape covered her mouth, turning her screams into broken, suffocated sobs. Even from where you stood, you could tell she was begging.

Not them.

You.

Your stomach dropped.

You couldn’t make out her face clearly through the blood and bruising.

But you knew immediately that something was very wrong. So wrong it made your chest tighten.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Panic began to set in.

Until now, you had told yourself it was a game.

A twisted joke.

Some kind of roleplay gone too far when they’d made their threats.

Apparently, it wasn’t.

Aerion noticed the shift in you almost immediately. His gaze followed yours to the girl, then slowly returned to your face. He softened. Almost gently. he pressed a kiss to your cheek, before brushing a hand through your hair as if you were something fragile, something easily frightened, they needed to protect.

“Shh,” he murmured. “It’s okay, baby.”

“Valarr is going to take care of her, while I take care of you.” he barely looked at the poor girl on the floor, his attention only staying on you. only you, always you.

As if on cue, Valarr rose from the bed.

Your eyes tracked him immediately.

The knife was already in his hand.

The same one he had left nearby.

He wasn’t hesitating, as he walked steadily towards her.

The girl’s sobs spiked, more frantic now, muffled cries breaking against the tape.

Aerion stayed close behind you, lips against your skin, trying to pull your attention away from what was happening in the room.

As if he could anchor you to him.

you were supposed to scream, fear them, trying to escape,

But your mind was struggling to process it fast enough. You enjoyed being there.

Then you saw her face properly. Even through the blood. Even through the bruising.

Irina Lannister.

“Why don’t you show me how you can use that pretty tongue of yours, hm doll?” Aerion stood up from the bed, reaching to take off his belt. The movement alone was enough to pull your attention away from Irina. For a moment, everything else faded.

The room. The blood. Valarr, and The girl on the floor. Even the unease that had started to creep into your chest.

All of it blurred at the edges of your mind as you remained on your knees on the bed, watching him. Waiting like the good girl you were with your lips parting slightly as you licked them without thinking, impatience tightening in your chest. your attention was already far too gone as you were now too distracted by cock to acknowledge the macrabre scene on your right.

part 2..

Thank you for reading ! Aerion’s part is coming hehe.. we are also getting into the dark stuff even more into the next part!!

Taglist : @pancitoconjam @aerionsbelovedwife @vanillakissesworld @jordaniyaa @zaptapbam @sheshsti1299 @kiraflowersworld @magnificendragon @high-speed-r @aliceinwonderlandwnb @sagiohirako @smilefortae @rakiroad @hopelesslydevotedtoyu @somethingdummb @livewaspsblog @mayyvxc @hekxte25 @heavengirls111 @brightflameprince @targaryenstar

[chickenscratcherart]

Just finished this 2 panel comic stuck in my backlog for months. Fuck 🧊

[forozren]

ALWAYS TASTE LIKE YOU﹒✶﹒RYLAND GRACE

ryland grace knew his brother was friends with all sorts of troublemakers and constantly surrounded himself with bad influences. but maybe not all of them were that bad after all—not when he was friends with you.

pairing: ryland grace x f!reader

status: ongoing

tags/warnings: strangers to friends to lovers. university au. coltland twins + older brother gentry au. blended smau. inconsistent posting schedule. hurt/comfort. rocky is a bernese mountain dog. kys/kms jokes. suicidal but as joke but not as a joke. mentions of partying/clubbing. alcohol use. smoking. suggestive at a certain level. lots of cursing. everyone here is ooc lowkey. no beta we die like the sun. warnings may change as the story progresses. mdni.

taglist: open, reply to be added

INTRODUCTIONS: colt has skid marks | group 5 gen chemistry ii

PROLOGUE: fuck you and fuck your apologies

CHAPTER ONE: wtf is a ryland

CHAPTER TWO: pathetic, good for nothing, wet cat loser

CHAPTER THREE: etsy witches, get him!

CHAPTER FOUR: easy, white chocolate

CHAPTER FIVE: you're such a fat fucking chud

CHAPTER SIX: wait im bored, delete my number rn

CHAPTER SEVEN: my sleep paralysis demon's twin

CHAPTER EIGHT: maybe that means he's into little girls

CHAPTER NINE: a hello kitty pajamas girl or a goth femboy?

CHAPTER TEN: the living conditions of a poor victorian man

to be continued...

© forozren | do not copy, repost, or feed to ai.

[iicarusflew]

futile devices ll PART ONE

When you think about it, you can never quite describe it: How you met. Why you met. Why, sometimes, it felt like the only logical conclusion to every thread of your carefully woven future. You met somewhere not quite real—on the outskirts of reality. Just on the edge of it, the future seemed so probable sometimes.

But you know better than to build future with Valarr Targaryen. You have to.

tags: modern valarr x you; established secret relationship (kinda); forbidden love; a little bit of lying; little bit of self-sabotage; smut; Valarr is a sweetheart; reader is desperately in need of assurance

[part ONE] [part TWO]

The restaurant is sophisticated enough, you decide, for the time being. Cream draperies lazily drawn against the overarching windows are giving the illusion of the space being bigger than it is actually. There are a cozy few tables around you, all clustered apart in intimate, small sections. There’s no invading scent of someone else’s food, not like the places you have been more used to inhabiting. It’s sophisticated, you decide. Cut out for this exact purpose. You’re bored out of your fucking life at this. Still, like a comically bad actress at an awful play, you act out your part.

You sit seemingly comfortably with your back carefully arched. You’ve made sure to sit at the side of the table where the sunlight would make an arch on your figure and the slope of your neck and shoulders and breasts would be purposefully graceful. You’re careful about this.

The man sitting in front of you—draped in expensive perfume and immaculately cut robes—is also careful. His clear green eyes are fixed on you and he’s smiling, almost. Not quite. You have never seen Tywald Lannister smile before. You doubt you’ll see it today.

“And there's the matter of…” He dwindles on the next word, you can tell that he’s doing it for the theatrics rather than hesitance. He doesn’t strike you as a man of hesitance. 

“Matter of what?”

He smiles politely. “Optics.”

“Optics?” you echo the word. Not altogether embarrassed, but not very comfortable either. “Because of my father's incarceration?”

“Because of your recent, very public affair with Valarr Targaryen.”

Your heart thumps obnoxiously loud against your ribcage. So loud, you’re sure Tywald has heard it. 

You knew it was coming, of course you did. And you have prepared yourself, stilted and thawed on the tall mirror of your bedroom. You aren’t supposed to make any unwarranted comment or expressions with the mention of this very obvious assault. In the mirror, your expression was aloof, even slightly amiable. But now you try your best to mask the surprise and smile carelessly.

“Not public.” Has he heard that your voice cracked? 

“Quite a few pieces in the social pages.”

Yes, articles. Speculations, insinuations. Pictures of you and Valarr eating ice-cream with him holding your hand in the middle of London. It’s a good picture at least, Valarr had said before throwing the newspaper in the fireplace. You nodded at the fire, watching the flames lick up the words too slow. The title, a question: The Heir's Heir… seriously? More on page five.

You hadn't gone to page five. Not right away.

“It wasn’t public,” you try again. “Not intentionally, anyway.”

“Well, it was quite serious, wouldn’t you say? He introduced you to his family.”

“It was six months ago. And it was a chance meeting at a charity event, not anything important.” Even as you lie, you can feel the hot shame grueling in your stomach. It was a company party, his coronation party. And you had been lurking in their periphery, unsure about everything and all of yourself, trying to look calmer than you felt, trying to let them see subtly that you weren’t just another social climber, like the gossip columns said. It was Valarr who—like all the other times—finally saved you. Come meet my family, he whispered in your ear before guiding you. The air changed when he introduced you, his mother’s blue eyes went still, painfully cautious.

You would still have convinced yourself that it was alright, that this is how all meetings go, if not for—

“Still. That’s a history.”

“Is this an issue? Should I leave? Because I can’t change my past with Valarr no matter how you may spin it.”

This changes something in him. His eyes darken. For the first time in the day, he looks intrigued.

“I heard he proposed.”

The people have suddenly stopped talking. Or is it your imagination? Hasn’t the world gone still, disastrously still, around you? This is the focus of all the gravity, your heart, beating frantically. This is the eye of the storm.

“He didn’t.”

“Oh,” he mumbles. “That’s a shame.”

You stare at your plate. The smell of the shrimp is making your stomach lurch. You gulp down your disgust.

“You want to order something else? You’ve hardly eaten anything.”

“No, I don’t—no.” You can’t think of opening your mouth in front of him—his greedy, entitled fucking eyes.

“You haven’t even had champagne.”

“I don’t want champagne.” Because this isn’t a celebration. This is survival, at best. This is a terrifying compromise.

“Do you want to see my apartment?”

You stare incredulously. “Don’t you think it’s a bit forward? It’s our first date.”

“It’s enough. I waited for this for a long, long time.”

You smile politely, as if it doesn’t bother you. You twirl the flower-shaped charm of your bracelet. “Why? Because I was with Valarr first?”

He smiles. “Why not? I like beautiful things. And any sane man would like to inspire jealousy to a man as precise and powerful as Valarr Targaryen. I am only honest about my intentions. I will show you a good time.” 

Somehow you can’t disagree with him. His arrogance, his disdain, his pride in his own cruelty. Ages ago, Valarr had warned you about men like him—men from his world. He said that Lannisters were hunters by nature and they hadn’t quite let go of their basest instincts. You smile instead of answering, letting the stale rejection hang in the air.

But it doesn’t bother him. It doesn’t make him stutter. He pretends that he hasn’t heard it at all.

“So how about we go back to my place? I have a great wine collection, we can talk some more. And if you’re willing to, we can…say”— he lowers his voice in a coarse, leering way—“rip this pretty dress off of you.”

And you don’t mean to say it, you don't. But the thought of it, him in his mansion, him with his entitled, leering eyes is enough to make you vomit. And the disgust for yourself, that you have allowed yourself to be in this position, is even greater. It makes your skin crawl.

Somehow, you lean in and say, with the steely calmness of a blade, “You know something? I’d rather slit my wrists than do that.”

An hour later, you arrive at Summerhall and you smell him in the living room before you see him. The charred up fireplace, sweet, cloying smell of old newspapers, cherry, musk and cigarettes. Mint. His perfume. You take a turn to the end of the hallway and you find Valarr Targaryen looking back from the sofa, staring at you in soft surprise. He’s bending over the sprawled out files on his living room floor. That’s how he likes to work, you know. That’s how he likes to solve things—dismantling everything and stitching up pieces in the proper place. You used to wonder aloud if he liked doing the same thing to you too.

“You’re already perfect,” he answered simply when you asked. “I just want to see every part of you.”

He stands up now. And perhaps too surprised at seeing you, he doesn’t say anything. And you don't let him ask the question. You walk over in a daze and kisses him hard.

He picks you up on cue. You feel gravity condense, for a moment, before you fall on the sofa. Your combined weight makes a blunt noise as you lean in and deepen the kiss, feeling his smile stretch broader and broader, until he’s chuckling. You whine, breathing into him, clinging to him, pressing open mouthed kisses by the side of his mouth, his jaw, and down down, feeling his pulsepoint under your lips. Valarr catches onto your desperation, of course he does, and leans down on the sofa, moves your legs so that you’re straddling him—having access to more of him. You spread your hands over his shoulder, greedily marking the dip of his elbows, his collarbones, the veins of his neck. His body is stunningly familiar—you can recognise it in darkness, sleeping, in drunkenness and sobriety. The heat of it, palpable and so inviting, twists something inside you, like so many times before. You break away from the daze and pulls at his t-shirt and Valarr complies, he pulls it over his head and discards it on the floor.

A sharp and demanding meow startles the both of them before you could lean back in. Valarr laughs—properly laughs, dimples drawn, the row of his brilliant teeth on full display—and looks over your shoulder. You are still dizzy in the head to spare a glance at your cat. But the cat jumps over the couch and nudges at you persistently, eyes scrunched in need. You drop your head on Valarr’s naked shoulder. He has his arms around to steady you.

“Not now,” you say, gravelly, to the white ragamuffin. “I love you, but beat it, Vhagar.”

"He missed you,” Valarr says, his voice deep and homely. He draws your face to him to look at you earnestly. His eyes, the mess of ocean blue and onyx, are shiny, incredible. “I missed you, too.”

“I stayed here two days ago.”

“Mhmm. Two days.” He kisses your jaw. The silver streak of his hair grazes your cheek. “Exactly.” He kisses the side of your ear, the tip of your nose—each one more lingering than the other. When he finally tugs at your bottom lip with his thumb, your breaths are settling—more or less. He smells like how he always does—mint and cigarettes. Home. And the constancy of it—of him—through all the fascinating and excruciating inconsistencies of you rattles your. 

“That’s a pretty dress.” His fingers trace the lavender silk on your shoulder. “You all dressed up for me?”

He says it nonchalantly enough, but you flush anyway. Something sharp and painful scratches at your chest. The thought of that damned restaurant makes your throat heavy like lead. The guilt makes you clutch him tighter.

“Yes,” you whisper. “For you. You can tear it off of me if you like.”

“Mhmm, no,” he hums, eyes on you. “I’d hate to ruin something so pretty.”

Your heart stutters. Beside you, Vhagar makes a piercing demand again, but you are too busy kissing Valarr again. Marking every stretch of naked skin with your lips—somehow the blinding guilt is making you lose your gravity. Your chest burns and you pull him closer, closer till tyoure’s no air between you, no space for secrets or lies. You grind on his length and the friction of his trousers on your panties is enough to make you gasp.

Valarr lets you do as you please, returns your kisses, sneaks his one hand down to press against your wet panties and you shiver to his touch. He doesn’t ask anything. You knew he wouldn’t—because you’re familiar to him too. Familiar like secrets and shadows, like moonlight. You are someone who comes and goes out of his life in the unholiest of hours. And he stays, always, he lets you breeze past and take what you need. 

“You’re stressed,” he mumbles. “Let me make you feel good.”

You nod and he pushes his fingers into your cunt. You moan shamelessly, arms circling his shoulder, palm digging into his hair. You grind on his hand as he pumps in and out of your, sending shots of electricity all over your. He moves up his other hand to squeeze your breast over your dress. Your ear is ringing, and through the rush of blood, you can just make out his gravelly encouragements. 

“Yes, good girl. My girl. Come.”

He presses his thumb on your clit and you do—you come almost silently. Your breath hitching and trembling, collapsing your weight over him. Bluntly, you feel a bead of sweat roll over from your hairline. Valarr is staring at you with familiar wide eyes, pupils dilated so much it almost covers his entire eyes. A little breathless, too, like you. You shiver when he pulls out his fingers from your cunt and puts the whole glistening digits inside his mouth. You stare lazily as he licks it all up. 

It takes you a while to get down from your high and ask him to take you up to his bedroom. And when you do, the smile that makes your heart squeeze desperately tight lights up his face. The thought comes to your mind again, for the thousandth time, unbidden, irrevocable. You love him—everything about him. His desire and his smile and his hands. His eyes, the separate colours. That deep, dark onyx and irreplaceable blue in him. His heart. His heart.

How can you ever let go of him?

Hmmm any guesses as to why the reader is acting so desperately?? :)))

more of my stories

akotsk masterlist 

[beskarrd]

EXTRA CREDIT

Pairing: Professor!Ryland Grace x Student!Reader

Summary: Ryland Grace is your both your professor and your doctoral academic advisor. You are his student. Which meant that being anything more than that was soooo unbelievably off limits. …Right?

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: 18+! SMUT! MDNI! P in V sex; inappropriate use of a microscope; also inappropriate use of biology terms (i definitely got something wrong); shameless use of the professor x student trope through reader is a grad student and very much of consenting age; the glasses stay ON during sex!!

GIF from owenhcrper

“Come on, guys. The final exam is next week and I really don’t want to have to fail anyone this time around…again. So let’s show a little more initiative! Yay, cellular anatomy!” 

He lightly pumped his fists in the air in an almost convincing cheer. You think it was meant to be encouraging but, looking around at your classmates, they didn’t seem to get the hint. They returned your dorky professor’s enthusiasm with glazed over expressions and the occasional monotonous click of laptop keys signifying they were likely working on another task all together instead of paying attention. 

You couldn’t exactly blame them. Dr. Ryland Grace’s courses were among the hardest in the university’s advanced molecular biology track. Rumor has it that his exams have made students literally drop out of the program before. It wasn’t exactly his fault, the subject was enough to melt anyone’s brain on its own, but Dr. Grace made up for it by being an amazing professor. 

He was always incredibly engaged, exceptionally witty, and, overall, just seemed to genuinely care for the material. You couldn’t deny that you definitely felt the insurmountable pressure of the high expectations he placed on his students, but something about his passion just…spoke to you. It was like he breathed life back into the subject that you chose to make your career all those years ago. 

Admittedly, you had been a fan of Dr. Grace’s work since you were in undergrad, opting to enroll in this university’s program for even the mere, microscopic chance, that you could study under him. As luck would have it, he was accepting new doctorate students the year you were admitted.

Pursuing a PhD in molecular biology was daunting enough, but you learned fast under Dr. Grace’s caring hand. He made it seem like you were the only student he had ever taught, with the way his eyes lit up at your ideas, doing everything his lab’s budget could afford to make them a reality. 

Over the past three years of your thesis study, you were shyly keen to admit you and Dr. Grace had grown fairly close to one another. After all, he strangely decided to stop taking students after he signed on to mentor your study, which meant that you always had his undivided attention  He was by far the best teacher you had ever had, which is why it made you feel all the more guilty that you also…had not been paying attention to his question.

“Okay.” Dr. Grace let his shoulders slump in a sigh. He looked as exasperated as his students. He ran his fingers through his messy blond strands and readjusted his glasses. “Tell you what. If someone can answer this last question correctly, I’ll let you all out early. I know it’s almost finals and my exam isn’t the only one you all have to worry about, so you guys just do me this one last favor and we can call it a day”.

Your ears, along with the rest of your classmates, perked up instantly. You heard the faint sounds of students adjusting themselves in their seats as they leaned in, eager to earn this rare reprieve from classes. Dr. Grace smirked and clapped his hands together. “Alright, signs of life! So, tell me, what are the three major types of lipids that make up cellular membranes?” 

This time, when you looked around, your classmates were deep in thought. Some of them looked like the act of searching for the information needed to answer the question physically pained them to work through. Not you though. This was something that you had already gone over with Dr. Grace for your research proposal write up. He had coached you through cellular membrane structure semesters ago. You raised your hand, albeit, hesitantly.

Dr. Grace had bitten his lip in anticipation looking around at his students in expectation. When his eyes met yours, his gaze softened. He nodded, waiting for your answer patiently. 

“Uh, I believe they are phospholipids, glycolipids, and sterols?” You knew it was the correct answer but you still held your breath, and Dr. Grace’s stare for that matter, waiting on his confirmation. Something about the intense blue of his eyes just seemed to make coherent thoughts impossible, even when it came to material that you knew inside and out. 

Dr. Grace nodded emphatically and threw up his hands. “We have a winner! Excellent work! That’s exactly right,” he exclaimed. You heard a few small cheers from your classmates in the back, who had already started packing their bags. Dr Grace retreated behind the lecturer’s stand and started to pack up his things as well. “Okay you all, a promise is a promise, you’re free to go.” The few students who had yet to pack up started doing so feverishly, as if they were afraid Dr. Grace would take back his seemingly merciful act of kindness.

Dr. Grace shouted to the back of the room as students shuffled out the door. “I will see you all bright and early next week for the final. Remember that you will need to know ALL of the protein pathways of the cell membrane to be able to answer the extra credit question! Don’t try to name only one and expect me to give you full points…” He smiled and cast his gaze down to his laptop, turning off its connection to the projector that had his meticulously detailed cell diagram thrown up on the lecture hall’s ginormous screen. 

You finished shoving your books into your bag and signaled to your classmates that you would catch up to them later. You had to ask your advisor a question about finalizing a date for your dissertation. It was a little over two weeks away and not knowing all the details was driving you insane. Or maybe it was just the thought of having to present all of your research findings to the very man that basically invented the topic you were researching. 

You had chosen to take an experimental approach to Dr. Grace’s hypothesis that life didn’t require water to survive. You had found some pretty compelling evidence in his favor among local bacterial life, but the thought of explaining his own research findings to the man himself had your stomach in knots. Or maybe it was just that Dr. Grace seemed to have your stomach in knots all on his own the last couple of months. 

You hated to admit it, but you had developed something of a schoolgirl level crush on your professor. Sure it was somewhat embarrassing, but could anybody blame you? He was unbelievably charming, so ridiculously intelligent it was almost intimidating, funny, passionate, sincere, and…yeah. 

He was pretty fucking hot too.

Everytime you walked into his lab, with him in one of those stupid science pun t-shirts that seemed to always be unfairly tight on him, leaving none of his muscular build to the imagination, you felt like your knees were going to give out from under you. Plus, he always seemed to stand right on top of you as he examined your findings through the microscope with you, which was not helpful at all. His forearms would often brush your side as he adjusted the lens settings, sending almost painful shockwaves through your body. Although, it was probably the glasses that sent you over the edge. He always seemed to look straight through your collected exterior you worked so hard to put forth when he peered at you over the rims that delicately balanced on the sharp bridge of his nose.

Who are you kidding? It was definitely the glasses that sealed your fate.

But that was inappropriate! Dr. Grace is your professor, your advisor for fuck’s sake. Nothing more!

 ……Right?

Yes, oh my god! Jesus, yes, of course he was just your professor. What were you even thinking? 

You snapped out of your thoughts and realized that you were soon to be the last student standing awkwardly in the lecture hall. With a grunt, you gathered up your bag full of textbooks and lab equipment and shakily headed up to Dr. Grace, who was still inspecting his laptop up at the lecture podium. 

He looked up from whatever he was poring over at the sound of your footsteps. He grinned at you and crossed his arms, leaning his hip onto the podium.

“Hey! There’s my favorite future doctor of microbiology. Got a nice ring to it, huh? Excellent job on that question, by the way.” He stared at you expectantly, though you know this was just another clever ruse to relieve the stress he knows he’s been putting you under. You laughed softly and cast your gaze to the floor at his praise, heat moving impossibly fast up your neck and onto your cheeks.

“You ready for the big day?” Dr. Grace asked, inquisitively, referring to your thesis presentation. His question quickly put out the flame that was building in your core and reminded you of the anxiety-inducing task you had ahead of you.

You met his eyes again. “Yeah! Totally…” you cringed, not even believing your own words. “Well, almost. I was just hoping we could talk about the dissertation date? I know you’re super busy and you’re going to have a lot of exams to grade and probably a lot of undergraduate papers too…and that I’ve technically already finished my research, really just need to finish writing the presentation slides, but I just really was..” the words seemed to spill out of you faster and faster by the second. Somewhere, in the back of your brain you willed yourself to stop babbling like an idiot but that thought never seemed to bring itself out of your subconscious and make itself useful. Dr. Grace looked at you back and forth hurriedly, trying his best to follow your words, before putting his hands on your shoulders and chuckling. 

“Woah, woah, easy tiger. Slow down.” His grip on your shoulders tightened, causing you to freeze at the sudden contact. God, his hands were firm. You eased up a bit under his touch. 

“Don’t get yourself so worked up. You are going to do fantastic. I know you are. That committee won’t even know what hit them,” Dr. Grace said. As he spoke, his thumbs worked their way up and down on your shoulders, almost as if they were trying to etch his words onto your skin so you would believe them. It did the trick though, you exhaled a bit before Dr. Grace continued.

“I know we have a couple of things to wrap up. Tell you what, I have to run to a faculty meeting in a bit but later tonight, how about you meet me in the lab and we can go over your data one last time, okay? Would that make you feel better?” Dr. Grace had sunk down on his knees a bit to be at eye level with you. His words warmly rushed over you, soothing your worried mind. With your thoughts a bit clearer, you hadn’t even noticed how close the two of you were. He was basically holding your body in place with his hands and his face was so close to yours that you could feel his breath as it fanned over your cheeks. He seemed to notice your close proximity as well as he dropped his hands from your shoulders suddenly and cleared his throat. 

You almost sighed at the loss of contact but caught yourself at the last second. Instead you said, “That would be amazing Dr. Grace, thank you.” He lightened a bit at your agreement. “Great! I’ll probably be in there at around 8:00? Feel free to drop by then.” You nodded and waved him off as he exited the hall. 

You were definitely in for a long night. 

--

You found yourself pacing outside of Dr. Grace’s lab at 8 o’clock on the dot, mentally coaching yourself to go in. Why were you so nervous, even? Dr. Grace was your advisor, you had been working with him for months, this is just an ordinary lab meeting like you’ve done with him countless times before. Before you could lose your courage, you swung open the door and immediately stopped in your tracks. 

Dr. Grace was positioned at the centermost lab table, carefully holding up a glass beaker to the glow of the moonlight that was being cast in through the lab’s window blinds. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he transferred a clear liquid into the beaker with a pipette dropper. He was in another one of his classic science t-shirts, his arm positioned almost at a perfect 90 degree angle holding up the beaker, which exposed every curve and vein of his bicep for your hungry eyes to devour. Bright, blue, latex  gloves were pulled tight over hands that were a stark contrast to his firm arms, instead, skillfully holding the beaker in place to not spill any liquid. His glasses were knocked slightly askew on his face as he wore protective goggles over his eyes, but to you, that just made him all the more endearing. 

Your eyes roved over his form, rigid and unwavering with the confidence of a man precisely in his element. Even though there was nobody else in the room except for you two, his presence seemed to demand attention. His fellow faculty members may have never paid much attention to his work outside of mindlessly recommending his lectures to their students, but, god, would you never get tired of marveling at this genius of a man. Both because he was a leading mind in your field and also because he was insanely attractive while he worked. 

Dr. Grace looked up from whatever he was studying as he heard the door close softly behind you. He greeted you with a smile. “There you are, right on time as always. I would’ve expected nothing less. I’m just about wrapped up with this. Why don’t you grab your slides from the back and get set up while I put this away and then we can get started. Okay, sweetheart?” 

Your heart felt like it dropped into your shoes. Dr. Grace had turned his back to you as he busied himself with something near the sink which gave you some time to process what you had just heard. 

Sweetheart? That was definitely a first. I mean sure, you’ve had teachers call you that before, usually just in an endearing, almost parental way when you were younger. But something about the way he said it left you reeling. It felt…charged. Almost like he was dangling the term of endearment over both of your heads, knowing that there was nothing either of you could do to act on it. You replayed his voice saying it over and over again in your head to convince yourself you didn’t imagine it, when Dr. Grace spoke again. 

“You alright over there?” He had now taken the goggles off and was wiping his regular glasses on the bottom of his t-shirt. He placed them back on carefully and put his hands on his hips, his t-shirt tightly coating his broad chest like a second skin. He raised his eyebrows at you pointedly, waiting on your answer. It was then that you finally noticed you hadn’t moved an inch. 

You choked out a laugh. “Yeah! Yeah, of course.” His eyebrows drew together in questioning. You smiled weakly and hurried to grab your slides.

--

The next two hours were full of calculations and write-ups that made your brain feel like it was leaking out of your ears. You and Dr. Grace worked silently and diligently, double and triple checking your work to make sure you were prepared for your dissertation. It was honestly impressive, the way the two of you moved in tandem, re-examining slides under the microscope and writing up the conclusions on the large whiteboard at the center of the room. You two seemed to glide in and out of your respective areas with ease, Dr. Grace stopping every so often to check in and make sure that you didn’t need help with anything. Busying yourself with your work did seem to help quiet the distracting thoughts you kept having about your professor. Instead of Dr. Grace making you dizzy, it was the goddamn microscope whose viewfinder just didn’t seem to want to work with you that had your vision spinning.

You groaned in frustration and threw your arms up onto the lab counter, dramatically flopping your head onto them with a huff. Dr. Grace spun around from his designated place at the whiteboard. Your eyes were so weak with exhaustion you could barely keep them open anymore but you were able to make out that he somehow had three different dry erase markers in his possession, one tucked into the top of his ear, one in his hand that he was currently writing with, and one clenched between his teeth. He looked downright sinful as he plucked the marker from his mouth, a few drops of saliva following his fingers from where the marker met his lips. Between the microscope, your report writing, and Dr. Grace’s incessant need to unknowingly drive you crazy with want, you were certain you wouldn’t even make it to your presentation day in one piece. 

“Aw, what’s wrong?” He chuckled softly. “Lens settings giving you trouble again?” 

“I don’t even know why they make the knobs this sensitive. It’s like the big science companies actually want to cause me anguish and despair every waking moment of my academic career,” you whined sarcastically. Dr. Grace walked over to you, tilting his head with a small smile at your frustrated state. “Do you want me to show you a trick I learned in grad school? It saved my life a couple of times when I was back in your shoes.”

You bobbed your head up and down excitedly. Anything to make your life easier right now was welcomed with open arms. Speaking of arms, your excitement almost died in your throat as you felt Dr. Grace’s hand on the small of your back, guiding you up and back to the microscope ever so gently. He positioned you in front of the microscope with his body directly behind you. There seemed to be only an inch of space between the two of you. One wrong move and your back would be flush with his chest as he caged you in.

You felt like all of the air just got punched out of your lungs.This was too much. It was one thing for you to admire Dr. Grace from afar, knowing that there wasn’t a chance in hell of anything happening between the two of you. It was another when he had you literally locked in place, his rock solid figure giving you no chance of escape.

This was real. This was painstakingly, agonizingly, undeniably real.

It felt like your world was crashing down, your thoughts empty except for your goddamn professor's frustratingly lean body behind you that almost had you wiping your salivating mouth with your shirt sleeve. I mean seriously. A microbiology professor has no business being that toned. Your breath hitched in your throat and you cast your view down to the microscope, trying desperately to focus on the task at hand. 

Except, Dr. Grace wasn’t letting you off that easily.

Dr. Grace delicately grabbed your right wrist and placed your hand on the fine adjustment knob. Except he didn’t stop there. His hand remained on yours, his fingers were ghosting your own, guiding them into exactly the right position. You felt a slight pressure in the pads of your fingers as he pressed down, swiveling the knob ever so slightly. He nudged your shoulder with his own, prompting you to take a look into the microscope. 

You moved your face down into the viewfinder, placing the bridge of your nose underneath the ocular lens. Dr. Grace followed suit, leaning his head down closer to you so that it was just next to yours. This caused the very top of his chest to connect with your shoulderblades and you tensed. This could not be happening right now. 

His words, a deep whisper that was very unlike his typical teacher voice, almost startled you as they were uttered so close to your ear. 

“You see, the key is to take two fingers,” Dr. Grace said intensely, “and slowly–”

He lifted your pointer and middle finger along with his own, placing your middle finger on the coarse adjustment knob in addition, and slid his fingers over yours so the knob rolled heavily under the both of you.

“--work both the knobs at the same time,” Dr. Grace finished. He leaned his head back and watched you carefully, making sure you understood his instructions. 

You could feel his gaze, hard and unrelenting, so you refused to look up from your slide and meet his eyes. You were almost panting with need now. The lab was usually sterile and cold, but from where you were standing it felt like you were in an inferno. You had never been this physically close to Dr. Grace before and it was setting your insides on fire. Part of you wanted to snap out of his grasp and run into the hall before you did anything you’d seriously regret. The other half of you was dying to find out what would happen if you didn’t. Pushed the boundaries a little bit. Fought fire with fire. 

You couldn’t. 

Could you?

You scolded your mind for wandering so far away from the task at hand and returned your thoughts to the microscope.Oh, would you look at that, Dr. Grace got the image of your slide looking pristine through the viewfinder on his very first try. 

You internally scowled. It also wasn’t helpful that his academic prowess was a major turn on. 

You clenched your legs together to relieve some of the pressure that had settled there, all the while, Dr. Grace still kept you in between his arms. His hands were now flat against the table, no longer guiding you. By all intents and purposes, he had absolutely no reason to still be standing so close to you but there he was, trapping you against him.

“See it now?” Dr. Grace questioned. He was referring to the absolutely gorgeous cell that was now blown up in scale through the viewfinder thanks to his help. You had to admit, you never got tired of that feeling. The feeling of staring at actual life, smaller than the tip of your pinky finger, teeming with blues and pinks and purples of the various organelles inside of it. 

“I do. It’s beautiful, Dr. Grace,” you admitted. You turned your head around on your shoulder and met his eyes. He really was close to you. Truly, you could step a quarter of a foot forward and your foreheads would be pressed together in a forbidden meeting. Something to never be seen by another’s eyes. Yet, standing here, almost fully enveloped by Dr. Grace, it didn’t feel as wrong as you thought it would. 

His gaze dropped down to your lips briefly. It was quick, but you noticed. He met your eyes again and you could have sworn you saw his pupils dilate in real time. The moonlight coming in through the windows earlier was now mixed with the soft glow of the campus lamplights that lined the walkways below the lab floor. The yellow lights mixed with Dr. Grace’s blue eyes, swirled a supernova of color around in his irises. 

And him? He looked transfixed on you, as if you had hung the stars in the sky. 

Could you do this? No. You were sleep-deprived and not thinking straight. Except your body had other ideas.You leaned in slowly, your eyes trained on Dr. Grace’s soft lips. Your hands had a mind of their own, coming up to almost cup his cheeks, like they knew you wanted this, knew you wanted to cross this boundary from which there was no coming back from. 

They were never able to reach their destination.

Dr. Grace jerked back from you suddenly and retreated into the corner of the lab, pacing, his hands thrown up in defeat, folded together to support the back of his neck as he let out a wavering breath. 

“Oh my god I-,” He started to spiral. “I wasn’t, I didn’t-”

He caught your eyes and immediately looked away, as if the simple act of looking at you was a punishable offense. You retreated into yourself, horrified that you would even think to act on your feelings. It was a dumb move, so ridiculously stupid, that you were afraid you just cost yourself your advisor, hell, your entire academic career. 

But Dr. Grace wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was running his hands through his hair feverishly. “I’m so sorry, god, I don’t know what I was doing I-”

He whispered to himself in a tone barely audible enough for you to hear. “She’s your student, Ryland, what are you thinking?”

You realized this wasn’t about you. This was about him. He was trying to keep himself in check. Not do something he would regret. The thought that he might be having the same ideas you were having, filled you with a confidence you had no business having. 

You slowly walked over to him and he flinched when he realized how close you had gotten. 

“Dr. Grace?” you whispered. 

Dr. Grace stilled as if your voice snapped some invisible thread that was holding him together. 

“Your hands are shaking–here let me help you,” you picked up his hands with your own, interlocking your fingers, half expecting him to recoil from your touch, but he didn’t. “I, I don’t know what to say,” Dr. Grace strained. “I’m so sorry, you’re my best student, I have no idea what came over me.” He sounded wrecked. Like you had stolen all of the air from his lungs. It was in that moment that you made a decision. One that was going to seal your fate either for better or for the worst. You took a deep inhale. 

In one deadly move, you surged forward and captured his lips into your own. You felt Dr. Grace tense up immediately but melt into your touch as you tangled your hands into his blond strands. His hands fell onto your hips like they were always made to be there. It was a searing kiss, with both of you putting your entire body weight into the other, as if this was the last chance that you were going to get to make this mistake. He pulled you closer to him, pressing his hands into you so hard you were sure he was going to leave a mark. 

You broke apart, breathless. Dr. Grace squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his forehead onto yours. He shook his head. “I am your professor,” Dr. Grace choked out. “I’m responsible for you, I could lose my job, my title, my reputation,” It sounded like he was trying to make a list of all of the reasons this was a bad idea but you didn’t care. The only person he was trying to convince at this point was himself. He cupped your face in his hands and scanned your expression.

“I need you to tell me to stop.” 

Silence.

“God, I am in so much trouble.” 

He drew you into another kiss and you happily reciprocated. It felt like fireworks were being lit off in your chest. Whatever you had imagined, this was a million times better. He was somehow both gentle and rough at the same time, trying to devour you like you were his last meal. He ducked his head down into your neck and took your skin between his teeth, nipping at the soft flesh.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me” he breathed out. He was working his way up your neck, kissing the exposed flesh as he went. 

“Every time,” Kiss. “You talk,” Kiss. “All I can think about,” Kiss. “Is your mouth on mine.”

He walked you backwards, his mouth never leaving yours. Eventually your back hit the lab counter. It stung a bit but you didn’t care. All you could focus on was getting that t-shirt off of his frame and onto the floor. You were dying to see what was under those stupid science pun prints. 

You moaned into his mouth and tugged at the bottom of his shirt, signalling to him what you wanted. He leaned back a bit, arms still encircling your waist, and smirked. “Yeah? You want this off?” he questioned knowingly. You nodded. 

“Come on, use your words. You want my shirt off?” he asked. 

Oh, he was going to kill you. “Yes, Dr. Grace,” you answered, obediently. Dr. Grace’s eyes almost rolled into the back of his head. He groaned. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” you asked. “That thing with your voice,” Dr. Grace said. “Calling me doctor all sweet like you do, you know you can call me Ryland.” You tugged on the hem of his shirt once more. “Okay, Ryland. Shirt. Off. Now,” you demanded. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he snickered. He made quick work of grabbing the bottom of his shirt and ripping it over his head. He made to pull you back into another kiss but you stopped him just short of contact. You pushed him back slightly, leaning back and drinking him in. You couldn’t even believe what you were seeing. Ryland was fucking ripped. 

The evening light highlighted his abs just right, where you could take in every curve and detail, as his muscles seemed to strain against absolutely nothing. You ran your hands down his stomach and he shivered. His stomach intricately curved down into a sharp V that was so defined, you had to do a double take to convince yourself it was real. “Who knew microbiology was such a grueling subject?” you joked. 

Dr. Grace laughed. “Hey, I personally think that understanding cellular adaptation and atrophy is more difficult than any workout.” You shook your head and smiled. Even when he was hot and heavy, he still took every opportunity to make a science joke. You wouldn’t have it any other way. 

This time it was you who pulled him back into a kiss. He stole your move and tugged on the bottom of your blouse. You untangled your hands from his hair and began to undo the top buttons. Ryland followed your hands with his mouth as you worked your way down the shirt. With each inch of skin that was exposed to him, Ryland placed an open-mouth kiss there, leaving wet patches along your chest. As you reached the last button, Ryland’s mouth stayed on your navel but his arms snaked up to help you abandon the offending fabric..

He looked up at you from where he was perched on his knees, his chin on your stomach, those sweet blue eyes still in awe of you. That this was happening. That you weren’t something out of his wildest dreams. His right index finger toyed with the button on your pants. “Can I take these off, sweetheart?” Your eyes widened. Ryland grinned. “I’m going to take that as a yes with your eyes, now I just need your mouth to tell me the same.” 

“Yes”, you rasped. He wasted no time pulling both your pants and your underwear down in one fell swoop, nearly knocking you off balance, but, of course, Ryland was there to catch you as you fell. He steadied you by digging both his palms into the back of your thighs, palming your flesh. He stood up, hands not leaving you for a second, meeting your lips again. 

“Jump,” he stated simply. Without a second thought you hoisted yourself up by digging your hands into his shoulders and felt his strong hands grab the underside of your thighs, lifting you onto the lab table. The coldness of the counter was a stark contrast to the heat that was coursing through your body; it almost made you wince. You made to return Ryland’s favor and undo his jeans, but he caught your hands in his.

“Not yet, I want to make you feel good first,” he said, lips now working their way up the side of your face and under your earlobe.. “Is that alright?” he asked. You shuddered as the breath of his words met your skin. His hands had left their spots on your thighs and fluttered over your torso, tracing the outline of your ribs on your skin. 

“O-okay,” you stuttered. It felt like your entire body was numb, but also so sensitive to every touch that Ryland gave you, all at once. Ryland leaned back and took your naked form in again. “Thatta girl,” the words seemed to drip off his tongue. He tapped your knees in encouragement and dropped to his knees again, parting your legs gently. He met your eyes quickly, a silent ask for permission which you readily granted.

With that, he kissed the insides of your thighs, working his way inwards from the inside of your knees. As he got closer to the spot where you needed him most, you felt the sharp edges of his glasses rims knock into your inner thighs. Ryland leaned back on his calves. “Sorry, sweetheart. Let me get these out of our way,” he plucked his glasses off of his face and made to place them on the counter before you interjected. 

“No!” you startled yourself by how quickly you responded. Ryland looked up at you, puzzled. However, he paused where he was at, glasses still in hand. You sheepishly smiled. “Keep them on. Please.” You internally grimaced, embarrassed by your begging. However, after three years of pining after your professor, you were not passing up the thought of looking down to his glasses-framed face as he fucking ate you out. 

Ryland smiled smugly. “Got a thing for the glasses, huh?” He placed them delicately back on his face. “Tell me,” he said, “Is it the daring Clark Kent vibe that gets you going or the wizened academic look that you like more?” He gestured to his face, mostly jokingly, but you could sense there was a genuine question somewhere in there. You leaned down and pushed the glasses further up his nose. “What can I say, I’ve got a thing for hot, nerdy, men,” you replied. 

He laughed. “I’ll take it.”

It felt natural, the progression. His kisses felt earned, given with adoration, and he made sure that not an inch of you went untouched. After what felt like a million light years of him paying attention to everywhere except where you wanted, he licked a long, wet, downright disrespectful stripe up your folds. You moaned instantly and threw your head back. You didn’t even have any time to recover before he dove in again, his tongue swirling around your clit and sucking gently. 

He didn’t know all of the spots to make you squirm right off the bat, but god was he a quick study. Whenever his tongue brushed a spot that tore a sound out of you, he made sure to hit that spot again. Over and over again. He seemed determined to get as many sounds out of you as he could, and you happily obliged. Not like you had much of a choice in the matter. 

Fuck, he was good, you thought.

“Yeah?” Ryland asked from between your thighs. “You think so?” 

You hadn’t realized you said that part outloud. You were too overwhelmed with bliss to even care. “Fuck yes, Ryland. You feel so fucking good, oh my-”

A finger being pushed into your folds cuts you off instantly. After that, there truly was no hope for you. He set a punishing pace, pumping his fingers in and out while using his tongue to get to all of the spots that his fingers couldn’t reach while preoccupied. You clenched around his fingers and you felt him tense as he jut his hips forward involuntarily. “Ryland,” you gasped. “I’m gonna-” You couldn’t even finish your sentence before Ryland picked up his pace further, if that was even possible. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You can do it, let go,” you heard Ryland say, even though his voice sounded muffled and far away. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking hard, and the coil in your lower stomach finally broke. A loud moan tore out of you and you bit the back of your hand to silence yourself. You were still in the campus lab after all. Euphoria washed over you, from head to toe, and your legs shook with the impact. Ryland’s hand came up to steady you as he slowed slightly and worked you through it. 

“There you go, just like that. I got you,” he coaxed gently. You moved the palm that you were biting down your face as the waves subsided. You couldn’t help it, you collapsed back on the table. Ryland resumed his ritual of kissing up your navel, to the center of your sternum, in between your collarbones, and finally, standing up, to your lips. You returned his kiss, although rather weakly. 

“You okay?” he asked. You nodded. He paused for a moment, seemingly pondering if he should speak again. He decided on another question. 

“You want more?” he asked, his voice deeper this time, lower. 

“Fuck yes,” you cursed.

His words invigorated you with a second wind. You sat up quickly, hands rushing to undo the button and zipper on his jeans as he leaned into your hair and placed kisses to your head. As you fumbled with his belt loops, you could feel his arousal underneath your palm. Just to test the waters, you palmed him slightly, earning a whimper from Ryland into your hair. You hopped down from the counter as you finished unzipping his jeans. Ryland took over from there, sliding his jeans and underwear down in one go. Your eyes immediately cast downward and you bit your lip. 

His cock sprang forward, rock hard and already leaking pre-cum. You would have never guessed in your wildest dreams that he would be this big. It made your mouth water. You slowly began to sink to your knees to show him as good of a time as he just gave you, but he stopped you with a hand to your chest. 

“Please I- I can’t wait any longer,” Ryland searched your eyes. “I need to be inside you.” 

Oh. 

His words almost made you falter. As if you hadn’t had enough life-altering experiences tonight, here was Dr. Ryland Grace, published scientist, respected research and professor, begging to fuck you. 

Ryland seemed to take your silence as a yes, as he grabbed your hips and gave you one last kiss before spinning you to face the lab counter. From your perspective, you could see out the lab’s large windows. The lab was on the second floor of the science building, so all you could see out the window was the tops of the trees on the grounds. Still, all that was running through your mind at this moment was the fact that students could be walking down below, without a clue about all of the filthy things you and your professor were doing in his lab. 

Ryland places a hand on the small of your back and pushed you forward, effectively bending you over the lab counter. Your palms hit the counter, leaving an imprint on the black tops. Ryland kissed your back and you felt words muttered onto your skin. “Is this okay?”

“Yes, Ryland, please just-” He didn’t even let you finish. As soon as the word ‘yes’ left your mouth, he was pushing inside you. His cock stretching you out slow and depraved, making you gasp. Ryland cursed behind you, his hands flying to your hips and digging his short nails into your sides. He pushed slowly inside, inch by glorious inch until he was buried completely inside you. You turned your head slightly to see Ryland’s perfect face. He had his head thrown back, eyes closed, as if the act of being inside you was something that deserved a moment of silent reverence. 

“Ryland?” 

“Hm?” he hummed without opening his eyes. 

“Move,” you demanded. 

Well, you did ask for it. He pumped in and out of you like a piston, building up a rhythm that had you sobbing. Ryland’s hands never left your hips, you think he needed to hold on to them for his own sanity at this point. “Fuck you feel, you’re-” he sputtered. “You’re so fucking tight.” 

His pace quickened as tears squeaked their way out of your eyes and onto the lab counter. You were sure that you had never felt this good in your entire life. You could feel that low simmer in your stomach that you felt earlier. You were close. “Just like that Ryland, I’m gonna cum again”, you croaked. Your voice was gone, all of the air absent from your lungs.

Ryland seemed to sense it too as his once steady rhythm faltered and failed at points. He was losing steam, and fast. “Oh my, oh my fucking god,” he growled. “Come on, cum with me, that’s my girl.” 

The praise sent you over the edge. As your second wave rocked your body, you felt Ryland following suit. His hips stuttered as he spilled inside of you with a broken moan. His head fell forward onto your back as you felt his last few strokes, slow and intimate, pushing everything he gave you back inside, not letting a drop of the evidence of both of your choices drip onto the lab floor. 

You could barely breathe. It was the best feeling in the world. Ryland stroked your hair and slowly pulled out from you, with you whining at the loss of contact. You rolled slightly on to your side, looking at your professor, a sheen of sweat gracing his gorgeous body, glasses askew on his nose. Ryland leaned back onto the lab table and brushed his fingers through his hair, a deep sigh leaving his cheeks. He turned over to you. 

“So professor,” you teased in a sultry tone. You batted your eyelashes innocently. “Does this mean I get extra credit?” 

Ryland rolled his eyes. “Don’t start with me.”