Lelii

GIRL WHATEVER

[m1dnightsunk1ss]

𝐻𝐼𝐼𝐼 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓂𝓎 𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑔!

~ɴᴀʏᴇʟɪ~ʟᴀᴛɪɴᴀ~ꜱʜᴇ/ʜᴇʀ~ʙɪ

ᴍᴏᴏᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴜᴘᴘ💗💗

ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ɪꜱ ᴡᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʜᴇʀᴇ💗

~~ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɪ ʟᴏᴠᴇ: ꜰɪɴ ʙᴇɴɴᴇᴛ,ᴍᴀʀᴠᴇʟ, ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜʀᴏɴᴇꜱ, ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ,ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ ᴍɪɴᴅꜱ, ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ, ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ,ꜰᴀɴꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ,ꜰᴇᴀʀ ꜱᴛʀᴇᴇᴛ

~~ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟɪꜱᴛᴇɴ ᴛᴏ: ᴏʟɪᴠɪᴀ ʀᴏᴅʀɪɢᴏ, ᴘɪɴᴋ ᴘᴀɴᴛʜᴇʀᴇꜱꜱ ,ᴀʀɪᴀɴɴᴀ ɢʀᴀɴᴅᴇ,ᴅᴊᴏ,ᴀʀᴛɪᴄ ᴍᴏɴᴋᴇʏꜱ

ɪ ᴅᴏ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇ ꜰᴀɴꜰɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ʙᴜᴛ ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ɪ’ᴍ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ʀᴇʟᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀɴʏ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ꜱᴏᴏɴ. ɪᴀᴍ ᴡᴏʀᴋɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ᴀ ꜰɪᴄ ʀɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴛʀʏ ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴇᴛ ɪᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴀꜱ ꜱᴏᴏɴ ᴀs ɪ ᴄᴀɴ💗

ʙʏᴇᴇᴇ ꜰᴏʀ ɴᴏᴡ💗💗

[loveharlow]

Can you write something about jj and y/n doing this while their at a sleepover with the pogues and he post the picture in his Snapchat story or something like this please?

💬 : this pic is so like the girlfriend where everyone is like "oh she seems sweet" because she's like one of the cutesy, stuffed animal collecting, always smiling girls but then JJ always cuts in with something like "nah, man" bc he knows she isn't so innocent

"Look who finally showed up." Kiara announced, swinging the door of The Chateau open and eyeing you both down with a motherly look of disapproval. "Mm, mm, mm..."

"We know, we know, we're sorry." You apologized, sliding past the girl and into the shack where the others were waiting - Sarah, John B, Cleo, and Pope all spread out on the couch. "We got...held up." You giggled, looking back at your boyfriend who was following behind you.

"..Are you drunk?" John B chuckled, bucket of popcorn sat across Sarah's thighs, who had her legs laid out on top of his.

You plopped down against the couch, head upside down as you clutched the pile of DVD's against your chest. "We may have... pre-gamed, a little." You admitted, words slurring slightly.

"Pre-gamed a little? Or pre-gamed a lot?" Pope asked, peering at you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. Cleo, who was leaning against the armrest next to him, just shook her head and chuckled. The boy turned the phone that was in his hand around to show his screen to all of you in the room.

On it was JJ's snapchat story with a not-so-innocent picture of the blonde's hand grabbing a handful of your ass.

Your smile dropped at the sight of the picture, your expression faltering into something more sheepish. You whipped around to face JJ, who was behind you, palming his neck nervously.

"So, uh...about that-"

"JJ!"

"It was an accident!"

"How is that an accident?" You asked, pouting drunkenly as the room broke out in a chorus of muffled giggles.

JJ himself tried not to laugh as he spoke. "I'm sorry, baby." He apologized, fighting off a smile at your drunken sadness as he pulled your head into his chest, mouthing 'stop laughing' to all of your friends behind your back.

They all tried their best to quiet down, knowing you got more emotional when you were under the influence.

"It's okay. Look, no one cares, it's fine." He cooed, pulling you back and turning you by your shoulders to look at your friends who all shot you smiles. JJ draped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer. "I'll take it down, okay?" He said, pecking your cheek and pulling his phone out to delete the picture. Once it was gone, he looked back at your group of friends as he led you to sit down with him. "Alright, what'd we miss?"

Kiara rolled her eyes dramatically. "Nothing considering we were waiting on you two to show up with the movies we were supposed to be watching an hour ago."

"Details, details," JJ waved his hand dismissively. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, a possessive gesture that didn't go unnoticed by the others. "Worth it though, right?" he murmured, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You giggled again, mood much brighter, burying your face in the pile of DVDs. "Totally worth it," you mumbled, feeling your cheeks go warm.

Sarah reached over and playfully nudged your leg with her foot. "Yeah, we kinda figured," she said, a knowing smile on her face.

John B just chuckled again, shaking his head. "Alright, enough with the PDA. Let's just pick a damn movie before it gets any later." He gestured towards the stack of DVDs in your arms. "Whatcha got?"

You held up a few of the cases. "'The Goonies,' 'Step Up,' or 'The Notebook'?"

A chorus of opinions erupted from the couch. As the debate raged on, JJ squeezed your shoulders. "Don't worry about 'em," he whispered in your ear, his breath warm against your skin. "We had way more fun than they did anyway." He punctuated his words with a quick kiss to your temple, making you giggle once more. Even though you were late,the "pre-game" had definitely been worth it.

JJ Maybank Taglist in replies!

feedback is appreciated! thanks for reading. follow & turn on post notifs for @theharlowpost for writing exclusive updates!

©loveharlow

[lizziehernandez]

What’s your favorite time of day?

Oh you know the time where I get to read about fictional characters being in love with me

[percyluver]

I’m a world full of c.ai and wattpad warriors im forever a tumblr user 💔💔

[luckiestbunnii]

thinkin bout beach days with jayj...

jj definitely had his ways of making beach days fun, but they could also br extremely irritating, and sweaty.

he's constantly trying to climb all over you. its even worse when you get in the water, once you get far out enough hes asking u questions like "ya' think we're far out enough that they wouldn't be able to see if we were fuckin'?" he asks with that shit eating grin on his face.

you slap his chest, squealing when he picks you up and dunks you underwater. "jay! not funny, m'hairs all wet now!" you pout. "quit bein' such a baby." he bullies you.

"am not!" you grumble. "are too!" you argue like toddlers. he's wearing those swim shorts that he probably stole from his brother, and your wearing that bikini with the button detailing thats way too small and anytime you shift you almost pop a titty.

"cmon' lets go back to the chateau and make sandwiches im starving dude." jj complains, picking you up and walking through the water to shore.

"im sticky." you whine, he looks down at you with faux sympathy. "sucks to suck baby." he laughs before tossing you up over his shoulder, one hand on your ass and the other wrapped around your legs to keep you stable.

[padmespetal]

TRANCE ✧ modern!aerion targaryen x egg’s babysitter!reader (part of the welcome to the family series)

✧ synopsis— Aerion Targaryen hates you. And you hate him. It is merely a simple fact of nature. But after weeks of riling you up and pushing you dangerously close to the edge— everything threatens to boil over at a party hosted by one of Valarr’s campus friends.

✧ warnings— enemies to lovers but they actually hate each other (kind of?), slowburn, very toxic dynamics aka aerion is severely immature but it’s ok we forgive him because he’s hot (and blonde), english is not my first language so potentially some sentences and grammar that make absolutely no sense, alcohol, mentions of substances and intoxication, smoking, uhm very messy kissing and graphic descriptions of blood

✧ word count— 14k

✧ author’s note— i’ve been waiting for this one. turn it up. seriously though haha tysm for being this patient with me, i know a lot of you have been waiting for this fic since april. it was really fun writing it though and i can only hope you enjoy reading it equally as much ! <3

. . . ♬ on the radio ; the cure by olivia rodrigo & haunted by beyoncé.

The blue light of your laptop was a cold, unforgiving sun in the dimness of your studio apartment. You were sprawled across the floor, the plush fibers of the taupe carpet pressing against your cheek, providing a strange grounding sort of friction against the drift of your thoughts.

Around you, the world felt static— a tableau of half finished coffee cups and a mountain of open tabs that hummed with a quiet, persistent buzz.

The emails sat in a neat, daunting row. A digital wall of obligations you weren't quite ready to climb yet.

“And then— Y/N! Are you even listening to me?” Aegon’s voice, tiny and sharp through the phone speakers, sliced through your temporary trance.

You blinked, your eyes burning from the screen glare as you shifted your weight, propping your chin up with your palm.

In the small, glowing rectangle of the FaceTime window Aegon—Egg— looked borderline offended. His shaved head an evidence of rebellion in a family that prized their silver-gold manes like religious relics. His face catching the light of his bedside lamp.

“Huh!” You shook your head, the motion making the room tilt for a fraction of a second. “I’m here, Egg. I’m listening, I swear.”

Egg sighed. A dramatic, heavy sound that seemed too weary for a boy his age. He rolled his eyes, the motion exaggerated by the camera angle. “Right. Sure you are. So, what did I just say? About Daeron promising to take me to that amusement park?”

You stared at him, your brain a chaotic, filing cabinet of unfinished assignments and to-be-attended seminars. “Uhm… well… I know it involved something about… the dornish puppeteers? Did they have a pop-up show near the ferris wheel?”

“See! I knew it!” He pointed a traitorous finger at the camera, his expression a mix of triumph and genuine annoyance. “You weren't listening. You were doing that thing which you do when my dad is talking and you’re pretending like you’re listening.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay!” You groaned, finally surrendering to the fatigue and letting your head thud back against the base of the velvet sofa behind you. Choosing to ignore his side remark for your own sanity.

You reached out, fumbling to perch the phone against a discarded thrown pillow so you could look at him without holding the device. “I’m just… I’m swamped Egg. College is kicking my ass. It’s a relentless cycle of deadlines, and your family… your beautiful, brooding, weirdly passive-aggressive family… they’re a lot to handle sometimes.”

You knew, logically, that you shouldn't be venting the intricacies of Targaryen interpersonal drama to the youngest member of the dynasty, but Egg was anything but a normal kid.

He was the sixth son of a fourth son. He was free to do as he pleased, yet he still carried the weight and prejudice that came with the Targaryen name.

“Tell me about it,” Aegon deadpanned.

He flopped onto his back, his camera swinging wildly to show a ceiling painted with a mural of the night sky— it was expensive, meticulous, and cold.

“They’re exhausting. Especially when Daeron starts drinking those ‘medicinal’ herbal teas that smell like a brewery.”

You didn’t even want to know.

“The point is,” you sighed, closing your eyes and letting the hum of your laptop anchor you, “I’m trying to keep my head above water, and I’m sorry if I can’t remember every minuscule detail of the amusement park itinerary. I’m trying to be a person, Egg. It’s harder than it looks.”

Aegon went quiet suddenly. Through the screen, his expression softened, his eyes losing that sharp, precocious edge.

He looked, for a moment, like a little boy who just missed his friend.

“I know,” he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “I didn’t mean to be difficult. Much.”

“It’s fine,” you whispered, biting the corner of your lip, suddenly feeling guilty for dumping everything onto him.

You felt the familiar ache of your own position. The permanent babysitter, the girl who came over every friday, the honorary older sister who still had to submit invoices to a business manager at the end of every month.

You loved them, you truly did.

You loved the chaos of Kiara’s friendship and the way she navigated the social stratosphere with a grace you could only envy.

You loved Daella and Rhae, even when they were being impossible.

But you were an orbit away from their sun.

“Plus,” you added, the bitterness leaking out before you could stop it, “your asshole brother has made it his personal mission in life to make sure I don't have a single moment of peace on campus.”

You didn’t bother to censor the word.

‘Asshole’ was perhaps the kindest descriptor you had for Aerion Targaryen.

“Aerion?” Egg’s voice sharpened with genuine confusion and a flicker of something that looked quite like dread. “What’s he doing now? Is he being… weird again?”

You remembered when Egg had told you— about how apparently Aerion had drowned his cat in the well once. Looking at the dying creature with cold, detached eyes. A shudder ran through you, a cold finger tracing the length of your spine.

“Nothing direct,” you lied, though the lie felt thin, even from your own lips.

“Just comments. He’s always there Egg. In the student union, in the courtyard… leaning against that ridiculous car of his. He always makes these… remarks. About my clothes. About how I look like I’m constantly lost. About how I don’t ‘belong’ there.”

“Y/N…” Aegon sounded worried now.

“It’s stupid. He’s just a nepo baby with too much time and a god complex,” you said, trying to regain your footing. “He’s an asshole, and that’s just the natural order of things.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to take his offenses just because you’re working for—babysitting me,” Egg quickly corrected himself, his loyalty flaring up.

You bit your lip harder. That was the crux of it, wasn't it? You were the help, even if you were the help that got invited to Christmas dinner.

You were terrified of the day you might snap, of the day you might finally tell Aerion Targaryen exactly what you thought of his entire ‘brightflame’ persona, and subsequently find yourself without a job and a roof over your head.

Maekar, his father, was a fair man—hard, but fair, but you knew that blood was thicker than any employee contract.

“I know. I can handle it. Really,” you assured him, though your voice lacked the steel you wanted. You were tired of constantly being the resilient one, the punching bag.

Aegon huffed, clearly unconvinced, but he knew better than to push you when you were in this mood.

He rolled over in his bed, the rustle of his cotton sheets audible through the phone. “Well… anyway, I need to go. Maester Mellon is taking us for a ‘nature walk’ tomorrow. Which is just code for looking at dirt and pretending it’s interesting.”

“Ah. How academic. How very thousand eyes and one of him,” you snickered, referencing the old campus joke about the faculty’s surveillance.

“Shut up,” Egg grumbled, but there was a smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Egg. And don’t stay up late playing Minecraft. I can see your status on Discord, you know.”

“Love youuu! Bye!”

He didn’t even wait for a response before the screen went black, the call cutting off with a soft bloop.

The silence came abruptly after. The ‘I love you’ lingering in the air. A warm, soft thing that made the cold blue light of the laptop feel a little less clinical. You hated how natural it sounded.

He was the reason you stayed. This little boy and his ridiculous shaved head were the only thing currently keeping you motivated.

But tomorrow was Monday. Tomorrow meant the university campus. It meant navigating the labyrinth of ivory towers and the even more treacherous social hierarchy of the ‘great houses’ students.

“Oh, fuck me,” you muttered, pressing your fingers against your temples. A headache was already beginning to bloom behind your eyes. The humming of the fridge audiable in the background.

You thought of Aerion— the way he wore his arrogance like a tailored suit, and the way his eyes always seemed to find you in a crowd, tracking you with the predatory focus of someone who had never been told ‘no.’

You considered, just for a moment, the blissful possibility of staying in bed. Of letting the emails rot and the classes pass you by.

But then you thought of Egg’s laugh and Kiera’s frantic texts about the next big event, and you sighed.

You wouldn't give Aerion the satisfaction of your absence.

You’d show up, you’d take his insults, and you’d survive.

Because that’s what you did. You were the permanent babysitter, the girl who kept the dragons from burning down the house, even if it meant you got a few singe marks along the way.

Transitioning from the claustrophobic, blue light drenched sanctuary of your apartment to the sprawling, high-gothic grandeur of King’s Landing University always felt like a leap between two different centuries.

The previous night’s two hour digital marathon with Egg, his face a pixelated mess of adolescent indignity, felt like a fever dream by the time the morning sun hit the red brick facade of the Law building.

You were walking arm in arm with Kiera, your boots clicking rhythmically against the cobblestones that had been smoothed by centuries of entitled footsteps.

Kiera was a walking riot of color, as usual. A middle finger to the beige and navy minimalist aesthetic of the university’s elite. Her curls were a defiant, ethereal bubblegum pink, a nod to her Tyroshi heritage that she wore like a proud, neon sign.

She was draped in an oversized, custom hand painted silk coat that billowed behind her, looking effortlessly chic in a way that made the old money students in their barbour jackets look like they were wearing uniforms. All of them dulled in comparison to her.

"I’m telling yo Y/N, the look on Valarr’s face was priceless," Kiera giggled, the sound like wind chimes in the crisp morning air. She was recounting the latest scandal from the Breakspeare household.

"We were at this tiny, artisanal bistro very low-key, very ‘we’re not that famous'— and then Matarys calls. He sounds like he’s trying to describe the color of his own soul. Apparently, he thought those brownies in the fridge were just… well regular brownies."

You snorted, a stray lock of hair whipping across your face. "Matarys?” Your voice is filled with disbelief, imagining the straight edged, Dondarrion freckled, golden boy who apparently took an edible? By accident? How does that even happen?

"Accidentally, my ass. On purpose, maybe," Kiera deadpanned. "He told Valarr he was 'too scared of the ceiling' to call Baelor. Can you imagine? Calling the deputy of Targaryen corp who also happens to be your terrifyingly perfect father— to tell him the room is spinning? Valarr had to leave our dessert to go rescue him from a very intense conversation with a floor lamp."

"I think it's sweet that they trust each other like that," you noted, though a pang of envy flickered in your chest.

The Targaryens were a mess. A beautiful, sprawling, high functioning disaster, but they were a unit. Even when they were spiraling, they had someone to call. "I don’t think I’d have the courage to call anyone in that state. I’d just accept my fate and become one with the carpet."

"Oh, please," Kiera nudged you, her elbow sharp but affectionate. "You would’ve called me. Mostly because I’d probably be the one who gave you the brownie in the first place."

"True," you admitted, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to dissipate.

The campus was nothing short of electric today. Between the towering library and the ivy choked faculty buildings, a sea of white tents had been erected.

The KLU Student Body was hosting a massive charity drive for the urban renewal of Flea Bottom. The low income district that sat in the shadow of the university’s pristine hill. It was the kind of performative altruism the university adored; students in five hundred dollar sneakers selling cupcakes to 'end poverty.'

Still, it meant the atmosphere was festive rather than academic. No three hour seminars on ancient tournaments and conquests. No grueling geography tests on the tourist economies of the Summer Isles.

For a moment, you felt invincible. You were young, you were wearing your favorite thrifted leather jacket, and you were flanked by a woman who looked like a walking sunset.

"Looks like we have a penchant for trouble—" you started to say, the words light on your tongue. But as soon as the words escaped your lips, you wished they never had.

The scent is what gave him away. The sandalwood and expensive tobacco, and a sharp, metallic note of something like ozone. It was a fragrance that cost more than your monthly rent.

And the very air in the crowd seemed to shift, as if out of reverence.

Standing near the fountain, leaning against a stone gargoyle with a level of practiced arrogance that bordered on the divine, was Aerion Targaryen. A vision of monochromatic cruelty.

His hair, that signature Targaryen silver-white, was messily styled but perfectly maintained, catching the morning light like spun glass. He was wearing black dress pants that looked custom tailored to his lean frame and a crisp, white shirt with the top three buttons undone, exposing the pale line of his throat. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the dirt of the path he clearly felt superior to.

"Seven hells," you whispered, the invincibility of the morning shattering like dropped porcelain. "Just the thing I needed. My daily dose of arsenic."

Kiera’s upbeat expression flattened instantly. Her pastel brows furrowed as her eyes landed on her boyfriend’s cousin. "Oh. Him."

You tried to pivot, to blend into a group of passing freshmen, but it was too late.

Aerion’s gaze—a pale, violet-grey that felt like being stared at by a glacier— already snapped to yours. He straightened up. A slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. He practically descended upon you.

"Not babysitting the impudent little rat today, are you?"

His voice was a smooth, melodic drawl, the kind of voice that belonged to a venomous serpent draped in silk, and was currently being used as a weapon. He didn't even bother with a greeting. To Aerion, you were a fixed point in the universe— a target.

"Aerion," Kiera said, her voice dropping into the clipped, diplomatic tone she used when dealing with the more volatile members of the family tree.

He offered her a shallow, mocking nod, his eyes never leaving yours. He was sizing you up, his gaze raking over your outfit, the slightly worn boots, the frayed hem of your jeans—with a visible, shimmering disdain. It was as if he were looking at a smudge on an otherwise perfect canvas.

"And you," he turned his focus to Kiera, his presence suddenly suffocating. "Not hanging off my dear cousin’s arm today, Kiera? Or has Valarr finally realized that your color palette is… shall we say, a bit too much for a future diplomat?"

Kiera visibly tensed beside you, her hand tightening on your arm. "Valarr is busy with the faculty. They’re organizing the fundraiser. You know, for people who actually need help?"

Aerion let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. He looked at the charity tents with an expression of profound boredom.

"How lovely. Charity being organized by… charity cases." He leveled a pointed, malicious look at you. The implication hung in the air like a foul mist: You are the help. You are the Flea Bottom they are pretending to care about.

"If you have nothing nice to say, Aerion, you might as well take your expensive cologne and your bad attitude back to the economics wing," you managed through gritted teeth, your pulse hammering in your ears. "Some of us are actually trying to have a good day."

He stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could see the fine, silver lashes framing his eyes. "Careful," he hissed, his voice dropping to a poisonous whisper that only you could hear. "Remember, sweetheart, you still work for my father. One word about your… 'unprofessional' outbursts, and you’ll be back to working at the puppeteer shows without a paycheck to catch you."

"You have some nerve—" Kiera started, stepping forward to defend you, but you caught her hand.

Aerion chuckled, a sound of pure amusement. "Careful Tyrosh. Calm your little friend. We wouldn't want those wedding bells with Valarr to stop tolling before they even start, would we? Uncle Baelor is so very particular about the company his heir keeps."

The threat was veiled, but heavy. He was reminding both of you of the precariousness of your positions. Kiera was a girlfriend; and you were an employee. He was something neither of you would ever be. He was blood.

"Have a fun time, ladies," he added casually, slinging his hands into his pockets and stepping back.

He swept his gaze over you one last time, his eyes lingering on your lips for a fraction of a second too long before turning cold again. "Taking care of… blind children and narcomaniacs. It suits you. Very 'salt of the earth.'"

And with that he vanished into the crowd, his silver hair a beacon of light amidst the sea of brown and blonde. The scent of his cologne lingering like a physical weight, a reminder of the encounter that made you feel suddenly, violently small.

"What the hell is actually wrong with him?" Kiera muttered, practically dragging you away from the fountain and toward the arts and humanities building. "He’s getting worse. It’s like he’s bored of being a Targaryen, so he’s decided to try his hand at being a demon."

"Nothing’s wrong with him, Kie," you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts. "Some people are just inherently evil. It’s a biological trait. He was born with silver hair and a missing conscience."

"You really believe that?"

"Don't you?"

Kiera didn't answer. She just hummed a low, thoughtful note as you reached the sanctuary of the arts building.

Inside (to your relief) the atmosphere changed instantly. The clinical, cold air of the campus was replaced by the scent of turpentine, linseed oil, and stale coffee.

Tanselle was positioned in the center of the atrium, perched on a wooden stool that looked like it was held together by prayer and old paint.

She was a muralist by trade, but today she was doing 'quick fire' portraits for the charity drive. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, and a smudge of cerulean blue decorated her cheekbone. She was focused, her brush moving with a grace that made the chaos around her seem like background noise.

"Oh! Hey!" she greeted once she had noticed your presence, not looking up until she’d finished a delicate line on the canvas. "What’s up? I’m just finishing this one… it’s a portrait of a 'lost soul’ or something… I think the student just had a bad hangover."

"We ran into the devil on the way here," you deadpanned, leaning against a nearby table cluttered with jars of brushes.

From the shadows of a nearby pillar, a girl with fiery red hair and a look of permanent skepticism emerged. Rowan— she was holding a thermos that you knew for a fact contained more vodka than tea.

"You mean prince brightflame?" Rowan mocked, her eyebrow arching. "Did he set anyone on fire today, or was he just being his usual, sparkling self?"

"The one and only," Kiera sighed, leaning down to give Tanselle a quick, paint avoidant squeeze.

"Okay, enough about Targaryens. Especially the ones who think they’re God’s gift to the student union," you groaned, rubbing your temples. "I need to forget his face exists for at least four hours."

"What’s got your panties in a twist?" Rowan giggled, taking a long swig from her thermos. "Is it the insults? Or is it the fact that he looked particularly edible in that white shirt today?"

You stared at her, your expression flat. "Do not even finish that thought, Rowan. I don't care what the university policy is on student on student violence."

"Alright, alright, Seven Hells… no need to go all Maegor on me," Rowan grumbled, though she was still grinning.

She had an ongoing bet that your mutual hatred with Aerion was just a very long, very exhausting preamble to something else.

You hated that she even thought it. You hated even more that, for a split second by the fountain, you’d noticed the way the wind caught his hair.

"Anyway… on a lighter and happier note…" Kiera spoke up, leaning against another table of art supplies. "One of Valarr's faculty friends, some guy named Raymun, is hosting a party tonight at his off campus loft. It should be cool. Not too many nepo babies, good music, and an appropriate amount of booze. Valarr said it’s a 'no ego' zone."

“I'm in," Rowan said instantly, gleaming with newfound enthusiasm. “I have a constitutional right to be at every party within a five mile radius.”

“Um… yeah, sure,” Tanselle said, her voice a bit more hesitant as she cleaned a brush. “If I finish the mural for the atrium…”

"Don't worry, Tans. Duncan will be there," Kiera winked.

Everyone knew Duncan— the towering, incredibly earnest rugby captain who followed Tanselle around like a particularly large, loyal hound.

Tanselle flushed a deep, violent crimson, muming something about “not caring about rugby players” that everyone gracefully ignored.

“What about you, Y/N? You in?” Kiera turned her gaze to you, her eyes hopeful. "You need this. You’ve been buried in schoolwork and Egg’s drama for weeks. One night. No babies, no Targaryens, no responsibilities."

You mulled it over. You had a Yi-Ti translation due on Wednesday. You had three chapters of The Citadel Chronicles to summarize. And, you had a lingering headache from Aerion’s venom.

In the back of your mind, a small, cynical voice whispered that a party hosted by Valarr’s friends was a dangerous place for someone trying to avoid the ‘inner circles.’

But you pushed it down. You were with your friends. You were in the Arts Building and the sun was out.

“Sure,” you said, the word feeling like a victory. “To hell with the emails. I’m in.”

You didn't realize that in the world of the Targaryens, the 'no ego zone' didn't exist. And Aerion Targaryen was never the one to miss a performance.

The first thing that catches you by surprise is not the overwhelming, sweet haze of top-shelf Dornish cannabis or the sharp, botanical sting of expensive gin.

In a place that was supposed to be a temporary Friday night sanctuary— a casual, off-campus loft in the old industrial district, supposedly void of any high-end drama or old-money politics, and the insufferable nepo babies of the Red Keep quad— you expected paper cups and vinyl records.

Instead, you stepped into a room filled with exactly the kind of royalty you had spent the entire week trying to escape.

A party hosted by a close friend of Valarr Targaryen. You closed your eyes for a fraction of a second, cursing your own naivety.

How fortunate.

What had you honestly been expecting? A gathering of normal people? Students who actually worried about tuition and supermarket receipts like you did?

But the true shock wasn't the sheer, architectural immensity of the living room, with its polished concrete floors, exposed steel beams, and massive glass panels showcasing a panoramic view of the twinkling King's Landing skyline.

It was that sharp, jagged bolt of white light across the room. A head of messily perfect, silver-white hair that you had been praying to the Seven you wouldn’t see tonight.

And much worse, draped elegantly over his arm was Alicia Florent.

Alicia was widely considered the campus’s reigning deity of effortless glamour— excluding Kiera, of course, who occupied a stratosphere entirely of her own.

A finely manicured, diamond-ringed hand was splayed possessively across Aerion’s forearm, the dark wool of his designer jacket a stark contrast to her sunkissed skin. Her perfectly lined, glossy lips were curved open in a rich, musical laugh at whatever witty, venomous thing he was currently whispering into her ear.

She looked entirely, infuriatingly perfect.

Her makeup was a masterclass in high-end minimalism; a subtle, glittering shimmer danced across her eyelids and collarbones, looking so natural it defied the hours it must have taken to apply. Her clothes, a silk, emerald-green slip dress fitted her like a second skin.

It was obviously expensive, the kind of fabric that didn't wrinkle or catch, and you were suddenly, violently overwhelmed by a suffocating wave of inferiority.

She was a natural. A creature born to inhabit rooms like these, to drink from crystal flutes and look down on the rest of the world with a lazy, secure smile.

You desperately tried to tuck that jealous sense of inadequacy away, but it was hard when your own outfit suddenly felt like a joke.

The structured black crop top and matching silk skirt (which Kiera had practically forced you into, insisting you needed to show a little skin and live a little) now felt entirely too revealing. Under the invisible, judgmental gazes of the KLU elite, the fabric seemed to suffocate you. Making you feel exposed and clownish instead of gorgeous.

You felt like an imposter who had snuck in through the servant's entrance.

You forced yourself to shake off the feeling, taking a deep breath as you stepped further into the warm, bass-heavy atmosphere of the loft, hand in hand with Rowan.

Rowan, bless her, was a necessary shield against the room's collective snobbery.

She was sporting a vintage leather jacket slung effortlessly over a fiery, scarlet jumpsuit that perfectly matched her untamed nature. Her thick, red curls were propped into a flawless, artfully messy topknot on her head, and she moved through the crowd like a queen inspecting her subjects.

“Hi! Hello! Oh my god, babe, you look so stunning!” Rowan called out, waving to a group of arts students by the balcony. She was so painfully, beautifully natural at this— at being kind, funny, charismatic, and universally liked.

While she floated through the social waters with ease, you just stood there awkwardly, anchoring yourself to her hand and pinning a tight, plastic smile to your face, hoping no one would look close enough to see the panic in your eyes.

Tanselle and Kiera were a few paces behind you, following closely on your heels, looking equally shimmering and joyful.

The heavy, rhythmic thumping of the bass from the speakers couldn't drown out the sudden shift in the air behind you. You caught the faint, warm sound of Valarr’s deep voice as he approached their group.

Turning your head slightly, you watched as the heir apparent to the Breakspeare fortune greeted Kiera, his chocolate brown hair catching the amber pendant lights as he leaned down to press a tender, familiar kiss to her temple.

Right beside them, Duncan— the towering rugby captain who looked slightly terrifying but possessed the heart of a golden retriever— was already hovering over Tanselle.

He muttered a shy, earnest greeting, and even in the dim lighting of the loft, you could see Tanselle flush a furious, violent crimson.

You turned around fully just to shoot her an encouraging, all-knowing smile. She caught your eye, her blush deepening as she biting her lip, a silent plea for you to stop teasing her.

Before you could offer any more silent solidarity, Rowan was suddenly pulled to the side. The host of the party himself—Raymun Fossoway— had caught sight of her.

He intercepted your path with a wide, bright grin, and the immediate body language between them suggested they were much more familiar than you had previously realized.

“Hey,” Raymun greeted you, extending a hand to shake yours.

His grip was polite, but it was entirely clear that his brain had ceased to function the moment he looked past your shoulder. His eyes literally could not leave Rowan’s stunning, scarlet-clad figure.

You couldn't even find it in yourself to be annoyed. You got it. Everyone looked at Rowan when she entered a room.

You offered him a quick, polite greeting, gently squeezing Rowan's hand before letting it go. "I'll be totally fine on my own," you assured her in a quiet whisper, giving her a reassuring nod as Raymun already began pulling her into a conversation about some indie band.

“Okay, scream if you need anything!” She managed to let out before Raymun dragged her away towards some friends.

Turning away from the couples and the social butterflies, you looked toward the far side of the room.

You needed a barrier between yourself and the silver haired specter by the window.

Deciding to put some distance between yourself and the crowd, you began to weave through the sea of silk and linen, heading straight toward the crowded kitchen counter to grab a drink.

The kitchen was nothing short of breathtaking, a cathedral of high end consumption, dominated by a vast marble island that looked like it had been carved from a single cloud.

It was cluttered with an array of spirits that felt more like museum artifacts than party supplies— bottles of triple-distilled vodka and vintage Dornish reds with labels so ornate and script so archaic you could barely pronounce the names, let alone guess the price point.

You were in the middle of decanting a suspiciously shimmering liquid into what felt like a genuine crystal tumbler (half-convinced the glassware alone cost more than your monthly rent) when a sudden clearing of a throat vibrated through the air beside you.

Before you even turned, the scent hit you like a sensory ambush.

It was a suffocatingly sweet cloud of Ashai vanilla and sun-ripened strawberries— a fragrance so curated and polished it felt like walking into a high-end boutique in the middle of a summer heatwave.

It was the smell of someone who had never known the scent of a crowded subway or a cheap laundromat. It was the scent of a walking candy cane.

You turned, the heavy bottle still poised awkwardly in your hand. “Hm?” Your gaze collided with Alicia Florent.

“Hey.” Her voice was like honey dripped over velvet— painfully sweet and effortlessly melodic.

She flashed a smile that belonged in a Vogue editorial, her teeth so perfectly white and aligned they looked like a row of polished pearls. “Sorry,” she murmured, her voice dropping as a group of boisterous students pushed past, forcing her to press into your personal space.

Up close, the perfection was devastating.

Her blonde hair didn't just curl; it spiraled in a way that suggested a personal stylist had spent hours meticulously crafting a 'natural' look. Her eyes were two pools of shimmering, ocean-like blue crystals, framed by lashes so long they seemed to cast shadows against her high, sculpted cheekbones.

You felt a sudden, sharp pang of grounding reality; you totally understood why Aerion had her anchored to his side.

She was a goddess crafted from old money privilege and premium skincare.

You stood there, feeling like a low resolution glitch in a high definition movie, holding the glass bottle with a grip that was far too tight. You were painfully aware of the contrast— her glittering, effortless grace against your own sense of being an intruder in a world built for people like her.

“Oh, I just came over to grab us a drink,” she said, her smile widening as she registered your wide eyed, deer in headlights expression.

The ‘us’ hung in the air like a territorial flag.

It was a subtle, sharp reminder that while you were here as a guest of a friend, she was here as a part of the dynasty. People like Alicia Florent and people who spent their weekends parsing complex Yi-ti sentences and babysitting the youngest Targaryen did not inhabit the same social stratosphere.

It was just a biological fact of campus life.

She let out a soft, airy giggle— a sound that was probably practiced to perfection— and reached for a gold-labeled bottle of Arbor Gold. “Do you mind?” she asked, her gaze flicking down to your hand, noting that you were essentially guarding the bar.

“Right… um, sorry,” you stammered, your face heating up as the ice in your glass rattled.

You cleared your throat, the unknown liquid in your cup sloshing dangerously as you stepped back, yielding the marble altar to its rightful priestess.

You didn't wait for her to say anything else. You pivoted, ducking your head and weaving your way through the press of bodies, heading toward a shadowed, secluded corner of the loft near the floor to ceiling windows.

You decided then and there to leave the expensive drink-mixing to the expensive nepo babies; you needed the darkness of the corner to hide the fact that you suddenly felt very, very visible.

You bumped into people muttering quiet little ‘sorry’s’ and ‘excuse me’s’ until you finally found the heavy glass sliding doors that led out to the expansive terrace.

You needed air. You needed to escape the suffocating sweetness of Alicia’s strawberry scented perfection and the low, heavy hum of bass that was beginning to rattle the inside of your skull.

As you stepped outside, the climate shifted instantly.

The cool, midnight breeze of King’s Landing clipped at your bare shoulders, a welcome shock to your system. Below the loft, the sprawling, chaotic expanse of the metropolis hummed with nocturnal life.

You could hear the faint, distorted sounds of the city filtering up to the penthouse level— distant shouts from the entertainment district, the aggressive honk of car horns, and the low, rhythmic wail of a siren echoing somewhere down in the valleys of the concrete jungle.

Above it all, the towering skyscrapers of the financial sector gleamed like sharp, metallic monoliths, their glass windows reflecting millions of tiny, artificial lights against the dark canopy of the sky.

It was the quintessential Westerosi dream: a glittering, cutthroat paradise built on old money and modern ambition.

You leaned your weight against the sleek, black iron railing, closing your eyes as you took a deep, centering breath. You let the crisp night air fill your lungs, hoping it would cleanse the dizzying haze of the Dornish wine and the residual contact smoke from the living room.

Out here, the party was beautifully muted. The thumping bass became a dull, rhythmic heartbeat against the glass, and the loud, overlapping conversations of the KLU elite drifted away into the wind.

For a few fleeting seconds, suspended high above the streets, you felt entirely untouched by the hierarchy inside.

A movement in the far corner of the terrace caught your eye. A couple was deeply entrenched in the shadows, draped over one another on a low outdoor sectional. They were clearly drunk, murmuring slurred, lovey-dovey obscenities into each other’s ears, entirely oblivious to the world.

You squinted at them for a fraction of a second, rolled your eyes with a quiet shrug, and walked purposefully toward the furthest, most isolated edge of the balcony, seeking whatever true peace you could salvage.

Then, the heavy glass door hissed open behind you.

You didn't turn around. You assumed the amorous couple had finally taken their business indoors, or perhaps another drunk freshman had come out to throw up over the side. You remained still, staring out at the golden grid of the highway below, until the air around you changed.

The wind shifted, carrying that familiar, dangerous fragrance— sandalwood, rich tobacco. Your breath hitched in your throat.

Before you could even process the sensory warning, a lean, broad-shouldered frame leaned onto the railing right beside you.

Up close, the first things that caught the ambient light were his hands. His long, aristocratic fingers were loosely gripping the cold metal of the railing, adorned with an array of heavy, intricate rings.

They were beautifully crafted jewels, shaped into coiled dragons and sharp, jagged scales that caught the neon glow of the city lights. They were forged from dark, smoky Valyrian steel— the ultimate heirloom status symbol, modernized for a prince who wore his legacy like brass knuckles.

The irritation began to simmer in your chest, a biological knee-jerk reaction to his very existence. Your spine instantly straightened into a rigid, defensive line.

"Come out here to make my life a living hell again?" The words slipped past your lips before you could stop them, laced with a bitter, cynical venom.

Perhaps it was the cheap courage of the alcohol flowing through your veins, or maybe you were just entirely exhausted by his games, but you didn't care that you were speaking to your employer's volatile son with complete disrespect.

But to your absolute shock, the sharp, cutting retort never came.

There was no dry remark about your attitude, no poisonous reminder that he could have your contract terminated before sunrise. Aerion remained perfectly still.

He just stared straight ahead into the sprawling labyrinth of the city lights, his expression unreadable, as if entranced. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket and pulled out a classic, crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds.

You stood there silently, utterly dumbstruck by this newfound, quiet iteration of him.

Your gaze involuntarily drifted to his side profile. In the dim, ambient wash of the terrace lights, his features looked sharp enough to draw blood— the perfect curve of his nose, the slight clench of his jawline, and that notoriously messy, silver-white hair that somehow always managed to look effortlessly styled.

A sudden, sharp click broke the silence as he flicked open a matte-black lighter. The small, orange flame illuminated his face for a second, casting long shadows across his high cheekbones.

He inhaled deeply, taking a slow, heavy drag before letting the gray smoke curl lazily from his lips, wrapping around the space between you like a shroud.

You watched the way he held the cigarette between his fingers— so delicately, almost gently, as if he were tracing the fragile skin of a lover. It was a vulnerable, quiet posture that felt entirely out of character for the brutal, arrogant boy you encountered on campus.

You cocked your head to the side, your eyebrows furrowing as you silently questioned what kind of psychological game was unfolding.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I'll have to assume you like what you see." His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, rough from the smoke but dripping with his signature, lazy arrogance.

The tip of his cigarette glowed a fierce, angry orange as he took another slow drag. His violet-grey eyes never shifted from the concrete jungle below, but a slow, maddening smirk was beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth.

You let out a sharp, breathless scoff, though to your own horror, a strange sense of comfort washed over you at the sarcastic remark. It was predictably, entirely Aerion.

"You are so incredibly full of yourself," you muttered. And for the first time since you had met him, your words felt less like a defensive shield and more like a tease.

You blamed the wine. You blamed the heavy midnight air, the glittering skyline, and the infuriatingly perfect way the neon lights reflected in his pale irises. There was absolutely no logical way you were enjoying Aerion Targaryen’s company.

"You'd be profoundly bored without it," he bit back smoothly, finally turning his head to look at you.

When his gaze locked onto yours, it felt like a physical shock. His eyes were sharp, electric, and possessed a dark, hungry intensity that made the air in your lungs feel dangerously thin.

"You know, Aerion," you sighed, leaning back against the railing and trying to maintain your grounded, deadpan demeanor despite the sudden hammering of your pulse, "you are, without a doubt, the most irritating person I have ever encountered in my entire life."

"Say that again," he whispered. The shift in his tone was instantaneous. Something dark and predatory flashed in the depths of his eyes.

And you would have rather labeled yourself entirely delusional than admit that his lean frame had just gravitated toward yours, his shoulder brushing against your leather jacket as he leaned in close.

"What? That you're the most irritating person I’ve ever—"

"No," he snapped softly, his jaw clenching with a sudden, rigid intensity. "My name." He clarified.

You froze, your mouth hanging slightly agape as you stared at him. The sheer, magnetic weight of his presence was overwhelming. You swallowed hard, your mind racing as you finally relented to the gravity of the moment.

"Aerion," you spoke, the syllables falling from your lips more deliberately this time.

You tasted the weight of his name on your tongue, weighing the vowels as if testing a dangerous secret. It felt dizzyingly, terrifyingly intimate. No, you hate him. You absolutely despise his entire existence.

Suddenly, Rowan’s laughing voice flashed through your mind from earlier in the afternoon—You two just have too much mutual attraction. It’s chaotic chemistry, simmering until it bursts.

You forced yourself to clear your throat, aggressively pushing those chaotic thoughts into the darkest corners of your brain.

"So…" you began, desperate to fracture the suffocating tension that had built up between your bodies. "Where exactly is Alicia? I’m surprised she let you out of her sight for more than thirty seconds."

You wondered how the campus goddess had managed to lose her prize. Aerion's arm candy usually followed him everywhere at events like this, not necessarily because he possessed a genuine shred of affection for them, but because they served as a pristine status symbol.

"Inside," he said flatly, as if the answer were entirely inconsequential.

At the mention of the blonde girl, his silver brows furrowed with a brief, visible flicker of annoyance.

"I thought you liked her?" You shrugged, nervously fiddling with the rings on your own fingers, desperately trying to quell the strange, fluttering sensation that was beginning to bloom in the pit of your stomach.

Aerion watched your hands, tracking the nervous movement of your fingers before he straightened his posture.

He cleared his throat, the flashing silver face of his luxury watch catching the moonlight. "She’s…"

He cocked his head to the side, letting out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh that sounded entirely uncharacteristic. He nervously racked a hand through his white hair, his fingers disrupting the perfect mess of his strands as if he were genuinely struggling to find the right vocabulary.

"She's just…"

"Alicia," you finished for him, your tone flat.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that sent a shiver down your spine.

He turned his head fully now, his violet eyes locking onto your face with a dangerous, undisguised hunger.

"Don't look at me like that," you whispered, the words small, a desperate attempt to swallow the rising anxiety in your throat.

"Like what?" he chuckled, the sound rich and low against the background hum of the city.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. I hate you, Aerion. Remember?" you reasoned, trying to remind both him and yourself of the boundaries.

"You say that like you're trying to convince yourself," he murmured. He shifted his weight, turning his torso fully toward you now, completely invading your personal space.

Before your brain could formulate a cohesive, defensive response, his hand rose.

His long fingers reached out, the cold, heavy metal of his Valyrian steel rings brushing against the hypersensitive skin of your jawline as he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His touch was agonizingly slow, a gentle contrast to the volatile persona he usually was.

"Let's just say…" he whispered, leaning down until his lips were mere inches from your ear, his breath a warm mix of heavy tobacco and expensive alcohol against your skin. "I vastly prefer you when you're not playing house for my little brother."

He was so incredibly close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. Your mind snapped under the proximity, an embarrassing, violent heat crawling up your neck.

What kind of twisted game was he playing? He had to be mocking you. This was undoubtedly another one of his cruel, depraved psychological experiments to see how easily he could break you—

The electric moment was violently shattered by the sharp hiss of the sliding glass door opening once again.

"There you are!"

Alicia’s glittering, emerald-clad frame stepped out onto the concrete terrace, her voice bellowing over the quiet hum of the night.

She was looking directly at Aerion, her glossy lips pouted in exaggerated annoyance. "I've been looking for you literally everywhere, everyone is in the lounge."

Aerion made a low, frustrated noise in the back of his throat— a guttural, irritated sound as if pulling his weight away from your body physically pained him.

He straightened up, his demeanor instantly freezing back into its familiar, icy mask.

"Is everything… okay out here?" Alicia asked innocently, her ocean-blue eyes flicking curiously from Aerion's rigid posture to your flushed face.

She seemed entirely devoid of jealousy. In fact, the absolute absurdity of person like Aerion Targaryen harboring a genuine, consuming interest in a girl like you was clearly a concept so laughable she didn't even possess the capacity to entertain it.

To her, you were just the girl who watched Aegon. You were part of the background scenery.

You quickly cleared your throat, desperately trying to construct a normal sentence before the silence became incriminating. "Yeah. Um, we were just chatting about—"

You didn't even get to finish your lie. Alicia reached out, her manicured hand wrapping tightly around Aerion's forearm, physically dragging him toward the glowing warmth of the interior.

"Oh, perfect! Well, you can finish your little chat another time. Valarr is looking for you in the kitchen, they’re opening the good bottles."

With that, she began pulling him back toward the glass doors. Aerion aggressively shood her hand off his arm with a sharp flick of his wrist, but he was already trailing reluctantly on her heels, his compliance a necessity of the crowd inside.

Just before he crossed the threshold back into the roaring noise of the party, he stopped.

He looked back over his shoulder once, his pale, violet-grey irises catching the harsh glare of the neon signs.

"You're trouble," he murmured, his voice carrying a strange, low weight that felt dangerously pleasant.

You swallowed the remaining panic in your throat, anchoring your heels into the concrete. "You'd be bored without it," you managed to fire back, throwing his own line right back at his chest.

Aerion shook his head, a genuine, quiet huff of a laugh escaping his lips before he turned and vanished into the sea of silk and gold.

The glass door hissed shut behind him.

You let out a long, shuddering breath you hadn't realized you were holding, your fingers tightly gripping the iron railing as your knees felt suddenly, dangerously weak.

You stared blindly out at the twinkling lights of the King's Landing skyscrapers, the scent of sandalwood and tobacco still heavy in the midnight air.

What the hell had just happened?

The heavy glass door slid shut behind you, cutting off the crisp midnight breeze and plunging you back into the sensory overload of the penthouse.

The sudden spike in temperature, the thick scent of luxury perfumes competing with expensive cannabis overwhelmed you once again, and the sheer volume of the bass rattling through the hardwood floors.

You needed to drown out the memory of the balcony. You needed to dance, to drink, to find Kiera or Tanselle— literally anyone who could act as an anchor to reality before your thoughts completely spiraled into dangerous territory.

Like a neon beacon of hope in a sea of unknown faces, Kiera’s familiar head of bubblegum pink curls caught the light near the edge of the sunken living room. She was leaning against a sleek minimalist pillar, gesturing animatedly with a tiny martini glass as she talked to Valarr and a guy you didn’t recognize.

"Hey," you said, stepping into their orbit. A sudden, nervous energy carried you forward, your heart still beating a little too fast from your encounter outside.

The trio turned toward you. Kiera’s face lit up instantly, her eyes bright and slightly glassy— a telltale sign that she had been indulging a little too heavily in the free-flowing liquor.

She held her martini glass at a dangerously loose angle, the clear liquid sloshing near the brim. You didn't worry, though. Valarr was right beside her, his hand already resting protectively at the small of her back. He always looked out for her.

"Y/N!" Kiera beamed, throwing her free arm around your neck in a sudden, bone-crushing hug. She was definitely more intoxicated than she’d let on via text earlier. "You made it! I thought you died on the balcony!"

"Whoa, whoa, careful, love…" Valarr’s deep voice intervened smoothly.

With the practiced reflexes of a seasoned athlete, he leaned across, his long fingers gently but firmly catching the stem of the martini glass just as it slipped from Kiera’s grip. He wasn't fast enough to stop the liquid entirely though, as a splash of the gin sloshed straight onto the front of her silk top.

"Oh, shit," Kiera grumbled, staring down at the damp fabric and sighing in deep frustration at her own clumsiness.

"I'm going to go get this cleaned up," she mumbled, pouting as she gestured vaguely toward the corridor where the guest bathrooms were located, her legs a little wobbly beneath her.

"Yeah, and you’re not going anywhere alone in this crowd," Valarr pointed out, a tender, amused smile breaking across his handsome features. He looped an arm around her hips, effortlessly guiding her through the dense press of people. Before they disappeared, he offered a polite, apologetic nod to you and the remaining guy. "Excuse us for a minute."

You shook your head, a fond smile playing on your lips as you watched them go. Valarr really was the golden boy of the Breakspeare line— so effortlessly smooth, attentive, and diplomatic. He would make an incredible politician one day, exactly as his father Baelor intended.

Your eyes broke away from the retreating couple when a quiet throat-clearing sounded across from you.

You snapped your attention back to the stranger left standing in Valarr's wake. He was someone you had genuinely never seen before—not in the crowded lecture halls of the law building, not in the quiet, dusty corners of the study halls, and certainly not hanging around the high-end sports cars parked in the Red Keep quad.

He was blonde, but not the striking, otherworldly silver-blonde of the Targaryen dynasty. His hair was a softer, warmer shade of honeyed gold, messily strewn about his head in a way that suggested he had spent the day outdoors rather than in front of a mirror.

He possessed a wide, incredibly friendly grin that immediately crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was like a golden puppy. Lean and approachable, he wore a simple, well-fitted white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and a pair of crisp, dark trousers. He looked entirely… safe.

"Hey… sorry for the chaos," he said, holding out a hand toward you. "Didn't even get a chance to introduce myself properly amidst the martini crisis. I'm Art."

You reached out and took his hand. When your fingers gripped his, you were caught off guard by the sheer warmth of his skin. There were no heavy, cold Valyrian steel rings biting into your palm this time. Just a normal, human touch.

"Me and Valarr are in the same political science major," he clarified, his smile widening as you exchanged names.

"Ah, right. You're Kiera's best friend," Art said, a look of recognition dawning on his face as he gestured toward a slightly quieter corner of the loft where a low leather bench sat empty. "Shit, Valarr mentions the two of you all the time when we're studying."

"He does?" You giggled, letting him guide you away from the main traffic of the walkway.

"Yeah… I mean, mostly he talks about Kiera. The man is completely, painfully down bad for her," Art laughed, scratching the back of his neck.

“Sound about right.” You bit back, sitting down beside him, you couldn't help but notice how entirely different his presence felt compared to the one on the balcony.

Aerion’s presence was a suffocating, atmospheric weight that demanded your entire cognitive capacity; it was all sharp edges, dangerous tension, and dark gravity. Art, on the other hand, felt like a sunny afternoon.

He was entirely down-to-earth. As you fell into easy, comfortable small talk, you learned he didn't come from a millionaire tech empire or an ancient political dynasty. He played tennis on a scholarship, had two younger siblings, and his parents actually owned a commercial dairy farm in the Reach district outside the city.

"Though, I have to say," Art added, leaning back against the bench and throwing you a playfully roguish look, "Valarr definitely left out the detail that Kiera had such a stunning best friend."

It was a textbook, slightly cheesy pickup line, and you couldn't help but swat his shoulder teasingly. "Oh, shut up," you grumbled, though a genuine laugh escaped you.

"What? I'm just stating facts!" he defended, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"So, you're a literal farmer?" you asked, leaning in, trying to make sure your voice didn't sound judgmental. It was just so rare to find someone at a KLU party who knew what manual labor felt like.

"What's so funny about that?" he laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "I mean, I help out around the property when I go home for the holidays. I get the milk from the cows, mend the fences… why are you laughing so hard?"

"Nothing, nothing…" You shook your head, pressing a hand over your mouth as a breathless wheeze escaped you. "It's just… it's so incredibly Tom Sawyer of you. I didn't think guys like you actually existed at this university."

"Hey, it builds character," he grinned, his face completely open and relaxed.

You had to admit, you were having a surprisingly wonderful time. Art was easy to talk to, kind, and genuinely funny.

Yet, despite the effortless flow of the conversation, a traitorous, intrusive little voice in the very back of your head refused to go quiet.

No matter how much Art made you laugh, a part of your mind was still lingering on the balcony. Your skin still felt hyper-sensitive where Aerion’s smoky Valyrian steel rings had brushed against your jawline. You could still taste the phantom scent of Marlboro Reds and sandalwood in the back of your throat.

More than once, a prickling sensation washed over the back of your neck—that heavy, unmistakable feeling of a pair of eyes drilling into your spine.

But every time you casually glanced around the crowded room, hoping or fearing to catch a glimpse of silver hair, you found nothing but strangers. You're being delusional, you told yourself severely. He's with Alicia. He doesn't care about you.

At one point, Rowan walked past the lounge area, her hand securely laced with Raymun’s. When she caught sight of you chatting and laughing with the handsome, honey-blonde boy, she stopped dead in her tracks and shot you a massive, exaggeratedly knowing wink. You aggressively shook your head at her in return, your cheeks heating up as she giggled and let her host boyfriend pull her toward the bar.

"Anyway," Art said, drawing your attention back to the bench as he shifted the topic. "We were supposed to be discussing our interpretation of the Citadel Chronicles for Ashford's seminar. Did you actually manage to parse through the third volume's syntax? Because I'm convinced the author was having a stroke there.”

"Oh, the syntax is a nightmare," you agreed, glad for the academic distraction. "I had to stay up until three in the morning just trying to translate the regional economic data from the old port city—"

Before you could finish your sentence, a sharp, violent sound tore through the thick atmosphere of the loft. The sound of something crashing.

It was the unmistakable, explosive shattering of glass, heavy and resonant enough to cut right through the booming bass of the speakers. The music didn't stop, but the collective volume of the party’s laughter and chatter dropped instantly, replaced by a sudden, tense silence.

"What the hell…" Art muttered, his friendly expression instantly flattening as he stood up from the leather couch.

You rose immediately to follow his lead, your heart doing a strange, protective drop in your chest. Across the vast penthouse, a frantic murmur was breaking out. A large, dense crowd of students was already shifting, turning their heads and eagerly gathering near the wide archway of the kitchen entrance, voices rising in a sudden flurry of excitement and dread.

The easy, golden warmth of your conversation with Art dissolved like mist. You didn't even think; your boots were already moving, stepping off the leather bench and driving you toward the kitchen archway.

Art’s hand shot out, his warm fingers brushing against your wrist in a frantic attempt to anchor you, to keep you from running straight into the blast radius.

"Y/N, wait—don't get close to that," he warned, his voice low and tight with a regular guy's instinct for self-preservation.

You shooed him off with a sharp jerk of your arm, your eyes locked on the shifting geometry of the crowd ahead. "I’m fine, Art," you muttered, your focus completely consumed by the sudden shift in the room’s temperature.

"I'm not your fucking mate!" another voice roared, high-pitched and vibrating with pure, unadulterated adrenaline.

Around the kitchen perimeter, the KLU elite were already adopting their positions. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, holding their gold-rimmed glasses and designer clutches, their faces schooled into expressions of practiced, aristocratic judgment.

They acted horrified, wrinkling their noses as if violence were an urban disease beneath their tax bracket, but their eyes were wide, glittering with a sick, parasitic entertainment. Hypocrites, you thought. Every single one of them.

"What's happening?" you demanded, nudging the shoulder of a girl in a sequined top whose view wasn't blocked by the wall of tall rugby players currently forming a human barricade.

You didn't need her to answer. As if responding to the sheer force of your arrival, the crowd parted just enough to afford you a clear, unobstructed line of sight.

The pristine, grey-veined marble of the kitchen counter was no longer an altar for expensive wine. Aerion Targaryen had a guy pinned by the throat against the high-gloss white subway tile of the wall. His lean, tailored frame looked entirely predatory, his shoulders squared as he leveraged his weight to lift the other student an inch off the floor.

Before your brain could even process the visual, a sickening, wet crack echoed through the space, a sound so brutal it seemed to stop the music altogether. Aerion’s knuckle, adorned with those heavy, coiled Valyrian steel rings, had collided squarely with the guy's nose.

An ugly, violent crimson bloomed instantly across the boy's face, cascading like a ruptured river down the front of his pristine white linen shirt.

You gasped, the sound catching in your throat along with a collective, horrified ripple that shuddered through the entire throng of spectators.

It was a stark, grounding reminder: all the nepotism in Westeros, all the multi-million-dollar trusts, the high-end private nannies, and the legacy admissions didn't make the children of world leaders and corporate dynasties any less savage than regular street thugs when the veneer cracked. Underneath the tailored silk, they were still beasts. "Oh, you're fucking dead, Targaryen!" the guy barked, his voice choked on his own blood.

With a desperate, adrenaline-fueled surge, he managed to writhe his neck free from Aerion’s bruising grip. He didn't retreat; he lunged forward, sending a wild, heavy punch flying straight toward Aerion's jaw.

Some of the girls near the front shrank back in genuine horror, while a few of the more intoxicated frat guys from the sports faculty were outright beaming, too boozed up on top-shelf liquor to realize they were witnessing a potential lawsuit in real-time.

Through the shifting shoulders of the crowd, you finally spotted Raymun Fossoway trying to force his way to the front of his own kitchen, his face pale with the realization that his security deposit was currently being smeared across the walls. Rowan was trailing tightly behind him, her fiery red topknot slightly disheveled, her eyes wide and worried as she looked for you.

"Aye! What the fuck is happening here?" Raymun yelled, throwing his arms out as he finally breached the inner circle.

He shoved himself physically between the two crashing bodies, his hands pressing against their chests to stop them from completely tearing each other apart. "What the hell has gotten into the two of you? Knuckleheads! This isn't a fucking boxing ring! You've got a problem with each other, take it outside to the gravel!"

The injured student spat a massive, dark dollop of blood straight onto the polished concrete floor, the fluid landing right between Aerion’s polished shoes and Raymun’s sneakers. "Tell this prissy, silver-headed fuck—" the guy choked out, but he never got to finish the insult.

Aerion was already lunging again, his eyes entirely void of reason, his silver-white hair flying wildly around his face like a localized storm.

"Aerion!"

Alicia’s shrill, high-society shriek cut through the chaos like broken glass. She was hovering near the pantry, her perfect makeup ruined by lines of frantic tears, her emerald-green dress looking suddenly crumpled and tragic.

You couldn't tell how long the exchange lasted. You didn't know how many blows had been traded before the room went dark or how much structural damage had been inflicted on the loft.

All you knew was that you stood entirely paralyzed, your boots glued to the floor as the crowd shifted around you like a turbulent sea.

Finally, the sheer mass of Duncan the Tall moved into the frame. The rugby captain utilized his massive, broad frame to physically lock his arms around the bleeding student, pulling him backward with a strength that brooked no argument.

Simultaneously, Valarr materialized from the corridor, his jaw tight and his expression dark with a profound, weary frustration. He grabbed Aerion by the shoulders, using his own formidable leverage to drag his cousin back into the center of the room.

"Don't fucking touch me!" Aerion snarled, his voice a guttural, animalistic hiss as he violently wrenched his shoulders out of Valarr's diplomatic grip.

"Hey—" Valarr stepped into his line of sight, his tone remarkably level, his hands raised in a calming gesture. He didn't look shocked. He looked tired.

This was clearly a regular occurrence in the private annals of the Targaryen family tree— a realization that both baffled and horrified you. "Calm the hell down, yeah? Look at me. Breathe."

Valarr tried to talk some sense into him, but Aerion just let out a cold, mocking scoff, his chest heaving as he turned his back on his cousin. He swept his glacier-like gaze across the circle of onlookers, his eyes burning with a terrifying, unhinged malice.

"What are the lot of you staring at?" he barked, his voice slicing through the residual murmurs until the room went completely dead silent.

Alicia stepped forward, her manicured hand reaching out to touch his arm, her voice trembling as she begged him to stay, to let her clean him up. Aerion didn't even look at her. With a brutal, dismissive jerk of his shoulder, he shrugged her off as if she were nothing more than a nuisance, leaving her standing under the harsh kitchen LEDs.

As he turned toward the main exit, the light caught his face fully for the first time.

A nasty, jagged cut was bleeding freely on his upper lip, and an ugly, dark purple bruise was already beginning to bloom across his aristocratic cheekbone. He stormed out of the kitchen, his heavy boots echoing like thunder against the concrete as he headed straight for the apartment door, leaving a vacuum of stunned silence in his wake. "What the actual fuck…" you heard Art mutter under his breath from beside you.

You hadn't even realized he had followed you to the front until his shadow fell over your shoulder. He shook his head, staring at the blood splatters on the subway tile with a deep, visceral disgust.

"That guy is a literal lunatic. A straight-up textbook psychotic. Who even does that at a house party?"

Valarr ignored Art entirely. His brunette hair was slightly mussed as he rubbed a heavy hand across his forehead, his eyes locked onto the heavy oak door at the end of the foyer that was still vibrating from being slammed shut.

"Shit," Valarr muttered, his diplomatic composure finally cracking as he looked at Raymun. "He shouldn't be driving like this. He’s furious, he’s bleeding, and he’s probably got half a bottle of gin in his system."

You knew exactly what Valarr was thinking. Aerion was headed straight for the parking garage below the building. He was headed for that ridiculous, midnight black Porsche— the one he drove around campus like an extension of his own volatile ego.

Valarr let out a heavy, stressed sigh, his fingers palming his forehead as he calculated his options. "Shit… I can't leave Kiera, though. She's completely wasted in the bathroom, I can't just drop her—"

"It's fine," you said.The words cut through the air before you could even formulate the conscious thought to speak them.

You surprised yourself, the sudden steel in your voice catching Valarr’s attention immediately.

Your brain, the logical, self-preserving part of you, was screaming at you to stop. What are you doing? You should stay here. You should be in the bathroom with Kiera, holding her hair back while Tanselle or Rowan helped. You should let Valarr handle his own dysfunctional family. They were blood; they shared the same ancient, volatile lineage. It wasn't your job. It wasn't your burden.

But your feet were already shifting.

"I'll go after him," you let out, the declaration sounding final, leaving no room for argument as you turned your back on the kitchen and began walking purposefully toward the front door.

"Y/N, wait!" Valarr barked behind you, his long stride breaking into a forward movement to catch your hand, but you were already too fast.

You slipped past the threshold of the lounge, dodging a group of stunned freshmen who were already slipping back into their idle chatter and high-society gossip, moving as if the violence had been nothing more than a mid-party performance.

"Is this chic fucking insane or what?" Art’s voice drifted over the crowd, his tone laced with absolute bewilderment as he watched your retreating back. "Does she have a literal death wish…"

You didn't look back to see his expression. You had no idea what had just taken control of your body.

You had no idea what kind of silent, stupid, magnetic force was pulling you out of that safe, warm apartment and driving you toward the elevator. All you knew was that the image of the blood on Aerion’s lip and the unhinged, self-destructive look in his violet eyes had burned themselves into your eyelids, and you couldn't stop walking until you hit the cold concrete of the hallway.

On the way down in the elevator, the silence of the steel box was deafening, a stark contrast to the roaring chaos you had just left behind. You were biting your inner lip so hard that the sharp, coppery tang of blood began to bloom on your tongue.

Your breathing was erratic, coming and going in shallow, jagged bursts that rattled your chest.

What the hell were you thinking?

You had seen the way he treated Alicia— a girl who actually belonged in his gilded world—and he had all but discarded her like an afterthought when the adrenaline hit. What could you possibly say to him that she couldn’t have?

You were the babysitter. You were the help. You were probably the absolute last person on this earth Aerion Targaryen wanted to see right now. Why had you stormed off like that? Was it some sick, deeply buried savior complex deciding to kick in, or were you just a massive, incomparable idiot? Probably the latter.

You repeated it like a mantra against the steady descent of the elevator floor: You're an idiot. A big, fucking idiot. Did you have some pathological need to fix every single broken, tragic Targaryen that crossed your path? You weren't hired to heal their generational trauma. You weren't supposed to care.

But all the logic in the world evaporated the moment the elevator doors chimed, sliding open to reveal the subterranean chill of the lower parking level. Your feet moved of their own volition, carrying you forward like a heavy weight on a mechanical track, utterly out of your control.

The moment you stepped out into the open air of the perimeter lot, a violent gust of wind hit you like a physical wall, whipping your hair across your face.

The night was dark, illuminated only by the sickly amber glow of a single, flickering sodium-vapor streetlamp. Your boots clicked a frantic, echoing rhythm against the damp asphalt as you rounded the concrete pillar.

And there he was.

Aerion’s lean frame was practically shaking with a terrifying, kinetic fury, his silhouette dark against the polished, obsidian paint of his Porsche.

"Aerion!" you shouted into the wind, your voice cracking slightly but carrying across the empty lot, rendering your presence entirely unavoidable.

"What the hell..." he muttered under his breath, pausing with his hand resting on the driver's side door. He spun around to glare at you, his features twisted into something feral.

"Leave me the fuck alone, Y/N. Get away from here." He barked the order, already pulling the heavy key fob from his pocket, his knuckles raw and scraped, his split lip still oozing a dark line of red.

"No!" you interjected, closing the distance between you, defiance anchoring your heels against the pavement as he cursed under his breath, fumbling with the car door.

"Are you completely deaf or just plain stupid?" he bared his teeth at you, his violet eyes flashing in the dark like a rabid dog backed into a corner. "I don't want you here. Get out of my sight."

"No," you cut him off, your voice rising to match his, your own frame shaking with a sudden, matching fury. "I am not letting you get into that car with fucking alcohol instead of blood in your system. You're going to wrap that expensive piece of metal around a tree, or worse—"

He let out a harsh, mocking snarl, stepping away from the car to face you fully. "And why the fuck would you care, huh? Don't stand there and act like you give a single, flying shit about what happens to me. You said it yourself tonight—I'm the most irritating, insufferable—"

"Shut up for once in your miserable life, Aerion!" you thundered, the sheer volume of your voice surprising even the wind.

"Just shut the hell up, will you? You treat me like absolute garbage for months. You make my life a living hell on campus, you spew your poisonous, elitist shit at me every time I breathe the same air as you—and then all of a sudden, you’re touching my face on a balcony and acting like..."

You swallowed hard, the word catching in your throat. "Acting like a complete lunatic! And then you get yourself into a bloody brawl in a kitchen. You have no right—you have absolutely zero right to do this!"

Aerion seemed violently taken aback by the outburst. The vicious retort died on his tongue, and if you hadn't been so entirely consumed by the white-hot rage vibrating through your veins, you might have noticed the way his pale irises instantly hazed over, darkening with a sudden, predatory intensity that looked like he wanted to devour you alive right there on the concrete.

"Not every single thing on this planet is a game revolving around your ego, okay?" you continued, your chest heaving as you stepped closer, entirely disregarding the danger. "Because if you get in that Porsche and you fucking die tonight, you're not the only one who has to suffer the fallout. It's about your family. It's about Valarr, and your father, and Aegon—"

"Oh, so this is about Egg now?" he mocked, his voice dropping into a bitter, venomous drawl as the alcohol loosened his filter. "What, do you get some sick cosmic thrill out of playing house? Acting like a fucking mother? Let me remind you of something, sweetheart—you will never be his mother. You can never replace her. We had a mother. She's dead. She’s ashes." He spat the words, the raw, unhealed trauma of Dyanna’s passing oozing out of him like poison.

"Are you even hearing yourself, you fucking hypocrite?" You let out an incredulous, bitter laugh, shaking your head. "This has nothing to do with me trying to be a mother or trying to replace Dyanna—"

Aerion physically winced at the sound of her name, his jaw tightening into iron as he raised a warning finger to your face. "Don't you dare say her name—"

"No! This is about you!" you shouted over him, refusing to back down. "This is about the kind of men that poor little boy has to grow up watching! Take this with every single bit of bitter salt that you can, Aerion Targaryen, but your family is a magnificent, catastrophic mess. Your father, Daeron, you—all of you! And instead of protecting Aegon, instead of helping him and loving him like a normal, decent older brother should, you torture him! He is terrified of you, Aerion! He looks at you and sees a monster!"

Aerion shook his head slowly from side to side, a manic, disbelief coloring his features as he tried to block out the truth of your words. "That's a bunch of absolute bullshit... and we both know it..."

"No," you thundered, stepping directly into his space until the scent of his metallic blood, stale gin, and Marlboro Reds completely enveloped you. "No, it is the absolute, undeniable truth, Aerion. It's the truth and you know it. You're just too much of a pathetic coward to look in the mirror and admit it to yourself."

"A coward, huh?" He let out a low, dangerous sound, his head tilting as the blood from his split lip smeared across his chin. "Is that what you're calling your employer's son now? You have some serious fucking nerve."

When you finally managed to catch your breath, your heart stopped. A slightly crooked, dark grin was playing on his bleeding lips. He wasn't furious anymore. He was fascinated. He was thoroughly, intensely enjoying the sight of you screaming at him, loving the fact that you were tearing him down to his very bones.

He leaned his hand forward, his fingers twitching.

“Don't you dare touch me,” you breathed, practically jumping back a step as if his very skin were made of burning coal.

“You'd absolutely hate how much you'd like it… and you know it,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a smooth, resonant register that possessed not a single shred of doubt.

And the worst part—the absolutely terrifying, sickening part—was that unwelcome, coiling heat instantly spreading through the pit of your belly again, betraying every logical thought in your head.

"If you're waiting for me to apologize for what I said, don't hold your breath," you snapped, trying to steel yourself.

"Good. I'd hate for you to pass out from lack of oxygen before I win this argument," he countered smoothly. He was unfuckingbelievable.

"Aerion..." you warned, your voice trembling slightly as you realized the distance between your bodies had vanished again. "You're standing too close."

"Say the word, and I'll stop... but don't lie to me," he whispered, leaning in dangerously, agonizingly close.

You could see the dark, drying blood coating the edges of his Valyrian steel rings. "We're completely alone out here. No one from the Red Keep has to know. No one from the campus. Just this once..."

He dared to raise both hands, his long fingers structuring themselves on either side of your face. His grip was firm, entirely unyielding, but possessed a strange, controlled gentleness that ensured it wouldn't leave a mark. It was an utterly, undeniably possessive hold.

"What is wrong with you?" you spat, a volatile cocktail of frustration, tears, anger, and deep-seated want bubbling to the surface as your hands came up, closing tightly over his wrists to pull him away. "Is this just another one of your sick, depraved games? A bet with your friends?"

He shook his head, the accusation seemingly inflicting a flash of physical pain across his features. He licked his dry, bleeding lips, his eyes locked onto yours.

"Why, Aerion? Why do this?" you demanded, desperate for a shield, refusing to let him win this easily. You needed a reason. You needed to understand how a guy who had made your life a living purgatory suddenly looked at you like this. "You spend months threatening to ruin my fucking life, and then you—"

"Because I don't know how the fuck to get you to pay attention to me, okay, Y/N?" he suddenly growled through gritted teeth, the raw, unfiltered truth ripping out of him with a force that clearly cost his pride everything.

"You are always focusing on someone else. You're always hovering over Aegon, or Daella, or Rhae, or fucking Daeron. You look at my father, you look at Valarr, you look at every single person in that house—except me. You look right through me."

"So you justify bullying me because you were fucking attention-seeking?" You almost barked an ironic, disbelieving laugh against his chest.

"No," he stepped in even closer, his torso pressing against yours. "'M not justifying a single thing." His thumbs began to slowly, deliberately caress the sensitive skin of your cheekbones, the contrast of his cold steel rings against your burning skin making your mind go completely blank.

"You're blushing," he pointed out, a wicked, triumphant grin cutting through the blood on his face. You didn't even think he could see it under the dim, orange wash of the streetlamp, but you felt it—the violent, coiling warmth spreading across your face.

"Shut up," you muttered weakly. "If you wanted me to kiss you," you breathed, refusing to break eye contact, your fingers tightening on his wrists, "you could have just said so from the beginning."

A dark, raw sound escaped the back of his throat at your words, every single ounce of his practiced aristocratic self-restraint shattering into nothingness. "You know exactly what you do to me, don't you? You always have," he accused.

"Careful Targaryen," you bit back, one last desperate defense. "Someone might actually think you want me. We are absolutely not supposed to do this."

He threw his head back, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh as if the concept of rules were an utter joke to his bloodline. "Since when has that ever stopped a dragon?"

And with that, the tension snapped.

He lunged forward, his hands sliding from your face to grip the back of your neck, pulling your body flush against his own as he dragged you into a searing, cataclysmic kiss.

Aerion didn't just kiss you—he devoured you. It was a feral, consuming force, as if he wanted to eat you alive and pull your very soul into his lungs.

A heavy, desperate groan broke against your mouth as your hands finally released his wrists, your fingers threading wildly through his silver-white locks, pulling him impossibly, painfully close. The kiss was all sharp teeth and bruising tongue—a violent, chaotic battle of wills that you had no intention of letting him win easily.

You bit down hard on his lower lip, wanting him to feel at least a fraction of the agonizing mental torment he had inflicted on you for months.

Instead of pulling away, his grip on your waist only tightened, his fingers digging into your hips as he let out a dark, breathless sound, clearly thriving on the depraved, aggressive nature of the embrace.

It was a kiss fueled by alcohol, adrenaline, months of toxic friction, and pure, unadulterated lust. It tasted like gin, Marlboro Reds, and the coppery tang of shared blood—it was filthily disgusting, entirely wrong, and undeniably the greatest kiss of your entire life.

Your entire universe narrowed down to the heat of his skin. Your body was completely intoxicated by his scent, your brain entirely incapable of forming a single coherent thought. The world outside this parking lot didn't exist. Rowan, Kiera, Valarr, Aegon—they were all casualties of a fire that was currently burning you alive.

"Aerion..." you panted against his lips when the sheer lack of oxygen finally forced the two of you to pull back an inch, your foreheads resting together as you gasped for air.

"I can feel your heartbeat..." Aerion muttered, his voice a low, ragged purr. He leaned down, pressing his lips directly against the frantic, hammering pulse point on your neck, tracing the skin with a terrifying reverence. "Is that for me, love?"

"I've wanted this... since the very first moment I met you," he admitted against your skin, his hands never ceasing their frantic caress.

"Could have fooled me," you bit back, though the words lacked any real venom. You looked up at him with a newfound, consuming obsession, every shred of your logic and self-respect scattered on the pavement.

You couldn't bring yourself to care about how messy, dangerous, or ruinous the morning would be. The morning.

"You can go back to hating me in the morning..." Aerion whispered, his violet eyes locking onto yours with a desperate, heavy gravity. "Just let me have you. Just give me tonight."

"Is this really all you wanted from me?" you questioned, your fingers gripping his shoulders.

"No," he shook his head, a dark, dangerous sincerity settling over his features. "I wanted more."

Of course he did. Aerion Targaryen wanted everything. He wanted all of you, his greed an insatiable, genetic trait that was engraved into his very marrow. It was apparent in the way he carried himself, in the way he fought, and in the way his lips moved against yours.

"I always knew there was a fire in you," he murmured, his gaze tracing your features with an obsessive, terrifying devotion.

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he muttered something in low, rolling High Valyrian that you couldn't fully translate, though the cadence made your skin prickle. "Ñuhon," he whispered against your skin. Mine.

You swallowed hard, the taste of his tobacco and liquor still heavy on your tongue. "Don't stop," you muttered fiercely into his cheek as his heavy hands slid down to grip your hips, pulling you back into the dark shadow of the Porsche. "Don't you dare stop."

You had no idea what the hell was happening anymore. You had no idea what this would do to your job, to your life, or to the fragile peace you had built.

Because when the sun came up, everything would be undeniably, irreversibly altered.

Or perhaps, that was the thought that terrified you the most. Monsters like Aerion Brightflame didn't change their nature over the course of a single night.

And even if he spent the next few hours worshipping you in the dark, it didn't mean he wouldn't be ready to tear you to pieces when the morning light rose.

©padmespetal 2026: I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

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[m1dnightsunk1ss]

GIRL UHH HELLO WHAT A MASTERPIECE AND IT WAS OUT ON MY BIRTHDAY TOO oh this would have been the best present 😭

[padmespetal]

TRANCE ✧ modern!aerion targaryen x egg’s babysitter!reader (part of the welcome to the family series)

✧ synopsis— Aerion Targaryen hates you. And you hate him. It is merely a simple fact of nature. But after weeks of riling you up and pushing you dangerously close to the edge— everything threatens to boil over at a party hosted by one of Valarr’s campus friends.

✧ warnings— enemies to lovers but they actually hate each other (kind of?), slowburn, very toxic dynamics aka aerion is severely immature but it’s ok we forgive him because he’s hot (and blonde), english is not my first language so potentially some sentences and grammar that make absolutely no sense, alcohol, mentions of substances and intoxication, smoking, uhm very messy kissing and graphic descriptions of blood

✧ word count— 14k

✧ author’s note— i’ve been waiting for this one. turn it up. seriously though haha tysm for being this patient with me, i know a lot of you have been waiting for this fic since april. it was really fun writing it though and i can only hope you enjoy reading it equally as much ! <3

. . . ♬ on the radio ; the cure by olivia rodrigo & haunted by beyoncé.

The blue light of your laptop was a cold, unforgiving sun in the dimness of your studio apartment. You were sprawled across the floor, the plush fibers of the taupe carpet pressing against your cheek, providing a strange grounding sort of friction against the drift of your thoughts.

Around you, the world felt static— a tableau of half finished coffee cups and a mountain of open tabs that hummed with a quiet, persistent buzz.

The emails sat in a neat, daunting row. A digital wall of obligations you weren't quite ready to climb yet.

“And then— Y/N! Are you even listening to me?” Aegon’s voice, tiny and sharp through the phone speakers, sliced through your temporary trance.

You blinked, your eyes burning from the screen glare as you shifted your weight, propping your chin up with your palm.

In the small, glowing rectangle of the FaceTime window Aegon—Egg— looked borderline offended. His shaved head an evidence of rebellion in a family that prized their silver-gold manes like religious relics. His face catching the light of his bedside lamp.

“Huh!” You shook your head, the motion making the room tilt for a fraction of a second. “I’m here, Egg. I’m listening, I swear.”

Egg sighed. A dramatic, heavy sound that seemed too weary for a boy his age. He rolled his eyes, the motion exaggerated by the camera angle. “Right. Sure you are. So, what did I just say? About Daeron promising to take me to that amusement park?”

You stared at him, your brain a chaotic, filing cabinet of unfinished assignments and to-be-attended seminars. “Uhm… well… I know it involved something about… the dornish puppeteers? Did they have a pop-up show near the ferris wheel?”

“See! I knew it!” He pointed a traitorous finger at the camera, his expression a mix of triumph and genuine annoyance. “You weren't listening. You were doing that thing which you do when my dad is talking and you’re pretending like you’re listening.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, okay!” You groaned, finally surrendering to the fatigue and letting your head thud back against the base of the velvet sofa behind you. Choosing to ignore his side remark for your own sanity.

You reached out, fumbling to perch the phone against a discarded thrown pillow so you could look at him without holding the device. “I’m just… I’m swamped Egg. College is kicking my ass. It’s a relentless cycle of deadlines, and your family… your beautiful, brooding, weirdly passive-aggressive family… they’re a lot to handle sometimes.”

You knew, logically, that you shouldn't be venting the intricacies of Targaryen interpersonal drama to the youngest member of the dynasty, but Egg was anything but a normal kid.

He was the sixth son of a fourth son. He was free to do as he pleased, yet he still carried the weight and prejudice that came with the Targaryen name.

“Tell me about it,” Aegon deadpanned.

He flopped onto his back, his camera swinging wildly to show a ceiling painted with a mural of the night sky— it was expensive, meticulous, and cold.

“They’re exhausting. Especially when Daeron starts drinking those ‘medicinal’ herbal teas that smell like a brewery.”

You didn’t even want to know.

“The point is,” you sighed, closing your eyes and letting the hum of your laptop anchor you, “I’m trying to keep my head above water, and I’m sorry if I can’t remember every minuscule detail of the amusement park itinerary. I’m trying to be a person, Egg. It’s harder than it looks.”

Aegon went quiet suddenly. Through the screen, his expression softened, his eyes losing that sharp, precocious edge.

He looked, for a moment, like a little boy who just missed his friend.

“I know,” he muttered, his voice dropping an octave. “I didn’t mean to be difficult. Much.”

“It’s fine,” you whispered, biting the corner of your lip, suddenly feeling guilty for dumping everything onto him.

You felt the familiar ache of your own position. The permanent babysitter, the girl who came over every friday, the honorary older sister who still had to submit invoices to a business manager at the end of every month.

You loved them, you truly did.

You loved the chaos of Kiara’s friendship and the way she navigated the social stratosphere with a grace you could only envy.

You loved Daella and Rhae, even when they were being impossible.

But you were an orbit away from their sun.

“Plus,” you added, the bitterness leaking out before you could stop it, “your asshole brother has made it his personal mission in life to make sure I don't have a single moment of peace on campus.”

You didn’t bother to censor the word.

‘Asshole’ was perhaps the kindest descriptor you had for Aerion Targaryen.

“Aerion?” Egg’s voice sharpened with genuine confusion and a flicker of something that looked quite like dread. “What’s he doing now? Is he being… weird again?”

You remembered when Egg had told you— about how apparently Aerion had drowned his cat in the well once. Looking at the dying creature with cold, detached eyes. A shudder ran through you, a cold finger tracing the length of your spine.

“Nothing direct,” you lied, though the lie felt thin, even from your own lips.

“Just comments. He’s always there Egg. In the student union, in the courtyard… leaning against that ridiculous car of his. He always makes these… remarks. About my clothes. About how I look like I’m constantly lost. About how I don’t ‘belong’ there.”

“Y/N…” Aegon sounded worried now.

“It’s stupid. He’s just a nepo baby with too much time and a god complex,” you said, trying to regain your footing. “He’s an asshole, and that’s just the natural order of things.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to take his offenses just because you’re working for—babysitting me,” Egg quickly corrected himself, his loyalty flaring up.

You bit your lip harder. That was the crux of it, wasn't it? You were the help, even if you were the help that got invited to Christmas dinner.

You were terrified of the day you might snap, of the day you might finally tell Aerion Targaryen exactly what you thought of his entire ‘brightflame’ persona, and subsequently find yourself without a job and a roof over your head.

Maekar, his father, was a fair man—hard, but fair, but you knew that blood was thicker than any employee contract.

“I know. I can handle it. Really,” you assured him, though your voice lacked the steel you wanted. You were tired of constantly being the resilient one, the punching bag.

Aegon huffed, clearly unconvinced, but he knew better than to push you when you were in this mood.

He rolled over in his bed, the rustle of his cotton sheets audible through the phone. “Well… anyway, I need to go. Maester Mellon is taking us for a ‘nature walk’ tomorrow. Which is just code for looking at dirt and pretending it’s interesting.”

“Ah. How academic. How very thousand eyes and one of him,” you snickered, referencing the old campus joke about the faculty’s surveillance.

“Shut up,” Egg grumbled, but there was a smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Egg. And don’t stay up late playing Minecraft. I can see your status on Discord, you know.”

“Love youuu! Bye!”

He didn’t even wait for a response before the screen went black, the call cutting off with a soft bloop.

The silence came abruptly after. The ‘I love you’ lingering in the air. A warm, soft thing that made the cold blue light of the laptop feel a little less clinical. You hated how natural it sounded.

He was the reason you stayed. This little boy and his ridiculous shaved head were the only thing currently keeping you motivated.

But tomorrow was Monday. Tomorrow meant the university campus. It meant navigating the labyrinth of ivory towers and the even more treacherous social hierarchy of the ‘great houses’ students.

“Oh, fuck me,” you muttered, pressing your fingers against your temples. A headache was already beginning to bloom behind your eyes. The humming of the fridge audiable in the background.

You thought of Aerion— the way he wore his arrogance like a tailored suit, and the way his eyes always seemed to find you in a crowd, tracking you with the predatory focus of someone who had never been told ‘no.’

You considered, just for a moment, the blissful possibility of staying in bed. Of letting the emails rot and the classes pass you by.

But then you thought of Egg’s laugh and Kiera’s frantic texts about the next big event, and you sighed.

You wouldn't give Aerion the satisfaction of your absence.

You’d show up, you’d take his insults, and you’d survive.

Because that’s what you did. You were the permanent babysitter, the girl who kept the dragons from burning down the house, even if it meant you got a few singe marks along the way.

Transitioning from the claustrophobic, blue light drenched sanctuary of your apartment to the sprawling, high-gothic grandeur of King’s Landing University always felt like a leap between two different centuries.

The previous night’s two hour digital marathon with Egg, his face a pixelated mess of adolescent indignity, felt like a fever dream by the time the morning sun hit the red brick facade of the Law building.

You were walking arm in arm with Kiera, your boots clicking rhythmically against the cobblestones that had been smoothed by centuries of entitled footsteps.

Kiera was a walking riot of color, as usual. A middle finger to the beige and navy minimalist aesthetic of the university’s elite. Her curls were a defiant, ethereal bubblegum pink, a nod to her Tyroshi heritage that she wore like a proud, neon sign.

She was draped in an oversized, custom hand painted silk coat that billowed behind her, looking effortlessly chic in a way that made the old money students in their barbour jackets look like they were wearing uniforms. All of them dulled in comparison to her.

"I’m telling yo Y/N, the look on Valarr’s face was priceless," Kiera giggled, the sound like wind chimes in the crisp morning air. She was recounting the latest scandal from the Breakspeare household.

"We were at this tiny, artisanal bistro very low-key, very ‘we’re not that famous'— and then Matarys calls. He sounds like he’s trying to describe the color of his own soul. Apparently, he thought those brownies in the fridge were just… well regular brownies."

You snorted, a stray lock of hair whipping across your face. "Matarys?” Your voice is filled with disbelief, imagining the straight edged, Dondarrion freckled, golden boy who apparently took an edible? By accident? How does that even happen?

"Accidentally, my ass. On purpose, maybe," Kiera deadpanned. "He told Valarr he was 'too scared of the ceiling' to call Baelor. Can you imagine? Calling the deputy of Targaryen corp who also happens to be your terrifyingly perfect father— to tell him the room is spinning? Valarr had to leave our dessert to go rescue him from a very intense conversation with a floor lamp."

"I think it's sweet that they trust each other like that," you noted, though a pang of envy flickered in your chest.

The Targaryens were a mess. A beautiful, sprawling, high functioning disaster, but they were a unit. Even when they were spiraling, they had someone to call. "I don’t think I’d have the courage to call anyone in that state. I’d just accept my fate and become one with the carpet."

"Oh, please," Kiera nudged you, her elbow sharp but affectionate. "You would’ve called me. Mostly because I’d probably be the one who gave you the brownie in the first place."

"True," you admitted, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to dissipate.

The campus was nothing short of electric today. Between the towering library and the ivy choked faculty buildings, a sea of white tents had been erected.

The KLU Student Body was hosting a massive charity drive for the urban renewal of Flea Bottom. The low income district that sat in the shadow of the university’s pristine hill. It was the kind of performative altruism the university adored; students in five hundred dollar sneakers selling cupcakes to 'end poverty.'

Still, it meant the atmosphere was festive rather than academic. No three hour seminars on ancient tournaments and conquests. No grueling geography tests on the tourist economies of the Summer Isles.

For a moment, you felt invincible. You were young, you were wearing your favorite thrifted leather jacket, and you were flanked by a woman who looked like a walking sunset.

"Looks like we have a penchant for trouble—" you started to say, the words light on your tongue. But as soon as the words escaped your lips, you wished they never had.

The scent is what gave him away. The sandalwood and expensive tobacco, and a sharp, metallic note of something like ozone. It was a fragrance that cost more than your monthly rent.

And the very air in the crowd seemed to shift, as if out of reverence.

Standing near the fountain, leaning against a stone gargoyle with a level of practiced arrogance that bordered on the divine, was Aerion Targaryen. A vision of monochromatic cruelty.

His hair, that signature Targaryen silver-white, was messily styled but perfectly maintained, catching the morning light like spun glass. He was wearing black dress pants that looked custom tailored to his lean frame and a crisp, white shirt with the top three buttons undone, exposing the pale line of his throat. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the dirt of the path he clearly felt superior to.

"Seven hells," you whispered, the invincibility of the morning shattering like dropped porcelain. "Just the thing I needed. My daily dose of arsenic."

Kiera’s upbeat expression flattened instantly. Her pastel brows furrowed as her eyes landed on her boyfriend’s cousin. "Oh. Him."

You tried to pivot, to blend into a group of passing freshmen, but it was too late.

Aerion’s gaze—a pale, violet-grey that felt like being stared at by a glacier— already snapped to yours. He straightened up. A slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face. He practically descended upon you.

"Not babysitting the impudent little rat today, are you?"

His voice was a smooth, melodic drawl, the kind of voice that belonged to a venomous serpent draped in silk, and was currently being used as a weapon. He didn't even bother with a greeting. To Aerion, you were a fixed point in the universe— a target.

"Aerion," Kiera said, her voice dropping into the clipped, diplomatic tone she used when dealing with the more volatile members of the family tree.

He offered her a shallow, mocking nod, his eyes never leaving yours. He was sizing you up, his gaze raking over your outfit, the slightly worn boots, the frayed hem of your jeans—with a visible, shimmering disdain. It was as if he were looking at a smudge on an otherwise perfect canvas.

"And you," he turned his focus to Kiera, his presence suddenly suffocating. "Not hanging off my dear cousin’s arm today, Kiera? Or has Valarr finally realized that your color palette is… shall we say, a bit too much for a future diplomat?"

Kiera visibly tensed beside you, her hand tightening on your arm. "Valarr is busy with the faculty. They’re organizing the fundraiser. You know, for people who actually need help?"

Aerion let out a short, sharp bark of a laugh. He looked at the charity tents with an expression of profound boredom.

"How lovely. Charity being organized by… charity cases." He leveled a pointed, malicious look at you. The implication hung in the air like a foul mist: You are the help. You are the Flea Bottom they are pretending to care about.

"If you have nothing nice to say, Aerion, you might as well take your expensive cologne and your bad attitude back to the economics wing," you managed through gritted teeth, your pulse hammering in your ears. "Some of us are actually trying to have a good day."

He stepped closer, invading your personal space until you could see the fine, silver lashes framing his eyes. "Careful," he hissed, his voice dropping to a poisonous whisper that only you could hear. "Remember, sweetheart, you still work for my father. One word about your… 'unprofessional' outbursts, and you’ll be back to working at the puppeteer shows without a paycheck to catch you."

"You have some nerve—" Kiera started, stepping forward to defend you, but you caught her hand.

Aerion chuckled, a sound of pure amusement. "Careful Tyrosh. Calm your little friend. We wouldn't want those wedding bells with Valarr to stop tolling before they even start, would we? Uncle Baelor is so very particular about the company his heir keeps."

The threat was veiled, but heavy. He was reminding both of you of the precariousness of your positions. Kiera was a girlfriend; and you were an employee. He was something neither of you would ever be. He was blood.

"Have a fun time, ladies," he added casually, slinging his hands into his pockets and stepping back.

He swept his gaze over you one last time, his eyes lingering on your lips for a fraction of a second too long before turning cold again. "Taking care of… blind children and narcomaniacs. It suits you. Very 'salt of the earth.'"

And with that he vanished into the crowd, his silver hair a beacon of light amidst the sea of brown and blonde. The scent of his cologne lingering like a physical weight, a reminder of the encounter that made you feel suddenly, violently small.

"What the hell is actually wrong with him?" Kiera muttered, practically dragging you away from the fountain and toward the arts and humanities building. "He’s getting worse. It’s like he’s bored of being a Targaryen, so he’s decided to try his hand at being a demon."

"Nothing’s wrong with him, Kie," you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts. "Some people are just inherently evil. It’s a biological trait. He was born with silver hair and a missing conscience."

"You really believe that?"

"Don't you?"

Kiera didn't answer. She just hummed a low, thoughtful note as you reached the sanctuary of the arts building.

Inside (to your relief) the atmosphere changed instantly. The clinical, cold air of the campus was replaced by the scent of turpentine, linseed oil, and stale coffee.

Tanselle was positioned in the center of the atrium, perched on a wooden stool that looked like it was held together by prayer and old paint.

She was a muralist by trade, but today she was doing 'quick fire' portraits for the charity drive. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy braid, and a smudge of cerulean blue decorated her cheekbone. She was focused, her brush moving with a grace that made the chaos around her seem like background noise.

"Oh! Hey!" she greeted once she had noticed your presence, not looking up until she’d finished a delicate line on the canvas. "What’s up? I’m just finishing this one… it’s a portrait of a 'lost soul’ or something… I think the student just had a bad hangover."

"We ran into the devil on the way here," you deadpanned, leaning against a nearby table cluttered with jars of brushes.

From the shadows of a nearby pillar, a girl with fiery red hair and a look of permanent skepticism emerged. Rowan— she was holding a thermos that you knew for a fact contained more vodka than tea.

"You mean prince brightflame?" Rowan mocked, her eyebrow arching. "Did he set anyone on fire today, or was he just being his usual, sparkling self?"

"The one and only," Kiera sighed, leaning down to give Tanselle a quick, paint avoidant squeeze.

"Okay, enough about Targaryens. Especially the ones who think they’re God’s gift to the student union," you groaned, rubbing your temples. "I need to forget his face exists for at least four hours."

"What’s got your panties in a twist?" Rowan giggled, taking a long swig from her thermos. "Is it the insults? Or is it the fact that he looked particularly edible in that white shirt today?"

You stared at her, your expression flat. "Do not even finish that thought, Rowan. I don't care what the university policy is on student on student violence."

"Alright, alright, Seven Hells… no need to go all Maegor on me," Rowan grumbled, though she was still grinning.

She had an ongoing bet that your mutual hatred with Aerion was just a very long, very exhausting preamble to something else.

You hated that she even thought it. You hated even more that, for a split second by the fountain, you’d noticed the way the wind caught his hair.

"Anyway… on a lighter and happier note…" Kiera spoke up, leaning against another table of art supplies. "One of Valarr's faculty friends, some guy named Raymun, is hosting a party tonight at his off campus loft. It should be cool. Not too many nepo babies, good music, and an appropriate amount of booze. Valarr said it’s a 'no ego' zone."

“I'm in," Rowan said instantly, gleaming with newfound enthusiasm. “I have a constitutional right to be at every party within a five mile radius.”

“Um… yeah, sure,” Tanselle said, her voice a bit more hesitant as she cleaned a brush. “If I finish the mural for the atrium…”

"Don't worry, Tans. Duncan will be there," Kiera winked.

Everyone knew Duncan— the towering, incredibly earnest rugby captain who followed Tanselle around like a particularly large, loyal hound.

Tanselle flushed a deep, violent crimson, muming something about “not caring about rugby players” that everyone gracefully ignored.

“What about you, Y/N? You in?” Kiera turned her gaze to you, her eyes hopeful. "You need this. You’ve been buried in schoolwork and Egg’s drama for weeks. One night. No babies, no Targaryens, no responsibilities."

You mulled it over. You had a Yi-Ti translation due on Wednesday. You had three chapters of The Citadel Chronicles to summarize. And, you had a lingering headache from Aerion’s venom.

In the back of your mind, a small, cynical voice whispered that a party hosted by Valarr’s friends was a dangerous place for someone trying to avoid the ‘inner circles.’

But you pushed it down. You were with your friends. You were in the Arts Building and the sun was out.

“Sure,” you said, the word feeling like a victory. “To hell with the emails. I’m in.”

You didn't realize that in the world of the Targaryens, the 'no ego zone' didn't exist. And Aerion Targaryen was never the one to miss a performance.

The first thing that catches you by surprise is not the overwhelming, sweet haze of top-shelf Dornish cannabis or the sharp, botanical sting of expensive gin.

In a place that was supposed to be a temporary Friday night sanctuary— a casual, off-campus loft in the old industrial district, supposedly void of any high-end drama or old-money politics, and the insufferable nepo babies of the Red Keep quad— you expected paper cups and vinyl records.

Instead, you stepped into a room filled with exactly the kind of royalty you had spent the entire week trying to escape.

A party hosted by a close friend of Valarr Targaryen. You closed your eyes for a fraction of a second, cursing your own naivety.

How fortunate.

What had you honestly been expecting? A gathering of normal people? Students who actually worried about tuition and supermarket receipts like you did?

But the true shock wasn't the sheer, architectural immensity of the living room, with its polished concrete floors, exposed steel beams, and massive glass panels showcasing a panoramic view of the twinkling King's Landing skyline.

It was that sharp, jagged bolt of white light across the room. A head of messily perfect, silver-white hair that you had been praying to the Seven you wouldn’t see tonight.

And much worse, draped elegantly over his arm was Alicia Florent.

Alicia was widely considered the campus’s reigning deity of effortless glamour— excluding Kiera, of course, who occupied a stratosphere entirely of her own.

A finely manicured, diamond-ringed hand was splayed possessively across Aerion’s forearm, the dark wool of his designer jacket a stark contrast to her sunkissed skin. Her perfectly lined, glossy lips were curved open in a rich, musical laugh at whatever witty, venomous thing he was currently whispering into her ear.

She looked entirely, infuriatingly perfect.

Her makeup was a masterclass in high-end minimalism; a subtle, glittering shimmer danced across her eyelids and collarbones, looking so natural it defied the hours it must have taken to apply. Her clothes, a silk, emerald-green slip dress fitted her like a second skin.

It was obviously expensive, the kind of fabric that didn't wrinkle or catch, and you were suddenly, violently overwhelmed by a suffocating wave of inferiority.

She was a natural. A creature born to inhabit rooms like these, to drink from crystal flutes and look down on the rest of the world with a lazy, secure smile.

You desperately tried to tuck that jealous sense of inadequacy away, but it was hard when your own outfit suddenly felt like a joke.

The structured black crop top and matching silk skirt (which Kiera had practically forced you into, insisting you needed to show a little skin and live a little) now felt entirely too revealing. Under the invisible, judgmental gazes of the KLU elite, the fabric seemed to suffocate you. Making you feel exposed and clownish instead of gorgeous.

You felt like an imposter who had snuck in through the servant's entrance.

You forced yourself to shake off the feeling, taking a deep breath as you stepped further into the warm, bass-heavy atmosphere of the loft, hand in hand with Rowan.

Rowan, bless her, was a necessary shield against the room's collective snobbery.

She was sporting a vintage leather jacket slung effortlessly over a fiery, scarlet jumpsuit that perfectly matched her untamed nature. Her thick, red curls were propped into a flawless, artfully messy topknot on her head, and she moved through the crowd like a queen inspecting her subjects.

“Hi! Hello! Oh my god, babe, you look so stunning!” Rowan called out, waving to a group of arts students by the balcony. She was so painfully, beautifully natural at this— at being kind, funny, charismatic, and universally liked.

While she floated through the social waters with ease, you just stood there awkwardly, anchoring yourself to her hand and pinning a tight, plastic smile to your face, hoping no one would look close enough to see the panic in your eyes.

Tanselle and Kiera were a few paces behind you, following closely on your heels, looking equally shimmering and joyful.

The heavy, rhythmic thumping of the bass from the speakers couldn't drown out the sudden shift in the air behind you. You caught the faint, warm sound of Valarr’s deep voice as he approached their group.

Turning your head slightly, you watched as the heir apparent to the Breakspeare fortune greeted Kiera, his chocolate brown hair catching the amber pendant lights as he leaned down to press a tender, familiar kiss to her temple.

Right beside them, Duncan— the towering rugby captain who looked slightly terrifying but possessed the heart of a golden retriever— was already hovering over Tanselle.

He muttered a shy, earnest greeting, and even in the dim lighting of the loft, you could see Tanselle flush a furious, violent crimson.

You turned around fully just to shoot her an encouraging, all-knowing smile. She caught your eye, her blush deepening as she biting her lip, a silent plea for you to stop teasing her.

Before you could offer any more silent solidarity, Rowan was suddenly pulled to the side. The host of the party himself—Raymun Fossoway— had caught sight of her.

He intercepted your path with a wide, bright grin, and the immediate body language between them suggested they were much more familiar than you had previously realized.

“Hey,” Raymun greeted you, extending a hand to shake yours.

His grip was polite, but it was entirely clear that his brain had ceased to function the moment he looked past your shoulder. His eyes literally could not leave Rowan’s stunning, scarlet-clad figure.

You couldn't even find it in yourself to be annoyed. You got it. Everyone looked at Rowan when she entered a room.

You offered him a quick, polite greeting, gently squeezing Rowan's hand before letting it go. "I'll be totally fine on my own," you assured her in a quiet whisper, giving her a reassuring nod as Raymun already began pulling her into a conversation about some indie band.

“Okay, scream if you need anything!” She managed to let out before Raymun dragged her away towards some friends.

Turning away from the couples and the social butterflies, you looked toward the far side of the room.

You needed a barrier between yourself and the silver haired specter by the window.

Deciding to put some distance between yourself and the crowd, you began to weave through the sea of silk and linen, heading straight toward the crowded kitchen counter to grab a drink.

The kitchen was nothing short of breathtaking, a cathedral of high end consumption, dominated by a vast marble island that looked like it had been carved from a single cloud.

It was cluttered with an array of spirits that felt more like museum artifacts than party supplies— bottles of triple-distilled vodka and vintage Dornish reds with labels so ornate and script so archaic you could barely pronounce the names, let alone guess the price point.

You were in the middle of decanting a suspiciously shimmering liquid into what felt like a genuine crystal tumbler (half-convinced the glassware alone cost more than your monthly rent) when a sudden clearing of a throat vibrated through the air beside you.

Before you even turned, the scent hit you like a sensory ambush.

It was a suffocatingly sweet cloud of Ashai vanilla and sun-ripened strawberries— a fragrance so curated and polished it felt like walking into a high-end boutique in the middle of a summer heatwave.

It was the smell of someone who had never known the scent of a crowded subway or a cheap laundromat. It was the scent of a walking candy cane.

You turned, the heavy bottle still poised awkwardly in your hand. “Hm?” Your gaze collided with Alicia Florent.

“Hey.” Her voice was like honey dripped over velvet— painfully sweet and effortlessly melodic.

She flashed a smile that belonged in a Vogue editorial, her teeth so perfectly white and aligned they looked like a row of polished pearls. “Sorry,” she murmured, her voice dropping as a group of boisterous students pushed past, forcing her to press into your personal space.

Up close, the perfection was devastating.

Her blonde hair didn't just curl; it spiraled in a way that suggested a personal stylist had spent hours meticulously crafting a 'natural' look. Her eyes were two pools of shimmering, ocean-like blue crystals, framed by lashes so long they seemed to cast shadows against her high, sculpted cheekbones.

You felt a sudden, sharp pang of grounding reality; you totally understood why Aerion had her anchored to his side.

She was a goddess crafted from old money privilege and premium skincare.

You stood there, feeling like a low resolution glitch in a high definition movie, holding the glass bottle with a grip that was far too tight. You were painfully aware of the contrast— her glittering, effortless grace against your own sense of being an intruder in a world built for people like her.

“Oh, I just came over to grab us a drink,” she said, her smile widening as she registered your wide eyed, deer in headlights expression.

The ‘us’ hung in the air like a territorial flag.

It was a subtle, sharp reminder that while you were here as a guest of a friend, she was here as a part of the dynasty. People like Alicia Florent and people who spent their weekends parsing complex Yi-ti sentences and babysitting the youngest Targaryen did not inhabit the same social stratosphere.

It was just a biological fact of campus life.

She let out a soft, airy giggle— a sound that was probably practiced to perfection— and reached for a gold-labeled bottle of Arbor Gold. “Do you mind?” she asked, her gaze flicking down to your hand, noting that you were essentially guarding the bar.

“Right… um, sorry,” you stammered, your face heating up as the ice in your glass rattled.

You cleared your throat, the unknown liquid in your cup sloshing dangerously as you stepped back, yielding the marble altar to its rightful priestess.

You didn't wait for her to say anything else. You pivoted, ducking your head and weaving your way through the press of bodies, heading toward a shadowed, secluded corner of the loft near the floor to ceiling windows.

You decided then and there to leave the expensive drink-mixing to the expensive nepo babies; you needed the darkness of the corner to hide the fact that you suddenly felt very, very visible.

You bumped into people muttering quiet little ‘sorry’s’ and ‘excuse me’s’ until you finally found the heavy glass sliding doors that led out to the expansive terrace.

You needed air. You needed to escape the suffocating sweetness of Alicia’s strawberry scented perfection and the low, heavy hum of bass that was beginning to rattle the inside of your skull.

As you stepped outside, the climate shifted instantly.

The cool, midnight breeze of King’s Landing clipped at your bare shoulders, a welcome shock to your system. Below the loft, the sprawling, chaotic expanse of the metropolis hummed with nocturnal life.

You could hear the faint, distorted sounds of the city filtering up to the penthouse level— distant shouts from the entertainment district, the aggressive honk of car horns, and the low, rhythmic wail of a siren echoing somewhere down in the valleys of the concrete jungle.

Above it all, the towering skyscrapers of the financial sector gleamed like sharp, metallic monoliths, their glass windows reflecting millions of tiny, artificial lights against the dark canopy of the sky.

It was the quintessential Westerosi dream: a glittering, cutthroat paradise built on old money and modern ambition.

You leaned your weight against the sleek, black iron railing, closing your eyes as you took a deep, centering breath. You let the crisp night air fill your lungs, hoping it would cleanse the dizzying haze of the Dornish wine and the residual contact smoke from the living room.

Out here, the party was beautifully muted. The thumping bass became a dull, rhythmic heartbeat against the glass, and the loud, overlapping conversations of the KLU elite drifted away into the wind.

For a few fleeting seconds, suspended high above the streets, you felt entirely untouched by the hierarchy inside.

A movement in the far corner of the terrace caught your eye. A couple was deeply entrenched in the shadows, draped over one another on a low outdoor sectional. They were clearly drunk, murmuring slurred, lovey-dovey obscenities into each other’s ears, entirely oblivious to the world.

You squinted at them for a fraction of a second, rolled your eyes with a quiet shrug, and walked purposefully toward the furthest, most isolated edge of the balcony, seeking whatever true peace you could salvage.

Then, the heavy glass door hissed open behind you.

You didn't turn around. You assumed the amorous couple had finally taken their business indoors, or perhaps another drunk freshman had come out to throw up over the side. You remained still, staring out at the golden grid of the highway below, until the air around you changed.

The wind shifted, carrying that familiar, dangerous fragrance— sandalwood, rich tobacco. Your breath hitched in your throat.

Before you could even process the sensory warning, a lean, broad-shouldered frame leaned onto the railing right beside you.

Up close, the first things that caught the ambient light were his hands. His long, aristocratic fingers were loosely gripping the cold metal of the railing, adorned with an array of heavy, intricate rings.

They were beautifully crafted jewels, shaped into coiled dragons and sharp, jagged scales that caught the neon glow of the city lights. They were forged from dark, smoky Valyrian steel— the ultimate heirloom status symbol, modernized for a prince who wore his legacy like brass knuckles.

The irritation began to simmer in your chest, a biological knee-jerk reaction to his very existence. Your spine instantly straightened into a rigid, defensive line.

"Come out here to make my life a living hell again?" The words slipped past your lips before you could stop them, laced with a bitter, cynical venom.

Perhaps it was the cheap courage of the alcohol flowing through your veins, or maybe you were just entirely exhausted by his games, but you didn't care that you were speaking to your employer's volatile son with complete disrespect.

But to your absolute shock, the sharp, cutting retort never came.

There was no dry remark about your attitude, no poisonous reminder that he could have your contract terminated before sunrise. Aerion remained perfectly still.

He just stared straight ahead into the sprawling labyrinth of the city lights, his expression unreadable, as if entranced. With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached into the inner pocket of his tailored jacket and pulled out a classic, crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds.

You stood there silently, utterly dumbstruck by this newfound, quiet iteration of him.

Your gaze involuntarily drifted to his side profile. In the dim, ambient wash of the terrace lights, his features looked sharp enough to draw blood— the perfect curve of his nose, the slight clench of his jawline, and that notoriously messy, silver-white hair that somehow always managed to look effortlessly styled.

A sudden, sharp click broke the silence as he flicked open a matte-black lighter. The small, orange flame illuminated his face for a second, casting long shadows across his high cheekbones.

He inhaled deeply, taking a slow, heavy drag before letting the gray smoke curl lazily from his lips, wrapping around the space between you like a shroud.

You watched the way he held the cigarette between his fingers— so delicately, almost gently, as if he were tracing the fragile skin of a lover. It was a vulnerable, quiet posture that felt entirely out of character for the brutal, arrogant boy you encountered on campus.

You cocked your head to the side, your eyebrows furrowing as you silently questioned what kind of psychological game was unfolding.

"If you keep staring at me like that, I'll have to assume you like what you see." His voice was a low, gravelly rasp, rough from the smoke but dripping with his signature, lazy arrogance.

The tip of his cigarette glowed a fierce, angry orange as he took another slow drag. His violet-grey eyes never shifted from the concrete jungle below, but a slow, maddening smirk was beginning to tug at the corner of his mouth.

You let out a sharp, breathless scoff, though to your own horror, a strange sense of comfort washed over you at the sarcastic remark. It was predictably, entirely Aerion.

"You are so incredibly full of yourself," you muttered. And for the first time since you had met him, your words felt less like a defensive shield and more like a tease.

You blamed the wine. You blamed the heavy midnight air, the glittering skyline, and the infuriatingly perfect way the neon lights reflected in his pale irises. There was absolutely no logical way you were enjoying Aerion Targaryen’s company.

"You'd be profoundly bored without it," he bit back smoothly, finally turning his head to look at you.

When his gaze locked onto yours, it felt like a physical shock. His eyes were sharp, electric, and possessed a dark, hungry intensity that made the air in your lungs feel dangerously thin.

"You know, Aerion," you sighed, leaning back against the railing and trying to maintain your grounded, deadpan demeanor despite the sudden hammering of your pulse, "you are, without a doubt, the most irritating person I have ever encountered in my entire life."

"Say that again," he whispered. The shift in his tone was instantaneous. Something dark and predatory flashed in the depths of his eyes.

And you would have rather labeled yourself entirely delusional than admit that his lean frame had just gravitated toward yours, his shoulder brushing against your leather jacket as he leaned in close.

"What? That you're the most irritating person I’ve ever—"

"No," he snapped softly, his jaw clenching with a sudden, rigid intensity. "My name." He clarified.

You froze, your mouth hanging slightly agape as you stared at him. The sheer, magnetic weight of his presence was overwhelming. You swallowed hard, your mind racing as you finally relented to the gravity of the moment.

"Aerion," you spoke, the syllables falling from your lips more deliberately this time.

You tasted the weight of his name on your tongue, weighing the vowels as if testing a dangerous secret. It felt dizzyingly, terrifyingly intimate. No, you hate him. You absolutely despise his entire existence.

Suddenly, Rowan’s laughing voice flashed through your mind from earlier in the afternoon—You two just have too much mutual attraction. It’s chaotic chemistry, simmering until it bursts.

You forced yourself to clear your throat, aggressively pushing those chaotic thoughts into the darkest corners of your brain.

"So…" you began, desperate to fracture the suffocating tension that had built up between your bodies. "Where exactly is Alicia? I’m surprised she let you out of her sight for more than thirty seconds."

You wondered how the campus goddess had managed to lose her prize. Aerion's arm candy usually followed him everywhere at events like this, not necessarily because he possessed a genuine shred of affection for them, but because they served as a pristine status symbol.

"Inside," he said flatly, as if the answer were entirely inconsequential.

At the mention of the blonde girl, his silver brows furrowed with a brief, visible flicker of annoyance.

"I thought you liked her?" You shrugged, nervously fiddling with the rings on your own fingers, desperately trying to quell the strange, fluttering sensation that was beginning to bloom in the pit of your stomach.

Aerion watched your hands, tracking the nervous movement of your fingers before he straightened his posture.

He cleared his throat, the flashing silver face of his luxury watch catching the moonlight. "She’s…"

He cocked his head to the side, letting out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh that sounded entirely uncharacteristic. He nervously racked a hand through his white hair, his fingers disrupting the perfect mess of his strands as if he were genuinely struggling to find the right vocabulary.

"She's just…"

"Alicia," you finished for him, your tone flat.

"Yeah," he murmured, his voice dropping into a register that sent a shiver down your spine.

He turned his head fully now, his violet eyes locking onto your face with a dangerous, undisguised hunger.

"Don't look at me like that," you whispered, the words small, a desperate attempt to swallow the rising anxiety in your throat.

"Like what?" he chuckled, the sound rich and low against the background hum of the city.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about. I hate you, Aerion. Remember?" you reasoned, trying to remind both him and yourself of the boundaries.

"You say that like you're trying to convince yourself," he murmured. He shifted his weight, turning his torso fully toward you now, completely invading your personal space.

Before your brain could formulate a cohesive, defensive response, his hand rose.

His long fingers reached out, the cold, heavy metal of his Valyrian steel rings brushing against the hypersensitive skin of your jawline as he gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

His touch was agonizingly slow, a gentle contrast to the volatile persona he usually was.

"Let's just say…" he whispered, leaning down until his lips were mere inches from your ear, his breath a warm mix of heavy tobacco and expensive alcohol against your skin. "I vastly prefer you when you're not playing house for my little brother."

He was so incredibly close you could feel the heat radiating from his chest. Your mind snapped under the proximity, an embarrassing, violent heat crawling up your neck.

What kind of twisted game was he playing? He had to be mocking you. This was undoubtedly another one of his cruel, depraved psychological experiments to see how easily he could break you—

The electric moment was violently shattered by the sharp hiss of the sliding glass door opening once again.

"There you are!"

Alicia’s glittering, emerald-clad frame stepped out onto the concrete terrace, her voice bellowing over the quiet hum of the night.

She was looking directly at Aerion, her glossy lips pouted in exaggerated annoyance. "I've been looking for you literally everywhere, everyone is in the lounge."

Aerion made a low, frustrated noise in the back of his throat— a guttural, irritated sound as if pulling his weight away from your body physically pained him.

He straightened up, his demeanor instantly freezing back into its familiar, icy mask.

"Is everything… okay out here?" Alicia asked innocently, her ocean-blue eyes flicking curiously from Aerion's rigid posture to your flushed face.

She seemed entirely devoid of jealousy. In fact, the absolute absurdity of person like Aerion Targaryen harboring a genuine, consuming interest in a girl like you was clearly a concept so laughable she didn't even possess the capacity to entertain it.

To her, you were just the girl who watched Aegon. You were part of the background scenery.

You quickly cleared your throat, desperately trying to construct a normal sentence before the silence became incriminating. "Yeah. Um, we were just chatting about—"

You didn't even get to finish your lie. Alicia reached out, her manicured hand wrapping tightly around Aerion's forearm, physically dragging him toward the glowing warmth of the interior.

"Oh, perfect! Well, you can finish your little chat another time. Valarr is looking for you in the kitchen, they’re opening the good bottles."

With that, she began pulling him back toward the glass doors. Aerion aggressively shood her hand off his arm with a sharp flick of his wrist, but he was already trailing reluctantly on her heels, his compliance a necessity of the crowd inside.

Just before he crossed the threshold back into the roaring noise of the party, he stopped.

He looked back over his shoulder once, his pale, violet-grey irises catching the harsh glare of the neon signs.

"You're trouble," he murmured, his voice carrying a strange, low weight that felt dangerously pleasant.

You swallowed the remaining panic in your throat, anchoring your heels into the concrete. "You'd be bored without it," you managed to fire back, throwing his own line right back at his chest.

Aerion shook his head, a genuine, quiet huff of a laugh escaping his lips before he turned and vanished into the sea of silk and gold.

The glass door hissed shut behind him.

You let out a long, shuddering breath you hadn't realized you were holding, your fingers tightly gripping the iron railing as your knees felt suddenly, dangerously weak.

You stared blindly out at the twinkling lights of the King's Landing skyscrapers, the scent of sandalwood and tobacco still heavy in the midnight air.

What the hell had just happened?

The heavy glass door slid shut behind you, cutting off the crisp midnight breeze and plunging you back into the sensory overload of the penthouse.

The sudden spike in temperature, the thick scent of luxury perfumes competing with expensive cannabis overwhelmed you once again, and the sheer volume of the bass rattling through the hardwood floors.

You needed to drown out the memory of the balcony. You needed to dance, to drink, to find Kiera or Tanselle— literally anyone who could act as an anchor to reality before your thoughts completely spiraled into dangerous territory.

Like a neon beacon of hope in a sea of unknown faces, Kiera’s familiar head of bubblegum pink curls caught the light near the edge of the sunken living room. She was leaning against a sleek minimalist pillar, gesturing animatedly with a tiny martini glass as she talked to Valarr and a guy you didn’t recognize.

"Hey," you said, stepping into their orbit. A sudden, nervous energy carried you forward, your heart still beating a little too fast from your encounter outside.

The trio turned toward you. Kiera’s face lit up instantly, her eyes bright and slightly glassy— a telltale sign that she had been indulging a little too heavily in the free-flowing liquor.

She held her martini glass at a dangerously loose angle, the clear liquid sloshing near the brim. You didn't worry, though. Valarr was right beside her, his hand already resting protectively at the small of her back. He always looked out for her.

"Y/N!" Kiera beamed, throwing her free arm around your neck in a sudden, bone-crushing hug. She was definitely more intoxicated than she’d let on via text earlier. "You made it! I thought you died on the balcony!"

"Whoa, whoa, careful, love…" Valarr’s deep voice intervened smoothly.

With the practiced reflexes of a seasoned athlete, he leaned across, his long fingers gently but firmly catching the stem of the martini glass just as it slipped from Kiera’s grip. He wasn't fast enough to stop the liquid entirely though, as a splash of the gin sloshed straight onto the front of her silk top.

"Oh, shit," Kiera grumbled, staring down at the damp fabric and sighing in deep frustration at her own clumsiness.

"I'm going to go get this cleaned up," she mumbled, pouting as she gestured vaguely toward the corridor where the guest bathrooms were located, her legs a little wobbly beneath her.

"Yeah, and you’re not going anywhere alone in this crowd," Valarr pointed out, a tender, amused smile breaking across his handsome features. He looped an arm around her hips, effortlessly guiding her through the dense press of people. Before they disappeared, he offered a polite, apologetic nod to you and the remaining guy. "Excuse us for a minute."

You shook your head, a fond smile playing on your lips as you watched them go. Valarr really was the golden boy of the Breakspeare line— so effortlessly smooth, attentive, and diplomatic. He would make an incredible politician one day, exactly as his father Baelor intended.

Your eyes broke away from the retreating couple when a quiet throat-clearing sounded across from you.

You snapped your attention back to the stranger left standing in Valarr's wake. He was someone you had genuinely never seen before—not in the crowded lecture halls of the law building, not in the quiet, dusty corners of the study halls, and certainly not hanging around the high-end sports cars parked in the Red Keep quad.

He was blonde, but not the striking, otherworldly silver-blonde of the Targaryen dynasty. His hair was a softer, warmer shade of honeyed gold, messily strewn about his head in a way that suggested he had spent the day outdoors rather than in front of a mirror.

He possessed a wide, incredibly friendly grin that immediately crinkled the corners of his eyes. He was like a golden puppy. Lean and approachable, he wore a simple, well-fitted white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms and a pair of crisp, dark trousers. He looked entirely… safe.

"Hey… sorry for the chaos," he said, holding out a hand toward you. "Didn't even get a chance to introduce myself properly amidst the martini crisis. I'm Art."

You reached out and took his hand. When your fingers gripped his, you were caught off guard by the sheer warmth of his skin. There were no heavy, cold Valyrian steel rings biting into your palm this time. Just a normal, human touch.

"Me and Valarr are in the same political science major," he clarified, his smile widening as you exchanged names.

"Ah, right. You're Kiera's best friend," Art said, a look of recognition dawning on his face as he gestured toward a slightly quieter corner of the loft where a low leather bench sat empty. "Shit, Valarr mentions the two of you all the time when we're studying."

"He does?" You giggled, letting him guide you away from the main traffic of the walkway.

"Yeah… I mean, mostly he talks about Kiera. The man is completely, painfully down bad for her," Art laughed, scratching the back of his neck.

“Sound about right.” You bit back, sitting down beside him, you couldn't help but notice how entirely different his presence felt compared to the one on the balcony.

Aerion’s presence was a suffocating, atmospheric weight that demanded your entire cognitive capacity; it was all sharp edges, dangerous tension, and dark gravity. Art, on the other hand, felt like a sunny afternoon.

He was entirely down-to-earth. As you fell into easy, comfortable small talk, you learned he didn't come from a millionaire tech empire or an ancient political dynasty. He played tennis on a scholarship, had two younger siblings, and his parents actually owned a commercial dairy farm in the Reach district outside the city.

"Though, I have to say," Art added, leaning back against the bench and throwing you a playfully roguish look, "Valarr definitely left out the detail that Kiera had such a stunning best friend."

It was a textbook, slightly cheesy pickup line, and you couldn't help but swat his shoulder teasingly. "Oh, shut up," you grumbled, though a genuine laugh escaped you.

"What? I'm just stating facts!" he defended, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"So, you're a literal farmer?" you asked, leaning in, trying to make sure your voice didn't sound judgmental. It was just so rare to find someone at a KLU party who knew what manual labor felt like.

"What's so funny about that?" he laughed, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. "I mean, I help out around the property when I go home for the holidays. I get the milk from the cows, mend the fences… why are you laughing so hard?"

"Nothing, nothing…" You shook your head, pressing a hand over your mouth as a breathless wheeze escaped you. "It's just… it's so incredibly Tom Sawyer of you. I didn't think guys like you actually existed at this university."

"Hey, it builds character," he grinned, his face completely open and relaxed.

You had to admit, you were having a surprisingly wonderful time. Art was easy to talk to, kind, and genuinely funny.

Yet, despite the effortless flow of the conversation, a traitorous, intrusive little voice in the very back of your head refused to go quiet.

No matter how much Art made you laugh, a part of your mind was still lingering on the balcony. Your skin still felt hyper-sensitive where Aerion’s smoky Valyrian steel rings had brushed against your jawline. You could still taste the phantom scent of Marlboro Reds and sandalwood in the back of your throat.

More than once, a prickling sensation washed over the back of your neck—that heavy, unmistakable feeling of a pair of eyes drilling into your spine.

But every time you casually glanced around the crowded room, hoping or fearing to catch a glimpse of silver hair, you found nothing but strangers. You're being delusional, you told yourself severely. He's with Alicia. He doesn't care about you.

At one point, Rowan walked past the lounge area, her hand securely laced with Raymun’s. When she caught sight of you chatting and laughing with the handsome, honey-blonde boy, she stopped dead in her tracks and shot you a massive, exaggeratedly knowing wink. You aggressively shook your head at her in return, your cheeks heating up as she giggled and let her host boyfriend pull her toward the bar.

"Anyway," Art said, drawing your attention back to the bench as he shifted the topic. "We were supposed to be discussing our interpretation of the Citadel Chronicles for Ashford's seminar. Did you actually manage to parse through the third volume's syntax? Because I'm convinced the author was having a stroke there.”

"Oh, the syntax is a nightmare," you agreed, glad for the academic distraction. "I had to stay up until three in the morning just trying to translate the regional economic data from the old port city—"

Before you could finish your sentence, a sharp, violent sound tore through the thick atmosphere of the loft. The sound of something crashing.

It was the unmistakable, explosive shattering of glass, heavy and resonant enough to cut right through the booming bass of the speakers. The music didn't stop, but the collective volume of the party’s laughter and chatter dropped instantly, replaced by a sudden, tense silence.

"What the hell…" Art muttered, his friendly expression instantly flattening as he stood up from the leather couch.

You rose immediately to follow his lead, your heart doing a strange, protective drop in your chest. Across the vast penthouse, a frantic murmur was breaking out. A large, dense crowd of students was already shifting, turning their heads and eagerly gathering near the wide archway of the kitchen entrance, voices rising in a sudden flurry of excitement and dread.

The easy, golden warmth of your conversation with Art dissolved like mist. You didn't even think; your boots were already moving, stepping off the leather bench and driving you toward the kitchen archway.

Art’s hand shot out, his warm fingers brushing against your wrist in a frantic attempt to anchor you, to keep you from running straight into the blast radius.

"Y/N, wait—don't get close to that," he warned, his voice low and tight with a regular guy's instinct for self-preservation.

You shooed him off with a sharp jerk of your arm, your eyes locked on the shifting geometry of the crowd ahead. "I’m fine, Art," you muttered, your focus completely consumed by the sudden shift in the room’s temperature.

"I'm not your fucking mate!" another voice roared, high-pitched and vibrating with pure, unadulterated adrenaline.

Around the kitchen perimeter, the KLU elite were already adopting their positions. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, holding their gold-rimmed glasses and designer clutches, their faces schooled into expressions of practiced, aristocratic judgment.

They acted horrified, wrinkling their noses as if violence were an urban disease beneath their tax bracket, but their eyes were wide, glittering with a sick, parasitic entertainment. Hypocrites, you thought. Every single one of them.

"What's happening?" you demanded, nudging the shoulder of a girl in a sequined top whose view wasn't blocked by the wall of tall rugby players currently forming a human barricade.

You didn't need her to answer. As if responding to the sheer force of your arrival, the crowd parted just enough to afford you a clear, unobstructed line of sight.

The pristine, grey-veined marble of the kitchen counter was no longer an altar for expensive wine. Aerion Targaryen had a guy pinned by the throat against the high-gloss white subway tile of the wall. His lean, tailored frame looked entirely predatory, his shoulders squared as he leveraged his weight to lift the other student an inch off the floor.

Before your brain could even process the visual, a sickening, wet crack echoed through the space, a sound so brutal it seemed to stop the music altogether. Aerion’s knuckle, adorned with those heavy, coiled Valyrian steel rings, had collided squarely with the guy's nose.

An ugly, violent crimson bloomed instantly across the boy's face, cascading like a ruptured river down the front of his pristine white linen shirt.

You gasped, the sound catching in your throat along with a collective, horrified ripple that shuddered through the entire throng of spectators.

It was a stark, grounding reminder: all the nepotism in Westeros, all the multi-million-dollar trusts, the high-end private nannies, and the legacy admissions didn't make the children of world leaders and corporate dynasties any less savage than regular street thugs when the veneer cracked. Underneath the tailored silk, they were still beasts. "Oh, you're fucking dead, Targaryen!" the guy barked, his voice choked on his own blood.

With a desperate, adrenaline-fueled surge, he managed to writhe his neck free from Aerion’s bruising grip. He didn't retreat; he lunged forward, sending a wild, heavy punch flying straight toward Aerion's jaw.

Some of the girls near the front shrank back in genuine horror, while a few of the more intoxicated frat guys from the sports faculty were outright beaming, too boozed up on top-shelf liquor to realize they were witnessing a potential lawsuit in real-time.

Through the shifting shoulders of the crowd, you finally spotted Raymun Fossoway trying to force his way to the front of his own kitchen, his face pale with the realization that his security deposit was currently being smeared across the walls. Rowan was trailing tightly behind him, her fiery red topknot slightly disheveled, her eyes wide and worried as she looked for you.

"Aye! What the fuck is happening here?" Raymun yelled, throwing his arms out as he finally breached the inner circle.

He shoved himself physically between the two crashing bodies, his hands pressing against their chests to stop them from completely tearing each other apart. "What the hell has gotten into the two of you? Knuckleheads! This isn't a fucking boxing ring! You've got a problem with each other, take it outside to the gravel!"

The injured student spat a massive, dark dollop of blood straight onto the polished concrete floor, the fluid landing right between Aerion’s polished shoes and Raymun’s sneakers. "Tell this prissy, silver-headed fuck—" the guy choked out, but he never got to finish the insult.

Aerion was already lunging again, his eyes entirely void of reason, his silver-white hair flying wildly around his face like a localized storm.

"Aerion!"

Alicia’s shrill, high-society shriek cut through the chaos like broken glass. She was hovering near the pantry, her perfect makeup ruined by lines of frantic tears, her emerald-green dress looking suddenly crumpled and tragic.

You couldn't tell how long the exchange lasted. You didn't know how many blows had been traded before the room went dark or how much structural damage had been inflicted on the loft.

All you knew was that you stood entirely paralyzed, your boots glued to the floor as the crowd shifted around you like a turbulent sea.

Finally, the sheer mass of Duncan the Tall moved into the frame. The rugby captain utilized his massive, broad frame to physically lock his arms around the bleeding student, pulling him backward with a strength that brooked no argument.

Simultaneously, Valarr materialized from the corridor, his jaw tight and his expression dark with a profound, weary frustration. He grabbed Aerion by the shoulders, using his own formidable leverage to drag his cousin back into the center of the room.

"Don't fucking touch me!" Aerion snarled, his voice a guttural, animalistic hiss as he violently wrenched his shoulders out of Valarr's diplomatic grip.

"Hey—" Valarr stepped into his line of sight, his tone remarkably level, his hands raised in a calming gesture. He didn't look shocked. He looked tired.

This was clearly a regular occurrence in the private annals of the Targaryen family tree— a realization that both baffled and horrified you. "Calm the hell down, yeah? Look at me. Breathe."

Valarr tried to talk some sense into him, but Aerion just let out a cold, mocking scoff, his chest heaving as he turned his back on his cousin. He swept his glacier-like gaze across the circle of onlookers, his eyes burning with a terrifying, unhinged malice.

"What are the lot of you staring at?" he barked, his voice slicing through the residual murmurs until the room went completely dead silent.

Alicia stepped forward, her manicured hand reaching out to touch his arm, her voice trembling as she begged him to stay, to let her clean him up. Aerion didn't even look at her. With a brutal, dismissive jerk of his shoulder, he shrugged her off as if she were nothing more than a nuisance, leaving her standing under the harsh kitchen LEDs.

As he turned toward the main exit, the light caught his face fully for the first time.

A nasty, jagged cut was bleeding freely on his upper lip, and an ugly, dark purple bruise was already beginning to bloom across his aristocratic cheekbone. He stormed out of the kitchen, his heavy boots echoing like thunder against the concrete as he headed straight for the apartment door, leaving a vacuum of stunned silence in his wake. "What the actual fuck…" you heard Art mutter under his breath from beside you.

You hadn't even realized he had followed you to the front until his shadow fell over your shoulder. He shook his head, staring at the blood splatters on the subway tile with a deep, visceral disgust.

"That guy is a literal lunatic. A straight-up textbook psychotic. Who even does that at a house party?"

Valarr ignored Art entirely. His brunette hair was slightly mussed as he rubbed a heavy hand across his forehead, his eyes locked onto the heavy oak door at the end of the foyer that was still vibrating from being slammed shut.

"Shit," Valarr muttered, his diplomatic composure finally cracking as he looked at Raymun. "He shouldn't be driving like this. He’s furious, he’s bleeding, and he’s probably got half a bottle of gin in his system."

You knew exactly what Valarr was thinking. Aerion was headed straight for the parking garage below the building. He was headed for that ridiculous, midnight black Porsche— the one he drove around campus like an extension of his own volatile ego.

Valarr let out a heavy, stressed sigh, his fingers palming his forehead as he calculated his options. "Shit… I can't leave Kiera, though. She's completely wasted in the bathroom, I can't just drop her—"

"It's fine," you said.The words cut through the air before you could even formulate the conscious thought to speak them.

You surprised yourself, the sudden steel in your voice catching Valarr’s attention immediately.

Your brain, the logical, self-preserving part of you, was screaming at you to stop. What are you doing? You should stay here. You should be in the bathroom with Kiera, holding her hair back while Tanselle or Rowan helped. You should let Valarr handle his own dysfunctional family. They were blood; they shared the same ancient, volatile lineage. It wasn't your job. It wasn't your burden.

But your feet were already shifting.

"I'll go after him," you let out, the declaration sounding final, leaving no room for argument as you turned your back on the kitchen and began walking purposefully toward the front door.

"Y/N, wait!" Valarr barked behind you, his long stride breaking into a forward movement to catch your hand, but you were already too fast.

You slipped past the threshold of the lounge, dodging a group of stunned freshmen who were already slipping back into their idle chatter and high-society gossip, moving as if the violence had been nothing more than a mid-party performance.

"Is this chic fucking insane or what?" Art’s voice drifted over the crowd, his tone laced with absolute bewilderment as he watched your retreating back. "Does she have a literal death wish…"

You didn't look back to see his expression. You had no idea what had just taken control of your body.

You had no idea what kind of silent, stupid, magnetic force was pulling you out of that safe, warm apartment and driving you toward the elevator. All you knew was that the image of the blood on Aerion’s lip and the unhinged, self-destructive look in his violet eyes had burned themselves into your eyelids, and you couldn't stop walking until you hit the cold concrete of the hallway.

On the way down in the elevator, the silence of the steel box was deafening, a stark contrast to the roaring chaos you had just left behind. You were biting your inner lip so hard that the sharp, coppery tang of blood began to bloom on your tongue.

Your breathing was erratic, coming and going in shallow, jagged bursts that rattled your chest.

What the hell were you thinking?

You had seen the way he treated Alicia— a girl who actually belonged in his gilded world—and he had all but discarded her like an afterthought when the adrenaline hit. What could you possibly say to him that she couldn’t have?

You were the babysitter. You were the help. You were probably the absolute last person on this earth Aerion Targaryen wanted to see right now. Why had you stormed off like that? Was it some sick, deeply buried savior complex deciding to kick in, or were you just a massive, incomparable idiot? Probably the latter.

You repeated it like a mantra against the steady descent of the elevator floor: You're an idiot. A big, fucking idiot. Did you have some pathological need to fix every single broken, tragic Targaryen that crossed your path? You weren't hired to heal their generational trauma. You weren't supposed to care.

But all the logic in the world evaporated the moment the elevator doors chimed, sliding open to reveal the subterranean chill of the lower parking level. Your feet moved of their own volition, carrying you forward like a heavy weight on a mechanical track, utterly out of your control.

The moment you stepped out into the open air of the perimeter lot, a violent gust of wind hit you like a physical wall, whipping your hair across your face.

The night was dark, illuminated only by the sickly amber glow of a single, flickering sodium-vapor streetlamp. Your boots clicked a frantic, echoing rhythm against the damp asphalt as you rounded the concrete pillar.

And there he was.

Aerion’s lean frame was practically shaking with a terrifying, kinetic fury, his silhouette dark against the polished, obsidian paint of his Porsche.

"Aerion!" you shouted into the wind, your voice cracking slightly but carrying across the empty lot, rendering your presence entirely unavoidable.

"What the hell..." he muttered under his breath, pausing with his hand resting on the driver's side door. He spun around to glare at you, his features twisted into something feral.

"Leave me the fuck alone, Y/N. Get away from here." He barked the order, already pulling the heavy key fob from his pocket, his knuckles raw and scraped, his split lip still oozing a dark line of red.

"No!" you interjected, closing the distance between you, defiance anchoring your heels against the pavement as he cursed under his breath, fumbling with the car door.

"Are you completely deaf or just plain stupid?" he bared his teeth at you, his violet eyes flashing in the dark like a rabid dog backed into a corner. "I don't want you here. Get out of my sight."

"No," you cut him off, your voice rising to match his, your own frame shaking with a sudden, matching fury. "I am not letting you get into that car with fucking alcohol instead of blood in your system. You're going to wrap that expensive piece of metal around a tree, or worse—"

He let out a harsh, mocking snarl, stepping away from the car to face you fully. "And why the fuck would you care, huh? Don't stand there and act like you give a single, flying shit about what happens to me. You said it yourself tonight—I'm the most irritating, insufferable—"

"Shut up for once in your miserable life, Aerion!" you thundered, the sheer volume of your voice surprising even the wind.

"Just shut the hell up, will you? You treat me like absolute garbage for months. You make my life a living hell on campus, you spew your poisonous, elitist shit at me every time I breathe the same air as you—and then all of a sudden, you’re touching my face on a balcony and acting like..."

You swallowed hard, the word catching in your throat. "Acting like a complete lunatic! And then you get yourself into a bloody brawl in a kitchen. You have no right—you have absolutely zero right to do this!"

Aerion seemed violently taken aback by the outburst. The vicious retort died on his tongue, and if you hadn't been so entirely consumed by the white-hot rage vibrating through your veins, you might have noticed the way his pale irises instantly hazed over, darkening with a sudden, predatory intensity that looked like he wanted to devour you alive right there on the concrete.

"Not every single thing on this planet is a game revolving around your ego, okay?" you continued, your chest heaving as you stepped closer, entirely disregarding the danger. "Because if you get in that Porsche and you fucking die tonight, you're not the only one who has to suffer the fallout. It's about your family. It's about Valarr, and your father, and Aegon—"

"Oh, so this is about Egg now?" he mocked, his voice dropping into a bitter, venomous drawl as the alcohol loosened his filter. "What, do you get some sick cosmic thrill out of playing house? Acting like a fucking mother? Let me remind you of something, sweetheart—you will never be his mother. You can never replace her. We had a mother. She's dead. She’s ashes." He spat the words, the raw, unhealed trauma of Dyanna’s passing oozing out of him like poison.

"Are you even hearing yourself, you fucking hypocrite?" You let out an incredulous, bitter laugh, shaking your head. "This has nothing to do with me trying to be a mother or trying to replace Dyanna—"

Aerion physically winced at the sound of her name, his jaw tightening into iron as he raised a warning finger to your face. "Don't you dare say her name—"

"No! This is about you!" you shouted over him, refusing to back down. "This is about the kind of men that poor little boy has to grow up watching! Take this with every single bit of bitter salt that you can, Aerion Targaryen, but your family is a magnificent, catastrophic mess. Your father, Daeron, you—all of you! And instead of protecting Aegon, instead of helping him and loving him like a normal, decent older brother should, you torture him! He is terrified of you, Aerion! He looks at you and sees a monster!"

Aerion shook his head slowly from side to side, a manic, disbelief coloring his features as he tried to block out the truth of your words. "That's a bunch of absolute bullshit... and we both know it..."

"No," you thundered, stepping directly into his space until the scent of his metallic blood, stale gin, and Marlboro Reds completely enveloped you. "No, it is the absolute, undeniable truth, Aerion. It's the truth and you know it. You're just too much of a pathetic coward to look in the mirror and admit it to yourself."

"A coward, huh?" He let out a low, dangerous sound, his head tilting as the blood from his split lip smeared across his chin. "Is that what you're calling your employer's son now? You have some serious fucking nerve."

When you finally managed to catch your breath, your heart stopped. A slightly crooked, dark grin was playing on his bleeding lips. He wasn't furious anymore. He was fascinated. He was thoroughly, intensely enjoying the sight of you screaming at him, loving the fact that you were tearing him down to his very bones.

He leaned his hand forward, his fingers twitching.

“Don't you dare touch me,” you breathed, practically jumping back a step as if his very skin were made of burning coal.

“You'd absolutely hate how much you'd like it… and you know it,” he muttered, his voice dropping into a smooth, resonant register that possessed not a single shred of doubt.

And the worst part—the absolutely terrifying, sickening part—was that unwelcome, coiling heat instantly spreading through the pit of your belly again, betraying every logical thought in your head.

"If you're waiting for me to apologize for what I said, don't hold your breath," you snapped, trying to steel yourself.

"Good. I'd hate for you to pass out from lack of oxygen before I win this argument," he countered smoothly. He was unfuckingbelievable.

"Aerion..." you warned, your voice trembling slightly as you realized the distance between your bodies had vanished again. "You're standing too close."

"Say the word, and I'll stop... but don't lie to me," he whispered, leaning in dangerously, agonizingly close.

You could see the dark, drying blood coating the edges of his Valyrian steel rings. "We're completely alone out here. No one from the Red Keep has to know. No one from the campus. Just this once..."

He dared to raise both hands, his long fingers structuring themselves on either side of your face. His grip was firm, entirely unyielding, but possessed a strange, controlled gentleness that ensured it wouldn't leave a mark. It was an utterly, undeniably possessive hold.

"What is wrong with you?" you spat, a volatile cocktail of frustration, tears, anger, and deep-seated want bubbling to the surface as your hands came up, closing tightly over his wrists to pull him away. "Is this just another one of your sick, depraved games? A bet with your friends?"

He shook his head, the accusation seemingly inflicting a flash of physical pain across his features. He licked his dry, bleeding lips, his eyes locked onto yours.

"Why, Aerion? Why do this?" you demanded, desperate for a shield, refusing to let him win this easily. You needed a reason. You needed to understand how a guy who had made your life a living purgatory suddenly looked at you like this. "You spend months threatening to ruin my fucking life, and then you—"

"Because I don't know how the fuck to get you to pay attention to me, okay, Y/N?" he suddenly growled through gritted teeth, the raw, unfiltered truth ripping out of him with a force that clearly cost his pride everything.

"You are always focusing on someone else. You're always hovering over Aegon, or Daella, or Rhae, or fucking Daeron. You look at my father, you look at Valarr, you look at every single person in that house—except me. You look right through me."

"So you justify bullying me because you were fucking attention-seeking?" You almost barked an ironic, disbelieving laugh against his chest.

"No," he stepped in even closer, his torso pressing against yours. "'M not justifying a single thing." His thumbs began to slowly, deliberately caress the sensitive skin of your cheekbones, the contrast of his cold steel rings against your burning skin making your mind go completely blank.

"You're blushing," he pointed out, a wicked, triumphant grin cutting through the blood on his face. You didn't even think he could see it under the dim, orange wash of the streetlamp, but you felt it—the violent, coiling warmth spreading across your face.

"Shut up," you muttered weakly. "If you wanted me to kiss you," you breathed, refusing to break eye contact, your fingers tightening on his wrists, "you could have just said so from the beginning."

A dark, raw sound escaped the back of his throat at your words, every single ounce of his practiced aristocratic self-restraint shattering into nothingness. "You know exactly what you do to me, don't you? You always have," he accused.

"Careful Targaryen," you bit back, one last desperate defense. "Someone might actually think you want me. We are absolutely not supposed to do this."

He threw his head back, letting out a sharp, mocking laugh as if the concept of rules were an utter joke to his bloodline. "Since when has that ever stopped a dragon?"

And with that, the tension snapped.

He lunged forward, his hands sliding from your face to grip the back of your neck, pulling your body flush against his own as he dragged you into a searing, cataclysmic kiss.

Aerion didn't just kiss you—he devoured you. It was a feral, consuming force, as if he wanted to eat you alive and pull your very soul into his lungs.

A heavy, desperate groan broke against your mouth as your hands finally released his wrists, your fingers threading wildly through his silver-white locks, pulling him impossibly, painfully close. The kiss was all sharp teeth and bruising tongue—a violent, chaotic battle of wills that you had no intention of letting him win easily.

You bit down hard on his lower lip, wanting him to feel at least a fraction of the agonizing mental torment he had inflicted on you for months.

Instead of pulling away, his grip on your waist only tightened, his fingers digging into your hips as he let out a dark, breathless sound, clearly thriving on the depraved, aggressive nature of the embrace.

It was a kiss fueled by alcohol, adrenaline, months of toxic friction, and pure, unadulterated lust. It tasted like gin, Marlboro Reds, and the coppery tang of shared blood—it was filthily disgusting, entirely wrong, and undeniably the greatest kiss of your entire life.

Your entire universe narrowed down to the heat of his skin. Your body was completely intoxicated by his scent, your brain entirely incapable of forming a single coherent thought. The world outside this parking lot didn't exist. Rowan, Kiera, Valarr, Aegon—they were all casualties of a fire that was currently burning you alive.

"Aerion..." you panted against his lips when the sheer lack of oxygen finally forced the two of you to pull back an inch, your foreheads resting together as you gasped for air.

"I can feel your heartbeat..." Aerion muttered, his voice a low, ragged purr. He leaned down, pressing his lips directly against the frantic, hammering pulse point on your neck, tracing the skin with a terrifying reverence. "Is that for me, love?"

"I've wanted this... since the very first moment I met you," he admitted against your skin, his hands never ceasing their frantic caress.

"Could have fooled me," you bit back, though the words lacked any real venom. You looked up at him with a newfound, consuming obsession, every shred of your logic and self-respect scattered on the pavement.

You couldn't bring yourself to care about how messy, dangerous, or ruinous the morning would be. The morning.

"You can go back to hating me in the morning..." Aerion whispered, his violet eyes locking onto yours with a desperate, heavy gravity. "Just let me have you. Just give me tonight."

"Is this really all you wanted from me?" you questioned, your fingers gripping his shoulders.

"No," he shook his head, a dark, dangerous sincerity settling over his features. "I wanted more."

Of course he did. Aerion Targaryen wanted everything. He wanted all of you, his greed an insatiable, genetic trait that was engraved into his very marrow. It was apparent in the way he carried himself, in the way he fought, and in the way his lips moved against yours.

"I always knew there was a fire in you," he murmured, his gaze tracing your features with an obsessive, terrifying devotion.

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he muttered something in low, rolling High Valyrian that you couldn't fully translate, though the cadence made your skin prickle. "Ñuhon," he whispered against your skin. Mine.

You swallowed hard, the taste of his tobacco and liquor still heavy on your tongue. "Don't stop," you muttered fiercely into his cheek as his heavy hands slid down to grip your hips, pulling you back into the dark shadow of the Porsche. "Don't you dare stop."

You had no idea what the hell was happening anymore. You had no idea what this would do to your job, to your life, or to the fragile peace you had built.

Because when the sun came up, everything would be undeniably, irreversibly altered.

Or perhaps, that was the thought that terrified you the most. Monsters like Aerion Brightflame didn't change their nature over the course of a single night.

And even if he spent the next few hours worshipping you in the dark, it didn't mean he wouldn't be ready to tear you to pieces when the morning light rose.

©padmespetal 2026: I DO NOT APPROVE OF MY WORKS TO BE TRANSLATED OR COPIED ANYWHERE WITHOUT PERMISSION

taglist — @immi-immi @sunkssdcherry @verouys @stevesbaddie @wonwoossglasses @goldenhoneyedwine @alyssa-zavet @someonehereisstupid @dragonsandtitties @m1kkso @thewitchyas @melzz2crazy @targlocket @autumnevanescence @meilvn @knewtt @icebearcucumber @streaminggrove @noagl-76 @sagiohirako @cosmoscoffeee @irixhye @slimyfrogblogs @idkhonestlytumblerforcedme @kinddragongal @ethereal-athalia @strawberryacethingz @freya-heya @niennaera @ninimochilover @petraavisco @wannabethe0ne @thethyri @laczm0cy @dannyispunk @mylcvemineallmine @m4rilkaq

[festeredhearts]

can I talk to you in the woods about something

[luvmaekar]

Aerions Instagram modern au!

cw: toxic!Aerion, manipulation

wc: 0,4k

Aerion’s Instagram profile is the definition of a digital cage designed by the targaryen pr team to keep his chaos contained. He’d have a very minimalist feed, but not because he’s actually low-maintenance or boring- quite the opposite.

In reality, Maekar completely restricted his account access after the infamous "weed-gate" incident, where Aerion posted a video of himself smoking that sent the family’s reputation into a tailspin.

Now, he’s saddled with a marketing manager who vets every move, leaving his grid looking hollow.

His oldest post is a grainy shot from months ago, a candid you captured while the two of you were away on vacation. He’s looking out over the balcony, wearing that obnoxious shirt, captioned only with a dismissive

a.brightflame feelin it

To keep up the family branding, his manager finally let him post a close-up of his newest dragon tattoos, which he captioned

a.brightflame bring back dragons

His comment section is definitely limited due to all the hate he receives.

Even with a locked-down profile, his numbers are insane. He has millions of followers, mostly young girls who are absolutely obsessed with him, yet he only follows thirty-six people- his inner circle and family members. You aren't one of them. He’ll tell you to your face that his manager won't allow him to follow random accounts, but you know it’s a total lie to keep his image unattached.

He’s far too proud to ever let the world see him settled and deep down, he loves the power trip of being the world’s most eligible bachelor. His dms are a constant stream of hearts and invitations from models, princesses, and artists. If you ever call him out on how disrespectful it is that he stays so available to the public, he just smirks and hits you with that toxic line, "I could have anyone in the world, yet I chose you. Gods, you can be such a bitch sometimes"

But that freedom only goes one way. If a guy so much as likes your story or slides into your dms, Aerion loses his mind. Since he made sure to get your password early on, he’ll wait until you’re asleep to simply deactivate your entire Instagram account without a word.

His own story highlights are a mess- one day it’s a polished photo from a gala his manager forced him to attend, the next it’s a sweaty gym mirror selfie or a cryptic quote from a dusty history book about the glory of old valyria.

a/n: let’s be real guys, Aerion is a complete shithead, let’s not forget that. also I’ve seen the requests, I’m currently working on some!

[probablyboredx]

says he's not whipped, anyways, here's a compilation of the opposite

(angry ginge x reader)

masterlist

The tiktok opens with Wii music and purposefully awful editing, or at least you hope it was on purpose. The top comment being "Ginge is like a single dad of 4 who looks at her like she fixed everything wrong with his life."

The first clip opened with one of the sidemen charity match practice streams. Morgan jogs across the pitch while you stand beside cameraman Chazz. One of the American guys, you weren't sure who, yells, “GINGE YOUR GIRL IS WATCHING.”

Immediately he starts showing off. Running harder. Calling for the ball more. Acting like he’s prime Ronaldo (if he was ginger and streamed for a living). You happily watch him, acting like the part of a WAG, and appreciating how your boyfriend looked while playing football.

Then, he absolutely eats shit. Straight onto the grass. Chazz zooms the camera in aggressively while everyone loses their minds. You laugh so hard you can barely breathe, almost falling yourself.

Morgan points at you from the ground. “You’re supposed to support me!”

“You looked like a dying gazelle!”

“Get off the pitch.”

It was a late one, almost 4am and Morgan was still streaming. He was also quite grumpy because he'd lost three games in a row, his controller slammed onto the desk.

“Absolute joke, this game is shit.”

You quietly enter frame holding a can of, in Morgans words "canal water", but everyone knew it was Pepsi.

His entire expression changes instantly.

Like genuinely instantly.

“Cheers, sweetheart.”

The chat noticed immediately, of course, flying a bit quicker for a minute.

You kiss the top of his head. “You’ll win the next one.”

“I know,” he says confidently.

He loses again thirty seconds later. You hadn't even left the room yet.

Morgan’s in the middle of raging at 'Trees hate you' when you enter his streaming room in the Bov house. "THIS GAME IS DOGSHIT.”

There were almost 10 thousand people watching him lose his mind live, then your voice floats in from off camera.

“Babe.”

“No.”

“I didn’t even ask anything yet.”

“You’re about to.”

You walk into frame holding one singular  chicken ball.

Morgan pauses mid-rant. “…is that for me?”

“No, I was just showing chat my food.” You say sarcastically 

“Don’t start.”

You hold the chicken ball just out of reach. “What do I get in return?”

Morgan stares at you like this is the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. “…a kiss?”

“Pathetic. You think you can trade a kiss for my food?"

“Please?”

The entire stream loses its mind.

He gets the chicken ball and the kiss, then immediately points at the camera.

“None of you speak to me ever again. You're all banned for making me play that.”

The clip starts with typical Winton Yanited content. They’re in the middle of training and Morgan is in full manager mode.

“PASS THE BALL.”

“THAT WAS A PASS.”

“TO WHO? THE GRASS?”

You’re standing near the sidelines in one of his Nike zip-up hoodies, trying not to laugh while the cameramen record everything.

Cal zooms in on you with the camera. “Thoughts on the gaffer?”

You glance toward Morgan, who’s currently yelling warmups for the team.

“He’s very...passionate.”

The video cuts to a clip in the same video of the ball heading towards you, but before it even reaches you, Morgan appears out of nowhere. Literally out of nowhere. Like he teleported.

He catches the ball, and throws it back to the lads. 

“WATCH WHERE YOU’RE HITTING IT.”

Everyone goes silent for two seconds.

Then, “OHHHHHH.” 

“Protective arc.”

“Gaffers angry.”

Morgan points aggressively at the pitch and says nothing.

You’re trying so hard not to laugh. “I was literally fine, babe”

“Yeah but you could’ve not been.”

One of the boys starts fake cooing. “Awwww.”

Morgan whips around instantly. “SHUT UP.”

The editor of the compilation zooms in on your face because you’re visibly trying not to smile.

Then later in the video, while Morgan’s giving some intense speech about teamwork or whatever, you quietly walk over holding out a drink.

Without interrupting his sentence, he takes it automatically.

Takes a sip, hands it back, keeps talking, then pauses and looks back at you.

“…wait, did you open this for me?”

You nod and the entire team starts yelling.

“OH MY GOD.”

“THAT’S HIS WIFE.”

Morgan looks genuinely offended. “At least let me finish the team talk before bullying me.”

[m1dnightsunk1ss]

Lately feeling Morgan rn

[gojoidyll]

Putting my nightly thoughts down so I don't forget them. Anyway.

Idk, idk but like you're the new Ghostface. Your motive? You haven't figured it out yet. But you were getting there. For now though, you've done your research, went over old cases, watched those ridiculous Stab movies front, back and sideways.

And you wholeheartedly believed you were ready to kill someone.

However...

You panicked.

The moment you got into their house. You found yourself wondering around and snooping in their belongings. And when you lost track of time and heard the front door open? You scrambled to find a hiding place.

You found yourself in one of the bathrooms. A tub. A toilet. A sink. A cabinet under the sink. Your first thought was to hide behind the curtain of the shower. Cliché. Boring.

You dove for th3 cabinet under the sink and swung it open.

Just enough space you reckon.

You tried to stuff yourself inside it. Your legs were scrunched, your back bent in a weird angle, your right elbow pushing into your ribcage. But it didn't matter. You were almost fully inside the cabinet when-

"WHAT THE FUCK-?!"

Shit.

You looked up and saw the girl you were going to kill standing in the doorway of the bathroom.

You should have went for the damn shower curtain.

[m1dnightsunk1ss]

Lmao my dumbass could never be Ghostface or be cashed by them😭

[panncakesposts]

[m1dnightsunk1ss]

It’s stuck with me forever now

[heathersapples]

Olivia Cooke for TV Insider

[m1dnightsunk1ss]

Yes we do babe yes we do

[da3-yuh]

I absolutely loved don’t trip! and i was wondering if maybe you could write a scenario where instead of bobby being the one to go down with the rope tied around his waist, its the reader instead and maybe it could be rlly angsty and maybe the reader gets injured or dies or somethin? Hopefully this isn’t too vague love your work!🫶

I'm so glad you liked it!!

Take me instead

desc: Taking your boyfriend's place in exploring the shallow room that was angled away, you explore too much, and whatever you just discovered catches up to you..

warnings: death, cussing, being manhandled (not in a sexy way), blood, screaming, crying, throwing up 😬

spoilers!

You were leaning against your counter in some nice underwear and a random tee you found on the floor, with a bowl of cereal in your hand, and some random cartoons playing on the living room t.v. not really paying attention, just enjoying the background noise. What you didn't hear was Bobby getting out of bed and slotting himself between you and the counter, putting his hands on your waist, and resting his chin on your shoulder.

"Good morning, babyyy," he drawls, his voice deep from sleep, making you giggle in your head.

"Good morning, handsome," you say with a smile, but you don't look at him yet, taking another bite of your cereal.

"Could I have some?" Bobby asks quietly. Normally, he would just take it from you with a smirk and give it back half-eaten, but you didn't wanna ruin the opportunity of him asking. So, you scoop as much cereal as you can into your spoon, tilt your head a little bit, and spoon-feed your boyfriend some cereal. You could hear him munching in your ear, and you laugh.

"Thank you!" He says in between chews, and you smile at him. Setting down your cereal bowl (which Bobby picks up immediately afterwards), you walk towards the t.v. turning it down slightly, before returning to the kitchen. By that time, Bobby had already finished the cereal and drank the milk from the bowl.. you were gone for 10 seconds..

"I was thinking of calling Kat and inviting her over tonight. How does that sound?" You ask while leaning against the fridge, playing with your chipped nail polish. Bobby nods his head in agreement while wiping milk from his chin.

"Yeah, that's cool. I think I left my bong at her place last time we went over there..?" He says, raising an eyebrow, making you shake your head.

"Perfect! Another reason for her to come over!" You say happily while walking towards your home phone and dialing Kat's number, just as it starts ringing, someone knocks on the door a couple of times, before you hear them knock on the window.

"Bobby! Could you get that, please!" You scream from the other room with the phone in your hand, and you hear him shuffle to the door. After a few seconds, you hear Kat's voice through the phone speaker.

"Hey, y/n/n! What's up?" Shs asks happily, and you smile widely.

"Hey, Kat! I was wondering if you wanted to come over tonight? Bobby and I bought from this new guy, we know we can't smoke it without you, and he's asking for his bong back." You say with a light laugh, and you could hear her laugh on the other line.

"Duh, I wanna come over! And I've been meaning to bring Bobby his bong back.." she says with some guilt in her voice. Just as you were about to talk again, Bobby calls out to you.

"Busy!" You scream out from the room, turning your attention back to Kat, but Bobby calls out again, louder and a little snappier this time.

"Oh my fucking God. Hold on, Kat." You say annoyed, setting the phone down, and walking far enough to see Bobby at the door.

"Bobby, what the fuck?" rings through the house, and he just motions you over, making you huff and walk to the door, seeing your boss, Clark, standing there awkwardly.

"Clark? What are you doing here?

After the interaction with Clark

You and Bobby packed up your stuff and headed to pick up Kat, and head to Cap'n Clarks for God knows what.

As you three arrived at the store, you felt a feeling of uneasiness, almost as if you were going to stumble onto something you weren't supposed to.. Clark guided you guys to the basement, which was weird. You tried to brush it off, but something was just gnawing at you. Soon, you guys were in this yellowish-brownish maze of fluorescent lights and moldy-smelling walls. It was apprehensive.

How you got here, you didn't know.. one minute you were eating breakfast with your boyfriend Bobby, then your boss Clark comes knocking at your door, begging to use Bobby's camera, and for you and Bobby to help him 'research' this place he found. Which made him sound like an absolute fucking lunatic, in your opinion ofc. But you guys went nonetheless.

The walk through the maze was intoxicating, and not in a good way. Bobby was amazed at the place, cheesing into his camera, catching almost any angle he could of the place, and Kat was just as scared as you were, holding onto your arm tightly.

"Clark.. what is this place?" You ask with a tremble in your voice, and Kat looks at you with a shaky gaze.

"I'm still trying to figure that out myself.." He says with an amused tone, making you suck in a breath.

Just as you were about to yell at him, he stops in front of an old bedframe and a dirty mattress, putting his bag on the floor and pulling out some rope.

"Oh great, he's tying us up.." Kat says shakily, and you could almost throw up. Is he seriously gonna tie you guys up and leave you here to die? No, he wouldn't.. would he?

"No, we're tying ourselves up." Clarks says, correcting Kat with a gruff.

"Whoa, kinky. Y/n, we should try that sometime~" Boby says with a smirk, and you roll your eyes.

"Not the time, Bobby." You say a little irritated while going over and helping Clark with the rope.

"One of us has to go down there and check out what we can't see. I didn't bring enough rope for all of us, and someone has to hold the line for the person down there." Clark says firmly, looking at the three of you. You gulp at his words, but volunteer yourself.

"I'll do it."

"WHAT?!" Bobby and Kat say at the same time.

"I said I'll do it, I don't have to explain my actions all of the time," you mutter while you take the rope from Clark, putting it around your waist.

Bobby shakes his head quickly before handing the camera to Kat and taking your hands away from the rope, letting it fall to the floor with a light thump.

"Baby, you were literally pissing yourself on the way here, and almost threw up when we got inside. You're not going down there." His voice is stern, and it makes your heart race. "I'll go instead."

You huff at his words, pulling your hands away from his and picking up the rope again, re-wrapping it around your waist.

"No, Bobby. I said I was gonna go, so I'm going."

Clark sighs at the interaction, taking the rope from your hands and tying it around your waist tightly. Bobby kisses your head and takes the camera back from Kat, recording you taking the steps to the slope, but Kat grabs your arm.

"You don't have to do this! we- we could just make Bobby go down there!" she says hopefully. Bobby side-eyes her quickly, "What the fuck, Kat??"

You take her hand off your arm and give it a squeeze, "I'll be fine.. It's just a room. It's not like there's a monster down there or something!" You say jokingly, but Kat couldn't find it in her heart to laugh fully.

Bobby hands you his camera, repeating over and over to be careful with it, making you roll your eyes over and over. He kissed you one more time before watching you slowly walk down the slope, his hand tight on the rope that was attached to your waist. You walk slowly before sliding down at the end, and then you were gone in the darkness.

Once you reached the end of the slope, it reeked of death and rotting flesh. Making you gag and cover your nose.

"Jesus! What the fuck died down here?" You mutter while trekking around the smelly room, still holding the camera in your hands. There were piles of black, sludgy substances surrounding the walls of the space, making you go teary-eyed, but you kept moving forward.

The further you moved, the worse it got. There was random furniture everywhere, or clothes, you couldn't tell, everything was so dark, and eerie, you just couldn't get a grasp of anything.

As you walked deeper into the area, there was a room with flickering lights, almost as if it was calling your name. You walked towards the room, but you felt a snag at your waist; the rope was out.

"Can I have some more rope?" You yell out, but there isn't an immediate answer.

"There's no more!" Bobby yells back, and you sigh, taking a glance at the room, then the rope before sliding the rope down your legs and walking closer to the room. The closer you got, the more the light flickered, but the more it flickered, the clearer the thing that was inside the room became. A loud groan shook the room and knocked out the flickering light, shattering to the floor, and you almost dropped the camera.

For some reason, your feet were stuck to the floor, and your breathing came out in small huffs. You couldn't move, but you could hear something coming closer, breathing hard. It almost touched you, but you ran as fast as you could to the rope, attempting to slip it back on before the thing grabbed you by the collar of your shirt and threw you backwards.

Your body slammed against the damp wall, knocking the wind out of you and leaving you dizzy. The rope against your legs is squeezing tightly as someone is pulling it slowly. You were halfway across the room before something grabbed you by the hair and slammed you back down. blood pools behind your head, causing you to choke on the blood in your mouth. You feel something wet drip down your nose and slide to your lips, tasting of metal and sweat.

The world around you is reeling, and the smell is only making it worse. The sound of your name being called, then a sudden rumble of people falling over. After a few seconds, you hear yelling, and someone is holding your head carefully.

"Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!" Kat cries at your side, hesitating to touch you.

Bobby wipes the blood from your nose and cradles your face.

"Oh my god- baby!" Bobby yells out, almost trying to shake you awake, but it was of no use.

The rope still attached to your legs was being pulled at again, some small at first, until it kept increasingly getting stronger. Bobby grabbed your torso and held you tightly while Kat was attempting to pull the rope from your legs, but the thing kept pulling you till Bobby Physically couldn't hold on.

"B-Bobby?" You say quietly, the blood that was previously pooling in your mouth now dripping out, and your grip on his forearm was weak, and you couldn't get a full hand around his arm.

You were ripped ouf out of Bobby's arms and dragged into the darkness, with no clue of what had happened.

Bobby had run after you, Kat sat there and cried, and Clark disregarded your death as if you weren't important.

[m1dnightsunk1ss]

Welp that escalated quick😭 sooo good tho💗

[armourangel]

Helping Aerion With his Eyeliner

“Hold still okay?” You ask gently while holding the black pencil up to his face with a firm grip on his chin. Aerion nods slowly looking into your eyes and adjusts himself under your lap so you can get a better view of he’s eyes.

“You’re gonna look sooo cool” you whisper while in deep concentration, lining along his light bottom lashes. The jet black pigment creating a beautiful sharpe shadow under his blue eyes. Your tongue sticks out in your focus, Aerion’s notices, a small smiling creeping on his face.

“baby I always look cool” he scoffs “please don’t stab my fucking eye out” he says a bit more carefully now. He’s being dramatic but doesn’t want you to get up from his lap now that he has you there.

“Don’t be a dick and I won’t consider it” your hands move to hold of both his cheeks to get a full picture of your work. He looks up at you, eyes a little hazy from whatever alcohol he drank before you came over- his proactive way to manage the night at this last minute party you’re dragging him to. Hands moving down from your waist onto your hips. A gentle squeeze, circles with his thumbs, and you can feel the cold of his sliver thumb ring move against your skin. He looks so soft like this, under you, being decorated by your hands. He loves having your undivided attention. Even if it means going to a shitty party.

“Do I look pretty yet?” He whispers cracking a mocking sweet smile on his face- batting his lashes. He drops the sweet act and raises his arms above his head, stretches back on top of his messy sheets with a groan. Pale orange street lights streak through the window above his bed, making a shirtless and now charcoaled Aerion look like devious lazy god straight out of a painting. Eyes half hooded- focused on you from his lying position.

You pop the cap back onto the eyeliner and toss it beside you, before crawling up to him, caging his head between your arms as you lean over him. His finger tips drag up your bare thighs, over the lace of your underwear on your hips, resting on your ribs under the worn tee shirt you have on. Somehow he still manages to look so sweet under you, despite the black surrounding his eyes, the metal in his ears, or the sharpness of his teeth that peek out over his bottom lip

“Always the prettiest boy” you whisper over him while resting your forehead against his. He hums in response, looking up at you, then your lips, then you again. Looking like he’s expecting something. A kiss. He’s used to that being paired with your praise.

“I gotta do mine now” you sit fully back up and start to get off the bed. Much to Aerion’s disapoinment.

“No” a small,barely audible whine comes from the back of his throat. Hands pawing at your arms, legs, hips, anything to get you back onto the bed. Anything to have you not ready to go to this party.

“Don’t pout” you laugh as you swat his gripping hands away. You grab your makeup bag off the dresser and sit in front of his mirror on the floor. Slowly beginning to apply your own black liner similar to his. Completely ignoring the unimpressed boy on the bed.

Aerion sits up on his elbows to watch you from the bed, each movement of your hands is trailed by his eyes. You try to not look at him or how his pale torso looks in this light or his thighs that are just barely covered by his plaid briefs. That bed looks too inviting with him in it. That bed looks like canceling your plans, the ones you promised your friends you keep. He gets up and walks to his dresser -quickly pulling out a part of crumpled dark wash jeans, a belt already snaked through the loops from the last time he wore them.

“Thank you for coming with me” you say as you look at yourself in the mirror, then twisting your neck you look at him. “I know it’s not your thing, not your kind of party but I think it will be fun- and I like how you get after parties”

“After parties?” he tilts his head with the question- now standing behind you shaking out the crinkles in his jeans.

“Mhm” you avoid his gaze in the mirror, slipping your tee shirt over your head.

“Wanna specify?” His belt rattled as he steps into his jeans and it’s like some kind of Pavlovian conditioning, you’re instantly looking up at him in the mirror.

“Not really, I enjoy it when you’re unaware of how cute you are” you reposition yourself, knees under you and inches away from his feet.

His belt and fly are still undone, hanging loose from his narrow hips. His eyes catch yours as you’re looking up at him, dark expression deepening the ash around his eyes. Aerion reaches down to tangle his hands in your hair. Tilts your head further back.

“How long till we gotta leave?” his hand falling to your face.

Middle finger dipping into your mouth.

“20 minutes” you’re smiling around his finger now.

“Yeah that works”.

[the-darklings]

“ a civilian girl who, as far as we can tell, wandered in through a door that shouldn't exist and started treating an apex predator like a stray cat”

Obsessed with the idea that, for the researchers, Entity 0 is giving

But for the Companion, its giving more

Companion is really giving that one TikTok about how women just pick up the worlds most dangerous apex angry violent predator and go “ohhhh little muffin!” And the creature goes from 💀 to 🥺 the second they’re scooped up

This is literally, and unironically exactly what it's like though 😭

What everyone else sees: vs what Companion sees:

[the-darklings]

㊂ M.E.G — ENTITY DOSSIER: ENTITY 0

▓▓▓▓▓▓ CLASSIFIED // M.E.G. INTERNAL // CLEARANCE LEVEL 4 REQUIRED ▓▓▓▓▓▓ Colloquial Designation: "Better Bobby" DOCUMENT ID: MEG-ENT-0000-DOSSIER CLASSIFICATION: LEVEL 4 — RESTRICTED COMPILED BY: Dr. ██████, Entity Research Division DATE OF COMPILATION: ██/██/198█ LAST REVISION: ██/██/199█ [SEE ADDENDUM F] REVISION STATUS: ONGOING — FILE NEVER CLOSED

⚠ DISTRIBUTION WARNING ⚠

This dossier contains information regarding an entity classified as APEX-UNDEFINED. Unauthorised access, reproduction, or verbal dissemination of the contents herein constitutes a Class 3 security violation. Personnel found in breach will be subject to immediate reassignment to Level ███. This is not negotiable. If you are reading this document and do not possess Level 4 clearance, stop immediately. Close this file. Walk away. Forget the designation. This is for your safety.

SECTION 1 — ENTITY SUMMARY

Designation: Entity 0

Colloquial Name(s): "Better Bobby," "The First," "It" (field teams), ██████████████ (designation rescinded, see Incident Report 0-14) Primary Domain: Level 0 (unconfirmed territorial claim over full sublevel network) Secondary Sightings: Levels 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 14, ████, ██████, and the Poolrooms (unverified) Threat Classification: APEX-UNDEFINED Containment Status: UNCONTAINED — ALL CONTAINMENT ATTEMPTS SUSPENDED INDEFINITELY Behavioural Profile: UNPREDICTABLE / ADAPTIVE / SAPIENT (CONFIRMED) Entity Kill Count (Est.): Unknown. See Section 5. Human Kill Count (Conf.): █████ Human Kill Count (Est.): ███████ [DISPUTED — SEE ADDENDUM C]

NOTE FROM DR. ██████, ENTITY RESEARCH LEAD:

It should be on record that the designation 'Entity 0' was not chosen for taxonomic reasons. It was assigned because this entity predates our cataloguing system. We did not discover it. It was already here in what we class as the Backrooms. It may have always been here . The number is not a ranking. It's an admission that we do not know where to place it.

SECTION 2 — PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

2.1 — Primary Manifestation

Entity 0 presents as a young Caucasian male, early-to-mid twenties, consistent with the physical appearance of one Robert "Bobby" Franklin (see Personnel File MEG-P-██████, Status: ACTIVE/DISPLACED). The resemblance is exact in approximately 94% of documented sightings. Remaining sightings note minor deviations: incorrect eye colour under different lighting, subtle asymmetries in facial structure that do not correspond to Franklin's known features, and—in three separate reports—a "wrongness in the joints" that observers struggled to articulate.

Franklin himself has been interviewed extensively regarding Entity 0's use of his likeness. His testimony is included in Addendum A (SEALED). He has requested, on multiple occasions, that M.E.G. ██████████████████████████████████. This request has been denied.

2.2 — Secondary Characteristics

Entity 0 bleeds a black, viscous fluid when injured. Lab analysis of recovered samples has returned ████████████████. A second analysis returned entirely different results. A third analysis caused the spectrometer to ██████████████████████████████████. Testing has been suspended.

Entity 0's body temperature registers approximately 4.2°C below ambient room temperature at all times, regardless of environmental conditions. This remains consistent even in the Poolrooms (if sightings there are verified) and the thermally unstable zones of Level 5.

When Entity 0 believes it is unobserved, field teams have reported the following:

a) Complete cessation of respiration for periods exceeding 45 minutes.

b) Head rotation beyond normal cervical range (estimated 190° in Sighting 0-22).

c) Standing perfectly motionless in a posture that does not account for gravity. One researcher described it as "standing the way a photograph of a person stands. Not wrong. Just not alive."

d) Brief episodes of what appears to be the entity's eyes changing colour—from the documented blue to solid black. Duration: 1-5 seconds. No agent has been close enough to confirm ████████████████.

e) ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ for approximately nine hours. When Agent ██████ attempted to approach, ██████████████████████████████████. Agent ██████ has requested a transfer. Request granted.

2.3 — True Form

Unknown.

We do not know what Entity 0 looks like. We know what Bobby Franklin looks like. Entity 0 has never been observed without this disguise. Whether the Franklin appearance constitutes a "disguise" or has become the entity's actual physical structure is a matter of ongoing—and increasingly heated—debate within the department.

Dr. ██████ has proposed that Entity 0 may not have a "true form." That it may be, at a fundamental level, a thing that IS other things. This hypothesis is ████████████████.

SECTION 3 — BEHAVIOURAL ANALYSIS

3.1 — Unpredictability Index

Entity 0 has been assigned a Behavioural Unpredictability Index (BUI) of 9.7 out of 10. For context, most Backrooms entities operate between 2 and 6 on this scale. The Skin-Stealers register at 5.1. The Hounds at 3.8. A completely random number generator would score 10.0.

Entity 0 scores a 9.7 because it is not random. It is making decisions. We simply cannot determine the framework.

Documented behavioural range includes:

Allowing a wanderer to pass through Level 0 entirely unmolested, even appearing to clear a path by relocating other entities beforehand (Sighting 0-09).

Killing a wanderer. Method: ██████████████████████████████████. No apparent provocation. (Incident 0-03).

Sitting cross-legged in a hallway for an estimated 72 hours, staring at a wall. (Sighting 0-15). Purpose: unknown.

Engaging a Class 5 entity in what can only be described as combat. Entity 0 won. ██████████████████████████████████. The Class 5 entity has not been sighted since.

Humming. (Multiple sightings.) The melody does not correspond to any known song. ████████████████ has suggested it may be original composition. This is ██████.

Laughing at nothing. (Sighting 0-19.) Duration: four minutes. Laughter matched audio profile of Robert Franklin exactly.

██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. All seven members of Exploration Team Kilo were recovered alive. None will discuss what happened.

3.2 — Evasion Capabilities

Entity 0 does not want to be found. When it is found, it is because it has chosen to be.

M.E.G. has deployed tracking teams on fourteen separate occasions. Results were as follows:

Operation: LAMPLIGHTER Duration: 6 days Result: Entity evaded all contact. Team reported hallways "rearranging" around them.

Operation: NIGHTJAR Duration: 11 days Result: Entity sighted once. Made direct eye contact with lead tracker from end of hallway (est. 200m). Smiled. Vanished.

Operation: FOXGLOVE Duration: 2 hours Result: Entity approached team voluntarily. ██████████████████████████████████. Operation terminated.

Operation: SILKWORM Duration: 9 days Result: No contact. Post-operation analysis revealed entity had been following the tracking team for the final four days.

Operation: TIDEPOOL Duration: ██ days Result: ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ ██████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. All further tracking operations suspended by order of ██████.

3.3 — Intelligence

Entity 0 is sapient. This is no longer debated.

It understands English. It understands Mandarin, Spanish, Arabic, and—following an incident with Exploration Team Foxtrot—fluent conversational Japanese, despite never having been observed in the presence of a Japanese-speaking wanderer. A comprehensive linguistic audit conducted in 198█ was abandoned after Entity 0 responded to a deliberately obscure dialectal prompt in ██████████████████████████████████. The full list of confirmed languages is maintained in Addendum B. It is not short.

It also understands tactical positioning. It understands, based on Operations NIGHTJAR and SILKWORM, the concept of irony.

What must be emphasised—and what continues to unsettle the department—is how dramatically Entity 0's cognitive profile diverges from every other catalogued entity. Most Backrooms entities operate on recognisable behavioural loops. The Smilers hunt. The Skin-Stealers mimic. The ██████ feed. Even the more complex entities can be understood as sophisticated biological (or pseudo-biological) systems responding to stimuli: hunger, territorial instinct, predatory drive. They do what they do because something in their construction compels them to do it.

Entity 0 does not appear to be compelled to do anything.

It does not hunt for sustenance. It does not hunt for pleasure. It does not, as far as we can determine, hunt at all. Its kills appear to be decisions, made for reasons that change depending on context and that we have failed to model despite years of behavioural data. Other entities are, for lack of a better term, animals. Complex animals. Dangerous animals. But animals still.

Entity 0 operates with what can only be described as intentionality. It makes choices. It weighs outcomes. It has, on at least two documented occasions, changed its mind mid-action, which implies an internal deliberative process that no other entity has demonstrated.

This is what makes it dangerous. Not the strength—though the strength is considerable. Not the evasion capabilities—though those are unmatched. The danger is that Entity 0's internal workings appear to be orders of magnitude more complex than anything else in the Backrooms, and we do not understand them. A Wretch is dangerous the way a bear is dangerous: powerful, aggressive, but ultimately predictable. Entity 0 is dangerous the way a person is dangerous. It thinks. It plans, adapts, and learns. And it does all of this inside a body that can tear a Class 5 entity apart in ninety seconds.

The obvious question—and the one this department has been circling for the better part of two years without satisfactory resolution—is why. Why is Entity 0 so far beyond its peers? Two hypotheses currently hold majority support:

Hypothesis A (Dr. ██████): Entity 0's cognitive superiority is a function of age. It was here first. It has had longer to develop, to complexify, to evolve whatever passes for intelligence in Backrooms entities. Under this model, Entity 0 is not fundamentally different from other entities, it is simply older. The designation "Entity 0" is, in this reading, more literal than intended. It is t he first. Everything else came after. Everything else is younger, simpler, less finished.

Hypothesis B (Dr. ████████): Entity 0 is not smarter because it is older. It is smarter because it wanted to be. Something in its composition—its origin, its structure, whatever animates it—possesses a drive toward learning that other entities lack. It doesn't just react to its environment. It studies it. It chose to wear a human face. It chose to learn human language. Not one. Dozens. It chose to understand tactical positioning and irony and the specific way Robert Franklin leans against walls. Other entities absorb. Entity 0 pursues. If this hypothesis is correct, the follow-up question becomes deeply uncomfortable: what is it learning toward? What is the curriculum building to? What does an entity that has spent ██████████████ years teaching itself to be more look like when it decides it has learned enough?

Neither hypothesis has been confirmed. Both are ███████████████.

Researcher's note: I have been asked, off the record, which hypothesis I find more frightening. The answer is (B). It's always (B).

SECTION 4 — TERRITORIAL BEHAVIOUR & DOMAIN

Level 0 (otherwise known as "The Threshold") is, by consensus, Entity 0's domain.

This is not an official M.E.G. designation but a practical observation. Entity 0 moves through Level 0 with a freedom and familiarity that no other entity displays. It does not navigate the space. It inhabits it. Hallways that shift and reconfigure for wanderers appear to remain static in Entity 0's presence, or, more disturbingly, reconfigure according to its preference.

There is a growing body of evidence—currently classified under Review Protocol ██████—suggesting that Level 0 may not simply be Entity 0's territory. It may be its ████████████. This hypothesis was first proposed by Dr. ██████ in 198█ and was initially dismissed. Following Incident 0-11, in which Entity 0 appeared to ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████ an entire corridor, the hypothesis has been upgraded to "under active consideration."

Entity 0 has been sighted on other levels, but these incursions appear purposeful and temporary. It always returns to Level 0. One researcher described this pattern as "a predator checking its territory lines," though others have noted the behaviour more closely resembles ████████████████.

SECTION 5 — INTER-ENTITY BEHAVIOUR

Entity 0 kills other entities.

This requires emphasis because it is, within the context of Backrooms ecology, abnormal. Entities compete for territory aggressively. Entities avoid each other. Entities engage in dominance displays. Sometimes they have been observed working together to hunt and kill wanderers. Entities do not, as a rule, destroy each other with the kind of systematic, almost casual efficiency that Entity 0 demonstrates.

Confirmed Entity 0 kills:

1x Class 5 Entity (undesignated). Method: ██████████████████████████. Duration of engagement: approx. 90 seconds.

5x Hounds. Simultaneous. Entity 0 did not appear injured afterward.

17x Skin-Stealer. Entity 0 appeared to take particular ██████ with this kill. Duration: ██████. Research team observing from concealment requested psychological support afterward.

██████x ████████████████. Circumstances: ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████. See Section 6.

1x entity of unknown classification. Entity 0 was observed speaking to it before killing it. Words were inaudible. Lip-reading analysis suggested ██████████████████████████████████. Lip-reading analyst has since resigned.

Few entities engage in aggression toward Entity 0. The implication of such is clear: within the Backrooms ecosystem, Entity 0 is an apex predator. Other entities tend to avoid it. Some—including the Hounds, which fear nothing else in our catalogue—have been documented actively fleeing its approach.

There are, however, notable exceptions.

The Howlers appear to be, at minimum, a genuine physical threat. They have engaged Entity 0 on at least three documented occasions. The encounters were violent and protracted in a way that Entity 0's other kills are not. During Incident 0-09, Entity 0 was observed sustaining visible damage. The first and only confirmed instance of an entity injuring it in combat. The black fluid was extensive. Entity 0 killed two Howlers, but it took ██ minutes, and afterward it remained stationary in the corridor for nearly two hours. Whether this constituted recovery, pain, or something else, we cannot say. But it did not move, and field team noted it was not humming.

More concerning is the entity's documented behaviour regarding ████████████████████████████, tentatively catalogued as Entity ██████, sighted exclusively on Levels ██████ and ██████. We have very little data on this entity—three sightings total, all partial, all from significant distance—but what we do have is this: during Sighting 0-46, Entity 0 was transiting a hallway on Level ██████ when it stopped. Abruptly. The tracking team reported that it stood perfectly still for approximately ninety seconds, head tilted, and then turned around and walked the other way.

Entity 0 has never, in our observational history, retreated from anything.

What Entity 0 is protecting, or hunting, or maintaining through this behaviour remains unknown.

SECTION 6 — THE COMPANION

⚠ CLASSIFICATION: LEVEL 4 EYES ONLY — SUBSECTION RESTRICTED TO SENIOR RESEARCH PERSONNEL ⚠

6.1 — Initial Sighting

During Operation SILKWORM, tracking team reported an anomalous observation that did not pertain to the primary mission objective. Entity 0 was sighted in a hallway junction on Level 0, sublevel ██████. It was not alone.

A human female was observed walking alongside Entity 0.

Estimated age: ███. Physical description: ██████████████████████████████████. She was wearing ████████████████ and appeared to be in good physical health. She was not restrained, and was not visibly distressed. She was, by all observable measures, walking with Entity 0 voluntarily.

Entity 0 was walking between the female and the nearest dark hallway.

The tracking team leader noted this detail three times in her field report, underlining it twice. I am including it here because the behavioural implication is significant: Entity 0 was positioning itself as a barrier between the female and potential threats. This is protective behaviour. This is not something Entity 0 has ever displayed toward any other human in our records.

6.2 — Subsequent Sightings

Ref: S-31 Level: 0 Observation: Entity 0 and Companion seated against wall. Entity 0 appeared to be keeping watch while Companion slept. Entity 0 was humming.

Ref: S-34 Level: 2 Observation: Companion observed navigating. Entity 0 following. Unusual. Entity 0 does not typically follow. It leads or it ██████.

Ref: S-37 Level: 0 Observation: Entity 0 observed retrieving ██████ and presenting them to Companion. Companion laughed. Entity 0 displayed what appeared to be satisfaction.

Ref: S-41 Level: 3 Observation: Two Hounds approached Companion's position. Entity 0 intercepted. █████████████████████████████. Companion did not appear surprised by the violence. She waited. When Entity 0 returned, she handed it ██████ and they continued walking.

Ref: S-44 Level: ██████ Observation: ████████████████████████████████ █████████████████████████ ████████████████. Observation team was withdrawn immediately. Dr. ██████████ has classified this sighting at Level 5. I have not been told why.

6.3 — Identity of the Companion

The Companion has been tentatively identified as █████████████████████████, a civilian reported missing on ██████████. Missing persons report was filed by Robert Franklin. Notably, █████████████████████████ was in a relationship with Robert Franklin at the time of disappearance.

The implications of this connection—that Entity 0 selected a companion who was romantically involved with the individual whose appearance it wears—are not lost on this department. Theories range from predatory luring strategy (see Dr. ██████'s analysis, Addendum D) to ██████████████████████████████████ to something far more ████████████████ that several senior researchers have declined to put in writing.

6.3.1 — Anomaly: Erasure of Civilian Records

During routine cross-referencing with surface-level contacts, research staff discovered that the Companion's missing persons file had been closed. Not resolved. Closed. Reason listed: ████████████████. The filing officer has no memory of processing the closure.

Subsequent investigation revealed a broader pattern. The Companion's lease has been reassigned. Her workplace has no record of employment. Her university transcript exists but is flagged as a clerical duplicate with no corresponding student ID. Photographs in which she appears have not been removed: she is simply no longer in them. The physical prints are unaltered. The space where she stood is just empty. As though no one was there to begin with.

This is not normal. Wanderers who enter the Backrooms leave gaps. Families search. Records persist. Missing persons cases go cold but they do not evaporate. In ██████ years of documented Backrooms disappearances, we have never seen evidence of a wanderer being actively erased from the surface world.

Something is removing her. Not killing her. She is alive and accounted for in the Backrooms. Removing the idea of her. The evidence that she existed at all.

The obvious question is whether Entity 0 is capable of exerting influence beyond the Backrooms. The less obvious and considerably more unsettling question is why it would want to. If Entity 0 is erasing the Companion's surface existence, the implication is not destruction. It is permanence. You do not erase someone's way back unless you intend for them to stay.

This has been flagged as a Priority 1 concern. Dr. ██████ has requested that Robert Franklin be monitored for signs of ████████████████. Request granted.

6.4 — Behavioural Implications

Entity 0, in the presence of the Companion, behaves differently than in any other documented context. Specifically:

a) Aggression toward other entities increases by an estimated 300%. Entity 0's territory, already dangerous, becomes functionally impassable when the Companion is present.

b) Unpredictability decreases. Entity 0''s movements become more structured, more purposeful, more oriented around the Companion's location. For the first time in our observational history, Entity 0 is behaving in a way that can be partially predicted.

c) The entity has been observed performing behaviours with no survival utility: adjusting the Companion's blanket, standing in specific positions to block fluorescent light while she sleeps, █████████████████████████████████. These behaviours have no precedent in our entity catalogue.

d) Entity 0 has not killed a human since the Companion was first sighted. Correlation is not causation. But the correlation is ██████.

SECTION 7 — RESEARCH & CONTAINMENT PROPOSALS

7.1 — Proposal: Use the Companion to Study Entity 0

STATUS: UNDER REVIEW

The Companion represents an unprecedented opportunity. Entity 0, which has evaded every tracking operation, every surveillance deployment, and every research team we have sent into Level 0, has voluntarily anchored itself to a single human being. Its movements are, for the first time ever, partially predictable. Its behaviour, for the first time, has an identifiable variable: her.

Proposal 7.1-A (Dr. ██████████): Establish covert observation posts along confirmed Companion travel routes. Do nott engage. Do not approach. Observe only. Use the Companion's presence to map Entity 0's behavioural patterns, territorial boundaries, and, if possible, communication methods.

Proposal 7.1-B (Dr. ██████): Make contact with the Companion. Offer extraction. If she accepts, observe Entity 0's response. If she declines—and this is the part of the proposal that generated significant debate in committee—ask her to serve as a voluntary research asset. She has closer access to Entity 0 than any M.E.G. (or outside) operative has ever achieved. She is, in effect, already conducting the field study we have failed to execute fourteen times.

Proposal 7.1-C: ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. This proposal was submitted anonymously. It has been rejected. The author is encouraged to identify themselves to their supervisor immediately.

7.2 — Proposal: Use the Companion to Contain Entity 0

STATUS: REJECTED (SEE BELOW)

If Entity 0 will not leave the Companion, then controlling the Companion's location is, theoretically, controlling Entity 0's location.

This proposal was rejected for the following reasons:

We do not know whether Entity 0's attachment to the Companion represents affection, possession, predation, or something outside human behavioural pattern. Assuming it is exploitable is assuming we understand it. We do not.

If Entity 0 perceives the Companion's removal as a threat, its response is unpredictable and potentially catastrophic. Given its documented combat capabilities—including the destruction of a Class 5 entity in under two minutes—the risk to extraction personnel is classified as ██████.

The Companion may not be a hostage. She may be there voluntarily. If so, forcible extraction raises ethical concerns that this department is not equipped to adjudicate.

██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████ ████████████████. If this turns out to be accurate, containment is not merely inadvisable. It is ███████████████.

NOTE FROM OPERATIONS DIRECTOR ██████:

I'm going to be blunt. We have spent years and ██████ operatives trying to understand Entity 0. We've tried to catalogue its kills, map its territory and even document its evasion capabilities. And in all that time, the single greatest advance in our understanding of this entity has come from a civilian girl who, as far as we can tell, wandered in through a door that shouldn't exist and started treating an apex predator like a stray cat.

She has learned more about Entity 0 by being near it than we have learned in fourteen operations. I'm not comfortable with what that implies about our methodology. I'm even less comfortable with what it implies about Entity 0's capacity for selective trust.

Recommendation (to be forwarded to every agency looking into this Entity): observe. Do not intervene. Do not extract. Do not, under any circumstances, threaten the Companion's safety within Entity 0's perceptual range.

I've seen what it does to things that threaten what belongs to it.

I don't want to see what it would do to us.

SECTION 8 — OPEN QUESTIONS

The following questions remain unanswered. They are listed in order of departmental priority. Personnel with relevant information are instructed to report to Dr. ██████ immediately.

What is Entity 0? Not what does it look like. Not how does it behave. What IS it?

What does it want with the Companion? Protection implies investment. What is the return?

What is the entity's relationship to Level 0 itself? Is it an inhabitant, a guardian, a ██████, or something we do not have terminology for?

Why Bobby Franklin? Of all possible appearances, why this specific individual? Is is merely due to Companion's prior history with Franklin or █████████████?

The Companion has been in the Backrooms for an estimated ██████. Standard survival expectancy for an unaffiliated civilian without supplies is 1-3 days. She is alive and healthy. How? And more importantly, why?

██████████████████████████████████?

During Sighting S-44, observation team reported ██████████████████████████████████ ██████████████████████████████████. If this is accurate, does Entity 0 possess ████████████████? And if so, has the Companion been ██████?

Is Entity 0 capable of love? (This question was submitted by Junior Researcher ██████ and was initially struck from the record. It has been reinstated by order of Dr. ██████, who noted, and I quote: "It's the only question that actually matters.")

END OF DOSSIER

File Status: OPEN — NEVER CLOSED Next Mandatory Review: ████████████████

"We have been studying Entity 0 for years. I am no longer certain it has not been studying us for longer."

— Dr. ██████, final departmental memo before ████████████████

▓▓▓▓▓▓ UNAUTHORIZED REPRODUCTION OF THIS DOCUMENT OR DISTRIBUTION IS GROUNDS FOR IMMEDIATE TERMINATION OF M.E.G. MEMBERSHIP ▓▓▓▓▓▓

[m1dnightsunk1ss]

HOW does one write like this and think like this?😭this is so fucking creative and cool wow girl you really did your BIG one😭💗