꒰ pairing꒱ ceo! satoru x single mom secretary reader
꒰summary꒱ satoru gojo, the arrogant and irresistible heir to a billion-dollar corporation and the son of your boss, the ceo... but when satoru’s father dies unexpectedly, his inheritance hinges on a stipulation: he must marry and have a child, but the child doesn't necessarily have to be his, right? together, you strike a deal: a fake marriage that promises financial stability for you and corporate control for him. as the lines between business and emotion blur, you must decide if your partnership is purely contractual or if it could evolve into something real.
꒰warnings/tags꒱ slow burn ∿ annoyances to lovers ∿ opposites attract ∿ fake marriage ∿ marriage of convenience ∿ found family ∿ satoru being a cute step dad ∿ naoya's your shitty baby daddy ∿ blackmail ∿ fluff ∿ angst ∿ eventual smut ∿ prior domestic abuse ∿ emotional manipulation (naoya) ∿ violence ∿
꒰w/c꒱ 154k
→ masterlist → ao3 ♫ playlist ୧ kofi
1 ∿ circumstances and commitments ୧
2 ∿ under the spotlight ୧
3 ∿ fractured realities ୧
4 ∿ shadows of doubt ୧
5 ∿ a leap of faith ୧
6 ∿ drenched in truth ୧
7 ∿ the road ahead ୧
8 ∿ inhale, exhale ୧
9 ∿ blood and betrayal ୧
10 ∿ ruin and reverence ୧
11 ∿ pending... ୧
12 ∿ pending... ୧
13 ∿ pending... ୧
14 ∿ pending... ୧
15 ∿ final... ୧
꒰additional content꒱
→ ceo! satoru headcannons (read at any time!) ୧
→ harvesting happiness ∿ autumn special (read after 6) ୧
→ wrapped in love ∿ holiday special (read after 7) ୧
→ gojo estate aesthetics
→ tags #mhm #motherhood and matrimony #ceo! satoru
꒰ authors note꒱ welcome to this series masterlist! i will continue to update tags as the story progresses. please comment if you would like to be tagged in future chapters 💕 thank you so much for reading!
𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 .⋆♱ ⤿ summer breaks at your aunt's house in the countryside are always your favourite part of the year. though this year, there's a rather sweet surprise awaiting you. 𝗸𝗮𝘁𝘀𝘂𝗸𝗶 𝗯𝗮𝗸𝘂𝗴𝗼, the grumpy (and unfairly hot) southern boy who comes to help out your aunt with garden work. and you've got one new mission for this summer: get him to fuck you, no matter what it takes.
𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧 .⋆♱ ⤿ southern!katsuki ⨾ countryside!au ⨾ tanning in a bikini ⨾ semi-public sex ⨾ p in v sex ⨾ unprotected sex ⨾ backshots ⨾ hair pulling ⨾ degrading kink ⨾ a bit of spanking ⨾ massages kinda ⨾ kats likes your ass ⨾ rubbing through panties ⨾ southern dialect & 𝗳𝗲𝗺!𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 // 𝘄𝗰: 3.4k ⤷18+ 𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧 , minors get out!
𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘𝗦 .⋆♱ ⤿ oh boy, there go my pants. THIS IS A 2000 FOLLOWER SPECIAL BTW! thank you all soooo much, i really appreciate it. i couldn't have done it alone. i will be publising tons of fics in the next weeks, so stay tuned!😚 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯
𝗠𝗔𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧!
the summer heat hung thick over the countryside, wrapping around everything like a heavy blanket. cicadas buzzed a lazy rhythm, the scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass drifting through the air.
your aunt's old farmhouse sat nestled in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by wildflowers and rows of tomatoes that your aunt tended to with religious fervor.
every summer you came here, escaping the city for the wide open skies and the slow, syrupy pace of rural life. it was always a charm—the sweet people, the sweet tea, the sweet, sweet fruits you could pluck right off the vine.
but this summer, there was a whole different kind of sweetness waiting for you.
katsuki bakugo.
the first time you saw him, you’d nearly tripped over your own feet.
he was standing in your aunt’s garden, in a white tank top that was completely soaked through, clinging to every ridge and dip of his torso like a second skin.
the water hose was in his hand, spraying a fine mist over the tomato plants, and the droplets caught the sunlight like diamonds against his tan skin.
his arms were scarred, corded with muscle, and his face—sharp, angular, with a permanent scowl etched into his features—was the kind of beautiful that made your stomach do a slow, dangerous flip.
you’d walked outside that first day in a short skirt and a tight tank top, lips glossed, hair falling perfectly over your shoulders, a wicked grin already curling your mouth.
you’d leaned against the porch post and said something sweet, something flirty, something that usually worked on every boy you’d ever met.
he’d looked at you like you were a bug he wanted to squash.
“fuck off,” he’d said, voice low and rough with that thick southern drawl that made even his insults sound like honey. and then he’d turned back to his plants like you didn’t exist.
you should’ve been discouraged.
you should’ve rolled your eyes and moved on.
but instead, something sparked in your chest. a challenge. a game. and you were never one to back down from a game.
so you made it your mission.
every day, you found new ways to get his attention. you’d walk into the kitchen wearing nothing but a towel, water still dripping from your skin, while he stood there drinking a glass of water, sweat beading on his forearms from working outside.
he’d barely glance at you, grunt, and walk right past like you were invisible.
you’d leave your bedroom window wide open while you changed, making sure the curtains were just sheer enough to silhouette your body.
not even a flicker of interest from him.
you’d bend over in front of him to pick up something you’d “accidentally” dropped, wear the shortest shorts you owned, brush against him when you passed in the hallway. nothing. he was a fortress, and you were determined to break down every single wall.
and today, you had a new plan.
your aunt had gone to town for groceries, leaving you alone in the house with him. the perfect opportunity.
you’d slipped into the tiniest bikini you owned—a scrap of pale pink fabric that barely covered your breasts and a matching triangle bottom that rode high on your hips.
you’d spent a good twenty minutes making sure everything looked just right, then you’d grabbed a towel, a bottle of sunscreen, and a book you had no intention of reading, and you’d made your way out to the garden.
he was already there, of course. bent over a row of daisies, wearing a pair of worn jeans and a thin gray t-shirt that was already starting to darken with sweat across his back. you could see the muscles shifting under the fabric as he worked, could see the way his shoulder blades moved like wings.
your mouth went dry.
you laid your towel out on one of the sun chairs, positioned perfectly so that the sunlight would hit you just right, and you stretched out on your stomach, arching your back just a little more than necessary. you let your head rest on your folded arms, closed your eyes, and pretended to relax.
for a long while, nothing happened.
you could hear the snip of his shears, the rustle of leaves, the occasional grunt as he yanked a weed from the earth. he didn’t look at you. not once.
you kept peeking through half-lidded eyes, watching him move, watching the way his jeans sat low on his hips, the dark line of hair trailing from his navel disappearing beneath the waistband. and every time, he ignored you.
it was maddening.
finally, after what felt like an eternity, he straightened up, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and turned to look at you. his crimson eyes were narrowed, his jaw tight.
“the hell you doin’ out here?” he asked, voice flat.
you stretched, letting your back arch just a little more, letting the curve of your ass shift under the tiny scrap of fabric. “tanning,” you said, all innocence. “is that a problem?”
“tannin',” he repeated, like the word was stupid. “in my garden.”
“your garden?” you lifted your head, propping your chin on your hands. “last i checked, this was my aunt’s garden. you just work here.”
a muscle in his jaw twitched. “i’m the one who takes care of it. means i get a say in who sprawls around half-naked innit.”
“half-naked?” you looked down at yourself, then back up at him with a sweet smile. “this is a bikini. it’s for swimming. and tanning. perfectly normal.”
“you ain’t swimmin’.”
“no, i’m tanning. didn’t you hear me?”
he stared at you for a long, hard moment, his eyes tracing over your body in a way that was almost clinical, like he was assessing a piece of furniture. then he scoffed, shook his head, and turned back to his work. “whatever. just don’t get in my way.”
you bit your lip, fighting a grin. he was talking to you. that was progress. even if he was being a dick about it, he was engaging. and you could work with that.
you let the silence stretch, listening to the sounds of him working. you shifted on the towel, making sure your movements were slow and deliberate, making sure the light caught the curve of your hip, the dip of your spine. you let out a little sigh, just loud enough for him to hear.
he ignored you.
you flipped onto your back, letting the sun hit your stomach, your chest. you arched your back, stretching your arms above your head, your breasts pressing against the thin fabric of your bikini top. you let out another sigh, this one a little louder, a little more breathy.
the snip of his shears paused. you didn’t look, but you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and hot. then it was gone, and the snipping resumed.
you smiled to yourself.
“hey,” you called out, your voice sweet and syrupy. “could you do me a favor?”
“no.”
“you don’t even know what it is yet.”
“don’t care.”
you sat up, letting the towel fall away from your chest. you ran your fingers through your hair, pushing it back from your face, and gave him your most innocent, pleading look. “i can’t reach the sunscreen on my back. and i really don’t want to burn. could you…put some on for me?”
he stopped. turned. looked at you like you’d just asked him to set the garden on fire.
“you didn’t think of that beforehand?” he asked, his voice dripping with disdain.
“i thought i’d be able to reach,” you said, pouting your lips. “but i can’t. please, katsuki? i’ll be out of your hair faster. i promise.”
he stared at you for a long, agonizing moment. you could see the war in his eyes—the part of him that wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself, and the part of him that was too damn stubborn to let you win by whining. finally, with a heavy, put-upon sigh, he set down his shears and stalked over to you.
“turn around,” he said, his voice flat.
you bit back a triumphant grin and turned, presenting your back to him. you heard him pick up the bottle of sunscreen, heard the squirt of it hitting his palm. then his hands were on you, and every thought in your head evaporated.
his hands were rough, calloused, warm. he started at your shoulders, spreading the lotion in firm, efficient strokes. his thumbs dug into the muscles on either side of your spine, and you couldn’t help the little moan that escaped your lips.
“shut up,” he said, but his voice was a little rougher than before.
you bit your lip, staying quiet as his hands moved lower. down your shoulder blades, down the curve of your waist. his fingers brushed the edge of your bikini bottom, and you felt a jolt of electricity shoot through you. he didn’t linger. he moved on, smoothing the lotion over your lower back, his thumbs tracing the dimples just above your ass.
“you’re real quiet all of a sudden,” he said, his voice low, almost a murmur. “that ain’t like you.”
“just enjoying the view,” you said, your voice coming out breathier than you intended.
“view? you ain’t even lookin’.”
“i’m enjoying the view of the garden. through the reflection in your eyes.”
he snorted. “that’s the dumbest thing i’ve ever heard.”
“you love it.”
“i hate it.”
but his hands didn’t stop. they moved lower, smoothing the sunscreen over the tops of your thighs, his fingers pressing just a little harder than necessary.
you felt your breath catch, felt your skin prickle with goosebumps despite the heat. his hands were wandering, and you could feel the heat radiating off him as he leaned over you.
“y'know,” he said, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous, “you’ve been pesterin’ me all summer. walkin’ around in towels, leavin’ your window open, bendin’ over in front of me like a damn cat in heat.”
“i have no idea what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice innocent.
“liar.” his hands slid lower, his thumbs brushing the curve of your ass. you felt your breath hitch, felt your thighs press together. “you think i ain’t noticed? you think i’m fuckin' blind?”
“you never said anything.”
“what was i supposed to say? ‘hey, thanks for the free show, but i’m tryin’ to work’?” his hands were moving now, slow and deliberate, massaging the sunscreen into the skin just above the waistband of your bikini. “you’re a pest, y'know that?”
“you keep talking, but your hands haven’t stopped.”
“shut up.”
he was rubbing circles into your lower back now, his fingers slipping lower with every pass. you could feel the heat pooling between your legs, could feel the way your bikini bottom was already starting to get damp.
this was working. this was exactly what you wanted.
“you’re a real piece of work,” he muttered, his voice thick with something that might have been anger, might have been want. “think you can just prance around in your little outfits and get whatever you want.”
“is it working?”
his hands stopped. for a moment, the only sound was the cicadas and the pounding of your heart. then he moved, and suddenly his hands were on your hips, gripping hard, and he was pulling you up, turning you over so you were on your back, looking up at him.
his face was flushed, his crimson eyes burning with a fire that made your breath catch. his jaw was tight, his lips pressed into a thin line. he looked furious.
he looked hungry.
“you didn’t think i’d notice?” he said, his voice low and rough. “you didn’t think i’d see what you were doin’?”
“i knew you’d notice,” you said, your voice soft, your heart pounding. “i was counting on it.”
he stared at you for a long moment, his hands still gripping your hips. then he let out a harsh breath, almost a laugh, and shook his head.
“you’re stupid,” he said. “y'know that?”
“i’ve been told.”
his hands moved, sliding up your sides, over your ribs. his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts, and you arched into his touch, a soft whimper escaping your lips. his eyes darkened.
“you’re gonna regret this,” he said, but there was no heat in his voice. just a low, rough promise.
“i doubt it.”
he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “you’re gonna be beggin’ me to stop by the time i’m done with you.”
you shivered, a thrill running through you. “try me.”
for a long moment, he just looked at you. then, slowly, his hands slid down your body, over your stomach, over your hips, until they were resting on the curve of your ass. he squeezed, hard, and you gasped, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders.
“you’ve been askin’ for this,” he said, his voice a low growl. “all fuckin' summer. you’ve been beggin’ for it.”
“maybe,” you said, your voice breathless. “maybe i have. what are you gonna do about it, hm?”
his hands moved lower, slipping under the waistband of your bikini bottom. his fingers found the soaked fabric, and he let out a low, dark laugh.
“fuckin’ hell,” he said. “you’re already wet.”
“shut up,” you said, echoing his earlier words.
his grin was sharp, predatory. “make me.”
and then his fingers were moving, pushing the damp fabric aside, and he was sliding two fingers through your slick folds, slow and deliberate.
you gasped, your back arching, your hands tightening on his shoulders. he watched your face, his eyes hungry, as he circled your clit with his thumb.
“that feel good?” he asked, his voice mockingly sweet.
“y-yes,” you breathed.
“good.” he pressed his fingers deeper, finding your entrance, and then he pushed inside you with a wet, obscene squelch. you cried out, your head falling back, your hips bucking against his hand.
he fucked you with his fingers, slow and deep, his thumb still working your clit. his other hand was gripping your hip, holding you in place, his fingers digging into your skin. you were moaning, whimpering, your body arching into his touch.
“look at you,” he said, his voice low and rough. “so damn needy. so damn desperate.”
“katsuki,” you moaned, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
“what?” he said, his voice sharp. “what do you want?”
“more,” you begged. “please.”
he smirked, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that perfect spot that made your vision go white. “more? you want more?”
“yes, yes, please—“
he pulled his fingers out, and you whined at the loss. but before you could protest, he was grabbing your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach. his hands were on your ass, squeezing, spreading, and you could feel the heat of his body behind you.
“you want my cock?” he asked, his voice rough. “you want me to fuck you?”
“yes,” you said, your voice muffled against the towel. “god, yes.”
“then beg.”
you turned your head, looking back at him over your shoulder. his eyes were blazing, his face flushed, his lips parted. he looked like a man on the edge, and you wanted to push him over.
“please, katsuki,” you said, your voice sweet and breathy. “please fuck me. i need your cock. i need it so bad.”
a low growl rumbled in his chest. “that’s more like it.”
he pulled your bikini bottom down, letting it fall to your knees. then you felt his hands on your hips, his thumbs spreading your cheeks, and the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick entrance. he pushed, just a little, just enough to make you gasp.
“y'sure about this?” he asked, his voice a low rasp.
“yes,” you said, your voice desperate. “fuck, yes, just—“
he pushed inside you in one smooth, hard thrust, and you both groaned. he was thick, filling you completely, stretching you in a way that made your eyes roll back in your head. he paused, his hands gripping your hips so hard you knew there would be bruises.
“fuck,” he breathed. “fuck, you’re tight.”
“move,” you whined. “please, move.”
and he did. he pulled out almost all the way, then slammed back in, setting a brutal, punishing pace. the sound of skin slapping against skin filled the air, mixing with your moans and his grunts. his hand came down on your ass, hard, and you cried out, your fingers digging into the towel.
“y'like that?” he growled. “y'like gettin’ fucked like a little slut in the garden, huh?”
“yes,” you moaned. “yes, yes, yes—“
he grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back, and you gasped at the sharp pain. his other hand was on your hip, holding you in place as he fucked you, his thrusts deep and relentless.
“you’ve been such a fuckin’ pest,” he said, his voice harsh and breathless. “walkin’ around in your little towels, flashin’ your tits at me, thinkin’ you could get away with it.”
“i did get away with it,” you managed, your voice choked with pleasure.
his hand tightened in your hair, pulling harder. “you got a smart mouth. ever thought about that being fuckin' annoyin'?”
“you love it.”
“i hate it.” he thrust deeper, harder, and you cried out. “but i’m gonna fuck it out of you.”
his pace increased, relentless, unforgiving. the world narrowed to the feeling of him inside you, the sound of his breath, the heat of his body against yours. you could feel the pressure building, coiling low in your belly, and you knew you were close.
“katsuki,” you moaned, your voice breaking. “i’m gonna—i’m gonna—“
“not yet,” he said, his voice a low growl. “you don’t fuckin' cum until i say so. torturin' me all summer..”
he slowed his pace, pulling out until only the tip of him was inside you, then pushing back in slow and deep. it was torture, the most exquisite kind of torture. you whimpered, your hips bucking back against him, trying to get more.
“please,” you begged. “please, katsuki, i need—“
“what do you need?” he asked, his voice mocking. “tell me.”
“i need to cum,” you said, your voice desperate. “please, let me cume.”
“beg harder.”
“please,” you said, your voice breaking. “please, please, please—“
he leaned over you, his chest pressing against your back, his lips brushing your ear. “you’re such a fuckin’ slut,” he whispered.
“yes,” you said, your voice a sob. “yours. your slut.”
something in him seemed to break. he pulled back, grabbed your hips, and started fucking you again, hard and fast, his rhythm wild and desperate. his hand found your clit, rubbing in tight circles, and you felt the pressure build, felt the wave rising.
“come on,” he said, his voice rough. “you can cum.”
and you did. you shattered, your body convulsing, your cries filling the air as the orgasm ripped through you. you were barely aware of him pulling out, barely aware of the hot, wet spurts of his cum painting your back, his grunt of satisfaction.
you lay there, panting, your body trembling, your mind a haze of pleasure. you felt him collapse beside you, his breath coming in harsh gasps. for a long moment, neither of you spoke.
then he sat up, and you heard him fumbling for something. you turned your head, watching as he picked up your phone from where it had fallen on the towel. his fingers moved across the screen, typing something.
“what are you doing?” you asked, your voice hoarse.
he didn’t answer. he finished, tossed the phone onto the towel beside you, and stood up. he pulled up his jeans, buttoned them, and looked down at you with a complicated expression that was part annoyance, part satisfaction.
“you got what you wanted,” he said, his voice flat. “now stop botherin’ me.”
and he walked away, leaving you there, cum drying on your back, your phone buzzing with a new contact name.
you picked it up, looked at the screen.
a single name: “katsuki.”
you smiled, wide and wicked, and lay back down in the sun.
Preview , Part 1 , Part2 , Part 3, Part 4, Part 5 (out tmr)
His hands landed on the table on either side of her, caging her in. The warmth of his body pressed against her back. His mouth was close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin.
"You want to test my patience, hmm?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
He laughed.
It was not a quiet laugh. It was not a controlled laugh. It was loud, sharp, and it startled her. She had never heard him laugh like that; raw and unguarded and dangerous.
"Don't play dumb, baby. It doesn't suit you."
Warnings: Power imbalance, slight manhandling, forced proximity, Manipulation, toxic relationship, gaslighting, stalking, Modern AU, bratty! but intelligent! Reader, Lannister! Reader, Jealousy, possessiveness, slight yandere!Valarr, political corruption, alcohol consumption, smoking, mentions of cheating, suggestiveness, Violence, misogyny
Modern!Manipulator! Valarr x Brat! Reader
WC: 6.6k
The first gift arrived on a Tuesday, wrapped in black silk and tied with silver cord.
She found it on her desk when she arrived at the office, nestled between a stack of quarterly reports and her cold coffee cup. The silk was smooth beneath her fingers, expensive, the kind of fabric that slipped through your grip like water. She untied the cord with the careful detachment of someone who had opened too many gifts from men who wanted something.
Inside: a bracelet. Platinum. Diamonds.
The stones caught the morning light, scattering rainbows across her desk. It was beautiful, undoubtedly. The kind of thing that made women gasp when they saw it in a velvet case. She held it up. The metal was cold against her palm. Heavy. Solid. It carried the weight of its price tag like a shield.
She set it back in the box and closed the lid.
She did not put it on.
The second gift arrived four days later. A bottle of wine. Vintage. Rare. The label was eligible to anyone who didn't know what they were looking at; a deep red script, a crest she recognized from an auction catalogue she had once skimmed. She had mentioned the vintage once, in passing, during a conversation about investment portfolios. He had remembered the name but not the context.
She stood in her office, holding the bottle, and tried to feel something. Gratitude, perhaps. Or the flutter of being seen.
The glass was cool beneath her fingers. The label was embossed. The cork was sealed with wax.
She placed it on the shelf next to the bracelet and walked back to her desk.
The next gift arrived on a Monday morning. A first edition.
The book was old, the leather binding cracked and soft with age, the pages yellowed at the edges. She recognized the title. She had mentioned it during a meeting with her uncle, a casual remark about a collector she had met at a conference.
She opened the cover. The spine creaked. The smell of old paper and dust rose to meet her.
She had expected to feel something when she saw it. A flicker of warmth, perhaps. A reminder of the flowers, the jasmine, the interview he had dug through archives to find. That had been thought. That had been care.
This was not the same.
She set the book down carefully, her fingers lingering on the cracked leather. The flowers had meant something. He had found a four-year-old interview, uncovered a detail she had forgotten she had shared, and sent her something that felt like being known.
These gifts were different. They were expensive, yes. They were rare, yes. But they were also, empty. The kind of things a man with money could buy without really trying. Without really seeing her.
She looked at the bracelet on her shelf. The wine. The book.
And then she thought about how no one had seen him send them. How no one had watched him hand them to her. How all of it; the flowers, the texts, the praise, had happened in the dark between the two of them, hidden from the world.
She sat down slowly. The chair creaked beneath her weight.
Everything he's done for me, she thought. Every gesture. Every word. Every gift. It's all been private.
The realization settled into her chest like a stone dropped into deep water. Cold. Heavy. Unavoidable.
He had never once claimed her in public. He had never once stood beside her in front of others and made it clear that she mattered. Not at the meetings. Not at the events. Not at the Lannister Dome.
He had sent her flowers. He had sent her texts. He had praised her in private, touched her in the garden, kissed her in the dark.
But when the lights were on, when other people were watching, he was silent.
She pressed her palms flat against the desk. The wood was cool beneath her hands. She breathed in. Breathed out.
"He's still playing games."
The words hung in the empty room. No one answered. But the truth of them settled into her bones, a weight she had been carrying without knowing it.
Over the following week, she watched him.
At the Thursday strategy meeting, Valarr was present. He was seated across the table, his silver hair catching the light, his suit impeccable, his expression unreadable. He spoke when spoken to. He nodded at the right moments. He did not look at her.
She watched his hands fold on the table. She watched his jaw move as he spoke to Lord Farman. She watched the way his shoulders stayed straight, his posture perfect, his mask firmly in place.
He treated her like a colleague. An ally. A business partner.
She caught his eye once, briefly, across the table. She saw something flicker there; a question, a desire, a crack in the surface.
He turned away first.
She left the meeting with her hands shaking and her jaw tight.
The following evening, she attended a networking dinner at her uncle's request. Valarr was there, seated at the opposite end of the table. She watched him charm the Tyrell representatives, watched him laugh at a joke Lord Ashford made, watched him move through the room like he belonged there.
He did not look at her. Not once. Not the entire evening.
She smiled. She made conversation. She charmed the Tyrells and made Lord Ashford laugh and left with a handful of promising contacts and a hollow ache in her chest.
In the car, she pressed her forehead to the cool glass. The city blurred past. Her reflection stared back at her, pale and tired.
"He's not going to change," she whispered.
The driver asked if she was all right.
She said she was fine, at least that what she would tell herself.
Another gift arrived on a Friday afternoon. A necklace. Emeralds and gold.
She opened the box without ceremony. The stones were vivid, the gold warm, the setting intricate. The kind of thing that would make a woman feel cherished, if it came with any indication that he had thought about her at all.
She held it up. The emeralds caught the light, green and deep and cold. She thought about the flowers. The jasmine. The way he had found that interview and remembered a detail she had forgotten.
She set the necklace back in the box. The velvet was soft beneath her fingers.
She called her assistant. "Return this. No note. No explanation. Just return it."
Her assistant hesitated. "My lady, it's from-"
"I know who it's from."
She turned back to her work.
The fifth gift did not arrive.
Instead, her phone buzzed late on a Monday evening. She was in her apartment, still in her work clothes, a glass of wine in her hand, her mind still spinning from the day's meetings.
She picked it up. Opened the thread.
T. Heir: Is the princess too good for emeralds now?
She stared at the screen.
The words sat there, smug and sharp, dripping with something that might have been sarcasm or might have been bitterness. She could hear his voice in her head that low, measured tone, the one that made everything sound like a test.
Is the princess too good for emeralds now?
She read it once. Twice. A third time.
The anger rose slowly, not hot and immediate, but cold and gathering, like ice forming on a still lake. She felt it spread through her chest, her shoulders, the tension in her jaw.
He thought she could be bought. He thought the problem was the gift, not the absence of thought behind it. He thought she was playing hard to get, and the solution was to offer more, spend more, give more.
He didn't understand her at all.
She set her phone down. Picked it up again. Her thumb hovered over the keyboard. She could respond. She could tell him exactly what she thought. She could explain, again, that she didn't want his money, that she wanted his presence, his attention, his claim.
She could lay it all out in words he could not ignore.
She put the phone down.
No.
She was not going to explain herself. She was not going to justify her worth. She was not going to give him the satisfaction of a response. She was not going to play this game.
Let him sit with his message. Let him wonder why she didn't respond. Let him wait.
She left the thread open.
She simply let the words hang there, unanswered, a silence she chose.
The silence, she realized, was the most powerful weapon she had.
The next morning, she walked into her office, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sat down at her desk. The bracelet, the wine, the book, the necklace; they were all gone, returned or stored away. The shelf above her desk was empty.
She opened her email. She opened her calendar. She opened the quarterly reports.
She did not open his message again.
But she knew it was there. Waiting. Unanswered.
Let him wait.
The meeting was scheduled for three in the afternoon in the executive boardroom of the Lannister Tower.
She arrived early, she always arrived early. The room was all glass and dark wood, the city sprawling beneath the windows like a circuit board waiting to be rewritten. The polished surface of the table was cool beneath her fingers. She arranged her notes, aligned her pens, and waited.
She did not have to wait long.
The door opened, and Valarr walked in. His suit was navy, immaculate, cut to the precise shape of his shoulders. His hair was brushed back from his face, and his mismatched eyes swept the room once, cataloguing, before landing on her. He did not smile. He did not greet her. He moved to the opposite side of the table and began arranging his own materials with the quiet precision of a man who had never made a mistake.
The silence stretched between them, thick and deliberate.
She watched him. His hands were steady as he set down his folder. His jaw was set, his expression unreadable. The low light of the afternoon sun caught the silver in his hair, gilding the edges of his profile.
He did not acknowledge her presence.
She did not acknowledge his.
The door opened again, and Lord Grafton entered. He was older, silver-haired, with a face that had been carved by decades of negotiation and a smile that was warm without being soft. He wore a charcoal suit that matched his reputation; solid, respectable, quietly powerful.
He shook Valarr's hand first; a firm grip, a nod of mutual respect. Then he turned to her.
"Lady Lannister." His voice was warm, and his eyes lingered on her face a beat longer than necessary. "I've heard a great deal about you."
She smile, not her public smile, not her sharp smile. Something softer. Something that invited confidence. "All good things, I hope."
"All interesting things." His gaze travelled over her face, her throat, the way she stood with her shoulders back and her chin lifted.
She laughed, low and genuine. "I've heard the same about you, Lord Grafton. Your reputation in Braavos precedes you."
His eyes flickered with appreciation. "You know Braavos?"
"I spent a summer there. During my university years." She tilted her head, letting the memory soften her expression. "The canals at sunset. The way the light catches the water. There's nothing like it."
"Then you understand why the Iron Bank keeps its roots there." He was leaning in now, just slightly. "The world changes, but Braavos- Braavos stays constant."
"Constancy is rare," she said. "It's valuable."
Valarr shifted in his seat. The movement was small, barely noticeable, but she caught it. His jaw had tightened. His hands were still, too still, resting on the table like he was forcing them to remain motionless.
She did not look at him.
The meeting began. She laid out her projections, her voice steady, her gaze fixed on Lord Grafton. She moved through the numbers like a dancer moving through a familiar routine, each step precise, each gesture intentional.
She was aware of Valarr across the table. She did not look at him.
But she felt him. The weight of his attention like a hand pressed against her spine. The heat of his gaze on her skin.
She ignored it.
Halfway through her presentation, she noticed Lord Grafton's attention wavering. His eyes drifted to the window, then back to her. He was not bored, but he was no longer engaged.
She set down her pen, leaned forward slightly, just enough to bring herself into his line of sight, and smiled.
"Lord Grafton," she said, her voice dropping to something warmer, more intimate. "I apologize. I've been speaking at you rather than with you."
He blinked, then smiled. "That's not a problem. Your numbers are impressive."
"Numbers are only part of the story." She gestured toward the window, toward the city beyond. "What I'm proposing isn't just a partnership. It's a conversation. The Iron Bank has been looking for a foothold in the Westerosi market for years. The Lannister Bank can offer you that. But I want to understand what you're looking for."
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "What I'm looking for," he said, "is someone who sees the long game. Someone who understands that loyalty and patience will outlast any quarterly report."
She held his gaze. "Then we understand each other."
The conversation shifted after that. Less formal, more engaged. She laughed at a joke he made, a genuine laugh that rose from her chest. She touched his arm once, briefly, to emphasize a point about Braavosi trade routes. She leaned in when he spoke, her attention absolute, her presence open and warm.
Lord Grafton was listening. Really listening. She could see it in the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his gaze softened.
She felt Valarr watching her.
She did not glance in his direction.
"You know," she said, "I'd love to discuss the finer details of this proposal with you outside the formal setting. Perhaps a private dinner?"
Lord Grafton's eyes lit up. "I would be honored, Lady Lannister."
"Then it's settled." She smiled. "I'll have my assistant send you the details."
Across the table, Valarr's pen snapped.
The sound was loud in the quiet room, the sharp crack of plastic breaking. She saw his hand freeze, saw the ink spread across his fingers, saw the brief flicker of something dark cross his face before the mask settled back into place.
Lord Grafton looked up, startled. "Are you alright, Ser?"
Valarr's smile was smooth, polished, utterly hollow. "A minor inconvenience. My apologies." He set the broken pen down, wiped his fingers with a handkerchief, and did not look at her.
But she felt it. The weight of his focus settling around her like a collar.
The meeting concluded. Lord Grafton shook her hand warmly, then Valarr's with the same courtesy, and left with the satisfied air of a man who had been handled by experts.
The door clicked shut.
The silence that followed was loud. Thick. Heavy with everything unsaid.
She stood and gathered her notes, moving slowly, deliberately, using the polished surface of the conference table as a makeshift desk. The room was quiet now, the hum of the city distant through the glass.
She heard him move.
His footsteps were silent on the carpet, but she felt the shift in the air as he approached. She felt the weight of his presence settle behind her, felt the heat of his body radiating through the fabric of her blouse.
His hands landed on the table on either side of her, caging her in. The warmth of his chest pressed against her back, firm and unwavering. His mouth was close to her ear, his breath warm against her skin, smelling of mint and something darker.
"You want to test my patience, hmm?"
She should have been afraid. She was not. Her heart was pounding, her pulse racing, but not with fear.
She was too angry for fear.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
His laugh was low and sharp, but it broke the silence like a whip crack. She heard the anger in it, the edge of something darker, something she had never heard from him before.
"Don't play dumb, baby. It doesn't suit you."
The word hit her like a slap. Baby. It was dismissive, possessive, and it made her blood run hot.
His hands pressed harder against the table. She could feel the tension in his arms, the barely restrained fury thrumming through his body. The wood was cool beneath her palms. His body was warm against her back, and she could feel every line of him pressing against her.
"I'm not playing." Her voice was steady. "I was working."
"Working." He laughed again, softer this time, but no less sharp. The sound vibrated through his chest and into her spine. "You were leaning in. Touching his arm. Laughing at his jokes. You agreed to a private dinner."
"I agreed to a business dinner."
"You agreed to a dinner."
"To discuss the deal."
"With him."
"With the client."
She could feel his breath against her neck, warm and uneven. Could feel the tension in his hands, the way they trembled against the wood.
"Tell me," he said, his voice dropping lower, rougher, "what else did you offer him?"
She went still.
"Nothing," she said. "I offered him nothing."
"You offered him dinner."
"I offered him a business meeting."
"With you."
"Because I'm the one who won the deal." She finally managed to turn her head, just enough to catch a glimpse of his face in her peripheral vision. His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark. "Not you. You lost, Valarr. You lost to me. And you can't handle it."
His hands tightened on the table. The wood groaned beneath his palms.
"You did this on purpose."
"I did my job."
"You wanted to make me jealous."
She laughed then, low and sharp, and it sounded more like a blade than a laugh. "Jealous?" She shook her head, her hair brushing against his cheek. "I don't care if you're jealous. I care that you think you can buy me. I care that you think diamonds and wine and first editions are the same as seeing me. I care that you've never once claimed me in front of anyone else."
She pushed back against him. Not hard. Just enough to feel the resistance of his body.
"Let me go."
He did not move.
"I said let me go."
"Tell me you don't want him."
"What?"
"Tell me you don't want him. That dinner. That man. Tell me you're not using him to make me feel like this."
She stared at him. His face was inches from hers. His eyes were burning, dark and desperate, and she could see the cracks in his composure widening.
"I'm not going to say that."
"Why?"
"Because I don't owe you anything." She took a breath, steadying herself. "You don't get to ignore me for weeks, refuse to acknowledge me in front of anyone, send me presents that cost money but mean nothing, and then demand I perform for you. That's not how this works. That's not how I work."
For a long moment, he was silent. His hands were still pressed against the table, caging her in. His body was still pressed against her back. His face was still inches from hers, and she could see the war in his eyes; the anger, the hurt, the confusion.
"Then how do you work?" he asked.
She held his gaze. "I work by being seen. In public. In front of other people. Not hidden. Not secret. Not invisible."
She pushed against the table and finally turned to face him. He did not step back. His hands were still on the table, bracketing her, but she had turned in the small space between his arms.
Their faces were close. Close enough that she could see the faint lines of exhaustion around his eyes. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath on her lips.
"I'm not asking for diamonds," she said. "I'm asking for you. The real you. The one who looks at me like I matter, even when other people are watching."
He opened his mouth. Closed it.
"That's not a game," she said. "That's being honest."
She gathered her notes and walked past him, toward the door.
At the threshold, she paused.
"Dinner is tomorrow. You can call it whatever you want. But that's what it is."
She left him standing in the empty conference room, surrounded by the city's golden light and the silence of his own making.
In the corridor, her hands were shaking.
She pressed them flat against the cool marble of the wall, her back against the stone, and she breathed. The air was cold in her lungs. The light was too bright.
She had done it. She had told him the truth. She had walked away.
She was not sure if she had won.
But for the first time, she was sure he had heard her.
The morning after the investor meeting, she arrived at the office with her jaw set and her shoulders back.
She had not slept. The confrontation with Valarr replayed behind her eyelids every time she closed them; the heat of his body pressing against her spine, the low vibration of his laugh, the word baby landing like a slap across her skin. She had spent the night dissecting every second of it, turning it over like a stone, searching for the shape of what it meant.
She had not come to a conclusion. But she had come to a decision.
The boardroom was on the forty-third floor. She stepped out of the elevator and into a corridor of pale stone and muted light. Her heels clicked against the marble, each step a small, deliberate sound. The air smelled of old paper and fresh coffee and the particular stillness that came before a storm.
The doors were open. She walked in.
The room was vast, all glass and dark wood, the city sprawling beneath the windows like a circuit board waiting to be rewritten. The table was a slab of polished mahogany, long enough to seat twenty. The chairs were leather, high-backed, arranged with the precision of a battlefield.
Her uncle sat at the head. He was dressed in grey, his golden beard catching the morning light, his hands folded on the table in front of him. His face was unreadable, but she saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers pressed just slightly too hard against the wood.
Gerold slouched in a chair near the middle of the table, scrolling through his phone with the bored disdain of a man who had never had to fight for anything. He did not look up when she entered.
The senior advisers were arranged along the sides: Lord Marbrand, his face creased with the particular weariness of a man who had been doing this too long; Lord Serrett, his fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair; Lord Brax, who was studying his notes with an intensity that suggested he was trying to disappear into them.
And one guest. Lord Grafton. The investor from yesterday's meeting.
He sat near her uncle, his silver hair combed back, his suit expensive, his smile warm and practiced. He looked at her when she entered, and she felt the weight of his gaze travel over her face, her throat, the way she stood with her shoulders back and her chin lifted.
He thinks I'm the prize, she thought. He thinks the dinner was the start of something.
She took her seat without greeting him. Her chair was at her uncle's right hand. The position was deliberate. A signal.
The meeting began. Her uncle spoke first, his voice measured, steady. He laid out the quarterly projections, the expansion plans, the partnership opportunities. She listened. She nodded. She kept her eyes on her notes.
Then Lord Grafton spoke.
"I must say," he said, his voice smooth as polished glass, "I was deeply impressed by Lady Lannister's presentation yesterday. The way she handled the numbers, the way she engaged with me personally—" He smiled at her, his teeth white, his eyes warm. "It's rare to find such dedication in someone so young. And so beautiful."
The room went still.
She felt the weight of his words land. The patronizing tone. The way he had reduced her to her appearance, her youth, her usefulness to him. She felt the heat rise in her chest, the familiar burn of anger that she had learned to swallow.
She heard her uncle's sharp intake of breath. Saw Gerold's smirk flicker and die as he looked up from his phone. Felt the advisers shift in their seats, their discomfort radiating like heat.
She did not look at any of them.
"Lord Grafton," she said, and her voice was calm, clear, the voice of a woman who had been underestimated her entire life and had learned exactly how to use it. "I appreciate the compliment. But I'd prefer to keep this meeting focused on the numbers. My appearance is not relevant to the discussion."
He blinked. His smile faltered, just slightly. "I didn't mean to offend-"
"You didn't offend me." She set down her pen. The wood clicked against the table. "You diminished me."
The silence that followed was absolute. She could hear the hum of the city beyond the windows, the distant buzz of a fly trapped against the glass, the steady rhythm of her own heartbeat.
Lord Grafton's smile had frozen on his face. His fingers tightened on the armrest of his chair. "I assure you, that was not my intention-"
"Then let me clarify." She leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table, her gaze fixed on him with an intensity that made him lean back, just slightly. "I am not here to be admired. I am here to negotiate. If you want to discuss a partnership with the Lannister Bank, you will discuss it with me as an equal. Not as a woman you find attractive. Not as a young thing you can charm. As a professional."
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and final. Lord Grafton's face had gone pale, then red, then pale again.
"I think you're overreacting-"
"I think you're dismissing me." She stood. The chair scraped against the floor, a sound that cut through the silence like a blade. "And I think this meeting is over."
She gathered her notes. The papers rustled in her hands. She walked toward the door, her steps measured, her back straight.
"Sit down."
Her uncle's voice stopped her. She turned.
He was looking at Lord Grafton. His face was unreadable, but his voice was cold, flat, the voice of a man who had made a decision and would not be moved.
"Lord Grafton," he said, "I believe my niece has made herself clear. If you cannot treat her with the respect she deserves, then we have nothing further to discuss."
Lord Grafton stared at him. His mouth opened. Closed. "You're choosing her over a partnership with the Iron Bank?"
"I'm choosing integrity." Her uncle's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "Something you seem to have forgotten the value of."
The room was silent. She could hear Lord Marbrand's breath catch. Could see Lord Serrett's fingers stop drumming. Could see Gerold's face go white.
Lord Grafton rose. His chair scraped against the floor. "You'll regret this."
"I doubt that."
Lord Grafton left without another word. The door slammed behind him, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.
She stood frozen, her notes clutched to her chest, her heart pounding a rhythm she could feel in her throat. The air was thick. The silence was absolute.
Her uncle turned to the room. "We're done here."
The advisers rose, gathering their papers, their faces carefully blank. They filed out one by one. Lord Marbrand paused at the door, his eyes meeting hers for just a moment. He nodded. Just once. Then he was gone.
Gerold lingered, his hands gripping the back of his chair, his face a mask of barely contained fury. Her uncle looked at him. A single look. Gerold's hands tightened, then released. He left without a word.
Then they were alone.
"Sit down," her uncle said.
She sat. The leather of the chair was warm beneath her, still holding the heat of the meeting. She placed her notes on the table in front of her, her hands flat against the paper, trying to steady the tremor in her fingers.
She expected a lecture. A scolding. A reminder that she had just cost the Lannister Bank a lucrative partnership. She prepared herself for the disappointment she had seen on his face a hundred times, the familiar weight of being told she had done too much, pushed too hard, been too much.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair and sighed. The sound was long and heavy, the exhale of a man who had been carrying a weight he had not known he was holding.
"I should have done that years ago," he said.
She blinked. "What?"
"Stood up for you." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, the gesture rough, almost tired. "I've watched you fight for respect in this company for years. I've watched you outperform men who should have been working for you. I've watched you smile and nod while they patronized you, and I did nothing."
The words settled over her like a weight she did not know how to carry. Her throat was tight. Her hands were still.
"I told myself it was strategy," he continued. "That you needed to learn to handle it on your own. That if I intervened, you would never be taken seriously." He dropped his hands and looked at her, and she saw something in his eyes she had never seen before. Regret. "I was wrong."
She opened her mouth to speak. Closed it. The words would not come.
"I tried other methods," he said. "Underhanded methods. I thought I could fix your image by aligning you with someone powerful. Someone whose name would open doors for you. I thought I could solve the problem without addressing the root of it."
She frowned. "What are you talking about?"
He was quiet for a long moment. The light from the window caught the silver in his beard, the lines around his eyes. He looked old. Tired. "It doesn't matter," he said. "What matters is that I was wrong. And I'm sorry."
The words hung in the air between them. She had never heard him apologize. Not once. Not in her entire life.
"Uncle-"
"Let me finish." He held up a hand. "I'm going to announce it at the shareholder meeting. That you're my heir. That you're taking over when I step down."
The words landed like a blow. She felt the air leave her lungs. "What?"
"You've earned it. You've always earned it." He leaned forward, his hands flat on the table. "I should have done this years ago. I should have seen you for what you were instead of trying to fix what I thought was broken."
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
She was suspicious. The way he had shifted the subject, the way he had dismissed her question so quickly; there was something he was not telling her. Something he was hiding behind the apology and the announcement.
But she was too happy to care.
She was too happy to care.
"Thank you," she said. Her voice was rough. "Thank you."
He nodded. "You'll need to prepare. The shareholders won't be easy. They'll question you. They'll test you. They'll try to tear you down."
"Let them try."
His smile was small, but it was there. "That's my niece."
She left his office with the letter clutched in her hand and a smile she could not suppress. The corridor was quiet. Her heels clicked against the marble. The light was golden, warm, spreading across the floor like honey.
She had done it. She had won.
She walked toward her office, the letter pressed against her chest, her heart still racing. She would tell the Siren. She would tell her friend, who would scream and laugh and demand every detail. She would tell everyone.
But her first instinct, her first instinct, was still to tell him.
She stopped walking. The corridor stretched before her, empty and silent. She looked down at her phone.
The thread was still open. His message was still there, unanswered.
Is the princess too good for emeralds now?
She stared at the words. The arrogance of them. The assumption that she could be bought, that the problem was the gift rather than the absence of meaning behind it.
She should have blocked him. She should have deleted the thread. She should have walked away and never looked back.
Instead, she typed: We need to talk.
She hit send before she could change her mind.
His phone rang an hour later.
Valarr was in his office, the city sprawled beneath him in a carpet of glass and steel, the late afternoon light casting long amber shadows across his desk. He had been staring at the same document for twenty minutes without reading a word. His mind was elsewhere. His mind was always elsewhere now.
He picked up the phone without looking at the screen. He knew who it was.
"Valarr."
The voice on the other end was measured. Tired. The voice of a man who had been carrying a weight for too long and had finally decided to put it down.
"I'm calling to tell you that I no longer need you near her."
Valarr leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked beneath him. He let the silence stretch, let the words settle.
"Is that so?"
"She can handle herself just fine." Her uncle's voice was quiet but firm. "She proved that today. She proved it years ago. I was just too blind to see it."
"She's always been able to handle herself," Valarr said. "That's not why I was there."
"I know why you were there." A pause. "I know why I put you there."
The admission hung in the air between them, heavy and undeniable.
Valarr waited.
"I thought she needed someone to open doors for her. I thought she needed a powerful name beside hers to be taken seriously." Her uncle's voice was rough, almost bitter. "I was wrong. She never needed you. She never needed anyone."
"She needed someone to see her," Valarr said. "And I did."
The silence stretched.
"I know you did." Her uncle's voice was softer now. "That's the only reason I'm having this conversation instead of ending it."
Valarr's jaw tightened. "Then what are you saying?"
"I'm saying I'm stepping back." The words came slowly, carefully, like a man placing one foot in front of the other on unstable ground. "I won't interfere anymore. I won't help you. I won't stand in your way. But I won't be your ally in this."
"I never asked you to be my ally."
"You didn't have to. I offered." Her uncle paused. "And now I'm withdrawing the offer. If that upsets you, we can call off the Lys Oil arrangement as well."
Valarr went still. The Lys deal was worth billions. It was the kind of partnership that defined careers, that shaped the future of both companies. Her uncle was offering to burn it to the ground.
"No," Valarr said. His voice was calm. Controlled. "We won't call it off. The deal stands. It's good for both of us."
"Then you'll stay away from her?"
Valarr laughed. The sound was low and sharp, but it carried no mockery. "You know I can't do that."
"She's not yours to claim, Valarr."
"She's not yours to command either." Valarr leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. "You think you can just cut me out of her life. You think you can tell me to stay away, and I'll just- " He stopped. His jaw tightened. "I won't."
"Valarr- "
"Don't worry." His voice was softer now, almost gentle. "I would never do anything to harm her. You know that. You know I'm the best man for her."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with truth and arrogance and desperation.
Her uncle was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with something that might have been resignation.
"Perhaps you are," he said. "But that doesn't mean you get to decide. She'll choose a man when she's ready. And if it's not you..." He paused. "You'll have to accept that."
Valarr's hand tightened on the phone. He could feel the edge of the device pressing against his palm.
"She'll choose me," he said. His voice was low. Certain. Absolute.
The silence that followed was thick, weighted. Her uncle did not argue. He simply exhaled, long and slow.
"Then prove it," he said. "Earn it. Honestly. Without me. Without schemes." A pause. "I'll be watching."
The line went dead.
Valarr stared at the phone in his hand. The screen was dark. The silence in the room was absolute.
He threw the phone onto the desk. It skidded across the polished wood, clattering against the edge of a stack of papers, and came to rest against the base of his lamp.
He reached up and loosened his tie with one hand, yanking the silk away from his throat. The fabric was tight, suffocating. He pulled it free and tossed it onto the desk. The knot had been a mess of tangles, but he had undone it in one swift motion.
He leaned back in his chair, his head falling against the headrest, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. The light was dim. The shadows were long. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, a steady, insistent rhythm.
He had not lost her. He refused to lose her. The old man had stepped aside, but he had not closed the door. He had left it open, just barely. And Valarr would walk through it.
She'll choose me. The words echoed in his skull. He had to believe that. He had to believe that everything he had done; the flowers, the texts, the patience, the pursuit, had meant something. That she would see him. That she would choose him.
His phone buzzed.
He looked at it. The screen glowed with an unknown number, but he recognized the face. Her face.
She was calling.
He picked up the phone and swiped to answer.
"Hello?"
The voice on the other end was slurred, unsteady, and unmistakably hers. "Valarr?"
His grip tightened. "What's wrong?"
"I need someone to take me home." Her voice was thick, the words running together. "I'm at The Lannister Bar in Lannisport. Can you... can you come?"
He was already on his feet, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. "I'll be there. Stay where you are. Don't-"
His breath caught as he heard a voice in the background, a man's voice, rough and insistent. "Where do you think you're going, angel?"
The line went dead.
Notes:
Next pt out this time TOMORROW (still counts as a double update righttt) I'm rewriting part 5 because I decided I hated it during the final read 😞
SUMMARY: Everything you have ever wanted came wrapped in your acceptance to King's Landing University: prestige, opportunity, and a future worth fighting for. Yet, you never imagined the thing threatening it would look so much like love.
CW: RAPE/NON-CON, power imbalance, notions of poverty, nepotism, imposter syndrome, manipulation, jealousy, misogyny, forced pregnancy/baby trapping.
WC: 11.2 K
Part 2 | Part 3
The suspense was killing you.
It wasn't an exaggeration. You felt it in every corner of your body: in the constant bounce of your knee beneath the desk, in your nails bitten down to nothing, in your absolute inability to focus on anything else over the past few weeks—months.
You checked the date. The response was supposed to arrive today.
Or tomorrow.
Or maybe in a week.
That was precisely the problem: nobody knew for certain.
The screen of your phone illuminated the room as you lay on your bed, staring once again at your application to King's Landing University. You knew it by heart. You had opened that page so many times that you could navigate every section with your eyes closed.
Your application was still there. Intact. Unchanging. Cruelly devoid of answers.
Application Status: Under Review.
The words seemed to mock you.
Under review.
Still.
After months of waiting. After countless nights studying until dawn filtered through your bedroom window. After exams, interviews, essays and recommendation letters, after nights spent wondering what the hell you had been thinking when you filled yourself with enough confidence to apply, crying until your eyes hurt and rebuilding yourself afterward.
After everything.
You let out a sigh and dropped the phone onto your chest. The ceiling returned a silent stare.
You had tried to distract yourself.
You really had.
You had read.
You had gone for walks.
You had even started a new book that you abandoned after three pages because you ended up imagining what your name would look like in an acceptance letter.
King's Landing University.
The dream. The opportunity. The future.
The most prestigious university ever known. The kind of place people spoke about with admiration and envy at the same time. The kind of place where the children of ministers, businessmen, judges, and nobles built the connections that would follow them for the rest of their lives.
And you wanted to be there.
No.
You needed to be there.
Because that acceptance meant far more than a university. It meant independence. It meant proving that all those years of effort had amounted to something.
It meant that the nights spent studying, the sacrifices, the extracurriculars, the humiliating pleading to Mrs. Betty for a recommendation letter, surviving on coffee and expectations would finally have a reward.
Now more than ever, you needed meritocracy to be real and not that social construct born as an incentive for the proletariat to serve capitalism. Please.
The phone vibrated against your chest.
The sound was so sudden that it startled you. For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to stop. Your heart lurched violently against your ribs and all the blood in your body seemed to rush to your ears. You remained still, staring at the illuminated screen as though any movement might make it disappear.
It couldn't be.
Or maybe it could.
Your hands trembled as you picked up the phone. Your fingers felt strangely clumsy, as if they had forgotten how to function. Part of you wanted to look immediately. The other wanted to delay the moment for a few seconds longer, clinging to the uncertainty before discovering whether all those years of effort had been worth it or not.
The notification occupied the center of the screen.
An email.
Sender: King's Landing University Office of Admissions.
For a moment, you stopped breathing.
You had imagined it so many times that the moment felt unreal. You had fantasized about opening that email during class, during dinner, before going to sleep and when you woke up. You had imagined hundreds of different scenarios, from tears of happiness to the devastation of a rejection. Yet now that it was actually happening, your mind seemed incapable of processing it.
Your eyes traced the university's name again and again.
King's Landing University.
King's Landing University.
King's Landing University.
It was real.
Real.
Your thumb hovered over the screen for several seconds before you finally gathered enough courage to open the message. The application took only a few moments to load, but they felt endless. You could feel your pulse pounding in your throat as you watched the white screen slowly appear. Every second stretched your anxiety to unbearable limits. And when the Wi-Fi, taking pity on you, decided to work, you saw it.
Office of Admissions
Dear Miss Y/N,
It is with great pleasure that we inform you of your acceptance to King's Landing University for the upcoming academic year.
After careful consideration of an exceptionally competitive pool of applicants, the Admissions Committee has unanimously recognized your academic excellence, dedication, and remarkable potential.
We are delighted to offer you a place among the next generation of scholars at King's Landing University.
Your achievements have distinguished you as a candidate of uncommon promise, and we are confident that your contributions will enrich both our academic community and the legacy of this institution.
In recognition of your outstanding academic record and exceptional promise, it is also our honor to award you the King's Scholar Scholarship, the highest merit-based scholarship granted by King's Landing University.
Reserved for a select a student once a year, the King's Scholar Scholarship is awarded to individuals whose achievements exemplify excellence, leadership, and intellectual distinction.
The Admissions Committee would also like to acknowledge the historic significance of this award. Since the founding of King's Landing University, the King's Scholar Scholarship has been granted exclusively to male recipients. Your selection marks the first time in the institution's history that a woman has been chosen as a King's Scholar. This distinction reflects not only your extraordinary academic accomplishments, but also the exceptional determination, intellect, and character that set you apart from an already remarkable pool of candidates. We are confident that future generations of scholars will look upon this moment as a milestone in the history of our university.
As a recipient of the King's Scholar Scholarship, you will receive:
• Full tuition coverage for the duration of your undergraduate studies.
• A generous monthly stipend intended to support your academic pursuits and living expenses.
• Residence in the prestigious King's Scholar Hall, including a private suite among the largest and most distinguished student accommodations on campus.
• Priority access to academic mentorship programs, research opportunities, and university-sponsored events.
• Eligibility for exclusive internships, fellowships, and international academic programs through the university's distinguished partners.
• Complimentary access to university libraries, archives, laboratories, and scholarly resources beyond those ordinarily available to undergraduate students.
These benefits shall remain in effect for the entirety of your studies, provided that you maintain the academic standards and conduct expected of a King's Scholar.
The Admissions Committee believes that you possess the talent, determination, and character necessary to uphold the legacy of this prestigious award. We look forward to witnessing your achievements and contributions to our academic community in the years to come.
Welcome to King's Landing University.
Sincerely,
The Office of Admissions — King's Landing University
Knowledge. Duty. Legacy
You had done it.
The words repeated themselves again and again in your mind as you stared at the screen blurred by tears. Accepted. King's Landing University. King's Scholar. The first woman in the university's history to receive that scholarship.
It was too much.
Too good.
Too big.
An incredulous laugh escaped your lips at the same time tears began sliding down your cheeks. You brought a hand to your mouth, trying to contain the emotion, but it was useless. Years of effort, sacrifice, and impossible dreams had just condensed into a few lines of text.
And then you stood.
The phone remained clenched in your fingers as you ran toward your bedroom door. The emotion overwhelmed you completely, driving away every rational thought. There was only happiness. There was only the desperate need to share it.
You crossed the hallway without barely feeling your own footsteps.
"Mom, I got in!"
Thanks, meritocracy.
—
The first weeks at King's Landing University felt like living inside a world that had previously existed only in your imagination. Even after receiving the acceptance letter, even after moving into the dormitory assigned through your scholarship, a part of you kept expecting to wake up and discover that it had all been a particularly cruel dream. The university was even more impressive than any brochure or website had managed to convey. Buildings of pale stone rose above vast, meticulously maintained gardens; marble fountains adorned entire courtyards, and pathways lined with rose bushes connected faculties whose names frequently appeared in newspapers, history books, and political speeches. There were students arriving in vehicles that cost more than the average house, sons and daughters of ministers, business magnates, and families whose surnames seemed capable of opening doors on their own. Yet for the first time in your life, you found yourself among them not as a spectator, but as an equal.
Privilege was present in every corner of the campus. It could be seen in the multi-story libraries whose shelves seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance, in laboratories equipped with cutting-edge technology, and in student residences that resembled private apartments more than university housing. Your own suite within King's Scholar Hall was larger than some homes you had known. It contained a private bedroom, a small sitting room, a dark wooden desk positioned before an enormous window, and a privileged view of the eastern gardens of the campus. During those first days, you often caught yourself staring at the room with a mixture of pride and disbelief, unable to fully accept that the space belonged to you. Every time you placed a stack of books on the desk or hung a photograph on the wall, it felt as though you were claiming a life that had once seemed impossibly out of reach.
The scholarship had transformed your university experience in ways you were only beginning to understand. You did not have to worry about tuition. You did not have to calculate every expense or wonder whether you could afford the next semester. The monthly stipend covered your needs comfortably and allowed you to focus entirely on the reason you had come there in the first place: learning. For the first time in a very long while, the future no longer seemed like a vague threat lurking behind a mountain of uncertainty. It seemed tangible. Attainable. Something you could build with your own hands.
And yet, as impressive as the buildings, academic programs, and opportunities were, what fascinated you most were the people. Every student appeared to have arrived there through an entirely different story.
It was during one of those early weeks that you attended the seminar that would end up changing far more than you could possibly imagine.
The conference was being held in Visenya Hall, one of the most prestigious auditoriums within the Faculty of Economics and Business. The venue was already crowded long before the event began. Row after row of students filled the tiered seating while the title of the lecture was projected across the main screen: Emerging Markets and Business Leadership in a Global Economy. You had arrived nearly thirty minutes early and still barely managed to find an available seat near the middle of the auditorium.
It was while waiting for the lecture to begin that you felt a presence occupy the empty seat beside you.
You did not look up immediately. You were reviewing notes you had taken about the guest speaker when the murmur of the room seemed to shift subtly. Not disappear exactly, but redirect itself. As though a small portion of the collective attention had suddenly found a new focal point.
You frowned slightly and lifted your gaze.
The young man who had just taken the seat beside you appeared completely unaware of it.
He was dressed elegantly without appearing ostentatious. His posture carried a quiet confidence cultivated over many years, the kind of assurance that did not need to announce itself because it was accustomed to being recognized. As he settled a folder onto his lap, several people seated nearby greeted him with a familiarity tinged with respect.
It did not take long to understand why.
The identification badge hanging from his neck displayed a name that even you recognized instantly.
Valarr Targaryen.
For a brief moment, you froze.
The Targaryens were not merely an influential family.
They were THE influential family.
For generations they had built a fortune so old that tracing its precise origins had become nearly impossible. Their companies operated in practically every imaginable sector: transportation, energy, technology, finance, media. Their names appeared on boards of directors, foundations, government organizations, and universities throughout Westeros. Entire buildings, libraries, and academic programs had been funded by them. Even King's Landing University owed part of its modern prestige to the substantial donations made by the family over the decades.
The Targaryens belonged to that category of people who seemed to exist above the ordinary structures of the world. Surnames that opened doors before they were even touched. Surnames that appeared in newspapers long before their owners learned how to walk.
And that young man was sitting directly beside you.
Valarr appeared focused on a collection of documents when his eyes briefly dropped toward your identification badge. He studied it for a moment before looking again, this time more carefully. A small crease formed between his brows until, with a spark of recognition in those distinctive eyes, he spoke.
"You're the King's Scholar." It wasn't a question. His tone carried a kind of genuine curiosity.
You glanced down at your own badge, where the scholarship's golden insignia appeared beside your name. "Yes."
For a moment, you assumed the conversation would end there. Instead, Valarr continued looking at you. Not in the uncomfortable way many of the wealthy, idle students in the faculty seemed to regard you, as though you were some peculiar exhibit displayed in a museum, but rather like someone who had stumbled upon something unexpected.
"I'd heard about you." The statement caught you off guard. It seemed unlikely, especially considering you had only been at the university for a few weeks. He appeared to notice your expression. "Everyone had." A faint smile appeared on his lips. "The first woman to receive the King's Scholar Scholarship tends to attract attention. I'm Valarr—"
"—Targaryen. Second in line to inherit the family empire. Current president of the student council and the Debate Club. Holder of a perfect 4.0 GPA. Or someone with a net worth extravagant enough to surpass the combined wealth of everyone currently present."
A look of astonishment crossed his face, only for an instant, a slight crack in his composure. His heterochromatic eyes—only now did you notice—created a striking effect, perhaps as he attempted to decipher you. He did not seem offended. If anything, he appeared surprised to encounter someone who had not been impressed by the implicit power of his surname.
The smile returned to his face. Softer this time. "I suppose introductions are unnecessary."
"A little."
"And here I thought I was being humble."
That earned a raised eyebrow from you.
Humble?
With a deliberate movement, you adjusted the notebook resting on your lap, positioning it neatly across your thighs with a black pen balanced on top before maintaining eye contact with him.
"If I had your surname, Valarr, I would be anything but humble."
Before he could answer, the lights in the auditorium began to dim. The general murmur gradually faded as the conference prepared to begin. Valarr shifted his attention toward the stage, though not before offering you one final silent observation.
Cataloguing. Taking note of something.
—
During the first few weeks, the university continued to feel like a borrowed place, as though at any moment someone would discover an administrative error had been made and politely ask you to leave the campus. You walked through the marble hallways with the same caution one uses when wandering through an art gallery: admiring everything, afraid to touch something that does not belong to them. Yet impostor syndrome gradually began to loosen its grip. It did so every time you raised your hand in class and your answer turned out to be correct. Every time a professor praised one of your papers. Every time you earned one of the highest grades in your cohort. The minimum required to maintain the scholarship was a 4.0. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Without realizing it, you began to put down roots.
The campus pathways stopped resembling labyrinths and became familiar routes. You learned which libraries were the quietest, which cafés served the best coffee, and which buildings remained open until late into the night during exam season. Your name began circulating among professors, researchers, and students. Not as a passing curiosity, but as someone who genuinely deserved to be there.
And that was precisely what fascinated Valarr most.
At first, it had been simple curiosity. Nothing more. The King's Scholar. The girl who had made history. The student everyone talked about. Yet the more time he spent observing you, the more difficult it became to reduce you to a university headline because you were not what he expected.
You lacked the arrogance that so often accompanied exceptional students. You were not pretentious. Nor did you carry that desperate need to constantly prove your worth. You had arrived at the university carrying something far rarer: a genuine hunger for knowledge. You attended seminars even when they offered no academic credit. You remained after class to ask questions. You read for pleasure texts that others could barely tolerate reading out of obligation.
And perhaps most bewildering of all, you seemed completely oblivious to the attention you generated. While other students carefully cultivated their reputations, you appeared far too busy building your future to concern yourself with them. A fish among sharks.
Valarr began seeking you out without meaning to. At first, they were coincidences. An empty seat beside you during a lecture. A casual conversation after class. A chance encounter in the library. But the coincidences began accumulating too frequently to continue calling them that. Gradually, your presence became incorporated into his routine so naturally that he stopped questioning it. He looked for you among rows of students whenever he entered an auditorium. He could identify your voice in a crowded room. He knew your favorite study spots. He knew roughly what times you visited the main café.
And most dangerously of all, he began anticipating those encounters. Because with you, it was easy to forget who he was.
For most of his life, Valarr had been aware of the weight of his surname. He had grown up surrounded by expectations, invisible protocols, and people who seemed to see the name Targaryen before the man behind it.
You didn't.
You argued with him whenever you believed he was wrong. You mocked his pretentious remarks. You interrupted his arguments during club meetings to point out flaws nobody else dared mention. And every time you did, something inside him felt absurdly relieved. Alive.
As though, for a few moments, he could exist simply as Valarr. Not as an heir. Not as a public figure. Not as a political or corporate promise.
Just Valarr.
Or Val, as you began calling him.
The first time happened by accident. At least that was what you claimed afterward.
You were leaving a particularly tedious lecture on corporate legislation when you mentioned something about him in the middle of a sentence.
"Val said exactly the same thing last week."
The silence that followed lasted only a second. Long enough. Your own eyes widened slightly when you realized what you had just said.
Valarr stopped walking. "Val?"
Heat immediately climbed into your cheeks.
"It wasn't intentional."
"Of course it wasn't."
"I mean it."
"Naturally." The smile that appeared on his face made it unbearably difficult to defend yourself.
"Don't start."
"Start what?"
"That."
"What exactly am I doing?"
"Enjoying it."
"Perhaps a little."
That smile followed you for the rest of the afternoon.
And, unfortunately for you, so did the nickname. It never disappeared.
At first, it was a habit born from convenience. "Valarr" felt too formal for someone with whom you shared so many hours of university life, too long for hurried conversations between classes or messages exchanged at two in the morning during exam season. Without realizing it, you began calling him Val more and more often. First in private. Then in front of friends. Then in cafés, auditoriums, and libraries.
Nobody else seemed to do it. Professors called him Mr. Targaryen. Student council members referred to him as President. Even people who had known him for years used his full name. Only you had shortened it. He never corrected you.
He never asked you to stop. He never mentioned that the small alteration caused a strange warmth to settle in his chest.
For the first time in a very long while, someone seemed to see him as a person before seeing him as a surname. That was rarer than it should have been. It was foolish. A beautiful, absolute foolishness. But emotions were rarely reasonable.
One autumn afternoon, several months after that first encounter in the seminar, Val found that feeling waiting for him inside the central library. The enormous room was bathed in golden afternoon light. Tall windows cast long shadows across the study tables, and the library's usual silence was interrupted only by the occasional turning of pages or the soft tapping of keyboards. Exhausted students hid among endless shelves while the semester marched inexorably toward exam season. He found you exactly where he expected to.
Seated beside a window, surrounded by books, papers scattered across the table, completely absorbed in your work, those beautiful brows furrowed in concentration amidst academic chaos. For a moment he remained still, watching you from a distance.
It was not the first time.
He had begun developing an unsettling ability to find you across campus. Libraries. Cafés. Lecture halls. Gardens. He always ended up locating you.
His senses had learned to seek you even before he became consciously aware of it.
A small smile appeared on his face. Minutes later, he returned carrying two coffees. He knew your order by hear without truly intending to, he had begun memorizing many things about you. The way you took notes (the Cornell method, efficient). Your study schedule (a morning review session devoted entirely to theory. Practice at night). The subjects you loved most (history. Especially ancient civilizations).
The expression you made whenever a reading frustrated you. The little details. Always the little details.
He gently placed one of the cups beside your laptop. Only then did you look up.
And smile. That simple, carefree smile that always seemed to arrive effortlessly.
"Val." The same warmth. The same absurd feeling. The same inexplicable need to hear it one more time.
"I'm beginning to suspect you live here."
Your lips curved. "Says the man who survives on constant study sessions."
"Semantics." Just as he did in class, he sat down to your right. It was as natural as breathing. "What are we studying now, dear?"
"Dear?"
"Would you prefer Your Academic Highness?"
You rolled your eyes. "That doesn't even make sense."
"Many things I say don't."
Who was he trying to fool?
"For the first time, we agree."
Valarr let out a small laugh as he glt comfortable in the chair.
The library was particularly quiet that afternoon. Most students were focused on the approaching midterms, and the enormous windows allowed golden light to flood the study tables. The air smelled of aged paper, ink, and freshly brewed coffee. Val picked up one of the books stacked in front of you. Examined it. Then another. Then a third.
"Are you trying to earn a second degree in a single week?"
"I'm writing an essay."
"That doesn't answer my question."
"Because the answer is no."
"Not yet."
Your lips curved slightly. He always did that. Turn ordinary conversations into absurdly long debates.
"Political economy."Val read the title of one of the open pages. "How thrilling."
"It is." Your hands wrapped around the coffee he had brought you. Almond milk, cinnamon, and two spoonfuls of sugar. Perfect. Your lips left a visible lipstick mark on the rim.
"And here I thought spending an afternoon studying emerging markets was a sophisticated form of torture."
"That explains a lot about you."
"Such as?"
"Your personality."
Valarr's smile widened.
He rested an elbow on the table and began absentmindedly flipping through one of your articles. For a moment neither of you spoke. The silence between you was comfortable. Familiar. As though it had been built from months of endless conversations, study sessions, and afternoons shared in that very place.
It had.
Eventually, Valarr looked up again. "Do you know what's fascinating?"
"That depends entirely on what you're about to say," you murmured while extracting a passage from the article.
"Empires."
You sighed, feigning indifference. "Of course it's empires."
"Hear me out."
"That's exactly the problem."
Completely ignoring you, he continued. "Everyone thinks empires fall because of wars or revolutions."
"Don't they?"
"No."
His fingers tapped lightly against the book's cover. "First they stop adapting. Then they stop listening. Then they begin believing they're too big to fail."
"That applies to corporations too."
"Exactly."
"And governments."
"As well."
"And student council presidents with inflated egos."
Valarr narrowed his eyes. "That was a personal attack."
"It was an academic observation."
"Cruel."
"Accurate."
That earned a laugh. A genuine one. Not the polite smile he wore during conferences or meetings. Not the carefully measured expression that appeared in photographs and institutional events. A real laugh. And for a moment he seemed younger. Less heir. Less Targaryen. Simply Val.
Something in your chest softened at the sight. Because you were beginning to discover that there were two versions of him. The one that belonged to the rest of the world. And the one that appeared only when the two of you were alone.
Valarr seemed to notice it too. His gaze lingered on you a second longer than usual. Not long enough to be uncomfortable. Long enough to be conscious.
The sounds of the library seemed to drift away for a moment. The occasional rustle of pages. The keyboards. Distant footsteps among the shelves. Everything faded into a distant murmur.
"What?" you finally asked.
"Nothing."
A lie.
But you didn't press. Because you weren't entirely sure you wanted to know the answer. And because, for some reason, the way he had been looking at you had just made your heart beat a little faster.
"I'm going to the bathroom," you announced before doing exactly that.
Valarr looked at your cup, the one he had given you, studied the faint pink lipstick mark now decorating the rim, and, with all the fervent devotion such an act required, drank from that very spot. Perfect.
—
The campaign began almost by accident.
Not because you had never considered the idea before, but because you had never allowed yourself to take it completely seriously. For months, you had participated in student meetings, organized academic events, worked alongside university associations, and advocated for proposals designed to improve conditions for scholarship students. Little by little, without realizing it, you begun building a reputation that extended far beyond the King's Scholar Scholarship. People knew your name. They knew your achievements. They knew your opinions. And, more importantly, they respected them. So when someone suggested that you run in the Student Council elections, the idea was not met with laughter or disbelief.
It was met with enthusiasm. And that proved far more dangerous. It was one thing to hear a suggestion casually thrown into the air. It was something entirely different to discover that hundreds of people genuinely seemed to believe you could win.
The following months were consumed by the campaign. Posters bearing your name began appearing all over campus. Academic buildings, student residences, and even cafés transformed into improvised political arenas where students debated policies, budgets, and candidates with a passion that would have made more than one national parliament blush. For the first time since your arrival at King's Landing University, you ceased being merely an exceptional student and became a public figure. University newspapers published interviews with you. Professors discussed your candidacy. Students approached you to express their support or ask questions about your platform. Every passing week seemed to reinforce the feeling that something important was happening.
And for the first time, the name appearing beside yours was not the name of a scholarship.
It was Valarr Targaryen's.
The student press wasted no time turning the election into an irresistible story. On one side stood Valarr, the perfect heir. The incumbent president. The brilliant student whose surname had spent generations shaping the political, economic, and social history of Westeros. On the other side stood you: the first woman to receive the King's Scholar Scholarship, the student who had risen through effort, intelligence, and a determination that seemed inexhaustible. Tradition versus renewal. Continuity versus change.
The headlines practically wrote themselves.
The strangest part was that behind all those articles and debates, the two of you remained friends. You still shared coffee. You still studied together. You still sent each other academic articles at absurd hours of the morning.
Sometimes you would leave a public debate where you had just dismantled each other's arguments in front of hundreds of students and end up having dinner together barely an hour later. The contradiction bewildered practically the entire campus. Nobody understood how you could be political rivals and friends at the same time.
Nobody except the two of you.
Because neither of you ever allowed the campaign to destroy what you had built.
Or at least, you tried not to.
Election night arrived wrapped in almost unbearable tension. The Grand Auditorium was completely full. Rows upon rows of students occupied the seats while professors, student journalists, and council members waited for the results to be announced. The energy in the room was electric. Every conversation seemed to unfold in nervous whispers. Every gaze was fixed on the enormous screens suspended above the stage.
You stood among the other candidates, attempting to project a calm you did not feel.
For the first time, victory seemed like a real possibility.
Not a fantasy. Not an impossible dream. A possibility.
The first results began appearing, and the auditorium immediately erupted.
Your name led the count by a small margin. Enough. The next results arrived minutes later. Your lead increased. Then another student district reported its votes. And you remained ahead.
The murmurs grew louder. So did the smiles.Even a few professors exchanged glances filled with anticipation. Everyone was thinking the same thing. You could do it. You could win.
For a moment, you allowed yourself to imagine it. The presidential office. The meetings. The projects. The opportunity to leave a permanent mark on the university. The opportunity to prove you belonged there. The opportunity to keep breaking barriers.
And perhaps that was your mistake, allowing yourself to believe it.
The final ballots were the ones that changed everything. Cruelly. Your lead began shrinking vote by vote.
At first only by a few percentage points. Then by fractions. Then by almost nothing at all. The entire auditorium watched the screens in absolute silence as the numbers continued to shift. Each update seemed to take something from you. Each new figure eroded a little more of the hope that had begun growing inside your chest.
Until it finally happened.
Valarr took the lead.
And never lost it again.
When the final result appeared on the screens, the silence lasted only a fraction of a second before being replaced by an explosion of applause.
Valarr Targaryen — 73%
Y/N — 27%
The applause still echoed throughout the auditorium when you finally looked up at him. Valarr was surrounded by students, professors, and council members. Some shook his hand. Others congratulated him. Photographers captured every smile, every gesture, every moment of victory. The center of attention. Golden boy. And yet, his eyes still found yours as they always did.
The distance between you was not great, but for the first time since you had met him, it felt immense. While everyone else saw the newly re-elected president, you saw something else entirely.
You saw privilege. You saw money. You saw generations of accumulated power. You saw a surname capable of opening doors that would never open for anyone else.
Something bitter settled in your throat. You had worked just as hard. Perhaps harder. You had devoted entire months to that campaign. You had visited every student residence, attended every debate, answered every question, and built every proposal through your own merit.
And yet you had lost to a man whose surname was practically an institution within Westeros.
You filthy, cheating bastard.
Valarr began walking toward you. With every step, the resentment grew a little stronger until he finally stopped in front of you.
"Hey."
His voice was soft. Careful. Indulgent. He knew exactly how you felt, which only made you angrier.
"Congratulations." The words left your lips with a coldness that surprised even you, and Valarr frowned slightly.
"Y/N—"
"No." Your smile appeared instantly, and it was entirely false. "Seriously. Congratulations. It must feel nice."
Something shifted in his expression. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
A short laugh escaped your throat. "Incredible."
"What is incredible?"
"Even now you're pretending not to understand."
The tension began spreading between you. Around you, the celebration continued, but it felt as though it were happening in another universe.
"Then explain it to me."
"Oh, gladly." You crossed your arms. "Do you know what's most frustrating about all of this? That you never even had to compete on equal footing."
Valarr's eyes hardened. "Be careful."
"Why? Because I'm about to say something everyone already knows?"
"Y/N."
"Your family funds half the campus."
"That had nothing to do with this."
"Of course it did." The answer came out faster than you intended. Sharper. More painful. "It always has something to do with it."
Silence fell between you. For the first time since you met him, Valarr looked genuinely irritated.
"I didn't win because of my surname."
"Didn't you?"
"No."
"Then I suppose it's just a coincidence that the Targaryens have held leadership positions at this university for decades."
"I worked for this."
"So did I." Your words struck him harder than expected. Because they were true, and both of you knew it. "I worked for this too, Val." His name sounded strange between you now. No warmth. No familiarity. Only disappointment. "And for once, I would've liked to lose to someone who didn't have the entire system built around him."
The muscles in his jaw tightened. "That's unfair."
"Unfair?" A bitter laugh escaped you. "You're talking about unfairness after winning because of your family's legacy?"
"That's not what happened."
"Then tell me what did."
Valarr held your gaze for several seconds. "Maybe they simply voted for the more qualified candidate."
The remark made you blink in disbelief. An obvious insult. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"
"It means being an inspiration and being a leader are not necessarily the same thing." The distance between you narrowed.
"Think it. Use that pretty brain of yours," with his angular finger he tapped your forehead. "Being the symbol of change and being capable of leading an institution are not the same thing. Sometimes people like seeing a woman on the stage. Not necessarily in charge."
The blow was precise. Calculated. And deeply vile.
Because hidden beneath those words was an old idea you had spent your entire life fighting. The idea that women had to prove twice as much to be considered half as capable. The idea that you were exceptional... for a woman. The idea that your story was admirable, but that true leadership still belonged to men like him.
Understanding slowly appeared across your face. And when it did, something close to horror briefly crossed Valarr's eyes. He realized too late how it had sounded.
"That's not what I meant."
"Sure."
"Y/N—"
"Enjoy your presidency." You took a step back. Then another. "I'm sure you inherited it honestly."
The bitterness in your voice was impossible to ignore. Before he could answer, you turned on your heel and left him standing there.
—
Valarr began apologizing the very next day.
Not because he believed a few words could repair what had happened. He knew you far too well for that. He knew the problem had not been only the argument. It had not been only the election. It had been the way he had made you feel. The way he had reduced your accomplishments to an exception. The way he had, for a few moments, become exactly the kind of man you claimed to despise.
So his apologies did not arrive solely in the form of words. They arrived as gestures. The first appeared outside your dormitory door: a bouquet of white camellias, your favorite flowers. They rested carefully wrapped in ivory paper and tied with a dark blue ribbon. There was no signature. None was necessary. Valarr was the only person on campus who would remember a trivial conversation that had taken place nearly a year earlier during a visit to the botanical gardens of King's Landing.
You had mentioned then that white camellias symbolized pure, sincere, unpretentious love.
He had remembered. Of course he had remembered.
The small card contained only two words written in flawless, elegant handwriting.
I'm sorry.
The flowers ended up on your residence desk. You had not accepted them, but neither could you find the resolve to throw them away. Two days later, a coffee appeared. Your coffee. The exact blend you ordered during examination periods. Two packets of sugar. A touch of cinnamon. Almond milk.
You let it grow cold.
The following week, a box arrived. Inside rested a delicate silver bracelet adorned with tiny white pearls. Beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful.
You returned it that very afternoon.
Then came books. Desserts. Notes. Small details. Small memories. Small apologies. Every gift seemed assembled from fragments of conversations you had forgotten ever having. A favorite author mentioned once during a late-night study session. A pastry you had tried during your first semester. A special edition of a novel you had wanted to purchase months earlier.
And that was precisely what made everything so difficult.
These gifts proved something you did not want to acknowledge. Valarr listened. He always listened. He remembered everything. Absolutely everything.
Your preferences. Your fears. Your dreams. Your habits. The little things. Especially the little things. For the first time since you had met him, it was not endearing. He wasn't chivalrous. It was exhausting. Every object seemed to contain the same message.
Look at me. Forgive me. Come back.
Finally, a week later, he appeared in person. He found you leaving an advanced economics lecture. Crowds of students flowed through the hallways while he remained motionless beside a window, waiting, as though he knew exactly what time your class would end.
He probably did.
“Y/N.”
You did not stop.
“Y/N.”
This time, you turned only because you knew he would not stop calling your name. Valarr looked tired. More tired than usual. The dark circles beneath his eyes were visible even from a distance. He looked wrecked.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Finally, you sighed. “Val.”
Something resembling relief briefly crossed his face. “I don’t want to fight.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then talk to me.”
“I don’t want to.”
That seemed to surprise him. “Why?”
You folded your arms.
“I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
“Y/N—”
“No.” Your voice was firm. Firmer than you intended. “I need time.”
The words lingered between you.
Valarr remained still. Waiting. As though there were more to come. There wasn’t.
“How much time?”
The question emerged softer. Vulnerable. And that made a part of you—the part that still wanted that closeness with him—want to surrender immediately.
You had never seen Valarr ask for something. Demand it? Yes. Take it? Yes. Ask for it? Never.
Still, you answered. “Two and a half weeks.”
Silence returned. At last, he nodded once. “Alright.” A weary smile appeared on his lips. “Two and a half weeks.”
And he honored it.
Surprisingly. Painfully. He honored it.
No more flowers appeared. No more gifts arrived. No coffees were left outside your door. No messages. No phone calls. No excuses to see you. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just absence.
And you discovered something deeply irritating. You missed him.
You missed the arguments.
The messages.
The jokes.
His presence.
The ease with which he always seemed to find a place beside you.
The two and a half weeks passed slowly.And when they finally ended, Valarr returned like the tide. Not violently. Not forcefully. Simply returning until he rose around you once more.
First, it was a greeting during a lecture.
Then a brief conversation in the library.
After that, a shared coffee.
Later, lunch.
And before you realized it, he was once again occupying space in your life. Not exactly the same space, but something very close to it.
The difference was that now he seemed more careful. More attentive. As though he had learned something from all of it.
Or at least was trying to.
It was approximately a month later that the invitation to the Aegon Foundation Ball arrived, a charitable gala held every year to raise funds for low-income students and research programs.
It was one of the university’s most prestigious events. Politicians. Business leaders. Alumni. Donors. Everyone attended.
And, of course, the student council president and the first female King’s Scholar recipient were expected to attend as well.
The invitation arrived on an otherwise ordinary afternoon. No flowers. No jewelry. No letters, just Valarr sitting across from you in the library, watching you over a mountain of books.
“I need a date for the ball.”
You raised an eyebrow. “What a devastating problem.”
“It is.”
“I’m sure half the campus would say yes.”
“Probably.”
“Then ask them.”
Valarr closed the book in his hands and looked directly at you. No humor. No teasing. No hiding behind anything.
“I don’t want to ask them.”
The silence that followed felt strange.
You understood exactly what he meant.
For the first time in a long while, hearing it did not make you angry. Only tired. And fond. And something dangerously close to forgiveness.
You released a long sigh. “It’s just a ball.”
The smile that appeared on Valarr’s face was immediate.
Small. Sincere. Extraordinarily rare.
“Does that mean yes?”
You rolled your eyes.
“Yes.”
For the first time in what felt like forever, the tension that had lingered since the election began to dissolve. Not because the damage had vanished. Not because the wounds had healed completely. But because, against all odds, you had decided to give him another chance.
And Valarr, above all things, had always been very good at taking advantage of the opportunities he was given.
—
The Aegon Foundation Ball was exactly the kind of event King's Landing University adored hosting.
Everything about it seemed designed to impress. The grand ballroom had been transformed until it was nearly unrecognizable. Massive crystal chandeliers descended from the vaulted ceiling, scattering warm light across hundreds of guests dressed in gowns and suits whose value likely equaled several semesters' worth of tuition. The walls were adorned with carefully curated floral arrangements, while an orchestra performed classical pieces from an elevated platform at the far end of the hall. Through the enormous windows, the city glittered in the distance, turning the night skyline into a natural extension of the gala itself.
The university had gathered students, professors, business leaders, alumni, and benefactors in a single place. It was a celebration of prestige, influence, and power; exactly the sort of environment in which Valarr moved with an ease that bordered on offensive.
And yet, that evening, he barely seemed to notice any of it.
He was watching you.
Not obviously. Not constantly. But often enough that, had you been looking for the signs, you would have found them.
Every time you disappeared into the crowd, his eyes followed. Every time someone stopped to speak with you, he found himself glancing in that direction. Every time you laughed—even from the opposite side of the ballroom—he seemed to notice.
At first, it went entirely unnoticed.
Until he appeared.
A graduate student from the Economics Department whose name you barely remembered. He had attended several seminars with you throughout the past year and, after exchanging a few words during a recent conference, decided to come over and say hello.
The conversation began innocently enough. Comments about the gala. A recent research project. The student elections.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
The young man proved pleasant, intelligent, and even amusing enough to draw several genuine smiles from you as the two of you spoke beside one of the tables near the dance floor.
And that was precisely when Valarr saw him.
It was neither rational nor elegant nor mature.
The feeling appeared so quickly that he barely had time to recognize it.
Jealousy.
Dark, unpleasant, deeply irrational jealousy.
That student was occupying a space Valarr considered his. The way you leaned forward slightly whenever something genuinely interested you. The way your eyes brightened during an intellectual discussion. The small smiles that appeared whenever someone managed to surprise you.
Valarr knew every one of those expressions.
He had memorized them over semesters, and seeing them directed toward someone else sparked an immediate irritation that began spreading through his chest. The conversation continued for several minutes.
Too many minutes.
From the other side of the ballroom, Valarr watched as the student seemed to grow more confident. Watched him lean slightly closer. Watched him make you laugh again.
And something inside him finally snapped.
When he appeared beside you, the smile he offered was flawless. Far too flawless.
“Am I interrupting something?”
The other student stiffened almost immediately. After all, it was difficult to ignore the presence of Valarr Targaryen.
“We were just talking.”
“I see.” The politeness in his voice was far more unsettling than outright hostility could have been. Beneath it, something far less pleasant had begun to gather.
A few minutes later, he found an excuse to pull you away. A meeting, perhaps. An appointment. You could not even remember which excuse it was. Suddenly, you were following him through the side corridors of the building while his pace became increasingly quick.
“Valarr.”
He did not respond.
“Valarr.”
This time he stopped. He turned toward you near the private restrooms reserved for the event's organizers. The polished mask he had worn all evening—perhaps all his life—was beginning to crack.
“What was that?”
You looked at him, confused. “What was what?”
“You know exactly what I'm talking about.” His voice was low. Controlled only because he was making a visible effort to keep it that way.
“I don't.”
“The student.” The word emerged laced with disdain.
“What about him?”
Valarr let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Are you really going to pretend you didn't notice?”
“Notice what, exactly?” The silence stretched long enough for you to understand perfectly where this conversation was headed, which was precisely why you chose to continue pretending. To play dumb.
“He was being nice.”
“Sure.”
“He was.”
“Men are rarely nice without a reason.” That response made one of your eyebrows arch. Valarr continued before you could answer. “Especially when they think a woman is giving them attention.”
There it was. The real reason.
Not the student. Not the conversation. But he idea that someone else might approach you. That someone else might claim your attention. That someone else might eventually matter to you.
“I think you're overreacting.”
“I think you're far too naive.”
The response came immediately. Automatically. For several seconds, the silence that followed was almost uncomfortable. Both of you knew exactly what had just happened.
Valarr had just spoken to you as though he knew better than you did about your own decisions. As though he needed to correct you. As though he needed to protect you from something you yourself were incapable of seeing.
Your eyes locked onto his. For a moment, he seemed to realize it. The tension eased ever so slightly, enough for his expression to shift. Enough for something resembling regret to appear. Before he could say anything, you smiled. A calm smile. A polite smile.
A perfectly false smile.
“Well.” You smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from your dress. “I'm glad to know you've thoroughly analyzed the situation.” Your heels clicked against the marble floor as you stepped closer to him. Close enough that barely an inch separated your noses. “I am not your girlfriend or your partner for you to direct this ridiculous display of jealousy at me. I am not yours, Valarr. Get that through your head. I'd rather drag myself through the mud than be with you, you misogynistic cheating idiot—” The words escaped before you reined them back in. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I intend to return to the ball.”
The smile never left your face.
As though nothing had happened.
As though you had not just called Valarr an idiot.
As though that conversation had meant nothing at all. And that, more than any argument, ended up frustrating Valarr. As you walked back toward the ballroom illuminated by crystal chandeliers, he realized that you had understood everything. Absolutely everything, which was far worse than any fight.
—
The penultimate semester arrived with the same cruel speed with which all good things seem to arrive and disappear. For months, you had lived immersed in classes, projects, seminars, student council meetings, and an absurd amount of coffee. Graduation had begun to take shape on the horizon in an increasingly tangible way. It was no longer an abstract idea reserved for older students; it was something real, something approaching with unsettling speed. That night, however, neither of you seemed willing to think about the future. The campus was nearly deserted. Most students were either preparing for final examinations or celebrating the end of the semester at one university party or another, while the academic buildings glowed in the distance beneath the lamplight, transforming into small islands of gold suspended in the darkness.
You and Valarr were lying on the grass in one of the university’s more secluded gardens. The lawn still held traces of the night's moisture, and the cool air drifted softly through the trees, carrying the faint perfume of the flowers lining the nearby pathways. Above you, the sky stretched vast and immeasurable, covered in a scattering of stars so numerous it seemed impossible that a city existed only a few miles away. Neither of you had any real desire to return to your residence halls. There was something strangely comforting about the stillness, about the absence of obligations, about the feeling that for a few hours the academic world could continue turning without either of you.
“Did you know there's an experiment designed to make two people fall in love?”
Valarr’s voice broke the silence with such casual ease that you turned your head slightly to look at him.
“That sounds scientifically questionable.”
“Probably.”
“Then continue.”
A smile appeared on his lips. “It consists of a series of questions. 36 Questions on the Way to Love.”
“The New York Times ones?”
“And sustained eye contact.” He replied.
“That is definitely pseudoscience.”
“Do you want to play or not?”
You stared at the sky for a few seconds before smiling. “Go ahead.”
Valarr folded his arms behind his head and began asking the questions. At first they were simple. If you could have dinner with anyone in the world, living or dead, who would you choose? What was your favorite childhood memory? What dream had you abandoned while growing up? The answers came easily and were often accompanied by laughter. You chose your mother for the first question, prompting Valarr to immediately accuse you of cheating. He chose his grandfather, explaining that he had spent his entire life hearing stories about him without ever having the opportunity to discover who he truly was behind the surname and the legend. That surprised you more than you were willing to admit.
As the night deepened, so did the questions. They left behind amusing anecdotes and lighthearted memories, venturing instead into far more delicate territory. You spoke about fears. About regrets. About the things you valued most in friendship. About losses that still hurt. About the decisions you would change if given the opportunity to go back. Time seemed to dissolve gradually around you. The hours slipped by unnoticed as you exchanged answers you rarely shared with anyone else. Perhaps because there was no need to pretend. There was no student council president and no first King’s Scholar. No titles, responsibilities, or expectations. Just two people lying on the grass in the middle of the night, speaking about themselves with a level of honesty that felt equally comfortable and dangerous.
Eventually they reached one of the final questions. Valarr studied the card in silence for several seconds before reading it aloud.
“What is your favorite memory of us?”
The question settled between you, changing the atmosphere immediately. It was not just another question, both of you knew it.
You remained focused on the stars as you considered your answer. There were too many years between you. Too many conversations, too many arguments, too many shared moments. Choosing only one seemed impossible.
Finally, you smiled. “The library.”
Valarr turned his head. “The library?”
“The first coffee.” Your smile widened slightly. “I don't know why.”
You did know why, you simply had no intention of admitting it. “I still remember how terrified you looked.”
“I was not terrified.”
“Valarr.”
“Yes?”
“You looked like a man facing a public execution.”
The laugh that escaped him was immediate. Genuine. The kind he reserved for very few people. Hearing it caused something warm to settle in your chest.
“And you?” you asked.
For the first time that night, Valarr hesitated.
“I don't have one.”
You frowned. “That’s cheating.”
“No.” His gaze remained fixed on you. “I have too many.”
The silence that followed was different from all the others. Heavier. More aware. For the first time since the conversation had begun, you became fully conscious of the distance separating you—or perhaps of how little distance truly existed between you. The air seemed denser, slower, as though even the world itself were holding its breath.
Valarr was still looking at you, and you were still looking at him.
His eyes briefly dropped to your lips before returning to your gaze. The movement was small, almost imperceptible, yet impossible to ignore. Your heart began pounding against your ribs with ridiculous force. Neither of you looked away. Neither of you seemed to want to.
“I think the experiment may have worked a little.”
The observation escaped your lips before you could stop it, a slow smile appeared on Valarr’s face.
“Has it?” His voice was gentle.
“Maybe.”
“What a relief.”
The remark caught you off guard, and you could not help but frown slightly. “Why?”
For the first time that night, something vulnerable appeared in his expression. Something unguarded. Something he rarely allowed others to see.
His answer came quietly.
“Because I've been ahead of the experiment for years.”
For a second, you forgot how to breathe, the world seemed to stop. The stars, the grass, the university—everything blurred into background noise. Only those words remained suspended between you, carrying years of silences, unspoken gestures, and feelings neither of you had ever found the courage to name.
Then Valarr shifted slightly closer. You saw him do it. You had enough time to understand what was happening, and yet you remained motionless. Perhaps because a part of you had spent far too long imagining what that moment would be like.
Perhaps because another part of you was not ready to face it. His hand brushed against yours in the grass before he closed the remaining distance.
The kiss was gentle. Tentative. As though even he, so certain about so many things, was not entirely certain about you. For a moment, you remained still, surprised by the reality of it. Then you kissed him back. Only a little. Just enough for something warm to move through your chest. Just enough for the world to disappear for one brief and dangerous moment. That was precisely why you pulled away.
Not abruptly. Not angrily. Quickly enough to regain a little air, a little distance, a little control before the moment became more real than you were prepared to accept.
Your eyes immediately found his. Both of your breaths were slightly uneven. Neither of you spoke.
But the rejection, gentle as it had been, hurt far more than Valarr was prepared to endure.
—
Graduation.
Graduation arrived wrapped in such an immense sense of triumph that, at times, it was difficult to believe it was real.
For years, you had pursued that moment with an almost obsessive determination. You had survived impossible exams, entire nights without sleep, and the constant pressure of a university that seemed specifically designed to separate the exceptional from the merely talented. You had arrived at King's Landing University carrying a historic scholarship, impossible expectations on your shoulders, and the persistent fear of discovering that everything had been a mistake. Yet four years later, you were there, seated among the most accomplished graduates of your class, watching endless rows of students dressed in identical black gowns while families filled the stands and cameras captured every moment of a ceremony that would mark the end of an era.
And you were not just another student among that crowd.
You were the one chosen to deliver the graduation speech.
When your name was announced, a wave of applause swept through the auditorium. It was not the polite applause offered out of obligation. It was long. Sincere. Earned. As you walked toward the stage, you felt hundreds of eyes following you, but for the first time in a very long while, it did not intimidate you. You had worked too hard to stand there. You had sacrificed too much.
Before you stretched an entire generation of students preparing to leave the university and face the world.
And you gave the speech . You spoke about effort. About uncertainty. About the fear of failure. About the invisible sacrifices no one saw when they looked at a brilliant résumé or a graduation ceremony. You spoke about opportunity. About privilege. About perseverance. About the people who believed in you when you could not yet believe in yourselves.
And when you finished, the entire auditorium rose to its feet. The ovation was so immediate that, for several seconds, you remained motionless behind the podium, unable to process what was happening.
This was real.
All of it was real.
The university. Graduation. The diploma.
The future. Especially the future.
If the ceremony represented the end of one chapter, what came next was even more exciting. During the previous months, you had received job offers from some of the most prestigious companies on the continent. International firms. Consulting agencies. Corporations whose names appeared constantly in financial magazines and economic newspapers. Any one of them would have been enough to change your life forever.
But you had achieved something better. Much better.
The offer you truly wanted. The only one you had wanted from the very beginning.
An international company based overseas had offered you a position that most graduates spent years trying to reach. The salary was extraordinary. The opportunities for growth even more so. For the first time in your life, the future seemed to open before you without visible limitations.
In one week, you would board a plane. In one week, you would begin a new life. In one week, you would be able to start sending money home. Helping your family. Easing burdens that had weighed on your father for years.
Fulfilling promises you had spent far too long making to yourself.
The thought alone brought a smile to your face every time someone mentioned the job.
That night, you could barely contain your excitement.
The celebrations continued long after the ceremony ended. There were photographs, toasts, embraces, and farewells. Professors congratulating you one final time. Classmates promising to stay in touch. Proud parents watching their children with tears in their eyes. The entire campus seemed suspended in a kind of collective happiness, as though no one wanted to admit that this chapter was coming to an end.
When the hours began to pass and guests gradually started leaving, you discovered that part of you did not want to leave either.
King's Landing University had been your home. Saying goodbye to it was more difficult than you had imagined.
It was close to midnight when you found Valarr.
Or perhaps he found you.
He stood beside his car in one of the more isolated parking lots on campus, his hands tucked into his pockets and an oddly calm expression resting on his face. By then, the crowd had nearly disappeared. Only a few scattered students remained, along with the distant echoes of the final celebrations.
For a moment, the two of you simply stood there, looking at one another. Two people who had shared entire years of their lives.
Two people who were about to walk different paths.
“I suppose this is goodbye.”
The smile that appeared on your lips was soft.
“Not permanently.”
“No.”
Something in the way he answered made the word sound different. Heavier. Sadder. Evaluating. Weighing.
You pushed the feeling away before it could settle. Tonight, you did not want to think about goodbyes. You only wanted to hold on to your happiness a little longer.
“Are you going to accept the job offer?” His blue eye seemed to gleam with an analytical, calculating light.
“What kind of question is that? Of course I am. It’s... it’s a dream come true.” You smiled.
“I’m happy for you.”
Valarr offered to drive you home, and you accepted without thinking much about it. After all, it was Valarr. He had been a constant in your life for years. A presence so familiar that imagining university without him felt impossible.
The interior of the car remained quiet as you left campus behind. Through the window, you watched the illuminated buildings slowly disappear into the distance. Every street felt like a farewell. Every traffic light, a countdown toward the future.
At some point during the drive, Valarr picked up a cup of coffee from the cup holder and handed it to you.
A small smile appeared on your face.
“Since when do you keep coffee in the car?”
“Since I met you.”
The answer made you laugh. It was true. If there was one thing Valarr knew about you, it was your almost unhealthy dependence on caffeine. You accepted the cup without suspicion.
The warmth immediately seeped into your hands. Comforting. Familiar. Safe.
As the city lights continued sliding past beyond the window, you lifted the coffee to your lips and took a long, carefree sip.
“It’s perfect.”
Valarr only hummed softly in acknowledgment before pulling the car over on a deserted corner.
“Sorry—could you grab my wallet? It’s in the back seat. We need to buy fuel. I’m afraid we might end up stranded in the middle of the city.”
You nodded.
Unfastening your seatbelt, you turned around toward the back seats. You leaned forward enough so that your dress hugged your bottom. You looked around the seats for the wallet, but there wasn't one; he pushed you hard against the leather surface, his chest pressed against your back, twisting one of your wrists behind your back.
You let out a groan. "Valarr—what are you doing—" You thrashed, trying to break free from him. You heard a small click behind you before he pulled you further forward, and taking your other wrist, he tied them together with his belt. Air left your lungs and was replaced by a knot in your chest. "Valarr, this is not funny—"
"Shh" He murmured from behind. You could feel his breath, his heavy breat, right where your face and jaw met. With the same force as before, he pressed your face against the seats. "All you do is talk. You chatter, chatter, chatter," he sounded frustrated, you still trying to break free.
You produced unintelligible sounds against the seats, heavy tears sliding against your eyes, ruining your mascara, wetting his seats.
"Don't make this harder than it is," he whispered, placing a soft kiss behind your neck. With one hand, he brushed your hair aside, trailing kisses down to the zipper of your dress.
"Valarr, please—"
"You'll enjoy it, I can assure you that. In a few years, when we're sitting at a family dinner and one of our children asks, "Mom, how are babies made?", and you'll blush so much, you'll blush so hard that the red will paint your ears, your neck, your cheeks." His fingers lowered the zipper with a slow, appreciative sway. "You'll do it. You'll like it. It will live in your memory forever." You leaned back to move him away. He put all his weight on you.
His kisses descended from your back like the tears that slid down your cheeks. You hated it. You hated his kisses, his caresses disgusted you, despised yourself for the faintest hint of pleasure that stirred within you.
"I've waited so long—God, you know I have." He sounded happy. Content. Relieved. He flicked his warm tongue from his mouth, licking your exposed skin. It felt slimy. Disgusting. Bad. "You've played hard to get for so long, love. I can't lie to you, it equally excited and frustrated me." His wet kisses reached the very end of the opening. A sound of pure desperation escaped his throat.
"Valarr—" You cried.
"Enough." You couldn't see it; perhaps that was your only consolation. The fact that you couldn't witness the abomination that sweet, golden boy Valarr who adored you and gave you coffee every day, was. "I told you to stop being difficult— let me have this. Just take it"
He took the sides of your graduation dress, something so special, and ripped it in two. The sound was heartbreaking. Real. This was real. His kisses trailed down the rest of your back. His lips kissed your buttocks, one hand kneading the other as you wept. What else could you do? You'd let him take what he wanted, and you'd take that plane to London. To your dream life. Yes. That's what you'd do.
That viscous fluid trickled down the crack of your ass, pausing to suck on your sweat soaked hole. His words were nothing short of obscene. He let out a pleased sound as he tasted your wet folds. "You taste delicious." He went back in there, slipping his tongue between your lips, bothering you. You hated him, especially the involuntary swaying of your hips. "See?" he whispered before gently biting one of your lips. "You love it. You're so wet. I can't wait, I need you. Can't wait"
You didn't hear him pull down his pants, but you felt him enter you. The combination of his saliva and your fluids was lubricating enough, but it didn't ease the pain of his cock tearing through your vagina. It didn't erase the unbearable burning. It didn't soothe your tears.
Valarr grunted with satisfaction at the sensation. "It's better than I imagined—God, you're so tight." Your silent weeping continued. You had to endure it. You had to resist. He would take what he wanted, do with you as he pleased, and then leave you alone. Yes. He would leave, and you would erase this from your memory. You'd crumple up this page of your story and throw it in the trash.
His left hand cupped your breast, his right your hip. The rhythm was slow, deep, and steady, his tip pounding inside you. You hated it. You hated how your cunt clenched, as if you were made for this, as if your mind and body existed on two different planes, as if, after all your intelligence, you were nothing more than a wild woman in need of a cock.
Valarr rested his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged, his moans punctuated by soft whispers. He placed gentle kisses on your neck and cheeks as he took your virginity. "You feel so good, my love," he traced kisses down to your ear. "Love it— love you so much."
His cock trembled inside you. You would let him do it, let him ejaculate inside you, allow his seed to rest on your thighs, and tomorrow, when the sun rose, you'll buy a contraception.
"I'm coming—" he groaned against your skin. And with a guttural growl he came inside you. White liquid staining your walls, tears illuminated by the car's headlights, his breath on the back of your neck. His still-half-hard penis slipped out of your walls. He appreciated the way his semen slid out of your cunt and dripped onto the leather of his seats. Not satisfied. Hungry. Needy. Amazed.
He smiled against your skin. His member, now fully erect, rubbed against your ass. His large hand on your hip moved down to your clit, massaging it in small circles. You hadn't come yet. And he, who knew no limits to his greed, wanted to feel it. See it. Have it.
—
His hand rested on your swollen belly, massaging small figures against your skin.
Who would have guessed it? Three months pregnant by Valarr, your belly was beginning to show, and he couldn't have been happier. You would bring life into the world, his seed, his legacy. The girl of his dreams, pregnant by him. He sighed happily against your hair.
The wedding would be in a month. That's what you decided, and he agreed with a gentle "as you wish." The diamond felt heavy on your finger.
You seemed spellbound in the news broadcast on the enormous big screen of the even more immense living room, listening attentively.
"And in this week's surprises, Miss Emma Renoir has become a business phenomenon after achieving a 22.3% increase in sales following her arrival. These gains equate to approximately $12,000,000 millions. She—" The reporter's solemn voice vanished into a black hole.
You turned. Valarr was holding the remote, he left it next to the sofa and then looked at you with those gentle eyes of his.
No. You didn't take that flight to London a week after graduation. You didn't solve your family's financial problems, didn't get to the offices of your dream job.
Valarr did it for you. He fixed your life, your family.
mattheo pushing you on your back mid argument… 18+
“What else could you possibly want from me?” Mattheo’s voice cracked like thunder through the empty Slytherin common room, low and dangerous. The firelight flickered across his sharp features, casting harsh shadows under his cheekbones and turning his dark eyes molten.
Your blood was already boiling. Heat flared across your cheeks as you whipped around to face him, the argument that had erupted ten minutes ago having successfully driven every last person from the room. No one was surprised anymore. Most were shocked the two of you were still together at all.
“I want you to try,” you snarled, eyes narrowed into slits. “You put zero fucking effort into this relationship. You just expect me to stay, to keep forgiving you, like it’s all just going to magically work itself out.”
Mattheo’s jaw clenched so tightly you could see the muscle jump. He stalked toward you, tall and predatory, until the heat of his body bled into yours. “Maybe if you weren’t constantly riding my ass about every little thing, I would want to fucking try.”
The words landed like a slap. You hid the sharp pang in your chest, shoving hard at his shoulders instead. “Yeah? Then why don’t you just leave?” Your teeth ground together, tears stinging hot at the corners of your eyes no matter how viciously you tried to blink them away. You spun on your heel, making it only a few furious steps before his fingers locked around your wrist like a vice.
He yanked you back and shoved you onto the sofa. Your back hit the velvet cushions with a soft thud, anger and hurt pulsing wildly through your veins. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snapped, chest heaving.
“Just shut up for once,” Mattheo growled. His hands were already moving, furious and impatient. He popped the button of your shorts open with a sharp tug, dragging the fabric down your legs along with your panties in one rough motion. Cool air kissed your bare pussy, making you acutely aware of how shamefully wet you already were.
You didn’t stop him. You told yourself it was pure fury. That you were too angry to push him away, to let him win, but your body betrayed you. Instead of fighting, you glared up at his stupid, beautiful face, lips pressed into a tight line so you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of hearing any noise you make.
Mattheo made a low, guttural sound in the back of his throat as he stared at your dripping cunt. The hungry noise sent an involuntary roll through your hips, your body arching toward him before you could stop it.
“Maybe I should leave,” he muttered darkly, even as his fingers dug bruisingly into your hips, yanking you to the edge of the cushions. The thick, flushed head of his cock nudged against your slick folds, teasing your entrance with shallow, torturous rubs that coated him in your arousal.
“Then go,” you said coldly, keeping your face like stone. You crossed your arms over your chest, the motion deliberately pushing your breasts higher in the thin tank top, the soft swell of your cleavage drawing his hungry gaze like a magnet. You turned your head to the side, staring hard at the stone wall instead of his stupidly perfect face.
Why does he have to look so infuriatingly handsome even when you hate him?
Mattheo’s hips rolled faster, rutting his thick cock along your sticky folds with increasing pressure. A low, amused chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Aw, who would fuck you then?” The smug lilt in his voice made you want to slap the smirk right off his lips.
You forced a sweet, venomous smile instead. “I’m sure I could find someone, they’d probably be better than you.”
His eyes flashed with dark possessiveness. In one sharp motion he gripped your thighs, spreading you wide open and slammed into you to the hilt. The sudden, burning stretch ripped a choked moan from your traitor throat as your walls clenched greedily around his cock, every thick inch dragging against your sensitive inner walls.
“Better than me?” Mattheo snarled, pulling out almost completely only to thrust back in harder, setting a punishing rhythm. The wet slap of skin on skin echoed through the empty common room, filthy and loud. “No one else gets this pussy this fucking wet. No one else makes you shake like this.”
You bite your lip hard, trying to hold back the desperate sounds climbing up your throat, but each deep stroke punched the air from your lungs. Pleasure sparked hot and electric up your spine. Still, you refused to give in completely.
“Maybe they wouldn’t talk so fucking much,” you shot back breathlessly, nails digging into his forearms as you rocked your hips up to meet his brutal thrusts. Your tank top had ridden up, exposing the underside of your breasts, and Mattheo’s gaze kept dropping to the way they bounced with every fast snap of his hips.
He leaned down, teeth grazing your jaw before biting down on the sensitive spot beneath your ear. “Such a bitch,” he growled against your skin, the word vibrating through you. One hand shoved your top higher, palming your breast, his thumb flicking over your hardened nipple. “You’re dripping down my cock and still trying to pick a fight. So fucking stubborn.”
“Fuck—you—” The insult fractured into an accidental moan as he angled his hips and hit a devastatingly good spot inside you again and again. Your back arched off the cushions, pussy fluttering and squeezing around him. Heat coiled tighter and tighter in your belly, threatening to snap at any given moment.
Mattheo’s pace turned feral, the couch creaking beneath you both as if you couldn’t be walked in on at anytime. Sweat slicked your joined bodies, the air thick with the musky scent of sex and the crackling fire. He pinched your nipple hard, making you cry out, then soothed it with a rough swipe of his thumb.
God, he was fucking huge. No matter how furious you were, your mind kept slipping under the relentless stretch of his thick cock splitting you open. Your heavy-lidded eyes locked onto his dark, burning gaze. The lewd, wet sounds of him pounding in and out of your dripping hole filled the room like filthy music, obscene squelching mixed with the sharp smack of his balls hitting your ass.
He bottomed out on every savage thrust, his hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, pressing just enough pressure against your throbbing pulse to make your head spin. The controlled dominance sent sparks racing through your veins.
“Say it again,” he growled, voice rough and dangerous, thumb stroking the side of your neck. “Say how you’ll fuck someone else while I’m buried in your fucking guts, baby.”
With his free hand he hooked one of your legs higher, looping it around his hip. The new angle forced his fat cock impossibly deeper, the head dragging against that devastating spot inside you with every stroke. The intense fullness was overwhelming. You instinctively tried to squirm away, your body attempting to escape the overwhelming pressure but he held you still, giving you nowhere to go.
“Maybe if I fuck someone else,” you gasped out between broken moans, nails raking down his back, “you’d finally try harder—”
Mattheo’s grip on your throat tightened fractionally, a dark, possessive snarl tearing from his lips. He slammed into you harder, hips snapping with punishing force, driving his cock so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach.
“Bullshit,” he hissed, leaning down until his forehead nearly touched yours, sweat dripping from his hair onto your chest. “Fuck someone else and see what happens to them, you’re all mine even if you’re fucking crazy.”
Your back arched violently off the cushions as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core, white-hot and vicious. Every brutal thrust sent shockwaves through your body. Your walls fluttered and squeezed around his thick length, the wet sounds growing messier, louder, as your arousal dripped down your thighs and onto the velvet beneath you.
“I—fucking—hate—you,” you managed to choke out between broken moans, the words slurring as your mind frayed at the edges.
Mattheo let out a deep, dark chuckle that vibrated against your sweat-slicked skin. Drool slipped from the corner of your parted lips as he fucked you even harder, the wet slap of his hips against your ass echoing through the room. A satisfied, almost cruel smirk tugged at his mouth when your eyes rolled back, his bitchy, stubborn girl finally fucked dumb — even if you were still trying to fight him with words.
“I know you do,” he purred, voice low and rough with lust. His hand stayed firm around your throat, thumb pressing just right against your pulse. “Cum for me anyway, princess.”
The condescending endearment, paired with the relentless drag of his fat cock against that perfect spot inside you and the tight press of his thumb pressing against your clit, finally shattered you completely.
Your orgasm crashed over you like lightning. A sharp, broken cry tore from your throat as your pussy clenched violently around him, pulsing and fluttering in powerful waves. Pleasure ripped through every nerve, white-hot and overwhelming. Your thighs shook uncontrollably, toes curling, while fresh slick gushed around his cock with every deep, punishing thrust. Drool trailed down your chin. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes as you came hard, soaking him and the couch beneath you.
Mattheo’s thrusts stayed punishing even as your legs shook violently around his waist, your glassy, unfocused eyes finally dragging back to his. His hand loosened slightly on your throat, keeping just enough to keep your gaze locked on him while his other hand left your throbbing clit to cradle your jaw. His calloused thumb swiped slowly across your wet bottom lip, smearing the drool there.
“I would try harder if you’d just give me a fucking chance, you know? I am trying, but you just see everything I’m doing wrong.” His voice was still rough with anger, matching the fire in your chest, but his eyes had softened as he stared into your wrecked, fucked-out expression. “You think I want to lose you?”
A low, broken moan slipped from his lips when your sensitive walls clenched weakly around him again. The sound sent fresh heat licking across your skin, even as your abused cunt fluttered in protest at the overwhelming fullness.
“I can’t fucking stand you most of the time,” he rasped, hips snapping forward in one final, deep thrust that made you yelp, “but I love you all the time. So please—” Another hard thrust cut off his own words. “Give me a fucking fair chance.”
He bottomed out one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. His full weight crashed down onto you as broken, guttural moans spilled hot against your ear. You felt his thick cock throb and swell inside your slick heat, pulsing as thick ropes of cum flooded your belly. The warmth of it filled you until you felt swollen and claimed, his spend leaking out around his length with every twitch of your overstimulated walls.
Mattheo gave a few more weak, lazy thrusts, grinding his cum deeper as he rode out the last shocks of his orgasm. Only when he finally began to soften did he still, staying buried inside your twitching pussy.
He lifted his head, dark eyes searching yours for a long moment. Then he pressed a surprisingly sweet, lingering kiss to your sweaty forehead, his breath warm against your skin.
“Am I forgiven?” he murmured, voice low and husky, “or do I need to eat this pretty pussy until you say you love me too?”
can we see how they first met and then started living together then had maegor then how everything went down hill pls?
Of coursee you can anon!
wc: 5.1k | I really locked in for this, I love them so dearly [ nothing good grows here ]
So, naturally, you met Aerion because your tire blew out on the side of the road. The corner store parking lot, actually.
You'd only had your license for two weeks, and your dad had spent the better part of six months squirreling away enough money to buy you your very first car for your sixteenth birthday. It wasn't anything special—old enough to have quirks, small enough that your grandmother still called it "that little thing"—but it was yours.
That morning, your grandmother had sent you to the store for butter and eggs. The bananas on the counter had already gone spotty, so you were going to spend the afternoon baking banana bread together. Instead, you came back outside to find the driver's side front tire completely flat.
You had just enough money left in the back pocket of your shorts to stop for gas on the drive home. You didn't know how to change a tire. You didn't have enough money for a tow truck. You definitely didn't have enough money for a mechanic. And calling your dad wasn't an option; he'd bought you the car, he was still at work, the last thing you wanted was to tell him you'd somehow managed to break it before you'd even really driven the damn thing.
The cashier had come outside once she saw you just standing there by the car. She was a middle-aged woman with gray hair and kind eyes, the sort who always called you by a pet name when you paid for your candy bars in middle school. She took one look at the tire and sighed.
"Oh, honey. You alright? Do you have a spare? A jack? I can ask my husband to—"
You shook your head quickly, knowing you didn't have the money for whatever her husband might charge you either. "It's okay. I'll call someone. I'm okay. Really."
She didn't push further. Instead, she pulled out her phone and tapped a few buttons. "The Targaryens have that auto shop just down the road, honey. They're good people. Always fair. I'm sure one of them could get you back on the road in no time."
Before you could protest, she was already talking into the phone, asking for Maekar. You were mortified, truly. It was your first solo drive and somehow you had already managed to embarrass yourself.
She gave you a bottle of water and told you to sit inside at one of the tables in the corner. You nursed the water bottle like an emotional anchor while you stared at the little bell above the door.
Five minutes later, the bell jingled, and Aerion walked in.
You knew him by word of mouth more than anything. A few years older, already out of school, working full-time at his family's shop. Everyone in town knew the Targaryens. They weren't bad people, but they were the sort of family that made other parents grateful their own kids weren't quite so wild. Aerion in particular had a reputation for being difficult. Too quick to get into fights, too willing to take off without telling anyone where he was going, too good at convincing people to do things they probably shouldn’t.
"Y'gonna keep starin' at that water, or you wanna show me the dead car?"
He wore some band t-shirt under a faded flannel, jeans with grease stains around the knees, a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and his hair was messy. He also wasn't smiling.
You stood up, already feeling embarrassed all over again. "I'm sorry. It's... outside."
He followed you out to the parking lot with his hands in his pockets, eyes already scanning the tire. You stood awkwardly off to the side clutching the now-warm water bottle and feeling completely useless.
"You ran over somethin'?"
"I don't know. I just came out and it was like this."
"This shit's too flat to change here. Gotta tow it. Shop's not far." He told you. Because of course you had to tow it. The whole ordeal was suddenly going to cost you money you didn't have.
You told him, against your own will really, that you couldn't afford a tow truck. That you'd rather just call someone else to help you. That your dad was going to be pissed enough without you spending money you didn't have.
"Fuck's sake... put the damn thing in neutral and stop cryin'. I'll push it myself. It's what, two blocks? Just hop in and steer."
He was already behind your car, hands on the trunk, pushing before you'd even processed what he said. You barely knew how to drive, and now you were steering a car with a flat while some guy you'd never spoken to before pushed you down the road in the middle of summer. The embarrassment was so overwhelming you were considering never driving again.
By the time you got to the shop, you were sweating and your hands were shaking on the wheel. Aerion didn't even seem winded. He just walked into the shop, tossed the keys to some older man you assumed was his father, and said, "Girl's tire blew. We're fixin' it."
Maekar looked at you, then at his son, then back at you. He sighed. "How much money you got, sweetheart?"
Your throat went tight. You pulled the last of your cash out of your pocket, counting it twice like somehow it might have multiplied in the last ten minutes. It hadn't.
Maekar gave Aerion a look. "We're not takin' her last twenty bucks, boy."
"She needs a new tire. We ain't givin' her a damn tire for free."
His father just clenched his jaw before taking a fist to his shirt and dragging him off toward the back of the shop. You sat there in the waiting area, listening to them argue in low voices. Something about work, money, you, whether or not Aerion was being an idiot.
Eventually, Maekar came back, his expression softer. He told you they'd put a used tire on free of charge, that if you wanted to you could come back for a new tire once you had the money. He handed you a card with the shop's number scrawled on the back. "Call if you need anything else, alright? Don't let my boy scare you. He's just a pain in my ass."
That should've been the end of it. A weird, awkward morning that you'd tell your friends about later while they laughed about how you managed to mess up your first car in record time.
But you felt bad. So you went back the following afternoon with the banana bread your grandmother helped you bake, wrapped in plastic wrap, along with fifty dollars you'd scraped together from your wallet and begged your father for. Maekar wasn't there, but Aerion was, bent over the hood of some old truck with grease on his knuckles.
He looked up when you cleared your throat.
"This is for you." You held out the bread and the cash. "For helping me."
Aerion stared at the bread like it was a trick. Then at you. He took the money first, shoved it in his pocket without counting it, then picked up the banana bread.
"D'you walk here just to give me this?" He asked it like he couldn't really believe that anyone would bring him something homemade.
"And to say thank you. I really appreciate it."
He was quiet for a while. Then, without looking at you, he said, "You're an idiot, you know that? Walkin' all this way. Just put a perfectly good tire on that car and you walk here."
You didn't want to drive so soon after the first incident. Honestly, you didn't want to drive at all. But you also didn't want to admit that to him, so you just shrugged.
He sighed, unwrapping the bread and taking a bite. "This is good, at least."
You never expected to see him again after that. Not in any meaningful way, at least.
Only your dad insisted you get a part-time job. Officially, it was to teach you responsibility, but you suspected it was because of the car and the whole tire incident. You ended up working at the little diner near your grandmother's house.
The shop sat a couple of blocks from the diner, and every weekday, sometime between four and five, one of the boys from the garage came in to pick up food. Most days it was Maekar, sometimes Egg if it was a weekend, and occasionally a man you recognized as one of their uncles.
And every now and then, it was Aerion.
He never said much. He'd sit at the counter, order for everyone else—burgers, fries, coffee, a milkshake for Egg—and just sit there while you refilled coffee or brought out plates. When his food would come out, he'd mutter a "see ya" and walk back out carrying a giant to-go bag. Then one afternoon, he stayed.
He sat there for nearly an hour, slowly picking at a burger and fries, watching people come and go. You kept an eye on him, mostly because you didn't know what else to do. Also partly because your manager had grown increasingly concerned that he might be casing the place.
When he finally stood to leave, he stopped by the counter. You were wiping it down when he said, "You still scared of drivin'?"
You hesitated. You hadn't given much thought to the fear since the tire blew, but you'd been avoiding the car whenever possible, riding your bike or walking to work instead. "I didn't say I was scared."
"You didn't have to. Meet me at the shop tomorrow after your shift. We'll fix that."
"Fix what?"
"How to drive, dumbass. Bring your car."
Except you never actually ended up driving your car.
You spent the next twenty-four hours in a state of anxious disbelief. You told your grandmother, who immediately said you shouldn't go because you hardly knew him. You told your dad, who said it was probably fine but maybe you should bring pepper spray just in case. In the end, you went. Because you were sixteen, and for some reason, the idea of a boy teaching you how to drive—instead of your dad—felt like something you needed to do.
Aerion was already outside the shop, leaning against his truck with a cigarette between his fingers. He didn't smile when he saw you. He just nodded toward the passenger seat. "Get in. We're goin' somewhere nobody'll yell at me for teachin' you on private property."
You spent the next two hours in an empty parking lot behind the county fairgrounds, with Aerion occasionally barking instructions while you practiced turning, stopping, and starting without stalling the engine.
"You're too stiff," he said after you nearly ran over a parking block. "Relax. It's not gonna bite you."
"I'm trying."
"No, you're overthinkin'. Drive like you're not scared of it. You can't control it if you're white-knucklin' the fuckin' steering wheel."
You did relax after that. A little. And by the time the sun set, you were almost enjoying yourself.
It became a habit after that.
Every Tuesday and Thursday after your shift, you'd stop by the shop. Sometimes he'd make you practice parallel parking until you were ready to cry. Sometimes he'd drive the two of you out toward the Blackwater and make you navigate the winding roads back into town. He never praised you much. Just the occasional "Better," or "There y’go."
Looking back, you're not sure which happened first: you stopped being afraid of driving, or you started looking forward to seeing him.
By the time you were seventeen, you were technically his girlfriend. Though nobody had actually said the words out loud.
It started with small things. Sitting on the bed of his truck after your lessons, sharing fries while he smoked and complained about his older brother's drinking. Then you started waiting for him after his shifts, bringing him coffee because he was always tired. One day he asked if you wanted to ride with him to get parts for a car. The next day, he asked if you wanted to go fishing that weekend. Then he started picking you up whenever you worked a closing shift at the diner.
He never held your hand in public. He barely even touched you most of the time. But sometimes, sitting on the tailgate at night, he'd scoot just a little closer. Or he'd let his arm brush against yours when you walked side by side. Or he'd hold your jacket when you went inside the gas station for snacks. But one day you were learning how to change oil, and the next you were kissing him behind the shop after closing while the sky turned dark. It wasn't planned. But suddenly you had a boyfriend who kissed like he'd been waiting to do it for a long time and didn't know what to do now that he was actually allowed.
Your father and grandmother didn't exactly approve. They liked you, trusted you, thought you had a good head on your shoulders. But Aerion was... Aerion. He was older, he didn't go to school, he had a temper, he lived alone in some trailer off the main road. The boy who got into fights, who smoked, who never quite fit in anywhere. They didn't forbid it, but they certainly weren't thrilled.
That summer, your dad sat you down at the kitchen table and asked if you were serious about this. If you knew what you were doing. You said yes to both, even though you weren't entirely sure what "this" even was. It wasn't like he'd asked you to be his girlfriend. The two of you had just fallen into each other without ever making any real decisions about it.
You spent a lot of time at his place that summer. A tiny trailer that always smelled like cigarettes and motor oil, with a couch that had seen better days and a kitchen that barely got used. He was messy, but not gross. Just... lived-in. Like he never had anyone to clean up after but himself, and he couldn't be bothered most of the time.
He'd let you sit on the counter while he made you eggs, even though he wasn't much of a cook. He'd sit on the floor beside you while you flipped through the TV channels because the remote was broken and only worked from up close. He'd bought one of those plastic storage bins for your stuff, because you kept leaving things at his place. Socks, hair ties, your favorite sweatshirt, a paperback you forgot about until you saw it again two weeks later. They all went into the bin.
He didn't talk much about his family, but sometimes his brother Egg would show up unexpectedly, looking for something or just killing time. Egg was loud and friendly, the kind of person who immediately made you feel welcome. He'd tease Aerion about finally having a girl over, and Aerion would tell him to shut up, but he never looked embarrassed. Just annoyed in a way, but that didn't really mean anything.
You'd never been in love before, so you didn't know if this was it. But when he fell asleep with his head in your lap, when he let you run your fingers through his hair without complaining, when he'd drive all the way to your house just because you texted that you were bored—it felt like something important.
You didn't plan to move in with Aerion either. By the time you graduated high school, you'd lost both your father and your grandmother. It happened in the same year. Your dad's heart gave out one morning while he was at work. Six months later, your grandmother passed in her sleep. You inherited the house, the little money they had left, and a whole lot of silence. One day you had a family, and the next, you didn't. The whole town looked at you with pity. People brought casseroles and left them on your porch like that was supposed to fix anything.
The house was too empty. Every room held memories that hurt to think about. You spent most of your time at Aerion's trailer because at least there was noise there. The TV was always on, even if no one was watching. He'd leave his tools scattered around, he'd forget to close the cabinets, he'd fall asleep with his boots still on. And somehow, it was easier to be there than alone in your childhood home.
One night, you were sitting on his couch, staring at a blank TV screen while he was in the shower. You thought about going back to the house, walking through the front door to a kitchen that no longer smelled like pastries or whatever dinner your grandmother made. You thought about how you hadn't even unpacked your lunch because you hadn't felt like eating.
When Aerion came out, towel around his waist, water still dripping from his hair, he looked at you and said, "You're stayin' tonight."
That was the first night you stayed. Then you stayed another night. Then a week. Then you stopped going back at all.
There wasn't a conversation. You literally never discussed it. You just... never left. He never asked you to, but he didn't stop you from moving your things in, either. You brought your clothes, your books, your grandmother's old blankets. You cleaned the kitchen, organized the cabinets, bought groceries for the first time. He grumbled about it, about you changing things, but he never told you to stop.
Living together wasn't easy. He was still messy. He still forgot things, still came home late sometimes, still didn't tell you where he'd been. But he also started doing little things, too. Making sure the coffee was ready before you woke up. Leaving his jacket on the back of your chair because he knew you got cold easily. Fixing the broken screen door so you could open it without worrying about bugs.
He wasn't the most affectionate, but sometimes he'd sit next to you on the couch and let you lean against him. Or he'd brush his fingers through your hair when he thought you were asleep. Or he'd reach for your hand while you walked through the parking lot at the grocery store, even if he let go as soon as you got inside.
You loved him in a way you couldn't explain to anyone else. It wasn't soft or easy. It was stubborn and unyielding and sometimes frustrating. But it was real and it was all yours.
Maegor was conceived on his creaky mattress, in the middle of the afternoon, because he came home from work early and you were wearing one of his old shirts and nothing else. Neither of you were thinking about anything except each other. It was just like any other time he came home and couldn't keep his hands off you.
"You're so fuckin' beautiful," he murmured against your neck, his hands already sliding over your thighs and under the shirt.
It was the kind of thing he only said when he was inside you. When his guard was down, when he didn't have time to second-guess himself. You didn't think much of it at the time. You just kissed him harder.
He held your face while he thrust into you, and you moaned at how he was looking at you. Like he needed you more than he needed air. You told him you loved him, and he didn't say it back, but he buried his face in your neck and groaned, and you knew.
You didn't find out you were pregnant until nearly two months later. You'd been tired, your chest sore, your stomach off. You thought you were just run down from working extra shifts at the diner. When the test pulled two pink lines, you sat on the bathroom floor of his trailer for almost an hour, staring at it, trying to decide what you were going to say to him.
He came home later than usual, smelling like cheap scotch and complaining about having to haul Daeron out of the bar before he started something stupid. You were sitting in the kitchen, holding the pregnancy test in front of you with shaky hands.
He stopped in his tracks when he saw your face. "What's wrong, baby?"
You couldn't bring yourself to say anything. You just kept holding onto the test until he saw it. And he looked at it for a long time. Then at you. Then back at the test.
"Fuck." and "Shit."
That was all. He didn't say anything else. Just sat down in the chair across from you and stared at the floor. You felt like you might be sick. He didn't look angry. He didn't look happy, either. He looked overwhelmed.
"I'm sorry," you said, even though you didn't know why you were apologizing.
"Don't do that. Don't fuckin' apologize."
But he still didn't say anything else.
For weeks, it was like living with a stranger. He came home, he ate, he went to bed. Sometimes he'd touch your stomach when you were asleep, like he was trying to convince himself it was real. But he never talked about it. Never asked how you were feeling. Never mentioned the future.
You didn't push him. You were scared, too. You didn't know how to be a mom. You didn't know what this meant for the two of you, for your job, for the trailer you'd turned into a home.
One night, after a particularly long shift at the diner, you came home to find him sitting at the kitchen table with a stack of papers. He looked up when you walked in, and his expression was so serious it made your stomach drop.
"I went to the doctor today," he said. "Got a list of shit we need to do. I don't—fuck, baby, I don't know how to be a dad. But I'm not leavin'. I don't want you thinkin' that shit. I'm stayin'. Alright?"
You sat down across from him, your eyes stinging. You'd spent weeks convinced he was going to leave, that you were going to do this alone. But there he was, with a list of prenatal vitamins and scheduled doctor's appointments, with a look on his face.
"I'm gonna do right by you. By the kid. I just... need a minute to figure it all out."
You were nineteen. Aerion had only just celebrated his twenty-first birthday a few months before. Neither of you were ready. But he tried. He tried so hard; it was perfect.
Once the shock wore off, Aerion threw himself into preparing. He started working extra hours, saving money. He fixed up the trailer, made sure everything was safe, installed a car seat in his truck before you even needed it. He went to every doctor's appointment, sat quietly while the nurse talked about nutrition and sleep schedules, and held your hand so tight you thought he might break your fingers.
He still wasn't good with words. But he did things. He made sure you always had water. He rubbed your back when you couldn't sleep. He built the crib himself, even though it took three tries and a lot of swearing. And one night, when you were lying in bed with his hand resting on your growing belly, he said, "I love you, you know. Even when I'm bein' an asshole."
You almost cried. Because that was the first time he'd ever said it without being inside you. Without being drunk or angry or half-asleep. He just said it.
Maegor was born in the fall, after sixteen hours of labor that left you exhausted and him terrified. When the doctor handed you the baby, Aerion stood next to the bed, staring at the tiny face with wide, disbelieving eyes.
"Fuck, he's small," he whispered, like he hadn't been preparing for this exact moment for the last seven months.
You laughed, even though you were crying. He reached out hesitantly, his rough fingers brushing against Maegor's tiny hand, and when the baby wrapped his fingers around Aerion's thumb, something in Aerion's face changed.
He looked at you, then back at the baby, and said, "We're not fuckin' this up."
For the first year, you were a family. Appointments, sleepless nights, diapers, bottles, the constant hum of a baby monitor. Aerion learned how to change diapers without gagging, how to hold Maegor like a child and not some car part, how to soothe him when he cried in the middle of the night.
He wasn't perfect. He got frustrated when Maegor wouldn't stop crying. He complained about never having any time to himself. He still disappeared sometimes to "clear his head," which really meant going to the bar and smoking too many cigarettes. But he always came back. He never made you feel like you were doing this alone.
Maegor adored him. From the moment he could focus his eyes, he'd stare at Aerion like he was the most fascinating thing in the world. When Aerion held him, he'd quiet down instantly against his chest. When Aerion talked to him, he'd coo and wiggle like he understood every word.
It started small.
Aerion started staying out later. Not every night, but enough that you noticed. He'd come home smelling like alcohol, his eyes red, his mood sharp. He'd snap at you over nothing and apologize an hour later, claiming he was just tired.
The fights got worse. They'd start over something stupid—laundry, dishes, money—and escalate until you were both yelling, your voices echoing through the trailer while Maegor cried in the other room. You'd stare at each other afterward, both of you breathing hard, both of you knowing you'd crossed a line but neither of you wanting to apologize first. He'd storm out, slamming the door behind him, and you'd sit on the floor with Maegor in your arms, trying to stop crying so he wouldn't get even more upset.
He didn't cheat. You were sure of that. But he stopped trying. He stopped talking to you about anything real. He stopped touching you unless it was out of habit or frustration. He'd come home, eat, sit in front of the TV, and go to bed. Sometimes he wouldn't even say goodnight.
You tried. You asked him what was wrong, what you could do to help. You suggested counseling, date nights, anything to fix whatever was breaking between you. He'd shut it all down. "We're fine," he'd say, even when you clearly weren't. "Just give me some fuckin' space."
The space became a wall. And then it became a chasm.
The night it all fell apart, Maegor was eighteen months old. You'd spent the day cleaning the house, trying to make everything feel normal. Aerion had been gone all day, working on some car at the shop, you guessed. You weren't sure what time he'd be home. When he walked through the door, you could smell the whiskey on him.
"Where have you been?"
"Out." He'd tossed his keys on the counter, not looking at you.
"All day? You couldn't call?"
"I was busy, alright? Christ, do I need to report every fuckin' move I make?"
You'd had enough by then. You were tired of feeling like you were raising Maegor alone. Tired of walking on eggshells. Tired of loving someone who didn't seem to love you back anymore.
"I can't do this anymore, Aerion," you said, your voice breaking. "I can't keep pretending everything's fine when it's not."
He finally looked at you, his eyes hard. "So what, you're leavin'? You're takin' my son and leavin'?"
"I don't want to! But you don't want this anymore! You don't want me!"
"Of course I want you," he snapped, stepping closer. "I just... I need a fuckin' break sometimes! Always need me for something. I need to not feel like I'm suffocatin' every second of every goddamn day! All you fuckin' do is ask me what's wrong, what's wrong, like I'm some kind of fuckup—"
"Because you are! You're acting like a child, Aerion! You have a son who needs you! Who needs both of us! And all you care about is running away the second things get hard!"
He was right in front of you then, his chest heaving, his hands clenched into fists. He looked like he wanted to hit something. You thought he might actually hit you.
"I'm not the one runnin'," he said, but he'd lowered his voice by then. "You're the one talkin' about leavin'."
"Maybe we both need different things."
You both knew what that meant. You both knew this was it.
You took Maegor and left that night, drove to your grandmother's house, your house, and sat in the dark driveway for hours, your baby asleep in the backseat, wondering how you'd ended up here.
The next day, you called Aerion and told him you needed space. That you were staying at the house for a while. That you weren't taking Maegor away from him, but you couldn't live like this anymore.
He didn't argue or beg. He just said, "Alright," and hung up.
A week later, he showed up at the house with a car seat, Maegor's dragon, and a look on his face like he'd lost everything. He asked if he could take him for the day. You said yes because you didn't know what else to say.
That was how it started.
He never missed a visit after that. He never made excuses. He showed up every time he said he would, even though he was often late. Sometimes with a new toy, sometimes with fast food because he forgot to pack snacks. He was a better father than he ever was a partner. Maegor lit up every time he saw him, his little arms reaching out, his face breaking into the biggest smile.
But he never asked you to come back.
You told yourself it was better this way. You told yourself you deserved someone who didn't make you feel like you were too much. Who didn't disappear. Who didn't make you feel alone even when you were together.
It didn't stop you from missing him. From wishing things had been different. From wondering if there was ever a version of this where the two of you figured it out before it was too late.
Maegor grew up thinking his parents just lived in different houses. He didn't understand why his daddy couldn't sleep over, why you never kissed anymore, why sometimes you looked at each other like you'd both lost something important. He just knew that he loved you both, and that was enough for him.
But every time you handed Maegor over to Aerion, every time you watched him drive away with your son in the backseat, you couldn't help but wonder if you'd made a mistake. If you should've tried harder. If you should've waited a little longer for him to figure it out.
Jealous Zuko - a party at the palace leads to a deep revelation for zuko
No title - a private moment between you and your boyfriend is interrupted by your unsuspecting friends
No title - zuko asks you to remove his bandages
Thunderstorms - zuko helps you get over your fear
No title - your sudden disappearance makes zuko reevaluate his behavior
No title - zuko apologizes and receives something in return
Wingman - Zuko isn’t sure how to tell you he likes you, so he looks to Sokka for guidance
All I Ever Wanted - as a peasant and servant girl for the palace, you should have known better than to fall for the Prince
No title - Zuko shows his love for you the only way he knows how to
By: @zukosprettyprincess
Midnight discussions - Zuko's always loved staying up late. It's the only time he gets to relax and think and be alone. But...maybe having someone by his side isn't so bad, either.
Dibs - Zuko can be a bit territorial when it comes to his favorite people...or person.
Don't make me beg… - Zuko wishes to make amends. The only problem is...I won't hear him out. But he's never been one to give up easily.
By: @zukoszukhoes
Daisies - Zuko doesn’t know how he feels about you. you make him feel complete, safe, and at peace- but that doesn’t mean anything. Does it?
The Last Time
By: @beifongsss
firebending - If someone told you that you’d end up dating the Fire Nation prince one day, you would’ve laughed in their face. If only you knew how right they were.
fake it till you make it - Takes place during season 3, “The Beach”. As the request said, fake dating to make Mai jealous but it backfires. For Zuko that is.
warmth - You and Zuko get separated from the Gaang and things happen
blush
By: @carpecaelo
of love & destiny
what I'm here for.
marriage is stupid.
in another world
Silk Sheets with No Heat By: @matchakura
dating zuko would include By: @girlkisser13
5:36 By: @seumyo
No title By: @passable-talent
Best Kind of Medicine - All you wanted was for Zuko to take better care of himself. By: @panda-noosh
𝐋𝐄𝐒 By: @par4disee
A classic - 2 teenagers, 1 bed, By: @unfriedough
oh, spirits - literally just the ‘there was only one bed’ cliche with zuko By: @atlabeth
Imagine trying to help Zuko convince everyone that he’s good… By: @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction
𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 - "I have to go but-one more kiss." By: @thefandomthings
You signed the contract because it felt like the smallest, most sensible thing in a row of wild decisions.
“Real Madrid,” your agent had said over coffee, as if the name had no weight. You had smiled and signed on the dotted line and reminded yourself this was still photography,light, lens, patience. It was work. It was a job you loved.
Except it wasn't just light anymore.
The first time you met Arda Güler in person, he ruined a perfectly framed shot.
You were crouched by the dugout, telephoto lens aimed at the empty pitch as the sky folded into the copper of an impending sunset. The team had begun warmups and the stadium hummed,less a crowd than a living thing rising, filling the outline of the stands.
Arda jogged into view, a dark silhouette at first, the movement catching the last gold of the sun. You tracked the motion, waiting for the swing of a boot, the expression before a sprint. He glanced at the camera,maybe because you were very obvious, or maybe because the universe had a wicked sense of timing,and then, smiling like someone who had already decided the joke, he kicked the ball straight toward you.
It wasn't a hard kick. It didn't need to be. The ball rolled at your feet like a question.
You snapped reflexively, and the photograph caught him in mid-laugh,hair damp, eyes crinkled, that wide, careless grin. It was a shot you would have deleted later for composition or lighting. Instead you kept it. You kept it and you noticed how the rest of the session fell into soft focus.
He introduced himself later, as players do,hand offered, charm dialed down to something approachable.
"Arda," he said, and when you told him your name he repeated it like it fit better with his accent. "You take the photos?"
You told him yes, because saying anything else would have been ridiculous. He asked if you were new to Madrid. You said you had been in the city long enough to be lost with confidence. He laughed and asked if you liked tortilla.
" Sure," you said. "Only if you promise to make it better than the ones at the press center."
He tilted his head. "Deal. But you must teach me how you take those photos."
.
After that, Arda managed to appear in every other assignment like a recurring motif.
Matchday close-ups: he caught you adjusting the aperture and gave you a thumbs-up right when the shutter fired. Training grids: he walked between drills, dragging your attention like gravity. Team portraits: you wanted a composed, stoic lineup and he planted himself at the edge, peaceable and disruptive, leaning on the shoulder of a teammate and making an awful face just behind the captain.
You complained once, half-joking, while editing in the darkroom beneath the stadium.
"You know," you said, scrolling through a grid of near-identical images, "if you keep photobombing me like this, my editor will think I'm unprofessional."
Arda sat on the counter, the light from the monitor ghosting across his face. "Then I will be your secret unprofessionalism."
You told him you needed concentration. He offered coffee. You wanted coffee. You told him to stop talking about the coffee and start telling you where the best tortilla in Madrid was.
He told you, honestly, that he liked the noisy neighborhood places. He said the woman who owned a tucked-away bar used to scold him because he ordered too many churros as a kid. He said it like a fact and an apology.
When he wasn’t saying anything you could file, he watched the way your hands moved,precise, patient, as though you were composing with fingers more than with a camera.
"You take like you keep things safe," he said once, the doors to the locker room clapping shut behind him. "Like you're trying not to let anything fall out of the picture."
You laughed. "Maybe because I always forget to hold my own things in place."
He frowned like he meant to argue,like it was a charge against you,but instead he reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was quick, nothing showy. But your chest learned the pattern of his fingers as if by rote.
.
The stadium had a way of shrinking and growing with the seasons. In winter it was a glass dome of breath and steam, in spring it opened like a promise. Under the floodlights one late autumn night, after a win that smelled like mud and victory, he found you packing up in the press room.
You were packed in tiredness,legs buzzing with adrenaline you couldn’t place. He leaned against the doorframe in a hoodie, hair still damp, the day’s exertion flatting his usually energetic face into something more sincere.
"Do you want to," he began. "Do you want to see the city at night with me? Just for a little,no cameras, no interviews. I know this great place."
You surprised yourself by saying yes.
You met him at the players' exit and the city welcomed you with a hush that felt like permission. Madrid was quieter away from the arteries of tourists and you and Arda walked through open-air cafés and under terraces of orange trees. He bought you a slice of tortilla from a stall, and you admitted, after one bite, that it was the best you’d had in months.
"I told you," he said, feigning wounded pride. "I told you anybody could cook a good tortilla, but only some people give them the right attention."
He spoke like he was teaching and like he was learning at the same time. You kept stealing glances at his profile,strong, youthful, the face of someone who had become famous before the world had taught him how to be careful with himself.
"You know a lot of photographers," he said after a while. "I see your work. You make things look like stories."
"I just try to notice," you said.
"You notice me a lot," he said, and when you looked at him, he smiled without hiding anything this time. "Maybe more than the others."
You pretended not to blush.
.
Your relationship folded itself into the small hours and the small spaces in between assignments. It was a kinship of late coffees and editing sessions where he would lean over your shoulder and point at a frame like he’d discovered a constellation. It was the way he would slip you his headphones on bus rides so you could hear what he’d been listening to before a match. It was the reckless thing where he learned to say your name softly in Turkish, and the gallant thing where he learned a few of your favorite English phrases to make you laugh.
There were complications, of course. Fame had a perimeter. Photographers were supposed to be impartial. You were supposed to be objective.
There were nights you spent apart because he had appearances and you had deadlines. There were afternoons when you read tabloids that tried to sell a story about how focused he was on his career and how that had no room for romance. Each whisper in print felt like something you had to photograph away: a rumor you wanted to catch mid-fall before it became truth.
"Ignore it," Arda would say when the headlines tasted bitter. "They will write whatever looks good on paper. You know the truth."
"The truth looks better through a lens," you said once, and he reached for your hand without a word and squeezed.
.
The night of the winter friendly, with the crowd like a low tide of sound, you were meant to take portraits by the pitch for an editorial. The lights were higher than usual, throwing halos around the players, making the grass a luminous field. You set up, adjusted, and waited for the moment you’d rehearsed in your head a hundred times.
Arda walked out last, as if on cue, hair shining with the floodlights. He caught your eye before the line formed. He winked,something quick and utterly deliberate,and instead of taking his place, he walked slowly toward you.
The manager barked into a radio. A teammate hissed at him. You heard the edge of annoyance in someone's voice, but Arda kept coming. He stopped in front of you where the world narrowed down to camera glass and breath.
"Take it," he said softly. "Take whatever you want."
You looked through the lens and you saw every flake of truth you had learned to keep. There was the boy who kicked a ball at your feet in a sunset and the man who had learned to be more careful with hearts than headlines.
You pressed the shutter.
He closed the distance, slow enough that it felt like the warmest eternity. Your hands trembled,even though you had trained them not to,and you lowered the camera. He cupped your face, thumb grazing your cheek, and kissed you as if it were the most natural thing in the world to have your world tilt toward him.
It was a quick kiss at first then softer, then certain. The stadium around you roared with applause and you laughed because that felt like the most honest noise you’d ever heard.
When you finally stepped back, he rested his forehead against yours. "You make everything look beautiful," he whispered.
"You make everything hard to photograph," you said, breathless.
He smiled.
"Then maybe I'll stop trying to keep you in the frame," he said, "and just keep you in the darkroom with me."
You thought of all your photographs: the frames that held moments like specimens, the prints you kept like small, bright truths. You thought of the way his laughter disturbed the order of a shot and how you had learned to prefer the disruption.
"Promise?" you asked.
He kissed you again, under the Santiago Bernabéu lights, and the city seemed to hold its breath.
Summary: After Christmas, things shifted just a little — hardly noticeable to you or even Tom, but a certain blonde certainly noticed and tried to nudge things in the right direction.
hi! im back!! @helloamalien gave me a wonderful idea for a Tom and mattheo tidbit and it helped me finish writing this part! enjoy!
P1 P2 P3 P4 P5 P6 P7 P8 P10
The lord had been gone for a few months now, on some sort’ve of recruiting mission—as far as you knew.
That didn’t matter to you, as long as it didn’t affect your duties to Mattheo.
Speaking of the little lord.
“You’re gonna be walking any day now, little one,” you cooed, smiling at Mattheo as he stood up next to a table, legs wobbly—one hand gripping the coffee table as the other held his favorite stuffed toy, dark eyes wide as he looked at you. “Come on, come on, sweet boy, you can do it.”
You cooed, gesturing Mattheo forward, he stared…and plopped right back down onto his butt. You laughed, shaking your head. “Not today, then?” You sighed, getting up and scooping up the little lord, heading for the kitchen to make him a snack.
Later that day, as you were sitting in the living room, enjoying the sound of the rain outside and Mattheo’s toddler babbles as he played. The front door slowly opened, the weary figure of the lord entering the manor after too long being away.
Tom sighed, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up on the coat hanger beside the door, not even bothering to be proper and taking his shoes off at the door, his shoulders relaxing at the warmth of the manor.
“Dadaaa!” A squeal came from the carpet area, and Tom looked up—blinking wide as he saw Mattheo come tumbling towards him, on two feet, arms out stretched with a gummy smile. “dada!”
You covered your mouth with your hands, eyes wide with delight as Tom stared, before crouching, holding his hands out to Mattheo. “C’mon,” he whispered, voice carefully quiet, unable to help the smile that cracked on his face as Mattheo stumbled right into his hands, smiling.
“Dada!” Mattheo squealed, making grabby hands at his father's face, and Tom let out a low sigh, more tension easing from his shoulders as he stood—pulling Mattheo close, who snuggled right up to his father.
“Those were his first steps,” You said quietly, and Tom froze, looking down at Mattheo, who was tucking his head into Tom’s shoulder.
His son’s first steps, and he was here for them…and was the reason for them. He held Mattheo a little tighter, swallowing hard. “Good.” Tom said, clearing his throat as his voice wavered a little. “he’s developing well,”
You nodded with a smile, and Tom, hesitating for a moment, joined you in front of the fireplace, setting Mattheo back down, who handed Tom a toy and demanded some playtime.
Tom—had no clue how to play, he’d never done it before.
He looked to you for help and you just shrugged. “just, move the toy around, make noises,” You said, and Tom stuck his tongue into his bottom lip, before awkwardly playing with Mattheo, who smiled and made a lot of noises that Tom assumed meant good things.
Tom put Mattheo to bed that night, you smiled, closing the door of your connected room.
Tom stared at his oldest and most trusted friend with a look he’d never worn at him before. Frustration.
“I am not. Doing that.” Tom seethed, setting down his quill, leaning back into his chair, and crossing his arms stubbornly. Abraxas sighed from where he sat in the cushy chair across from Tom’s desk.
“People are beginning to talk, Tom, and routinely, a ministry official with a wife and child usually ascends in the ministry much faster,” Abraxas said. “You remember Beifong, he was perfect for minister, but because he had no wife, or child, people didn’t trust him, and that coon Peiv’te won instead.”
Tom rolled his eyes, glaring at his papers.
“I don’t care if people care if my son has an ‘official’ mother or not, or if I have a wife or not. I’m not getting married just to please some stuffy old wizards,” Tom sneered. “Besides, it’s not like I’m running for minster, or do you forget the plan?” Tom drawled, and Abraxas shook his head with a sigh.
“I don’t, but it’ll be perhaps the easier way, and you’ll gain more trust with honey than acid.” Abraxas said wisely, and Tom huffed again, puffing his cheeks.
“Are you staying you don’t want me to overthrow the ministry to instate a new rule that would benefit us and preserve wizard kind?” Tom drawled, and Abraxas raised his hands in surrender.
“I never said that, I just mean, perhaps; you’ll find less fight in the people if you do it the legal way, and many pureblood lords, while you do have many followers amongst us, will find more respect in you if you marry a respectable woman. It’s a sign of stability and trust.” Abraxas said cooly, and Tom groaned, running his hand down his face.
“Even if I did want to get married, there aren't many who would be okay with me already having a child, and having a live-in nanny. Of whom, the child calls his mother.” Tom drawled, pinching his nose. Abraxas had to agree, Tom had him there.
“You have a point, I’ll admit,” Abraxas sighed, turning his head as he heard the squealing laughter of his son Lucius playing with Mattheo. “But just think about it, Tom. Having a wife could help you out in many areas.” Abraxas said, standing, slipping his cloak on.
“What other areas, other than gaining pureblood sympathy,” Tom drawled, rolling his eyes. Abraxas smirked.
“Like getting laid and finally getting your wand out of your ass,” Abraxas said and then quickly ran away as Tom’s jaw dropped and his eyes went wide, before he scrambled up and began chasing after Abraxas.
-
You glanced up from watching Lucius and Mattheo playing, blinking as Abraxas laughed and scooped Lucius up as he bolted by, the lord on his heels.
“Uh,” you murmured, squealing a little as the lord ran right into you. But he picked you up and set you aside at the last second, all while continuing to run after Abraxas, who cackled as he ran out of the manor, the lord cursing after him.
You looked down at Mattheo, who was also watching the strange scene, before he looked up at you and babbled out your title ‘mama’, sighing softly; you crouched down and scooped him up, waving your wand to clean up the toys and heading back to the nursery now that Mattheo’s play date was over.
Much later, you were cleaning up the kitchen after some late night comfort baking, humming to yourself. Mattheo was asleep, the house was quiet. You turned, jolting back at the shadow in the doorway, your wand went flying, and the lord caught it as it flung at his face. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, hands held to your lips—eyes wide.
The lord let out an…amused? Huff, flipping your wand around in his fingers, striding over, and handing it back to you. “Don’t, I did not mean to frighten you,” The lord murmured, and you took your wand back, slipping it up your sleeve.
“It’s okay sir, I frighten easily,” you joke it off, waving your hand dismissively, and the lord hums, taking in the kitchen and then the warm, chocolaty smell coming from the oven.
“What are you making?” He asked, almost awkwardly. The two of you didn’t talk much outside of Mattheo.
“Cookies, chocolate chip.” It went quiet after that, the lord resting against the counter as you finished cleaning up.
“Abraxas thinks I should take on a wife,” He finally says, and you raise your brow, looking at him curiously, and a little appalled. “That was my reaction as well,” The lord huffs, running his hand through his hair. “I do not have a need for one, personally. You are here to care for Mattheo as his…mother, I cannot deny that anymore,”
You nod slowly, turning off the sink. He continued; “And I do not have a need to take a wife for any personal reasons, but he thinks I should take one to further my goals within the ministry, that I might gain favor amongst the purebloods and more traditional wizards of the ministry,”
He lets out a long sigh. “And, why are you telling me?” You ask, and the lord shrugs.
“You are involved in my life, in my son's life, bringing a wife into the home will not only affect me, but Mattheo and you. If I were to marry, I’d have to find someone not only okay with me already having a son, but someone who’d be fine with Mattheo seeing someone else as his mother, a nanny at that.” You slowly nodded, okay, you saw his logic there.
“Oookay,” you murmured, twisting your lips to one side.
His gaze dropped to them without his realization before they flicked back up, the moment passed by without pause.
“I would request your help in helping me…find a wife,” the lord ground out slowly, pinching his nose. You couldn’t help the snort, and he gave you a withering look, and you turned your head, holding back a smile.
“Asking the nanny to help you find a wife? What would the old-fashioned wizards say?” You couldn’t help but tease, and he rolled his eyes, stepping back as the oven timer rang, and you took the cookies out of the oven.
Eventually, you spoke again as he hadn’t left the kitchen. “Okay, I’ll…help, if I can. Someone who is fine with you already having a son, and a nanny who is your son's mother figure, shouldn’t be…too hard?” you said, not sounding confident.
The lord let out a scoff, stealing a cookie, smirking as you gave him a look like you would Mattheo. “Yes, not hard at all,” He muttered, taking his leave, and you sighed.
This would be fun.
It took another month and Abraxas needling Tom to finally start putting out adverts, which you thought was funny, putting out a marriage advert as if just looking for a nanny or cab driver. Women of all types arrived in droves, many of them were very nice, lots of them were fine with Mattheo, some even okay with you, but the lord sent them on their way anyway.
“They weren’t a good fit,” He’d say when Abraxas gave him another exasperated look. He’d also arrived to help Tom find a wife. There were, of course, the women who Tom could tell just wanted status, money, and power; with cruel intentions behind their eyes, some of them hid it behind a smile, some were upfront.
One had the audacity to order you to ‘shut the boy up’ when Mattheo was babbling away, and you personally hexed her out of the house.
Tom hid a smirk behind his teacup as you huffed, slamming the door. “Bitch,” you muttered beneath your breath, and Tom inhaled his tea—coughing as it went down the wrong pipe. Abraxas snorted, patting Tom’s back as he cleared his airways, and you returned to your spot with Mattheo on the couch, handing him back his toy.
“This is hopeless, Abraxas, this—interview bullshi—“ he stopped himself from cursing as you gave him a short glare, he cleared his throat, continuing as Abraxas smirked. He got the same look from his wife when almost cursing around Lucius.
“— is not going to work, only the money power hungry ones are going to end up in here, and if they’re not that, they’re not pleasant to (y/n) or Mattheo.” Tom grunted, and Abraxas sighed, brushing his platinum blonde hair back.
“I have to agree Tom, perhaps a more, personal route would bear more fruit,” Abraxas said, and Tom gave him an annoyed look. “Im. Not. Dating.” Tom practically hissed, and Abraxas only shrugged.
“Then I suppose you can say goodbye to being minister for magic,” Abraxas sighed dramatically, and Tom groaned, pressing his hand into his eyes as you excused yourself, leaving the room.
Abraxas smirked as Tom’s gaze followed you.
“And perhaps, your future wife is closer than you think?” Abraxas teased, but Tom only glanced, no hint of understanding in his eyes, and Abraxas had to hold back a sigh.
Slow burn it was.
-End!-
Pleeease! Give me ideas for silly things for these two to get into!! Or else Abraxas is just gonna shove them in a closet until Tom finally realizes his feelings…that or the order attacks the manor and it goes up in flames and (y/n) has a near death that has Tom confessing/realizing his feelings, idk vibes, but ideas! Please!
the best fanfiction you've ever read was written by a woman in her 40s before she made dinner for her kids. it was written by a teenager after school when they should've been studying for a history test. and a barista came up with the idea while they cleaned the espresso machine and busser fact-checked it on their break and the post-doc edited between writing grant proposals and the nurse apologized for typos in the notes after a long shift and behind every drabble and one-shot and multi-chapter fic there is a person with a wonderful and interesting and chaotic life and it is such a privilege that we get to be a part of it because they decided to do this thing we all share, for fun.
+18, DARK THEMES, masturbation both f and m, obsessive behavior and stalking (initially digital, then in-person), blurring of boundaries between professional and personal relationships, emotional vulnerability and manipulation (unintentional!!!), mentions of cum, oral and a happy trail yay yum!!! there will be a part 2 ᥫ᭡
aerion targaryen scrolled through his phone in the darkness of his room, his thumb moved with practiced ease through instagram, past influencers and celebrities until he found your page…
he'd discovered you by chance, a suggested account that had caught his eye, you were an enigma wrapped in pixels, and aerion was instantly obsessed. for weeks, he visited your page daily, liking every post within seconds of it going live. he studied your face through the digital, memorized the curve of your hip as you posed in lingerie against led-lit backdrops. you were art, you were commerce, you were everything his privileged life lacked-raw, unfiltered authenticity, even in its artificiality.
then he found the link in your bio.
your username flashed on his laptop screen, cyberg1rl. aerion adjusted himself in his chair, heart racing as he entered the password to the exclusive site. the video loaded, and there you were, larger than life, moving with practiced sensuality in front of cameras that captured every angle of your performance.
he created an account: si1verdragon. simple enough to be overlooked, specific enough that you might notice.
the first time he typed in your chat, you were mid-performance, arching your back and playing with your tits over a pretty sparkly push up bra as you rode a silicone toy mounted to a chair. your eyes flickered to the chat window as his message appeared.
si1verdragon: you're so beautiful
you paused, a genuine smile breaking through your performer's mask. "thank you, silver dragon" you breathed, continuing your movements. "that's so sweet of you to say."
aerion's chest swelled. you'd noticed him. you'd said his username.
night after night, he returned. he learned your schedule, your preferences, the way your breath hitched when someone tipped generously. he never missed a show, his comments always respectful, almost reverent, in a sea of crude demands and graphic suggestions.
the tipping began subtly. a few tokens here and there, enough to make his username flash briefly on the screen. but as aerion's obsession deepened, so did his contributions. he started dropping substantial amounts during your shows, watching as your eyes widened each time his username appeared with a significant donation.
one evening, the chat was flooded with typical requests- harder, faster, show them more
si1verdragon: [tip: 500 tokens] take your time.
you paused mid-movement, your eyes finding his username in the chat. "well, someone knows how to treat a lady," you purred, your voice sweet with appreciation. "thank you, silver dragon."
aerion's hand moved to his groin, already hard from watching you. as he watched you, his fingers wrapped around his weeping length.
"do you like watching me touch myself through these panties?" you murmured.
aerion groaned, his strokes quickening as you slipped a hand between your legs, rubbing yourself through the damp fabric. "they're so wet already," you breathed. "all for you. all for my silver dragon."
his tip notifications became more frequent, each one larger than the last. the other viewers faded into the background as your attention focused increasingly on him.
"i hope you are super hard for me," you continued, "i bet you'd love to feel these wet panties on your cock, wouldn't you?"
aerion could only nod, though you couldn't see him. his strokes grew more frantic as you pushed the panties aside, revealing your glistening folds. the sight of your fingers circling your clit, combined with your explicit words, pushed him closer to the edge.
with a final, desperate thrust of his hips, aerion came, his sticky warm coating his hand and stomach. as he recovered, breathless and sated, he watched you finish your own performance, your eyes locked on the camera as if you could see him through the screen.
he tipped again generously, watching as the notification appeared on screen.
si1verdragon: [tip: 1000 tokens]
you started seeing him everywhere. not in person, but in your digital space. his username si1verdragon appearing in your comments, your dms, your live streams with increasing frequency. he was becoming more than just another client, he was becoming a presence.
your breath hitched at the amount, nearly double what he'd ever sent before. as the system automatically switched you to private mode, you felt a thrill of anticipation mixed with apprehension.
the video loaded, and at first, you saw only his pale stomach, the defined lines of his abdomen disappearing into the waistband of his dark boxers and what seemed to be a happy trail leading down...then, as he shifted position, you saw it, his cock, already hard and straining against the fabric.
"hi, silver dragon," you breathed, your voice already dropping into that seductive, intimate register reserved for your most generous clients. the sight of him, even just this partial view, had heat pooling low in your belly. "five thousand tokens...you really know how to get a girl's full, undivided attention."
you leaned closer to your camera, making sure the soft lighting caught the sheen on your lips. "tonight is all about you. we're going to start with a little... appreciation. i'm going to rate that big cock of yours, tell you exactly what i think of it. then, if you're a good boy, i'll give you some very specific instructions on how i want you to touch it for me."
your gaze drifted back to the screen, to the thick outline straining against the dark fabric. "you're already so hard for me…and that happy trail...i have a thing for happy trails." you licked your lips slowly.
you watched as his abdominal muscles tensed at your words. he was responsive, and you loved it. "before we really get started, though, i need to know," you said, your tone softening just a fraction. "what should i call you? do you prefer silver dragon, or do you have a real name you'd like me to moan while you stroke yourself for me?"
there was a pause, just the sound of his slightly ragged breathing through the speakers. then, a low voice rumbled through your speakers, sending a fresh jolt of arousal straight to your core.
"aerion," he said. "my name is aerion."
a smile spread across your face. "aerion," you repeated, letting the name roll off your tongue, tasting it. "it's a beautiful name."
his only response was a sharp inhale as his hand finally dipped below the waistband of his boxers. he freed himself, and the sight made your mouth water. he was perfect. long and slightly thick, with a satisfying heft even through the screen. the skin was pale like his stomach, but the head was a flushed, angry pink, already beading with a single, perfect drop of precum. prominent veins mapped a path up the shaft, and his fist looked so good wrapped around it.
"rate it," he commanded suddenly, his voice firm. "tell me what you think."
you studied him carefully, your gaze tracing every vein, every contour of his perfect cock. "ten out of ten," you said honestly. "perfect length, perfect thickness. the way it curves slightly to the left...it would hit all the right spots."
his breath hitched at your words, his strokes becoming more erratic. "keep going," he urged.
your hand instinctively moving down to rub yourself through your already damp panties. you shifted your position, giving him a better view as you slipped your hand inside the lace.
"the thickness is going to feel so good stretching me out. and those veins…i'd love to feel them inside my pussy and on my tongue…"
his breathing grew heavier as he began to slowly fist his cock, his movements deliberate and controlled. "you like that?" he rumbled, the sound sending shivers down your spine.
"i love it," you moaned, your own fingers finding your clit and circling it slowly. "your voice makes me so wet, aerion. hearing you talk while you stroke that perfect cock for me..." you locked eyes with your camera, imagining you were looking directly into his.
his response was a low groan that sent shivers down your spine. "show me how wet i make you," he commanded.
your eyes remained fixed on the screen, on the way his hand moved up and down his shaft, on the bead of precum that welled at the tip and dripped onto his stomach.
"wasn’t i supposed to be the one giving you the instructions?" you giggle,
"you are," he confirmed, his voice a deep, velvet purr. "and your instructions are making me desperate to see what they're doing to you. show me. please?"
the command in his voice was undeniable, you bit your lip, thinking it over for a second and you found you didn't mind one bit.
"okay," you breathed, your voice a little shaky with arousal. "since you asked so nicely."
you shifted, angling your laptop to give him the perfect view as you leaned back against your pillows. slowly, teasingly, you hooked your thumbs into the sides of your soaked lace panties and drew them down your legs, tossing them aside. you spread your thighs, your pussy glistening in the soft glow of your ring light.
"fuck," he groaned, the word guttural and raw. his hand tightened around his shaft, his strokes pausing for a moment as he just stared. "you're so pretty..."
you used two fingers to spread your folds, giving him an unobstructed view of your slick, swollen clit. "can you imagine trying to fit in here, aerion?"
you watched as he resumed stroking, his pace now faster, more desperate. the sight of his fist pumping that perfect length while he stared at your exposed pussy was almost too much.
"now," you said, your voice firming up as you remembered your role. "since you've had your look, now i want you to spit in your hand."
you heard the sound, a wet, slick noise that made your own pussy clench. "good boy," you praised. "now, wrap your hand back around your cock. i want you to start with long, slow strokes. all the way from the base to the tip, twisting your wrist just a little when you get to that perfect pink head. do it for me, please, aerion? show me how you'd fuck me with it."
his breath hitched, and he obeyed instantly. his hand moved in a slow, torturous rhythm, his eyes locked on the screen, on your fingers as they began to mimic his motion, circling your entrance.
"mhmmm," you moaned. "just like that. don't you dare go faster. not until i say so."
his pale stomach contracting as his breath hitched audibly. his hand, which had been moving with such deliberate slowness, faltered for a moment.
"aeri," you purred, drawing out the syllable.
you watched as his strokes resumed, the slick sound of his spit-lubricated hand filling the quiet room. he was trying to maintain the slow pace you'd commanded, but you could see the tension in his forearm, the way his hips wanted to thrust up into his fist.
"you like that, don't you?" you continued, your own fingers slowing to match his languid pace, "you like it when i tell you what to do. you like it when i give you a special name?"
his only response was a choked-off groan, his head falling back against the pillows. you could see the sharp line of his jaw, the frantic pulse beating in his throat.
"i said slow. or do i need to stop touching myself completely? is that what you want?"
"no," he bit out, the word sharp and immediate. "no. i'll be good. i'll go slow."
he forced his hand back to the agonizingly leisurely rhythm, and you rewarded him by sinking one finger knuckle-deep into your dripping heat. you both moaned at the same time.
"i'm so full already, and it's just my fingers. how am i ever going to take all of you?" you added a second finger, stretching yourself for him.
that was it. that was the breaking point. with a guttural curse, his control shattered. his hand became a blur of motion, flying up and down his cock with a desperate, frantic energy. the sound of his fapping filled your speakers, loud and wet and utterly obscene.
"i'm sorry," he gasped, his voice strained. "i can't... fuck... i can't go slow anymore. i need to cum. please, let me cum for you."
you moaned, your own fingers speeding up, plunging into your wetness as your thumb worked your clit in tight, fast circles. “i wish you’d cum in my mouth aerion, then i'd flip over and let you fuck me from behind and fill me with another load.”
his body went taut, a perfect, pale bow strung with tension. his back arched off the bed, he came. thick, white ropes of cum striped his stomach and hand, some even reaching his chest. it was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen.
"tell me what you'd do if you were here," you whispered, still playing with your naked body on display.
aerion's breath caught at your words. "i'd touch you everywhere. i'd memorize every inch of your skin with my hands, my mouth."
your breath hitched, and your movements became more frantic. "i'd kiss you," he continued, growing bolder. "i'd make you forget every other man who's ever watched you, ever touched you."
"god, yes," you gasped, your back arching as you brought yourself closer to the edge. "i want that. i want you."
the words hung in the air between you, charged with meaning and possibility. aerion watched you reach your peak, crying out his name. a blinding, pulsing wave of pleasure that left you gasping and shaking against your pillows.
for a long moment, the only sounds were your mingled, ragged breaths.
the silence that followed was thick, heavy with the aftermath of your shared release. it was different from the usual post-show quiet. this wasn't the empty void after a performance, this was a charged, humming space filled with unspoken words. you watched as his chest rose and fell, his body still splayed out on the bed, a masterpiece of pale skin and satisfaction.
you propped yourself up on an elbow, not even trying to hide the admiration in your eyes. "i don't usually enjoy the private shows this much."
"i don't usually pay for company," he admitted, a hint of something raw and honest in his tone.
"i enjoy your company, aerion.”
"then let me see you again. another private show. tomorrow?"
you hesitated, a flicker of your old, cautious self reasserting itself. this was the path to complication, to heartache. "maybe," you replied, your voice playful. "message me tomorrow and we'll see."
the promise, however noncommittal, seemed to satisfy him. "i will," he said firmly. "goodnight."
"goodnight, aerion."
the screen went black.
the next day, you ignored his message. and the day after that. and the day after that.
you told yourself it was for the best. you were getting in too deep. lines were blurring. this was your job, your livelihood, and aerion was becoming a liability to the emotional armor you'd spent years building. the memory of his face was too potent. it made you want things you couldn't have.
so you stayed offline. you didn't go live. you didn't post to your story. you let the notifications from si1verdragon pile up, unread.
you okay?
did i do something wrong?
please just tell me if you're alright.
on the last one he had used your real name, you stared at it, your thumb hovering over the screen, a war raging in your chest. how did he know it? did you ever tell him? you can’t remember now. you were being cruel, you knew that. but it was better than the alternative. it was better than letting him in completely, only for it all to fall apart.
on the fourth day, you caved. you couldn't bear the silence anymore, but you couldn't face him either. so you went live. you laughed and teased and performed for the faceless masses, collecting tips and praise like you always did. but your eyes kept flickering to the chat log, searching for a username that never appeared.
he wasn't there.
a strange, hollow feeling settled in your stomach. he was respecting your silence. he was giving you space. it was exactly what you'd wanted, but it felt like a punishment.
halfway through your show, a new notification popped up, but it wasn't a tip. it was a private message request. your heart hammered against your ribs as you clicked on it.
the username wasn't si1verdragon. it was a new one, one you'd never seen before: aeri0n_t.
i'm outside your building. i just wanted to make sure you were okay.
your blood ran cold. he knew where you lived? he knew where you lived.
your phone buzzed again. another message.
i'm not leaving until i know you're okay. i'll wait down here all night if i have to.
you looked around your apartment, at the familiar comforts of your own space, and suddenly it felt like a cage.
If there was one part of soccer Sae didn't care for, it was the mindless interviews.
A post-match interview? Fine.
A sponsorship shoot? Tolerable.
One of those painfully awkward videos where they sat professional athletes in front of puppies and expected them to reveal their deepest secrets?
Absolutely not.
Most interviews followed the same formula.
'How does it feel to score?'
'What's your workout routine?'
'Who inspires you?'
Questions that have been asked a thousand times and would be asked another thousand after, so when Sae entered the media room after his match, he was already halfway checked out.
The journalists sat in neat rows, hands poised over notebooks and laptops, waiting for their turn. The first few questions went exactly as expected.
"How do you feel about today's victory?"
"It was expected."
"What do you think separated your team from the opposition?"
"We played better."
The room collectively deflated with every short answer.
Good.
Maybe they'd end this faster.
Then someone spoke from the third row.
"During the second half, you stopped making overlapping runs and started occupying deeper spaces."
Sae's eyes shifted.
You weren't even looking at your notes.
You were looking directly at him.
"The commentators said it was because the opposing midfield was pressing higher," you continued. "But from where I was sitting, it looked more like you were baiting their defensive line into stepping forward."
Several reporters blinked.
One quietly stopped typing.
Sae tilted his head.
For the first time all afternoon.
"...Go on."
The moderator looked surprised.
You didn't.
"When their center-backs stepped up, they left space behind them. Twenty-three minutes later, your through ball created the winning goal."
You glanced at your notebook.
"Was that adjustment planned before the match, or was it something you recognized in real time?"
The room fell silent.
Because that wasn't a fan question.
It wasn't a tabloid question.
It was a gameplay question.
And a good one.
Sae leaned back in his chair.
"It wasn't planned."
A few heads snapped toward him.
Long answers were apparently a rare event.
"Their right center-back kept abandoning his position whenever their midfielder lost possession."
You nodded immediately.
"The number four?"
"Yeah."
You scribbled something down, it wasn't anything of substance you just wanted to look a little more put together.
Sae found himself watching you longer than necessary.
"Did you notice it before halftime?" you asked.
"I noticed it after twelve minutes."
A slight pause, "You?"
"About seventeen."
One of the reporters nearly dropped his pen.
Sae stared then, unexpectedly, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Slow."
A few journalists looked genuinely horrified.
You simply shrugged.
"I wasn't on the field."
The moderator looked like he had accidentally wandered into a private conversation.
The rest of the interview continued similarly.
Every question you asked dug deeper.
It was like there was no one else in the room. No other interviewer dared to ask a question, likely because they were trying to write down everything he was telling you.
Not once did you ask about his dating life.
Not once did you ask who he was friends with.
Not once did you ask him to rank teammates or reveal embarrassing stories.
And for perhaps the first time in years, Sae found himself answering because he wanted to.
By the end of the interview, he'd spent nearly twenty minutes speaking almost exclusively to you.
Something that didn't go unnoticed.
As the session wrapped up, the moderator thanked everyone for attending.
Most reporters immediately packed their things.
You did too, no attempt to linger or a request for a photo, you just grabbed your bag and left.
۶ৎ
Sae watched you leave.
"...What's her name?"
The moderator nearly choked.
"The journalist?"
"Obviously."
The man blinked then told him. He felt so starstruck that Sae Itoshi was talking to him that he handed him a card with the name of your company and some of your contact information.
Sae committed it to memory before standing and walking away.
Across social media, clips from the interview exploded within hours.
'WHY WAS SAE ACTUALLY TALKING???'
'HE ANSWERED IN FULL SENTENCES.'
'Who is that reporter???'
'Not him smiling because she challenged him.'
'Did anyone else catch him asking for her name after the interview????'
'SAE ITOSHI YOU ARE NOT SLICK.'
Even the players noticed.
The next morning, Sae walked into training to find several teammates waiting.
With grins.
Dangerous grins.
"Good morning, Sae," Shidou sang.
Sae immediately turned around.
"No."
"You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"Yes, I do."
"That journalist seemed nice."
Sae kept walking.
"She understood soccer."
The entire locker room erupted.
He'd never admit it, but they were right. He did remember you and he already told his manager and publicist that you were the only person he wanted to be interviewed by for the foreseeable future.
