5 times sukuna was heavily yearning + 1 time you finally noticed.
oblivious, lonely reader who’s used to doing things alone x downbad!sukuna. jealous!sukuna. gn!reader. reader wears glasses. sukuna calls reader angel. he’s so down bad bro. ooc sukuna as usual. mentions of nsfw contents.
— ☆ —
1. movie nights.
you had a specific, detailed, high maintenance routine for watching movies. you had slowly perfected the process— a mental to do list popping up every time a new movie dropped that you needed to watch.
first, you needed to be in your designated ‘movie night pajamas’, the most comfortable you owned. your favorite blanket had to be there, along with your favorite pillow for support. you liked watching in your home more than cinemas, because you disliked the idea of not being able to pause the movie for whatever reason. who decided to make bathroom breaks that short, anyways?
for snacks, chips poured into your favorite bowl, your favorite niche flavor. a chocolate bar sat beside it just incase the movie got intense enough for you to crave it. your favorite drink was set beside them in a thermal cup, allowing you to drink it as slow as possible without it melting too quickly.
your phone had to be on dnd, blocking out every notification. the room had to be cold, and you avoided any distractions because pausing the movie on piracy websites meant three minutes of closing ads to turn it back on.
tonight, everything was perfect.
you were perfectly wrapped in your blanket, eyes wide as it watched the screen perfectly, chips tasting perfect, drink perfected, everything absolutely perfect—
bzzz.
you immediately groaned. who could possibly be showing up? you hadn’t ordered food. no one was invited over. it was late. what could possibly be urgent enough to prompt someone to ruin your little routine?
you paused the movie (which took three minutes of pressing ‘x’ on ads urging you to ‘text hot, single ladies in your area’, and ‘ai bots who can make you cum in three minutes!’), pushed the blanket off, and pulled the door open with a soft pout you didn’t even register, just to pause when you saw sukuna standing there, eyebrows furrowed, frowning.
you and sukuna weren’t that close, really. you were in the same friend group, but you always felt nervous around him. he was intimidating, scary, too cool for you. he always stared at you blankly, and you decided he was judging you for… everything. you were awkward, nervous, a little odd.
so, him showing up to your home at midnight was a little… nerve-wracking. his red eyes slowly scanned your comfortable, worn out pajamas, messy hair, tiny pout that faded as your eyes widened, before he blinked blankly. “sorry for showing up unannounced.”
he didn’t sound apologetic. at all. his tone was monotonous, almost unamused.
“can i come in?”
you slowly blinked, before realizing how dumb you must look. you grimaced internally, stepping aside, letting him in. immediately, his eyes landed on your little set up, and he arched an eyebrow. “movie night, huh? watching part two of your little movie series?”
“how did you know?” you mumbled, genuinely confused. much to your surprise, his lips twitched up in something that looked like admiration, amused, and it was the closest you ever got to see him smile.
holy fuck, he was so gorgeous it felt unfair. now that you were actually focusing on the man towering over you, dressed in a black shirt and gray sweatpants, tanned skin peaking from under his clothes, muscles on view—
“it’s your favorite series, and it just dropped. i can recognize the sketchy ass website because you hate netflix. you have your little movie night routine, pajamas, chips, and drink.” he murmured casually, nonchalantly, as if it was normal that the guy you thought disliked you knew this much about you. “i listen, you know.”
your jaw was slack, eyes wide. he only snorted, arching an eyebrow. “don’t tell me fucking gojo was right and you really think i hate you.”
you paused. “well…”
“are you serious?” sukuna scoffed. “you’re my fucking favorite in the group, dumbass.”
“what?” you mumbled back, more confused. “you always glare at me. you never talk to me. i was starting to think you didn’t even know my last name.”
he stared at you, almost as if you were insane, then sighed. “you really are oblivious, huh?”
“hey—“
he shook his head, still looking mildly amused. “here’s the notes suguru said he would drop by to give you and forgot. i know you like studying early.”
“oh. you didn’t have to—“
“i wanted to.” he immediately stated, face serious. “‘ll leave you to it, can’t have someone ruining your perfect night. goodnight.”
with that, he was out, leaving you even more flabbergasted.
what. the. fuck.
2. hangouts.
you were still getting used to the idea that sukuna told you that not only did he not hate you, but that you were his favorite in the group. to you, the idea was unbelievable. flabbergasting. maybe even a little more scarier than being hated by him for some reason, but you managed pretty well.
at least you were more comfortable hanging out with your group now.
however, you had a tiny little habit. you hated the coffee at the place your friends loved, so often, you just walked away to the place next to it to buy your own coffee. it provided you a break, making the little pit of your stomach that grows when having to be around people, even your best friends, for too long reset, and you just get a chance to catch your breath.
today wasn’t different. in the middle of the hangout, you grabbed your wallet and slipped out, enjoying the tiny walk in fresh air before you stepped into your favorite cafe.
the familiar barista immediately lit up at the sight of you, boredom fading from his face. he was your age, friendly with a cute grin that grew whenever you two chatted— something that made you feel at ease when ordering.
“my favorite customer,” he immediately greeted, grinning. the bell at the door chimed, and you both didn’t pay any mind to it. “i wonder what you will order this time.”
you snorted. you both knew you ordered the exact same thing every single time. “yeah, i wonder too.”
he chuckled, eyes flickering to the screen. you could feel a figure stopping behind you. “well, you know your total.”
you hummed, about to pay, when the familiar scent of sukuna’s signature perfume finally registered in your mind as he moved to step beside you, eyes narrowed, jaw slowly twitching. “make it two.”
you slowly glanced up. the barista looked up in surprise, before he nodded calmly. “of course.”
before you could register it, sukuna’s card was pressing against the machine, paying for you both. your jaw went slack for the second time this week, flabbergasted once more, but sukuna was already pulling you out of line so that the people behind you could pay.
and, more unfazed that he should be by his own actions, he casually held out the receipt. “here. you take the code and collect points on their app, right?”
“…how the fuck do you even know that?” you mumbled, utterly confused. “why are you here? how did you find me— did you even know what you ordered—“
“easy there, angel.” he murmured, calm. “you always carry the receipt and i see you type something from it on your phone often. ‘m here because the coffee in the other shop is ass. you always come here, so i figured i would try my coffee with you. i know what i ordered because i know your order.”
you openly gaped at him. he only reached over, grabbing both drinks, arching an eyebrow. “are you gonna gape at me forever or drink this sweet shit?”
“…did you just call me angel?”
his amusement immediately faded, ears turning red as he shoved your drink your way, looking away. “absolutely not. hallucinations. let’s go.”
that was what he chooses to deny? not that he knew your movie night in details? that he knew your exact drink? that he knew you secretly collected points from your favorite coffee shop?
you let out a tiny chuckle, amused, following behind him. that somehow managed to make his ears even more red, a scowl pulling on his pretty lips.
fuck. he was gorgeous, and adorable.
how horrible for you.
3. aquarium.
you laid face-down on shoko’s bed, face showed between the pillows, eyes shut in pure horror. “‘m so screwed.”
she sighed for the nth time from where she sat on the ground, studying. “you quite literally could not be more not screwed.”
“i have a crush on him, shoko. i never have crushes. and now i have one, on fucking sukuna. the guy once punched a guy for breathing ‘his’ air. he fucking hates people. i am so utterly fucked. he will kill me.”
she glanced up, as if she knew something you didn’t. “he won’t kill you. kiss you? maybe.”
“stop being delusional.” you mumbled, voice muffled as you buried your face into the sand further. “‘m so fucked.”
she sighed. “you’re delusional too if you don’t realize what’s happening. anyways, isn’t it the twenty seventh? your monthly aquarium night?”
you jumped up, gasping. “it is! fuck!” you quickly grabbed your phone to check the time, before opening the aquarium’s instagram page just in case there were any updates.
and, unfortunately, right there on their instagram story, posted twelve hours ago, was a simple statement.
‘couples only day!’
“oh, fuck my fucking life.” you mumbled, eyes on the story, shoulders drooping. “shoko, be my aquarium date.”
“couples only, huh? if only these weren’t the conditions,” she mused, almost flirty, before tilting her head.
“yes.”
“ask sukuna to go with you.”
you blinked once, twice, before pulling up your phone, nodding, serious. “good idea. ‘m asking gojo or geto.”
“that is quite literally not what i said.”
“you’re a genius.”
you sent off a quick text to geto and gojo, jumping off her bed to head to your own apartment to get ready. after dressing up all cute for the sake of your loved marine animals, you glanced down at your phone, where a vague text from gojo said he couldn’t, followed by maybe three million crying emojis (which was maybe because he had begged before to accompany you said no. aquariums were a single, you-only trip), and geto sent back a simple ‘he’s almost there’, and a thumbs up.
what kind of reply was that? you frowned, sending five questions marks, about to ask who the fuck ‘he’ was, when your doorbell rings.
you pulled the door open, and freeze when your eyes landed on the one and only sukuna. he glanced at you, eyes blank, and nodded once. “let’s go.”
“…where?”
he raised an eyebrow. “the aquarium. date night. let’s go.”
“…are you sure?” you immediately mumbled, voice uncharacteristically low. “‘m, uh, kind of enthusiastic about this. nerdy. geeky. um, annoying.”
his lips twitched up into an endeared smile that he immediately pushed back. “i know what ‘m getting into. let’s go.”
you grabbed your jacket, eyebrows furrowing. “suguru could have just said he couldn’t come. i’m sorry he sent you instead.”
“oh, he could come.” sukuna stated blankly, stepping into the elevator behind you. you glanced up at him, confused, and he stared back blankly, as if waiting for you to collect dots you didn’t even see. he only sighed after a few minutes, shaking his head. “this is both cute and infuriating. so, which stupid creature is your favorite?”
you expected a night with sukuna to be awkward. tense. uncomfortable. a night where you had to hold back so you don’t become labeled as talkative, or annoying, or too much.
you didn’t expect for him to be a good listener. nodding at whatever you said, asking questions at first to keep you talking until you were comfortable rambling. you didn’t expect him to hold your things so you could comfortably get closer to the glass, or stay longer at your favorite animals, or ask you about ones that seemed interesting, his eyes soft and lips twitching upwards just the slightest. you didn’t expect him to disappear at one point and come back with a few limited-edition items from the small gift shop either, dumping them in your arms wordlessly as you two were walking out.
“thank you for being my fake date for the night, kuna.” you mumbled as he was dropping you off, sleepy, eyes soft and voice slurred. he paused at your words, lips twitching into a frown before he eyed how sleepy you were and only sighed.
“of course, angel.” he muttered, reaching over and nonchalantly pressing a kiss to your forehead before he turned around, walking away. “…sleep well, goodnight.”
gaping at him seeming like a new routine, except this time, your sleepy eyes were set on his back as he left, almost getting distracted by his muscles showing through the fabric. oh, you were so, utterly fucked.
4. the beach.
you sat quietly on the sand, wrapped tightly in a towel, eyes ahead as you watched gojo, geto and shoko shoving each other in the water. choso was on a towel beside you, deeply asleep and snoring. toji was playing around with megumi and nobara and yuji, who was yapping about how his uncle dropped him off and disappeared. everyone was enjoying themselves.
you were freezing.
you had gotten there earlier, having known they would all show up too late. you liked swimming alone with no eyes on you, so with too much sunscreen, you stayed in the water under the sun in what you knew was the perfect time for you. by the time everyone else arrived, you were already drying in the shade.
oh, how you wished you had a dry towel—
a dry towel dropped into your lap before the thought even finished. you froze, glancing up at the sky, before immediately closing your eyes again and wishing for a million dollars just in case.
“don’t stare at the fucking sun.”
ah. your genie.
you peaked through your lashes at sukuna, who glared at you, a hand going to shade your eyes from the sun. he was dry, holding a small bag which you assumed was for his wallet and phone and car keys and towel, the sun kissing every spot on his perfect body, as if purposely teasing you.
fuck. how could someone be so pretty?
he sighed, pulling a cap out of the bag. he pushed it on top of your damp hair, shading your face, and slumped beside you. “switch towels. mine is dry.”
“hi.” you mumbled dumbly, blinking a few times to snap yourself from the daze seeing his beautiful red eyes in the sun put you through. his lips twitched, face softening, and he only pulled the cap down further. you finally remembered how to think. “don’t you need your towel dry?”
“‘m not going into the water this late.” he stated. his eyes flickered to choso asleep, and he rolled his eyes, standing back up. you watched shamelessly as he effortlessly pulled the heavy umbrella so it was covering the sun kissed stoner, sighing, voice lower. “that dumbass.”
“i spray him with sunscreen every two hours. flipped him once.” you mused, taking the chance of sukuna being distracted to switch towels, sighing in relief once the warm, dry, soft towel wrapped around you. “thank you, kuna.”
“don’t mention it.” he grunted, then frowned once he registered your words, “you rub sunscreen on him?”
“oh, no, it’s a spray.” you hummed, pulling it out. “isn’t it cool?”
he glanced at the spray bottle, shoulders slowly relaxing. “mhm. it is. can you spray me?”
you nodded, moving to stand up, immediately stumbling in the towel. firm fingers immediately steadied you, and you deeply hoped he couldn’t feel the warmth radiating off you from being flustered as he slowly let go.
you slowly sprayed him, the sunscreen leaving a shiny coat that made him look even more beautiful. after making sure every part of him was covered, you slowly sat back down. “try to rub it to make sure it’s even.”
he hummed, eyes shut, slowly spreading it out, spreading it out on his tan skin.
what a fucking sight, really. he was so, unbelievably gorgeous. you were so fucked.
“…you went early, huh?”
“…yeah.” you mumbled, eyes still on him, hoping he keeps his eyes closed.
“tell me next time. ‘ll go with you.” he sighed. “these idiots always come when it’s already too cold.”
you nodded slowly as he finally finished, slumping next to you on the little beach mat gojo had gotten, so close that his thigh was pretty to your covered figure. he frowned. “your lips are pale. still cold?”
you grimaced. “‘ll be okay. thank you for the towel—“
he sighed, an arm wrapping around your shoulder before he was pulling you towards him. you missed the way his body relaxed, lips twitching into a repressed grin, the face of a man finally achieving one of his long lost goals.
holy fuck. you were pressed to his side, his body oozing warmth. he smelled great, and you could feel his muscles every time he shifted. as you stared ahead, trying to pretend like you weren’t malfunctioning, your eyes landed on shoko, gojo and geto staring back at you guys from the water, jaws slack.
well. at least it wasn’t you this time.
5. studying.
as much as it seemed otherwise, studying with gojo actually helped you. you both kept each other in check— you stopped him whenever he started yapping, and he distracted you whenever you were spiraling. you both were a team when studying— having been one since the first semester, when you both met.
during breaks, however, was when you really liked studying with gojo. you both sat with thirteen expensive pastries in front of you, gojo’s treat, and he grinned excitedly. “oh, this will be so good. you go first.”
“you don’t have to tell me twice.” you mumbled, picking one up. you immediately moaned in delight, holding the rest to gojo, who reached over and took the rest from between your fingers. “fuck. this is so good.”
gojo let out an even louder moan. you both ignored the disgusted glares from the people around you, happily chewing. “oh, these are fucking godsent. thank you for being my taste buddy.”
“thank you,” you mumbled, grabbing another one. “you’re the one spoiling me with these. you’re, like, my dream man right now.”
gojo let out a loud laugh, before pausing, shivering in horror at whatever he imagined. “do not let sukuna hear you saying that. he’ll have my head.”
“why would he have your head for that?” you mumbled, mouthful, and distracted by the heavenly taste of these. you weren’t even a fan of pasteries, but these were on another level. you tried another, and immediately groaned. “fuck. try this one.”
you immediately extended your hand out to gojo. he, as usual, ate half of it off your fingers instead, and dramatically melted in his seat. “ten out of ten. perfect. stunning. i will marry whoever made these.” he swallowed, and quickly ate the rest off your fingers to. “and he will because he’s, like, in love with you.”
“you flipping liar.” you mumbled, unamused with the obvious fake news. “he doesn’t. he’s just a good friend.”
“he’s not a good friend,” gojo snorted. “he almost shoved my head into the toilet bowl yesterday because he was bored. he likes you.”
you did not believe him the slightest. “uh-huh. wanna try the red one?”
“yes, please.”
later that night, you were curled up in bed— going over everything you had studied earlier to lock the information into your mind. the groupchat was blowing up after choso was caught kissing someone (you already knew the news. choso blurted about his ‘secret’ crush to you before when he was high, and forgot.) and you just shot back a sticker laughing, said you were studying and you needed more caffeine to deal with this, and shut your phone off completely.
you really needed caffeine.
everytime you shut your eyes, all you can see is a cold, cup of your favorite coffee from your favorite shop. the condensation running down, the inviting taste, everything—
fuck. you needed one so bad. you frowned, turning your phone on to glance at the time, and paused when a notification stood out from between the ones on the groupchat.
sukuna: pick u up for coffee in five?
you stared at the message, then slowly glanced down at the sweatpants and oversized hoodie you were in, your hair messy, broken glasses on because you were too lazy to get these specific ones fixed and you lost the other, before sighing. you needed caffeine too bad to worry about how you looked in front of him right now.
you: please :c
a car honked downstairs a few minutes. you quickly grabbed your wallet and your half-dead phone, rushing downstairs, grabbing an oversized jacket on the way so you could tug it on top of your thick hoodie, grimacing at how much of a mess you looked. you slid into the passenger seat, and sukuna only stared at you, eyes slowly taking in your appearance, lips softly pulling up.
“don’t say anything.” you immediately mumbled. his smirk widened, but he didn’t speak, immediately resuming to drive, eyes ahead. “‘m so sleepy.”
“uh-huh. let’s get some caffeine in you.” he murmured, turning more serious. “don’t overwork yourself tonight. did you have dinner?”
you nodded, ignoring how your heart felt like it was twirling in your chest. “i did. ate and drank and slept well.”
he hummed. “good.”
in the coffee shop, he got the same as you, paying despite your complaints. once the drinks were out, he grabbed both, wrapping yours in tissues to keep your fingers from being cold before handing it over, humming.
you were looking over notes in your phone, too tired to register his actions. you only quietly took the cup, immediately sipping, shoulders slowly rolling down, tense muscles relaxing. “thank you, kuna.”
he clicked his tongue. “don’t mention it.”
in the car, you focused on sipping the coffee, and he cleared his throat. “gojo said you two were on a study date this morning. pastries and shit. said you called him your dream man.”
you snorted. sukuna glanced over, utterly unamused, almost pouting. “i love gojo.”
his lips immediately formed a scowl. “you love him?”
“not like that,” you snorted. “he’s just… he was the first person who was nice to me in university, you know. the first person who made sure i never felt like a burden. he means a lot to me, platonically.”
he was silent for a while, then nodded, pulling up in front of your building. “good. you deserve to never feel like a burden. you… mean a lot to me.”
was he trying to kill you? you immediately shuffled out, heart beating like it was trying to escape your chest, cheeks burning. “you mean a lot to me too, kuna. um, goodnight. thank you for picking me up.”
“don’t mention it, angel.”
+1.
against your will, you were dragged to a party.
you would have been enthusiastic, really, if finals hadn’t just ended— leaving you too sleep deprived that you couldn’t even walk straight. gojo had came over to force you out and picked your outfit out for you, keeping in mind your pleads for it to be something warm, and you ended up in the passenger seat of his car, asleep soundly, vaguely aware of his whining about you needing to be awake as he drove you there.
you could only remember little snippets between your tiny naps, really.
gojo having his arm around you as he dragged you in.
you slumping down beside choso, immediately falling asleep on his shoulder.
sukuna crouching down in front of you, concerned, eyes worried.
sukuna covering you with a blanket.
sukuna sitting beside you, pulling your head into his shoulder instead.
geto replacing choso. you shifting, head falling into his shoulder because he was warmer.
sukuna immediately pulling you back towards him, an arm falling around your waist to keep you close, bickering with geto.
after that, you drifted into deep sleep— the kind that only came after a week straight of pulling all nighters. and, when you woke up again, you were wrapped in a blanket, on the roof, on a tiny couch with your head on sukuna’s lap and a cigarette between his lips.
the second he registered you awake, he pushed the cigarette into the ashtray, eyes soft, fingers on your shoulders to help you sit up. “you okay, angel?”
“mhm. sleepy.” you mumbled, blinking slowly, still half asleep. you yawned, rubbing your eyes. “thank you for watching over me, kuna. you’re, like, my angel.”
“…don’t mention it.” he whispered— although, it sounded more like a pained whimper. “i… yeah. don’t mention it.”
it was silent for a few minutes. you both stared up at the sky, lost in thought, before sukuna cleared his throat.
“…the stars are pretty.”
“mhm.”
he paused, before speaking again. his voice was low, soft, but it was laced with quiet frustration that you could tell wasn’t pointed at you. “we’re, uh, done with the semester.”
“…mhm.”
he clicked his tongue, and sat up, like he’s restarting. “…we’re good friends.”
“we are.” you mumbled, still dazed from your delicious, needed nap. he let out a small groan, face buried into his palm.
“fuck.”
“…kuna?” you murmured, voice soft, sleepy. his eyes finally flickered up, frustrated and almost disappointed in himself, and you only gave him a small, sleepy smile. “i like you too.”
and finally, it was his turn for his jaw to go slack, eyes widening, before he turned to you quickly. “you’re not fucking with me, right? you like me?”
you nodded, sleepy, but focused. “i like you.”
he didn’t hesitate before dropping to his knees in front of you, eyes soft and almost pathetic. “say that again. please.”
“i like you, kuna.” you repeated, quieter, softer, more serious.
he let his head drop, face pressed against the blanket covering your thighs briefly, voice muffled when he spoke. “…you have no idea how many years i have been dying to hear this, angel. fuck.” when he lifted his head back up, his red eyes were almost glossy. “‘m marrying the fuck out of you one day.”
that managed a sleepy laugh out of you. “take me on a date first, at least. we haven’t even kissed yet.”
his eyes lit up at the mere thought— before you watched him visibly holding himself back, trying to appear more relaxed, probably to not scare you off, despite his reddening ears at the idea. “right. dates. i will date you so fucking good, i promise, you will never think of anyone but me again. not even that stupid barista who clearly wants you so bad. only me.” he nodded, serious, scowling, before his eyes softened again. “best dates of your life. where do you want to go? dinner? coffee? aquarium? your little movie night routine at my place? do you want me to make it a surprise? i will be the best boyfriend— wait, fuck, not that yet—“
you reached over, softly pressing your lips to his,
he froze, eyes probably wide, then immediately melted the second your fingers gently cupped his face to pull him closer, letting out a soft, little sound into the kiss that had his face flushing further.
once you pulled away, your eyes met his dazed ones, and he slowly sucked in a deep breath. “….fuck.”
“dinner sounds good.” you whispered back, thumb brushing over his bottom lip, and he shut his eyes, as if it took visible effort not to groan. “next week?”
“you think ‘ll make it to next week?” he let out a sharp laugh. “you have me fucking kneeling for you, angel. tomorrow. 8. please.”
“okay.” you murmured, voice soft. “now, come back up, i will want to continue napping on you.”
a princess wed to a dashing knight should be living a fairytale—but gwayne hightower is also the son of the schemer who would soon plunge the realm into civil war. how long can you resist his charms... when he proves time and again that his affection is as genuine as his honor?
genre/warnings:
arranged marriage, unrequited love, hurt/comfort, yearning, jealousy, mentions of injury & blood, fluff and lots of kissing afterwards, sunshine!gwayne and grumpy!reader, political drama, targaryen!reader (reader is rhaenyra's younger sister), spoilers! takes place in season 1 of house of the dragon
notes:
gif by @/bladeofdreadfort. wc. 4.5k ! hotd s3 is finally here and so does my man gwayne <3 i really loved writing this so i hope you’ll enjoy it!
For the longest time, Gwayne had known that the matter of his marriage were not his to ponder. As the son of the Hand of the King, his future was a tapestry woven by him in a series of cunning, calculated moves.
Yet, he had never truly expected to be betrothed to you—a princess of the realm.
The young princess for the queen’s brother. By every measure, it was a masterful stroke of politics and his father had once again outdone himself. After binding his sister to the king, it was now his turn to seek the heart of the realm’s most coveted maiden after the Princess Rhaenyra.
However, to Gwayne, you were more than just a political alliance. You were a paragon of beauty, the girl haunting his dreams, the princess who has stolen his heart—
But seven hells, were you also one hard lady to entice.
Every charming smile he threw your way was met with an arched, unimpressed brow. Every poetic compliment he rehearsed tasted like ash and shattered against your coldness. You didn’t swoon like the ladies at the tourney grounds, nor did you soften at his obvious attempts to woo you.
Instead, you looked at him as if you could see right through the nervous man underneath.
Your assessing gaze was currently fixed on him from the shade of the courtyard gallery. Down in the dirt, Gwayne was sweating through his padded doublet, trying his absolute best to look formidable as his sword clashed against his squire’s shield—because he knew you were watching.
He has to look good. Your wedding was in three weeks, so he was fighting to impress—determined to give you a show of how your betrothed was as dashing as the realm claimed him to be.
With theatrical flair, he executed an aggressive sequence before driving his squire back with a heavy strike, deftly sweeping the poor lad’s legs out from under him, and sending him sprawling into the dirt with a breathless thud.
Breathing heavily, Gwayne smoothly rested the point of his sword near the fallen boy’s chest in a classic pose of victory.
“You are just dead,” he declared with his signature grin, before turning to where you were.
You leaned against the stone balustrade, looking down at him with an expression of mild, patronizing amusement. He flashed you a hopeful, boyish grin that begged for even a shred of your approval.
And as if deciding to grace him with your presence, you descended down the stone stairs. Gwayne’s smile widened, and he met you halfway as you reached the bottom.
Ignoring the staring stableboys, he dipped his head and took your hand, placing a kiss on it.
“Princess,” he greeted, his dark blue eyes meeting yours with an excited crinkle.
“An impressive display, Ser Gwayne,” you replied, smoothly pulling your hand back from his grasp. He was giddy, about to thank you for the compliment, when—
“I must commend your passion. It takes a truly remarkable knight to exert such effort against a boy half his size who is actively paid to lose to him.”
Gwayne winced slightly, but the grin quickly returned to his face, refusing to let your sharp tongue deter him.
“A knight, no matter the age, must practice for all manner of foes. It shall be a good lesson for my squire to learn,” he countered softly. He had always been a naturally courteous man, but he had been practicing an extra measure of gentleness ever since the betrothal was announced, even when you remained frosty.
He hoped that you would recognize it—that you would see he was willing to bend his pride just for you.
However, you merely lifted your chin higher, your eyes flashing with a challenge.
“Is that so? My, what a chivalrous soul you are. I suppose I shall sleep soundly knowing you are defending the realm with your immense prowess and formidable army of squires.”
One thing he could never truly understand, though... he hadn’t asked for this match any more than you had, yet why did you look at him as you would a liar?
And it hurts because... he remembers how the more innocent, younger you, who had wiped blood from his face, hadn’t looked at him as you do now.
“We are to be married in no less than a moon,” he reminded you, still with a smile. “Tell me, Princess... what must a man do to earn a genuine compliment from his bride?”
You held his gaze for a beat, letting the silence stretch just long enough to watch the slight twitch in his jaw. Then, a devastatingly sweet smile graced your lips as you tilted your head.
“Compliments are but wind, my good ser. If we are to marry soon anyways, what use would flattering you with empty words do?”
Gwayne let out a defeated chuckle. “I shall just continue striving to become a man worthy of your hand, then.”
You had just insulted him and mocked his swordsmanship in the same breath, and yet, somehow, he still found himself tethered to you still.
What a fool he was.
He didn’t give up just like that, of course. Gifts was also Gwayne’s language of affection.
He had commissioned a seven-pointed star necklace for you in Oldtown, crafted from the finest silver and diamond. He had watched his late mother and sister find such profound comfort in it, and so he had believed it would make a fine gift for you.
Yet, now that he presented the gleaming jewelry to you, you were rendered silent.
“You do not like it,” he realized, a note of disappointment building through his usual confidence.
“It is exquisite. Truly,” you started, your voice gentle but lacking the reverence he had anticipated. “But... you must not expect me to wear it often.”
“Is it the design? If it offends your sensibilities, I can have it redone, or—”
“I assure you, I know your intentions are kind,” you looked at him, a certain sternness in your eyes. “It is just a matter of preference, is all. I treasure this necklace from my mother rather greatly, and wearing it is how I keep her close to me.”
The tragic death of Queen Aemma was not so easily forgotten, least of all when you resembled her so much. Gwayne’s smile faltered, the enthusiasm in his eyes dimming when his gaze found the sapphire necklace of Arryn falcon on your neck, a heirloom passed down.
He looked down at the silver star resting in the wooden box, suddenly finding it so plain, before forcing himself to meet your gaze again.
“I just want you to know that... you are in my thoughts, constantly,” he murmured, his gaze rising to meet yours again. “Whenever I see something I consider beautiful, I think of you. I want you to have it. You should know I have no underlying intentions other than that.”
You gave him an appreciative nod, pursing your lips together. “Your kind thoughts are much appreciated.”
So he had failed, again. Sigh.
What better way to impress your betrothed and prove to the entire realm that you were worthy of her hand than by claiming victory at the King’s nameday tourney?
Even you would at least bestow a real smile upon him. That was what Gwayne was after.
Or at least, it was until his gaze drifted to the edge of the battlement grounds where the knights were assembling. There, he saw you.
With Criston Cole.
The sight struck him. You, who usually looked at him with indifference, were attentive, your eyes bright in a way Gwayne had never managed to make them. Cole, in turn, had a reserved smile, his attention entirely locked onto you.
It could have been anyone but Criston—the Dornishman!—Cole. Why him?!
A sharp spike of resentment flared in his chest. He decided right then and there that this cannot stand, and marched towards you both.
“Good day, Ser Criston,” Gwayne greeted with a forced smile, his voice dripping with a courtly cheer that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Cole returned his greeting, and he turned to you then. “My betrothed, fancy to have found you here. You shouldn’t have to sully yourself with the dirt.”
“I was merely wishing Ser Criston luck in the lists.” As always, the corners of your lips curled into that faux smile whenever facing him. “The competition looks fierce today.”
What about him? You hadn’t thought of wishing him, your own groom, luck?
“Fierce for some, mayhaps,” Gwayne nodded, his smile sharpening as he took another step forward, deliberately cutting off Criston Cole’s line of sight to you. He reached out, his gauntleted hand gently but firmly taking yours.
“But I sure do not fear a crowd of knights of modest beginnings and second sons. And I have hoped that I might find you in the stands later, and you would bestow upon me your favor to assure me of my victory.”
He looked down at you, the forced arrogance in his eyes momentarily cracked. He wanted you to look at him the way you had just looked at Cole, really.
But cruel, relentless you never granted it so easily.
“Your romantic sensibilities are commendable, ser.” You let out a soft sigh, as if lamenting, “but victory is still guaranteed by skill and the favor of the Seven, and not merely from a scrap of silk.”
The rejection was subtle, but in the presence of Criston Cole, it felt like a public execution.
“It is said even a scrap of favor from one’s bride can turn the tide of many battles,” Gwayne replied, his voice dropping an octave as the last traces of courtly cheer evaporated. “Unless, of course, your favor has already been promised to someone else?”
His eyes flicked towards Cole, searching for a reason to draw steel before the tourney even began. And that Dornish wretch had the gall to look at him in the eyes and retorted:
“May the best knight win, ser.”
Your betrothed had become terribly displeased and you knew it. Your hollow smile deepened, you stepped forward and smoothly slid your hand into the crook of his arm.
“No, no. You are free to ask me for it later, of course, my dear.”
Gwayne knew better that the honeyed words held no real affection. Yet, like a moth drawn to a flame, he couldn’t help but fall for it each and every time.
You held his leash, and you knew exactly how far you could play with and stretch it. But as he looked at you, a quiet ache settled in his soul.
Is it truly so wrong of him to seek your heart? How much longer would he have to endure this torment, giving everything while his affections remained completely unreturned?
“From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.”
That was the first thing he told you when the betrothal was announced. In a den of vipers, Gwayne Hightower was entirely his own man.
He didn’t possess the calculating ambition of his father, who viewed every living soul as a piece in his game of thrones. Nor was he prudent like his sister, Queen Alicent, whose motto in life was duty and sacrifice.
You know that. You really knew that your chosen betrothed was everything but unkind. He was everything the songs promised a knight should be— genuine, posh, with a touch of arrogance that made him charming. He held you in high regard, and his attempts to make an impression on you were sweet.
Despite how you behaved around him, the truth was... it took everything in you not to fall for Ser Gwayne Hightower.
But he is still Otto’s son. You hated the Lord Hand with every fiber of your being—the man’s thirst for power had already forced your childhood companion Alicent into your father’s bed, turned your sister Rhaenyra into a scheming cynic, and your own betrothal to Gwayne was just another piece of his grand design.
However, watching the tourney unfold from the royal box, your thoughts swirled with guilt and anxiety. In the end, he hadn’t asked for your favor at all. Ironically, his sudden silence unsettled you far more than his persistence ever had.
Looking back on your interactions, the weight of your biting marks pressed heavily against your chest. You had rejected him so many times, using your faux smiles and sharp wit as shields. Every time you remembered the look of hurt that crossed his face before he masked it with a patient smile, a fresh wave of guilt washed over you.
Did he deserve to be punished just for pursuing you? Was it fair to make him pay for his father’s sins?
Down in the dirt, Gwayne rode beautifully, unseating two seasoned knights from the Reach and splitting lances with a Lannister to thunderous applause from the crowd. For a moment, watching his silver and green armor gleam in the sunlight, a spark of pride flared in your chest.
Then, Ser Criston Cole rode onto the field.
The tension between the two men was palpable even from the high stands. They charged— one lance shattered, then a second. By the third pass, it was clear it was a matter of pride.
And on the fourth pass, the collision was catastrophic.
With a terrifying crack that echoed across the grounds, Cole’s lance struck dead center. Gwayne was violently unseated, flung from his saddle to hit the earth with a sickening crash.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the stands. Through the rising dust, you saw your betrothed lying completely still. Cole’s lance hadn’t just broken— it had compromised his armor. His steel breastplate was shattered to pieces, the shards visibly lodged into his chest, dark blood already pooling through the fractures.
Your breath hitched, your hand flying to your mouth in horror.
Six years ago, a similar scene had paralyzed your heart the very same way. Blind to the rules of propriety, you bolted from the royal box. Pushing past lords and ladies, you sprinted down into the arena—desperate to reach him.
The maesters and several squires had already swarmed him, unbuckling the undamaged pieces of his armor with hurried hands. Gwayne was propped up against a wooden barrier, half-conscious, his head lolling to the side as his eyes struggled to hold focus.
“Will he be alright?” your voice cracked, almost shrill, the composed facade of a princess shattered as you hovered over the maesters working on him. “Tell me he will be alright.”
“The steel hasn’t pierced the heart, Princess, but we must move him to immediately to extract the shards,” one of them mumbled, wrapping a temporary cloth around the wound to stem the bleeding.
Gwayne let out a low, guttural groan at the pressure, his eyelids fluttering. Through the haze of pain, he recognized your voice. He knew you were there.
Driven by a sudden, overwhelming surge to comfort him, you dropped to your knees beside him. Your hands were trembling as you reached out, using the hem of your sleeve to wipe away the grime and blood that smeared his pale cheek.
But before your fingers could trace his jawline, Gwayne’s gauntleted hand came up. With a sudden burst of remaining strength, he swatted your hand away—
“Do not touch me,” he rasped.
The words were raw and bitter, dripping with an icy venom you had never heard from him before.
. . .
Gwayne refused to meet your gaze. He pressed his eyes shut, his jaw clenched so tightly the bone practically strained against his skin.
It wasn’t just the physical agony tearing him apart. It was the suffocating, absolute humiliation.
He had lost. He had been unseated and laid low in the dirt in front of the entire realm—and worse, in front of Criston Cole. He couldn’t bear to see the pity in your eyes. He couldn’t bear to look at the woman he loved and see confirmation that he was exactly what you always thought of him: unworthy.
“I’m— fine,” he choked out then. “So... go back to the Keep.”
It was funny how this was the same thing that had happened to him six years ago, during the Heir’s Tourney. He had been brutally unseated by Daemon Targaryen then, and just like now, you had come running to him, wiping the blood from his broken nose with your kerchief.
He fell in love with you then... and he has been in love with you ever since.
The girl holding his heart was a princess, and he had never dared to hope for more, never dreaming his conniving father would actually arrange your hand for him. He had thought it a blessing.
But his pursuit of you the past three moons had yielded nothing but a bitter truth— you despised him.
So he preferred to choke on the blinding pain, to let it consume him entirely, rather than suffer the indignity of your comfort.
You are in love with him.
You had spent weeks trying to resent the circumstances that led to your marriage with Otto Hightower’s son, reminding yourself over and over that he had fractured your family, sowing seeds of rebellion that would break once Alicent’s son came to age, and it would spell disaster upon you all—
But the wounded knight with broken nose six years ago had long since owned a part of your heart, and one week without Gwayne Hightower persistent on your heel, you had found yourself... sad.
“Mrawgh...”
“I’m not lonely,” you mumbled petulantly, brushing a hand against Grey Ghost’s silver scales as the dragon curled up, blinking his golden eyes shut to rest.
To occupy yourself, you spent the days with your dragon in the Dragonpit. Tending to Grey Ghost made the long hours pass faster— he was a recluse and not keen on flying often, but his quiet presence matched your somber mood.
Leaving him to his slumber, you walked away lost in your thoughts, entirely failing to notice how slippery the stone ledge had become.
Your foot caught on a heavy iron ring embedded in the floor. The world tilted as you stumbled backwards, losing your footing entirely. You braced for a painful impact against the stone floor, but a pair of strong arms wrapped securely around your waist, arresting your descent.
A sharp, ragged gasp left your savior’s lips. As you stabilized, you realized your hands had instinctively braced against his chest—pressing right over the bandages of the fresh wound.
“Steady there,” the redhead managed, a strained smile tight on his lips as he gently set you back on your feet. His green tunic made you realize who he was—
“Gwayne!” you breathed. Your hands hovered over him, trembling, almost terrified to touch him again. “Why are you—your wound! I didn’t mean to—”
“I am fine, truly,” he assured you, his voice softening as he offered a warm, comforting smile. “It is but a scratch, Princess. It takes more than a clumsy tumble from you to injure me.”
Just like a hundred times before, Gwayne Hightower sought you out. You could see the sheen of sweat on his forehead and how he looked pale still—
From today to the day we breathe our last, all that I am is yours.
“You are supposed to be resting!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “Why are you here?!”
This wasn’t what you wanted to tell him. You wanted to tell him a lot of other things! Like he was a fool, and that you would forbid him to enter the lists once you two were wed, that you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him—
His blue eyes crinkled with that familiar kindness as he reached out, softly tucking a stray strand of your loose hair behind your ear.
“If I wasn’t here, then you would take a fall.” His voice a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. “I can’t very well let my betrothed hurt herself before our big day, can I?”
This was the first time since King Viserys announced your betrothal three moons ago that you looked genuinely worried for him. It made something inside him burst with joy, even if it was tinged with a bitter aftertaste.
Gwayne’s thumb gently brushed across the back of your hand that was still pressed against his chest.
“Tell me... Is this the only way I could truly have your attention? Must I be grievously injured, a step away from Death’s door, for you to look at me like this?”
Your eyes widened by a fraction. Precious, precious girl. He chuckled softly, a teasing glint brightened his eyes.
Just this once, could he be allowed to be just a little bit cruel?
“Even if you keep looking at me with those beautiful eyes...” he whispered, his smile turning a little wistful, “...my heart might just run out, one of these days.”
He gave you one last, kind smile—a look of affection that no longer held expectations, or reeked of the politics that bound your families. Then, he gently gripped your hand, pulling it away from him before turning on his heel to leave you to your own devices.
When your fingers fell limp into the cold air, a stinging realization pierced through you like a dagger:
Is this how he feels? Is this what he endures every time I evade him? How has he survived it over and over?
As his warmth retreated into the shadows of the Dragonpit, something sharp tore deep inside your chest.
You didn’t want him to go. The walls you had spent weeks building to protect your heart against the Hightower name crumbled into dust. Your eyes burned with tears that blurred his retreating figure.
He was nearly out of the pit when you gathered your skirts, abandoning your pride, and ran after him.
“Ser Gwayne!”
Before he could turn back, you lunged, throwing your pride and your fears to the wind. You crashed into his back, your arms wrapping tightly around his waist, burying your face against his spine. He stiffened, almost flinching—
But then he heard you sob.
“Princess...?” he asked softly. His tone shifted, turning from startled confusion to a protective concern as he carefully turned around within your embrace. He reached up, gently tilting your chin up, only to find your cheeks flushed and wet with tears.
Realizing you were truly, genuinely weeping, Gwayne’s breath hitched in his throat.
He didn’t think. He didn’t let past rejections dictate him. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close against his uninjured side.
“Shh, please do not weep,” he said in your ear, his own voice suddenly thick with emotion as he rocked you slightly. “Darling... please.”
Darling. Why did the word sound so devastatingly sweet in your ears? As you clung to him, you realized with absolute certainty that you wanted him to call you that for the rest of your days.
As he held you, feeling the warmth of your hands anchoring yourself to him, the pieces finally fell into place:
Has she... returned my feelings?
When your sobs finally quieted and your breathing turned calmer, you gently pulled back just enough to look up at him. Your eyes met his, and an ache settled in your chest.
He was such a beautiful man. Red hair, blue eyes, with ghost of dimples— still the very same wounded knight you had secretly harbored affections for with all those years ago.
Driven by a clear wave of clarity, you didn’t wait for him to speak. Reaching up, you stood on your toes and pulled him down by his collar—
—and pressed your lips to his.
Gwayne went rigid at your sudden boldness. But as your fingers tangled into his soft hair, any lingering shock vanished. With a low groan, he leaned into you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that felt like the bursting of a dam.
He drank in your sighs, his lips moving against yours with a desperate longing, as if he were trying to memorize the taste of you. He pulled you closer, his hands tilting your head back, anchoring you to him.
“You really are—” he growled against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged, “my utter undoing, Princess.”
Before the words could even fully register, you gasped as he gathered you up and hoisted you backwards, setting you down onto the broad stone railing.
Gwayne stepped between your thighs, pinning you to the ledge as his mouth descended on yours once more, even more ravenous than before. The kiss became a blur of lips, tongues, and breathless gasps—
His hands left your face to map the lines of your body, his palm sliding down the column of your throat to the curve of your shoulders. In his mind’s eye, he was already stripping away the heavy, suffocating layers of your gown, picturing the soft, aching swell of your breasts and the intoxicating dip of your waist.
In less than a week... as soon as you swear your oaths before the Seven, he would be graced by that sight.
Gwayne dragged his lips down from your mouth, leaving a trail of scorching kisses along your jawline before burying his face in the crook of your neck.
“Ser Gwayne—” your voice came hitched, and that what brought him back to reality.
He bit softly at the sensitive skin there, swallowing the fire that was about to consume him. When he finally pulled away to breathe, his lips lingered against yours.
“Well, you did kiss me first, Princess,” Gwayne murmured, his eyes twinkling, voice delightfully raspy as his arms settled loosely around your waist. “If I had known a broken rib would finally get you to kiss me, I would have marched up to Grey Ghost and asked him to toss me by the tail weeks ago.”
“Please don’t,” you giggled, circling your arms around his neck.
“Ah, but think of the romance— a dashing knight, battered and bruised, crawling back from the Dragonpit just to collapse into his bride’s arms.”
A breathless laugh escaped your lips, giving way to a very sweet, genuine smile. To Gwayne Hightower, this was the prettiest you had ever been, and his heart throbbed.
Oh, so she does, he realized, a quiet reverence settling into his soul. She does return my affections.
Gwayne leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, finally certain that his heart was safe in your hands.
“You might not know it,” he whispered, “but I have been in love with you for a very long time.”
You looked up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears, and he met your gaze with a look of such devotion it stole the breath from your lungs.
“So let me say this once again. From before, now and until the day we breathe our last, all that I am... is yours.”
In that moment, you couldn’t have known that the realm would soon be plunged into a senseless civil war, pitting your sister against his in a dance of dragons and blood. You couldn’t have foreseen the ashes, the betrayals, or the heavy price the Hightower green and the Targaryen black would have to pay.
None of that matters right now. All you wanted was to lose yourself in his embrace and savor the fragile perfection of your wedding to the man of your dreams... for as long as it would last.
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader x Valarr Targaryen (part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4.)
Summary: Based on the request "A fic where you tried to give Valarr a love potion but Aerion drinks it instead (like what one of Egg's sisters did)". Reader is a Baratheon (but no physical descriptions are given), who is a childhood friend of Valarr's.
Chapter summary: Wedding preparations, Valarr is getting booed in the comments but let him speak for a bit that's his best friend.
a/n: The last chapter of Growing Strong series is out, btw, for those not yet aware! <3
You did not see Aerion again until the preparations began in earnest.
The wedding was to be held at the Red Keep, Maekar had insisted, and Lyonel had conceded the point with only a moderate amount of grumbling, but from there, the celebrations would sprawl. Storm's End first, at your uncle's insistence, and then onward to Summerhall, and from there, if the winds were favorable, perhaps farther still.
"Half the Seven Kingdoms," Lyonel had declared, slamming his goblet down with the enthusiasm of a man who had never met a celebration he did not wish to prolong. "My niece will not be married in a single morning and packed off like cargo. There will be feasts. There will be tourneys. There will be..."
"There will be considerable expense," Maekar had interjected, though without real heat.
"Then it is fortunate I am a generous man."
The negotiations had stretched for hours, but the outcome was settled. The wedding would take place within the fortnight, and then the journey would begin.
You found yourself caught in a whirlwind of fittings and fabric, of seating arrangements and guest lists, of decisions that seemed to multiply the moment one was resolved. Your maids were run ragged. The seamstresses worked by candlelight. Through it all, Aerion hovered, appearing at odd moments to make observations no one had asked for and suggestions that ranged from the impractical to the absurd.
"You should have live doves released during the ceremony," he said one afternoon, leaning against the doorframe of the solar where you were reviewing the menu with the head cook.
"Doves," you repeated flatly.
"White ones. A hundred of them."
"And who would clean the droppings from the guests' finery?"
He had grinned at that, as though your practicality were endearing rather than obstructive. "We could train them."
"We are not releasing doves."
You had not meant it to sound like a shared decision, but something in the phrasing made him pause. A flicker of surprise, perhaps, or satisfaction, crossed his face before he pushed himself away from the doorframe and strolled off, presumably to conceive of other nuisances.
He found you one afternoon, slipping into the solar where you had retreated to escape the chaos of preparations. He did not announce himself, he never did, but you had grown accustomed to the way the air seemed to shift just before he appeared at your elbow.
"Summerhall first," he said, dropping into the chair across from yours without invitation, "then Storm's End, if my father and your uncle can agree on the order of precedence without coming to blows. But after that…" He leaned forward, his violet eyes alight with mischief. "What would you say to the Summer Isles?"
You blinked. "The Summer Isles?"
"As a wedding gift. Or part of one, at least. I am given to understand the beaches are remarkable. The women there paint their faces with crushed flowers and walk about half-naked, or so the sailors claim." His mouth curved. "I thought you might like to see them. The beaches, that is. Not the half-naked women. Though I would not object if you were so endeared by the tradition that you chose to follow..."
"You are incorrigible."
"I am generous," he corrected. "Incorrigible would be booking passage without asking. I am asking."
You studied him for a long moment. There was a restlessness in him that you had come to recognize, a hunger for movement, for novelty, for anything that was not the staid repetition of court life. He wanted to show you things. He wanted to be the one who opened the world to you.
"I have never been on a ship," you said.
His mouth curved. "Then you are long overdue."
"And the expense..."
"Is my concern. Yours is only whether you wish to go."
The word left you before you could weigh it. "Yes."
His smile widened, and for just a moment he looked almost boyish, stripped of the careless arrogance. Then he rose, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head before you could protest, and strode from the room with the satisfied air of a man who had accomplished precisely what he intended.
Daella and Rhae were beside themselves with excitement, and they attached themselves to you with a fervor that was both endearing and exhausting. Daella chattered endlessly about the wedding, about the gowns and the flowers and the music, about how wonderful it would be to have you as a goodsister at last. Rhae, for her part, had abandoned her potions, at least temporarily, in favor of demanding every detail of your courtship, her eyes bright with the satisfaction of a creator surveying her work.
"I told you it would work," she said, for what must have been the hundredth time.
"You told us many things," Daella replied dryly. "Most of them did not work."
"This one did."
"It made him vomit, Rhae."
"After it made him love her. The vomiting was merely an unexpected refinement."
You laughed despite yourself. It was difficult not to, with the two of them bickering around you like a pair of brightly plumed birds. Their affection was genuine, and you found yourself returning it more easily than you had expected. They would be your family soon.
Valarr, you saw little of.
He had not sought you out since that night in the corridor, when Aerion had intercepted his offer to undo the betrothal. You caught glimpses of him at meals, across the hall during audiences, walking with his brother Matarys in the gardens. He always inclined his head politely when your eyes met. He always looked away first.
You told yourself it was for the best.
Sleep had become elusive.
It was not the wedding preparations that kept you awake, though they were certainly demanding enough. It was not the prospect of marriage itself, or not only that. It was the accumulation of everything, the weight of decisions made and unmade, the sense that your life had been wrenched from its expected course and set upon a path you had never charted.
The night was cool when you slipped from your chambers, pulling a shawl around your shoulders against the damp. The Red Keep was never truly silent, but in the small hours it grew still enough that you could hear your own footsteps, the soft scuff of slippers on stone, the distant murmur of guards changing watch.
You did not intend to go to the gardens. Your feet carried you there anyway. To the old oak bench beneath the flowering arbor. The place where you and Valarr had sat together a hundred times before.
He was already there.
You stopped when you saw him, your breath catching in your throat. He was seated on the bench, a small clay teapot and two cups arranged on the stone beside him, a plate of honey cakes balanced on his knee. He looked up at the sound of your footsteps, and his expression was not surprised. Only weary, sad.
"I had a feeling you would be restless," he said, and his voice was the same as it had always been: gentle, measured, careful. "With all this commotion."
You did not move. "Valarr…"
"Sit." He gestured to the space beside him. "Please. I brought your favorite tea. The herbal blend, the one cook used to make for you when you could not sleep as a girl. And honey cakes. You've always liked them."
You sat.
The bench was cold beneath you, the wood rough against your palms. He poured the tea into one of the cups and handed it to you, and the warmth of it seeped through the clay into your fingers. The scent was familiar, achingly so, chamomile and mint and something faintly sweet that you could never quite identify. You wrapped your hands around the cup and breathed it in.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke.
Then, quietly, "I am sorry."
Valarr turned to look at you.
"For ignoring you," you continued, your voice steadier than you felt. "These past days. I have not been…I did not know how to…"
"You had every right." He shook his head, cutting off your fumbling apology with a gentleness that only made it worse. "I should not have intervened the way I did. It was not my place. I was only…"
"Worried," you finished.
"Yes." He exhaled, a long slow breath that seemed to carry the weight of weeks. "This whole business with Aerion: the potion, the sudden betrothal, all of it...it happened so quickly. I was afraid he was playing some cruel jest. I could not bear the thought of you being made a fool of, not after everything. Not by him."
"He is not," you said. "Playing a jest, I mean. Not anymore."
"No," Valarr agreed, and there was something in his voice that you could not quite parse. "I see that now. He seems to genuinely like you. And I think…" He paused, his gaze drifting to the moonlit flowers beyond the arbor. "I think it will be good for you. To have fun. To go out and see the world. You have always wanted to be a respected lady, worthy of your name. I know that. I have always known that. But perhaps…" He turned back to you, and his eyes were dark in the moonlight. "Perhaps living on your own terms is where happiness truly lies. Instead of seeking approval from others."
You swallowed. "That is very philosophical for this hour of the night."
He laughed, a soft huff of breath that barely disturbed the stillness. "I have had a great deal of time to think."
"You will have that freedom with Aerion," he continued, quieter now. "More than I have. More than I could ever give to you, if you stayed here with me at the Red Keep. He is not bound the way I am. He can take you to the Summer Isles, to Essos, to anywhere you wish. He can let you be yourself, not just a lady of the court but…" He trailed off, searching for the word. "Just you."
You set the teacup down on the stone beside you, your fingers trembling slightly. "Valarr…"
"The bracelet," he said suddenly, and you saw him touch his wrist, where a thin woven band of thread sat against his skin. It was old now, the colors faded, the weave fraying at the edges. You had made it for him when you were ten years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor of the nursery while he read aloud from a book of Old Valyrian tales. "I still wear it. I will always wear it. As a sign of friendship."
You stared at the bracelet. You had not realized he still had it, let alone that he wore it.
"Is it appropriate?" you asked, your voice coming out rougher than you intended. "To wear jewelry another woman made for you, when you are to be married?"
"It is a memory of childhood," he said simply. "It contains good wishes and luck. That is all there is for anyone to know."
You nodded. You could not speak.
Another silence stretched between you, but it was different now. Thicker. Weighted with things that had not yet been said.
"I know," Valarr said at last, and his voice was very quiet, very careful, as though he were stepping through a room filled with glass. "I know the cup was meant for me."
Your heart stopped.
"Rhae said something to Egg, and Egg…" He shook his head. "It does not matter how I know. I know. The love potion. You were handing it to me."
You closed your eyes.
"It was meant as a joke," you said. "Daella and Rhae and I, we were drunk, and Rhae insisted her potions worked, and we did not believe her. We did not think it would actually do anything. It was only meant to be…"
"A joke," Valarr finished. "Yes. I understand."
"Do you?"
"I understand that it was born out of something," he said gently. "Jokes do not come from nowhere. You were upset. You had reason to be."
Your jaw tightened. "You were the safest to play a joke on. That was all. A joke we thought was harmless, because we did not believe it would work."
Valarr did not argue. He simply looked at you, and his expression was so impossibly sad, so impossibly tender, that you had to look away or risk shattering entirely.
"In case there is anything," he said slowly, "anything at all, that your Baratheon pride will not let you admit…you should know something."
You did not turn back to him. He continued anyway.
"You have always been my dearest friend. My favorite companion. In all the years I have been at court, there has been no one whose company I have valued more than yours. No one I have trusted more. No one I have…" He stopped, and when he spoke again his voice was fraying at the edges. "If things had played out differently, I would have been more than happy with you. I would have done my best to keep you happy as well."
Your hands were clenched in your lap, twisting against the dark fabric of your night robe.
"But I have been attending meetings and councils my whole life," he went on, and there was a weariness in him now that went beyond the hour, beyond the night, beyond anything that could be cured by sleep. "I could see how events were playing out. I could see what moves were made, and where things were heading. A closer alliance with House Baratheon was not of importance as of now. That is not a reflection on you. It is not a statement of your worth. It is simply…the way of things. The arithmetic of rule."
"You chose your duty," you said quietly.
"I chose what my duty asked of me." His voice cracked, just slightly. "The crown prince cannot, should not, must not be selfish. I could not choose familiarity and comfort over the future security of the state. All I could do was make sure you secured a good match. A better man for you, one who would not care about other matters at play. One who could give you what I could not."
You turned to him at last. His face was composed, unlike his voice.
"I could not be that better man for you because I also needed to be a better son," he said. "A better grandson. A better brother, prince, heir. I could not give you false hope or entertain any affections. I could not clutch at you and ignore all else. Even if…" He stopped, his throat working. "Even if it would have been the easiest thing for me to do."
"Valarr…"
He tried to smile. It did not reach his eyes. "You will be happy with Aerion. He is not bound as I am. He can give you the world, or at least as much of it as you wish to see. That is more than I could ever..."
He stopped. His composure, held together by will and long practice, finally faltered. His shoulders dropped. His head bowed. And in the moonlight, you saw the first glimmer of tears in his eyes.
You cracked.
"It is not your fault," you said, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "I understand. I have always understood, even when I did not want to. I could never blame you for doing what you were born to do."
He looked up at you, and the relief in his face was almost unbearable to witness.
"I could never blame you," you repeated, and your voice broke on the last word.
He reached for you then, and you let him. His arms wrapped around you: careful, gentle, the embrace of a man who had always been too cautious to take what he wanted, and you pressed your face into his shoulder and breathed in the familiar scent of him, parchment and clean linen and the faint herbal trace of the tea he had brewed for you a hundred times before.
He kissed your forehead. It was soft, chaste. The kiss of a friend, of a brother, of a man who was saying goodbye to something he had never quite allowed himself to name.
"You should go," he murmured against your hair. "Before someone comes looking. It would not do for the bride to be found in the gardens at midnight with another man, even if that man is me."
You pulled back. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he was smiling now, a small true smile that reminded you of the boy he had been before duty had carved him into something harder.
"Thank you," you said. "For the tea. For the honey cakes. For…"
"I know," he said. "Go. Be happy. That is all I have ever wanted for you."
You went.
At the edge of the garden, you turned back. He was still sitting on the bench, his hand resting over the woven bracelet on his wrist, his silhouette silver-edged in the moonlight. He raised his hand in a small wave, and you raised yours in return.
Then you walked back through the dark gardens, through the sleeping Keep, through the corridors. You did not cry until you reached your chambers. When you did, you were not sure if the tears were for what you had lost, or for what you had found, or simply for the unbearable, unavoidable fact that you could not have both.
part 6: pending...
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Summary: You came in to work every day with a fun fact, determined to catch the BAU's genius with one that he wouldn't know (friends to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mutual feelings, fluff, confession)
Note: my spencer reid debut fic <3 sorry if there are any inaccuracy, just started rewatching after 3 years
Word count: 10.9k (sorry)
“Small facts lead to great knowing” - Patrick Rothfuss (2011)
“I can’t believe anybody would do something like this,” you commented whilst looking down at the two documents in your hands—your thoroughly highlighted case dossier and your finished report. Every new case always exhibits unimaginable horror and unfortunately, there will always be something worse than your current worst.
You turned to Spencer whilst perched cross-legged on the edge of his table.
The corner of the genius’s mouth curled at your words. They were the very same ones that sprouted daily despite the nature of your job. But to Spencer, there was a strange comfort in such small repetitive murmurs of disbelief.
“I gotta agree with Rossi. This job really includes some of the worst lunatics out there.” You sighed before straightening up at a sudden thought. “Actually, fun fact…” You noticed the way your words peeled Spencer’s attention from his report. He finally glanced up, eager for the second half of that sentence.
“The word lunatic was invented based on the belief that mental illnesses were affected by moon phases.” You beamed at the idea of potentially providing your genius friend with new knowledge.
“Yeah, and it actually originated from the Latin word ‘lunaticus,’ which means moonstruck or influenced by the moon. The word was first used for conditions like epilepsy or overall just madness,” Spencer replied, perking up at the thought of a potential conversation about this.
The excited smile on your face instantly faltered and you groaned in feigned annoyance. Perhaps you should have known better than to think you could out-fact Spencer and say something he had not already known.
“Is there anything you don’t know, Spence?” you glowered jokingly.
“Well, it’s hard when you’re a child prodigy and genius.” You let out a scoff-like laugh at Spencer’s cocky admission, but you knew he was joking. Despite his IQ of 187, Spencer rarely ever announced himself a genius. It was a title dubbed by those around him. You knew if you had Spencer’s brain, though, you would hardly ever stay as humble as him.
“I’ll get you someday.”
Your declaration drew a snort from another work desk and you twisted around to face the source of such a faithless sound.
“You don’t believe in me, Derek?” You arched a brow, your competitiveness rising to the surface.
“Sweet girl, I believe in you for many things, but this is just not one of them.”
“But surely there is one single fact out there that Spencer doesn’t know about.” Penelope piped up from next to Derek, defending you.
“We’re talking about the same Spencer, right? Spencer Reid? Three PhDs and an IQ of Einstein?” JJ spoke as she made her way down the bullpen.
“Actually, there is no way of measuring Einstein’s IQ as he never took the test, so to say that—” Derek quickly interrupted Spencer.
“Come on, pretty boy. She’s backing you up.”
“Sounds like grounds to start a betting pool going,” Rossi spoke up as he approached the whole group, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other. “$20 says she’ll do it within four months.”
“I think she can do it within three months.” Emily chimed up from her desk.
“I’m placing my bet on eight months,” Penelope added confidently.
“Alright, and if she can’t do it within one year, JJ and I will split the win,” Derek announced before directing his next words to you, “Stakes are on, sweetheart.” He winked.
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.” You rolled your eyes before turning towards Spencer, declaring to him with exaggerated cockiness, “I’m gonna get you real soon, just wait.”
“You’re welcome to try.” The challenging glint in Spencer’s eyes met your own. Again, you knew better than to think that you would know something Spencer did not already know. He was practically the master of facts. But, unfortunately, you were incredibly bad at quitting.
So, let the challenge begin.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that Australia is wider than the moon?” you questioned the second you saw Spencer enter the office the next morning. “Fun fact.”
“Yes, diameter-wise. Australia is almost 4,000 kilometres wide, while the moon’s diameter is nearly 3,500 kilometres. However, in terms of their masses, the moon is still larger.” You sighed dramatically at Spencer’s reply before spinning your chair towards your computer, turning the device on.
“And day one status: unsuccessful,” you grunted to yourself, catching Spencer’s grin from your peripheral vision.
“Oh? It’s gonna be daily?”
“You bet your ass it’s gonna be. There’s a betting pool and I’m unfortunately too competitive for my own good.” You caught the amusement dancing in Spencer’s gaze.
“Well then, good luck.”
“Won’t need it.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know a cloud can weigh like a million pounds?” You crossed your arms while peering at the cotton candy-like objects floating amidst the bright blue summer sky. “Fun fact.”
Both of you had your bulletproof vests on, leaning against a car while waiting for JJ to finish speaking to the press before driving back to the precinct. Another case wrapped. Another unsub locked up.
Under the nice weather, you had your cap and Spencer’s sunglasses on, having forgotten yours. He had heavily insisted so, even after you had declined a handful of times.
You turned and looked at Spencer briefly. Though, for a split second, your body stilled as the sun played in his favor, casting nice highlights to his woodsy colored locks. The light crinkle of his nose and his squinting eyes made your lips curl, cause once again, it showcased just how self-sacrificing Spencer can be when it came to the people close to him.
“Yeah, because they contain different states of matter like trillions of condensed water droplets and ice crystals. Its weight is equivalent to the world’s largest aircraft working at full capacity. Though despite its heaviness, clouds have lower density in comparison to the dry air around them, enabling them to float in the same way as oil floats on water.” Spencer tried to maintain eye contact with you despite the blaring sun shining into his eyes.
“Hmm…” you pursed your lips before removing your navy blue cap and placing it on your friend’s head. This cast a shadow over his eyes, blocking the harsh sun from blinding his vision. “Beautiful weather to fail at winning this fun fact thing again.”
Spencer didn’t reject the clothing item.
Some time in the history of human beings, the act of sporting others’ clothing items—especially of the opposite gender—had been made to seem important. Spencer has never understood the significance in such a small exchange. But as your hat landed on his head, Spencer felt an added weight that was beyond the small clothing item.
Neither did he have it in him to adjust how you had left the cap on him, even if it didn’t sit on his head perfectly.
“I still have time to get you,” you continued after a moment of silence.
“359 days left.”
“More than enough.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The clock was close to hitting 11pm. The whole team was taking a short break for a fresh perspective. Most were on their phones or taking a quick nap, but Spencer and you were playing a round of cards.
“Did you know ketchup used to be medicine? Fun fact.”
Both Emily’s and Derek’s watchful gaze panned from you to Spencer, anticipating his reaction to your daily shot at winning the bet.
“Around the 1830s, yeah. They marketed it as a cure for various ailments such as indigestion and diarrhea.”
Emily instantly groaned at Spencer’s reply while Derek snickered. Once again, Spencer already knew the information you provided, just like the 13 previous times.
“See? Not a single thing he doesn’t know,” Derek chirped up, earning him a glare from the co-worker beside him.
You finally placed your next card down, instantly eying Spencer, wanting a read of his reaction to your play. There was a distant look in his eyes, a clear indication that he was taking this game just as seriously as you were.
Your eyes swept over the rest of your opponent. The un-neat edges in his usually tidy work attire and the way his hair stuck in different directions had your lips curling. They were details that only unveil during late work hours after a long day. But strangely enough, there was something endearing about the slight tiredness in his eyes and the way his cardigan hung disheveledly on him.
“I won.”
Your eyes snapped to the pile of cards on the table at Spencer’s declaration.
“What?! No way. You must have cheated.”
“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser just because pretty boy over here won,” Derek teased you, despite also highly suspecting that Reid had cheated.
“Are we talking about the same pretty boy who is banned from many Vegas casinos because of his expert skill in counting cards?” JJ countered, placing her phone down.
Your co-workers’ discourse began fading out of your focus as Spencer took out a ticket from his bag and handed it to you with a cheeky grin. With hesitation, you took the paper begrudgingly. You knew you had to hold your end of the deal. You had lost, after all.
You glanced back at the winner of the card game, catching his toothy grin at your sulking manners. Against all maturity, you poked your tongue out in petulance, but such childish action had Spencer laughing quietly in his spot, eyes gleaming with fondness.
“Sore loser.”
“Cheater.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Hotch halted in his tracks upon spotting you and Reid in the break room.
Both of your heads were side by side, just a hair short from touching, fighting to have adequate sight of the newspaper that the two of you were sharing. Each of you also sported a pen in hand, scribbling hastily onto the delicate paper with vigorous competitiveness.
The unit chief entered to refill his coffee, though his eyes continued investigating you two. In the narrow gap between your heads, Hotch caught sight of Spencer rapidly filling out a crossword puzzle. Meanwhile, just as fast, you were solving a Sudoku piece that resided on the same page.
“Did you know, like fingerprints, people also have unique tongue prints?” you murmured, eyes still glued onto the puzzle in front of you. “Fun fact.”
“Yeah, humans have unique color, tongue shape, and textural features, therefore making it a great form of identification. However, we currently do not have the suitable technology to capture intricate surface details of tongue prints. Also, switching costs are high partially because the idea of having to stick one's tongue out in public for authentication can be seen as rather awkward, unhygienic, and undignifying.”
You pursed your lips at another unsuccessful day. But such expression vanished when you dropped your pen on the table and declared with unadulterated joy:
“Done!”
Your victory drew a defeated noise from Spencer.
“Imagine though, having to stick your tongue out at airport immigration and place it onto a public scanner or something like that.” You cackled at Spencer's grimace and the way his body slightly shivered from such a mental image. Eventually though, your laugh reduced to a teasing smile.
Spencer’s gaze lowered to the little crinkle that appeared around your eyes as you smiled, before holding eye contact with you. Spencer knew there was no such thing as “eyes twinkling,” but you had him doubting that scientifically established truth for a second. It was lighting and he knew that, but he had to admit that he could finally somewhat understand why poets and writers were so obsessed with dedicating lines towards such a tiny detail.
Because even though there was no reason for him to, his own lips began to curl, mirroring the smile on your face.
From behind you both, Aaron Hotchner took a sip of his coffee before departing the room. Though on his way out, his eyes glinted a knowing look, while his lips lifted just the slightest bit before schooling back to a neutral expression again.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Did you know that back then, when raising a toast, people would literally drop a piece of toast into their wine?” you blurted out the second you slid yourself into the empty seat opposite Spencer at his breakfast table. Never have you ever skipped free hotel breakfast and today was no exception.
“Well, hello to you too.” Spencer grinned at your straight-to-business behavior.
He carefully placed the coffee he made for you into your hand—a casual daily routine. You took a good whiff of the comforting aroma before humming at the first taste. It was exactly how you liked it: a dash of milk along with two and a quarter teaspoon of sugar.
To date, Spencer has never asked how you liked your coffee.
He simply has always gotten it right.
It was not hard to guess that he had learnt your preferences from watching you make your coffee in the past. But you could not help but wonder if he took mental notes on others the same way he did with you. However, like every other time, you dismissed it as an occupational habit. Every member has been trained to be observant and notice little details. Spencer probably knew everybody’s coffee preferences.
“It actually originated from Ancient Rome, and back then, toast was an act to honor the gods and people would pour wine onto the floor. However, the custom evolved in many ways over time, depending on geographic regions. Around the 1600s, it became a common custom in England and this is where people would put a piece of spiced toast into their wine. They did it to improve the flavor of their beverage and also to “toast” to good health.”
Spencer caught your hum of satisfaction at the coffee and instantly felt pleased.
Science has long documented humans as naturally validation-seeking creatures. Your existence often humbled him from thinking he was not a recurring participant in that particular human instinct.
His eyes fell from you to your coffee—a particular mix that has ingrained itself into his memory since your first meeting. Funny that some time since then, he could no longer look at the beverage without ever thinking of you.
Neither could Spencer for the life of him recite the coffee order of anybody else at the BAU.
“36 days down…” you murmured, already picturing yourself rummaging the internet for more fun facts tonight.
“Maybe tomorrow.” The words came out softly, almost encouragingly. You hummed before matching his tone.
“Maybe.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Flies rub their hands as a sanitizing act, rather clean for an insect commonly associated with dirty places, no?” you murmured before peering up from your book whilst curled up in your seat on the BAU’s jet.
“Yes, it’s a self-grooming act. They do this primarily for two reasons. First and foremost, it’s because their legs are their flavour receptors, so they rub their front legs to ensure they can taste when eating. The other motivation is to remove dust and debris, therefore, ensuring survival.”
Your bottom lip jutted out slightly at another unsuccessful attempt.
“I’ll get you tomorrow…” you murmured with a teasing smile before re-immersing yourself in the fantasy world of your current novel.
Reading has become your escapism and method of self-grounding prior to any case. You tried to plunge into fictional worlds while flying to prepare yourself for the terrible realities that accompanied upcoming cases. Though at one point, Spencer started joining in. But instead of having his own book, he would lean over and scan your current page with unrealistic speed while you leisurely let each letter sink in. It became a routine that occupied your journey from Quantico, whereas on the way back, Spencer and you maintained your tradition of engaging in chess matches.
Spencer spotted your finger flipping the page once more and his eyes instantly swept over the printed words hastily.
Twenty thousand words per minute. That was Spencer’s known reading speed, which meant in merely two seconds or three, he was already done with the two pages in front of you both. As always, you were still reading at your own pace, unhurried. He knew he could adopt a slower speed to enjoy your chosen fictional literature. But lately, he found himself in a hurry, rushing himself to finish pages in a way that made him think maybe he was now above his previously established reading speed.
Why?
His gaze flicked over to you, mulling over the familiar details that made you, you. He studied the way your fingers trace the fore-edge of the book mindlessly, lingering on the way you tease your lips with your teeth as you registered the adventure that the story was taking you on. Spencer caught the slight shift in the space between your eyebrows and how they slightly twitch according to plot progression, displaying your commitment to your reading content.
Spencer would not classify himself as a people watcher, despite his necessary observant and analytical traits as a profiler. Yet, somehow, watching you had become one of his favorite quiet activities. In your little habits were his comfort. In moments when cases were overwhelming, his eyes have made a tendency to land on you. The spike in his heartbeat would normalize, whilst rapid thoughts would regulate. It was only in moments when Spencer would get caught by you that he would tear his gaze away sheepishly, before attempting to pretend that he was looking elsewhere instead.
The sound of paper rustling pulled Spencer out of his mind, and he instantly plunged himself into the same self-established cycle again.
And despite his fondness for literature, for once, it did not hold a candle in his eyes.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Cows have best friends, how great is that?”
Spencer stopped eating his ice cream the second he spotted someone passing the two of you in a cow onesie, giving away why you decided on that particular fun fact. His eyes fell back on you, glimmering with amusement.
“Yes, cows do have a ‘best friend’ who they tend to share spaces and rest side by side with. Research shows that when separated, these cows would show signs of stress and anxiety with higher heart rates.”
You hummed at that. By now, you were used to his immediate expansion on your facts, no longer surprised or disappointed every time he added onto your words.
In fact, you fondly looked forward to hearing what he had to say about whatever fact you would sprout. There was a deep sense of appreciation that you have grown for this challenge. You felt like, intellectually, your general knowledge had expanded immensely, both from researching fun facts to tell Spencer and also from the informative responses that you would receive from him.
“You know, cows also can develop what some may refer to as ‘accents.’ Research observed variations in their moos based on different regions and herds.” Spencer leaned closer to you before adding cheekily, “Fun fact.”
“Nuh uh, don’t go stealing my line. You’re not allowed to put me out of business.”
This tore a laugh out of Spencer, and you immediately bit back a smile at such a sound.
If humans have the ability to bottle noises for keepsake, you know now what sound you would try to capture.
Surprisingly, this was only the second time that Spencer and you had spent time together one-on-one out of work.
With the working hours at the BAU that forced you and all your co-workers to be in close proximity for an extensive amount of time, you tend to allocate your scarce free time to those who were outside of your work circle. But something about spending time with Spencer today had struck you with an epiphany:
You really, really wanted to see Spencer outside of work more often.
Both your phones started ringing at the same time.
“Penelope, is everything okay?” you answered quietly.
“Emily?” Spencer whispered at the same time into his phone.
After a few seconds, you both ended your respective phone calls before slowly turning to face each other again. You scanned yours and Spencer’s outfit before sighing.
“There’s not enough time to go home and change.” The devastation in your voice was imminent.
“I know.”
A few minutes later, both of you entered the office, and almost instantly, the noise level declined significantly as the whole team paused their actions. You winced, knowing immediately that you two were about to be the butt of many incoming jokes.
“Whoa, what time period did you guys travel back from?” Emily teased.
“We were at a convention, okay?” You huffed, picking up your go-bag from under your desk for a change of clothes.
“And you two are dressed up as…?” Rossi crossed his arms, undoubtedly amused.
The team scanned over both of your outfits. Spencer was wearing a brown fedora hat, an oxblood colored corduroy jacket, and grey pants. Despite the only semi-chilly weather, he also sported a colorful striped knitted scarf around his neck. As for you, you were in an all pink attire, but what stood out was your long pink coat, high pink boots, and long white scarf.
“The fourth doctor and Romana II, from Doctor Who,” Spencer answered, grabbing his go bag.
Derek’s eyes comedically bulged out at that, and he immediately spun his chair towards you. “Blink twice if Reid is blackmailing you with something to make you go to this convention with him.” You laughed at his remark.
“Listen, remember the card game I lost two months ago? That’s why I had to go, but when I actually started the show, I really enjoyed it.” You raised your hands in surrender.
“Oh, we lost another one. She got Reid-ified,” Derek exclaimed dramatically before placing a hand on his chest in jest heartbreak, grinning at your eye roll.
By now, Spencer had returned to your side with his go-bag. Though just as you two turned around to head off and change, an abrupt flash halted you both in your steps. Blinking away the after-effect of the blinding light, you saw Penelope with her phone facing you two and a cheeky grin on her face.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Delete that,” you immediately instructed, hands on your hips while your brows furrowed in fussiness. You then sucked in a deep breath and used your hand to comb through your hair before a smile broke your feigned annoyed expression. “I was not ready.”
Then, with dramatic flair, you posed properly for the camera, grabbing Spencer’s scarf exaggeratedly with both hands while tugging him lightly.
Spencer was unsure if his knees had buckled due to a slight loss of balance or from your proximity. He glanced at the camera, face slightly flushed, before witnessing another flash go off, evidencing his blush and putting it on record.
Your hands were gone from his scarf like a breeze.
“Alright, I’m gonna go change now.” By the time Spencer registered your words, you were already gone. All that was left at the spot you previously occupied was his attention. Spencer's eyes eventually moved when he heard a quiet giggle from Penelope, who was indescribably entertained by the dazed look on his face.
The tech expert slowly angled her phone towards Spencer to show what she had captured, and she carefully observed Spencer’s contemplative gaze. His eyes landed on you first, and they softened at the sight of your beaming face. They then traced the slope of your smile and the crinkle of your eyes before reluctantly trailing down to your hands and the way they bossily clung onto his scarf.
The sentiment of pictures has always been just a concept to Spencer Reid. He does understand the logic behind people’s attachment to colored captures of moments and why people have ‘important’ photos in their wallets or have framed physical copies. But personally, he rarely ever practiced it. Yet, in this precise moment, he suddenly wanted to begin.
Without even looking at himself in the photo, Spencer murmured to Penelope:
“Can you send that to me, please? Thank you.”
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
“Where is she?” Derek’s gaze darted up to his friend. One glance at Spencer and the man already knew who he was referring to.
“Garcia said she called in sick this morning. Why?”
“Nothing.”
Derek scanned over Spencer from head to toe properly this time. Realisation flashed through his eyes before the man smirked as he looked back down at his work.
Ah, the perks of being a profiler.
“Sure, pretty boy.”
“What was that loo—”
The sound of Spencer’s phone ringing interrupted his question. He took the device out of his pocket, and the phone almost flew out of his hand when he saw your name flashing on the screen. He immediately picked up and placed the device beside his ear, breathing out your name in greeting.
Instead of your usual cheery tone, Spencer was met with a muffled voice and snifflings.
Immediately, his body stiffened.
“Are you okay?” He was by his desk within seconds. His fingers grazed over his jacket, as if prepared to scoop the clothing up and dash out of the office if your answer indicated any distress.
“My nose is blocked. Both sides. It’s horrendous,” then came a dramatic sigh, “I’m becoming a mouth breather, Spence.”
Your melodrama tore a laugh from Spencer’s throat.
Derek’s lips curled discreetly at the noise.
“Anyway, don’t think you can escape your daily fun fact just because I’m not physically in the office.” Spencer was glad you were not physically with him, because if you were, you would have seen the idiotic grin stretching his face. But how could he not smile at your stubborn resilience, and the cute sound of your nasally voice that was slightly more high-pitched than normal.
“You’re sick, and you took a day off work, but not off the fun fact thing?”
“In sickness and in health, as they say.”
Spencer accidentally snorted at your words and immediately cleared his throat in an attempt to cover it.
Derek’s brows scrunched at that.
“Apparently, while wired to specific scientific machines and whatnot, two lucid dreamers can have two-way communication in real time. How cool is that?” Spencer hummed fondly at your words before sitting down, his plan to flee from office hours long gone.
“That’s quite a recent fun fact. The study was recently concluded just about two years ago,” his voice came out soft as he focused on any sound that the technological device beside his ear could carry over from your end.
He caught your hum, though the sound resembled the same one you always did while sitting next to him on the jet as the team flew back to Quantico. The noise that often preceded the soft landing of your head on his shoulder and the way he’d sit straighter up to accommodate you entirely despite his germaphobia-led touch aversion.
“You should sleep and rest,” he whispered, despite wanting to hear your voice for longer. But selflessness came easy when you were in consideration.
Spencer carefully began listing all the things you ought to do later to get better. But halfway through, he noticed the lack of noise from the other end, except for your rhythmic breathing, signaling your sound asleep state. Spencer sighed before removing the phone from his ear. He stared at the device in long contemplation before clicking the end call button.
Finally placing down the device that signified his only contact with you today, Spencer flipped open today’s case dossier. However, he found himself re-reading the first sentence over and over again. His eyes kept scanning over the same words, and he felt the way they slid past his comprehension the same way small external details occasionally would escape his notice whenever he spent time with you.
Spencer’s mind kept trailing back to the phone call and to you.
It’s familiarity—he tried to tell himself. Humans were, afterall, creatures of habit, and considering you have been swirled into his daily routine like a necessity, it made sense that the lack of your presence had set him off balance.
Eventually, Spencer got up and went to the break room for coffee. But the second he opened the cupboard and his eyes landed on your mug, he felt his mouth run dry.
For the past one and a half years, he has always made two cups of coffee instead of one at the start of each day.
His eyes darted to his mug right next to yours. The idea of separating them sent some sort of ache in his heart, even if logically they were just ceramic vessels.
Perhaps he had mislabeled what missing someone meant all along, because your absence was bringing a hollowness that nobody had managed to carve out of him before. It was the kind of emptiness that made him feel incomplete, as if a piece of himself was not with him. Yet, as opposed to the expected numbness that often accompanied such a feeling, Spencer felt every second of your absence with a constant stinging ache that felt too akin to withdrawal symptoms.
Eventually, Spencer shut the cupboard and returned to his desk, coffee-less.
That evening after work, Spencer made a detour instead of going straight home, missing the way his friends huddled together, exchanging hushed whispers about his departure.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏ ﹏
Twenty two hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty one seconds.
Spencer witnessed as time quietly slipped through the cracks of his remaining strength.
The whole bullpen lacked the life his work family usually colored in. The janitor had long shut off the main lights, so the only thing illuminating the space near Spencer was his desk lamp. Everybody else had gone home except for Hotch, but the unit chief was in his office, leaving Spencer as the last man standing in the bullpen.
After a few more ticks, Spencer finally tore his gaze from the timing instrument and glided his vision back down to the pen in his hand, forcing it to ink his unfinished report, but words refused to string together.
Spencer’s free hand began tapping his desk rhythmically in a pathetic attempt to comfort himself.
Twenty two hours, fifty one minutes, and twenty one seconds.
Spencer wanted to say that it didn’t matter. Why should it? But he knew damn well that the answer was because the team mattered to him.
However, perspective was truly a funny thing. Someone could be your number one priority, and you barely just made it in their list.
Spencer averted his gaze from the unfinished report to the brand new photo frame on his desk, where a captured version of the recent memory of you two as Doctor Who characters resided.
It did not take a genius to see that you two were closer to one another than with others on the team. However, the fun fact challenge had truly unlocked another level of bond. It was the kind of connection that meant he had started placing you above the others, a position that implied he also expected more from you, cause perhaps he thought you had also valued him just as much as he treasured you in his mind.
So as much as the whole team was the source of his dismay, there was a spotlight reserved for your absence, one that was beyond glaring and punched his guts in ways that others could not.
His eyes traced your face in the photograph again, like they had done every morning since he had gotten the picture framed.
Oftentimes, you could never be absolutely sure where you stand in someone’s life.
Twenty two hours, fifty nine minutes, and ten seconds.
A resigned breath escaped the narrow gap between his lips.
With more effort than it usually took, Spencer got on his feet, hoping that another cup of coffee would be the cure for his inefficiency. He slowly placed more weight on one side of his body to turn around. At the same time, Spencer began rubbing his face in hopes that exhaustion and melancholy would push themselves aside for a brief moment so that he could finish this impending task.
When Spencer finally reopened his eyes to navigate the darkness, he froze at the sight that was once behind him.
Eight steps away was you, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Then came your escaped nervous laughter, like you were scared of screwing up, but that was only because you were unaware that you could almost never do wrong in Spencer’s eyes. His heart—which Spencer’s brain has been having a harder time controlling lately—provided you with a much larger margin for error than anybody else.
Your gentle tone filled the fragile silence that was intertwined with suspense.
“Fun fact, birthday cakes are traditionally round as an Ancient Greek tradition to resemble the moon for the goddess Artemis.” Your eyes crinkled as your lips curled into that familiar smile that had previously held Spencer powerless on numerous occasions. “Happy Birthday, Spence.”
There you were, cake in hand after a long day of work on a gruesome case.
There you were, with a homemade cake after a long day of him thinking everybody had forgotten his birthday, or more importantly, that you had forgotten.
But maybe his probability was not entirely against him.
“I know I’m quite late, but trust me, there’s an explanation. When I got to the office this morning, I realized that I had forgotten your cake at home. I was planning to grab it after work, but the case kept us all back so late, and then traffic was super bad because of a concert today. But hey, I got the cake now, and I really hope you like it.”
You peered down at your own baking product and the slightly wonky penmanship before turning your eyes back onto Spencer.
“Also, since it’s your birthday, I’ll give you a bonus fun fact. There are roughly 30,000 people who have their birthdays on October 12th in the States, but…”
Your voice fell quiet as your eyes diverted back to the cake again.
“You’re my favorite October 12th.”
And right at that second, all of Spencer’s previous attempts at rationalising his feelings via scientific explanations collapsed. For once, science could no longer shield him, because as much as it was a field built on facts of concrete evidence, there was also an undeniable truth: he liked you.
It might not be rational, but it was still a fact, and that alone terrified Spencer.
And while he was your favorite October 12th, you were his favorite every day.
Spencer glanced down at the handmade cake and the singular purple candle pierced in the center. The tiny flame provided just enough light for the space between you both. His eyes then flicked back onto you, and they softened.
God, you were so clueless about the effect your actions have on him and his whole world.
One breath extinguished the fire, and grey smoke fluttered into the air.
Then, for the first time since he saw you five minutes ago, Spencer managed to form the only words he felt were worthy enough of your time.
“Thank you.”
Even if the significance behind those words didn’t reach you today, it was okay. But they carry the weight of his whole heart and every unspoken reason behind his gratefulness.
Thank you for not forgetting about him today. Thank you for always being so kind and paying attention to the details about him. Thank you for being such an important part of his life. Thank you for choosing the exact career path that you did to lead you to him. Thank you for existing.
And someday, maybe Spencer Reid will gather enough courage to tell you all of this.
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You halted in your step, and almost immediately Spencer followed suit. His eyesight followed yours, and he instantly knew what you were gonna ask from him.
“Come on, can you play for me? Please?” you urged, and it didn’t take more than your pleading face to make him approach the instrument that lay abandoned in the corner of the hotel where the whole team was staying.
Saying “no” became a significantly harder task for Spencer ever since he realised what kind of position his feelings were in when it came to you. It especially felt like an impossible task when your words came in that pleading tone and the smile that had him wishing stopping time was one of his abilities.
You followed Spencer and leaned against the instrument eagerly. You observed as he lightly cracked his knuckles, eying the mixture of ivory and ink-dark keys with a calculative gaze before placing his fingers delicately on them while his foot pressed gently on one of the pedals at the base.
For a moment, you wondered what Spencer would play. Maybe one of the classical pieces he liked a lot. Perhaps Bach? Or—
A familiar tune overtook the pleasant quietness in the empty hotel lobby, and recognition struck you with every flawless execution of each note.
First off, you knew he was a liar, saying he only dabbled in piano. But what caught you off-guard was hearing the piano version of your favorite song.
It was things like this that made you conclude that Spencer Reid was one of the sweetest individuals you have ever had the privilege to know. From making you coffee daily to hunting down first editions of your favorite books (the most recent one in which he handed over along with soup the day you got sick and were off work). Now, he was learning your favorite song on the piano.
Lucky felt like an inadequate word to describe your position in life when Spencer was in the equation.
Only when he finished the very modern composition did you speak up.
“I thought you only listened to classical?”
“I…did,” was all that came out of Spencer’s mouth, but it was enough for you to catch his implication that he had learnt this song specifically on the piano for you.
Spencer sniffled, diverting his gaze from you shyly as he inspected the keys in front of him again.
Ever since his birthday, Spencer could constantly feel the urge to confess right on the tip of his tongue while his lips trembled in self-control to keep them to himself for now. According to the internet and its various articles, he should try to ‘woo’ you first, and hence these actions instead of confessing right away. He wondered if you got his message. He wondered if you could tell this was his version of flirting. However, Spencer also knew that he had accidentally portrayed himself as an extremely sweet friend from your perspective, so thoughtful actions with the aim of impressing you romantically were most likely ruled as platonic gestures.
You began toying with the ring on your middle finger, the flattery from his sweet action manifested itself through the heat beneath your cheeks. For the first time in your almost three years of friendship with Spencer, you were struck by a minor nerve-wracking sensation. There was also a fleeting stutter in your chest that you decisively ignored.
You moved on with a quiet murmur.
“You know, humans owe squirrels a lot. They have planted at least thousands of trees.” You gave him a soft smile when his eyes met yours again. “It’s accidental, but no less a noble act contributing to the environment.”
“Yeah, they would bury nuts for later usage, but forget their locations. Many forgotten nuts can grow into trees, therefore, contributing to forest regeneration.”
“Anddd another fun fact failure.” You groaned, though your expression melted into a smile when you heard Spencer chuckle at that.
“We should head up. It’s getting late.”
You nodded in agreement and began walking, but looked back briefly at Spencer. “But it’s not too late for an episode of Doctor Who, right?”
An outstretched grin spread across Spencer’s face at your words.
“Never.”
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“No way.” You were speechless as you made way out of Spencer’s car, staring at the building in front of you in disbelief. “Don’t tell me…”
“Yeah, it’s for your favorite film,” Spencer confirmed your suspicion.
“So, it didn’t matter that I had lost, huh?”
Shortly after your Doctor Who convention together, Spencer had invited you to this event that was two and a half months after. Though he insisted on keeping the details a secret, relaying only the dress code—smart casual, but whatever you were most comfortable with.
The secretive factor of the whole ordeal had you guessing in suspense for the entire two months, but now that you were here, you fully understood why.
This was the event that you both would have gone to instead of the Doctor Who convention if you had won that game of cards.
An orchestra movie concert of your favourite movie.
Spencer sucked in a deep breath, fingers toying with the loose threads of his cardigan. There he went again, attempting to present to you that he was an option—the best one, at that—and giving signals that he was pursuing you. He has read at least five hundred online articles on the art of flirting in the past week alone. If Derek ever found his online searching history, Reid would never live it down.
“God, this is the best thing ever.” Seeing how pleased you were with his action made Spencer want to physically preen with pride.
Once you two had settled down inside, you took a couple of photos and observed your surroundings. You looked around at your neighboring audiences before averting your gaze to the empty chairs that were soon to be filled by instrumental experts. Your body was flooded with excitement at the prospect of finally being at this event.
You decided to chime in with your daily fun fact just minutes before the concert was due to start.
“Did you know that there’s a planet that is ⅓ made of diamonds?” you whispered.
“55 Cancri e, right?” he matched your volume, shifting in the chair beside you to make himself comfortable.
“Yeah, that one,” you confirmed, turning your head back to him. “Go on, I know you have details on it.” You encouraged, shifting yourself into a comfortable position as well.
“55 Cancri e is a super-Earth exoplanet, approximately twice the size of Earth, though roughly eight times heavier in terms of mass. First sighted and discovered in 2004, scientists have found that it is a very hot and rocky planet with a molten lava ocean surface due to its incredibly close orbit to its star…”
You were leaning into your palm while listening to him, clinging onto every word as they absorbed into your brain. The space you left in between you both out of consideration for Spencer gradually lessened as he leaned in closer the more he talked. His tone, too, grew more quiet as he went on, as if the information he was telling you did not exist in some cyclopaedia, but a secret passed in full trust.
The corners of your lips curled at the twinkle in Spencer’s eyes as he detailed out knowledge that previously sat in the corner of his brain, collecting dust.
Spencer’s intellectual rambling will always be one of your favorite things about him. You loved hearing him talk and the way he enunciated each syllable so clearly, as well as his wordings and his tonal patterns. You should have gotten used to it by now, but it marvelled you every single time that you had the chance to listen to him talk about things you would rely on an internet search to know. Just like usual, today was no different.
Spencer Reid was remarkable. It was almost impossible to take your eyes off him when he talked. He was a bundle of many things that made him an individual worth a lifetime of getting to know.
You wondered if you were looking at him a little bit too fondly right now. But how could you not when he was whispering sweet facts to you as if he only wanted you to know of it? It felt almost as if this fun fact challenge had turned into a sacred tradition between you two.
“Even though it is widely said that the planet is ⅓ of diamond, this is actually still only a theory and yet to be proven. So, to dub it the Diamond Planet when they’re not even sure if there are diamonds on the planet itself is like…suspecting you are a quarter or half French and then introducing yourself as French to people anyway.”
Your laughter burst out unfiltered, and you instantly grounded yourself by clearing your throat and pulling yourself away from Spencer slightly, putting yourself on timeout.
That was kind of embarrassing.
The joke was slightly funny, but nowhere close to warranting that kind of laughter.
It sort of reminded you of the videos you have seen on the internet about the kind of laugh that people would let out in reaction to their crush’s jok—
Oh.
You subtly slid deeper into your chair as thoughts shot in your mind at a hundred miles per second. Your fingers immediately curled into your palms to dig at it. You could not look back at Spencer in fear that he would notice that something was wrong.
Oh God.
But were you really surprised though?
A part of you had seen it coming, because as much as you adore all your co-workers, you knew in the bottom of your heart that Spencer was the only one you were willing to lessen your sleeping hours to prolong hanging out and conversing with. Also, to be immune to such sweet actions, you would have to be some statue made of stone. For years now, Spencer had intently taken time to know you and go out of his way just to make you happy. If anything, you were grateful that your heart had picked someone so kind and worthy to give itself away to.
You glanced at Spencer from the corner of your eyes, and just the sight of him alone had your heart hiccupping in a way that you had become familiar with for the past month. It was the kind of stutter that you had outright been trying to ignore and written off as nothing. But unlike all the previous times, you knew you could no longer deny that man next to you was the reason for such palpitations.
And maybe it was also time to face it: you like Spencer Reid, your genius of a friend and very much also a profiler.
Your eyes snapped away from him the moment you realized the significance of playing it cool. You could not have him picking up the signs and figuring out that you have feelings for him. But then again, you have seen how clueless he was around women who were hitting on him and failing to pick up their signals. So, maybe he would not notice your current body language either.
Before you could think more on the matter, the lights dimmed and instruments began stringing together in a well-rehearsed manner. It was only then that you began breathing again, relieved that you had two hours to collect your thoughts and come to terms with the newly attained knowledge about yourself.
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“Alright, what’s the fun fact of today?” you heard Spencer’s voice before peering up and seeing him behind your chair, hands on the back of the furniture, looking down at you with a shy smile. The sight of his adorable expression made your cheeks heat up, and you had to avert your gaze to prevent him from spotting signs of your flustered state.
The other members just boarded the jet as well, settling into their own spots after a tiring case. You were much less the same, sporting the now more noticeable eye bags that matched Spencer’s. Yet, that does not deter his gaze from the warmth they hold.
You gestured to Spencer’s usual seat right next to you. Once he had settled down, you made your next move on his chessboard, resuming your current ongoing match with him. You could see the instant way the cogs in his brain started spinning. At that, you provided your fun fact of the day, hoping it would serve as a distraction.
“You know, I read that there are more possible variations of chess games than the number of atoms in the universe.”
“Yeah, it’s known as the Shannon number—the number of possible chess games, I mean, which is 10 to the power of 120. Meanwhile, the estimated number of atoms in the observable universe is 10 to the power of 80, to 10 to the power of 82.”
He made his move, catching your discreet yawn in the corner of his eyes.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” The weight behind your eyes turned them half-lidded. They landed on the chessboard, trying to formulate the next best move, but your brain refused to cooperate as a fog of sleepiness overclouded your judgments.
“You don’t have to play now, you know. We can just play next time.”
“No, no. Give me a second, I’ll make my move.”
“You’re tired.”
You slowly turned your head towards Spencer, and there it was again. You caught the concern leaking from his gaze, and it instantly reminded you just how caring Spencer was to those in his life and especially you. Your mouth formed a tired yet grateful smile at his expressed worry.
You felt sorry for those who have never had the opportunity to be the subject of his affections.
For a split second, you pondered the kind of doting that Spencer would do if he were pursuing someone romantically. You have never seen him express interest in any woman during your time at the BAU, despite the advances he has gotten from various good-looking women. But if he was already this sweet platonically, you were fairly certain your heart would give out at what he had in mind as romance.
Your shoulders finally slumped before a truthful sigh escaped from you. “Yeah.”
Unlike usual, where you would fall asleep and land on his shoulder while you were knocked out, he outright shifted to sit up straighter for you, offering his shoulder.
Spencer never admitted it out loud, but he had foolishly started wanting the friction of your skin against his or the fabric of his belongings. It was an impossible he thought would never occur, but here he was, anticipating the next rare moment of physical touch beside the one where his shoulder would become your pillow.
Of course, he had noticed it—your lack of touch when it came to him. He was devastatingly aware of your mindfulness of his germaphobia, and Spencer was grateful, he really was. However, your reservation to accommodate his tendencies had begun feeling like deprivation. In fact, Spencer could count on one hand the amount of times you had ever touched him deliberately, with the last one being one hundred and sixty three days ago.
But it was that particular initiative factor that Spencer deeply yearned for. He craved and awaited for a touch made with purpose.
He wanted you to mean it.
You stilled at such a small action, gaze stopping on his shoulder. You did not want to over-interpret such a simple movement, but knowing Spencer, there were implications and significance in that little offering.
You knew it had become a recurring thing. As embarrassed as you were, you could not help the fact that you were the type to move around a lot in your sleep. You had tried using an airplane pillow, leaning against the wall, and so many other methods. However, most of the time, you would still wake up on Spencer’s shoulder before instantly jolting up and freeing him from the physical touch.
But the certainty on Spencer’s face left your rejection stuck in your throat.
Hesitantly, you began shifting closer, giving Spencer just enough time to retract the offer if he wanted to. But he stayed confidently still as your head started leaning down before finally landing on his shoulder.
One single small action had Spencer questioning how much longer he could go on like this. How much longer could he keep these feelings tightly locked and concealed? Because Spencer was utterly gone for you. Gone in the kind of way where one casual compliment from you about the cardigan he was wearing had him immediately putting the item into his clothing rotation a lot more frequently.
“I’m gonna get you some day, Spence…” Spencer watched as you drifted to sleep before closing his own eyes, all while he wished the flight back would last forever.
Unbeknownst to you both, the team exchanged knowing looks and discreet smiles at the sight they were witnessing. There had been nothing more obvious to them than this, but instead of intervening, they decided to let things play its course.
Because, despite the uncertain nature surrounding the occurrence of events in life, this was the one thing everybody was sure was inevitable.
﹏ ﹏ ﹏
The jet finally arrived back at Quantico around 11pm. Spencer had finished his report a few minutes before you did, but lingered behind as usual to wait for you. About two weeks ago, he had established a new routine between you both.
“Ready?” Spencer carefully peeled your bag from your hand, checking his watch to see that it was already past midnight, marking a new day.
“Yeah…” you breathed out tiredly, eager to collapse in bed. “More than ready.”
You like to think you have kept it cool well, in general. But Spencer’s new routine of walking you to your car after work had you a nail tip away from laying all your cards bare and revealing your feelings. Even on days when you finished your report first, he would walk you to your car before returning to the office. But the thing was:
Spencer Reid rarely ever drove to work, which meant he was going to the employee parking lot every day with you for no reason.
Well, for no reason but you.
The elevator began making its descent from the sixth floor with both of you inside. You were listening carefully as Spencer discussed an academic paper he had read last night. The doors soon jerked open, revealing the fairly empty parking lot. At the sight of your car, you subtly began slowing down your steps, biting back a smile when you noticed him mirroring your change of pace.
You observed as he animatedly gushed about the methodology of the research paper, paying particular attention to the tiny detail of his body language. The way his hands were passionately waving around, exaggerating certain points Spencer was trying to make. The flutter of his eyelashes as he blinked a bit faster than he usually would—a habit that often occurs when he speaks quickly, as you have learned. The smooth movements of his lips as his mouth tried to rush out words to match the pace of his incredibly brilliant brain.
Now that you were looking at his lips, you have to admit that it was kind of hard to look away.
Suddenly, an idea brewed in your mind, and it felt like the holy grail had finally landed in your lap. Who would have known that a random Thursday would be the day you ought to finally win this challenge and put Spencer in checkmate.
“Spence?” Your lips curled mischievously, observing the way Spencer halted in his steps at your tone.
God, despite being subjected to harsh and unflattering parking lot lights, Spencer still had the audacity to look good in a way that tugged at your heartstrings. The sight had you questioning if he was capable of ever looking bad. His warm eyes colored with interest as he eagerly awaited your next words. You took a couple more steps forward, wanting to hide the plotting expression on your face.
“Fun fact…” You paused before peering back at him. At those two words, you instantly caught the anticipation rolling off him. There was also a subtle confidence from him that signalled he was sure he already knew whatever you were planning to tell him. But you knew that this time, things would be different.
With a competitive glint in your eyes, you finally divulged today’s fun fact, your voice calm and stable.
“I like you.”
Just as you predicted, Spencer froze while his mouth fell agape. No words fell out of those talkative lips, a stark contrast to how fast he was speaking a couple of seconds ago. You practically beamed in victory at such a reaction. You wanted to celebrate, you really did. But you decided not to gloat about your win yet. Instead, you prioritised the better option: teasing your friend.
“I recalled you mentioning once that kissing spreads fewer germs than shaking hands?” You winked playfully, expecting nothing from it. It was simply a joke to make Spencer flustered for your entertainment, and there was zero expectation that he would somehow miraculously confess that he had been secretly liking you too and would actually kiss you at your workplace’s parking lot at 1am.
Because there was no way Doctor Spencer Reid liked you, right?
You observed as his lips slowly curled up in amusement as your words sunk in, and that partially made your shoulders relaxed. Well, at least your joke landed, and your friendship would make it out intact despite your confession.
But then, out of nowhere, that closed-mouth smile stretched into a full-on grin before a chuckle of disbelief escaped from Spencer.
Now, you were on alert. Instantly, you tried to read his reaction—was he in disbelief that he was finally stumped by a fact he had not yet known of? Was he amused by your clever trick of using your own feelings as a fun fact? But the elation on his face and the awestruck look in his eyes hardly aligned with someone who had just lost a long-term challenge.
Your lips parted as you continued assessing the man, but you caught the way his eyes flickered down at that small movement before he sucked in a deep breath.
Oh…?
Suspicion crept in, but confirmation came quicker.
In the blink of an eye, Spencer had completely eliminated the two steps between you both, sealing you two in a proximity that was closer than you had ever been with him. His palms found your face, and they cupped your cheeks in a careful yet certain way.
Spencer’s eyes darted all over your face, searching for all the clues that you were okay with what he had next in mind. He could see that your pupils were slightly dilated, as well as feel the way you were leaning into his touch and the heat that was transferring from your cheeks to his hands. Though it was only when you did not pull away and instead, had your tongue dart out to wet your lips, did Spencer kill the remaining space between your faces.
His lips slanted against yours in a desperate manner that outmatched his need for oxygen, kissing you like it was long overdue. He swallowed the gasp escaping your throat and the surprised noise that followed. There was an urgency he could not hide as his straining self-control snapped from your green light.
You began kissing him back just a second or two after, and almost instantly, you heard a sigh of relief. Your lips curled, but any trace of smugness vanished when his thumb began rubbing your cheek fondly. Suddenly, you were aware of just how close you two were. Every point of contact was sending a searing heat through your body, because despite his fears of germs, Spencer was touching your skin like it was a need, rather than an obligation for moments like these.
You pressed your lips harder against his.
Good lord, Spencer could do this forever.
He might have been able to count the number of times you have touched him on one hand, but even with the whole team, there were not enough fingers to account for the number of times he had glanced at your lips this week alone.
Your own hands touched the sides of his waist, and you instantly caught the longing noise that escaped from Spencer’s throat, echoing onto your lips. At such an encouraging sound, you curled your hands to the back of his body and snaked them up his back. Your lips smirked against his at the way he arched into your touch.
One hundred and sixty three days—Spencer reminded himself again, humming in utter satisfaction at the way those numbers spun down to zero. Finally, you were touching him on purpose and with purpose. He practically melted at the way your hands roamed so confidently without any trace of guilt that he was uncomfortable, because he was far from that.
In fact, he eagerly wanted to keep the number of days since the last time you touched him at zero permanently.
You picked that precise moment to pull away, documenting the way his eyes fluttered open and dawned into existence the unadulterated glimmer of yearning in them.
You have always thought he was gorgeous, but how he looked right then rendered the word inadequate. It was a vision exceeding all your daydreams, and to be the reason behind the look made you feel like you were an award winning fashion designer who had just invented a magnificent masterpiece. But unlike most, you had no intention of sharing this artwork with the world or with anybody else.
Spencer felt his heart squeeze at the sight of you again. Was it possible to miss someone so badly from not having a visual on them for approximately a minute? Maybe he was more screwed than he thought.
Breathlessly, he finally whispered the confession that he had long to say for a month.
“Despite all the facts I already know and have learnt during my whole entire life, you’re my favorite thing to study and know more about, and have been since you stepped into my life. Nothing I learnt after felt like it could outrank anything I learnt about you.” It was true. Every speck of information about you gets the forefront of his memory’s line-up, taking priority over every other knowledge. Spencer licked his own lips for remnants of you before continuing, “You’re my favorite fun fact, you know that?”
Your heart tugged at his words. You had no idea how you managed to compete with the vast amount of interesting information that existed in the world, but under Spencer’s stare, you truly could see he meant every word.
“But…” The smile on your face instantly dropped at that single word from Spencer. Good rarely ever followed that three-letter conjunction.
“But?”
“I do have to admit that, uhm…” The familiar sheepish glint in his eyes had one of your eyebrows shooting up. “I kinda already know that fun fact already, that you liked me.” Your hands on him stilled their movement before falling onto your sides in disbelief.
“Oh, come on. You can’t be serious.” He resisted the urge to whine at the lack of physical touch from you. “But you looked shocked.”
“I was shocked you actually said it. I didn't think you’d do it today…or tomorrow…or maybe ever–” You slapped his arm, but he gladly welcomed that contact. Anything was better than nothing.
“I thought you’re like highly oblivious to romantic signals? I’ve seen you being completely clueless and not picking up on the fact that women were flirting with you.”
“I think I wasn’t clueless when it came to you because my eyes were always on you.” Those words came out shamelessly. In fact, Spencer almost sounded proud of himself. You tried not to let his words make you flustered.
“When did you figure it out?”
“That you like me? At the orchestra.”
“How? I barely figured it out myself that I liked you then.”
“Yeah, I could tell.” Your huff drew a chuckle from him.
You finally peeled yourself completely away from Spencer, grabbing your bag from his hand before making your way to your car. As you unlocked the vehicle and swung the driver’s door open, you could hear his footsteps following. You crouched to lean into your car and place your bag onto the passenger seat. You could feel Spencer’s presence stopping just behind you, standing much closer than he had ever before tonight.
As you bent back up and leaned against your car, you didn't miss the way Spencer’s fingers twitched, giving away his urges for physical contact. You crossed your arms before tilting your head back teasingly.
“I’m still gonna get you someday.”
Spencer’s gaze melted to an even softer look than before at your declaration. There was a freeing component in his eyes, showcasing the joy from being able to openly look at you in the way he had really wanted to for a while. His voice lowered to a sweet, promising whisper.
“I’m counting on that.”
With that, Spencer leaned in again, wanting a second run of things before the two of you had to part ways for the night.
You grinned into the kiss and quickly wrapped your arms around him again. Quietly, your mind logged in today’s score.
Day 187 status: unsuccessful.
But it hardly matters when you think you’ve already won something a lot better.
link to: epilogue/bonus bit
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Gojo Satoru; you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend but he takes it a little too seriously
When your mother had phoned you three weeks ago to remind you of your cousin’s lavish, high-society wedding in Kyoto, she had spent a full ten minutes subtly interrogating you about your lack of a companion.
“A beautiful person like you shouldn’t always be sitting at the singles table,” she had sighed, her tone dripping with that distinct brand of parental pity. “Even a temporary friend would do.”
Out of sheer, panicked spite, you had told her you were bringing someone.
And then, in a moment of profound cosmic stupidity, you had turned to the man currently balancing three empty strawberry milk cartons on his forehead while lying across your office couch.
"Satoru," you had said, rubbing your temples. "Are you busy on the twenty-fourth?"
The cartons had tumbled to the floor as Gojo Satoru slid his dark sunglasses down the bridge of his nose, his bright, sky-blue eyes gleaming with instant, dangerous amusement. "For you? Never. Are we finally assassinating the higher-ups? Because I’ve got an entire itinerary prepared—"
"I need you to pretend to be my boyfriend for a wedding."
The room had gone dead silent. Satoru had blinked once, twice, before a massive, blinding grin broke across his face. He had sat up so fast his white hair went wild.
"An undercover mission? Domestic espionage? Oh, this is the best day of my life. I’m going to be the greatest boyfriend this world has ever seen. I'll make your exes weep. I'll make your ancestors proud."
"I don't have any exes attending, Satoru. And it’s just a game," you had warned him, pointing a finger at his chest. "Keep it simple. Don't go overboard."
You should have known right then. Gojo Satoru didn't do simple. He didn't do restraint. He treated the entire world like his personal sandbox, and you had just handed him a shovel.
Later, you stepped out of the Kyoto bullet train station.
You had expected Satoru to show up in his usual dark Jujutsu High uniform, maybe with a slightly cleaner jacket. Instead, he had materialized in a tailored, charcoal-gray three-piece suit that fit his towering, six-foot-three frame so perfectly it felt like a direct assault on your nervous system.
His hair was down, falling softly over his forehead, and he had swapped his dark blindfold for a pair of lightly tinted round sunglasses that allowed his lethal eyes to track every single movement you made.
"Well?" he had asked, spinning a silver car key around his long finger, a smug, devastating smirk playing on his lips. "Do I look like husband material?"
"We're dating, Satoru. Not engaged," you had muttered, your heart doing a violent, uncoordinated flip against your ribs. "And where did you get a car?"
"Borrowed it from Ichiji," he shrugged carelessly, opening the passenger door for you with an elaborate, sweeping bow. "Only the best for my darling."
By the time you arrived at the traditional garden estate where the reception was being held, Satoru had fully lost his mind to the bit.
The moment your mother approached us, her eyes wide as she took in the literal god of a man standing beside her child, Satoru didn't just polite shake her hand. He glided forward, wrapping his massive arms around her in a warm, enthusiastic hug.
"Grandma!" he had cheered, instantly spotting your elderly grandmother sitting in a wheelchair nearby, sweeping over to her before you could even open your mouth to correct him. He dropped to one knee on the gravel, taking her frail, wrinkled hand between both of his large, calloused ones.
"I've heard so much about you. Their childhood stories are my absolute favorite. Especially the one where they got their head stuck in the banister."
"Oh, what a handsome, polite young man!" your grandmother had beamed, her face flushing pink as she patted Satoru’s silver-white hair. "You must look after our little one."
"With my life," Satoru had murmured, looking back at you through those tinted lenses, his smile softening into something so warm, so terrifyingly tender that your lungs entirely forgot how to extract oxygen from the air.
He spent the next three hours systematically dismantling your family's defenses. He helped your uncles carry the heavy multi-tiered dessert trays; he took hundreds of group photos using his phone, his long arm wrapping naturally around your waist to pull you flush against his side for every single shot.
He was so charismatic, so seamlessly woven into the fabric of your family, that your cousins were already pulling you aside in the restroom to ask when the wedding bells were ringing for you.
"He keeps talking about our future," you muttered frantically to yourself in the mirror, splashing cold water on your face. "He told my uncle we were looking at properties in Sendai. He's insane. He’s taking this way too seriously."
It was the cocktail hour now.
Satoru had been dragged away by your father to discuss a specific brand of sake, leaving you standing near the koi pond with a glass of plum wine. Within minutes, a distant acquaintance of the groom, a wealthy, sharp-tongued young businessman from Tokyo, had slid into the space beside you.
"So," the man had said, his eyes scanning your form with a slow, predatory interest that made your stomach turn. "I see you're sitting alone. A beautiful person like you shouldn't be left unattended at a celebration like this. Let me get you something stronger to drink."
"I'm fine, thank you," you said politely, taking a step back. "My boyfriend is actually—"
"Oh, the tall guy with the flashy hair?" the businessman scoffed, stepping closer, effectively blocking your path back to the pavilion. "He looks like the type who likes to be the center of attention. Probably doesn't know how to appreciate what's right in front of him. Why don't you let a real adult take you out tonight?"
Before you could formulate a response that wouldn't cause a scene, the temperature around you dropped by ten degrees.
The air grew heavy, the faint, invisible hum of Infinity vibrating against the back of your neck a split second before a heavy, unyielding arm locked around your waist.
Satoru hauled you back against his chest with a single, effortless tug, his massive frame completely bracketing you from the stranger.
"Is there a problem here?" Satoru asked.
His voice wasn't carrying that cheerful, annoying pitch he used when he was playing a character. It was low, dangerous, and carried a jagged, Special Grade edge that made the businessman's smile instantly vanish.
Satoru didn't have his glasses on; they were tucked into his breast pocket, and his bare, sky-blue eyes were fixed on the man with a freezing, unblinking glare that felt like a death sentence.
"No, I was just... introducing myself," the businessman stammered, taking an involuntary step backward as his face went pale.
"Great. Now you've met us," Satoru rumbled, his grip tightening around your waist, his thumb anchoring itself against your hipbone with a possessive, territorial force. "My partner and I were right in the middle of an important conversation. Lose yourself."
The man practically ran away.
You stood there for a long beat, your back pressed against Satoru’s tailored vest, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm. You could feel the heavy, rapid thud of his own heart against your spine.
"Satoru," you whispered, your fingers clutching his forearm to loosen his grip. "The guy's gone. You can drop the act now. You're squeezing me."
He didn't release you. Instead, he buried his face into the crook of your neck, his white hair brushing against your ear as he let out a long, ragged exhale.
"I'm not acting," he muttered, his voice muffled against your skin, rough and entirely devoid of his usual playful theater. "I really hate when people look at you like that."
But it wasn't enough. Your emotional ruin arrived during the traditional reception events.
The bride had gathered all the unmarried guests in the center of the courtyard for the bouquet toss. You had tried to hide behind a pillar with a plate of crab cakes, but your mother had forcibly shoved you into the center of the crowd, right at the front lines.
"On three!" the bride called out, turning her back. "One... two... three!"
The flowers sailed through the air in a high, arc trajectory. You hadn't even intended to reach for them, but a sudden scramble among the cousins caused someone to bump into your shoulder, and your hands instinctively shot out to stabilize yourself.
Thud.
The tightly bound bundle of white roses and eucalyptus landed squarely in your palms.
The entire courtyard erupted into cheers and wild applause. Your mother was practically vibrating with delight, and your uncle let out a booming laugh from the bar, cupping his hands around his mouth to yell across the garden: "Looks like you're next, kid! Better start saving up for the venue!"
You felt your entire face turn a brilliant, agonizing shade of crimson. You opened your mouth, ready to laugh it off as a statistical anomaly, ready to say something self-deprecating to break the tension.
"Works for me," a clear, loud voice echoed from the stairs.
The courtyard went dead silent.
You froze, your fingers tightening around the flower stems until the thorns nipped at your skin. You turned your head slowly. Satoru was standing on the wooden veranda, a half-eaten skewer of dango in his hand. His sky-blue eyes were wide, fixed on you with an expression of profound, unadulterated shock.
He hadn't meant to say that out loud. For the first time in his entire life, Gojo Satoru had lost control of his filter because his subconscious had answered the universe before his brain could construct a joke.
Your mother looked at Satoru. Satoru looked at you. You looked at the bouquet.
"Well," your grandmother chirped into the suffocating silence, her wheelchair squeaking as she turned toward the buffet. "I always did want a autumn wedding."
The evening drew to a close, the traditional lanterns had been dimmed, casting the stone paths in long, indigo shadows. The older relatives had retired to their rooms, leaving only a few lingering guests drifting through the garden as a slow, melancholy jazz melody began to float from the speakers near the pavilion.
You were sitting on the edge of the wooden deck, your heels discarded beside you, staring out at the dark water of the koi pond. The white bouquet was resting in your lap, its scent heavy in the cool night air.
A soft rustle of silk announced his presence before he even sat down.
Satoru slid onto the deck beside you, his long legs dangling over the edge. He had discarded his jacket and his tie, the top three buttons of his white shirt undone, revealing the sharp lines of his collarbones.
He looked smaller like this, less like the strongest sorcerer alive and more like a man who had spent the day carrying the weight of a secret he didn't know how to keep.
"We survived," you said softly, trying to inject some of your usual lighthearted banter into the space between you. "My mother already added you to the family group chat, by the way. You're stuck forever."
Satoru didn't laugh. He didn't even look at his phone. He just turned his head, his brilliant, bare eyes searching your face with a quiet, devastating intensity that made your breath hitch.
"Can I have this dance?" he asked.
His voice was a low, velvet whisper. There was no teasing edge, no smirk, no arrogant tilt of his chin. It was just Satoru.
You hesitated for a fraction of a second before setting the bouquet down on the wood. You stood up, your bare feet cold against the smooth timber, and stepped into his space.
Satoru rose to his full height, his massive form instantly shielding you from the rest of the world. He didn't place his hand on your waist with that theatrical, exaggerated flourish from earlier.
Instead, his palm came down against the small of your back with a soft, reverent pressure, his other hand gently lacing his fingers through yours, locking them securely against his chest.
You leaned your forehead against his shoulder, letting the scent of his cologne and the steady, heavy rhythm of his heart wash over you as you swayed to the slow music.
"Satoru," you murmured into the fabric of his shirt. "The wedding is over. You don't have to keep the act up anymore. Nobody's looking at us."
The hand on your back tightened, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer until there was no space left between you, his chest rising and falling against yours in a ragged, uneven pattern.
"You know..." he whispered, his chin resting gently against the top of your hair, his long fingers pressing into your palm with a desperate, quiet certainty.
"What?"
"If you ever wanted to do that for real," Satoru murmured into the dark of the garden, his voice completely devoid of his usual armor. "I'd be available. Permanently."
You pulled back just enough to look up at him, your eyes searching his face. For the first time since you had known him, the invincible Gojo Satoru looked entirely vulnerable, his blue eyes holding yours with a raw, terrifying honesty that left no room for doubt.
He wasn't playing a game anymore. The sandbox was gone, and he was standing before you, entirely unraveled by his own collateral damage.
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, your hand moving up to gently cup the side of his jaw, your thumb brushing against the smooth skin of his cheekbone. "You're an idiot, Satoru."
A small, breathtakingly beautiful smile touched his lips, his eyes softening into something eternal as he leaned down, closing the remaining distance between you. "Yeah," he whispered against your lips. "But I'm your idiot now."
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader x Valarr Targaryen (part 1, part 2, part 3. But can also be read as a oneshot.)
Summary: Based on the request "A fic where you tried to give Valarr a love potion but Aerion drinks it instead (like what one of Egg's sisters did)". Reader is a Baratheon (but no physical descriptions are given), who is a childhood friend of Valarr's.
Chapter summary: Aerion's "Why don't you love me?" moment, Targaryen style secret first date in the streets of King's Landing. And the girlies are fighting (Aerion and Valarr.)
a/n: The last chapter of Growing Strong series is out, btw, for those not yet aware! <3
You had not expected the kiss to continue. When Aerion first pressed his mouth to yours, you had thought it would be brief, a moment of impulse caused by the dress, easily broken, easily dismissed. But his arm had locked around your waist before you could step back, pulling you flush against him with a firmness that left no room for retreat, and when you instinctively shifted against his hold, his murmur vibrated against your lips.
"Stop wriggling."
The command was soft, almost distracted, as though his mind were elsewhere entirely. His mouth did not leave yours. It moved with a slow pressure that made your thoughts scatter before you could gather them into something useful.
You bit his lip.
It was not hard enough to draw blood, but it was enough to make your point, or so you intended. Aerion groaned, a low sound that rumbled from his chest into yours, and instead of pulling away as any sensible man might have done, he kissed you harder. His free hand came up to grasp your neck, his palm warm against the side of your throat, fingers curving along the line of your jaw to guide your mouth more firmly against his.
You let him.
That was the worst of it. You let him. Your hands, which had risen to push against his chest, remained where they were, neither shoving nor gripping, simply resting against the fine fabric of his doublet as though your body had not yet decided whether to resist or surrender.
Only when he pulled away, just enough to draw breath, just enough to let the air cool the space between your mouths, did you try to step back.
He followed.
One step, then another, matching your retreat until your spine met the edge of the table. He did not cage you there, precisely. He simply did not allow the distance you sought.
"You have loved Valarr for years, have you not?"
The question came from nowhere, searching, and it struck you harder than any blow could have.
You stared at him. Aerion's violet eyes were fixed on your face, but there was no mockery in them. He looked, bewilderingly, almost like a child. His brows were drawn together in contemplation, his mouth set in a line of mild frustration, as though he were working through a problem that refused to resolve itself.
"Could you not love me too?"
You could not speak. The words lodged in your throat like stones.
He did not seem to require an answer. His gaze grew distant for a moment, reflective, and when he spoke again his voice was lower, rougher, as though he were recounting something he had never intended to share.
"I could see you, you know. When my father would make us come visit the Red Keep. You were always following him around. Valarr." He said the name with a particular weight, not quite disdain, not quite resignation. "A pretty little girl, but not remarkable enough to torment. I saw you only in passing."
Your jaw tightened. He did not seem to register it.
"Then we came again, years later, and you were…" He paused, his eyes dragging over your face, as though reconstructing a memory in real time. "A woman grown. Flowered. Filling out your dresses in ways that made it impossible not to look. And still beside him. Still following."
His hand had not left your neck. His thumb traced a slow line along the edge of your jaw.
"I assumed he had deflowered you by then," he said, and the bluntness of it made your breath catch. "Taken you to his bed. Broken you in a bit. How could he not? Having you next to him every day, looking at him the way you did." His eyes darkened, something flickering behind the violet that you could not name. "I could not imagine the restraint. Or the stupidity."
Your heart was beating too fast. You could feel it in your throat, in your wrists, in the places where his body nearly touched yours.
"Only for him to get betrothed to someone else." Aerion's mouth curved, but there was no humor in it. "A merchant's daughter from Tyrosh. And I wondered then if I had misjudged him. If my courteous, perfect cousin Valarr had it in him to use a woman and abandon her once he tired of her. That would have been a surprising discovery of cruelty. Almost impressive, in its own way."
He leaned closer, nosing along your cheek, pressing his lips in a way that were not quite kisses to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the tender skin beneath your ear.
"But then you told me the truth. That the potion was meant for him. And you had the expression of a maiden grasping for attention, not a woman scorned." He paused, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "He had simply never noticed the doe offering herself up willingly. Without so much as a chase."
You remained silent. What could you say? It was all true. Every word of it.
You remembered those years with a clarity that still ached. The hours spent at Valarr's side. The way your heart had leapt when he sought you out, when he smiled at you, when he trusted you with his fears and his uncertainties. You had thought, foolishly, desperately, that proximity would breed something more. That devotion would be rewarded. That he would look at you one day and see what had always been there, waiting.
He had not.
Aerion was wrong about one thing, at least. Valarr had not deflowered you. He had not even come close. There had been only one kiss, years ago, when you had wondered aloud what it felt like and he had offered to show you.
"To satisfy your curiosity," he had said. "And soothe your fears. That is all."
That was all. A single kiss, chaste and brief, and you had spent years afterwards lying awake at night wondering if he had ever wanted to kiss you again. If he had ever thought about it. If it had meant anything at all.
"What a dreadful waste."
Aerion's voice cut through your thoughts, and you realized he had been watching your face.
"All those years," he continued, shaking his head slowly. His tone sharpened with something that might have been disgust, though it was not directed at you. "Wouldn't you rather have fun with me?"
Before you could answer, he dragged his tongue along your parted mouth, an obscene gesture, and then pulled back entirely. The loss of warmth was jarring.
You heard the click of the lock.
He had crossed the room while you were still in a daze, and now he stood by the door with his hand still on the bolt, surveying the chamber with a new expression. Thoughtful. Calculating. The look of a man who had just conceived of something and was already deciding how to execute it.
"Change," he said.
You blinked. "…what?"
He was already moving toward your trunks and flipping them open. He rummaged through the folded gowns with the carelessness of a man who had never had to pack his own belongings in his life, tossing aside silks and velvets until he found what he was looking for.
"Put this on." He straightened, holding up a dress. It was the plainest thing you owned, wool, not silk, a muted grey-brown. Serviceable. Unremarkable. He found a cloak as well, dark and heavy, and thrust it toward you. "Quickly."
"Aerion..."
"I have decided," he said, as though that explained everything, "to show you something you have not seen before."
"What would that be?"
His mouth curved. "A life outside these walls."
You stared at him. "You are mad."
"Possibly." He did not seem troubled by the assessment. "But you are going to put on that dress and that cloak, and you are going to come with me, and for one night you are going to see what it is like to not be a lady in a cage."
"A cage I am only still in because of you," you pointed out.
"Yes," he agreed, entirely unrepentant. "So you may consider this my penance. Now change. Unless you would prefer I stay and watch?"
You snatched the dress from his hands and pointed toward the door. "Turn around."
He turned, though not before you caught the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
You changed quickly, pulled the cloak around your shoulders and drew the hood over your hair. The woman who looked back at you from the mirror was not a Baratheon lady. She was not a prince's betrothed. She was simply a woman in a plain dress, indistinguishable from a hundred others in the city below.
Aerion turned back at the sound of your movement, and his eyes swept over you with an approval that made something in your stomach tighten.
"Passable," he said. "Come."
He did not take your hand. He simply opened the door and waited, and after a moment's hesitation, you followed.
The passages he led you through were not the ones you knew. They were narrower, darker, clearly meant for servants or for those who did not wish to be seen. Aerion moved through them with the ease of long familiarity, and you wondered, not for the first time, what sort of prince spent so much time in hidden corridors.
The city beyond the Red Keep was another world entirely.
You had seen it before, of course: from windows, from carriages, from the high walls that separated royalty from rabble, but you had never walked through it. Not like this. Not on foot, with the press of bodies around you and the smell of cooking meat and unwashed skin and something sour that might have been spilled ale.
The market was still alive even at this hour, torches flickering in iron sconces, vendors calling out prices in voices hoarse from use. Aerion guided you through the crowd with a hand at the small of your back, a light pressure that steered you away from the worst of the press without ever seeming to direct you.
"Keep your hood up," he murmured against your hair. "Your face is too memorable."
You did not know whether that was a compliment or a warning.
He bought you food from a stall, fried and greasy dough, wrapped in paper that grew translucent with oil, and laughed when you hesitated to eat it.
"It will not kill you," he said. "Probably."
You ate it. It was, against all expectation, delicious.
He showed you the stall where a woman sold ribbons dyed in colors so vivid they seemed to glow in the torchlight. You saw the corner where a man with no teeth told fortunes for a copper penny, and the alley where a boy no older than ten was teaching a dog to dance on its hind legs. The blacksmith's forge, dark now but still radiating heat, the weaver's shop with its shuttered windows, and the fountain in the small square where the water ran clean and cold.
You stopped when you saw the play.
It was being performed on a makeshift stage at the edge of the market, boards laid across barrels, a painted curtain fluttering behind the players. The actors were not skilled, their voices too loud, their gestures too broad, but there was an energy to the performance that drew you in. You grabbed Aerion's sleeve without thinking and pulled him toward the crowd that had gathered.
He came willingly, standing close behind you as you watched.
The play, as it turned out, was not the sort of thing performed in the Red Keep.
It was vulgar. Obscenely, unapologetically vulgar. The plot, such as it was, seemed to revolve around a milkmaid, a travelling merchant, and a donkey, and the jokes grew progressively filthier with each passing minute. The crowd around you roared with laughter. You scrunched up your face.
You turned sharply, intending to leave, and found Aerion already watching you. He had not been watching the play at all. His grin was half-hidden against your hair, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, and when he saw your expression he only laughed harder.
"Not to your taste?" he murmured.
"You knew what this was."
"I had my suspicions." He tugged on your hand, drawing you away from the crowd. "Come. Before the donkey returns for the second act. It does not improve."
You were laughing by the time you reached the Red Keep.
You could not remember when the laughter had started, somewhere between the market and the gates, somewhere between the grease-stained paper crumpled in your hand and the way Aerion had nearly slipped on a pile of something unspeakable in the alley, but it had not stopped. Your sides ached with it. Your cheeks hurt. Aerion was no better, his composure utterly shattered, his hair disheveled from where you had shoved him in retaliation for a joke you refused to repeat.
The laughter died the moment you stepped through the doors.
Maekar Targaryen was waiting.
Beside him stood Baelor Breakspear, his expression troubled but composed, and beside Baelor...Valarr.
Your stomach dropped.
"Where," Maekar said, his voice carrying the particular calm of a man who was restraining himself only with great effort, "have you been?"
Aerion straightened, the last traces of mirth fading from his face. "Sightseeing."
"Sightseeing."
"The city is quite lovely at night, father. You should try it sometime."
"Do not play games with me, boy." Maekar's gaze moved to you, taking in the plain dress, the cloak. "You took your betrothed out into the streets. Alone. At night. Unchaperoned. Without guards. Without so much as a word to anyone."
"We did nothing inappropriate," Aerion said, and there was an edge creeping into his voice now. "We merely walked. I only wished to show her the city, she obliged me."
"She wished..." Maekar cut himself off, visibly struggling for control. "You are a prince of the blood. She is a lady of a great house, newly betrothed, and you thought it appropriate to drag her through the filth of the city like a common..."
"Like a what?" Aerion's voice sharpened dangerously.
Baelor raised a hand, stepping between them with the practiced ease of a man who had spent years mediating Targaryen tempers. "Enough. The question is not what was done, but what will be perceived. Aerion, you must understand how this looks. An unchaperoned outing, in secret, at night...it invites speculation. It invites scandal."
"There is no scandal," Aerion said flatly. "There is only a man showing his betrothed the city she will one day help rule."
"And there will be time enough for that after the wedding," Maekar snapped. "When she is your wife, not your..."
He stopped. The word hung unspoken in the air, and you felt your face heat for an entirely different reason.
"She is my betrothed," Aerion said, very quietly. "And I will thank you not to imply otherwise."
Valarr spoke for the first time.
"This is reckless, even for you." His voice was controlled, but there was something simmering beneath it, something that made Aerion's head turn slowly toward him. "She deserves better than to be dragged into your whims."
"Who asked your opinion?" Aerion's hostility flared so suddenly that even Baelor looked taken aback. "Who asked you to weigh in on this, cousin? You, who could not be bothered to notice her when she was right in front of you? You, who..."
"Aerion." Baelor's voice was sharp now. "That is enough."
"Is it? Because I find myself quite interested in why Valarr has suddenly developed such a concern for my betrothed's welfare. A year ago he could not see her beside himself. Now he cannot stop looking."
Valarr's jaw tightened. "I have always cared for her."
"Have you?" Aerion tilted his head, and his smile was not pleasant. "How convenient that you discovered this only after she was no longer available."
"Enough!"
This time it was Lyonel Baratheon who spoke, his voice cutting through the tension like a war horn. He had been standing near the back of the hall, silent until now, his arms crossed over his chest. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes moved between Aerion and Valarr with a calculation that made you nervous.
"You," he said, pointing at Aerion, "will learn to control your tongue and your impulses, or I will teach you myself. I have no objection to a man showing his betrothed the city. I have done worse in my youth, and I will not play the hypocrite. But I do object to a man whose every action threatens to dishonor my niece and my house through sheer carelessness."
Aerion opened his mouth, saw the look in Lyonel's eyes, and closed it again.
"You will not be alone with her without a witness until the wedding," Maekar said, seizing the opening. "That is not a request. It is a command. I will not have this alliance jeopardized by your inability to exercise restraint."
"Father..."
"You are dismissed."
Aerion stood motionless for a long moment. Then he turned, and his eyes met yours. There was frustration, defiance, and something else that you could not quite name, and then he bowed, stiffly, and strode from the hall.
You did not watch him go. You did not look at Valarr, though you could feel his gaze on you like a weight. You simply inclined your head to Maekar, to Baelor, to your uncle, and retreated to your chambers with as much dignity as you could muster.
You barely slept.
The morning came gray and cold, and you rose with the first light, your head aching from too little rest and too much wine the night before. Your maids had not yet arrived. The castle was quiet.
You did not hear him enter.
One moment you were alone, standing before the mirror in your shift, and the next his arms were around you from behind, his mouth pressing hot against the curve of your neck.
"Aerion..." you gasped, trying to twist away. "The command...there must be a witness..."
"There is no one here to witness the lack of witness," he murmured against your skin, "and I will be gone before anyone knows I was here. Turn around."
You turned.
He kissed you.
This time, you kissed him back.
Your hands rose to grip the front of his tunic, pulling him closer instead of pushing him away. Your mouth moved against his with an enthusiasm that surprised you both. The taste of him was familiar now, and you chased it, rising onto your toes to press closer, closer, until there was no space left between your bodies.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, his breathing uneven. He looked at you for a long moment.
"Well," he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of your swollen lower lip. "That is more like it."
Then he was gone, slipping through the door as silently as he had come, leaving you standing alone in the morning light with your heart pounding and your lips still tingling.
part 5: pending...
a/n: Liked the fic? You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3
a/n: Comment if you'd like to be added to this series' taglist.
Valarr Targaryen x Stark!reader (without physical descriptions except that your her hair is long enough to be braided so y'all can project to your heart's fill!)
You're the infamous steel-clad eldest daughter of Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell. After a hard-earned victory against the Skagosi uprising in the North, you and your father make their way over to the Red Keep, where your father is to serve on the board of advisors for the Lord Protector. As it's your first time venturing in the South, your enraptured by King's Landing and its lively streets. At dawn, you train in the yard, during the day, you enjoy the company of the ladies of the court, and at night, you may come to enjoy the occasional trip into the narrow but lively alleys of King's Landing with her new found friends.
And Valarr is just instantly whipped.
Tags: love at first sight (from Valarr), reader is a headstrong warrior woman but is still girly when she wants to be (no internalized misogyny in this household), strictly platonic Daeron x reader, mutual pining, you both have zero rizz at the start, kind of? slow burn (but not really bc i am Impatient), ngl i do not know if i'll write smut, but if i do y'all can trust that i'll put my whole soul into it! The chapters will be divided by the change of perspectives and won't always exactly chronologically follow each other, in true ASOIAF fashion.
Prologue - 1,4k words
Chapter 1 - You - 2,8k words
Chapter 2 - Valarr - 4k words
Chapter 3 - You - 7,5k words
Ngl the updates will be irregular, but anytime I have my manic bursts of logorrhea you can be sure there'll be multiple chapters at once! I already planned out 80% of the fic in my notes app, so dw about this fic getting abandoned lol. I'm just a postgrad student and sometimes I just simply. cannot.
୧ ‧₊˚ 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑 𝓖.𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 and his pretty secretary... or fiancé..? ⋅ ✰
everyone thinks gojo satoru, heir to japan’s largest corporation, is impossible to tie down. Cold, arrogant, and rumored to have a different woman on his arm every week. so when he suddenly announces that his overworked secretary is actually his fiancée, the entire company is left stunned.
art by yunonoai. i recreated the purple divider above this. please tag me if u use it ♡ other dividers by cheriisoda and pixopix
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who treats the entire office like his personal kingdom. People straighten up the second they hear his shoes clicking down the hallway, but somehow he always seems especially irritating with you. He drops folders onto your desk with a lazy, “Need this done before lunch,” then disappears before you can argue.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who is annoyingly perfect at his job. Cold, efficient, untouchable. Even when you’re furious at him, you can’t deny he’s good at what he does, which only makes your resentment worse because he clearly knows it too.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა whose office smells expensive. Crisp cologne, coffee, and the faint scent of whatever luxury detergent rich people use. You hate that you associate the smell with long nights spent working overtime because of him.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who doesn’t flirt with you at first. That’s the problem. He flirts with everyone else. Receptionists giggle when he walks by, executives’ daughters practically throw themselves at him during company dinners, and gossip spreads about whatever model or actress was spotted leaving his penthouse that week.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who makes you stay late constantly, then has the nerve to look confused when you snap at him one night and tell him you actually have a life outside this company.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who starts unconsciously relying on you for everything. His coffee order. His schedule. Which tie matches which suit. He’ll bark, “Where’s my blue file?” across the office before remembering other employees exist.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა whose grandfather absolutely adores you because you’re the only employee who doesn’t kiss his grandson’s ass. The old man laughs every single time you glare at Gojo during meetings.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who accidentally blurts out that you’re his fiancée during a family dinner because he panics after hearing the words arranged marriage for the tenth time that night.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who immediately turns to you afterward like you’re the unreasonable one for looking horrified.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who says, “Just play along for a little while,” as if he didn’t just ruin your entire life in front of a room full of billionaires.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა whose family becomes obsessed with you overnight. Suddenly flowers are arriving at your desk. His grandmother wants your ring size. His grandfather keeps asking when the wedding is.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who offers you an absurd amount of money to keep pretending to be engaged to him, and gets offended when you tell him he’s insufferable enough that no amount of money feels worth it.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who starts acting weirdly protective once the fake engagement begins. If another executive talks down to you during meetings, Gojo cuts them off with an icy smile that makes the entire room tense.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who insists on driving you home after late nights because “my fiancée taking the subway at midnight looks bad for me.”
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who absolutely cannot act normal during fake couple moments. He’s smooth with everyone else, but with you there’s this strange stiffness to him sometimes, like he’s overthinking every little thing.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who stares at you for half a second too long the first time you fix his tie before an event. His ears go slightly pink, and he immediately gets mean afterward to compensate.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who learns your habits embarrassingly quickly. He knows exactly how you take your coffee, which snacks disappear first from the office vending machine, and when you’re about to get a stress headache before you even say anything.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who keeps accidentally slipping into domestic behavior. Holding doors open for you automatically. Saving you a seat during meetings. Texting you when he gets home after business trips without realizing how boyfriend-ish it sounds.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who gets irrationally annoyed whenever someone calls you by your last name instead of “Mrs. Gojo” during fake engagement events.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who has a massive penthouse that somehow still feels lonely. The first time you go there for contract-related fake dating reasons, you realize how empty it actually is despite all the expensive furniture.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who secretly likes when you yell at him because everyone else is too intimidated to do it. You call him an arrogant asshole to his face and he just stares at you with this weirdly entertained look.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who is horrible at receiving care. If he gets sick from overworking, he insists he’s fine while looking seconds away from collapsing at his desk.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who starts smiling more around the office after the fake engagement begins, and everyone notices immediately. Unfortunately for you, this leads to endless teasing from coworkers asking if you’ve “finally tamed” him.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who’s terrifyingly good at physical affection in public. His arm around your waist feels natural. His thumb rubbing circles against your hand during family dinners feels natural. Which is a problem, because none of it should feel real.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who has absolutely zero actual relationship experience despite his reputation. You assume he’s some experienced playboy because of rumors and tabloid gossip, meanwhile he’s internally fighting for his life every time you get too close to him.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who one day realizes he’s started thinking of you as his real fiancée long before either of you have actually talked about feelings.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who shows up one morning and finds you asleep at your desk because you stayed up helping your parents with the family restaurant/store/accounting stuff the night before.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა whose fridge contains imported water, expensive champagne, and literally nothing else meanwhile your family’s fridge is packed with leftovers, labeled containers, and six different sauces in reused jars.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who cannot comprehend why you refuse to let him buy you expensive things. The first time he casually hands you a designer bag because “you looked at it too long,” you nearly throw it back at his head.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who gets dragged to your neighborhood for the first time and looks hilariously out of place in his luxury suit while old aunties openly gossip about him from across the street.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who’s painfully aware your parents don’t trust him at first. To them he’s just another cold rich man who probably sees their daughter as disposable.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who slowly starts looking forward to dinners at your house because it’s the first time in years someone’s made him feel like part of a family instead of a business asset.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who slowly starts looking forward to dinners at your house because it’s the first time in years someone’s made him feel like part of a family instead of a business asset.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who nearly malfunctions the first time your mom fusses over him and packs him leftovers to take home.
૮₍ satoru ⑅₎ა who has no idea how normal people function. You once mention waiting for payday before buying something and he genuinely pauses because the concept has literally never applied to him before.
he might not look like he gets bitches, but honey that dick was 11 inches
it was hard not to notice Choso, with his tall frame draped in all black clothes and the heavy silver jewelry adorning his body. and while you noticed him, you wouldn't have considered him your type. but that didn't stop Choso from noticing you.
content: 18+ mdni, dry humping, oral (f receiving), Choso has a tongue piercing, fingering, Choso is down bad, Choso has a big dick (duh)
wc: 6k
a/n: hi everybody! i am alive and back with fic number 2! i am hoping to get these out on a more consistent schedule but no promises lmao. divider credit @cursed-carmine; picture credits: @thatsallitchief and @aransmind
You had never really thought too much about whether or not you had a type. Frankly, there wasn’t much of a point, given that when you weren’t working your ass off academically, you were working your ass off at your job or the gym. You didn’t have much time for extracurriculars, so to speak.
But, if someone asked you to describe your type, you’d probably say tall, muscular, athletic. A good jawline and tattoos were a plus. Perhaps outgoing, good with people and easy to talk to.
Now this wasn’t an end all be all list of traits—you wouldn’t mind a short king or a lanky golden retriever type. At the end of the day, personality was really all that mattered to you. And that was where the average man was lacking most of the time.
So you didn’t really lose any sleep over lack of romantic partners, too focused on school and work for the absence to really be noticed. Sure, there would be a cute classmate or two that would catch your eye, and you’d appreciate them from a distance. They all fit your usual preference of traditionally masculine, athletic guys who were easygoing extroverts. You liked competence, and a potential partner of yours needed to be confident, commanding.
So yeah, maybe you did have a type. Everyone had preferences and you were no different. You didn’t really picture yourself straying from those preferences either, couldn’t picture yourself with someone shy or super introverted. Until now.
He was a transfer student, partway into his sophomore year in the psychology program, same as you, though this was your first year. You shared the same 10 am human development lecture, meaning you saw him every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning.
You never would’ve considered Choso your type. You’d never really been into the whole emo look. Sure, you’d enjoyed your fair share of Panic at the Disco and Paramore in middle school, but scene hadn’t really been your, well, scene.
You wouldn’t have ever listed all black clothes, smudged eyeliner, painted nails, or heavy silver jewelry in your list of characteristics you typically found attractive. Yes, Choso was tall and muscular. He had tattoos, including an odd line across the bridge of his nose onto his cheeks. These were all things you knew you found attractive.
But for as bold as his style was, he was quite shy. He never volunteered answers in class, only responding when called on in a quiet, almost self-conscious voice. He should speak with more confidence, you would think whenever he gave his answers, given that they were always intelligent and well-said. You never thought you liked shy types, preferring guys that could speak up and could offer up confidence in situations where your anxiety might get the best of you.
However, you couldn’t deny the way your eye was always drawn to him. He sat in the first row on the far right hand corner. You sat a couple rows behind him, more towards the center, meaning you got a fairly clear view of him. When he wasn’t taking notes, he was drawing little doodles in the margins of his notebook. You often found yourself wondering what they were.
He was cute, in his own way. He seemed quite sweet and polite, offering notes to a classmate who'd been out sick or a helping hand when the girl next to him was confined to walking on crutches. You knew some of the other girls in your lecture didn’t view him the same way. You attended a private school, a very elite one. Between your stellar grades and test scores, as well as a fairly high financial need, you had earned yourself a full ride to the university. And while the education and accommodations and features on campus were stellar, you had found that private school meant students with private school money—and the attitude that came with it. Entitled, privileged, and, in the case of the aforementioned girls in your lecture, catty fucking bitches.
You’d heard them whisper and giggle amongst themselves over Choso. Judging his clothes, his hair—you found his short space buns rather adorable—and how he’d sometimes stutter when answering questions. You often found yourself grinding your teeth, wanting to turn and cuss them out over their bitchy remarks. Choso was genuine and unpretentious in the way that pretty much everyone else at the university wasn’t, and you found yourself wanting to defend him. To protect what you were positive was a sensitive, artistic soul.
You often found yourself wondering what he did outside of class. Did he like to draw? You’d seen his little sketches in his notebook, maybe he liked drawing legitimately, in sketchbooks instead of college ruled paper. Maybe he liked to game? He seemed like he would enjoy PC gaming. Despite being outwardly withdrawn, Choso seemed like the type to be intensely dedicated to his interests, and you found yourself wanting to know what they were.
You were delighted to find out that your interest was shared.
It started with a partner project your professor had shared with the class on Monday. Partners were randomly chosen and the rest of class was spent exchanging contact information and planning out a rough timeline and ideas for the project. You had cheered internally when your name popped up next to Choso’s. Sliding into the now-vacant seat next to his, you’d smiled and introduced yourself. Choso had blushed furiously, ducking his head and quietly giving you his name in response.
You formed a theory that day, one that was proven correct by the next class.
Choso had a crush on you.
He was horrible at hiding it, always blushing or stuttering when talking to you, never able to look you in the eye. And despite how protective you’d felt towards him against those judgemental bitches that sat near you in lecture, you couldn’t help but tease him a little bit.
Leaning in and smiling softly when he spoke, not breaking eye contact when you’d prop your chin on your hand to listen intently to what he was saying. His eyes would widen and a furious blush would spread across his cheeks, and he would lose track of whatever he’d been saying. His reaction would prompt an even more mischievous glint in your eye and sharpness in your smile, in turn making him even more nervous. When you suggested meeting up in the library or his apartment, he’d choked on his sip of water. You’d just grinned.
You’d decided the library was probably a better way to ease Choso into spending time with you without him having a heart attack. Baby steps.
The afternoon you two decided to get together for your project was a rainy one. A very rainy one. The brief mad dash from the bus to the entrance of the library had left you soaked, and now you stood in the air conditioned library shivering so hard your teeth clacked.
Your slow, shivering footsteps to the third floor where you and Choso had agreed to meet left wet footprints along the floor. You swore that this floor was even colder, and you tried to wrap your damp cardigan around yourself in attempt to chase away the goosebumps that had covered your skin. Your footsteps faltered, however, when you spotted Choso sitting at a table in front of a window. He was backlit by stormy gray skies and occasional bursts of lightning. He hunched slightly over what he was working on, brows furrowed in concentration. He was drawing, you realized, and you stood there for what was probably a creepy amount of time, but the warmth that blossomed in your chest as you watched him was addicting.
Until the cold that had seeped into your very bones wrenched a violent sneeze from you. Choso startled and looked up, eyes widening as he took in the sight of you, which most likely resembled a drowned cat.
“Oh,” he breathed, standing up so fast his chair tumbled back. He scrambled to the chair next to him, wrestling something off the back of it. As he rushed towards you holding a mass of black fabric you realized it was his jacket.
Heavy leather settled over your shoulders and you were suddenly wrapped in the warm, spicy scent of his cologne. His dark eyes were scanning all over your body as if searching for injuries, his brows pulling together in worry.
After a long moment of you two staring at each other, you finally remembered to give him a softly whispered, “Thank you”.
He blushed, ducking his head and abruptly stepping back as if he’d just realized how close you two were standing. His big hand, adorned with heavy silver rings that glinted in the low light, came up to rub the back of his neck.
“I doubt you’d be comfortable studying here in wet clothes,” he said suddenly. “I-if you want we can stop over in my dorm and you can borrow some clothes.” You were quiet for a second, surprised that he’d invited you into his space given how shocked he'd been when you’d first brought it up. Mistaking your surprise for reluctance, he rushed out, “O-only if you want to of course. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.” He looked adorably horrified at the idea.
Not wanting him to panic any longer, you grinned at him. “I’d love to.”
This time around, you fared a bit better on your journey to the bus stop since you had Choso’s large jacket to shield you from the worst of the rain. You relished in the warmth and the scent of his cologne, and the fact that you were dwarfed by his jacket. You chanced a glance up at Choso and admired the way he towered over you despite the way he hunched his shoulders as if to appear smaller. He had not fared so well in the rain; his hair had fallen out of its knot and the strands stuck to his face, highlighting its sharp lines and angles. His eyeliner had smudged slightly, contrasting with the paleness on his skin. Instead of looking like the dripping mess you had, he looked like he had stepped out of rainy ad for designer clothes or cologne or something. It was rather unfair.
The whole bus ride to his apartment, you could see him stealing glances at you from the corner of your eye and it took everything in you not to grin. You wanted Choso, and you delighted in the fact that he wanted you just as bad, if not more so.
His apartment was small, but tidy and clean. It was well decorated too, but you weren’t too surprised by that. There were pretty paintings and drawings lining the walls, with art supplies and trinkets scattered across nearly every flat surface. You spotted an electric guitar leaning against an amp in the corner.
The smell of his cologne was practically woven into the air in here, and it was all you could do to not gulp down deep breaths of it with every inhale.
As you as you two had stepped inside, Choso had immediately started rambling nervously, apologizing for the mess and letting you know you could borrow any clothes you wanted, and did you need anything? Like a water or a—
“Choso,” you interrupted gently, “do you mind terribly if I hop in your shower?”
“Oh! Of course! Um, let me grab a spare towel and some clothes and—” his voice faded as he started rushing towards his room, and you trailed after him with a soft smile on your face.
You had been about to invite him to join you in the shower before he excused himself to his room and told you to shout if you needed anything. Slightly disappointed, but not discouraged, you’d nodded and headed towards the bathroom.
Little did you know that as soon as the bathroom door closed, Choso was stripping down to his boxers and lying back on his bed, palming his cock through the fabric as he desperately tried, and failed, not to imagine you naked in his shower. Covered in soap and shrouded by steam, looking oh so perfect like you always did.
He tried to stifle the tortured groan that tore out of his chest. His hand was rough over his cock, handling it without finesse as he tried to get himself to stop. He felt so, so guilty, but the mental image of you glistening under the water mere feet away from him made him feel so, so good. Heat tightened in his gut as he fished his dick out of his boxers and started to viciously pump his hand up and down the shaft, biting his forearm to stem desperate cries of your name.
Pressure built in his gut, stomach tensing as he hurtled towards the edge. White covered his vision as he came suddenly and violently, his orgasm ripping through him like a storm. It was only as he laid there trying to catch his breath that his ears stopped ringing that he realized the shower had stopped.
Panic shot through him as he leapt up, blindly searching for clothes and something to wipe the cum off his stomach.
You stepped into the room to find Choso in sweatpants, his chest heaving and looking slightly guilty as his hands wrung together nervously. He opened his mouth to say something, before he registered what you wearing.
His t shirt was huge on you, nearly hanging down to your knees. Your collarbones peaked out from the collar of the shirt, your damp hair hanging down in gentle waves over your shoulders.
This domestic, intimate version of you, standing in his apartment wearing his clothes left Choso speechless and his mind short circuiting. You smiled softly at him and his heart stuttered.
“I, um",” he couldn’t get any words out, his eyes drinking in the sight of you.
“Choso,” you said gently, and his eyes snapped to yours, a guilty flush spreading over his cheeks.
“I’m sorr-” he started, but cut off as you shushed him and stepped closer. His heart damn near stopped as you raised you hand to touch his chest. Your delicate fingers drew graceful lines over the designs of his tattoos, tracing the whorls of ink that covered his chest.
“Did they hurt?” you whisper, transfixed by the sight of how small your fingers looked against the wide expanse of his shoulders and chest.
“Yeah,” he whispered back, hardly daring to breathe in fear of breaking whatever was happening in this moment. He nearly tipped his hand back and groaned when you pressed your entire hand against his chest. He had no doubt that you could feel the way his heart raced under your palm.
Your breathing synced with his, and he tipped his chin down to take in the sight of you standing so close to him with your hands on his skin. This time, as your other hand came up to press against his stomach, he couldn’t stop his groan.
His eyes shut in embarrassment and he opened him mouth to apologize, but you cut him off.
“Choso,” you whispered. He eyes opened and landed on you. The way he looked at you, as if you were the only thing in the room worth looking at, filled you with warmth and confidence.
“Yes?” he whispered back and you grinned.
“You should kiss me,” you told him, and his dark eyes widened.
“What"?” he sputtered in surprise.
“Kiss me,” you repeated and smiled at him.
With another groan, he hand came up to cradle your jaw and he pressed his lips to yours. You were immediately addicted to the taste of him. He worked his mouth over yours feverishly, his other arm coming up to wrap around your waist tightly, pulling you flush against him and trapping your arms between the two of you.
You were expecting something soft. Something shy and sweet from the boy who’d steal glances at you during psych lectures. You were not expecting this.
Choso’s tongue surged into your mouth, making you moan and run your hands up to his shoulders to grasp at him. He was practically curled around you to reach your mouth, he was that much taller than you. You startled when you felt the clack of metal against your teeth, before your pussy clenched at the realization that Choso had a tongue piercing.
He ate at you like he was starving, and the hand at your jaw moved as he crouched down slightly. You pulled away a little, confused and wanting to see what he was doing. Choso gave a displeased grunt at the distance before wrapping that arm under your ass and yanking you back to his mouth.
He now held you in the air like you weighed nothing as you two made out, heavy breaths and wet sounds from your mouths the only thing that could be heard in the room. You curled your hands in his black strands and pulled on them roughly, earning a grunt from Choso.
He spun with you in his arms, blindly walking towards the direction of his bed. Your mouth ripped from his in a soft cry as you two fell back on to the bed, your stomach swooping from the quick drop.
For a moment, Choso hovered over you, staring down at you like he couldn’t believe you were really here. You took in your fill of him as well. His handsome face and silky hair. The muscles that bunched at his shoulders and biceps and pecs. The veins that corded his forearms and hands. You couldn’t believe the girls in your class didn’t find him ridiculously hot.
Choso must’ve snapped out of whatever awed trance he’d been in, because he swooped back down to devour your mouth, a muscular arm wrapping around you once more to yank your body to his. Your back arched and you moaned at the feel of hard muscle and hot skin along your bare thighs as you wrapped your legs around him.
He thrust helplessly against you at the sound, as if your moans and cries controlled his body. When you moaned and gasped “Again!” he began grinding against you, grunts and groans of his own leaving his mouth as his tongue traced every inch of your mouth, the cool metal ball of his piercing tracing each path.
Heat had spread through you, and need burned like fire low in your tummy. You were soaked and desperate to show Choso that you weren’t wearing anything under his t shirt.
“Off,” you groaned, yanking at his sweatpants. “all of it.”
At first he didn’t move, as if he couldn’t bear to be away from you even for a moment, but when you tugged on his waistband again he almost tripped over himself as he rushed to rip off his clothes.
Silence descended over the room, with only the sound patter of rain outside softly filtering in.
You knew Choso was a big guy. He towered over you and his shoulders were practically doubled the width of yours. You knew he was muscular, even more so than you’d initially thought as you stared at his naked body. Each muscle was rock hard and defined, as if a sculptor had taken extra care to run a chisel along every line of him.
And you could’ve spent hours looking at and running your hands over his arms, his chest, his back, his thighs; you could’ve spent hours idly tracing your fingertips over every line of his tattoos that lovingly hugged his body. Hopefully some day you would. But now, one thing on his body was stealing all of your attention.
Choso was huge.
Hard and thick and throbbing. So heavy that it hung between his thighs instead of springing up. Veins wound around the shaft towards his head that was already leaking pre. The pretty pink of his dick belied the fact that Choso was packing a fucking monster.
“Holy shit,” you breathed as you stared at his cock. You couldn’t take your eyes off of it, partially in arousal and partially in shock.
“Is… is it... okay?” Choso, the poor thing, asked uncertainly. You finally tore your eyes from his throbbing cock to look into his soulful puppy dog eyes.
“You’re huge, Choso,” you said, stating the obvious.
Or not so obvious. To Choso at least, given the fact that he glance down at his own cock and looked back at you and asked, “Is it?”. You almost laughed, before you realized he was genuinely asking. (He was too embarrassed to say that he’d found himself to be about the same size as the dicks he’d seen in porn, apparently not aware that porn stars did not reflect the size of the average population.)
“Yeah baby,” you responded, “you’re really, very big.” At that, Choso whined and grasped at his cock, rutting into his hand as your words made him twitch and leak even more.
“Can I… what do you want me to do?” Choso asked, desperation bleeding into his tone as his hand pumped his cock like he couldn’t help it.
“Come here, Cho,” you whispered, and he lurched towards you as if yanked by a leash. He practically fell over you, one arm catching himself as he planted a knee on the bed, eyes never leaving you.
Slowly, you leaned forward, close enough that you were breathing each other’s air, before you leaned back in order to lift his t shift off your body. Choso made a sound halfway between a groan and a sob as he realized you were completely naked underneath.
“Please,” he whimpered, the hand on his dick squeezing the base violently now to stop him from cumming just from the sight of you.
“Touch me, Choso,” you told him softly, curious to see what he’d do first.
Which, apparently, was to dive face first into your pussy.
You cried out, hands flying down to grip his hair as he swiped his tongue in a fat stripe over the entire length of you. If you hadn’t been so shocked, you would’ve been embarrassed by how loud the wet slurp a single swipe of his tongue had elicited from your pussy due to how fucking soaked you were for him.
He dove the fuck in, practically nuzzling your cunt as he thrust his tongue into you. You groaned, eyes fluttering and back arching. Every time you made a sound or called his name he sucked at you even harder, licked at you even rougher. Every movement of his mouth caused wet slurps and squelches to sound from between your legs, your pussy dripping for him. You could feel his piercing caress you with every swipe of his tongue.
He alternated between long licks and deep thrusts of his tongue inside you, neglecting your poor clit that throbbed for attention. The longer he went, the more desperately it pulsed as wetness poured from you.
“Please Cho,” you begged, using your grip on his hair to pull his face even tighter against you. He was practically smothered in your pussy, not that he seemed to mind. His groan vibrated through you, causing you to groan as well. “Please.”
At your second plea he relented, wrapping those pouty lips around your clit and sucking, hard, the metal of his piercing pressing perfectly into the underside of your clit. You nearly screamed as you came without warning, throwing your head back against the pillows as the dam broke. Heat pulsed through you as your hips rolled against Choso’s mouth. Your orgasm left you so wet you could hear Choso drinking you down as you slowly came down from your high.
You melted into Choso’s bed as he raised his head to look at you. The sight of him, dark shiny eyes looking at your from between your thighs, big veiny hands gripping the fat of your hips so hard you’re pretty sure you’ll find bruises in the morning, made you clench around nothing.
“Your fingers, Cho,” you panted, reaching down to cradle his cheek, “need you to get me ready to take your cock baby.” He gave a tortured groan, burying his face against one of your thighs as he ground his hips into the bed. With a parting kiss to your leg, he leaned back on his haunches and brought a hand to your sensitive, pulsing pussy.
You gasped, stomach heaving as his thick fingers swiped up the seam of you before pressing inside. A single one of his fingers was like two of yours, and you rolled your hips to pull him deeper. He groaned, starting to pump his finger into you roughly, soon adding a second finger.
You could feel the cool metal of his rings against your flushed, burning hot cunt. Each press of his fingers inside made a wet squelch, and when he curled his fingers against your front wall you began crying out. When he slowly eased a third finger inside of you and pressed all three fingers up against that spot, you screamed as another orgasm wracked through you. Your legs shook, mouth hanging open and eyes rolling back as you came so hard it almost hurt.
Choso had wrapped an arm around one of your bent legs, pressing a kiss to your knee as he continued to thrust into you gently, slowly spreading his fingers inside of you. Prepping you.
“C’mere,” you slurred, pulling him to your mouth even as his fingers stayed pressed inside you. You kissed him, hot and wet and filthy as you panted into his mouth. Choso slipped his free arm under your shoulders to pull you closer, your bare chests pressing together. He whimpered when you pulled at his hair roughly. You pulled away, a string of saliva hanging between your mouths.
“Please fuck me, Cho,” you whispered.
He couldn’t move fast enough, leaning back and pulling his fingers out of you so fast you cried out. He fumbled at his nightstand, pulling up a drawer to search for a condom. Briefly, you had the ridiculous thought of the poor cashier that had to ring up whatever crazy huge size of condoms Choso needed. The thought quickly vanished and your mouth went dry as you watched him roll the condom on. Despite how relaxed and wet you were for him, you were seriously doubting your ability to take this thing.
As if sensing your nerves, Choso raised his head to look into your eyes. His were big and pleaded, but searching for any sign of reluctance or discomfort.
“Come here,” you said, and he followed obediently, draping his big body over you and letting you pull his lips to yours. Your tongues swiped lazily at each other as you both panted into the other’s mouth. You made a game of searching for Choso’s piercing with the tip of your tongue, which seemed to drive him crazy.
Slowly, you reached down to grab his cock, trepidation seeping in as you grasped at the girth of him. Holy shit.
He whimpered against your mouth as you guided him towards your entrance, and bit at your lip as your pressed the tip of him inside. You had to work him against you for a second, spreading your lips around him until he slipped in with a slight pop. You groaned against his mouth and he froze, terrified that he’d hurt you.
“Holy fuck,” you whispered as you pulled him toward you to take a few more inches. You knew there was so much more left to go but already you were feeling the deep, aching stretch. “You’re so fucking big, Cho.” Your praise made him moan, and he leaned down to hide his face in your neck as his hips jerked forward at your words.
You let him take over, trusting him to watch and listen for any cues from you that you needed to stop, and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Choso began to pull back the few inches you had already taken before slowly pressing back into you, feeding you a little bit more of him. He did it again, and again, starting a slow pace of gently thrusting more and more of him inside of you.
You clawed at his back, no doubt leaving stinging red lines behind, as you gasped in his ear. Each slow thrust felt like it was rearranged your insides, the stretch a deep ache that pulsed through your hips. After what felt like an eternity, you felt his pelvis press flush against yours, the hair of his happy trail tickling your tummy.
“Choso,” you gasped out as his shoulders heaved above you. He shook with the restraint it took to stay still, the blissful wet heat of you around him like heaven. He moaned your name in your ear and your body arched to press impossibly closer to his.
Your eyes rolled back as a mini orgasm shivered through you at just the feeling of taking all of him. He gave a helpless little cry and thrust his hips against you as he felt you pulsing around him.
“You can—hah—you can move now, baby,” you panted into his ear, and with a whine he immediately pulled back a few inches and thrust back into you hard. You cried out, fingernails dragging down his back as he did it again. And again. And again and again, until he was slamming into you with his arms wrapped tightly around your back, forcing you to arch into him as he desperately drove his hips forward with his face buried in your neck.
Distantly, you could hear the headboard slamming against the wall, and had the inane thought that his neighbors were most likely not happy campers at the moment.
Those thoughts were quickly knocked from your head at a particularly delicious thrust that had you arching your back and moaning Choso’s name, a breathy exhale into his ear that made him grind forward with a whine.
Veins popped out along Choso’s hands and arms, which were planted on either side of your head. Wrapping your hands around them, you ran them up his arms to feel the dips and curves of the muscles that strained from holding his weight up. He shuddered as your hands traveled up his arms, across his shoulders, and into his hair, tugging lightly.
“Fuck,” he grit out, dropping to one elbow and wrapping his other arm around your back to yank you against him. You could feel the hard lines of his abs against the soft skin of your stomach. And you swear you could feel the slight bulge of him in your tummy press out from inside of you against his abdomen. Your sweaty stomachs slid against each other as he thrust into you. Desperately, he slammed his mouth to yours, thrusting his tongue into your mouth. You moaned into the messy kiss, tracing his tongue with yours and feeling the metal ball of his piercing caress it. When you sucked his tongue, his hips slammed forward viciously and you broke the kiss with a cry.
“Choso,” you gasped against his ear, “please.”
He groaned, dropping his forehead to your shoulder and thrust in to the hilt, punching a pathetic little cry from you. The entire length of his inside of you stretched you ridiculously, and you felt him deep in your tummy, your entire body seeming to throb around him. One of your hands fisted his hair while the other dug nails into his shoulder when he started to grind his hips into you, hot and heavy and so, so good.
When your hips jerked up, Choso pulled his back a little, only to snap them forward back into you, as if he couldn’t bear to be parted from your wet heat. Each of his short, powerful thrusts ended with a filthy grind against, making the veins that twisted along his shaft hit every sensitive spot inside you, lighting you up like a live wire.
The arm he had wrapped around your back slid lower, hoisting your hips up in the air. The change in angle meant that his length slid along your g spot with every slick slid in and out. Light flashed behind your eyes and white hot pleasure burst over every inch of you. Your skin felt like it was on fire as your tummy coiled tightly.
With a shout of his name, the pleasure exploded, and you practically sobbed as wave after wave swept over you. Wetness poured from you, coating Choso’s shaft and stomach. You could hear him groan at the sensation and the way his hips stuttered against you at the feeling of you pulsing around him.
With one final, desperate thrust, he buried himself deep inside you and bit down on your shoulder hard as he came. You shivered at the feeling of him throbbing inside you and the heat that spread along his covered cock. Deliriously, you half-wished you could experience the sensation of him cumming inside you without a condom, to have his cum spill out of you when he pulled out.
Your arms were wrapped around each other as you both fought to catch your breath. You could feel his large chest heaving against yours. Slowly, he lifted his head to meet your eyes, the soulful brown bottomless as he gazed wonderingly at you. You lifted a shaky hand to cradle his cheek, warmth spreading in your chest when his eyes closed in bliss and he nuzzled into your palm, turning his head to press a kiss to it.
He mumbled something that was completely muffled by the palm of your hand. You giggled, pulling your hand away in order to hear what he was saying, only for him to nip at your fingers. He grinned dopily at your shriek.
“What did you say?” you asked breathlessly, unable to resist meeting his goofy grin with a smile of your own.
Crimson bloomed across Choso’s cheeks, but he stared you down unwaveringly nonetheless.
“Will you go out with me?” he asked, and despite everything you two had just done together, you could tell he was nervous. And despite everything you two had just done together, his question launched a horde of butterflies in your stomach.
“I’d like that,” you respond, delighting in the wide grin that spread across Choso’s face. You reached up to brush away some of the dark strands of his sweaty hair that had fallen across his forehead.
“But before that, why don’t we hop in the shower?”
The next time your Human Development lecture met, you found yourself in the seat next to Choso’s, sitting close enough for your thigh to brush against his. His right hand was busy handwriting notes (you’d teased him about his refusal to upgrade to typing up his notes, but he’d insisted writing them down by hand was better for memorization), while his left rested on your leg, thumb sweeping idly back and forth across your thigh. You bit your lip to try and contain your grin, focusing intently on typing away at your laptop.
During a brief lull when your professor stepped away to the computer to pull up the next presentation, soft whispers reached you from a few rows back.
“so lame, why does he even—”
“no why he actually bagged—”
“please… doesn’t even look like he could—”
“probably… small dick… pathetic virgin—”
Anger simmered violently through you, and you found yourself clenching your jaw, imagining all the ways you could turn around and tell those fucking bitches to back off—you were pulled abruptly from your thoughts as Choso’s thumb swept of your leg again. You glanced at him and saw him give you a shy, sweet smile before turning back to his notebook.
You pressed your lips together, fighting off a smile once again. You settled back into your seat, facing forward as your professor started up his lecture.
Whatever. you thought to yourself smugly. They could think and say whatever they wanted, because at the end of the day, you were the one walking side to side after a night with your emo boyfriend.
synopsis. the frat president is so much sweeter than you expected
contents. sfw! fluff + a smidge of angst. frat!jo x fem! reader. college au. satoru is sickeningly sweet. a little ooc maybe. cw. mentions of drinking + cheating ⇢ reader is freshly broken up with an unnamed ex. art creds: shesofyee on x ˖ ࣪ . ࿐
frat parties have never been your thing. you hate the sticky-sweet smell of cheap alcohol that clings to the air, to your clothes, to your skin. you hate the way the music makes your ears ring. you hate the way you have to shout to be heard. you only came to this party because your now-ex-boyfriend had asked you to, promising it would be different this time. it wasn’t.
the fight was a blur of muffled words in the middle of the sea of people dancing and laughing, completely oblivious to the world crashing down around you.
he didn’t even have the decency to look ashamed when you’d confronted him about his infidelity, he’d muttered something about it ‘not being a big deal’ and claimed you were overreacting — a casual dismissal of the time and effort you’d poured into him.
the cruelty of it all sent you stumbling through indifferent bodies until you found sanctuary in the quiet of the upstairs bathroom.
you’ve been crying for ten minutes straight. your makeup is a smudged, runny mess, and your face feels puffy and raw. you’re huddled on the closed toilet lid, knees drawn to your chest, head buried in your hands, when the doorknob rattles violently.
“go away,” you mumble to the door, the words muffled by your palms as you press your knuckles to your swollen eyes.
“c’mon dude, i gotta piss!” a voice slurs as the doorknob continues to shake, “you’ve been in there for-fucking-ever.”
“chill, there’s another one downstairs,” another voice cuts in, this one you recognize. it’s the frat president satoru gojo. you’ve seen him around campus, you’ve heard all the rumors. he’s exactly the kind of guy you avoid.
his words are followed by a disgruntled sigh and the sound of retreating footsteps.
you think you’re alone. you try to take a deep breath, a shuddering inhale that does little to calm the beating of your heart. you need to compose yourself enough to leave this disgusting bathroom and figure out how you’re getting back to your dorm. your ex is definitely not your ride anymore. your phone is dead, so no uber. and the thought of walking the mile and a half back to your dorm alone, in the dark, is terrifying.
your head snaps up as the lock clicks and the door swings open.
satoru is standing there, filling the doorway with his broad shoulders. he’s not wearing the obnoxious sunglasses you usually see perched on his nose, and his ridiculously blue eyes, the color of summer skies , are full of concern that seems so out of place on him.
“shit, sorry,” he says, his voice much softer than it was a second ago. “the lock on this door is whack. if you twist it enough it clicks open. i just wanted to uhh. . . you okay?”
you just stare at him, tears still trickling down your face. “i’m fine,” you lie
he doesn’t buy it for a second. he steps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click, effectively blocking out the worst of the noise from the party below. he leans against the counter, giving you space.
“that was your boyfriend, right?” he asks, nodding vaguely toward the door. “. . . the guy you were yelling at earlier.”
“ex-boyfriend,” you correct, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand, the skin coming away wet and smudged with black.
“ahh shit," he says sympathetically. “that sucks.”
“yeah,” you sigh, another sob wracking your body, “it really, really sucks.”
“don’t waste your tears on him,” he frowns, brows furrowing. “he’s not worth a single one, ‘kay?”
you look down at your hands, twisting a loose thread on your jeans until it threatens to snap. the small, repetitive motion is the only thing keeping you from completely falling apart again. “i don’t know what to do,” you admit, the words tumbling out in a rush, “we came together and my phone’s dead and i just. . . i can’t be here anymore.”
he’s silent for a moment and you brace yourself for the ‘sounds like a you problem’, the kind of dismissal you’d expect from someone like him. instead, he shifts, pushing off the counter to stand before you.
“fair enough,” he says. “first, we’re getting you out of this gross bathroom. then we’re getting you home.”
your head snaps up. “but—”
“no cuts, no buts, no coconuts,” he cuts in, and despite everything, a watery snicker escapes you. “i’ve got you. i’m not letting you walk home alone this late. i’ve been drinking, so i can’t drive, but i can walk with you. it’s not a problem.”
satoru gojo — the guy who’s rumored to have a different girl in his bed every weekend — is the last person you’d expect to show you even a hint of kindness. you’re not even sure if he knows your name.
“are you serious?” you ask, your voice barely a whisper
“dead serious,” he holds out a hand. for a beat, you just stare at his long fingers and neatly trimmed nails, then up at his face. he waits patiently until you finally place your hand in his.
he pulls you to your feet effortlessly. you sway a little, unsteady from the crying and the stuffy air of the bathroom, and his other hand comes up to steady you, hovering just above your elbow before dropping away,
a fresh wave of embarrassment washes over you as you catch sight of your reflection in the mirror over the sink. it’s worse than you thought. your face is blotchy and swollen, your eyes are rimmed red, and your mascara has created smudgy, black circles under your eyes that make you look like a raccoon. you groan, turning away from your reflection and pressing your face into your hands.
“i look awful,” you murmur into your palms, the words muffled. “i can’t have anyone see me like this.”
“‘s nothing a little damage control can’t fix,” satoru says, turning toward the sink and grabbing a few squares of toilet paper from the roll. he runs them under the faucet until they’re a damp clump. “it’s not the fancy skincare stuff you girls usually use,” he admits, holding up the damp wad of paper, “but it should work.”
he turns back to you, the wad of toilet paper balanced between his fingers. he takes a step closer, and you instinctively stiffen, your body tensing.
he moves slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you want to. you don’t. his fingers gently cup your jaw to hold your head still. his touch is feather-light, his thumb rests softly on the curve of your cheekbone and it’s oddly comforting. your eyes flutter shut as he gently dabs at the mascara smudges under your eyes. he manages to wipe away the worst of the mess without being too rough
“there,” he hums softly, dropping the damp paper into the trash and letting his hand fall away. you immediately miss the warmth of it. “better?”
you open your eyes and risk a glance in the mirror. you still look like you’ve been crying, but you no longer look like a character from a tim burton movie.
“yeah,” you sigh, your voice barely audible. “better.”
“good,” a small, genuine smile finally graces his lips
“why are you being so nice to me?” you turn away from the mirror to look at him directly.
“i don’t like seeing pretty girls cry,”
the words hang in the air between you, “oh,” you murmur, because you can’t think of anything tangible to say.
he clears his throat, his easygoing smile sliding back into place. “c’mon, let’s get you out of here.” he holds out his hand again, and this time you don’t hesitate.
satoru keeps a firm hold on your hand as he leads you out of the bathroom and back into the party. he uses his broad shoulders to part the crowd, people seem to naturally move aside for him. you keep your head down, focusing on the scuffed linoleum floor
just as you’re nearing the hallway that leads to the front door, a figure detaches itself from a group lounging on a nearby couch and blocks your path. it’s suguru geto, satoru’s other half, the vice president to his president. equally as infamous around campus.
“there you are, satoru,” suguru says, his eyes flicking from satoru to you, and then down to your intertwined hands. “toji and sukuna are talking mad shit again. come play beer pong with us.”
satoru doesn't even break stride, he keeps pulling you gently along. “maybe when i get back.”
“get back from where exactly?” suguru raises a brow, he glances at you again, a look of genuine confusion crossing his features as he tries to place you, and comes up empty.
satoru finally stops, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh. he tilts his head in your direction. “walking her home.”
the shift in suguru’s expression is immediate. his lips part slightly, his eyes widening as the pieces fall into place. he opens his mouth to say something teasing that would make your face burn with embarrassment. but before he can get a single word out, satoru is already shaking his head. ‘don't.’
suguru’s mouth snaps shut. he narrows his amber eyes, looking between your tear-streaked face, your clasped hands, and the uncharacteristically serious look on his best friend’s face. a knowing grin spreads across his lips.
“right, right,” he laughs, stepping aside and gesturing toward the door with a sweep of his arm. “you two have fun.”
as satoru pulls you past him, you catch suguru muttering under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear over the loud music “about damn time, you idiot.”
you don’t understand the full weight of his words
you don’t know that satoru has pointed you out to suguru countless times before, wayyy back during orientation week when you were all freshmen trying to figure out where your classes were.
you don’t know that he calls you ‘the pretty girl with the sketchbook’ . you have no idea that for the past two years, satoru gojo has been nursing an unrequited crush on you — the girl who always seems to be in her own world, a world he desperately wants to be a part of.
all you know is that the campus player is currently leading you out into the cool night air, his hand warm and steady in yours. and for some reason, it feels right
you catch a glimpse of your ex laughing with his friends by the beer pong table, completely oblivious. he doesn’t even notice satoru pulling you through the doorway. it stings, but it’s duller now
cars are lined up haphazardly along the street outside the frat house. people are sitting on the hoods, vaping, their faces illuminated by the blue glow of their geek bars. a few call out to satoru as you pass, but he barely acknowledges them. one of his ex-flings is glaring at you from the porch, whispering to her friends as she stares at your interlocked hands.
“which way?” he asks, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. he seems to realize he’s still holding your hand and lets go of it suddenly, shoving his hands in his pockets. you rub your arm nervously
you point to the left side of the street. “that way. it’s like, a twenty-minute walk on a good day.”
“cool,” he says, falling into step beside you. you walk in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the distant thump of the party fading behind you and the scuff of your shoes on the pavement. his eyes are fixed on you while yours are locked on the cracks in the sidewalk,
“so, what did he do?” he pipes up, then immediately seems to regret it. “actually nevermind i probably shouldn’t be asking that right now—”
“he’s been cheating on me,” you sigh, “he gave me his phone so i could text my roommate and i had a gut feeling so i went through it and—” your breath hitches
“oh fuck don’t cry again,” satoru frowns
“sorry it’s just . . . ”
“don’t apologize either,” he says, “none of this is your fault.”
“we were together for eight months,” you sigh, the admission feeling heavy in the cool night air. “i thought. . . i don’t know. i thought everything was good. i thought he loved me.”
“he’s an idiot,” satoru says, so matter-of-factly that it makes you believe him. “anyone who would cheat on you is either blind or just plain fucking stupid.”
“you’re just saying that to make me feel better.”
“nah i’m saying it ‘cause i mean it,” he shakes his head.
you don’t know what to say to that, so you just smile at him with your watery eyes and he swears he feels his knees buckle. even with puffy eyes and a quivering lip you’re the prettiest girl he’s ever seen.
he musters up a smile and looks away, a faint blush creeping up his neck. you keep walking. the cool early spring air caresses your cheeks, carrying the smell of petrichor from a recent rain shower. you don’t notice him staring at you, or the way his gaze softens as he watches the streetlights cast your face in a fluorescent hue
you frown down at your phone. it’s completely dead and he wishes he’d offered to charge it for you in his room at the frat house so he could’ve spent more time with you. he wants to spend more time with you. he knows he may never get the opportunity again.
he’s grinning like the cheshire cat when your stomach lets out a loud growl and you look positively mortified.
“you hungry?” he asks, as if the answer isn’t obvious.
“a little,” you nod meekly, your stomach rumbling again in agreement. the crying and the vodka have made you feel hollow.
“me too,” he says. “there’s a konbini a couple minutes away, we can grab something to eat if you want.”
you end up stopping at the konbini. the store is a stark contrast to the cool darkness of the streets. you wander the aisles, your eyes landing on a shelf of instant ramen cups. nothing sounds better than a salty, savory meal
“ramen?” you ask, holding one up, “i get this brand a lot”
“you’ve got good taste” he says, grabbing one for himself. “i like this brand too”
you end up with a cup of spicy ramen, a strawberry milk, and a box of cookies n cream pocky. he grabs a bottle of water and pays for everything before you can even pull out your card, waving away your protests. he uses the hot water dispenser by the door to prepare your ramen, handing it to you with a pair of chopsticks, his fingers brush against yours.
you eat sitting on the curb outside the store, the steam warming your face. it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.
“i feel bad for dragging you away from the party,” you say between slurps. “i’m sure your girlfriend is wondering where you are.”
“nah, i don’t have one,” he shakes his head, taking a sip of his water. “not really my thing.” he regrets the words the second they fall from his lips.
“not your thing?” you raise a brow. “you’re notorious for having girlfriends.”
his eyes crinkle as he laughs, a genuine, bright sound. “i’ve never had one.”
you don’t seem convinced.
“i’ve had girl friends,” he says, “i don’t really do labels.”
stop. fucking. talking. he groans internally.
“someone’s got commitment issues.” you hum
for most people? yeah. the thought of a relationship with the girls he fools around with makes him break out in hives. but you? he would commit to you in a heartbeat. he’d do everything under the sun and then some if you asked him to.
a cold breeze picks up, rustling the plastic bag from the konbini, and you shiver.
“cold?” he asks, already shrugging out of his jacket before you can answer.
“no, i’m fine,” you lie, your teeth chattering slightly, betraying you.
he drapes his jacket—a black and crimson varsity jacket with the frat’s letters stitched on the chest—over your shoulders. it’s heavy and warm, and it smells like him, a clean, sharp mix of cologne and something sweet, like vanilla
“i don’t need it,” you protest, even as you snuggle deeper into it
“you do,” he says, his voice soft. “it’s cold out.”
you accept defeat, finishing your ramen with his crossing jacket around you.
the rest of the walk passes in comfortable silence. you don’t feel the need to fill it with small talk, and he doesn’t seem to either. it’s just the sound of your footsteps on the pavement and the hum of the city. his jacket is a heavy around your shoulders and you find yourself unconsciously pulling it tighter.
before you know it, you’re turning the corner onto your street. your dorm building is a few paces down, tired-looking brick walls and a flickering porch light that casts long, dancing shadows on the sidewalk.
“i didn’t know you lived in the dorms,” he says, looking up at the building. he shoves his hands in his pockets, his thin t-shirt clinging to his frame in the cool air.
“mm my family lives a couple hours away, it’s convenient,” you mumble, suddenly feeling shy.
you trudge up the concrete steps together, the silence stretching between you. you fish around in your pocket for your keys, your fingers fumbling with the cold metal. you finally manage to get the key in the lock and push the heavy door open.
“well,” you start, shrugging out of his jacket. “thanks. for everything. really.” you hold it out to him. “i appreciate you walking me home. and paying for my ramen and stuff”
he looks at the jacket in your outstretched hand, then back at you. he doesn’t take it.
“keep it,” he says. what he doesn’t say is that it looks better on you than it ever will on him, the way the crimson fabric brings out your eyes, the way you seem to swim in it, small and delicate.
“what? no, i can’t. it’s your crossing jacket.” you feel heat rise to your cheeks. “isn’t this like, a huge deal for you frat boys?”
“yeah well. . .” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “i need a reason to see you again,” he says, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
you blink at him, completely taken aback. “oh. . right”
“yeah,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “get some sleep.” he gives you one last smile before turning and walking away. you watch him until he turns the corner, his silhouette disappearing into the night.
you stand there for a long moment, the cool air raising goosebumps on your arms, before you finally turn and head inside. you shut the door behind you, leaning against it for a second, letting out a long, slow breath.
you shrug the jacket off your shoulders, intending to just drop it on a chair, but as you do, something slips from the inner pocket and flutters to the floor. it’s a small, crumpled piece of paper.
you bend down to pick it up, it’s the receipt from the konbini. you’re about to crumple it up and toss it towards the trash can, but you see the faint blue lines of ink on the back. in messy, scrawling handwriting is a phone number. and underneath it, a short message:
keep the jacket!!! text me if you wanna hang out some time - satoru :p
you stare at the note, a soft smile spreading across your face, butterflies fluttering in your stomach. satoru gojo is so , so much sweeter than you expected.
Pairing sokka x reader. Sokka gifted you a betrothal necklace he made himself.
Idk man I hate describing the fics 😭
From the beginning, being part of Team Avatar meant constant movement, new places, new dangers, new people, but somehow, in the middle of all that chaos, you became something steady. As an earthbender, you were reliable in a way that grounded everyone, quite literally at times, but especially Sokka. He noticed it long before he understood it.
At first, it was small things: the way you reinforced the ground beneath camp without being asked, how you quietly shaped stone into something useful while everyone else rested, or how you always seemed to anticipate what people needed before they even said it.
You weren’t loud like Aang or blunt like Toph, and you didn’t carry yourself with the same intensity as Katara, you were calm, thoughtful, and steady.
And for someone like Sokka, who constantly felt like he had to prove his worth without bending, that kind of presence became something he leaned on more than he ever expected.
It started with conversations. Real ones. Not just his usual jokes or over-the-top plans, but quieter talks late at night when the fire burned low and the others had already fallen asleep. He’d sit beside you, sometimes a little awkward at first, rambling about strategy or frustrations or things he didn’t usually admit out loud.
You never interrupted him or brushed him off, you listened, really listened, and when you responded, it wasn’t with empty reassurance but something thoughtful and honest.
You told him he wasn’t just “the idea guy,” that without him, half the plans wouldn’t even exist, let alone succeed. And maybe he laughed it off at the time, made some sarcastic comment to hide how much it meant, but it stayed with him. After that, it became habit. Sitting next to you. Talking to you first. Looking for you in a crowd without even realizing he was doing it.
Somewhere along the way, it stopped being subtle—at least to everyone else. Katara noticed the way Sokka’s voice changed when he talked to you, softer, less performative.
Aang noticed how Sokka would instinctively move closer to you during breaks, how he’d offer you food first or check if you were okay after fights before anyone else.
Even Toph, who pretended not to care about anything remotely emotional, made the occasional comment that left Sokka flustered and defensive. But you… you just stayed the same. Warm, steady, quietly affectionate in your own way.
You’d brush dirt off his shoulder without thinking, hand him tools you shaped from stone when his broke, stand just a little closer than necessary. It wasn’t dramatic or overwhelming—it was natural. And that somehow made it mean more.
The necklace, though, that was something else entirely. Sokka didn’t decide to make it all at once. It crept into his mind slowly, the idea forming over days and weeks until it refused to leave.
Back in the Water Tribe, betrothal necklaces weren’t just gifts, they meant something real, something lasting, and the thought of giving you one both terrified and excited him in equal measure. Still, once the idea settled in, there was no stopping it.
He started collecting materials wherever he could, pretending it was for “tools” or “plans” whenever anyone asked. Small shells from a beach you’d camped near, stones you had once shaped absentmindedly and left behind, bits of cord he carefully traded for.
He worked on it in secret, usually late at night when everyone else was asleep, hunched over with intense concentration as he carved, tied, and adjusted every piece. It didn’t come easily, his hands weren’t as precise as a craftsman’s, and more than once he had to start over, but he kept going anyway. Because it was for you, and somehow that made the frustration worth it.
When he finally decides to give it to you, he almost backs out three separate times.
The timing never feels right, too many people around, too much noise, too many chances to mess it up, but eventually he realizes there’s never going to be a “perfect” moment, not in the middle of a war. So he settles for a quiet evening instead, when the sky is soft with fading light and the world feels, for once, like it’s not about to fall apart.
You’re sitting beside him on the ground you’d smoothed out earlier, your shoulder barely brushing his, and he’s so unusually quiet that it doesn’t take long for you to notice something’s off.
When you ask what he’s hiding, he panics immediately, blurting out a denial that convinces you of the exact opposite. And then, before he can overthink it again, he just… pulls it out.
The necklace rests in his hands, imperfect and uneven, every flaw painfully obvious to him, the slightly crooked alignment, the rough edges he couldn’t smooth out, the knot that took far too many attempts to get even remotely right.
And suddenly he’s talking too fast, words tumbling over each other as he tries to explain, to justify, to lower your expectations before you can even react.
He tells you it’s not great, that it’s kind of messy, that he knows it’s not what you deserve, but then his voice shifts, softens, becomes something more honest. He tells you what it means. Where he comes from. What giving it to someone represents. And by the time he’s finished, there’s this fragile kind of silence hanging between you, like everything could change depending on what you say next.
But you don’t hesitate.
You take his hands in yours, steady and sure, and instead of focusing on the flaws, you trace every detail like it matters, because to you, it does. You see the effort, the time, the care behind every uneven piece, and it hits you all at once just how much of himself he put into this.
When you tell him it’s perfect, he tries to argue, of course he does, pointing out every little mistake like that somehow invalidates the whole thing, but you just shake your head, smiling softly as you tell him you don’t care about any of that. What matters is that he made it. That he chose you.
And that’s the moment it really sinks in for him.
When you lift your hair and quietly ask him to put it on you, Sokka almost forgets how to breathe. His hands are careful, more careful than they’ve ever been, as he ties it behind your neck, fingers brushing your skin in a way that sends a nervous kind of warmth through both of you.
He fumbles a little, of course, but he manages it, and when he’s done, he just… pauses, hands lingering like he’s not quite ready to let go of the moment. When you turn back to face him, the necklace resting against your collarbone, there’s this soft, almost disbelieving look in his eyes, like he’s still waiting for something to go wrong.
Instead, you lean forward and press a gentle kiss to his cheek.
It’s simple. Soft. But it means everything.
When you pull back, your smile is small but certain, and the words you say next are just as steady as you’ve always been. You tell him yes, not in some grand, dramatic way, but like it’s the most natural decision in the world, like there was never really any other answer.
And for a second, Sokka just stares at you, trying to process it, before it finally clicks. The nerves, the doubt, the constant overthinking, it all melts away, replaced by something bright and overwhelming and real. His grin breaks through before he can stop it, wide and genuine, a little stunned but completely happy.
And when you lean into him afterward, your shoulder resting comfortably against his, neither of you pulls away.
Because in the middle of everything, of war, of uncertainty, of a world constantly shifting beneath your feet, you’ve found something solid in each other.
sokka x reader (gn!reader [fem. leaning]) [getting together, mild crack, fluff, jealousy, confessions, first kiss]
summary: you and sokka are both very affectionate people, and there isn't anything wrong with that. a conversation with aang shifts your perspective, and for some reason, you think avoiding sokka will do wonders for your relationship. spoiler alert: it doesn't.
warnings: probably some fem!terms, jealousy, mild arguments, reader avoiding sokka, tame sexual joke(s), maybe ooc (i haven't written for avatar in a LONG while), reader is fucking stupid, oblivious reader, misunderstandings, maybe spelling errors, no use of y/n, second person
word count: 7.6k (yo..flip that around....)
note: i've always been a sokka girl.. HE'S SO BAD i haven't watched the movie i'm waiting for actual release but oughhh ignore any canon inconsistencies because of that i wrote this in likeee one day i love him i am working on my other fics i swear ALSO i will take requests for avatar...... just make sure to check over the rules okay enjoy baiii
Yours and Sokka’s relationship was platonic.
Very platonic. As platonic as it could possibly get. So platonic, in fact, that you had never even thought of dating him or anything silly like that.
(Well. Maybe that last part was kind of a lie. But it had only been once or twice, back when you were stupid teens trying to figure out how to save the world.)
You, personally, thought that it was obvious.
Apparently, it wasn’t.
“I’m pooped.” Sokka sighs loudly, leaning heavily on your back as he peers over to glance down at Toph, who stood before you, crossing her arms.
“What distinguished vocabulary you possess.” You reply, smiling lightly as you reach up and pat blindly at his arm.
“Thanks. I try.”
“Oh, I can tell.”
“Can you?”
“Of course.”
He hums happily. “I appreciate it.”
Toph clears her throat loudly. You turn your attention back to her quickly, an apologetic tone in your voice.
“Sorry, Toph. What were we talking about?”
“Nothing important.” Her eyes narrow slightly as she stares right at you, although not quite at your eyes. “Sokka.”
“Toph. Wonderful to see you, as always.”
“Can’t say the same.” She replies, deadpan. For a moment, Sokka jostles against your back, an offended noise leaving his lips before you lightly jab an elbow into his side. He gets it after a moment.
“Ah!” He perks up, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you quickly. “Ha! I get it! Good one, Toph! Real knee-slapper!”
Toph lets the faintest smirk appear on her face.
“I’m sure we all got it.” She says, leaning back on her heels. “What do you want?”
“Can’t I say hi to my friends?” Sokka tilts his head, his cheek brushing against your ear. “Is that a crime, Toph? Am I going to get arrested?”
“It’s a crime when it’s the two of you.”
“Huh?” You raise an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Everything.”
You turn back to exchange a look with Sokka, who shrugs back at you, just as, if not more, confused.
“Okay.” Both of you say in unison as you look back at her.
“Ugh. Don’t do that. That’s weird.”
“Well, I wasn’t lying when I said I was just stopping by to say hi.” Sokka stretches, taking a step back from you. You miss the warmth that came with him. “Got things to do, people to see, yada yada.”
“I’m sure you do.” Toph responds, raising an eyebrow. “But with all of your impending duties, you just had to come say hello?”
“How could I not? I heard very familiar voices and I couldn’t resist.” Sokka’s hand finds its way to your cheek, pinching it lightly and tugging before letting it go. He knows better than to try that with Toph. He learned the hard way.
“Oh, we know what you can’t resist.” Toph cackles. You don’t get it. You turn to Sokka, a questioning look on your face, but once again, he looks just as clueless.
“Uh…sure.” He smiles, patting your cheek where he’d just pulled.
You laugh softly, swatting away his hand. “Aww, well, we appreciate it.”
“I don’t.” Toph interrupts.
“You definitely do. I can feel it in your bones.” Sokka declares confidently.
“My bones?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ve developed bone bending. I can detect what you truly feel. Of course, I’ve always had this ability. Say goodbye to being used as a lie detector, Toph. I’m the new big deal, and heart rate won’t matter this time. This is all in the bones. You can’t fake bones.”
“Bone bending, huh? Enlighten me.” You grin, shifting your weight onto one leg as you turn to focus your attention on him.
“I’d love to.” Sokka beams back. “Now, this all started way back when—”
“Well, I’m sure you’d love to, but weren’t you just plagued with ‘things to do and people to see’?” Toph cuts in.
Sokka looks thoughtful suddenly, like it had slipped his mind completely. “You’re totally right. Bone bending just gets me so distracted. I’m very passionate about it, you see. It’s kind of my whole thing.”
You snort, shaking your head. Sokka looks utterly delighted as he takes a few more steps backward.
“Alright, see you guys later. Don’t miss me too much.”
“We’ll try not to.” You reply happily. He puts a hand to his lips and loudly blows a kiss to the two of you, spinning on his heel and happily whistling something off-tune.
“I can’t stand you two.” Toph complains as Sokka leaves. You know that her volume is always loud enough for everyone around to hear. Sokka turns his head back, just barely, to stick out his tongue.
“Jealous!” He calls, and then he’s gone. You laugh and wave at his back as he goes.
“What?” You ask as you look back towards Toph, whose expression can be described as nothing but disgusted. “What?”
She scrunches her nose, fanning under it like she’s trying to get rid of a painful odor. “I would say ‘you know what’, but you don’t, which is what makes this worse.”
You blink. Okay. Vague. Thank you, Toph.
“I hate lovebirds.” She continues, walking forward. As she passes you, she hits your arm. In turn, you wrap your other arm around her shoulders and press a kiss to her head.
“Get well soon?” You try as she playfully shoves you off.
“I should be saying that.”
As she goes, she mumbles something about idiot boys and idiot girls that she surpassed in intellectual ability. You didn’t dare to doubt her.
Recently, she’s been doing things like that. Unclear words that could rival proverbs of ancient past and riddles that would make anyone’s head spin. Sickened looks and scoffs and odd comments. And it was only when you and Sokka would interact.
Weird.
You didn’t think there was anything to warrant the behavior, but Toph was a little difficult to understand sometimes, so you didn’t really think much of it.
And then Zuko would flash weird looks when Sokka would wrap an arm around your shoulder and Katara would stare when you leaned against him.
Which was also weird.
Everyone had their own lives, now that you’d all grown up. You weren’t a bunch of (pre-)teens worrying about the fate of the world anymore. You had more normal but tiresome responsibilities, which meant not seeing each other as often.
But the times you were all together, all you would get were funny looks.
And you weren’t stupid. You knew that it was for a reason, but you truly couldn’t understand why.
So, of course, you decided to consult your beloved friend who would never keep you from the truth.
The Avatar himself.
“Aang! Hey, Aang!” You call, waving wildly at the retreating flash of yellow and orange you know and love.
Aang stops in his tracks, turning around with a thousand-watt smile already lighting up his face.
“Gee, you’re excited!” He notes, grabbing your forearms as you slow to a stop in front of him. “What could I have done to deserve that?”
Sometimes, you catch a glimpse of the little boy you’d met all those years ago. It’s the same with Toph. It melts your heart and makes you sad, knowing how quickly time slipped by, how tall and strong and wonderful the kids you knew got.
“I need advice. Help. A talk. Whatever.” You shake your head.
“What’s going on?” Aang’s eyebrows furrow slightly as he glances down at you. “Nothing bad’s happened, right?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that.” You correct, rubbing at your cheek lightly.
The two of you sit down on a nearby bench, your foot tapping against the ground quickly. You slam a hand down on your knee to make it stop. Aang raises an eyebrow.
“Okay. Uh…why is everyone acting funny?”
Aang thinks about it for a moment. “They are? Who’s everyone?”
“Toph. Zuko. Toph. Katara. Toph. Have I mentioned Toph?”
“No, I don’t think you have.”
After a beat, the two of you erupt into giggles. It feels oddly childish for how old you are now, but it feels good to relax.
“Seriously, though.” You clear your throat. “They just keep saying weird things and casting judgmental looks. Have I secretly been declared the enemy of all?”
“Not that I know of?” Aang shrugs, leaning back against the back of the bench. “Do they just…always do it?”
“Always? No, no. It’s…it’s only when Sokka’s around.”
Aang freezes. His eyes widen slightly and his lips pull back into a faint grimace, but you’re too busy letting your words take over to notice.
“And I don’t even get it at all! What could possibly be the reason for all the funny behavior, huh? It’s not like Sokka and I have been acting differently. If anything, I think we’ve been acting the exact same this whole time. As normal as we possibly could be. I haven’t said or done anything out of the ordinary, not that I know of, so whatever warrants this has to be—”
“Okay, okay, okay.” Aang raises his hands, cutting you off. “I think I see the frustration.”
“Do you?” You ask, exasperated. You slump back against the bench.
“Definitely.”
The look on his face looks strained, like he’s trying to hold back an awfully pained expression. It only makes your worries worse.
“What?” You ask desperately. “Don’t beat around the bush like Toph does. I’ll cry.”
“You won’t cry.” Aang says simply. “Uh…where to start…”
That’s a terrible beginning to an explanation. That means there’s a lot to go over and you were in some deep trouble.
You wait not-so-patiently for him to continue.
“Sokka…and…you…” He begins slowly, clasping his hands, “are very…close.”
“...yes.” You nod back just as slowly. “Aren’t we all?”
“Well…yeah. But there are different levels of being close.”
“Sure.” You agree. “Like you and Katara.”
“Right! Like me and Katara.”
“Right. So the problem is…?”
Aang bites the inside of his cheek. “The problem is…that you and Sokka are very close.”
“You said that already!” You complain. “What’s so wrong with that!”
“There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just that we…are…wondering…about…the extent…of your relationship!”
The pauses he includes almost make you want to strangle the words out of him. Instead, you take a deep breath and try to collect your thoughts. The extent of your relationship? There’s only one thing you can come up with to explain that.
“We’re not fucking.”
“I didn’t say you were!” Aang cries, a faint hue of red dusting his cheeks like he wasn’t the one to insinuate that.
“Then what were you saying?”
“I was saying that maybe you and Sokka are a little closer than everyone else is!”
“I…guess?” Your eyebrows knit together. “Not really, though, right?”
“Ehh…” Aang trails off, glancing away.
“What?” You pry, leaning forward. “Say it. I won’t say anything.”
“Ehh…” He repeats, turning his head completely around.
“Aang!” You grab his face and snap it back around. “Stop avoiding the topic!”
“I’m just trying to think about how to word this!”
“Just say it straight up! I won’t say anything!”
He mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like ‘you will’ but you ignore it for his actual input instead.
“Let’s see…okay. You’re very…comfortable around Sokka, right?”
“I’m comfortable around everyone.” You respond.
“That’s different.”
“No it’s not. I’m the same with everyone. Aren’t I?” You try to think back on it.
“I’d say you’re a bit more affectionate with Sokka.”
“Affectionate how?”
“Well…you know…the basics.”
“Such as…?”
Aang clears his throat. “Uh…you guys hug a lot?”
“I hug everyone. That’s not weird. You hug everyone. Is it weird to hug people, Aang?”
“No!” Aang shakes his head. “Hugging isn’t abnormal. But you kiss him, too.”
“On the cheek. There’s nothing wrong with kissing people on the cheek, or anywhere else.” You cross your arms. “I kiss everyone, too. I kiss you on the cheek. I kiss Katara on the cheek. And Zuko and Toph.”
Aang runs a hand down the side of his face. “Right. You do.”
“I do. So, what’s the problem?”
“It’s just that…you…kiss Sokka on the cheek like I kiss Katara on the cheek.” He snaps his fingers, leaning forward once he’s made the connection.
“Uh…” You close your eyes, picturing the four of you side by side. “But you and Katara are together.”
“Yes…” Aang nods supportively.
“Sokka and I aren’t together.”
“Right…”
“So how would I kiss him that way if we’re not together?”
“Exactly!” Aang claps. “You’re close to him in a way that Katara and I are close, except you aren’t together.”
It takes a moment for you to realize what he’s getting at. Once you do, your entire body seems to heat up.
“Wait. Wait, wait, wait.” You shake your head so hard you might rattle your brain. “So—you’re saying that everyone is acting weird because Sokka and I act like we’re a thing?”
“Basically?”
“But we’re not!”
“You could be?” Aang tries. “I mean, do you want to be with Sokka?”
Loaded question. Your mind shortcircuits, your heart skipping a beat as the idea firmly plants itself in your head. You and Sokka? You and Sokka?
It’s not like it was a completely foreign idea. You see where Aang’s coming from, but also, that’s Sokka. Sokka, who’s been the same with you since the day you met. Sokka, who’s been by your side for years and never said a word about it. Sokka, who you’ve watched get and lose partners over the span of your journey together.
He wasn’t ugly. Quite the opposite, really. You could admire that without having a silly crush on him.
But…but you did like him. Kind of a lot. That didn’t mean it had to be in that way.
Still…you did get a lot happier when he was around. And you were more comfortable with his presence and letting him place a hand on you or an arm around you. You’d let anyone do that, but you suppose that maybe you wouldn’t be as ecstatic and content with it if it had been Katara or Toph instead.
Those were feelings, though. Normal feelings. You think. You’re not quite sure, actually. So what were all the weird looks for then? Did the others find your relationship odd, or did they…
“Honestly…everyone thought you guys were dating.” Aang cuts off your train of thoughts as if reading your mind. “I mean, that’s just what it looks like.”
“For how long?”
“Huh…I don’t know. It’s looked like you’ve been dating for years.”
“Years?” You repeat increduously. It can’t have been that long that the two of you had been…ugh. This was hurting your head. You still hadn’t answered Aang’s question.
I mean, do you want to be with Sokka?
What would that entail, anyway? With what Aang’s saying, nothing would change. Except the presence of actual kisses, and maybe waking up with him, and living together and—
Okay. That got too real too fast. Your face flushes and you turn away slightly. Aang—alert, lovely, and too observant for his (your) own good, Aang—catches on instantly.
“You do!” He cries, overjoyed. “You do want to be with him!”
You shake your head quickly, but he enthusiastically points at your leg. “Look at that speed! You only do that when you’re really nervous!”
True to his word, your leg was bouncing at the speed of light. You slam both of your hands down on your knee to make it stop, your eyes wide.
“Not so loud!” You hush him, despite the fact that you were probably being just as loud.
“Sorry, sorry!” He whispers, leaning in to grin at you. “But you do like him!”
“I…maybe?” The roar of emotions in your heart implied a more honest sentiment.
“You do. So…talk to him.”
“I can’t just talk to him.”
“Sure you can! He’d get it.”
“How would you know? He thinks this is all normal.”
“No way he does. Sokka’s not that stupid.”
“Does that mean I was stupid for thinking so?”
“I didn’t say that! I just meant that he’s probably having an epiphany right now, too.”
“Is he?” You raise an eyebrow. “And you would know that how?”
“Katara wanted to talk to him earlier.” He shrugs.
Crap. Okay. So the two of you were being cornered and told exactly what’s going on between you both. Definitely comforting.
“What do I do? Aang, guide me through this, now.” You lean in closer, eyes darting around like Sokka might pop out of any corner.
“Just talk to him. It’s not like he’s a stranger anymore. You’re never afraid to speak your feelings. So…just go for it.”
“That’s not clear enough!”
“It doesn’t have to be. Do you want this turning point of your life to be pre-planned and rehearsed?”
“I…guess not.”
“Exactly! It’ll be more authentic and successful if you just lead with your heart and go for it.”
“I can’t just do it now!”
“Then don’t. Sleep on it. Let yourself grasp the lines of your emotions, then ask to see him, and go!”
“What if he hates me for it? What if he really thinks that this was all friendly?”
“He won’t. Trust me.”
“How would you know?”
“You know who knows Sokka the best?”
It doesn’t take a second to reply. “Katara.”
“Exactly. Their sibling bond is really strong. And Katara is completely convinced that he really lo—likes you.” The stutter goes unnoticed.
“Are you sure about this?” You chew on your bottom lip. “What if everything gets messed up?”
“It won’t. I promise. Even if the impossible happens, you and Sokka have been friends too long to let this damage you in any way. It won’t change things.”
“I don’t know. This is pretty big.”
“Bigger than defeating the Fire Lord?”
You crack a smile. “Maybe not.”
“Definitely not.”
A long, deep breath mostly calms down your nerves. You nod slowly, leaning back and looking around.
“Okay. I’m going to…think about this. Sleep on it.”
“Good.” Aang nods back. After a moment, he looks back at you. “I think you guys would be really good together.”
“Really?”
“Really. You’re like two halves of the same person. You’re both better and more complete together.”
“Aww, Aang. You’re so sweet.” You smile, pinching his cheek. He laughs softly and pushes your hand away.
“I’m serious. You’re one of my best friends. You deserve to be happy, and I think Sokka would help with that.”
You might actually cry now. You don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around his shoulders and hug him tightly. It takes less than a second for Aang to reciprocate, squeezing you so tightly you might lose your breath.
Neither of you say a word. You don’t need to.
After a few seconds of silence, Aang breaks it.
“Also, we’d pretty much basically be siblings if you two got marr—”
“Aang!”
—
You weren’t lying to him when you said that you’d actually think about it.
You did think about it. You slept on it that night and dreamt about it. You ate breakfast the next morning thinking about it. You worked and thought about it. You took a walk and thought about it. You talked to Zuko and thought about it.
In fact, it hadn’t left your mind once.
Because the moment the realization was planted in your brain, you weren’t able to let go at all.
You were lucky to not encounter Sokka for the majority of the day. You might have died if you did.
Now, the problem was that idea carried over into the next day. And the next day. And the next. Until it had been nearly a week since your eye-opening talk with Aang, and you had barely interacted properly with Sokka since.
It was stupid to think that no one would notice. It was kind of obvious.
Really obvious.
Toph and Sokka are sitting together and talking? Great! You’ll sit down next to Toph and let her lay her head on your lap while you let them mostly speak.
Katara and Sokka are walking together? Lovely! You’ll let Katara stand in the middle and act as a barrier while you try to grasp the overwhelming feelings he brings.
Everyone is hanging out after dinner? Fantastic! Zuko can take your weight as you lean against him and try not to fall asleep.
Aang, too smart for his own good, did not allow you to use him as a wall.
He caught you on day six, pulling you aside.
“So…what did we talk about?” Aang asked, raising an eyebrow teasingly.
“To talk to him, yeah, yeah. I’m thinking right now, okay? Can’t a person just think?”
“Not like this! You’re not even trying to act normal anymore.”
“Just give me a couple of more days. I’ll get there. Promise.”
You were now closing up on day seven, and you still had no idea what to do.
You wanted to talk to him about it. Of course you did. But the idea of actually having to face him and talk about something so personal felt so…weird. You just didn’t want to have to do it. Not now, at least.
Except you did want to talk to him. You didn’t know how, but you really did want to. You were good at talking, just going with the flow, so why did this mess you up so bad?
Ugh.
Night was falling, and you weren’t feeling any more tired than you had a couple of hours ago. You’re smart enough to know when you’re not going to get any sleep. So, obviously, you have to take a nighttime stroll instead to clear your head.
That would help. Walking always helped, even if you drowned in your own thoughts first before letting yourself be pulled out.
You all were staying in a relatively small village in a relatively large house together. Did that make it harder to avoid him? Yes. Did it make it more suspicious? Yes. Which is exactly why you should have gone out on a walk ages ago.
Well, you can’t change the past now.
It’s not too lively outside. Things are dying down, and most people are retreating to their homes after a long day of work. A couple of them greet you with tired smiles as you pass by, which you return with double the energy. Waves and calls of good night’s take up most of your initial excursion, leaving you no room to think until you get to the very edge of the village.
It’s quieter out there. The moon shines down on you, peeking through dark clouds that might bring about rain later. You’re not too sure about the forecast.
As you make your way along the perimeter, you try to gather your thoughts, you really do. They’re just as much of a jumbled mess as they were way back when you first figured out what the two of you truly were. Or, tried to figure out, at least.
What you do know is that you like Sokka. Like like, bordering onto actual love, which is a terrifying thought. How could you have been in love with him for all this time and not know? Scary. You’d like to stick to like like instead, just for now, just so that you don’t implode.
You don’t know if he likes you back. Aang swears on his life that he does. You want to believe him, but doubt always makes its presence known, no matter how much you try to push it down. You can’t force yourself to believe it, but you can try. For now, you’re just going to think about this logically.
He might like you back.
So…how to bring it up? Something tells you that ‘Hey Sokka, I talked with Aang and I realized that I’ve liked you for a while now, you should let me be your girlfriend’ won’t really work.
You could be really sappy about it and have a nice long speech prepared. Or you could go out on a whim and say something simple.
Neither sounds very appealing to you. You want something meaningful, but like Aang said, not forced. You want it to matter.
You don’t even notice the figure standing in front of you until you crash right into him, too focused on staring into nothingness. Apologies are already spilling from your lips.
“No, no, it’s okay.” The man reassures, grabbing your shoulders to stop you from tripping over yourself. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, yeah, I am. Sorry again. I’m totally fine. I really don’t know why I—sorry.” You respond, trying to shove down the embarrassment that comes with nearly knocking over a stranger you definitely should have seen coming.
“No harm done, promise.” He reassures. His hands have not yet left your shoulders, and when he notices that, he quickly drops them like he’s been burned. “You must have been deep in thought, huh?”
You offer a shrug, rubbing your arm. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Love troubles?” He asks. You startle, taking a step back. He laughs and tilts his head. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“I’m not that obvious. I’m not…am I?” You ask desperately, nearly hissing as you lean forward, your voice hushed in fear of someone else nearby overhearing.
The man offers you a comforting grin. “To me, maybe. I’m not too sure about anyone else.”
“So you know about love troubles.”
“Woah, woah, woah. Let’s not go accusing a guy without even asking his name!” The man raises his hands in surrender.
“Ah…you’re right. Sorry. May I have the name of the gentleman who I nearly knocked over?”
“Why, of course. I’m Lee.”
You do not believe that for a second, but Lee was a pretty popular name. You let him off the hook.
“Well, Lee. I suppose we’re both having our own love struggles.”
“Maybe we are.” He offers a one-armed shrug. “I think we’ll get past it.”
“I sure hope we do.”
It’s weird, the concept of mildly opening up to a guy you’ve never seen before and likely never will, but that’s also comforting. He’ll forget all about you at some point, and you him, so you won’t have to worry about gossip spreading. No one will care.
Before you can do something stupid like dump your entire life’s story on this guy, he speaks first.
“I think that you might have a name as well.” Lee asks, shifting his weight as he leans on his leg, a little closer.
“I might.” You joke.
“And that name is…?”
You open your mouth to reply, but when your name is said, it’s not your voice that responds.
It comes with a heavy arm around your shoulders, firmly planted behind your head, completely wrapping around your body. It comes with a warmth you’re very familiar with and a scent that can only be matched to one man you know.
“I’ve seriously been looking for you everywhere. I mean, I nearly had to start checking under everyone’s beds, and I don’t really want to know what I’d find under Zuko’s.”
Sokka.
Okay. Awkward. Lovely. You’re kind of afraid.
Lee looks a bit taken aback, his eyes widening. His gaze meets yours and he mouths ‘love?’ to you, to which you breathe out and nod.
Sokka catches this instantly.
“What was that?” He asks, squinting. “A secret code? That was weird.”
Lee coughs. “Uh…we were just talking.”
“Right.” Sokka nods, stretching out the vowel as he raises an eyebrow and looks between Lee and you under his arm. “Cool. Well, we’ll be going now, alright? Bye.”
He turns you right back around, his arm guiding your body and forcing you to follow after him. You turn your head back to look at Lee, who smiles at you. You look back front, then back at him again, to which he forms a heart with his hands and a thumbs up.
Your cheeks flush pink. Sokka’s free hand plants itself on the top of your head, swiveling it back to face your front.
“Why—are you blushing?” Sokka cuts himself off, sounding absolutely scandalized. He lifts up your face and appears to analyze it, his fingers grasping your jaw.
“No.” You deny pathetically.
“Holy bison, you are.” He shakes his head. “Hold on. What was going on back there? Who even was that? Why were you out so late? Was that your…your secret lover?”
His voice spikes in pitch, just like it would back when you were teens and his voice would crack. This was really embarrassing now.
“That was…not…my ‘secret lover’. I don’t have a ‘secret lover’.” You correct, reluctantly pulling his hand down. “I just went for a walk.”
“Uh-huh. And you just happened to stumble upon a handsome guy down there and spark conversation.”
“That is exactly—a what guy?” You nearly shriek.
“Don’t act innocent. I can see right through your ruse.” Sokka’s arm does not loosen around your shoulders as you continue to walk.
“What ruse?”
“The one where you’re trying to convince me that you weren’t sneaking out to see a guy.”
“I wasn’t doing that.”
“Then what were you doing?”
“Walking.”
“Walking. Right. That didn’t look like walking.”
“Well, it was. Until I accidentally bumped into him.”
“Bumped into him!” His grip on your shoulder tightens. “I guess you stumbled right into his arms, too!”
“That did not happen.” You frown. “Why are you making stuff up?”
“I’m coming to plausible conclusions.”
“You aren’t.”
“I am.”
“You weren’t even there!”
“Exactly! Who knows what else went on before I got there? Did you exchange poetry? Recite haikus to the stars?”
“None of that happened!”
“Of course not. So I’m just supposed to believe that you haven’t been avoiding me and seeing some villager for the past week.”
Before you can try to refute his claims, he shushes you, his finger pressing against your lips.
“And don’t even try to deny the avoiding part. I’m not stupid. You can attempt to cover up seeing him, but you can’t pretend you haven’t been running away from me.”
His finger leaves your lips, and you fall silent. He was right. You were avoiding him, just not for the reason he thinks.
“I…was not…seeing Lee in the village.”
“But you were avoiding me.”
You chew on your bottom lip slowly. “It wasn’t avoiding.”
“It most certainly was.”
“I just wouldn’t call it that.”
“I would.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“Well, then what would you call it?”
“...taking some time to myself?”
Sokka frowns. “Really? Of course, that doesn’t apply to Katara, or Toph, or Aang, or Zuko. Just me.”
Right. If anything, you had doubled your levels of affection with the rest of your friends. You swallow thickly, trying to find the words.
“Maybe I needed a bit of time from you.”
Why did you say that? Why would you say that? You can’t even try to take it back.
Sokka falls unusually silent. The only sound is the fall of your syncretized footsteps against the soft earth.
“Why?”
You barely hear it. You probably wouldn’t have if you hadn’t been listening for something, anything to leave his lips.
“Nothing important.” You were making some really bad decisions.
“It was important enough to give me up.”
“I didn’t give you up.”
“It sure feels like you did.”
You don’t have a response for that. Sokka sighs.
“Listen.” He starts, his fingers flexing against your shoulder. “I don’t care if you’re seeing…‘Lee’...in the village. That doesn’t matter to me. What—I’m talking right now, wait, you can defend yourself later—what matters to me is that you stopped finding me to find him.”
“That’s not what this is. You keep bringing Lee up, but he’s not the reason—”
“Then what?” Sokka interrupts, albeit not harshly. It’s soft when it shouldn’t be, which is why it stops your words despite the lack of violence in them. It just sounds…defeated.
What do you say now? That you have feelings for him and instead of dealing with them like an adult, you’re acting like a teenager with a crush that will never be reciprocated? That you’re practicing what it’ll feel like if he rejects you?
It’s stupid. You know he won’t do something drastic like lash out or insult you if you say something. You know he’s not like that. You know that you’re both better than that. But your mind just keeps jumping to all of these horrible ideas, and you have no idea what to believe and what not to.
You think that you should start with your heart.
“I talked to Aang a while ago.”
Sokka doesn’t say anything. He nods slowly, like its encouragement to keep going. You do.
“A week ago.” You continue. You know that he knows that’s when this whole thing started. “I wanted to know why Toph was acting so strange that day.”
“Yeah. That was weird.” He replies simply, his mind clearly elsewhere. You don’t know if that’s good or not.
“And…we talked.” You conclude, nodding along like you’d just revealed the secrets of the world.
Sokka waits for you to keep going. When you don’t he looks down at you, his eyebrows furrowed.
“That’s it?” He scoffs. “That doesn’t explain anything! What did you talk about.”
“That’s private information.”
“So why would you tell me that?”
“I don’t know! That’s kind of what led to this whole thing, okay?”
Sokka takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, let’s start over.”
“Starting over. Got it.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“If that’s the word we have to use.”
“It is. Something happened, and you’re avoiding me. Aang and you spoke about something, and you’re avoiding me.”
“...yeah.”
“Okay. So what was that ‘something’?”
There was no use trying to beat around it now. You need to man up and spit it out. That’s right. You’re a grown adult. You can face your feelings.
“We…are close, aren’t we?”
Sokka stiffens for a moment, but he nods. “Yeah. I’d say we’re pretty close.”
“More so than normal?”
“Uh…let’s define normal?”
“I don’t know. Like the way I am with…Toph?”
“Toph can’t be used as an example for normal.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, Sokka. Whatever. What I’m trying to say is…is that…Aang let me know that we’re…like him and Katara.”
“We are nothing like those losers.” Sokka puffs up his chest.
“Sokka.”
“Sorry. Continue.”
At least you know that he’s not really pissed at you. He wouldn’t joke around if he was. That’s a good sign.
“It means that everyone thinks we’re a thing.”
He stops in his tracks for the first time since your conversation began.
“A thing? Like a couple kind of thing?” He repeats, the disbelief coating his voice clearly.
“Yeah. Like a couple.”
“Huh.” His nose scrunches up. “So…you found that out…and you decided that you couldn’t be seen around me anymore lest Lee find out?”
“No!” You cry, swatting at him. “Stop bringing him up! I don’t even know him!”
“What am I supposed to think?” Sokka bites back.
“You’re supposed to believe me!”
“I’m trying!”
“It sure doesn’t seem like it!”
His arm finally drops from your shoulders as he covers his face and groans. “Okay. Fine! You don’t know who Lee is. I believe you. But you avoided me for some reason.”
“I told you the reason.”
“People think we’re a couple. You’re…embarrased, and you decide to stay away from me so that they don’t think that anymore.”
“That’s not it.”
“Well, that’s what I’m hearing right now.”
It’s your turn to cover your face and groan. “It’s not that part of it.”
“Then which part?”
“I’ll tell you if you stop asking questions.” You uncover your face just in time to catch him zipping his lips.
Is this it? Do you just say it straight up, now?
“I just…needed some time to think about the…extend of our relationship.” You breathe out. “That’s all.”
“So…you wanted to reflect on what we truly were.”
“Yeah.”
“And you came up with…?”
“I…don’t know.” You confess. “I don’t know.”
Sokka exhales slowly. Is that a bad sign? Maybe.
“We’re…friends.” He says.
“We are.” You repeat hollowly.
“Right. So…that’s cleared up, then.”
“I don’t think it’s that simple.” You say before you can even think about it.
Sokka’s breath hitches. He stays silent for a moment. “Yeah. I didn’t think so, either.”
So you were both on the same page there. You agreed that there was more to it than friendship. That’s…good. Hopefully.
“Was it only because you needed to think about what we were?” Sokka asks.
“What?”
“You avoiding me. Was it just because of that?”
“I…yeah?”
“So it wasn’t that you…you hated the idea of being with me and had to distance yourself to stop the assumptions?”
“What? No! No, that wasn’t it at all. I just needed to think about it.”
Your outburst takes him by surprise. Once the words register, his raised eyebrows lower into an expression that looks more relieved than anything.
“Okay. Good to know.” He wets his lips. “And…and you’re being honest about that guy—”
“How many times do I have to say it?” You groan. “I don’t know him! I bumped into him and we spoke for a little bit. He has his own love troubles to navigate.”
You try to ignore the fact that you called what’s going on between you ‘love troubles’ so blatantly. You know he caught onto it. You know he knows that you know. Neither of you say anything about it.
It was kind of annoying, the way he just kept going back to Lee like he was—
Holy shit.
“Oh.” You say simply, turning to face him completely. “You’re…jealous. You’re jealous.”
“Wha—what?” Sokka splutters, taking a step back, his hands raised as he shakes his head vigorously. “Me? Jealous? Of that guy? No way!”
“You are!” You protest, taking a step forward to make up for the distance that he’s putting between you two. “That’s why you’re so pissy!”
“I’m not pissy!”
“You so are! I get it! I get it now! You’re so upset because I was with him!”
“I’m upset that you’re pretending to not know me anymore!”
“It’s doubled because of him!”
“So what?” Sokka turns it around suddenly, taking a step forward with a sudden surge of confidence. “Huh? So what if I was upset? I have a right to be! You start avoiding me, and then I go out for a walk to clear my head, and I find you all buddy-buddy with some random guy all alone at night, and what am I supposed to think of that, huh?”
You gape at him, but it’s obvious that he’s not done.
“The only thing I can think is that you’ve found a new guy to replace me or something, either as a friend or—or something more, and I haven’t even been able to have an actual conversation with just you in a week and here you are just all over this guy like he’s the best thing you’ve ever seen and—ugh!”
A hand flies up to dig his fingers into his scalp. “Whatever. Whatever. Forget it. It’s stupid.”
His incoherent mumbles and pacing that leads him away from you snap you out of your stupor. “Wait. Wait! Sokka, hold on!”
Sokka stops, slowly turning around to face you.
“It’s…it’s not stupid. It’s not. I’m sorry. I’m the stupid one. I don’t know why I avoided you like that for so long. I should have just been straight up with you and done things like an adult. I’m sorry for making you feel like I was casting you aside or seeing someone else or anything along those lines. Really.”
The two of you are standing face to face, yours angled slightly upwards to meet his eyes. Sokka’s fists clench and unclench. Silence suffocates you until he closes his eyes and breathes out.
“It’s fine. You don’t have to apologize or anything. I’m sorry for jumping to conclusions and accusing you without just asking first.”
“I guess I still have some growing up to do.” You scratch the back of your neck sheepishly.
“I think we all do.” Sokka replies. “But that’s the fun of it.”
“Sometimes.”
“Sometimes.”
When you fall silent, it’s much less awkward this time. Still, you know that it’s not the end of your conversation.
“So…you were jealous.” You bring up again.
“Are you going to let that go anytime soon?”
“I’ll think about it.” You smile, but that’s not the reason you brought it up. “Why?”
“Why? Maybe because you were talking to a guy I didn’t know. Alone.”
“You called him handsome.”
“He kind of is. Alright, how was I supposed to feel seeing you talking to a handsome guy I don’t know all alone?”
“The others wouldn’t have reacted the same way.”
Sokka huffs. “No. They wouldn’t.”
“It’s different, then.”
“Yeah, it’s different with you. It’s always different with you.”
You stare at him with wide eyes. Sokka meets them for a moment, then grows flustered and turns away.
“I…I do like you, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?” He mumbles.
“Like me? Or…like like.”
A quick hesitance. “The second one.”
“Huh.”
“Yeah, huh.”
So…Aang was right. It takes a moment for your brain to catch up, but once it does, it becomes a complete mess. Your body performs about a hundred actions at once, including overheating, fidgeting fingers, rapid blinks, and nervous twitches.
“Are you going to say anything, or are you going to leave me hanging?” Sokka asks, his own nervousness concealed under a confident demeanor that you’ve long since been able to see through.
You nod, your lips parting. Here it is. This is your chance to say something, to tell him how you feel, how you want more and how you—
“I love you.”
…
You did not mean to say that. It was true, it always had been, and your heart had known that, which is why it took over instead of your brain. But you were supposed to start off slow and sweet, not jump straight into it.
Before you can even apologize for the way it made both of you freeze, Sokka’s lips parting in shock and yours quivering as if unable to take the recoil of the confession, he moves.
In an instant, his hands fly up to cup both sides of your face, his thumbs resting on your cheeks as he pulls you up to meet him halfway.
His lips are slightly chapped, contributing to a vague rough feeling that’s drowned out by the overall gentleness that comes with the kiss. It’s a simple press of lips to lips, his perfectly slotting in against yours. His hands stay firmly planted on your face, and your hands come up to rest on his chest in turn. You tilt your head slightly, but the moment you make a move, he snaps back.
His eyes are blown wide, a regretful expression on his face that scares you into believing that he’d realized that he didn’t actually like you or something. He backs up, his hands slowly falling from your face. “Crap. Sorry. Was that too soon? That was too soon. Sorry, I should have asked, I—”
You grab him by the collar of his shirt and tug him back down again. His hands shoot up, and then quickly find a place on your waist. In turn, you loop your arms around his neck. It’s not any more rushed than the last one. He’s savoring you with a gentleness you didn’t think you’d ever experience. He doesn’t push hard, just enough to make a imprint that you can’t easily get rid of.
This time, you pull back, making sure to keep your arms around him. His eyes flutter open and he looks at you. Differently. It’s fond, and while he’s looked at you like that before, there’s something so loving in the way his gaze softens that it practically turns you to mush.
“We could have done that a week ago.” He whispers to you.
“Guess we’ll have to make up for missed time.” You respond, reaching up to press a kiss to his cheek, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.
“I like the sound of that.” Sokka smiles, dipping down to steal another kiss.
BONUS
“So…were you lying when you said you didn’t care I was out with Lee?” You ask as you walk back to the house, Sokka’s arm wrapped tightly around your side.
“Oh, yeah. I was lying straight through my teeth. I was going to cry and everything.” He grins back, swooping down and pressing a quick kiss to your head as you cross the threshold.
As you turn, you hear something shatter. You jump slightly, your head swiveling to find the source as Sokka pulls you back and his shoulders tense.
“You…you did it!” Aang cries, a shattered glass at his feet. He sounds suspiciously on the verge of tears. “I can’t believe it!”
“You didn’t believe in me?” You tease, relaxing as you rest your head on Sokka’s shoulder.
“Not at all.” Aang jokes back. “But hey, I’m happy for you. Even if nothing’s really changed”
He was right. The only thing different about you guys was that you could kiss him on the lips. Still, it’s not like you’d want it any other way.
“I’m happy, too.” You reply with a soft smile. Sokka beams, grabbing your chin and kissing you again.
You don’t think he’d get bored of that anytime soon.
Summary: The announcement came on a Tuesday, when the leaves turned the color of fire and you were reading and the tea had gone cold.
You married the Fire Lord on a Thursday in autumn. You wore fire lilies in your hair. Neither of you wanted it. Neither of you said so.
What followed was not a love story, not at first. It was two people in the same building, running a nation between them, learning the shape of each other's silences. It was a lamp left on in a corridor at an hour when the palace should have been dark. It was tea refilled without being asked. It was the slow, painstaking work of two people who had forgotten how to want things, remembering.
She carries a fire that burns white and a secret that could undo everything. He carries the weight of a nation and the particular loneliness of someone who has never been seen clearly.
This is the story of what happens when they finally look.
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader x Valarr Targaryen (part 1, part 2)
Summary: Based on the request "A fic where you tried to give Valarr a love potion but Aerion drinks it instead (like what one of Egg's sisters did)". Reader is a Baratheon (but no physical descriptions are given), who is a childhood friend of Valarr's.
The night was chaos. Maids were summoned. Whispers spread quickly: of sickness, of spoiled wine, of something ill in the prince’s constitution.
He was kept to his chambers, pale and shaking, his body rejecting whatever had been forced upon it by Rhae's witchery.
You did not sleep. You did not dare.
By morning, it was over. The love was gone. You saw it immediately in the way he looked at you. He was back to himself. Weakened, but no longer consumed.
“And now,” he said hoarsely, reclining against his pillows as Maekar stood nearby, his expression darkening with every passing moment, “I will not marry her.”
Maekar stared at him. “You begged for this match.”
“I was not myself.”
“You were very much yourself,” Maekar snapped. “You declared it before the court.”
“I was under some…influence,” Aerion said, his gaze flicking briefly, very briefly, to you. “It has passed.”
Maekar’s jaw tightened. This had not been the love match he had hoped for. This was pure embarrassment.
Lyonel arrived that same day. Storm itself incarnate. And when he learned that the match he had ridden hard to secure was now dismissed, that his niece had been all but tossed aside, his temper broke.
“You think this is a jest?” he thundered, his voice carrying through the hall like a war drum. “You send for me, speak of betrothal, and then...what? Change your minds like children at play?”
Maekar stood firm, unyielding. “My son has reconsidered.”
“Your son has insulted my blood,” Lyonel shot back. “And you expect me to simply swallow it?”
“You will accept that no vows were made,” Maekar replied coldly.
Lyonel laughed. It was a threatening, mad, unpleasant sound.
“No vows?” he echoed. “You think that matters? You think word means nothing now? Is that what your dragons have come to?”
The tension in the hall tightened.
“You will be compensated,” Maekar said, as though that settled it. “Another match will be arranged. One of my kin...”
“I do not want another match,” Lyonel snarled. “I want the one that was offered. Or I will take my own crown and be done with this mummer's farce.”
The threat hung in the air. Open rebellion.And still it was not enough.
Tyrosh, apparently, mattered more. Trade. Alliances. Politics.
You did not.
You did not attend dinner. You dismissed your maids. You stood in your chamber, packing your things, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
“Ours is the fury.” Your house words rang in your mind.
You had been humiliated. Overlooked. Used as a convenience, then discarded. And there was nothing you could do. Nothing but leave.
“Have the carriage be ready by morning,” you had ordered. “I shall return to Storm’s End.”
Alone. You would not stay here another moment, you had already decided. That was the only thing holding you upright. Not dignity, not after being bartered and dismissed like some ill-fitting arrangement, but sheer, stubborn resolve. The kind that had been carved into you long before you knew what court politics even were. The kind your uncle had raised you on between laughter and blood and storm-winds.
“Ours is the fury.” It rang through you now like a war drum.
You would not give them the satisfaction.
Your uncle would rage, of course. He already had, if the echoes of his voice earlier in the hall were anything to go by. But at least there, his fury would be yours. Not something you were forced to stand still beneath while others decided your worth in measured, political tones.
The door opened behind you. You did not turn at once.
“Get out,” you said, assuming it was one of the maids returning despite your dismissal. “I said I would finish...”
The door shut firmly. You turned.
Aerion stood there. He did not look like the lovesick creature who had followed you through corridors and gardens only days before.
“What did you do to me?” he asked.
You stared at him for a moment, then folded your arms slowly across your chest. “I might ask you the same. You caused quite enough trouble without needing help from me.”
He took a step further into the room, gaze fixed on you in a way that made it clear he was not here to be dismissed.
“I remember pieces,” he said, measured. “Not everything. But enough to know I was not in my right mind. I was...” He exhaled sharply, almost disgusted with himself. “Clinging. Begging. Speaking nonsense.”
You said nothing.
His eyes narrowed. “You will explain.”
You considered lying. You did not.
Perhaps because it no longer mattered. Perhaps because you were too tired to construct something neat and palatable. Or perhaps because, for all his faults, Aerion had already suffered enough humiliation without being left in ignorance of it.
“You drank a love potion,” you said plainly.
Silence followed.
“…what?” he asked incredulously, after a moment.
“One Rhae made,” you continued, your tone steady even as your fingers curled slightly against your arms. “She meant it for someone else. It was never intended for you. You took the goblet before I could stop you.”
“The goblet,” he repeated slowly. “The one I took from your hand.”
“Yes.”
“And that was...what?” His gaze lifted back to yours, something keen and probing behind it now. “Meant for whom?”
You hesitated. Only for a second. But he noticed.
“…Valarr,” you said.
That did it.
It was subtle, but unmistakable, the shift in him. Not anger, not outright, but something far more cutting. Something almost…offended. A short, disbelieving breath left him.
“So,” he said, pacing once across the room before turning back to you, “I was not even the intended fool. I merely…stumbled into the role.”
“You took it from my hand,” you snapped, irritation flaring. “Uninvited, I might add.”
He gave a short laugh, though there was little humor in it.
“And you paid for it,” you added. “You were sick enough to rid yourself of it.”
He studied you for a long moment after that.
Then he glanced around, taking in the half-packed trunks, the folded gowns, the disarray that spoke not of leisure but departure.
“You are leaving,” he said.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“In the morn.”
His eyes flicked back to yours.
“And you intend to go quietly?” he asked. “After all this?”
“What would you have me do?” you shot back, the fury you had been holding in your chest surging up at last. “Stay? Smile? Pretend I was not offered and dismissed like a passing inconvenience? They have made their priorities quite clear. I will not remain here to be pitied.”
“No,” he said thoughtfully. “You would not.”
Silence stretched again. Then: “I will make you a proposal.”
You stiffened. “I am not interested in...”
“You should hear it first,” he cut in, not unkindly, but firmly enough to stop you.
You pressed your lips together. “Speak, then.”
“We restore the betrothal,” he said.
You stared at him. “…what?”
“We renew it,” he continued, as though discussing something simple, something practical. “Publicly. Before your uncle leaves. Before the court has time to settle on a version of events that does not favour you.”
“You refused it,” you said flatly.
“I did,” he agreed. “Under the impression that my previous…condition had made the decision for me.”
“And now?”
“Now I am making it consciously.”
You threw your hands up in exasperation. “This is absurd.”
“No,” he said calmly. “This is useful.”
You turned away from him, running a hand over your hair in frustration. “You expect me to simply agree? After everything? After your father dismissed my uncle’s anger as though it were nothing?”
“My father dismissed the threat of rebellion because he believes it will not come to pass,” Aerion replied. “You and I both know your uncle would burn half the realm before bending easily, but he will not start a war without cause that he can justify to others.”
“He has cause,” you snapped. “His niece was insulted.”
“His niece was inconvenienced,” Aerion corrected, though there was no mockery in it, only blunt truth. “And inconvenience is not enough to rally banners, no matter how loudly he roars.”
That stung. Because it was true. You hated that it was true.
He watched your reaction carefully before continuing.
“But a renewed betrothal changes that,” he said. “It removes the insult. It restores your standing. It gives him what he came for.”
“What of you?” you asked sharply. “What do you gain from this arrangement, aside from further entangling yourself in something you already wished to escape?”
“Several things,” his mouth curved. “For one, it allows me to correct the spectacle I have already made of myself. For another…” His gaze flicked briefly toward the door, as though aware of unseen ears, before returning to you. “It offers certain…satisfactions.”
“Such as?”
“Such as watching my dear cousin come to terms with the fact that what he overlooked is now beyond his reach,” he said lightly.
You held his gaze. You could not deny that something in you responded to that. Vindictive. Baratheon.
“And the court?” you pressed. “They will not simply accept that you changed your mind twice in as many days.”
“They will accept whatever story we give them,” he replied. “People prefer a narrative that makes sense of discomfort. We provide one, and they will cling to it.”
“What story would that be?”
“That you were overwhelmed,” he said, watching you carefully now. “That my proposal came too suddenly, that you felt…cornered. That you withdrew, and I, in my pride, took it as an insult and withdrew in turn.”
“And now?” you asked.
“Now we reconcile,” he said simply. “Privately first. Publicly soon after. A misunderstanding. A quarrel. Nothing more.”
You were quiet for a long moment. It was a good plan. Too good.
“And you will take the blame,” you said slowly.
“If necessary,” he replied without hesitation. “It will cost me less than it costs you.”
That, too, was true. You exhaled. “…fine,” you said at last. “We will do it.”
Relief did not show on his face. He nodded once. “It will be done, then.”
You turned back toward the trunk, reaching for a folded gown with more force than needed, as though the conversation had settled something cleanly.
It had not. There was a pause behind you.
Then: “There is something else.”
You stilled, your fingers tightening slightly in the fabric. “What?”
He did not answer immediately. When you turned back, Aerion was watching you again, but differently now.
“I remember it,” he said.
Your stomach tightened.
“The way I felt,” he clarified. “Not all of it. But enough.”
You swallowed.
He took a step closer, slower this time, as though approaching something uncertain.
“It was…” He exhaled, searching for the word. “Intense. Yes. Overwhelming. But also...” He frowned faintly, as though the admission irritated him. “Good.”
You looked away.
“I remember wanting to be near you constantly,” he continued. “Wanting to touch you. To speak to you. To…” He stopped himself, jaw tightening slightly. “It was not entirely unpleasant.”
“It was not real,” you said, colder than intended.
“I know,” he replied. There was no argument in it.
“I know,” he repeated, softer now. “That does not mean it was not...something.”
Silence stretched.
“I remember you, as well,” he added after a moment.
Your almost took a step back to escape.
“You were not cruel,” he said. “Not entirely. You were…careful. Even when you did not wish to be.”
You did not know what to say to that. You had not realized he had noticed.
“I remember your hands,” he went on, almost absently now, as though the memory had taken hold of him despite himself. “You touched me as though I might break. As though you were…” He trailed off, then shook his head once, as if dismissing it.
You forced your voice steady. “You were ill.”
“That is not the point.”
“No,” you said quietly. “It is not.”
“I would not mind,” he added, almost casually, though his eyes betrayed something else entirely, “if you did not hate me quite so much this time.”
Your breath caught.
He turned away then, as though the admission cost him more than he would ever allow you to see.
The betrothal was renewed before the court had quite decided what to make of the first disaster. There was no room left for whispers to grow teeth. Aerion Targaryen spoke with a clarity that bordered on insolence, as though the reversal were not a reversal at all but the correction of a trivial misunderstanding. You stood beside him, still as carved stone, aware of every eye in the hall and yet refusing to give them anything they could feast on.
Your uncle watched. That was the worst of it. Lyonel Baratheon did not shout, did not laugh, did not storm out in outrage, he simply watched, weighing the thing like a man deciding whether to split a table with his bare hands or leave it standing out of sheer spite.
When it was done, Maekar Targaryen summoned Aerion away from the hall. You did not follow, but Maekar’s voice carried through the half-open doors.
“You will not make sport of this again. You will not dangle alliances as though they were baubles to be picked up and dropped when you tire of them.”
Aerion did not answer immediately, and in that pause there was something unfamiliar. When he did speak, it was lower than you had ever heard him, stripped of ornament.
“I will not repeat it.”
It was not apology. Maekar would not have cared for one. But it was something like acknowledgement, and that seemed to suffice, for the door shut and the matter, outwardly, was settled.
Outwardly.
It left other things to fester.
Valarr Targaryen did not rage. That would have been easier to bear. Instead, he watched you with an attention that grew more suspicious by the hour, as though he had misplaced something and could not remember where he had last set it down.
You felt it at your back, across tables, in corridors where chance encounters began to feel less like chance. He lingered in conversations that did not concern him, appeared too quickly when you withdrew, dismissed explanations that might have satisfied anyone else. There was something strained in him now, something pulling tight.
You might have endured it longer if not for Rhae Targaryen, who had never learned the discipline of silence.
She did not confess outright. It slipped from her sideways, dressed in half a joke, a careless remark that would have meant nothing to anyone without context. Unfortunately, Egg Targaryen had context. Years of being the unwilling subject of her concoctions had given him an ear for precisely that sort of mistake.
Valarr found you in one of the smaller passages, where the tapestries swallowed sound and the court felt far away. He did not bother with courtesy.
“Tell me it is not true.”
You knew at once what he meant, though you tried, out of reflex more than hope, to evade it. “You will have to be more specific.”
“The potion,” he said, and there was something raw beneath the words now, stripped of the careful composure he usually wore so easily. “Rhae’s foolishness. Aerion drinking it. All of it, tell me it is not true.”
You hesitated.
He drew in a breath that did not quite steady him. “You should have come to me.”
“And said what?” you exploded instantly, worn thin by repetition and scrutiny and the slow erosion of patience. “That your cousin made a spectacle of himself under something he did not understand? That I was dragged into it? What would you have done with that?”
“I would have stopped this,” he said, and now he stepped closer, urgency overtaking restraint. “You would not have had to accept him again.”
“I was not forced...”
“You were,” he insisted, more quietly, and that quiet was worse. “You always choose the path that preserves your dignity, even if it binds you to something you do not want. You would rather endure than be pitied. I know you.”
The familiarity of it stung.
“We can undo it,” he pressed. “We will speak to them again. Properly this time. There are ways...”
“There are not,” you said, and you meant it, though saying it felt like closing a door you had not quite examined.
“There are,” he repeated, but now there was something else threading through his insistence, something less noble. “If you stand with me...”
“And what shall that look like?” The question did not come from you.
Aerion Targaryen leaned in the archway as though he had been there long enough to hear everything that mattered. There was nothing languid in him now, nothing of the careless prince who provoked for sport; his attention was fixed.
Valarr turned sharply. “This is not your concern.”
“It is precisely my concern,” Aerion replied, pushing himself away from the stone and stepping into the narrow space between you. “You are advising my betrothed to dismantle her own standing. I am curious what you intend to offer in its place.”
“I intend to offer her a way out.”
“From what?” Aerion’s tone did not rise, but it sharpened, each word set carefully. “A marriage that restores her position? That silences the insult you allowed to stand when it first mattered?”
Valarr’s expression darkened. “Do not twist this into something it is not.”
“I am not twisting anything,” Aerion said. “I am asking a simple question. What do you offer her?”
Valarr opened his mouth, then closed it again.
Aerion did not look away. “Exactly. You offer her indignation and nothing else. A grand gesture that leaves her to bear the consequences alone.”
“That is unfair.”
“Yes,” Aerion agreed softly. “But it is accurate.”
He shifted then, not quite placing himself between you and Valarr, but close enough that the intent was unmistakable without needing to be stated.
“She will not leave this court diminished,” he said. “Not while I can prevent it.”
Valarr looked at you, and for a moment the anger stripped away, leaving something else, something that might have been regret if it had come sooner, if it had not arrived amplified by the sight of you standing beside another man.
“You do not have to stay,” he said.
The simplicity of it nearly undid you.
But before you could answer, Aerion spoke again, far more cutting. “She has already chosen.”
It was not true entirely but the way he said it made it feel settled.
“Go,” Aerion waved a hand. “Attend to your own betrothal. Leave mine alone.”
Valarr did not argue again. There was nothing left for him to use that would not unravel further under scrutiny. He stepped back, the tension in him coiling inward rather than dissipating, and left without another word.
Aerion did not look at you immediately. When he did, it was brief, as though confirming something to himself, and then he turned away as well, leaving the corridor feeling suddenly too narrow.
The dress arrived the following afternoon. It was not the sort of thing you would have chosen, it was unflattering but it refused modesty. The fabric was rich without being ostentatious, dark enough to make the gold threading at the seams stand out. The neckline dipped lower than was strictly proper, softened only by the structure of the bodice, which held everything precisely where it ought to be.
You ran your fingers over the embroidery, recognizing the pattern without needing to think: stags worked subtly into the design. Baratheon, reshaped.
When Aerion appeared later, you did not bother to hide your suspicion. “You are aware this will be noticed.”
“That is rather the point,” he said, as though it were obvious.
The certainty in it should have irritated you more than it did. You wore it.
At supper, Valarr's gaze found you quickly and lingered without disguise, drawn to the unfamiliar lines of the gown, the way it altered your shape, the way it made something that had always been present suddenly impossible to ignore.
It should have satisfied Aerion.
That had been the intention, after all: a small, petty victory carved neatly out of a larger, more complicated situation.
Instead, he found himself distracted by something far less convenient. By you.
It was not new, exactly. The memory of the potion still lingered in him in unwelcome fragments: the pull toward you, the restless need for proximity, the disorienting certainty that everything else was secondary. He had dismissed it as an aberration, a chemical imposition that had nothing to do with him.
Watching you now, he was less certain.
It was quieter, what he felt. Less consuming. Yet no less persistent.
You shifted in your seat, adjusting the fabric at your waist, and his attention followed the movement before he could stop it. When you laughed at something Rhae said, the sound caught him off guard, familiar in a way that unsettled him. He looked away. It did not help.
Later, in your chambers, you turned slightly before the mirror, fingers fussing with the neckline. “It sits oddly,” you murmured, though the complaint lacked conviction.
“It does not,” Aerion said from where he leaned against the doorframe.
You glanced at him through the reflection. “You would say that.”
“I would not, if it were untrue.”
You studied your reflection a moment longer, then, in a small voice, “Do you like it?”
It was a simple question, but it held more weight than it ought to have. There was something in the way you asked, as though his answer mattered in a way that had not been the case before.
“Yes,” he said at last.
You nodded, satisfied, and turned back to the mirror, smoothing the fabric once more.
He pushed himself away from the wall without quite deciding to do so, drawn forward by something he had not named and could not easily dismiss.
He reached for you before the rest of the thought could form. His hand came up, fingers brushing along your jaw with a familiarity that might have startled you if it had not already existed somewhere beneath the surface. He tilted your face toward him, just enough to meet your gaze fully, and for a moment he simply looked at you, as though measuring something he had resisted too long. Then he closed the distance.
The kiss was nothing like the fevered grasping the potion had driven from him before. There was no urgency to it, no desperation clawing at the edges. It was slower, steadier, shaped by awareness rather than absence of it. That made it far more difficult to dismiss.
Rhae’s careless words returned to you then, unwelcome and impossible to ignore. It only amplifies what is already there.
part 4: pending...
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synopsis: summoned to the red keep to prove her family's loyalty a decade after the blackfyre rebellion, the lady of house peake only intends to survive court politics — becoming entangled with prince valarr targaryen was not part of the plan.
author’s note: this includes one of the very first scenes i wrote for this series, so i'm very excited for you all to see it. i'm sorry this took me so long to write and post, but it's a pretty significant chapter, so i hope that makes it up to all of you! giggling and kicking my feet here lol <3
wordcount + tags: 6,368 + enemies to lovers, slowburn, forbidden romance, sparring as flirting, heavy tension, canon-typical misogyny/violence, pre-akotsk
part one || part two || part three || part four || part five || part six || part seven
Valarr Targaryen x F!Reader
Your eyes track the pale light of dawn as it stretches sluggishly across the ceiling, until it has pushed the darkness out of even the furthest corners of the room, the entire chamber glowing softly with pale daybreak. Your mind is still entirely alert from when you first lay your head on your pillow last night, many hours ago, after–
After it happened.
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, exhaling heavily into the stillness of your chambers as if the action could physically push the memory away, shove it into the recesses of your mind to be ignored or blissfully forgotten through sheer willpower.
It clings to you like morning mist, your efforts to dispel it only causing it to replay at the forefront of your mind instead.
His low voice, wrecked and pleading, dragged out of him as if against his will. The careful way in which he had stepped into your space, not asking and yet not presuming, the ensuing look of relief on his face when you hadn’t stepped away.
How much you’d wanted to close the agonizing distance between the two of you and–
You flop your hands down dramatically against the bed, banishing the thought before it has the chance to fully form. Your eyes refocus slowly on the canopy above you, the golden silk of the embroidered dragon gleaming down at you almost mockingly.
Foolish. The word comes quickly, instinctively, your father’s voice echoing in your skull. Idiotic, really, your own voice amends.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed before the thought can linger, feet finding the cold stone with a quiet hiss of breath, abandoning the futile attempt at chasing a sleep that will not come in favour of finding distraction in your daily routine.
Ellyn chatters softly as she works with your hair while Mara fusses with the ties of your gown behind you, and you sit still and allow their practiced hands to dictate the rhythm of the morning, trying your hardest to engage rather than let your thoughts carry you down pathways you adamantly refuse to follow.
“And then Lady Dalt, the elder, not the younger, said the seamstress ruined the waist entirely,” Ellyn seems delighted by the scandal of it, her gray eyes glittering as she recounts. “Though Mara insists she simply gained weight–”
“I never said that,” Mara protests, dark brows tugging together petulantly. “I just suggested that maybe the error lies less in the seamstress’ skill, and more in the volume of honey cakes consumed each morning.”
Ellyn gasps and you can’t help but laugh as the two girls begin bickering lightly over your head, but it all feels… removed.
“Will you return to training this morning, my lady?” Mara asks gently, fastening the last tie at your back, noticing your distracted attitude.
“No,” you answer sharply, the thought of running into Valarr more terrifying than ever, but then you add softly, “Not today.”
You don’t see the knowing look your maids exchange behind your back.
The corridors of the Red Keep are already busy by the time you step into them, servants moving briskly between tasks, the low murmur of voices carrying faintly along the stone, and you keep your head high, your pace measured. Normal. Everything can just return to normal.
Of course, fate has other plans for you. As you turn the corner of Maegor’s Holdfast that connects with the rest of the Keep, you feel the thrum in the air before you realize what it means, and by then, it is too late.
You stop in your tracks, stock-still as you catch sight of Valarr as he rounds the same corner in your direction. He is already frozen, mismatched eyes wide as they take you in, clearly experiencing the same turmoil as you after last night.
He is already too close to you – closer than is proper, closer than is comfortable – the abruptness of your meeting and the narrowness of the corner forcing a proximity that feels suddenly, acutely intentional, despite it being anything but.
For the briefest of moments, his face is an unguarded display of his vulnerable emotions, of his impulsion, before it is smoothed away into a controlled passivity that feels much more familiar.
“Lady Peake.” He greets stiffly, inclining his head, and you’re struck by the sudden ire that fills you at the formal distance of it all.
You dip your head in turn, the motion practiced and wooden. “Your Grace.”
The words settle wrongly in your ears, too distant, too formal for what passed between you, and yet these roles are the only safe thing left to return to. A servant passes behind him, and you both shift slightly to allow them space to pass, but neither of you move to leave.
He is watching you, the weight of his attention settling against your skin like something tangible, and you bristle as warmth begins to blossom low in your chest.
“You did not come to the yard.” He says after a moment, looking like he didn’t quite mean to say that out loud.
You blink, startled by the sudden image you get, of the prince venturing to the training yard in the early light, awaiting you. How long did he stand there? When did he give up on you?
You lift your chin a fraction, defensiveness taking root where affection threatens to bloom. “I was… otherwise occupied, my prince.”
The title lands like a blow, and his jaw shifts, eyes narrowed as though he might say something real, but the instinct is checked before it can fully form. “Of course.” He nods curtly. Politely.
You become poignantly aware of the space you inhabit, the quiet that surrounds you, the brush of your sleeve against the stone wall, the way his hand flexes once at his side, then stills. You are struck with the sudden urge to laugh at the repetitive situation the two of you keep finding yourselves in, but you stifle it in your throat.
Valarr is silent for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he scans your face and then drops his gaze to the floor, clearly formulating how to say what’s on his mind. Your heart pounds in your chest in anticipation, watching him carefully, waiting for him to just say it.
Finally, his throat bobs, an earnestness filling his eyes as they meet yours. “My lady– I wanted to say–”
Footsteps echo from the far end of the corridor causing the two of you to practically spring apart, heads snapping in the direction of the sound.
“Valarr!” Matarys appears after a tension-frought moment, skidding around the corner with a mischievous grin on his face. “Quick, I got away, but–” He falters when he spots you, but after a moment the smile widens, and your heart melts.
“Oh! Lady Peake.” He greets, then doubles over at the waist in a bow, the gesture too eager, antithetical to the real power balance between you. It startles a laugh out of you, and you dip into an exaggerated curtsy of your own.
“My prince.” You smile warmly at the young boy, missing the way Valarr is watching you, his cheeks suddenly dusted in a pink hue.
“Good, I meant to– If you’re free, are– Will you show me how to finish making the daisy rope?” Matarys asks with wide eyes, making a visible effort to compose himself as he straightens his posture.
You glance over at Valarr, desperate to continue your interrupted conversation, but Matarys’ patience seems to be wearing thin. “My tutoring session is meant to begin shortly, and I can only evade them for so long.” He prompts, glancing down the hallway, and you swallow thickly.
“Mata.” Valarr scolds, though it holds no real fire, and you can’t help the sudden buzz of fondness at hearing the nickname. You look between the brothers, something unspoken passing between you and Valarr. Later, it promises.
“Of course, my prince.” You smile down at Matarys, who beams back up at you.
“I tried, honestly, but the stems keep breaking before I can finish. I think your fingers are more suited–” His voice trails off as he takes off down the hallway, and you cast a soft, regretful smile over at Valarr, who mimics your expression.
“Good day, Lady Peake.” He nods at you, the words returned now to their rightful tone of formal, measured, safe.
You nod and wrench your gaze away, trailing after the younger prince, his voice still bouncing off the stone walls as he stalks ahead of you. You don’t look back despite the pull in the pit of your stomach to do so, but you feel him there nonetheless as you go – the space he occupies, the absence he leaves behind as you step out of it.
The corridor seems colder once you’ve passed him, the air less thick with the unspoken, but your thoughts are no quieter for it.
Behind you, Valarr watches you follow after his brother, his mind a tempest of thoughts of duty, honour, and sneakily, beneath it all, a burning sense of desire.
The rest of the day passes peacefully – you lie in the godswood with the younger prince, dappled light warming your skin where it filters through the leaves, teaching him various ways to weave the flowers together as you forcefully push all thoughts of the other prince out of your mind.
He gets the hang of the daisy chain and proceeds to just about raze the grass of its flowers, returning to you with an armful of blooms that he then weaves together with startlingly serious focus.
You absentmindedly begin to braid the long grasses as he works, an endeavour he then latches onto eagerly, and by the time the out of breath servant comes looking for him, evidently less-than-pleased, you’re surrounded by various textile projects formed entirely by grass and flowers.
Matarys heads to his lesson draped in his creations, leaving you adorned with a few as well, and when you return to your chambers you hang them fondly on the candlesticks by your bedside.
You have tea with the other ladies and then meander through the halls alongside the Queen, scanning for a signature dark head of hair despite yourself, lingering near the training yards and stables and King’s solar in hopes of catching him and continuing your conversation–
But the promised later never comes, and before you know it, you’re retiring to your chambers for the night without having seen him again all day.
Despite the lack of resolution from last night, you still find yourself going to bed with an irritatingly pleasant warmth blooming in your chest, brown and blue swimming behind your eyelids as you fall into sleep.
You wake abruptly, not much later, to the sound of metal scraping against itself, slow and careful.
The Red Keep is never truly silent – wind whistles through arrow slits, distant waves strike the cliffs below, the guard’s boots form a muted cadence as they rotate their watch – but this sound is so quiet, so intentional, that it sets an alarm off in your mind before you fully register it, your heart thudding against your ribcage before you’ve even fully awoken.
Your eyes snap open into darkness illuminated only by the faintest slivers of moonlight draping onto the floor of your chambers, just in time to watch your door ease ever-so-slowly inward.
Your fingers slip beneath your pillow, curling around the handle of the dagger that has lain hidden beneath you as you sleep since your very first night in King’s Landing, a grim sort of satisfaction taking root at the inevitability of this.
You knew this would happen. You knew you weren’t safe in these halls, that you would always be under threat, but you let yourself slip into a false sense of security– and now you are to pay the price.
Despite the fear that courses through you, there’s a strange wave of relief at having been correct in your deep-seated mistrust.
A cloaked figure slips into the chamber and closes the door behind him with a soft click, a sliver of moonlight showing you his face as he turns – gruff, bearded, a pale scar across his cheek, cold pale eyes widening as he finds you already awake and watching him.
He seems to be in no rush, but of course, he has no need to be – your chamber is small, the windows narrow and leading only to a steep drop. There is nowhere for you to run.
You sit up shock-straight in bed, heartbeat thundering in your ears, waiting for the grand speech about your family’s betrayal and allegiance to the Targaryens– but then he pulls his cloak aside, just enough, and you see the crudely stitched sigil on his chest.
A black dragon on red fabric. The wrong dragon. The Blackfyre dragon.
Time slows as confusion floods your senses.
He greets you by your first name, your full name, his voice low, eyes narrowed as he steps closer. It feels like an accusation more than a greeting, and your eyes dart toward the door behind him, his body a barrier between you and any possible escape.
You rise slowly from the bed, bare feet meeting cold stone, dagger clutched tightly behind your back. The night air bites against your skin through the thin linen of your nightgown, your bare shoulder meeting cool stone as you back up against the wall.
“What– What is the meaning of this?” Your voice is thin, made feeble by your fear, and shame fills you at the sound of its tremble.
He cocks his head, his eyes raking over your body like a hound sizing up its prey, taking his time before answering, his voice rough and low when he finally speaks. “I’m not here for you, m’lady, but it seems to be a fortunate accident.”
Your brow furrows. Why would he be here if not for you? This wing of Maegor’s Holdfast is small, only housing your chambers and–
A cold realisation washes over you all at once.
“Prince Valarr.” You breathe his name out, a fear you cannot rationalise squeezing your throat at the revelation. The intruder grins and inclines his head in confirmation, never taking his eyes off of you.
“You must–” You shake your head, swallowing thickly, a tremor wracking through you as desperation takes hold. “You must leave. I won’t– I won’t say anything, just go, just–”
“You would defend the usurpers?” His lip curls in a disgusted sneer at your reaction. “Your house stood with the true king. Your family died because of the Targaryens, your land and castles stolen from you, and yet now you lie here, beneath their banners, defending their heir.”
“I am here against my will,” your voice shakes as you try to defend yourself, indignation and fear warring in your chest. “And– and there’d be no use, you’d only get yourself captured or killed if you even step foot into the halls, there are Kingsguard everywhere–”
“You’re wrong,” he smiles grimly. “Your hall is empty.” Fear courses through you, realizing that he must be right because he got into your room. “And there may be guards at his door, but I’ve been informed there’s a way into the prince’s chambers through here.”
His eyes move past you, scanning the walls, and you frown, shaking your head fervently. “No, there’s no– That’s not true. It’s– It’s just me in here, so– So the only way out for you is to leave, I– I won’t tell.”
You tack on that last bit at the end, your voice thin as you try to plead with him. Dimly, you note that the guards outside Valarr’s chambers would hear you if you screamed, but they might not make it in time– and they might not even come for you.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you also take into account that if there is a way into the prince’s chambers from yours, and the intruder kills you first, he might still succeed in his original plot.
The thought makes you feel sick. You hope it hasn’t occurred to him too.
“Maybe you’re right, maybe I can’t kill the young prince tonight,” his eyes drag over your form, his sneer sharpening with contempt at your pleading, his hand disappearing into his cloak. “Or maybe I can, and as a bonus, I can also bring home the head of a traitor.”
Steel flashes in the moonlight, and fear dumps over you like ice water.
He lunges towards you and you move before your thoughts even catch up, instinct driving you to pivot away and slash your blade. The dagger bites into his side but glances off his leathers, barely digging into flesh, causing him to curse out and drive you back into the wall.
Your shoulder and skull crack against the stone, white-hot pain lancing through you as you cry out. His hand clamps against your mouth, dagger held at your neck as he turns to glance over his shoulder, and you seize your chance, twisting under his arm, driving your knee hard into the junction between his legs.
He hisses, stumbling back, and you slash your dagger toward him, catching him in the upper arm and casting a spray of dark blood against the floor.
Boots thunder in the corridor causing the both of you to freeze at the sound, and you watch his expression turn darker, almost feral. He swings wildly, the tip of his blade slicing your forearm where you lift it to protect yourself– shallow, but enough for you to cry out once more as heat blooms around the injury.
The door crashes inward, glinting steel and torchlight flooding the room as the pack of Kingsguard arrive. The intruder snarls, lunging for you once more, but the guards intercept him and drag him down to his knees, two blades crossed at his throat as they disarm him and bind his hands behind him.
Your heart thunders in your chest, adrenaline and fear spiked as you back into the bedpost and curl your fingers around the carved dragon head, defensively tucking yourself behind the wooden pillar.
A guard approaches you with his blade drawn, eyes narrowed and aimed at your hands, and you realise that you still have your dagger raised and aimed at his throat, though you realise with shame that the blade is shaking.
“My lady,” he starts, sharing an unreadable glance with the other guards. “Are you alright?”
You nod, unable to find your voice, and toss the dagger onto the bed, deliberately avoiding the eyes of the intruder as he continues to writhe and spit insults at you from the floor.
More guards appear beyond the threshold of the door, white capes practically glowing in the darkness, hauling the man away and barking out orders to one another. The guard who approached you exchanges hushed words with them before turning back toward you, expression drawn taught.
“His Grace will wish to see you.”
The great hall is already lit when they escort you down, shivering in your thin nightdress and flanked by Kingsguard, head held high despite the feeling of eyes on you the moment you enter.
Torches flare and sputter along the walls next to the banners hanging in heavy swaths above the dais – red dragons in seas of black, watching you from every side as you are marched beneath them. Your bare feet sting against the cold stone, blood warm and steady as it drips down your forearm, slipping from your fingertips and leaving a trail of crimson dots in your wake.
King Daeron stands before the Iron Throne, robes hastily thrown over his nightclothes, silver hair unbound across his shoulders. His face is drawn and composed, but displeasure sits hard around the creases of his mouth, violet eyes narrowed as he watches you arrive.
Queen Myriah stands beside him, one hand resting lightly against the carved arm of the throne, waves of dark hair interspersed with silver flowing over her shoulders. Her gaze finds you at once, concern in her eyes at the state of you, and some of the tightness in your chest loosens at the sight of her there.
Prince Baelor stands at the king’s right, broad and immovable as a tower wall, hands clasped behind his back as his assessing gaze takes everything in. In your daze of adrenaline, you can’t help but notice the blend of his parents’ likenesses in his face once he’s stood beside them.
Lastly, your eyes almost reluctant to land on him, your gaze seeks out Valarr, who stands one step below the rest of the royal family.
His posture is tight, his back perfectly straight, his face unreadable, but then his eyes catch the dark bruising at your neck, dragging lower to the soaked sleeve of your nightgown, the crimson slipping from your wrist, your bare feet and the trembling you cannot quite master.
His face goes very still indeed, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he struggles to rein in his reaction.
You are guided to the side of the hall – not roughly, but with clear intent to keep a distance between you and the dais.
A violent shiver wracks through your body, a combination of cold and fear and adrenaline, and Valarr moves before anyone has the chance to tell him not to, descending the steps in swift, controlled strides.
One of the guards half-lifts a hand to bar his path and receives such a devastatingly sharp glare that he steps aside at once.
“Your Grace.” You manage thinly, keenly aware of the eyes of the crown on your interaction, but Valarr does not answer, his attention already wholly focused on your injuries, on the bruising already beginning to darken the skin of your arm, your throat, your shoulder.
Without a word, he unfastens his cloak, settling the heavy black wool around your shoulders, the red silk lining still warm from his body. He draws it closed, fingers brushing the skin of your throat only long enough to secure the dragon-head clasp beneath your chin.
The contact is brief and controlled. It leaves fire in its wake.
It is a gesture laden with restraint, and when his eyes meet yours, the molten fury beneath the blue and brown is so raw it steals your breath.
You try, with what little steadiness you still have left, to convey to him with a glance that you’re alright and that he cannot afford to show his favour with you.
The muscle in his jaw flexes again, and he nods curtly, stepping to your side instead of returning to the dais – not beside you, but slightly in front of you, placing himself between you and the center of the hall.
He should not. He cannot. And yet part of you sings with guilt-laden pride at the display of protectiveness, the claim laid bare in his actions.
The intruder is dragged into the hall, marched across the stones and forced roughly to his knees before the dais. Blood marks the stones in his wake, both his own and yours mixed together, and his lip curls as he looks up and spots you, wrapped in the prince’s cloak, hidden slightly behind him.
He opens his mouth, disgust and rage in his eyes, but King Daeron’s demanding voice cuts clean through whatever the intruder was about to spit at you. “Name yourself.”
The man spits blood onto the floor, licking his teeth before glaring up at the king. “A loyal man.”
“Loyal to whom?” King Daeron presses, frighteningly calm.
“To the rightful king.” The man’s grin is ugly and red-toothed. “Not the bookish pretender squatting on his throne.”
The hall stills, several guards stepping forward at once, hands braced on the hilts of their swords, but Daeron lifts two fingers and they halt in their tracks.
“You entered my keep,” the king says mildly, though his violet eyes are bright with a contained temper. “Assaulted the lady of a noble house, murdered no one and achieved nothing, and now you kneel before the squatting pretender in chains. If this is loyalty, your cause is poorly served.”
The man laughs harshly, though his smirk has faded. “My cause is righteous,” his eyes slide over to fixate on you, and your stomach turns. “And all that stood between my blade and your bastardized Dornish princeling was some traitorous whore–”
You step forward, face twisting as your fear melts away, your anger rekindling–
“Mind your tongue.” Valarr’s voice interrupts before you make it more than a step, shifting slightly to bar you from your warpath, his hand flying to his hip in search of his sword-hilt but meeting only empty air.
The intruder laughs harshly, tracking the young prince’s movement. “Does the bitch hide behind you now, boy? Don’t you remember that she sided with the true king, that her family–”
“Enough.” Prince Baelor’s tone lands like a gate slamming shut, descending one step, his gaze fixed intently on the prisoner. “House Peake bent the knee, and tonight, Lady Peake met you blade to blade armed with nothing but a dagger and her courage. Your cause holds no favour in this hall.”
The prisoner glares, though uncertainty flickers there, and he makes no quick retort.
King Daeron studies the man for a long moment. “Who let you into the castle?”
The prisoner says nothing, gaze cast down to the floor.
“Who aided you?” Daeron presses further, but still, he is met with only silence. “How did you–?”
The man’s mouth twitches, and then suddenly, he bites down hard and a crack sounds between his teeth.
“No–!” You gasp in realization.
Prince Baelor steps forward, eyes wide. “Seize him–!”
You’re both too late.
Blood and froth splatter to the floor from the man’s mouth as he convulses violently, choking as dark liquid spills over his chin. Guards wrench him upright but his limbs are already failing, body shuddering jerkily before he collapses boneless to the floor.
A collective gasp tears through the hall, and you shiver despite yourself, grimacing at the scene before you.
Valarr goes rigid and steps sideways, blocking your line of sight.
Whispers explode around the hall at once. “Poison– Gods preserve–”
The smell of bitter almonds rises faintly beneath the torch smoke, and you exhale shakily, dropping your gaze to the stone floor, disgusted and yet indignantly disappointed at the man’s swift end, at the lack of answers, at the lack of justice.
The King does not flinch, barking orders for the body to be removed, and you watch as the corpse is hauled away, heels dragging a red trail across the stone, the whispers continuing in frantic currents.
“Someone fetch a maester for Lady Peake before she keels over from blood loss.” Queen Myriah’s voice cuts cleanly through the noise, causing you to glance up and find her dark eyes trained on your arm.
It is only then that you realize just how cold you’ve become.
“My Queen, it is only shallow–” You begin to protest, shaking your head.
“Nonsense.” She descends the dais herself before anyone can object, silk whispering over stone. A murmur follows her movement through the hall, but she pays it no mind, coming to stand between you and the center of the room, as though shielding you from the sight of the blood still staining the floor.
Then her dark eyes shift to her grandson. You follow, finding Valarr with his shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back so tightly the knuckles have gone white. His face is a prince’s face again, distant and unreadable, but you can see the strain in the set of his jaw, in the effort it costs him to remain impassive.
Queen Myriah says nothing to him, merely letting her eyes meet with his for a beat too long, some private understanding passing between them, before she turns back to you.
“Stubborn child,” she murmurs, though not unkindly, reaching to pull Valarr’s cloak more securely around your shoulders, her fingers deft and warm where they brush against your collarbone. “Brave, stubborn girl.”
Heat pricks unexpectedly behind your eyes.
She beckons sharply to a waiting servant. “You– take the Lady Peake to Maester Hollis at once. If anyone delays you, tell them I gave the order.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The girl curtsies so quickly she nearly stumbles, beckoning for you to follow her.
You hesitate, glancing again toward Valarr before you can stop yourself. He does not move, but his eyes meet yours for one charged moment, the blue and brown both dark with emotion held tightly leashed – concern, fury, relief, all at once, buried beneath well-trained stillness.
Queen Myriah notices, of course she does. “Go on,” she says softly to you, and then, lower still, meant only for your ears, “If you don’t go, he’ll stay here all night.”
You almost laugh despite everything, nodding shakily as the servant takes your uninjured arm and guides you from the hall. Behind you, King Daeron’s voice resumes in clipped command, ordering searches, questioning guards, and sealing passageways.
The maester’s chambers smell of herbs and old parchment, braziers burning low against the chill. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with jars of dried leaves, stoppered bottles, bundles of roots hung upside down from hooks, and in the center of the room stands a narrow table draped in linen.
Maester Hollis blinks owlishly at you when you are ushered in, chains clinking against his chest as he rises from a stool.
“Ah,” he says, taking in the blood, the torn sleeve, the borrowed cloak. “That sort of night, is it?”
“The Queen commanded I bring her to you straight away.” The servant announces breathlessly.
“Then Her Grace has, as usual, spared me the luxury of slowness.” He gestures to the table. “Sit.”
You are settled onto the edge of it while fresh water and cloths are fetched, and only now that you are still and away from danger and prying eyes does the toll of the night begin to make itself known.
Your left forearm bears a long shallow slice from wrist nearly to elbow, not deep enough to permanently damage but enough to bleed freely, the skin around it already angry and swollen.
Your right shoulder, where he drove you into the wall, has bruises blooming beneath the strap of your nightgown, your skull similarly tender where it cracked against the stone.
There is a scrape across your throat where his blade was held, but luckily it didn’t break the skin, only irritated it, and the darkened skin spreads up to one side of your jaw where his hand clipped you in the struggle.
Beneath it all, there is a deep ache through your ribs where his weight struck you hard enough to steal breath.
“The cut will scar,” Maester Hollis tuts softly as he examines each in turn. “You fought valiantly, it seems.”
You grit your teeth as he cleans out the cut. “I objected to being murdered.”
“A sensible instinct.” He pours wine over the wound, causing you to hiss sharply. “Try not to flinch.” He adds mildly, ignoring your ensuing glower.
He binds your forearm in clean linen, wraps your ribs firmly enough to support the bruising, and mixes a salve for your shoulder that smells like the forest floor. “You will be stiff tomorrow.” He warns as he applies it.
You huff, grimacing as he rubs it in. “I am stiff now.”
“You will be more so tomorrow,” he dabs more salve along the bruise at your jaw. “No strenuous activity such as sword-work for at least several days.”
When he is done, you are wrapped, bandaged, and exhausted enough to sway where you sit. The servant steps forward at once. “Her Grace ordered that the adjoining chamber be made ready for you, my lady.”
You let yourself be led onward, Valarr’s cloak still heavy around your shoulders, and settle into the chamber adjacent to the maester’s quarters, only relaxing when you hear the sounds of the guards’ boots taking up position at the door.
The servants have long since withdrawn to the outer room, leaving only one lamp burning low beside the bed and the distant scratch of Maester Hollis somewhere beyond the partition. Dawn has not yet broken, but the black of night at the narrow window is softer.
You are still not asleep, though you cannot admit to yourself that you have been waiting for him to show.
Pain has settled into you properly now, more deep-seated and insidious than before. Your ribs pull with a throbbing ache with each breath, the back of your skull and shoulder tender where you lie, the bandage at your forearm pulling when you move your fingers.
You are acutely aware of every inch of yourself, so when the latch lifts softly, you are already looking toward the door, relief pooling warmly between your ribs.
Valarr steps inside and closes the door behind him with deliberate care, wearing the same dark tunic as he did in the hall, your blood still staining one of his cuffs. Only his hair is more disordered now, as though he has run his hands through it a hundred times.
The silence stretches strangely between you – too full to be comfortable, too intimate to be proper, his eyes running over the bandage at your arm, the bruise darkening your jaw, the way you favor one side even while sitting still.
“You should be asleep.” He says at last, voice rough and thick, and you almost laugh.
“You should be asleep.” You retort, quirking an eyebrow.
His jaw shifts as if he is holding back a smile. “I am serious.”
You frown. “As am I.”
He makes a sound of exasperation, but goes quiet again, glancing around the room as if he can’t quite look right at you. When he speaks again, his voice is very quiet. “I have been told it is not grave.”
You inhale slowly, shaking your head gently but stopping when it only makes your vision swim. “It is not.”
His jaw tightens, noticing. You push yourself upright, wincing despite your efforts, and he is beside the bed in two strides, half-reaching toward you before stopping himself. “Do not–”
“I am only sitting.” You bite, irritated at being coddled.
He narrows his eyes. “You are injured.”
You scoff. “I remain capable of sitting while injured.”
A flicker crosses his face, somewhere between irritation and relief. “You continue to be insufferable.”
“And your civility continues to be maddening.”
The callback to your heated exchange in the stairwell lands between you like flint striking stone. His gaze catches yours then, and for one charged second neither of you looks away. When he does break first, it is with visible effort.
“I should have– I should have known.”
Your brows draw together. “Known what?”
“That if there were a way through those passages, someone would use it.” His throat works. “That you would be placed in danger because of me.”
The words are clipped now, each one more controlled than the last, which is how you know how close he is to losing his control.
You go still. “This is not your fault.”
His eyes cut back to yours, staring at your injuries rather than your face. “No?”
There is so much anger in the single syllable – not at you, but at himself, at the Keep, at the situation.
You soften despite yourself, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “Yes. Well. I stabbed him for it.”
A startled breath escapes him – almost a laugh. “Twice, I heard.”
“The first time wasn’t deep enough.” You shrug awkwardly, only using one shoulder.
Despite everything, a real laugh slips from him then – brief, low, disbelieving. It transforms him so suddenly that your chest tightens with it. When the sound fades, he is watching you with something far less guarded.
“He said you tried to protect me.”
You look down at your hands, suddenly defensive. “I only told him it was a fool’s errand, that he should turn around and go home. I was buying time.”
“For me.” He fills in.
You lift your chin. “Don't sound so flattered, Your Grace.”
“I am not flattered,” his voice drops. “I am furious.”
“At… me?” You frown.
“At the thought of you standing between me and a knife.” His voice is cold, his mouth drawn tight as his eyes drop to your arm again.
You try for levity and miss it by half. “Your assassination would do me no favours – who else am I to beat in the training yard?”
His expression does not change, but he steps closer, and from inside his belt he draws something and holds it out.
Your dagger. Cleaned and polished, gleaming softly in the candlelight.
Your breath catches as you take it, your fingers brushing his for the barest instant – the contact is brief, but it feels like being set alight.
“I thought you might want it back.” He says, though his eyes remain fixed on where your skin met his.
You curl your hand around the hilt. “Thank you, Va–” The first syllable of his name escapes before you can stop it. You both go dead still. Your pulse leaps painfully high in your throat, but you clear it, swallowing thickly before continuing. “My prince.”
His gaze lifts to yours slowly, and whatever lives there now is far more dangerous than before, far less deniable. His eyes drop to your lips, then to the bruise at your jaw, then lower to the bandage at your arm, and whatever impulse had seized him is strangled by concern.
He turns sharply toward the door, then pauses with one hand on the latch. “I doubled the guard outside,” he says intensely, without looking back. “They will follow you wherever you go.”
You smile wryly. “Oh good, you know how much I loved that the first time.”
A faint exhale leaves him, nearly a laugh, and he drops his head, nodding. When he looks back over at you, his mismatched eyes catch the lamplight. “Sleep, Lady Peake.”
Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Stark Reader
Word Count: 11.7K
Synopsis: What began as a political marriage becomes something else entirely.
When the raven came from the south, the snow had begun to fall in earnest.
It came black-winged and wet with frost, beating against the gray morning like some dark thought that would not leave. Winterfell was quieter in snow. Even the yard below the window seemed hushed under it, the clang of practice swords made smaller, the barking of hounds muffled. Smoke rose from the towers in pale ribbons. The godswood stood white and still beyond the curtain wall, the heart tree half-veiled in a drift of falling flakes, its red leaves bright as fresh blood against the cold.
You were in the godswood when your brother found you.
He did not call out at once. Starks learned early that there were places where voices should lower themselves without being asked, and the godswood was one of them. You heard him before you saw him; boots sinking into the snow, the faint whisper of wool, a pause by the pool where black water held the weirwood’s reflection like a secret.
“My lady sister,” he said at last.
You looked back over your shoulder. He had the raven’s parchment in one gloved hand. Frost jeweled the fur at his collar. There was something too careful in his face.
That was when you knew it was not ordinary business.
The weirwood watched in its old, patient way. Red eyes. Red mouth. Red leaves that never fell, even with winter closing its fist around the world.
You rose from where you had been kneeling in the snow.
“Is someone dead?” you asked.
“No.”
“Then why do you look as if so, dear brother?”
His mouth twitched, but it was not a smile. He came to stand beside you beneath the pale branches. He looked up at the carved face in the trunk as if hoping the old gods might choose to answer in his stead.
“The king has written,” he said. “And the prince.”
Your fingers tightened around the wool of your cloak.
There were many princes in the south, but not so many whose letters came folded beneath royal seal and wolf-headed dread. You knew the name before he spoke it. You had known it since last winter when whispers started drifting north with merchants and black brothers and lordlings riding for home; the crown prince’s son, the dragon prince with the grave face, the one the singers called bright and the courtiers called promising and the smallfolk called beloved because it cost nothing to love a prince who had not yet sat on the iron throne.
“Prince Valarr,” you said.
Your brother gave a short nod.
The name seemed to darken the air.
You had seen him only once, years ago, when you were younger and a royal progress had stopped at Winterfell on its way farther north. He had been all sharp bones and solemn eyes then, more boy than man, dark short hair with a silver steak to his temple, his black and red doublet too fine for your northern eye. He had stood in your father’s hall with the look some southrons wore in the cold; proud, stiff, enduring. Yet later you had seen him in the godswood, standing beneath the weirwood while snow gathered in his hair, looking up at the carved red face with an expression you had not understood.
He had not looked like a boy then.
He had looked haunted.
You had hidden behind an elm and watched him until he turned, sudden as if he had felt your gaze. You remembered the colors of his mismatched eyes even now; not quite purple in the dimness, but dark enough to swallow whatever softness was in them.
He had bowed to you.
You had fled.
That memory had followed you longer than you liked.
“What does he want?” you asked, though you knew.
Your brother unfolded the letter. “A royal marriage.”
There it was. Plain as ice.
You did not speak.
He went on with the kind of careful bluntness men used when they feared gentleness would do worse. “The king seeks closer ties with the North. There has been unrest among lesser lords, talk of old rights and older grievances. The Wall is uneasy. The seas are uneasy. So are the Dornish, if rumor speaks true. A Stark bride in the royal house settles many things at once.”
“And what does it settle for me?”
His eyes moved from you to the weirwood and back. “That depends on whether you mean to be only a daughter of Winterfell, or something more.”
Something more.
As if girls were forever being asked to go south and make peace with their bodies.
You looked again to the heart tree, to the red sap dried in the grooves of its old carved mouth, to the face that had watched Starks kneel for thousands of years.
“Does father agree?”
“Our father is dead.”
The answer was gentle. It still cut.
“Do you?”
He exhaled slowly through his nose. “I think the south is a poor place for you. I think the Red Keep is a nest of snakes. I think no marriage made for peace has ever cared much for the woman in the middle of it.” His mouth hardened. “I also think the realm is built by such marriages, whether we despise the truth of it or not.”
You might have laughed if your chest had not gone so tight.
The snow kept falling. It gathered on your lashes. Melted there.
“And if I refuse?”
“You may,” he said at once. “You are a Stark. And you are my sister. No one will drag you south in chains.”
But kings had long hands, and winter was hard, and the North had fewer friends than pride liked to pretend.
You looked at the weirwood’s face until it blurred.
“Has he the courtesy to write himself?”
Your brother held out the second letter.
This one bore no royal seal. Only dark wax stamped with the three-headed dragon.
You broke it with cold-numb fingers.
The hand was precise, elegant, unblotted.
Lady of Winterfell,
I do not insult you by saying I think this proposal was born of romance. It was not. Yet I would not have it said that you were offered to a stranger who did not understand the weight of what was asked of you.
I remember Winterfell. I remember your godswood. I remember the snow on the face of your heart tree.
If this marriage is made, I will not dishonor you by treating you carelessly. You will have all respect worthy of your name and station. If there are customs of the North you wish observed in my household, they shall be observed. If there are comforts of home you require, name them and they will be provided where they may.
I do not ask your affection. I ask only for your consent.
Prince Valarr Targaryen.
That was all.
No softening. No flattery. No false sweetness about songs or summer skies or southern devotion. Only respect laid out like offering.
You read it twice.
It should have comforted you, perhaps. It should have angered you less than a more honeyed letter would. Instead, it left you with a strange ache beneath your ribs. There was something in its restraint that felt more intimate than easy charm.
He remembered the godswood.
He remembered the snow on the face of your heart tree.
Your brother watched you fold the letter back along its crease.
“Well, dear sister?” he asked.
You should have said no.
You should have said you would not trade the honest cruelty of winter for the perfumed lies of the south. You should have said you belonged where the old gods could see you and where the air did not smell of roses trying to hide rot. You should have said you were not made to be taken apart by court.
Instead, you heard yourself say, “If I go, I will not kneel in a sept.”
He blinked. “What?”
“If I go south, I will not speak vows before seven gilded faces I do not worship. I will not be made to pray where my gods cannot hear me.”
His expression eased, just a little. “I thought the same. I have already written as much. The king will consent to a northern ceremony before witnesses, and whatever southern show they need after can be for them, not you.”
The breath left you in a white cloud.
The weirwood looked on.
You put your palm against its pale bark, cold as old bone.
“I will go,” you said to the tree before you said it to him.
And because no one ever asked the heart tree whether it approved, it did not answer.
//
The south began by taking the cold from you.
By the time you reached King’s Landing, your skin felt wrong. The air lay too soft upon it. The winds smelled of salt and fish and the press of too many bodies. The sky seemed lower somehow, hazed by smoke and heat even in winter’s edge, and the city itself sprawled red and dun beneath the hill like a thing too large to be healthy.
The Red Keep rose over the city with its red stone and proud towers and black iron teeth, and the walls within were full of movement; pages darting, ladies gliding, guards at every turn, servants who lowered their eyes and missed nothing. Everywhere color. Everywhere silk. Everywhere people speaking as though every word were weighed before being given breath.
You felt enormous in your northern wool, crude as a battle-axe in a room full of jeweled daggers.
The first time you saw Prince Valarr as a man, he came to greet you in the outer yard beneath a pale winter sun.
You knew him at once.
He was taller than memory had made him, broad through the shoulders now, dressed not in cloth of gold like the peacocks at court but in black velvet with a dark red half-cloak clasped at one shoulder. His hair was dark as night sky on new snow, falling past his collar where it escaped its binding. He had his father’s beauty, perhaps, if the songs were true, but not the easy brightness of it. There was something held too tightly in him. Something banked. It showed in the stillness of his face, in the hard line of his mouth, in the way his hands stayed calm at his sides while everything in him seemed to watch.
Not one of the ladies peering from the gallery missed him.
Neither did you.
He crossed the yard before the herald had finished his flourishing. He bowed exactly as his station required. No more. No less.
“My lady Stark,” he said.
His voice was lower than you remembered. Smooth. Careful.
You dipped in answer. “My prince.”
He offered his hand to help you down from the litter. His glove was black kid leather. Warm from the sun, perhaps, or from his skin. When your fingers touched his, the contact was brief enough to be proper and long enough to be felt for the rest of the day.
“Your journey was difficult?” he asked.
“It was long.”
A flicker passed over his expression, there and gone too quickly to name. “Your chambers have been prepared. I hope they will suit you.”
Hope.
But his face gave nothing.
You had told yourself not to expect warmth. You had told yourself that princes did not come thundering out to seize hands and grin like boys in songs. You had told yourself you wanted dignity more than charm.
Even so, some softer part of you had imagined… something. A look held a little too long. A note of welcome. A sign that you were not merely a piece set upon a board he had already studied.
Instead, there was only perfect courtesy.
If he felt disappointment at your plain northern braid or your solemn face or your silence, he hid it well.
He walked you into the keep without once brushing your sleeve.
That first week taught you the shape and shadow of him.
He was everywhere and nowhere. At council in the morning, at arms in the yard by noon, at table in the evening, in the queen’s apartments, in the king’s solar, in the halls with petitioners, with maesters, with lords come from the Reach, with envoys from the Stormlands. He moved through court like a sword through water: smooth, bright, parting everything around him without seeming to try.
And always, when he came to you, he was polite.
Never unkind.
Never familiar.
“Has the seamstress troubled you?”
“Did the northern spices arrive?”
“Would you prefer a larger hearth in your solar?”
“Are the kitchens preparing your meals to your liking?”
Each question attended to before you could ask it. Each need known too quickly. Your chambers had been hung with thicker draperies than the south usually used. A stone basin in your bath was filled not with scented oils but with pine needles steeped in hot water. Furs waited folded at the foot of your bed, not lion or leopard skins from warmer lands, but wolf and fox. A serving girl whispered that the prince himself had instructed the kitchens to send smoked trout, oat bread, turnips mashed with butter, even mulled ale in the northern manner, as though he had memorized Winterfell pantry by pantry.
He saw everything.
He said almost nothing.
By the third day, the ladies at court began to smile at you as if you were a child too young to know she was being pitied.
By the fifth, you hated him for his kindness.
It was the strangest hatred you had ever felt. It grew from no insult. It sprang from the opposite; the unbearable precision of his care, offered without warmth enough to ease it.
If he had been vicious, you could have met him blade for blade.
If he had been charming, you could have distrusted him like any sensible woman.
Instead he sent a brazier to your rooms because he had noticed you rub your hands together once at supper, and then sat three seats away at the feast as if the touch of your sleeve might burn him.
He arranged for a singer from White Harbor to perform in the hall after hearing you mention northern songs, yet when the song ended and your eyes found him across the candles, he only inclined his head as if to say yes, that has been done.
He remembered that you disliked sweet wines.
He remembered that you favored the west-facing window in the queen’s garden because from there you could smell the sea.
He remembered, somehow, that on the second day of every moon you rose before dawn to pray.
There was no godswood in King’s Landing. Not a true one. Only a little garden with fruit trees and fountains, and a small sept nestled by its wall where ladies went to murmur prettily at the Seven. The first morning you went seeking open sky before sunrise, you found the garden gate already unbarred and a guard posted at a discreet distance, as if someone had anticipated your need for solitude before the castle woke.
You knew who.
You stood there in the dark among orange trees and stone paths, staring at the fountain as if the prince might rise from it.
He did not.
When you thanked him for the guard later, he said only, “You should be able to walk safely before dawn.”
As if it meant nothing.
As if your strange northern silences mattered no more to him than the weather.
So you began to think what perhaps you ought to have thought at first; that the prince was dutiful, and very little else.
It was easier when you believed that.
It made the ache smaller.
It made you less of a fool.
//
The wedding was done in the old way first, because the king had agreed and because the North had given too much to the realm to be denied a tree and words spoken before it.
There was no heart tree in the Red Keep, and none in the city. So, a branch of weirwood had been sent from Winterfell, wrapped in linen and snow-packed moss, set upright in a carved stand of black oak in a private garden under gray sky. It was not the same. It was not living root and ancient face and red eyes in white bark. But it was wood from holy wood, and that would have to be enough.
You stood cloaked in white and gray. He stood opposite you in black and crimson.
The southern witnesses shifted in the cold, uncertain of what to do with a ceremony that asked them to be quiet longer than comfort liked. Your brother spoke the old words. The prince answered his parts with no stumble, his voice level as stone. When your cloak was removed and his was draped around your shoulders, it smelled faintly of cedar and smoke.
When it was your turn to speak, you looked not at him but at the weirwood branch and said the vows to the old gods of your father and his fathers.
Yet when you came to the last words and lifted your eyes, he was already looking at you.
Not as a prince looks at a bride before lords.
Not even as a man looks at a woman he means to bed.
As though he was watching something that mattered too much.
The look vanished the instant the southern witnesses began to murmur, but it was there. You had not imagined it.
Later, in the sept, a second ceremony was held for the court because kings liked their symbols doubled. Candles burned. Seven crystal faces stared down. You knelt when you must, rose when you must, and felt nothing except the weight of the Targaryen cloak still around your shoulders beneath all the silk.
The feast after was lavish enough to shame harvest gods. Boar glazed in honey, lampreys in crust, swans roasted whole, lemon cakes, eels, pomegranates burst open like jewels, wine enough to drown a holdfast. Singers sang. Fools tumbled. Lords toasted peace between wolf and dragon as though it were a cup that could simply be lifted and emptied.
Your husband sat beside you on the high dais like a carved thing newly given breath.
He drank little. Smiled rarely. Watched much.
When some Reach lord grew too merry and made a jest about northerners worshipping trees because they had too little sun for prettier gods, Valarr’s hand set his cup down with such quiet deliberation that the sound was somehow louder than a slam.
“The North has gods old enough not to need ornaments,” he said.
The hall went still.
The Reach lord flushed and bent his head in apology.
Prince Valarr did not look at him again.
He looked at you once. Only once. But there was heat in it.
And you, fool that you were, cherished that scrap of heat through half the night.
It did not help.
Because when the feast ended and you were brought to the bedchamber amid lewd songs and wine-thick laughter, and the women stripped off your outer gown and left you in linen and blushes, and the last door closed—your husband did not come near you.
Not at once.
He stood by the hearth with one hand braced on the mantel and the other at his side, staring into the flames as if they spoke a language he did not much care for. He had removed his outer coat. The shirt beneath was black. At his throat the ties were loosened just enough to reveal the hollow there.
The room smelled of cedar and myrrh and banked fire.
Your heart beat so hard it made you angry.
At last he turned.
“You are tired,” he said.
It was a strange thing to say to a bride on her wedding night.
“I have been married twice today,” you said. “I imagine I am.”
His mouth shifted, almost a smile, almost pain. “Yes.”
Silence opened between you.
You were not innocent enough to believe men did not bed women they did not love. Northern girls learned early what marriage was, what duty asked of flesh. You had come south prepared to endure that part of it if you must. Better a clean wound than the trembling of waiting.
But he only looked at you, and there was that same terrible restraint in him, that same sense of a door barred from within.
“If you fear I would force a claim tonight because the hall expects it,” he said quietly, “you need not fear.”
“I did not say I feared you.”
“No.” His eyes held yours. “You would say so if you did.”
Something hot and embarrassed and furious went through you.
“What do you fear, then?” you asked. “That I will find my duty unbearable? That a northern girl will take fright if a man touches her?”
“That is not what I said.”
“It is what you mean.”
He took one step toward you.
You hated yourself for noticing how beautiful he was. Hated the breadth of him, the seriousness, the way candlelight made a faint violet burn in his eyes.
“What I mean,” he said, very evenly, “is that you have left everything you have ever known. You are in a strange place among strange gods, wedded to a man you barely remember. I will not make that worse by taking what should not be taken under dread.”
Your throat tightened.
Because it was kind. Because it was sensible. Because some bruised girlish part of you wanted him to want you badly enough to forget kindness.
“And if I do not dread it?”
His gaze flickered—down, then up, so quick you might have imagined it.
The silence after seemed to change shape.
When he answered, his voice had gone lower. “Then I dread it enough for us both.”
You went still.
He looked away first.
That hurt more than anything.
He crossed to the table, poured wine into two cups, and handed one to you. His fingers did not brush yours this time. “Drink,” he said. “Then sleep. Tomorrow we sail for Dragonstone.”
“Dragonstone.”
“Yes.”
You stared at him. “So soon?”
“The court will be glad of its pageant. I will be glad to leave it.”
And because you were hurt, because you were bewildered, because you had offered one trembling inch of yourself and he had retreated as if from a precipice, you said the crueler thing.
“Is that why you married me, then? For peace in the realm and quiet in your own halls?”
His face changed so little most would not have seen it. But you did. Something shuttered harder.
“I married you,” he said, “because it was agreed that I should.”
It was not a lie.
That made it worse.
He bowed his head, as if to a queen, and slept the night on a couch by the fire. There might as well be a dagger beneath his hand.
You lay awake until dawn despising him for honor and yourself for weeping over it in silence.
//
Dragonstone was not like King’s Landing.
It was harsher. Older. Stranger.
It rose black from the sea as if dragons had indeed once clawed it from the deep. Towers shaped like coiled beasts and open jaws loomed over the cliffs. The wind there had bite, though not the right kind of bite. It smelled of salt and sulfur and rain. The sea crashed white against stone far below. Everything seemed built from some dream of conquest held too long in one family’s blood.
Yet it was quieter.
For that alone, you might have loved it.
There was less silk, less laughter that hid venom, fewer eyes always turning toward you. The servants bowed and went about their work. The master-at-arms grunted. The castellan respected silence. The sea did not care whether you prayed to seven gods or none.
If only there had been a tree.
There was a garden on the eastern side of the castle, if such a name could be given to that patch of hard-won green in black volcanic soil. Wind-twisted shrubs. Tough flowers with thick leaves. Herbs that clung low. A few stunted pines brought by some Targaryen queen who had missed the smell of inland woods. Beautiful in their own fierce way.
But no godswood.
No pool.
No red leaves stirring over old prayers.
For the first month you did not know where to put your grief for that.
You walked the sea walls at dawn and listened to gulls shrieking over the waves. You knelt in your chamber with a bowl of dark water before you, trying to pretend reflection might suffice where a heart tree’s face could not. Sometimes you whispered your prayers into the wind and told yourself the old gods were older than roots, older than bark, older than any castle men built to forget they would die.
Some days you believed it.
Some days you did not.
Valarr—your husband, though the word still felt borrowed—saw more than you wished him to see.
On the fourth morning at Dragonstone, you came back from the battlements with your cheeks salted by wind and found a square box of pale wood upon the table in your solar. Inside were little carved faces of weirwood, white as bone, each no larger than your palm, their eyes and mouths painted in red lacquer.
You picked one up and stared at it.
A servant curtsied. “The prince ordered them made, my lady. By a carver from White Harbor, so he said the look would be right.”
You could not decide whether to laugh or cry.
That evening, at supper in the smaller hall, you said, “Thank you for the carvings.”
He looked up from his plate. “They are poor substitutes.”
“Yes,” you said, perhaps too sharply. “They are.”
The servants went still.
You saw the apology form at once in the tightening of his mouth, and perversely that made you crueler, not kinder.
“I did not mean—” he began.
“No,” you said. “You rarely do.”
You rose before he could answer and left him in the hall with the candles burning low and half the fish untouched on his plate.
For three days after, he did not come to your chamber or seek you in the garden.
He sent your meals. He sent a new fur-lined mantle because rain had soaked the hem of yours. He sent a book of northern songs copied by a careful hand. He sent, absurdly, a stone basin carved with leaves upon the rim because he had seen you pray over water.
He did not send himself.
By then you were angry enough to miss him.
Which was perhaps the most humiliating thing of all.
You began to learn his absences by sound. The hour his boots crossed the gallery before dawn. The ring of his practice sword in the yard below. The nights he did not come to supper because ravens had flown or ships had been sighted. The hours he vanished into some part of the island you did not know, taking only a handful of men and returning with black earth on his boots or grit on his sleeves.
He was hiding something.
At first you thought it must be political business. Then, because your hurt was eager for uglier answers, you thought perhaps there was a woman on the island, or in some fisherman’s daughter’s cottage below the cliffs, or a widow in the village who smiled when the prince came riding past. Why should there not be? Men did not go cold to brides they desired and disappear into rain for innocent reasons.
The thought made you sick.
It also made you reckless.
One wet afternoon when the wind lashed at the casement and the sea was iron-gray below, you went to the old sept near the kitchens—not to pray, but because old stones gathered gossip like moss. There you found Lady Ysabel, widow to some lord of the Crownlands, a woman who had attached herself to your service on the voyage south and now spent her days plucking at embroidery and other people’s secrets.
She looked up from her hoop when you entered.
“My lady,” she said, eyes bright as pins. “The weather is foul enough to make saints curse.”
“I have found no saints here yet,” you answered.
“Then you have not looked at the prince when he thinks no one sees him.”
You stilled.
She smiled. “Forgive me. Age makes me ungovernable.”
“What do you mean?”
Lady Ysabel set aside her embroidery. “Only that men can be strange animals when they are unhappy.”
“I would not know whether my husband is unhappy,” you said. “He keeps his face for feast days and funerals.”
“Ah.” She leaned back. “Then I will tell you what old women are for. To notice what pretty young people are too miserable to notice themselves.”
You should have left. Instead you stayed.
“He has had half the southern coast searched for white-barked saplings,” she said.
Your breath caught. “What?”
“I know not what name to give them. Some say they are ghosts of trees from older ages. He has sent ships and riders and coin besides. He has bullied maesters and gardeners and even one poor drunken hedge knight who claimed to have seen such a tree on his grandsire’s land before the crows pecked the lie from him.” Her brows lifted. “Whatever else your husband is, my lady, I do not think he keeps a mistress in the rain.”
The room went warm and cold together.
“Why would he—”
“To please you,” she said with the blunt mercy of age. “Men have done stupider things for less cause.”
You stared at the cracked floor between you.
“But he scarcely speaks to me.”
“And yet he notices when you sleep poorly. And when you are cold. And when you look west too long.” She threaded her needle anew. “If I were you, I should decide whether I prefer a husband who speaks sweetly and means nothing, or one who means too much and is frightened of the sound it makes.”
You left before she could see what her words had done to your face.
That evening Prince Valarr came late to supper, rain still silvering his shoulders. He looked tired. More than tired. Drawn.
His gaze found you at once.
You had meant to say something cutting, or clever, or at least guarded. Instead you said, “Where have you been?”
He paused before removing his gloves. “About the island.”
“In the rain.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He set the gloves down with maddening care. “Dragonstone has weathered worse than rain.”
“That is not an answer.”
His eyes sharpened. “Must I account for every hour to you?”
You flinched as if struck, though the words were not crueler than many husbands spoke before breakfast.
He saw it and shut his eyes a brief moment.
“No,” you said, sitting straighter. “Of course not. Forgive me. I mistook curiosity for rights I do not possess.”
Something flashed in him then. Not anger. Something worse.
“You are my wife,” he said.
The hall seemed to narrow around the words.
“Yes,” you said. “I have noticed.”
You did not know why every exchange between you became a cut dressed in silk. Perhaps because both of you were forever bleeding where the other could not quite see.
He drew a slow breath.
“Eat,” he said, as if to himself as much as to you. “The fish will cool.”
So that was your supper; silver bowls, rain at the shutters, a husband who had searched the world for your faith and would not tell you, and a wife who had learned enough to hope and not enough to stop hurting.
That night you dreamed of the Winterfell godswood. The weirwood’s carved eyes were black holes in the snow, and when you knelt beneath it, the roots under the ice were warm.
//
The first time he touched you as a husband, it was because you slipped on wet stone.
It was little enough. A foolish thing. The sort of stumble any girl might laugh off among sisters.
You had gone down to the lower yard to watch the men returning from the shore, their boots muddy, their cloaks full of damp wind. Prince Valarr was among them, speaking to the master of horse. His hair loose against the sea breeze. Rain had darkened his black doublet almost to the color of the stone.
You were watching too closely. That was why your foot found slick moss on the step.
The world tilted.
Before fear could even rise, he was there.
One hand caught your elbow, the other your waist. The force of it swung you back against him, not hard enough to bruise, merely certain enough to make it clear you were not falling unless he allowed it.
For a heartbeat neither of you moved.
His hand at your waist was broad and hot even through layers of wool. Your shoulder blades rested against his chest. You could feel the wet coolness of rain on his sleeve and the heat beneath. His breath touched the side of your face.
“My lady,” he said, but it came out almost rough.
You put your hand over his wrist, meaning only to steady yourself.
His fingers tightened.
When you turned your head, his face was closer than it had ever been. Water clung to his lashes. There was nothing cold in him now. Nothing distant. The look in his eyes was not princely. It was too intense for that. Too bare. Too hungry in some way that had nothing to do with flesh and everything to do with restraint stretched until it sang.
You forgot how to breathe.
Then someone called his name from across the yard.
He stepped back at once.
The loss of him was so immediate it felt indecent.
“Take care,” he said.
And there was your husband again; composed, grave, gloved in courtesy.
He walked away without looking back.
You stood on the step with your pulse in your throat and hated him more tenderly than before.
//
It was not all pain.
There were evenings when the storm winds kept everyone indoors and Dragonstone seemed less a castle than a ship at sea, its stones groaning softly, fires turned bright against the dark. On such nights you and Prince Valarr sometimes ended in the same library by accident or design, and there the distance between you altered.
He read history. Campaigns, treaties, old Valyrian accounts written in curling script, ledgers of ports and grain and ships. You read songs, and old northern tales where wolves spoke in dreams and dead kings walked under hills. Once, finding you frown over a page in High Valyrian, he crossed the room and translated a line without being asked.
His voice in that language was beautiful.
You lifted your head. “You know northern songs,” you said.
“I know one or two.”
“How?”
“I remember what I hear.”
“Everything?”
His mouth moved. “More than is useful.”
You almost smiled. “That sounds a burden.”
“It is.”
There was no bitterness in it. Only truth.
Another time you found him standing before the window, watching the storm-churned sea. He had removed his sword belt and set it aside. The looseness of him in private relaxed you more than ceremony ever could.
“Do dragons miss the sky when they are caged in stone?” you asked.
He did not turn. “I have never been a dragon.”
“No?”
“No.” At last he glanced back. “Only a man born under banners painted with them.”
And because the room was dim and the storm loud and neither of you had the strength for pretense that night, you said, “Men can be caged more thoroughly.”
His gaze lingered on you too long.
“Yes,” he said.
Then the moment shuttered, as they always did.
Yet such moments grew, stubborn and sparse as flowers in the island garden. A hand under your elbow when stairs were treacherous. His voice at your shoulder warning of a gust along the sea wall before it hit. His cloak placed around you when you had forgotten yours. The way he stood between you and anyone who displeased him without making a show of it. The way he listened when you spoke of the North, not as southerners did with indulgent smiles, but as if each detail were a map to something precious.
And in turn, because love or its cruel half-brother had already begun its work whether you welcomed it or not, you noticed him.
You noticed the fine white scar under his chin, likely from boyhood training. The way his hands looked made for a sword and yet turned pages gently. The exhaustion he hid after council ravens came. The habit he had of touching the signet at his finger when thinking hard. The headaches that took him in rain-heavy weather, betrayed only by the pinch between his brows. The way he relaxed, just a little, when you entered a room, as though some watchfulness in him eased without leave.
Once you found him asleep in a chair by the library hearth, a book fallen face-down on his chest. The fire had burned low. His head rested back against the leather. Without the alertness that usually armored him, he looked younger. More vulnerable than you had thought a prince could look and remain alive.
You might have left him there.
Instead you fetched a blanket and laid it over him.
His hand caught your wrist before the wool settled.
His eyes were open now, dark and unfocused with sleep.
For a heartbeat neither of you moved.
Then recognition came into his gaze. So did something softer.
“You should sleep,” you whispered, because you did not know what else to do with the hand around your wrist.
He released you at once, but slowly. “As should you.”
You walked out with your pulse shivering, and behind you the pages of his fallen book stirred in the draft like wings.
//
Spring did not come sweetly to Dragonstone.
It came with storms.
The sea turned savage. Winds tore at banners. Rain came slanting and relentless, and the island seemed to crouch under it. The eastern garden suffered worst. Twice the gardeners had to lash the young pines to stakes to keep them from snapping. Once the sea spray came so high it burned the leaves.
It was during those storms that you learned what he had been doing.
Not from him.
Never from him.
One morning the rain lessened to a hard gray drizzle, and you took the covered walk along the eastern wall because your chamber felt close as a tomb. At the end of the path, where the wall curved inward toward a part of the garden long closed for repairs, the gate stood ajar.
Beyond it, the ground had been turned.
Deep black earth—richer than the island’s mean soil—had been carted in and laid in a square sheltered by stone on three sides. The walls had been whitewashed to throw back light. Drainage channels had been cut with obsessive care. Small channels of fresh water ran from a cistern. Windbreak screens stood half-raised. Gardeners moved in silence, patting, tying, measuring. A maester argued in low tones with a gray-bearded man whose hands were stained with earth to the wrist.
And in the center of it all, bareheaded in the drizzle, cloak cast aside, boots sunk in mud—Valarr.
He had a spade in his hands.
You had never seen him thus.
Not as prince. Not as husband. Not as the still, polished thing court made of him.
His sleeves were rolled. His black shirt clung damp to his arms. Mud streaked one cheek where he must have wiped rain away with a dirty hand. He was kneeling before a small tree cradled in burlap and moss and packed roots—a pale thing with white bark and blood-red leaves trembling in the wet.
Your heart stopped.
A weirwood.
Young. Fragile. No face carved in it. No ancient roots sunk through centuries of prayer. But a weirwood nonetheless. Living. Impossible.
The gray-bearded gardener muttered, “If the soil salts again, it will die.”
“Then we will change the soil again,” Prince Valarr said.
“It is not made for sea air.”
“Then wall it deeper.”
“It wants cold.”
“Then shade it through summer.”
“It may still fail.”
Prince Valarr set the spade down and looked at the little tree with such ferocity you felt almost ashamed to witness it.
“Then I will fail having tried.”
No one noticed you.
You stood in the gate and put your fingers to your mouth.
All the vanished hours. The rain. The mud on his boots. The maesters bullied and saplings hunted and ships sent. He had built a godswood out of stubbornness and longing and whatever devotion he could not bring himself to name aloud.
For you.
The young tree shook under the rain like a living wound.
You should have gone to him then.
You should have spoken his name.
Instead something broke open too fast inside you. You turned and fled before he could look up and see you.
Because it was too much.
Because if you had stayed one moment longer, you might have run to him in the mud and put your hands on his face and kissed him like a woman who had been starving.
And what if he had gone still beneath your mouth? What if his beautiful, careful kindness had once again mistaken itself for restraint? What if even now this labor was only duty carried to a heroic, impossible edge?
You could not bear the answer.
So you did what wounded pride always does when offered healing too late; you hid.
For the next two days you remained in your chambers under pretense of a chill. Prince Valarr came once with Maester Hollis to inquire after your health. You lay in bed and spoke through the curtains of the tester, hating yourself for cowardice and unable to stop.
“I am well enough,” you said.
The maester fussed. “Your maid says you have not eaten.”
“I am not hungry.”
Then his voice came from beyond the drapes. Low. Tauter than usual.
“Is there anything you require?”
Yes, you thought wildly. You. Truth. The end of this misery.
Instead you said, “No, my prince.”
A pause.
Then, very formal, “As you wish, my lady.”
When the door closed you buried your face in the pillow and wanted to die of your own foolishness.
By the third day shame drove you out.
The storm had passed. The sky was pale and hard. Sea light lay silver over the walls. You wrapped yourself in gray wool and made your way to the eastern garden, half convinced the little tree would be gone, half praying it would not.
It was there.
So was he.
The square of earth had been smoothed. The windbreaks raised. The young weirwood stood in the center, pale as moonlit bone, red leaves trembling in the clean cold air. Around it were stones taken, you guessed, from the North—some lichen-marked, some dark with river wear. A rough bench had been placed beneath the wall. Water ran nearby in a narrow rill so the roots would hear it.
And Valarr stood with one hand against the white bark, eyes closed, as though he had reached the end of something and did not yet know what waited there.
He opened his eyes when your steps sounded on the stone.
For one rare moment, he looked almost afraid.
“My lady,” he said.
You could not stop staring at the tree.
“It lives,” you whispered.
“For now.”
You went nearer. The bark was smooth beneath your fingertips. Cold. Real. Not Winterfell’s old giant with its carved face and centuries in its roots, no. But alive. A miracle grown from stubbornness.
“When?” you asked.
“The ship arrived three weeks ago. We waited to see if it would survive the passage.”
Three weeks. Three weeks he had said nothing.
You turned to him. “Why?”
The question seemed to strike him dumb for a moment.
“Why what?”
“Why do all this and say nothing?”
Something shuttered across his face. “Because it was not done yet.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I have.”
Anger rose, hot and strange, born of gratitude too large for silence. “Do you think me so cold a creature that I should not have wanted to know?”
“No.” His voice sharpened suddenly. “I thought you did not want me.”
The garden fell still.
Even the sea seemed to withdraw.
You stared at him. He stood rigid, as if the words had escaped by accident and he hated them for it. His hand dropped from the trunk. Mud still marked one cuff where no servant had managed to scrub it fully away.
“What?”
He let out a laugh with no joy in it. “There. Now it is said badly.”
“I do not understand.”
“No,” he said. “I know.”
You took one step toward him. “Then make me understand.”
He looked at you then—not as a prince, not as a husband bound by courtesy, but as the man who had stood in rain and black soil and bent half a kingdom to bring a northern god south.
“You came here unwilling,” he said. “I saw that much from the first. You were brave enough to consent, but not eager. Why should you have been? You left your home, your gods, your own sky, for a bargain struck between men. I thought the least cruelty I could offer was restraint.”
The words went through you like a blade.
“Cruelty?”
“Yes.” At last heat entered his voice, long banked and dangerous now that it was loosed. “Because I wanted you before I had any right to want you.”
Your breath caught.
He did not stop.
“I remembered you from Winterfell,” he said. “Not as a child remembers a face in passing. I remembered you too well. I remembered you in the godswood, with snow in your hair and your hand on the heart tree, and I thought—” He broke off, jaw tight. “It does not matter what I thought. Years passed. I saw a hundred court beauties. I heard a hundred women praised. None of them stood before me the way you did in memory. Then when the match was proposed, I knew what sort of gift it would look like from the outside; a prince honoring a northern house. I also knew what it would be to me. And that frightened me more than I care to confess.”
Your fingers curled in your sleeves.
He took a step closer. Not enough to touch. Enough that the air changed.
“I did not mean to be cold,” he said. “I meant to be careful. I thought if I gave you ease, if I asked nothing, if I kept my wants well-hidden, then perhaps you would come to find this place tolerable. Perhaps you would not feel trapped by a husband whose desire had helped build the trap.”
The truth of it hit so cleanly you almost laughed. Or sobbed.
“You fool,” you whispered.
Something painful moved through his face. “Yes.”
“No.” Your voice shook. “You great, impossible fool.”
He stared at you as if uncertain whether you were about to strike him or weep.
“I thought,” you said, and had to stop to swallow around the thickness in your throat. “I thought you found me unlovely. Or too northern. Or only convenient. You would not touch me. You would not look at me except in those moments when you forgot yourself. You did everything for me except the one thing that would have told me it was for me and not for duty.”
His head bowed once, as though at a blow honestly earned.
“I know.”
“You told me on our wedding night you married me because it was agreed you should.”
His eyes closed briefly. “Had I answered truthfully, I might have kissed you before you were ready, and then I would have deserved your hatred.”
“And did it never occur to you,” you said, tears burning now despite your pride, “that I might have preferred honesty to all your noble silences?”
At that, something in him snapped.
It was not rage. It was worse because it was truer.
“It occurred to me every hour,” he said.
The wind stirred the little red leaves above you.
You looked at him and saw it all at once—the restraint, the watchfulness, the impossible care offered with clenched hands because he feared the strength of his own wanting. His obsession had not made him grasping. It had made him reverent to the point of cruelty. And yours, quieter but no less fierce, had made every kindness a wound because you thought it was all you would ever be allowed.
“You planted me a heart tree,” you said softly.
“I brought you a sapling,” he corrected, almost harshly, as if refusing too much credit. “A true heart tree must earn its face.”
You laughed then through tears. He stared as if he had never heard the sound before and did not know whether it was mercy.
“It may take a hundred years,” you said.
“Then let it.”
You wiped at your cheek with the back of your hand. “And if it dies?”
“I will plant another.”
The answer was instant.
The air between you trembled.
You looked at the young tree, its white bark glowing in the thin light, its red leaves shifting like small hearts. Then back at him.
“There is one thing you have still not said.”
His voice dropped. “Name it.”
“Do not name me duty again.”
He went very still.
When he spoke, it seemed torn from somewhere far deeper than courtesy had ever reached.
“I love you.”
The words were not polished. They did not sound practiced. They sounded like surrender.
“I have loved you in every foolish way a man can love a woman he scarcely knows and then in every worse way a husband can love the wife he is afraid to frighten. I have watched you pray to absent gods and envied them because you give them your face so openly. I have counted the things that make you smile and the things that make you cold and the mornings you wake before dawn and the songs that quiet you. I know the sound of your steps in the corridor. I know when you are trying not to cry. I know how often you look north even when there is only sea. And if this is obsession, then I have been lost in it for years.”
Your whole body went weak with the hearing of it.
He kept going, because perhaps once such men began telling truth they feared stopping more than they feared death.
“I did not touch you because I wanted to too much. I did not speak because I might have said all of it. I built this for you because every prayer you whispered into empty air felt like an accusation against me, and I would have torn Dragonstone stone from stone if it meant your gods could find you here.”
The tears came properly then.
You hated crying in front of men. Hated the softness of it. Hated yielding where strength should stand.
He looked stricken at once.
“Do not weep,” he said, stepping forward. “Please. If I have mistaken this—”
“You have mistaken everything,” you said, laughing wetly through it.
His hands hovered at his sides as if he dared not lift them without leave.
So you gave it.
You reached for him first.
The sound he made was very small, very rough.
Then his hands were on you—not seizing, never that, but gathering you with such aching care it undid you more than any hunger could have. One came to your cheek, thumb brushing away tears. The other found your waist as if it had known the road there in dreams. You rose to him, and he bent his head, and when he kissed you at last it was with the restraint of a man who had built walls around himself for years and now felt every stone begin to fall.
The first kiss was almost chaste.
The second was not.
It deepened by degrees, as though neither of you trusted the earth to hold beneath you. His mouth was warm. Reverent, yes, but not only reverent. There was hunger in him after all, old and banked and immense. It came through in the way his breath hitched when your fingers slid into his hair, in the way his hand at your waist tightened as though some part of him still feared you might vanish. You tasted rain and wine and something that was simply him.
When at last he broke away, your forehead rested against his.
“I have wanted that since Winterfell,” he said into the space between you.
You let out a shaky breath. “You should have started with that instead of carved little trees.”
His shoulders moved with a laugh, astonished and low. “I thought the trees were safer.”
“For whom?”
His eyes lifted to yours. Dark, bright, helpless now that truth had breached him. “Not for me.”
You kissed him again because there was no answer better than that.
The little weirwood shivered above you. Somewhere beyond the walls, the sea struck stone with its endless fury. But within the sheltered square of fresh earth and white bark, all the world seemed narrowed to breath and heart and the terrible sweetness of finally being known.
When you drew back, he touched his brow to yours once more.
“There is something else,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “If you tell me there are seven more weirwoods hidden under the castle, I may forgive you for every silence.”
He actually smiled then. It transformed him. Not because it made him prettier—he was already too beautiful for safety—but because it made him look suddenly young, and tired, and real.
“No seven,” he said. “Only this one.”
“That will do.”
His thumb stroked the line of your jaw. “I will have a face carved only when the tree is old enough to bear it.”
“Not yet,” you said. “Let it grow wild a while. Let it learn this place.”
His gaze flicked to the weirwood. “As you have?”
You might once have flinched from the question.
Now, with his arms around you and the northern tree standing impossible and alive on Targaryen stone, the answer was easier.
“I am trying,” you said.
He nodded, as if that mattered more than declarations. Perhaps to him it did.
You stood together in silence then, and it was not an empty one. It was the silence of snowfields, of prayer, of roots beneath earth finding water.
After a while he said, “Will you pray?”
You looked up. “Now?”
“If you wish.”
At Winterfell, prayer had never felt strange. Here, with the sea close and southern sky overhead and your husband waiting beside a sapling brought across half a kingdom for your sake, it felt almost too intimate.
Yet you turned to the young tree and knelt.
For an instant uncertainty brushed you. There was no carved face to meet your eyes, no ancient witness. Only white bark and red leaves and the hush of a place made holy by love before age had time to sanctify it.
Then Valarr knelt beside you.
Not because he believed as you did. Not because anyone watched. Simply because you knelt.
The sight of him there in black wool and mud-marked boots, silver-gold head bowed beside yours before the little tree, nearly broke you anew.
You folded your hands.
The words came slowly at first, then easier.
You prayed for your house in the North, for your brother under the same hard sky, for the Wall and the men upon it, for the dead whose names the gods remembered better than men. You prayed for the tree itself, that it might take root in foreign stone and not judge too harshly the strange island asked to hold it. At the last you prayed—not aloud, but with a fervor that lit your whole blood—that if the old gods had indeed followed you south, they might bear witness to the man beside you and know him by the labor of his hands.
When you rose, Prince Valarr rose too.
“Well?” he asked quietly.
“Well what?”
“Did they hear?”
You looked at the weirwood. At the red leaves moving in the sea wind. At the white bark bright against black stone. At him.
“Yes,” you said. “I think they did.”
Something in him eased at last.
Not all. Men like him did not loosen entirely; perhaps if they ever did, kingdoms would burn. But enough that you saw the relief.
He drew your hand to his mouth and kissed the inside of your wrist. The touch was so unexpectedly tender it sent a tremor through you.
“I would build you Winterfell itself if I could,” he murmured against your skin.
“You would hate the cold.”
“I hate it already,” he said. “It took you from me for too many years.”
There it was again, that trace of obsession worn not like threat but like wound. You could not pretend it did not thrill some dangerous part of you. He loved too deeply. You had known that even before he named it. Perhaps you did too. Perhaps that was why all your pain had felt sharpened against him alone.
So you answered in kind.
“I thought Dragonstone a prison when I came,” you said. “Now I think if you sent me back north tomorrow, I would spend half my days looking at the sea and hating the trees for not being planted by your hands.”
His eyes darkened.
“That is an unwise thing to tell your husband.”
“Why?”
“Because I have very little wisdom where you are concerned.”
“Nor I, it seems.”
He smiled in that astonished way again, as if joy still sat strangely on him.
“Come,” he said after a moment. “The wind is turning colder.”
“I am from the North.”
“Yes,” he said, drawing your cloak closer around your shoulders himself. “And you are my wife. Both reasons enough for me to mind the wind.”
You let him fuss with the fastening though you could have done it yourself. Let him smooth the fur along your throat. Let him keep his hand at the small of your back as you walked from the sheltered garden square toward the keep.
At the doorway you stopped and looked back once more.
The little tree stood alone in its fresh black earth, red leaves sharp against the pale wall. Small. Fragile. Stubborn. Impossible.
Like many holy things.
//
After that, Dragonstone changed.
Or perhaps only you did.
The castle was still black stone and dragon jaws and sea thunder. The wind still worried the walls. The island still smelled of salt and sulfur after rain. But what had once seemed grim began to show its other face. There was beauty there, if a harsher sort than northern woods. Light shattered on the sea like armor. The cliffs blazed gold in sunset. Storms made music through the arrow slits at night. The pines in the eastern garden, bent and stubborn, smelled almost like home when the air cooled.
And within the keep, you no longer moved like a hostage among rich rooms.
Valarr’s restraint did not vanish all at once. Neither did yours. Habits of caution, once grown deep, did not die from one confession. But the silence between you had altered its nature. What was hidden now was less dangerous. More human.
He came to your chambers in the evening without needing excuses of tapestries or weather or whether the kitchens had prepared your meal properly. Sometimes you read aloud while he listened with his head against the carved back of your chair. Sometimes he spoke of council matters only as much as he could bear, and you answered with northern bluntness that made him laugh under his breath. Sometimes no words were needed at all.
When he touched you, he did so as though even now asking.
A hand at your neck in passing. Fingers brushing your knuckles at table beneath the cloth. A kiss pressed to your temple before dawn when he rose for duty. Once, finding you half-asleep by the hearth with your embroidery slipped from numb fingers, he carried you to bed. You woke enough to feel the care of it, the pause when he laid you down, the long stillness afterward when he stood looking at you in the dark as though sleep itself were something he envied.
You reached for him then.
He came to you with a sound like defeat and prayer made the same.
Afterward, wrapped in linen and shadows and the salt-washed night, he kissed your shoulder and said in the dark, “You do not know what mercy you are.”
You turned in his arms and laid your palm over the beat of his heart.
“No,” you said softly. “But perhaps you do not know what comfort you are.”
He made a disbelieving sound.
You smiled against his chest. “Even in your silences.”
“Especially in my silences, I suspect.”
“Those nearly ruined us.”
“Yes.” His arm tightened around you. “I have hated myself for that.”
You tipped your head back to look at him in the faint firelight. “Do not. Or if you must, hate me a little as well. I was too proud to ask what mattered.”
He looked at you for a long moment.
Then, with that grave sincerity that made even tenderness feel like a vow, he said, “I do not know how to hate you. I have tried safer things.”
You kissed him to stop whatever perilous truth he meant to say next.
//
Letters went north with warmer tidings.
You wrote to your brother of the sea first, because men understood weather better than hearts. Then of Dragonstone’s strange beauty. Then, after a pause long enough to make the ink dry while you chose your courage, of the young weirwood in the eastern garden.
His reply came two weeks later and was very short.
If the prince has bent the stone of Dragonstone to make room for our gods, then perhaps he is either mad or worthy of you. Guard the tree from southern fools. And guard your own heart only if it is still possible.
You laughed aloud when you read it.
Prince Valarr, across the table, looked up from his papers. “Good news?”
“My brother thinks you may be mad.”
He considered. “He is not the first.”
“No,” you said, smiling. “But he also thinks you may be worthy.”
For once the prince looked almost abashed. “That is better than I deserve.”
“Perhaps.” You folded the letter. “But I find myself not inclined to justice where you are concerned.”
His gaze lingered on your mouth with warmth enough to make the room feel smaller.
“That,” he said, “is a dangerous kindness.”
You had learned by then that danger and kindness often shared a border in him.
You had crossed it willingly.
//
Summer’s first true warmth came late and sudden.
The weirwood held.
Against salt, against southern sun, against maesters who muttered that old northern trees belonged in old northern ground, it held. New leaves unfurled at the tips of its branches. The white bark brightened. Tiny roots, the gardener told you with reverence fit for relics, had taken deeply enough that the tree no longer trembled at every change in weather.
One evening, near sunset, you and Valarr stood together before it while the sea burned copper beyond the walls.
He had been away three days settling some quarrel among ships’ captains, and the moment he returned he came first not to the hall, not to the solar, but to the eastern garden. To you. You found him there with salt dried on his cloak and fatigue in the set of his shoulders.
“You are late,” you told him.
“I came as quickly as the tide allowed.”
“You might have sent word.”
“I did.” He touched the signet ring at his hand. “Three ravens.”
“I received two.”
His mouth twitched. “Then the third loved me best and kept its secrets.”
You moved closer. “Did it?”
“No.” His gaze softened. “It only said I missed you.”
Your breath caught, though such words no longer startled as once they had.
“And do you?” you asked.
He looked at you with the full force of that strange fierce tenderness which, once named, had grown easier for him to show.
“With poor dignity,” he said.
You laughed and put your hands to his chest, smoothing a wrinkle in his cloak that did not need smoothing. “A prince should have better training.”
“I fear I neglected that lesson.”
“Good.”
His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck. “Good?”
“Yes.” You looked up at him. “I should not much like a husband who missed me with grace.”
His eyes darkened with laughter and something warmer. “No?”
“No.”
He bent and kissed you once, slowly, with the sunset on one side of you and the white weirwood on the other.
When he drew back, he glanced at the tree.
“It wants a face,” he said.
You followed his gaze. The trunk was thicker now, strong enough perhaps to bear the beginning of carving.
“Soon,” you said. “Not yet.”
“Still learning this place?”
“Yes.” You slid your fingers through his. “As I am.”
He was quiet a moment. Then, very softly, “Do you regret coming?”
The question held no accusation. That made it dearer. Harder too.
You looked at Dragonstone around you—the black stone towers, the sea walls, the hard-won green, the impossible tree. At the man beside you, grave and watchful and too careful still in some things, but no longer hidden. At the life you had not chosen and had nevertheless grown into by force of pain and patience and love that had refused to remain unnamed.
“I regret the cost,” you said honestly. “I regret leaving home. I regret what marriage asks of women in this world. I regret every night I thought myself alone beside you.”
He bowed his head once, accepting each wound as if it were his to carry too.
“But do I regret you?” You turned fully to him. “No, my prince. Not even when you are unbearable.”
A smile touched his mouth. “Only then, perhaps.”
“Especially then.”
He lifted your joined hands and pressed them to his lips. “There are moments,” he said, “when I think the gods—yours or mine or all of them together—must be mocking me.”
“Why?”
“Because they have given me exactly what I wanted and then made me afraid to reach for it.”
You stepped into him, laid your head beneath his chin, and felt his arms come around you with all the certainty he used to deny himself.
“Then they are cruel gods,” you said.
“Yes.”
“But they were kind once.”
His cheek rested against your hair. “When?”
You smiled against his chest and looked at the young weirwood glowing pale in the dusk.
“When they let a wolf pray beneath a dragon’s tree,” you said, “and a dragon learn to kneel beside her.”
He held you tighter.
The wind moved through the leaves with a whisper like old voices speaking from very far away.
Perhaps it was only wind.
Perhaps not.
In the years to come, the little tree would grow taller. Its roots would split the black earth deeper and deeper. One day a face would be carved into the pale trunk, solemn and red-eyed as all heart trees were, and northern men visiting Dragonstone would fall silent when they saw it. Children yet unborn would play beneath its branches and hear the tale of how a prince once dragged half the world to one stubborn island because his wife had nowhere to pray.
They would tell it as romance, perhaps.
Or as madness.
Most love, when looked at from a safe distance, resembled one or the other.
Only those who had stood inside it knew the truth; that love was not made gentler by misunderstanding, only hungrier. That obsession could bruise like a hand closing too tight, or guard like a wall built against winter winds. That care, when frightened of its own depth, sometimes disguised itself as coldness so severe it nearly became a cruelty. And that when truth at last was spoken, it did not make the old hurt vanish. It merely gave the hurt a home where it could stop wandering.
You learned that on Dragonstone.
Under a white tree in black soil.
In the arms of a man who had loved you badly before he learned to love you well, and whom you had mistaken nearly long enough to lose.
The sea kept beating at the cliffs below, as it always had and always would. The castle kept its watch over the narrow water. Ravens flew. Kings plotted. Winters came and went. The world remained what it was: hard, hungry, full of bargains.
But in the eastern garden of Dragonstone, where no godswood had ever stood before, a weirwood lifted red leaves to the southern sky.
And when you knelt beneath it, you were not alone.
Aerion Targaryen x f!reader x Valarr Targaryen (part 1)
Summary: Based on the request "A fic where you tried to give Valarr a love potion but Aerion drinks it instead (like what one of Egg's sisters did)". Reader is a Baratheon (but no physical descriptions are given), who is a childhood friend of Valarr's.
Valarr did not leave when you gave your answer. He stood as though he expected you to laugh, to say it was a jest, that you were merely amusing yourself at court’s expense. When you did not, when you held his gaze with a steadiness you had never quite used against him before, something unsettled flickered across his face.
“You cannot be serious,” he said.
“I am,” you replied, evenly.
Daella shifted beside you, arms crossed, chin lifted defiantly. Rhae hovered nearer the window, trying and failing to look inconspicuous.
Valarr looked between the three of you, his confusion becoming probing.
“When did this happen?” he pressed. “You never spoke of him. You...” He stopped, frowning faintly. “You do not even like him.”
“That is not your concern,” you said.
It was colder than you had ever spoken to him.
He stepped closer. “It is my concern if...”
“If what?” you cut in, your voice tightening despite your control. “If I make a poor match? You did not seem concerned when yours was announced.”
That struck. His mouth parted, then closed again.
Daella seized the moment. “Perhaps you should leave,” she said, sweetly sharp. “You are upsetting her.”
“I am not...” Valarr began.
“You are,” Rhae chimed in, far too quickly, her nerves making her bold. “And she is to be married. You cannot simply barge in and question her like...like...”
“Like what?” he asked, eyes narrowing.
Rhae faltered.
You stepped in before she could unravel the entire truth with one poorly chosen word.
“Unchaperoned,” you said.
Valarr’s expression shifted, hurt, unmistakably so, though he tried to mask it.
“…I see,” he said quietly.
He did not, you thought.
He bowed his head, stiffly, and turned to leave.
At the door, he hesitated.
“You could have told me,” he said, without looking back.
Then he was gone.
The moment the door shut, Rhae burst into motion.
“I can fix it,” she said, already rummaging through her things, knocking over a small vial in her haste. “There must be a counter-potion. Something to reverse the binding, perhaps a dilution, or...”
“Rhae,” Daella said, rubbing her temple, “you do not even know what you made.”
“I do!” Rhae insisted. “It is a love draught. A very potent one, clearly.”
“That you made by guessing,” Daella replied dryly.
Rhae ignored her entirely, muttering to herself as she began sorting through herbs and powders.
You watched her for a moment. Then you turned away. There were more immediate problems.
You wrote to your uncle Lyonel that same day.
You did not mention potions or spells or foolish drunken decisions. You were not that reckless. But you told him enough.
You told him that Aerion had been improper with you, rude, lewd in a way no lady should tolerate. You told him that his sudden declaration of love felt unnatural. That you did not trust it. That you feared being made a spectacle of, a laughingstock at court if this proved to be some cruel whim.
You did not exaggerate. You did not need to.
You sealed the letter and sent it off with steady hands.
If nothing else, Lyonel Baratheon would come.
And Lyonel Baratheon did not take kindly to anyone slighting his family.
The reply came swiftly. Not to you. To Maekar.
A short, brisk message, delivered with all the subtlety of a storm breaking over the Narrow Sea.
He would come to King’s Landing personally to discuss the matter of his niece’s betrothal.
If there had been any hope that things might quiet in the meantime, it died quickly. Because Aerion did not leave you alone.
You were walking through the gardens when he appeared at your side, as though conjured.
“You did not come to break fast,” he said, his voice softer than you had ever heard it.
You did not slow. “I was indisposed.”
“You should have sent for me.”
You stopped then, turning to him with a sharp look. “Why would I do that?”
His expression softened, as though you had asked something terribly gullible.
“Because I would care for you,” he said simply.
It unsettled you more than his usual arrogance ever had.
“I do not need your care,” you replied.
“I know,” he said quickly. “But I wish to give it.”
You resumed walking. He followed.
You tried to be rid of him. You truly did. You snapped at him when he grew too close. You cut your words sharp and precise, hoping to pierce through whatever madness had taken hold of him.
“You are insufferable,” you told him once, when he would not stop hovering at your shoulder.
He only smiled.
“You may insult me as you please,” he said. “It does not change what I feel.”
“It should,” you retorted. “Any sane man would reconsider.”
“I am not any man,” he said lightly.
That, at least, was true.
You cornered him once, away from the others, your patience fraying.
“This is absurd,” you told him, your voice low and cutting. “You do not know me well enough to love me.”
“I know enough,” he replied.
“You knew enough to pinch me like a tavern girl,” you snapped.
He stilled. For a moment, you saw something flicker across his face. Regret? Shame? It was gone too quickly to be certain.
“I will not do that again,” he said, quieter now.
“That does not undo it.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I will spend the rest of my life making amends, if you allow me.”
You stared at him. He stepped closer, too close.
“You may hate me,” he continued, his voice dropping, something almost desperate threading through it now. “You may strike me, curse me, turn your back on me in public and private. I do not care. Only...” His breath hitched, just slightly. “Do not refuse me.”
“This is not love,” you said.
“It is,” he insisted.
“It is obsession.”
“Then I am obsessed,” he said, without hesitation.
You recoiled. He did not falter.
It worsened.
He began to trail after you openly, no longer caring who saw.
At feasts, he sat too close. In halls, he appeared at your side as though tethered to you.
“Do not send me away,” he murmured once, catching your wrist lightly when you turned from him.
“I will give you anything,” he said, his voice low, almost unsteady. “Anything you ask.”
You pulled your hand free. “I want you to leave me alone.”
Aerion shook his head, as though the very idea was impossible.
“Ask something else,” he said.
You stared at him, incredulous. “You cannot simply decide which of my wishes you will grant.”
“I can if one of them is to lose you,” he replied.
You had no answer for that.
He spoke endlessly.
Of things that made your skin crawl. And things that, against your will, made something in your chest ache.
“I will give you the finest gowns,” he said, pacing before you as you sat, utterly exhausted by him. “Silks from Lys, jewels from Volantis, whatever you wish.”
“I do not care for such things.”
“Then I will build you something better,” he said immediately. “A palace. Not here, somewhere grander. Somewhere worthy of you.”
You scoffed. “You cannot simply build palaces on a whim.”
“I can,” he said, utterly serious. “For you, I will.”
You rubbed your forehead.
“I will fill it with anything you desire,” he continued, relentless. “Books, if you wish. Gardens. A place where storms rage, if you miss them.”
Your breath caught, just slightly. You hated that he noticed.
“I will give you sons,” he went on, softer now. “And daughters. They will have your strength.”
You looked away.
“You will never be overlooked again,” he finished.
That, more than anything, got stuck in your mind. You hated him for it. Well, you tried to. You truly did. But it became…complicated.
Because beneath the madness, beneath the unnatural devotion, there was something else. It was not like he could control it. His voice softened when you spoke, even when your words were sharp. He faltered not in arrogance, but in uncertainty when you pushed too hard. He had not asked for this. He had not meant for it. And still he bore it because he had no choice.
You softened. Not enough to encourage him but enough that your cruelty dulled. Enough that, when he leaned too close, you did not always push him away immediately.
Valarr did not let it rest.
He returned the next day, and the next, and the next after that, each time with the same restless air about him, as though something had shifted beneath his feet and he could not quite understand where the ground had gone.
It was never a single question, never a simple inquiry. He circled the matter, as though careful probing might reveal a crack.
“You must see how sudden it all seems,” he said one afternoon, standing before you while Daella idly flipped through a book and Rhae pretended very poorly to be absorbed in her notes. “Aerion has never shown you any particular…regard before. Not of this kind.”
You folded your hands in your lap, posture straight. “Men are allowed to develop affections.”
“Yes, but...” He hesitated, frowning slightly. “Affections do not usually bloom overnight. Not like this.”
Daella snorted softly, not looking up. “Perhaps you simply never noticed.”
Valarr’s eyes flicked toward her, briefly annoyed, before returning to you. “And you,” he continued, “you never spoke of him either. Not once. You spoke of…many things. But not him.”
You tilted your head faintly, as though considering. “Must I report every passing interest to you?”
“That is not what I meant,” he said quickly, though his composure was beginning to fray. “I only mean that I thought I would have known if there had been…something.”
There had been something, you thought.
Just not what he imagined.
Rhae suddenly interjected, far too brightly, “People can be very secretive about matters of the heart.”
Daella shot her a look.
Valarr’s gaze sharpened. “Secretive? Since when?”
“Since always,” Daella said lazily, closing her book with a soft snap. “You are not entitled to every detail of her life, cousin.”
Valarr exhaled through his nose, clearly dissatisfied, but there was nothing he could press that would not make him seem...what? Petty? Possessive? Something he had never allowed himself to be.
And so he left again, though this time more slowly, as though reluctant to turn his back.
You watched him go. You felt something like vindication. It did not taste as sweet as you had once imagined.
Rhae hadn't slept properly since that fateful day.
At first, it had been frantic scribbling, muttered theories, a scatter of ingredients that grew more chaotic with each passing hour. But as the reality of the situation dawned: Lyonel on his way, Maekar already in agreement, Aerion growing only more attached, her efforts shifted from frantic to feverish.
“This is not simply infatuation,” she insisted one night, pacing the length of your chamber while Daella lay sprawled across your bed, watching her with half-lidded eyes. “It is binding. There must be a way to break a binding.”
“You do not even know how you made it,” Daella pointed out for the hundredth time, already resigned to what fate had willed.
“I know enough,” Rhae snapped, whirling toward her. “There were elements of suggestion, of amplification, of desire already present...”
You lifted a brow. “Desire?”
Rhae faltered for half a second, then recovered. “Perhaps not conscious desire. But something. The potion does not create from nothing, it enhances...”
“Then you have enhanced something deeply unfortunate,” Daella muttered.
Rhae ignored her again, turning back to her table, hands moving with increasing precision now. “If it binds, it can be unbound. It must. Otherwise…” She trailed off, her mouth tightening.
Otherwise, Lyonel would arrive to find you entangled in something unnatural, Maekar would defend his son, and neither man was known for yielding.
Aerion did not give you much space to think.
He found you everywhere. In the corridors, where he would fall into step beside you as though summoned by your presence alone. In the gardens, where he would appear at your shoulder, speaking your name with a familiarity that still felt jarring. At meals, where he abandoned his place without hesitation if it meant sitting closer to you.
“You did not come to the yard this morning,” he said, falling into step beside you as you walked along the outer gallery. “I looked for you.”
“I did not know you kept such careful watch over my movements,” you replied, not slowing.
“I would, if you allowed it,” he said, entirely serious.
You glanced at him, irritation flaring. “I do not.”
He smiled faintly, as though indulging you. “Then I will settle for watching from afar.”
“You are not watching from afar,” you pointed out.
“No,” he agreed, and there was something almost pleased in it. “I am improving my position.”
You huffed a quiet breath, shaking your head, but you did not send him away.
You had learned by now that cold rejection did not deter him, it only twisted into something softer, more pleading, more difficult to withstand.
“You should not encourage me,” he added after a moment, his voice lowering slightly as he studied your expression. “You look at me as though you are considering something unkind.”
“I am considering many unkind things,” you said dryly.
“Will you tell me?” he asked, almost eagerly.
“No.”
“Then I will imagine them,” he said, and for once there was a flicker of something like amusement in his tone. “I suspect they will be worse.”
You sighed and bit back a frustrated scream.
“I have been thinking,” he said, sitting down too close beside you on a bench as you tried unsuccessfully to read. “If you do not wish to remain in King’s Landing after we are wed, we need not. We could go elsewhere.”
You did not look up from your book. “Where would you go? You are a prince.”
“I would go where you are,” he said simply. “The rest can be arranged.”
“That is not how kingdoms work.”
“It is how I would make them work,” he replied.
You sighed, closing the book at last. “You cannot bend the world to your will simply because you wish it.”
His gaze softened, unbearably so. “Not the world. Only my life. And you are part of it now.”
You looked away. He leaned closer.
“Are you unhappy?” he asked quietly.
The question caught you off guard. “…what?”
“You seem…” He hesitated, as though searching for the word. “Distant. When I speak of these things.”
You swallowed. “I am not accustomed to them,” you said carefully.
“I will give you time,” he murmured.
You almost laughed at that.
Time was the one thing you did not have.
The days slipped by too quickly. Lyonel would arrive soon.
Rhae worked relentlessly. And finally, she came to you with something that did not look like a disaster waiting to happen. It was a small vial with clear liquid inside with faint lavender hue.
“This will work,” she said, with a conviction that made even Daella sit up straighter.
Rhae thrust the vial toward you. “This is different. It is not a draught, it is a dissolving agent. It will break the binding. I am certain of it.”
You took it. It felt far too light in your hand for something that might decide the course of everything.
“You must give it to him,” Rhae added, her voice dropping. “Soon. Before your uncle arrives.”
You nodded. Because what else could you do?
It was not difficult to get Aerion alone. You sent for him, and he came immediately as though he had been waiting for the summons.
He entered your chamber with an ease that still felt inappropriate, his gaze finding you instantly, softening in that now-familiar way.
“You sent for me,” he said, and there was something almost pleased in it, like a man rewarded.
“I did.”
You had prepared for this. You had rehearsed it in your mind. It should have been simple. Offer him the drink. Watch him take it. Wait.
Instead, you found yourself hesitating.
Because he was looking at you. He looked at you as though you were...everything. It was too much.
“You seem troubled,” he said, stepping closer. “Has something happened?”
You tightened your grip on the vial, hiding it within your sleeve. “No.”
“You are a poor liar,” he murmured, and there was no mockery in it., only concern.
“I am not lying.”
“You are,” he said gently. “And I do not like it.”
You exhaled slowly. “I am merely…tired.”
“Then you should rest,” he said at once. “You should not be standing. Sit...”
“Aerion,” you interrupted, more sharply than intended.
He stilled.
You softened your tone, forcing steadiness into it. “I asked you here for something else.”
His attention sharpened immediately. “Anything.”
You reached for the goblet you had prepared, pouring the contents of the vial into it.
“For me?” he asked, watching you curiously.
“For you,” you said, offering it to him.
Aerion took it without hesitation but did not drink.
Instead, he looked at you longer than necessary.
“You are sad,” he said softly.
Your throat tightened. “I am not.”
“You are,” he insisted, stepping closer, the goblet momentarily forgotten in his hand. “You look as though you are about to send me away.”
Something in your chest twisted. “I am not sending you away.”
“Not yet,” he murmured.
You swallowed.
He reached up slowly, and brushed his fingers along your cheek, as though testing whether you would pull back. You did not.
“May I kiss you?” he asked tentatively.
The question struck harder than any demand could have.
For a moment, just a moment, you wavered.
Because this...this gentleness, this asking, this was more than you had ever been given. More than Valarr had ever offered.
And it was not even real.
You forced yourself to move. You closed your hand lightly over his, guiding it down, pressing the goblet back toward him instead.
“Drink first,” you said, your voice softer than you intended. “Please.”
He studied you.
Then, because it was you and he was bewitched, he obeyed.
He drank all of it without question.
You looked away.
Because you could not bear the way he would be looking at you when he finished.
The potion did not work.
At least, not as Rhae intended.
Aerion's expression shifted, his mouth twisted.
He doubled over violently.
The goblet slipped from his hand, shattering against the floor as he staggered, one hand bracing against the table, the other clutching at his stomach.
“Aerion...” you started, alarm flaring.
He did not answer.
He was already retching.
part 3: pending...
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