Two Points Ahead - Part 2
Pairing: Valarr Targaryen x Reader
Summary: You sacrificed everything to earn your place at Harvard — sleepless nights, broken friendships, relentless pressure. You were supposed to be the best. But then there’s Valarr Targaryen — brilliant, infuriating, untouchable. No matter how hard you work, he’s always one step ahead. Until...
Warnings: academic rivalry, dark academia vibes, toxic competitiveness, rough make-out, all over themselves, intense touching and kissing, dry humping, +18.
Author Note: Okay, so I couldn't quite give up on this story, especially after seeing so much positive feedback from readers, and I'm grateful. Since I love Valarr and you all do too (especially the modern AU 🤭), I decided to continue. Enjoy!
The lecture with Miss Oswald ended in the usual chaos: chairs scraping, laptops snapping shut, bags zipping, and the low buzz of people already mentally at whatever party was happening this weekend. You, on the other hand, just wanted to vanish.
You hadn’t heard a single coherent sentence about constitutional law. Every time you tried to focus, your eyes drifted—to the clock, to the doodles on the margins of your notes, to the back of Valarr Targaryen’s stupid silver-blond head three rows ahead. Exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes like wet concrete.
The dorm wasn’t even terrible. For what you paid, it was… acceptable. The real problem was your roommate: a walking natural disaster with a speaker permanently set to ear-bleed volume and the spatial awareness of a drunk toddler. You’d come back to find her socks on your pillow, her half-unpacked suitcase blocking your desk chair, her damp towels turning the bathroom into a combined sauna and kiddie pool. Studying there was physically impossible.
So you’d done the only thing you could: waited until she was out, then pulled an all-nighter. Highlighter bleeding across pages, phone camera flashing over paragraphs, frantic handwritten notes. All so you could return *that damn book* to Valarr today.
You weren’t about to let him think—for even one second—that he’d “saved” you. Unacceptable.
He was already standing when you looked up, messenger bag closed with surgical precision, grey wool coat draped over one arm like he’d just stepped off a Vogue autumn/winter shoot. The second he started walking—casual, unbothered, acting like yesterday in the library had never happened—something inside you snapped.
He stopped. Turned slowly. One eyebrow lifted. There was curiosity there… and something warmer. A faint flush high on his cheekbones that you hadn’t noticed before.
You gave up trying to cram the remaining books into your already bursting bag and just clutched them against your chest. You hurried down the auditorium steps.
*What the hell are you doing?*
You forced yourself to slow, to breathe, and approached him with deliberate calm—like handing over the book was an annoying chore instead of the petty victory it actually was.
Valarr’s gaze flicked from the book to your face. Back to the book. Then he let out that low, infuriating chuckle—the one that carved out his dimples and made half the room glance over.
“You’re telling me you actually finished it?”
“Not exactly,” you said, voice flat and robotic. “But I got everything I needed. And I don’t want to owe you anything.”
He slid both hands into his pockets, head tilting slightly.
“Careful, Miss I’m-So-Smart-Now. Starting to think you’re better than everyone else.”
“It’s my default setting whenever I spend more than thirty seconds talking to you.” You folded your arms, already itching to leave. “And just so we’re clear: now that I’ve finally got one over on you, good luck ever catching up again.”
You turned and started down the remaining steps, ignoring the prickle at the back of your neck that told you he was still watching.
“Grumpy and cocky,” his voice followed you. “Didn’t think you had it in you. Unless… rough night? Regrets? Missing something?”
You spun around so fast your books nearly slipped.
Regrets? He had to be joking.
Before you could fire back, your phone buzzed.
Your roommate: “bringing 4 friends tonight ok?? they’re already on the way :)”
Of course. Last-minute. Always.
“Goddamn it,” you muttered, louder than intended.
Valarr, still idly turning the book over in his long fingers, glanced at your face.
“I need people to stop pissing me off for five consecutive minutes.”
Valarr didn’t laugh this time. He just looked at you. Really looked. His usual smirk softening into something quieter, almost hesitant. The cocky edge was still there, but underneath it was this… earnest thing. Like a puppy who’d just figured out you were upset and was trying (badly) not to make it worse.
“Hey. Seriously. You look like you’re about to combust. And I’m not saying this to be a dick.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Look… reset your nervous system. And if you agree, you can come to my place. I know your dorm is a disaster zone. You’ve complained about it enough times in class for it to stick.”
He wasn’t being smug. That was the worst part. If he’d smirked or thrown in some cocky line about how you “needed” him, you could’ve shut him down instantly. Instead, he looked… hopeful. Almost nervous. His two coloured eyes are doing the puppy thing again, soft around the edges, like your answer actually mattered.
And fuck, the library kiss was still looping in your head on repeat. You’d initiated it, out of pure irritation, mostly, because he’d been so damn smug about the book. One second you were arguing, the next your hands were in his brown hair, and his mouth was on yours. Hot and urgent and way too good. Every time you closed your eyes: his dimples flashing mid-kiss, the way he’d groaned softly when you tugged his tie. And even after he left, your lipstick was still on his collar.
God, that did something to you.
You hated that you couldn’t shake it. Hated more that part of you didn’t want to.
His place? A full-on house. (Because of course. Targaryens didn’t slum it in off-campus shoeboxes.) Certainly, it would be an old-money aesthetic: marble foyer, probably, garden big enough to stargaze without light pollution, quiet rooms where you could actually hear yourself think. And him — watching you the whole time, wanting a repeat performance, but trying (and failing) to play it cool.
His whole face lit up—relief flooding in first, then excitement, that boyish grin breaking wide like he’d just aced a final he hadn’t expected to pass. “Deal.” He nodded fast, already turning toward the exit, shoulders relaxing. “Car’s out front.”
The ride was quiet, but not awkward. The car smelled like new leather, the kind that probably cost more than your monthly rent. Your black Mary Janes were spotless (thank god you’d wiped the soles twice before getting in), because the last thing you needed was to leave a mark on the pristine interior of this German beast.
One scuff and you’d feel like you’d personally offended three generations of wealth.
Valarr drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gear shift. He didn’t try to fill the silence with small talk, which you appreciated. Every now and then you caught him glancing over—quick, almost shy—like he was checking if you’d bolt at the next red light.
When you pulled through the automatic gates, the house hit you like a physical force. It wasn’t just big. It was old money big. Stone facade, ivy climbing perfectly manicured walls, a driveway lined with ancient oaks that probably predated the university itself. The kind of place where people didn’t shout about money because they didn’t have to.
Inside, the foyer alone made your dorm look like a broom closet. Marble floors that echoed softly under your shoes, a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a museum, and…yes…actual staff. A middle-aged woman in a discreet uniform nodded politely as you passed: “Good evening, Mr. Valarr”, and a man in a dark jacket took Valarr’s coat without a word. You felt their eyes on you for half a second, glinting with curiosity, before they vanished like ghosts.
Valarr led you up a wide staircase carpeted thick and silent, past oil paintings that were probably worth more than your tuition, and down a hallway lined with closed doors. Your heart was hammering, but you kept your chin up, shoulders back. If this was his world, you weren’t going to shrink in it.
His bedroom door opened to something that felt unfairly cinematic.
Polished silver and gold lined a glass-fronted cabinet: equitation ribbons, fencing medals (foil, épée, sabre—he did all of them?), tennis plaques from nationals. Photos framed in sleek black: Valarr mid-jump on a sleek horse, blade extended in perfect en garde, mid-serve with that focused smirk. In almost every one, an older man with the same sharp features and silver-streaked hair stood beside him with a proud hand on his shoulder, with the same eyes. The golden son. Daddy’s favourite.
You felt small for a heartbeat. Then you straightened, jaw set. If he wanted to see you rattled, he’d get defiance instead.
“You’re doing the thing again,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “The ‘I’m above all this’ posture.”
He smiled wider, dimples carving deep. The heat crept up your neck anyway. “Want the full tour?” You hesitated, eyes flicking over him. The way the hallway light caught the silver streaks in his hair, the faint freckles across the bridge of his nose that only showed up this close. “Or do you want to start studying?” he added, almost gently, like he was giving you an out.
You swallowed. Your mouth felt dry.
The words barely left your mouth before you were on him.
You surged forward, hands diving straight into his hair just like you had in the library. Your fingers curling tight, tugging him down to meet you. Your mouth crashed into his with the same reckless hunger: no preamble, no hesitation, just the pent-up frustration and want that had been eating at you since yesterday. His surprised inhale hitched against your lips, sharp and audible, before melting into that low, rough groan you already knew by heart.
The sound vibrated through you, familiar and devastating. But Valarr didn’t let it stay frantic.
His hands found the small of your back, cradling you and taking over, but in an impressively slow and lovely way. His tongue traced the familiar path along yours, slow and thorough, as though he were committing every taste, every texture to memory in case this moment vanished the second he let go. You let out a silent, trembling sigh against his mouth, savouring the way he lingered.
His hand drifted, agonisingly slow, down to your waist, fingers spreading wide, pulling you impossibly closer until your spine curved and your hips rocked forward on instinct. The motion forced you backwards; he guided you, never letting the kiss break for more than a heartbeat.
Every time his lips left yours, it was only to look into your eyes, but not for too long, like the brief separation was torture he could barely endure. Then he’d drag you back in, deeper as though the distance had only sharpened his need. And you gripped the front of his shirt, knuckles grazing the heat of his skin through the thin fabric, anchoring yourself against the slow burn building between you.
He kissed you like he had all day and all night to peel every layer away—slow drags of lips, teasing nips along the edge of your jaw, the soft scrape of teeth that made your pulse stutter.
“I thought your focus was studying,” he murmured against the skin beneath your ear.
“Shut up,” you breathed, “You’re the one who invited me here under the pretence of a ‘quiet space.’ We both know that wasn’t your real plan.”
The backs of your knees met the edge of the bed.
A small, involuntary gasp slipped out. He caught it with his mouth, swallowed it whole, and eased you down onto the mattress with careful control. You braced yourself on your elbows first, then let your back meet the sheets fully as he followed—his body a warm, solid line above you. One knee settled between your thighs, nudging them apart just enough; the other foot stayed planted on the floor, giving him leverage to hover without crushing you. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, thumb stroking slow, maddening circles over the sensitive skin there, while the other fisted the sheets beside your head, restrained, holding himself back so he could focus entirely on taking you apart.
The room shrank around you. The gleaming trophies on the shelf dulled to nothing. The distant hum of the house faded until there was only the sound of your breathing, his breathing, the rustle of fabric and the wet slide of mouths. Everything else dissolved.
His lips left yours to map the side of your neck—hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down, teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch. You tilted your head without thinking, offering more skin, more access, biting your own lip hard to trap the sounds threatening to spill out. But your hands were already restless, impatient: shoving at the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath until your palms met bare skin—the tight plane of his abdomen, the faint ridges of muscle that jumped and tensed under your fingers.
He groaned low against your collarbone, the vibration traveling straight through you.
The soft, deliberate graze of his teeth over the spot just below your ear sent a jolt down your spine. And his weight shifted, pressing you deeper into the mattress, and your hips lifted off the bed in helpless response. Your legs parted wider on instinct, thigh brushing the inside of his, and he settled more firmly between them, the hard, insistent line of him pressing against you through too many layers of fabric. A soft, broken moan escaped before you could swallow it back.
The kind of good that made your head spin and your thighs tremble, that blurred the line between want and need until you couldn’t tell which was winning. Every slow roll of his hips, every careful drag of his mouth, every time his fingers tightened on your waist like he was afraid you’d disappear.
It only wound the tension tighter, hotter, until it felt like the next breath might snap something inside both of you...And then the monitor on the desk flared to life, vibrating against the wood.
“Egg” blinked across the screen in cheerful block letters, and a ridiculous cartoon egg with googly eyes and a massive grin stared straight at you both.
Valarr froze mid-kiss. A beat of stunned silence.
He pulled back reluctantly, every line of his body screaming how much he didn’t want to. He sat up, raking a hand through his wrecked hair, tugging his shirt back down where you’d shoved it halfway up his ribs. Shot you an apologetic look that was equal parts exasperated and helplessly fond.
You propped yourself on your elbows, chest still heaving, lips swollen and tingling. The mood had shattered into something absurd and oddly tender.
He wheeled the chair over, dropped into it, and hit accept.
“Yo, Egg,” he said, voice still rough around the edges.
A young voice burst through: “Valarr! Finally! Duncan’s talking about becoming a PE teacher again, and Aerion’s being a dick as usual, and Daeron forgot to pick me up—Maekar’s losing it—”
You flopped back onto the pillows, legs still shaky, watching the preppy boy who’d just had his tongue down your throat five seconds ago calmly mediate Targaryen cousin drama like it was Tuesday.
