ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏʙꜱᴇꜱꜱᴇᴅ ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ꜱᴛᴇᴘ-ʙʀᴏᴛʜᴇʀ | ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴅᴏᴠᴇ

“He’s not jealous—he’s just selectively homicidal when it comes to you.”

Let’s be clear: Valerian was not dramatic.

That was his father’s department—all monologues and poisoned chalices and the occasional maniacal laughter echoing through the west wing at three in the morning.

No, Valerian was simply... particular.

Particular about his clothes (black silk, tailored to perfection, never a thread out of place). Particular about his wine (aged, expensive, preferably stolen from someone who didn’t deserve it). And especially particular about his favorite person in the world—who, unfortunately for them, happened to be you, his older sibling.

He’d deny it, of course. Vehemently. With insults. But the evidence was damning: the way he’d “accidentally” incinerate your enemies, the way he’d sigh dramatically while stitching up your wounds, the way his gloved fingers lingered just a second too long when fixing your collar.

“Honestly,” he would sigh, examining his perfectly manicured nails, “must I always be the one to save you?”

The unspoken “and why do I enjoy it so much?” is loud.