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at first, you thought he was just being mean, hogging the highest-tech thing you’d ever seen all to himself. then, once you got old enough, you wondered if all the secrecy was for…nefarious reasons. but every time he smiled and ruffled your hair, you just couldn’t bring yourself to think he’d ever watch that kind of stuff.
plus, the thought made your stomach hurt.
eventually, you grew old enough to value your privacy just as much. gone were the days of you sneaking glances over his shoulder and trying to guess his password while he wasn’t looking.
*his password wasn’t your birthday. why wasn’t it your birthday? was it someone else’s birthday?
**it always was your birthday. just typed backwards.
in all that time, you never would’ve guessed the thing he’d tried so hard to keep from you was his own sims fantasy land.
he’d spent hours designing both of your appearances and outfits, chasing accuracy down to the pixel. once he was satisfied, he moved your household into an empty world, so that you were free to live as you were instead of who you should’ve been.
he’s an astronaut, you’re a secret agent. you have a garden, but he always hires someone to tend to it so the plants don't command too much of your attention. his cooking skills are maxed out, as is your relationship level. and there’s a shiny silver band around your left ring finger.
you have a mansion with a motherlode of things to entertain you: hot tub, cupcake machine, karaoke station, rocket ship. and rest assured, there’s a trusty cowplant in the back to deal with anyone who disrupts your peace. over the years, it has lured and devoured multiple incarnations of a certain black-haired, green-eyed, sweet-toothed genius who you could never seem to stop gushing over.
and when the grey hairs come in for both of you, and your time starts winding down…well. he already has twin burial plots mapped out in the backyard, right in the middle of the apple orchard.
not that he’s dreamed about a life with you, or anything.
summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.
word count: 14.5k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: i don't think i've ever written the "fake dating" trope and i realized that that was not right. how could i have gone this far without ever writing it?! so, here it is!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader works at the daily planet, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, mostly takes place in smallville, clark is a softie, reader knows clark is superman, fluff, slow burn, oblivious idiots, one mention of reader using bobby pins in hair, slight angst
Clark was pacing. Not unusual—he did that in the newsroom whenever a deadline loomed—but this was different. His tie was loosened, his glasses sliding down his nose, and the look on his face wasn’t the usual “Perry wants three rewrites before lunch” kind of stress. This was real panic.
You leaned back in your chair, coffee cup in hand, watching him wear a path into the carpet between your desks. “Clark, you’re going to burn a hole in the floor if you keep that up.”
He stopped mid-step, ran a hand through his dark hair, and exhaled sharply. “Smallville.”
You blinked. “…That’s a place, yes. Congratulations, you remembered your hometown.”
He shot you a look—half exasperated, half pleading. “There’s a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.”
“Okay,” you said slowly, sipping your coffee. “And this is a crisis because…?”
Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. “Because they’ve been…asking if I’m seeing anyone. For months.” He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. “And I may have…implied…”
“Oh, Clark.” You set your cup down with a grin. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. “I didn’t mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely and—I panicked. I didn’t want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy I’d found someone, and by the time I realized what I’d done it was too late.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “So let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now you’re about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Exactly.”
“That is hilarious,” you said, fighting back giggles.
He peeked at you through his fingers. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s so funny. You’re basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.”
He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. “That’s why I wanted to ask you something.”
Your eyebrows rose. “Oh boy. This sounds serious.”
“Would you…” He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. “Would you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they don’t think I’m a complete failure at dating.”
You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But no—Clark Kent didn’t joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.
“Oh my God,” you breathed. “You are in a Hallmark movie.”
He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.”
He winced. “When you say it like that—”
“Clark, that’s not fake dating. That’s method acting.” But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. And suddenly… you weren’t laughing anymore. “Well,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve always wanted to see Smallville.”
The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like you’d just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. “You will? Really?”
“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head at him. “But you owe me, Kent. Big time.”
He grinned, sheepish and grateful. “Deal.”
And just like that, you’d agreed to be Clark Kent’s fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?
---
Clark’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.
You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. He’d insisted on making tea—because apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.
He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.
“So,” you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, “we should probably set some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.
“Obviously,” you said. “Fake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If we’re going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.” You ticked off on your fingers. “We need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conduct—”
“Rules of conduct?” His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.
“Yes,” you said firmly. “For example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this ‘spur of the moment’ stuff.”
He choked a little on his tea. “Kissing?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Clark, if your entire hometown thinks you’ve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. You’re not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.”
He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. “I just… didn’t think about that.”
“You didn’t—Clark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?”
“I panicked!” he said, voice higher than usual. “I just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree it’s necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.”
Clark looked up at that, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t?” You leaned forward, smirking. “You’ve got thirty years’ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you won’t let me suffer?”
His ears turned pink. “I’d never embarrass you on purpose.”
You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant it—you could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.
“Fine,” you conceded softly. “Rule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number three…” You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. “We need a believable backstory. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that sort of thing.”
Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. “That’s easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s boring. And vague. If people ask questions, you’ll fold like a cheap suit.”
He frowned. “I don’t fold.”
“You fold,” you said flatly. “You’re too nice to lie convincingly.”
He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. “I can lie!”
“Clark,” you said sweetly, “what did you have for breakfast this morning?”
“…Toast,” he replied, after an oddly long pause.
You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. And that little hesitation wasn’t suspicious at all.”
“I did have toast,” he muttered, flustered. “I just also had… three pancakes.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Exactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, you’ll crack in seconds.”
Clark sighed, conceding. “So what do you suggest?”
“We build a story with details,” you said, warming to the task. “Something casual but sweet. Like… you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized we’d been accidentally dating for weeks already.”
His mouth softened into a smile. “That’s actually… really nice.”
“See? Believable and romantic.”
Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. “Okay. That works. And, um… how long have we been dating?”
You tapped your chin. “Long enough that meeting your parents isn’t weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds right.”
You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad you’d stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each other—fake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. “What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.
You shook your head, setting down the pen. “Alright, Kent. We’ve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.”
Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “What could go wrong?”
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh, don’t say that.”
---
The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on driving—something about “wanting you to see the view,” though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.
The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasn’t hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his world—cornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.
By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Martha’s flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesque—like the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kent’s girlfriend could unravel in an instant.
Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. This is it.”
You glanced at the farmhouse. “Your childhood home. No pressure at all.”
“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Ma and Pa… they’ll love you.”
The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. “I mean—they’ll love meeting you. Because you’re… you know… nice.”
You bit back a smile. “Smooth, Kent.”
Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.
“Showtime,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.
Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. “We’ve got this,” he said softly.
Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.
Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. “Clark Jerome Kent, you didn’t tell me you’d be here this early!”
Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Hi, Ma.”
Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. “And this must be the mystery girl we’ve been hearing about.”
Oh God. Here it was—the test.
Clark’s hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. “Ma, Pa… this is my girlfriend.” His voice wavered only slightly. “We, uh—we work together at the Planet.”
Martha’s face broke into the warmest smile you’d ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. “Well, aren’t you just lovely. I’ve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, I’ve got pie cooling on the counter.”
Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. “Better warn her about your Ma’s pie, son. Once you’ve had it, you’ll never eat another slice without comparing.” You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smile—reassuring, like you’d passed the first round
Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathan’s. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.
Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clark’s ears went red at that, but he played along. “It was good takeout,” he muttered defensively.
You smiled into your fork. “It was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. That’s when I knew he was trouble.”
Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like our boy.”
Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.
Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about all that. They, uh… they can be a little enthusiastic.”
“They’re wonderful,” you said honestly. “Honestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out so…” You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.
He tilted his head, curious. “So what?”
You shook your head quickly. “So polite. That’s all.”
He didn’t push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, “just so you know, uh… there’s a chance they’ll show you baby pictures tonight. They… do that.”
You grinned. “Can’t wait.”
Clark groaned. “You’re supposed to dread it.”
“Why? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.”
His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at you—really looked—there was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasn’t regretting a thing.
The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredible—savory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.
Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of his—like he wanted to guide you but wasn’t sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if he’d been caught.
The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. “Sit, sit,” Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. “Clark, don’t let her hover. She’s company, not a farmhand.”
“I wasn’t—Ma,” Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was… nice.
Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. “So,” she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, “what’s it like working with Clark?”
You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. “Well,” you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, “he’s punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But he’s also… dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.”
Martha’s eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. “She’s exaggerating,” he muttered.
“Am I?” you teased. “You’re the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.”
Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I like you.”
Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. “Ma, no.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. “If you’re bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.”
Jonathan smirked. “Brace yourself.”
You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. “Oh my God,” you breathed, grinning. “Look at those curls.”
Clark covered his face with his hand. “Please don’t.”
But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. “Here he is at five, trying to wear his father’s work boots. Couldn’t lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this one—oh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.”
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. “A cape? Really?”
Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. “I was imaginative.”
“You were adorable,” you corrected. “Don’t fight me on this, Kent.”
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled as he added, “That pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.”
By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. “I like how she teases you,” she said to Clark. “You need someone who doesn’t let you get away with hiding.”
Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Ma…”
But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expression—the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.
Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, “he’s happy with you here. I can tell.”
You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. “Oh, well, we—” You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. “He’s easy to be around.”
Martha smiled softly, knowingly. “That he is.”
When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a moment—barely a flicker—you saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.
Like he really was happy you were there.
And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule you’d written down.
---
The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt different—peaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.
You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked… comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy who’d grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.
You shrugged, joining him. “Too quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.”
Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than you’d ever seen them in the city.
For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. “So. Pillowcase cape, huh?”
Clark’s head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. “My mother—”
“—is a treasure,” you cut in, grinning wickedly. “And she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?”
He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Please don’t.”
“No, really, it makes sense!” You leaned against the railing, smirking. “The cape, the heroics, the dramatic poses—it all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve been workshopping the look since you were seven.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. “I’m never forgiving Ma for that.”
“You should thank her,” you teased. “If not for her laundry, the world would’ve been deprived of Superman’s fashion choices.”
“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me for this,” he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.
“Oh, I’m never letting this go,” you said firmly. “Next time you swoop in to save the day, I’m going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.”
He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as he was… delighted that you were delighted.
The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.
“It’s funny,” you murmured after a moment. “You always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But here…” You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. “…you just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.”
He turned toward you, his expression soft. “I like being just Clark. At least here, I don’t have to pretend as much.”
Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.
Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. “Well, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.”
His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.
The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. “You two don’t stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.”
Clark’s ears went pink again. “Yes, Ma.”
When she retreated, you smirked. “She thinks we’re sneaking kisses out here.”
Clark nearly choked. “What? No—”
“Relax,” you said, fighting a grin. “I didn’t say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.”
He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. “…I suppose that’s true.”
You leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.”
Clark groaned. “You’re going to make this week unbearable, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” you said cheerfully. “That’s what fake girlfriends are for.”
But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting close—too close—on the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.
And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.
---
Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected that—farm boy habits die hard—but you hadn’t counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone who’d been teased mercilessly the night before. “Sorry,” he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. “Did I wake you?”
You blinked blearily at him. “You mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, you’re just the cherry on top.”
His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If you’re up for it.”
You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “You’re really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?”
Clark’s expression faltered. “We don’t have to. I just thought—”
“I’m kidding,” you interrupted, fighting a grin. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll even make myself presentable for Smallville.”
He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.
Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.
The drive into town was short. Clark’s truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in fifty years.
Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisie’s, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. “Clark Kent!” an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. “Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.”
Clark flushed but smiled politely. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Morning,” the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. “And who’s this?”
Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. “This is my girlfriend.”
It was the first time you’d heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasn’t borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t you full of surprises, Kent.”
By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. “You realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?”
Clark’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.”
“Fantastic,” you muttered. “By lunchtime, someone’s probably going to ask me when the wedding is.”
The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. “Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.
“And who’s this?” she asked, smiling at you.
“My girlfriend,” Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.
The waitress grinned. “Well, she’s prettier than the last girl you brought in here.”
Clark nearly choked. “There wasn’t—”
“She’s teasing,” you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. “Relax, Kent.” His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. “You get flustered so easily.”
“I don’t,” he protested weakly.
“You do,” you said, amused. “I’m starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. You’re going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.”
Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll get better at it.”
“I hope so,” you teased. “Because if not, I’m going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.” His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. “Kidding,” you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.
Clark muttered something that sounded like “not funny,” but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.
When the food came—pancakes stacked high, eggs, bacon—the smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. “This is dangerous,” you said between bites. “If I lived here, I’d weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.”
“You’d get used to it,” Clark said with a chuckle. “Smallville’s good at simple comforts.”
He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced you—my girlfriend—with the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.
By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.
After breakfast at Maisie’s, Clark offered to give you “the tour,” which seemed ridiculous—you’d seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didn’t protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.
The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.
It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so well—quiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you weren’t paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.
You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. “Clark? That you?”
A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clark’s face lit up with recognition. “Pete,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”
Pete glanced at you, curious. “And this must be…?”
Clark’s hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. “My girlfriend,” he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. “We came down for the wedding.”
Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “Well, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Don’t let him fool you,” he said to you, “he was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.”
You laughed, squeezing Clark’s hand just enough to make him squirm. “Some things never change.”
Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.
As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, “you didn’t have to encourage him.”
“Oh, but it’s fun watching you squirm,” you teased. “Besides, you’re very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.”
Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, “we should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.”
You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.
At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. “Clark Kent, as I live and breathe! Haven’t seen you in years.” Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. “And who’s this pretty thing?”
Clark’s voice didn’t even waver. “My girlfriend.”
The woman beamed. “Well, aren’t you two a pair. He’s always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.”
You smiled politely, but when you caught Clark’s pink ears, you nearly laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “I plan to.”
Outside the shop, Clark groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“You’re not?” you asked, arching a brow.
He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to say—something true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.
By the time you made it back to the truck, you’d been introduced as Clark’s girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. “Well. That was exhausting.”
Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. “That was Smallville.”
You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked… happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.
---
The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.
Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. “Clark Kent!” someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.
You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “This is my girlfriend,” Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man who’d been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stone—and not in the way you expected.
The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. “So this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.”
“Oh, I’m very real,” you said, smiling as Clark went red. “And Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.”
“Of course he has,” Lucy said warmly. “He always was.”
The groom—broad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sun—shook your hand firmly. “Brave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyone’s gonna talk.”
You laughed lightly, squeezing Clark’s hand beneath the table as you all sat down. “Let them. I can handle it.” Clark’s glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.
Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.
The conversations flowed easily at first—neighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. “So,” an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. “How did you two meet?”
Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. “We worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew we’d been accidentally dating for weeks.” The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if you’d passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didn’t stop.
“What was your first date like?” someone else chimed.
You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. “It was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didn’t want the night to end.”
The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasn’t embellishing. He wasn’t grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.
The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. “Dance with me?” Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.
You blinked. “Clark, people are watching.”
“That’s the point,” he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.
Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.
But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.
“I’m trying not to step on your toes,” he admitted, smiling faintly.
“You’re doing fine.”
The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held you—it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadn’t quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.
Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you teased, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.
Clark’s smile was soft, almost shy. “Maybe I am.” And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.
The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night sky—vast, jeweled with stars, endless.
You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.
Clark’s hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. “You did good,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.
He glanced at you, puzzled. “Good?”
“Convincing,” you clarified. “Not even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.”
His mouth twitched. “Practice makes perfect.”
“Practice, huh?” you teased, tilting your head to study him. “Well, if you keep this up, you’re going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.”
Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” you pressed, amused. “You really didn’t notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.”
“She’s married,” Clark protested.
“Doesn’t mean she’s blind.” That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fields—the relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldn’t resist, you said, “so, Kent. About that dance.”
He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. “…What about it?”
“You didn’t seem like a man faking it.”
His jaw worked, but he didn’t answer right away. The truck’s engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I wasn’t trying to fake anything.”
The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. “Clark…”
He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. “I just meant—it was nice. That’s all.”
You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say more—and saving you from having to admit you weren’t sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.
Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come out to chores tomorrow if you don’t want to. Most people don’t find feeding chickens relaxing.”
You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll think about it.”
When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldn’t be accidental, not anymore.
At the door, you paused. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, “goodnight.” You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.
---
The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings weren’t so bad after all. “Morning,” he said. “I made pancakes.”
Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. “Do you ever not make pancakes?”
“They’re easy,” he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. “Besides, Ma says I’ve been hooked on them since I was five.”
You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were good—fluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. “See? Worth it.”
After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protested—halfheartedly—until he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like he’d done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. “You’ll like this part,” he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.
The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. “They look… aggressive,” you muttered.
“They’re harmless,” Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. “Come on.”
Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. “See?” Clark said reassuringly. “They just want food. Here.” He handed you a scoop of feed. “Scatter it on the ground, not on yourself.”
You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold hen—a plump white one with a sharp little beak—made a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. “Clark. Clark, it’s coming at me.”
He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. “She’s fine. Just toss it further away from you.”
“She’s not fine! She’s charging!” The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. “Clark!” you shouted, scrambling toward him. “Do something!”
Finally looking up, Clark tried—and failed—to hide his grin. “She’s just curious.”
“She’s a demon,” you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. “That thing is going to kill me.”
Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. “You’re safe,” he said, still chuckling. “I promise.”
You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” he admitted, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you were afraid of chickens.”
“I’m not afraid,” you insisted, scowling. “I just have… a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.”
Clark’s smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.”
“Gee, thanks, Kent. You’re my hero.”
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that—something flickering in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.
“Come on,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “There’s more to see than just chickens.” Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. “You’ll like this better,” he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. “Cows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.”
You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didn’t look dangerous, but they also didn’t look like creatures you wanted charging at you. “Friendlier?” you asked doubtfully. “They’re huge.”
Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. “Just follow my lead.”
He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presence—until one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. “Clark.”
He glanced back at you. “What?”
“It’s coming this way.”
“That’s okay,” he said calmly. “They’re curious animals. Just stand still.”
The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. “Clark, it’s not walking. It’s charging.”
“It’s not charging,” he said, though his brow furrowed now. “She probably just wants to sniff you.”
“Sniff me? Clark, she’s the size of a car!”
By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked in—Clark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backward—into you—and the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.
The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clark’s jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. “Did Superman just get taken out by a cow?”
Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “The man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.”
His ears went pink. “Her name’s Daisy.”
That only made you laugh harder. “Even better.”
Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” you said, still giggling. “If the chickens didn’t take you out, at least the cows did.”
He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gaze—something warm, unguarded—that made your laughter catch in your throat. “Glad I broke your fall, at least,” he murmured.
The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. “Don’t flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.”
Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with him—literally—didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didn’t think hair could manage.
Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a mother’s could. “What on earth happened to you two?”
Clark winced. “The cows.”
“The cows?”
“They, uh… got curious,” he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.
You ignored it. “One of them full-on tackled him.”
Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “A cow tackled you?”
“Bumped into me,” Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “It wasn’t—”
“She flattened him,” you cut in, grinning. “And took me down too, by the way. So much for Superman—small-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Not in a million years,” you said sweetly.
Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. “Well, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.”
You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, “some of us more than others.” Clark shot you a look but didn’t argue.
Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. “Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like… Clark.
“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him. “You’ve got grass in your hair, by the way.”
He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. “Here.” Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. “Guess I lost the fight, huh?”
“You lost to a cow, Kent,” you reminded him, grinning. “There’s no coming back from that.”
“Technically, you went down too,” he pointed out.
“Details,” you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.
His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. “Anyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we can’t be trusted unsupervised.”
Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good idea.”
---
Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.
Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about “showing up respectable.”
And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he tried—and failed—to wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. “You’re going to strangle yourself,” you said finally, stepping into the room.
Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like you’d caught him in something compromising. “It’s… fine. I’ve got it.”
“You don’t,” you said, laughing softly. “Come here.”
He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologne—something subtle, woodsy—drifted around you as you worked. “Stand still,” you murmured, looping the tie neatly. “You wear these every day and you still don’t know how to tie one?”
“I usually don’t rush,” he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. “Guess I’m nervous.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. “About the wedding?”
“About all of it,” he said simply.
Something in your chest tightened, but you didn’t push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. “There,” you said softly. “Now you look like you could charm a whole town.”
Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. “Thanks.”
Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. “Well, don’t you two look nice.”
Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. “Your son cleans up well.”
Martha winked knowingly. “He does.”
The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of baby’s breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. “You two ready?” he asked as he grabbed his jacket.
“As we’ll ever be,” Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.
The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clark’s hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.
By the time the church came into view—white clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guests—you were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clark’s entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just… looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, “we’ll be fine. As long as we stick together.”
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Together. Got it.”
When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if this—this closeness, this ease—was really something you could just pretend.
The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.
Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walked—neighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. “Don’t look now,” you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, “but we’re officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.”
Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. “They’ll get over it.”
“Will they?” you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. “Feels like we’re about to be written into the town newsletter.”
That earned you a faint, amused smile. “There’s no newsletter.”
“Oh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if it’s just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.” He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.
The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.
Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: I’m here. You’re not alone.
The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could make—filled with promises of “forever” and “home” and “nothing fancy, just us.” The bride’s voice trembled as she said “I do,” and the groom grinned like he’d won the lottery.
Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound like—what promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.
The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “They look happy,” he murmured.
You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. “Yeah. They do.”
When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, “don’t they make a picture?”
Another voice replied, “Martha must be over the moon.”
You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.
Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Is it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?”
Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. “Pretty much. Smallville doesn’t have secrets. Just… stories waiting to spread.”
“Great,” you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. “By now, half the town has us married with three kids.”
His lips curved into a smile, but he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. “Would that be so bad?”
You blinked. “What?”
Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirk—just something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. “I mean,” he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, “I’m not saying… I just—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Clark.”
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “You make this whole thing feel… easier than I thought it would. That’s all.”
The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, you picked the right fake girlfriend. I’m very convincing.”
But Clark didn’t laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the corner—it all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. “Reception time,” he said, his voice steadier than his expression.
You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. “Right. Reception.”
The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.
As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt it—the way people were watching, whispering. “Here we go again,” you muttered, leaning closer to him.
Clark’s lips quirked faintly. “They mean well.”
“Sure,” you said. “Until one of them asks when we’re having kids.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. “This is her,” Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. “The girlfriend I told you about.”
The women descended like hawks.
“Oh, isn’t she lovely.”
“Clark, you clean up nice, don’t you?”
“Look at the way he’s holding her hand—so sweet.”
You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.
Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the bride’s uncle leaned across to ask, “so how long have you two been together?”
“Four months,” you answered quickly, sticking to the story.
“Four months?” The man grinned. “Well, I’ll say this—he looks at you like it’s been forty years.”
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. “Go on,” Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. “Don’t just sit there. Dance with her.”
Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”
You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touch—it didn’t feel fake. Not one bit.
The song ended, but Clark didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the bride’s voice rang out. “Bouquet toss!”
A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, glancing back at him.
He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tradition.”
The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “looks like Clark’s next!”
Your face burned. Clark’s ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured.
You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. “Don’t get any ideas, Clark.”
The cheers still hadn’t died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, “better start ring shopping, Clark!” and “don’t let her get away!”
Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. “I told you this would happen,” he muttered, his voice low, just for you.
“Oh, don’t blame me,” you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. “You’re the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.”
Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, “kiss her, Clark!”
The chant caught like wildfire. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretend—handholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. “What do we do?” you whispered, your throat dry.
“They’re not going to let it go,” he murmured, voice taut with nerves. “If we don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.
You swallowed hard. “So we…?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded. “Only if you’re okay with it.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowd’s chant grew louder, impatient. Clark’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. “It’s just for show,” he whispered. “Right?”
“Right,” you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.
And then he kissed you.
It was tentative at first, careful—like he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clark—solid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.
Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didn’t want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.
Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.
The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. “Guess that sold it.”
You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. “Yeah. Totally believable.”
But as you looked up at him—at the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldn’t quite look away—you both knew the truth.
It hadn’t felt fake at all.
---
The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didn’t speak—didn’t dare—because every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.
You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. “Long day,” he said finally, voice quiet.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Your whole town knows my life story now.”
His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ll forget in a week.”
You snorted. “You don’t actually believe that.”
For the first time since you’d left the reception, his gaze lingered on you—steady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be busy too.”
“Right.”
You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadn’t rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directions—his room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. “Goodnight.” His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.
You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between you—louder than any words you could’ve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.
Leaning back against it, you let out the breath you’d been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched it—but it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.
And maybe… thrilling.
---
Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kiss—the kiss most of all.
You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.
Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softened—then he quickly looked back at his plate. “Morning,” Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. “Sleep well?”
“Fine,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. “You both look a little tired. Long night?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. “Reception ran late,” he said smoothly.
Martha’s smile was quiet, knowing. She didn’t press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Martha’s occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different now—charged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.
When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. “You’ll be heading back today?”
Clark nodded. “Yeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.”
Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. “Well, we’re glad you came. Both of you.”
Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. “Drive safe.”
The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, “Come back soon.” Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, “so. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.”
Clark’s hands tightened faintly on the wheel. “It wasn’t an act to them.”
You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. “Clark…”
He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “I just mean—they believe it. That’s what matters.”
You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something else—full, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didn’t mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you… it was coming home, too.
---
The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when you’d left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadn’t paused at all while you were gone.
But you had.
You slipped back into the rhythm easily enough—sorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.
You didn’t talk about Smallville. You didn’t talk about the kiss. You didn’t talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.
Normal.
Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at you—not exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.
The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. “Do I have ink on my face or something?”
Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. “What? No. Why?”
“Because you keep staring,” you said lightly, arching a brow. “At my face. My mouth, actually.”
Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. “I—I wasn’t—” He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. “I was just—thinking. About—about the article.”
You bit back a smile. “Right. The article on zoning ordinances that’s apparently written across my lips.”
His expression was priceless—caught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.
You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.
Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you weren’t thinking about zoning ordinances either.
The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.
But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didn’t shrug it off, and he didn’t remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.
And through it all, Clark was Clark—earnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes you’d catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like you’d caught him red-handed. “Problem?” you’d ask innocently.
“No,” he’d mutter, ducking behind his screen.
And still, the cycle repeated. It didn’t help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. “So, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?”
Your pen froze mid-sentence. “What?”
Jimmy’s grin widened, oblivious. “Oh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybody’s talking about it.” You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clark’s reaction—his chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. “Oh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, don’t wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.” With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.
You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.
The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple things—sharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notes—seemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.
By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didn’t. He only offered a small, quiet smile. “See you tomorrow.”
You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. “See you tomorrow.” As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didn’t know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.
---
It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.
You’d been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled you—not loud, but steady, unmistakable.
When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked… disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like he’d just come from something he didn’t want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyes—those soft, steady eyes—were brighter than usual, like he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.
“Clark?” you asked, confused. “It’s late. What are you—?”
“I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t mean to wake you, if you were—were sleeping. I just—”
He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I couldn’t—go home without—”
“Clark,” you said gently, stepping back to let him in. “You’re rambling. Come inside.”
He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.
“You look like you wrestled a tornado,” you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.
“Something like that,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You tilted your head. “What’s going on?”
Clark’s jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted, his voice low, rough. “Back at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was just—pretend. That it didn’t matter.”
Your heart thudded. “Clark…”
He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. “But it does matter. More than I thought it could.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”
Clark’s hands flexed at his sides, restless. “I want to kiss you again.” The words tumbled out, fast, like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I know we said it was fake—that it was just for show. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I—” His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. “I don’t want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just… between us.”
The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.
“Clark,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, “for someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.”
His laugh was shaky, breathless. “I know.”
You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. “Then stop talking.”
And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.
This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything you’d both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.
“That,” Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, “that’s what I wanted.”
You smiled, your heart racing. “Good. Because I think I want it too.”
summary: your father did everything for you. because of it, the men in your life had called you spoilt, unreasonable, a girl with unrealistic expectations. after years of heartbreak and disappointment, you start to believe them- until clark kent proves that love can be gentle, steadfast, and safe enough to let yourself fully trust it.
clark kent x fem ! reader
themes: tooth rotting fluff, whatever the opposite of daddy issues is, clark being so sweet and domestic. princess treatment, reader being oh so wonderfully loved, very feel good. enjoy! xx
Your father would do anything for you.
From the second you were born, you had zero need to lift a single finger. Your shoes were always tied. Ice cream always scooped. When the rhinestones started falling off your favourite bejewelled headband, it was replaced within a matter of minutes.
By the age of fifteen, you had your own personal chaffeur. He'd drive you around the block with a big grin and a janky car that rattled when it turned, while your mom watched proudly from the living room window.
He loved her too, of course. So very much. Sometimes, they'd go about their day and you'd just smile and watch them; how he spun her around the kitchen table, the giggles that fell from her lips, the open bills forgotten on the table right next to them. None of them mattered. They ceased to exist the second they laid their eyes on one another.
He'd kiss her cheek, ruffle your hair, call you both his best girls.
You told yourself it was a love you wanted one day- when you were a little bit older maybe, when the right man finally came along. Your father showed you best how a woman should be treated; made it so that princess treatment wasn't a 'luxury' to you, nor would it ever be.
It was a god-given, fully expected birthright.
However, little girls had to grow up sometime.
So when twenty-two finally came, and you packed your bags and headed off to the big city of Metropolis- your father's tearful wave accompanying the faint smell of smoke that always clung to him in the hug goodbye- you simply didn't have it in you to prepare for the dangers ahead.
"You call me if you need a thing," he said gruffly, though the tears in his vision contrasted his voice completely. You nodded, falling into yet another tearful hug, "Don't be a stranger."
You tried.
But- as expected- life took over. You got busy. You'd still call, but visited far less frequently.
And the downside to previously having such a loving dynamic followed you right through adulthood.
The deadbeat boyfriends that you trusted, the almost-fiancé that only wanted a ring on your finger for the status. They took your naivety as gospel and used it to load their pistols of incompetence; missed dinners, connections to their exes, coersion.
How could they be so awful, when your father had only ever shown you the kind side to men? How did you accumulate so many horrible dates, land in so many awful situations that would have the man who raised you barrelling down the freeway with narrowed eyes and anger emcompassing every acceleration?
Your first situationship wasn't real. It was experience.
Your first ever boyfriend didn't like you. He liked the idea of you.
And your second boyfriend-turned-fiancé had none of the qualities you wanted in a partner. So when he came home one day, excited over colour swatches and bouqets for a wedding you just couldn't envision- well, you broke it off. Right then and there.
Because he'd never proven himself, not really. And you needed that proof like your very existence needed oxygen.
He never opened doors for you, never bothered to memorise your coffee order. The vanity you bought months and months ago sat untouched, collecting dust at the corner of the room because he'd promised to put it together one day and just... never did.
Your father would have. He would have driven the whole twelve hours down to central, just to get his hands on a hammer and a nail, and you'd be powdering your face in a fresh mirror within minutes.
So, you took a leap of faith and ended the three year relationship. You moved out into your own studio apartment right in the heart of Metropolis, a few blocks away from all your favourite places.
You thought, maybe love just wasn't for you. Perhaps there was something wrong with you that meant nothing human would ever measure up. Or perhaps, you winced, you truly were as spoilt as your many exes had accused you of being.
"Daddy's girl." your first one had scoffed.
"Ain't ever gonna land a good man with that attitude," the second one spat.
"How... but... I-I did everything right." the third lied tearfully.
But then, just when you started to lower your expectations and announce to the world that you were finally giving up on finding the perfect man, you met him.
Clark.
Clark Kent.
And everything those horrible exes had tried to convince you that you were flew entirely out of the window.
He was soft, sweet. You both met on a rainy day in July, the water warm and faint, making everything smell like fresh air and ozone.
"Oh! I'm sorry-" you blushed, your body bumping against his as you failed to watch where you were going.
"No, no- that's alright," his smile was kind. Patient. The type of smile to base a frequent daydream off of. "Please, after you."
"Thank you."
He'd held the door to the café open for you to walk inside, watching quietly as you claimed your seat in the corner of the lobby before going up to order yourself a drink.
Clark got his first. He paid for yours in advance, tipping the barista 40%, before slipping unannounced straight back out of the door.
When you finally decided on an oat milk vanilla latte, he was gone.
The second time you met him, the key to your apartment had jammed in the lock, and you'd gone back down to the lobby to ask someone for help.
And for some reason, the kind man from the coffee shop was right there; only just about to get in the elevator, when he caught your eye and once again, let you in first.
You were neighbours, would you believe? A few floors apart, sure, but living in the same building regardless.
What were the chances? You made a mental note to thank him for your coffee another time, hopefully on a better day under happier circumstances.
"How's your morning been?" he asked you politely.
On a good day, you typically wouldn't overshare- it was just super unfortunate that he happened to catch you on a very, very, very bad day.
So naturally, you told him everything.
How the wind had ruined your hair the very second you stepped out of the building to go to work; how none of the emails you'd sent made any sense, and how your lunch was gross despite the fact that you always got the same thing. Then finally, how you came home absolutely exhausted and still, your key got stuck- with nobody in reception willing to lend a helping hand.
"It's a couple hundred dollars for a locksmith," Clark's eyebrows raised, in a slightly stunned way that would have had you blushing if you weren't already so frustrated. "I'm not one, but... I could take a look? If you'd like? I grew up on a farm, and we had these old fashioned keys that'd get jammed all the time... I know my way around a keyhole."
You tried not to let the surprise on your face show. You didn't have to beg, plead, barter for this man to help you out- he just did, wanted to, for seemingly nothing in return.
And you weren't even acquiantances, let alone friends. He owed you nothing and still, came to your floor and jimmied the key right out. No struggle, no sighs of exasperation to make you feel bad- just a pleased smile and a twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes.
"There," he grinned, plopping it in your palm carefully, "All fixed."
You thanked him, weak at the knees. It was then that you realised just how gorgeous Clark really was- if it wasn't the baby blues, it was the smile, the dimples in his cheeks and the impressive way his shoulders filled out the dress shirt he wore.
But most importantly, he was kind.
That just made him all the more stunning.
You ran into each other for a while. Often in the elevator, and afterwards he'd walk you to your door like it was midnight in Gotham. Never asking to be invited in, just happy to speak to you for an extra twenty seconds of his day.
When you did eventually muster up enough courage to ask him to come inside, you had no idea what you were in for. Truly.
Because that one cup of decaf coffee turned into multiple. It turned into dinner under the lowlight of your apartment (a thanks for the coffee he'd bought weeks ago) and another dinner a couple of weeks later at Clark's penthouse (a thanks for your thanks for the coffee he'd bought a month ago), right at the top of the building you both shared.
Naturally, it turned into something more.
A drawer at his, a space at yours. Two toothbrushes in both bathrooms, one tube of toothpaste. Your mugs began to invade his cupboard space, amended articles with his neat handwriting filling your coffee table.
So when Clark asked you to be his girlfriend four months after your first official date, of course, you said yes. Because by then, you already knew.
He wasn't like the others. They were boys, silly little things that knew nothing of what it meant to really, truly love someone.
But Clark did.
He remembered everything about you, not even just the important stuff like what you didn't like and what you loved- he remembered the exact way you liked your clothes folded, your skincare routine, how you hated cobblestone paths because it made your footing uneven. You were a carefully penned article, one that he was determined to memorise.
Clark never made you feel like you were asking for too much. If anything, he made you feel like you deserved it all and more.
The bookshelf arrived on a Tuesday afternoon.
It came in a flat-packed cardboard box that was nearly as tall as you were, dropped unceremoniously in the hallway outside your apartment by a delivery man who barely spared you a glance before disappearing back into the elevator.
"Delivery for ya, little lady."
You stared at it for a long moment.
Clark was working late at the Planet. He had texted you that morning, a bunch of emojis clouding his gentle words of, Don’t wait up, honey. Perry’s got us chasing three different stories today.
You told him to take his time. Said you’d order takeout, enough for him to come home to, and curl up with a book.
Instead, you dragged the box inside.
It started innocently enough. A pair of scissors slicing through packing tape. The rustle of protective styrofoam that went everywhere and made you huff. Instruction manuals unfolding like complicated maps written in languages you only half understood.
"God." you muttered miserably, narrowed eyes glaring at the box with vice.
By step four, you were sweating.
For step six, you had somehow assembled two panels backwards. Step nine wasn't any better, because that was when the screwdriver slipped in your grip and your knuckles slammed hard against the unfinished wood.
You hissed, sucking in air through your teeth, blinking rapidly as tears pricked your vision. A thin line of red blossomed across your skin.
It wasn’t even the pain that made your chest tighten. It was the echo of a memory.
A different apartment. A different box. A different man sighing loudly from the couch while scrolling through his phone, irritation dripping from every exhale as you asked, softly, if he could help you assemble the vanity he’d promised to build weeks ago.
In a minute.
After this game.
Why can’t you just do it yourself?
It had taken you three weeks of gentle reminders and swallowed pride before he finally assembled it- muttering the entire time like your request was a personal inconvenience. Only to drop to one knee a couple of months later, claims of you being the love of his life dripping from his mouth like venom.
The screwdriver clattered from your hand. You tried again anyway, because who else was going to do it?
Clark found you sitting cross-legged on the floor when he finally came home, surrounded by wooden panels, scattered screws, and instructions wrinkled beyond recognition. The bookshelf leaned precariously against the wall, uneven and half-assembled like it might collapse if someone breathed too hard.
The smile on his face dropped, gaze trailing down your arm to your hand, wrapped clumsily in paper towels speckled pink.
He froze in the doorway.
"Honey?"
You looked up, offering a sheepish smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. "Hi."
His eyes flicked between the blood, the mess, the lopsided shelf, and something inside his expression shifted. Not anger- never anger with your sweet, careful Clark- but a quiet, wounded confusion that hit you harder than you thought it would.
"…Why wouldn’t you ask me to do it?" the softness in his voice made your throat tighten.
You shrugged, suddenly fascinated by the carpet fibres beneath your fingertips. "You were working. I didn’t want to bother you."
Clark set his bag down slowly, carefully, like sudden movements might shatter something fragile between you.
"You’re never a bother," he said gently, kneeling in front of you. His large hands hovered near yours before carefully taking your wrist, inspecting the cut with such delicate concentration it made your chest ache. “Does this hurt?”
"Not really."
It did. Just not in the way he meant.
So, you explained it to him.
The string of bad exes. The sighs of annoyance that used to follow your requests like thunder chasing lightning. The vanity you once loved and now hated because it took weeks of quiet grovelling just to convince someone who supposedly loved you to build it.
The slow, creeping shame that made you believe asking for help meant being difficult. Being high maintenance. Being too much.
"I just..." you winced, "I just got so used to my dad doing everything for me. I'm sorry."
Clark listened to every word.
"You never have to be sorry for that," he told you gently, reaching a warm hand out to soothe you. "All it means is that you grew up knowing what real love looks like."
You went quiet for a bit, not really knowing what to say back. Never in your life had you told a man about your dad and been met with anything other than an eye-roll or a raised eyebrow.
"I’m not like them," he then said, softly.
You swallowed.
"I said I’d take care of you," he continued, his thumb ghosting across your knuckles with careful tenderness. "Let me take care of you."
There was no arrogance in it, no possessiveness. Just quiet certainty, like gravity. Like sunrise. Like truths that simply existed without needing to be proven.
And then, because your ever-loving boyfriend was Clark Kent, he kissed your injured hand like it was the most natural thing in the world before standing up, rolling his sleeves to his elbows, and assembling the entire bookshelf in under thirty minutes.
"Take a seat, baby," he cleared the couch of instruction manuals and nails for you, "Relax for me, okay?"
You didn’t question how he managed it so quickly. You just watched him, warmth blooming in your chest like something long frozen had finally begun to thaw.
It reminded you of home. Of laughter spilling from kitchen walls, smoke clinging to familiar flannel, strong hands that had spent your entire life making the world feel softer around the edges.
And maybe that was why the next step felt less like a choice and more like destiny.
Meeting your father was… inevitable.
Terrifying for both of you, but inevitable.
Clark ironed three different shirts before settling on the blue one you told him brought out his eyes. He rehearsed greetings under his breath. He even brought flowers for your mother, even though she’d insisted repeatedly over the phone that it wasn’t necessary.
"We just want you both here, safe!" she chirped happily. Even so, you still felt like throwing up and Clark was still ruffling a nervous hand through his unruly hair.
Your father opened the door with that same familiar scent of cedar clinging to him, his pose rigid, still protective, still the safest place you’d ever known. He sized Clark up in less than three seconds.
Clark extended his hand immediately.
"Sir," he nodded slowly, "it’s an honour to finally meet you."
Your father gripped his hand firmly, gaze sharp but not unkind. When he spoke, you felt your boyfriend loosen up a little, though the dread was still apparent in the way he stayed a respectable distance away from you.
"Any man willing to drive six hours just to make sure my daughter doesn’t travel alone already gets a few points in my book." your father replied.
Dinner was loud. Warm. Filled with overlapping stories and constant laughter that bounced off the four walls you'd grown up in. You watched them carefully, nervously, but it didn’t take long before your shoulders relaxed.
Because your father refilled your glass without a word.
And Clark draped a neatly folded napkin across your lap, a soft smile brushing your lips before he turned back to your mother’s story.
When your plate ran low, your father quietly spooned more onto it, telling the story of the day you were born as if the two moments were on- care and memory intertwined.
And then Clark, silently, took the cherries from his own dessert and placed them on yours, his fingers brushing yours just enough for you to notice, your favourite part of a favourite thing now doubled.
Together, wordlessly, seemingly without noticing- they moved around you like two steady orbits around the same sun.
By the end of the evening, you wandered toward the living room while they insisted on washing up. You meant to help, but your footsteps slowed when you heard your father’s voice through the kitchen doorway.
He handed Clark the final dish, water dripping from his hands.
"I know you’re a good man," your father said quietly. "And I trust you’ll take care of her. But please… if anything ever changes. If you ever feel different… don’t hurt her."
Silence stretched for a moment.
"Just bring her back to me."
You peeked around the corner just enough to see Clark swallow, his shoulders straightening with quiet resolve.
"Yes, sir," he said, steadily.
"But please... believe me. I would never hurt her. I wouldn’t even think of it."
Your father nodded once, satisfied. You pressed your hand against your mouth, blinking rapidly as emotion swelled behind your ribs.
And Clark was right. He never hurt you. Never even came close.
Not even when he finally told you he was Superman.
He confessed on a quiet evening, glasses set carefully on the coffee table between you like a confession waiting to breathe. His voice trembled in a way you’d never heard before, words tumbling out in uneven fragments about responsibility and fear and how loving you had become both the bravest and most terrifying thing he’d ever done.
You listened. You watched the man you loved stand before you stripped bare- not of strength, but of certainty.
You forgave him before he even finished explaining.
Because deep, deep down, you believed that you had always known.
Maybe not consciously. Maybe not in ways you could put into words. But the late nights, the impossible saves. The way he sometimes looked at the sky like it was calling him home, the sirens that alerted him more than they should.
You loved Clark Kent. And in turn, you were also in love with Superman.
It didn’t change the way he warmed your side of the bed before you climbed in, or how he held all eight grocery bags in one hand and yours in the other. It didn’t change the way he still insisted on tying your shoelaces if he noticed they were loose, dropping down on the busy pavement just to provide you some ease.
If anything, it only deepened your understanding of how extraordinary it was that someone capable of carrying the world still chose to come home and carry you, too.
Years passed.
The love- as well as the space- that you both shared, grew.
Two apartments turned into just one, and that one apartment became a four bedroom house just outside of the city; one bought with a nursery and young child's bedroom in mind one day.
Your wedding day smelled like fresh flowers and nervous anticipation.
Your father’s arm trembled slightly where it linked through yours as he walked you down the aisle, though whether from emotion or age, you couldn’t tell. You clutched him tighter, grounding yourself in the steady rhythm of his steps.
Clark waited at the altar, eyes glassy, smile already breaking across his face like dawn spilling over the horizon. His good friend Jimmy sobbed into a napkin, Lois right next to him hissing to pull it together- though you could see it too, the glossiness in her piercing blue eyes.
Halfway down the aisle, your father leaned closer.
"I loved you first," he whispered, voice thick with unshed tears.
"I know," you whispered back, hoping for a joke, hoping for a threat towards the only man in the world you knew he'd ever approve of. Anything to ease the nerves, the dread of everyone's eyes on you.
But instead, your father nodded towards where Clark stood, voice barely a croak.
"And now, he gets to love you forever."
Your chest squeezed painfully, beautifully, as he placed your hand into Clark’s waiting one.
Clark held it like something sacred, irreplaceable, something he would protect with everything he was and still had yet to be.
Your father pressed a kiss to your forehead before stepping back, pride and heartbreak and joy colliding in his eyes all at once. When the officiant began to speak, and you caught Clark's eyes boring so lovingly into your own, it was then that you fully realised.
You were never impossible to love.
And it was never that your expectations were too high.
You were simply raised knowing what love looked like when it was done right- when it showed up without being asked, when it stayed without being begged, when it took care without making you feel guilty for needing it.
Clark never tried to compete with the love you grew up with. Never tried to make you feel smaller for wanting it to last forever. He never asked you to unlearn the gentleness your father built your world around, or reshape yourself into something easier to hold.
Instead, he treated it like something special, something worth protecting. Something worth proving, day after day, that it could exist outside childhood memories and smoke-scented hugs goodbye.
And in the end, he never tried to stand where your father had. He simply stepped in beside him, honoured- ready to continue the love that raised you.
i cried a little while writing this. hope you're all doing amazingly !! so so happy to be back xx
asking clark to get married when you’re already married do you see the vision
When your legs are hurting and you’ve spent an entire day walking around with someone’s fingers woven between yours—someone who treasures every second of your company like he’s just lucky to be in it—you find you aren’t as eager to get home as you’d imagined. You’d limp the entire night through the dark with Clark if it meant you’d get to keep talking to him.
But then you remember who you married. Clark would stay up all night with you if you enticed him in conversation.
“Baby,” you say, giving Clark’s hand a swing to make him smile. “Would you marry me?”
“Again?” He wrinkles his nose, blue eyes a little dark from the squint and the thickness of his brows pinching together, but he’s still smiling, and he’s leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “Of course I would. Every day of my life, I’d marry you. That was a great day, huh?”
“Yeah.” You lay your face in his arm. “Can I put my wedding dress on when we get home?”
“If you promise not to take it off.”
“I think you’re supposed to take it off.”
Clark laughs and sweeps you up for hugging in the middle of the sidewalk, barely twenty steps from the apartment building, but he just can’t wait. He hugs you and laughs like he’s giddy by your ear. “No, please, it’s too pretty. You can put it on and we can defrost the cake, pretend it’s fresh. I have my suit pressed at the back of the wardrobe.” He frowns at your shock. “What? It’s what I was wearing when you married me. You’re lucky I didn’t put it behind plexiglass.”
(You’re not kidding around. You put on your wedding dress, and Clark kisses you in the kitchen like you’re standing at the alter.)
Caleb perving on you when you are with Rafayel because he can't have you himself, and Rafayel knows it. He likes knowing your brother is listening from the other side of the door as he sinks inside you.
Eventually, he even enjoys testing him to his face: telling him things no normal brother should want to hear from their sister's boyfriend. He tells him how sweet you taste; how messy you kiss him, unpracticed and desperate; how it feels when he teases your drippy entrance so long you start suckling at his tip, desperate to take him inside.
And Caleb listens. He listens and listens, knowing he shouldn't, until one day, he stands at the end of the bed and watches Rafayel's delicate fingers exploring your twitchy pussy directly in front of him, for him.
"Isn't she pretty..." Rafayel purrs in his seductive siren tones. "So, so soft. Come closer and look... it's okay just to look..."
“commit it to ink tomorrow,” you whisper, leaning closer to your husband's awaiting lips, “and commit yourself to me tonight instead.”
jacaerys velaryon x wife!reader
words: 4.7k
notes: jacaerys & reader are aged up to 23. i cut a scene from one of my ongoing fics today & decided to rewrite it for a standalone instead ! hope u enjoy this is severely unedited
warnings: afab reader, married bickering, alcohol consumption, tbh porn with no plot but a lot of dialogue, vague timeline, fluff & romance. ONE gentle & good-natured smack to jace’s head. smut - oral (fem receiving), teasing, hair pulling, sliiiight sub!jace if you squint, he's really teasing, sort of spoiled reader but its bc hes is so in love. be warned this is mostly foreplay.
masterlist
“THEY ARE FOOLS.”
The sound of your husband’s voice comes breathed over a wide-spread map, sent by raven from the Sea Snake and then poached in haste from the hands of a squire as you’d both left the council chambers. Now the parchment sits, spread over the large oak of your shared solar, pinned at one corner with a tallow candle and another with a bowl bearing the remnants of cherries. The hour of Eels approaches upon the high moon out your casements, though inside you are well-lit in torch and company alike.
He has not yet troubled himself to remove his doublet, though he’s shed the heavier dressings of office in the spaces between your shared solar and bedchambers, left discarded across the back of a chair with a sigh. His hair, so often kept neat, has suffered the abuse of his own hands at least twice since since leaving the council chamber; you can see the furrows of it, dark and disordered, and there too lies ink, faint along the side of his palm where he’s already begun marking the map before you’ve even properly closed the door behind you. He does not look at you yet - no, he looks only down at King’s Landing, at the coastline along Massey’s Hook, at all the small failures of an evening he has clearly not finished refighting in his own head. Recalling the incessant irritations of the council, you endure the harrowing thought that his pricked stipulations from this evening might yet haunt you both for some hours to come.
Though, in the spoken words of your husband lives less a true anger and more some worn frustration after such a laborious handful of hours cooped within the war council chambers. “The lot of them.”
You unclasp your own cloak, soothing your skirts as you cross towards your husband. In attempt at jest, you let your lip lift faintly. “You name your Queen a fool?”
A glance over his shoulder coaxes you to relent the daring accusation, sighing as you lift your hands in placation.
“Never,” he still responds in kind to your needling, shaking his head faintly. “Only–”
Though his frustration breaks in his words, and he only sighs. You only watch as he reaches for the cup at his elbow, finds it empty, and reaches instead for the flagon, pouring himself with rather more generosity than the hour calls for. Once near the brim, he pushes it toward you and, in your mild amusement, you smile into the lip of his cup.
He watches you drink, and shakes his head faintly. “Lord Celtigar thought it madness, my mother thought it madness–” he huffs, turning to you sidelong, visage shrouded in golden candlelight. A gesture toward you, as he undoes the buckles of his sword belt and drops it upon the long table beside the map. “Did you note, too, how Lord Bar Emmon thought my proposition madness at such volume he nearly cracked his own voice?”
You laugh before you mean to, wine halfway from your lips. It is a small relief, for you both - so scrupulously dutiful in matters of council and of war - to find some private wickedness reserved only for each other, behind doors no lords nor councilmen may follow you through. And, dramatic as he is prone to be when alone with you, your husband is not wrong to have taken his irritation from an evening so agonizingly wasted.
“He does have a gift for it,” you concede, passing the cup to Jacaerys’ hand. You watch, in turn, as he drinks, and continue: “I counted three occasions upon which he mentioned the same counter.” A gesture of half-exasperated, half-helpless amusement from you, you lean your hip closer to the table to face your husband. “And each time it felt as though it were newly occurring to him. It truly astounds me, in a way.”
Jace conjures the princely decency to appear mournful even as he smirks at your words. “Always about the tides, that one. He is very fond of the tides, have you noticed?” Your husband lifts the half-drunk cup of wine to glare at Lord Corlys’s map over its rim, and you must bite back a fond grin.
“I’m nearly forced to suspect he has no other thoughts at all,” Jace huffs into the cup, “that his mind simply produces ‘the tides, my prince’ whenever pressed on any matter. It pertains to no matters, as it stands, though he proceeds as though only the waters along Massey’s Hook exist for consideration at all.”
Your lips purse in amusement, biting along your grin only for a moment.
“The tides, my prince,” you presently intone, pitching your voice low and pompous in rather unfair imitation.
Jacaerys nearly laughs outright, though it is smothered in some attempt to remain in his ire from council past. Your husband does not deceive you; his lips still waver faintly, his eyes still gleam and dance in the torchlight as they regard your imitation.
It is this which spurs you to press on, “I only consider, my prince, that Vhagar might not read the Maester’s almanacs–”
“Don’t,” your husband interjects in amusement, grinning helplessly as he swallows his sip of wine, “don’t, or I’ll spit this across Corlys’s map.”
“–and so cannot be expected to observe the tides in her own campaigns of war–”
Jace laughs outright now. “Stop,” he insists, coughing faintly from his swallow of wine; and, delighted, he reaches across the edge of the table to cover your mouth with two ink-stained fingers. You promptly bite lightly in retaliation, though this only makes his smile widen.
The Lord Celtigar fares little better a moment later, invoked and verbally torn between the two of you in the same breath; a provocation born of an endless habit of throat-clearing before every single sentence, you exchange poor imitations of the innocent man until the two of you are leaning towards each other across the table, half-drunk on wine and flushed with relief of duty. It is a rare thing, to be nowhere near a council chamber, with no one in the room requiring anything of either of you at all tonight.
“Gods,” Jace murmurs at last, dragging a hand down his face, “You’re quite lucky I haven’t choked.”
You soothe your dress, crossing to perch instead beside him rather than corner; And, the very moment you open your mouth to return the sentiment of relief, he speaks once more.
“The tides, my prince,” he says again.
It absurdly brings you both into laughter once more, wine-loosened and gilded in warm light, muffled by palms and chastened lips as though you both know it is foolish and hardly as amusing as it feels. Though it proves no matter besides, for you and your husband finish your cup of wine and fill it once more before the laughter fully ebbs.
It is once the last sigh has bubbled past your lips that he reaches for you properly, cupping your jaw in his whole palm to kiss you. Your lips find his slow, warm; wine and spice upon the tongue, you lean further into his taste eagerly. A palm skates up your side, sliding back to gather you by waist against him.
“Far better company than the council,” you murmur against his mouth, not quite breaking the kiss to say it. A low hum rolls through his throat, echoing faintly between your mouths.
“Immeasurably,” he agrees, the word half-lost between your lips. Faithfully Jacaerys kisses you, leaning wholly into your space as he keeps himself propped with a palm on the map below. He leans back only a breath then, lips pressed and parting. “Bar Emmon,” he says absurdly, still smiling into the kiss, “does not kiss half as well, I’d wager.”
A sound of displeasure from you as you lean back; disturbed, faintly, at his eagerness to bring back up the man who pestered him so much all evening. “I should hope you’ll never discover for yourself,” you manage, laughing faintly even as his mouth finds yours again, swallowing any such attempts to speak further.
A huff of laughter escapes him despite his mouth upon yours, and it’s in such a sound that chases off whatever glum irritation cast the council had left behind. And so you merely let him laugh, one hand fisting in the front of his doublet to keep him close, solid, yours in a way the council chamber rarely lets him be these days.
After a moment, he pulls away once more. “We should be studying the map,” Jace decides only a few moments later, an observation which causes a roll of your eyes. “The Lord Hand lent it to me with intention of regaining it soon.”
Lips part, only the glossy string of your shared affection connecting you for a moment in the candlelight as you lean faintly against the table, sighing. “Might it wait just for a moment, my Prince?” you suggest.
“It cannot wait,” Jace says, though he certainly makes no move at all to leave you, forehead dropping to your skin instead. His lips brush along your neck as he continues, “the ink is barely dry, wife, and half of it is guesswork besides. Corlys marked the shoals from memory, he said in his raven, and memory seventy years old at that. If I do not commit it to my own hand soon–”
Perhaps it is impatience, or simply confusion as to why your husband has taken up cartographic studies with his grandfather in the midst of war; whatever it is, you only sigh, pressing yourself more firmly to the line of his own warm body, feeling his breath hitch faintly against your throat.
“Commit it to ink tomorrow,” you whisper, leaning closer to his awaiting lips, “and commit yourself to me tonight instead.”
And indeed, whatever protest he means to make next is lost entirely as you kiss him again; he, in what might be a surge of either affection or mild frustration, only pushes further into your warmth.
Though his enthusiasm proves too eager, for between the two of you and the oaken table and considerably more enthusiasm than sense, you overbalance together: his knee catches the chair, yours tangle ungracefully in your own skirts, and you tumble in a sudden sprawl backwards across the map itself, parchment crackling and ripping faintly beneath you. It is a faint clatter you hear before you smell the wine spilt over the edge of the table, though neither of you seem particularly rushed to right the fallen cup.
He catches himself above you on one forearm, laughing outright once again, the sound of it rich, startled through your chamber. Your heart still – after all the moons wed to him – flips at the sound.
“Oh,” you tut, shaking your head in faint tease, “And now you’ve just certainly ruined Corlys’ map,” you inform him gravely, one hand still fisted in his doublet, refusing to let him retreat even the small distance his laughter has suddenly put between your mouths. He hums in agreement, though seemingly entirely unrepentant as he glances down to where your shoulder has scuffed clean through some careful notation of the Gullet’s currents. He purses his lips. “I suppose the council will have my head.”
A huff from your lips, tipping your head. “Well, after Aegon and Aemond’s, I imagine there will be little room left on the pike for a head like yours.”
Laugh spills regretfully from full-kissed lips above you. He is wholly pressed against you now, slotted rather wonderfully between your thighs as you lay upon the table, caged by arm and breath. You lips your chin only faintly, just to bump your nose against his own.
“A comforting thought,” his nose brushes yours, dimple deep now, all the solemnity of an hour ago nowhere to be found in him.
You, fought and lost against your own battle of grin, only shake your head. “I suppose you may keep your own in the meantime, then.”
A palm snakes beneath your tresses to cup your head, turning you in kind until he has clear access to the junction of your throat and clavicle. “Generous of you,” he muses dryly, a dimpled grin flashing as leans, shifting closer into you to stir a hitch of excitement through your breast. “And here I thought you were planning to sow my name in disgrace for my impropriety laying you upon this map.”
“Your impropriety,” you scoff in echo, though the word catches somewhere breathless in your throat as his mouth finds the soft skin below your ear. “That itself is rather the whole trouble tonight, seeing as it was you who kissed me first, you who could not be persuaded to leave off Corlys’s precious shoals for even a moment, you who cannot forgive Lord Bar Emmon for his blunder, and you who has now ruined the very map you are so determined to defend–”
Your words, though breathed out quickly, are lost scarce to a shiver of pleasure; for Jace has latched himself upon the tender sensitivity of your throat, and only smiles against the goosepimples rising beneath his tongue. Still, you do not give up, even as teeth scrape along your pulse gently. “So I suppose you’ll–” a breathy sigh, “have to forgive me if I find it difficult to accept the blame for your own temper. It was merely distracting.”
A hum presses along your chest, dragging a fiercely hungry heat through your very core. His lips brush over the neckline of your dress before lifting his chin.
“Was it?” He does not sound remotely remorseful, and indeed his amber eyes melt into the candlelight with mirth. “I shall have to remember that, then, for the next council you find too tedious to bear–”
You lean back, exasperated by half in his mention of council once more.
“Jace.”
He beams; a beautiful man, your husband, and you cannot curb the smile you helplessly give in return. His lips part in echoed tease of your impatience.
“Wife.”
You shove at his shoulder, only half in earnest, and he lets himself be shoved, rolling half onto his elbow beside you amidst the ruin of parchment and spilled wine, both of you grinning now. It is when his mouth finds the junction of your throat once more that the hunger comes back thrice as strong, and you pull him right above you once more even as you glance at the ruined map beneath your sprawled figure, the creeping stains of spilt wine.
“We ought to resolve this mess, I suppose,” you sigh, hoping he will indeed ignore your words and continue the path he makes with his lips now across your chest.
And, it seems, your Prince has a mind to ignore your orders this eve - for he merely continues his own line of thought as though you'd been discussing it all along. “I’m only saying,” he begins, apropos of certainly nothing as he lifts his head enough to look faintly wounded – unconvincing as it is, given the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth – “A word from you, and he might have folded twice as fast.”
Your head falls back in exasperation, even as his teeth nip at the soft skin of your neck. Back again he’s circled, to the man in the council – as though there lies no other pressing matters he might attend to at present.
“You are meant to be resolving the mess,” you remind him, gesturing at the ruined parchment beneath you both, though your hand finds its way to the back of his neck regardless, pressing him instead closer to where your breasts rise and fall through your dress. His mouth follows willingly, nosing along the neckline to press his lips against your beating skin.
“I am resolving many things at once,” he murmurs, entirely too pleased with himself, and returns his attention to your body once more as though the council chamber has not just risen between you a third time this hour. He huffs only faintly, the breath of which sends a shiver across the valley of your breasts. He begins to speak again: “You might resolve my grievance while you’re at it–”
Your groan of impatience and disbelief ricochets through the solar, though it is drowned by your husband’s incessant prattling even as his tongue dips across the flush of your breasts, pulling at the hem of your dress to reveal more sweet skin to his blabbering lips, “–It would only take a word: ‘Jace was right, and Lord Bar Emmon a tedious old fool, and I shall say so plainly next time for all to hear.’”
With fingers threading through thickened dark curls, you let out a flighty laugh, the desire molten through you despite the unfavorable topic he cannot seem to let go. “You want me to rehearse a speech whilst you ravish me?” You murmur.
That cursed mouth curves against your skin. “I want my wife’s loyalty declared before the whole council,” he leans back only a breath, enough to slip the shoulder from your gown, sliding it gently over your skin to reveal your breasts. Though you nearly gasp at the chill of air, any such discomforts are remedied as his breath fans across such tender skin, lips trailing as he pleases. You sigh softly, fingers tightening within his hair.
Helpless to his charming idiocy, you laugh, tugging gently upon his hair until he lifts his head to look at you properly, mock-solemn amber eyes meeting yours in the candlelight.
“You are dreadfully greedy tonight, husband,” you receive his eager kiss between your words, well aware of how his eyes hook and remain only on the sweet form of your lips as you speak, “for a man who won an argument twice in council over without any help from me at all. You’ve been brooding as though you lost it wholly.”
A pout, one which you can only help to lean forward and kiss; you catch his lower lip between your teeth and drag back, unhurried, until whatever else he meant to say dissolves into a rough, startled groan. He grins around his words, dipping his head once more to nip along the soft of your flesh.
“Well, please forgive me for preferring when you fight at my side. It is far preferable to being left on my own.”
He does not witness the roll of your eyes; though, all the same, for he has endeavored to slowly drag your skirts in a bunch upon your thigh with his palm, slow enough to drive you mad but pressing enough for you to understand his intentions. A tantalizing thing, even as you scoff.
“I was at your side,” you insist, and a soft gasp escapes you as one palm rises from your neck to instead palm along the curve of your breast, a soft thing despite how his teeth catch at your skin. “Though it seems I’ve wounded your pride, seeing as you’ve returned from council only to complain further, even with your wife so willingly beneath you.”
He hums something rather insolent and you only smile, far too indulgent as your hand slides to grip his shoulder and hold on to the warmth there. A sigh leaves your lungs as you purse your lips, “So I suppose I must make it up to you in some way or another.”
A slow grown grin, then, pressed into soft skin beneath your ear; and whatever further words you intend to further dole him scatter from your tongue as he hums low.
“Attend your husband, then,” he whispers, his palm coursing finally from your lifted skirts to the warm flesh of your upper thigh, coaxing your knee to hitch along his hips, “He has endured a rather trying council, and a map now ruined besides, and he would have–”
“He would have,” you cut in, hand sliding from the breadth of his shoulder to fist gently in his hair once more, drawing his face back to yours before he can talk himself further into mischief, “rather less of his own voice, and rather more attention paid to his wife. Yes?”
A hum so near to a moan comes from kiss-bitten lips, warm against your mouth. He nods faintly in some eagerness, biting his lip only faintly as his eyes dance between your own. “As my lady wife commands,” he absconces.
And at last, he holds his tongue of words and endeavors instead – as all good husbands must learn to do – to use it in far more pleasurable ways.
It is mere moments in which his palms grasp at your hips; with a gentle enough tug, he brings you nearest the edge of your table, bare from his hitching of your skirts and dragging of your neckline. A gasp from you, not scandalized as much as jesting at his sudden eagerness, coaxes a small glint of amusement in your husband’s amber gaze. It remains there, flickering in his love and hunger alike for you, as he sinks to his knees right there upon the stone floor.
And, though you’d prefer not to allow such weaknesses, still you let yourself sigh a shaky, flighty thing as the sensation of his lips drag teasing, horribly slow kisses along the inner plush of your thighs.
“Jace,” you sigh, a half-plead half-scold as his eyes glint up at you, the flash of a dark-dragoned signet ring upon his finger disappearing as he bunches your skirts further above your hips. And then he has the gall, it appears, to shush you; a placating thing, a rush of air upon shivered skin. “Shh,” he murmurs into the sweetness of your thigh, and you cannot attempt to feign resentment for the action as it conjures a rush of arousal further through you.
Gathered upon your elbows, you’re helpless to watch as those dark curls glisten in candlelight, wax weeping round your stuttering breaths, the scent of wine heady in the evening air and humming with a terrible anticipation. Cruel, your husband can be, in his teasing. So very cruel indeed.
It is through the anticipation and silence in which you crack.
“Jacaerys–”
You let out a sharp moan instead at the taper of his name, whatever command you had dying on your tongue; for his lips have pressed soundly upon your womanhood, roving a shiver of pleasure through your very core. A canting tilt of your hips arches your spine in surprise, a warm rush of pleasure flooding your whole being.
And he, the horrible man, dares smile against you.
It is with little remaining control that your hand rises to grip through his curled tresses; a trembling thing as his own large palms move to lift your thighs until he is settled firmly between them, humming to himself as your heels come to rest over broadened shoulders. Brushing away strayed curls, you gaze upon your love with some mix of awe and worship as he laves against you, tongue gathering your desire and letting out a low moan of his own at your taste.
Your own breath leaves your lips in gasps; sharp at first, though his ministrations cease suddenly as your husband lifts his chin slightly. A loss of pleasure shutters through your chest and you loosen your grip upon his hair, glancing down at him in half-lidded confusion.
“You've a beauty mark just here,” he murmurs against your inner thigh, tracing it slow with his mouth. “I don't believe I've properly admired before.”
You love him, with your whole soul and being; and yet you might scream; A horrible tease he is, indeed speaking far too much for the promises he’d made to you not moments ago. “You’ve admired it a hundred times,” you get out impatiently, breathless as you are – for he has begun to trail his path of kisses directly to your core once more. A hum from him, as one palm grasps wholly round your thigh to spread you further for him to admire. A shameless thing, perhaps, though the heat of it spreads pleasure along your chest just as warmth kisses your cheeks in droves.
“And I intend to admire it a hundred more, my love,” he murmurs into you at length, rendering you straddled upon that terrible line between pleasure and tease. “Some things bear repeating,” he then decides. And it is as though you see the thought cross his mind through his eyes; though before you can tell him to cease it before it comes past his lips, a soft laugh, half-muffled against your heat, startles you.
“Unlike Lord Bar Emmon’s arguments,” he mutters then, the irritation of which boils suddenly beneath your skin, coaxing your eyes wide with disbelief as he dares continue. “–Which improve with exactly no amount of repetition–”
Your palm smacks lightly across the back of his head, disturbing the gloss of curls at rest between your thighs.
"Jace." You catch a fistful of his hair this time, not ungently, tipping his face properly up to yours. "Cease speaking, entirely, I–I mean it.”
And perhaps it would have come strong from your lips, if not for the shakiness, that trembling desire he’s seemed to coax within you despite his teasing. “Entirely,” he repeats, testing the word as though it truly offends him. You huff out an impatient sigh, well aware of both your impatience and your insatiable desire for your husband at present; though too, you are well aware of your Jacaerys’ predisposition to spoiling you in all aspects of your marriage – and he, quite often, finds it a true struggle to say no to you. He goads you, you know this. WIthin such a handsome visage lies a glint of amusement he gains at your slow torture. “That seems a rather severe–”
“Jacaerys,” you all but whimper, and that does it; something in the word dissolves whatever torturous, inopportune argument he’d been building, and the grin that spreads over his face is helpless now, boyish, all pretense of debate abandoned.
“Alright, yes, mercy. I’ll yield to my pretty wife.” His lips brush against your aching desire, shoulders shaking with amusement. “How horrible,” he then dares utter, as though speaking to himself. “The Prince of Dragonstone, brought low by his own wife, in his own solar, over a map–”
You make to sit up, cheeks hot with the hazy mixture of desire, pleasure, and sheer irritation. “Speak once more about that map, and I swear to you I will leave this chamber.”
At this, he goes rather properly still between your thighs, the teasing drained out of him all at once; and for a few breaths, neither of you moves at all. Candlelight licks along the ruined parchment beneath you both, and the scent of wine is strong enough within the chamber that you imagine it’s breached the edges of the map, too – blooming ruby along the rivers and coasts etched with ink, spreading its tendrils closer as though it, too, wishes to touch the man between your thighs. The torchlight catches its own gold warmth along the line of his jaw, and his eyes are amber gone dark and steady; they flick, searching your face as though to be certain the threat is only half meant. It is, of course.
Still, in the heavy breaths between you, neither you nor Jace look away; a shared thing so deep there are no words, an understanding perhaps only known between two people who have shared a bed and a war and worlds worth of trust between them and know each other too well now to need explaining.
A smile blooms, first across full lips, glistening with desire; then along carved cheekbone, spreading to warm his eyes until the whole chamber feels, for a moment, infinitely warm and gentle. Your own smile creeps along your visage, just as easy as dusk chases sun.
You could not love him more, you think.
“Not another word,” he swears to you then, earnest enough as he is cheeky; he's already smiling against your skin, mouth finding the soft of your thigh in silent apology, one hand splaying warm along your stomach to ease you down again, unhurried and certain as only he could ever be with your body. A warmth spreads through you, that familiar affection that pricks along your cheeks and flutters your heart.
And then, after far too much anticipation, a slow press of his lips; your sigh soothes along the breath of the torches as his fingers gently press into the thick of your thighs, soothing the tense of your muscles. Eyelashes flutter as his tongue laves slowly upon your heat, nudging your bundle of nerves enough to have you keening, whispering his name into the quiet of the chamber. Indeed, you begin quite immediately to quiver at the sensation; A shuttering breath of pleasure exhales from your lips, brows stitching together with a thread of sweet ecstasy. Though after only a few more moments, his lips whisper once more against you. “I’ll be the very picture of silence, I swear it, my love.”
And he is not, quite, what he promises to be; a murmur here, a low hum of arousal there, some fresh and foolish endearment breathed against your skin every time he thinks you've forgotten to scold him for it – but he is close enough, with his mouth upon you and his hands finding each breath of your body they’ve long since memorized, that you let it go entirely.
Pairings: Jacaerys Velaryon x Pregnant!Wife!Reader
Summary: Your husband didn’t greet you that morning, it made you really upset.
WARNINGS: Pregnancy, ormones, fluff
A/n: after seeing the results I wrote this. This is a little short, but sooo cute😩 (I need Jace)
masterlist | wc: 1.7k
IT WAS already late afternoon when Jacaerys finished his daily training on the beach of Dragonstone. The waves continued to crash against the rocks with their constant roar, while the salty wind tousled his hair, already damp with sweat. His breathing was still heavy from the exertion, his chest rising and falling slowly as he put away his training sword and ran a hand across his forehead to wipe away the drops trickling down his temples. The sun was beginning to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and crimson that reflected across the sea. His clothes were completely soaked with sweat and clung to his body with irritating insistence, but he paid it no mind. There was only one person he wanted to see after every training session, only one presence capable of turning exhaustion into serenity with a simple smile.
He crossed the great doors of the castle, welcomed by the familiar warmth of Dragonstone's halls. His footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor, while servants and guards offered quick bows as he passed. Jacaerys barely acknowledged them with a distracted nod. His mind was already elsewhere, focused solely on you. Ever since you had discovered you were expecting a child, every moment spent away from you felt far too long. It had become almost instinctive for him to seek you out the moment he set foot in the castle, to make sure you were well, that you needed nothing, that the pain accompanying your pregnancy was not too severe. You were his wife, the woman he had chosen and would continue to choose every day of his life. And the child growing within you represented the future he had always wanted to build together.
He found you in your chambers, seated before the great fireplace where the flames crackled softly, casting a warm light that enveloped the entire room. A heavy blanket lay over your legs, while one hand gently caressed your now evident belly in slow, almost unconscious gestures filled with a tenderness that tightened his chest every time he watched you. Your gaze, however, was lost in the fire, your eyes glossy, veiled with tears barely held back. Even when you heard the door open and immediately recognized his footsteps, you stubbornly refused to turn around. You continued staring at the flames as if he had not even entered the room.
Jacaerys' heart skipped a beat. All the calm he had gathered along the way vanished in an instant, replaced by immediate concern. Without even removing his training gloves, he quickly crossed the room and knelt before the armchair, trying to catch your gaze by lowering himself to your level. His dark eyes were filled with worry as they searched your face desperately for an explanation. "Why are you crying?" he asked, his voice far gentler than he had expected, as though he feared that speaking too loudly might shatter you further. One hand cautiously brushed the edge of the blanket, hesitant. "Please, tell me what's wrong."
Your lips trembled slightly, forming a pout that was as obvious as it was endearing. You took a deep breath, as if gathering all the courage you needed to confess the reason for your distress, something that felt enormous, even though a part of you already knew how irrational it was. "You've stopped loving me!" you finally whimpered, your voice breaking with tears and emotions that, in recent months, seemed to intensify without control. You kept avoiding his gaze, as if afraid that looking at him too long would make you cry even harder.
Jacaerys' eyebrows lifted again in astonishment. For a moment he remained completely still, unable to understand how you had reached such a conclusion. Then, seeing that stubborn pout and the deeply offended expression with which you pressed your lips together, a tender, amused smile slowly spread across his face. Before him stood the woman he loved, struggling against the tides of pregnancy hormones, and he found it all incredibly sweet. "And how did you come to that conclusion?" he asked with infinite patience, tilting his head slightly.
"This morning you left without saying goodbye, without giving me a kiss... nothing!" you replied immediately, as if you had been waiting all day for that moment to vent. You crossed your arms over your chest stubbornly, turning your face away so he couldn't read your expression. "You left as if I wasn't even there."
For a long moment, Jacaerys remained silent. Then he felt all the tension leave his shoulders in a deep sigh of relief. He had feared he had truly hurt you, that he had forgotten something important or unknowingly wounded you. Knowing that this was the reason almost made him smile even more, though he forced himself not to laugh. For you, that pain was real.
He stepped closer, slowly taking one of your hands in his. His fingers were still warm from training, but his touch remained incredibly gentle as he brought the back of your hand to his lips, pressing a slow, affectionate kiss against it. His lips indulged on your skin for a few seconds more than he intended to, the warmth of his mouth crawled upon your arm, leaving shivers on their way. "You were asleep." His voice was soft, almost a whisper. "I didn't have the heart to wake you, especially after you'd been up for most of the night because of the pain. I saw you finally resting so peacefully and it felt selfish to interrupt that sleep just to say goodbye." He lifted his gaze until it finally met yours. "And I don't think it's even possible for me to stop loving you." he continued, with the faintest hint of a smile.
Those words were enough to crack all your stubbornness. A muffled whine slipped past your lips before he gently pulled you against his chest, careful not to press against your belly. His arms wrapped around you with that steady reassurance that always made you feel safe, while one hand slowly began to stroke your back in slow, soothing motions. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat reached you clearly through the still-damp fabric of his clothes, and in that sound you always found a peace that was hard to explain. He stroked your back with one hand. "My sweet girl, why would you ever doubt my love? Have I ever made you question my feelings for you?"
You remained silent for a few moments, continuing to listen to his heartbeat as you sincerely reflected on that question. You sniffled softly a couple of times, absentmindedly wiping a tear against his tunic. Deep down, you already knew the answer. Jacaerys had never stopped showing you how much he loved you, not even for a single day. Every gesture, every act of care, every look he gave you spoke the same language. You lifted your face slightly, still pouting. "You're making me feel silly..." you admitted quietly.
He immediately shook his head firmly. "You are not silly at all." One hand rose slowly to brush your hair back behind your ear with disarming tenderness. "You have every right to be upset. I should have said goodbye before leaving this morning. Even if you were asleep, I could have at least left you a kiss on your forehead." His fingers gently caressed your cheek. "And for that, I'm terribly sorry. Will you ever forgive me, my love?"
You stayed silent for a few more seconds, pretending to consider your answer carefully. In truth, you had already decided to forgive him the moment he held you in his arms, but you had no intention of giving up that small advantage. Your lips curved slightly into a hidden smile.
"Only if you say the words you didn't tell me this morning." you murmured against his chest, your voice muffled by the fabric of his clothes.
A soft laugh escaped Jacaerys, full of affection. "As you wish, my girl." He gently lifted your face in his hands, looking at you as if you were the most precious creature to ever exist. "I love you." He placed a kiss on your cheek. "I love you." Another kiss, slightly higher. "I love you." Another, this time on the opposite cheek. "I love you." He continued without any hurry, smiling more and more each time he saw your pout melting away. "I love you."
In the end, you couldn't hold back anymore. A clear, bright laugh burst from your lips, filling the room and completely replacing the silence that had wrapped it just moments before. The pout vanished entirely, giving way to a radiant smile that made him forget all the exhaustion of the day.
Jacaerys couldn't stop looking at you. He would never stop marveling at how easily you could change his world with nothing more than a smile. His hand slowly slid to your belly, caressing it with infinite tenderness. "Is that enough now, my love, or must I repeat it endlessly to convince you?" he asked, amused.
You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think with great seriousness, while an ever-growing smile continued to light up your face. "Perhaps you could say it one or two more times."
He let out a quiet laugh, that warm sound that always melted your heart. Without needing to be asked twice, he went back to covering your face in small kisses, one after another, until you laughed even harder. Only when he saw your cheeks flushed and your eyes finally filled with happiness instead of tears did he pause, resting his forehead gently against yours. "I love you."
Perhaps, seen from the outside, that argument would have seemed foolish. Perhaps many would have smiled at fears born from nothing more than a forgotten goodbye. But for Jacaerys, nothing that concerned you was insignificant. If three words were enough to bring your smile back, then he would say them a thousand times a day without ever growing tired. If you needed to feel loved, he would always find a new way to show you, because his love knew neither measure nor pride.
You lowered your gaze, feeling warmth rise slowly to your cheeks. You tried, unsuccessfully, to hold back another small laugh. "I suppose I love you too." you muttered with feigned indifference.
◟ content ! ୧ babbling to your husband before sleep
𝒪ver the year you've shared a bed with him , you have learned every habit that helps Jacaerys sleep.
The slow circles against the nape of his neck. The absentminded twirling of the short curls hidden beneath his hair. The gentle weight of your hand resting there until the tension finally leaves his shoulders.
And tonight is no different. His breathing deepens , the lines of responsibility easing from his face as sleep gradually claims him.
Beyond the narrow windows , the sea rolls endlessly against Dragonstone's black cliffs. Every wave breaks with the same patient rhythm , the sound carrying through ancient stone until it becomes part of the castle itself. Salt lingers in the air despite the shuttered windows , mingling with melted wax and smoke from the dying candles.
A great foundation to get lulled to sleep.
But no , unfortunately for your husband , you are still awake.
"Jace." A noise that is half agreement and half sleep follows the call of his name , and so you continue , "i think i would greatly miss the sea."
The sheets shuffle beside you as Jacaerys rolls onto his back , smacking his lips as if to will the lingering drowsiness away. To properly engage in a conversation (even if he wants nothing less than find rest) , as his wife deserve nothing less. Yet , he keeps his eyes close. And your hand doesn't slip from his neck as he does , lingering in a way that is familiar , and warm.
"You say that every time we're away from Dragonstone ," he finally notes. He doesn’t understand where your longing words for the sea are coming from , and he doesn’t pry. Perhaps it is merely sleepy delusion. Because you are at Dragonstone , you are at the sea , as it is right outside these walls.
There is nothing to be missed here.
You are home , you're with him.
So instead , he melts back into the pillows , comforted by your gentle touch and surrendering to finally let the dragging day come to an end , so that one will start anew with more duty , more war … , but also more you.
Yet every crash against the cliffs tugged strangely at your chest , as though the sea was calling from somewhere much farther away than Dragonstone's shore.
"I know." Silence settles again.
This time , it lasts almost a full minute. Enough to make his breath even out , to let him believe that you finally found sleep as well. He curls around you like a Dragon , nose brushing against the side of your face to keep close , and warm…
Then — "Jace ?"
Oh , how he adores you. Even when you steal his rare moments of rest just to converse with him a bit longer. "Hm ?"
"Have you ever been scared of the sea ?"
Ah , again with the sea. This time your question is enough to have him blink open his eyes , glazed with sleep and searching yours with a bit of confusion.
"...Not really ," he answers lightly , and this time his hand shifts to cradle the back of your neck too , mindlessly twirling the short hairs like you do him. He hopes it soothes you to finally let conversation fall away , and to let sleep win.
"Not even in storms ?"
This one he considers a bit longer. Then , he shrugs , huffing a sleepy laugh , barely more than an exhale.
"If I ever end up in the sea, it'll be because I've done something spectacularly stupid."
You consider his answer for a moment , and yet it doesn't comfort you at all.
Because it's such a Jace answer. Your Jace , firstborn son of Rhaenyra , fierce , kind , and spectacularly stupid when it comes to protecting what's his. You know him well enough to understand that it's a lingering fear of loosing someone close to him. Like Lucerys. And that he'd rather it was him in that storm than his little brother.
"I would jump in after you," you say , fierce gaze meeting his , "I would bring you home."
"No, you won't." 'Won't' , not 'wouldn't'.
"I absolutely will."
A soft patient sigh as he cradles your jaw , thumb brushing your cheekbone with so much devotion you almost yield. Almost.
"If I'm in the water , my love , the sensible thing is to stay on the ship ," he hums , readjusting himself yet again , trying to gently direct you deeper into soft sheets. His eyes close again when you don't fight him , and you're both just tangled limbs and lingering warmth , "t' stay alive ."
You wrinkle your nose.
He knows you do , even when he can't see. Because he knows you.
"I'd still come after you ," you mutter , much softer this time , and he hopes that it's a sign you're slowly surrendering to his warmth, "i wouldn't just leave you , Jace."
"I know ," he hums , and you feel his hand curl the locks at the back of your neck again , gently breathing you in as he also becomes more silent , "i know you would."
Then , "but we're not at the sea , my love. We're home , and we're safe..."
Another wave struck the cliffs below. Far enough away to sound gentle. Close enough to shake the silence.
And this time you don't fight him , and his attempt to get you to sleep. You press your forehead against his arm , and he rests his chin on top of your head with a satisfied sigh.
It's warm , and it's safe , and suddenly you're much sleepier than moments before.
A few seconds pass.
"...Jace ?"
He doesn't answer this time. He's finally asleep.
You smile into the darkness , listening to the sea outside , and letting it finally lull you to sleep , surrounded by the warmth of your husband. In which neither of you imagine there would come a day when its waves would carry away more than lost boots ...
servicing rhaenyra while daemon orders you on how to please your queen, his hands gripping your hips to guide their grinding against his wife's.
the movement starts slow, just letting your cunt slide against hers unhurriedly, clits bumping, drawing soft sounds from her plush mouth. your palms are reverent as they caress her skin, thumbs brushing peaked nipples that will rhaenyra's back to arch off the bed, drawing a pleased humm from behind you. daemon always loves to see his wife experiencing pleasure, especially when he can witness it.
"that's it. continue," he murmurs against your ear, chest brushing against your back as he moves closer, hooking his chin onto your shoulder to have a better view. "is she making you feel good, jorrāeliarzy ñuha?" daemon's eyes are trained on rhaenyra, on the way her chest heaves and her mouth parts around soft moans as your pussies get wetter with each grind.
she nods, gaze flitting from his to yours, offering you a pleased smile, one hand moving to cover daemon's onto your hip, gripping along with her husband, aiding him in the guidance of your movements. "yes," she breathes, bending one knee, urging you to position yourself better, straddling her fully so your cunts align perfectly. "you're doing well, sweet girl," rhaenyra says, her praise washing over you like a warm caress, bringing warmth to your chest and core, willing your hips to rut faster against hers. "don't stop until i say so."
and the command does not even sound like one, for you will do anything in a heartbeat if the woman beneath you wished it, nodding, eager and breathless to answer each and every one of her whims. "yes, my queen," you moan, hands groping her tits, fondling them gently, thumb and forefinger pinching and rolling the peaked nipples in time with your grinding. "a-anything. anything for you."
"ah, so obedient," daemon chuckles behind you, but he sounds too delighted for his words to be taken as condescending. "making our queen feel so good, aren't you?" he hums, one of his hands descending until he can brush the tips of his fingers where your pussies are joined, while the other tangles with rhaenyra's at your hip, lacing together. "allow me to aid you, hm?"
the feeling of his fingers gathering slick from the mess between your and rhaenyra's thighs, just so he can smear it against your clits, making the slide even wetter, filthier, has you whining high in your throat. "feels so good, my queen," you babble softly, watching as the woman beneath you unravels from the pleasure you're giving her. it's the closest thing to gods you've ever witnessed, and it makes you want to worship her until the end of your days. "you're so beautiful, so pretty."
rhaenyra flushes from your praise, so achingly genuine and heartfelt, and offers you another smile, etched in fondness and pleasure. "so are you, my sweet," she offers, exchanging a secretive look with daemon as she squeezes his hand, before offering you her undivided attention. "you're making your queen feel so good," and oh, you almost falter at those delicious words. "perhaps, if you make me cum, i shall be inclined to offer you my mouth, ñuha dōna riña."
thank you to the lovely anon who sent in this request!!! i lost a bit of my sanity trying to translate the high valyrian… but we persevere!!!
winds roared outside the walls of dragonstone, salted water crashing up on the rocky banks as the western sky bled from vibrant oranges and pinks into a black ink spill. inside the runic castle, jacaerys velaryon, the queen’s heir, held onto his lady wife with a bruising grip, her beautiful moans cresting his ears as he rutted into her slick.
“look at you — such a good girl. so pliant and sweet for me.” sweet whimpers of ecstasy leave your lips, hitting jace straight in the gut as he continues his tirade of praise over your body.
“jace!” you squeal, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent moons in their wake. your husband only grins at your whines, speeding up his movements and hiking your legs higher until the sweetness of your moans grow louder in a crescendo.
brushing your hair off of your forehead, jace grips your cheek, his hold tender and soft, a warmth spreading in your body that only he can wield.
“ñuha gevie riña,” he whispers, smoothing his fingers down the expanse of your collarbone. his hands are a juxtaposition of themselves; one a bruising grip on your thigh, while the other flits softly down your skin, leaving you a speechless, blubbering mess. “nyke daor pāsagon iksā ñuhon.”
the high valyrian wraps around jace’s tongue like ivy on archaic stone, his words unknown to you, yet the softness of them leaving you to believe they’re nothing but praise. your hands move from his shoulders, cupping his face with the softness of the maiden as jace stares down at you lovingly, a sheen of love in his eyes.
“you’re mine,” he laments, holding onto you a little tighter. “and i love you so.”
ñuha gevie riña: my beautiful girl
nyke daor pāsagon iksā ñuhon: i cannot believe you are mine
SUMMARY: A prince washes up on the shore outside your cottage, and you must decide whether you’re going to leave him to his fate or save his life. Either way, you know there will be consequences.
WARNINGS: fem!reader, commoner!reader, eventual dragonseed!reader, jace lives, eventual smut, class differences (jace is obviously a prince and reader is a commoner). Reader is not too fond of him at first because she is from Sharp Point. This is a bit of a mix of show canon and book canon in that Jace went to the Gullet to save his brothers and Rhaena still claimed Sheepstealer
AUTHOR'S NOTES: i HADDDD to do a fic for our beloved boy </3 i miss you jacaerys velaryon, prince of dragonstone, heir to the iron throne. I will truly never move on from this death </3 so we need a world where he does not die. I'm saur excited for this because it's my first time writing a reader who comes from a commoner background, AND I finally get to write the dragons ... originally she was not supposed to be a dragonseed, but I just cannot help myself. If I'm going to be writing a hotd era fic, our girl is going to have a dragon. ANYWAY I hope you guys enjoy! please leave a comment or reblog mwah mwah
You wonder whether it is chance or divine intervention that a Targaryen prince washes ashore beside your cottage.
By the time you get to the edge of the sea after catching a glimpse of the corpse from your porch, it is half buried in the wet sand, lying limp at your feet, and there is a lump in your throat that you cannot seem to swallow away.
You do not know how you didn’t notice the sigil sooner.
It should have been the first thing that caught your eye, considering it was only a fortnight past that the Prince Aemond brought the great dragon Vhagar over the town you were raised in and razed it to the ground. The green and gold banners have been flying over the area since, and soldiers from the Reach have been constantly patrolling the roads, seeking out rebels and sympathizers.
You know better than to involve yourself in the affairs of any man that dons the three-headed dragon, you tell yourself, trying to will yourself to walk away from the corpse before anyone can catch you standing near it.
Red or gold, black or green—it does not matter to you, the wars of nobles are graves for common folk, and you have no desire to meet an early one. You have done well enough for yourself since your father passed. You refuse to squander the life you’ve built because a prince washed up on the shore near your home.
The boy at your feet is young, you cannot help but notice—your age, perhaps—dark of hair and fair of skin. At a distance, he had looked like any other body the sea had decided to return, and your first instinct had been to rush toward him rather than avert your gaze and pretend you had seen nothing.
Your hands tremble at your sides, and you have to forcibly still them as you take in a deep breath.
This is war, you recall the soldiers saying when the survivors demanded to know the reason for the tragedy that took place at Sharp Point—mothers with tears in their eyes and no bodies to bury, fathers who had lost their livelihood and the children for whom they built it, your neighbors, your friends. They say Lord Bar Emmon sits on the usurper’s council, so all of the commonfolk who were unfortunate enough to be born beneath his banners have been made to pay the price of his loyalties, allies of a queen they have never seen and casualties of a war they never chose.
This is war, they will tell you the same as they cut off your head if they see you kneeling beside this corpse and call mercy treason. Because it is always the burden of the commonfolk, paying the price of noble quarrels. Princes speak of honor and succession, of rights and oaths and stolen crowns, and it is fishermen and farmers who have to bury their dead. They will not care to hear what you have to say if they think you're affiliated with the Black queen and her supporters, just as the Prince Aemond did not care whether the people of Sharp Point had declared for the Blacks or merely happened to be born beneath the wrong lord.
But now, a prince lies dead upon your shore, and you wonder if this is how it begins again.
You should leave him.
The thought comes immediately, sensible in light of the circumstances, even if it does make your stomach flip. You should turn around and go home, bolt your door, and tell no one what you saw. The sea will reclaim him, or the crabs will pick his bones clean; maybe the patrol will stumble upon the body before the tide rises, and they can parade it through the streets the same way you heard they did to Princess Rhaenys’s dragon.
By the morning, he will be gone one way or another, and you can move on with your life as though you never saw him at all. He will be somebody else’s misfortune, or more hopefully, no one else’s at all.
It is a corpse, anyway. The boy has not moved since you arrived, and his chest does not seem to be rising and falling. There are two arrows through his shoulder, and a blueness to his lips that you’ve only seen in the dead, so—
As though to mock you, he lets out a wet, ragged cough, water bubbling at his lips, lashes fluttering just enough for you to catch sight of dark, hazy eyes that slip over you once before they slide shut again.
You feel sick to your stomach.
He does not stir again. One side of his face is bruised an ugly purple, his dark hair plastered to his brow with seawater and blood. He cannot be much older than you—the traitorous thought crosses your mind again. There is something terribly young about him, lying there half-drowned in the surf, one hand curled weakly into the sand as though, even unconscious, he is still trying to cling to something.
He does not look like a prince, you think miserably. He looks like a boy who is going to die.
The sea foams around your boots, and his body twitches as it threatens to reclaim him—the only feeble resistance he’s capable of in his state. You do not know how he still breathes—the fires might still burn on the Gullet, but the fighting ended days past. How long has he been floating about, dragged around by vicious currents and tossed by waves? It doesn’t even seem as though it should be possible, as though the Seven themselves intervened and—
—and dropped him on your shore, in your hands, and you are contemplating leaving him to die.
The thought is unpleasant, a heavy stone in your chest in place of your heart.
You are not a cruel person. You have cared for gulls with broken wings, and you leave scraps outside your door for the old orange cat that wanders the area. During the winter three years prior, you spent a fortnight nursing a lamb that did not even belong to you because you could not bear the sound of it crying.
And now there is a boy at your feet—bleeding, drowned, scarcely clinging to life—and because there is a dragon sewn onto his chest, you are trying to convince yourself to let the sea finish what arrows and war could not.
His lashes are dark against his cheek. Young, you think again, even more traitorous than the last, no older than ten and nine, if even. There is salt crusted at the corners of his mouth and blood soaking through his tunic in sluggish, rusty streams that stain the pale sand beneath him.
He looks cold—traitor, traitor, traitor.
He looks like a prince, you try to insist. A dragon prince, fire and blood and ruin, dangerous.
Cold. Hurt. Dying.
You need to walk away, you tell yourself again, desperate this time, because the longer you stand there staring at him, the more you fail to convince yourself of the correct path.
A prince's life is worth more than yours, more than your cottage and your little patch of land and the fishing boat your father left you. It is worth armies and dragons and castles and men willing to kill for a name.
If this boy lives, others will come looking for him.
And if the soldiers discover him in your home, they will not ask questions. They will not care that you found him by chance or that you never bent the knee to Queen Rhaenyra—that you could not even tell anyone why one half of House Targaryen wishes the other dead. They will see the three-headed dragon on his breast and the roof over his head, and that will be enough to condemn you.
Worse, the Prince Aemond and the dragon Vhagar could return. You think of Tom, the miller’s son, pulled from the boiling river after dragonfire reached the gristmill. You think of little Grace’s face as she searched the ashes for her mother. You think of all of your neighbors, all of your friends, who hardly survived the first time fire rained from the sky, and you think of all of those who didn’t.
He is not worth it. He is not worth the risk. A prince is only a man born with a special name, there’s no reason you should save him and condemn countless others—he bleeds the same, he dies the same, and when the Stranger comes for him, he is no more spared than any other man.
Except, he didn’t, did he?
He should be dead—any other man would be dead.
Two arrows through the shoulder, half-drowned, tossed upon the sea for days on end—there is no surviving that. Yet he breathes still, ragged and shallow though it may be, his fingers twitching every now and then.
The Stranger came for him and left empty-handed.
The Stranger came for him and left him with you.
Why?
There are no prophecies in your life, no gods whispering in your ear. You are a fisherman's daughter with a cottage by the sea and enough coin to keep yourself fed through winter if the catch is good. You know little of the gods save for the prayers your father taught you as a child and the candles you light for him on his nameday. The Seven did not save your father or your town; they did not save Tom or Grace’s mother or any of the others who screamed as dragonfire turned their homes to ash.
So why? Why this boy? Why this prince? Why should the gods spare a dragon's son when they had not spared children and fishermen and mothers? Why have they left him for you?
You do not have an answer. The only answer before you is a body on the sand, breathing when it ought not to be.
You stare down at him, furious and distressed and so, so unsure. He looks dead again—still as driftwood, cold and pale, stiff. His lips are blue like the dead, and his chest hardly rises and falls. You wonder if you imagined what you saw before. If your guilt conjured a cough where there had been none, if your conscience simply could not bear the thought of walking away even from a corpse.
Slowly, you sink to your knees beside him, damp sand clinging to your knees, the sea foam wetting your trousers. Your hand is still trembling in spite of all efforts to still it. You lift it to his throat, hesitating only for a moment.
If there is life, you will do what you must.
If there is not, you will turn and walk away.
You have never prayed for someone to be dead before.
Please, you think now miserably. Please.
Your fingers brush the skin of his throat—it is cold. He must be cold. So cold, that for a brief, terrible moment, hope flares in your chest, and then—
There is a flutter—it is weak and uneven, so faint that you almost miss it, but it is there.
Your head hangs forward, and you blink away the tears that prick in your eyes, because you know this action will have consequences. You know that there is no going back once you have entangled yourself with dragons. You know that every story told of House Targaryen ends in blood and fire and ruin for everyone foolish enough to stand too close them.
You know that this boy could be the death of you.
The soldiers could discover him. Your neighbors could discover him—as much as they care for you, they fear Vhagar more. If word spreads that a prince of the black faction lives and is hidden beneath your roof, you could hang for it. They could burn your cottage to the ground. They could drag you through the streets and call you traitor.
Worse still, he could recover.
Because then he would not be a half-dead boy on the sand. He would be a prince again. A son of the house of the dragon. He would leave, and the war would continue, and perhaps one day you would hear his name in some tavern and learn that he had mounted a dragon and burned a town much like your own.
The sea rushes forward again, cold water washing over your boots and his legs alike. He does not move. He is so cold.
“Why did you have to wash up here?” you breathe out—frustrated, angry, resigned, because you have never been one to turn your back on someone in need.
His pulse flutters once more against your fingers, and he does not stir.
Then, because the gods have a cruel sense of humor and because your heart has always been softer than your head, you slide your arms beneath the prince’s shoulders and knees.
With a soft curse and the sea at your heels, you gather the dragon prince into your arms and carry home your ruin.
—————————
He is Jacaerys Velaryon, son of Queen Rhaenyra, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne.
Three days have passed since you found him on the shore, and he has hardly stirred since you dragged him into your cottage. You have been riddled with anxiety since, jumping at every sound and fearing the worst when someone addresses you. It is only a matter of time—whenever a rider passes on the road beyond the trees or the patrol sweeps down your shore, you think they care coming for him. Coming for you.
You spend the first day trying to keep him alive.
You drag him home, soaked to the bone and half-frozen, laying him atop your bed as you get a fire going and wrap him in your blankets. For a while, you can only stand there staring at him, because it is one thing to decide not to leave a boy to die and another entirely to realize you have no idea how to save him.
You have to cut away his tunic to remove it, and it makes it easier to breathe once the three-headed dragon is out of sight, but then you have to address the monstrosity beneath it—bruises darkening one side of his ribs, yellow and purple and black, cuts everywhere, salt crusting his skin and body a ruin of blood.
You wonder how many rocks the currents slammed him into before he finally washed to shore. The sea around Sharp Point is, well, sharp. Jagged rocks and narrow inlets line the coast, and more than one fisherman has vanished into the sea after his boat drifted too close to reefs beneath the tide.
It is a cruel stretch of sea—crueler still to a boy half-dead and alone.
And then there were the arrows.
The shafts protrude from his shoulders at awful angles, the flesh around them angry and swollen. You cry while removing them, because you have never done something like it before, and your hands cannot stop shaking. A part of you wonders if the gods left him for you so that his blood could be on your hands instead, and you cannot fathom what you’ve done to deserve this.
You expect him to wake once you start removing them. At the very least, you expect him to scream. The first shaft pierced cleanly through his shoulder and is easy enough to ease out, but the second lodged itself deep in the flesh, refusing to budge until you brace your foot against the bedframe and pull with both hands.
It should have been agony—any man would have cried out.
The prince does not so much as flinch.
You remember staring at him afterward, the arrow clutched in your hand and your own cheeks wet with tears, wondering if he had died while you were removing it. You press your fingers to his throat with a panic that borders on hysteria, and you aren’t sure if you’re relieved or disappointed when you feel the fluttering pulse still there.
A traitorous part of you wishes that he had died.
A corpse is a tragedy, but a tragedy can be dumped in the sea and abandoned. A tragedy will not bring more war to your ravaged home.
A living prince, on the other hand, is a catastrophe that you do not know what to do with. Your home has already faced ruin once, and the longer he remains in your care, the more at risk you will be of bringing it upon you all again, because if he is captured in your care, then that means war and blood and fire and more dragons. The whole town, all of the survivors, everyone will be branded traitors to the crown.
But the prince lived, so you can only hope that he will heal quick enough and be gone before you have the chance to regret helping him.
The fever comes on the second day, and the corpse in your bed finally gives to life.
You notice it when you are wiping the blood from his face, and your hand brushes his forehead. It’s as though all of the cold of the sea had fled his body at once and left only fire behind. It’s what you expect of a Targaryen prince, really—the burning heat, closer to dragon than man— it feels more natural than the cold, but you are scared anyway.
You do not know much about treating battle wounds, but you do know about fever.
Your younger brother died of it during a long winter a decade past—no matter how hard your mother worked to keep it at bay, he was dead by nightfall. Your mother passed in the same moon, to the same sickness, as did half of the children in Sharp Point, because fever does not care whether you are young or old, rich or poor, prince or peasant.
His skin is flushed, sweat beading along his brow and soaking the dark hair at his temples as he twists in the sheets violently, threatening to reopen the wounds you just stitched close. His breathing changes too—no longer the slow drags of air, shallow and erratic, like he had spent days at sea only to begin suffocating on dry land.
You fetch water from the well until your shoulders ache. You lay cloths upon his brow and change them whenever they grow warm. You feed the fire, then fear you have made him too hot and let it die down, only to panic that he would grow cold again and build it back up.
Every few minutes, you find yourself pressing your hand to his forehead or his throat, checking for fever and pulse alike. There is never a change—still alive and burning, and you don’t know whether to be grateful or terrified.
At one point, he begins muttering. You cannot make out most of it—the words are slurred, little more than broken sounds spilling from fevered lips. Names, you think. Places, maybe. Some do not seem to be spoken in the common tongue.
Once, very clearly, he whispers, "Mother.”
You have to change the cloth on his forehead afterward and pretend your eyes are not stinging with tears. You curse the gods throughout that second day—you wish that you’d never left the cottage at all the morning you found him, you wish you’d left him to die, you wish, you wish, you wish, as though any of it matters anymore.
You sleep little that night, sitting beside your bed and watching him breathe. Terrified every time his breathing slowed, and equally terrified every time it quickened. You count the moments between each breath until dawn creeps through your shutters, and by morning, you feel like you have lived a lifetime in a single night.
The third day—today—you have to make the trek into town.
You have used the last of your willow bark, and there is only a heel of stale bread left, a few onions, and enough drinking water to last another day if you’re careful. You need fruit and vegetables, more barley, and you have a catch that you never got the chance to bring to the market to trade the morning you found the prince.
You cannot put it off any longer, much as you may wish—the prince needs supplies, and unfortunately, so do you.
You do not like going into town. You have never liked going into town—you have always been fond of your neighbors and your friends, but you were not fond of the way they circle and crowd you whenever you make your weekly appearance for trade. You got overwhelmed too quickly, and you didn’t know how to make an exit without seeming rude, so you ended up staying there for hours when there were many chores you had to get done at home.
Now, it is like a graveyard. The destruction following the Prince Aemond’s attack on Sharp Point has yet to be cleared. The soldiers are too busy with war and patrols, and the survivors are too busy trying to salvage what they can of their ruined lives.
When you enter the town, you can still smell charred flesh and death.
The children usually run to you when you arrive, chattering about the games they’ve played and the rumors they’ve heard, if you saw the wild dragon Grey Ghost while you were out on your boat this week, and you smile and nod along with them. But all of the children are dead now, and you are not crowded by friends and neighbors eager to make conversation with you, because most of them are dead now too.
It is in the market when you overhear green-cloaked soldiers talking about the battle that took place in the Gullet, and you finally put a name to the face of the prince in your home. You try to pretend that you’re not eavesdropping, fingers shaking terribly as you sort through the fruits and vegetables that Wylem carted in from his farm, because you need to know if they have figured out what you’ve done, if they know the prince is in your care, under your roof.
But they only laugh as they speak of dead dragons and a mourning pretender queen. They say the Blacks have lost two dragons, and the bastard prince, Jacaerys Velaryon, is dead. Any man who can find his body washed up on the shore to deliver to the King will see unfathomable riches.
Momentarily, you are angry at yourself because the royals brought this war and have caused all of this suffering, but when your lashes flutter shut, for a split second, you can only picture the haunted look on your mother’s face as she held your dead brother in her arms. You think of Miss Ellyn, who tossed herself into the sea when she found out her son had been killed on the Kingsroad. You think of your friend, Marie, who you found screaming, fisting her infant daughter’s ashes after the burning of the town. You think of them, and then you think of the black queen on her throne, and you feel the same lump in your throat.
Then you remind yourself that this is her doing.
Her doing, her half-brother’s doing, the other nobles’ doing. They brought this war to Westeros, they brought death and destruction, fire and blood, and you force yourself to shake your head and push it all away, trading some of the fish you caught for fruits and vegetables and barley with a watery smile that you’re sure Wylem took notice of.
There are more important things to worry about: if there is a bounty on the prince’s body, everybody will be searching for him. Not just soldiers, the people too—your friends, your neighbors, everyone. Many starve, more struggle, so if there is an opportunity for gold, they will all be on the hunt. You need to burn his cloak and tunic when you get back to the cottage, anything that associates him with House Targaryen.
You nearly trip over your own feet racing back to the cottage, second-guessing every conversation you had in the town. Wylem asked you why you were getting twice as much food as you usually get—you do not remember how you responded.
Did you imply that you had a visitor? Why can’t you remember? What excuse did you give? Did the soldiers overhear? Are they following you? Do they know? Why can’t you remember? You’re scared—you do not think you’ve ever been so scared in your entire life.
You look over your shoulder every five steps, worried that they’re going to come charging after you, demanding you to bring them to the Prince Jacaerys before taking your head. You’re not cut out for this—you’re the daughter of a fisherman. There’s no world where you should be worrying whether soldiers are going to hunt you down for saving a prince.
There are tears in your eyes when you make it back to the cottage, and your fingers are trembling around the bags Wylem packed for you. You shut the door behind you, and it takes you three tries to bolt it properly. When you finally do, you rest your forehead against the wood and let out a trembling sigh.
You—
“Who are you?”
There is a knife to your throat.
You stare at the crack in the wood of your door, breath catching, desperately trying not to move lest you risk the knife slicing through your skin. The crack appeared last winter, you remind yourself, trying not to focus too much on the fact that you can feel the cool edge of the blade. Your friend, Evander, was meant to fix before the next, but Evander is dead now, and you may well be too, if the knife at your throat presses any deeper.
“Answer me, who are you? Where am I? Wh—” the prince—Jacaerys Velaryon, Prince of Dragonstone, Heir to the Iron Throne—falters suddenly, and you can only breathe again when the knife drops from your neck, and you feel the presence at your back disappear. “You—you are a woman.”
You do not turn to look at him immediately, eyes sliding shut as you fight to steady the frantic beating of your heart, drawing one slow breath after another until your shaking eases enough to trust your legs. Your fingers tighten on the bags cradled in your arms before you force yourself to turn around.
Prince Jacaerys Velaryon stands three paces behind you, one hand braced against the edge of your table, pained, pale, barely conscious. He is bare from the waist up, and the stitches you painstakingly worked through his torn skin have pulled loose, fresh blood soaking the bandages and dripping down his chest and back.
You see more clearly in the light of the afternoon sun just how ruined his body is, bruises and cuts—you think his ribs must be broken, you did not notice just how bad off he was when you had him lying in the dim corner where you keep your bed.
For a moment, you forget that you are face-to-face with a Targaryen prince—it is only the boy you dragged in from the sea and spent hours trying to keep alive.
Your lips curve down into a deep frown, brows knitting together. You exhale as you say, “You reopened your wounds. It took me an hour to get them properly closed.”
The prince stares at you.
As soon as the words fly from your mouth, you remember who it is before you. The son of a queen. The heir to the Iron Throne, if one listens to his mother. A pretender's heir and bastard, if one listens to her enemies. You do not know which of them is right, nor do you particularly care. Such questions belong to lords and knights and people with far too much time to argue over crowns.
To the likes of you, prince is title enough for you to keep your mouth shut and your head bowed.
He does not immediately respond, gaze flicking around your cottage uncertainly. Your bed, stained with his blood. The dying hearth. The table where you left out the last bits of the bread, just in case he awoke while you were gone and was hungry. The bandages you left at his bedside. The basin of pink water you forgot to empty before leaving for town.
His lips, dry and cracked, part as he stares at you and murmurs more to himself than to you, “You tended my wounds.”
You hesitate, then nod, swallowing once. “I found you on the shore a few days past, my prince—” Your Grace? What is the proper way to address a prince? My Lord does not seem grand enough for the heir to a queen. Prince feels the safest—whatever he may be, no one seems inclined to dispute that part. “—I… you should probably be resting.”
“I need to know what happened,” he says instead, stepping closer to you. He is too pale, sweat beads at his forehead, dark curls matted to his skin. His eyes are wide and wild, pupils dilated the same way you’ve seen in men mad with grief or fear or fury, moments before lashing out at the nearest person. You find yourself tensing instinctively. “What do you know of the battle that took place on the Gullet? Did Baela make it back to Dragonstone? And Rhaena—she was on that wild dragon, and—my brothers, did my brothers make it back? How long has it been? Where are we? How far is it to Dragonstone? I must return immediately, I—”
The prince only just seems to realize how you’ve drawn away, back pressed against the door to your own home, arms tightening around the sack in your arms whenever he comes closer. His tongue darts out to wet his cracked lips, gaze flicking to the knife he dropped onto the floor and the fear in your face.
Shame crosses his expression instantly.
“I—” His expression twists as he puts space between the two of you again. You wonder whether it’s from pain or from struggling to force out an apology. Both, likely. He continues, “You have helped me—saved my life, most like—and here I am frightening you. I… I thought I’d been captured. I woke in an unfamiliar place. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know if I was a prisoner or if the battle had been lost. I heard the door open and…”
He trails off, and you stand there awkwardly, tension easing slowly from your shoulders. He is still on guard, but he does not seem so inclined to pull a blade on you again. Your lips part to tell him where he is, what little you know of the battle on the Gullet.
Instead, you ask, “Do most enemy strongholds look like a fisherman’s cottage, my prince?”
You are mortified the moment the question spills from your lips—he is a Targaryen prince, they are known for blood and fire and madness, dragons and crowns, and you speak to him as though he’s one of your peers.
Prince Jacaerys stares at you for a long moment, and then, to your astonishment, his gaze flicks around the inside of your home again, and something suspiciously like embarrassment crosses his face.
“I suppose not.”
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself, and you let out a soft puff of air through your nose before making your way across the room to place the sack you’ve carried from town onto the table. You will have to sort all of what you’ve got later; for now, you need to get the prince resettled before he opens up any more of his wounds.
You turn to look at him again, faltering when you see the pained expression that crosses his face, so sudden that it steals all the color from his cheeks. His hand shoots to his side, fingers digging into the bandages wrapped around his ribs.
“My prince?” you ask hesitantly, taking half a step forward, arm only slightly extended. It is one thing to carry him to your cottage and treat his wounds while he’s unconscious; it is different now that he’s awake.
Prince Jacaerys inhales sharply through his teeth. He is swaying on his feet, breath gone shallow—he looks as though he’s moments from collapsing hard onto your wooden floor. Still, his jaw clenches and the muscles in his neck tighten as he draws himself upright through sheer stubbornness.
“I am fine,” he insists.
“You should sit, my prince.”
“I am standing,” he replies with a tight smile, as though a bead of sweat isn’t rolling down his temple from strain to remain upright and his lips aren’t trembling with pain.
“Barely.”
The prince blinks as though caught off guard by the response, casting a look that is partially confused, and mostly offended in your direction. Your lashes flutter shut as you brace yourself for a volatile reaction, because he is a prince and you are a fisherman’s daughter, and you are arguing with him as though he is an equal and not one of those dragon-riding royals people compose songs about. You think you must have lost your wits entirely these past few days.
Instead, he shoots back, with all the dignity he can muster while visibly swaying, "I have endured worse."
You stare at the blood soaking through the bandages wrapped around his shoulder, uncertain if you believe him. You say with less heat, "That is not the same as being well, my prince."
His jaw tightens, and you fight a sigh. Gods, he actually looks as though he is preparing an argument.
You wonder, briefly, what your life has become. Three weeks ago, your greatest concern had been whether the currents would ease up enough for you to take the boat out of the shallows to catch some fish. Now, Sharp Point has burned and you are standing in your cottage, arguing with a dragon prince about his injuries.
The absurdity of it nearly makes you laugh, wondering if perhaps this entire ordeal is some fever dream brought on by bad fish and Leila’s uncle’s dubious ale.
Then, Prince Jacaerys’s left leg buckles.
He reaches for the table and misses, injured shoulder slamming into the edge hard enough to wrench a strangled cry from him, and before you can think better of it, you're moving.
You let go of the sack of fruits and vegetables and barley you were keeping steady on your table; it topples over, and all of your pristine apples go rolling across the floor of your cottage, but you barely notice, panicked when you realize that he careening right toward the hardwood floor.
You catch the prince around the waist just as he starts to fall, but he is heavier than you expect.
You brace yourself, convinced that he is going to take you down with him, but you manage to steer him sideways toward the chair beside the table. He collapses into it heavily, breath hissing through clenched teeth as pain flashes across his face.
Momentum carries you forward with him—far, far too forward.
One hand lands against the uninjured side of his chest to steady yourself, the other gripping the arm of the chair. For a horrifying second, you are practically sprawled across the heir to the Iron Throne’s lap. You jerk away so quickly you nearly trip over one of the escaped apples, face burning and hands shaking.
"Sorry," you blurt, mortified. “Sorry. Sorry, I did not mean—”
“I believe,” Prince Jacaerys begins with a grimace, “that was my fault.”
You do not respond, flustered, trying to put more distance between you to calm yourself down. Your gaze flicks back over to him, but he is too busy grinding his teeth as he glances down at his wounds to pay you any mind. You let out a soft puff of air through your nose before you look at the apples rolling about your floor, and then reach for one still on your table—you might have lost some sense over the past three days with the little sleep you’ve gotten, but you are not about to feed a prince food off your floor.
You make your way back over to him and hold the apple out to him. He blinks once at it before his gaze lifts to yours questioningly.
“I do not know when last you ate—a while, certainly,” you tell him quietly. “You should get something in you while I redress the bandages. I’ll cook some stew once I’m certain you’re not going to bleed out.”
Prince Jacaerys exhales through his nose before he takes the apple from you, rolling it between his fingers. You step past him so that you can move the basin of water closer to where he’s sitting, grabbing a clean rag and the bandages that you left next to your bed.
You come to stand in front of him again, hesitating before you motion to the wounds on his shoulder. You ask, “May I?”
His dark gaze flicks up to yours briefly before he nods, and your throat tightens as you shift closer, fingers fumbling a bit as you grab for the edge of the bandages to unwind them from around him. It is much more intimidating doing this while he’s awake, inches away from you, and eyes tracking your every move.
“I found you three days ago, my prince,” you tell him at last, trying to remember all of the questions he asked earlier so that you can busy your mind with something other than the fact that you can feel his skin hot against yours. “Before that, the fighting died another three. In truth, my prince, I do not know how you survived so long at sea.”
Prince Jacaerys says nothing in response. His attention remains fixed somewhere beyond the wall behind you, expression distant. You suspect he is counting the days since the battle, the hours his family has believed he is dead, the minutes his mother has spent mourning him. You keep your gaze trained on his shoulder as you unwind the last of the bandages and set them down on the table.
You press your lips together when you see that the stitches have loosened at the back of his shoulder—where one of the arrows had dug deep, but not deep enough to pass cleanly through. Pulling it free had torn through muscle and flesh alike, leaving a ragged injury that had taken you nearly an hour to clean, stitch, and stop bleeding.
You exhale as you run the pad of your finger briefly over the stitches, trying to figure out if you can salvage what effort you already put in or if you would have to pull them out and redo them entirely.
“And my family? My younger brothers? Baela and Rhaena? Have you heard what has become of them?” the prince asks, and you glance up just enough to see how his jaw tightens when your finger brushes over the wound. “Did we win the battle?”
“I do not know if anyone can be said to have won that battle, my prince,” you answer quietly, tongue darting out to wet your lips as you finally start to get to work at reclosing the wound. Your gaze slips to the side when he finally starts to eat the apple you passed to him. He makes a noise in the back of his throat, as though he’s only just realized how hungry he is. “Both fleets were decimated. The dead still wash up on the northern shore.”
How did Prince Jacaerys make it to your shore, then?
Not for the first time, you have to wonder if the gods themselves placed him directly into your hands.
Most of the rest of the dead have washed up on the northern and western shores of Sharp Point, as it is where the currents run strongest, but the prince somehow made it to where your cottage sits on the eastern shore. If he had washed up anywhere else, the patrol would have certainly found him by now. You've heard they have spent the last several days combing the beaches, hauling bloated corpses from the tide and turning them over with the tips of their spears, searching for the dragon prince they are certain the sea claimed.
Prince Jacaerys’s breath hitches when you tug lightly at the stitches holding the skin of his shoulder together. Already, he’s finished the apple you handed him, absentmindedly turning the core between his fingers while his thoughts remain leagues away.
It is only when the last bite is gone that he seems to notice, and his gaze drifts toward the table. He hesitates, and you think it is almost comical—this is the heir to the Iron Throne, a dragonrider, a prince who has flown into battle, and he looks as though asking for another apple might be an imposition too great to make when he’s been floating at sea for at least a week.
You hold the stitches carefully with your right hand so that you can lean forward and grab another apple from your table to pass to him. His cheeks color slightly when he realizes that you noticed.
“I did not mean to stare,” he murmurs, taking the apple from you and cradling it carefully between his hands. He asks again, “Have you heard what has become of my family?”
You shake your head, focusing on tending to his wounds again. You think that you’ll be able to salvage your work. It is good, you think—you can get him resting and then cook some stew for the two of you. You didn’t eat much yesterday, frazzled by the fever and trying to keep him comfortable, and you’re starting to feel a lightness in your head.
“I’ve only heard what the soldiers say in town, my prince,” you murmur, trying to figure out how to go about speaking the news he certainly won’t take well. The last thing you need is for grief to send him bolting for Dragonstone before he can so much as walk across your cottage without collapsing. If he does not kill himself by straining his body when it is not ready, then the patrols will certainly catch him and have his head—and then yours.
You let out a soft sigh as you tie off the stitches on his shoulder blade and lean down to wet the clean rag before lifting it to his bloody skin. You’re careful around the edges of the wound, trying not to disturb the stitches, working slowly at the dried and wet blood from the curve of his shoulder, over the collarbone, down the length of his back.
You try not to think too hard about what you’re doing.
If you do, it begins to feel far too intimate.
It is one thing to drag an unconscious stranger from the sea. It is another to stand so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin, to brush your fingers across the line of his shoulders. You have spent three days tending him without much thought, because there had been no room for embarrassment while the Stranger lingered at his bedside.
Now he is awake and watching you, and every accidental brush of your knuckles against his skin seems to linger a heartbeat too long. He is a prince of the realm, and you are a fisherman’s daughter—people like you are not supposed to touch people like him, and yet—
You exhale through your nose harshly. You busy yourself with the rag, scrubbing a little harder than necessary at a streak of dried blood along his collarbone simply to distract yourself, and his jaw pinches.
“Sorry,” you say quietly.
“It does not hurt,” he replies—a lie, surely, any man would be in agonizing pain. But maybe not; any man also would have died in the sea. Maybe the rumors are true: the Targaryens are closer to god than man; they do not feel pain or have to fear the Stranger the same way people like you ought to. “What have you heard from the soldiers in town? Where are we?”
“Half a league from Sharp Point, my prince,” you answer, still evading the question, which he seems to realize from the way he glances at you over his shoulder, gaze sharp and accusing. He knows you are withholding something. You exhale lightly through your nose and then say hesitantly, “They say two dragons fell over the Gullet. I could not tell you which.”
“Two?!” Prince Jacaerys demands, immediately rising to his feet, so quickly that the chair scrapes against the floor, and you fear he might rip back open the stitches. He whirls on you, eyes wide, pupils large as coins, and you almost flinch. “Two dragons?”
You swallow thickly as you nod. “My prince—”
“One must be—” His voice catches. He cannot finish the thought. For the first time since he awoke, real grief overtakes him completely. It drains his face of what little color had returned, leaves him staring at nothing as though he can already see the answer waiting for him. “I need to know the second. Whose was it? Which dragon fell?”
It unsettles you how close he sounds to pleading when moments before, you had been wondering whether the stories of the Targaryens’ deism held some weight, because gods do not look like this. They do not stand in a stranger’s cottage with fear plain on their face, hands trembling as they wait for an answer they already dread.
The same lump forms in your throat now that did when you heard the soldiers mocking a grieving queen and couldn’t help your thoughts from turning to your own mother, to Miss Ellyn, to your friend, Marie. For a moment, he is not a Targaryen prince or a dragonlord; you see a son and an older brother. A boy your age who knows there are only a handful of dragons flying over the Gullet, and every one of them belongs to someone he loves.
“I do not—”
“I need to return home,” he says immediately, as though his face isn’t white with pain and his stitches don’t strain every time he moves. His eyes glaze over you as though you’re not even there, and he takes a step toward the door to your small cottage. “Sharp Point—there must be passage to Dragonstone, there—”
Panic flares in your chest when he makes as though to leave. It is noon, and the patrols have become more frequent along the shores outside your cottage. They’ve spent a week carding through the western and northern shores, and they’ve been sending more and more men to the east—you worry they’re becoming desperate. The longer they go without finding a corpse, the more they may fear that there isn’t one.
If they have an inkling that Prince Jacaerys is still alive, they’ll start kicking down doors, and if they start kicking down doors, they will find him, and your life will be forfeit for harboring him.
“You cannot,” you say before you can think better of it, lunging forward as though to grab his wrist, but you stop yourself before you can make a terrible mistake, stopping a hairsbreadth from brushing his skin.
What is wrong with you? you think furiously. You need to rest tonight before you do something you cannot take back. Already you have gotten snide with and you have argued with a prince of the realm—now you have commanded him and nearly tried to seize him. You would have been lucky to only lose your hand in any other circumstance. Had he been standing in a hall instead of your cottage, surrounded by knights instead of rough-hewn furniture, you might have lost your head.
“I cannot?” Prince Jacaerys turns to you, bafflement momentarily eclipsing the fear that had consumed him only seconds before, as though he cannot quite fathom that someone has just told him no.
“My prince, you can scarcely stand,” you say. His gaze drops to where your hand is still hovering near his arm, head cocking to the side and brows lifting, and you snap it back to your chest immediately, heat flooding your face. “You have lost a lot of blood, you have barely eaten in a week, your wounds have only just been stitched again, and there are patrols searching for you every road between here and the sea.”
He continues to stare at you, disbelief riddling his expression. You have the distinct impression that no one has ever spoken to him this way before—certainly not a fisherman’s daughter. You force yourself to press on while he’s silent, hoping to make your point and rid him of this futile endeavor before he gets you both killed.
“The Prince Aemond burned Sharp Point’s harbor. There are no ships capable of navigating the currents of the Gullet, and the water still burns besides. I do not have a horse for you to ride to Stonedance. You could not get to Dragonstone even if you were not hurt,” you insist. “I will return to town tomorrow to try to get more information, but please, my prince, you mustn’t leave. You will only be putting us both at risk.”
For a long moment, you think that he will invoke his title or duty and insist upon leaving anyway, or maybe he will simply walk out the door despite everything you have said, and there is nothing you could do to stop him.
Then, his expression changes, twisting into something pained as he looks away, a shuddered breath escaping his lips. His shoulders, held tense since the moment you uttered the word two, sink ever so slightly. The panic that had driven him to his feet has nowhere left to go, draining from him all at once, leaving only exhaustion behind.
One hand drops back down to his ribs, pain crossing his face. Whatever strength carried him to his feet abandons him just as quickly as the panic, leaving him swaying where he stands. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he reopens them, the panic has been replaced by a type of defeat that is infinitely more difficult to look at.
You step forward cautiously when you see how his body is trembling, hand hovering uncertainly between the two of you, silently asking permission to help him. Prince Jacaerys stares at your outstretched hand, then at the bed on the far side of the room; you think, for a second, that he will attempt to cross on his own, but then his nostrils flare as he exhales, inclining his head just enough to grant you the permission his pride refuses to voice aloud.
Carefully, you slip beneath his uninjured arm, taking care to avoid the fresh bandages. He is warm—still warmer than he ought to be—and you can’t help but wonder if his fever has returned or if this is just how hot dragon prince’s typically run.
He leans into you only slightly, weight settling lightly against your shoulder—you suspect he is trying very hard not to. The journey from the door to your bed is scarcely a dozen paces, but it feels much longer.
“We were supposed to win this victory for her,” Prince Jacaerys says after a moment, voice breaking, the words slip free before he can stop it. You do not think the admission is meant for you, so you stay quiet. His throat works as he swallows. “We were supposed to—”
He cuts himself off, looking away again as you help him ease back down into your bed. As soon as he is seated, something close to relief crosses his face, lashes fluttering; the pain is still there, but not quite as terrible as it was when he was straining on his feet.
“The fact that you are alive at all is a victory, my prince,” you say quietly, even though you do not think the words will be of any reassurance. “You should rest. The sooner you are well, the sooner we can figure out a way to get you home. I’ll cook up a stew and wake you when it’s finished.”
He exhales again, jaw tightening as he looks away with a resigned expression. You turn your back on him to deal with the mess you made of the kitchen area, grimacing slightly at everything spilled across your floorboards and the table.
“What is your name?” Prince Jacaerys asks you suddenly. “I think I ought to know the name of the woman who saved my life.”
You let a soft breath, glancing over your shoulder at him. He is pained still, but there is an earnest look in his eyes that makes you falter—you remember how close you were to leaving him to his fate, and you have to look away again before he can catch the guilt that crosses over your face.
With a shaky exhale, you give the prince your name, and you cannot help but feel as though your life has irrevocably changed, and you do not think for the better.
————————————
The sea is on fire.
Jace cannot tell where the flames end and the water begins. Ships burn around him, masts collapsing into the waves with deafening cracks; men scream as they’re consumed by the fire, and dragons let out terrible shrieks as they dive low to bring down another ship full of Myrish mercenaries.
He tries to focus.
He chases after the rogue dragon, hoping to kill the rider before the dragon can burn any more of the Velayron fleet—or worse, catch Baela and Moondancer. But there is panic clawing at his chest, and smoke and salt clogging his throat and stinging his eyes. He’s screaming at Vermax to fly faster, to kill the rider, and then—then he sees Rhaena.
He sees Rhaena atop the wild dragon, and she is screaming, crying, desperately trying to get it under control, and Jace is confused, reeling as he yells at Vermax to stop at the last second. He and dragon both diving down away from the chase before Vermax could breathe fire on his cousin.
Rhaena does not have a dragon, he thinks, trying to figure out what is happening, and Rhaena is supposed to be with his brothers, and his brothers are captured by the enemy, and he isn’t sure if Stormcloud and Aegon made it to shore, and there is too much going on, and—
—and Vermax is falling.
Vermax is banking hard, being dragged down into the sea, and Jace’s stomach lurches. He’s yelling—begging—Vermax to fly, and Vermax is trying, he’s trying so hard, wings beating smoke through the air. He shrieks as another bolt catches him in the wing, and Jace feels the pain himself—he feels the pain, the primal fear, everything that Vermax does, because Vermax is his, and he is Vermax’s, and they are bonded, and Vermax is drowning, and the water is so cold, and Jace cannot feel his legs or his hands or his face.
He fumbles as he tries to unhook himself from the saddle, choking on water and air, maybe a sob, as Vermax sinks into the sea, a stream of bubbles rising to the surface as he cries for Jace, slowly disappearing into the dark waters. Jace desperately tries to dive after him, as if he has the strength to hold them both above the sea, because Jace has already lost Luke, and he—he cannot lose Vermax.
Not the dragon who had slept beside his cradle before he was old enough to walk, the hatchling he had grown up alongside, whose neck had once fit beneath his arm, whose first uncertain flights had ended with both of them tumbling into the sandy shore of Dragonstone while his mother laughed herself breathless.
Jace does not know a life without him—he does not want to know a life without him. His earliest recollections are not of nursery songs or wooden swords, but of warm green scales beneath tiny hands and the deep, rumbling croon that had lulled him to sleep when he was scarcely more than a babe.
When Jace learned to walk, Vermax learned to fly; when Jace’s voice deepened, Vermax’s roar had too.
There has never been a Jacaerys without Vermax.
But Jace’s lungs are burning, and he cannot see the familiar green scales anymore, and his body is reacting, seizing and spasming because there is no air left in him and water all around. He does not know which way is up and which way is down, the water is too dark and too cold, and he cannot think, but—but he sees the bubbles. He sees the bubbles, and he follows them, and even as Vermax sinks to the bottom of the sea, he saves his rider one final time.
He reaches the surface with a gasp, gulping the smoky air, and everything hurts. His arms ache, his chest is too tight, his eyes burn, and he cannot breathe, because Vermax is gone. He can feel that Vermax is gone; there is a gaping hole in his chest where his dragon used to be, and Jace does not know what to do, he does not know how to live anymore, and he wants—
He wants his mother.
He just wants his mother.
He hears the cheers before he feels the first arrow, gaze lifting to the sky as he searches for Baela and Moondancer—they are not too far, he thinks, she'll come for him.
And then, there’s a dull throb in his shoulder blade as he pulls himself over a floating piece of driftwood, but he hardly takes note of the pain, because everywhere hurts, because Vermax is gone, because he wants his mother. He turns when he hears the cheering, and he sees the men on the ship, and he sees the crossbows and the bows and the Myrish banners, but he does not see anything at all, really, blinking once, staring.
The second arrow catches him closer to the chest.
And then—then all he remembers is sea.
White foam and bubbles, vicious currents and sharp rocks. He thinks he is dead more than he thinks he is alive, but there is so much pain. There is pain and emptiness, and Jace just wants—
“... prince, the stew is ready.”
Jace startles awake, breath hitching in the back of his throat. His body tenses immediately, because he does not remember where he is—he remembers the sea and the waves and rocks and pain and Vermax, but he does not remember…
The cottage. Waking up alone. The door opening, the fear—was he captured? Where is he? Where are his brothers? Where is Baela? What was Rhaena doing on the wild dragon? Mother, mother, mother—
You avert your eyes suddenly, an awkward expression on your face, and Jace suddenly remembers. He remembers you, the apple you passed him as you tended to his wounds; how he held a knife to the throat of a woman who is risking her own life to save his. He remembers that he is stuck bedridden in the bed of a commoner while his mother thinks he’s dead and fights for her throne alone.
He opens his mouth to apologize—to tell you that he will leave as soon as he is able, that he will ensure you’re properly compensated for saving his life—but he falters when he feels something hot and wet drip down his face.
He lifts his hand to his cheek and wipes at his face, looking down at the wetness smeared on his fingertips. For a long moment, he does not understand—seawater, maybe? But he is no longer being tossed around by the sea. He is warm in your cottage, the hearth burns low and your blankets are tangled around him. He blinks once, and another fat droplet of water rolls from his eye down his cheek.
Is he crying?
Heat rushes to his face so quickly he thinks it rivals the fever. He wipes away furiously, not sure if it’s more or less humiliating that you’re pretending not to notice for his sake, turning your back to him to ready the table.
Jace has wept before, more than most ought to—for the father who taught him fishing and sea shanties, and the other who passed before either of them could speak the truth out loud, for the grandfather he never truly knew, for the brother who felt less like a brother and more like his other half—but never, never in front of a stranger.
Jace promptly clears his throat and pulls himself together. He glances at you, praying that his face does not betray him, an excuse on his lips as takes a deep breath. Then he falters, mouth watering instantly, gaze cutting to the side where you are busy ladling stew into two chipped wooden bowls, back politely turned, as though you never noticed anything at all.
Jace doesn't think he’s ever been this hungry. He has dined in castles all his life—roasted swan, lemon cakes, arbor wines. He has consumed the finest meals Westeros has to offer and found them lacking, but he almost feels dizzy with need and pleasure at the scent of the stew you made.
“It—” Jace’s voice is hoarse from sleep. Embarrassed, he clears his throat again to try to even it out. “It smells good.”
You look at him over your shoulder with a small smile and murmur demurely, “I’m sure nothing compared to what you’re used to, my prince.”
“I do not know that,” he says lightly as he forces himself to his feet, grimacing as pain immediately shoots through his body.
Everything aches—his chest, his shoulders, his legs, his arms, his head. In truth, all he wants to do is curl up and sleep more; he cannot bear to keep going. Not now. Not after Vermax, after Luke, after making such a terrible mistake that he might have cost his mother her throne. His stomach flips at the thought, and he fights a shuddered breath.
He needs to keep going—there is no other choice. He needs to get back to Dragonstone as soon as possible.
You pause in the middle of setting the bowls on the table at his words to give him a questioning look. “My prince?”
“I have not tasted it yet,” he tells you, forcing levity into his tone, because you have saved his life, tended to his wounds, and now stand over a pot of stew you cooked for him, worrying that it is not good enough to satisfy a prince. The least he can do is ease your mind. "It would seem unfair to compare a meal I have not eaten yet.”
You blink at him once, and then you smile slightly—it’s a genuine one, not like the small one you forced in his direction just before—and Jace tries his best to return it as he crosses the small room. He shuffles the last few steps toward the table with considerably less grace than he would have liked.
“Perhaps” you reply softly, waiting for him to take a seat at the table before you do as well.
You do not immediately lift your spoon, and Jace hesitates—for a brief moment, an old childhood lesson surfaces. Do not eat until someone else has tasted it. Feasts at King’s Landing and supper at Dragonstone had been meticulous about such things—cups were poured and tasted before his mother, and plates were sampled before any of them took a bite of their food. The paranoia claws at him and disappears as quickly as it comes.
You had dragged him half-dead from the sea, spent days stitching his wounds and breaking his fever, and gave up your bed so he could sleep comfortably. If you wished him dead, you need only have left him on the shore.
“I never thanked you for what you’ve done for me,” he says at last, fingers grazing the wooden spoon dipped into the broth. “When I return to Dragonstone, I shall speak with my mother. She will see you properly rewarded.”
“There is no need,” you murmur, finally taking a sip of the stew when Jace lifts the spoon to his lips.
The broth is hot enough to sting his tongue, but he scarcely notices. It is a simple meal—carrots and celery, chunks of what he thinks is rabbit. It is the plainest thing he has eaten in years, and yet somehow, the best meal he can remember.
His stomach twists painfully as warmth settles into it, and before he can stop himself, he takes another spoonful, then another, the hunger of the past week overwhelming whatever restraint court etiquette had once led him. It is only when half the bowl is gone that he realizes how quickly he is eating.
Embarrassed, he forces himself to slow, lowering the spoon.
“My apologies,” he says, clearing his throat. “I fear I may have forgotten my manners.”
“You haven’t had a meal in over a week, my prince. You’re allowed to be hungry,” you say with a faint smile.
Jace lets out a half-hearted huff of amusement through his nose, though his smile fades as quickly as it came, returning to conversation to try to force himself to slow down and show a modicum of etiquette before he embarrasses himself further.
“There is every need for reward,” he disagrees, leaning forward slightly to look at you. For the first time since he woke in your cottage, he actually observes you—you cannot be much older than he is, beautiful certainly, but there’s a weariness in your expression that Jace cannot help but feel as though is his fault. “You saved the life of the heir to the Iron Throne. You surrendered your bed, tended wounds that would have killed most men, and risked the wrath of the Greens simply by allowing me beneath your roof. I cannot allow that debt to go unanswered.”
You stare at him for a moment, a conflicted expression on your face, and Jace shakes his head slightly as he presses.
“I do not possess enough coin to repay such a debt myself—” nor, he suspects, does anyone “—but my mother will. You needn't live here any longer if you do not wish to. We could see your cottage rebuilt if the fighting has damaged it, or grant you land elsewhere, if that is what you'd prefer. Whatever you ask, so long as it is within my power, I will see it done.”
You are quiet for a long while as Jace finishes off the stew, but he expects hesitation as you mull over what to ask for: gold, land, a better ship, perhaps. Your gaze drifts off to the side, and Jace’s follows it, faltering when he realizes that you’re looking in the direction of what remains of Sharp Point.
That’s right, he remembers—you mentioned your cottage was less than a league away.
From where he sits, he can just see the destruction through the small window. The town is little more than scorched foundations and splintered timbers now, dragonfire having reduced generations of work to ash in the span of a single afternoon. He cannot look at it for long, stomach twisting so unpleasantly that he fears the stew you just cooked him might come right up.
You stay silent for so long that Jace wonders if you have not heard him, and his lips part to repeat himself futilely.
“We used to think they were beautiful, you know?” you say, voice barely over a breath. “We would watch your family fly from King’s Landing and Dragonstone. The children would cheer and call out the names of whatever dragon and royal was passing overhead, even though they knew you could not hear them.” A wistful smile tugs briefly at your lips, and Jace suddenly feels a rock in his stomach, a heaviness that he cannot seem to push away. “There is a wild dragon in these parts—we call him Grey Ghost. He hunts fish along the eastern shore. I see him frequently when I take my father’s boat out. We lived alongside him for years—sometimes he swoops down close when we have a big catch, but he never bothers us. My father always said he was curious—shy, but curious.”
You exhale suddenly as you rise to your feet; Jace wonders if he should ignore the unshed tears in your eyes the same way you politely did for him.
“Then the Prince Aemond and Vhagar came,” you say at last. “The only thing I want, my prince, is for this war to end, but I know you cannot give me that. If you don't mind, I should see to my father's boat before the tide turns. There is more stew in the pot if you would have it. Then you ought to rest. You'll not heal by arguing with your own body.”
Jace opens his mouth.
He does not know what he intends to say, caught between guilt and indignation, because everybody wants the fighting to end—he does, his mother does. Maybe not Daemon, but why do you say it as though he stands opposed to peace? He did not choose this, nor did his mother. It is not his fault that the Greens usurped his mother's throne.
He desperately tries to formulate an answer, but how is he supposed to respond to that? What were they meant to do? Yield to the usurpers? Stand aside while his mother’s birthright was stolen? Let Luke die for nothing? Should he say that he is sorry for your loss? That his mother would never have done this? That Vermax would never have burned a fishing village? That this was all the Greens? That they fight to avenge what happened here?
That dragons are not cruel creatures, he feels the need to tell you when he sees the disdain on your face—it is the people who ride them. It is the Greens. It is Aegon and Aemond, Alicent Hightower and her father.
His lips are parted as though to respond, but he only finds himself staring at you helplessly.
You incline your head politely before slipping out the door, the cool air rushing briefly into the cottage before it shuts behind you once more. Jace remains where he is, staring into the last of his stew until the steam no longer rises from it, the reality of his situation settling over him—Vermax is dead, Luke is dead, and his mother believes them both lost. He does not know whether his brothers and cousins are safe, if his mother still fights for her crown. He is useless, wounded in a fisherman's cottage, alive only because a woman from a town his family failed to protect chose mercy over sense.
He does not think he has ever felt less like the heir to a kingdom.
Jacaerys Velaryon x sister!reader - House of the Dragon
Summary: After years away Jacaerys comes home to King's Landing to join the realm in celebrating his sister's eighteenth name day. While watching lords swarm her and vie for her hand, he realises it should've always been him.
Warnings: 18+ SMUT no war au, EVENTUAL SMUT, targcest (reader is Daemon and Rhaenyra's daughter), lovemaking in the sky (srry Vermax), p in v, kinda handjob/fingering (both rec), manhandling, implied loss of virginity, kinda naive/innocent reader, alcohol
A/N: Rhaenyra is queen and they're all aged up -> reader is 18, Jace is unspecified but older. (i saw someone have a headcanon abt fucking on dragon back but i cant remember who, but its out there somewhere trust)
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 5.4k
The castle has never been quiet on your name day.
From the moment the sun rises over Blackwater Bay the Red Keep hums with the kind of life that belongs only to celebrations.
Servants weave through its corridors, balancing polished silver and bolts of embroidered silk, cooks bark orders from kitchens already thick with the scent of roasting meats and sweet pastries, and somewhere below your window a quartet of musicians have spent the better part of an hour arguing over the same melody.
The sound drifts through the open casement in uneven bursts, carried on the warm summer breeze before it dissolves into the cries of gulls circling the harbour.
It is all for you.
Eighteen.
The number sits strangely in your mind. Lords who once ruffled your hair now bow a fraction lower. Ladies who used to coo at you now ask after your gowns and favourite jewels. Every smile feels just a little too measured, every compliment just a little too deliberate.
But you don't care, because all you're thinking about is Jacaerys.
And he is late.
Well, not truly. The sun has scarcely reached its highest point and no one expected him before midday, but that does little to quiet the restless anticipation thrumming beneath your skin.
It has been nearly two years.
At first the months passed quickly enough. Letters arrived regularly, each bearing your eldest brother's unmistakably careful hand, filled with dutiful accounts of the Riverlands, the Vale, or White Harbour. Tucked inside each letter had been some little trinket that reminded him of you; polished amber gathered along the eastern coast, a tiny wolf carved from pale weirwood by a Northern craftsman, a silver hairpin so delicately wrought that you had been terrified of wearing it the first time.
The gifts had never mattered.
You would have traded every last one simply to hear him laugh across the training yard again.
"Still waiting?"
The familiar voice draws your attention from the road.
Your mother stands a few paces behind you, sunlight catching in the silver-gold of her hair until it almost seems to glow. "I am merely enjoying the view," you reply, with all the dignity you can manage.
Rhaenyra arches a brow. "The view of the Kingsroad?"
"It is a very fine road."
She laughs then, the sound soft and knowing. "You have been watching that very fine road since dawn."
You sigh dramatically, resting your chin upon folded arms. "He promised."
"And Jacaerys has never broken a promise to you."
"No," you admit, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "He has not."
Then, finally, a horn sounds somewhere below.
The guards upon the gatehouse shift, peering out across the road before one suddenly straightens.
"Dragon!"
Every head upon the walls turns skyward.
Your heart leaps into your throat before your eyes have even found him.
Vermax appears, cutting through brilliant blue with powerful, measured strokes of emerald wings. Sunlight catches across his scales, throwing flashes of bronze and green over the city below as he wheels above the Red Keep. He is larger than you remember.
So is the rider upon his back.
"Gods be good," Rhaenyra murmurs behind you, though there is laughter in her voice already. You are halfway down the nearest staircase before she can finish the sentence.
The courtyard erupts into motion as Vermax settles with a thunderous beat of wings, servants scattering instinctively while guards struggle to look composed in the face of a dragon. Dust billows across the flagstones, catching in your skirts as you weave between startled courtiers, heedless of the calls following after you.
Jace has barely swung one leg over the saddle when he hears his name, he turns just in time to see a blur of deep crimson silk racing across the courtyard.
You collide with him hard enough to force him back a step.
The laugh leaves him before he can stop it.
Strong hands find your waist out of pure instinct, lifting you clean from the ground as though no time has passed at all, as though you are still the little girl forever launching yourself at him from staircases and behind pillars in hopes of catching him unaware.
Your feet dangle a good foot above the flagstones, your arms looped comfortably around his shoulders.
"You'll knock me over one day," he says, laughter still colouring every word.
Up close he looks older. The softness that once lingered around his face has sharpened into something unmistakably princely, the line of his jaw more defined beneath the dust of travel, his hair longer than before where the sea wind has escaped the leather tie at the nape of his neck.
He lowers you carefully back onto your feet.
Both hands rise to cradle your face with easy affection, his thumbs brushing absent-mindedly against your cheeks.
His expression softens. "You've grown."
"So have you."
A quiet laugh escapes him.
"I should hope so."
Before you can answer, he bends to press a familiar kiss against your forehead. You simply grin and lean briefly into the touch before stepping back, and he slings an arm around your shoulders, leading you back inside.
Neither of you notices Prince Daemon watching from the gallery above, and neither of you notices the faintest curve beginning at the corner of his mouth.
By the time the sun has slipped beneath the horizon the Great Hall glows beneath a hundred candles.
Music spills from the gallery above in soft, lilting melodies. Gold catches in polished plates, jewelled collars and the circlets worn by lords who have travelled from every corner of the realm to honour the queen's youngest daughter.
Jace has attended more feasts than he can remember.
They have blurred together over the years into a procession of banners and vows, polite smiles and carefully chosen words, each hall distinguished only by the sigil hanging above the high table.
Tonight should be no different.
Instead, he finds himself searching for you before he has even crossed the threshold.
You stand near the queen's chair while one of the ladies fusses with the sleeve of your gown, silver thread shimmering against deep burgundy velvet. Your hair has been left half unbound, pale waves falling over your shoulders in the old Valyrian fashion, catching the candlelight each time you laugh at something Baela says beside you.
You have always laughed with your whole face. That, at least, has not changed.
The feast begins in earnest soon after.
Your mother rises to speak, her words carrying easily across the hall as she welcomes those who have come to celebrate your name day. You sit at her right hand, smiling with the restrained grace expected of a princess, though every now and then your attention wanders, your eyes finding Jace somewhere further down the table.
Each time they do, you smile exactly as you always have.
Lord Rowan's youngest son cannot be much older than five-and-twenty.
Jace remembers meeting him briefly in the Reach; a courteous enough man with an easy smile and an unfortunate tendency to speak longer than necessary. Now he watches as the knight bows over your hand with every appearance of propriety, offering some finely wrapped gift that earns a laugh from you.
You thank him warmly.
The young lord moves away eventually, replaced almost immediately by another.
Then another.
A Lannister cousin. The heir to a minor Crownlands house. A knight from Driftmark whose name escapes him entirely.
Each offers congratulations and smiles, looking at you with unmistakable admiration. It is perfectly reasonable, you are a princess. after all, one who has just turned eighteen.
You are also beautiful, a treacherous corner of Jace's mind supplies.
"They are circling already." Rhaena speaks softly across the table, amusement dancing in her eyes as she follows his line of sight.
Jace frowns. "What do you mean?"
"The suitors." He says nothing. "The realm has been waiting for this birthday almost as eagerly as she has."
In that moment, Jace understands has been absent too long, and the little girl forever racing after him through the corridors of Dragonstone no longer exists outside his memory.
The woman seated at the queen's right hand does.
Some distant part of him, the dutiful prince who has spent years weighing every decision against the good of the realm, should perhaps be appalled by what has just taken root in his mind.
Instead, he is struck only by how little it surprises him.
'If a husband is to stand beside you one day... why should it be anyone but me?'
The feast dwindles by degrees.
One by one the visiting lords excuse themselves. The Great Hall grows quieter with every passing hour until only family and the queen's closest councillors remain, lingering more from habit than obligation.
Jace has scarcely taken three steps beyond the hall when Ser Lorent inclines his head.
"The Queen requests your presence, my prince."
The solar is warm despite the hour, lit by a scattering of candles that throw long shadows across maps and parchment left strewn over the great table. His mother stands beside the open window overlooking the bay, one hand resting against the carved stone.
Daemon lounges opposite her with infuriating ease, a goblet balanced loosely between his fingers.
Neither appears surprised to see him.
"You wished to see me?"
"I did." She gestures for him to come closer. "We were discussing your sister."
"Has something happened?"
"No," Daemon answers before Rhaenyra can speak. "Nothing has happened."
"Yet," Rhaenyra mutters.
Daemon ignores her. "Your sister is eighteen."
"I am aware."
"A great many others are as well."
Jace says nothing.
"The feast made that abundantly clear. It also made clear it is time we considered suitable matches."
Jace nods once. Rhaenyra watches him closely. "So," she says gently, "what would you advise?"
"My advice?"
"You have travelled more of the realm than either of us these past years. You know its young heirs better than most."
Jace considers it carefully, because that is what is expected of him, because he has spent his whole life learning how to answer as the heir before he ever remembers how to answer as himself.
"There are worthy men," he finally scrapes out. Rhaenyra gives a small nod as though she had expected nothing less.
Jace continues, "The son of House Rowan conducted himself well in the Reach. The Redwynes would strengthen our position in the south. The Celtigars remain loyal."
At that, Daemon exhales through his nose with open disdain, swirling the wine lazily around his cup.
“Boring.”
Jace turns to him, frowning. “Excuse me?”
“You are answering as the heir,” Daemon says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “I am asking the man.”
He looks between his mother and Daemon, trying to decide whether he has missed some crucial piece of context, and finds only that strange, infuriating look on Daemon’s face.
“What exactly are you asking me?” Jace says at last.
Daemon studies him for a long moment. "Which of those boys would you choose for her?"
Jace exhales quietly. "I could not say."
"You have met most of them."
"I know them as lords."
Daemon leans back. "But not well enough to know which one deserves to share her bed."
The words strike the room like a thrown dagger. Rhaenyra closes her eyes for a brief, pained moment, as though she can already feel the shape of the disaster coming and would very much like to stop it before it begins.
“Daemon...”
“What?” he asks mildly, with all the innocence of a man who has never once been innocent in his life. “The point of a political match is to produce heirs, and that is generally how marriages produce heirs.”
Jace says nothing.
Daemon watches him for another long moment, “I do not believe you could bear it,” he says at last.
The silence deepens.
“I beg your pardon?” Jace manages, barely.
“I do not believe,” Daemon repeats, his voice calm and level, “that you could bear another man laying hands upon her.”
Rhaenyra straightens at once. “Daemon.”
“I do not believe you could bear another man kissing her.”
“Enough.”
“I do not believe you could bear watching her swell with another man’s children.”
Jace feels the blood drain from his face, every muscle in him going rigid as if he has been struck.
“And I certainly do not believe,” he continues, his tone infuriatingly calm, “that you could stomach another man teaching her what it is to be loved.”
“Daemon.”
Rhaenyra’s voice is sharper now, edged with warning, but the prince merely lifts one hand in a gesture that is almost dismissive, never once taking his eyes from Jace.
“Am I wrong?”
Jace opens his mouth but nothing comes. Because the horror of it is not that Daemon has imagined such things, it is that Jace has.
Daemon’s mouth curves, just slightly.
“I...” Jace begins, and then abandons the sentence entirely, because there is no sentence that can save him now.
“You love her.”
It is not a question.
“You are so thoroughly, catastrophically in love with her that you have spent an entire evening glaring at boys who merely smiled in her general direction.”
Finally Rhaenyra rounds on him. “You cannot simply accuse our son of being in love with his sister.”
Jace would gladly vanish into the stone floor if the gods would be so merciful. Instead he stands rooted where he is while the two most formidable people in the realm discuss him as though he were not present.
“He is miserable,” Daemon says, finally turning his head to look at her. “Because half the realm has suddenly decided my daughter is fit to wed.”
Rhaenyra folds her arms more tightly. “And that does not concern you?”
“Of course it concerns me, hence why we are having this conversation.”
She stares at him in open disbelief. “You cannot seriously believe this is the best solution.”
Daemon raises an eyebrow. “Find me a better man.”
“The point is not whether he is a good man.”
“No?”
He waits. She opens her mouth, clearly intending to explain, and then stops, because whatever argument she had prepared has already begun to collapse under the weight of its own hypocrisy.
“You married your uncle.”
Rhaenyra points a finger at him. “That is entirely beside the point.”
Jace, who has thus far wished for nothing more than escape, finally exhales, very quietly, and when both of them turn to him he feels the full weight of their attention settle over him.
“With respect, Mother...” he says, and both of them look at him with identical expressions of wary expectation. He swallows, then presses on before he can lose his nerve. “...he does have you there.”
Rhaenyra blinks. “You are taking his side?”
“I am merely observing...” The faintest smile threatens despite himself, because if he does not laugh he may very well scream. “...that you did, in fact, marry your uncle.”
The silence that follows is brief, but heavy in a way that feels almost ceremonial, as though something unseen has just shifted its weight in the room and no one is yet willing to acknowledge it.
Rhaenyra is the first to recover.
“This is not something decided in a solar with three people and a bottle of wine.”
Jace shifts slightly where he stands, still trying to understand how he has become the subject of something that feels suspiciously like a verdict. “Mother,” he begins cautiously, “if this is about-”
“It is about nothing yet,” Rhaenyra cuts in quickly, sharper than intended, then exhales and forces her tone back down. “It is about considering what is best for her future.”
Daemon makes a quiet sound of amusement, leaning back in his chair as if the entire matter has already concluded and he is simply waiting for the rest of them to catch up.
“Then consider it done. I am her father and I have found a match for her.”
Rhaenyra’s gaze snaps to him. “Excuse me?”
“You asked for a good man,” Daemon says, as though repeating something painfully obvious.
“You cannot simply decide this,” Rhaenyra says, though even she sounds less certain than before.
“I can,” Daemon replies. “And I have.”
A beat.
Then, almost lazily, he adds, “Unless you intend to send her to some Reachling with soft hands and softer loyalties.”
Rhaenyra’s expression hardens. “Do not reduce this to-”
“To what?” Daemon interrupts, finally straightening in his chair. The amusement in him sharpens now, not into anger, but something more focused. “Politics? That is what you are trying to do. I am simply being honest about it. She is our daughter, Rhaenyra.”
Silence again.
He walks a few steps toward the window, looking out over the Blackwater as if the conversation has already moved past him.
“She stays within the family,” he says casually, almost conversationally, as though discussing ship routes. “She stays where she is known. Where she is protected. Where she is not bartered to men who would mistake her for an opportunity.”
Jace clears his throat once.
“If I may-”
“No,” both of them say at once.
He stops.
Daemon turns slightly, looking at him now with something like faint approval.
“You will marry her,” he says simply.
Jace looks at him with wide eyes, “Are you being serious?”
Rhaenyra closes her eyes again, slower this time, as though bracing for impact.
“I refuse to send my daughter away,” Daemon states. His gaze shifts briefly to Jace, sharp and unblinking.
The room goes still.
Jace should object. He should say something about choice, about propriety, about the absurdity of making such decisions in this manner.
“She does not even know we are having this conversation.”
Daemon’s smile returns, slow and infuriatingly certain.
“No,” he agrees. “She does not. And you will tell her, Jacaerys. Better you than either of us."
“And if she refuses?”
“She won't.”
Vermax takes to the sky just after dawn, when the castle is still half-swallowed in morning mist and the water below reflects a pale gold.
The world feels quieter from above, stretched thin and distant, as though all the noise of court and council has been left behind somewhere on the stone below.
You do not question it when Jace comes for you. You never have.
He arrives without ceremony in the inner courtyard where the dragonkeepers have already prepared Vermax for flight.
“You want to go flying?” He asks simply, as if it is an ordinary thing to offer a princess on the morning after her name day feast.
Your smile comes easily. “I always want to go flying.”
That earns the faintest curve of his mouth. He helps you mount with practised ease, hands steady at your waist as you swing your leg over Vermax’s neck.
Then he climbs up behind you.
The moment he settles into place, the world shifts; you can't help but be aware of the warmth at your back, the solid presence of him there, closer than anyone else has ever been permitted to be in this way. One arm reaches around you instinctively to secure the reins while the other steadies you at your side, palm firm against your ribs.
“You are sitting differently,” you note, turning your head slightly to glance at him.
His expression is unreadable for a moment, then softens. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
Here, there is nothing between you but wind and sky and the steady rise and fall of Vermax’s wings beneath you.
He gives the command, and Vermax launches forward.
The world slowly drops away.
Wind tears at your hair, pulling laughter from your chest without permission, and you lean instinctively into Jace’s grip as Vermax climbs higher, circling the coast before cutting out over open water.
His arm tightens around you without hesitation.
Somewhere behind you, you feel rather than see him adjust his hold, pulling you slightly closer against him as the wind sharpens at altitude. It is automatic, the same instinct that has always placed him between you and anything that might hurt you.
You tilt your head back slightly, just enough to speak over the rush of air. “I like it when you come home,” you admit, without thinking much of it. “Everything feels louder when you are not here.”
You do not see the way his eyes linger on you again. The way they soften in a manner that has nothing to do with duty.
You are laughing at something Vermax does mid-turn when he speaks.
“I am not leaving again.”
The words take a moment to settle. You glance over your shoulder slightly, confused. “What do you mean?”
There is a pause so brief you almost miss it. “They have decided something.”
That makes you laugh lightly. “Have they?”
“Yes.” The tone is careful now, though still steady.
You frown slightly. “What sort of something?” The wind howls.
“You are to be married.”
For a moment, there is only the feel of him behind you, the steady beat of Vermax’s wings, and the distant horizon that suddenly feels much further away than it did a moment ago.
You blink. “...What do you mean?”
“It has been agreed,” he says more softly. “Between our mother and Daemon.”
Your grip on the reins tightens slightly, though Vermax does not react. “Oh,” you say slowly, as if testing the shape of the word. “That is… sudden.”
“It is.”
You turn your head further now, trying to see his face properly, though the angle is awkward with the wind pulling at you. “And who-”
You stop. Because when his jaw tightens you realise you already know.
“Jace,” you say carefully. He doesn't answer, just stares ahead. "Jace. Are we to be married?"
"...Yes."
You turn fully now as much as the space allows, looking at him properly for the first time.
“You are very composed about this,” you say, attempting levity and failing to find it entirely.
His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “I had some time to think.”
The wind pulls at you again, but he shifts without thinking, bringing you closer still until there is barely any space between you at all. You are suddenly acutely aware of it; of the way his arm anchors you, of the warmth at your back, of the steady, unyielding presence of him in a place where there is nothing else to hold onto.
You swallow. “And what do you think?” you ask.
He finally looks at you. “That I would not allow anyone else to do this,” he says quietly.
Something in your chest tightens. “Do what?”
“I would never allow anyone else to stand where I stand.”
Vermax banks sharply beneath you; it sends you forward, straight into him. His arm tightens instantly, catching you before you can even think to steady yourself, and for a moment you are completely held there against him, suspended between sky and breath.
You search his face for something. Uncertainty? Jest? Anything that might soften what he has just said into something easier to carry. You find none.
Your hand rises without thinking, resting lightly against the side of his face. His breath catches, not sharply, but enough.
“Jace,” you say, and his name feels different in your mouth now. He does not answer.
For a heartbeat, there is nothing but the rush of wind and the distant cry of the sea far below.
Then he is kissing you.
Not like something uncertain or newly discovered, but like something that has finally been allowed to exist.
His hand tightens at your waist, suddenly far too close in a way neither of you can undo.
You make a small sound against his mouth, half surprise, half something you don’t yet have a name for, and it seems to undo whatever careful restraint he has been holding onto.
The arm around you shifts, pulling you back against him with a controlled urgency that sends your breath catching, your fingers instinctively curling into the front of his riding leathers as if that alone can keep you anchored.
Vermax turns beneath you and the world tilts, but Jace does not let you fall.
When you finally break just enough to breathe, it is only by a fraction, your forehead still close to his, your breath mingling with his in the cold air.
You look at him then, properly, and something in your expression seems to undo him more than the kiss itself ever could.
“This is…” you start, but the words fail you.
His thumb brushes lightly against your side where he still holds you.
“I know,” he says quietly.
The wind tears past again, colder now against your flushed skin, and you should pull away, should think, should question, should make sense of any of this.
You don't.
Instead he leans in again, lips claiming yours with a hunger that has been building since the moment he returned days ago. His mouth hot and insistent against your own.
The kiss deepens instantly, his tongue slides against the seam of your lips before you part them, letting him set the pace, and the one sets is perfect, a desperate rhythm that sends sparks racing through you.
Your fingers tangle in his dark curls, pulling him closer as his hands roam your body with possessive certainty, one sliding up to cup your breast through the thin fabric of your riding leathers while the other grips your hip, anchoring you against him on Vermax's broad back.
The dragon soars higher, the sea a glittering expanse far below, but all you can feel is the hard press of Jace's body.
You moan into the kiss, the sound swallowed by the rushing air and the steady beat of wings, as Jace shifts you effortlessly onto his lap, your legs straddling his.
His tongue delves deeper, exploring every inch of your mouth with an intensity that makes warmth gather in your belly, wetness already soaking your undergarments.
"You know," he breathes against your lips, his voice rough, "you're mine now. Always have been."
You let him move you as he pleases, but soon you can feel the way his cock strains against his breeches, thick and insistent against your thigh.
"Are you alright?"
You can only nod shakily, letting your head find the hollow of his shoulder.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Jace."
His hand slips between your bodies, fingers deftly undoing laces to find your slick folds, stroking you slow and gathering your wetness on his fingers.
Then he reaches to free himself, hot and heavy as you wrap your fingers around him. He covers your hand with his own, guiding your hand to stroke him slowly.
"We should probably stop." he grits out.
You whine in response, "No, Jace please. I don't want to stop."
Jace lifts you higher, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance.
"You tell me if that changes, okay."
"Yes."
"Promise me." He tilts your head towards him, holding your eyes with his own.
"I promise." With that he thrusts upward in one smooth motion, burying himself deep inside you with a groan that vibrates through his chest into yours.
The fullness stretches you perfectly, every ridge and vein of him dragging against your inner walls as he begins to move.
"Gods you're tight." He grunts, his hands gripping to guide your hips in a grinding rhythm that matches the dragon's powerful wingbeats.
Pleasure coils tight in your core, building with each thrust, the wind caressing your exposed skin where leathers have been shoved aside, breasts pressed to his chest, nipples hard from the chill and his touch.
His mouth finds yours again, the kiss messy and passionate, tongues tangling as he fucks into you over and over.
You can feel it — his claim, his love, his protection — in every thrust.
He feels you start to tighten around him, one hand fisting your hair to make you look at him. His eyes are wild, hair messed by wind and jaw clenched to tight its a wonder its not cracked.
"Not yet my love. Hold on for me."
"I cannot, Jace." You gasp, hand flying to his shoulder in desperation.
"Yes, you can." He coos, pulling your face up to meet his in another kiss, this one softer, coaxing you to match him as his thrusts grew harsher, rougher.
Only then does his hand move from your hair, snaking down to find where your bodies are joined. He rubs tight, deliberate circles that have you arching into him.
"Jace, please, it's too much."
"Okay, you can come now."
You do, raw ecstasy filling your body as you shatter around him, crying out his name into the endless sky.
Your eyes shut, body going completely slack against his for the trembling that claims you. Your legs are shaking where they're slotted around his hips.
"Good girl, just like that. Let me take care of you." He says as his thrusts get harder, his hands now assisting to pull you down to meet them.
Then, his pace grows erratic, and you can feel his breathing is more laboured as it hits your temple.
With one final thrust he goes rigid, following you over the edge, pulsing hot and deep within you. His arms wrap around you, the world reduced to the two of you and the endless blue above the waves.
Jace is the first to move.
It is small at first, almost hesitant, as if he is afraid that shifting even slightly might undo something irreparable.
His hand, which had been steady at your waist only moments ago, loosens just enough for him to adjust you more carefully against him, pulling off his cloak and draping it around your shoulders with a gentleness that feels entirely at odds with the fact that you are both still several thousand feet and he's still inside you.
“You’re cold,” he says, though it sounds more like something he needs to believe than something he has observed.
“I’m fine,” you reply automatically.
He doesn’t look reassured.
Instead, he shifts again, this time lifting you off him with a hiss and placing you in front of him on the saddle again.
“You didn’t have to-” he starts.
You tilt your head slightly. “Have to what?”
The words seem to catch somewhere behind his teeth, like everything he might say is either too much or not enough.
“Do that,” he settles on finally, quieter now. “Like that.”
You blink at him, trying to follow. “Jace.”
His jaw tightens slightly at the sound of his name, but he doesn’t look away.
“It should not have been like that,” he says, and there is something carefully restrained in his voice now, something that feels like it has been pushed down hard. “Your first time should have been-” He exhales through his nose, frustrated with himself more than anything else. “Well, for starters, not in the sky.”
For a moment, you just stare at him. “You think I am going to complain because it was in the sky?”
“I am serious,” he says.
“I know you are,” you reply, smiling faintly. “That’s the problem.”
He blinks once.
You shift slightly in his arms so you can see his face more clearly, even as Vermax continues his smooth, unbothered flight beneath you both.
“I do not need it to be… whatever you are imagining it should have been,” you continue, voice softening now, grounding into something steadier. “I did not think about it being in a bed or a room or anywhere else."
"You must've had some fantasy, something you hoped for or wanted from it." He presses, seemingly not content with your reassurance.
"Jacaerys, I wanted it to be you.”
That quiets him completely.
“That is not-” he starts. “It is,” you interrupt gently.
A pause.
Then, quieter, almost teasing now that you have his full attention again, “Besides, I think I will remember this more than if it had been in a bed.”
Something like a reluctant sound leaves him, half laugh and half exhale, and the tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction.
“You are certain?” he asks after a moment.
"Of course."
IYou lean back into him properly, letting the wind rush past as Vermax carries you both forward, the world still impossibly wide beneath you and forever changed.
hes so sweet ik it (but also lowkey freaky) also I knowww people have mixed feeling abt targcest and im sorry but it felt sooo perfect for this fic
