or: wildfire makes your husband wild with desire/aerion in heat?
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The scent of smoke and burnt copper never truly left him.
When Aerion Targaryen swallowed the wildfire, expecting to be reborn as a dragon of legend, the maesters braced for a gruesome death. Instead, the substance did something far worse, and far more terrifying: it adapted. It didn't burn him to ash; it fused with his bloodline, burning away every lingering trace of human frailty and leaving behind a creature of pure, predatory instinct.
Before the wildfire, he used to steal you away to the hidden corners of the Red Keep's overgrown godswood, far from the prying eyes of the court.
You remembered one evening in particular, just before everything changed. The summer air had been soft, smelling of crushed pine needles and damp earth. Aerion had been entirely a prince then—polished, arrogant, and draped in rich silks—but the moment he was alone with you, the sharp edges of his public persona would melt away. He had pulled you onto his lap beneath the weeping branches of an ancient oak, his fingers gently unbraiding your hair just so he could feel the strands slip through his hands.
"They think I only care for crowns and ash," he had murmured against your temple, his breath warm and steady, his arms wrapping around you with a quiet, protective warmth. "But they don't know that my world begins and ends right here. I would burn the Seven Kingdoms to the ground before I let anyone take you from me."
He had kissed you then, a slow, deep promise that tasted of sweet wine and pure devotion. It was a memory you clung to like a lifeline, a beautiful contrast to the nightmare your life had become since the night he drank the green fire.
Now, that sweet memory felt a lifetime away.
For a full moon’s turn, Aerion had been a ghost. The proud, arrogant prince who used to haunt your steps and demand your undivided attention had vanished into the shadows of the holdfast. From your window, you had watched his new, broader silhouette pace the battlements at night like a caged beast. By day, the letters you sent him were returned unopened.
Sitting at your vanity in the quiet of your chambers, the rejection gnawed at you, twisting into a bitter, heavy ache. You stared at your reflection, wondering if your love had finally found a light more dazzling than yours. Perhaps the wildfire hadn't just changed his body; perhaps it had burned away his affection for you entirely. You feared he was seeking someone else—someone stronger, a highborn maid worthy of the dragon he claimed to be—or that he had simply grown bored of a mortal girl now that he felt like a god.
You had given him your heart when he was just a proud, flawed prince. To think he had cast you aside the moment he attained the power he always craved was a betrayal that made your chest hollow.
But the air in your room was growing unnaturally thick, swallowing the evening chill. The heavy iron doors of your chambers were bolted from the inside, yet the familiar, rhythmic thudding of boots in the corridor made your breath hitch. It was followed by a low, vibrating growl that shook the very floorboards.
The temperature spiked, the air tasting suddenly of sulfur and dry heat. Then came the sound of leather and metal scraping against the wood, followed by a heavy, desperate lean against the door.
"Open it," a voice rasps. It barely sounds like Aerion anymore. The polished, lyrical voice of the prince you loved is gone; this is deep, jagged, and dripping with an unnatural, feverish heat. "Open the door, little bird. I know you're in there."
Your hands tremble as you stand, caught between the ache of his weeks of silence and the terrifying intensity radiating through the wood. You slide the heavy iron bolt back.
The door doesn't just open; it is violently shoved inward. Aerion crashes into the room, his massive frame nearly filling the doorway, and the sheer physical presence of him forces you a step back. He looks like a man who has been wrestling with demons in the dirt. His silk shirt is discarded, leaving his torso bare, his skin a roadmap of pulsing, dense muscle and violet veins that glow with a faint, sickly green light beneath the surface.
He is vibrating, his muscles twitching with a frantic, overcharged energy, but his luminous green eyes lock onto yours with a frightening, possessive focus.
"I told you," he hisses, his voice a jagged ruin. "I told the guards to bar the way. Why aren't you away? Why are you still here?"
"You've been avoiding me for a moon's turn, Aerion," you say, the pain in your chest finally boiling over into a trembling defiance. "If you want a new companion—if you want me gone—you only have to say it. Don't hide from me like a coward."
He took a jagged breath, his chest heaving. The smell of ozone and hot metal was overwhelming.
"I stayed away to save you, you fool," he growled, his luminous green eyes fixed on yours with a frightening intensity. "The fire... it’s not just in my blood anymore. It’s a hunger. A rut that doesn't end. If I touch you, I won't be able to stop. I'll break you. I'll consume you until there's nothing left but ash."
"I'm not afraid of you," you whispered, taking a step toward him.
"You should be!" he roared, slamming his fist into the stone wall beside him. The masonry cracked under the force of his new, unnatural strength. He slumped against the wall, his head hanging low, his long silver hair damp with sweat. "I love you so much it's rotting me. Every time I smell your skin through the vents, every time I hear your footsteps in the hall, the dragon screams to claim you. To mark you. To keep you in a cage where no one else can even look at you."
He looked up, and the raw, unhinged devotion in his gaze was more piercing than any blade. He wasn't just a prince anymore; he was a territorial beast, barely holding onto the leash of his own mind.
"I am a monster now," he rasped, his eyes darting over your face as if memorizing it before he lost control. "A beautiful, golden monster. And I am starving for you."
He didn't wait for your permission this time. He crossed the distance in a blur of heat, his hands catching your waist and lifting you off your feet as if you weighed nothing. He pressed his forehead against yours, his skin so hot it felt like a brand.
"Tell me to leave," he begged, even as his grip tightened possessively, his fingers sinking into your hips. "Tell me to go. Tell me you want to be free of me. I love you so much I cannot bear to hurt you when my desire takes over. Because if you don't... I'm never letting you out of this room again."
He didn’t wait for you to answer. The moment your hands came up to cup his face, the fragile wall of his restraint crumbled completely.
With a low, desperate sound, Aerion buried his face in the crook of your neck. He was crushing you against him, his massive arms wrapping around your waist like iron bands. Yet, for all the terrifying, animalistic power humming through his muscles, the way his lips pressed against your skin was unbelievably tender. It was a frantic, worshipful heat, his mouth tracing up your throat to your jawline, leaving a trail of scorching kisses that made your skin tingle.
"I thought I lost you," you whispered into his damp silver hair, your fingers tangling in the strands. "I thought the fire took whatever love you had for me."
"Never," he choked out, the word vibrating violently against your chest. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his luminous green eyes swimming with a desperate, wild adoration. "The fire changed everything else. It made me a monster, it made me mad—but it only made this louder.” He brought your hands to his chest, his heart thrumming frantically. “It’s the only part of me that still feels human. You are the only thing keeping me anchored to the earth."
His hand came up to your cheek, his touch surprisingly gentle given the bruising grip he’d had on your hips just moments ago. His thumb, rough and intensely hot, traced the line of your lower lip.
"When the fire takes me, I forget my own name," he whispered, his voice cracking with a raw, unhinged vulnerability. "I forget the throne. I forget my father. But I never forget you. Your face is burned into the back of my eyelids. Every beat of this broken heart is just your name, over and over again."
You leaned into his touch, pressing a kiss into his palm despite the unnatural heat radiating from it. "Then don't run from me anymore, Aerion. Let me stay."
A shudder ran through his entire frame at your words. The territorial, predatory gleam in his eyes flared brighter, but this time, it was laced with a profound, aching relief. He loved you with a ferocity that bordered on religious devotion; you were his sanctuary, his goddess, the only beautiful thing in a world that had suddenly become loud and violent.
"You are my rib," he growled softly, a feral but deeply devoted smile breaking through his exhaustion. He lifted you effortlessly, carrying you toward the bed as if you were the most precious heirloom in the Seven Kingdoms. "My little bird. The dragon’s heart. If you stay, I will worship you until the flesh rots from my bones. I will give you everything I tear out of this world."
He lowered you onto the mattress, shifting his heavy body over yours with an agonizingly slow deliberate care. His hands pinned yours to the pillows, fingers interlocking tightly, sealing the bond. Even as the primal heat of his rut demanded total surrender, he paused, his forehead resting against yours, breathing you in.
"I am yours," he swore, his voice a dark, possessive vow that echoed from the very depths of his altered soul. "In this life, or in the ashes of whatever comes next."
The mattress groaned under his newfound, dense weight as he shifted completely over you. He pinned you, his massive chest pressing down until the air left your lungs in a breathless gasp. He felt massive, broader and heavier than any man had a right to be, his entire torso radiating a terrifying, feverish heat that bled straight through the layers of your shift.
"Aerion," you whined, the sheer, primal gravity of him overwhelming your senses.
A low, vibrating growl rumbled in his throat—a sound so deep you felt it resonate inside your own ribs. His hands, calloused and burning like hot irons, slid up from your wrists to cup your face. He wasn't gentle, but there was a desperate, frantic reverence in the way his large fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat.
He consumed your lips, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth with a bruising, hungry urgency. He tasted of smoke, copper, and a wild, intoxicating heat that made your head spin. You gasped into the kiss, and he used the opportunity to growl against your lips, his hips bucking down against yours in a heavy, involuntary twitch of pure, unadulterated need. The friction was electric, sending a sharp jolt of desire straight to your core.
He broke the kiss, panting heavily, his breath scorching your lips as his gaze racked over your face. His glowing, toxic green eyes were completely dilated, the violet edges swallowed by a dark, manic lust.
"You're so small," he rasped, his voice dropping to a jagged whisper as his large hands slid down your neck, tracing the delicate line of your collarbone before gripping the fabric of your shift. "So soft. I’ve been dreaming of breaking you. Of taking you until you scream my name to the gods."
With a single, effortless twitch of his hands, the linen of your shift tore open down the middle. You shivered as the cool air of the room hit your bare skin, but the cold lasted only a fraction of a second before Aerion replaced it with his own blistering heat.
His mouth tore down your jawline, burying itself in the crook of your neck. He bit down hard enough to leave a deep, possessive mark. You cried out, your arching spine lifting off the bed as a wave of intense pleasure rushed through you.
"Mine," he growled against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, bruising your flesh as he forced your legs apart. He crowded himself between them, his thick, heavy thigh pressing hard against your aching center, creating a friction that had you sobbing out his name. "Tell me you're mine, little bird. Tell the dragon who owns you."
"I'm yours, Aerion—gods, please," you begged, your fingers digging into the tight, corded muscle of his bare shoulders. His skin felt like polished stone, shifting and rippling beneath your fingertips with terrifying power.
He groaned, a loud, unhinged sound of pure triumph. He reached down, his fingers finding your wetness, and you buckled against his hand. He was completely feral now, his movements devoid of courtly patience, driven entirely by the frantic, roaring rut in his veins. He stroked you roughly, his thumb smearing your heat over your clitoris until you were weeping, your hips chasing his hand in a desperate bid for release.
"Look at what you do to me," he gasped, his forehead dropping against yours as he guided his swollen, aching length against your entrance. He was massive, hot, and twitching with a desperate need to claim. "I am a god, and I am begging at your feet."
He didn't wait. With a heavy, relentless thrust of his hips, he buried himself inside you in one deep, unyielding stroke.
The fullness was staggering. You threw your head back, a loud sob tearing from your throat as your body stretched to accommodate his massive, unnatural size. He froze above you, his entire body trembling violently as he held himself deep inside you. The veins along his arms and chest flared a brilliant, luminous green, pulsing in time with his frantic heartbeat.
"Gods," he choked out, his eyes rolled back slightly in sheer, agonizing ecstasy. "You're so tight...so warm. You're squeezing me to death."
He began to move, and all sanity left the room.
It was a brutal, relentless pace. Aerion possessed you with a feral, animalistic rhythm, his heavy hips slamming against yours with a force that rattled the heavy wooden bedframe. Every thrust was deep, bottoming out against your womb, filling you with a blistering, white-hot sensation that threatened to consume you entirely.
You clung to him like a drowning survivor in a storm. Your legs wrapped tightly around his thick waist, riding the wild, unhinged waves of his lust. The room faded away; there was only the smell of sulfur and sweat, the slap of his heavy torso against yours, and the terrifying, beautiful sight of the monster who loved you with a madness that defied the heavens.
"Sweeter than the fire," Aerion roared, his pace turning frantic, desperate, as he sensed the end drawing near. He leaned down, pinning your hands above your head again, his chest crushing yours as he drove into you harder, faster, completely lost to the beast. "Burn with me! Let it consume us both!"
The friction built to an unbearable, agonizing peak. Your walls clamped around him tightly, triggering your orgasm in a sudden, violent rush that made you scream his name into the empty room.
Hearing your release broke whatever microscopic shred of restraint Aerion had left. With a loud, guttural roar that sounded like a dragon breaking its chains, he delivered three final, devastating thrusts, burying himself as deeply as physically possible inside your twitching body.
He came with a violent, shuddering intensity, filling you with a deep, scalding heat that felt as though the wildfire itself was pouring into your womb. His entire body went rigid, the luminous green light beneath his skin flaring to a blinding brilliance before slowly, agonizingly fading back into the deep violet of his veins.
He collapsed over you, his heavy, sweaty chest heaving against yours, his breath coming in ragged, exhausted gasps. He didn't pull out; instead, his arms wrapped around you tightly, pulling you into his side and burying his face back into your hair.
I actually hate when I'm looking for a fic involved in a game or show and it's all modern day au's or smut with kinks that make no sense for the character (abby Anderson..) WHO SAID THAT.
It's actually so annoying. Like no I don't want a modern day version of her, I WANT HER. I WANT HER DURING THE APOCALYPSE AND WANT A STORY WITH HER, IS THAT SO HARD TO ASK FOR?? And it's not even just on Tumblr, it's AO3 too. It actually makes no sense to me how there's more modern au's than game timeline ones but I'm also picky asf and I am NOT judging people who write smut or modern day au's, I'm just saying I PERSONALLY wish there was less of it, but I am acknowledging that it my opinion and not a general one. Because I do enjoy the occasional smut or modern day au, it just depends on the scenario
Synopsys: In Which you get hurt, Valarr Panics and Everyone Else Suffers
wordcount: 4.3k
requester: yes but fore some reason it doesn't let me tag the user
(requests are open)
The Kingswood was beautiful in the afternoon light.
You'd convinced Valarr to accompany you on a ride despite his lingering protests that he was still recovering from his cold--, protests that had grown weaker with every passing day and had finally dissolved entirely when you'd pointed out that he'd been perfectly fine that morning when he'd kissed you breathless before breakfast.
"You're exploiting my love for you," he'd said as he helped you onto your horse.
"Absolutely."
"I should be offended."
"You should be grateful I'm letting you come at all. I could have asked Matarys."
The look of horror on his face had been worth the entire ride.
Now, an hour later, you were deep in the Kingswood, Valarr rode close beside you, closer than strictly necessary, but you'd long since given up commenting on his need to be near you. His horse, a gentle black mare, seemed accustomed to her master's inattention to proper riding formation.
"You're staring," you said without looking at him.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
"No." He nudged his horse even closer, close enough that he could reach out and brush a strand of hair from your face. "Staring is what strangers do. Admiring is what husbands do. There's a significant difference."
You turned to smile at him, and for a moment, everything was perfect.
The next moment, a rabbit burst from the undergrowth directly beneath your horse's hooves.
The animal reared with a startled whinny, and you—caught completely off guard, your attention on your husband rather than your mount—felt yourself slipping. You grabbed for the mane, for the saddle, for anything, but it was too late. The world tilted, and then you were falling, the ground rushing up to meet you with terrifying speed.
You hit hard.
For a moment, there was nothing but shock—the breath knocked from your lungs, the world spinning, the distant sound of Valarr screaming your name. Then the pain hit, sharp and white-hot, radiating from your left ankle.
"Y/N!" Valarr was off his horse before the animal had fully stopped, crashing to his knees beside you in the leaf litter. His hands were everywhere—your face, your shoulders, your hair—checking, assessing, his eyes wild with fear. "Y/N, look at me. Look at me. Where does it hurt? What happened? Are you—gods, you're bleeding, where are you bleeding—"
"I'm not—" You gasped, trying to catch your breath. "I'm not bleeding. It's my ankle. I think—I think I twisted it."
He looked down at where your leg lay at an awkward angle, and his face went pale.
"Don't move." His voice was shaking. "Don't move, alright? Just stay still. I'm going to—I need to—" He looked around wildly, as if expecting a maester to materialize from the trees. "I need to get you back to the Keep. I need to—can you ride? No, of course you can't ride, your ankle—I'll carry you. I'll carry you the whole way if I have to."
"Valarr—"
"I should have never let you talk me into this. I should have said no. I should have—" He pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, and you realized with a start that his eyes were bright with unshed tears. "You fell. You fell and I was right there and I couldn't—I didn't catch you. I didn't—"
You reached up and caught his hand, pulling it away from his face.
"Valarr. Look at me."
He did. His beautiful blue eyes were glassy, terrified, fixed on you like you were the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly become unstable.
"I'm alright," you said firmly. "It's just my ankle. It hurts, but I'm alright. Do you understand? I'm alright."
"You fell." His voice cracked. "You fell and I couldn't—"
"You caught me now." You squeezed his hand. "That's what matters."
He stared at you for another long moment, and then something in him seemed to break. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"I can't lose you," he whispered. "I can't. If something happened to you—if you were hurt worse than this—if you—" He couldn't finish.
You brought your free hand up to cup his cheek, feeling the dampness of tears against your palm.
"You're not going to lose me. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
He nodded against your forehead, still shaking, still breathing too fast. But slowly, gradually, the panic began to recede. He pulled back just enough to look at you, to study your face with an intensity that made your heart ache.
"Your ankle," he said. "We need to—I need to get you back. Can you stand? No, don't try, you'll hurt yourself worse. I'll—" He looked at his horse, then at yours, then back at you. "I'll ride back for help. No, I can't leave you alone out here. I'll—I'll carry you to my horse. We'll ride together. Can you hold on to me if I lift you?"
"I can try."
He nodded, jaw tight with determination, and carefully—so carefully, as if you were made of glass—slid one arm beneath your shoulders and the other beneath your knees. He lifted you gently, cradling you against his chest, and you couldn't help the small gasp of pain as your ankle shifted.
"Sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He pressed a kiss to your temple, quick and desperate. "I've got you. I've got you. Just hold on to me."
He carried you to his horse with slow, careful steps, never jostling you, never letting go. Getting you situated on the mare's back was a challenge—your ankle screamed every time it moved, and Valarr's face grew paler with each pained sound you made—but eventually you were settled sideways across the saddle, your arms around his neck, his arms around your waist, holding you securely against him.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he said, swinging up behind you. "Tell me if anything hurts. Tell me if you need me to stop. Tell me—"
"I'll tell you." You leaned your head back against his shoulder. "I promise."
He clicked his tongue and the horse began to move, slower than before, picking its way carefully through the woods. Valarr's arms never loosened around you. His lips kept pressing to your hair, your temple, anywhere he could reach.
"You're so brave," he murmured against your skin. "You're so strong. You fell off a horse and you're not even crying. I'm crying and I'm not even the one who fell."
A laugh escaped you, surprising. "You're crying?"
"A little." His voice was thick. "Don't judge me. I watched you fall. I watched you hit the ground. I thought—for a moment I thought—"
"I know." You reached up and touched his face, finding the tear tracks on his cheeks. "But I'm here. I'm right here."
"You're here," he agreed, and kissed your fingers. "You're here and I'm never letting you ride a horse again. Ever. We'll walk everywhere. We'll stay in our chambers forever. I'll carry you everywhere you need to go."
"That seems impractical."
"I don't care about practical. I care about you. I care about you not falling off things and hurting yourself and making my heart stop."
You smiled, despite the pain radiating from your ankle. "My hero."
"Your very terrified hero who is going to have words with whoever trained that horse. And possibly with the rabbit. If I ever meet that rabbit again, it will regret the day it was born."
"You're going to fight a rabbit?"
"I'm going to do whatever it takes to keep you safe." He pressed his face into your hair. "Even if it means declaring war on small woodland creatures."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm devoted. There's a difference."
You laughed again, softer this time, and felt his arms tighten around you in response.
The ride back to the Red Keep was slow and careful, Valarr's eyes constantly scanning the path ahead for anything that might jostle you. When you finally reached the gates, he was shouting for a maester before the guards could even greet him, lifting you down from the horse with the same impossible gentleness he'd used in the woods.
"Get the Grand Maester," he ordered no one in particular, carrying you through the yard. "Tell him it's an emergency. Tell him my wife is hurt. Tell him—"
"Valarr." You touched his face. "It's just my ankle."
"Just your ankle," he repeated, and his voice broke on the words. "You fell off a horse. You could have broken your neck. You could have—" He couldn't finish.
You didn't try to make him. You just held onto him, letting him carry you through the corridors, letting him shout at servants and guards, letting him be as dramatic and terrified and devoted as he needed to be.
Because that was who Valarr was. He loved you too much, too intensely, too completely. And when something threatened you—even something as small as a startled horse and a twisted ankle—it shattered him.
Later, after the maester had bound your ankle and assured you both that it was a minor sprain that would heal in a few weeks, Valarr sat on the edge of your bed and held your hand.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For not catching you. For letting you fall. For—"
"Valarr." You squeezed his hand. "You couldn't have caught me. It happened too fast."
"I should have been closer. I should have been paying more attention. I was looking at you and I should have been looking at the path, at the horse, at—"
"You were looking at me because you love me."
"Yes, and that love nearly got you killed."
"It got me a sprained ankle. There's a difference."
He looked at you for a long moment, and then—slowly, carefully—he leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours.
"I can't lose you," he whispered again. "I know I'm dramatic. I know I'm too much. But I can't—if something happened to you—I don't know how I'd survive it. You're half of me. You're the best half. You're—"
"I know." You brought your free hand up to cup his cheek. "I know. And I'm not going anywhere. Not today, not tomorrow, not for a long, long time."
He nodded against your forehead, and you felt the wetness of tears again.
"I love you," he said. "I love you so much. Too much. More than is reasonable or sensible or—"
"I love you too." You kissed him, soft and gentle. "Every ridiculous, unreasonable, excessive part of you."
He kissed you back, just as soft, just as gentle.
And when he finally pulled away, he didn't go far. He simply climbed onto the bed beside you, wrapped himself around you as carefully as if you were made of glass, and held on.
"I'm never letting you out of my sight again," he murmured against your hair.
"That seems excessive."
"I don't care."
"You'll have to attend council meetings."
"I'll bring you with me."
"I'll have to bathe."
A pause. "I'll can come too."
You laughed, and felt his arms tighten around you in response.
"I love you," he said again, like he couldn't say it enough. Like he needed to keep saying it to remind himself you were still there.
"I love you too," you answered. "Now let me sleep. The maester said rest."
"Rest," he agreed. "I'll watch."
"You'll sleep too."
"I'll try."
You knew he wouldn't. You knew he'd lie awake, holding you, listening to you breathe, reassuring himself that you were still there, still alive, still his. But that was alright. That was Valarr.
The first few days of your confinement were almost pleasant.
Valarr barely left your side. He brought you breakfast in bed, fed you grapes with the solemnity of a maester administering medicine, read to you from books of poetry and history and once, memorably, from a treatise on horse breeding that he'd grabbed by mistake. He held your hand while you slept, kissed your forehead every time you woke, and generally behaved as if your sprained ankle was the most serious injury in the history of Westeros.
You loved every moment of it.
By day four, however, the world began to intrude.
"It's just a council meeting," you said, for the third time, as Valarr paced beside your bed like a caged animal.
"A council meeting," he repeated bitterly. "While you lie here, wounded, in pain—"
"My ankle barely hurts anymore."
"—suffering in silence, being brave for my sake—"
"Valarr, I'm reading a book."
He stopped pacing to look at you, and for a moment his expression was so tragic that you almost laughed. Almost. You'd learned by now that laughing at his dramatics only encouraged him.
"I'll be gone for hours," he said. "Hours. Without you. While you're here, alone, needing me—"
"I won't be alone. I have your pillow."
He considered this. "That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
"It's not funny at all." But the corner of his mouth twitched, just slightly, and he came to sit on the edge of the bed. "I hate leaving you."
"I know."
"I hate everything that takes me away from you. Council meetings. Meals. The need to breathe air that isn't yours."
"That last one seems medically necessary."
"Debatable." He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, a gesture so familiar now that you couldn't remember a time before it. "I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll sit through every boring report and every tedious argument and every moment I'll be thinking of you. Counting the minutes until I can return."
"I'll be here."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He kissed you—soft, lingering, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your lips—and then he was gone, and you were alone with your book and your pillow and the warm glow of being loved by someone who loved you entirely too much.
The small council chamber had never felt so much like a tomb.
Valarr sat in his usual place, staring at the table, seeing nothing. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was droning on about something—watch rotations, perhaps, or the need for additional men at the gates—and Valarr heard approximately none of it.
He was thinking about you.
Were you comfortable? Had the servants brought you lunch? Did you need more pillows? Had anyone remembered to stoke the fire? You always got cold in the afternoons, even when the rest of the castle was warm, and if you were cold and he wasn't there to warm you—
"Valarr."
He blinked. His father, Prince Baelor, was looking at him from across the table with an expression of long-suffering patience.
"Yes, Father?"
"The Master of Coin asked for your opinion on the matter of the new tariffs."
Tariffs. Right. There were tariffs. He should have an opinion about them. He opened his mouth, prepared to say something—anything—but what came out was:
"Do you think she's warm enough?"
Baelor closed his eyes.
"The princess," Valarr continued, because now that he'd started he couldn't stop. "Her ankle. She gets cold in the afternoons. I told the servants to keep the fire going, but what if they forgot? What if she's lying there, cold and alone and in pain, and I'm not there to—"
"Valarr."
"—hold her, to warm her, to make sure she's alright. She fell off a horse, Father. A horse. She could have been killed. She could have—"
"She sprained her ankle."
"It's a serious injury!"
"It's a sprain. The maester said she'll be fine in a few weeks."
"A few weeks during which she is bedbound and suffering and I am here, discussing tariffs." He said the word like it personally offended him. "Tariffs. While my wife lies wounded."
The Master of Coin cleared his throat. "Shall I continue with the report, or—"
"No one is continuing with anything until my son stops looking like a man attending his own funeral." Baelor rubbed the bridge of his nose "Son. I need you to listen to me."
Valarr tried to focus on his father's face. It was difficult. Your face kept appearing in his mind instead.
"Your wife is fine," Baelor said firmly. "She is warm, she is comfortable, and she is being attended by half the servants in the Keep because you have made it clear that her comfort is your highest priority. She does not need you to stare at a wall and worry about her. She needs you to participate in this council so we can finish and you can go back to her."
This was... actually reasonable.
"I can go back to her? When we're done?"
"When we're done. Which will be sooner if you stop asking about her warmth and start offering opinions on tariffs."
Valarr straightened in his seat. "Right. Tariffs. I have opinions."
"Excellent. Share them."
He shared them. They were not particularly informed opinions—he'd been too busy thinking about you to read the briefing materials—but he shared them anyway, and the meeting continued, and slowly the minutes began to pass.
But his mind never fully left you.
He wondered if you were reading. He wondered if you'd finished the book you'd started yesterday. He wondered if you missed him, even half as much as he missed you. He wondered if your ankle hurt, if you needed more pillows, if the fire was still going, if—
"Valarr." His father again.
"Yes?"
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"Looking like a kicked puppy. We're almost done. Two more items, and then you can go."
Two more items. He could survive two more items.
He thought.
The meeting dragged on for another hour.
By the end, Valarr had contributed exactly three useful comments, spent approximately fifty minutes thinking about you, and developed a new appreciation for the phrase "death by boredom." He was out of his chair before the king had finished speaking, bowing hastily to his grandfather and striding toward the door with the speed of a man being chased.
"Valarr."
He stopped. Turned. His father had followed him into the corridor.
"Walk with me."
It wasn't a request. Valarr fell into step beside Baelor, trying to moderate his pace despite every instinct screaming at him to run.
"She's fine, you know," Baelor said quietly. "Your wife. I checked on her this morning before the meeting."
Valarr blinked. "You did?"
"I did. She was reading, she was comfortable, and she asked me to remind you that you're being ridiculous but that she loves you anyway." A pause. "She also asked me to tell you that the pillow is not an adequate substitute for your presence, which I assume means something to you."
It meant everything to him.
"She said that?"
"She did." Baelor glanced at him, and there was something soft in his eyes—something that looked almost like understanding. "I remember what it was like. When your mother and I were first married. Every moment apart felt like a small death."
Valarr had never heard his father speak of this. He didn't know what to say.
"She's fine," Baelor repeated. "She'll continue to be fine. But I know that doesn't stop the worrying. It never does. So go. Go to her. Hold her. Reassure yourself that she's still there." He clapped Valarr on the shoulder. "But try to focus during the next council meeting, yes? The Master of Coin looked genuinely hurt by your inattention to his tariffs."
Valarr managed a small smile. "I'll try."
"Good. Now go. Before you vibrate out of your skin."
He went.
He burst through the door of your chambers like a man pursued, and there you were—exactly where he'd left you, propped up on pillows, a book in your hands, looking up at him with that familiar warm smile.
"You're back," you said.
"I'm back." He crossed the room in three strides and dropped onto the bed beside you, gathering you into his arms before you could say another word. "I'm back and I'm never leaving again. The council can meet without me. The realm can manage. I'm staying right here."
You laughed softly, your hands coming up to stroke his hair. "The meeting went well, I take it?"
"It was terrible. I thought about you the entire time. Every moment. I kept wondering if you were warm, if you were comfortable, if you needed me. Father had to remind me to pay attention three times."
"Only three? That's better than I expected."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, to drink you in. You looked... fine. More than fine. Your cheeks were pink, your eyes were bright, and there was a book in your lap and a cup of tea on the table beside you.
"You're alright," he breathed.
"I'm alright." You touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw. "I told you I would be."
"I know. I just—I needed to see it. To be sure."
You pulled him down and kissed him, slow and sweet, and he melted into you like he always did. Like you were home and he'd been lost and now, finally, he'd found his way back.
"I love you," he murmured against your lips.
"I love you too." Another kiss. "Even when you're dramatic."
"Especially when I'm dramatic?"
"Don't push your luck."
He laughed—actually laughed, for the first time since leaving you that morning—and settled against your side, his head on your shoulder, his arm around your waist, his body curved around yours like he was trying to shield you from the world.
"How much longer do you have to stay in bed?" he asked.
"A few more days, the maester said. Then I can start putting weight on it."
"A few more days." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. "I can do a few more days."
"You don't have a choice."
"I know." Another kiss. "But I'll be here for every one of them. Every hour. Every minute. Every—"
"Valarr."
"Yes?"
"I know."
He smiled against your skin, content for the first time all day.
And when his father came by that evening to check on you both, he found his son curled around his wife like a dragon guarding its treasure, fast asleep, with a look of utter peace on his face.
Baelor smiled, closed the door quietly, and left them to it.
A few days later…
The solar was quiet, the hour late, and Baelor Targaryen was rubbing the bridge of his nose in a way that had become habit over the past several weeks.
His brother Maekar sat across from him, a cup of wine in hand, watching with an expression that hovered somewhere between amusement and sympathy.
"That bad?" Maekar asked.
"He left the council meeting early today." Baelor's voice was flat. "Again. Claimed his wife needed him."
"Did she?"
"She was reading. Apparently she'd turned a page without him there to witness it, and he felt she shouldn't have to endure such moments alone."
Maekar snorted into his wine.
"It's not funny." But Baelor's lip twitched. "He's been like this since the accident. Worse, actually. Before, he merely talked about her constantly. Now he has to be with her constantly. I found him having breakfast brought to their chambers so they could eat together. As if the servants don't do that."
"He's in love."
"He's obsessed." Baelor leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "I thought it would pass. The intensity. The constant need to be near her. I thought once they were married, once the newness wore off, he'd settle into something more... reasonable."
"And?"
"And it's been nearly a year. The newness should have worn off by now."
Maekar considered this. "They're still newlyweds, in a sense. The first year is—"
"He was like this the moment he met her." Baelor cut him off, fixing his brother with a weary look. "Do you remember? He couldn't stop staring at her. Couldn't stop touching her hand, her shoulder, her hair. I thought he'd calm down once he'd secured her. Instead, he's gotten worse."
Maekar was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully "He loves her."
"He loves her too much."
"Is there such a thing?"
Baelor finally looked at his brother, Maekar's face was carefully neutral, but there was something in his eyes that Baelor recognized. A softness. A knowing.
"You're enjoying this," Baelor realized.
"I'm not."
"You are. You're sitting there, drinking my wine, watching me complain about my son, and you're enjoying it."
Maekar's composure cracked, just slightly. "I may be finding it... mildly entertaining."
"Because your children are monsters."
"My children are spirited."
"Your children have set fires in the throne room. Multiple times. Aerion once tried to eat raw meat. Your eldest has made half the ladies at court cry." Baelor leaned forward, pointing at his brother. "For years, I've listened to you complain. For years, Maekar. And now, finally—finally—it's my son causing the chaos."
Maekar's lip twitched again. "He's not causing chaos. He's just... very devoted."
"He's excessive. He commissioned a locket with her face. Then another. Then a third with both their faces together. He talks to her pillow when she's away. He told me last week that he's learned to recognize her footsteps in the corridor and can tell her mood by how quickly she's walking."
"That's... actually rather sweet."
"I think," Baelor said heavily, "that I have accepted my fate. This is our life now. Valarr will love that girl with every fiber of his being until one of them is in the grave. Possibly beyond. I wouldn't put it past him to find a way to love her in the afterlife."
Maekar was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly "You're happy about it."
Baelor looked at him sharply. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." Maekar set down his wine, crossing his arms. "You're sitting here complaining, but underneath it, you're pleased. Your son loves his wife the way a Targaryen should love, completely, utterly, without reservation. It's excessive, yes. It's dramatic, certainly. But it's real. It's the kind of love that builds dynasties. The kind that songs are written about."
Baelor didn't answer.
"And," Maekar added, a smile tugging at his lips, "for the first time in years, it's not my children causing the family headaches. That alone is worth celebrating."
Summary: You threaten Jiyong that if he doesn’t behave he’s gonna sleep on the couch so he becomes extra clingy
Warnings: None
Word Count: 850
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You’re halfway through fixing his collar when Kwon Ji-yong decides, for reasons unknown to humanity, that standing still is optional.
“Stop moving,” you mutter, tugging the fabric into place again.
“I am still,” he insists, immediately shifting his shoulders like a cat who’s been told not to sit on the keyboard.
You stare at him. Slowly. Very deliberately. He grins that grin that has gotten him out of everything since 2006.
“Ji-yong,” you say, voice sweet in a way that should concern him, “if you don’t behave for the next… let’s say two hours?” A small pause. A tilt of your head. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”
Silence. It lands. You can actually see the moment it hits him, like a cartoon lightbulb flickering… then exploding.
“The couch?” he repeats, offended, scandalized, personally attacked.
“Yes. The couch.”
“That’s not even a real threat,” he scoffs, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. Suspicion. Calculation. Fear, even.
You raise an eyebrow. Don’t say a word. Just reach past him and pick up your phone like the conversation’s over.
He folds in seconds.
“Okay,” he blurts. “Okay. I’ll behave.”
You hum. Noncommittal. You’ve been here before.
Five minutes later, he’s perfect. Too perfect. Standing still. Quiet. Watching you like you might revoke his human rights at any second.
You narrow your eyes. “Why are you being weird?”
“I’m not,” he says quickly. “I’m just… respectful.”
That word doesn’t belong in his mouth like this.
You finish adjusting his outfit anyway, brushing imaginary lint off his shoulder. “We’ll see.”
The event is packed. Cameras flashing like tiny lightning storms, voices overlapping into one long, shimmering buzz.
And Ji-yong? He’s Attached.His hand in yours, fingers laced tight enough to feel like a promise. His arm sneaking around your waist any chance it gets. At one point he literally rests his chin on your shoulder mid-conversation with someone important, like he forgot you exist in public spaces too.
You lean back slightly. “You’re being obvious.”
“We’re public,” he murmurs, not even a little ashamed.
“That’s not the point.”
He squeezes your hand. “I’m just… appreciating you.”
You turn your head just enough to catch his expression. There’s a softness there. And something else. Something suspiciously like strategy.
“You’re scared of the couch,” you whisper.
“I am not scared of the couch,” he whispers back, immediately pulling you a little closer.
You let out a quiet laugh. “You totally are.”
“Mm,” he hums, resting his cheek briefly against your hair. “But I’m not sleeping on it.”
It doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets worse.
During photos, his hand never leaves your back. During conversations, he drifts closer until your sides touch. At one point, he literally interrupts someone mid-sentence just to ask if you’re cold and then drapes his jacket over your shoulders like a man trying to secure his future.
“You’re overcompensating,” you tell him under your breath.
“I’m being affectionate.”
“You’re being strategic.”
He smiles. Slow. Unrepentant. “Both can be true.”
By the time you get home, the adrenaline has worn off and the quiet settles in like a blanket.
You barely make it through the door before he’s right there again, arms wrapping around you from behind.
“You did good tonight,” you say, kicking off your shoes.
“I always do good,” he replies, but he presses his face into your shoulder anyway, voice softer now. “But I did extra good.”
You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “You did.”
A beat.
“…So no couch?” he tries.
You pretend to think about it. Long enough to make him sweat.
“No couch,” you decide.
The relief is immediate. Visible. He actually exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours.
“Thank God,” he mutters, pulling you closer like you might change your mind.
Later, in bed, it becomes a problem. You’re lying on your back, staring at the ceiling, while Ji-yong has somehow… migrated. Half on top of you. One leg thrown over yours, an arm wrapped around your middle, his face tucked into your neck like you’re a very comfortable pillow he refuses to share.
“Ji-yong,” you mumble. “I can’t breathe.”
“You’re fine,” he murmurs, already half-asleep.
“I’m being crushed.”
He shifts. For a second, you think he’s going to move. He doesn’t. If anything, he settles more. Dead weight now. Fully committed. You huff out a laugh despite yourself, one hand coming up to run through his hair.
After a minute, you sigh and let your head turn toward him, pressing a light kiss to his temple. “Goodnight, you menace.”
Nothing. He’s out. Completely.
And somehow, despite the fact that you’re pinned under a human blanket with questionable circulation, you don’t mind all that much.
xavier baxter is really the character of all time. like. he’s a high school slacker archetype. he was accused of murdering his girlfriend. his favorite movie is dirty dancing. he can see ghosts. he’s a terrible boyfriend. he’s the world’s most supportive ex boyfriend. he tried to spill salt on a ghost to exorcise them. his online username is shredhead. he was hit by a car and died for a few minutes. his dad is the sheriff and he loves to break and enter. he’s scared of hospitals. he makes bird noises to alert his friends of danger. he’s never once had the brain cell. he has unnervingly blue eyes. he definitely has brain damage. he’s uncomfortable in the morgue but hangs out there with his ex girlfriend’s dad. he has a thing for strong women. he’s trying to be a better person. he’s smarter than he gives himself credit for.
huge fan of the differences in the plots this season because it was like:
nicole, xavier, and claire plotline: i’m going to infiltrate the mean girls! i’m going to volunteer at the hospital! i’m going to reconnect with my finnish roots! oh no i got really drunk/met a new bodysnatched ghost/can't read finnish as well as i speak it!
cregan stark x velaryon!reader slight harwin strong x velaryon!reader
SUMMARY: You were Driftmark’s golden child — eldest daughter of Lord Corlys, best friend to Rhaenyra.But when your father tried to marry you to your brother, you vanished. Fled north. Found warmth in Cregan Stark’s arms — and gave him four children. Years later, you return.
Snow pressed thick and endless against the tall windows, muting the world in white. Within the hearth room, warmth bloomed like an ember from the stone walls, the air tinged with pinewood smoke and the faint sweetness of baked apples.
Maerys was in your lap, boneless with sleep, arms curled around your forearm as your fingers gently combed through his pale hair. He smelled like milk and snow, warm from the bath, his small breaths puffing softly against your wrist. You shifted your hold now and then to keep him upright, but he refused to let go of you completely.
Lucerys—Cer—was sprawled on his stomach by the fire, elbows planted on a fur pelt, his long legs kicking idly as he whittled at the edge of a toy boat with a blunt knife. He muttered under his breath, naming imagined ports and battles, eyes narrowed in focus.
Benjen was crouched on the opposite side of the hearth, dark hair falling into his eyes as he built a crooked wall of wooden blocks and stones. Every few minutes, he’d glance toward Lucerys’s ship and place another “arrow” rock between them, as if preparing for siege.
Nyra, your baby girl, had made a nest of Cregan’s discarded black cloak in the corner, clutching a wooden direwolf doll in one fist, her curls a messy halo. She babbled now and then—her own little tongue, lost to everyone but her—and once in a while, she called softly for her father. “Pa-pa…”
You rocked Maerys slightly as he began to drift, humming something low and lilting. The lullaby wasn’t Northern. It wasn’t truly Velaryon, either. You didn’t remember where you learned it—only that it helped on nights when silence pressed too tight against your chest.
The fire hissed, casting gold and shadow across the stone floor.
Then Cer broke the stillness.
“Have you ever seen a storm from a ship?”
Your hand stilled in Maerys’s hair.
He didn’t look at you. He was watching the small wooden boat in his hand, turning it slowly between his fingers like something sacred. “I think I dream about it sometimes. Waves bigger than towers. Sky black as ink. The sails snapping like wings.”
You didn’t answer.
You never talked about the sea.
Never about Driftmark.
Never about who you were before you found the North.
But Cer—your Cer—was born with salt in his blood. You could feel it in the way he moved, the way he longed for things he’d never seen. It lived in him, the way it once lived in you.
Benjen huffed from his side of the hearth. “Ships are stupid. They can’t go through snow.”
Cer didn’t even blink. “They don’t need to. The sea has no walls.”
Nyra babbled louder at that, crawling in circles with her doll until she tipped backward into a heap of giggles.
Maerys stirred slightly in your arms. You kissed the crown of his head.
Then the knock came—two soft raps on the door.
The warmth bled out of your chest.
The maester entered with a gust of snow, his boots tracked with frost. He bowed deeply, holding out a scroll sealed in deep blue wax.
The sea-horse.
Unmistakable.
Unwelcome.
“From the south, my lady,” he said gently. “Marked from Driftmark.”
The word pierced something in your chest. You hadn’t heard it aloud in over a decade.
Cer’s head rose like a tide drawn by instinct.
“What’s Driftmark?” he asked, brows furrowed.
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t—not yet. You took the scroll with your free hand, your grip tightening slightly around Maerys as he stirred again.
You stared at the seal.
You had fled this once. Escaped it.
Now it had found you anyway.
You broke the wax.
“Word travels fast, even to the black depths of the North.
Is it true? A Stark? A brood of bastards?
You defied me once, and I let you live.
You fled, and I allowed the realm to believe you dead.
You shamed your blood, and I turned away.
But now you parade my disgrace through snow and dirt—spawned of a wolf, raised among howling heathens.
Come home.
Bring the children.
Or I will come for them myself.”
The silence afterward was total.
Benjen stood slowly, stepping closer.
Cer turned on his knees to face you. “Who wrote that?”
You didn’t speak.
The letter curled slightly in your hand, ink still sharp, like the sea had come to scold you personally.
“Who is it from?” Cer asked again.
Maerys stirred again in your lap, muttering sleepily. Nyra crawled across the floor to you with a grunt, clutching your skirts.
You looked up—and found Cregan standing in the doorway.
He hadn’t announced himself. He never needed to.
His eyes went straight to the scroll, then to your face.
You said nothing. You didn’t have to.
He crossed the room, slowly, eyes hard, and took the letter from your hand. You let him. He read it once, his jaw working.
And then he looked at your sons—at Cer, still waiting for your answer.
“He’s your grandfather,” you said at last. Voice steady. Quiet. Like an oath held too long in the mouth.
Cer’s eyes widened. “But… you said we didn’t have family in the South.”
You looked down at Maerys. Still sleeping. Still innocent.
And you whispered, “That was a lie I told to keep you safe.”
The fire had burned down to red coals by the time the keep went still.
The children had long since drifted to sleep—Benjen curled like a pup at the foot of your bed, Lucerys upstairs in the old solar where he insisted the wind sounded like waves, Maerys with one hand tangled in your braid before you’d laid him down. Even little Nyra, who never went quietly, had given in after a long hour of rocking.
Now, in the hush of the late hours, only the fire breathed.
You sat near it, legs drawn up beneath your dressing gown, your eyes fixed on the last curl of smoke twisting into the rafters. The scroll lay open again on the table. You had reread it after the children were asleep, not because you needed the words again—but because you knew them by heart. You’d felt them in your bones long before your father had ever put ink to page.
Cregan stepped into the room silently, though you’d known he was there—felt him outside the door. He never pressed, but he always lingered.
He crossed to the table, poured two cups of mulled wine, and handed you one. You took it, fingers brushing his.
“Are you angry with me?” you asked quietly.
He didn’t answer right away. Cregan never rushed words. He moved to sit beside you, lowering himself to the edge of the couch with that quiet steadiness you had once mistaken for coldness. Now you knew it was care. Control. A man who had learned to feel deeply without letting it fracture him.
“I’m not angry,” he said finally.
You nodded, but didn’t believe it.
“I knew he wouldn’t call me back unless something was happening,” you murmured. “He let me disappear. But now… now there’s something he needs.”
Cregan’s jaw tensed. He stared into his cup like it might tell him something useful. “He saw the children.”
“He heard about them,” you said. “That’s enough. A silver-haired boy, nearly eleven. A northern wolf among them. A girl with my mother’s mouth. I don’t think he cares who raised them. He just wants them close.”
“And if he means to name Lucerys something he isn’t?” Cregan’s voice was quiet, but taut with warning. “If he sees him not as your son, but as something else—some heir he can shape into a Velaryon lord?”
“Then he’ll learn,” you said softly, “that the boy already has a father.”
Cregan looked at you, finally.
And nodded once.
“We’ll leave in the morning,” he said. “Before the snows rise again. I’ll take six men—no banners, but steel if needed.”
You rested your head against his shoulder. “It won’t be needed.”
His arm wrapped around you slowly, the way he always touched you—deliberate, protective. You leaned into the warmth of him, into the smell of pine, leather, and the hearth that had become your home.
“I want you to stay calm,” you whispered. “Even if he says something that—”
“He will.”
“But I need you to let me handle him.”
Cregan didn’t respond right away. He exhaled through his nose.
“You ran from him once,” he murmured.
“I’ll walk to him now. And that will sting more.”
𓆝⎯⎯⎯༺𓆡༻⎯⎯⎯𓆝
The trees thinned the farther south you rode. The thick, ice-heavy evergreens of the North gave way to bare, skeletal birch and open stretches of damp fields. The air lost its bite. The wind no longer howled through your furs. The snow became slush.
The children traveled ahead in a covered wagon, bundled together with thick pelts and furs. Lucerys rarely sat still—he’d taken to riding a pony beside the wagon, eyes always fixed on the sky or the horizon, as if he were searching for something just out of reach. Benjen asked questions every hour. About roads. About lords. About which animals ate horses. Cregan answered him patiently, though his mood grew quieter the farther they went.
Maerys and Nyra napped between stories and bumps in the road, their cheeks flushed from the cold. Maerys didn’t understand the journey. Nyra didn’t need to. She had you, and that was enough.
You rode beside Cregan most of the way, silent for the first two days. There wasn’t much to say. You watched the land change. Watched the distance between your present life and your past grow shorter.
By the fourth night, the fields had turned to low hills and coastal winds had begun to scent the air with brine. The horses grew restless beneath you. The children did too.
Lucerys turned in his saddle and asked softly, “Mama… what does Driftmark look like?”
You hesitated.
“It’s stone and salt and sea,” you said finally. “And loud with wind. Always.”
He nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “Will it remember you?”
Cregan, riding just behind, turned toward you at that. You didn’t meet his eyes.
“No,” you said. “But I’ll remember it.”
The land was changing.
You hadn’t spoken the words aloud, but your body knew it before your eyes could confirm it.
The trees had thinned over the past day—no longer the tall stoic pines of the North, but scraggly twisted oaks with bare limbs and salt-wind scars. The air had grown damp, heavy, the wind tinged with something you hadn’t smelled in ten years. It came like a ghost. Like breath in your ear.
Salt.
The sea was near.
And suddenly, you couldn’t breathe.
You sat rigid in the wagon, your hands clenching the edge of the seat as your lungs fought against themselves. A soft wheeze slipped through your throat. Not loud. But enough.
Your vision blurred. Not from panic, not entirely—something older. Something bone-deep. Like your body had never truly forgotten what it meant to return.
You were coming home.
No.
You were coming back.
Home was elsewhere now.
Nyra stirred in your lap.
She had grown tired of toddling about and had climbed into your arms earlier, settling against your chest like she’d done as an infant. Now she tightened her small fists into the collar of your cloak, her head tucking beneath your chin. You hadn’t even realized you’d started shaking until her warmth pressed steady against you.
The wind shifted again, bringing a stronger gust from the southeast. It carried it all—brine, rotting kelp, seagull cries, fish guts, old wood, rope, the stinging tang of a world that once belonged to you.
Your eyes welled.
Not from fear. Not even grief. From something you couldn’t name. You pressed your mouth shut, jaw clenched.
Cer noticed first.
He rode just ahead, upright in his saddle, silver-blond hair tousled by the breeze. The moment the wind shifted, he stiffened. He sniffed at the air, his brows furrowing. You watched as he paused, half-turning in the saddle, gaze scanning the low hills ahead.
He felt it, too.
The blood in him knew it.
And then he looked back—his eyes meeting yours over the shoulder of the wagon. He blinked once. His expression changed, confused, cautious.
“Mama?” he asked softly. “Are you… are you okay?”
Your lips parted. You tried to speak. But nothing came.
Cregan reined in beside the wagon at once, his eyes sweeping from Cer to you. He didn’t ask. He only watched. Watched your shoulders tense, your knuckles whitening around the wood. Watched your head bow slightly, as though the weight of something ancient had suddenly found your neck.
“I’m fine,” you rasped
Cregan didn’t believe you. Neither did Cer.
But they didn’t push.
Nyra shifted again, whimpering against your chest, as if sensing the change in your breath. You soothed her automatically, hand running over her dark curls.
The road ahead curved around a wide hill—and then broke into a view that stole what little air you had left.
The coastline.
There it was.
The first sliver of it—gray and endless and cold, rising beyond the cliff’s edge. The waves churned with a dull roar in the distance, white-tipped and violent. The horizon was a soft bruise of blue and smoke.
You turned your face to the wind, eyes half-closed.
The sea remembered you.
And you hated that some part of you remembered it back.
Cer rode closer to the wagon now, his eyes never leaving your face.
“I’ve seen this place before,” he said under his breath. “I think… in dreams.”
You closed your eyes.
“Then forget them.”
He frowned. “But—”
“Forget them, Lucerys,” you whispered, sharp as flint.
That silenced him.
Cregan said nothing, but his hand reached across the wagon, steadying against your shoulder. You didn’t shrug him off.
You let it ground you.
Because the road was turning again. The wagon creaked. The children shifted.
Driftmark was no longer far.
And your father, the sea, your bloodline—it was all waiting.
𓆝⎯⎯⎯༺𓆡༻⎯⎯⎯𓆝
The sea was quieter here.
That was the first lie it told you.
It should have been thrashing, howling, crashing against the stone like it remembered what you did—how you left, how you didn’t look back. But instead it moved in slow rhythm beneath the docks, as if it, too, was holding its breath.
The ship eased into the harbor just after dusk. No trumpets. No banners. Just the creak of wood, the whisper of gulls, and the sound of your past returning with the tide.
They were already waiting.
You saw them lined up along the dock—your father standing at the center, flanked by your siblings like a gallery of ghosts. His back was straight, arms clasped behind him, chin lifted high. Time had not bent him, only polished him sharper. The Sea Snake, ever unyielding.
To his left stood Laenor, hands stiff at his sides. He wore Driftmark’s formal cloak, silver and pale blue trimmed in black, a blade strapped to his hip. He looked every bit the second son trained to lead—except for the way he watched you.
Not with certainty.
But with disbelief.
His mouth was parted slightly. His brows drawn in. He didn’t blink.
And beside him—Laena.
Taller than you remembered. Her hair, once tangled and wild from cliffside rides, was now braided like a lady of the court. But there was something trembling in her posture, something too raw to be regal. She gripped her hands before her as if to keep from running.
Your youngest brother stood closest to your father, barely grown into his manhood. He looked the most afraid of them all.
And still, they waited.
Like statues.
Like mourners.
Cregan stood behind you on the ship’s deck, holding Nyra in one arm, Maerys bundled at his side. Lucerys and Benjen were quiet for once, crowded at the rail, both watching the shore with wide, unreadable eyes.
Your fingers curled tightly around the edge of the railing. You were still. Too still.
The gangplank lowered.
And no one moved.
No one breathed.
Then, your father—ever the general—took a single step forward. He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t shout. He simply placed a hand on Laenor’s shoulder and nudged him forward.
The gesture was small, but it struck something deep in you.
And in Laenor, it shattered everything.
He stumbled, slightly off-balance, and his feet carried him forward with the clumsy half-steps of a man walking through a dream. His mouth opened, closed. His jaw trembled.
You stepped down the gangplank slowly, one hand gathering your cloak to keep it from the wind. The sea air caught your hair, pulled at it, tangled it like seaweed. Your boots struck the wood with slow, steady force. And still, Laenor couldn’t speak.
He stopped five paces from you.
And then it cracked out, hoarse and full of too many years:
“Sea-Star…?”
The nickname cleaved through you like lightning.
You staggered. That voice. That name. Gods.
He used to whisper it when you swam too far from shore, when you dove into waves taller than his courage. “My Sea-Star,” he used to call you. “My wave-runner. The moon of the tide.”
It was your secret name.
You laughed, just once—shocked and winded—and stepped off the gangplank, the boards groaning under your boots. You meant to walk.
But he ran.
Laenor reached you before your next step and caught you in his arms like he’d been chasing you for a decade. He didn’t stop. He lifted you, hands under your ribs, spinning you once, laughing wetly into your neck, disbelief choking him.
“Sea-Star…!” he gasped again, voice shaking. “You came back. You’re here. You’re—by the gods, you’re real.”
He set you down only to wrap his arms around your shoulders again, clinging like a man drowning, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
You held him back just as fiercely.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered, over and over. “I thought—I buried you, and I kept you buried. But I prayed. I prayed every time I saw a silver gull, every time I looked at the sea. I never stopped calling your name in my dreams.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking. “Laenor, I’m so sorry. I wanted to stay—I wanted to—but I couldn’t—”
“I don’t care,” he said, pulling back just enough to look at your face. His hands cupped your cheeks, his thumbs trembling as they brushed away tears neither of you noticed falling. “I don’t care why. You’re here. That’s all.”
You nodded, forehead pressed to his.
And for a long, impossible breath, it was just the two of you again.
The world around you blurred.
Then the moment shattered again.
A soft sob broke from behind you—and you turned to see Laena, moving faster now. Her shoes skidded on the dock. Her voice was breathless, broken by joy and years of waiting.
“I’ve kept her!” she cried. “Tessarion—your dragon—she’s safe! I flew her—I fed her—I knew! I told them you weren’t dead!”
“Laena—?”
You barely got her name out before she collided with you, arms wrapping around your waist. She smelled like sea salt and lavender, like home and heartache. You caught her around the shoulders, pressing your cheek to her hair, overwhelmed.
“I promised her you’d come back,” Laena whispered. “I promised. Every night I flew her, I said your name. I swore she’d see you again.”
You couldn’t breathe.
Tessarion.
You hadn’t dared dream of her.
But Laena had. Laena believed when you couldn’t.
You tightened your grip on her.
“I’m here,” you whispered. “You did so well, little sister. You kept her for me. Thank you.”
Behind you, your younger brother cried silently. He hadn’t moved, but his shoulders shook. He looked at you like a little boy again—like you were a story come to life.
And across the dock, Cregan waited.
He didn’t interrupt.
He knew this was yours.
And he would wait until the tide turned again.
The dock was full of sound now—Laena still pressed against your waist, Laenor clinging to your shoulders, your youngest brother sniffling into the crook of his elbow. The ship creaked behind you. Cregan stood silent just beyond the railing, Nyra nestled into his chest, eyes wide at the chaos.
But all of it fell away when your father stepped forward.
Lord Corlys Velaryon walked with the weight of his legend—unrushed, unbowed, his cloak trailing like smoke behind him. The guards didn’t follow. Your siblings didn’t move. They parted for him, as they always had.
And when he stopped in front of you, the silence returned.
He stood there, eyes scanning your face—those same sharp sea-glass eyes you inherited, though yours had grown softer with motherhood, with winters, with love. His expression didn’t crack. His mouth didn’t tremble.
But his eyes…
Gods, his eyes.
You stood straight, shoulders square, refusing to flinch. And still, next to him, you felt small again. Small in the way only a daughter can when facing the man who once named every tide after her.
He reached out—slowly, reverently—and placed a weathered hand against your cheek.
His palm was warm. Calloused. Familiar.
Your breath caught.
For a single moment, you were a girl again—salt in your braids, riding Tessarion at sunrise, chasing crabs with Laenor, climbing into your father’s lap during storms because the wind didn’t dare touch you there.
You swallowed hard, eyes burning.
Your fingers rose to grip his wrist—not to stop him, not to break away. Just to make sure he was real.
“Father?” your voice cracked, quiet and raw.
His face finally shifted. Not with sorrow, but with something deeper. With awe. His thumb brushed the line of your jaw.
“Our Sea-Star,” he said, voice like sand and silk, low and reverent.
And then he smiled.
Not the cold, courtly curve of a lord.
A father’s smile.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, and you could feel his hand tighten as his voice broke. “Gods, I’ve missed you, my sweet moon.”
You choked on a sob.
And for the first time in ten years, you let yourself fall forward—not as a woman, not as a mother, not as a lady—but as his daughter.
He caught you.
His arms were stronger than you remembered, holding you as though he could anchor you again, tether you to the shore before you disappeared once more. He held your head to his chest, and you could feel his heart pounding beneath the heavy velvet.
He was not a perfect man.
But in this moment—he was only your father.
And you were his lost girl come home.
Your father’s arms were wrapped around you, and for a long, breathless moment, you let yourself disappear in them—just as you had as a girl, small and untouchable, when the world was nothing more than waves and wind and the thunder of Tessarion’s wings above the cliffs. His chest was solid beneath your cheek, his scent familiar even after all this time—sea salt and spiced leather, iron and old wood. The Sea Snake. Your father.
He had called you his Sea-Star again.
He had said your name like a man pulling a ghost from the tide.
And you wept. Not loudly. Not broken. But openly, quietly—like rain sliding down a hull after the storm has passed.
Until—
“Mama!”
The cry cracked through the air, loud and sharp and shrill with panic.
You turned on instinct, spinning out of your father’s arms.
Benjen.
Still standing at the top of the ship’s gangway, eyes wide with horror, his little fists clenched so tightly the seams of his cloak strained. His hair was tousled by the sea breeze, cheeks flushed red with worry.
He moved before anyone could stop him.
“Mama! Are you okay!?”
You let out a breathless laugh, still swiping at your face. “Yes, my little wolf!”
But he was already halfway down the ramp, storming down with those determined little legs of his, arms stiff, brows drawn low.
“No!” he cried, shaking his head fiercely. “You’re lying!”
You blinked, startled. “What?”
He barreled toward you, face scrunched up with frustration.
“Papa says he hangs men by their cocks when they lie!”
The dock fell into stunned silence.
Your head snapped toward Cregan, who had just begun making his way down behind the children, Nyra balanced on his hip like a bundle of fur and sass. His expression didn’t change—but he stopped moving, one brow twitching upward, jaw tight.
“Cre—!” you gasped, not even finishing the name.
Benjen reached you, his small hands rising to cup your cheeks with surprising gentleness, his voice suddenly soft, shaking. “Mama…”
You bent to him quickly, brushing hair from his brow. “I’m okay, my wolf. I promise. I’m a lady, remember? I don’t have a cock to hang.”
A strangled sound escaped Laena behind you. Laenor let out a short bark of laughter.
Lucerys, now halfway down the gangway behind Cregan, narrowed his eyes.
“Who’s Sea-Star?” he asked, stepping down with slow precision. He moved in front of you without being asked, his slim body planting itself between you and the others—just slightly, just enough to declare that you were his. That he was watching.
Laenor’s laugh deepened, rolling like thunder. “Are you a star from the sea?” Cer teased, amusement in his voice, but something fonder beneath it—curiosity, maybe even recognition.
Before you could answer, your father stepped forward again.
“No,” he said with quiet authority. “She is not a star from the sea.”
He looked to your children now—Lucerys, Benjen, and even sleepy Maerys being carried by a handmaid.
“She is the greatest gift the sea has ever given me.”
Lucerys turned slightly, eyeing your father with a mix of suspicion and awe.
Benjen pressed his forehead into your side, still holding tight to your sleeve. His worry had softened, but not vanished. Not yet.
Laenor knelt slowly, as though moved by a force outside of himself. His gaze fell to Nyra—still curled in Cregan’s arms, her thumb tucked in her mouth, blinking owlishly at the new world around her.
His voice cracked. “Are they—are they yours?”
The question hung heavy in the air.
You swallowed hard, your arm still around Benjen. Cregan said nothing, only looked to you.
Laenor’s eyes stayed on Nyra.
He reached out, just enough for her to blink at him, just enough for her little fingers to curl around one of his.
“She has your eyes,” he whispered. “All the sea in them. But something else, too.”
“She has the North,” you murmured.
“Laenor,” your father said gently. “These are your blood.”
Laenor looked up at you, like his whole world was trying to reassemble itself. “You have four.”
You nodded. “Four storms I never expected. Four stars I would not trade for the tides.”
You saw the tears in his eyes before he blinked them away
And then he smiled—crooked, unsure, boyish despite the man he’d become.
“Well,” he said, voice rough. “Then I suppose you finally outran me.”
It began with silence.
A hush that swept the coast like the breath before a storm. Even the gulls stilled. You felt it before you heard it—a pull in your gut, a memory stirring where you had buried it. Then—
The scream came.
It split the sky above the sea. Not a roar, not truly. It was grief made sound. Rage and relief tangled in one terrible cry.
Tessarion.
She tore through the clouds like a bolt of skyfire, her blue-scaled body gleaming with sunlit fury. Her wings beat down in enormous gusts, kicking up sand and salt. A stream of blue flame twisted from her jaws, harmless but dazzling, lighting the sky like a comet.
You staggered back a step, heart thundering.
Cregan was already moving.
The children panicked instantly.
“WE’RE GONNA DIE!” Benjen hollered, flinging himself away from the guards. He slipped, scrambled, kicked his feet furiously as he galloped down the slope from the ship. “Mama, run! She’s got glowing eyes and DEAD TEETH!”
Lucerys moved in front of you before you could stop him, blade drawn—not a toy now, not to him. His hands trembled slightly, but his body was steady, chin lifted, legs braced like he meant to face her down. “Get behind me,” he said tightly.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Tessarion was closer now, so close her screech set the docks vibrating.
Cregan stepped forward like a storm. He didn’t shout. He didn’t ask questions. He drew his sword in one fluid motion, placing himself half a step behind Lucerys, blade raised and steady. His entire body tensed as he watched the dragon descend. He wasn’t panicking—he was calculating.
“Fall back!” he barked to the guards. “Protect the children!”
Benjen screamed again, flinging his arms wide as he spun toward you. “Mama! Don’t let her eat your bones! Papa, kill it!”
“She’s not going to eat me,” you whispered.
But no one heard you over the wind.
Tessarion landed in a spray of seawater and sand. Her claws carved trenches into the beach as her wings arched, casting you in their long, dark shadow. Her body rippled with heat. Her tail coiled. She let out a low, vibrating roar.
Everyone flinched.
Before anyone could react, he broke from the others in a sprint—sword drawn, voice thunderous. “NO!”
“Wait—Cregan—” you gasped, reaching for him.
But your father stepped in front of him. “Stay your blade—”
Cregan shoved him aside with a grunt. “Move, old man!”
Your mouth fell open.
Never had you heard that voice from him before—frightened. Furious. Something deeper than battle. Something primal.
Your children were screaming.
Benjen nearly tripped over his own boots, scrambling down the dock, cloak flapping behind him like a banner of doom. “THE SERPENT IS GONNA KILL MAMA! PAPA! KILL IT! DO SOMETHING!”
And Lord Corlys—your father—stood stock still, lips parted in awe.
“Benjen,” he muttered under his breath, gaze never leaving the dragon, “if she wanted to eat someone, she’d start with the loudest.”
“I AM the loudest!” Benjen roared in triumph, eyes wild with panic.
“Benji, stop—!” Laena tried, but he twisted free.
Lucerys darted in front of you again, raising his blade with both hands. “Stay back, mama, she’s too fast—she’s going to attack!”
But you didn’t stop.
You stepped forward.
“Mother….”
Tessarion’s great body struck the earth with a violent grace—massive claws carving lines through stone, her breath steaming in the cool air. Her head swung side to side, frenzied, searching. And when her eyes found yours…
Everything stilled.
Her wings dropped slightly. Her breathing slowed.
And then she moved—charging toward you with a low, keening growl that made the world itself tremble.
Cregan roared your name.
He ran faster.
But you didn’t flinch.
You whispered her name. Her true name, the one she’d known since hatching. Your hand lifted, fingers trembling. “Zokla nykeā…”
Tessarion’s massive head bowed and lunged—her jaws closing not on your body, but your cloak.
She yanked.
You gasped, feet leaving the earth.
And then the sky took you.
Cregan reached the edge of the dock just as you vanished into the air. His sword dropped from his hand.
“No—no—come back,” he growled, voice raw. “Come back to me.”
He didn’t see the awe on everyone else’s faces.
Not Laenor, mouth agape.
Not Laena, eyes wide with astonishment.
Not Lord Corlys, who staggered one step forward and whispered, “She remembers…”
Cregan only saw you, dangling helplessly from your dragon’s mouth, lifting higher and higher, too high—
“She’s gonna drop her!” Benjen wailed. “The serpent’s gonna EAT HER IN THE CLOUDS!”
“She’s not going to eat her, Benji,” Lucerys muttered, trying to sound brave though his voice cracked. “She’s her dragon.”
“Then why’s she flying up to the gods?!”
“I don’t know!”
“Papa, DO SOMETHING!”
Cregan could do nothing but stare, jaw clenched, every instinct screaming to act—but there was no sword, no battle that could win this. This was beyond the North. Beyond men. This was hers.
Up above, Tessarion let go.
You fell.
There was no scream. No panic. You tilted in the air like a ribbon loosed from a child’s hand, arms spread wide, wind roaring in your ears.
And you smiled.
“NO MAMA CAN’T SWIM!! SHE’S GONNA DIE” Benjen cried out
You had forgotten what it felt like—to trust the fall. To belong to the air.
The sea opened beneath you.
You plunged into the water like a stone.
And there, in the hush of the depths, memory swallowed you.
Salt burned your lungs. Your eyes. But your body relaxed.
You had dreamed of this.
You remembered being twelve, clinging to Tessarion’s back while she swam through the reef, her coils brushing coral and sunken stone. You remembered her humming beneath the surface, a sound you felt in your bones. You remembered whispering your fears to her snout under the moonlight, while the Keep slept and your world closed in.
She had always come when you called.
You had never called her since.
But now—she came.
Tessarion surged through the dark water like a ribbon of living fire. She twirled beneath you, slow, circling, cautious—afraid if she touched you too soon, you’d vanish again. You opened your arms.
She rose.
Her body curled beneath yours, lifting you carefully.
You broke the surface together in a crash of spray, and she screamed—not in rage, but in reunion.
Above, sunlight pierced the clouds.
She rose with you, wings unfurling wide, water pouring from her sides. You clung to her, chest heaving, tears mixing with seawater.
Your head pressed to her neck. “Tolvi. Tolvi. Nyke daor ēdruta ao… ñuha se.”
She roared again—higher this time. Louder.
Below, the beach stared.
“Sea-Star!! We’re flying!” Laenor shouted from the edge of the deck, his voice breaking with awe and boyish wonder. His mouth was wide open in a grin, eyes locked on you as Tessarion swept across the sky. He lifted both arms, cheering as if you were still children racing dragons down the cliffs. “She’s flying again! She remembered!” His voice cracked, thick with emotion, laughter and tears mixing freely as he called to the heavens, “Sea-Star! You still have wings!”
Benjen collapsed to his knees.
“She’s RIDING it! MAMA’S RIDING THE DEATH LIZARD!”
Cregan didn’t speak.
Didn’t move.
His eyes locked on you, glinting with disbelief and something else—fear.
You were soaring. “Laenor!! We’re Flying!”
Soaked, radiant, alive.
And in that moment, you weren’t his wife, or a mother, or a woman who fled the court.
You were a sea-star returned to the tides.
And you had never stopped shining.
The sand trembled beneath Tessarion’s landing, her weight hitting the earth like a wave crashing against the cliffs. Her wings flared, blue fire still flickering in her throat, as if the sky hadn’t finished letting you go.
You slid from her back with your hair soaked to your spine, your cloak half-torn and dangling from one shoulder. Water pooled around your boots. The wind was still in your lungs. You could barely breathe for how alive you felt.
And then you saw him.
Cregan.
He wasn’t standing like the Lord of Winterfell. Not like the wolf who’d won you, kept you, given you a new name in the quiet halls of the North.
He looked… wrecked.
His face was pale, mouth parted, his sword forgotten in the sand. One step, then two—and then he was running, the muscles in his jaw trembling, his breath shaking with every beat.
“Cregan—”
He didn’t speak. Didn’t stop.
His hands caught your face like he thought you might still vanish—rough palms cupping your cheeks, thumbs trembling as they swept across your wet skin.
His brow furrowed, his voice cracked. “What have you done to me?”
You blinked at him. “Cregan—”
“What have you done?” he repeated, lower now, eyes bright and furious and broken. “I have fought battles. I have buried brothers. I have watched kingdoms fall. And I have never—” His breath broke. “Never felt the kind of fear I felt when I saw her take you.”
Your lips parted.
“I saw her jaws open, and I thought that was it,” he whispered, voice like gravel. “I thought I would have to raise our children with nothing but your name in the walls. I thought the sea would keep you. I thought you were gone, and I—” He stopped, shaking his head, his voice catching completely. “I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move.”
Your hand covered his.
His skin was warm. His pulse—racing.
“I’m here,” you whispered.
“You weren’t,” he said again, almost angry. “You weren’t here. Not with me. Not with us. You were in the sky. In her. You left.”
Your eyes welled, and this time the tears didn’t sting—they soothed. Like saltwater that finally knew where to fall.
“I wasn’t leaving you,” you murmured. “I was remembering what I was before.”
His hands slipped from your face and down to your shoulders, then back up again, unable to stop touching you, like he didn’t trust his own eyes.
“I can’t lose you,” he rasped. “I can’t. Do you understand? You’ve become the air I breathe, the bones I stand on. You say your dragon needs to feel that you’re real—I need that too. I need to feel you in my arms or I will lose my fucking mind.”
You closed the distance between you, pressing your forehead to his, his shaking breath warming your lips.
“I would’ve jumped after you,” he whispered. “If your father hadn’t grabbed me, if the gods had loosened their grip—I swear it, I would’ve leapt from that fucking cliff.
You swallowed hard, closing your eyes.
His arms wrapped around you then, tight and trembling, his entire body curling into yours like the storm wasn’t over. You felt his mouth move against your hair, soft curses slipping out between kisses to your temple. The kind of things only men say when they thought they’d never get to say anything again.
“I saw my life end,” he choked. “It wasn’t the fall. It wasn’t the fire. It was the space where you weren’t.”
He just pulled you into him—body, cloak, hair and all—tighter than he ever had. One of his hands slid behind your head, cradling your soaked curls. The other gripped your waist like he needed to feel your pulse under his thumb.
The others stood back.
Even your father turned away, letting the moment be yours.
Only Benjen broke the silence.
He sniffed loudly and said, “So… we’re not all gonna die then?”
Lucerys exhaled hard. “No, Benji.”
“Okay. Okay good. ’Cause I peed a little. Just a little. But mostly it was the sea’s fault.”
Laena giggled softly. The moment cracked just enough to let in sunlight.
But Cregan didn’t let go.
Not yet.
He’d seen you fly. He’d seen what you were before him.
And now he needed to feel that you were still his.
𓆝⎯⎯⎯༺𓆡༻⎯⎯⎯𓆝
The corridors of Driftmark had not changed. The same blue-grey stone, damp with sea breath. The same iron sconces burning low with dragon-forged flame. But the air was thicker now—thick with ghosts, with memory, with the sound of your own heartbeat pounding in your throat as Laenor led you deeper into the hall.
“There’s someone else who wants to see you,” he said gently, hand ghosting your back. His voice was soft, reverent, as though your name had only just been returned to him after years buried at sea
The doors opened.
And there—like a vision conjured from salt and sorrow—stood your mother.
She had aged, but not diminished. Her presence still held the room, her spine straight as a mast, her gown draped in pearls and ocean-dyed silks. But her eyes—Gods, her eyes. They were searching, frantic, as if she feared you might vanish again before she could believe in you.
You didn’t speak.
You walked—no, drifted—to her.
And she folded around you without a word. Her arms locked tight across your shoulders, her fingers threaded through your hair, and she held you like a woman who had mourned her daughter in silence and now didn’t trust the gods to keep their mercy.
“My girl,” she breathed, her voice wrecked. “My sea-star… my first light… my blood.”
You let yourself fall into her. Your chin tucked to her shoulder, your fists curling into her sleeves. You didn’t know when your knees buckled, only that she caught you.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Mother—I should’ve come back sooner, I—”
She pulled away only to cup your face in both hands, thumbs trembling as they stroked your cheeks.
“You came back. That is all that matters. I don’t care why you left. I don’t care what you’ve done. You are mine, and you are here.”
You blinked back tears. She kissed your forehead like you were still a child with skinned knees and sea-brined dreams.
But then the doors behind you opened again.
You turned.
And there she was.
Rhaenyra.
Your Nyra.
She stood just inside the archway, her gown black and red, the Targaryen crest burning at her shoulder. But it was her face that struck you hardest—ashen, stunned, hand clutching the neckline of her gown like she was holding herself together with the last stitch of will.
“Nyra,” you breathed.
She didn’t speak.
Her eyes were glass. Her jaw clenched. Her fists trembled.
And then she moved.
The sound of her hand striking your face was sharp enough to silence the wind.
You staggered—more from shock than pain.
Before you could speak, she raised her hand again—but this time, you caught it, your fingers wrapping tight around her wrist.
She froze. Her chest heaved.
“I—I…” she tried, the words cracking from her throat. “You’re alive.”
You nodded.
Her expression broke. Fury gave way to devastation.
“You promised me!” she sobbed, yanking her hand away. “You said we’d never be apart! You vanished! You let me think you were dead!”
You tried to reach for her again, but she beat her fists against your chest, her voice climbing.
“I mourned you—I lit candles for you—I dreamed of you drowning, of your bones washing up on Blackwater Bay—”
You grabbed her. Held her.
And this time she didn’t fight.
She collapsed against you like a storm broken open.
“I prayed,” she whispered. “Every night. I said your name until it didn’t sound real anymore.”
“I never stopped loving you,” you said, breath trembling against her hair. “I just didn’t know how to live with what they asked of me.”
She nodded once, fiercely. “They tried to marry me off too. But I kept waiting. For you. Maybe, you’ll be there for me!”
You didn’t speak. You just held her.
And then another voice, low and dry from the shadows.
“She wouldn’t let me burn your letters. The ones from your youth.”
You turned your head.
Daemon.
He was leaning against the far column, arms crossed, one brow lifted—but even he couldn’t mask the way his jaw tensed, or how his eyes shone wet before he blinked too quickly.
“We argued about it once,” he said with a sardonic smile. “She wanted to keep them in her sleeve. Carried them into council meetings. Told Viserys they were wards.”
Rhaenyra choked out a laugh that turned into another sob.
Daemon pushed off the wall, approaching slowly. “You’ve aged,” he noted, voice quiet. “But not in the way most do. The North wears well on you.”
You smirked faintly. “The snow scrubs clean.”
His expression softened, rare and unguarded. “Welcome home, Star.”
And then—
The steps behind them stopped.
A shape appeared in the archway.
You knew the walk before your brain caught up to your heart.
Harwin Strong.
He stood motionless, his mouth slightly open, his eyes locked on you like he’d seen a ghost walk out of his own guilt.
He took a step.
Then another.
And suddenly he was in front of you, closer than breath, his hands rising.
He pressed his forehead to yours.
“You white-haired bastard,” he murmured, voice shaking.
A tear slid down his cheek as he let out a ragged laugh. Then he wrapped his arms around you, crushing you to him.
“My star,” he whispered. “Gods… my star.”
You held him. One hand to his shoulder, the other to the back of his neck. You felt his heartbeat against yours like a memory trying to crawl out of your skin.
But behind him—
You could feel it.
The weight of another stare.
Cregan.
Still. Silent. Watching from the upper landing, arms braced on the railing like it was the only thing keeping him from tearing the walls apart. His shoulders were square, but his expression was raw—eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight. Fury and fear danced just beneath the surface, coiled in every line of his body.
And beside him, just a step lower, stood Cer.
Your eldest.
His arms were crossed, one hand resting on the pommel of his blade, eyes like sharpened steel. He didn’t look at you. He looked only at Harwin.
And he did not blink.
You pulled back gently, placing your hand on Harwin’s chest.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
He nodded, lips pressed together. “I thought the sea had taken you.”
You stepped away fully.
“I thought it had too.”
You turned your eyes toward the staircase.
And when your gaze met Cregan’s—he didn’t smile.
He simply breathed.
Like he was remembering how to.
The hall had gone still.
After your words — after the names, the quiet declaration of who you were now and who raised these children — nothing moved except the firelight dancing on the marble floor.
And Cregan?
Cregan didn’t move at all.
He stood at the far end of the hall, near the entryway where the salt winds still whispered in. His boots planted shoulder-width apart. His arms slack at his sides. His expression unreadable — except for the tightness in his jaw and the glint in his eyes, like steel freshly tempered and not yet cooled.
He said nothing.
But gods, he felt like a storm barely held in skin.
The rest of the room tried to shift on.
Harwin, ignoring the burning stare from across the hall, had yet to look away from you. His chest rose and fell hard. His eyes drank you in with something dangerously close to love — or its ghost. He looked at you like the years hadn’t passed. Like you were still his. Like nothing had changed except the weather.
And in his mind, maybe nothing had.
“Mama!”
Benjen’s voice shattered the silence with all the subtlety of a dropped sword.
He barreled from behind Cer, wild curls bouncing, arms flailing as he ran straight for you.
“Mama!” he cried, nearly knocking into your legs. He gripped your cloak and glared dramatically over his shoulder. “Papa’s doing the thing again!”
Your brows lifted. “What thing?”
“The not-breathing, angry-staring, ‘I’m fine’ thing!” Benjen huffed, face scrunching. “He’s doing it!”
“That’s how the steward lost his hand,” Cer said matter-of-factly from where he stood protectively beside Nyra.
Daemon, still leaning lazily on one boot, chuckled darkly under his breath.
“He looked at Mama funny,” Maerys chimed in, his chubby arms now latched confidently around Daemon’s leg like it was the mast of a ship. “He had pirate eyes.”
Daemon raised a brow. “What in the seven hells are pirate eyes?
“Like this,” Maerys said, crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue out sideways in a look so profoundly ridiculous that even Rhaenyra had to bite her lip.
Across the room, Cregan didn’t laugh.
Didn’t smirk. Didn’t speak.
He just stood there — watching. The muscle in his jaw ticking once, twice, and then going still.
But Harwin stepped forward.
He’d never been good at stillness.
His eyes flicked to each of your children — the pale-haired boy with the dagger, the bold one who howled like a cub, the baby girl pressed against your side, and the small dark-haired child now hugging Daemon’s leg like it was a throne.
A hundred thoughts passed behind Harwin’s eyes. You saw them.
But he didn’t ask for permission.
He stepped closer, stopping just in front of you. The firelight kissed the edge of his jaw, and for a moment, it felt like before.
“Star,” he said, voice soft. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You disappeared. You just vanished. Do you know how long I looked for you?”
You didn’t answer.
And still — Cregan said nothing.
Not a step forward. Not a word. He just watched, eyes like winter.
And it hurt.
Because you knew that look. You’d seen it on the edge of the bed when your fever broke. You’d seen it when Benjen first called him “Papa.” You’d seen it when you touched your dragon again.
But this time, he said nothing because he was drowning in it.
Jealousy. Fear. Rage. The knowledge that the man standing close to you had once held the very same place Cregan now did — and for the first time, he couldn’t breathe through it.
He had no claim in this room. No titles here. No blood to bind them to him.
Just you.
And he wouldn’t beg.
Benjen tugged at your skirt again. “Mama,” he said seriously, “should I bite him for you?”
tom knew something had infiltrated the walls of hogwarts. a cool chill had settled over the castle walls, seeping through the cracks of stone and glass. it was october, an unsettling time for magic. it was lively, active even. as if mother magic had the entire wizarding world trembling in her steady hands.
maybe this was why nobody bat an eye when the shadows of hogwarts becane ever so darker. or how the ghosts that roamed the halls began to disappear immediately once an odd chill crept from the great hall.
“it’s october!” everyone would say.
but not tom. he knew better.
and he knew that the steadily growing disappearances of several of his knights were not mere coincidence either.
so when he was face to face with sunken, molten eyes that gleamed of toxic waste, a gaping maw, dripping with crimson and flesh, and long dark nails that tore further into the ribcage of his most trusted minion, he was not truly surprised.
what did surprise him, was the look of utter terror and hatred on the boy’s face, looking at him like he was the monster.
(Synopsis) Your boyfriend and Krypto meet your spoiled super cute doggy. A Pomeranian named Daisy!
Request <3. Masterlist— Bimbo!Reader series. REQUESTS OPEN
"Okay." You're grinning from ear to ear as you carefully and lovingly take your little Pomeranian out of your bag. Clark smiles when he notices the Pomeranian's bow is the same pattern as your dress. Krypto, on the other hand, standing next to Clark forced to behave, lets out a casual bark at the sight of the tiny dog.
Daisy sees a giant dog with a terrible haircare, while Krypto sees a new friend.
"This is Daisy Amber Woods. She's a Sagittarius, although she acts like a total Leo. She's a total drama queen!" You roll your eyes and shake your head. You pull Daisy closer to your cheek. "She likes bubble baths. Her favorite movie is Sleeping Beauty, and she loves us cuddling together before sleeping. Don't you, Daisy?" Daisy replies, licking your cheek, as if she understands.
Clark can't help but smile at the comical image. Your dog is literally you. He could swear the way Daisy's licking your cheek is the same way you plant kisses on your boyfriend's face nonstop when you're cuddling. Clark glances at Krypto, who had promised to behave today.
"This is Krypto," Krypto barks at the sound of his name, scaring Daisy a little. His sticking out tongue and happy eyes remind you a little of your boyfriend. "And he likes... Well, I guess he likes to play a lot."
Daisy is a little princess. She loves sleeping in her pink stuffed bed, being fed salmon bits, and being called "Whoopsie Daisy" while you shower her with kisses.
Krypto is—well, Superman's dog. Literally. He can fly. He can break walls. He'll eat steel if you give it to him. A few hours ago, Clark had the most serious conversation he'd ever had with him. Be good to Daisy.
"Oh! Daisy loves to play too." Daisy is curiously watching Krypto, while Krypto already has his head between your knees so you can put Daisy down so he can see her better. "Sometimes we play dress-up together. That's our favorite game. Besides tennis, although I can't play tennis with her." You pout like it's the saddest thing in the world. Why hasn't anyone thought of inventing something so people can play tennis with their pets? It's your everyday question
You slowly, very carefully, lovingly, and with a lot of affection, put Daisy down on the ground. Daisy stays still for a few seconds in front of Krypto, who is eager to play with her. Krypto gives Daisy the wettest, biggest lick you've ever seen, messing up Daisy's hair.
Daisy is shocked. Who is this huge guy, and how dare he ruin her fur? She just wants to go home and watch an episode of her favorite reality show.
"Krypto— Krypto, stop," Clark tries to stop the dog, he has already apologized to you in advance. while Krypto refuses to take his tongue off the dog twice his size. Krypto, as always, doesn't listen to the man who feeds him.
Krypto follows Daisy everywhere—curious about his new friend. He even takes Daisy's playful bow, and Daisy starts barking at him angrily. But Krypto, in his playful dog mind, thinks they're barks of "You're so fun, Krypto!". You just watch them, almost excited like a little girl, snapping pictures every ten minutes.
You're already planning on buying matching outfits for Krypto and Daisy. No! You'd buy Daisy a Supergirl outfit. She'll look so cute with a red bow and a cap just like the super dog's.
"They look just like you and me!" You giggle to your boyfriend as you show him the last picture you took of Daisy with Krypto—Krypto is tugging at her dog necklace to get her attention. Indeed, they look just like you and Clark. Your dress matches Daisy's bow, and the Superdog cape matches your boyfriend's Superman presence.
Clark asked you if you were sure Daisy liked Krypto. You replied with s "Of course she does, Silly!" While in the background Krypto was playing with his laser vision and Daisy was leading him as fast as her little queen-sized legs could carry her.
You like to rush things. Clark takes things slow until he can’t anymore. (Or, you attempt to seduce your coworker in a series of little skirts, and while Clark falls in love with all of you, the skirts don’t hurt.) 4k words, fem.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
It’s mildly manipulative, what you’re doing to him. Subtle seductions stretched far and wide between weeks of work, your eyes alighting a moment too long on his lips and his neck and his arms.
You don’t flirt. That’s important. You don’t tell him how handsome he looks when the cold has rosed his cheeks. Won’t mention the poor fit of his gray suit, how it’d look far better on a bedroom floor, or draped across a bathroom stall. Nothing severe. You’re… teasing him.
For no reason, really. It might be frustration, but wow, wouldn’t that be introspective? You know you could never land a guy like Clark, so you pretend. Blah blah blah, it’s all very boring and your skirt is very short.
Alright, it’s not that short. It’s the illusion of the thing. The idea that he could get a glance at something, even though the skirt has an inner lining.
You’re not, you know, obvious about it. Clark might not be looking. But you place your hand on the counter as you reach up with the other for a mug, and you know there’s a stretch of thigh on show if nothing else, heat of a real or imaginary eye on the backs of them as you sigh softly. You genuinely can’t reach.
You settle back on your heels and turn to find Clark not too far away. “Hey, would you help, please? If you can reach it.”
You can’t glean any overt interest from his expression, but he says, “Sure,” with warmth on his lips, like he’d gone to say something else and let it fizzle out.
Clark opens the cabinet door wider and reaches in for a pink mug. It has ‘sweetheart’ written on the side in white, textured font, though the script is elegant.
“Here, sweetheart,” he says.
You laugh, mostly to see his satisfied smile. “Thank you.”
“Can I make it for you?” he asks.
Clark could hang you upside down and shake you for spare change if he wanted. “You know how I like it.”
Teasing aside, you spend the afternoon sipping at your coffee with Clark a desk away, Lois adjacent, listening to the click of tens of keyboards and the scritch of shuffled paper on the edges of desks. You work on your small cooking column in relative silence. Three recipes a week, minimum. If you do especially well, Perry lets you slide a conversational piece across his desk for reviewing. You’ve had a couple on the third page. Clark has taken the front page again this week —an exclusive interview with Superman about the Jelly-Mecha that attempted to swallow the WGBS building.
You’re leaning back with a leg over your knee, your eyes dedicated to the little clock in the corner of your monitor, when somebody hooks the empty chair in the desk beside yours and wheels it over. Clark is sitting next to you before you can protest, a dark-sugared donut in his hands.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Are you sharing?”
“Obviously.” He grins, pulling the donut in his hands apart. Sugar crumbles down into his lap, and the smell of it erupts between you. Apple-cinnamon, miraculously warm when he presses it to your fingers.
“Thank you.”
Your quiet doesn’t perturb him. He matches your tone, “Yeah, don’t mention it.”
“Where’s this from?” you ask, taking your first bite.
He takes his own, covering his mouth with his hand as he answers. “Beanies.”
“That explains why it’s still warm.”
He shrugs. You don’t get what it means but you don’t care to argue, savouring each mouthful of dough and sugar. You lick the crumbs from your fingers and the corners of your mouth. Clark ate his own half fast, ‘cos he’s a giant with an appetite you envy and revile; in your most humble opinion, it is both impressive and audacious to watch Clark house a BLT in half a minute.
“Was that good?” he asks quietly, his eyes on your shining fingertips.
You wipe them on the edge of his napkin. An achy heat eats at your stomach. “You’re spoiling my appetite.”
“Do you have big dinner plans?”
“Huge! I’m testing something new tonight. Snow mountain garlic and pea risotto, for health week. It’s not particularly healthy,” you confess. “But snow mountain garlic has all these supposed special properties. Doesn’t matter if it’s true, though.”
“Why not?”
You like his tone. “It has more allicin. That’s what makes it taste good.”
“Allicin is antibacterial,” he says.
“Brilliant. Antibacterial risotto.”
He holds your eyes for a moment, his own big and especially blue behind his straight frames. “I hope it goes well,” he says.
It’s a measured sentence, like he’s crafted each word carefully as he said it.
“I’ll bring you some if it does.”
“I’d like that.”
You hide how warming it is to be spoken to like that, carrying the feeling home with you to unravel against the stovetop. If you try harder than usual to make a good meal, it is nobody’s business but your own, and Clark’s, who sits waiting and ready at his desk the following morning.
“Clark Kent on time?” you tease, letting the handles of your handbag fall into your elbow. “Who would’a thought we’d ever see the day?”
“I can be punctual,” he promises.
“Can you? Aren’t you on probation?”
“That wasn’t for tardiness, it was for sick days, and no. I’m no longer on probation.” He smiles with white, shy teeth, a peek of them from between his lips. “I’m on the straight and narrow.”
You imagine the hardness of them against your own lips as you lean in for a kiss, for a split second. The clack you’d inevitably make as your teeth knocked into his, as you hooked your arm behind his neck and dragged him down to you for some light force.
“‘Cos you’re a good boy,” you murmur, mumble, more to yourself than him (though he is definitely meant to hear you).
Clark’s face is still. His hands less so, a fist curling against his thigh. His smile is remarkably genuine. “Coffee?”
Calling Clark a good boy might be flirting. Or not! What’s important is the way it softens him for the working day. How quietly awed he sounds as you unveil a Tupperware container full of risotto for him. He tells you it’s good between big bites. You want to nibble on him, taken by the curve of his bicep each time he brings up his fork, and the tip of his tongue darting out to catch a grain of rice. He’s killing you. You’re dying at the Daily Planet.
Dramatics aside, he compliments your risotto egregiously, returning the Tupperware with a pristine shine. You don’t play short-skirt with him for days.
When you do, the skirt is a delicate thing that isn’t as short as you’d expect considering the name of the game, but it’s nearly sheer. Standing in the right light, your hip smushed to the pillarway near his desk while Jimmy tells you about a new kind of giant slug they found living in West Africa, you assume you’re displaying what you’d seen in the mirror that morning. Given enough sunlight, the lavender fabric of your skirt goes translucent. Anyone in looking distance can make out the barest hint of your legs, their shape, a shadow of your thighs and the neat little underwear you have on beneath. You aren’t trying to harass him, but, this is Metropolis. It’s not the most conservative place when it comes to fashion. It isn’t much different to wearing a pair of daisy dukes.
It’s not entirely a sex thing. It’s to feel sexy, sure, as an arm to feeling beautiful, desired. You want to know that Clark (handsome, kind, beautiful Clark) sees it, that he wants it, even if it’s a fleeting flash of lust and nothing else.
And Clark —he doesn’t notice. Doesn’t say a word about it, doesn’t clench his fist or take in a sharp breath.
You decide you like that just as much and return to your desk, happily ashamed.
—
The pasta you made yesterday is far better today. The mushroom sauce has soaked into the fusilli. With a scratching of fresh cheese, you lay it over a fresh bowl of rocket and watercress, coat the entire thing in lemon juice, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, and flaky salt, and eat it enthusiastically behind your computer.
“That smells amazing.”
You lighten at his dulcet tone. “It’s pretty good. D’you want some?”
“I’m trying to keep you fed, sweetheart,” Clark says, placing down your ‘sweetheart’ mug and a small plate, “not the other way around. Thank you.”
His thank you is diligently gentle. He must work at it, to sound so docile. It has to be practised.
The small plate homes two cupcakes. One has golden cake with a great dollop of fresh cream and cut raspberries atop it, and the other looks like a darker flavour. Ginger? The buttercream is thick and caramelised, with cookie crumbs between its peaks.
“What have I done to deserve all this?” you ask.
“You don’t have to do anything at all. It’s your afters. Your dessert.”
“I haven’t done anything?” you ask.
He shakes his head kindly. “It’s inherently deserved.”
If he’s charming or teasing, you can’t tell.
His eyes fall from your face. You get distracted by his details, the clean hills of his cheeks, his dark brows, sweet mouth and a sweeter nose broad enough to take a kiss or two, and you almost miss the stroke of his gaze lingering on your collar. His fingers twitch. “Can I?” he asks.
You follow his finger. One of your straps has fallen down, leaving the simple pale elastic of your bra alone. You couldn’t have faked it better. “Sure,” you say under your breath.
Clark hears it regardless, slipping a fingertip up your arm, a backwards tumble that threatens to send tattle-tale goosebumps over your skin. He hooks the strap under his fingers and brings it over your shoulder, pulling at it enough to make your eyes widen. Then his touch is gone, leaving a strange sensation in its place.
“You’re dressed really pretty, today,” he says.
You smile at the joke before you’ve said it. “As opposed to every other day,” you say.
“This is beautiful. You look beautiful.”
You duck your head. Sincerity in the face of your sarcasm inspires an amazingly dizzy feeling in the stem of your neck. You have to force back a smile.
“Thank you, Clark. I’m… glad you think so,” you say eventually. There’s emphasis there for him to take or leave.
You can see his hesitation, then, a palpable pause while he makes a decision.
“It’s a nice skirt,” he says quietly.
There’s nothing imposing in his tone, but there doesn’t need to be. He isn’t tall, dark, and handsome, he’s incredibly, scarily brilliant. He’s smiling at you like you’ve given him a compliment.
“It’s a little brave,” you say.
“Bravery suits you. Anyways,” —he touches your arm briefly— “don’t let me keep you. Eat your lunch. Hopefully your coffee won’t be too cold to enjoy when you’re finished.”
You wish he’d press you up against a wall. He did notice the skirt. He has the self control to leave it alone, or at least to wait for you to bring it. And… yeah, that’s working for you, actually. Really working. You stood in the sunshine to give him an explicit view of your legs and he brought you cupcakes to say thank you.
—
Apparently, there are limits to Clark Kent’s self control.
You’re lavishing in Centennial Park under a gorgeous sun. It’s barely seventy two degrees, a tame heat for July in Metropolis, and yet the sun is hitting you just right, kissing at your skin, leaving you sated and heavy under its weight. Clark has rolled up his sleeves (a contributing factor, perhaps, to the contentness you’re carrying) and loosened his tie, sitting where you’re laying down, a sweet hand held to your knee. Today’s skirt is a bias-cut midi dress made of a dark sage green. There are bell-sleeves like petals and a neckline you aren’t worried about, not when he’s guarding you like this. You shift on your back to better feel the sun on your face, and he pulls the skirt along the inside of your thigh. Keeping it in place to protect your modesty, setting every nerve-ending you have aflame with pleasure.
“Tell me if you feel too warm,” he says.
“I’m not worried about the sun.”
“What are you worried about?”
“Oh, the usual. That some weird space creature is gonna break the atmosphere and kill us,” you croon.
He delights in your tone, his thumb sweeping a line into your leg. “I won’t let anything kill you.”
You’d kissed his cheek in the elevator because the line of his nose had looked rather unkissed, and his cheek had been the politer option. You hadn’t expected the quick turn of his head, or the complete lack of nonchalance about him as he’d smiled and laughed and pressed that same cheek to your temple as he’d hugged you with one arm.
So now you’re here in the park because you hadn’t wanted him to stop touching you. The summer dress wasn’t part of your seductions but it seems to be working all the same. You’re hoping you’ll get a kiss of your own to settle the score before the sun goes down. With where his hands are resting, you aren’t sure where you want one most. One hand on your thigh, one on your knee, his body turned to you like it’s the natural thing to do. He could be generous and give you a kiss beneath both palms. You think you’d quite like that.
“Do you worry about that a lot?”
“Hm?”
“The aliens… The space creatures, do you worry you’ll get hurt?”
“Not really. We have a great protection detail, don’t we?” you ask.
He’s quiet for a bit. “What do you think about him?”
You don’t ask, Superman? Of course he’s talking about him. “He’s extremely handsome.”
Clark laughs boisterously and shakes you by the leg. “Alright. Knock it off.”
“Or what?”
“Or nothing. Just knock it off.”
He makes everything sound so satiny.
“I wouldn’t let anything happen to you,” he adds.
“Promise?”
Half a joke. Clark pushes his glasses up onto his nose and finally leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your elbow where your arms are crossed over your chest. “Yeah. I promise.”
You let him walk you home. That night, one of the star-shaped superaliens appears in the air near your apartment and then there’s a breathless Clark on the line asking if you need some company. You tell him no, ask if you can see him tomorrow when the dust settles, and he promises you that his Saturday was all yours. He actually says it, says, “I think you could ask me for anything after today and I’d try to do it for you.” He’s laughing to diffuse the weight of it, but you take it to heart.
A Saturday turns to Sunday. A week turns to two. You and Clark trade careful kisses anywhere but the mouth and he doesn’t mention your little skirts. You keep wearing them, especially the velveteen lavender one too sheer for summer, layered over a short silk underskirt to protect your own wits. You’ve seduced him (have you?) but now you’d really like to keep him.
It’s a Tuesday morning with little to give. The air is already warm, the tram platforms are full. You commute to the Daily Planet for another day of dedicated journalism.
Jimmy begins the morning with praise. “I made your honeycomb macarons. I actually made them.”
“And?”
“And? They were amazing! You’re such a goddamn genius,” he says.
He gives you a macaron from a tin shaped like Yoda. The cookie is sweet with that perfect, delicate crunch, and the honeycomb ganache is better than your own. You take another one from his tin, giving him a congratulatory pat on the elbow. “They’re amazing!” you say, shells and honeycomb pieces thick in your mouth.
“What’s amazing?”
You remember where you are urgently.
“I made macarons,” Jimmy says.
Clark doesn’t make fun of his pride. “Really? That’s awesome, man. Can I try one?”
You swallow the lump in your mouth, washing it down with a quick swig of coffee.
“Morning,” Clark says.
“Hi. Good morning.”
“Hi,” he says, fond. “How has your day been so far?”
You lick your lips without thinking, sweetness lingering in the stick of your lipgloss. “It was good, yeah. The tram was hot.”
“You look good.”
Jimmy wrinkles his nose. “Guys, we talked about this.”
“‘Bout what?” Clark asks, finishing his macaron in one bite.
Jimmy is kind enough to roll his eyes and leave it alone, wandering off with his tin clutched to his chest. Clark rolls his eyes too, a secret gesture that has you laughing through your nose.
“You do look good,” he says again.
You look down in mild bewilderment. “It’s laundry day.”
You’re in a pair of black slacks that threaten to slip off your hips at any moment and a button up that should be tight to the waist but unfortunately isn’t. You’d saved the outfit with a necklace and a handful of jewelled rings, but it’s nothing like the stuff you’ve been wearing as of late. Of course he’d notice.
“This…” He raises a hand to your hip but doesn’t touch.
“What?”
His thumb presses to a slip of skin so small you hadn’t noticed it was visible. His brow creases like he’s been burned, yet his hand remains where it is. After a heavy second, he squeezes, and he says something too quiet to hear to himself.
“Clark?” you ask tentatively. “You okay?”
“You have no clue… no clue what you do to me.”
His eyes are all on you. Deep, indigo-blue.
Heat leeches up your neck. Your heart capers suddenly. “What do I do to you?” you ask, your tentativeness turned to silk.
“Don’t.”
“What do I do, honey?” you ask, nearly whispering now. “I don’t have a clue, right? So tell me, then, what I do to you?”
“What am I supposed to do?” His fingers adjust against your hip. “Why would you do this here?” Clark’s voice breaks with a put-upon heartache. He’s still smiling. “What am I supposed to do, here?”
“Take me somewhere else.”
His hand falls away from your hip. You can feel where his fingers had shaped your skin for minutes afterward, following him with a poorly faked casualness to the elevator.
He hits the button for the basement as you step in.
“I think they’re still printing,” you say. The mock-up copies get made in the basement, and it’s an all day affair. “It’ll be as busy there as it is–”
No sooner has the elevator started moving than Clark is hitting the emergency stop.
“Clark!” you say.
“Can I kiss you?”
He doesn’t laugh. You lean away from him to take in his long body, his grey suit and red tie and the wetted run of his bottom lip. He has honeycomb in the very corner of his mouth.
You raise your hand to wipe it away.
“Yeah, okay,” you say, tilting your chin up slowly.
Clark grabs two great, heaping, greedy handfuls of your back, long fingers spread out and guiding you in for a kiss you aren’t expecting. There’s genuine hunger there, your teeth clicking as you’d always imagined, a voracious sort of meeting that quickly gentles. He lets out a sigh against your lips and melts against you like a stick of butter over a flame, lax, a hand traversing upward and over and– and his mouth, his kisses are these open, warm mouthings you meet with a stammering heart. This isn’t the slip of control you’d imagined it to be.
Clark’s kissing you without an ending in mind. You can feel it in the tenderness of his open palm, seemingly laid to sleep at the small of your back.
“How long does that work?” you ask in a murmur, your lips happily stung.
“I don’t know. I’ve never done that before.”
“Really?”
“When would I have had reason to try?” Clark asks, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You’re so pretty.” He steals another quick kiss. “Do you know that?”
“I can’t believe this is what got you to crack,” you laugh.
His eyebrows pinch. “What?”
“This,” you gesture to your clothes. “Of all the things I’ve worn.”
“I don’t understand.” Though it’s dawning on his face quickly. “Oh. You– The… Oh.”
His neck goes all shades of rose.
“Sorry,” you whisper.
He tips your head back nicely. “For what? I would’ve cracked anyway. You could’ve worn anything, but… The little purple skirt, that was for me?”
You press your flushed face to his chest, arms crossing lazily behind a strong neck. “Clark…” you mumble.
He digs his face into your neck to kiss the softness beneath your ear. You’re surprised he doesn’t whine your name back to you, what with the mood he’s in, but Clark’s got a propensity for sweetness that won’t quit.
“On purpose,” he whispers, vindicated. “I knew it.”
The elevator chugs back to life.
—
You are delightfully, blissfully human. There comes a time when you need saving, and it just so happens that Metropolis brags its very own (and very only) Krypton superbeing. One minute you’re being squeezed in the fist of a raspberry-furred mega fox thing, and the next you’ve been freed and grabbed and propelled through the air in arms that feel oddly familiar.
“Miss, are you okay? Miss? Miss, are you alright?”
You look down at the ants of your city and nearly puke up your dinner. “Oh my fuck,” you squeeze out.
“I’m sorry! I’m taking you back down. There’s a girl, breathe in for me. Deep breaths.”
You can hardly breathe at all, but your shallow breaths earn you a thank you and a proud pat on the back. Your legs are shaking so hard at touchdown that Superman has to physically arrange them beneath you, his arm glued to the small of your back when you list unsteadily.
“You’re okay,” Superman assures you.
His little curl is ever so darling. “Like Clark’s,” you say unthinkingly, wrapping the short strands of hair around your finger.
“Are you alright?” he asks, generously ignoring your moment of delusion.
“I thought I was gonna die.” You blanche, glancing back over your shoulder for signs of the megafox. “Fuck.”
“Everything’s fine, now. I promise you.”
You take a deep breath. Superman holds you by both shoulders, forcing you to copy a second, deeper breath, then a third.
“Good girl,” he murmurs.
Too much like Clark. “My boyfriend, he was–”
“Everyone’s safe.”
You let out a shaky breath. The last of your panic ebbs from your shoulders. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Yeah, thank you. For saving me. Thank you so much.”
“You don’t have to thank me for anything,” he says. His voice goes bendy and weak.
“I really do. If I died in this skirt, my boyfriend would never forgive me.”
Superman gives you an appraisal, up and down. Heat flares in your stomach and refuses to cool as he smiles. “Wouldn’t wanna ruin a skirt like that,” he says knowingly.
You shake your head, not without fondness.
All boys are the same.
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
thank you for reading!! I hope you enjoyed <3 and thank you Bec for reading it twice at different times
