just keeping track of fics i need to read lol

when you’re in a yearning competition and your opponent is me (filipino, i was born yearning)

[chuluoyi]

heart of mine

- valarr targaryen x wife!reader

now carrying his child, your prince dotes on you with the devotion of a man utterly enamored with the woman he loves

genre/warnings: fluff, pregnancy, protective!valarr, lots of romance bc valarr is devastatingly in love, lover's quarrel, mentions of curses, hurt/comfort, childbirth, overall very self-indulgent

notes: a continuation to in one's heart of hearts but can also be read as a standalone. *sigh* i'm so in love with him

“My beloved, from this day forth, this heart of mine… is yours to keep.”

That was his wedding vows to you. And those sweet words would be carried by singers and spun into countless songs and verses afterwards.

They would have the realm believe you ensnared Prince Valarr Targaryen with some enchantment that he tumbled into love with you overnight and chose you as his princess consort.

But the truth is far sweeter.

He was the one who fell first, and he fell hard. In watching him love you so fiercely… you found yourself falling too, drawn by the love that had already chosen you.

In all the years you spent by his side, he never once gave you cause for disappointment. Through every joy and sorrow, Valarr remained steadfast, his love unwavering even as the two of you endured even the most painful heartbreaks.

And now, as he pressed his face against your growing belly, smiling giddily and mismatched eyes sparkling—

“My little one,” his voice was warm with affection. “Will you look more like your mother or me, I wonder?”

—you found yourself falling in love with him all over again, as you had done countless times before.

You let out a chuckle, your fingers slipping into his hair, gently combing through his white strands.

“I wish he’ll have your eyes,” you said, your voice fond. “A little prince who resembles you... yeah, I’d love that.”

At that, Valarr lifted his head that was on your lap, his gaze finding yours—bright, almost boyish. “My eyes?” he echoed, amused. “On the contrary, I think a princess like you would be nice too.”

“A princess?” you hummed, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “She will have you wrapped around her little finger the moment she is born.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m already hopeless where you are concerned. What chance would I stand against a daughter of yours?”

“Then you are doomed.”

“Gladly.”

You giggled and your husband only rolled his eyes, caressing your belly in slow, absent circles as though he could already soothe the child within.

“Did you hear that? Your lady mother loves having me doomed… and you haven’t even been born yet.”

Valarr had been overjoyed when he knew you were with child again, but he also worried. After two stillborns, he had sworn he would not see you suffer in childbed again, but now that his seed had taken, he was determined this was to be the last.

The heir of Dragonstone pressed a gentle kiss against the swell of your belly, his voice dropping to a soft whisper meant only for the child you carried.

“Prince or princess… it matters not. As long as you come safely to us.”

His protective hand lingered there, before he glanced up at you—his expression gentler now, threaded with the love he had for you.

“As long as you keep your mother safe too,” he added quietly, the cool blue and warm brown of his eyes blinked then, almost like a plea.

Your heart lurched at his words. He had always feared for you, and though there was something endearing in the way he held you so dearly, you could not bear seeing it weigh heavily upon him.

“Valarr…” You cupped his cheek, guiding him to look at you fully. “You must not carry that fear alone.”

For a heartbeat, he said nothing—only leaning into your touch, his hand moving to cover yours where it rested against his face.

“I would bear far worse, if it means keeping you safe.”

You knew he would.

For if there was one thing all of the Red Keep had come to know, it was this: Prince Valarr was utterly protective of his princess consort.

At your smallest call, he came. At your faintest discomfort, he was already at your side. There was no hesitation or manly pride that stood in the way. It was sweet to see really, but the servants scarcely had time to breathe before he was giving them instructions of more cushions, warmer cloaks, cooler drinks, softer linens—

And it wasn’t just the servants who noticed.

“Gods, nephew,” Prince Maekar grumbled. “She is with child, not made of glass.”

One afternoon in the gardens, as Valarr hovered just a step too close while you walked, his hand always ready at your back, his uncle, Prince Maekar, watched the display with a raised brow.

Valarr did not so much as glance his way, his hand settling securely at your waist in response. “And yet I would rather treat her as such than risk otherwise.”

His uncle snorted, which made him look eerily like his son Aerion. “You fret like an old nursemaid. I have seen squires with steadier nerves.”

At that, his father, Prince Baelor, let out a warm chuckle from where he stood nearby, the sound rich with amusement.

“Let him be, brother,” he said lightly. “It is a rare thing, to see a man so devoted.”

“Devoted? Bah. The boy looks ready to faint if she so much as stumbles.”

“And you did not, when your first was expected?” Baelor returned, one brow lifting.

Maekar fell silent at that—begrudgingly. And Baelor held back his smile. Unlike the others who may feel Valarr’s concern was excessive, he was proud with the man his son had become.

He still remembered it all too clearly—how Valarr, still so young, had stood vigil before the funeral pyre of his two lost sons. That was a grief even Baelor himself had never known, and yet his son had borne it with a strength that was both admirable and heartbreaking. Not once had he faltered or wept while the flames still burned.

Only when it was over did Valarr finally look at him—

“Father.”

And only then would he break. The composure he had held so fiercely gave way all at once, his frame trembling as Baelor gathered him into his arms. He wept like a child in that brief moment... but when it passed, as all storms must, Valarr drew back, steadied himself… and returned to you stronger, as though even his sorrow was something he had to bear so you would not have to.

His bold yet gentle boy. Baelor’s gaze softened as he watched you now, leaning close to murmur something into Valarr’s ear that made him smile.

The Hand of the King found himself wishing, with all his heart, for nothing but happiness for the two of you.

. . .

While it was him who was well-known throughout the Red Keep, there were moments where it was you who were being protective of him in return— mostly behind closed doors though.

“From now on, no more tourneys,” you had said firmly one evening, your arms crossed despite the softness of your voice.

Valarr blinked at you. “No tourneys...?”

“Yes,” you emphasized with a frown. “No melees, no tilts, no… whatever it is you men insist on doing to break your bones for sport.”

A hint of a smile tugged at his lips despite himself. “You would deny me my honor?”

“I would deny you a broken limb—or worse,” you countered. Your hand found his, squeezing gently. “Do you know what it does to me, watching you ride out there?”

His amusement faded at once, his fingers instinctively curling around yours, as though to reassure you.

“You would send me into early labor with such stress. Is that what you want?”

“Never,” he answered at once, his grip tightening around your hand, a faint frown settling as his gaze found yours.

“Then you will stay. For me.”

There was no hesitation as he kissed your palm. “Your wish is my command, my love.”

And that was how your husband cheated his way out of the lists for the upcoming celebration of his father’s nameday. My lady wife worries for me, was what he told the small council as though that alone was reason enough.

. . .

Two days of lavish feasts, followed by five days of jousts, melees, and hunts held to celebrate Baelor Breakspear’s name day were as grand as it could be.

While your husband didn’t partake in any of the potentially harmful activities, the two of you still made your rounds through the nightly balls, as was expected.

“Are you tired?” Valarr asked gently, his hand coming to rest at the small of your back. You were only in your sixth moon, yet there were moments your breath came a little shorter—and he took notice of it.

You glanced up at him, thoughtful for a moment before giving a small shake of your head. “No…”

The soft tune of waltz had already begun and it caught your attention. You had always loved to dance. Turning back to your pliant husband, you looked up with a twinkle in your eyes.

“Dear husband,” you said sweetly, “dance with me?”

Valarr blinked, caught off guard for a brief moment. His gaze dipped instinctively to your belly before returning to your face. “Are you certain? You should not overexert yourself, and besides—”

“Besides?” you echoed, one brow lifting.

He hesitated and that was all it took for your expression to change, a pout forming as you looked away.

“Ah… I see. Perhaps you are embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed...?”

“To be seen with me,” you continued petulantly, your hand resting over the curve of your belly. “A woman grown fat and ungainly with child… I suppose it is not a pleasant sight next to the prince second in line to the throne.”

It took him a good three seconds to take in your words, and a smile spread across his face at the realization—whenever you were with child, you grew softly needy, seeking reassurance in the most endearing ways.

And every time, he found himself just as helpless against it.

His hand came to your face then, turning you back to him, and before you could say another word—

“Mm!” He captured your lips with his.

It was not hurried, nor harsh, but firm enough to squash any foolish thought before it could take root. When he drew back, his warm breath lingered against your lips, and a dashing smile on his face.

“If there is anyone in this hall worth looking upon tonight… it is you— my princess consort of the Seven Kingdoms.”

His thumb brushed along your cheek, mismatched gaze softening as it lingered on you—as though he could not quite fathom how you could think so little of what he held so dear.

“I would move heaven and earth for the right to stand beside you. You—and the child you carry—are my whole world. There is no one who could ever compare.”

Your breath caught slightly at the sincerity in his voice.

“You are beautiful…” he murmured, still smiling, his hand slipping down to rest over yours atop your belly. “More so now than ever. And I would count it an honor to have every eye in that hall see me at your side.”

The tension in your chest eased, your lips curving despite yourself.

“…Then you will dance with me?”

Valarr took your hand in his, lifting it to press a tender kiss against your knuckles, a roguish smile playing upon his lips.

“Always, love.”

And once more, the Young Prince and his princess consort left the court spellbound on the dance floor— dazzling them all with the unwavering devotion they so effortlessly showed one another.

Your union was harmonious… but even the sweetest of bonds was not without trouble in its paradise.

And this time, it was in the form of your husband conjuring terrible images inside his own head after seeing you together with the bastard brother of the king.

“You should keep your distance from him,” Valarr said, his tone stern, and he looked mildly vexed by how you merely crossed your arms before him.

“From Lord Bloodraven?” you replied, glancing at him with a hint of incredulity. “Valarr, I know. I’m not a child.”

His jaw tightened slightly. “Nor do I think you one. But I have told you time and time again— Brynden Rivers is not to be taken lightly. Don’t exchange many words with him, he’ll twist your words sooner or later.”

“I know how to handle him and how to take care of myself!” you returned, your voice sharpening just enough to show blatant irritation.

The very notion that your husband thought you were incapable of navigating the court wounded your pride, and you looked as if you resented him, which Valarr took notice.

“Don’t look at me like that, love. That still doesn’t mean I should stand idle when I feel something is amiss.”

“And it does not mean you must hover over every step I take. You cannot guard me from every shadow you imagine!”

“I speak only of what I see, and what I see is carelessness. In your selfish pursuit to be a princess who pleases everyone as if that is a trophy in and of itself, you are too blind to the consequences of overlooking this.”

A heavy silence fell between you. You had quarrels before—small disagreements born out of concern that twisted into bursts of anger, and usually you would understand him.

But this time, his words pierced you too deep. Selfish pursuit? A princess who pleases everyone? Did he not see it? That everything you did was for his name?

Valarr exhaled quietly, choosing to give in as he realized that he might have been too harsh. “I only wish to keep you safe.”

“And I only wish for you to trust me,” you answered with wobbling lips, though no less firm.

Then suddenly, your breath hitched as the child within you kicked your ribs sharply. Your hand flew to your belly, instinctively soothing it.

“…I am tired, husband,” you decided at last, trying to remain icy and hiding the cold sweat that had run through your spine. “I should rest.”

His expression faltered, regret flickering across his face. For a moment, it seemed he might say more, but whatever it was, he swallowed it down because he feared that pressing further would only upset you more, and it was the last thing he wanted.

“Of course.”

You did not wait for more. Turning, you excused yourself, leaving him standing there.

. . .

The small council chamber that followed felt stifling just as it usually was. King Daeron sat at its head, composed as ever, with Prince Baelor at his side. Across from them sat Brynden Rivers—Lord Bloodraven—his pale gaze as unreadable as the rumors that surrounded him.

Valarr took his place among them, his expression guarded, mood still sour from that argument with you earlier. Though he listened and offered his thoughts when required, there was an edge to him that was apparent to at least his own father.

And when Lord Bloodraven brought up the next topic, his patience had nearly reached its limit.

“There is a matter worth noting... Among the smallfolk, a children’s song has begun to spread.”

Prince Baelor’s brow furrowed. “A song?”

“A foolish one, no doubt,” King Daeron added, though his tone suggested he already disliked where this was going.

“And yet such things have a way of shaping thought,” Lord Bloodraven continued. His gaze shifted to Valarr, giving him a nod. “They speak of the princess.”

Valarr stilled for a moment, before leveling his sharp gaze on him.

“Of her misfortune,” Lord Bloodraven went on, voice calm, almost detached. “Since she has yet to carry a healthy child to term, some have begun to wonder if she bears… a curse. And coupled with the whispers of infidelity with Prince Aerion before, it may be prudent to consider whether the princess consort remains fit to make public appearances amongst the smallfolk—”

To Valarr, that was enough.

“Words are wind, and I will leave them as such,” Valarr said, his voice cutting clean through the chamber, sharp as drawn steel, “But if it is you who are questioning the honor of the princess, or her ability to conceive...”

His gaze locked onto Lord Bloodraven’s, unflinching.

“Then I will consider it a slight against her— and by extension, against me. Mind your tongue, Lord Bloodraven, for I do not take such matters lightly.”

Prince Baelor watched his son closely, absently turning the ring on his finger. In that moment, he saw himself reflected… and yet not entirely. Where Baelor would have tempered his words, Valarr did not. He was bolder, brasher, and less willing to bend for the sake of diplomacy.

So much for the “prince among men” they so often liken him to, Baelor mused, a faint smile on his lips.

King Daeron exhaled slowly, his fingers tapping once against the table. “Enough,” the king said at last. “We will not give weight to idle songs.”

Lord Bloodraven inclined his head slightly, though whether in concession or calculation, none could quite tell.

. . .

Today couldn’t have gone any worse, but fate really decided to test him today, it seemed.

Valarr had barely stepped out into the corridor when hurried footsteps broke through his thoughts.

“Your Grace—!”

He turned sharply. It was your handmaiden, rushing to him while trembling with tears streaking her face.

“Your Grace, we are looking for you!” she gasped, struggling to catch her breath, “the princess—she—she has collapsed!”

For a single, terrible moment, the world fell silent.

And then Valarr had broken into a run.

Fear seized him mercilessly, his steps echoing sharply against the stone halls as he made for your chambers, heart pounding with a dread that made his chest burn.

The doors to your chambers were thrown open without ceremony. Inside, the air was thick— but you were not lying still as he had feared.

You were awake, propped against the pillows, your hand resting over your belly, though your expression was still dazed. Relief struck him so sharply it nearly brought him to his knees.

“What happened?” he demanded from the maester, breathless.

“My prince,” Maester Yormwell greeted, stepping forward. “Her Grace suffered a spell of exhaustion. Too much stress, and perhaps too little rest, but all things considered… she is well.”

Valarr was at your side the moment the maester finished speaking. His hands found your shoulders at once, drawing you into an embrace— yet with a tinge of hesitation, as though he feared holding you too tightly might somehow harm you.

A shuddering breath left him, and your fingers lifted, curling gently into his doublet as you leaned into the familiar comfort of him, seeking his scent.

And then you felt it— the rapid pounding of his heart and tremor running through him.

“Valarr…” your voice still faint, your head swimming slightly as you looked up at him. Just like that, all your grievance vanished, realizing how deeply this had shaken him. “I’m fine.”

But he only shook his head, his grip tightening.

“I should not have argued with you,” he blurted, the words spilling out strained. “Not like that—not when you are— This is my doing. I upset you.”

“It is not—”

“I should have known better.”

“Valarr.” You held him a little tighter, grounding him. “I’m fine,” you said again, more firmly this time, before easing back just enough to look at him. “It was nothing more than a moment’s weakness.”

The blue and brown of his eyes wavered, caught between relief and lingering fear, failing to bring himself to believe it so easily.

But you were insistent in reassuring him. Leaning in, you peppered soft kisses to his neck, your voice gentle against his skin.

“I promise you… this time, both me and the babe are well.”

He drew in another shaky breath before pulling you back into his arms, holding you closer and burying himself in your warmth, as though he could not bear even the smallest distance.

“I’m so… so glad you’re safe,” he choked out against your shoulder. You could have sworn he was near tears himself.

And your heart warmed so much, because this man was still the same kind man you had given your wedding vows to.

Before you knew it, the time for your confinement had come.

The days grew quieter, slower—your world narrowing to the comfort of your chambers as the heavy weight of the child you carried made even the simplest movements a monumental effort.

And most fortunately, you were not alone in it. Brightening your days like the sun, Valarr was always there.

Far more than anyone expected of a prince with duties as many as his, he found his way back to you each time—to the point of stealing moments between council meetings, trainings and all obligations that had kept him away.

You sat propped against a mound of pillows, a soft moan leaving you as you shifted, your hand instinctively reaching for your aching back.

“I swear,” you muttered under your breath, “this child is determined to make a sport of my suffering.”

A quiet chuckle sounded beside you.

“Hmm? Already so wilful, aren’t they,” Valarr mused, settling himself on the bed before gently guiding you back—until you were seated between his legs, your back resting against his chest. His hands came to rest over yours, warm and steady, feeling the firm skin of your belly that housed his babe.

“This child takes after you, I’m sure of it,” you huffed. “I was never so troublesome, my mother can vouch for me.”

He hummed, his chin coming to rest lightly atop your head. “Mm, what a slanderous thing to say. I seem to recall otherwise.”

You tilted your head just enough to shoot him a look, lips pursed. “You are an insufferable prince through and through.”

“And yet,” he said, mismatched eyes twinkling and lips curving, “you chose me.”

You shifted slightly to settle more comfortably against him, though not without a faint wince. His hands went to massage your hips at once, attentive and careful as ever, his expression focused.

“You are far too stiff when you put on the face of Prince of Dragonstone,” you said playfully, eyeing him. “It makes you… rather frightening.”

“Frightening?”

“Yes.” You feigned solemnity as you placed a hand on your chest. “Terribly so. I fear I may be getting nightmares from it. A prince who accuses me of having selfish pursuits...”

You felt him pause, but then he chuckled, warm against your skin as he pressed a kiss to your face.

“Oh?” His voice changed—dramatic, almost exaggerated, as he gently took your hand and lifted it with mock reverence. “Then perhaps I must remedy that at once.”

You narrowed your eyes, almost bursting out in laughter at the way he composed himself into a princely air.

“Oh, fair lady,” he began, his tone rich with theatrics. “I find myself madly in love with you. Please become my wife. I can offer you fresh meat and wine daily—”

You snorted, swatting his hand away.

“—and soft sheets too,” he winked, leaning closer, a grin tugging at his lips. “What say you? Come with me to Dragonstone? I assure you, this prince is thoroughly harmless.”

Turning within his hold, you faced him with equal dramatics. “How bold of you, to make such an offer to a lady already wed.”

“A tragedy. I shall have to win you over regardless.”

“I fear you shall fail, my prince. My husband would not take kindly to it.”

Valarr’s grin softened, warmth settling in his gaze.

“Then... I suppose I shall simply have to remain him then.”

Your breath caught, just slightly, when suddenly he closed the distance. But this time, there was no jest—only warmth as his lips met yours.

The kiss was deep, unhurried—filled with a warmth and devotion and certainty. He nibbled on your lip, and you pressed yourself closer to him in response.

He shifted, easing your back against the cushions as he hovered over you, mindful as ever—careful not to press any weight, never forgetting the life you carried between you.

His lips brushed yours again and again, softer this time, and while he could not quite bring himself to stop anytime soon, he had to.

“My love,” Valarr murmured against your lips, voice threaded with something achingly tender, “if I had a hundred lives, I would spend each one finding my way back to you.”

When he pulled away, his gaze swept over you, the beauty of his two-colored eyes stilled you in place. His hand came to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing lightly over your skin.

“I know more than anyone of what you have gone through.” His gaze was solemn. “And I only regret that I was not strong enough to spare you from it.”

The memory of that bleak birthing chamber and the grief of losing your sons made your chest tighten, tears rising—but he caught your hand, lacing your fingers together and guiding them to rest over your swollen belly.

“I swear it, there is nothing in this world that I wouldn’t cast aside if it meant sparing you pain. And if any hardship remains to come...”

The way he paused made lump rise in your throat. But then your prince smiled that pure, dashing smile of his.

“Then let it find me first. I will stand between you and it all. Be it fear, fate, or the will of gods themselves… I will not yield.”

Your first tear fell, overcome by the weight of his words, while his hold on your hand tightening just a fraction.

“I could not protect you in childbed,” he admitted, “but I will spend the rest of my life ensuring that nothing touches you without first going through me, for as long as I live…”

His forehead rested against yours then, his voice barely above a whisper now—

“You and our child are mine to protect.”

—and you smiled tearfully at what he promised as you knew it to be true.

“Your Grace, it’s alright… take deep breaths— Yes, yes! Just like that!”

Your time had come when on one night, your waters broke just after you’d gone to bed. You had woken up to persistent contractions afterwards, which fully sealed your fate.

You had gone through this twice before, and you learned that there was nothing to be done when pain seized your womb with its merciless hold that made you cry out, except to let it run its course.

You lay on your side on the bed clad only in your shift, eyes closed, whimpering as another pain came over you.

“Valarr—” Your voice faltered, trembling with tears as you clutched your handmaiden’s hand. “W-where is he…? Has he— has he returned…?”

She squeezed your hand in return, promising you before she ran, “I shall fetch the prince, Your Grace!”

Though it was considered improper for men to enter the birthing chamber, Valarr had always been present during all your labors. This time, however, he had ridden into the city on urgent business just as your pains had begun.

And now you were terrified, haunted by the memories of the previous births that led to stillborns— and desperately wanted him here.

. . .

When Valarr was alerted with the news of how your pains had started and that you were asking for him, he marched back towards Red Keep with everything he had.

The doors to the chamber flew open with a force, and Valarr strode in, breathless. His gaze found you at once and something in his expression shattered.

“My love—!”

Your name broke from him as he seized your hand, his grip firm, grounding, as though anchoring you to him might somehow lessen what you endured. You scarcely had time to register his presence before another contraction seized you, fiercer than the last.

“I’m here!” He engulfed you in his embrace as you wept. “I’m here...”

The pains came without mercy, one upon the next, stealing what little rest you might have. Your body trembling as the agony built and built— until your moans dissolved into anguished wails.

Valarr felt his heart splinter.

Your sweet face was drawn tight with suffering, your hair damp and clinging to your skin, your fingers crushing his as though he were the only thing keeping you from being swept away entirely, all the while withstanding the pain he couldn’t even begin to fathom.

Guilt gnawed at him— he was the one who put you in this suffering… and more so when your voice broke:

“No! Please— I can’t! I can’t take this!”

He leaned close at once, pressing his lips to your temple, then to your ear, his voice low, tinted with grief. “Yes, you can, my love. You can. Don’t fight it… Breathe. It will pass.”

Hours blurred into one another, marked by pain and the brief moments of reprieve between. Through it all, Valarr never once let you go. His voice remained at your side, soft and steady, murmuring against your skin.

Until, at last, the maester’s voice broke through the haze.

“Your Grace—it is time. You must push.”

Valarr’s grip tightened around your body, and you bore down, summoning what strength you had left.

Each push felt as though it was tearing you apart, the compelling urge to push with all your might rising until it consumed you as a whole. Your world narrowed to the searing, all-encompassing agony.

“Oh Seven, it hurts!” you wept and your husband pressed another kiss to your temple, trying to soothe you.

“You’re doing so well.” His voice was thick with emotion. “Just a little more… I know you can.”

And so you gave in to your body's demands. Knees bent, you pushed again, feeling your baby move down through your body. Again and again you pushed until the fire between your legs was unbearable, until you felt being split in two, tears endlessly falling from your eyes—

A scream tore itself from your throat.

The pain surged to its peak in one final blazing rush, and with it came a foreign sound.

A weak, feeble cry. Your baby’s first cry.

For one stunned heartbeat, silence swallowed the chamber. Everyone stood frozen as the newborn was caught, while you collapsed back upon the pillows.

“A prince!” the maester cried, joy breaking through at last as he carried the tiny life to be cleaned by the handmaidens. “The princess has given birth to a healthy prince!”

But unlike the others who hastened toward the babe, Valarr did not move. He remained exactly where he was, his eyes never leaving you, who lay unconscious in his arms.

“Love...?” His voice trembled as he leaned over you, his free hand brushing your cheek, his heart lurching violently in his chest. “Stay with me—please—”

Around him, the noise dimmed, the celebration stilled into a breathless hush as all eyes turned back to the bed. They all saw their prince, who ignored his heir, for the sake of the woman he loved.

“Wake up,” he urged softly, desperately, his thumb trembling against your terribly pale form. “Wake up. Please… open your eyes.”

A moment stretched with you staying still.

Then another.

And then—

Your lashes fluttered. A breath seemed to pass through the room all at once.

Relief hit the Young Prince so sharply that he buckled, and a broken sound escaped his chest as he bent to you, pressing a lingering, trembling kiss to your lips.

“You did it,” he whispered, tears spilling now as he pressed his forehead to yours. “You did it, my love. Thank you... Thank you...”

Only when he had made sure you were fine did Valarr finally turn to see his son. Carefully, he took the tiny, swaddled bundle from the maester and placed him gently into your arms, guiding him close to your chest.

“A boy,” he murmured softly, pulling you into his embrace again. “Just as you wished… Isn’t it something? We have a son…”

His hand came to rest over yours, both of you cradling the small, warm weight between you. You were utterly spent, your strength all but gone, and so you leaned into the steady rise of his chest.

This little one was too precious—perfect, with all ten fingers, and not cold like the ones you held in your nightmares. He had drawn his first breath in this world, and in time, he would only grow stronger beneath your care.

A breathless sound left you when the babe stirred and opened his eyes.

Cool blue and warm brown.

“He has your eyes…” you cooed, your voice thick with awe as you looked up at your prince, tears shimmering in your gaze.

Valarr only looked at you. Not at the heir you had just given him— but at you, as though the very sight of you, alive and breathing in his arms, eclipsed all else.

Then, with a tenderness that trembled at its edges, he leaned down and kissed you again.

All those who bore witness to it—the maester, the handmaidens, every soul within that chamber—fell silent, for they knew that their beloved prince and princess had deserved this.

Their lives, once fractured by grief and shadowed by loss, had finally been made whole.

And so the years that followed would come to tell the same story—

Life, at last, had found its completion for the Young Prince and his princess.

Though Prince Valarr had hoped for a daughter he could spoil and cherish as his little princess, it became plain that he doted on his son from the moment he first took him in his arms. The realm delighted in the little prince as well—he was cherished and adored, bearing the fine features of his sire and the gentle disposition of his dam.

Yet even so… there was something all had come to understand. For all the love and pride Prince Valarr bore his son, it never rivaled what lived in his gaze when it fell upon his mother— you, his sweet princess consort of the Seven Kingdoms.

That though he was a devoted father, a proud prince, and one day, hopefully, would be a great king…

Above all else, he was still and forever would be yours.

[louloucake]

lazy morning sex w tt!aerion ⋆.˚

husband!trailertrash!aerion targaryen

-18+ explicit sexual content, p in v!! breeding/pregnancy talk, spanking, creampie, slightttt overstimulation, mentions of pregnancy and children, pillow talk!!! multiple orgasms, andddd clingy aerion! xoxo! ᥫ᭡

the first rays of dawn were just beginning to creep through the blinds of your shared bedroom painting stripes of light across the worn hardwood floors. you woke before your husband, as you often did, and became acutely aware of the firm, warm pressure against your ass from behind.

a mischievous thought took root. slowly, deliberately, you began to shift your hips, pressing back against him. the friction was exquisite, even through the thin layers of your nightgown and his boxers. you did it again, a slow, deliberate grind that had his cock twitching against you. a soft sigh escaped your lips at the pleasurable contact.

behind you, aerion stirred with a low groan. his arm, which had been draped loosely over your waist, tightened, pulling you more firmly against him. "mmmph," he mumbled into your hair, still mostly asleep. "what're you doin', baby..."

"wakin' you up," you whispered, pressing your ass back again.

"i can feel that." his hand slid down from your waist to your hip, his fingers gripping the soft fabric of your nightgown.

with a gentleness that contrasted the morning wood pressing insistently against you, he slowly bunched up your nightgown, lifting it inch by inch until it was pooled around your waist. his other hand moved to his own boxers, the sound of elastic snapping as he freed himself.

you felt the hot, velvet-smooth skin of his cock as he guided it between your thighs, the blunt head nudging against your already slick folds. he was leaking pre-cum, and he used it to paint your pussy, spreading the wetness around with slow, deliberate circles of his cockhead.

"sh sh sh," he murmured against your ear, his voice still thick with sleep but laced with growing arousal. "don't wanna wake the baby just yet."

you bit your lip to stifle a moan as his cockhead caught on your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure through you. he did it again, then again, teasing you mercilessly.

"so wet already," he whispered against your neck.

his words were filthy, but his touch was tender. he continued to rub himself against you, coating his shaft in your wetness.

"gonna slide right in," he promised softly. "gonna fill you up before the sun's even properly risen."

you pushed back against him, a silent invitation. he took it, aligning himself with your entrance and pushing in just the tip. you gasped at the stretch, your body already craving more.

"shhhh," he soothed gently, though his own voice was strained with the effort of holding back. he pulled out slightly, then pushed in a little deeper. “i know baby, i know…”

he continued his teasing, shallow thrusts that had you squirming with need. each time he pushed in a little deeper, until finally, with one smooth stroke, he buried himself to the hilt. you both moaned softly at the feeling of being completely joined.

"fuck," he breathed, his forehead resting against your shoulder. "how come you are always so perfect? hmm? y’made for me?”

all you could do was nod and press your face further into the pillow under you. he began to move, his strokes slow and deep.

his hand came around to find your clit, rubbing it in time with his thrusts. "wanna make you cum like this," he whispered. "then fuck you proper. gonna fill this pretty pussy with so much cum it'll be leaking out of you all day. maybe we'll get lucky and put another baby in you right now."

his dirty talk, combined with the sensations building inside you, had you spiraling toward your release faster than you expected. his fingers on your clit became more insistent, his thrusts a little harder, a little deeper.

"that's it, baby," he encouraged, sensing how close you were. "cum on my cock. let me feel that pussy squeeze my cock, cm’on."

his words were your undoing. your orgasm washed over you, waves of pleasure that had you clenching around him. he groaned at the feeling, his hips stilling as he let you ride it out.

as you came down from your high, he pulled out. “y’still want me to fill you? work for that cum, baby.”

“are you gonna help me?” you whisper sleepily to which he only nods and pulls you up onto his lap, straddling him. his hands gripped your ass, his expression peaceful as he rested leaning back, hands gripping any soft skin he could grasp on your warm body.

you finally sink down onto his cock, taking him deep inside you. the new angle allowed him to hit that perfect spot inside you, and soon you were building toward another orgasm.

"look at you, pretty girl…" he breathed, his eyes fixed on where your bodies joined. "gonna make me cum so deep inside you..."

his words spurred you on, and you increased your pace, grinding against him with abandon. his hands tightened on your ass, and suddenly he brought one down in a sharp smack that echoed in the small room.

"aerion!" you gasped, the sting mixing with pleasure.

"shhh," he grinned, smacking you again. "you'll wake the baby."

he brought his hand down again, a sharp crack that made you jolt and clench around him. "fuck, look at that," he breathed, mesmerized.

"i fuckin’ love this ass," he panted, his voice rough with desire.

he spanked you again, the sound sharp and dirty in the quiet room. his nasty talk sent a fresh wave of arousal through you, and you rode him harder, chasing your release. his hands roamed over your body, gripping your hips, your waist, your tits, before returning to your ass.

"can feel you drippin' all over me. my pretty wife has got the wettest pussy in the world…” he groaned, his voice a low, guttural rasp.

“i love you aerion- i love- oh fuck.”

he kneaded the flesh of your ass, his thumbs spreading you open slightly as you bounced on him. his gaze was intense, burning with a primal hunger that made your stomach clench.

he leaned up, capturing one of your nipples in his mouth and sucking hard. you cried out softly, your fingers tangling in his hair. he bit down gently before releasing it with a wet pop.

"gonna get these tits all full of milk again soon, mama," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as he used the name that always made you melt. "gonna knock you up again. can't wait to see it."

the word sent a jolt straight to your core. "don’t stop aerion," you whimpered, your movements becoming more frantic.

"i won’t, i won’t," he soothed, though his hips were snapping up to meet yours with increasing urgency. "i know what you need.”

his hands tightened on your ass, holding you in place as he began to thrust up into you from below, taking control of the rhythm. "gonna make sure it takes. gonna plug her up so none of it leaks out."

he shifted slightly, changing the angle, and suddenly his cock was hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. your vision blurred, your body tensing as your orgasm began to build. "thaaaat's it," he encouraged, sensing your impending release. "there you go..."

his words, combined with the relentless stimulation, were your undoing. your second orgasm crashed over you, intense and overwhelming. you cried out his name, your body convulsing with pleasure as you collapsed against his chest.

he held you through it, his hips stilling as your pussy clenched around him. as you came down from your high, he began to move again, his strokes hard and deep, chasing his own release. the bed creaked softly in protest, but you were too lost in pleasure to care. his hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he fucked up into you lazily.

"gonna fill you up," he panted, his rhythm becoming erratic. "gonna give you another baby."

with a final, deep thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and groaned, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his hot cum. "fuck yes," he breathed.

you lay there on top of him, boneless and sated, his softening cock still inside you as you both caught your breath. the room was quiet now, save for your mingled breathing and the soft sounds of the morning beginning outside.

aerion's arms came around you, holding you close against his chest. he pressed a soft kiss to your sweat-dampened forehead.

"best way to wake up, bar none." his hands stroking up and down your back. you settled back against his chest, your head tucked under his chin. his heartbeat was a steady, reassuring rhythm beneath your ear.

“get some rest while we still can. baby’s gonna wake up soon…”

you laughed softly under your breath, already feeling your eyes grow heavy again as he held you tighter, both of you savoring the last quiet moments before your day started.

[knightbloods]

— where dragons lay dying. i

pairing. valarr targaryen / healer!reader

synopsis. reader is a skilled woodswitch who heals with herbs and whispered spells, summoned to the red keep she must heal a dragon or watch him die.

content. slight canon divergence (vaccinated valarr arc??). graphic depictions of illness & death. plague descriptions. probably incorrect folk medicine. sexism. canon typical themes. lots of grief and angst. comfort. possible tragic ending (haven’t decided yet)

word count. 8.5k

note. ahhh ok my first one shot && ofc i made it more than one part… pls go easy on me as I’m new to posting my writing on tumblr.

part i. part ii. part iii. end.

The cottage smelled of smoke, damp wool, and crushed herbs.

Bundles of drying plants hung from the rafters like small, silent guardians—sage, thyme, bitterroot, and strips of willow bark bound carefully with twine. Their scent lingered thickly in the warm air, mingling with the steam rising from a pot that simmered slowly over the hearth. The sharp bitterness of the brewing herbs stung faintly at the back of the throat, a smell both medicinal and strangely comforting.

On the narrow bed beneath the window, Lord Smallwood writhed beneath his blankets.

His dark hair clung damply to his temples, sweat soaking through the linen pillow beneath his head. Each breath came in shallow, uneven bursts, as though the air itself burned his lungs. Fever had painted his cheeks an unnatural crimson, and every so often his body shuddered violently beneath the weight of the covers.

Near the door, two servants hovered uneasily.

“Should he be sweating like that?” one whispered, glancing nervously toward the bed.

“Seven save him,” the other murmured back. “He’s been like this for three days.”

Neither of them dared step closer.

You ignored them.

Kneeling beside the hearth, you worked slowly with the stone mortar resting in your lap, grinding dried willow bark and mint together beneath the steady pressure of the pestle. The brittle leaves cracked and crumbled with each turn of your wrist, breaking down into a coarse, pale powder.

The rhythm was steady. Familiar.

Grind. Turn. Grind again.

The sound had always calmed you.

The old woman who had raised you used to say that the rhythm itself could settle a healer’s nerves. “Your hands must be steady,” she would tell you, her voice thin with age but sharp with certainty. “If the healer trembles, the patient will follow.”

You tipped the crushed herbs carefully into the pot hanging over the fire and stirred.

The liquid inside had already darkened into a cloudy amber from the earlier mixtures. As the powder touched it's surface, a sharper scent rose into the air—bitter enough that one of the servants coughed softly into his sleeve.

Behind you, the lord groaned.

You turned at once.

Lord Smallwood’s hand clawed weakly at the blanket as another wave of fever rolled through him. His breathing had grown ragged now, each inhale scraping from his chest like dry leaves dragged across stone.

You rose and crossed the small room in two quiet steps.

Pressing your palm lightly against his forehead, you felt the heat immediately. Still burning, but no worse than before. That mattered.

“Help me sit him up,” you said.

The servants hesitated.

“He’s very weak, my lady,” one said uncertainly.

“So lift gently,” you replied.

After a moment’s pause, they moved forward, carefully sliding their arms beneath the lord’s shoulders. You slipped one arm behind his back to steady him as they raised him upright against the pillows.

His body radiated heat even through the thin linen of his shirt.

You lifted the wooden cup from the bedside table and held it carefully to his lips.

“Drink.”

His eyes fluttered open at the sound of your voice, unfocused and glassy with fever. “Bitter…” he rasped weakly.

“It is meant to be.”

He managed a weak swallow, then another. A little of the liquid spilt down his chin, and you wiped it away with a cloth. When the cup was empty, you eased him back against the pillows.

The servants watched the entire process as though witnessing something sacred, and in a way, perhaps they were.

You dipped a cloth into the bowl of cool water beside the bed and wrung it out before laying it across the lord’s neck. His overheated skin steamed faintly beneath the touch. The fever had been climbing steadily all day. If it rose much higher, there would be little left to try.

“They said you brought Lord Harroway back from death,” one of the servants said quietly, as if speaking too loudly might disturb whatever fragile balance held the fever at bay.

You did not look up from the cloth in your hands, wringing and laying it again across the lord’s brow.

“People say many things when a man survives,” you replied.

The servant hesitated, glancing toward the bed. “But… It’s true, isn’t it?”

You did not answer immediately.

The fire cracked softly in the hearth, sending a brief flare of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind moved through the tall pines that surrounded the cottage, their branches whispering together in the darkness like distant voices.

At last, you said, “Lord Harroway lived because his body chose to fight.”

The servant frowned slightly. “And you?”

You adjusted the blanket around Lord Smallwood’s shoulders, tucking the wool carefully beneath his arms.

“I asked it to try.”

Silence settled once more over the small cottage.

The fevered man shifted restlessly beneath the covers, his breath quickening again as another surge of heat moved through him. You watched the change carefully, studying the rhythm of it.

Every illness had its own pattern. A rise. A fall.

Sometimes the body found its way back from the brink, sometimes it did not.

You reached for the small leather pouch tied at your belt and loosened the cord. Inside were carefully wrapped bundles of dried herbs—lavender, sage, and several others gathered from the forest hills.

You selected a few brittle lavender buds and crushed them gently between your fingers. Their soft scent drifted into the warm air beside the bed. It would not cure the fever, but it might help the body rest, and sometimes, rest was the first step toward survival.

Then, almost without thinking, you murmured the old spell. Your voice was low enough that the servants barely heard it. “Root and leaf, draw the heat. Bone and blood, remember sleep. Fever passes, and breath grows slow, Let the quiet body know.”

The old woman had insisted the words mattered less than the intention.

“People trust rituals,” she used to say. “And trust is medicine too.”

Lord Smallwood’s breathing stuttered, then steadied.

You sat beside the bed and waited; time seemed to stretch slowly in the dim light of the hearth. The servants eventually stopped whispering, busying themselves by replacing the cold cloth that lay on their lord’s head every time it warmed.

The fever burned for what felt like hours, rising and falling like a tide. Several times, the lord stirred violently, muttering half-formed words, his hands clutching at invisible things. Each time you cooled his skin and spoke softly until he quieted. Eventually, the trembling eased. His breath slowed. Then, gradually, the tight lines of pain in his face began to soften.

One servant leaned closer. “He’s sleeping.”

You waited a beat to confirm. “Yes.”

“But… he hasn’t slept in two days.”

You leaned back slightly, though your eyes never left the patient. Sleep was a good sign.

Not a victory, but a beginning.

“You saved him.” The second servant looked at you as though seeing something extraordinary.

You shook your head gently. “No.”

“But he was dying.”

“Perhaps.”

The fire popped loudly, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. Outside, the wind had begun to calm. You rose and moved back to the hearth, setting another bundle of herbs beside the pot.

Behind you, Lord Smallwood slept on; the servants watched him as if afraid he might vanish if they blinked. After a moment, one of them whispered, almost reverently, “A miracle.”

You stirred the simmering brew, the bitter scent filling the room again. “No,” you said quietly. “Only patience.”

You sat down on the low stool near the hearth and stretched your tired fingers toward the warmth of the flames. The long hours of tending had left your shoulders stiff and your eyes heavy. Outside, the forest had grown quiet. The wind whispered softly through the trees, rustling the branches like distant voices.

Sitting again, you started to clean your tools; any moment of peace was best used and not wasted. You cleaned them slowly, more out of habit than necessity.

The mortar still carried the faint scent of crushed willow bark—sharp and bitter beneath the softer sweetness of mint—and the smell lingered stubbornly in the stone no matter how often you rinsed it. Fine green dust clung to the inside of the stone bowl, caught in the tiny scratches carved by years of grinding.

You poured a little warm water into it and rubbed the inside with a cloth, turning the bowl carefully as you worked. The sound of stone against cloth was soft and steady, almost meditative.

Every movement was practised and measured.

The old woman had insisted on that.

Clean tools meant clean work. Clean work meant fewer mistakes. And in healing, mistakes could not always be undone.

When the mortar was smooth again, you wiped it dry and set it beside the window where the cool night air could reach it.

Your hands paused for a moment over the pouch at your belt.

The leather was worn soft from years of handling, the drawstring darkened where your fingers had tied and untied it countless times. When you loosened the cord and opened the pouch, the smell of dried plants rose at once—earthy, bitter, comforting in its familiarity.

Inside were small bundles wrapped carefully in scraps of cloth.

Lavender for calming sleep.

Sage for cleansing.

Bitterroot for stubborn fevers.

Thyme for the lungs.

Each bundle was tied with a thin thread and marked with small knots that the old woman had taught you to recognise even in the dark.

You checked them one by one. The habit was older than you could remember. Healing began long before the patient arrived. A healer who did not know what she carried in her pouch was no healer at all.

The memory came to you then, the way many scents did—quietly, without warning.

One moment, you were standing beside the narrow bed in the cottage, listening to the restless breathing of a fevered lord. The next, the faint smell of crushed thyme lingering on your fingers had carried your thoughts years backwards, to a morning deep in the forest.

You had been younger then—small enough that the dew-soaked grass reached nearly to your knees. Every step soaked the hem of your dress and chilled your ankles, but you had not minded.

The forest had always felt alive in the early hours, as though the world itself were waking slowly around you.

It had been quiet that morning.

Not silent—never truly silent—but filled with the soft, living sounds of a place that had not yet been disturbed by the day. Birds called somewhere high in the branches above, their voices echoing faintly between the tall pines. A breeze moved through the needles overhead, carrying with it the cool scent of damp earth and pine resin.

Several paces ahead, the old woman walked slowly along the trail.

Her back had already begun to bend with age, though she moved with a steady patience that never seemed to falter. She leaned heavily on her crooked walking stick, which had been carved from a twisted length of ash wood so old the grain had turned nearly silver with age. Her hair had been the colour of frost—long and thin, gathered loosely at the back of her neck with a faded strip of red cloth.

She noticed everything.

Every few steps, she would pause beside the path, not because she was tired but to crouch carefully beside some small plant growing half-hidden among the roots of the trees.

That morning, she stopped beside a patch of pale green leaves. “Come here,” she called without turning.

You hurried forward, nearly slipping on the wet stones beneath your feet.

When you reached her side, she gestured toward the plant growing low against the ground, brushing aside the surrounding grass so it could be seen clearly.

“Well?” she asked.

You crouched beside her.

The leaves were thin and slightly curled, their edges jagged like tiny teeth. Small white flowers had begun to bloom at the centre of the cluster.

You studied them carefully before answering. “Feverfew.”

The old woman nodded once. “And what does it do?”

“It cools the blood,” you said, recalling the lessons she had repeated countless times before. “It helps break fever and ease aching joints.”

She plucked a single leaf from the plant and held it up between her fingers, turning it slowly so the morning light caught the faint veins running through the surface.

“And what does it not do?”

You hesitated; the question had always struck you as strange. “It does not cure death,” you said at last.

A faint smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Good.”

She placed the leaf carefully into the woven basket hanging at her hip before straightening slowly with the help of her walking stick. For a few moments, she said nothing, simply continuing along the path as though the lesson had already ended.

You followed behind her.

After a while, she spoke again. “People will say many things about healing,” she said, her voice quiet beneath the whisper of the wind moving through the trees.

You had heard this lesson before.

“They will call you wise,” she continued. “Some will call you blessed.”

She glanced back over her shoulder. “And some will call you a witch.”

You frowned slightly. “Are you a witch?”

The old woman snorted softly at that. “If I were, do you think my knees would ache this much?” That made you laugh, which only made her smile.

She walked a few more steps before stopping again, this time beside a narrow stream that cut across the forest path. The water ran clear and cold over smooth stones, its quiet rushing sound filling the space between the trees.

She crouched beside the bank and dipped her fingers into the water. “Listen carefully,” she said.

You knelt beside her, watching intently.

“The body knows how to mend itself,” she said slowly, her walking stick tapped lightly against one of the stones beside the stream. “We only remind it how.”

You studied the moving water. “But what if it doesn’t?” you asked.

The old woman did not answer immediately.

For a long time, she simply watched the current moving past the stones, the expression on her lined face thoughtful.

At last, she turned her pale grey eyes toward you, “Then it was never ours to mend.”

You frowned again. “But that means people will still die.”

“Yes.”

The word came easily; there was no cruelty in it, only truth.

She pushed herself slowly back to her feet, leaning heavily on the stick once more. “That is the hardest lesson a healer must learn,” she said quietly. “You will help many people. More than you think possible.”

Her gaze softened slightly. “But you will not save them all.”

You walked beside her again as the forest path wound deeper between the trees. “How do you know when to stop trying?” you asked.

She smiled faintly at that.

“You do not.”

She tapped the walking stick against the path again as she walked. “You try,” she said. “And when the body chooses to fight, you help it.”

The wind stirred gently through the branches above.

“And when it doesn’t?” you asked.

The old woman did not look back this time. “Then you make certain the patient does not face the end alone.”

The memory faded slowly.

The crackling sound of the cottage hearth returned, along with the smell of simmering herbs and the soft breathing of the sleeping lord in the bed behind you.

The old woman had been gone three winters now, yet sometimes—especially on long nights spent beside the beds of the sick—you could still hear her voice as clearly as if she stood beside you.

Correcting the way you tied a bundle of sage. Reminding you to watch the patient, not just the sickness. Or scolding you gently when you forgot to eat.

The cottage where she had lived still stood at the edge of the forest, though you rarely returned except to gather herbs from the familiar hills. The roof sagged more each year without her careful hands to mend it, and the garden had begun creeping slowly back into wildness. Foxglove had overtaken the old herb beds, and the mint had spread across half the yard.

It had felt wrong to stay there without her; you kept expecting to find her around the corner or to wake with her humming softly as she cleaned herbs. So you had moved, not far but somewhere else, somewhere your own.

A faint smile touched your lips. She would have liked this cottage; it had good soil, plenty of water, and hills thick with wild herbs. The mornings carried a clear light she would have appreciated.

For a while, you simply sat and listened: to the quiet breathing of the sleeping lord, to the steady crackle of the fire, to the distant rustle of the forest beyond the walls.

Healing often required nothing more than waiting; your mentor had always insisted on that.

“Patience first,” she would say.

You reached for another cloth and began drying the mortar again, though it was already clean. Your hands needed something to do while the night stretched slowly onward. Somewhere far beyond the cottage walls, a dog barked once in the distance, the sound carried faintly through the trees before fading again into silence.

Dawn would come soon enough, you thought, and when it did, the villagers would begin to arrive; they always did.

Someone with a cough, a twisted ankle, or a child burning with fever. Illness did not rest simply because one patient had begun to recover.

You set the mortar back on it’s shelf and rose quietly.

Across the room, Lord Smallwood slept on. His breath was slow now, even. For tonight, at least, the body had chosen to fight.

And that, in the end, was all a healer could ever ask for.

Morning came slowly through the forest.

At first, it was only a faint paling of the darkness beyond the cottage windows, a thin grey light filtering between the tall pines that surrounded the clearing. Mist clung low to the ground, drifting lazily between the tree trunks like pale smoke.

Inside the cottage, the fire in the hearth had burned low.

A few stubborn embers still glowed beneath the ash, casting a faint reddish light across the wooden floor. The smell of last night’s herbs lingered heavily in the warm air, mingling with the faint scent of damp earth drifting in through the open window.

Lord Smallwood still slept.

You stood beside the bed, studying him carefully.

The fever had not vanished during the night, but it had weakened. The flushed heat had not left him entirely, but it no longer burned with the same savage intensity it had hours before. His breathing had deepened, each rise and fall of his chest slower than before. The harsh rasp of fever had softened into something steadier, though his skin still shone faintly with sweat in the glow of the fire.

A cloth rested across his brow, cool from the basin of water beside the bed. He seemed content at last, and you felt safe enough to leave him alone to rest.

The servants had withdrawn to the outer room after the lord finally settled, their anxious whispering fading into the soft murmur of the wind outside. Once or twice, you could hear the creak of the bench as one shifted or the faint clink of a cup, but they kept their distance now, unwilling to disturb the fragile peace that had settled.

You stepped outside the cottage quietly, pulling the door closed behind you so the hinges would not creak.

The morning air struck your skin with welcome coolness. Dew clung to the tall grass in the clearing, soaking the hem of your boots as you crossed to the wooden basin beside the door. It held water gathered from the nearby stream, it’s surface smooth and dark in the morning shade.

You plunged your hands into the cold water.

The chill bit instantly at your skin, sharp enough to make you suck in a breath. You scrubbed the faint stain of herbs from your fingers. The water stung where small nicks lined your knuckles—tiny cuts from knives, thorns, and bone needles gathered over years of work. You hardly notice them anymore.

Morning air filled your lungs as you straightened. It smelled of wet soil, pine sap, and the faint sweetness of crushed grass beneath your boots. After the thick herbal smoke and heat of the cottage, the forest air felt startlingly clean.

For a while, you simply stood there, letting the cool air wake the last heaviness from your bones. Your shoulders ached from hours spent leaning over the bed. The dull fatigue behind your eyes lingered stubbornly, but the forest had a way of easing it, as though the quiet itself could steady a weary mind.

Somewhere in the distance, a crow called harshly from the branches overhead. A breeze stirred the tall pines, sending a soft whisper of needles through the air.

Peaceful.

Familiar.

The sound of hurried footsteps broke the calm.

You looked up.

A boy from the nearby village came running across the clearing, his boots slipping slightly in the damp grass. His chest heaved with effort, and his hair stuck wildly to his forehead where sweat had gathered.

You had treated him during the last harvest when he had broken his arm falling from an apple tree. When he saw you watching, he waved both arms frantically. “Someone’s coming!”

You frowned slightly. “Who?”

The boy skidded to a halt beside the basin, bending over with his hands braced against his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“A rider,” he managed between gasps. “From the road.”

Visitors were not uncommon; farmers sometimes arrived with injured animals. Villagers occasionally came seeking remedies for coughs or broken bones.

But riders were rare.

And they almost never arrived alone.

“Did he say what he wanted?” you asked.

The boy shook his head quickly, still breathing hard, his breath coming out in little white clouds. “He asked for the healer.”

You wiped your hands against the edge of your sleeve, the rough cloth absorbing the last of the cold water.

Before you could ask anything further, the sound of hooves reached the clearing. Slow at first, a distant, hollow rhythm echoing between the trees—Then louder, like thunder over a dark sky.

The boy turned toward the narrow path leading through the trees, his eyes widening with excitement. “He’s coming!”

A moment later, the rider emerged from the forest.

The horse stepped into the clearing first, its dark coat streaked with dust from the long road. Sweat darkened its flanks, and its breath steamed faintly in the cool morning air. Foam gathered along the edges of the bit where it worked its jaw restlessly.

The man astride the horse looked little better than the exhausted animal beneath him. Travel dust coated his cloak and boots, and the deep lines around his eyes spoke of many days spent riding without proper rest.

When he reached the clearing, he pulled the reins sharply, bringing the horse to a halt. The animal let out an indignant noise and pawed at the ground sharply, it’s tail flicking like a whip.

His eyes moved quickly across the cottage, the herb garden beside it, and the two of you standing in the grass.

Then he swung down from the saddle. His cloak shifted as he moved, revealing the dark doublet beneath. Even before he approached, you noticed the emblem fastened to his clothes.

Deep red on a field of black, a three-headed dragon.

The sigil of House Targaryen.

The boy beside you sucked in a quiet breath of awe.

The rider approached with careful, deliberate steps, his boots crunching softly against the gravel path. His gaze moved across the clearing, lingering briefly on the hanging herbs near the door, the drying racks beneath the eaves, and the open window where the scent of willow bark drifted faintly outward.

“Where is the woodswitch?” he asked, stepping forward, expression serious. His voice was formal, but you could tell he was tired.

You stepped forward. “Here.”

His gaze settled fully on you then, not rudely, but with the careful scrutiny of someone who had travelled a long distance in search of something very specific—and was quietly wondering whether he had truly found it.

“You are the one who treated Lord Harroway?” he asked.

“I treated him.”

“And he lives.”

“Until the gods decide it is his time, yes.” You regarded simply.

The rider’s brow creased faintly at the answer.

Then he reached into the leather pouch at his belt and withdrew a folded parchment sealed with deep red wax.

“The crown sends for you.” He held the letter out.

The wax seal bore the three-headed dragon clearly, the imprint sharp and unmistakable.

The boy beside you gasped.

You took the parchment slowly, feeling the thickness of the fine paper beneath your fingers. It was far finer than anything used in the villages.

You broke the seal hesitantly, trying not to show the slight tremble in your fingers. The parchment inside was smooth and heavy, the ink dark and precise.

You read the message slowly.

To the healer reputed to have cured Lord Harroway,

Word of your skill has reached the Red Keep. The royal family is afflicted by the spring sickness, and the maesters have not yet halted its spread.

I ask that you come to King’s Landing with all possible haste.

Prince Valarr Targaryen.

The forest seemed suddenly very quiet, like nature had held its breath along with you. Even the crow that liked to squawk in the early hours of the morning had fallen silent.

Beside you, the boy stared up with wide eyes. “What does it say? What does it say?”

You had almost forgotten he was standing beside you, but the small tug he gave your sleeve made you jolt in surprise. You gave him a small sideways glance— then your gaze shifted to the rider who was regarding the boy sharply.

Then you read the letter again.

Spring sickness.

The words carried a weight you knew too well. You had seen it before, or well, a similar affliction, it had broken out during the late autumn when all the trees turned orange.

Years ago, in a river village where the houses stood too close together, and the wells ran shallow in summer. The sickness had begun with a single fever.

By the time anyone understood what it was, half the village had taken ill.

Children first.

Then the old.

Then anyone who dared tend the sick without care.

It had spread like fire through dry brush. When the fevers finally broke, the burial mounds outside the village had doubled.

The ache of many sleepless nights assisting the old woman, treating people, crawled back violently as if it had never ceased; the feeling made you shudder. That was when you had doubted your ability to be a healer; you had cried after losing so many people you had poured all your efforts into saving.

If the old woman had not been there to pick you up, you surely would not have survived the ordeal yourself.

You folded the letter carefully, the smooth parchment sliding between your fingers easily.

“How long has it been in the city?” you asked. While you had heard of some cases of sickness in more populated areas, it had not yet leaked into the countryside, where you preferred to spend your time.

The rider shook his head, a grim expression settling over his face. “Several weeks.”

“And the maesters cannot stop it?”

“No.” He hesitated before adding quietly, “Many have already died.”

The boy’s excitement faded at once, and his gaze dropped toward the ground. Whatever he thought might happen, it was clear it was not this; to talk of such grief in front of a child… it was not savoury. The itch to send him away grew, but before you could say anything, the rider spoke.

“You are requested at once.” his tone was firm, as though he feared you might refuse.

You looked past him toward the road disappearing between the trees. King’s Landing lay many days south—farther than you had ever travelled, farther than the old woodswitch had ever allowed you to go.

Treating farmers and minor lords was one thing, but treating the royal family was something else entirely. What if they did not improve? Would they have your head for it? The thought made you shudder.

The boy tugged your sleeve again. “You have to go,” he insisted. “If anyone can help them, it’s you!”

You almost laughed.

People always said such things after someone survived an illness, as though healing were certain, as though herbs and patience could command life itself.

Your gaze drifted toward the cottage behind you.

Your gaze drifted toward the cottage behind you. Inside, Lord Smallwood still slept. If the fever returned stronger tonight, he might yet die despite everything you had done.

Healing was never promised, only attempted.

The rider waited patiently.

At last, you asked, “Why me?”

The rider blinked once, clearly surprised by the question.

“Your name was recommended,” he replied after a moment.

“By whom?”

“By those who claim you have saved lives others could not.” The words carried more belief than you were comfortable with.

You studied the letter once more, mind spinning.

Prince Valarr Targaryen.

A man you had never met. A prince you had never even seen. Yet somehow he had heard your name in a distant village and believed it worth sending a rider across half the realm.

The wind stirred gently through the clearing, and for a moment, you imagined the old woodswitch standing beside you again, leaning on her crooked stick.

“A healer listens. If someone is ill, you go. Even when you know you might fail.”

You let out a long breath, emptying your lungs completely before lifting your gaze back to the rider. For a moment, you said nothing, weighing the words of the letter against the quiet life you had built here, against the forest and the patients who came to your door each morning. When you finally spoke, your voice was calm, though the decision behind it felt heavier than you expected. “All right,” you said. “I will come.”

Relief spread across the rider’s face so quickly he made no effort to hide it. Beside you, the boy stared in open amazement before breaking into a grin so wide it seemed to light his whole face. “You’re really going?” he blurted. “To the Red Keep?” The excitement in his voice made the journey sound like some grand adventure rather than a desperate summons from a prince.

You turned back toward the cottage, already thinking through what would be needed. “If I’m to travel that far, I’ll need time to prepare,” you said, brushing the dampness from your hands onto your sleeve. “There are medicines to gather, and I’ll have to make certain the villagers are looked after while I’m gone. Illness doesn’t wait simply because its healer has ridden south.”

“That won’t be a problem,” the rider replied quickly, stepping forward as though eager to remove every possible obstacle. “If you need help making arrangements, I can see to it.”

You nodded absently, though your attention had drifted back toward the clearing. Pausing at the doorway, you glanced once more at the forest stretching beyond the small patch of open ground. It looked exactly as it always had—quiet and unchanged beneath the pale morning light. The tall pines swayed gently in the wind, their shadows moving slowly across the grass, and the familiar scent of damp earth and sap hung in the air.

It was peaceful here.

Familiar.

Safe.

For a moment, it was difficult to believe that somewhere beyond those endless trees a city was choking on sickness, and that a prince you had never met believed you might be able to save the people he loved.

You pushed the cottage door open and stepped inside, already reaching for the worn leather pouch that held your herbs. “Give me an hour,” you said over your shoulder, your voice carrying out into the clearing where the rider and the boy still waited. Then, more quietly, almost as if speaking the thought aloud made it real, you added, “Once I’m ready… we ride.”

The mule moved at a steady, tireless pace along the winding road.

When the farmer had first pressed the reins into your hands years ago—insisting you take the animal as payment for healing his wife—you had expected something slower. The mule had looked ordinary enough then: broad-backed, thick-necked, with a stubborn tilt to her ears that suggested she might refuse to move whenever it suited her. But she had proven stronger than she appeared. Sure-footed on uneven ground and patient with long distances, she walked with a quiet determination that rarely faltered once she had set her mind to the road.

“She carried sacks heavier than you through half my fields,” the farmer had said proudly, patting the mule’s neck as though the animal understood every word. “She’ll see you where you’re going.”

Now, as the road wound south through the low hills, you found yourself grateful for the gift. The mule’s hooves struck the packed earth in a steady rhythm, unhurried but relentless, her ears flicking now and then as the wind stirred the tall grasses along the roadside.

Beside you, the royal rider kept an easy seat on his horse. The animal beneath him was leaner and finer-boned, bred for speed rather than endurance, but the rider had slowed his pace without complaint to match the mule’s steady gait. Dust clung to both horse and rider from the miles already behind them, dulling the shine of leather and cloak alike.

The countryside had begun to change as you travelled.

The tall pine forests surrounding your home had gradually thinned, giving way to open hills and wide fields where golden grass rippled beneath the wind like the surface of a quiet sea. Small farms dotted the valleys below, their roofs pale against the dark soil of half-harvested fields.

Ordinarily, the road between villages would have been busy this time of year. Farmers would be hauling grain in creaking carts, neighbours walking between fields to trade news or tools, children running along the roadside until called back by impatient parents.

Today, the road was strangely quiet.

You noticed the silence first when the path carried you past a small cluster of cottages beside a narrow stream. The fields nearby lay untouched, though the harvest should have been well underway. No one worked among the rows of grain, and the doors of several houses stood closed despite the mild warmth of the morning.

A thin column of smoke curled upward from a shallow iron pan set in the middle of one yard.

The smell reached you as you rode past.

Vinegar.

You slowed the mule instinctively, studying the cottages more carefully now. One house had a cloth draped loosely across its doorway. Another had its shutters nailed shut from the outside, the boards hammered crookedly across the window frame.

From somewhere inside the cluster of buildings came the faint, ragged sound of coughing.

Your hand tightened slightly on the reins.

“We should stop,” you said quietly.

The rider glanced toward the cottages without turning his head fully, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hood. The mule had nearly slowed to a halt when the rider spoke again, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet morning air. “No.”

You looked at him. “If the sickness has reached this village already—”

“We ride.” He shook his head once, the gesture small but final.

Your gaze drifted back toward the cottages. Something moved behind one of the shuttered windows—a faint shape shifting in the dimness beyond the glass. For a moment, you thought you saw a hand press weakly against the pane.

“I could at least look,” you said. “It would only take a few minutes.”

The rider guided his horse slightly sideways, placing the animal squarely across the road ahead of the mule. The movement was calm, deliberate, leaving no space for you to pass.

His voice, when he spoke again, was not harsh. But there was a firmness to it that suggested he was accustomed to being obeyed. “The prince sent for you.”

“And they’re dying.”

“They are already dead.”

The words struck harder than you expected.

“You don’t know that,” you said, staring at him.

His gaze met yours steadily. “I know the sickness.”

The wind shifted across the road then, carrying the sour smell of vinegar and illness from the silent cottages behind you. Somewhere above the fields, a crow cried sharply, its voice echoing across the empty hills.

The rider spoke again, more quietly now. “If we stop at every village that coughs along this road, we will never reach King’s Landing.”

You did not answer.

Your eyes lingered on the cottages, on the shuttered windows and silent yards. The coughing had stopped, or perhaps the wind had simply carried the sound away.

Either way, the village looked still now. Too still.

You knew what the rider meant. You had seen sickness move like this before—swift and merciless, leaving little behind but empty beds and grieving families. Often, by the time a healer arrived, there was little left to do but comfort the living.

And you had been summoned somewhere far worse.

Slowly, you loosened your grip on the reins.

The rider let out a breath you had not realised he had been holding and nudged his horse forward again. The mule followed without hesitation, stepping back into her steady rhythm as though she had never intended to stop.

The cottages disappeared behind you as the road curved southward through the hills.

For a long while, neither of you spoke.

The mule’s hooves beat a quiet rhythm against the earth while the pale sky stretched wide above the empty countryside. The wind moved softly through the tall grass, whispering across the fields like distant water.

Far ahead, beyond the rolling hills and winding rivers, waited King’s Landing.

And somewhere within its crowded walls, a prince believed you might still save someone.

You had never seen King’s Landing before. But even as the city came into view from the road, you knew it could not look the way it did now.

Every traveller you had ever met who had passed through the capital described the same things: crowds thick as river reeds, shouting merchants, markets overflowing into the streets, carts rattling past one another in endless noise and motion. A city too large to ever truly fall quiet.

But the place spread beneath you now felt wrong even from a distance.

The towers of the Red Keep still rose high above the hills, catching the dull grey light of the afternoon. Ships clustered in the river below, their masts packed tightly together like a forest of bare trees.

Yet the roads leading toward the gates carried far more people leaving than arriving.

Families walked north with bundles tied to their backs. A farmer urged two thin oxen along a cart piled with sacks and blankets. A pair of septons moved barefoot along the roadside, heads bowed in prayer as they passed travellers without looking up.

All of them moving away.

You reached the city gates near midday.

Long before the walls themselves came fully into view, you could smell the city.

The wind carried it across the road in heavy waves—coal smoke, cooking fires, animal waste, and the sour odour of too many people crowded too tightly together. Beneath it all lingered another scent, sharper and more unsettling.

Sickness.

You had smelled it before in villages struck by fever.

It clung to the air in the same way smoke did, invisible yet unmistakable once you learned to recognise it.

The road climbed steadily toward the massive walls of King’s Landing. Their red-streaked stone towers loomed higher with every step the mule took, casting long shadows over the crowded approach to the gate.

Dozens of people waited there: Merchants with loaded wagons, travellers carrying bundles of belongings, a handful of farmers leading livestock.

Yet the mood was not the bustling impatience you might have expected from the capital of the Seven Kingdoms.

Most of the faces you saw looked tired, worried.

A man near the front of the line doubled over suddenly, coughing into his sleeve with such force that the sound echoed harshly against the stone walls. Those standing closest to him stepped away quickly.

The rider moved past them with a practised calm, using his horse to force them to move from his path. The guards at the gate wore golden armour that glinted in the setting afternoon sun.

One stepped forward, raising a hand. “State your business.”

The rider lifted a small token bearing the dragon crest. “Royal summons.”

The guard studied the seal briefly before nodding and waving two others closer. “Escort them through,” he instructed gruffly.

Two guards on horseback appeared, one carried a long spear, the other rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as he gestured toward the street beyond the gate. “This way.”

The moment you crossed beneath the stone archway, the sound struck you like a wave.

Voices, shouting, carts rattling over uneven cobblestones and the distant clang of hammer on metal somewhere deeper within the city.

King’s Landing was enormous.

Buildings crowded so tightly together that the streets between them seemed carved from stone and shadow. Wooden balconies leaned precariously overhead, their supports creaking beneath the weight of years.

The road beyond the gate stretched wide between rows of tall buildings, but half the shutters had been nailed closed. Others hung open like broken teeth. A market square lay just beyond the gate—but the stalls stood abandoned, their canvas awnings sagging where no one had taken them down.

Someone coughed nearby—deep, ragged, uncontrollable. The sound echoed hollowly through the narrow street. In an alley, a septon knelt beside a man lying against the wall, whispering prayers as the man trembled beneath a thin blanket.

You watched a woman stagger from a doorway, clutching a cloth to her mouth as she leaned heavily against the wall. Her skin looked pale beneath the grime of the street, and sweat darkened the loose strands of hair clinging to her temples.

No one stopped to help her.

The rider guided his horse closer to your mule. “It wasn’t like this a month ago,” he said quietly.

You believed him.

Illness had a way of changing places quickly.

The Gold Cloaks led the way through the winding streets, pushing aside the few pedestrians who wandered too close.

“Make way!” Out of the road!” they barked harshly.

People stepped aside reluctantly and ducked their gazes while you passed, some stared openly though, and you worked to keep from meeting anyone’s desperate eyes, nausea welling inside you.

You could see the signs everywhere now.

At the edge of the empty market square, a cart rolled slowly across the stones. Two men pushed it together, swatting at the flies that buzzed around them like a thick cloud. A rough blanket covered the long shapes piled inside; the cloth shifted as the cart lurched over a rut.

A pale hand slipped briefly into view before one of the men hurried to pull the blanket back down.

You looked away.

Farther along, a doorway had been marked with a crude smear of white chalk.

A warning. Sick inside, do not enter.

You tightened your grip on the mule’s reins.

One of the Gold Cloaks muttered under his breath. “Seven save us.”

The rider beside you said nothing, only kept his gaze forward, expression unreadable.

The smoke thickened again as you passed a small square where several makeshift bonfires burned brightly, fueled by flesh instead of kindling.

“Nowhere to bury ‘em,” one of the Gold Cloaks said when he noticed you watching.

Behind you, another cart rattled slowly over the stones, heading toward the square with the fires. You did not turn to look this time, afraid of what or who you may see it carrying.

Even without ever having seen the city before, you could feel it. A place this large should have been chaotic with energy. Instead, the streets felt strained.

As if the entire population were holding its breath.

The road began to climb again as you approached the hill where the Red Keep stood.

The castle rose high above the city, its massive red walls glowing faintly in the late afternoon sun. From below, it looked less like a home and more like a fortress watching over the sprawling chaos beneath it. The closer you came, the quieter the streets became. The poorest districts gave way to wider roads lined with sturdier stone buildings. Fewer people lingered outside.

More guards appeared.

The mule’s hooves rang loudly against the cobblestones as you crossed the final bridge leading toward the castle gates.

Then the buildings parted dramatically, dropping away to nothing.

The Red Keep stood before you.

You had heard the name all your life—spoken with awe by travellers who had glimpsed it from the harbour or the city below.

But hearing of it was not the same as seeing it.

The fortress rose in layers of deep red stone, vast and uneven, its towers climbing into the dimming sky like jagged teeth. The walls were higher than anything you had ever seen, their surfaces worn smooth in places by centuries of wind from the sea. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon hung from the battlements. Even in the fading light, the scarlet dragons seemed to coil and twist as the cloth stirred slowly in the evening breeze.

The gates were large and heavily guarded.

Armoured men stood on either side of the entrance beneath the towering archway, their polished breastplates catching the last pale light of the sinking sun. Spears rested upright in their hands, and their eyes followed every movement in the yard beyond.

Unlike the guards at the city gate, these men did not wear cloth across their faces. Perhaps the sickness had not reached the castle, or perhaps they believed the stone walls protected them.

One of the guards stepped forward as your small group approached. “State your business.”

The rider lifted the dragon-marked token once more. “Royal summons. The healer requested by Prince Valarr.”

The guard stepped aside, with a small bow of his head. “Go on.”

The gates of the Red Keep swallowed you. Inside, the courtyard opened wide beneath the darkening sky.

For a moment, you forgot the sickness in the city below.

The yard bustled with movement. Stable boys hurried across the packed earth, leading restless horses toward the stables. A group of servants crossed the courtyard carrying heavy baskets between them. Somewhere near the far wall, a hammer struck metal in sharp, ringing blows. The noise felt strange after the hollow streets outside. Yet even here something felt… strained. The movements were too quick. Voices were too quiet. No one lingered to talk. Everyone seemed to be hurrying somewhere.

Your mule slowed uncertainly as you rode into the yard, ears flicking at the unfamiliar sounds.

Two servants passed carrying armfuls of fresh linens stacked so high you could barely see their faces. Another man hurried past with a wooden crate filled with glass bottles that clinked softly together as he walked. A pair of maesters crossed the courtyard near the far tower, their grey robes billowing slightly in the wind. One of them spoke quickly to the other, gesturing with a scroll clutched in his hand.

You caught the faint smell of herbs drifting across the yard.

Sage, Mint, something sharper you did not recognise.

The rider dismounted beside you at last. “Come.”

A stable boy hurried forward to take the horses. He reached for the mule’s reins cautiously, eyeing the sturdy animal with open curiosity.

You slid down easily from the saddle. After hours on the road, the ground felt strangely unsteady beneath your feet. But you could not afford to dally and quickly pulled the saddle bags from your mule, herbs you had brought from home poked out of them.

The rider handed the boy the reins without ceremony. “See, they’re watered.”

“Yes, ser.” The boy nodded quickly and led both animals away, casting another glance back at the mule as though surprised anyone had ridden such a creature into the Red Keep.

You followed the rider toward a broad doorway set into the castle wall. The doors stood open, revealing a dim stone corridor beyond.

The moment you stepped inside, the air changed.

Cooler, still.

Your footsteps echoed faintly along the floor.

Torches burned in iron brackets along the walls, their flames flickering gently in the draft from the open doorway behind you. The light threw shifting shadows across the vaulted ceiling above.

Servants passed through the corridor now and then, most of them carrying trays, cloths, or small bundles of herbs.

One girl hurried past with an armful of lavender tied in thick bunches. The scent followed her down the hall. Another servant carried a basin of steaming water that smelled faintly of vinegar. You glanced at it instinctively, following her form as she hurried away.

The rider continued without slowing, guiding you deeper into the keep. The corridors twisted and branched in confusing directions, passing beneath narrow archways and along staircases that climbed steeply toward unseen towers. The stone walls seemed to close in around you the further you went.

You realised quickly that you would never find your way through this place alone.

At one turning, a pair of maesters stood arguing quietly beside a table stacked with glass jars. “…the fever worsens after the second day,” one of them said.

“And the coughing?” the other replied, but they fell silent as you passed, watching you with harsh gazes.

The rider did not pause, striding with determination.

The castle felt larger the deeper you went. Passageways branched into more passageways. Stairwells spiralled upward or vanished downward into shadow. The air carried the scent of herbs everywhere now: mint, Rosemary, Something bitter, something spicy.

At last, the rider slowed before a tall wooden door set between two narrow windows. Two guards stood there, instead of the black and red of House Targaryen, they wore pearly white armour that almost glowed against their surroundings; they were members of the Kingsguard.

They straightened as you approached, and you felt small under their gaze; you could practically feel the sweep they did of you, assessing for danger, perhaps even signs of illness.

The rider muttered something to one of them, and he nodded, gesturing to the door briefly. The raider didnt hesitate and knocked once. It rang out against the thick wood, echoing around the corridor they stood in.

A voice came from within that made your skin prickle with anxiety. The king's guard didnt just guard any old rooms for fun, only when a royal lay inside. With a click, the rider pushed the massive door open and stepped inside curtly.

“The healer, your grace”, he announced with a bow.

part ii.

© knightbloods : do not copy, repost, translate, claim or alter my works & do not feed/do anything related to ai with my works.

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[honeyhallow]

WALLFLOWER. – v.t.

𖧷 summary: your lord father brings you to king’s landing for the young dragon prince’s nameday celebration, in hopes of finding yourself a suitable match. 𖧷 pairing: valarr targaryen x fem!reader 𖧷 word count: 13.6k (sincere apologies) 𖧷 content/warnings: canon-divergent, ocs included. she/her pronouns. no y/n used. no specific physical descriptions. shy/reserved!reader. reader is from a lesser noble house. lots of insecurities. fluff. mutual pining. strangers-to-friends-to-lovers.

The wheelhouse had been your father’s idea of comfort.

Cushioned seats, curtained windows. Your house’s sigil pressed into the wood of the door in pale pink and soft green.

You had spent the first two days of the journey with a book open on your lap, pretending to read while the wheels hit every stone and branch on the ground. By the third day, you had given up pretending and simply watched the curtains sway.

The Lord Aldric Sweetbriar sat across from you with his ledger, making small notes with his careful hand. He had barely looked up since you had finally crossed the Crownlands.

You did not interrupt him, you were good at that. It was one of the few things you were genuinely praised for, yet it was depressing.

Outside, the land had changed. You had noticed it gradually, the way you noticed most things; quietly and too late to say anything about it to anyone.

The usual green of the Reach; soft, fragrant, and familiar, had changed into something harder and less forgiving. The air that crept in through the tiny gaps of the curtain was different too. Heavier. It sat in your lungs differently than that of the cool, dewy mornings of Sweetfield; your home, where the mist made the village smell like wet earth and lavender.

Underneath your sleeve, you pressed your fingers to your wrist without thinking. Faintly damp. It has been since yesterday, and it is not entirely because of the heat.

The wheelhouse slowed.

You heard it before you felt it. The driver’s call, the change in the horses’ rhythm. The curtain swayed in the breeze, and you caught a glimpse through the gap.

People. More people than you had ever seen gathered in one place in your entire life. Moving in every direction with the chaos the city had always known in its entire existence.

Letting the curtain fall back into place, your fingers found your wrist again.

Wallflower, you heard your sister Rowan’s voice in the back of your head, insufferable yet full of warmth. You are absolutely going to hate it there.

“We are nearly at the gates,” Your father closed his ledger, then looked at you properly for the first time in hours. His eyes moved over your face, steadily assessing.

“How are you finding the journey?" It was not quite a question, it rarely was with him.

“Well enough,” you said softly. Though it was not much of a response, your father always accepted and understood. Understood that you were nervous in the way you were your whole life. The one where you learned from a very young age to keep away and not let it show on the outside.

Your Lord father nodded. “You will find your footing, daughter.”

You thought back to Briarkeep, in Sweetfield. The way the roses climbed the pale grey stone in the mornings. The way your youngest brother, Celyn always smelled faintly of whatever dirt he had been digging in. You said nothing.

The gates came. The noise swelled around the wheelhouse like water rising, and you sat still, letting yourself drown in it. You could hear horses and vendors, their voices layered together. It was nothing like you had ever known. Not even during the busiest mornings of the village square in Sweetfield, where you can still hear the brook.

The air was nothing like the Reach. It was thick and carried everything with it. Smoke, animals, too many people living too close in vicinity. It was not entirely unpleasant, but entirely overwhelming.

You were the youngest daughter of House Sweetbriar. The last of Lord Aldric’s daughters, the one that came after Rowan. Before her, was Edwyn and Elara. Growing up in the shadows of your older siblings, you spent your entire life finding your way in the space they had long already filled.

As Aldric’s heir, Edwyn had the house. Elara had her good match. Rowan had also found hers.

You had the garden. You had your books. You had Celyn’s tiny hand in yours on the mornings he climbed into your bed before Briarkeep woke.

Now, you had this. Trying to remember how to breathe in air that felt nothing like home.

“They call it the city of a thousand smells,” you said, mostly to yourself.

Your father glanced at you, the corner of his mouth slightly moving. “Who calls it that?”

“A book.”

“Which book?”

“I fear I do not remember.” You did remember. You remembered exactly which particular shelf of Briarkeep’s modest library it was in, how old you had been when you read it, the fact you had read everything on that shelf twice. Though, you thought of it as irrelevant, that nobody had ever thought to ask.

Aldric let out a sound of amusement, before looking out the curtain. “It is not wrong,” he responded.

As the wheelhouse continued to roll on, you thought about what your father wanted from this trip. The thought that sat in your chest the same way it did for weeks.

Lord Aldric had built his life with precision; good trade, good matches, good reputation. Every piece was placed deliberately and well.

Edwyn had married into another steady house from the Reach, his lady wife already with child. Same with Elara. With Rowan, nearly so.

Now, the last daughter, the quiet wallflower of Briarkeep, was being brought to King’s Landing like the final entry in his careful plan.

A connection beyond the Reach, he had told you over supper.

You had considered them. You laid awake in bed considering them. A Lannister would want gold and a name that rang across the Seven Kingdoms, you had neither. A Baratheon would want strength and storms, a lady who could stand tall in a great hall full of warriors, you were the girl that stood at the edge of them.

You had even thought, just once, in a weak moment you were not proud of, about what it would mean to carry a name like Targaryen. Full of dragonfire, to carry a babe with blood closer to the gods than that of humans.

You dismissed the thought immediately. You were only the youngest daughter of a house so minor that half the lords of the Reach would need a moment to think about it. Your house grew herbs, you pressed flowers and read books nobody asked you to read. When you did talk, it was mostly to a boy of six, with innocent eyes that matched her mother’s.

What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?

The wheelhouse rolled to a stop.

Around them, the noise of the city had not quieted but changed. Sounds of boots on cobblestone, distant clangs of armor, and low murmurs.

Your father had descended first, offering you his hand. You took it and stepped down onto King’s Landing for the first time.

The heat was immediate. You felt it on your skin, through the fabric of your dress, resisting the urge to press your cool fingers to your cheeks.

You stood beside your father, and looked up at the Red Keep for the first time. It was enormous. You had read the histories, the accounts of different visitors across generations. None of it had prepared you for the sensation of standing at its feet, at its mercy as the youngest daughter of a lesser house from the quietest corner of the Reach.

Lord Aldric placed a brief hand at your back. It was steady and grounding. The faint smell of his own fragrance made from herbs and oils only found in Sweetfield. It only did so much to comfort you, a reminder of how far you are from home.

Beckoning you forward, you took your first step and followed your Lord father. Wallflower, you still heard Rowan’s voice. You hushed her in your thoughts.

The morning had already started before he was ready for it, which was becoming a habit he utterly resented.

Valarr stood at the window of his chambers while his squire worked at the laces of his doublet behind him, looking out at the courtyard below. Preparations had been underway long before dawn.

Tables being carried. The ebony and red banners being straightened. Servants moving about. There was an urgency that filled the air, that everything needed to be perfect. Perfect for a nameday celebration in the Red Keep.

His nameday.

To him, it did not feel like a celebration. It felt like a deadline.

“Too tight,” he said, without turning.

His squire murmured a soft apology and adjusted. The young prince said nothing.

Watching banners being rehung for a third time, his mind went back to the private conversation he had with his father two evenings ago. The one he had been dreading, but was inevitable.

You are not a boy anymore, Prince Baelor had said. A man of your age, your name, your station. The time has come to think seriously about what comes next.

What comes next? As though it were a simple thing. As though it was not the question that sat in the center of everything now.

The heir of the heir. Second in line to the Iron Throne.

He needed to look for a bride. A future queen of the Realm, to rule by his side when the time comes. He was definitely not ready.

His squire finished with the laces and moved to grab his cloak. Valarr finally turned away from the window, catching his own reflection in the polished mirror across the chamber. 

He thought he looked exactly like someone who was about to spend the entire week being presented to the daughters of every noble house with enough ambition to secure an invitation. He was not particularly happy about it.

Valarr was far from ungrateful. From a very young age, he fully understood the weight of his name and position, and what it required. However, understanding and being at peace with it was not always the same.

A future queen. Someone whose name would sit beside his in the history books, a face he did not yet know. Someone who was somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms right now, perhaps dressing for the festivities, or perhaps already within these walls.

He wondered, briefly, what was she thinking about at this moment.

“Your Grace,” His squire stepped back. “You are ready.”

Valarr looked at himself in the mirror once more. The black doublet he wore was accented by deep burgundy, the three-headed dragon forged in steel at the breast. His dark hair was done more neatly than usual, his silver streak proudly showing.

He thought about the day ahead. The incoming introductions and careful conversations. The noble ladies that would be presented. The Lord fathers who would be watching. All enshrouded by the grand performance of a nameday celebration.

The young dragon prince straightened.

You had read about the Great Hall of the Red Keep.

It was so grand and vast in a way that made you feel your own insignificance, that you were only one person. To be standing in a room that bore witness to power and greatness.

Aldric stood beside you, feeling the complete opposite. That was the thing about your father that you never quite managed to inherit. He could walk into any room, and find his footing within moments, even as a lesser lord that merely dealt with herb trades.

By no means was he arrogant. He was simply a man that held a particular steadiness within himself, a man who knew exactly who he was.

Your father took a breath, straightened his shoulders, and became Lord Aldric Sweetbriar, a man whose house you might not immediately recognize but whose bearing you would not miss.

You secretly envied him for it.

“Come, daughter,” he said, and beckoned you forward into the noise. You only followed because it was you had to.

The hall was already full and continued to get fuller.

You stayed close to your father’s side and tried to do what you always did on occasions like these: observe, rather than participate. It was a strategy that proved to be quite successful at small gatherings in the Reach.

There were lords and ladies from every corner of the Seven Kingdoms, some clustered together like in a map. Lannisters in their signature red and lustrous gold. Baratheons standing broad shouldered and loud across the hall, already nursing goblets of wine. 

The familiar Tyrells gathered near the center of the hall, as they always did. Orbiting them were other lords from the Reach that you recognized by sigil. 

Despite being the quietest in the hall, the northern lords were easy to spot. They held their demeanor so differently than those of the south, standing watchfully. You noticed that they had not yet decided to take their thick furs and cloaks off yet, even in the humid air of King’s Landing.

You recognized that particular stillness. Those who were more accustomed to silence rather than southern spectacle. Embarrassingly, you felt an unexpected affinity towards them. Perhaps you could do well in the North.

You continued observing the room, and kept your hands still like Elara had taught you.

Your father was already in conversation with a lord from the Crownlands, warm and genuinely interested. He introduced you briefly, and you smiled. Then you stepped back and let him continue, slightly behind his shoulder like a shadow.

Then you became aware of the women perhaps about an hour in. A group of highborn ladies near the far end of the hall, the kind of women who had been raised in grand castles rather than being merely invited to them.

“Is that a Sweetbriar sigil?”

The voice was not quiet, it was not meant to be. It held the character of someone who had grown up in rooms where their voice was always worth hearing. Then, light laughter. Dismissive and entirely certain of itself.

“The Red Keep allows herb merchants now, apparently.”

You kept your eyes forward, and face entirely still, with practiced grace. Instinctively, you pressed your fingers against your wrist once again. Thinking back to the brook behind Sweetfield, and Celyn’s soft giggles, you pretended to not hear their discussions.

“My dear.”

The voice came from your left. It was warm and unhurried. You turned.

Lady Ellinor Tyrell was not a young girl but a striking woman, the kind of lady that was naturally placed at the center of any space she occupied. You remembered Edwyn’s silly infatuation about her when you were younger, filling your ears with detailed descriptions of her beauty and grace. 

“Lady Tyrell,” You greeted, bowing your head slightly before curtsying.

She looked at you with genuine warmth and slight amusement, like she had heard exactly what had been said earlier. Seeing your father deeper in conversation with the other lords, she gently took both your hands in hers.

“I had thought that was you,” her eyes moved over your face with fondness. “You have grown since I last saw you at Highgarden.”

“I was the age of four and ten, my lady,” your voice came out steadier than you felt. “My father had brought us for the harvest feast.”

“Aye, that is right,” the corners of her eyes creased warmly. “I remember that you spent the whole of the afternoon in the gardens, and nobody could find you for supper. The head gardener spoke of you afterward, and said that you knew more of the medicinal properties of half his plants than most of his staff combined.”

Something in your chest had loosened. “He was far too kind to say so, my lady.”

“He was truthful to say so.” Lady Tyrell then tucked your hand gently through her arm, turning you both away from your busy father.

“How does your Lord father fare? Your siblings? All is well?”

“Yes, my lady. Well enough. My youngest brother Celyn has only just turned seven.”

“The little one,” she said softly. “Seven already. The years do not slow for any of us.”

Gently drawing you forward, she says, “Come, there are some among our company who will be glad of your acquaintance.”

“Lord Fossoway has been asking for your father’s rosemary oil for the better part of the year, and has not had the good sense to simply send a raven to Briarkeep.”

A breath of a laugh escaped you, before you could stop it. Lady Ellinor’s eyes crinkled at the corners.

“There,” she said quietly, only for you to hear. “That is better.”

She then led you gradually toward the gathered group of Tyrells and other houses from the Reach. She always kept you included in the discussions, without making it feel like a charity. The Reach lords and ladies received you with easy warmth and familiarity. You were one of theirs, after all, no matter how small your house is.

Your father caught your eye from across a group of Crownlands lords, giving you a small nod. Well done, hold steady. You heard his voice in your head, before straightening your own posture.

For a fleeting moment, you were not the wallflower of Briarkeep.

Only for a moment.

The hush came without warning.

One moment the great hall was full of noise; voices, laughter, and the clink of goblets across the gathered nobility. Then, it stopped. Not all once, but in a wave.

You felt it reach you before you understood what it meant.

Every head turned toward the doors. Yours did too.

“His Grace, King Daeron the Good of House Targaryen, the Second of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

The herald’s voice carried through the great hall, ringing through the stone walls.

“His Grace, Baelor of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, Hand of the King, and heir to the Iron Throne.”

The rustle of fabric, and soft footsteps rippled around you. Lady Ellinor inclined her head with graceful precision. You lowered yourself into a curtsy beside her, eyes fixed on the cold stone floor.

“His Grace, Valarr of House Targaryen, Prince of the Realm, on the occasion of his nameday.”

You heard footsteps, slow and measured. Moving through the parted crowd. The whisper of fine fabric. The soft clink of ceremonial armor.

After Prince Matarys, the family of Prince Maekar followed, filling the hall with the full weight of Targaryen blood gathered in one space. You kept your eyes down and your curtsy steady, listening to each name.

Then the herald fell silent. A beat of silence.

Then King Daeron’s voice, older and gentler than you had expected, carried throughout the hall.

“Rise.”

You rose with everyone, before finally taking a look at the royal family for the first and probably only time.

Impossible to miss, you saw the king first. White haired and measured, wearing the crown of his father, Aegon the Unworthy. Beside him stood Prince Baelor. The grey at his temples did nothing to diminish him. If anything, it had only refined what was already there.

When the older prince shifted, your eyes found the one beside him without meaning to.

Prince Valarr Targaryen.

You had heard about him from others’ accounts. The descriptions had been accurate enough, dark brown hair with a silver streak that showed his Valyrian ancestry. Somehow, it still failed to prepare you for the reality of him standing in the same room as you.

He looked on to the hall of people celebrating his nameday, with an expression you could not quite name from a distance.

He did not look unhappy. Nor entirely at ease.

Perhaps a combination of the two.

He did not look your way once. Why would he? There were higher born lords and ladies filling every inch of the hall, daughters of great and wealthy houses positioned carefully within his line of sight.

Prince Valarr stood with his shoulders straight, his face composed, and his eyes moving steadily across the room without once landing on the unremarkable youngest daughter of a lesser Reach house, standing quietly at Lady Tyrell’s side.

You told yourself you were relieved. Mostly.

“He is more handsome than the accounts would suggest, is he not?” Lady Ellinor’s voice came softly at your shoulder, with quiet amusement. You became suddenly aware that you had been staring.

Heat crept up the back of your neck.

“I fear I would not know, my lady,” you said, gathering whatever composure you had left. “I have not read many accounts.”

“No,” Lady Ellinor said, with a sound that was not quite a laugh. “I do not suppose you have.”

You kept your eyes carefully forward, your stomach filling with a slight discomfort; like you had been caught doing something you were not supposed to.

The celebration resumed itself around the royal family’s presence, noise swelling back into the great hall with ease. Lords and ladies continued to move about. Goblets were refilled. Musicians finding their place once again.

It was a nameday celebration. You reminded yourself of that.

Across the hall, you watched as the young prince was received by the first group of lords. You could not hear the words being exchanged from this distance. You did not need to. The men’s postures. The practiced smiles. Their daughters positioned themselves deliberately at their Lord fathers’ sides, lovely and composed. Like they had prepared their entire life for this moment.

Prince Valarr received them graciously. He was patient. Yet, there was something behind his eyes, even at this distance. You recognized it the same way you did for the northern lords.

A person resuming their duties, while something continues to weigh heavy on their mind.

You understood that feeling rather well.

Having detached himself from the Crownlands lords, your father appeared at your side. Lady Ellinor had since separated from you, being pulled away by her own family.

“The royal family,” he observed, in the quiet tone he always used when he took note of something.

“Aye,” you said. “So it is, my lord.”

Aldric was quiet for a moment, surveying the hall with patient yet ambitious eyes. The eyes of a man who had come to King’s Landing with a purpose, and intended to see it through.

“I spoke with Lord Brightwater this evening. A Crownlands house, good standing.” He paused. “He has a son. Second-born. Near your age, from what I understand.”

You looked at your father.

He was not looking at you. He was watching the hall with the same steady expression.

“He seemed a reasonable man,” Lord Aldric continued. “His house is respectable. Not large, but steady.”

You understood what he was not saying. You had always been good at reading between the lines of what he said. 

Do not look toward the prince, my sweet daughter. We are not here for that, and you know it as well as I do.

He did not say any of it. He did not need to. Because he was kind-hearted enough to not speak of it plainly to you.

“I see,” you said softly.

“I thought it worth mentioning,” Your father said gently.

You looked back at the group of lords and ladies, with the young prince at the center of them all. The prince who had not looked your way once and would likely not think to.

You pressed your fingers to your wrist beneath your sleeve.

“Yes,” you said. “Worth mentioning.”

The great hall had received him exactly as he expected it to. A prince of the great dragon house. The heir of the heir.

Valarr moved through the first hour with the careful patience his father had taught him his entire life. Lord after lord. Name after name. Exchanging conversations and pleasantries that always had hidden meanings and agendas underneath them.

Instead of enjoying the feast, he knew his real duty. Matarys drifted past him at some point, with the satisfied and relaxed expression of a youngest son enjoying himself without the weight of obligation on his shoulders.

“How fares my big brother?” His younger brother said, falling into place beside him for a moment with a goblet in hand.

“Well enough,” Valarr said.

The even younger prince looked at him sideways. “You have spoken to four lords in the past hour, and smiled at all of them in exactly the same way.”

“That is called courtesy, dear brother.”

“That is called exhaustion,” Matarys took a long sip. “The Lannister lord has had his eyes on you for the past quarter hour. He has his daughter with him. The one in gold.”

“I am aware.”

“Her beauty is quite astounding.”

“I am also aware of that.”

“But?”

Valarr said nothing. Matarys seemed to understand. He did not push. He simply downed the remaining wine in his goblet, and patted his older brother on the shoulder. He then drifted away into the crowd, like he still had all the freedom and time in his hands.

Valarr watched him go with a combination of envy and affection in his chest.

Making sure to keep his face composed, he let out a subtle sigh before turning back to receive the Lannister lord.

Baelor caught his eye from across the hall. A look that said nothing, yet everything. Valarr gave him the smallest nod in return.

He had lost count of how many conversations he has had. This time, it was a lord from the Stormlands. Broad and direct in the manner of his region. It felt refreshing to him, especially after the Lannister lord that seemed to only speak in glamorous riddles.

Until something in his periphery caught his attention without quite announcing itself.

Near the group of Tyrells and Reach lords. A girl at Lady Ellinor Tyrell’s side, standing with the quiet grace of someone who had been observing everything. There was nothing loud about her. Nothing deliberate. She was simply there. Her stillness was different from the other ladies he had observed this evening.

The highborn daughters were still in the same way an archer’s drawn bow was; calculated and waiting.

She was still in the way a person is when they were genuinely content to observe. She stood still, feeling like no one was watching her.

Valarr did not know why his eyes stayed on her for half a second longer than they should have. There was no obvious reason for it. She was not positioned to be noticed. Her sigil, at a distance, he could not place it. A small rose on green, it must be a lesser house he was not familiar with.

Then the Stormlands lord had said something that required his attention. The prince teared his eyes away from her.

She had not crossed his mind again. Not deliberately.

Though once, near the end of the evening, when the feast had concluded and the lords were beginning to retire to their chambers, Valarr’s eyes moved one more time toward the place the Reach group had been.

She was gone. With her father most likely. Off to retire to whatever chamber had been arranged for them.

There was no reason to notice the absence of someone whose presence he had barely registered.

He noticed it anyway. Briefly.

Then, Matarys appeared at his side to announce that the evening was finally over. Valarr let himself be steered toward the corridor, and put the evening behind him.

He tried to.

Valarr had not slept particularly well.

This was not unusual following the first night of a week-long celebration. There was always a particular kind of restlessness that came after hours of practiced performance.

He dressed unceremoniously, sending his squire away earlier than usual. He stood at the window, watching as the Red Keep woke up in the pale morning light. He stood still until a knock came.

It was not his squire. He knew his squire’s knock.

“Enter,” Valarr said.

Surprisingly, it was his father. He looked like a man who had been awake for several hours and had already put them to good use.

“Come,” Baelor said. “Walk with me.”

Entering his study, Baelor settled into a chair near the hearth. He gestured for Valarr to do the same.

He looked at his son with attention that made Valarr feel seen and measured his entire life, never unkindly. He let the silence sit, comfortable and undemanding.

Until he said at last, “Well.” The single word doing the work of a much longer question.

Valarr took a few moments to think.

“It was the first evening,” he said. “The Lannister lord presented his daughter. A Baratheon cousin. Several other ladies from the Reach.”

“And your thoughts?”

“Gracious. Well prepared. All of them exactly what they were meant to be. Or taught to be.” He paused. “The Lady Lannister especially. I could not find a fault with her if I tried.”

Baelor tilted his head forward slightly. This was his son.

“But?”

Valarr sighed softly, “But I kept looking for the person underneath the preparation and could not find her.” He said plainly, knowing his own father was the one person he could be plain with. “Perhaps she was there. Perhaps I did not look long or well enough.”

Baelor nodded slowly. He did not push. He never did.

After a moment, “There was a sigil I did not recognize. Near the Tyrells, perhaps from the Reach. A pale rose on green.” Valarr said it as casually as he could.

“A lesser house, I think. I could not place the name.”

His father looked at him with an expression that was entirely neutral, yet somehow still managing to be amused.

“Sweetbriar,” Baelor said, without hesitation. He remembered everything. “House Sweetbriar of Briarkeep. A minor house of the Reach. Loyal to the Tyrells for generations. Their trade is in herbs and botanical oils.” A brief pause. “Lord Aldric’s youngest daughter.”

Valarr absorbed all this information with a nod that he deliberately kept measured.

His father’s eyes did not leave his face. “Is she the one who has caught your eye?”

“No,” Valarr said, perhaps a bit too promptly. “I was only wondering, father.”

“Mm.” Baelor said nothing further on the subject. Valarr thought it was considerably worse than if he had said something.

“Only a few days remain,” he said at last. “The young lords and ladies your age are gathering in the gardens this morning. It would do you well to go among them. Not just as a prince looking for a bride.”

He held Valarr’s gaze steadily. “Simply as a person among people.”

Valarr exhaled slowly through his nose as he pulled the study’s door closed behind him.

The corridor was quiet. He stood for a moment with his hand still on the door, thinking about how he wished not to go to the gardens before accepting that he had to go regardless.

He turned away from the door.

“Your Grace.”

Valarr stopped.

The Lady Lannister was standing in the same corridor outside his father’s study, dressed in a gown of morning sunlight. She was as composed and lovely as she had been the previous evening. Donning the same practiced smile.

“My lady,” he said. “Good morrow.”

“And to you, Your Grace.” She gently stepped beside him, with the practiced ease of someone who knew how to handle something when given an opening. “I had heard the young lords and ladies are to gather in the gardens this morning. Might I have the honor of accompanying you, my prince?”

There was no graceful way to say no. There was no reason to say no.

“Of course, my lady,” he said.

The gardens of the Red Keep were at their best in the morning, before the heat of the day settled fully into the air. They were already gathered by the time Valarr arrived.

Groups of lords and ladies dispersed among the paths and flowerbeds, the casual mingling of people who were all here for the same unspoken reason, pretending to simply enjoy the morning air.

The Lady Lannister walked beside him and spoke beautifully of the gardens and the weather, how it reminded her of her home at Casterly Rock.

Valarr was certain that he was adequately present in the conversation; he thought of her as pleasant company.

With mild guilt in his chest, he just wished that he found her more interesting than he actually did.

He then steered her gently toward a certain group of highborn ladies. “The Lady Serrett is there,” he said. “I believe you are acquainted.”

She understood. He could see that she understood. She received it with perfect composure, dipping into a curtsy and a smile that flickered with subtle disappointment.

“Of course, Your Grace. I thank you for the company.”

“The pleasure was mine, my lady.”

After the group had received the Lady Lannister, he continued walking through the gardens, giving small nods and smiles of acknowledgement towards the other groups.

He looked along the paths. The rose arbor. The far end near the fountain where a group of younger lords had gathered.

He did not find what he was looking for.

He stopped.

What exactly was he looking for?

A pale rose on green.

Lord Aldric Sweetbriar’s youngest daughter whose name he still did not know. A girl he had no particular reason to be looking for in the gardens of the Red Keep.

Valarr was looking for her anyway.

He became aware of this with slight discomfort, a realization. He turned away from the gardens. He did not need to be there.

The young prince heads for the library.

The library of the Red Keep was not a place most guests sought out during a nameday celebration. It was tucked away in the quieter part of the castle. It smelled of old parchment and the settled dust of books that had been there for generations.

Valarr had been coming here since he was a young boy. It was the one room in the Red Keep where nobody expected him to be in.

He pushed the door open. Then stopped.

You turned a page. It was a simple gesture. Simple in the same way you breathed in air.

You had found the library by accident the previous evening, slipping away from the corridor while your father talked to yet another lord.

You have not even broken your fast yet, and you are still here. The morning light came in clean through the window beside you. You had your feet tucked underneath you on the chair, which Elara would have had something to say about, with a book open on your lap.

For the first time since leaving the Reach, you felt entirely comfortable.

Then, the door opened. You looked up.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then you were on your feet with a speed that almost sent the book flying. You quickly closed it and held it tightly in your hands, before immediately dropping into a curtsy. Heat rose in the back of your neck and ears.

Seven hells. Of all the rooms in this enormous castle. Of all the people to walk through the door.

“Your Grace,” You managed, eyes fixed on the level of his boots. “Forgive me, I did not – I had not thought –” You stopped, trying to collect yourself. “I shall take my leave at once.”

“Please, do not.”

His voice was gentle. Not unkind. Not amused at your expense.

You cautiously looked up from his boots. He was looking at you with an expression you could not name. Not displeased. Curiosity?

“I did not come to drive you out, my lady,” he said. “Sit. Please.”

You sat, slowly pulling your book back to its earlier position. Trying not to look like a person who had not just been caught sitting with her feet tucked under her in the dragon prince’s library reading a book she had taken off his shelf without permission.

Prince Valarr settled into the chair across from you, a look of quiet curiosity on his face.

“May I ask what it is you are reading, my lady?” he asked.

You looked down at the cover. “A history of the Valyrian freehold, Your Grace.” You paused. “I do hope it was not – that is, I took it from the shelf without –”

“It is a library,” he said simply. “Books are meant to be read.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “What do you make of it so far?”

You blinked. The question was genuinely curious, it caught you off guard.

“It is –” You started, carefully thinking. The prince looked at you as though he actually wanted to know. “Considering the subject matter, whoever wrote it was far more interested in dates than in people. I keep finding myself wanting to argue with the written annotations.”

Something shifted in his expression. “I have written those annotations.”

You looked down at the book with sudden horror. Opening the book, you found a passage about the early dragonlords, a small annotation written neatly beside it.

This is not what the Maester Gyldayn wrote. See the Fires of the Freehold, Chapter Fourth.

You stared at it for a moment. Then helplessly, “You are correct that it is not, Your Grace. Maester Gyldayn contradicts this passage.”

Valarr looked at you more properly then. “You have read the works of Maester Gyldayn.”

“I have read most things, Your Grace,” you said, before catching yourself. It came out with more confidence than you had intended to present to a prince of the Seven Kingdoms in a library you had wandered into uninvited.

But, Prince Valarr did not seem to find it presumptuous. If anything, he found it the complete opposite.

“You are Lord Aldric’s daughter,” he said then. Not quite a question. “Of House Sweetbriar.”

You looked at him in shock. “You know of my house, Your Grace?”

“As a Prince of the Realm should,” he said simply. “It is my duty to know of the noble houses that swear their banners to the great houses of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Your house is from the Reach, loyal to the Tyrells since the beginning. Your trade is in herbs and oils.”

You stared at him. Not the careful practiced stare of a lady maintaining her composure in the presence of a prince. But a genuine, unguarded stare of someone that finally felt seen, and remembered.

“I–” You stopped. “Yes, that is correct, Your Grace.”

“You were not in the gardens this morning,” he said, before even thinking about it. His expression shifted slightly.

“No, Your Grace.” You kept your voice even. “I find I am better suited to libraries and books than gardens.” You paused, “which is perhaps strange, given that my house trade is botanical.”

“Not strange,” he said. “Honest.” The prince looked at you for a moment with the same quiet curiosity. “You were here yesterday evening as well.”

It was more of an observation than a question. You had not seen him outside the Great Hall the previous evening and yet he somehow knew.

“Yes, Your Grace,” you admitted. “I discovered it by accident. Forgive me, I hope that was not–”

“No need to apologize, my lady,” he said gently. “I have been coming here since I was a young boy. It is the one room in the Red Keep where nobody expects anything of me.” He said it so plainly. “I find that I am protective of it.”

“I understand, Your Grace.” You looked down, before shyly looking back up. “I have a corner of the garden at Briarkeep. Behind the lavender rows where they grow tallest. Nobody thinks to look for me there.”

The prince was quiet for a moment, looking at you with the same expression he had worn since he sat down. One you still could not name.

“You preferred this to the gardens this morning?” he said. “Even knowing the lords and ladies our age were gathering?”

“Your Grace,” you said carefully, “with all respect – I am merely the youngest daughter of a lesser noble house from the Reach. The lords and ladies in the gardens are not gathering for my benefit.”

Something shifted across his face. Not pity. Something more complicated and careful.

“And yet your Lord father has brought you here,” he said.

“My father,” you started, after a small pause, “he is an optimistic man. It is one of his finest qualities.” You looked down at the book briefly. “He has his eye on the second-born son of Lord Brightwater.”

“He is quite ambitious, yes. But he is realistic. That is why we are here, Your Grace.”

You said it steadily, because it was true and because you had made your peace with it, rather than thinking about the alternative. The thought you had long dismissed since before arriving at King’s Landing, that you had no business thinking about right now, sitting in the library with a prince of the Seven Kingdoms.

Prince Valarr was quiet for a long moment.

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” you said then, thinking the silence felt too dangerous to leave uninterrupted. “Do you not want to be in the gardens yourself? I understood that the morning was intended for–”

“For the search,” he said, with a grimace not directed at you. “Aye, it is.”

Valarr leaned back in his chair and looked at the shelves in the room, the morning light moving slowly across the long rows of books.

“My nameday celebration,” he said, “is not entirely a nameday celebration.”

“I know,” you said gently, looking down at your hands.

He looked at you.

“Everyone knows, Your Grace,” you said, with kind honesty. “The daughters who have been brought by their Lord fathers.” You paused. “It is plain enough to anyone paying attention.”

“And you pay attention, my lady,” he responded.

“I do little else,” you said, before thinking about it.

The prince almost smiled. It was close enough that you noticed it and looked away, back at the book in your hands.

“Have you made a decision yet, Your Grace?” you asked, in a quieter tone. Rowan would be slack-jawed if she were here. You were not sure where the sudden courage to ask came from. Perhaps it stopped feeling like a conversation between a crown prince and a lesser lord’s daughter. You could not name this feeling yet.

He was quiet for long enough that you thought you had overstepped.

“No,” he finally said. “I have not.”

You looked up at him.

“Does that surprise you, my lady?” he said.

“A little,” you admitted. “O-Only because you are who you are, Your Grace. Every great house in the realm would consider it an honor beyond measure. I had assumed the matter would be easily decided.”

“Easily decided,” he repeated quietly, more to himself. “Aye. It ought to be.”

“Every lady I have spoken with has been everything she was meant to be.” He looked at the open window, the sunlight getting brighter as the morning began to pass.

“Gracious and accomplished. With names that would sit well beside mine in history books. I have no reasonable objection to any of them.”

You waited patiently.

“And yet,” he continued. “I kept looking for the person underneath all of that.”

“Every exchange and conversation felt like a prepared performance. Every smile and gesture placed exactly where it was meant to be. I stood inside of all of it yet I felt–”

He paused. “Absent. As though it was happening to someone who looked like me while I watched from a distance.”

“I do not think they are false,” he said. “I think they have simply been prepared so thoroughly for this that there is no longer any distance between the preparation and the person. I keep struggling to find where one ended and the other began.”

You were quiet for a moment. Then the silence swelled even more.

Until, “My eldest sister Elara,” you started slowly, “was presented to her husband at a feast in the Reach when she was seven and ten. She spent a year beforehand learning everything about his house, his preferences, his family, the way he took his wine.” You paused. “She is also genuinely fond of him. Genuinely happy. The preparation and the person – they were the same.”

“I am not saying that it is not real,” you continued carefully. “Only that perhaps the preparation does not mean there is nothing underneath it. Perhaps it only means you have not yet been given the proper circumstances to find out.”

Prince Valarr was quiet for a moment. “And what circumstances would those be?”

You thought about it honestly. “Ones that do not feel like an audition,” you said plainly. “A room where nothing is required. Where there is nothing to perform for.”

He looked at you. “A room like this one,” he said, with an unreadable expression.

You suddenly became aware, the heat rushing back to your neck. “I did not mean–” You began.

“I know,” he said quietly, with the sincere intent of not making you feel foolish. “I know you did not.”

He looked at the book in your hands, the small annotations he wrote resting underneath your fingers.

“I do not know your name, my lady,” he started. “I know your house, your father, your trade. I know you have read Maester Gyldayn’s work, and disagree with this author’s treatment of dates.”

The corner of his mouth moved. “I do not know your name.”

You looked at him. At the prince sitting across from you in a library, who had not stayed in the gardens, who had come here instead, who was looking at you with something in his mismatched eyes –

You stopped. His eyes.

You had not been close enough the previous evening. One brown. One blue. Warm earth and still water.

You forgot, for just a moment, what he had asked you.

You told him your name.

Valarr said it once, quietly, as though he was testing the weight of it on his lips. You would sacrifice anything to the Seven to hear him say it once more.

A knock at the library door. Valarr’s expression shifted. Something concealing the openness that had been there a moment ago.

“Enter,” he said.

It was his squire, slightly out of breath. He had been looking for the prince for longer than he wanted to admit.

“Your Grace,” he bowed. “Your presence has been requested. Prince Baelor awaits you in the–”

“Aye,” Valarr rose, without hurry and hesitation.

You rose too, instinctively. He looked at you. For a moment he simply looked, in the same way he had been looking since he sat across from you.

“My lady,” he said. He was the young dragon prince again, not the person who had been sitting across from you, discussing Gyldayn’s work in the quiet of the morning.

“Your Grace,” you replied, dipping into a curtsy.

He held your gaze for just a moment longer than what was strictly necessary.

Then he turned and followed his squire out of the library. The door closed.

You stood beside your chair for a moment, the book still in your hands. Everything in the room felt like the prince had not even stepped foot in here. You sat down slowly.

You opened back to the same page you had been on before the door opened. Reading the same sentence three times.

Then you turned to the small annotations, your fingers gently brushing against the dried ink. His handwriting, small and neat.

This is not what Maester Gyldayn wrote.

You closed the book carefully. You pressed your fingers to your wrist beneath your sleeve.

I do not know your name.

He knew it now.

You were not entirely sure what to do with any of what happened during the last hour.

Sitting in the library for a while longer, with the book closed in your lap, you did not read. Instead, you thought.

You were the youngest daughter of House Sweetbriar. Your father had his eye on Lord Brightwater’s second-born son. In five days, the prince’s nameday celebrations would conclude and you would return to Briarkeep. To the lavender rows and Celyn’s muddy hands.

In five days, the prince would have already chosen a lovely bride worthy of carrying the Targaryen name. Worthy to stand by his side as the future queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Worthy to read small notes of affection in his neat handwriting. Worthy to get lost in those mismatched brown and blue eyes of his–

You shut the thought down before it could finish itself.

Setting the book on a small nearby table, you stood. Smoothing your skirts the way Elara had taught you.

You were here because your father is an optimistic man with a good eye for opportunity, and a second-born son of a Crownlands’ lord who was by all accounts reasonable and steady.

You were not here for mismatched eyes and written annotations.

You picked up the book once again, before putting it back on the shelf you had found it in.

Then you left the library and went to find your Lord father.

You thought about almost nothing else. Almost.

The great hall was somehow louder on the second evening than the first, which you had not thought possible.

You sat with your father among the Reach lords, several tables removed from the royal family, which was exactly where a house like yours belonged. You kept your hands folded in your lap, and did what you usually did: observe.

Your father was already in conversation with the lord beside him. You let the noise drown you and tried not to think about the library.

You were not succeeding particularly well in that regard.

Until, it happened so suddenly. You were looking at nothing in particular. The lit torches, the three-headed dragon on one of the banners, the other guests between you, a pair of mismatched eyes already looking back.

Your breath caught.

You looked away immediately. Back to your hands, to the untouched goblet of wine in front of you, to your father’s profile as he continued to speak to the lord next to him.

Your neck felt warm.

You did not look back.

Across the hall, Prince Valarr looked away a moment after you did. Just a moment.

Matarys, beside him, said nothing. But he noticed.

The feast continued. The torches began to burn lower. You kept your eyes where you belonged.

You did not look back. Almost.

Lord Aldric Sweetbriar was always gentle about things. Especially to his youngest daughter. Somehow, it made it more difficult to argue with him than if he simply raised his voice.

He had knocked on your chamber door before breakfast, ledger already closed under his arm.

“You will go to the gardens this morning,” he said. “With the other ladies.”

“My Lord father–”

“You will go,” he said again. Same tone. Same eyes. “We are here for a purpose, daughter. Your purpose is not the library.”

You had gone to the gardens.

You found the quietest corner you could, which was unfortunately not very quiet. You sat on a bench, a slight distance from the gathered lords and ladies, a book tucked under your arm like a shield. 

The gardens were beautiful, with the flora being more well kept than those at Briarkeep, which was saying something.

The gathered group’s energy has shifted, as though someone significant had arrived. You looked up.

He had come alone, which surprised you. No squire at his shoulder, not even Matarys. Just the young prince, stepping into the gardens with ease.

He saw you before the group saw him.

For half a second. In that half second, his gaze found the quiet corner you sat in. His expression shifted the same way it did at the library.

Then the crowd turned, the lords and ladies straightening around his presence.

He moved toward you. Not enough to be obvious, just a slight shift in direction. A small step, the beginning of an intention.

Highborn ladies appeared on both sides, along with a young Westerlands lord that extended a hand to him in greeting. The group closed around him.

There was no gracious way to refuse. He went with them. Of course, he did.

Valarr glanced back once subtly. You had already looked back down at your book.

You read the same page four times.

After midday, your father had formally introduced you to Lord Brightwater’s son in the gardens, with the quiet satisfaction of a man ticking something off a carefully planned list.

His name was Lucian. He was tall, brown haired, and well-mannered. He smiled at you, and it felt genuine.

“My Lord father tells me you are a great reader,” he said, walking beside you on one of the garden paths.

“He flatters me,” you said. “I simply have few other hobbies, my lord.”

“I find the same is said of me.” He glanced at you sideways, “What do you like to read, my lady?”

You gave him a real answer, and he listened and responded thoughtfully. It was a pleasant conversation.

He was everything your father had said. Steady, kind, and genuine.

Yet, you waited for something underneath it.

You were still waiting when the walk concluded, your fathers gently separating you both. Lord Aldric looked quite satisfied.

Across the gardens, the young prince watched you walk with the young Brightwater lord.

He then returned his attention to the lord beside him, responding back to his question.

He did not look back across the garden path. He did look back just once.

Matarys, who was a few steps behind him, looked between his older brother and the distant figures of you and Lucian Brightwater.

He said nothing. Not yet.

On the fourth day, you had borrowed yet another book. This one was thinner than the last, a collection of botanical records from the early Andal settlements. It seemed it was forgotten, wedged in between two heavier books in one of the shelves at the library.

It seemed that there was no gathering today. Your chest fluttered, your steps lighter than usual as you approached the empty gardens. 

The sunlight came in low and golden through the hedges, and the air was cooler than usual. It was enough to faintly remind you of home.

You sat down on a bench near the far end of the path, opening your book. Given the circumstances, this was one of the rare times you felt entirely content.

Then, footsteps on the stone path, gradually getting closer.

You had recognized them before you looked. You somehow learned the particular rhythm of his walk, without even meaning to.

Valarr sat down at the other end of the bench without asking, which would have been presumptuous from anyone else. From him, it simply was not.

He looked at the gardens for a moment, thinking about what to say.

“Another one,” he said, nodding at the book.

“Botanical records from the early Andal settlements,” you said. “I found it wedged between two considerably large volumes. It looked forgotten and lonely.”

“And do you have opinions about it, my lady?”

“I have opinions about everything,” you spoke plainly. “I simply do not often say them aloud.”

He turned to look at you. “You say them to me.”

You did not know how to answer. Deciding to look down at the page, you both knew it was already an answer in itself.

The silence had settled between you and the prince. It was comfortable; neither of you felt the need to fill it.

Until, “You have siblings, my lady?”

“Four, Your Grace,” you said. “Edwyn is the eldest and the heir of Briarkeep. My father has taught him well, he will be a good lord.”

“Then Elara. She taught me everything I know about being a proper lady; keeping my hands still and not saying the first thing that comes into my head.”

You looked down at your fingers inching toward your wrist. “For which, I am quite successful.”

“And the third.”

Something warmer moved through your voice. “Rowan,” you looked at a hedge across the path. “Rowan is the kind of girl that fills a room without knowing it. She is bright, yet restless, incapable of keeping her thoughts to herself if there is anyone nearby to hear it.”

Your fingers brushed against the illustrations on the page. “She is the one who started calling me Wallflower.”

Valarr stayed quiet, yet attentive. He was listening completely.

“It was not meant unkindly,” you said. You knew it never had been and you had always known it even when it brought you unease. “Rowan thought it was funny at first. Then it was simply the truth. I had become the name whether I wanted it or not.”

The corner of your mouth moved. “She always meant it affectionately. But, she was also completely certain that she was right.”

“Was she right?” he asked. 

You considered it honestly. “Mostly,” you admitted. “I stand on the sidelines. I observe rather than participate. I am not fond of large rooms full of people I do not know.” You paused. “It still brings me unease when she says it. Which probably means it is true.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, “You said four.”

You looked at him.

“Edwyn, Elara, Rowan,” he said. “That is three.”

You stared at him. Valarr had been paying the same quality of attention to you that you paid to everything else. The realization sat in your chest with a feeling you could not name.

“Celyn,” you responded. “He is the youngest. Seven years of age.”

You took a moment, trying to gather his character in mere words. “He has very strong opinions about the garden. Delivers them with the full authority of a Grand Maester.”

Your mouth curved ever so slightly. “He once spent an entire afternoon in tears because a bee had died near the lavender rows. He felt personally responsible.”

Something shifted in Valarr’s expression, quiet and recognizing.

“He sounds exhausting,” he said.

An amused breath escaped you before you could stop it. Valarr’s eyebrow slightly twitched upward at the soft sound.

“He is the best person I know,” you said simply without hesitation.

Valarr looked toward the hedges for a moment. “I have a Matarys,” he said.

You looked at him.

“He is not seven,” he continued. “He is considerably older and considerably more troublesome.” He says with both exasperation and affection.

“He delivers his thoughts with the confidence of someone who thinks they are never wrong.”

“That is Celyn,” you replied, smiling down at the book still open in your lap.

“Then I apologize, most earnestly, for what is about to come,” he said.

This time, a genuine giggle escaped you. The sound made something flutter inside Valarr’s chest. It was real and unguarded. It was beautiful.

“You can call me Valarr,” he said.

You looked up at him, his mismatched eyes brighter than ever.

“When it is only us,” he continued. It did not sound like a command nor a request, just something honest. He looked toward the path, “Every conversation I have had begins and ends with my titles. Sometimes I feel as though I am merely a title rather than a person.”

He looked back up at you, “you are one of the few people I have spoken with who makes me forget that. I would rather not be reminded of it when it is only us.”

You looked down, “That is a great deal of trust to extend to someone you have only known for four days.”

“Aye,” he said plainly. “It is.”

“Then you must do the same for me,” you said quietly.

He looked at you with a slight crinkle in his eyes. Then he said your name. This time, the way he said it felt like he had known you for the longest time.

You looked back down at your book before he could notice the slight change in your expression.

Afterwards, the conversation flowed easily between you and Valarr. Just two people surprising each other with opinions and knowledge, passing the book to each other like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You did not notice how much time had passed until more voices began to fill the garden. The morning had ceased to belong to only you and Valarr.

He stood up slowly, before saying your name once again. He bid you goodbye, before walking back up the path to where he came from.

You sat with the book closed in your lap, letting the morning light shine on your face. The same feeling in your chest returned, the one you still could not name.

You were beginning to suspect that it did not need one.

Could the Great Hall get any more lavish? You thought. There were more candles than the previous nights, and more flowers blooming along the tables.

As usual, you sat with your father and the Reach lords. Lucian Brightwater sat nearby, smiling at you when your eyes met. You smiled back. Your father noticed it with quiet satisfaction.

Across the hall, Matarys was having a considerably better evening than his brother. He drifted through like he always did, finding entertainment in whatever space he ended up in.

Tonight, he found himself in the presence of Lady Ellinor Tyrell, sitting at the end of the Reach table. He intended to only stay for one goblet of wine. It ended up being three.

“You remind me of someone,” he told her, at some point during the second drink.

“Do I now, my prince?” she replied amusingly, like she had been told this many times and she never got tired of hearing it.

“My father,” he said. “The way you listen. Like you already know what someone is going to say and are simply giving them the courtesy of saying it.”

Lady Ellinor smiled warmly, “your father is a good man, Your Grace.”

“The best I know,” Matarys said plainly.

They sat with that for a moment. Until, “Prince Baelor is not the only good man I have observed this week.”

Matarys looked at her sideways.

“I speak of your brother,” she said. “The young prince has conducted himself with more genuine care and patience than most men even try to manage in a lifetime at court.”

She paused, then started speaking more softly. “I have also observed that he is considerably more careful about where his eyes rest during the evening feasts than he realizes.”

Matarys said nothing. He was looking at Valarr from across the hall. His private suspicions had just been confirmed by an outside source.

Valarr was listening to a lord to his left with every appearance of complete attention. He was also looking across the hall, thinking that no one would notice the destination of his gaze.

Matarys did, and it landed on you. Sitting several tables away, hands folded as you watched Lucian Brightwater speak to your Lord father. You were not looking back at the royal table, and it was obvious that you did your best not to.

He looked back at Lady Ellinor, a small knowing smile already painted itself on her face. “The gardens tomorrow morning,” she said quietly. “I intend to invite the young Lady Sweetbriar for a private walk.”

Slowly, the same smile made its way to Matarys’ face. “How curious,” he said. “I had thought of suggesting the very same to my brother.”

Lady Ellinor said nothing further. Instead, she raised her goblet slightly to him. Matarys did the same in return.

Neither you nor Valarr has noticed.

Lady Ellinor’s note arrived before breakfast.

Brief and warm; a walk in the gardens this morning. There was no gathering today. Just the two of you.

Having barely touched the bread on your plate, you folded the note carefully and put it away. Your father had read the note from beside you.

He nodded at you in approval, allowing you to leave breakfast with silent permission.

You had arrived before Lady Ellinor and stood at the entrance of the main path. Hearing footsteps getting closer from behind, you smoothed out your skirt in preparation.

“Good morrow, my dear,” Lady Ellinor greeted you. You did the same.

Then, more footsteps coming from behind you. That familiar rhythm.

You turned.

Matarys had appeared at Valarr’s chamber long before his squire usually did. “The gardens,” he said. “Walk with me, big brother.”

Valarr looked at him for a few moments, trying to read his face, as an older brother who had been on the receiving end of Matarys’ schemes since childhood.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because you have spent the better part of the week in great halls and dusty bookshelves,” Matarys replied.

“Also because your nameday festivities are concluding soon, and you look like a man who has forgotten what sunlight feels like.”

Valarr hesitated, but went anyway. It was better than staying in his chambers thinking about the end of the week.

You looked at each other across the garden path. Then, from somewhere behind you, the sound of Lady Ellinor’s handmaiden hurrying toward her lady with urgency.

You turned to see Lady Ellinor already a few steps away from you. “Forgive me, my dear,” she called back, “I shall find you again later.”

Before you could respond, she was gone.

Somewhere behind Valarr, the even younger prince’s voice spoke. “By the Seven, I had entirely forgotten. Father wanted to see me this morning.”

“Terrible timing. Sincere apologies.” Matarys’ footsteps were already retreating.

Valarr did not turn around to watch him go. He only looked at you with an expression that was beyond the usual composure of a crown prince; with unguarded honesty.

You looked at each other. “That,” you started carefully, “was not subtle.”

“No,” he agreed. “It was not.”

A small pause. “Prince Matarys,” you said.

“And Lady Tyrell,” he added.

Your lips pressed together against the laugh building in your chest. “I might have to have a few words with Lady Ellinor.”

“I have been having words with Matarys since I was old enough to speak,” he said. “I will save you the effort. It does nothing to help.”

The same laugh from the previous morning escaped, the one Valarr wished to hear again. Perhaps for the rest of his days.

You pressed your fingers briefly to your lips, but it was already too late. He was looking at you with a brighter gleam in his eyes.

He said nothing, only offering his arm to you with ease.

You looked at him briefly, then at the garden path ahead. You took his arm.

It was the easiest walk of the entire week. No lords watching from the corners. No highborn daughters being positioned. No performance.

It was just the two of you on a garden path in the morning, talking the way you had talked in the library and on the bench.

He asked about Briarkeep. You described it honestly; the pale grey stone, the brook, the wet earth. The way he listened intently still caught you off guard.

You asked about Dragonstone. You could tell by his tone that he had complicated feelings about the place.

At some point, the path had curved and you were both in the quieter part of the gardens. The walk slowed naturally.

“There are only two days left,” you said plainly.

“Aye,” he said quietly, “that is true.”

You did not say anything else about it. Neither did he.

You both continued to walk until the path ended at a railing that looked over Blackwater Bay. You both stopped to breathe in the faint salty air.

Valarr turned to face you, catching the way the seabreeze blew strands of your hair away from your face.

You looked up at him. The morning light was fully on his face, and his mismatched eyes were looking at you the way they always did. Except, there was nothing careful about it anymore. Nothing held back or prepared.

Valarr lifted his hand slowly, giving you the chance to step away if you wanted to. You did not. His fingers brushed against your hair ever so gently.

His hand then rested at the edge of your jaw. You did not step away. Though, you were not sure how you were still breathing.

“I have been trying,” he said quietly, “to find a reason not to do this.”

“Have you found one?” you said, voice steadier than you expected.

He looked at you for a moment longer. “No,” he said simply.

It was not a grand gesture. It was not reckless. It was quiet and honest. Like it had always been between you and Valarr.

His lips were soft and warm on yours. His gentle hand at your jaw was careful. It only lasted a brief moment, yet it was entirely certain of itself. More certain than anything else in both your lives combined.

Your hands slowly climbed onto his chest. Your fingers slightly brushed against the three-headed dragon at his breast, where you could feel his heartbeat underneath the fabric. His other hand then wrapped itself around your waist, holding you closer.

When you pulled away, you barely did. He did not move far, his hands staying where they were. Valarr’s face was close enough that you felt his eyelashes flutter against yours.

He only looked at you with the same, genuine attention he gave to everything else you say and do. Except now, absolutely nothing was holding him back. 

You had also noticed something else in his face, like great relief. 

You had also finally recognized the feeling in your chest for what it was. The same one you felt since the library. Probably even before that.

Both of you stayed like that for a while. There was no reason to move. The morning belonged only to the two of you.

You did not speak. You did not need to. The whole week had been full of words; careful and measured. Now, there was simply this.

His thumb moved gently, once against your jaw, as if he was making sure you were real. You pressed your fingers slightly more firmly against his chest for the same reason.

The waves of Blackwater Bay continued to roar below you. Somewhere far away, the Red Keep continued its business, like an entirely different universe from where you were both standing.

You thought back to the journey from the Reach to here. The thought you had quickly dismissed so firmly.

What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?

You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. Valarr was already looking at you with those mismatched eyes of his. Not with the gaze of a composed prince of the Realm. 

But simply a man. A man holding you tightly in the quiet corner of the gardens, like you were going to disappear if he ever were to let go.

Valarr had asked for the audience himself, which was unusual. Normally it was Baelor who called for Valarr to his study. This time, he knocked.

“Enter,” his father said.

Once his son entered, Baelor set down his quill. He gestured for him to sit by the hearth. The fire was lower than usual. Somewhere below, the Red Keep was beginning its preparations for the final evening feast.

Baelor waited patiently, as he always did, letting the silence settle for a bit.

Then, “I have made my decision.”

“I know what you will say,” Valarr continued. “I know what the considerations are. The weight of it, the court’s concern, the questions it will raise,” He paused. “I have thought about it all.”

“I know you have,” Baelor responded, without sounding dismissive.

“She is the youngest daughter of a minor house from the Reach,” Valarr said plainly. “Her family trades in herbs and botanical oils. She has no claim, no great alliance to offer.”

He looked at his father. “She has read Maester Gyldayn’s work. She found the error in the Valyrian freehold text. She talks about her youngest brother the way I talk about Matarys.” A pause. “She says exactly what she thinks, but only when she trusts one enough to say it.”

“And she trusted me with it.”

Baelor looked at him with something careful and attentive. It was deeply familiar.

“I went looking for the person underneath the preparation,” Valarr said. “With her, there was no preparation to look underneath. She was simply herself. Entirely and without apology.”

“I did not know what to do with it at first. Then I did not want to do without it.”

The study was quiet for a few moments. Until, “you have spent time with her,” Baelor said at last.

“Aye.”

“More than what was visible.”

“Aye,” Valarr did not elaborate. Baelor did not need him to.

His father looked at him. Truly. With the same eyes that had watched him grow up in this keep, ones that trusted him enough to make his own decisions.

“Lord Aldric Sweetbriar,” Baelor started, slowly. “He is an honest man. His house is small but his name is clean. Strong and steady. He has never given the crown any cause for complaint in generations.”

Something that almost resembled a smile made its way to the older prince’s face. “You said no,” he said. “When I asked if she had caught your eye, that second morning.”

“I fear I said it too quickly,” Valarr admitted.

“You did,” Baelor agreed. “I noticed.”

“She does not know,” Valarr said. “I have not spoken to her about it. I wanted to speak to you first.”

Baelor nodded slowly. “Then go speak to Lord Aldric,” he said. “Tonight, before the feast. Give the man the courtesy of warning before his world changes considerably.”

His father’s smile deepened, “And then, go find her.”

Valarr stood up, before his father called him once again.

“She sounds,” he said simply, “like someone worth finding.”

The Great Hall had truly outdone itself.

Lords and ladies moved through the hall in their finest dress, knowing that tomorrow they would need to depart King’s Landing, dispersing across the Seven Kingdoms again.

Valarr moved through it all easily, feeling the absence of the weight on his shoulders. Tonight, he actually smiled in ways that were genuine rather than practiced. He managed to actually taste the wine for once.

Matarys pointed it out first, “You look different.”

“I am the same as I have always been,” Valarr said simply.

The younger prince grinned, “You are not.” Then, he nudged his shoulder.

“How were the gardens this morning?”

“Enlightening,” Valarr replied.

Matarys’ grin grew wider.

Later in the evening, Valarr’s gaze naturally moved to the Reach tables.

Your father was there, seated among the other Reach lords, speaking to Lord Fossoway. But the seat beside Lord Aldric was empty.

He was already moving before he had even thought about it.

Excusing himself from whatever conversation he was in, he moved through the great hall. Then to the giant doors, and into the corridor, where the noise of the feast had become distant muffles.

He walked the same way he had walked since he was a young boy, to the quieter parts of the Red Keep, taking turns he had taken countless times.

Valarr already knew where to find you.

You looked up when the door opened. The faint glow of the candle illuminating the side of your face.

“The feast,” you said softly.

“Will continue without me,” he said.

Valarr crossed the room, and sat in the same chair he did that second morning. He said your name softly.

Closing the book on your lap, you said, “you came to find me.”

The candle flickered between you.

“I always seem to,” he said simply.

“I was not supposed to be here for this,” you said quietly, more to yourself than anything. It was not a protest. Just the simple truth.

“I know,” he replied.

“I was here for Lord Brightwater’s second son.”

The corner of his mouth moved, “He is, I am sure, a perfectly reasonable man.”

“He is,” you said. “He was very pleasant.”

“Then it is deeply unfortunate,” Valarr said, “that you spent the entire week in my library.”

A soft, genuine laugh escaped your lips. Then, you both looked at each other, the feeling in your chest settling into something permanent.

He rose from the chair, simply and quietly. He moved towards you. You uncurled your feet from beneath you, moving to stand, but he was already lowering himself on one knee before you.

You stared at him. Words dying in your throat.

Valarr Targaryen, heir of the heir, second in line to the Iron Throne, was kneeling on the floor of the Red Keep library in the soft candlelight, looking up at you with those mismatched eyes as though there was nowhere else in the Seven Kingdoms he would rather be.

He took both of your hands in his. His thumbs resting against your knuckles.

The candle threw golden light across the side of his face. Across the silver streak in his dark hair.

You could not speak. You were not certain that you were breathing.

"I have spent this entire week," he said, quietly, only for you, "looking for the person underneath the preparation." His eyes did not leave yours. 

"Instead, I have found someone who had no preparation at all. Someone who argued with my annotations and told me plainly, in my own library, that she was here for Lord Brightwater's second son."

His lips pressed together briefly.

"Someone who described her little brother crying over a bee with more love in her voice than most people do in a lifetime of grand declarations." He paused. 

"Someone who kept ending up exactly where I was looking."

Your eyes were beginning to do something you refused to allow in the Red Keep library, so you pressed your lips together and held very still.

His hands tightened slightly around yours.

"I know what I am asking," he said lowly. "I know the weight of the name I am asking you to carry. I am not asking you to carry it lightly." 

A breath. "I am asking you to carry it with me. Every part of it." 

His mismatched eyes were very bright in the candlelight. "I would face all of it considerably better with someone beside me who tells me the truth, who reads the books nobody else thinks to read, who finds the quiet corners of every room she enters."

He looked at you, and there was nothing held back in it.

"Who reminds me," he said softly, "that I am only a man."

You looked down at him. The prince who had left his own nameday feast just to sit in the silence with you.

Your free hand moved before you decided to move it. Your fingers found the side of his jaw, gently. He leaned into your touch.

"Have you spoken to my father?" you asked softly.

"I have. He asked very precise questions.” Valarr paused, "I believe I was able to curry his favor."

"He is not an easy man to impress," you said.

"I am aware." His hands were still holding yours. "I made sure I prepared thoroughly."

Then, something broke loose in your chest. A small sound escaped you that was not quite a laugh. Something that happened when your heart was too full.

Valarr looked up at you.

"Well," he said. Very quietly. "What say you, my lady?"

You looked at him for a long moment, kneeling before you in the library where it had all begun. Holding your hands in both of his, the candlelight warm between you, and the final feast’s noise almost non-existent.

You thought of Briarkeep, of Sweetfield. The lavender rows. The brook. Edwyn’s strength. Elara’s grace. Rowan’s brightness. Celyn’s innocence. You loved every piece of it.

You had not expected to find something here that you could love just as completely and certainly.

"Yes," you said. "I accept, most ardently."

Something shifted across his face that you had never seen before and would spend the entirety of life learning the name of. 

Valarr rose slowly, your hands still in his. You rose after him.

He whispered your name. Then he raised your hands to his lips, pressing soft kisses to your knuckles.

“My love,” he whispered again. You answered him in the only way you felt that was right.

You closed the distance between you. His hands gently find their way to your cheeks, while your hands rested against his chest.

When you parted, he rested his forehead gently against yours. You stared into his mismatched eyes.

You knew you had a whole lifetime ahead of you, giving you more than enough time to do so, but you never want to miss a single second ever again.

You both stayed like that for a long moment in the quiet library.

What could you possibly offer anyone whose name meant something?

The answer was simple. The same thing you had always offered to the gardens and library shelves at Briarkeep. To your youngest brother, Celyn.

Yourself. Simply and entirely.

That was more than enough for Valarr.

[tired-of-you-and-you]

Into Your Arms - Valarr Targaryen

Pairing: Valarr Targaryen / Targaryen! Wife! Reader

Warnings: Reader is Maekar's Daughter (They're Targaryens Y'all); Grief / Mourning; RIP Daddy Baelor; Marriage Troubles; Pregnancy; Mentions of Death; No Physical Description of Reader (Minus Having Hair, but No Color Mentioned)

Word Count: ~3000 words

Plot: After Baelor's death, you and Valarr struggle to put the pieces of your marriage back together.

Master List

Staring at the ceiling of your quarters, you breathed in and out, trying to not cry as the hours dragged on. You reached for the table beside your bed and picked up your journal. You sat up in your bed, glancing at the empty spot beside you as your shaking hands etched another line onto the page. Counting each group, you rested your hand on the page as a teardrop smudged the last group.

Three moons and six days. Three moons and six days since your good father Baelor took his last breath. Three moons and six days since your own father struck the fatal blow. Three moons and six days since your husband looked at you with any fragment of joy or care.

Angrily wiping the tears away, you closed the journal and set it aside. You threw back the blankets and pulled on a thick cloak to fight the chill in the air. You slipped your feet into slippers before marching towards the door. The guard on duty seemed startled at your presence at the late hour, but quickly straightened up under your sharp gaze.

“Where is my husband?” you demanded, allowing the door to shut behind you.

“I believe his study, my lady.”

“Thank you,” you murmured, already moving down the hall at a brisk pace.

You knew the halls and corridors like the back of your hand. King’s Landing had long been your home and you weathered what felt like every possible war or trouble within these walls. But the chill in the air, the distance between you and those around you, was a feeling you had never expected to feel within these familiar corridors.

Was one supposed to feel so alone in their own family home? You did not think so. But you were not sure how to repair the divide.

King Daeron the Good, at the news of his eldest son’s demise at the hands of his youngest son, had seemed to slip from reality. You had spent some time with him, but he never seemed to find the strength to speak in your presence.

Your father, Maekar, had only grown harsher and angrier since returning to King’s Landing. You knew that Aerion’s banishment and Aegon’s disappearance weighed heavily on his shoulders. And his brother’s face surely haunted each step he took. He could not seem to look at you either, and you were left to wonder what you had done for your own father to be unable to stomach the sight of you.

And your husband . . . he was not the same. Nor did you think he ever would be again. When Baelor took his last breath, you worried that he had taken the foundation of your marriage with him.

Valarr had always been a serious man since his youth. The weight of the Iron Throne seemed to stamp out the indulgences and whims that other children sought in him. He took his role seriously, striving to live up to Daeron and Baelor’s names.

But you knew another side to him.

One that enjoyed skipping rocks on the shores of Dragonstone and nearly threw himself into the surf once when he tried to out throw another. One that had a habit of stuttering when he was flustered, which only seemed to increase as his cheeks reddened. One that enjoyed braiding flowers into your hair, murmuring how he would do the same with your daughters in the future.

But you had not seen that man since Ashford. And you had nightmares about never seeing him again. You could only wake up to his side of the bed undisturbed before you broke.

Turning the corner, you headed down the stairs to the study that until recently belonged to Baelor. The guards at the entrance straightened up and opened the door for you. Stepping into the room, you let the door shut behind you before you spoke.

“It is late,” you murmured, stepping farther into the room. Valarr looked up from the scroll that he had been reading and sat up in his seat more. He seemed to struggle to meet your eyes and you pursed your lips, fighting tears. “Mayhaps you should retire to bed.”

“I cannot,” Valarr responded quietly, which only made the tears harder to hold in. “There is still much work that I must do.”

He fiddled with the papers on his desk as you looked towards the fire, trying to gather yourself. Beneath your cloak, your arms folded protectively over your abdomen before you forced them to straighten out, lest your husband notice. Though you did not know why you would be concerned with him noticing. He did not even look you in the eye when he broke your heart, so how would he notice that?

“I did not mean to cause you concern,” Valarr stated, and you knew that he was sincere. But it still sounded so cold.

“I know you did not,” you murmured tiredly, collecting yourself once more. “But I cannot help but worry about you.”

Valarr looked away. “You should not.”

“I am your wife,” you reminded him. Your voice broke at the end, which caused Valarr’s fist to tighten. Anxious, he turned to fiddle with his ring. “It is my duty to worry about you.”

Valarr did not reply, simply because he did not know what to say. The cavern between the two of you seemed to crack and deepen as the silence dragged on.

You knew that you could not be angry with him. He had lost his father at the hands of your father in a battle that your brother had provoked. He was now thrust into the position of heir apparent, a role that he believed he had decades to prepare for, rather than moons.

But you were not your father, nor Aerion, nor the hedge knight. You were his wife and his future queen, a woman who would do anything to have a sliver of his prior self in her life once more.

“Do you wish for me to leave?” you finally spoke up, causing Valarr to look up from his hands. “Would that be more pleasing to you?”

“Of course not,” Valarr replied, sitting forward in his seat. “I . . .” He sighed, staring at his hands once more. “I simply have much work to do.”

It was an excuse—a pathetic one—and you both knew it.

Summoning all the poise that you could muster, you nodded deeply to him, which caused Valarr to look up once more. “Then I will leave King’s Landing to Dragonstone, where I will not disturb you while you have much work to do, my lord husband.”

Valarr stood up from his seat at your statement, eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Dragonstone?” He searched your face for any jest. “Why do you wish to return to Dragonstone?”

You licked your lips and tried to hold the tears back. “I believe that it might be best. For all of us.” You turned to the floor, sniffling. “I do not wish to interrupt your work any further.”

You turned for the door, but Valarr stepped around his desk and reached for your hand before you could get too far. As you spun around to look into eyes of your husband, you waited for him to speak. To plead or beg for you to stay. To fight for your marriage, for your family, for your love. But it seemed that words had abandoned him.

You could see the tears in his eyes and you felt your own drip down your cheeks. Smiling painfully, you pressed a kiss to his cheek, lingering for a moment. “I love you,” you whispered into his skin. “And when you have need of me again, I shall return.”

You stepped back and turned for the door again. Your hand slipped from his grip and he did not reach out once more.

When the heavy door shut behind you, Valarr returned to his seat. Dropping into the chair, Valarr rested his head in his hands. His fingers curled, digging his nails into his scalp as the emotions rolled over him. He was a man of action, but yet he could not even rise from his chair to rush after his wife. He had not meant for her to be a casualty in his grief, but yet there their marriage laid, broken and shattered on the floor of his father’s study.

Climbing back to your quarters, you did nothing to hide your tears as they dribbled down your cheeks and neck. You stepped into your chambers and pulled the cloak from your shoulders. Tossing it onto a chair, you moved to lay down in your bed.

Resting your hand on the swell of your growing bump, the one you had carefully hidden from everyone but your trusted maid, you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to finally sob.

*~*~*~*

Valarr fiddled with the rings on his finger as he sat through another Small Council meeting. King Daeron had been unable to join them and Valarr was forced to sit at the head of the table. His skin prickled the moment that he sat down in the chair and he was certain that he would not be comfortable until he left the chair once more.  

At least Maekar handled most of the remarks. Valarr would speak up when he felt that he had something to suggest of importance, but otherwise, he remained silent, fiddling nervously with his rings.

“And what of the Princess?” one foolish councilor demanded, causing both Valarr and Maekar to stare daggers at him. “It has been too many moons since she left for Dragonstone. She should return here, where the Young Prince remains, for he is still without an heir.”

“You dare question the choice of my daughter?” Maekar snapped, looking ready to cleave the man’s head clean off his shoulders.

But before Maekar could properly threaten the lord, Valarr stood up from his seat and rested his hands on the table. Staring the lords at the table down with an icy glare, Valarr straightened up, seemingly channeling his father in that moment.

“The Princess was ill and needed fresh air to recover. Until she returns, which she will when she is able and healthy, her name is not to cross this table with anything other than the proper deference and honor that her station and title afford her.”

The room was silent, minus a few murmurs of agreement from the lords. Valarr, satisfied, resumed his seat and took to fiddling with his rings under the table once more. He grunted out, “I believe that we should discuss the expansion of the trade routes in the east once more.”

The meeting adjourned and Valarr sat quietly in his seat as the lords filed out of the room. Maekar remained seated beside him, staring at the door until it was shut behind the last lord. Neither Valarr nor Maekar spoke for the first few moments that they were alone. Not until Maekar finally found the way to face the image of his brother seated beside him.

“Have you heard from her?” Maekar asked quietly, all of the strength evaporating from his tone.

Valarr shook his head. “Only a note that she had arrived safely.” 

Maekar nodded and the lines on his face seemed to deepen at the knowledge. Turning back to Valarr, Maekar opened his mouth to speak, but hesitated for a moment. Almost as if the pain in his heart had clogged his windpipe.

“You must go to her.”

Valarr turned to Maekar, almost incredulous, as he sat up in his seat. “She does not want to see me. Why do you think that she traveled a sea away from me?”

“Do not play a fool.” Maekar’s jaw clicked as his teeth grit together, trying to hold back the emotions that naturally welled at the thought of his brother. “And do not punish her for my sins.”

“I . . .” Valarr began to protest, though it died on his tongue a moment later. He stared down at his rings, twisting them around his fingers once more. “I did not intend to.” Valarr bowed his head, letting out a sigh of frustration. “I never meant to hurt her.”

“Then go to her,” Maekar urged once again. “Do not allow her to slip further away.”

Valarr sat quietly, staring at the table. “And what if she tells me to return here? Without her?”

“Mayhaps you should go and find out for yourself what her reaction will be, rather than stewing in the throes of hypotheticals.” Maekar stared at Valarr, trying to read his expression. “Such a path will only lead to madness, not resolution. That I can tell you with certainty.”

Maekar stood up from his seat, leaving Valarr alone with his thoughts.

*~*~*~*

“My lady,” your maid called, bursting into your room as you soaked in a private bath, “your husband. He is approaching as we speak.”

You stopped lathering yourself and set the soap down. Resting your hands on the edges of the tub, you stared at the fire before turning to your trusted maid. “You are certain?”

“I am, ma’am. He sent a man ahead with the news.”

You nodded and rinsed the soap from your skin. With a sigh, you turned back to your maid. “I suppose you should help me up then. I will have to dress to greet him.”

Meanwhile, Valarr walked up the stairs to Dragonstone. He was nervous, though he did not let it show. He was waiting for you to deny him at the gate. After all, he sent no letter and showed up unannounced, interrupting your private peace after moons of silence between the two of you. Nodding to the guards as they opened the doors, Valarr stepped inside.

A guard stepped forward, bowing to Valarr before straightening up. “The Princess has indicated that she wishes to greet you in her chambers.”

“Thank you.”

Valarr headed up the stairs to your room. Fiddling with his rings once he rounded the corner and saw your door, Valarr let out a breath and stepped forward. He knocked on the door and waited for your affirmative before stepping inside.

You stood with your back to him by the window as you stared out at the waves. Turning around at the sound of his footsteps, you stared up at your husband, who appeared frozen in shock at your appearance. With winter winding down, you had forgone a heavy cloak and allowed your husband to see your full pregnant bump for the first time.

The maesters estimated that you would deliver within a moon or two and there was no possibility of hiding the news from your husband. Valarr’s eyes stared at your belly as his breathing became increasingly shallow. His heart felt like it was going to burst through his ribs.

You stepped towards him, but the reminder that you were not simply a painting on the wall seemed to undo the lock on his knees. Valarr dropped to his knees as you stood before him, tears streaming down his cheeks. You could not join him on the floor, not easily anyways, so you gently rested your hand in his hair, brushing the strands with your fingers.

He grabbed your hand in his own and pressed a shaky kiss to the palm of your hand. You remained silent, allowing Valarr a moment to take in the news.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered out, staring up at you. “I am so sorry, my love.”

“You are here now,” you replied, brushing his hair once more. “And that is all I need.”

Valarr stood up from the floor and engulfed you in a hug. You quickly buried your nose into his chest as he pressed a kiss to your head. The two of you stood in silence, simply rocking to the beats of your hearts, and basking in the warmth of the other.

“How long?” Valarr asked softly, murmuring into your shoulder.

“I suspected it when we returned to King’s Landing.” You trailed your fingers up and down his back. “I feared that the news would strike you down. And if I were to lose the baby . . . I feared that you would never recover.”

“I’m sorry,” Valarr begged you once more, causing you to press a kiss to his cheek. “Please . . . please, forgive me, my love.”

You rested your hand on his cheek. “I have already forgiven you.”

“You should not,” he protested shakily.

“And yet, I do.”

Pulling him in for a soft kiss, you were relieved at how naturally the two of you seemed to fall into the embrace once again. Valarr cupped the back of your head and gently begged for your touch with each kiss from his lips. He pulled back and rested his forehead against your own, staring into your eyes.

“When . . . how long do we have?”

“A moon or two, as the maesters believe.”

“I shall stay here,” Valarr vowed, “until the babe is born and your health has returned.” His hand dropped to your bump, gently pressing his palm against the swell.

“Will they not miss you in King’s Landing?”

“I do not care,” Valarr remarked, pressing another kiss to your lips. “My duty is here.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you pulled him in for another kiss, relieved that your husband had finally returned to you.

*~*~*~*

It was said that Prince Baelor Targaryen was born the moment that his great-grandsire, King Daeron the Good, finally succumbed to the Great Spring Sickness miles away from him in King’s Landing. He was named for his grandsire and reportedly bore a striking resemblance to the departed prince, save for the silver hair atop his small head.

His father, warned of the sickness enveloping King’s Landing, ordered that the entrances to Dragonstone be shut and sealed until the sickness passed. And when the sickness finally passed and the new king and queen could safely return to King’s Landing, the first to greet them at the docks was Prince Maekar, who reportedly wept at the sight of the babe.

[lalalovelyly]

The Heir Within Valarr targaryen x reader

Synopsys: Two years of rumors, one cryptic pregnancy, and a very shocked Valarr Targaryen.

TW: pregnancy, childbirth, cryptic pregnancy, infertility rumors, misogyny, medical distress, labor pain

Wordcount:4k

Author's note: completely forgot i wrote this lmao

The bath was warm, steam curling through the air and clinging to the stone walls of your private chambers.

Outside, the last light of dusk painted King's Landing in shades of amber and rose, but here there was only the gentle lap of water and the steady beat of your husband's heart beneath your ear.

Valarr's arms wrapped around you from behind, his chest pressed against your back as you both soaked in the heated water. His lips found the curve of your shoulder, pressing lazy kisses against your skin.

The tension of the day, of every day, seemed to melt away in these quiet moments, when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world could not intrude.

"You're quiet tonight, ābrazȳrys," he murmured against you, using the Valyrian endearment he favored when you were alone. Wife. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and you felt him smile as you shivered slightly.

You turned in his arms, water sloshing gently, until you faced him. His dark hair was wet and plastered to his forehead, and that striking streak of silver-gold caught the candlelight like spun moonlight.

You traced your fingers along his jaw, feeling the slight roughness where his beard had begun to grow by evening's end, then down to where his pulse beat steady and strong beneath your touch.

"Just tired," you whispered. "I've felt... strange today. Queasy."

His brow furrowed immediately, the lazy contentment in his blue eyes replaced by sharp concern. His hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking gently across your cheekbone. "Strange how? Should I call for a maester? Is it your stomach? A headache?"

You laughed softly, the sound muffled against his chest as you leaned into him. The warmth of him, the solid reality of his love, it was the only anchor you needed. "Valarr, I feel a bit ill, not dying. Besides, you know what the maesters will say." You pulled back, offering him a wry smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "That my courses are late again, perhaps? They've said that a hundred times."

Something flickered in his expression, pain, quickly masked, but you knew him too well to miss it. He pulled you closer, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your wet hair with infinite gentleness.

"One day," he promised, his voice rough with emotion. "One day, yndys—"

"I know." You kissed his chest, just above his heart. "I know you believe that."

Two years. Two years you had been married to Valarr Targaryen, and your belly remained empty, your courses as regular as the turning of the moon. Two years without even a hint of a pregnancy, not even a miscarriage to prove that you could conceive. Two years of hope and heartbreak, of seeing the pity in kind eyes and the cruelty in cruel ones.

Two years of rumors.

---

The first time you heard them, you had been walking through the gardens, seeking respite from the stuffy confines of the Keep and the weight of courtly expectations. The roses were in bloom, their scent heavy and sweet, and you had thought to steal a moment of peace before the evening's duties called you back.

You rounded a hedge and caught the tail end of a conversation between two of your ladies-in-waiting. You recognized their voices—Lady Celia, young and pretty and recently wed herself, and Lady Jeyne, older and sharper-tongued, who had served in court since before you arrived.

"...two years is telling, isn't it?" Jeyne was saying, her voice carrying clearly through the afternoon air. "Not even a miscarriage. My sister miscarried twice before she birthed her first, and even that was considered unusual. But nothing? For two years? There has to be something wrong with her."

Celia's voice was softer, hesitant. "Perhaps the prince... perhaps he does not... I mean, if he cannot—"

"No, no, there's nothing wrong with him." Jeyne laughed, the sound ugly. "I've heard the serving girls talk. He's perfectly capable. It's her. Some women just aren't made for bearing children. It happens."

"But what will happen?" Celia asked. "To their marriage, I mean? The prince needs an heir—the realm needs an heir. If she's barren..."

You had frozen mid-step, your heart plummeting into your stomach. The words barren, annulment, new wife echoed in your mind, each one a knife. Before you could retreat, before you could compose yourself into the mask of a princess, a voice like winter cut through the air.

"Enough."

Valarr stood behind you, you realized. He must have followed you from the chambers, must have heard everything. His face was cold, controlled—the face of a prince, not the warm, loving husband you knew. But his eyes... his eyes burned with a fury you had never seen.

The two women went white as milk when they saw him. Celia dropped into a curtsy so low she nearly fell. Jeyne's face lost all its color, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly.

"You will return to your families," Valarr said, his voice leaving no room for argument. There was no heat in it, no emotion, and that was somehow more terrifying than if he had screamed. "By morning. You will pack your things tonight, and you will be gone before the sun rises. If I hear so much as a whisper of such slander again—from anyone, about my wife—it will not be banishment they face. Am I understood?"

They fled. And then Valarr's arms were around you, his cold prince's mask crumbling as he held you close, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your hair.

"Pay them no mind," he begged you, his lips pressed to your hair, your temple, anywhere he could reach. "They are fools. They know nothing. They are nothing. You are everything—"

"But what if they're right?" The words tore from you, raw and bleeding, before you could stop them. You pulled back just enough to look at him, to let him see the tears streaming down your face. "What if I am barren? What if I can never give you children, never give you an heir, never—"

He kissed you then, fierce and desperate, swallowing your fears with his lips and his love. When he finally pulled back, his own eyes were wet.

"Then we will have no children," he said, his voice steady despite the tears. "And I will love you just the same. I will love you until my last breath and beyond. I will love you in this life and the next and every life after that. You are mine, Y/N. Not for your womb. Not for your ability to give me heirs. For you. For your laugh. For the way you crinkle your nose when you're annoyed. For the way you hum in your sleep. For you."

---

The rumors never stopped, of course. They simply grew quieter, more insidious. You saw the looks at feasts, the whispers behind fans and goblets, the pity in some eyes and the smug satisfaction in others. You heard the murmurs of annulment and new wife and barren floating through the halls like poisoned butterflies.

But you also saw the way Valarr shut them down. A cold stare here, a sharp word there. Once, a lord who spoke too loudly at a feast about the "prince's unfortunate marriage situation" found himself assigned to the farthest, most miserable post in the Seven Kingdoms within the week. His wife wept. His children wailed. And Valarr watched it all with an expression of stone.

He never told you about that. You heard it from a servant who thought you should know how fiercely your husband protected you.

He protected you. He cherished you. And every month, when your courses came, he held you while you cried and then he held you while you made love, as if he could pour all his love into you and make the pain disappear.

"Next month," he would whisper against your skin, his voice thick with his own unshed tears. "Next month, my love. We'll try again next month. And the month after. And the month after that. For as long as it takes. For forever, if that's what it takes."

And you would believe him, because believing him was easier than believing the whispers. Because loving him was the easiest thing you had ever done, and being loved by him was the greatest gift you had ever received.

---

In the bath, with the warm water soothing your aching body, you tried to push away the queasiness that had plagued you all day. Probably something you ate. Perhaps the fish at supper had been off. Perhaps the heat was too much. There were a hundred explanations, and none of them were the one you had stopped allowing yourself to hope for.

Valarr's hands moved gently along your back, soothing, loving, tracing patterns on your skin that he had memorized long ago. His touch was reverent, as it always was, as if you were something precious and fragile and infinitely worthy of worship.

"You work too hard," he murmured against your shoulder. "You exhaust yourself with duties. You're up before dawn, you don't rest during the day, you attend every function, you smile at every lord and lady who looks down on you." His arms tightened around you.

"Perhaps we should retreat to Dragonstone for a moon. Just the two of us. No court, no duties, no whispers. Just us."

"That would only give the gossips more fuel," you sighed, leaning your head back against his chest. "The prince hiding away his barren wife. She must be even more defective than we thought, if he can't bear to be seen with her."

"Stop." His voice was gentle but firm, and he turned you in his arms so he could look into your eyes. "Do not let them live in your head, my love. They are not worth a single one of your tears. They are not worth a single moment of your peace. You are more than their words. You are more than their cruelty. You are mine, and I will not let them hurt you."

You opened your mouth to respond, to tell him that his love was enough, that you were trying so hard to believe him, that some days you even succeeded—

But the words never came.

Instead, a pain ripped through you—sharp, sudden, agonizing. It seized your lower belly, your womb, with such ferocity that a scream tore from your throat before you could stop it. Your body curled inward, hands flying to your stomach as if you could somehow contain the agony.

"Y/N?" Valarr's hands caught you as you doubled over, the water splashing wildly around you both. His voice was sharp with terror. "Y/N, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Pain—" You gasped, another wave crashing over you, deeper and more intense than the first. "Valarr, it hurts—something's wrong—"

He was already moving, lifting you from the bath with strength you forgot he possessed. Water streamed from both of you as he carried you to the bed, his face ashen with terror, his arms shaking but steady. He laid you down as gently as if you were made of glass, but even that small movement sent another spike of agony through you.

"Did I hurt you?" he was asking, his voice breaking as he knelt beside the bed, his hands hovering over you, afraid to touch, afraid not to. "Sweetheart, did I—was it something I did—in the bath, did I—"

You couldn't answer. Another pain, deeper than before, had you curling in on yourself, a keening cry escaping your lips. It felt like something was tearing inside you, something vital and essential, and you clutched at Valarr's hand with desperate strength.

He wrapped a vest around you, his hands trembling so badly he could barely manage the ties, and then he was on his feet and shouting—screaming—for servants, for guards, for a maester.

"NOW!" he roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "GET THE MAESTER NOW! RUN!"

---

The hours that followed were a blur of agony and confusion.

Maester Edric came, his face grave as he examined you. You lay in the bed, sweat soaking your hair, the linens beneath you, pains ripping through you at irregular intervals that made no sense to anyone. Valarr never left your side. He held your hand through every wave of pain, pressed cool cloths to your forehead, whispered words of love and terror in between calling for answers no one could give.

"I can find nothing wrong," the maester said finally, his brow furrowed deep with confusion and frustration. He had examined you twice, three times, each time with the same result. "No fever, no swelling, no sign of injury or illness. Her stomach is soft, not rigid. Her pulse is strong. I... I do not understand."

"Then look again!" Valarr demanded, his voice cracking. He had not slept, had not eaten, had not left your side for a moment. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a wild mess, his tunic stained with your sweat where he had held you. "She is in agony—look again! There must be something! There has to be something!"

They gave you milk of the poppy. It dulled the edges of the pain but did not stop it entirely. You drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of Valarr's voice, of his hand gripping yours, of the whispered fears of servants who thought you were dying.

Dying. The thought floated through your poppy-fogged mind. Was this death? This endless, ripping pain that came in waves like the sea? Was this how it ended—not with a grand tragedy, but with some mysterious illness that even the maesters could not name?

"The Seven are taking her," you heard someone whisper—one of the servants, a woman who had served your household for years. Her voice was thick with tears. "It's a punishment. It must be. For something."

"Hold your tongue!" another voice hissed, but the damage was done.

You saw Valarr's face harden, saw the fury flash through his terror, but he didn't leave your side. He couldn't. He was trapped between his need to protect you and his need to protect your honor, and in the end, you were more important.

"Leave," he said quietly to the room at large. "Everyone except the maester. Now."

They fled. And then it was just you, and Valarr, and the maester who could do nothing but watch you suffer.

"There's something," you gasped during a lucid moment, when the pain had receded enough to allow thought. Your voice was barely a whisper, cracked and broken. "There's something—I can feel it—inside me—trying to come out—"

Valarr was instantly alert, leaning close. "What? What do you feel?"

"I don't know—" Another wave of pain crashed over you, and you screamed, your back arching off the bed. "Something—there's something there—I can feel it—please—"

A servant girl—who had been allowed to stay to fetch water and linens—hurried to look when Valarr gestured frantically. She lifted the sheets, peered between your legs, and then stumbled backward with a sharp intake of breath.

"Gods," she whispered, her face going white as bone. "Gods above—"

"What?" Valarr was on his feet, his heart in his throat. "What is it? What's wrong?"

The girl's face was white as bone, her eyes wide as saucers. She pointed with a trembling hand. "It's—my prince, it's a head—the princess is giving birth—"

The next hour was chaos and wonder in equal measure.

Maester Edric rushed back in, his composure completely shattered. More servants were called, women who had experience with birth, who knew what to do. Linens, hot water, cloths, all the preparations for a birth that no one had known was coming.

Through it all, Valarr stayed at your side, his face a mask of shock and awe and desperate fear. He held your hand through every contraction, wiped the sweat from your brow, pressed kisses to your temple and whispered words of love and encouragement.

"How?" he kept asking, his voice wondering and terrified all at once. "How did we not know? How did no one know?"

But you knew. You knew, even through the pain, even through the haze of milk of the poppy. Your courses had come—light, yes, irregular, but present enough that you had never thought to question. Your belly had remained flat, your weight unchanged, your body showing no signs of the life growing within. You had never felt the quickening, never felt the child move, never experienced any of the symptoms that every book and every woman said you should have felt. A hidden heir. A secret kept so perfectly that even the mother hadn't known.

"The babe is coming," the head midwife announced, her voice calm and professional despite the extraordinary circumstances. "My prince, you may want to—"

"I'm not leaving." Valarr's voice was steel. "I'm not leaving her. Not for a moment."

And then, with one final, agonizing push that tore a scream from your throat, a new cry filled the room.

Not your cry, a new voice, small and fierce and alive, cutting through the chaos like a ray of sunlight through storm clouds.

Silence fell. Everyone in the room seemed to stop breathing, to stop moving, as the midwife lifted the tiny, squalling bundle.

"A boy," she said, her voice awed. "My prince, my princess... you have a son."

Valarr didn't look at the babe at first. He looked at you, his eyes streaming tears, his face pressed to your sweat-damp hair, his whole body shaking with relief and joy and a love so overwhelming it seemed to fill the entire room.

"You did it," he whispered, his voice broken and beautiful. "You beautiful, perfect, impossible woman—you did it. You gave me a son. You gave us a son."

The midwife approached, the babe wrapped in clean linen, still crying with the fierce determination of new life. "Would you like to hold him, my princess?"

You nodded, unable to speak, and they placed him in your arms.

He was small—smaller than you had expected, though you had no basis for comparison—and wet-faced from crying, with a tuft of in his tiny head. His eyes were squeezed shut, his little fists clenched, his cries slowly subsiding as he settled against your chest.

Valarr leaned down, one trembling finger reaching out to gently touch that tiny head. His face crumpled, and for the first time since you had known him, your strong, fierce husband wept openly.

"He's perfect," he managed. "He's absolutely perfect. Just like his mother."

You looked up at him, at your husband who had defended you against a kingdom, who had loved you when the world called you barren, who had held you through every disappointment and every fear and never once wavered in his devotion.

"I told you," you whispered, your voice broken but triumphant, a smile spreading across your exhausted face. "I told you there was something wrong with me."

Valarr laughed—a sound of pure, overwhelming joy, bright and free and wonderful—and kissed you with all the love in his heart. He kissed your lips, your cheeks, your forehead, your hair, each kiss a promise and a prayer and a celebration.

"Nothing wrong with you," he agreed against your lips. "Nothing but perfection. Nothing but miracle. My wife. My love. The mother of my son."

The news spread through the Red Keep like wildfire.

By dawn, the entire castle knew. The princess who was whispered to be barren had given birth in the night, to a healthy son, without anyone even knowing she was with child. The servants who had thought she was dying now spoke of miracles and blessings. The ladies who had whispered behind her back now hurried to offer congratulations, their faces flushed with embarrassment.

And in your chambers, as the first light of dawn crept over King's Landing, you held your son and watched your husband pace the room like a man possessed.

"A son," Valarr kept saying, as if he couldn't quite believe it. "We have a son. I have a son. We have a son."

"You've said that seventeen times now," you teased gently, though your own smile hadn't faded since the babe was placed in your arms.

"And I'll say it seventeen hundred more." He came to sit beside you on the bed, his hand reaching out to stroke the babe's cheek with infinite gentleness. "Have you thought of a name?"

You looked down at the tiny face, peaceful now in sleep, and felt your heart swell with a love so fierce it almost hurt.

"Aurion," you said.

Valarr's eyes glistened. "Aurion Targaryen. It's perfect."

"He'll need a cradle," you murmured, suddenly realizing all the things that would need to be done. "And clothes—we have no clothes for him. And a wet nurse—I don't know if I can—"

"Shh." Valarr pressed a kiss to your forehead. "All of that will be handled. Right now, you rest. You've done enough for one night." His voice cracked with emotion. "You've done everything."

---

The days that followed were a blur of visitors and well-wishers, of lords and ladies coming to pay their respects to the prince and princess and their miraculous son.

King Daeron II came himself, his aged face bright with joy as he held his first great-grandson. "Auriom," he said, testing the name. "A fine choice. First of his name"

Prince Baelor, Valarr's father, stood tall and proud, his nose wrinkling as he smiled "The boy looks the same as valarr did as a babe," he observed. "And he his mother's strength. He'll go far."

Even the rumors changed. No longer was there talk of annulment and barrenness. Now the whispers were of miracles and blessings, of the Seven's favor shining upon the young prince and his devoted wife. The same ladies who had once pitied you now sought your favor. The lords who had whispered of setting you aside now bowed low and offered congratulations.

You didn't care about any of them. You cared about the tiny life in your arms, and the husband who looked at you as if you had hung the moon and stars.

One night, a week after the birth, you woke to find the cradle empty and your husband standing by the window, holding Aurion in his arms.

You watched them for a long moment—Valarr, his dark hair messy, that silver streak catching the moonlight, swaying gently as he hummed a soft Valyrian lullaby to the babe in his arms. His voice was low and sweet, the ancient words wrapping around the quiet room like a blessing.

"Ōños iā hūrenkon qrinuntys," he sang. "Jemī iksis zālagon." Light and shadow, my little prince. Forever there is fire.

You must have made a sound, because he turned, his face softening when he saw you awake.

"Couldn't sleep?" you asked softly.

"He was fussing," Valarr said, crossing to sit beside you on the bed. "I didn't want him to wake you. You need your rest."

You reached out, touching his face, feeling the slight stubble on his jaw. "So do you."

He turned his head, kissing your palm. "I can't stop looking at him," he admitted quietly. "I keep thinking... what if we had listened to them? What if I had let the whispers sway me? What if I had let them convince me that you weren't enough?" His voice broke. "I would have missed this. I would have missed him. I would have missed everything that matters."

You moved closer, resting your head against his shoulder, looking down at your son together.

Aurion slept peacefully, his tiny chest rising and falling, one small fist pressed against his cheek.

"You never wavered," you reminded him. "Not once. Even when I doubted myself, you never doubted me."

"Because I know you," Valarr said simply. "I know your heart. I know your soul. I know that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I will spend the rest of my life making sure you know it too."

[chuluoyi]

in one's heart of hearts

- valarr targaryen x wife!reader x aerion targaryen

to the realm, your marriage with the young prince is a storybook union worthy of songs. but after tragedies befell you one after another, the love that once seemed effortless begins to fracture... and it doesn't help that another prince has his obsession set on you

genre/warnings: suggestive, tw. miscarriages, angst, smut, hurt/comfort, mentions of infidelity, arguments, injury and blood in tourney (aka valarr and aerion fighting each other for you), pregnancy, fluff

notes: wc. 5.8k ! reposted with rewritten & extended scenes! i fell in love with valarr at the first sight really *sigh* and aerion is my sidepiece i loved writing this so i hope you will enjoy it too <3

You and the Young Prince are beloved by many in King’s Landing.

Valarr, the gallant heir of House Targaryen, and you, his graceful princess, seem to embody everything the realm hopes for: beauty, devotion, and a love that appears effortless beneath the watchful eyes of the court. You married young, and despite all whispers and warnings the elders told you, both of you were tremendously happy in your marriage.

“A toast to my beloved princess—my constant strength and guide through another year added to my name!”

His voice would ring proudly through the hall, rich with affection as goblets were lifted in your honor. He would gaze at you with such tenderness afterwards, and anyone with eyes would gasp at the breathtaking show of love.

A love match. Yours was the picture-perfect royal union… at least until the tragedies began.

“Valarr, I—” you would choke on your own tears each time you carried a child to term only to lose them before you could ever hold them in your arms.

And every time, he would pull you into his arms.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry,” he would murmur softly, shushing your sobs as he held you close, mourning the loss just as deeply even as he tried to be your comfort.

A loss that the maesters called misfortune. Another that the septas named the will of the Seven. Each time, the court offered condolences, and each time you and Valarr stood side by side, composed and dignified as a royal couple ought to be.

But grief, no matter how carefully hidden, has a way of changing things.

Behind closed doors, the silences between you began to grow longer. The smiles you once shared became sparser, weighed down by sorrow neither of you quite knew how to speak aloud. Yet before the court, you both still played your roles flawlessly.

Because in King’s Landing, the prince and his princess were meant to be perfect.

“Your Grace, do you feel well?”

Your maid’s gentle voice broke through your reverie. You had been staring at the skies above Summerhall for far too long, your gaze distant and unfocused.

You turned to her with a placating smile. “I’m fine, Rose. Come, let’s go.”

Summoned to Summerhall by Prince Baelor, the moment you arrived, Valarr was swept away into discussions with his father and the other men of the court, leaving you with little to do but free time for yourself.

The castle grounds had grown quiet by the late afternoon, most servants busy with their duties. Your steps eventually carried you beyond the courtyards, towards a humble district where smallfolk lived and worked beneath the protection of the castle.

However, your walk was cut short.

An old woman stood near the edge of the road, her back bent with age, her thin hands clutching a bundle of herbs. Yet it was not her frailty that caught your attention.

It was the way unsettling way she stared at you.

Her eyes were too sharp for someone so old—watching you with an unsettling intensity. You slowed, uncertainty prickling along your spine, and then the woman spoke:

“The princess of love and beauty,” she murmured, her voice thin and rasping. “Yet cursed with the misfortune of having shadows strangling the brave prince’s sons in her womb.”

A cold shiver crawled down your spine. The words struck like a blade and it felt as though your darkest nightmares had been dragged into the open for the world to see.

You did not stay to hear more.

Your breath came quicker as you fled— the woman’s voice still echoing, stirring those bleak memories of the silent chambers, the hushed voices of maesters, Valarr’s arms around you while you wept until your body ached.

You only wanted distance—from that witch, from her terrible eyes, from the shame. And in your haste—

You collided with someone.

A solid figure stood in your path, and the sudden impact forced a startled breath from your lungs. Strong hands caught your waist before you could fall.

“Well now...” a smooth, velvety voice drawled above you, low with unmistakable amusement. “Where is the princess rushing off to in such distress?”

You wouldn’t mistake that voice for anyone else’s.

Prince Aerion Targaryen stood before you, tall and imposing as ever, silver hair gleaming in the afternoon light. His grip on your waist was firm enough to keep you from retreating so easily.

“Unhand me, my prince,” you proceeded to say afterwards, and he did. For a three good seconds, he observed the lacy black dress you were wearing, and let out a snort.

“You are not in mourning. Why do you always wear this unseemly dress?”

His words offended you really. It hadn’t even been three moons since you lost your babe, and he dared to ask this?

“I am, in fact, in mourning. Please let me be.”

Aerion snorted again.

“Do not mourn too hard, sweet cousin. A fine fruit can only grow from a good seed. One cannot expect much from… defects.”

Your eyes hardened. “What are you insinuating?”

“I’m merely suggesting that the fault may not lie with you at all, my princess,” Aerion replied, a thin, cruel smile curving his lips.

Valarr’s face rose unbidden in your mind—his gentle patience, the way he would tighten his arms around you on the nights he mourned your lost babes. Never once had he spoken a word of blame. Never once had he let you feel alone in it.

The insult burned hotter than if it had been aimed at you.

“You will hold your tongue, Aerion,” you spat, your voice suddenly sharper, eyes flashing with apparent rage as you didn’t bother to address him properly. “You speak of a prince of the realm. And a far better man than you will ever be.”

Aerion’s smile faltered for the briefest fraction of a second before it returned, colder than before.

“How fiercely you defend him,” he scoffed. “How touching.”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur meant only for you.

“Think about it. If it were me, I surely will not fail you. The blood of the dragon runs stronger in my veins than it ever will in his.”

Talking with Aerion always felt like talking to the wall. You didn’t deign him with more response, simply turning on your heel to head back towards the castle.

However, you failed to realize that watchful eyes had taken note of the closeness between you and your cousin-by-law. Only later would you learn that this encounter with Aerion would bring consequences you had never anticipated.

The tale that soon spread was a wild one: you, the princess consort, is having an affair with the Bright Prince himself.

“T-that— that is bloody outrageous!”

You paced restlessly in your marital chambers, righteous anger coursed in your veins— it wasn’t enough that they had insulted you, but to pair your name with that mad prince?

Your husband, calm as ever, only stared at you quietly from his desk.

“You must not believe that treason—” you turned to Valarr in a flurry. “There’s no truth in it! I just stumbled into him while we were at Summerhall, that’s all!”

Valarr remained silent, studying you as he twirled the quill in his hand. He hadn’t voiced any accusation or anything, and it made your heart twist.

“I swear to you—” you pressed on quickly as you approached him, almost breathless now. “I barely spoke to him, and whatever he implied, I shut it down immediately—”

Valarr finally set the quill down. The soft tap of it against the desk sounded far too loud as he rose from his chair. His gaze never left yours as he crossed to where you were, and your heart thudded painfully under the weight of that unreadable stare.

He stopped before you, seemingly disregarding whatever it was you were saying, and it was without any warning when—

“I would never dishonor you like that, dear husband, you must believe me— Mmph!”

He pulled you into a sudden, searing kiss.

His hand came up to cradle the back of your neck as though the gesture alone could silence the storm of words tumbling from your sweet lips. You almost gasped, instinctively curling your fingers around his doublet.

It was nothing like the tender kisses you were used to. The kiss was rough, intense—almost hungry. His grip tightened slightly at your nape as his mouth claimed yours again and again. The force of it made you stumble a few steps back before he steadied you against him.

When Valarr finally pulled away, he sighed, a haze settling into his gaze.

“I do not wish to speak of my vile cousin, love.”

“But those rumors— I swear it, I—”

“Shush,” Valarr smiled then, pressing a finger on your lips. It was soft at first glance, reassuring even—yet it did not quite reach his mismatched eyes, which remained dark and distant. “I know.”

Your prince had always been gentle. He had never let anger rule over him, but sometimes you just wished he would. You looked at him sadly as his dashing blue and brown eyes focused solely on you, thinking of everything he had achieved until now.

The realm might think that the heir of Dragonstone had everything handed to him in silver platter, but they had never seen all the effort he put to remain worthy of it. He was the perfect prince to everyone, yet behind closed doors, only you saw the exhaustion he tried to hide, the endless trainings he would endure, the weight of expectations that followed him like a shadow.

And that only made the guilt inside you feel worse, because he had done everything right, except for one flaw. You.

His wife who had not even managed to give him an heir. Worse still, now these boundless whispers of your supposed infidelity threatened to besmirch his name.

You opened your mouth again, still trying to explain, but Valarr didn’t let you.

He captured your lips once again.

This time there was no restraint at all. His hands slid to your waist, fingers squeezing your flesh as he pulled you firmly against him, the kiss deepening with a fervor that stole the breath from your lungs. There was urgency in the way he held you now—something restless beneath the calm he had worn only moments ago surfacing unbidden.

“H-husband—”

“Quiet,” he commanded, lust taking over him, “—ah, my princess...”

Before you quite realized what he intended, he guided you backwards... and the edge of his desk pressed suddenly against the backs of your thighs.

With a swift motion he lifted you and bent you forward over its polished surface, the scrolls scattering beneath you. Valarr stepped between your knees, devouring your lips with renewed intensity and forced his tongue inside, even rougher this time.

Where he was usually careful and soft, his hands now held you with a more possessive grip. When he pulled you closer, the tug was harsher. When his lips wandered across your skin, the kisses he left behind were hotter and harder.

He was the only Targaryen prince who knew your body best. He knew where to touch, where to caress, where to lick and suck—

And what to do to get you nicely warm and ready for him.

“Look at me— will you?”

He tipped your chin towards him before he entered you in one swift go. The sudden stretch tore a broken cry from your lips as you threw your head back, moaning his name in broken syllables as tears fell from your lashes.

And before long, the chamber fell quiet save for the sounds of your mingled breaths and flesh tangled together, the lamplight flickering softly against the walls as the night became a blur around you.

There would be a grand celebration for King Daeron’s nameday in King’s Landing.

The festivities were to last ten days and nights to remind the realm of the strength and prosperity of House Targaryen. Lords and ladies from across the Seven Kingdoms had already begun to arrive, and there would be feasts and a grand tourney held in the king’s honor.

The first day, however, was reserved for the feast.

The great hall blazed with candlelight, the long tables heavy with roasted meats, fruits, and sweet wines. Music drifted through the hall as servants moved tirelessly between the guests. You sat quietly in your seat, hands folded neatly in your lap as you forced yourself to maintain the composure expected of a princess.

“Greetings to you, my princess...”

And it was impossible not to feel the stares.

Whispers had already traveled faster than ravens through the court, and though everyone only spoke to you in pleasantries and riddles, you could feel the weight of their judgment.

“Pay them no mind.”

You looked up when Prince Baelor spoke gently beside you. Your father-in-law regarded you with a kindness—with those very same mismatched gaze your husband had—that made your throat tighten.

“The court feeds on foolish gossip,” he continued. “It will pass soon enough.”

You managed a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

His reassurance was sincere, and you knew he meant it kindly, but it did little to quiet the shame that lingered in your chest.

As the evening wore on, the musicians eventually struck up a livelier tune. The feast slowly shifted into dancing, couples rising from their seats as the center of the hall cleared.

You watched absently as the first pairs took the floor... but then your breath caught.

Valarr had stepped down from his seat and extended his hand—not to you. Kiera of Tyrosh accepted it with a bright smile.

Your fingers curled in your lap as you watched them join the dancers.

Kiera moved gracefully beside him, her gown sweeping across the floor as they turned together. They made a handsome pair—your composed prince and the elegant daughter of a powerful lord. The lords and ladies in the hall had noticed as well.

“She suits him…”

“A fitting match…”

Each word sank into your chest like a needle and the longer you sit here, the more you couldn’t bear to watch the dance floor any longer.

Rising quietly from your seat, you began to make your way toward the edge of the hall, hoping to slip away before the sting in your eyes betrayed you, however...

“My princess.”

You froze. Prince Aerion suddenly appeared before you, his silver hair gleaming beneath the candlelight. He bowed slightly and offered his hand, though the smile that followed was anything but respectful.

“Would you grant me this dance?”

Your first instinct was to refuse, but then you realized too many eyes were already on you. Refusing him openly would only feed the whispers further. Biting back your anger, reluctantly, you placed your hand in his.

Aerion led you to the dance floor, and he drew you into the proper steps with unsettling ease.

“You look miserable tonight,” he murmured, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

“I am merely tired, my prince,” you replied stiffly and Aerion chuckled, almost tauntingly.

“Such loyalty to a man who leaves you sitting alone while he dances with another.”

“Prince Valarr is my husband,” you hissed.

“Yes,” Aerion’s violet eyes lit with a manic glint, “and yet I cannot help but think you would fare far better with me instead.”

“Do me a favor and cease this nonsense.”

“But it is true.” His grip tightening slightly at your waist as the dance carried you through another turn. “I would never leave you sitting alone while the court talks about you.”

You said nothing. You simply endured the remainder of the dance in tense silence.

The moment the music ended, you pulled away hurriedly. Without waiting for his reply, you turned and left the hall.

The air in the corridors felt cooler, quieter. You exhaled slowly, hoping the distance from the feast would steady your thoughts. Footsteps sounded behind you to disrupt your newfound peace, however.

“Running away so quickly?”

You sighed. “Aerion, please—”

He followed you down the corridor regardless, his long strides quickly closing the distance. Before you could move again, he stepped in front of you, blocking your path in the empty hall.

“You avoid me as though I were a monster,” he said with a faint laugh.

“Because you behave like one,” you snapped.

His smile sharpened. You tried to step past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrists. “Aerion— let go!”

But he did not move. Instead, he pushed you back a step until your shoulders brushed the cold stone wall behind you.

“You deserve better than that dull, careful cousin of mine.” Aerion leaned closer, his face only a mere inch from yours. “A princess should not waste herself on a dragon who barely burns.”

“I will hear no more of this—!”

For a moment, his grip tightened hard enough to bruise, his gaze dark, and the deserted hall suddenly felt far too small.

His hand slid from your wrist to your arm, pressing you firmly against the wall. He leaned down, attempting to seize your lips in a rough kiss—

You turned your head sharply, the contact landing against your neck instead. Panic surged through you as you shoved against his chest.

“Aerion, stop!”

Your voice broke into something close to a shriek as you struggled against him. His hold only tightened as he tried again, heedless of your resistance.

. . .

The banquet hall had become suffocating for Valarr too.

While he had asked Kiera of Tyrosh for his first dance, it was out of courtesy since he had been talking to her. What he had not expected was to see you take the floor with Aerion out of all people.

It made him restless, because even though everything was false, the fact that it had become such a rumor in the first place meant he wasn’t able to protect you. And lately there had been a strained distance between you he had been meaning to mend too.

His gaze moved across the tables, searching instinctively for you. He was thinking maybe he could excuse both himself and you from the feast and retire to your chambers. When he didn’t find you, he stepped out to the corridors.

And that was when he heard it. A muffled cry.

Valarr turned the corner— and the sight that greeted him was one he would never have imagined could happen even in his nightmares.

You pinned against the wall, your dress disheveled, tears in your eyes as you struggled against the man holding you in a very compromising position.

Aerion.

For a heartbeat Valarr did not think. Could not think. That was also when the world seemed to narrow into something blindingly red—

He lunged. His hand seized the back of Aerion’s collar and tore him away from you with brutal force. The sudden motion sent his wretched cousin stumbling back a step before his fist followed like a punishment.

Bam!

The punch landed squarely on his jaw and the Bright Prince staggered under the blow. Valarr’s chest heaved, every muscle in his body coiled tight with rage. For a moment it took everything he had not to strike again.

“Valarr!” you gasped, immediately pulling him back. He turned to you only to find your shaking hands and tear-streaked face— and the sight made his heart lurch in his chest.

Your husband forced himself to step back towards you as he glared at his kin. His voice, when it came, was tight with restrained fury.

“I will regain my honor tomorrow. At the joust.”

Valarr did not wait for Aerion to answer as he took your hand firmly, and pulled you away from the corridor, leading you back towards your marital chambers.

Behind you, Aerion remained where he stood. His cheek throbbed where the punch had landed, but he barely felt it as much as the sting that burned incessantly in his chest.

Because in his own twisted way—

Aerion had already given his heart to you too.

The door to your marital chambers barely closed when Valarr turned to face you and placed both hands on your shoulders, checking you over.

“Did he—” His voice faltered slightly before he forced the words out. “Did Aerion do anything to you?”

You shook your head like a limp puppet, still trying to process what had just happened. The tension in his shoulders loosened only slightly, but it was still there, still burning.

“You cannot challenge him tomorrow.” You started trembling, realizing the gravity of what he said earlier. “Valarr… please...”

He clenched his jaw. “He will answer for what he did.”

“You cannot do this over me!” Your voice rose despite yourself. “The entire court will be watching. If something goes wrong—”

“Something has already gone wrong,” Valarr cut in sharply. “Aerion has insulted me. He laid his hands on you— and you expect me to simply stand by and do nothing?”

“But you will be in danger—”

“I will be fine.”

“You will not!”

Your words echoed in the chamber, and for the first time, you saw how composure slipped from the Young Prince’s face.

“Is your faith in me truly so little?” he questioned, hurt. “Do you truly believe I cannot defeat him in a fair duel?”

“That’s not what I mean— he is a monster!” you said quickly, the words tumbling out in distress. The memory of Aerion’s grip on your arm flashed through your mind, followed immediately by the terrible image of Valarr lying bloodied in the arena. Your stomach twisted.

“You’ve seen how he fights. He has never cared for honor in a tourney. He plays foul whenever it suits him. I don’t want anything to happen to you—”

“But I would do anything for you!”

The words burst from him so suddenly, louder than you had ever him yell before, and you fell silent, wide-eyed.

“I cannot stand idly when my cousin dishonors the woman I love and pretend it means nothing!” Valarr continued, his voice sharp. “I cannot watch you be treated like that and remain silent!”

His knuckles curled into tight fists at his sides, the restraint he had always carried now visibly fraying.

“You think I care about the court’s whispers?” he went on, quieter now, his gaze on you almost painful. “No. Let them whisper.”

You shook your head weakly, tears falling. “Valarr…”

“I hate how they questioned your honor because of what we have been through, but even that is still better than seeing you in childbed again.”

Valarr looked away briefly, as though gathering the strength to continue. His eyes then returned to yours, heavy with something you had rarely seen from him—raw grief, as he shook his head.

“I will not put you through that again if I could help it. I cannot subject you to that ordeal again. Even if we are to remain childless— then so be it.”

His words struck you deep.

“I cannot watch you mourn our lost children again and again.” His blue and brown eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “The pain you feel… I feel it as well. And for all I know, it may be because of me.”

Your heart clenched painfully. This was not what you wanted to hear, and the sight of your composed husband broke down in tears was not something you wanted to see.

“I’m sorry I cannot give you healthy children,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry for taking away the joy that should have been yours. I’m so, so sorry that our marriage has brought you more grief than happiness. I’m sorry...”

So this was why he always apologized to you. You couldn’t bear it any longer.

Before he could say another word, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms tightly around him.

“Don’t say that...” you managed amidst your own tears. “I’m the happiest with you. I could only endure all this with you by my side...”

His arms slowly came around you in return, holding you just as tightly—as though the two of you were the only things keeping the other from falling apart.

Because after all, before the throne, before the realm and its endless expectations— you and Valarr had always been, first and foremost, just two people who loved each other.

“May the luck of the Seven shine upon all the combatants!”

The tourney started at the crack of dawn. Knights in gilded armor lined the field while the stands overflowed with nobles and commonfolk alike, all eager to witness the spectacle.

You sat stiffly in the royal box beside Prince Baelor. Jousts had never excited you, the thunder of hooves and splintering wood only made your heart pound with dread rather than thrill.

The first round belonged to the lords of the realm. Knights from every corner of Westeros rode proudly into the lists as they tilted against one another. The crowd cheered loudly each time a lance shattered or a poor soul was thrown from his saddle.

Yet you barely watched— until a roar suddenly erupted from the crowd.

You looked up just in time to see Aerion lowering his lance after his last winning tilt. Across the field, Ser Leo Tyrell lay sprawled and bloodied in the dust beside his fallen horse.

The crowd cheered wildly as he removed his skull-like helm. Even from afar you could see the cruel curve of his smile. Not long after, he rode toward the royal box, stopping below the platform and looked up at you, making your insides churn uneasily.

“My princess,” he called smoothly, his eyes catching the morning sun. “Please grant me your favor.”

You truly hesitated, because you had wished to grant yours for your husband in the first place. But at Baelor’s urging and the knowledge that the house of the dragon must be seen united in front of these people, you relented.

You silently dropped the wreath to his lance, and he grinned in response.

“I shall wear it proudly,” he told you with a smirk.

You forced yourself not to respond. He rode away soon after, leaving murmurs of the audience who wondered why the prince royal was asking the favor of the princess consort of his own cousin in his wake.

The second round of the joust began not long after.

Many combatants gathered at the center of the field, their armor gleaming beneath the growing sunlight, and the herald raised his staff, announcing:

“Prince Valarr of House Targaryen, Heir of Dragonstone, will choose his opponent of the day!”

Valarr came riding into the arena atop his black destrier, his armor dark and polished like obsidian. He looked calm—almost impossibly so—as he surveyed the line of waiting knights.

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest as you watched your husband rode slowly past the gathered challengers. Then, almost immediately, he lowered his lance and pointed it directly at—

“Prince Valarr chooses Prince Aerion Brightflame, second son of Prince Maekar of Summerhall!”

Gasps rippled through the stands before they broke into cheers. Prince Baelor beside you exhaled slowly, and you clutched your heart.

Your felt sick to your stomach. He really made good on his promise to Aerion. “No...” your voice came out in a croak.

Noticing your distress for a while now, Prince Baelor reached over and gently took your hand.

“He will be fine,” he assured you as you squeezed his palm. You looked at him helplessly, tears already shining in your eyes.

Baelor watched his son ride into position with a thoughtful expression. “My late wife used to worry like you whenever Valarr entered the lists too,” he said then, a nostalgic smile on his face. “She would clutch my arm just as tightly.”

His gaze softened when your first tear fell and you hurried to wipe it. As a father, he was glad that his precious son had you to worry about him. He is in good hands, he thought.

Baelor too had taken measures to keep Valarr safe all this time, but he also knew that for better or worse, his son had inherited certain stubbornness from him, especially when he was after something he wanted.

The two royal princes of House Targaryen lowered their visors... and the first tilt began.

Your heart was in your throat as you knew the truth others didn’t. Valarr was not the most naturally gifted fighter. While Aerion thrived in the field as though born for it, Valarr had to earn his skills through relentless training and work harder than most to simply match what Aerion could.

And it showed. Each pass forced him to fight to remain upright in his saddle.

For the first three tilts, Valarr and Aerion broke their lances evenly. It was during the fourth tilt that disaster began.

Aerion angled his lance downward toward Valarr’s horse and the impact sent the animal crashing sideways. Your husband fell hard into the dust.

A cry escaped your lips, but before you could even breathe, he was already rising, demanding his right for contest of arms.

The clash of their blades echoed across the arena as they struck again and again. The fight was fierce, relentless, the princes accumulating wounds from each other.

Then Valarr knocked the morningstar from Aerion’s grip— the crowd roared as the two abandoned their weapons entirely—

And they fought with their bare hands.

. . .

Valarr’s head was still ringing from the earlier fall. The world swayed with each breath and he could taste his own blood, but he forced himself to remain standing as he lunged at his vile cousin.

Each time he remembered how he had forced himself on you the night before, his blood boiled, and it was what fueled him upright. However, Aerion was always the better fighter— his blows came hard and fast, and Valarr had to take several strikes to the face.

They were clearly wearing each other out. Every strike grew heavier, every breath harsher as the fight dragged on beneath the blazing sun.

Then suddenly—whether by chance or by the Seven’s judgment—Aerion stumbled.

And Valarr seized the moment. He surged forward and struck him again and again, every punch driven by the fury he had kept buried from the night before.

Aerion lost his footing and fell into the dirt. Valarr staggered forward, chest heaving, driving his boot sharply into his cousin’s chest.

“Yield,” he demanded through ragged breaths. “Yield, cousin!”

Aerion glared up at him, his silver hair matted with dust and his own blood, his face badly bruised. For a long moment it seemed he might refuse out of sheer spite as he spat on his boots.

“I yield.”

Done. It is done.

“Prince Valarr is victorious!”

The crowd thundered in cheers, but he barely heard it. His gaze lifted instead towards the royal box.

Towards you, who looked breathtakingly beautiful in the colors of Targaryen crimson and black. Even from the arena floor, he could see the track of tears on your cheeks. His heart warmed so much at the sight of you.

And seeing that, he vowed he would crown you his Queen of Love and Beauty by the time this tourney ended.

“I told you… I bloody told you!”

Your voice rang through the chamber as you hovered anxiously beside him.

Valarr sat at the edge of the bed after a maester finished binding another bruise along his ribs and left. Dark blotches were already blooming across his arms and shoulders, and a shallow cut near his mouth had been carefully stitched. Yet he boyishly grinned at your irked face.

“I only wished to win the victor’s laurel,” he said almost innocently, though the faint wince he tried to hide betrayed how sore he truly was.

“For what?” you demanded, looking pale after enduring days of anxiety that it made your gut not sit well with you, arms crossing over your chest. “So you could come back marred with bruises from head to toe?”

Valarr merely smiled. Because despite the aches in every limb, the memory of this morning still lingered warmly in his mind.

“I name you, my beloved princess... the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

The gasp had swept through the stands and everyone was stunned in silence before the cheers and well wishes roared the moment he dipped his lance towards you.

He had fought for eight days just for that, pushing his aching body to the edge so the realm could see exactly what he wanted them to see. A prince utterly devoted to his wife.

To Valarr, that alone had been worth every bruise.

But you were still glaring at him.

“And what if something worse had happened?” you continued, clearly not ready to forgive him so easily, a hand above your heart. “What if—”

But your words faltered as a sudden wave of nausea rose in your throat, the color draining from your face as your stomach lurched unpleasantly. You placed a hand over your mouth.

“What is it?” he started, concern sharpening his voice.

However, you were unable to answer him as the urge to throw up overwhelmed your senses. You turned abruptly, and hurried towards the chamber pot.

Valarr was on his feet instantly despite the protests of his battered body. “My love—”

He reached you just as you finished retching, both arms coming to steady you. “Are you unwell?” he asked, alarmed. “How long have you been feeling ill?”

You wiped your mouth with a trembling hand. The room seemed to sway slightly as you leaned against his bare chest for support. For a moment neither of you spoke as you evened your breath.

It was then that realization dawned on the two of you.

A thought—one both of you had not dared to voice—hung heavily in the air. You remembered that night on his desk, and you almost let out a gasp.

You had gone through this before, and Valarr felt the same fragile spark of hope stir in his chest, but he forced himself to calm down.

Your eyes slowly lifted to meet his, your hands shook slightly as Valarr took them in his own. He held you carefully, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles in quiet reassurance. His mismatched eyes held yours steadily.

“No matter what happens this time,” he declared, “I would stay beside you. I would take good care of you.”

You had heard his vows before—spoken before the gods, before the High Septon, before the realm itself. And never once had Valarr failed to keep his word.

If the Seven chose to bless you this time, then you would welcome the miracle with hope.

And if they did not… You would still have him. And he would still have you.

When he pressed a tender kiss to the side of your head, you knew that much was certain.

[westerosey]

duty-bound

summary: prince valarr knows his duty as baelor’s heir is to secure the targaryen line and its claim to the iron throne for generations to come. a pretty wife like you has only made the responsibility easier to bear.

valarr targaryen x reader

warnings: smut, quickie, fingering, p in v, mating press, creampie, slight breeding kink.

masterlist

you’d always known your husband to be a dutiful prince, even before you wed; still, valarr’s devotion to siring an heir takes you by surprise. for the second time since morning, he’s sought to have you, seeking you out between his other less…titillating commitments.

he’d given you time enough only to disrobe before he laid you on your marital bed, his lips pressed against yours in a hungry kiss. his palms roam your skin freely, tracing a path down your body to where you truly need him.

“but, my prince, the small council meeting—” you’re silenced by your own gasp as his hand slips between your legs, circling your most sensitive spot. you feel the length of his hard cock pressed against your thigh; his urgency clear.

“they’ll wait,” he mumbles, trailing his lips down your neck.

his finger slides into you with ease, and he works you open gently, until a second digit is met with no resistance. you moan quietly, tangling your hands in his hair and pulling lightly at his silver streak. the prince smiles against your skin, grazing your throat with his teeth as he braces himself on either side of your body with his strong arms.

he aligns himself at your entrance and sinks into you in one graceful motion, his muscles rippling with strain. almost instantly, his head drops into your shoulder, his eyes screwing shut as your warmth envelops him.

“gods, you feel good,” he groans, rocking his hips steadily. your breathing is shallow, hampered by the fullness inside you. the prince quickens his pace as your walls relax around him, biting back another moan when he sees you reach between your bodies to touch yourself.

“i’ve been told it can…help the pregnancy take,” you tell him cautiously, your cheeks hot.

valarr’s mismatched eyes are dark, his pupils blown wide with lust as he watches your self-pleasure. fuck. careful to stay sheathed inside you, he hooks his hands under your thighs and pushes your legs back until you’re completely exposed to him. you whine at the newfound depth, feeling your cunt pulse around him rhythmically.

the new position sets fire coursing through the prince, whose thrusts become harder, unrestrained. your fingers move faster and your soft whines of his name melt into pleas as your belly tightens, your release building dangerously fast. valarr can’t help the smugness that tugs at him at the sight of you trembling at your own touch, so visibly overwhelmed by the size of him and his strong hands holding your legs open.

“wait—valarr, i’m—”

you cry out abruptly, unable to finish your thought as an orgasm tears through you fast and hot, burning you up from within. your cunt squeezes around him with abandon, the haste of the moment only adding to your arousal.

“fuck,” he rasps, his voice raw and his skin sheened with sweat. he’s fighting his own climax, but the feeling of your walls clamping around him, milking him, is almost too much to bear. yet, you give him no respite; you have a duty to him, after all.

you lock your ankles around his waist and pull him closer to you by the nape of his neck, your fingers coiling through his soft hair. “please,” you breathe, “come inside me, my prince. make me yours.”

those words are all it takes; with a deep groan, valarr throws his head back, spilling his seed into you in hot, thick spurts. you feel him twitch inside you as his sensitivity mounts, and when his hips finally stagger to a halt, his body drops onto yours.

his limbs feel molten and his heart rattles in his chest; the temptation to stay like this—buried inside you, with his face tucked into the crook of your neck and your hands running through his hair—is almost too strong to deny. still, a foggy memory of the small council meeting, to which he was now inexcusably late, drags him out of his bliss.

he sighs heavily and presses a loving kiss to your neck, lifting himself off you with care. you whimper when he slides out of you, the sudden emptiness unfamiliar. tucking your knees to your chest to keep his release inside you, you follow valarr with your eyes as he dresses himself with haste.

“do you think it worked?” you ask after a moment.

“time will tell,” he says, fastening his belt. he conceals it, but a smirk pulls at his lips.

the prince makes his way to you again, peering at your exposed cunt and the small droplet of his seed that seeps out of you. there’s a hint of pride on his face—something he oft tries to suppress, though you know it simmers just beneath the surface.

“until then, we will try again. and again. and again. as many times as it takes.” his voice is gentle, but you see fire behind his eyes.

“you’ll carry the blood of the dragon soon enough.”

[westerosey]

untouched

summary: your betrothed swore to himself your honour would remain intact until your wedding. he soon learns conviction is a brittle thing.

valarr targaryen x reader

warnings: smut, outercourse, intercrural sex (thigh fucking)/pussy job, virgin!reader, praise, slight corruption kink.

masterlist

three moons, valarr had told himself. three moons of propriety, and the marriage will be consummated. he truly believed he could endure, even though you were the most beautiful creature he’d ever laid eyes on.

it takes his restraint—and yours—a mere three weeks to falter.

under the cover of midnight, his strong hands roam your body, clad only in your airy nightdress; his back is pressed to the heavy oak door of your bedchamber, your spine flush against his taut abdomen as he peppers wet kisses along the slope of your neck.

still in his black and crimson garbs, he’d spent all day warring with his conscience. he had hoped the dying of the day would steady him; perhaps his desire would subside in the stillness of the evening.

it did not.

his fingers hook around the delicate straps of your nightdress, and you shiver as the fabric pools at your feet; valarr’s clothes feel rough against your skin, but his hands are warm, and you cannot hold back a soft whine of his name. this is not dishonour, he reasons unconvincingly, feeling your nipples pebble beneath his touch. not yet.

“please, my prince,” you beg, arching against him.

his hardened length nudges your lower back, and heat pools in your womb, seeping between your legs, demanding relief. you are certain you’ve taken leave of your senses—to be caught like this would be to disgrace your family name—but the embers of lust burn too hot for you to care.

valarr’s hand dips between your legs to trace your silken slit, and your wetness sheens his fingers instantly. seven above. he wants nothing more than to fill you any way he can, to stretch you and make you his, but he cannot allow himself to sully you out of wedlock. you are too precious—to the seven kingdoms, to him.

and yet, he can feel his tip leaking through the confines of his breeches. fuck, can he truly deny you? you are to be his wife, joined for all your lives before the old gods and the new; does that not absolve this…this small indulgence?

“valarr,” you huff, bucking your hips against him. “please.”

“shhh. alright, darling,” he concedes finally, pressing his lips to your temple in a soothing kiss. “i have an idea.”

his free hand loosens the ties of his trousers, and his cock springs out, the tip flushed and sticky with his arousal as he slides between your thighs. your breath hitches; he’s thick and hot and velvet-smooth against your skin. his rosy head prods your entrance, and you instinctively grind down with a whimper, but your betrothed tuts in your ear.

“not yet, sweet girl,” he says, his voice laboured at the contact. he cups your mound, rings glinting in faint candlelight, and presses his fingers to his base to trap himself flat against your slit. he rocks his hips so that you glide over him from root to tip, and the sound you emit is divine.

“on our wedding night, hm?” he murmurs into your hair, feeling your fluids coat him. “i’ll fill you then, my bride, as many times as you please, alright? i swear it.” by the seven, he means it.

you nod weakly, hardly able to think with his manhood slotted between your legs. your moans grow louder each time the ridge of his head bumps your aching pearl, tightening the hot coil deep in your belly. your hand finds the nape of his neck, and your fingers weave themselves into his cropped hair, pulling softly. you whisper his name, and it sounds like music on your lips.

“you’ll be mine soon, darling,” he says, his voice ragged, “in truth and in name.” a dragon’s bride, guarded like gold. his cock is sensitive against you, and he feels you begin to tremble in his grasp; his arm wraps around your waist to keep you steady, his hips working tirelessly to coax out your release.

“that’s it,” he manages, his own peak drawing close as your throbbing cunt thrums against him. “let me hear you, my dove.”

with a sob, the coil in your belly snaps, and your climax seeps out of you, coating his cock like warm honey. you slump against valarr, his arm around you the only thing keeping your body upright. heat blankets your cheeks, your head spinning at the vibration of his moans against your back.

his release follows yours almost immediately. with a strained utterance of your name, valarr’s seed paints the inside of your thighs white in sticky, hot ropes, and he sorely wishes he’d spilled inside you instead. the prince’s forehead drops into the crook of your neck, and you feel his breath fanning out on your skin.

he stays sheathed between your thighs, his cock twitching, pressing kisses to your shoulder until your body softens in his hold. he knows what has transpired teeters dangerously on the edge of transgression, yet guilt evades him as your remnants trickle down his shaft.

he picks his head up, his two-toned eyes glancing out at the round moon glowing through the window, and a smile ghosts over his pink lips.

only two more moons to go.

[iicarusflew]

twenty long years ll i am his and he is mine (the wedding)

tags: friends to lovers; love confessions; repressed feelings; requited unrequited love; established friendship; 

[[[Valarr and you are childhood friends. Only friends, you thought for such a long time that it became part of your narrative. Oh, you know him so well because you’re his friend. He looks at you from across the crowded ballroom because you are his oldest friend. There could never be anything else… could it?]]]

[part ONE] [part TWO] [part THREE] [part FOUR] [part FIVE] [part SIX] 

[i am his and he is mine (the wedding)]

word count: 3.5k

The wedding bells have not stopped ringing since dawn.

Not that it has affected your peace of mind in any great capacity. The last blissful sleep you had was a month ago, and no amount of silence or quiet could improve your mind since then. That restless, hawk-like screech of your head at daytime, that tiresome lead-like stillness at night. There hasn’t been any real calm since you stood before the good king Daeron with Valarr by your side, your hand clasped with his, proclaiming your love for his approval. You still remember the silence of his chambers. The tremor in your own voice. It felt like being cut open on a stone table and then being pulled apart by a pair of cold, careful hands. 

You and Valarr were tasked with describing the indescribable, naming the nameless. You had spent the last thirteen years of your life cautiously denying the full force of what you felt for each other only to be dragged to the king’s private chambers, being forced to make a display of your affection, your unreasonable desires, your heart to the most powerful men in the kingdom as he sat on his chair gauzing you like some insect.

Prince Baelor had sat by his father’s side, his eyes—like Valarr’s—were cool, appraising. He had said nothing—for the whole of the inquiry—to you. He stared in that collected, indefinably interested way a maester might look at an odd creature. With equal amounts of fascination and understanding. At last, after both you and Valarr had said your childish pieces—Since we were children, it grew up with us, and now we do not recognise ourselves without it. 

“I love her,” Valarr had said as an end-bargain.

King Daeron scoffed. “Love is inconsequential to people like us.”

“I need her,” he repeated, his voice cracked and grainy, “I need her to feel like myself, like someone I could admire.”

“You are not a child, Valarr,” his grandsire replied. “It is not only your life that we are concerned with. What is a king without restraint?”

“What is a king without a soul?” he said in return. 

A pause. Something had struck inside the king, you could see the lines on his face deepen as his eyes flick to you. “That is what she is to you?”

“Yes, grandsire.” His hand had started to sweat, but your grip never loosened. 

The king looked at you, then, and asked, “And what could you offer the realm?”

“My best,” you said. “My very best.”

There had been the faintest sliver of a smile on the old king’s lips. So faint, and so implausible, that you would have missed it if you had blinked. But you hadn’t dared to blink, or breathe, or even will your heart to beat steadily. You remembered how Valarr had always been in awe of his grandsire, how careful he was around the old king. He had always been afraid of saying the wrong thing, being the wrong person in front of him. Afraid of sounding like a child when he was nothing but. And now, he stands, your hand clasped in his, head held high and sure. Doing the most ridiculous and bravest thing you could imagine. Betting on happiness, a mercurial heaven in the brief, ephemeral life.

The decision came to you in the evening. King Daeron had accepted your betrothal to Valarr. The wedding was to be set in four moons from then. 

_______

You turn in your bed, staring at the clearing sky with more nausea than you’d care to admit. It’s lilac, right now, with the rising sun out of your sight spreading its light all over the city. You know it is hovering at the horizon, somewhere along the tall, picturesque buildings. Absentmindedly, you touch the locket in your chest. A single, unbroken string of valyrian steel twisted in the shape of a wreath. The centre of it is encrusted with blood-red rubies and dark onyx. It makes the shadow of a spider and it is beautiful. You have never had something so precious before. It feels heavy, heavier than it did when Valarr first clasped it on your neck. He’d pulled you away from his mother’s lessons to a conspicuous corner of the garden. You had hushed at him when you first saw it.

“Only befitting a princess,” he said, a smile pulling at his lips. “My princess.”

His princess.

His. 

The idea of belonging to him sent a spark of shiver down your spine. The gemstones sparkled in the sunlight. He took the necklace from your hand and steadied your back against his body. Unbeknownst to your turmoil, he pushed away your hair to the side. As the necklace touched your bare skin, the coolness of the valyrian steel against the warmth of early morning made you dizzy. You took a sharp intake of breath, surprised when he kissed you on the neck, the spot where your shoulders meet your throat. 

“This mole here,” he whispered heavily, “makes me delirious.” The breathy whisper of his words caused gooseflesh to rise in your neck. “I have lost sleep over it.” Another kiss. “Dreamed about touching it.” Another, slightly higher, his tongue slipping out the barest bit to lick the mark you’d never given second thought to. “Mine, now.”

Your heart picked up its feeble pace. “Yours?”

“Certainly. As I am yours.”

You tilted your head to look at your prince. The ethereal, asymmetrical beauty of his face. The split of silver in his dark hair shone in the sunlight, his lighter eye so blue you had to make up another name for it. The uneven stubble, those dents on his face. The freckles and the smile lines. His lips were plush as he leaned down to press an almost chaste kiss on your mouth.

Yours, now.

—-----

You stare at the tiara in front of you with increasing desperation. It is undeniably beautiful. It’s made of silver, it seems, in the shape of dragon’s wings. There are miniscule, almost imperceptible diamonds and rubies all over the wings, making the tiara dazzle every time a ray of sunlight falls on it from some angle. It matches the colour of your wedding gown, the billowing silver skirt and the pale blue bodice shaped like feathers. The crown, as exuberant as it looks, is surprisingly light, feels like air in your hands as you take it from Matarys. He smiles at you, unaware, like his brother, about the turmoil in your heart. 

“Mother says you are to wear it to the wedding,” he says. He looks a splitting image of his brother when he smiles expectantly. So much that you can almost hear him call you Princess. “It’s the same one she wore on her wedding day.”

“That’s so kind,” you say, your voice chafed and scared.

Matarys tilts his head, narrowing his eyes in the way children do when they see a problem they don’t know if they should indulge in. You try to smile, try to look reassuring and not the splattered, wound-up puppet you keep feeling inside. You have never had something so extravagant given to you before. You are afraid that you won’t know how to wear it, afraid that it would fall from your head when you enter the sept. 

Matarys calls out your name and breaks you out of your dizzy, poisonous daydream. He is ready for the wedding, wearing the Targaryen black and red, his always unruly hair brushed to the side for once. Your hand reaches out to tousle it, like one long and dragging habit, and the smile on his face widens.

“You look beautiful, you know,” he says.

You purse your lips. The ladies have been at it since the first light broke above the tallest building. For almost five whole hours, the six ladies assigned to you by the princess Jena have been scrubbing, trimming, and polishing you with all their might. Their final produce is a sight to behold, you know. Your hair is done up, with intricate ribbons and braids made to look like wings. Between the ringlets of your strands, jewels of dazzling colours are studded with great precision. They catch the light in strange, unearthly grace every time you move. Your dress, the dress, is magnificent with its bellowing skirt, an intricacy of myrish laces and pleated pearls. Your face, too, is more lush, after all their efforts. More womanly, you feel. Less like yourself. You feel less like yourself, but a doll, a scared, precious doll.

“I’d hope so,” you say, smiling timidly, “since they are expecting me at the sept in less than an hour.”

“He’ll be there,” Matarys says reassuringly. “He hasn’t slept a blink last night. Egg and I wanted to put milk of poppy in his food to sedate him, but mother stopped us.”

“Is he scared, too?”

“No one’s scared.” Matarys takes a step and puts his arm around you to pull you into a warm embrace. “I have wanted to call you my sister for a long time. He is waiting for you. We have all been waiting for you.”

—----

The sept is sky high and terrifyingly beautiful.

You look at it with wide eyes from the slit of your carriage. You clasp your hands on your lap as you wait for the carriage to reach the Sept of Baelor. In front of you, your mother and father are looking just as nervous as you.

You feel for your parents. Though they have not been particularly careless about their future, they have been cautious. Your mother has thus yet lived in the lines of propriety, always hoping for just what was appropriate. All her life you knew your mother wanted you to marry well, live in comfort, find love in the dependency of your lord husband. And now, suddenly, you have catapulted them into the royal family, being important enough to stop conversations in rooms they walked in. Being the centerfold of the ever-unfolding gossip of court. 

“From the moment you say your vows,” your mother starts just as you reach the sept, “you will be a princess.”

“I’ll still be me, I hope.”

She goes on as if she hasn’t heard you. “I pray for your success.”

You purse your lips, feeling the rouge there bleed a little inside your mouth. A princess, Valarr’s mother had said—in one of the many lessons she insisted on giving you to prepare you for the life ahead—belongs to the realm. A princess has a duty to the people to be a paragon of virtue, a noble voice in times of turmoil, a wife to a great king and a mother to formidable princes. A princess must be more than a person, she said. Amidst the litany of lessons, you felt your soul chafe a little. 

Those are heavy words, heavy vows. You still think you are a girl who fell in love with a boy. And only starting to commit to the choice of keeping that love and everything that comes with it. Valarr was right. All you ever wanted was him. Only the truest and the most delectable parts of him. You never before had considered the actuality of having a prince of the realm. The thing that he feared. It was now your duty to safeguard the thing, too. 

Inside the sept there are a hundred blooming roses. They are a multitude of colours ranging all the moods of a summer sky. The blue roses are plenty, and lovely. An avalanche of candles are blinking at you, brightening the already sunlit room. There are people from all the great houses on both sides of the room. As the door slides open, they stare at you and your father at the entrance. Your mother has already taken her place among the mass, leaving your father to walk you down the aisle.

Sensing your shallow breaths, your father takes your hand and squeezes it. At the end of the path, there stands Valarr, awaiting your arrival.

“You are lovely, and you are my daughter,” your father says softly. “Never forget that.”

You take a short, careful breath. “I won’t.”

“These are the times that will try your soul. Everyone shall want different parts of you. So you will keep close to your heart the truest bit of yourself, remember the littlest things about yourself. You may become a princess today, but to me you are my daughter who likes canaries and roses and shaved ice.”

The ache in your chest stirs at your father’s words. A sensible man, your father, always contrite in his words. There is something different in his voice, like the taste of salt in the back of your throat. You nod, careful to blink away the moisture pulling at your eyes. 

The High Septon raises his hand and you start walking. Your father holds your arm, secured, guarded. Your head is heavy, memories of the long-lost, transparent childhood of yours knock at your head. Memories of running in the garden, hiding in the library, of lying awake in your bed—dreaming of this day exactly. The smell of incense has thickened the air. By the corner of your eyes, you see your mother standing close to Prince Baelor and Princess Jena. The King is nodding at you. The kids are all here, with faces as bright as the sun. You lean onto your father with all your might as you walk towards the rest of your life.

As you reach the end of the podium, the sunrays spilling through the skylight blinds you a little. You blink, repeatedly, a little desperately, to make the sight before you clear. You see the shadow of him, the blood-red cloak that he puts over your shoulder. You identify the familiar rings in his fingers as he takes your hands into his own trembling ones. You look up, and there he is. 

Your boy. Your prince. 

“Gods,” Matarys whispers. “He is crying.”

And so he is. You stare up at the boy you love, the one who has kissed you senseless more times than you can count in the last four months, who has an affinity with creatures that lack voices, who likes wine—but never drinks alone, who like the barely-there mole in the juncture of your neck, who has promised to love you passionately for all eternity. You see him, the tears shining in his beautiful eyes, and you feel the tears sliding down your face as well. 

No one’s scared.

You have been waiting for him all your life, too.

The High Septon commences the ceremony. In a daze of the purest bliss, you utter the words together. Your words fuse together so seamlessly, you cannot discern your voice from his, your promise from his, your love from his.

“I am his, and he is mine.”

From this day, until the end of my days.

—---

You don’t get to talk after the wedding. 

Because suddenly there is a whirlwind of people around you, looping you from all sides. They shout your names, a prayer for your long life, hearty children, an eternity of bliss—goodwills besiege you from all around and you feel breathless, helpless, terrified by your own happiness and how painfully aware your heart is beating against your ribcage. You feel your corset tighten, the shadow of Valarr’s kiss a burn against your lips, the air is thick and lusious—too much, too much. 

Amidst the incoming of the faceless masses, your grip on Valarr’s hand as the only thing that isn’t moving. It is steadfast, flush, and secure. You both are whirled to greet all the noble guests present at the sept, exchanging smiles and greetings. You are separated for a tiresome period to embrace the closer relatives, before being put back together like pieces of the sample riddle.

“Don’t be nervous,” he whispers, leaning to your ear. “I have you.”

“I have you back,” you reply, feeling the truth of it in your heart.

—---

Prince Baelor offers you his hand at the feast.

In the middle of the great hall, you have been dancing with Egg, his eyes dazzling with pride, as he laughs and twirls you around. You skirt fans out, covering your body in an impromptu halo. You chuckle, breathless, helpless, senselessly happy as you tousle his hair with pure adoration. It takes you a moment to realise that Prince Baelor has reached you, holding out his hand to you with undeterred assurance. The tip of his crooked nose is pointed at you, his mismatched eyes, only a shade darker than Valarr’s, is regarding you with his full attention.

Your breath hitches a little. He is the epitome of grace, polished and sparked. There is a sense of gravitas in him, he pulls everyone else in wherever he walks. You feel the eyes of the whole room on you.

He holds your waist, you position yourself to his left. “Nervous?”

“Terrified.”

You dance. He is effortlessly adept, smoothing your trembling steps as if he isn’t even noticing you fumble with nervous feet. “You should be.” 

You start to answer, but he twirls you with ease. As your hands meet again, he says, “It was a brave thing you both did. And I don’t think we should know the full force of it until a few more years. The smallfolk are deviously mercurial. Terribly cruel to those they deem unfit. I myself have been called unseemly things only because they thought I was less Valyrian-looking than my predecessors.” He tilts his head to catch your eyes. “But I suppose I should not count myself ostracised. I have never been an outsider.”

“No, you haven’t been, your grace.”

“It’ll take time.”

You only nod. The golden room around you spins to the rhythm of your steps.

“I have always liked you. And I knew you held a special place in Valarr’s life. I just had never imagined that it would… lead to this.

“Now I see that I should have. I had been training my son to be a perfect prince, the one who knew all the laws by heart, who could trace the map of Westeros by memory, know all the allegiances that marked through this realm like veins, a prince that can lead an army and never be questioned. It has been a daunting task, an impersonal task, at times. And now I see that while I attained a near-close perfect prince, I neglected my son in the meantime. All that time he came late to a council meeting, when he’d be knocked over in the training yard because he was occupied looking sideways for someone else. How he was never particularly interested in the scores of maids who wanted his attention. I knew he favoured you to some degree, but I see that I have neglected to see inside his heart and gauze just how much.”

“How much?” you ask, feeling a little lightheaded. Though his voice is kind, you cannot ascertain whether he is accusing you. He’s never spoken so much to you before. “What do you think, now?”

“Enough to risk his destiny.” He tilts his head, his eyes catching yours. “He told me it was you or nothing.”

You purse your lips. It terrifies you. It electrifies you.

“Are you angry at us?”

“How could I be? You, my darling, have made us see just how human we are. I had gotten quite used to being the heir, and I was raising a son who would one day fill my place. I was raising a spoke on a wheel constantly turning around. And now I find that I have a son with a beating heart. It is an extraordinary thing to realise that you have raised a person who could love the way he did when he kissed your foot in front of the entire city. And better yet, that he could be loved back with the same force. You showed me a future king that can kneel. Am I angry with you?”

Prince Baelor motions his head to the side, and you follow his eyes to find Valarr, your husband, staring at the two of you. He has a goblet in his hand, and is leaning to his mother with a smile on his face, but his attention is unmistakably on you.. 

“Look at him,” his father says. “I have never seen him like this. So full of life, like it all weighs nothing. As a father, I am overjoyed that you married him. As the heir… I am hopeful. You promised your very best. I hope you make good on that promise.”

“I shall.”

“Thank you.” He kisses the side of your head with unexpected warmth. “Welcome to our family, daughter.”

I hope you missed these two yearners :) I'm planning the wedding night next :) if i can make it.,,

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more valarr stories

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first light

kismet

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negative space (modern valarr x dreamer reader)

[oldestfear]

acts of love, starring: VARKA ☆ being the wife of mondstadt's famed grandmaster is akin to taking care of a big and clingy dog! but you won't trade it for the world. SFW!

varka adores you. he loves loudly, selflessly.

everyone he's ever met, even from all the way to nod-krai and inazuma, know about you. varka is an irritating chatterbox when it comes his wife, to the point it's become a defining trait for him. whenever he gets a chance, he makes sure to sneak in an anecdote about you. . .even if it doesn't have any connection to the current discussion.

the people of mondstadt are endeared by it. always amused by the ruckus he makes when his beloved is involved, and the way he fights for your name during those "who's the most beautiful in mondstadt?" debates in taverns? it's hilarious.

varka took those questions so seriously, got soo heated, that everyone had to add a specific rule: 'with the exception of the grandmaster's wife, of course'.

after that, he wasn't too interested in those drunken debates anymore, laughing in earnest when asked – who is the most beautiful in mondstadt? sometimes he says rosaria just to tease her when she's around, other times, he says barbatos for the heck of it.

"fools, all of you!" varka slams his pint of dandelion wine down the table, brows furrowed in irritation, "my wife is the sweetest and most beautiful lady there is! how blind can you be to suggest anyone else?" his voice booms all throughout the tavern, making people turn their heads.

"u-uh but grandmaster, let's be realistic here, you—"

the poor guy is now being glared at by the grandmaster of mondstadt, a living legend, a knight recognized by the great wolf boreas and the anemo archon – a smitten, wife-loving, hunk of a man who's willing to forgo all dignity in order to defend his wife's honor.

varka clicks his tongue, and it quickly shuts the soldier up, knowing who he's against but it's too late to stop when varka suddenly speaks up again:

"realistic, you say? you sayin' my wife ain't gorgeous, that it?"

older, veteran soldiers are now looking at the new recruit with pity in their eyes. they've known their grandmaster for years, have fought alongside him, and are even willing to lay their lives for him, so if they know one thing about varka, it's that you never speak negatively about his wife. don't even dare imply it.

a loyal dog may bark but a smitten one will bite.

"that's not it, sir!" the young soldier quickly tries to make amends, stuttering in the process but the only response he got was a small huff from varka.

the other soldiers circle around their table, snickering to each other, "now, now, you know your wife is never included in these kinda' stuff. we wouldn't dare speak of the grandmaster's beloved that way."

"damn right, she's above these petty discussions! AHAHAHAHA!"

he's actually hopeless when it comes to you.

a truly unorthodox man, he is. hard to understand but terrifyingly easy to trust and admire. adored by many despite his ruffian-like demeanor. a slacker yet somehow the most reliable knight there is in the people's eyes. a person of contrasting qualities.

varka of mondstadt is said to be a 'man amongst men', chivalry comes to him like second nature and his list of admirers could fill the favonius library's record book, literally.

but they're in tough luck, the grandmaster only has eyes for you after all. it is no secret how smitten the oh-so-great knight of boreas, varka is for his wife.

no one even tries to approach him with romantic intentions anymore after he's made it very clear where he stands, which is forever next to you. many women, early on in both of your relationship, have tried to swoon and seduce him but they're met with very firm rejections. if there's anything he's strict about, it's this. and he expects the same treatment others give him with you, meaning if someone ever tried flirting or oh lord barbatos – make you leave him, they're getting the harshest talk ever, from varka and the people of mondstadt. 'cause the vendors are your biggest fans after all. though just him would probably be enough, do you know how scary varka is when he's serious? it's more than enough to make a grown man cry.

that's only if you can't handle it or the person is too persistent and you might actually hurt whoever this is. varka's there as a middle man, and hey if he pushes a little too hard while trying to create some distance between the two of you, who's to say it's not a complete accident? he's not exactly a saint of patience, particularly when your safety and comfort is compromised. he isn't the grandmaster of the knights of favonius for nothing.

he's like an obedient angel towards you though, if the angel was over six foot and had a frame huge enough to become an umbrella during hot days.

like a dog wagging it's tail, he beams immediately when he sees your figure from afar. suddenly, he's standing despite jean's protests and kaeya's exasperation, jumping out the window (even though he's on the third floor) and jogging over to you.

"hon! over here!"

you try to walk faster, hoping you heard wrong. because if you did, that means varka is slacking off again and you have to force him to go back to jean, lest she actually pops a blood vessel this time.

"hey don't ignore me!" he catches up to you in no time, barely even taking twelve steps before making it to your side.

you look up at his hulking figure, "go back to work. jean looks about ready to drop dead. or drop you dead." you can spot her angry expression from here, shouting a stern 'grandmaster varka!' but varka pretends to be deaf, focusing on you.

"puh-lease!" he scoffs, laughing boisterously with hands on his hips, "jean dropping dead, hah! you're hilarious. that girl's tough as nails! plus, those look heavy – ah, here let me.."

varka takes your shopping bags from you, carrying three bags in one hand while he interwines his other with yours.

"cookin' up a storm, huh?" varka glances at the ingredients in the bag: some vegetables, fruits, spices, and heavy cuts of meat. no doubt for him and his big carnivorous appetite.

he's smiling in that gooey, lovesick, way again. varka has always been a smiley person, but with you, it was more of a devoted sort of smile – one with less teeth and more wobbly, licked, lips where he gets an itch to scream ' i love you ' on the top of his lungs – letting it echo all throughout teyvat to make sure everyone knew.

eh, he does the same thing anyways with the way he chatters about you to every person he's met. talks and talks and talks until the people are listless, for hours if he could.

he escorts you home, hand in hand. cuts the vegetables as you get the stove started. sings a tune of windchimes and cliffs in that raspy tone of his while he helps with the peeling and heavy work, places chaste kisses on your cheek while you giggle.

jean can't get too mad at that, but she can at least nag varka until his ears fall off.

varka hates writing, hates paperwork all together. can't even stand the sight of paper in the office, always dreading the mountains of it stacked on his desk.

he'd rather be out fighting monsters, training recruits, or having a drink at angel's share. there are a million better things to do than boring ol' paperwork, like bothering people and smothering you with his love. he really, reeeally hates writing!

but he loves you.

he only likes writing when it's to his beloved. it's rare for the grandmaster to actually smile whenever he picks up a pen, usually he does so with a grimace. scowling like a petulant child while he twirls the pen in his hand, sighing every second while he stares at the documents on his desk. however. . .

it's different with you, it always is.

fredwinn is looking at the grandmaster with a suspicious and concerned gaze, it's really odd to see him so happy. . .

while writing.

he's getting weirded out, enough to ask others why such a massive and well-known loafer is actually writing with so much delight his smile looks about ready to split his face. he's met with small knowing grins and giggles from the other soldiers instead. he'll figure it out soon, they say.

he takes a peek over at what varka's writing, met with over two pages of words, small doodles of things they've fought in the margins of the paper – and how the hell is it colored? did he seriously buy crayons just for this? it's badly drawn though if he were to be honest, looks like a child made it. but the amount of words written baffle him, he's never seen the grandmaster write this much.

sure, it's starting to look a bit like chicken scratch because of how fast and how much he's writing but varka's never been one to be happy while writing something – he barely even wrote! like at all. even if he did, he usually made others do it in his stead. the man's great at fighting but he's not exactly a sit in a chair and write reports sort of guy.

perhaps long expeditions change people.

or, maybe he's an idiot who rambles too much in his letters – as long as they're addressed to you. fredwinn soon learns of this after a while, spotting the name of the recipitent in every letter, always followed by a heart. because varka's sappy like that.

varka loves you to the point of blatant favoritism, although he's never been strict with his soldiers, he does dish out punishments when needed. makes sure they learn their lesson too, 'cause what kinda grandmaster would he be if he doesn't?

you could never do wrong though, simply not a concept that exists in that empty head of his.

his wife made a mistake? ah, no biggie, he'll take care of it. you accidentally set the favonius headquarters on fire? oh no! don't worry, he'll handle it, just make sure to get to safety. you ripped his coat to shreds while washing? haha! so funny, anyways did you hear what razor learned today? that's right, its how to write yours and varka's name! isn't that so cool?

you can slack of more than him and he'd still call you the most hardworking person he's ever met. you could never ever do wrong in varka's eyes, it's like telling him the sky is brown or alcohol is bad.

. . .wait, you hid the alcohol? honey, dont be like that! he'll cry, seriously.

you're an exception to many things, and for a good reason, a simple yet profound reason, and also the main reason he fell in-love with you in the first place: it's you. beyond being his wife, his other-half, and varka's closest confidant – you are you, that in itself is already enough for varka, even without the prior accolades.

with both of your legs entwined with each other, your face in his chest as you rest on his bicep. it feels like a rock is under the side your head from how firm his muscles are, but you've gotten used to it, now it just reminds you of home.

because varka is home, and you'd never get homesick if he's around.

"does it not bother you?" he hums, chin propped on your head. you can feel the rumble in his chest when he speaks, makes your head all woozy and sleepy. being surrounded by his scent relaxes your tired body, and you let your eyes clos in response.

"what do you mean?" you ask, nuzzling in his chest further, his clothes smell freshly laundered, with that familiar detergent that you use.

varka keeps quiet for a few seconds, wondering if he should even say anything, "the way they address you as 'grandmaster's wife' instead of your name."

you can only mumble an answer, something varka can't quite catch but he assumes the worst.

he sets a small kiss on your forehead, wrapping you in his arms, "i'll tell them to stop, don't worry."

finally, you jolt awake, "no, no! it's really okay, i don't mind it."

varka looks at you with a complicated expression, finding it hard to believe.

"i like it...being called your wife, being known as yours." you flush, hiding your face. honestly, whenever people greet you in the market as 'grandmaster's wife' or 'varka's lady', it makes you giddy, heart-racing like a girl being teased about her crush.

the people don't mean anything malicious, you know that much and he knows too but it makes you grateful that he's still asking how you feel about it. always so considerate, treating your heart like porcelain. varka's like that, you're pretty sure his worst nightmare is making you upset.

varka has been completely quiet for a few seconds now but you can hear the loud thump, thump, thump of his heart within embrace. you don't have to look at him to know he's just as, if not more, flustered than you.

"alright, if you say so." he buries his face in your neck, curling in himself to be much closer to you.

"i really like it too, when they call me your husband. gets me all happy, y'know?" he mumbles gruffly.

you already know that, because he goes beet red whenever the vendors tease him. it's really obvious. but he's always been obvious with his devotion, you love that about him.

varka loves you, he's loud and clumsy with it but who cares? that just comes with the package.

#it's-your-captain-ari-speaking ☆ ....yes the phainon to varka pipeline is real and its coming FOR YOU. accept your fate. ive been obsessed with this man like holy shit. take this short drabble hehe.

[rpd-rookie]

Five Stages of Fatherhood - Leon S. Kennedy x Reader

Summary: Fatherhood can be wonderful but for Leon Kennedy, fatherhood is scary and he is not ready for it at all. How is he going to process your unexpected news?

Author’s note: I wanted to release this one-shot for Father’s Day but it was far from being finished. But here it is. I was mainly inspired by the recent posts I saw on Tumblr. I hope I did Leon justice and that you’ll love this story as much as I loved writing it. Don’t forget to like/reblog and give me your impression.

Tags: Angst; Fatherhood ; Depression; Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism ;Anxiety; Language 

Also Available on AO3

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

           They say those are the five stages of grief. Five stages you must overcome to be at peace with yourself. Five stages you must experience, however hard and painful they are, to find the strength to pull yourself back together and keep on living.       Leon knew those five stages all too well. He had experienced them more times than he could count through all those years fighting since the Raccoon City incident. They had paved his life, making him wonder why and if he would ever see an end to it all one day.   But what he didn’t know is that he was about to experience them again. But in a new unexpected way he would have never imagined.

1.    Denial

           I’m pregnant. Three simple words that made his simple life suddenly not so simple anymore, repeating and echoing in his head, making him feel like his whole world was suddenly crumbling around him, over him, burying him under rubbles of fear and uncertainty.       I’m pregnant. He didn’t just hear that. This was a dream, a hallucination due to sleep deprivation or a silly joke. It had to be. Because it couldn’t be real. This couldn’t happen to him. There was no way he had gotten you pregnant. Yes, you were fooling him. Right? … Right? He had a brief forced laugh, anxiety eating him up slowly. “Please tell me you’re joking.”             Pinned to his desk chair, he stared at you waiting for a silly answer or an amused grin. He obviously got neither of them and so he immediately froze, watching you frowning at him with a look that was way too grave and serious to his taste. “Do you really think I would joke about something like this?” Why not? Anything would be better than those three words being the truth. “How can that be so absurd to you that I might be pregnant?” Pregnant? He felt suddenly dizzy. No fucking way.

Keep reading

[tothelions]

YOU STILL HAVE ALL OF ME - Leon Kennedy x Reader

content: angst, grief, hurt/comfort, fake character death. notes: thank you for the support on the little blurbs i've posted! some people wanted a post-requiem part for my childhood best friends hc so here it is! tried to proofread this as much as possible but im sure there's... things. (if you saw me post this yesterday,,, no you didn't shhh). intro: you have spent twenty eight years mourning your childhood best friend and the man you were in love with. you meet a way too familiar stranger at his grave. continuation of THIS set of headcanons.

♫ My Immortal - Evanescence | ♫ Roadsick - More Than a Thousand

The cemetery gate creaks as you push it open, the sound too familiar, swallowed by the quiet that lives beyond it. It hasn’t changed much since the day of the funeral. Same crooked iron gate. Same gravel path that crunches under your shoes. Same tired oak tree leaning just a little too far over the rows of graves, branches stretched low like it’s trying to listen in on every whispered goodbye. Same uneven dip near the left side, where you used to stumble as a kid when you and Leon would dare each other to run through the place at dusk.

You walk the path without thinking, your body knowing the way even when your mind drifts somewhere far away. Past the older, mossy graves. Past the newer ones, with flowers still fresh enough to smell. Past the names you never learned and the ones you wish you could forget.

The headstone in front of you still feels surreal. No body beneath the dirt, just a name and a date. Just a place for grief to sit and pretend it belongs somewhere. Leon Scott Kennedy 1977 – 1998.

You kneel, brushing away a thin layer of leaves before setting the flowers in your hands carefully on the marble. The late afternoon November air is crisp and it’s getting cold, but you haven’t had the chance to come here the past days, so you stay and talk. It felt stupid the first times you visited, the way your words wouldn’t be able to stop from escaping your mouth, but you had never imagined there would come a day where you could not talk to your best friend about your day. But silence felt worse. It became a habit.

“Bad news is, I overslept today. Good news is, I sold out my strawberry cake again.” You say cheerfully. “You would’ve liked that one. It tastes just like the sweet strawberries from your mother’s garden.”

For a moment, you can almost see it. The two of you sitting on the back steps of his adoptive family’s home, juice staining your fingers, the sun too warm, the world simple and happy.

You sit there for a long time, you always do that when you haven’t been able to visit for a while, talking about everything. How the café has been so busy lately due to the festival. The town filled with people from all parts of the world. The old, rotten tree at the edge of the field that got cut down, the one you fell from. “Remember?” Your throat tightens. Of course he doesn’t remember. He’s dead.

Gravel crunches behind you and you freeze. The cemetery doesn’t get visitors this late and especially not in the Kennedy’s lot.

“Sorry,” a voice says. Low and careful. Familiar in a way that makes something deep in your chest ache before you even understand why. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s okay.” You stand slowly, wiping your hands on your coat, and finally turn to see a stranger. Light brown hair with some stray greys. The lines on his face make you think he’s around your age. Eyes… Your breath catches. No, that’s impossible.

“I’ll go,” he says quickly and turns to walk away, like he regrets saying anything at all, “didn’t realize someone was here.”

You stare at him and your heart starts pounding like it’s trying to break out of your rib cage.

“You-” your voice falters. “Do I know you?”

He freezes, shoulders tight under his leather jacket, and a heavy silence hangs between the both of you. He takes a big breath and tries to relax, exhaling slowly. He doesn’t know what to do, he thinks he should have never come back. You have gone through enough and this was selfish from him. He didn’t expect to meet you here, either. Yet he looks back, then turns around.

“…Have we met before?” you ask, your voice quieter now. You take a step closer, then another, despite unease crawling under your skin. God, those eyes. Wind rustles the leaves above you, dragging the moment out until it feels unbearable.

“Say something,” you demand, and he exhales shakily.

“…Yeah.”

Your stomach drops so suddenly it makes you dizzy, there is a ringing in your ear and the world stops.

No.

No, no, no-

“That’s not funny,” you say, your voice trembling now. “Whatever this is, whoever you are, it’s not funny.”

Something in his expression shifts. The softness doesn’t disappear but it steadies, grounds itself. Like he realizes he’s standing on the edge of something fragile, something that could shatter if he takes the wrong step.

“I know it’s not,” he says quietly.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Then what is this? Some kind of sick joke? You think you can just come here and, what, pretend?” Your voice rises as tears start to pool at the corners of your eyes. “You don’t get to stand there and look like him and-”

“You fell off that tree,” he says suddenly, cutting you mid sentence.

“…What?” You stutter.

“That summer,” he continues, voice low, steady, like he’s choosing every word with care. “At the edge of the field. The branch cracked under you. You tried to pretend it didn’t hurt.”

“That’s-” your voice shakes, your vision blurry, and you take a step back. “People know that story.”

“You cried about ruining summer,” he adds quietly. “So I came over the next day and I told you-” his voice falters, just slightly. “I told you not to cry because we’d eat tons of ice cream instead.”

“…Stop,” you whisper, but your voice doesn’t have any strength behind it. He takes a small step closer but you can’t look at him. Tears start rolling down your face when you notice his hands, full of scars.

“You used to cheat in hide and seek,” he says, softer now. “In the cornfields. You’d move spots when you thought I was getting too close.”

A broken sound escapes your throat.

“I knew every time,” he adds, a faint, sad smile across his face and you hear him sniffle. “I just never said anything because you looked so proud when I couldn’t find you.”

“Stop it,” you choke, tears spilling over before you can stop them. “Stop-”

“You hated high school,” he continues, “and you complained about the arcade machine being broken every time I scored higher than you.”

“STOP!” you scream and slap his face, unable to contain the anger. He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t flinch. “You don’t get to… you don’t get to know that. You don’t get to say those things like they’re yours!”

But they are his, and you know it. You can’t stop the tears. You try to wipe them away with your sleeve as you pace around, but they won’t stop.

“It’s been twenty eight years, Leon.” Your voice is filled with anger and frustration.

“I know.”

“Do you?!” you bark back. “And do you know what that feels like? Do you know what it’s like to bury someone who you can’t even see for the last time? To stand in front of this… this stone and pretend it’s enough?” You face him now, snarling. “You don’t even know how hard it was for me. What it did to me. What it took from me.”

He doesn’t look away, eyes soft and glossy. His hand moves slowly, carefully, and from inside his coat he pulls out an envelope. Old and worn, edges yellowed with time, his old apartment address in your handwriting. Every feeling of yours immortalized on the pages inside of it.

“I know,” he whispers, voice unsteady now, and clears his throat, “if only… shit.”

“Fucking hell, Leon. You knew, and you let me mourn you for twenty eight years.” You try to sound angry, but the way he’s holding that letter like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, brows furrowed and the tears threatening to fall from his eyes make it impossible. He looks broken. Just like you are.

“I couldn’t come back. I couldn’t do anything about it,” his voice hoarse, “they made me disappear, promised me they would keep this place- everyone in my life safe. I couldn’t risk it. If I could keep you safe from the horrors that happen out there…” he stumbles on his words a little bit. “I only read your letter after that. I wanted you to live.”

“I didn’t live,” you whisper. He flinches like you’ve struck him. “I survived. There’s a difference.”

Rain starts to fall. Soft at first, barely there, a mist that settles into your hair, your clothes, the space between you. You take a good look at him, at the exhaustion carved into his face, the weight he carries on his shoulders, the small scars on his face that you can’t recognize from childhood.

“I thought you’d move on,” he admits, the words barely audible under the growing rain, so much he wants to say yet he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. “I thought… you deserved to move on. Find someone normal, someone who could actually be there.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle softly, “that worked out great.”

All of your fight is gone as your chest tightens. All these years, and he still feels the same. He still looks like a sad puppy when he is sad. You reach for his face with your hand, palm cupping his cheek, and he closes his eyes and leans into the touch. To be honest, you thought you were having a dream or hallucinating, but the warmth of his skin against yours grounds you.

“I tried,” you add, quieter now. “At first, I tried to go back to school. Tried to be… anything other than the person who lost you.” You shake your head slightly. “Didn’t work. Everything felt wrong. Empty.”

The rain picks up, heavier now, soaking through your clothes, but neither of you moves.

“I went back home,” you continue. “Everyone was kind. Too kind. Like I was made of glass.” A faint, bitter smile tugs at your lips. “Maybe I was.”

Leon watches you speak, cheek still pressed against the palm of your hand. Baby blue eyes staring into your soul like he’s looking for every single time you hurt because of him. To memorize it and make it up to you somehow. Every trace of anger or pain in you is mostly gone now, the feelings replaced with softness. Leon Kennedy, you’re impossible, you think. You could never stay mad at him, and he has come back to you after nearly three decades.

“I opened the café,” you say. “Remember how we used to talk about that? When we were kids, I baked my first cookies and you said I’d have a place with the best desserts in town and you’d eat everything before I could even sell it.”

A soft laugh escapes his lips, fragile and wet with tears. “Yeah… I remember.”

“I did it,” you say softly. “Opened it years ago.”

“I know,” he says.

You blink.

“…What?”

“There are flowers at the door every morning, right? That was me.”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “No, that’s not- that’s not possible. That’s every day, Leon. Every single day for…”

“Twenty eight years.” He looks unsure, scanning your face for a reaction. “I remember you loved my mother’s garden, you said you’d like a room full of different flowers, so I made sure you had that every morning.”

“Why?” You caress his cheek with your thumb, over a scar that seems like it must have hurt.

“Because I have loved you all this time. All my life.” He says bluntly, eyes fixed on yours.

“…You never said anything.”

“I was scared, didn’t want to lose you if I got it wrong.” He admits, a faint, broken smile touches his lips. “Guess I managed that anyway.”

“You idiot.” You whisper.

“Yeah.” He answers softly, exhaling a breath he was holding, and places a gentle kiss to the palm of your hand on his cheek.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The rain, the years, the distance, the pain… all of it hangs in between you.

“You’re going to get sick,” you mutter, quieter now.

A small breath of laughter leaves him. “So are you.”

You hesitate just for a second, and then-

“…Come home with me,” you say. “You can shower, dry off, eat something. We’re not done talking.”

“No,” he says gently, “we are not.”

You pull your hand away from his face slowly, the absence of contact immediately noticeable. It feels cold for half a second, until his own hand slips into yours.

And this time, when you turn around, he follows.

[velvetground-6]

swear jar explicit 18+ mommy kink, raw, Clark being afraid to even say dick or cock while he’s getting bounced on, teaching him p0rno dirty talk, wet and messy drabble

-

The idea of Clark being afraid to curse while you’re making him feel so good. His manners never seem to get lost in him even while his eyes are rolling back and you feel him jump while he’s inside you.

Even when it’s dirty talk about his own anatomy as you’re grinding your naked pussy lips all over his girth. Teasing him with little bunny hops while he’s tearing up and begging. Still not able to penetrate yet.

It gets so wet and sticky between your close bodies as you roll, humming to yourself while his cock fed you plenty of inches to rub on. Drops of messy white globs start to dust the bush of his pubes while you’re grinding down on it. He watched your needy pussy clamp up on nothing right before you’re chasing down his tip, snatching it up in your hand to finally begin feeding the crown in your hole, splitting you open when it’s intruding. When it goes in you’re filled with his warmth and relief, getting to clench your wall’s muscles around him while you still circle it around to snag on your favorite parts.

Clark throbs and gasps as soon as he feels himself going in, using his thumbs to keep you spread open for movement and the view, uttering to himself and to you -

“Mmm, make my… my p—mm, you make it feel so good baby. It feels so good. Leak on it, yeah, that’s it… s’a pretty girl. Feels like I’m in heaven.”

“Baby boy you know you can say it’s your cock or your dick when it’s just us,” you breathe with a heavy lidded smile. Never stopping the way you’re sliding all the way down to the hilt and wiggling around on it.

Clark almost ignores your reminder entirely, lost in it while you’re bouncing up and down on him. “Ohhh - oh shoot, shoot that’s perfect, I like that.”

“Yeah? This pussy making this dick feel good?”

Clark is beat red, stuttering a nod. Still refusing his whimpers allow him to utter even a word of profanity.

“Gosh.. I’m inside you so deep already. These hips… I can’t—”

“C’mon, be a naughty boy for me. Say you’ve been missing this pussy,” you ground down in circles. His pillowy balls pulse while they’re pressing up against your clit. “Say you’ve been a dirty, naughty boy, thinking about taking mommy’s pussy.”

Clark shudders and waits a minute to gather up the courage. Takes deep breaths with little moans trailing the end of them when he repents and follows orders. “I’ve—I’ve been a naughty boy. I’ve been thinking about mommy’s pussy all day long,” he heaves. Kissing lines down your jaw while you tighten around him and destroy all his willpower in beats. “Been thinking of having sex with this—with this pussy, how it makes me feel so good. I could cum right now, but m’gonna be a good boy and hold it.”

“That’s a good boy, being so perfect for mommy. You think her pussy looks good on you?”

“So…. so amazing, looks so wonderful while you ride. Wanna cum. Wanna cum while I’m inside.”

“Say this makes you wanna nut. Say you wanna bust your nut in this pussy.”

“Oh… oh that’s so dirty,” he whimpers, his own hips going wild while you meet him in the middle with a slamming pace. Liquid even splashes between your conjoining parts, obscene while Clark blushes from watching you shape circles his dick.

“Say it for mommy, be a dirty boy for mommy.”

Clark knows he leaks and adds to the mess while staring down at his lap getting ravaged, taking a deep shaky breath while his dark sweaty hair sticks to his forehead.

“I… I wanna bust a nut in mommy’s pussy, wanna make her gush, hmmm that’s gonna make it happen faster,” Clark whines. Feeling your ass shake while you vigorously ride. “Fuuuuu…. I’m your naughty boy, always gonna give you this naughty dick— feel so dirty getting to do this to you — you’re about to make me nut.”

You smile with an almost sinister looking glint twinkling in your eye at getting him to break. At fucking him so good he loses any sense of his good boy control. You see stray little tears stream quietly down his cheeks, holding onto you with nearly bruising strength. Breathing whines to himself while your pussy clenches and creams all over him in a dreamy flood.

“What a good boy, good fucking boy,” you praise with each word emphasized in a heavy slam of your hips, squelching even more obnoxious and obvious than before. “Cum in this pussy, naughty baby, you’re gonna feel so good when you let go.”

Clark cries out as his face scrunches up, whimpering while his balls shrivel up in preparation.

“I’m… mommy, mommy I’m gonna—“

“Shh, that’s it. Bust while you’re stuffed in mommy’s pussy. It’s okay. Thaaaat’s it. Doesn’t that feel so good?”

Clark is clenching his jaw and letting out more pathetic pleads when his cum starts barreling out and dripping around him as he stays lodged inside you. It leaks from the rim all around him while you keep bouncing, no room in you left while his cock still keeps you filled so nice and full.

Runny yet thick and bubbly, it rains out of you while he pulses and closes his eyes through the sensitive aftershock rounds. He’s still flustered with puppy dog eyes from the words he let leave his lips. Feels some shame at how he can’t seem to control himself when he’s around you.

“I’m gonna make a swear jar for you just so you don’t feel so guilty baby,” you coo in his ear before kissing him slow and sweet. “You’re always so good for mommy.”

That seemed to be what makes having such a potty mouth worth it for him.

“That’s all I wanna be.”

-

-

thinking of him being a preacher boy type that wasn’t raised to say anything dirty then having a partner that bosses him around and rides him so hard he lets loose ffghghhhj

I’m still working on another part to the corrupted Clark work, they’re so endearing and sweet. this is almost like them except without any weed and adding some precious mommas boy mommy kink. I feel like he’d be so ashamed to even say cock hdjcndjs

[bonesofall]

with friends like these...

kinks. virginity loss, corruption, unprotected sex, MDNI

synopsis. he’s known you since you were kids and uses the “we’re going to different places, let’s just do it once” excuse. after all, you owe it to him, don’t you? he’s had your back for so many years…

kinktober '25 masterlist | multifandom masterlist | masterlist | navigation

previous << lack of boundaries pt iii

deciding to move so far away from the place and people you've known your whole life wasn't easy at all. that was the truth. what was harder to leave behind though, was your best friend.

the two of you had been a pair longer than you could remember. you've watched each other go through every stage of life so far, through every shitty haircut and awkward stage of puberty. he's the one who always waited outside your house when you were running late to give you a ride to wherever you needed to be. the one who held you after a bad day or a horrible breakup.

he's stuck with you through it all.

as you now lie in his bed on your side with your limbs slotted through his, you take in the way his room looks the same as it always does. you want to remember it, as you know you won't be seeing it in a long time. it's like him. an organized mess, easy to navigate if you know it. the smell of clean linens and heady cologne are so familiar that it makes you ache at the thought of leaving it behind. that, and you're so used to the hum of his ceiling fan and the faint whirring noise of the monitor.

"can't believe you're actually doing it," he says quietly, his voice not teasing for once, and that makes it sound so much more real and unnerving. a part of you wishes he'd make a joke at this time to alleviate all the anxieties you're going through. "feels fake. like you'll call me tomorrow and say you changed your mind."

you smile, but it's small. "you'd like that too much."

"yeah," he says, under his breath, eyes flicking down to your mouth before he catches himself. "i would."

the silence that follows isn't uncomfortable, but it is full of all the things you're both too scared to say. you shift impossibly closer and squeeze his body, closing your eyes tightly. if you think hard enough, you're sure you can merge the two of you together. strange and a little needy, perhaps, but you can't control yourself right now. he doesn't move away, moving a big hand to stroke your hair gently.

"you're gonna forget about me," he says thoughtfully.

you hug him tighter and shake your head, hating the fact that he's even considering that right now. how could you forget the most important person in your life? he's practically your soulmate. you couldn't forget about him if you tried. "not true."

"you say that now."

tipping your head up, you meet his gaze full on as his hands continue stroking your hair and body. you try to gauge what's on his mind right now, but you come up blank. you wonder why he feels compelled to say this all to you now, the night before you leave. still, you defend yourself and your relationship with him. "you're my best friend. you think that changes just because I'm not two streets away anymore?"

after a long pause, he murmurs, "still doesn't feel fair."

"what doesn't?"

"that I only get one more night with you."

it feels as though he has something on his mind that he's not telling you, which isn't a good sign. back when you were kids, the two of you had sworn to never hide anything from each other. good or bad, secrets had to be divulged so the two of you could work it out together.

he lets out a long sigh, cupping your cheek with his warm palm to keep your head facing him. his eyes stay on you as he speaks again. "you know," he starts slowly, his voice softer than usual, "i've always kind of… looked out for you."

you frown a little, not sure where this is going. "yeah, i know."

"no, i mean…" he pauses, runs a hand through his hair, and laughs under his breath. "i mean really looked out for you. since we were kids."

you press your cheek into his bicep, blinking up at him. "mhm..."

he exhales slowly. "i just keep thinking about how many times i've seen you cry... or get hurt... or make a mistake, and every time, i just- i don't know. i've just had your back, always. i'm your protector."

he shifts a little closer without meaning to, his voice getting more quiet. "like when you got into that accident and cut your leg. remember that? you were bleeding down your knee and crying so much, but i carried you all the way back to your house even though you were fussing the whole time."

you snort at the memory, embarrassed by your theatrics from years ago, but he doesn't join in on your laughter. his gaze remains steady on yours. "and every time some guy treated you like shit," he continues, "i waited until you were somewhere safe and away from him... and i taught him a lesson." you open your mouth to say something, but he keeps talking, he's afraid if he stops, he won't have the courage to start up again. and this is his last chance to lay it bare on you.

"i used to think I was just being a good friend," he says quietly. "you know, the protective one. the one who makes sure you get home safe, carries your bag when you're tired and keeps an extra hoodie for you because you always forget yours. but lately, i keep wondering if that's all it was. if I just..." he breaks off, shakes his head. "i don't know. maybe I'm just talking nonsense."

your heart starts beating faster without warning. "no, keep going. please." you whisper. "what are you trying to say?"

"just that..." he pauses, looking down at you. you figure what he's about to say must be very serious, because he sits up fully, then tugs you up so you're straddling him and looking into his eyes. "i want to make sure you don't go out into the world and give yourself up to some guy who might want you for the wrong reason. and then i won't be there to stop you or tell you he's a dick. i want to make sure your first time is special and safe. with someone you love."

you gasp when he sits you upright, your knees on either side of his hips and your crotch placed right on his. he holds the dip of your waist in his big hands, gripping you firmly so you stay in the position he put you in. your chest pressed to his, your lower halves squished together...

"you love me, don't you?"

"of course i do." you breathe out, not knowing why you're so winded all of a sudden. he bites his lower lip and groans, tugging you in closer. "say it properly."

"i love you. a-a lot."

he hums, pressing his lips to your cheek, then slowly moving them down to your jaw to trail his kisses up to your ear. "you'll let me have it then, won't you? your first time with the man you love," he says directly in your ear, one hand moving down to cup your ass through your thin pj bottoms, while the other slips sneakily under your shirt to rest against your tummy. you don't answer, soft sighs leaving you at the pleasurable sensations of his hands and mouth on you.

of course it would be okay for him to have it. why wouldn't it be? he's your best friend. no one in the whole world is closer to you than him. and he's shown how much he loves you back all the years he's been protecting you, taking care of you, reassuring you when you felt sad or unworthy. and you'd been each others firsts in other regards as well. he'd been the first to take you on a date, sleep over in your bed, and kiss you. he'd taught you how when you were younger and curious.

the both of you were laughing under the covers of your bed even though you'd told your parents he was going to sleep on the floor. he'd asked so sweetly, "have you been kissed yet, sweetheart?" when you'd kept giggling and told him no, he'd tugged you in his arms and promised he'd teach you how, and gosh, he did.

it had been sloppy at first - your noses kept bumping and the way your tongue rolled over his was sloppy, but he was patient and sweet with you, coaxing your lips to mold perfectly against his and to go at a slow, even pace until you melted into it.

it hadn't been a one time occurrence either.

after that night, you both pretended it hadn't meant anything more than teaching you. it was easier than admitting how he'd looked at your mouth every time you smiled after, or how your stomach twisted whenever he drew you to him for more "practice".

now, as his lips moved to yours and he began to kiss you slowly and gently, you couldn't find it in yourself to say anything but; "mmm... mhm, y-you can have it..."

mtch... the way his lips continued moving against yours had your brain melting. his tongue had slipped past the barrier now and had started to roll over yours, and you could feel him lift your top up to your shoulders to expose your chest. he's going so slow. taking his time to get you ready and focus on your pleasure, while giving you a chance to back out.

"you taste so good," he praises, pulling back just enough to lick his lips and catch more of your taste on his tongue, while sliding your shirt up over your head. his comes off right after. moaning into your mouth, he tilts his head to catch your tongue at a better angle, rolling it over yours noisily. "ahh- you always taste so good."

you feel heat pooling low in your body at his ministrations. the kisses are so slow and syrupy that it feels like he's devouring you with that big tongue of his deep in your mouth. his lips are closed around yours firmly, meaning you couldn't break away if you wanted. anticipation for more causes you to act without thinking, and you find yourself nudging your hips back and forth. your clothed hole rubs against the thickening bulge in his pants, catching against the fabric and creating delicious friction.

your tongues move together in tandem as your hips buck against one another. "ah- can't take much more baby," he warns, grabbing on your hips and pulling back slightly. both your gazes flick momentarily to the saliva stringing between your separated mouths. "gonna make your first time so special."

"mngh-! slow down, please!"

the pitiful pleading coming from your parted, swollen lips are the best you can muster as your best friend holds your thighs apart, pushing his fingers in and out of you traitorously slow. when he said he was going to make you feel special, you hadn't expected him to be fixated on your pleasure for over an hour. one hand keeps you still, while he slides two of fingers in to the knuckle. his mouth, on the other hand, is busy with your tasting you, his tongue laving over your pussy and swirling circles against the puffy folds.

"but i mmh... -can't..." he says with a mouthful of you, eyes hooded and dark. "gotta make sure you're ready for me."

his voice sends vibrations up your core, making you shiver and buck your hips closer to his face involuntarily. he grins, delving his tongue between your slick folds once more, savoring the sweet essence of your excitement. as his fingers curl inside you, his tongue laps at you greedily.

your breathy moans fall on deaf ears as he continues fucking his fingers into you while now rubbing and shaking his tongue over your pussy. he has your juices dribbling down his chin and he's making the filthiest noises possible - half from the squelching of your pussy and half from his groans. "you taste so good - gosh. why've you been hiding this pretty pussy from me, sweetheart?"

you whimper pathetically, your voice hoarse from the involuntary cries of rapture that have been spilling from your lips for the past hour.

"asked you a question beautiful." he chastises, punishing you by slowing his fingers in you, making sure you feel every press of his fingertips against your soft walls, and the scrape of his knuckles against them.

when he twists his fingers inside you and shoves them back in at full force, you're forced to answer through a cry, unable to endure much more of this. "fuck! i'm sorry, i don't know!" you say, followed by a loud cry of his name.

each thrust of his hand forces a shudder of pleasure through your trembling body, your back arching off the bed as you writhe beneath his touch. "we should've done this before, hm? way sooner." his grip tightens on your thighs as he works a third finger into your slick channel. your thoughts are hazing with the intensity of it all.

"there now, just relax," he murmurs, placing a lingering kiss on your aching, swollen clit. " ''m not stopping 'til i've had my fill of this pussy."

he plunges his tongue deep into your dripping folds, fucking your weeping hole with the hot, thick tongue. his fingers curl and beckon, stroking along your clenching walls, stirring your insides and forcing your arousal to gush forth in pulsing waves.

he drinks it down as if it were the finest ambrosia, his mourh lapping and suckling greedily as he works you towards your impending climax.

your body grinds against him, seeking more of the blissful torment that only he can provide. he persists, slipping his tongue into your weeping hole alongside his fingers, feeling your walls fluttering around him, gripping and squeezing as they anticipate his thick cock stretching them even further.

"y'close, aren't you?" he coos, circling his tongue inside of you before popping it out so he can finger you hard and fast. "lemme have it then, sweetheart. cum for me."

he sees your body seizing up, your muscles locking as your orgasm crashes over you in waves. you scream and throw your head back. your pussy clamps around his fingers, rippling and milking the digits as if trying to pull them deeper. he works you through your orgasm relentlessly, pumping his fingers to make your juices gush out to coat his hand and drip down onto the bed.

slipping his fingers free, he brings them up to his mouth and licks them clean before kneeling on the bed, his rigid cock jutting out and slapping up against his stomach. its so swollen from how long he'd been holding back from cumming, as toying with you had nearly brought him to the edge. his cock leaks shiny rivulets of precum down his shaft, wetting his heavy balls.

"i can't wait anymore," he says desperately, gripping your hips and yanking you towards him, pulling you into position to take his aching cock inside.

he wraps one hand around the base, stroking it languidly as he notches the broad tip against your hole. the warmth radiating from your core envelops the head of his cock as he teases you with the promise of being filled beyond capacity. he takes his time, rubbing himself up and down your slit, coating himself in your mess.

whining at the stimulation, your eyes widen as you feel his tip slide between your folds. "you're okay baby," he murmurs. " 'm gonna go real slow f'you, m'kay?"

"k-kay..."

he begins to push forward, his cock slowly sinking inside of you inch by throbbing inch. he doesn't stop until he's buried to the hilt, his heavy balls resting against your ass, and kissing your womb. you keen and squirm, your back arching helplessly as your body struggles to take the sheer size of him.

he lets out another shaky groan and tips his head back at the feeling of your walls squeezing him like you're trying to pull him even deeper than the hilt he's already bottomed out at.

"oh hell…" the words spill out of him in a hoarse, wrecked groan, his eyes squeezing shut for a second because the reality of finally being inside you almost knocks him out. "you're… sweetheart, you're so tight. you're hugging my cock so hard."

you make a broken, high-pitched sound, fingers scrambling for something. he threads his hands through yours and pins them above your head, grounding you with his weight over you and the warmth of his body. his hips stay absolutely still, cock buried so deep inside it feels like he's in your guts. you can feel him throbbing inside you, impatience vibrating through his body even as he forces himself to stay still for you to adjust.

"look at me," he whispers, brushing his nose across your cheek. "lemme see those eyes. wanna see you while you take your first cock."

you blink up at him, watery and overwhelmed, and his expression shifts entirely. his mouth falls open just a little, like he's seeing something he's wanted his entire life finally in front of him.

"yeah," he breathes, "that's it. that's my girl."

you shudder under him, the praise shooting straight down your spine, making your pussy clench around him again. he feels it, every tiny squeeze, and it coaxes a deep, guttural sound out of his chest. his hips twitch forward without permission.

"d-don't-" you gasp, nails digging into his forearm. "you're… you're so big…"

"i know, baby. i know. just keep breathing, yeah?"

you try. you really do. but every inhale is shaky as your walls stretch and pulse around him. it's too much and not enough all at once. the fullness, the heat, the impossible pressure of him sitting so deep inside. he shifts slightly forward, flared tip nudging your womb, and your mouth falls open on a soft sob.

he freezes instantly. "was that good or too much?"

"g-good," you squeak, your thighs trembling around him.

his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. "yeah? felt good when i moved?"

you nod frantically, squeezing at his hands tightly to stop yourself from crying at the stretch. and then he pulls out just enough to feel the drag of your tight, slick walls clinging to him; before pushing back in so slowly.

"there she is…" he groans, thrusting just a little deeper, savoring the way your pussy flutters helplessly around him. "my perfect girl takes me so well."

his hips grind against yours, each movement deliberate, slow enough that you can feel every ridge and vein of him sliding inside you. your walls clench around him instinctively, a wet, pulsing squeeze that makes his teeth grit with need. he leans down, brushing his lips against your shoulder, then trailing hot, wet kisses down your collarbone as his cock bottoms out.

"you feel so perfect," he groans, his hands squeezing yours to keep you anchored while he rocks slowly in and out, teasing the tip against your womb.

he leans down, capturing your lips in another sloppy, desperate kiss while he thrusts into you slow and deep.

"'m all in your guts, sweetheart." he leans forward so his cock nudges even deeper inside you. "feel me filling you…' gonna make you cum so many times." he keeps going, slow, deliberate, causing your walls to clamp hard and milk his cock, and he knows immediately by the way your body locks up that you're seconds from shattering completely.

"cum for me, baby," he rasps, thrusting deep once, letting you ride the edge as your body convulses. "let go… let me hear it…"

your orgasm rips through you, your back arching as waves of pure pleasure crash over you. he groans loudly, letting you ride the tremors of your body as he watches you writhe under him.

the second your walls clamp tight around him, slick and squeezing him deeper on purpose, he chokes on a breath, fingers squeezing yours. "ah- my god, i can't hold much longer if you keep doing that-" he warns, now driving into you like an animal.

his hips snap forward, fucking into you with sharp, needy thrusts that make your body jolt up the bed with each one. he's panting against your mouth, forehead pressed to yours, breath hot and frantic. he gasps, thrusting harder, deeper. then he moves one hand under your knee to push your leg up, opening you wider. the new angle makes you cry out loud. he moans when he hears it, hips stuttering before slamming forward again.

"that's it, that's my girl. mngh- i can't slow down, i can't..." his voice is frantic, breath hitching. "been holding back all night, and now you're- ngh-gripping me like you wanna make me cum inside you-"

"yes," your whine. "y-yeah, i want it, please-!"

he loses it the second you say it, and slams one last time into you, so deep his hips tremble against yours, and he breaks. his cock throbs violently inside you, pulsing hard as hot, thick ropes spill deep in your cunt and coat your walls.

he cums so hard his body shakes above you, face pressed to yours as he pumps every last drop into you with shallow, rough thrusts that drag his sensitive cock through the slick warmth he just filled.

happy day four.

[dearwalker]

Evermore

Pairing: Johnny Storm x reader Word Count: 24k gold (sorry)

Part Two

Description: After an attack on the Baxter Building threatens the family, every trace of evidence points to you being a traitor. Johnny is torn between believing you, the one he’s been in love with since day one, or his own blood. And while they question your loyalty, no one knows what you’re really hiding: a secret growing inside your belly, one that has Johnny’s name written all over it.

Tags: fem!reader, angst, idiots in love, secret pregnancy, the F4 think you betrayed them, more angst, johnny cries a lot, regret, resentment, it gets better eventually, fluff, baby is described to look a lot like Johnny.

This was inspired on Taylor’s Swift’s entire album Evermore, so you will find lyrics from it on every divider 🍂 (with a dash of Folkore too) If you wish, please listen to the title song, that’s the entire vibe for this fic.

Note: This is a Part One. I really didn’t want to split this up but it ended up longer than expected and I went over tumblr's word limit 🙂‍↕️ This story has been the bane of my existence for the past 3 weeks (lovingly) so I’m very happy to finally share it with you!! Get cozy, and pretend I’m holding your hand while you read it bc this one is a rollercoaster of feelings 🫶🏼 Special thanks to the lovely @breadcheese444 for beta reading this 😭 you’re the best ily 🫶🏼 enjoy!

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You’d lived in the Baxter Building long enough to feel like part of the family. 

What once was a hard earned internship to work with the greatest minds of New York, turned inevitably into the Fantastic Four taking you in as one of their own. 

From Reed’s speeches when you assisted him in the lab, to Sue’s gentle reminders to take care of yourself, and Ben’s kindness that always managed to warm your chest, it was impossible not to let them enter your life as they let you enter theirs. Being around them felt comfortable, safe, everything you could’ve ever wished for. 

And part of that was Johnny, who always managed a way to set your perfect little world on fire. 

The main problem was, Johnny Storm was nothing and everything all at once. He was the spark that lit every room, the one who made you laugh when you didn’t want to, the one who winked across the lab when Reed was being too serious, the one who leaned just a little too close when you were working on something. 

But Johnny was just a friend, and that was it.

A friend who flirted too much, but never went past that, no matter how much you wished him to. It was the kind of will-they won’t-they thing that made Sue smile knowingly, Ben shake his head, and Reed mutter under his breath about unresolved tension in his lab. 

And the kind of thing that made you want to jump from a high place just for him to come and catch you. 

And then kiss you. 

Yes…you were down bad. 

And then came the gala. The kind of night where champagne tasted like water at some point and the city blurred behind the tall glass windows of the building. You shouldn’t have let Johnny keep pouring into your glass, shouldn’t have let yourself get swept into his orbit more than usual, but you did. 

His warm hand fit perfectly against your waist when he pulled you into a spin on the empty dance floor, your laugh echoing on the walls as he twirled you around. You two looked like a mess. His shirt untucked, hair tousled, your shoes off, dress loosened up on the back where his hands inevitably began drifting lower and lower. 

Everything felt so funny, yet so right. His laugh was loud and golden, his lips too close when he whispered a joke meant only for you, even when there was no one else around. 

You told yourself it was just the alcohol, the dizzy haze of his scent and the music he’d played on the turntable. But his warm hands kept roaming freely, and you couldn’t help yours from feeling every ridge of his muscles either. The night faded into sloppy kisses, his hips snapping against yours as you finally turned that ‘unresolved tension’ into a melody of midnight gasps and your headboard banging the wall, knowing Sue would probably give you hell about it the next day. 

But the night was just like him. Everything and nothing all at once.

Everything because all you’d ever wanted was his body on yours, his groans against your skin, his undivided attention on making sure you were having as good of a time as he was. But it was supposed to mean nothing because that’s what you were. Even when he was buried deep inside you. 

Next morning, you woke up to his warmth. Your legs tangled on your satin bedsheets, his arm slung heavy around your waist. We shouldn’t have, was your first thought. But when you saw his face just inches away from yours, soft and peaceful in sleep, and his golden hair on your pillow…you could picture yourself waking up to that everyday. 

It wasn’t just the alcohol. You knew it. 

And he knew it, but “we shouldn’t have” was his first thought too, and unfortunately he let that be the only one he said out loud. Johnny cracked a joke, like he always did, and you forced a laugh, because for the first time you didn’t find him funny. 

The two of you ruled it out as a mistake. Too much champagne. Too little sense. 

When it was too much stupidity, actually. 

Because it didn’t feel like a mistake, not to you. Never to you. Not when the warmth of his touch still lingered on your body, not when his cologne clung to your pillow even days later. And most certainly not to him, either. When he could still hear your moans, when he could still feel your nails on his back, when he could still remember every thrust he buried his love with. 

But when people said ‘idiots in love’, you two surely loved to focus on the ‘idiots’ part of it. 

Because you let fear rule over your love, because you were nothing, just friends, and friends weren’t supposed to wake up in each other’s beds with their hearts racing. You couldn’t afford to ruin a friendship over what you both thought was a one sided infatuation. 

And the heart I know I’m breaking it’s my own 

To leave the warmest bed I’ve ever known

You thought staying friends was safe…until it wasn’t. 

A month and a half later, you were holding a test that changed everything. Staring in shock at a blue + sign that pulsed on the tiny screen. You felt lightheaded, your pulse skyrocketing  as the world tilted under your feet. Terrified wasn’t even enough to describe it. 

Because you loved Johnny Storm, stupidly, deeply, recklessly. But to him, you weren’t his. You were just…you. A friend. How you came to despise that word. 

Now every day felt like waiting for the inevitable, for the moment you’d have to tell him. For the moment your almost thing would turn into something you couldn’t go back from. 

You thought you could hide it. But then the mornings started hitting harder. The nausea, the way your head gaslighted you into thinking you suddenly hated the smell of coffee. You brushed it off as a stomach bug, as stress, as anything other than what you knew it was. It worked for a while; you became an expert at dodging the family’s concern behind excuses of exhaustion. 

But Johnny…Johnny was trickier. He wasn’t oblivious, not when it came to you. If anything, he watched too closely. He could see when your laugh didn’t reach your eyes, when your smile was more of a mask. He thought it was because of that night. He thought he’d ruined something that didn’t even exist in the first place. So he asked one night, casually, leaning against the doorframe of your room with a bowl of popcorn. 

“Are you waking up earlier? I haven’t seen you around breakfast lately.” He said, a cocky grin on his face to hide the true worry behind his words. “One would think you got tired of my face.” He joked, like always. 

“Got tired of the same cereal.” You joked back, and he feigned offense by putting a hand on his chest. 

He didn’t press further, because the truth was he didn’t want to know if it really was that night, and it was easier to deflect reality with stupid jokes. So that night you ended up watching a movie. His shoulder grazing yours as you shared the popcorn, sat on the same bed he’d made love to you. Your head inevitably leaned on him. And he let you, of course he did. 

You hated that you didn’t mind it. 

As months kept going, your clothes became tighter, so you stole Johnny’s sweaters with the excuse of the weather getting colder, even when it was the middle of August and autumn was still yet to come. But he didn’t mind, how could he when you looked so cute wearing his clothes? 

How naive he was. 

You told yourself you were buying time. That you needed to be sure before you said anything, that you had to pick the right moment. But really, you were scared of the look on his face, scared of turning something unspoken into something real. 

For now, it was enough to live for the hope of it all. 

August slipped away into a moment in time

‘Cause you were never mine

September.

On the day you turned three months pregnant, you left early in the morning for an ultrasound appointment. Your only company was the chilly September air. It was just supposed to be that, a normal day. But as you lay on a medical bed and saw the life growing inside you through a screen, something terrible was happening back in the tower.

A planned attack. 

It wasn’t dramatic in the sense of fire everywhere, or the use of brute force. No, the Fantastic Four were more than capable of dealing with that sort of stuff. In this case, information was more valuable, and unfortunately, more vulnerable. 

The Baxter Building was supposed to be untouchable, layers of firewalls, Reed’s tech securing every inch of the place. But today, someone managed to hack every single file. And what better way to create a distraction than by targeting the innocent little droid first. All they had to do was program H.E.R.B.I.E into thinking his family was the enemy, starting with the two year old that was left in his care. 

Franklin. 

And for a few terrifying hours, the Fantastic Four had to fight an invisible enemy. Franklin had barely left unscathed, H.E.R.B.I.E was shut down until he could be repaired, but the damage was done. Their entire database got transferred to some location Reed kept desperately trying to track. 

Some screens still flickered, the alarms were muted but still ringing in everyone’s heads. Reed’s lab was suffocatingly tense, his quick typing and occasional scribble on the chalkboard were the only sounds. 

Sue rocked Franklin on her hip, she had twice survived someone wanting to harm her child; her bloodshot eyes showing she wasn’t sure she could ever take a third. Ben sat on the yellow couch, occasionally offering reassuring smiles to little Franklin. 

Johnny had been trying to contact you as soon as the hellish situation was over. But tracking you was useless, because you’d left the watch he’d given you in your room that day, since you noticed it messed with the ultrasound machine every time. 

But the worst part wasn’t that he couldn’t find you, no. The worst part was that every single trail of what happened that morning in the building was traced back to you. To that watch Johnny found on your nightstand, and which Reed now held next to his screen. 

And you weren’t even there to defend yourself. 

“Tell me this is a mistake.” Sue’s voice cut through the tension, still bouncing Franklin desperately. She walked toward Reed, leaning over his shoulder. 

He didn’t look at her, his eyes still darting over the evidence scrolling down his screen. “I’ve checked it four times. The data breach is always traced back to an internal device.” His tone was even, but his hands hesitated when holding the watch. Your watch. “Not just internal…hers.”

Ben shifted uneasily on his seat. “Come on, Reed. We’re talking about the kid here…there’s no way she’d pull something like that.”

Reed went through the decryption for the fifth time, and all the incriminating details. Log-ins with your name, encrypted messages sharing information only you would know. It was too calculated, almost like the perfect crime, but they couldn’t see past the fear that morning caused. 

“This is bullshit.” Johnny snapped, walking around the lab shaking his head. “She wouldn’t–she couldn’t do this. Not her, and you all know it.” 

“Johnny, it’s all right here.” Reed looked at him. He didn’t want to believe it either, but he was a man of facts, and they were right in front of him. 

Johnny shook his head violently, pacing like he was going to burst into flames to burn the adrenaline off. “No, I don’t care what your computers say. She’s not like that– you know she’s not.” He defended fiercely. “She loves this family. She loves Franklin. She loves–” He cut himself off, like he still couldn’t say it out loud. “She loves us, okay–Sue? Help me a little bit here.” He looked at his sister, still clutching his nephew for dear life. 

“Johnny, I really wanna believe you.” She said, soft and honest. “But we’re talking about my son’s safety. Your nephew. What if…what if she isn’t who we thought?”

Reed sighed, exhausted. He wasn't an emotional person, but he wasn’t immune either. Pushing past all the logic, all the damning proof on his screens, his eyes reflected his heart trying to cloud his judgment. 

He’d grown fond of you too. You were brilliant, a true delight to work with. And you had always been so caring to the children of the place. Franklin and Johnny. Well, at least that's how it played in Reed’s eyes. The point was, he didn’t see you as just an intern, but as family. 

“I wish it wasn’t this way, Johnny. But we can’t ignore the facts, the evidence–strong evidence. Whoever did this had access to information only available to us…and the trail points to her being the leak.”

Johnny lifted his hands in the air, closing his fists like he wanted to choke the words that came out of Reed’s mouth. “If you think for one second I’m gonna stand here and believe she betrayed us, then you don’t know her like I do.” He tried to sound firm, confident, but his voice cracked. “I just know she…she wouldn’t do this to me.”

“Johnny…” Sue sighed. “This is not just about you…this is Franklin we’re talking about.” 

That set him off. The argument kept going in circles. Reed insisting on facts, Johnny yelling at him, Sue trying to reason with her brother, and Ben caught in the middle, taking Franklin from Sue’s arms to move him away from the confrontation. 

But then Reed’s screen chimed, with the results of the last decryption of information he got from your watch. He froze, making Johnny stop bickering with Sue.

“What?” He asked, leaning over Reed’s shoulder. 

Reed’s hands hovered over the keys as he took in the information. He saw dozens of image files, schematics, and hand drawn maps of the Baxter Building. 

And not just that, but the personal notes you’d made on them. 

At first he tried to find the logic, like he always did. And there was actually a reason behind it. It had been a project you’d worked along with Reed to set up a new security system when Franklin was born. He could see all the key points that he had explained to you alone. Okay, acceptable. But it had extra annotations around Franklin’s nursery, weak points, blind spots, stuff only you had observed and noted. 

But he didn’t know it had been from a place of good. The extra time you took to analyze everything to make sure the new systems would secure the child’s safety. And of course, they couldn’t see past that, because the thing you had used to protect him, was the very same that was used against him. 

And this time, in their eyes, there was no more room for the benefit of the doubt. Not when you weren’t there to explain it to them. Not when Sue couldn’t keep her eyes off Franklin in Ben’s arms as if something would happen to him the second she blinked. 

Johnny just stared in silence, he recognized the notes instantly. He remembered you perched at Reed’s side, stylus scribbling on your tablet as you tried to follow his explanations. He remembered laughing when you drew a tiny flame by his room. “So you don’t get lost, blondie.” 

It was yours, that was undeniable. And the decryption showed those notes had been shared outside the tower a few weeks ago. Far away from the family it belonged to. 

“Tell me someone forged this,” Ben said roughly, as the last thread of hope he had on you had snapped. 

Reed shook his head. “It’s not forged. These are her annotations, this was information I confided in her with…her own observations on the Tower’s weak points.”

“That’s yeah…that’s hers.” Johnny breathed, shaking his head in disbelief. “That’s–god, that’s her handwriting.”

Sue pressed a hand to her mouth, tears already spilling. She adored you like a sister, trusted you with Franklin more than anyone. 

Johnny staggered back a step, like the air had been punched from his lungs. His eyes still locked on the little flame doodle. Was that why he couldn’t reach you all morning? Had you ran away and left them to pick up the pieces of everything you broke? 

For the first time, Johnny had no defense, no fiery protest. Just the crushing weight of evidence that seemed to confirm what he feared the most. The girl he loved had been betraying him–no…all of them all along.

And I fell from the pedestal, right down the rabbit hole

Long story short, it was a bad time

You carried the folded black and white print in your bag. Proof that everything inside you was still very real. But for the first time in weeks, you didn't feel afraid, instead you felt a strange kind of calm. 

That’s when you decided you’d tell Johnny. 

Whatever happened after, he deserved to know. He deserved to know you didn't really see him as nothing, that he was actually everything. And that everything, that love, was turning into something beautiful. You’d seen it through a screen today, and you wanted nothing more but to share it with him. Maybe next appointment he’d be there to hold your hand through it too. 

You just hoped he’d be able to forgive you from keeping it a secret for so long. 

When you walked back into the Baxter Building, you couldn’t find anyone. The place was quiet, as if the multiple floors of offices had been evacuated. Your heart raced as you went up the elevator, and walked around the empty halls of the family’s floors with not even a sign of Herbert. You rushed to the lab, the last place you needed to check. The elevator’s door opened, and you sighed in relief when you found your family inside. 

They all turned to you at once, and you were shocked to be met with red, puffy eyes. Sue rushed to stand in front of Franklin and Ben. Reed’s eyes darted between you and the screen, and Johnny…Johnny wouldn’t meet your gaze.

The relief didn’t last long. 

“What is going on? What happened?” You walked instinctively toward Johnny, but halted when you noticed he took a step back before you reached. “The whole building is empty, are you guys okay–“ 

“We didn’t think you’d actually show up here.” Sue’s harsh tone made your brows furrow. It didn’t sound like her, not like the woman who would put a blanket over you and Johnny when you fell asleep watching a movie in the living room. 

“What? Why wouldn’t I?” You asked, completely taken aback with the way she looked at you. “Johnny?” You called to him, but for some reason he refused to lift his gaze from the lab’s floor. 

“There was an attack today. On our…information.” Ben explained, softly. “And on F–“

“Franklin.” Sue finished for him, and your eyes went wide, but before you could ask, Reed rotated the sphere monitor so you could see what they’d discovered 

“The breach came from your device. And these…” He pointed to the screen. “These schematics were used to override our firewalls, and steal all of our information. Including all our safety protocols."

You walked a few steps closer, just enough to see your watch connected to the monitor, and all the information displayed on it. Your notes, your handwriting, your sketches, things you’d only ever shared with them.

“That’s–no, that’s impossible. I never shared that with anyone…I don’t–Reed, you know I never–“ You fumbled your words, nothing could’ve ever made you ready for this type of accusation. “My watch has been glitching lately, Johnny I told you that.” Your eyes darted to him, hoping he’d say something, that he’d defend you. But that wasn’t what came out of his lips.

“But that’s your handwriting.” He mumbled, arms crossed across his chest, but he still wouldn’t look at you. 

“On the plans that put my son in danger today.” 

“Yes, that’s my handwriting, those are my notes. But–” The words tore out of you, panicked. “I don’t know how they got that. I swear to you, it wasn’t me.”

Your eyes burned, your throat tight as you looked around the room at the family who once claimed you as their own, at Johnny, who didn't have it in him to meet your desperate gaze. 

“Johnny, please.”

Finally, Johnny’s head lifted. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red. It hurt you to see him like that, but it hurt you more that his mistrust of you was the reason behind those tears. Still, for one moment you let yourself believe he might leap to your defense like always. And as he looked right into your eyes, he wanted to. God, he really wanted to. 

To this day he could still remember the taste of the champagne from that night, the way your laugh had muffled against his neck, the feel of your fingers brushing his. He could still remember the way he brushed it off as nothing. But it wasn’t “nothing”. You weren’t “nothing”. 

You were supposed to be the one person who saw him, past all the cockiness, the one who always listened to him even when the family didn’t. You weren’t supposed to be the one who lied, who hurt him. He looked at Reed, hoping for a sign, hoping for that impossible “I was wrong”, but Reed only shook his head, because as always, he wasn’t. 

“The watch matches the breach exactly. There’s no evidence of tampering on it.”

“Then find it!” You snapped at Reed, making everyone flinch on their spots. “This is my home, I would never hurt any of you, much less Franklin.”

You couldn’t believe it. Had they really given up on you so easily?

“Johnny, come on,” you whispered. “You know me. Better than anyone.”

He did…or at least he thought he did. But the screen behind you glared back at him, your notes, your access codes, the coincidences. The smoking gun in your own handwriting.

“If this is some kind of mistake,” Johnny said quietly, “then give me something. Anything that makes this make sense.”

“I wasn’t even here, Johnny. I was–“ you cut yourself short, not exactly knowing how to explain you’d been hiding a baby when everything you said already sounded like a lie to them. “Can you just give me a second? I just need to–“

“There’s no time to spare, I need to track where this information has gone. You could at least tell us that.” Reed said, and you blinked in disbelief. 

“I can’t tell you something I don’t know.” You shook your head. “This is not about what you guys are seeing on that screen. This is about you trusting me for who you know me to be.” You fought one last time. 

Reed just sighed, finally daring to say what they’d all agreed on before you arrived. 

“We are shutting the building down. Everything will be changed to make sure the information that got leaked won’t be relevant. I’ll conduct a further investigation, but…I think it’s clear enough for now. You have broken our trust. And if you’re refusing to share information with us, that means we can’t…it’s not possible to have you here anymore.”

Johnny’s head snapped up, but this time it was you who couldn’t meet his eyes. All that was left was the quiet, the heartbreak, and the sound of your breath hitching as the family you loved looked at you like a stranger. You thought of the ultrasound picture in your bag, of the heartbeat no one here knew about. The one they were casting out alongside yours. 

The weight of it crashed down. The lab blurred as tears filled your eyes in disbelief. At this point you didn’t even care about their “further investigations”, because they had already decided it had been you. Their eyes didn’t lie, they didn’t believe you. 

You lost them. And in that moment they lost you.

So you just nodded, and whispered, “I understand.”

But in your chest, your heart screamed I don’t. That’s when you decided to turn to the last person who could give you saving grace. With what little steadiness you had left, you cleared your throat.

“Johnny,” you said softly, not daring to look at anyone else. “Can I…can I at least talk to you? Just once. Please.”

Johnny didn’t answer right away. His shoulders were stiff, his face turned away, but he exhaled, and nodded. “Yeah…okay.”

Sue looked at him, but with the unbearing love she still had for you somewhere inside, she decided you two deserved that moment. So she took Franklin from Ben’s arms and rushed out of the lab, Reed following her, Ben lingered just long enough to give you one last conflicted look before the elevator doors shut closed. 

You were left in the silence of the lab, standing across from Johnny. This was either your last chance, or…your last goodbye. The room felt too big now, like you didn’t belong there anymore, but still you gathered the strength to fight one last time. 

“I can’t change what you saw, and I don’t understand why you would believe that was me. You know how much your family means to me. How much you mean to me.” You started, your voice faltering with the tears you tried to keep from spilling. “Just…think about everything we’ve been through. Every night in this place. Every secret. Every laugh. Do you really think that wasn’t real?”

That got him. His eyes snapped to you, glassy and burning, like your words meant the opposite you wanted them to.

“It was real to me,” he said. “And maybe that’s the problem. Because now all I can think is, what if it was all just part of this? What if you were playing me the whole time?”

“Johnny…”

He raked a hand through his hair, pacing again. “Do you know what it feels like? To look at you and not know if anything you ever said to me was true? To wonder if every smile, every moment, was just you getting closer to what you wanted?” His voice cracked. “What did you even want to get from this? I don’t understand.”

The realization hit worse than ever. He wasn’t questioning the stuff he saw, he was questioning you. He didn’t understand why you’d done it, because he’d already decided in his head it had been you. 

“I–this is my family.” He continued. “Why would you want to do this to my family?” 

The words carved into you. To believe you had come into the building ready to finally confess, to tell him about the baby, to give him the one piece of truth that could not be forged. But the way he looked at you now, made your stomach twist.

“I can’t tell you something I don’t know.” You repeated the same thing you’d said to Reed, blinking back the tears that blurred him out. “But I don’t think it’d matter anyways…it sounds like you’ve already made up your mind.”

This wasn’t about proving yourself anymore. Not when he’d already decided you didn’t even deserve the chance. 

He didn’t deny it, and that was the moment you knew. The same way Sue protected her child. You couldn’t give yours to someone who didn’t trust you, who doubted the very core of who you were for some made up evidence against you. 

“I will do as your family said, I won’t be a problem to you anymore.” You said. 

His lips parted one last time, like he wanted to speak, to backtrack, but nothing came, instead his eyes went back to the floor. That silence was enough to break the parts of you that once belonged to him.

It was clear to you, that no matter how much it broke your soul, you had lost everything. So it was time to go. You wiped your tears with your sleeves, and decided you wouldn’t spill any more for him. Or at least, not in front of him. You took one last look at Johnny, the coward who couldn't even look at you as he exiled you from his life, his home, his family. 

You didn’t say goodbye, he didn’t deserve it. So you just turned around, walked to the elevator, and didn’t look back as the doors closed. 

That’s when Johnny allowed himself to break. Breathless, broken sobs muffled by his hands soaking with the hot tears spilling. He didn’t know what hurt more, that he never got to confess he loved you, or the fact that everything that made him love you wasn’t even real. He was overwhelmed with emotions, the disbelief, the fear, the anger, that it was so hard to see clearly past all of that. 

All he had left was the facts, the damning evidence on Reed’s screen. Because he didn’t have you anymore. 

Believing that was the biggest mistake of his life. 

By the time the building settled into the darkness of the night, you were already gone. No goodbye note in your room, only your untouched belongings and your heart left behind. As the cab sped away, your mind was a whirl of grief and uncertainty. They had taken your home from you, but they could never take away the last part you had from Johnny. 

The only thing you had left. 

Johnny didn’t sleep that night. He couldn’t. He sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands and your watch on his nightstand. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. He went to your room that night, trying to find something, a clue, anything that would help him see further the haze of pain that wouldn’t leave him alone. The room was silent, cold, even when he was a walking furnace. 

You’d left the bed made, two drawers half open, but the rest was intact. Picture frames, gifts he’d given to you through the years, records he’d chosen himself still displayed on your shelves. Like you couldn’t bear to bring a single piece of him with you. Only the faintest trace of your perfume lingered, clinging to the air like a ghost. 

The room looked frozen in time, like you just stopped existing. Which, you kind of had. 

Johnny’s chest burned, but not with fire this time. With the void only loss could cause. He leaned on the doorframe, staring into the space that used to be yours, and in some unspoken way, his. He wanted to rage, to scream, to burn the whole damn world down if it meant changing what happened. But nothing would do. 

You were gone.

Because they’d asked you to. Because he didn’t fight for you to stay. The smoking gun was not in your hands, but in his own. 

That night he slept on your bed. Eyes crying acid rain on the pillow where you used to lay your head. He clung to your scent and the good old memories, grieving the fact that he would never get to make new ones. Not with you.

Haunted by the look in my eyes 

That would’ve loved you for a lifetime

Leave it all behind

November.

The city you once loved became unbearable quickly. Every corner of Manhattan screamed their names. Fantastic Four billboards on Times Square, interviews replaying on café TVs, merch stands at every store. You couldn’t buy milk without Johnny’s smile flashing at you from a cereal box. It wasn’t home anymore. It was a wound that wasn’t allowed to close.

So you left New York for good, all to end up in a small southern town in Georgia. 

No flashing billboards, no cameras, no whispers of superheroes. No Fantastic Four influence anymore.

Still, nights weren’t easy. 

You sat by the open window of your small rental, the autumn air freezing against your skin. You stared out at the trees of a world that felt foreign, while you replayed every step that had led you there. 

Some nights you wrote letters. Folded scraps of paper with words you couldn’t say to anyone. Questions, confessions, apologies. Letters to the fire, to him, to the life you used to have. To no one.

It was like standing at the edge of a cliff screaming ‘give me a reason’. 

There wasn’t a clear path set for you anymore. The internship you earned through your hard work had once been an impossible dream, one you got to live. 

You guessed this was the price you had to pay for those few years in heaven. 

And there was one feeling that remained with you through the fall of the leaves. That peculiar ache, the sense that this wasn’t just pain for now, this pain was for evermore.

Hey December

Guess I’m feeling unmoored

Can’t remember what I used to fight for

Tis’ the damn season.

The city became unbearable for Johnny in December. Three months after your departure. 

The Fantastic Four’s Christmas photos were everywhere. Sue smiling with Franklin on her hip, Reed stiff as always, Ben wearing a ridiculous Santa hat marketing forced him to wear but he secretly loved. And Johnny, always the center of attention, always grinning. 

Because he was miserable but nobody had to know. 

Because the world saw him as the spark of every season. 

Because he was Johnny Storm, and he could do it all with a broken heart. 

Even when he hated himself most of the time. For doubting you. For letting the proof shout louder than his heart. So he did what he was best at, and hid behind a smile and his muscles, carrying the weight of believing you’d betrayed them…and the heavier weight of still missing you anyway.

Winter was in all its glory. 

Johnny wasn’t very fond of the snow since he got his powers. It wasn’t enough to affect him, since the cold never bothered him anyway, but it felt different when flying. Different than in any other season. 

But now he liked to see it fall through the large windows of the tower. Because maybe, wherever you were, he hoped you were seeing snow too. He could at least share that with you. 

So that’s what he was doing tonight.  

Johnny stood by the large windows of your room, a place where he found himself often, and thought about you. He always thought about you. Lost in his head, entranced by the way the snow fell, he didn't notice the tiny socks dragging against the blue carpet, until a little hand tugged the fabric of his pants. 

“Uncle Johnny?”

He looked down to find Franklin, clutching the stuffed dinosaur you’d given him on his last birthday. He smiled at his nephew, crouching to his height. 

 “Yeah, buddy?”

“Where is she?” Franklin asked, tilting his head.

His question was innocent, it shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did, but the words knocked the air out of Johnny’s chest. He stared at his nephew, and the dinosaur tucked under his arm, the same one he’d helped you pick, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Franklin tugged his arm this time, when Johnny didn’t answer right away.

“She was always with you,” Franklin said softly. He always liked to point stuff out. Facts. Just like his father. “But now she’s not here. Mommy said she had to leave…” His little brow furrowed, because he didn’t understand. “Do you know why? Did she stop liking us?”

Johnny shook his head, forcing a crooked smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “No, buddy. She didn’t stop liking you. She…she just had to go away for a while.”

“But I miss her.”

That was it.

The final crack in Johnny’s mask. He wrapped his arms around him and hoisted him up, wrapping him tight in his arms as he walked towards your bed and sat there. He buried his face in Franklin’s blonde hair so he couldn't see his eyes burning. “Yeah, buddy…I miss her too.”

He didn’t notice Sue standing on the doorway. She just watched as Johnny clung to her son, both of them breaking with the absence of the same person.

Back in your little southern town, you stared out the window too, but there wasn’t snow there. You missed it. Missed teasing Johnny about it. Missed laughing until you cried when you tried to make snow angels and he melted the snow into water in a matter of seconds. 

You couldn’t share the snow anymore, but you were thinking about him too. All while in a city miles away, Johnny held a child who wasn’t his, whispering that he missed you too.

You’re not my homeland anymore

So what am I defending now? 

January.

It was the first day of the new year. 

Sue found him in your room again. It was late, hours after she’d put Franklin to bed. Johnny sat in your bed in the dark, the glow of the moonlight painting his somber eyes. His hand was curled around your watch like he still couldn’t let it go.

“Johnny.” Her voice was soft, but it carried the weight of someone who’d been watching him break for months.

He didn’t look at her right away. Just mumbled, “Can’t sleep.”

Sue crossed the room, sitting down beside him. She let the silence sit for a moment before speaking. “I know it hurts. More than it hurts the rest of us.” She reached out, resting a gentle hand on his arm. “But it's been months. And for your sake, Johnny…you can’t keep living like this.”

Johnny remembered what Franklin told him that night, and he wanted to use the same argument. ‘But I miss her’. He was sure he’d sound the same as the child, considering how his voice wasn’t as confident as it once was. 

“I can’t stop thinking about her. About that night…about everything I didn’t say.”

Sue’s hand slid to hold his, comforting in a way only a sister could be. “I know, Johnny. But sometimes people make their choices, and all we can do is let them go. You can’t burn yourself out trying to hold on to something that isn’t here anymore.”

Her words cut deep, but he knew they were spoken with love. Johnny sat there for a long time, staring at the watch in his palm. “You’re right.”

“I know it seems impossible now, but it’s time to bury it. Move forward, Johnny, for you.”

And he nodded, even though it seemed impossible. He decided then, to shove it down, to lock it up, to pretend the only fire burning him was the one from his own flames. He had to bury the pain, to bury you, somewhere he could never reach again.

The next day, as much as it hurt Sue, she moved every photo, every souvenir, every memory of you they had in the tower to that room, and put it under lock and key. Because she couldn’t keep watching her brother talk to a ghost. 

Johnny inevitably went back a couple of days after, only to find he could no longer get in. He’d noticed photos of you had gone missing, as well as all of the stuff you’d once given to him, so he figured his sister locked them away in your room. 

In that moment, Johnny wished he’d kept every receipt of the times he’d gone out with you. He would've, if he’d known one day every scrap of you would be taken away from him.

All that he had left was your memories. And he couldn’t help but wonder, What is she doing now?

If I didn't know better, I'd think you were still around

I know better, but I still feel you all around

February.

Six years later. 

The town had become your home in ways you never thought it would. You’d grown to love the main street lined with diners, boutiques and an old movie theater. The way everyone waved and actually made eye contact when you walked by, the rhythm of a place that moved slower than the world you’d left behind. It was like living inside a Hallmark movie. Except…without the love interest part.

By day, you taught at the community college. Your mornings went by as a professor in the science wing, filling blackboards with equations and diagrams, trying to pass on your love for learning and the things Reed had once taught you. Your students adored you, not because you were easy, but because you made them feel like science was reachable, like anyone could do it if they put in the effort. 

By night, your world was your son. 

Leo Spencer. 

He was everything all at once. The spark in your life, the reason behind your smile, and the vivid reminder of the one person you could never outrun. 

Because Johnny Storm lived in your son’s face. 

The same golden hair, the same dashing smile that lit up every room, his charming confidence, his small quirks. The way he drummed his fingers against the table without realizing, the way he tilted his head when he was curious, the way he filled a room with energy without even trying. He was a copy of the man who broke you. 

But not his eyes, no, those were yours. Johnny let you have one thing, at least. 

The only thing missing was the fire. Thank God for that. He never needed flames to shine. At only five years old, his restless curiosity had already outgrown the classrooms around him. Teachers threw around words like gifted and advanced classes, ones that carried dollar signs heavy enough to scare you. You worked extra hours tutoring in the afternoon to afford his tuition in a private school, even picked up shifts at the local bar on weekends, while your lovely neighbor took care of him. Exhaustion became an everyday thing, but you’d do it a thousand times over if it meant Leo had what he deserved.

You weren’t the same person who left New York. You changed your first name, and picked the same last name as your son for you, Spencer. It seemed stupid when you chose it, being Johnny’s second surname and all, but you weren’t really thinking clearly when you did. At least it had helped you tremendously to share it with Leo when it came to signing him up in the advanced programs. It kept people away from making questions since there wasn’t a “father” in the picture. They could only assume he’d divorced you or died. 

It was a place where gossip ran like water, after all. 

Your one story house wasn’t that big, but it was yours. White paint on the porch railing, a garden you kept stubbornly alive, shelves lined with books you actually had time to read again. At night you’d sit on the steps with a mug of tea, watching your son chase fireflies across the yard, laugh bubbling while telling you facts about their wings. 

You’d built this life with your own two hands, out of nothing. You did it with a broken heart, with one truth you carried quietly, tucked deep inside your chest. 

I’m never going to love again.

People tried to show their interest in you; a colleague who lingered too long in conversation, a neighbor who offered to fix the leak on your sink when you’d mentioned it, or even the police captain offering you coffee when you passed by the station in the mornings, but you shut the door on all of it with a polite smile. 

The world had taught you what it cost to put your faith in someone else, to hand over your heart and believe they’d protect it. You couldn’t afford to make that mistake again, not when there was a child depending on you. So you forgot about your big city dreams, at least until Leo was able to have his own. You kept your world small, safe, and put caution tape around your heart. 

Miles away, Johnny wasn’t much different. 

Of course he didn’t have to hide behind a fake name, he was still the golden boy of New York, still the Human Torch. Half naked in calendars, covers of magazines and billboards. He’d leaned into the spotlight harder than ever, laughing loud, burning brighter than his flames. 

But beneath it, the void never filled.

Six years, and he never let another woman close. Flirting, sure, he couldn’t help it, but he never took anyone home. It felt like betraying you, even when you betrayed him first. 

It was absurd, really, that he kept burning for a ghost.

He told himself he'd buried you, like Sue told him to. But the wound never closed. So he researched, quietly, secretly. When the others thought he was sleeping, Johnny sat in Reed’s lab going through old files, things that never quite added up. It had started as punishment, as a way to prove to himself that the evidence had been real, that he wasn’t crazy for believing it. But the longer he stared, the more holes he found. Places where the trail was too clean, where it looked too deliberate. 

He didn’t find proof that you’d done it. He was finding proof that he had destroyed you for nothing. 

That’s when he started looking for you. But your name didn’t show up in any database after that September six years ago. You just vanished into smoke slipping from his hands. 

He was supposed to be the fire, to absorb it before it burned everything down. But this time he had to be the one picking up the ashes left behind, one by one. 

And every night he whispered the same prayer to the stars, let me find something. Let me find her.

And it's been so long, but if you ever think you got it wrong

I'm right where you left me

March.

You spent your afternoons tutoring, guiding your students the way you’d wished someone did for you when you were younger. Every bright mind that walked through your door had the potential, you just showed them what they could do with it. 

But some shone brighter than others, like this girl Kate. The darkest long hair, a sharp gaze and even a sharper mind. The kind of mind you recognized instantly. Restless, unable to settle for easy answers. She deserved more than the small town college could give her, and more than you could give her, if you were honest. 

Now, one of the many things The Fantastic Four contributed to the world were their academic programs. Opportunities, grants, financial aid, internships were all part of the things someone could earn through them. Of course, you had to be brave enough to even apply in the first place, and compete with millions of ‘exceptional’ applicants across the globe. 

You had once been brave enough to, and felt like you won the lottery when it landed you an internship with…them.

We all know how that story went. In the end, you lost the game of chances. But maybe Kate would play her cards better. So one day, pushing past your fears and your own trauma, you talked to her about the program that changed your life many moons ago. 

“Have you ever thought about applying to the Fantastic Four First Steps Program?”

Her head snapped up from her notebook, eyes wide. “Me? No way. I mean…that’s for geniuses, right? Not many people get in, only the people from the big cities.”

You smiled softly, even though your chest ached at the name. Fantastic Four. You hadn’t said it out loud in years; it was exiled from your vocabulary the way they’d exiled you. You never thought you’d send another person into that world ever again, but your experiences shouldn’t tarnish the ones others could have. So, even if the words tasted bitter in your mouth, you forced yourself to go on. 

“Kate, that program was built for minds like yours, no matter where you apply from. I seriously think you could get in, I wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t.”

She hesitated; she had heard of other people from the college applying, but she thought they were crazy for even considering it, since no one from there ever got accepted. “Well, but…even if I could, which would be crazy…would I even belong in places like that?”

God, how many times had you asked yourself the same thing?

“Listen to me. You belong anywhere your brain can take you. And if you’re worried about the application, I’ll help you, I know what it takes to get in. You don’t have to do it alone.” You reassured, and after some consideration, she finally nodded.

You let out the part ‘because once, I was in’. Because once, those halls were your home. Because once, your whole life had unraveled on the top floor of that tower. But that was a long time ago, and you were starting to live for the hope of it all once again. 

Maybe life would be kinder to her the way it couldn’t be with you. 

So you both worked on her application right away. Crafted it perfectly. It wasn’t a hard task, since she was brilliant and her scores backed her up. You just helped her polish everything, keeping your name out of it, and soon her file was mailed to New York. 

It's been a long time

And seeing the shape of your name

Still spells out pain

October.

Johnny had been sent to represent the family at the Fantastic Four First Steps Program Showcase. Where dozens of students made a presentation on the projects they’d been working on since they got into the program. 

He arrived just in time, wearing a leather jacket over a fancy button down, and the most inappropriate pair of tight pants he found that day. 

“Family representation, Johnny." Sue had said that morning, shoving the itinerary into his hands. “Behave, pay attention, and ask questions.” 

And he tried, he really did…at first. 

But by hour two, saying he was bored wasn’t even enough. He still clapped when everyone else clapped, smiled when a camera panned at him, even threw a wink or two when someone in the audience managed to get his attention. 

He just had to hold on for another half an hour. Then he could sneak out, text Sue “great event!” and pretend he’d been deeply moved by the future of scientific innovation.

He wasn’t even looking at the stage when the next student walked up. Kate Bishop, the host announced. Another young person with a bright future and a nervous smile. Johnny didn’t even notice the accent in her voice or the way her hands trembled holding the slide pointer to the huge screen behind her. His gaze was fixed on the watch on his wrist, until her presentation came to an end. 

“…and I wouldn’t even be here today if it weren’t for my mentor, my professor back home,” Kate was saying. “She pushed me to apply, even when I didn’t think I could make it.”

Johnny looked up absentmindedly, he was ready to clap and give a thumbs up as if he heard the whole thing, but his hands stopped midair when he saw the slide change. 

There you were. On the screen.

Standing in a college lab, radiant as ever, the sunlight from the big windows pouring over your shoulder. The girl on stage was smiling next to you, her head tilted slightly in your direction. Your hand rested on her project model. You looked proud, happy, alive.

You. It was you.

Johnny couldn't clap, smile, or even breathe. He forgot where he was, forgot the rows of interns, the attention from the audience, the cameras pointed at him. The entire world narrowed to that glowing projection of you.

He hadn’t seen you in six years. Not in memories that didn’t hurt. Not even in photographs because Sue had locked them away in your room. His heart started to race, too fast, too painful. He felt it everywhere, in the edge of his ribs, in his throat, his ears.

All he could see was your smile frozen on that screen. The same smile that used to undo him every single day.

“The project began with her, back home in Georgia. She taught me that even if people don’t believe in you, you have to believe in the impact you’ll leave behind.”

Johnny squinted, trying to read the caption under the picture.

Professor Spencer and student Kate Bishop. Thomasville, Georgia. 

Spencer. Jonathan Lowell Spencer Storm.

You took his name. His second surname.

You’d vanished, built a life, a reputation. And you chose somewhere quieter, smaller, far from him, far from the city that ruined you. You built yourself back up, became a new person, and still took his name.

But Johnny didn’t have time to spiral, because for the first time in six years, he didn’t just have a ghost, he had a trail. He had a location now. 

Thomasville, Georgia.

He had to find you.

Johnny left the conference building in a blaze of golden fire, without even saying goodbye to anyone, and went back to the Tower.

He stumbled into his room, slamming the door behind him, the rush of adrenaline burning through his shaking hands. He went straight to his nightstand, pulling out the last piece of you he kept, the only one Sue couldn't take away from him because he’d hid it.

Your watch.

He paced the length of his room, the watch clutched tight in his hand, muttering under his breath like that would help calm the storm inside him.

“Six years,” he whispered. “Six years and I finally found you.”

He pressed his palms against his face, but in the middle of his frenzy, the watch slipped from his grasp. It clattered to the floor with a sharp crack, metal case popping open, tiny pieces scattering over his carpet. 

“Fuck…”

He dropped to his knees, scooping the pieces up, but stopped over something that didn’t look like it belonged there. He picked it up carefully, staring at a tiny silver chip, glinting under the light coming from the large windows. It didn’t have the blue number four Reed stamped everything with. 

What the hell…

He scooped the rest of the pieces from your watch, and set them on his bed. Then, without even giving it a second thought, he took off his own watch and closed his eyes as he slammed it against the floor. The casing burst open just like yours, gears and metal scattering on the floor. But all he saw were pieces that were meant to be there, stamped with the tiniest four emblem. No weird chip. 

“No, no, no…” He shook his head, looking all around the carpet to see if he missed it coming out of his watch. But he found nothing. 

He needed answers now.

Johnny didn’t remember running through the halls. His chest burned, and his vision blurred. By the time he burst into Reed’s lab, he was gasping, eyes wet, the small chip clutched safely in his hand. 

“Reed–Reed, I need you to look at this!” 

Sue jumped in her spot, and sat up straighter from where she was leaning over some papers. Reed looked up from his work, brows furrowing at Johnny sprinting toward him. 

“Weren’t you at the education summit?” Reed asked, just as Johnny set the chip in front of him.

“I left early.” Johnny shook his head quickly, catching his breath. “This is more important. You need to analyze this. Now.” 

Reed glared at him for a few seconds, but when he noticed the desperation behind Johnny’s pleading eyes, he reached for the chip with a tweezer. Johnny began pacing, raking his hands through his hair, breathing uneven as Reed studied the component carefully. 

“Are you okay?” Sue finally dared to ask, but Johnny didn’t answer.

He turned to Reed. “Well?” He demanded. “It’s not from here, is it?”

Reed ignored him, and set the chip under his scanner. A pulse of blue light ran over it, as Reed pressed keys, analyzing its composition, code structures, searching for anything familiar. When the machine was finally done with the results, Reed leaned back.

“This isn’t ours.” He announced, and Johnny froze in his pacing. “This is advanced nano technology. ” 

“Johnny, where did you even find that?” Sue asked, but was ignored once again by her brother. 

“Are you completely sure it isn't ours?” He pressed. 

“It is not. I am years away from implementing it on our equipment. I’m afraid I don’t have the capability of building something like this here…yet.”

Johnny just stood in silence, his eyes fixed on the chip glowing faintly under the lab lights. 

“The chip…it was in her watch. The one we got the information from when we threw her out.” He explained, quiet anger threaded in every word. “The one she begged us to believe was glitching.”

Sue and Reed exchanged a wide eyed look, they knew exactly who he was talking about. Sue got up to put a hand on Johnny’s shoulder, but he turned away. 

“Johnny…”

He slammed his hands against the counter, as tears burned the back of his eyes. “She told us. She told us something was wrong, and we didn’t listen. We just–we believed the files instead of her.”

Reed’s expression hardened as he looked back at the chip. His mind piecing everything together. “Nano technology is extremely dangerous. Someone must have embedded it on her device when she was out in the city, stole her information and then transferred the breach into it to cover their tracks. To make it look like the leak came from her.”

“Oh my god,” Sue gasped, covering her mouth with her hand.

“This…this could have been planted on any of our watches. But whoever did this chose hers.” Reed added. 

“Because she wasn’t blood.” Sue shook her head. 

“Because she wasn’t officially one of us, which would make it more believable to us.” 

Johnny turned furious toward Reed when he heard that. “She was part of the family! At least back then she was. Don’t you dare imply she wasn’t.”

“Johnny, I’m not implying anything. I’m just trying to reason on how this happened–” 

“We let her take the fall, that’s what happened! You let me believe it was her, when she was innocent!” Johnny snapped, pointing accusingly at him. Reed opened his mouth to argue, but Johnny didn’t even let him speak. “How did that chip get past you? You got all the information of the breach from her watch. How come you didn’t see that?”

That’s when Sue decided to step in. “Johnny, we had no idea. None of us did. There was so much evidence, you saw it.” She reached out, her hand hovering near his arm. “We can only hope to forgive ourselves for believing–”

“Forgive ourselves?” Before she could reach him he recoiled, staggering back offended. “How can I forgive myself? Tell me that, Sue. How can I fucking forgive myself?” His voice cracked. 

That was the moment Johnny couldn’t hold it in anymore. He leaned over the counter, palms supporting him as his eyes drowned in tears with the heartbreaking realization that it wasn’t you. It had never been you.

And he found that out six years late.

Six years of feeling guilty for not hating you. Six years of burying you. Of forcing himself to believe that you were the one who had cut them open, who had put Franklin at risk, who had taken everything they built and sold it out. All those years, all that evidence, the betrayal they’d carved into your name, was a lie. Someone had planted it. Someone had turned the watch he gave you into a weapon against you. 

And he believed it. 

He thought he knew pain before, the loss of his mother, the terrifying day that changed his life on that space mission. But this was a different kind of pain. Because those other things he could have never foreseen, or prevented. But this? He didn’t keep you safe, didn’t protect you, just let you take the blame.

And he could never undo what he’d done to you. This was a fire he ignited himself, a fire he’d let consume you. 

Sue walked over to him, her face pale at the sight of endless tears streaking down her brother’s cheeks. She placed a hand on his shoulder hesitantly, expecting to be rejected once again, but instead stumbled backwards when Johnny turned around and wrapped his arms around her, sobbing into her shoulder. Sue’s eyes swelled with tears too as her brother cried uncontrollably, clinging to her for dear life.

She let him get it all out, one arm hugging him tightly and the other lifted to stroke his hair, just like when he was a kid. Reed just watched in silence, guilt sinking deep into his bones with every sob that echoed in the lab. Johnny was right. He should’ve seen it, he should’ve given you the benefit of the doubt instead of making them think you would do something like that. He hadn't just failed you, he’d failed his entire family.

Johnny’s tears finally came to a stop after what felt like forever, his chest heaved with leftover hiccups. He pulled back from Sue, running his hands violently through his soaked face. He sniffed a few times, gaze lowering on the floor, hands on his hips.

“I let her walk out with nothing. I watched her beg me to believe her and I–” His voice cracked again, but he pressed his palms to his eyes. “I didn’t, Sue. I didn't. For six fucking years I let her believe we hated her.”

“Johnny, we can’t change the past.” Her voice softened, she wiped her own tears with a napkin Reed pulled out from his shirt. “All we have is the now–”

“Now? Now she’s in some small town, working in a community college when she should’ve had the world with us. We stole her future from her.”

That made Reed’s head snap up. “Wait–you know where she is?” 

“Johnny, you found her?” Sue asked, just as surprised. 

Johnny nodded, sighing. “I saw her–not in person. This girl from the program, Kate, showed a picture of her in her presentation today. Said she was her professor at the community college back home.” He sniffed as he forced himself to go on. “In Thomasville. A town in Georgia, she’s there.”

Sue stepped closer, her arms crossed in her chest. “Then we have to fix it.”

She got startled by Johnny’s bitter laughter. “Fix it? How the hell do you fix six years? How do you fix letting someone you love think you hated them?” He shook his head. “I love her, I never stopped. And now I don’t even know if she’d even look at me, let alone forgive me.”

Reed sighed, walking over to Johnny. He placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and spoke to him the way he did when Johnny was younger. “Maybe it’s not about forgiveness, Johnny. Maybe it’s about the truth. About giving her back what was stolen.” He looked over to the chip, regret flickering through his calm voice. 

“So now we try. It doesn't matter if it’s too late.” Sue added. “And it has to be you. It doesn't matter if she slams the door in your face. You try, Johnny, you have to.”

Reed nodded. “We can’t undo what we did. But we can stop letting her carry it alone.”

Johnny stood there, comforted by his sister who’d always been his mother figure, and Reed who, no matter how much they bickered everyday, had also always been there for him in ways only a father could. 

He didn’t know if it was possible, he didn’t know what came next. But he knew he had to try. 

He was coming to get you. 

Guilty, guilty, reaching out across the sea

That you put between you and me

Thomasville, Georgia, was quiet that sunny Sunday morning.

Church bells rang in the distance, families walked out of diners with paper bags of pancakes, the people on the streets moving at that slow pace that belonged to small towns.

Johnny Storm had never felt more out of place.

He could’ve flown there. Part of him wanted to, he loved traveling in that fast, fiery streak across the sky. But he couldn’t risk it. If the news caught him flying in some random town instead of New York and you saw it, you might vanish before he ever got close, and he couldn’t lose you again. So he flew into the nearest big city instead, rented a shiny black pickup truck that in his head looked appropriate for his trip, and drove for hours to your town across red, yellow and orange trees with the windows down, letting the autumn air cool down the heat gnawing inside him. 

He hadn't been able to find your address on public records, so he chose to start by the community college first. The campus was almost empty that Sunday, only a few students lingered by the library steps. He stepped down his huge pickup with sunglasses on, the less flashy pair he owned, and a cap to cover his distinct blond hair. Johnny kept his head down, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, slipping past unnoticed. 

The directory board near the main entrance gave him what he needed. Your office number. He dodged a custodian pushing a cart, and ducked past a pair of students glued to their books. His heart pounded louder with every turn until finally, he found it.

The office.

The door was unlocked, strangely enough since there was no one inside. But when he stepped in, he understood why. The space was…bare. If your name wasn’t on the door, he would've thought no one worked there. He saw a desk, a neat stack of papers on it, and a clean chalkboard. No photos. No plants. No little trinkets to claim the space as yours.

Johnny closed the door softly behind him, his chest aching as his eyes traced the emptiness. There was no warmth, no spark of you. It was efficient, practical, almost…detached. Like you could walk away without leaving a trace. And Johnny realized, with a sick twist of his stomach, that your trauma had a shape. Four walls, stripped bare, a life lived like you might vanish again tomorrow.

“You never let yourself settle,” Johnny whispered to the empty room.

Because six years ago, they had made you leave your home with nothing. Because you had learned the hard way that belonging could be ripped away overnight. The guilt pressed down harder on his chest, almost suffocating. Johnny shoved those feelings away, he was on a mission to try to fix all of that. 

He rounded your desk, and checked the papers on it first. Faculty memos, notes, nothing relevant. His hands went through the drawers, he found more notes, a few bags of snacks, and finally, a folded bill, with your address printed clear at the top.

“Bingo,” he grinned. 

He shoved it in his pocket, then tugged at the next drawer but nothing happened, it was locked. He grinned wider, because if there was anything Johnny Storm liked, was sticking up his nose where he shouldn't. And he’d known you long enough to remember you used to hide things in plain sight. All he had to do was scan the desk until he found a small key tucked inside a pencil holder. 

Typical.

At first, it was nothing remarkable. Just research notes, class grades, tests drafts. But then his hand found envelopes tucked deeper. He pulled them out, and found letters with your handwriting, but no stamps, no addresses. Letters that were never meant to be sent. But his brow furrowed when he noticed his name on the first one.

My Johnny.

He flipped to the next. 

Dear Johnny.

Then the next.

Johnny.

And then the last one. 

For him.

You wrote to him, even when there was no hope, even when he was never going to read them. He clutched the envelopes, his heart fracturing when he realized he went from being called yours to someone you couldn't name anymore, not even on paper. 

He took a deep breath, ready to read what the first one said, but before he could take out the folded letter out of the envelope, the doorknob rattled.

He didn’t even have time to panic. He shut the drawer in a rush, and dropped down to his knees with the stack of the envelopes clutched tightly against his chest, crawling under the desk just as the door creaked open. The sound of heavy footsteps filled the room. Someone was walking up to the desk. Was it you? 

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God–

“Yeah, I’m in your office now,” a man’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “Where’s that document you said you needed?”

Johnny’s eyes went wide. That man seemed to be on the phone. With you. He couldn’t make out clearly what you were saying, not from where he crouched, but the knowledge that you were there, so close, closer than you’d been in six years, nearly made him throw up. 

That, and also the fact that someone was on the other side of the desk and if they decided to round it, they would find the Human Torch hiding like a fucking thief.

The man hummed at whatever your response was, rifling through the stack of papers on top of the desk until he found it. “Ah, here. You owe me, Professor.” He chuckled. 

And then, faint but unmistakable, Johnny heard your laugh carrying from the other side of the line. God, he’d forgotten what it sounded like. Six years apart, and the first time he heard your laugh again, it wasn’t for him.

“Lucky for you, I was passing by campus today.” He said. Then his voice shifted, to a more playful tone Johnny knew too well. “By the way…have you thought about that coffee yet?”

Johnny stiffened under the desk. The man had an ease to him, the kind of thing that wasn’t forced. He wasn’t pushing, just…trying. He leaned closer so he could hear what you said to that. And that’s when he heard it again, your laugh. Like he was the funniest man alive, and it twisted Johnny’s insides. 

“John, I’m always flattered with the offer.”

John? Another John?

Jealousy wasn't something Johnny had felt in a long time. But at that moment, a million questions popped in his head in a matter of seconds. 

Who was he? How did you know him? Why did you ask for his help? Why were you laughing so much? Was he blond too? What car did he drive–

“But you know I’m busy, so I’m going to–”

“...Reject me, I know, I know.” John finished your sentence, and laughed under his breath, almost like he was expecting it. Johnny had to cover his mouth before he sighed in relief. “I’m used to it. But it's always worth a try, though.”

Always??

Before Johnny could lose it under that desk, it seemed like this “John” was finally about to leave, but stopped midway. “This may sound weird, but your office feels too…warm. I know it’s autumn, but how much do you crank up the heating?” He snorted, looking around the room.

Johnny cursed in his head. He hadn't even realized his temperature had risen significantly with all the jealousy. Not that he would ever admit it out loud, though.

“Huh, yeah, that’s weird. I always turn it off when I’m not there. Must be your imagination.” You joked.

“Or your voice,” John flirted. If you could even call that flirting, in Johnny’s very humble opinion. He grimaced, and thankfully, you protested too. “Alright, alright sorry. Let me get this to you and I’ll be out of your way.” He joked. 

“Okay…thank you, Captain Walker.” 

Captain Walker? Why did that sound flirty? Why did “John” laugh at that? Was it an inner joke? Was he an actual captain?

Johnny had to see this man right now.

But before he could spiral any further and create scenarios in his head, the line clicked off. He held his breath, waiting for the man to leave. Finally, the footsteps shifted toward the door, and Johnny couldn’t stop himself. He tucked the four envelopes on the inside of his jacket, and then he lifted himself up just enough to peek over the desk. 

He couldn’t see his face as he walked away, but with the way he carried himself, he was probably handsome. His hair was darker than Johnny’s but still blond, most likely with the same blue eyes to match. Taller, broader, the kind of frame that filled a doorway without trying. He wore a dark red flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, worn jeans, and brown cowboy boots. The outfit screamed southern man on a Sunday.

Finally, the guy left the office, leaving him alone again.

Johnny should’ve been glad you’d turned him down, at least for a moment he was. The thought that you’d smiled politely, laughed softly, and still said no soothed the part of him that was still in love with you.

The guy seemed kind, and didn't really come off as a creep. He was a captain, apparently. He sucked at flirting, according to Johnny, but you seemed to laugh genuinely at his attempts…you seemed comfortable. Now Johnny only knew him from that short interaction, but he felt like the type of guy who looked steady, rooted…safe. The type of man who looked like he belonged there. 

The type of man you would've said yes to.

But something gnawed at the back of his head. The delusional part of himself thought that maybe you’d rejected that guy because you still remembered him. But then, the darker part of him whispered in his ear that it was actually because of what he did to you, and you couldn't risk another heartbreak.

The same way you didn’t seem to get attached to spaces, like your office, maybe you didn’t let yourself get attached to people either.

Johnny’s heart pounded in his chest as he drove to your home. He didn’t really have a plan…or words. What could he say after six years? What could possibly fit into a sentence when what he did to you should be a lifetime of apologies?

All he knew was that he had to see you. 

When he finally turned down your street, the world seemed to slow. It was a beautiful place, for sure. Orange leaves fell from the trees lining up the street, landing in the gardens of the houses. It was quiet around, yet it looked so lived in. Johnny parked a few houses down, and he sat there for a long moment, just staring at his shaking hands. He finally gathered the courage to get out of the car, and looked for the house with the same number he found in the bill he got from your office. He finally found it, and he stood right in front of it. 

Your home.

A single story painted in soft baby blue with a beautiful porch. A little rocking white bench sat out front, and plants that looked cared for lined the steps in mismatched pots. 

You built this, he thought. Without us. Without me.

Each step to the porch felt heavier, like he was walking straight into a storm. He ran his hand over the wooden railing, steadying himself, letting the softness of the blue paint calm him down. He paused at the door, looking down at the doormat that said Welcome! 

He chuckled nervously under his breath, but something in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Right by the door, there were two pairs of rainboots. One black, the other shiny red. It would've been a normal thing, if it wasn't for the fact that the red ones looked too small to belong to you. Johnny tilted his head, but the nerves running through his body didn’t really let him think clearly. So he just shrugged it off. Maybe some kid from the neighbors had left them there. It seemed like the type of neighborhood where everyone knew everyone and everyone shared everything. 

He took one last deep breath, and finally knocked on your door. 

The time is near

What would he do if he found us out?

He's gonna burn this house to the ground

The knock that would change your life echoed through the quiet of the house. You finished slipping your sports shoes on, frowning at the sound. Sunday afternoons were calm, Leo was already at the neighbor’s so you didn't get interrupted as you got ready for your shift at the bar. You weren’t expecting anyone.

And when you opened the creaky wood door, you certainly weren’t expecting Johnny Storm to be standing right outside the mesh screen.

It felt like a bucket of ice water just got dumped on you. 

The last rays of golden sunlight hit him perfectly, catching on that familiar blonde hair you saw everyday on a smaller version of him. Your eyes went over the sharp lines of his face, ones you had spent years trying to erase from your memory. It was him, without a doubt. A few years older. Real. But somehow missing that boyish spark you were so used to seeing on him.

For a moment you didn’t move, you didn’t breathe, you couldn’t even if you tried. It felt like the air had been stolen right out of your lungs.

And Johnny? He was no different. Because even though he knew he was seeing you that day, he wasn’t prepared for this version of you. The one whose eyes told him you were still haunted by everything he had taken away from you. And you were so real, not a memory, not a brief visit in his dreams, not a picture on a presentation yet he looked at you like he’d seen a ghost.

Because that’s what you were, his ghost, his lost six years.

The mesh door separated you like a thin wall, but the weight of lost time pressed through it. Your face was stunned, eyes wide like you were seeing death itself. Because that’s what he was to you.

But this time what died didn’t stay dead, and it was standing on your porch, right in front of you. 

The pain of it all hit you immediately, like it never left. You remembered the way he’d said everything all those years ago, his voice harsh and determined. Words that had followed you through every lonely night, every rock of your baby’s cradle, every time you told yourself you’d never trust again.

And now he dared to show up at the house you built with the bricks they threw at you.

Your heart rushed, panic replacing your anger. The only thought racing in your head was Leo. He came for Leo. He found you somehow, and now he was going to take your son away.

“J…” Your voice broke trying to say his name; it had been buried in your throat for years. But saying it felt wrong, unnatural, like dragging open an old wound. 

His own breath hitched, his eyes getting glassy before he could stop them. “God…” He whispered. “It’s you. It’s really you.”

For a moment, neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. You stared at him as if he might vanish like he always did in your dreams. He would be doing you a favor anyways, you’d much rather be safe and stranded, than giving someone the chance to hurt you again. 

Your fingers gripped the edge of the doorframe to ground you, and the words tumbled out before you could stop them, sharp and defensive. 

“What are you doing here?”

Johnny flinched, just slightly, like the sound of your voice had cut him. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing. 

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said softly. “For a long time.”

Your stomach twisted. Panic and fury knotted together in your chest, and you shook your head. “You shouldn’t have.”

He took a small step closer, seeing the fire in your eyes, yet still he dared to ask. “Can I…come in? Please. We need to talk.”

“I don’t think you should.” The answer came firm, unhesitant. 

The firmness in your voice startled even you. His face fell, taken aback, like he hadn’t expected you to stand so solid, to draw a line in the sand. Six years ago, you’d begged. Six years ago, you’d folded under the weight of their disbelief.

But not anymore.

Johnny cleared his throat, his voice breaking as he tried again. “Just–just a conversation. I swear. We really need to talk.”

For a moment, you wanted to shut the door. To bolt it and keep the small, safe world you’d built intact. But his eyes…always those eyes. Wide, glassy, unguarded. And against every instinct, against every scar, you found yourself unlatching the mesh door. It creaked open, and you stepped aside.

Johnny crossed the threshold like he was walking into another world.

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving him standing awkwardly in the small living room. Johnny’s eyes darted everywhere at once, taking it all in. The scent of lemon freshness, the warmth of afternoon light across your light cream walls, the faint clutter of everyday life, papers stacked on the table, faint scuff marks on the wooden floor, a blanket folded neatly on the couch. It wasn’t the Baxter Building. It wasn’t glass and striking colors and grandeur. It was a home. Your home.

And Johnny Storm stood in the middle of it, stunned, feeling like he had no right to breathe the same air.

“You can uh…sit,” you said quietly, gesturing to the couch near the door, trying to keep him from looking closer and finding something that could hint at a child living in the house. 

He obeyed without question, lowering himself onto the cushions. They sank beneath his weight, too soft, too comfortable. Nothing like the Baxter couches, firm, pristine. This one probably carried the wear and tear of movie nights and lazy weekends. He wasn’t sure the last time he had something like that. Still, no matter how comfy, Johnny sat stiffly, hands clasped trying not to fidget.

You hovered nearby, nervous, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Do you…want something to drink?”

For a second, he softened. The offer was familiar, like the ghost of old times when you’d fuss over whether he wanted a soda or coffee before turning into your assistant for long nights in the lab. His lips twitched, almost a smile, but the nerves won out.

“No. I’m fine.” He said, voice awkward.

You crossed your arms, finally steadying yourself enough to meet his gaze. “Then say what you came to say. I don’t really have much time.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I have to go to work.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “Work? On a Sunday night? Classes aren’t–“

“It’s not college. I have something else on the weekends.” You didn’t elaborate further, you didn’t need to.

Something in his chest sank, knowing you had another job, a side job. You, who once had the whole future wide open in the palm of your hand, who got everything promised when you were selected to work on Reed’s lab, becoming one of them, now pulling late shifts somewhere just to make ends meet.

Johnny swallowed the lump in his throat, understanding without you spelling it out. You needed the income. The silence stretched until it strangled him, until he couldn’t keep those words inside anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, then leaned forward, voice already breaking. “I’m so goddamn sorry for everything. For not believing you. For letting you walk out of that tower like you were nothing when you were–when you were everything. I know it wasn’t you. I know now.”

Words…how little they mean, when they’re a little too late. 

Johnny dragged a shaking hand down his face when you just blinked at him. “I found the root of the leak…some nano chip that was hidden inside your watch. I know you told us–you said it was glitching, that it wasn’t you. Someone planted it there, got your information and used you to cover their tracks. And we–” He stopped for a moment to breathe, to steady his voice. “We let them. We handed you over without a fight. I–I did.”

Hearing Johnny say those words should’ve made you jump into his arms and kiss the tears away. Should’ve shattered you into granting him the sweet light of your forgiveness. Six years ago, you would have. Six years ago, you would have fallen to your knees just to hear them, would’ve clung to the smallest scrap of his belief.

It was the apology you had begged for in the dark, the one you had prayed might come. For years, you had whispered those words into your pillow, written them down in letters addressed to the fire, waited for the day he would arrive and tell you what you already knew.

But that day never came.

Not until the years had worn the edge off the pain. Not until you’d forced yourself to move forward. For your sake…for Leo’s. Still, that didn’t make it any easier for you. 

You could see it in him…the wreckage. His eyes wet, voice cracked with regret, chest rising and falling too fast. He was crushed under the same weight you’d carried alone for so long. As his chest ached with the same heartbreak yours once did, you stood still, lips sealed tight, arms crossed to protect yourself. 

That silence killed Johnny. And he had no one else to blame but himself. 

“I should’ve believed you.” His last choked apology came in a whisper, barely audible. 

Johnny stood up from the couch, but didn’t get closer. His fire buzzed under his skin, begging to flare to burn the ache down, but he forced it off. The last thing he wanted was to scorch this place, your place, the home you had built from the ashes he’d left you in.

You swallowed hard when he did, but you said nothing. You didn’t uncross your arms. Didn’t break…not yet. 

“Please,” he begged. “Don’t just look at me like that.”

When you said nothing, again, he staggered back a step, his hands dropping to his sides like he was keeping himself from reaching for you. 

“God, I deserve this,” he mumbled, more to himself. His eyes glistened, fixated on some mark on the floor. “Six years. I–” His throat closed, he had to force his voice out. “Six fucking years, and you won’t even say my name.”

No. You couldn’t. 

“I would’ve died to hear those words back then.”

His head snapped up. The sound of your voice, steady but laced with ache, tore through him like fire.

You shook your head, a bitter laugh made its way out. “I waited…God, I waited. For you to reach out, for any of you to show up at my door and say you didn’t believe it, that you hadn’t given up on me. But nothing came.”

Johnny’s lips parted, eyes wide, but this time it was him reeling in silence.

“I wrote letters,” you whispered, arms still crossed. “Letters addressed to no one. Words I knew you’d never read…just so I could breathe. Just so I could put the pain somewhere.”

Tears clouded Johnny’s eyes, he could almost feel the papers in your hands, the ghost of your handwriting spelling his name. My Johnny. Dear Johnny. For him. 

The last one when you couldn’t even withstand the thought of his name anymore. 

“And still…I couldn’t make it go away by making you the villain. I tried–believe me I did, because out of all of them I expected you to be the one to stand by me. But you just–” Your voice faltered when tears finally found their way out of your eyes. “You didn’t believe me.”

The little sobs you tried to muffle with your hand were unbearable for him. For a moment, he looked like he might collapse under the weight of your words, but he pushed through. He had to make you understand his side of the story. 

“I didn’t give up on you, not at first.” He said, words coming out desperate. “I studied it…in secret. Every night, I went over the reports, the logs, everything I could get my hands on. I couldn’t–God, I wouldn’t believe it. Not you. Not the girl who lived in the tower with us, who was family, who was…who was everything to me.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, pacing once before turning back toward you. “But the evidence was there, every file, every trace led back to things only you would know, and I was too blind to see past that. But all this time–” He reached into his jacket, fingers brushing the broken edges of your old watch. “It was sitting on my nightstand…the proof–that fucking chip inside your watch. It was right there all along…and I didn’t see it until six years too late.”

The revelation that he kept your watch on his nightstand shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did. He’d kept a piece of you close to him…next to him. Yet still, he decided you weren’t worth the benefit of the doubt. 

“The problem,” you said dryly, “is that you needed the evidence at all. If you’d just listened to me–” Your voice cracked, but you forced yourself to hold his gaze. “If you’d just trusted me back then, everything would be different today.”

“I wanted to,” he rasped, too unsteady, too quickly. “God, I wanted to believe you more than anything. But I didn’t know how. I didn’t know how to choose my heart over proof and I hate myself for that…I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

You stared at him for a moment, then shook your head. “You’re asking for something I can’t give you now,” you whispered. “I don’t know if I ever can.”

“I’ll take it.” He whispered back, wiping the tears away with the back of his sleeve. “Whatever you’ll give me, I’ll take it. I just needed you to know I was sorry. That I was wrong.”

Silence stretched, until you finally forced yourself to ask what you’ve been dying to know since you saw him at your doorstep, your arms tightening across your chest. 

“How did…how did you even find me?”

Your stomach twisted, braced for the answer you feared most. That he wasn’t here for you at all. That the apology was just some excuse. That he was here to rip Leo from your arms, to take the only piece of safety you had left.

“Through one of your students…Kate. She showed a photo at a presentation. You were there…next to her.” He explained. “I thought I’d gone insane. I thought I was seeing ghosts. But it was you.”

Kate.

Shit.

You swallowed hard. It had been you who’d told her to apply, who’d guided her steps closer to the program you should’ve kept far away from. You had been so careful with her application, keeping your name out of it, yet it was a variable you couldn't control that made your face find its way back to him. 

It still felt like your fault. 

The walls of the house suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier, warmer but not in a good way. Suffocating. For six years you’d kept yourself invisible, careful to erase every trace, and now you’d been found…because of your own slip.

Johnny saw the realization hit your features. Your frantic eyes told him how much you didn’t want to be found, how he was considered a danger to the little world you lived in now, and it ripped his heart more. He took a shaky step back, his hands half raised like he needed to show he wasn’t a threat. 

“God, I knew it. After everything I did, after what we put you through, of course you don’t want me here…and you don’t owe me anything, but I’ll take whatever scraps you’ll give me. Just–” He ran his hands through his already messy hair. “…Just don’t be afraid of me.”

You just stood there, letting your gaze drift over him. His posture a little heavier, his face more lined, but still so unmistakably Johnny Storm. Still handsome in that way that made your stomach twist…like seeing an ex. 

And the resemblance…God. It was astounding.

Your throat tightened as your eyes flicked from his face to the memory of your son’s. The same blond hair, the same damn smile when he was feeling mischievous. Leo was a mirror of him, down to quirks he didn’t even know he shared.

You knew if Johnny looked too long into your eyes, he might see the fear was not for you, but for Leo. So you forced yourself to blink, to pull the thought back into the cage where it belonged. Johnny didn’t know. Couldn’t know. 

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said at last, steadying your voice. “It’s just…shocking. Seeing you after all these years.” 

“Yeah…feels the same way for me.”

For a moment, Johnny let himself breathe, let himself believe just being there with you was enough, that he’d gotten farther than he thought he would. He sat back down on the couch, trying to steady himself from the weight of it all, but the silence stretched, and something gnawed at him. A pang in his chest, a whisper at the back of his mind.

Something was missing.

He tore his gaze from you, eyes drifting quickly across the place like answers might be hiding in the corners. It wasn’t like the tower, not polished, not curated. This house showed it was lived in. The open small kitchen was the room that first caught his eye. On the breakfast counter that faced the living room, three different kinds of cereal sat half open. A small wooden stool sat beneath the sink on the counter by the window, and in the drying rack, a mug and an orange plastic cup with a built-in straw sat side by side. A metal lunchbox was nearby, plain, blue, nothing flashy, but it didn’t quite fit as yours alone.

That’s when he remembered the tiny boots at the entrance. Everything lined up too perfectly, too unmistakable. Johnny came to the conclusion that someone else shared this space with  you. Someone with smaller steps, different routines than a normal person…it was a family’s home, without a doubt. Johnny’s chest tightened, and his eyes darted again, searching for just one more clue…

And then he saw it.

By the small tv center, half hidden in the corner, a toy box. Brightly painted, clearly well loved by the scratches on it. From the top poked the unmistakable shape of a toy car, the front wheels worn from too many races across the floor. His eyes widened, locked on the toy poking out, his entire body going still.

You followed his line of sight, dread flooding through your body. He’d seen it.

The toy. The truth. And you knew in that second there was no taking it back.

Johnny’s gaze stayed fixed on the little car. He didn’t say it right away…he couldn’t. The truth pressed the back of his throat, suffocating, but if he spoke it aloud, it would be real. So instead, he gaslighted himself for a little longer, forcing his voice to come out.

“Didn’t know you had a nephew,” he said, nodding faintly toward the corner. “Guess I missed a lot.”

It was subtle, almost casual, not accusatory. But you could hear the crack beneath the words, the real intention under his tone. He was pretending not to know. Pretending, maybe for both your sakes.

You hesitated, lips parting before closing again, thinking you could lie. You could nod and let him believe it, let the moment slip away. But his eyes…God, his eyes were already on you, glistening, waiting for you to tell the truth he couldn't. 

“It’s not a nephew.” Was all you said. 

No lie. Not the full truth either.

And what once was a forgotten night of too many drinks between two idiots in love, turned into two strangers, standing inches apart, knowing damn well what that child was.

Johnny pushed up from the couch, his legs unsteady but determined. He couldn’t sit any longer, he needed to be closer. To force that truth face to face. But when he stepped closer to you, his eyes caught on something on the corner of his eye.

A wall that led to a hallway, covered in frames. He drifted toward it instinctively, drawn like a moth to flame.

You moved quickly, your hand half reaching for his arm to stop him, his name tumbling out of your lips in desperation. “Johnny–”

But he pushed past you, and soon was standing there. Right in front of the wall of photographs. Dozens of them. A curated display of moments of a little kid. 

A newborn in a hospital blanket, tiny fists curled tight. A toddler, grinning wide as frosting smeared his cheeks at a birthday table, a number two on the cake. A four year old, probably, holding up a plant with proud little hands. And the one where he looked the oldest, standing proudly next to an experiment with a “winner” badge at a science fair. It could’ve been that same week for all he knew. And multiple more, across all stages of his little life.

The kid’s face looked back at him like a mirror from the past. His past. Just younger, innocent. Same hair, same smile, same spark. He reached out, fingertips shaking as they hovered over the glass.

All the paths led there. To that house. To that wall. To that smile.

To you.

Johnny’s mind went to that gala night. That one damn night. Too much champagne, too much fire, laughter and kisses that blurred into a night he could never forget. But it had been just one. One night you'd both decided it was a mistake, an impulse, a result of recklessness. 

And yet here, before his eyes, was proof of everything that night had left behind.

“God…” he whispered, barely audible.

An entire childhood he had missed.

Your son.

His–?

Johnny’s hand lingered on the frame. His own reflection in the glass, overlapping with the kid’s smile, and it felt like a cruel trick. His chest heaved, his head spinning.

“No,” he said under his breath, shaking his head. “No, it was…it was just one night.” His voice cracked in denial. “That gala, that was all it was. Just one night.”

His eyes darted across the wall again. Newborn, toddler, child, and every photo twisted the knife deeper. He staggered back a step, and finally, he forced himself to turn to you, his gaze pinning you to the spot.

“Tell me he’s not who I think he is.” He begged. “Please. Tell me I didn’t miss it–tell me I didn’t miss the most important part of your life–” His voice cracked, devastated, “–of mine.”

The plea rattled the air between you, thick with panic, with grief, with the sharp edge of a truth he couldn’t bear to face. His eyes glassy and desperate, burning with fire he couldn’t control, the heat searing just beneath his skin. And you couldn't, for the life of you, say anything. 

“God, please,” he whispered, his throat closing around the words. “Don’t let it be true. Don’t tell me I’ve lost all those years I'll never get back. Don’t tell me he’s–”

He cut himself off, choking on the last word.

And you knew. You knew the cat was out of the bag. No turning back, no denying it, no hiding Leo in the corners of your little world anymore. His father stood right here, breaking, begging you to undo what couldn’t be undone.

Johnny stared at you. He’d begged, he’d pleaded, he’d prayed you’d deny it. That you’d laugh, shake your head, shove him out the door and tell him he was insane. That you went out and had a child with someone who looked exactly like him as revenge. 

But you didn’t. 

“I’m sorry, Johnny.” Was all you could say. 

He blinked the tears away, and with a shaky exhale he finally claimed what was undoubtedly his. “He’s mine.”

You couldn’t even speak. Couldn’t force the words out. All you could do was nod, slow, aching, like it was tearing you apart to admit it.

“He’s my son,” he said, voice breaking again.

His eyes darted back to the wall of photos, all the years he’d missed staring back at him. Six years of a life he should’ve known. Six years of first steps, first words, laughter, birthdays. Johnny looked like the ground had opened beneath him. Face pale, stunned, his lips parted but no sound came out. Your instincts told you to grab Leo, to run, to keep him safe. But Johnny’s face…it was wrecked. It wasn’t fair for him.

So instead, you grabbed his arm lightly, steadying him, and guided him back toward the couch. He sank into the cushions without resistance, his hands shaking on his knees.

“I’ll get you some water,” you whispered.

You set the glass down in front of him, but he didn’t touch it, just stared through it like it wasn’t there. The shock ran like a chill through his body. 

Johnny was part of a family that had been torn apart when his mother passed. Every time he thought about having his own, he prayed for something complete. Not broken, not tarnished, not…this. Not a son who didn’t know he existed. 

Of course he remembered the name from the application. Leo Spencer. Still, he had to ask, he needed one more confirmation. 

“What’s his name?”

You took a deep breath, and said that same name he was dreading. “Leo.” Your voice cracked, so you cleared your throat. “…Spencer.”

There it was. Spencer. 

“When was he born?”

“February 18th," you said quietly.

Johnny’s head snapped up. His head doing the math quicker than he ever thought he could. You must've been around three months when everything went down. 

“You knew,” he said, voice accusing now. “You already knew. Before–before we…” He trailed off, gathering the strength to continue.“Why?” He blurted. “Why didn’t you tell us? Tell me?” He shook his head. “It could’ve changed everything. God, you should’ve told me.”

You couldn't even look at him, because you had asked yourself that same question a thousand times in the dark. Your hands twisted together, nails biting into your palms as you forced yourself to meet his eyes. 

“I didn’t tell you because…because before that night, we were nothing,” you said. “Just two idiots who got too drunk and crossed a line. You said it yourself, it was just one night. You joked about it.”

The words tasted like lies, because you knew damn well you were in love with him. Still were, no matter how hard you tried to burn it out of yourself. But it was easier to paint it as nothing than to admit how much of you had always been his.

“And after what happened? After Reed found that so called evidence, after he told me I had to be gone, after you–” Your voice broke, eyes burning. “After you didn't fight for me? I wasn’t going to raise my child in a house that didn’t hesitate to throw me out like I was nothing. I wasn’t going to let my baby live in a place where family turned on me without blinking.”

Johnny just listened, because he didn’t have an argument for that. 

“I wanted him safe,” you mumbled. “Safe in a way I wasn’t. And I tried–I swear to God, Johnny, I tried to tell you when I asked to speak to you. But you wrecked me before I ever got the chance. You wouldn’t even look at me without that look…like I’d betrayed you.”

Your throat closed, but you forced the last words out.

“So I didn’t say anything. Because you didn’t deserve it.”

He realized just how much he’d really lost. Not just six years, not just the kid on the wall, but the pieces of you that he never had the courage to claim as his, long before that night. For a heartbeat he sat frozen, but when his hands went to cover his face, he broke.

The sound just ripped out of him, raw, sobbing. His shoulders hunched forward, his body folding in on itself as if he could hide from the truth but he couldn’t. Not from this. Not from you.

“God, I’m sorry,” he choked. “I’m so fucking sorry. I should’ve–” He cut himself off, a sob tearing free. “You were right there, and I–I didn’t listen. I didn’t believe–I should’ve fought for you.” Tears streamed hot down his face, his chest heaving. “You tried. And I–” His hands dropped uselessly to his lap.“I destroyed you. I destroyed everything.”

Before he could stop himself, his hand reached out to your figure in front of him. His hand hovered in the air, hesitant, fingers almost brushing yours, asking for something he knew he had no right to.

Still, he asked. “Please. Just let me hold your hand. Just–just for a second. I don’t care if it’s the last time.”

The man who always stood cocky and unshakable in front of the world was reduced to this. Broken, sobbing, begging at your feet for the smallest piece of forgiveness. And in his blue eyes, through the tears, you could see the guy you had loved with all your soul. The guy who had been yours…kind of.

So you let him hold you, just for a moment. Johnny’s warm hand shook against yours, his fingers curling carefully, like he was afraid you’d pull it back if he held too tight. His breathing evened out, his sobs softening until the room fell heavy again with silence. But then his lashes lifted, his eyes still wet as they flicked toward the hallway. 

“…Is he here? In his room?”

Your whole body stiffened, and he felt it with the way your hand tensed against him. 

Johnny took a deep breath, thumb brushing your knuckles as though he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “I just…I need to see him. Please.”

That was when you yanked your hand back, shaking your head profusely. “That’s not happening.”

Johnny froze, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. 

“You can’t see him,” you said firmly. “You can’t take him away. He’s all I have, Johnny. The only thing I have.”

And Johnny sat there stunned, gutted that you’d think that, realizing he wasn’t just fighting for your forgiveness anymore, but fighting for the right to see a son he hadn’t even touched.

“No. God–no. I would never take him from you.” He shook his head, pleading for you to believe him. “I swear on everything I am, I would never do that.” He reassured, pressing a hand to his chest. “But I need to see him, please. I have to. He’s mine. He’s my son.”

“But he’s my whole world, Johnny. And I can’t let anyone risk that.” You shook your head, stepping farther away from him.

Johnny couldn’t exactly blame you. He understood where the fear came from, but he’d be damned if he managed to find you and his son only to be told to go back to his life. 

This was his life now.

“I have a right to see him. To know him. To look at his face and not just through pictures on a wall.” He pressed, his eyes searched yours as you forced distance between you. “I’m his father.”

You had spent years building a wall around you and Leo, years convincing yourself you could keep him safe by keeping the world out, by moving to a small town where the Fantastic Four were nothing but big city superheroes. But now Johnny was sitting here, away from his big city, claiming that word like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Father.

Johnny’s lips parted, trying one more time. “I…I don’t want to take him from you. I just want to see him. Please, I’m begging you.”

You wiped at your cheeks quickly, forcing yourself to stand taller even as the word father rang in your ears. You drew in a shaky breath, keeping your tone as steady as you could.

“He’s not here,” you confessed. “My neighbor takes care of him when I’m working late shifts at the bar.”

Johnny blinked. The bar. The image of you, the woman who once lived and laughed in the tower, now pouring beer for drunk men on a Sunday, broke him. 

You glanced at the clock on the wall, your face scowling. “Shit.” You reached to grab your jacket from a chair. “I’m so late. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow if you want to see him.”

You stepped past him, toward the door, until his hand closed around your wrist. The warmth of his touch froze you in place.

“I can’t wait anymore.” His grip on your wrist was not tight, not forceful, just begging. “I’ve already lost so much. Please don’t make me lose another day.”

“Johnny–”

“Don’t go.” His voice cracked as his eyes searched yours. “Please. Don’t go.”

“I can’t just ditch work,” you snapped, panic rising in your throat. “I need it.”

“I’ll figure something out,” he said quickly, desperate. “Whatever it takes, I’ll fix it–I’ll cover it. But please. Not tonight. Not when I just found you again.”

The plea broke something in you. His hand on your wrist, his voice hesitant, the way his eyes begged. Your pride told you to yank your wrist back like you’d done before and tell him no, but the whole encounter had taken a toll on you, and you weren’t sure you could withstand a shift like that. So you exhaled, then finally gave the smallest nod. You pulled your wrist gently from his hand, not harsh, just needing space to breathe. 

“I uh–I need to make a call first,” you announced, and he nodded, stepping back so you could walk to the telephone on the wall.

Johnny watched as you gave him your back, and dialed the number with shaky fingers, the line ringing a few times before someone picked up. By the looks of it, it was your boss most likely, from the way you stumbled over a lie about Leo being sick. Johnny flinched when he heard the scolding from the other side of the line as you mumbled apologies for the short time notice. 

God, he needed to fix all this mess. 

You set the phone back with a sigh, and turned to him. “I’ll bring him home,” you said, then walked closer to him to plead just like he’d done before. “But you have to promise me you won’t take him away, Johnny…please. Don’t make me regret this.”

He stepped closer, hands raised in surrender. “You won’t,” he assured. “I’m sorry for leaving you alone to do this by yourself. I’ll never stop being sorry. But I can promise you this, I won’t take him away. Not from his mom. Not from you.”

You nodded, choosing to believe, slipping your jacket on to walk into the cold of the night. “Wait here,” you said. “I’ll go pick him up from my neighbor’s.”

Johnny only nodded, shoulders hunched, his hands lowered and clasped together like he was trying to keep himself from reaching for you again. His eyes followed you to the door, until you slipped away. 

You’d forgotten how warm a room became when Johnny was in it. The night air hit you as you stepped outside, crisp and cool, making you shiver. The street was dim, only the soft glow of porch lights guiding your path as you walked to the house across from yours. Your eyes went to the huge fancy pickup truck parked just a few houses down, which had to be Johnny’s, for sure. You rolled your eyes, of course. Rubbing your arms as you walked, legs moving on autopilot, every voice in your head screaming to scoop Leo up and vanish before it was too late. But it was already too late. Johnny was inside your house. His ridiculous truck outside. Johnny had seen the photos. Johnny knew.

Back at your place, behind the curtains, Johnny couldn’t sit still. He’d told himself he wouldn’t move, wouldn’t intrude, but his chest was on fire with longing. So he drifted closer to the window, pushing the curtains just enough to peek past the glass.

There you were, on your neighbor’s porch, exchanging a few words with a lovely old lady who looked at you worriedly. Johnny’s breath fogged the glass as he watched you. His heart ached at the sight. You looked so small, so breakable, carrying all of this alone.

You went inside only for a moment, and then you stepped out, cradling a bundle against your chest. The porchlight painted your silhouette in gold, and just beneath it, faint but unmistakable, was the glow of that blonde hair.

Johnny stopped breathing. 

My God.

He scrambled back from the window, clutching the pearls he didn’t have, and set the curtains back in place hoping you hadn't noticed him. By the time you reached your porch, he had forced himself back onto the couch, his hands braced on his knees, trying to look like he hadn’t just witnessed his entire world change in an instant.

The door opened with a quiet creak, and there you were. Your arms wrapped protectively around your son–his son, head resting on your shoulder, lips parted in soft sleep. Johnny shot to his feet immediately. His eyes, glassy and wide, locked on the child in your arms. You nudged Leo’s body only slightly, to see if he realized he was home, but Johnny’s hand twitched forward before he pulled it back, hesitant. 

“Don’t wake him,” he whispered quickly, his voice breaking. “Please–don’t. He looks…peaceful.”

You nodded, shifting only to hold Leo tighter. Johnny stepped closer, just enough to see. His eyes fell on the little face pressed into your shoulder, cheek squished, small eyebrows relaxed. Johnny’s hands stuck at his sides, aching to reach out, but terrified to cross that line.

“He’s… perfect,” he breathed. His knees nearly gave out, but he clung to the sight, drinking it in as if he could catch up on six years in a single heartbeat.

Your son–his son.

Perfect.

“C–can I…?” He mumbled, the words barely making it past his lips, more a plea than a question. His hand lifted a little, hovering helplessly over Leo’s little back, asking for permission to touch the sun.

He wasn’t Johnny Storm, the cocky Human Torch, not here, not now. He was just a man staring at his son for the first time. 

“Careful. He’s a heavy sleeper, but…”

Johnny nodded frantically, like he’d do anything, anything, not to ruin this chance. His hands shook as you carefully, reluctantly shifted Leo into his arms. The kid’s head fell against Johnny’s shoulder, his little hand curling unconsciously into the fabric of Johnny’s shirt.

And Johnny’s whole world stopped.

His arms tightened instinctively, protectively, as his body nearly buckled beneath the weight– not because six year old Leo was heavy, but because he was real, warm, breathing. Not an application form, not a picture…his son. 

Johnny’s lips quivered as he pressed his cheek lightly against the crown of his son’s head, his tears falling into soft blonde hair. “Hi, buddy,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “God, you’re perfect.”

He rocked a little without realizing, clutching him as if he’d disappear. Six years of missed moments collided in his chest all at once. And for the first time since that night at the gala, Johnny felt whole and broken in the same breath. Johnny swayed gently, cradling Leo like he’d done with Franklin a thousand times before. His lips brushed Leo’s hair, a soft kiss he couldn’t stop himself from giving. His chest ached with every quiet breath the child took against him.

You stood frozen, watching them. The sight was enough to undo you. There he was, Johnny Storm, holding his son on a random Tuesday, right in that small town you called home. And the sight unlocked a longing on you that had been buried a long time ago. So you spoke, softly, because the silence was too heavy.

“He wonders about you, you know.”

Johnny’s head jerked up, his glassy eyes wide. “What?” His voice caught between awe and disbelief.

“Leo…he’s brilliant, I think the word smart is too small for him. He’s a little wonder,” you said proudly, trying to smile. “And he asks a lot of questions, about everything, about his dad…about you.”

Johnny’s eyes went wide. “What kinds of questions?” He asked, shifting Leo in his arms just slightly, like he was grounding himself his warmth. “Please, tell me what he wanted to know about me.”

“Everything.” You exhaled, shrugging, eyes dropping to the floor. “If you had the same hair as him. If you liked the same foods. If you could build things the way he does. If you were…funny.” A chuckle slipped out of you. “He even asked once if you were a superhero, I’m not sure why. I told him no, of course, because, well…obvious reasons. Guess I just wanted him to know you’re human. Just human.”

Johnny’s chest caved in, he pressed his lips against Leo’s hair, whispering. “Oh, buddy…”

Your eyes went to the floor, clearing your throat before confessing the last part. “And then he…he asked why you weren’t here. And I–I didn’t know what to say…so I just told him you live far away, and had a very demanding job. That your life is there. And his is here…with me.”

The hesitation in your voice made Johnny’s arms tighten around Leo instinctively. You still looked away, biting down on your lip, but you kept talking, because it was the truth. 

“I couldn’t lie to him. But I couldn’t tell him, either. So I just…I kept you as a distance. An idea. Someone too far away to reach, because that’s what you were to me.”

Johnny, on the other hand, couldn’t stop staring at you. But once again, he didn’t have an argument against that. He shifted, his eyes roaming over Leo’s little face like he was trying to memorize every curve, every eyelash. And then he finally whispered the question that had been clawing at him.

“Does he…?” His throat bobbed, his voice hesitant, almost afraid. “Does he have it? My–my powers?”

You shook your head quickly. “God, no.” Your hand pressed protectively to your chest. “No fire, nothing like that. I watched him like a hawk for years.” You let out a small, nervous laugh, one that carried your relief. “His only superpower is being too smart for his own good.”

Johnny smiled at that, oh he knew. 

“He’s a genius, Johnny. Top of his class. Public school said he needed advanced courses. So I–I work myself to the bone to pay for that private school because he deserves it. Every single opportunity I can give him, I’ll give him.”

Johnny’s arms curled tighter around Leo. “I could've given him so many more opportunities. I could've helped you, he’d have the best teachers in the world right in his own house. But you decided to keep him from me.”

You flinched, clutching your arms tighter around yourself.

“I get it–you didn’t trust my family. Fine. You didn't have to. But me?” His voice cracked, his chest heaving. “You didn’t even give me a chance. You didn’t let me know I had a son. You didn’t let me decide if I could protect him. You just–” He looked down at Leo in his arms, “–you just shut me out.”

“Well, you shut me out first, Johnny!” You whisper shouted, doing your best to not let your anger disturb Leo’s sleep.

“I know,” he whispered, broken. “God, I know I did. But six years–” He shook his head. “Six years I could’ve been here. Six years I could’ve loved him…and you didn’t let me.”

For the first time, it wasn’t just guilt suffocating Johnny. It was grief for the life he’d been denied, the life he might never get back. Your hands balled into fists at your sides, the words came tumbling out, because you couldn’t hold them anymore.

“You really want to know why I didn’t tell you about him?”

Johnny’s lips parted, but no sound came.

“Because I was terrified,” you admitted. “Terrified that if you knew, you’d take him away the second you held him. Because you didn’t trust me. Because you already proved I was disposable.”

“You weren’t–God you weren’t…” He shook his head. “And I would’ve never taken him– but you thought I would. And that’s on me.”

Leo stirred in Johnny’s arms, a soft little whine slipping from his lips as he shifted against his chest. You straightened immediately, your arms twitching as if to take him back.

“He needs to go to bed,” you whispered.

Johnny’s eyes shot to yours, desperate but gentle. “Let me. Please.”

For a long, taut moment you hesitated, torn between instinct and the look on his face. You had already allowed him so much today. But you had also denied him so much already during those years, so you could let him have this at least. 

Together, the three of you walked down the hallway, guiding Johnny, who moved slowly like he was carrying glass. You pushed the door open, and Johnny froze on the threshold.

You turned on a little lamp, the room glowing soft in the warm light, painted in baby blue, with tiny white stars scattered across the ceiling like a sky waiting for wishes. A low bookcase ran along one wall, stacked neatly but already overflowing. It reminded Johnny of Franklin’s back home, except his nephew’s was bigger, neater. This one was fit to Leo’s size. 

He saw multiple posters on the walls. Beautifully illustrated and educational, with names of insects, dinosaurs and galaxies. A half solved massive puzzle was scattered across the carpet, the edge pieces already put together, and in the middle a scattered constellation of tiny hopeful starts. He could tell it was a rocketship mid launch. Next to it was a tower of lego blocks mid construction, like Leo couldn't decide which one would be more fulfilling to finish. In a corner of the room, boxes stored little cars, stuffed animals, and more books. 

His son's little kingdom.

Johnny stepped inside, dodging the puzzle on the floor. He bent carefully, guiding Leo down onto the small bed with its soft, solar system patterned covers. He eased Leo onto his back, smoothing his hair gently, brushing a stray lock off his forehead. The child sighed in sleep, lips parting, lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

Johnny’s chest crumbled.

He leaned down and pressed a small kiss to his son’s forehead, lingering there, his lips hot with tears he couldn’t stop. When he pulled back, his eyes drank in the little face now tilted upwards in the glow of the night light.

So small. So peaceful. So perfect. So his.

And he couldn’t look away. Not from the child he’d just tucked into bed for the very first time, six years too late. You stayed in the doorway at first, leaning against the frame, your arms wrapped around yourself as you watched Johnny kneel by the bed. He was so careful, so gentle, nothing like the energetic golden retriever you once knew. 

As Leo shifted in his sleep, a soft sigh slipping from his lips, you finally stepped into the room. Without a word, you reached past Johnny to pull the little blanket up over your son, tucking it around his shoulders the way you always did. Your fingers brushed Johnny’s hand for the briefest moment.

And for just that moment, just a delusional, fragile second…Johnny let himself picture it.

You, beside him at bedtime. This little room, these blue walls, these stars on the ceiling. A ritual of small hands reaching for him, bedtime stories, goodnight kisses. Not a stolen moment after six years, but your life. The life he should’ve been here for. The life you should’ve had together.

In another universe, it was probably like that. In another universe, he didn't doubt you. In another universe, you didn't have to run. Johnny’s throat ached, trying to keep the dream from spilling out. For one heartbeat, he let himself believe it. 

You adjusted the blanket one last time, smoothing it over Leo’s chest until he let out a tiny snore, and you almost smiled. Johnny’s hand still hovered near the edge of the bed, his eyes glued to the child’s face like he couldn’t believe he was real.

“I’ll never get tired of saying it…I’m sorry,” he whispered, so low it almost vanished in the air. His eyes flicked to you. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for him. I should’ve been here. For the first step, the first word… all of it. I missed everything, and he doesn’t even know I exist.”

“I’m sorry you missed that too,” you whispered back. 

His gaze lifted to you, and he decided not to speak as the man who betrayed you, but as a father. “I promise you…I’ll never let him feel like how I let you feel…alone. I swear it.”

You gave him a nod. That promise wasn't just to you, but to his son.

You flicked off the little lamp by Leo’s bed and the two of you stepped out, leaving the door cracked just a bit. When you reached the living room again, Johnny stopped in his tracks. The room wasn’t just yours anymore. Now that he knew the truth, every detail shifted, every corner sang a different story.

The boxes of cereal on the counter? Leo’s. Not the quick snack of a busy professor, but his kid’s favorite breakfast. The fridge, though he hadn’t really looked at it before, had drawings pinned there with mismatched magnets. Crayon rockets, wobbly stick figure heroes, a very accurate representation of a T-rex. His son’s talent staring him in the face.

The blanket on the couch, the one he’d first seen, wasn’t just yours. It was small, soft, patterned with stars and comets, clearly a child’s. He pictured Leo curled up there, dozing while you graded papers late into the night. Even the stack of books by the TV wasn’t just random clutter. Johnny crouched a little, his breath hitching at the sight of colorful hardcovers. Stories picked by little hands, read again and again. And a huge detail he'd missed, an unmistakable pair of tiny sneakers under the coffee table.   

This was his son’s world. A kingdom built out of your sacrifices, your sleepless nights, your stubborn refusal to let him grow up with less than he deserved.

As Johnny explored, you lingered by the edge of the living room, your arms crossed, eyes flicking uneasily toward the door like you expected it to burst open at any second. What now? The question pressed heavy in your chest. You could almost see it, the rest of the family arriving in the morning, wanting answers, deciding Leo’s fate. The thought made your stomach knot.

You rubbed at your temple, fighting to stay upright, but the weight of the day dragged at you. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving only bone deep fatigue. You yawned before you could stop yourself, covering it quickly with the back of your hand.

Johnny caught it. His brows furrowed, his eyes softening in that way you hated because it made you feel seen. His gaze lingered on your tired shoulders, on the dark circles you’d tried to hide, on the way you still stood like you’d go work another eight hours if you had to.

“You were really gonna work like this?” He asked softly, borderline accusatory. “Dead on your feet. With class tomorrow, too?”

You shrugged, too tired to build your walls back up. “I don’t have a choice.”

Johnny’s stomach twisted. He wanted to scoop you up, tell you you’d never have to push yourself like this again, and tuck you under the covers of your bed. But he knew he didn’t have the right…not yet. So instead, he swallowed the words down, forcing the fire back down. 

“I better get going.”

You blinked at him, surprised.

“Yeah, you uhm–” Johnny started quietly, glancing at the hallway that led to Leo’s room. His voice softened even more. “You need to sleep. And…we’ve got a conversation pending. A big one…but not tonight.”

You were too tired to argue, so you nodded.

“Thank you, for letting me…for letting me see him.” He forced a smile, not cocky, just soft. “It’s more than I thought I could.” He chuckled nervously. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Not in the morning,” you blurted, before you could stop yourself. “It’s always chaos,” you explained quickly. “Getting Leo ready for school. Breakfast, answering his questions, all of it. Just–don’t. Please.”

His eyes softened, his shoulders easing a fraction.

You exhaled and added, “If you want… you can come by the college, after classes…there’s this coffee shop right outside campus.”

Johnny nodded slowly, like he’d been given more than he expected “College…coffee,” he repeated, committing it to memory. “Alright.”

For a moment he just stood by the door, drinking in the sight of you in this beautiful, lived in space that was never meant to carry all this history. 

“Tomorrow after classes,” he whispered again, like a vow, before finally stepping out into the night. The door closed softly behind him, leaving you in silence.

You didn’t know if you were more terrified or relieved that Johnny Storm had found his way back to you.

Did I close my fist around something delicate?

Did I shatter you?

Johnny drove to the hotel on autopilot, barely remembering the turns he took, barely noticing the glow of passing streetlights. His mind was still spinning like the world had been knocked off its axis.

Because it had.

Leo’s weight had been in his arms. He looked at peace sleeping on Johnny’s shoulder, as if it had been the most natural thing in the world. Now, in the dim silence of his hotel room, Johnny sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows braced to his knees, his face buried in his hands, caught somewhere between joy and grief. 

He pressed his hand hard to his eyes, but the images came anyway…Leo, smaller, toddling through the tower halls, Sue fussing over him, Ben sneaking him cookies, Franklin pulling him into games, Reed insisting on checkups. His family.

It should’ve been like that.

Instead, Leo’s bookcase was small because Johnny hadn’t been there to build it bigger. His shoes by the door were scuffed because Johnny hadn’t been there to buy him new ones. His mom worked extra shifts on a damn Sunday because Johnny hadn’t been there to shoulder half the weight.

His son. His brilliant, perfect, wonder of a kid. The one he should’ve known since the very beginning.

He thought about calling Sue. His fingers even hovered over his repaired watch, her name right there. She’d been waiting for him to call and tell her everything. And he knew she’d tear it out of him the second she heard his voice.

But the thought alone made his heart sink.

Telling Sue meant telling everyone. Meant deciding what came next. Meant pulling you into a storm you clearly weren’t ready for. And after tonight, after the way you begged him not to take Leo away, after you let him tuck his son into bed…he couldn’t betray that fragile thread of trust. Not yet. Not when you hadn’t even talked about Leo’s future. Not when you still looked at him like you were half a breath away from running all over again.

So he swallowed the urge, locked it down, and typed out a simple message instead.

Didn’t find her today. I’ll try again tomorrow.

A lie. But one he could live with.

He leaned back against the headboard, and stared at the ceiling for a while, until he decided it was better to rest if he wanted to be ready to face whatever came the next day. He got up to shrug out of his jacket, tossing it carelessly onto the hotel chair, but it landed heavier than it should have.

The letters.

He turned back, snatching the jacket up, shaking the inner pocket until the stolen envelopes spilled onto the bedspread. He sank down beside them, remembering he hadn’t had the chance to read them in your office before “Captain Walker” barged in.

He reached for the first envelope, the oldest. The one dated just weeks after you’d been cast out. He unfolded the page with care, your handwriting staring back at him.

My Johnny

I don’t know why I’m writing this, maybe to remind myself I’m not crazy, maybe to hold onto some piece of what I thought we had. I really want to hate you. God, I know I should. But all I can think about is the way you looked at me before it all went wrong. The way you smiled at me that night at the gala. The way you made me feel like maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t alone in that big building.

But now I am. Completely alone.

I wanted to tell you about our little miracle, but you hurt me Johnny, before I even had the chance to say it out loud. You couldn’t even look at me without that fire in your eyes, and not the kind that used to warm me, the kind that burned.

That was the moment I chose to leave, instead of fighting for something that you had already decided I didn't deserve. I can’t pretend I understand how everything ended, but it did, and now your life is there, and mine is wherever you aren’t.

Those words felt like a punch to the gut. You did try. You reached for him, but he had turned away.

‘You hurt me, Johnny.’

“Fuck,” he cursed, shaking his head violently. “Fucking hell.”

Johnny’s hands shook as he set the first letter down, his breath ragged. His chest hurt, but still he reached for the next.

He unfolded it with trembling fingers, the paper softer, the ink smudged like it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times before. 

 Dear Johnny.

Today he turned four. He asked me if his dad would come to his birthday, and I told him no, because you live far away. He didn’t cry, but he looked at the door all afternoon like he was hoping you’d walk in, even if he doesn’t know what you look like. I don’t know how to explain to him that you don’t know what he looks like either. But he is so much like you.

When he smiles, when he makes his silly faces, when he figures something out quicker than anyone else. It’s you. Every day I see you in him, and every day I tell myself I’m doing the right thing keeping him away, that I’m protecting him, but it feels like a lie, because sometimes I think I’m just protecting myself. Protecting myself from you breaking me again. 

The worst part is you were never really mine, and it embarrasses me that sometimes I can’t get out of bed because I miss something I never had.  

I guess that hurts more on days like these. 

For what felt like the millionth time that day, Johnny found himself crying. Leo’s fourth birthday. The one he should’ve been front and center at, not a ghost in the background of his mother’s fears.

Not even a curse left his lips this time, just his ragged breathing. But his eyes flicked to the pile again, as his trembling fingers reached for the last envelope. The one dated five years after you’d been cast out. A year before tonight. 

For him.

I’ve realized something I should have long ago, you’re not coming. I convinced myself I hated you, yet I still waited every day, hoping you’d find something. It’s eaten me alive, night after night, I feel like I fight with you even in my dreams. 

And I keep asking myself, if clarity is in death, then why won’t this die? Why can’t I let it go? Why do you still haunt me even after all these years?

I wish you would give me back my peace. It was mine first.

I miss who once was my best friend, but more than anything, I miss who I used to be. So I can’t be like this anymore, I can’t keep writing letters to a ghost. Five years Johnny, five years of wondering if you ever saw me in a different light, if you ever saw beyond the lies. But I have to stop for my sake, for his sake.

This is the last time I’ll write to you, this is my goodbye. There was happiness in my life because of you, and I can only hope there’ll be happiness after you. Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, I hope you’re happy too, and I hope you’ve forgotten me, because I need to forget you. I need to let you go before I lose myself completely, I need to live without waiting for a door that will never open.

So I’m closing it myself.

Yours once, never again.

Fuck.

Of course he hadn’t forgotten. He had never stopped thinking about you. He had tried to find proof, investigated, and spiraled in dark nights in his room with papers stuck to his windows. And all the while, you had written this, your goodbye, your surrender, your heart breaking onto the page while he was too blind.

You had given up on him. And now, a year later, he was here, only to realize he’d arrived far too late to be the man you’d once waited for.

Johnny barely slept. Every time he shut his eyes, the words of those letters screamed at him. The thought of you sitting alone, hiding from Leo to write that with shaking hands, giving up on him. It hollowed him out until there was nothing left but determination to make things right.

To give you back your peace.

So before dawn even touched the sky, he was already moving. He slipped into the college campus while the halls were still dim and quiet. Not that easy now, since it was Monday.  Students, staff, early professors buzzing everywhere, far different than the hushed emptiness of the day before. It was a risk, and his chest pounded with every step, but he had to do it.

He couldn’t have you finding out the letters in your desk had gone missing the same weekend he showed up at your doorstep. 

Your office door creaked faintly under his hand. He moved quickly, carefully, as he slid the papers back into the drawer, tucking them in place exactly where he’d found them and locking it again. 

By the time he slipped out into the hallway, the building was alive with movement. He kept his head down, his hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, wearing that same sunglasses and baseball cap combo to make himself look like just another visitor until he made it outside.

And then…he waited. 

Will you forgive my soul

When you're too wise to trust me and too old to care?

The hours until your little meeting felt like years. He wandered the campus for a while before he realized some people were looking too suspiciously at him. He then drove around the college block more times than he could count, and since he was inside a window tinted black Ford truck, he was sure some student must’ve thought some mafia members had come to kidnap them. 

Now, he’d been waiting outside the cafe for exactly fifty four minutes. He tried to stay inside the truck to avoid getting seen, but his nerves and inner spiral didn't let him sit still. So he stood by the truck, cap still on and head ducked low, his eyes glued down the street so he wouldn't miss the moment you showed up. 

As your unmistakable figure appeared around the corner of the cafe, Johnny’s breath hitched at the sight of you finally emerging, walking slowly with a folder hugged against your chest. 

The autumn air was crisp, brushing against your skin, but the moment your eyes found him leaning by that ridiculous, shiny rental truck, you suddenly felt like sweating.

Johnny straightened the second he saw you, his whole face lighting up like he’d been waiting for this all day…which he had. But the closer you got, the more his confidence faltered. He shoved his hands deep into his jean’s pockets, suddenly awkward.

“Hi…Johnny.” You said, standing a few feet away from him, chin lifted, your voice steady. “Leo’s not out of school for another hour.”

Johnny nodded, quick, like he’d been expecting the wall. “...Hi.” He greeted, and you gave him the slightest curve of a smile.

“I know you want to see him again,” you went on, the folder pressed tighter against your chest, “but we need to talk first.”

He nodded again, softer this time. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. You’re right.”

There was an uneasy pause, until Johnny cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Can I–uh…can I get you a coffee?”

This type of nervous awkward interaction was so strange to Johnny. He was so used to smooth words just flowing out of his mouth, making a joke out of everything. But his life had changed so drastically in just a matter of days, that he wasn't sure he could go back to his default ‘Chill Johnny’ setting. 

You studied him a moment, then gave a small nod. “Okay.”

His shoulders loosened instantly, and he finally allowed himself to smile, then gestured toward the little café’s glass door with a red frame. He held the door open for you, and you muttered a thank you as warm light and the hiss of an espresso machine welcomed you. The bell above the door jingled when you stepped in, Johnny following carefully behind.

You chose a booth by the window, close enough to the door if you needed an exit, far enough from others to keep voices low. Johnny slid into the seat across from you, the baseball cap finally coming off. His knees bounced under the table, his hands fidgeting with the paper menu though he didn’t read a word.

For a moment, it was just silence. Awkward, heavy. You stared down at your folder on the table, and he stared at you, neither of you knowing where to start. A waitress came by, and Johnny ordered two coffees, remembering your exact order from all those years ago. 

That made your heart skip a bit. 

The silence stretched again until Johnny cleared his throat, his voice softer than you remembered. “So…Leo.”

Your eyes flicked to his, nodding slightly. “Leo.”

The clatter of cups and the murmur of conversation around the cafe made the tension between you feel sharper. The drinks arrived but Johnny’s coffee sat untouched, steam curling up between you as his eyes finally lifted to yours.

“What’s his favorite cereal?”

You blinked, caught off guard. Of all the questions he could have asked…’Why this, why that?’ that was not the one you expected.

“Cereal?” 

“Yeah…you’ve got, like, three boxes on the counter. He has to have a favorite.” Johnny shrugged. 

Your chest ached at the innocence of it, the way his voice cracked with soft curiosity. 

“Lucky charms,” you said. 

Johnny’s eyes softened instantly. He nodded, filing it away like it was the most important piece of information in the world. Then, an idea lit up his face.

“Did he get the human torch figur–?”

“They don’t have the one with your face on it here,” you cut him off, almost apologetic.

The truth is, one of the many reasons you’d picked that town was the lack of the Fantastic Four’s influence. Johnny understood that.

“Right.” He nodded, not exactly sure how to feel about it. “And his favorite color?” he asked quickly, before you could redirect.

“Blue…” you answered, ‘like your eyes’ your mind whispered. “Like the summer sky,” you said instead.

Johnny smiled. He wanted to ask a thousand things at once. About his laugh, his quirks, the bedtime stories he loved, the little words he mispronounced when he was smaller. But each answer cut and healed him in equal measure, so he asked them slowly.

“What makes him laugh the most?”

“Who’s his best friend?”

“What does he want to be when he grows up?”

You sipped your drink, watching Johnny soak in every answer like he’d been starving for it. He wanted to know everything, like each detail was a thread stitching him closer to the the kid he’d missed for so long. And for a moment, you let him have it. For a moment, it almost felt right.

“I could talk about Leo’s favorite things all day,” you admitted softly, tracing the rim of your mug with your fingertip.

Johnny smiled faintly, but when he looked up, your eyes had shifted.

“But there’s something else,” you said, daring to look up. “A question that’s been eating me alive. One I can’t keep inside anymore.”

His brow furrowed, the smile gone instantly.

“What exactly do you plan for him now, Johnny?” You sighed. “Now that you know he exists–what happens to Leo? Because last night…last night I slept with him safe beside me. I couldn’t close my eyes without imagining someone walking through that door to take him away.”

Johnny froze, the color draining from his face. You didn't think he was safe. He reached for the mug he hadn’t touched, gripping it just to anchor his hands, but he didn’t drink.

“I need to know,” you pushed on, your stare burning into him. “What do you plan to do with my–with our son?”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. His mouth opened, then closed, like the words weren’t ready, like nothing he could say would be enough. 

“I don’t know,” he said, honest.“I don’t know what the right move is,” he went on, his eyes flicking up to yours. “I don’t know what the hell I’m supposed to do, or how to fix six years I’ll never get back. But…the only thing I do know is that I want to be part of his life. However you’ll let me. I can’t…I can’t pretend I don’t know him now.”

The conviction in his words fought with hesitation. He wasn’t demanding, wasn’t trying to take. He was still begging for a chance, clumsy and terrified, but utterly certain of one thing.

“I want to know him,” Johnny added, more firmly now. “And I want him to know me.”

You leaned back against the booth, your chest tight, but his words lingered. I want to be part of his life. The way he said it…shaking, terrified, but sure, chipped at the walls you’d built so carefully.

“Do you think he’d…want me in his life? I mean, if we told him who I am. Would he hate me for not being there?” He asked, hesitant, tracing the rim of his mug.

The question knocked the air out of you more than you expected. Not because you hadn’t thought about it, God knows you’d lost sleep over it, but because of how honest he sounded asking it.

“He’s a smart kid. He sees things. Asks questions I can’t always answer…I don’t think he’d hate you, but…he’d have more questions. And I’d like to give him answers that don’t hurt.”

Johnny nodded slowly. “I just…I want to do right by him. Even if it’s late.”

You looked at him in silence for a few seconds, before humming. “You can start,” you said softly, “by meeting him…like really meeting him”

Johnny blinked, startled. “Like–now?”

The look on his face of wide eyed disbelief, made you huff out a laugh you didn’t expect. 

“Yes, Johnny. Now.” You tilted your head to check the time on the clock by the barista. “It’s just in time to pick him up from school.”

For a second he just sat there, frozen, like he hadn’t prepared himself for the possibility that you’d actually let him do that today. His hands gripped the edge of the table like he needed to hold on to something solid before the floor crumbled under his feet.

“God,” he whispered. “I don’t even know if I can breathe right now.”

You chuckled and shook your head, standing up from the booth. “You’ll manage, come on. I promised him yogurt ice cream after school. He aced a test on Friday.”

“Doesn’t he, you know…always ace them?” Johnny asked, the doubt in his voice almost made you laugh again.

“He does. But I don’t want him to think it’s his duty to excel every single time. I want him to know that little victories matter too even if I didn't take him much effort. He deserves to feel celebrated, not pressured because he thinks he has to fulfill other people’s expectations."

Johnny stared at you, floored. He thought of his own childhood, of expectations that had weighed on him since the day Sue took over his raising, when his mother passed away. It wasn’t because his sister pressured him directly, but because he always felt like he owed her excellency. Things that took all his effort, sweat and tears. But to this day, Johnny felt like he'd failed her on that, because the bar had always been set too high for his little hands to reach. So in his head, that kid inside him didn't deserve yogurt ice cream, because little victories had never mattered in his big world. 

But his son’s did. Because you made sure of that. 

So he just glanced toward the window to blink away the tears threatening to come out of his eyes. All he could think was his son had the best mom he could've had. 

Once you walked outside, the late afternoon sun shone across the street. Johnny headed toward that absurdly shiny rental truck, but when he glanced back, you were unlocking your modest sedan.

“I’ll pick him up from school. You can meet us at the yogurt place.”

Johnny nodded, though something in him ached at the distance between your cars, your lives. But he didn’t fight it, just asked for some directions on how to find said yogurt place. 

“Alright,” he said softly, eyes lingering on you as you slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll be there.”

The yogurt shop was painted in cheerful colors, with a bell jingling as Johnny stepped in. He scanned the room, with only a couple of tables occupied by groups of high school students. His chest rose and fell too fast, his palms getting ridiculously damp. Since when did he sweat?

Calm down, Storm, it's just ice cream…oh right, and you are also meeting the most important person in your life. 

“Welcome in!” The teenage girl behind the counter gave him a friendly wave. 

Johnny nodded too quickly. “Yeah, hi, thanks, just–uh, table for three? I’m waiting for someone.” He said, then immediately panicked. 

Did he really just ask for a table for three? In front of a bunch of teenagers that were totally giving him a side eye? He couldn't exactly blame them, what was this, some fancy dinner restaurant from New York? Was he really so out of touch that he didn’t even know how to be a normal person anymore?

Before he could keep overthinking over that single interaction, he cleared his throat, then pointed around the place. “I’ll just find one myself…yeah.” He smiled nervously, darting toward the empty tables, away from the groups. 

It didn’t matter though, because they were still watching him over their shoulders, because Johnny tested each empty table like a maniac. Too wobbly. Too close to the trash can. Too far from the door. Until he finally landed on one by the window where the afternoon sun spilled in. Steady, perfect lighting, perfect line of sight to the door.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself, yanking the chairs out and back in again to make sure they weren’t squeaky. “Aaaand we got a winner! This is the table.”

Then, he went toward the counter where he could see the list of flavors on the wall, because he couldn’t look like a fool not knowing what to order in front of his family. He scanned the labels, as the girl behind the counter stared at him curiously. 

Strawberry, vanilla, chocolate swirl, cookies & cream, birthday cake, mango, passionfruit. 

“What’s the most popular?” He asked, placing a finger on his chin as he tilted his head. “No, wait–what’s the healthiest? Do you guys do like…sugar free? No, kids don’t care about that. Uh…”

“Sir…would you like a sample?” The girl offered, lifting tiny spoons in the air. 

Johnny nodded so quickly, that the girl let out a chuckle, before turning to the yogurt machines to get a sample of the most popular flavors for this weird guy to try. He was handsome though, she was totally telling her friends about him. 

By the time the judgy teenagers had left the establishment, Johnny Storm, Human Torch, beloved public figure that no one seemed to recognize in this small town, was sitting on the table he’d meticulously picked with five pink sample spoons sticking out of his jacket pocket. 

Okay, so if he likes chocolate, I’m set. But if he’s a fruit kid? I’m screwed.

The bell above the yogurt shop door jingled, snapping him out of his thoughts, and that’s when the golden light of late afternoon poured in behind you. Johnny looked up, and the world stopped.

There he was.

His son. Your son.

Leo stood beside you, his small hand clasped in yours, his little uniform neat. A navy pullover stretched just slightly at the sleeves, crisp white polo peeking out at the collar, khaki shorts, and the cutest polished shoes that Johnny knew you’d spent extra to make sure he looked perfect in.

He looked like a polite kid, yes, but his energy buzzed right through the surface, his body practically bouncing at your side like he couldn’t decide whether to walk or skip into the shop. His hair glowed blonde in the light, catching that same golden halo Johnny had seen in the mirror his whole life. The shape of his smile,as he was tugging at your hand, was his. Unmistakable. The resemblance knocked the air straight from Johnny’s chest.

It was a mini him, except better, softer…pure.

By the door, you crouched slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you spoke gently to Leo. Your voice was steady, but Johnny could see the way your hands twitched with nerves.

“Leo,” you said softly, brushing a hand over his sleeve, “I want to introduce you to someone.”

Johnny’s heart hammered so loud he thought the whole shop could hear it. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe. And Leo, with wide curious eyes, looked up at you, then followed your gaze toward the man waiting by the window.

“Baby,” you squeezed his hand, getting his attention back. “I want you to meet a…friend.” 

His eyes flicked from you to Johnny again, studying him with all the seriousness a curious five year old could muster. Leo tilted his head, eyebrows knitting.

“A friend?” he said, and Johnny almost fainted from how cute his little voice was. “From where?”

“From a long time ago,” you replied.

Leo squinted at Johnny, the way only a child could, unfiltered, curious to the bone. Then, with a sudden burst of energy, he let go of your hand and marched right toward the table. You followed anxiously. 

And Johnny? Johnny was toast. He forgot how to move. His heart jackhammered as the kid–his kid–stopped in front of him and just stared, unblinking, like he was scanning him for answers.

“You look like me, mommy’s friend.” Leo said matter of factly. “We have the same hair.”

Johnny panicked, and for a terrifying second he thought his legs were going to give out when he stood up from the table. He managed a shaky disbelieving laugh, crouching to meet him at eye level.

“Yeah, buddy,” he exhaled. “I guess we do.”

Leo grinned, quick and bright, satisfied with his own observation. “Cool.” Then, as if that settled everything, he spun around and tugged at your sleeve. “Can we get ice cream now, Mom?”

“Yes, baby. Let’s do that.” You nodded quickly, letting yourself be guided by his little hand to the counter. 

But Johnny was frozen in his crouching position for a few seconds, blinking fast, the word Mom echoing in his head as he stared at Leo, who was already more like him than he’d ever dared to imagine.

He took a deep breath.

There was no way back from this. Only forward, into the storm.

PART TWO

Thank you so much for reading, feedback is always appreciated and it helps a lot, so don't be shy to share your fav moments 🫶🏼

Lil funny extra -> Johnny jealous of Walker

Lovely dividers by @lobster-graphics

Tags: @lunaryasha @angelbabyange @lafrone @yagurlannastasia @cupcakesnviolets @iheartgrayson @reidsversion @moon-esque @nightwitchlurker @nchhuhi @lilyquinnmunson @ynnlvrs

[bonesofall]

lack of boundaries pt iii

⤷ read part i here!

⤷ read part ii here!

kinks. pet play (?), primal play, knotting, collar kink, heat cycles, animalistic urges, marking, cervix fucking, breeding, messy sex, mating processes, squirting

synopsis. best friends puppy and bunny have been getting very close since mating. the scournful looks bring your deeper doubts and insecurities to light. puppy does not appreciate you backing out now.

kinktober '25 masterlist | multifandom masterlist | masterlist | navigation

previous << maze of horrors

avoiding him wasn't a part of your plan.

you really don't mean to, is what you tell yourself every time you duck behind a doorway or skitter down a hall the minute you catch the faintest whiff of his scent approaching you. it's only because every time you think about Puppy, your tummy knots up in a guilty, unpleasant way that makes you want to be sick.

you don't regret what happened, or him. you're happy you'd mated with him. relished in the way his knot swelled inside you and he filled you with so much cum that your belly'd chubbed up around it, adored the way he fumbled nervously with the buckle of the collar he slid onto you after. the final claim he'd left on you that night. he'd got it for you as a surprise and waited until after the knot he'd shoved in you had deflated to put it around your neck.

the problem is, you know what people would think if they saw a bunny and a puppy as a bonded pair. it's not often that a prey hybrid like you gets with a predator like him.

bunnies are meant to be with another gentle creature. one without sharp fangs or claws that cut when they grab.

you can already hear how people would murmur about how stupid you must be to let a puppy scent you and mate with you. they'd say he's just following instinct to pop a knot in whatever's closest to him. that you're a phase he'll grow bored of and go find another predator to be with.

they'd never believe how he told you he loved you, how he buried his face against your chest, unable to let go, how he whined when he finally pushed his knot into you because it was the only thing that could quiet the noise in his head.

part of you thinks maybe he'd been pretending. puppies do act out of control more often than any other hybrid, after all.

you skip sitting next to him at meals these days. you leave your burrow a little earlier in the mornings to make sure you won't run into him on your way to your classes. and if you do cross paths, you pretend you don't hear him calling your name.

you find yourself unable to trust him or how much he claims to love and want you, because all you can hear in your head is what everyone else must be thinking.

the separation is not good for either of you, though.

your brains have now been conditioned to want each other, awaiting the final part of your bond - him biting down on your mating gland and claiming you for good. until it gets that, it won't settle.

your body aches in weird ways when you don't see him or feel him pressed up against you. it's worse than loneliness or sadness - it's physical. your skin gets hot, your throat goes tight, and your little cotton tail twitches restlessly against your thighs like it's searching for something that isn't there. you're constantly soaked too. your body keeps preparing for something that isn't coming.

your body thinks you should be glued to him, curled up in his lap, cock deep inside you, knot plugging you full so not a drop of him can leak out.

but you keep running anyway, even while you feel yourself falling apart.

as if it'll help, you start leaving the collar off. you just take it off one night, fingers twitching and bunny ears pinning against your head in shame as you slip it from your neck and shove it deep into your bag where he won't see it.

without it, you feel… less obvious. less marked. less his.

you can't stand how you feel when you think about his reaction if he ever notices.

of course, he notices.

even when you think you're clever, puppy still finds you. his nose twitches when you're near, ears flicking every time you sneak past, eyes tracking you. when you vanish for too long, you hear him pacing outside your burrow, sniffing the air, whining under his breath, claws scratching against the outside surface that you've shut him out of. he knows you're hiding, and it's hurting him.

you can feel it through the bond, a heavy ache that doesn't fully belong to you. it's from him. without you, he's become frantic and needy in his search for you, and his feelings seep into your body, increasing your own.

said feelings make you curl your thighs together under your blanket at night, rutting desperately against one of your pillows that still have his scent, biting back sobs as you cum messily all over yourself just from imagining him. again.

regardless, when you wake in the morning, sticky and ashamed, you still avoid him.

for days this goes on. you won't stop, and he can't stand it. every time you catch even a glimpse of him, he looks worse. darker circles under his eyes, hands twitching when you walk past him without looking, pupils blown wide with bags underneath indicating a lack of sleep. he smells different too, heady and slightly musky, as his body has been leaking little spurts of slick that stain his pants because he can't stop thinking about you.

₊˚⊹ 𐂯

on the fifth day of dodging him, pretending you don't hear his voice, ducking down paths you've never even seen before, dousing yourself in unpleasant perfumes and lotions to mask your scent, all while silently aching for him, he breaks.

you don't know that he's done with this game of chase when you slip off in the early afternoon with your bag over your shoulder and creep through the courtyard assuming you'll get away with one more day of space. he is determined to put an end to this.

he's tracking you intently, having memorized your schedule and little routines and doing the opposite, knowing that's your plan. he tries to ignore the way his cock won't stay soft in anticipation of finding you and having you. his knot is already starting to swell even though he hasn't touched you. he hasn't even touched himself because he adamantly refuses to. it's not enough. only you are enough.

the bond drags him like a chain around his throat, yanking him down the trail you walked. your scent is everywhere, despite your attempts to suppress it. your pheromones don't go away, neither does your natural bunny musk or the slick leaking down your thighs. he growls when it spikes strongly, indicating you just passed through - and his body jerks forward without him even thinking.

he's drooling. his ears are flat against his skull as he pants and whines, making little desperate noises because you're too far, you're too far, his mate is too far-

you decide to skip your morning lesson because you feel too hot and needy to bear sitting in a stuffy room for an hour and a half. you wander out past the courtyard and into the far-off fields, dumping yourself in the grass to try and calm your body. with your eyes shut and your mind focused on the heat in your core, you don't realize you've been tracked all the way out here.

you don't hear the crunch of dirt under his shoes at first, or his loud panting and his tail lashing behind him at the excitement of finally reuniting with you. you only notice when the bond causes the hairs on your neck to stand on end, your own tail twitching.

he bursts through the treeline, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. he looks nothing like your Puppy right now. he looks starved.

"Bun," he gasps. his gaze locks on you hungrily, your scent wrapping around him, causing his whole body to shudder in delight. you're here. here with him. "Bun! why'd you-" he cuts himself off with a low whine, stumbling toward you and dropping himself down in front of you, hands clutching the front of his pants where the obscene bulge strains and drips wetness through the fabric. his tail lashes behind him, making thump thump thump noises on the ground below.

you stare at the sight before you, how he's panting and nearly humping the ground needily, already leaning towards you. his nose catches the scent of your unclaimed mating gland starting to leak open. you stumble back slightly, floppy ears twitching again. "i d-didn't mean to..." the lie comes out of your mouth before you can stop it. you did mean to avoid him, ignore him, cast him aside. he knows that.

his nostrils flare and he lets out a groan, leaning down to press his face against your shoulder, your neck, sniffing and whining like a lost animal finally finding home. "found you," he mumbles, "y'keep running but i always-" he takes a deep inhale of your mating gland, lapping up some leakage. "i can't be without you, bunny, please. i-it hurts so bad, see?" he takes your hand and moves it to the hard outline of his cock through his pants. "it wants you, all of me wants you all the time a-and when you leave me i get like this."

you clamp your thighs together at his admission, your fluffy cotton tail wet at the base from how damp your panties are. his nose twitches at the scent, and his eyes fix on your pretty pussy hidden by your academy skirt. he paws at you for a moment, then trails his eyes up to look for your mating gland and the collar that's supposed to be wrapped around your throat, only to see that it's not there.

his ears flatten against his hair harder, both pointing in either direction agitatedly. now his tail bristles straight out, snarls leaving his mouth almost threateningly. his hands come up to wrap around your neck. "where is it," he hisses. "where is my collar?"

"mph! puppy... puppy i'm sorry, i put it away!"

his claws graze your throat. he's trying to be gentle to avoid hurting you, but it's hard with how you've been treating him the last several days when he's never needed you more, and now you do this to him. the final slap in the face, taking off his gift to you. his eyes widen, getting glassy and wet around the rims. "you took it off," it sounds like an angry sob. "you took it off. you don't want me. you don't-" his voice breaks completely. he takes one hand off your throat to paw at your floppy ears, keeping your head in place so you can't cower away from him. "say it's not true. say you still want me. say it. say it."

your ears twitch in his hands and your face scrunches up a little, more arousal filling your body as he grips on your bun ears firmly. he knows they're sensitive, more so because he'd been biting them when the two of you had sex. it's embarrassing how easily you react to him.

diverting your attention back to the pressing matter at hand and stopping yourself from moaning aloud, you fumble for your bag with clumsy fingers, heart racing. "i-i kept it! ngh, be gentle with me... i k-kept it, see?" you pull the collar out, the leather cold from sitting at the base of your bag all day.

he makes a yipping sound and snatches the collar out of your hands like a starving animal. for a beat he just stares at it, trembling all over. then he lunges towards you, grabbing the back of your neck with one hand to tilt your head up, making sure the heel of his hand presses against your mating gland to get you all dumb and even more aroused by him. he brings the collar to your throat with his free hand, muttering. "mine. my bunny." to you while he fumbles with the buckle and slides the strap around your neck, pulling it snug around your neck.

"ngh pup," you moan as his hand pushes on the sensitive ridges of your glands, replacing the pressure with that of the collar once it's around you. then he drags his thumb over the little tag hanging from it, his initials on it being his final straw.

he shoves his face into the uncovered part of your throat, nuzzling so hard your back hits the grass beneath you. he uses the opportunity to pin you down, nosing, licking, nipping at your neck and jaw. pup's big hands are everywhere - pawing at your hips, thighs, and your breasts. he kneads your softness in his hands, rolling fat thumbs over your nipples to make you keen under him. "want ya t'smell like me again, bun... never take it off again, never run again, please please please just be with me!"

his knot is fully swollen now, a hard bulge straining obscenely against his pants. he reverts to his natural instincts and flips you onto your belly to press himself between your plump ass cheeks and underneath your fuzzy tail. "mm… fuck- can't survive it, bunny. i needa have you."

he bucks his hips against your ass, rutting like he's already inside you. whining, his hands slide under your thighs, lifting you slightly more so your crotch is directly against the thick bulge in his pants.

meanwhile, his face buries into the side of your neck. he keeps whining, nose nuzzling and dragging over your exposed skin. he keeps flicking and lapping his tongue over your gland, mouthing at the slick skin but not puncturing it with his teeth yet.

his hands cup the swell of your ass, dragging his nails along your thighs as he shifts his weight against you, rubbing the thick, meaty length of his cock against your slick panties. every tiny grind makes your hips jerk back to meet him, nipples brushing against the soft cotton of your top, back arching involuntarily to meet your ass with his front. you're presenting yourself for him. every movement makes his knot throb against the curve of your ass, and makes his claws dig just a little deeper into your thighs.

Puppy's claws catch the waistband of your panties and tear them down. he doesn't waste any more time, using his free hand to shove his own pants down enough to free himself. he drops his heavy cock against your bare ass, leaking slick onto your flesh. with a loud whine, he rubs the swollen head against your folds, pushing your soaked tail up so it doesn't get in the way. pre-cum smears all over your pussy lips as he rubs himself between them, getting you even messier by mixing your slick with his. it feels so good it makes him delirious. when the head of his cock bumps against the underside of your clit and you jolt, he can't take it anymore, and starts to push forward.

his tip breaches you slowly, the wetness minimizing the resistance of your tight hole. you cry out into the grass, hands fisting it, as he slides in inch by inch, stretching you out with his meaty cock. "mngh- s' so warm," he babbles, throwing his head back as he breaches deeper, your walls hugging onto his cock so tightly that he has to hold back from cumming inside you then and there. "so tight, bun. missed you, missed you so much…" he rocks his hips shallowly, working himself deeper while trying to make sure he doesn't hurt you.

he grabs onto one of your floppy ears to make you arch your back and take more of him, his tail thwacking against your leg as he buries himself to the hilt, knot bumping against your pussy but not going in yet. he starts rocking his hips and fucking into you, cock slipping wetly through your walls sticky and loud. you can feel how swollen the knot is already, nudging at your clit each time he bottoms out. it's begging to be seated inside you, and it's driving him to fuck you harder and faster. every thrust is a messy grind of skin and slick, as he presses his mouth sloppily against your neck.

"hnn, bun, smell so good... y'smell so fuckin' good," he mumbles, tongue dragging over your gland again and catching every leaking drop with his long puppy tongue. his nose is pressed so firmly that he's inhaling your pheromones straight from the source, and it's messing with his brain even more. his thrusts speed up until he's literally pounding you into the grass, flared head bumping against your cervix and dragging back against your soft walls so he can do it again. "gonna go crazy, 'm already s'obsessed with you... you can't leave me again, bun, need y'so much, all the time-"

your arms give under his weight, your chest pressing into the grass. he starts tugging your shirt off so he can have you completely nude under him, big hands squeezing at the fat of your breasts, anchoring you in place by groping you while he thrusts into you hard and fast. the knot keeps bumping and pressing against your pussy, catching a little more each time, stretching you open just a fraction before popping back out.

"need it inside, bun," he groans, angling his thrusts down so the swollen knot slams against your rim, stretching you wider each time until you squeal into the dirt. "please, can't stand bein' out here empty, you're s'posed to be full of me, always. look-" his hand drags down your tummy, palm pressing against the soft bulge his cock makes inside you, "there, feel me? needs to be all the way in, bun. all the way in your belly."

sobbing into the grass he's got your cheek pressed against, your walls clamp down tight around him to drag his cock in for more and squeeze him in place to keep your cunt full of him. your thighs tremble as slick runs down them in messy strings. you milk him with each thrusts, and he lets out a loud cry when you clamp down too hard, his hips snapping forward as the thick swell of his knot finally pushes inside, stretching you open with a loud pop.

his arms wrap around your waist immediately as you scream and flail, hauling you back flush against him as his knot locks into place, shoving his cock even deeper inside you so his tip shoves inside your cervix just a little. he's all up in your guts now, cock breaching your womb. you SCREAM in ecstasy, thrashing even as the knot and his arms keep you stuck to him.

"mm! gotcha bun," he gasps, drooling against your neck as his cock throbs deep inside you, pulsing in time with his rapid heartbeat. "got my bunny back, mnghhhh 'm not lettin' go,"

his cock throbs hard inside you, and you realize he's about to cum, knot swelling impossibly tight inside you as his balls push flat against your folds. his teeth graze your gland again but he doesn't bite yet, just pants and cries loud, desperate moans into your throat as his hips jackhammer shallow and fast. his whole body trembles, ears pressed flat, tail stiff. then he lets out a loud whimper and everything inside you seizes up.

he unleashes his first load of heavy, hot cum inside your belly. it floods inside you in waves, his cock jerking inside you with each spill from his twitching cock, his knot grinding deeper into the snug ring of your entrance. it's pouring out of him in endless spurts, slicking your walls until it's sloshing inside you. his knot keeps you plugged so nothing leaks out, and now you feel stuffed full past capacity. your tummy swells against his palm when he slides his hand down to press against it.

his cock throbs inside you, another gush flooding past your cervix and pooling in your womb as he keeps pumping his cock further to make sure it gets all inside. your ears flop forward since he'd let go of it, and you moan high and needy, eyes rolling back. but he's not done. his teeth start digging into your gland. you know you should be afraid because the bond is forever, but you know that he's the one you want as your mate forever. your gland throbs where his mouth suckles. "do it," you wail. "please, p-pup, just do it!"

and that's all he needs to sink his fangs into the swollen gland.

it hurts at first, the puncture of teeth in your most sensitive spot making you cry out, but it's drowned away quickly by the rush of pleasure that follows. a gush of slick squirts out from you around his knot, splattering his thighs at the same time your bond opens for him and his teeth marks lock into the soft glands. you scream as you reach your peak, pussy spasming around his cock and milking him even tighter. it causes another torrent of his cum to spurt inside you. you squeezed him so tight right now, and your squirting was all it took for him to unload even more.

he howls into your neck, knot expanding to keep in the higher volume of his repeated loads. each one feels heavier than the last, your belly taut and sloshy, stretched round from how much he's dumped inside you. his tongue laves over the bite as his teeth stay sunk, sealing the bond while your body shakes under him.

you're his for good now.

happy day two.