soriseerakyra

[soriseerakyra]

Soft Hands and Scar Tissue

The cave is still when you feel it. The shift in the air. A moment of intuition that has you looking up from your broken gauntlet. A dread in your gut that has you frowning. Then you hear a small sound. A small hiss one of the many doors opening. And something tells you to head towards that sound.

You look into the darkness and wait.

You hear him before you see him. Heavy footsteps and the schlepping of rainwater. You smell it too. The smell of iron, metallic under the heavy, dirty water. It fills your senses, it’s overwhelming. The kind of scent you pick up when a civilian is hurt, bad.

“Bruce?”

You have to ask, because he stops walking the moment he sees you. He hides in the shadows, so dark it's hard for even you to make out even more than his outline. He waits there for a moment that feels like an eternity. He’s deciding.

He begins limping forward, and you swallow as the shadows peel back from around him. You can see it as he steps into the dim light of the cave. Your eyes drift to his feet, to the injured leg, but your gaze is taken by his cape. Dragging slowly behind him, smearing dark liquid all over the cave floor.

When he makes eye contact with you, his jaw clenches, annoyed.

“You’re not supposed to be here tonight.”

It’s hoarse, more so than usual, like he was barely able to speak to you.

You blink, “I needed you to look at—never mind.”

The moment he sways forward, the words die in your throat. He takes another step forward, hand flying to a wall behind him to hold up his weight.

You are in front of him in the blink of an eye.

“Bruce, you’re hurt.” Your voice is gentle. The kind you use when someone is going into shock or being loaded into the back of an ambulance.

“It’s nothing,” he says, breath tight.

You can’t help the scowl that comes over your face. “That’s your favorite lie.”

He tries to push past you, but even on his best day, he would barely get you to move an inch. Today, you only need the tips of your fingers on his chest to stop him from moving.

The moment you touch, you feel the slight stickiness of his chest plate.

“You’re bleeding, Bruce. Sit down before you fall.”

And he did. Not because he had to—but because this time, he didn’t want to argue.

You move with a calm efficiency. But something inside begins to twist. A worry.

Piece by piece, you begin to remove the complicated suit. If there is an easier way to remove it, he doesn’t tell you. His eyes roll closed the moment he sits.

The chest plate clicked loose beneath your fingers, revealing layers of torn mesh and blood soaked-fabric beneath. His jaw clenched, but he said nothing, blue eyes opening to watch you with tired eyes.

“You should’ve gone straight to Alfred, or had him meet you down here,” you mutter as you begin pulling off a shoulder guard and setting it aside. Your strength made it effortless, but she was careful, treating each piece like glass.

“Didn’t want to wake him,” he replied.

“You should’ve woken someone. This looks deep.”  You pull back another panel, your brow furrowing when you see the gash along his ribs. Deep purple, almost black bruising was already beginning to spread beneath the torn skin.

He gives you a quiet grunt but doesn’t flinch. You kneel in front of him, hand stilling briefly on his abdomen.

You pause, your throat tightening at how wide it is. How the blood is coming in a steady drip to the floor.

“You always forget I’m not like you,” he said, voice low.

Your head snaps to meet his gaze, an angry frown in place. “NO, Bruce. You forget I’m not like you. I heal by morning. You don’t.”

Your eyes lock. You see the slight fight in his gaze. The urge to fight against you. But when his lips parted, the words to deny you, but they didn’t come. You resume your work, pulling away the gloves, the gauntlets, the shredded undersuit.

“I didn’t mean to snap,” you murmur, irritation having left you. “I just… hate seeing you like this.”

“I know,” he said, softer than you expected. “That’s why I let you see it.”

You don’t respond. But your shoulders relax, and your fingers are softer on his skin.

You find first aid quickly, and needle and thread begin stitching as delicately as you can. It's hard for you, though. Never having done this before. 

He chuckles, a pained thing that makes his skin jump slightly. "Your face is so serious."

"This is serious."

You hear it in your voice, the slight pout.

"This is a bad Tuesday."

A shudder runs down your spine, and you feel your eyes getting bigger. But you swallow your condemnation. You don't tell him that he shouldn't be doing this, that he will only continue getting hurt. That he's killing himself. Because you're not sure that even if you were a regular human, you would be able to stop yourself from doing the same thing.

"You're more breakable than I remember," you say softly, half to yourself, after you finish with the stitch. 

You begin cleaning the rest of the wounds, your hands trailing over exposed skin as you look for more cuts, careful not to prod too much at the forming bruises.

Your heart pauses for a moment, white scars litter his skin, faded and newer. The tips of your fingers run over them, and his skin twitches slightly.

"Sorry," you say with a bit of a sigh, trying to ignore the slightly embarrassed flush heating your cheeks. "It's just you have so many scars."

"You don't?"

"One or two."

Childhood things from when your powers hadn't fully developed. Now, even in your worst fights, you heal flawlessly. Like your body knows how to return you to your most perfect state.

"I forget what pain feels like. Things sting for a moment, but my body never remembers. So, when I see you doing the things you do, I forget that you aren't like me."

“Do you think I can’t take it?” He asks, but there is no challenge in his tone. Just quiet curiosity, a hint of amusement curling at the edge of his mouth.

You shake your head slowly, gaze still on his bandages. “No. I know you can take it. You always do. That’s the problem.”

He goes still. The silence stretches between you, heavy and close.

“I forget that just because you can take the pain doesn’t mean you should have to,” you add, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re not made of steel, Bruce. You’re flesh. You break. And you bleed. And I—”

You stop yourself, the words too close to everything you’ve kept buried.

“I worry,” you finish instead. “Even if I don’t always understand what it’s like to live in a body that doesn’t heal overnight, I still… I worry about yours.”

The confession comes with another skip in your heartbeat. Different this time, it’s not simply embarrassment that is causing the heat to flood your cheeks.

It’s the way he’s looking at you, blue eyes hazy, a small smile crossing his face.

“You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve had worse. Besides, if I get to have you worrying over me, then it’s not that bad.”

Your hands stills over the gauze.

It’s not what he said—it’s how he said it. Not the gruff, sardonic sounds of a man in pain. There is a lightness to it. A teasing warmth that he rarely lets anyone hear.

Your throat tightens. “Don’t joke. Not about this.”

“I’m not,” he says, more serious now.  “You said you worry. I do too. About you.”

You glance up sharply, surprised. “Me?”

“You run into fire like it’s a breeze,” he murmurs. “You shrug off broken bones. You act like nothing can touch you. “But you’re not untouchable. Not where it counts.”

“Where am I vulnerable?” You wonder if you sound as confused as you are. There hasn’t been anything that you haven’t been able to shake off yet.

Bruce’s eyes don’t leave yours/ His voice is low and deliberate.

“Here,” he says, lifting a hand slowly, finger taps brushing—barely—against your chest, just above your heart. Then he shifts slightly, his gaze softer now. “And here.” His hand hovers, not quite touching your temple, like he’s afraid the contact might be too much. “You feel too much. You care too hard. That’s where it’ll hurt you.”

You swallow thickly. It’s strange, hearing your strengths called weaknesses—strangers still, how right it feels when he says it.

“I can’t stop caring,” you whisper.

“I know,” he replies. “That’s why I trust you.”

You want to peel your eyes away from his. To pull away from him for a moment. The beating of your heart spilling up into your throat.

“You say you trust me, but you never ask me to stay.”

His hand falls into his lap, surprised. His mouth opens and closes as he tries to find the right excuse to give you. Eyes wavering as he searches his thoughts.

“I didn’t think I had the right to.”

The right to?

You had made it obvious. Or at least you thought you did. What kind of person hangs out in a creepy cave if the person they like isn’t around…besides Bruce.

But if he thinks he needed the right, had he been thinking about asking? Had he been feeling the same way that you had? Waiting for you to give him the same signs you had been waiting for from him.

You finish wrapping his bandages. The side is fully stitched and cleaned. The rest of the wounds need time to mend.

Your fingers run over the edge of the largest one, just making sure it's secure.

“You’re gentler than Alfred.”

“For now. But if I have to bandage you together like this again, I’m going to throw you through a wall.”

You’re chuckling by the time you finish the threat, and he gives you a smile in return.

There is a tension that fills the room, not one of anger or trepidation, but something softer, warmer.

“I’m here—I can be here. Not just for the bruises and the blood. Or when you need help on a case. I can be here.

With you.

He reads you better than anyone else. And you are glad for it. If you had to say it out loud, you might have stumbled over them.

He looks rueful, slightly guarded, and unsure. But when he speaks, he’s much more forward than you are.

“I don’t know how to give all of myself to someone. To be honest, when they are here all of the time. “

“I’m not asking for everything all at once. Just the right to try.”

He smiles when you use his words. His hand finds yours and squeezes.

You both sit in silence. His breathing is normal for the first time that night. His body is already doing its best to heal him as much as it can. It would be a while before he was fully back in shape. But he wouldn’t stop, nor would you.

At least you would be there to patch him up.

[soriseerakyra]

The Girl Who Plays With Moonlight

A/N: I tried to angst... i didn't succeed.

“How long do you plan to stare, Prince?”

It was a flippant greeting to your admirer—no way for a lady to greet their lord, noble or not. But you couldn’t help but be a little sly at the mouth. He had come here to watch so often after all.

“Is there a limit to how long I’m allowed to look?” You could hear the amusement in his tone.

You throw your head back with a laugh and use your fingers to beckon him closer.

“No limit, just curious. Surely a prince has better companions than one such as I?”

His sapphire glows in the moonlight as he approaches, his eye carries a light to it. “And what are you?”

“A fairy!”  you reply,  arms over your head, wind playing in your hair. If you had wings, they would have sprouted. But the moonlight on your skin is enough to convince him of your otherworldliness. There is only one hit at your deception, your skin pimples from the cold.

Perched on a rock at the edge of the lakeshore line, you are naked as the day you were born, toes dipping into the cool water beneath you. It’s a dark glass only disturbed by your lightest of movements. The image is enough to hide any evidence of your humanness.

"You must be," he replies, voice barely above a whisper. "And enchanting men, your specialty."

"Not just men."

A sly smile crosses your face.

It had taken much coaxing to get him to this state, where he could openly state his feelings.

It was hard for him during the day, tied down by obligation and combating his own feelings of resentment.

You were subdued as well. A playmate of his sister and a minor noble, you were restrained, confined, and pure.

Here, though, you were free, pure in another sense. Like the rain from a storm or fire from a dragon’s belly. A force of nature.

He stops a few feet away from where you perch, hands folded behind his back like a prince pretending not to be spellbound. But his voice betrays him.

“Do you do this often? Wait for me like a siren, bare beneath the moon.”

“Wait for you?” You start with a chuckle. “If I am a siren, then I long to be in the presence of those who birthed me. I wait for no man.”

“His smile sharpens, half-wicked, half-half reverent. “Then I must be the cursed fool who swims toward the rocks each night, knowing full well they’ll tear me open.”

And he does inch closer, but never enough to touch you, only enough to admire. He kneels by the water, the tips of his boots soaked, cloak pooling around him.

“A fool? Maybe not. More like a thief, though you take nothing.”

“If you would allow me, I would. Here in this place where all things are equal.”

“A temporary reprieve, my lord. The sun comes fast, and even a siren must obey the order of the day.”

He frowns and says nothing, but he offers you his hand and cloak.

You take it.

Tonight, the spell is broken.

And you meant to do it.

It is quiet on the walk back through the forest. He walks slowly so that your bare feet can keep up and so that the night won’t end so early.

He is by your side, your faithful companion. His fingers brushing against yours, warm where yours are freezing.

Any other night, you would have indulged. Laced your fingers with his, given him hope where there is none. But tonight, the ache in your heart has become too much, and you cannot anymore.

You pull away from him. “This isn’t real, Aemond. Eventually, your duty will compel you to leave me here. And you and I will, all we will have are memories of a pleasant dream.”

He stops walking, fist squeezing, shoulders tensing. “Even with nights like tonight, you are the only thing that feels real.

His fingers leave yours to come up and touch the delicate skin of your jaw.

You try and resist the urge to lean into the touch, but when his fingers run against your cheekbone, you close your eyes and give in.

“It’s real for you too,” He sounds innocent when he says it, happy.

It is enough to make you pull away from him, not want to have to hurt him more than is necessary.

“Do not make this harder for me, Aemond.”

His hand falls from your cheek, and the skin still burns.

You walk the remaining way in silence.

***

The sun breaks across the towers of the Red Keep with merciless clarity and judgment. There is no bathing softness to the light. No shadows for you to hide your shortcomings. It slips over stone and silk, chasing away every whisper of moonlight. The world you shared with him the night before no longer exists.

You wake alone. Not just in body, but in the hollowness of the space around you. The quiet of your chamber is deafening. Your skin still carries the weight of his touch, the scent of forest air, and his cloak. But it’s fading.

You rise. You wash. You dress as expected.

The gown is modest, high-collared. The color—an obedient shade of ivory—blurs you into the background where you belong. You braid your hair with fingers that tremble only slightly, weaving ribbons into it like a tether. You tie yourself down.

In the Queen’s solar, you pour tea and lace her bodice with fingers that know their role. You nod when spoken to. You smile without teeth. The ladies chatter around you, oblivious, laughing about courtships and embroidery.

But your thoughts are not here.

They are in the water.

With him.

You see him again in the great hall where courtiers gather in a flock. You stand in your place along the wall, still and silent.

A nervousness grips your heart.

Aemond enters beside the king. His stride was flawless. His posture is noble. His eye finds yours only for a flicker—and then it is gone.

When the King reaches the throne, he has his brother wait. Aemond is presented with a bride. A noble lady of higher rank than you.

She curtsies. The court watches.

And Aemond bows.

You feel your chest hollow, a pit forming where breath should live.

You leave before the ceremony ends.

When you reach your chamber, a single black glove rests on your pillow. Folded. Neat.

His.

***

Night comes again.

There is no bare skin exposed to the moonlight. Your heavy gown will not allow you to perch on your favorite seat. So, you wait for his anger and your devastation.

However, as the moon grows high in the sky, you wonder if the waiting is the punishment. Is the anger. It doesn’t take long for you to realize that he will not come tonight, nor any other night.

The ending of the fantasy may have been recoverable, laughed off, or dreamt away. But the duty of an engagement may have been too much for him to overcome.

You tell yourself it’s better this way.

That he made the right choice.

And that you would survive it.

The moon climbs higher, and the leaves in the grove, your chest aches. A siren’s fate, it would seem.

You would never ask him to choose between you and his duty; his devotion was one of the things you adored. But was it wrong to hope that he might choose you anyway?

And now, as you stand with your arms wrapped tightly around yourself in comfort, you let silence swallow you.

Tonight, you are not a siren.

You cannot cleanse away the hurt like a storm.

You cannot roar in fury like a dragon.

You are just a girl.

Alone.

And the moon, in her pale indifference, watches without blinking. But she does not let you go. You find yourself staring at her pale face, searching for answers she could not give.

Until you hear the squelching of wet grass. The familiar rustle of a cloak brushing low branches. You don’t turn when the noise stops. Not even when you feel the air shift, charge, and grow heavy, like the moment before a storm.

“You knew.”

His tone is not accusatory. Plain, indifferent to the answer that he already knows.

“I did.” You had heard more than simple whispers about the girls’ presentation to him.

His only comment is a “hmm.”

His voice is cold, a memory of how he was when your rendezvous first started.

When you finally speak, it is quiet, brittle.

“I thought you would not come.”

A breath. Not quite a sigh.

“I thought not to.”

You turn then, slowly, eyes meeting his. And though his face is still schooled in that royal calm, you see it—the disarray of his hair, the tension in his jaw, the fury behind his silence. Not at you. At everything.

But his eye is still tender when it is trained on you; he has still deigned to show you his sapphire.

“I refused her.”  There is a tinge of desperation in his tone.

“You refused her?”

Your heart thumps with anticipation and a strange sense of guilt.

"I gave her my silence and courtesy," he says, stepping forward. "But not my name. Not my future. That was never hers to claim."

Your eyes begin to sting with the sensation of tears, but you blink them away.

"You cannot give your heart, your name to a siren. You'll only drown."

When had he come so close?

Close enough for you to feel his breath on the apples of your cheeks. He eyes you for a moment before his gaze becomes trained on your hair.

You take the hint and are quick to undo the braid, to unbind yourself.

"Then let me drown," he says, softer now. "If it's in you, I'll go willingly."

You shake your head, lips trembling with the ghost of a smile. "You speak like a man who's never felt the weight of drowning."

His gaze does not falter. "I speak like a man who has found something worth sinking for."

The words sit between you, raw and unpolished. Not a declaration. Just the truth.

You reach out—not to hold him, not yet—but to brush your fingers lightly against his.

“I don’t want you ruined,” you whisper.

“I already am,” he replies, a breath catching at the contact. “But I’d rather be ruined with you than pristine without.”

And for a moment, you let your fingers stay there. Intertwined, uncertain, but no longer retreating.

He watches you like you’re the only star in a black sky, something both distant and vital. "Let them watch," he murmurs. "I’ll choose you again tomorrow."

It is not a promise made in shadows—it is daylight, spoken beneath the gaze of the moon, under a sky that keeps no secrets.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. Because now, you believe him.

When he steps closer, this time, you don’t pull away.

Not ever again.

[soriseerakyra]

Through the Dark

TW: Hallucinations, Blood and Violence, Medical Trauma ,Unethical Experimentation

***

Proud.

She’s so proud.

To be here. To be out saving people. To be in the street with him. And what’s more, tonight, he feels proud too.

“How many times has he plotted poisoning the city?”

“Too many to count.”

She looks at him with a frown. He knows the questions she’s asking in her mind. How does the Scarecrow keep getting out? What is it that he wants?

She doesn’t understand it—the fixation these criminals have on him, on the city. On destruction for destruction’s sake. He wants to hope she never has to come to understand it. That her world is not dimmed the way his was. But the more time she spends with him, the more he knows it’s no longer possible to keep her safe from that reality.

She mistakes his contemplative look for worry.

“Don’t worry, Batman,” she says with a cheeky smile and a slap on his back. “We’ll take care of it.”

He chuckles.

He doesn’t doubt her.

But the lighthearted moment doesn’t last. Not when they get to the heart of the factory.

“I don’t understand. I don’t see anyone or anything?” She looks at him, confused. “Could he have run?”

“Unlikely. Scarecrow is a coward, but he wouldn’t—”

The lights go out.

There is a beat of silence.

Batman hears the hiss—gas being sprayed into the room. He doesn’t need the hairs standing on the back of his neck to know what’s happening. To realize he’s led her into an ambush.

“Cover your face!” he orders. His cowl is already doing its job. A translucent guard over his nose and mouth deploys instantly—a modification he made for this very scenario.

She screams.

Night vision comes online across the cowl, and he can see the gas is already dissipating.

But she’s already on the ground, writhing in pain, back arching, mouth foaming. It’s the scream that’s most terrifying—like nails on a chalkboard, like the wail of bending metal. Mournful and petrified. Even as he is—the Batman—he feels the ache in her cry. The anguish. And it’s made worse because of who she is. Incredibly strong and fast. Happy. A protector by nature. He’s never seen her falter—until now. If he is the dark, then she is the light.

He approaches as the lights return. Unsure how to help, unsure how to break her out of this curse. Fear toxin—he has no cure. Not with him.

Her eyes are glazed. Even as he calls her name, she doesn’t hear him. The only coherent response in the room is the low chuckle of his enemy over the speaker.

“Well,” the voice slithers from the walls, distorted and pleased, “Look what happens when you break the unbreakable.”

Bruce’s jaw clenches. He crouches low beside her, gently taking her thrashing wrists into his hands. “You didn’t break her,” he growls. “You just made a mistake.”

The speaker clicks off, but the toxin’s work continues. Her body trembles violently. Sweat beads across her forehead despite the cool air. Her breath comes in ragged gasps.

“Hey,” he says, low—voice meant only for her now. “It’s me. It’s Bruce. You’re safe.”

No response.

He pulls her into his arms, locking her flailing limbs gently against his chest. “Whatever you’re seeing—it’s not real. You hear me?”

But she doesn’t. Not yet. Her head thrashes once more, and her voice—barely recognizable through the rawness in her throat—chokes out a single word.

“No.”

He frowns. There’s only one option left.

Getting her back to the cave is a feat in itself. She’s strong—unnaturally so—and she fights him every step. Thrashing, bucking, punching. But he doesn’t give up. He can’t. Not when, in the brief moments of lucidity, she grabs his cape and whispers, “Bruce, help me.”

No. He can’t give up. Not even if he wanted to.

He doesn’t stop speaking to her—not once. Not even as the Batmobile roars through the city. His voice is a steady current in the storm: calm, low, unshaken. “You’re okay. You’re not alone. I’ve got you.” Over and over, like a mantra meant for both of them.

By the time they arrive, she’s not screaming anymore. But that’s somehow worse.

She’s gone quiet, trembling like something pulled too tight. He lifts her into his arms again—gently now, like she’s made of glass—and carries her into the Batcave.

Alfred approaches, startled, ready to assist. But Bruce just shakes his head. “I need to do this. She needs me.”

He doesn’t stop until they’re in their shared room. He lays her on the bed. The sedative he crafted is strong—strong enough to subdue someone even like her.

But the needle won’t pierce her skin. Her body rejects the intrusion.

He sighs, frustrated. An ache spreads through his chest. He can’t force her out of this. The only thing he can do is try to help her break the fever. To break the dream. Return to the real world. Return to him.

“Please,” he begs, voice barely above a whisper. “You have to let me help you. I can’t do this if you’re not here with me.”

***

How many times did you have to live through hell? Before tonight, you had just been glad to make it through once or twice. But today, tonight, it was something different. Visions plague your mind, images so real that it is impossible for you to tell where your mind ends and where the toxin begins.

You lie on the bed in a medical room. Light hazy, a sheet seemingly covering your eyes. You can hear the beep of the monitor, your pulse spiking in the background. But the monitor is just for show, an illusion of care. It is for your benefit, not for theirs. You may be their experiment, but you are expendable.

They come into view all at once, six scientists, madness reigns on their expressions, all surrounding your bedside. Some have needles, others have scalpels. Both will be used to make cuts and prod, all to make you perfect.

It’s precise. Clinical. Efficient. There is no emotion in their stabbing, in their cutting. But the process is painful, so so painful. You scream. But you are ignored. They only keep cutting, keep poking.

All until your very blood starts to boil in your veins. Until time seems to stop and you are trapped in a loop of pain and memory that doesn’t stop.

But you hear something. Something familiar, soothing, almost.

It’s not the voice of one of your torturers. You remember them like you remember the color of your eyes or the taste of your favorite fruit on your tongue.

“Hey, it’s me. It’s Bruce. You’re safe.”

You recognize it now, that voice. That soothing timber. It’s your Bruce. Your Bruce.

But you feel anything but safe. Anything but secure.

Because the moment you begin to think of him, the moment the vision changes.

You stand on the street, the moon high up above you. It’s not your usual haunt. You hunt during the day, but he hunts at night. And he is who you are waiting for.

You can feel it in the smile on your face, the slight thump in your chest, the longing in your restless fingers. All you want is another chance to see him. And you’ll get it tonight, for better or worse.

You hear the woosh of his cape against the night air, and your heartbeats triple. As he soars for a moment and it looks like he’s going to land, and then he’s ripped out of the air by some unseen force.

He plummets to the ground as if he’s been smacked there, punished for daring to soar so high.

You race over to his unmoving form, a heap of black on the dark asphalt. His body is broken, limbs contorted, and blood starting to seep from where skin has split.

The only light left is in his blue eyes that stare at you just as they start to dim. He lets out a gasp of air, and he’s gone.

You scream.

The scene resets over and over again.

He falls, his back breaks, he’s pierced through, his neck is broken, over and over again. There are so many ways for him to die. For one as fragile as him to die. For one as human as him to die.

You’ve thought about it before. What you would do if you couldn’t save him. How would you go on with your life.

But this. This is worse.

Because here, you know you can’t save him. Can’t help him as he dies painfully over and over again. And soon you are unable to move at all. Unable to cradle his body as he breathes his last. Unable to shepherd him into his last good night.

It's torture.

Malevolent cruelty.

“You have to let me help you. I can’t do this without you.”

There it is again; a voice like a balm. It’s soothing, comforting, and familiar. It’s Bruce. But it is not alone this time. You can feel him run rough fingers on your skin, delicately as he can be. Feel the hair pushed back from your face and the soft kiss that’s pressed to your cheek.

You try your best to look away from the scenes of his violent death. The scenes of your failure. But it is hard to draw your eyes from it, to close your mind to everything that is happening.

Then you feel warmth. The pads of your fingers are touching soft fabric, and the rhythmic pattern of his familiar heartbeat. He is not in your mind. He is not dying or dead. You know it.

“It’s not real. You’re stronger than this. Come back to me.”

It’s a plea. A hope. A prayer.

You try to force yourself awake. To give in to the sensation of going back to reality, but you feel trapped. The weight of these visions felt like an ocean of water sitting on your chest.

You cry out, “I can’t, it's too much.”

And indeed it is too much. Bruce’s corpses have started to pile up. One by one. A blood-trailing, broken-bodied horror show.

“Even if it is too much, you’ve done the impossible before. Do it again. Come back to me.”

There is so much belief in his voice that you start to believe it too, if only for a moment.

And it is enough. A crack rings through your world like the shattering of a glass pane.

But Bruce does not stop his assault.

His last attack is a death blow. “I’m scared, too, you know? Scared of losing you.”

The glass shatters completely, and your vision clears. It only takes seconds for you to realize where you are. To meet the blue eyes of your rescuer. And to surge into his arms, basking in his protection.

***

She feels so small in his arms, even as she squeezes the life out of him.

But he hangs on, holding her close as long as she will let him.

She sits in silence for what seems like days. Breathing, readjusting, relaxing. There is a tenseness to her. One that won’t be fixed with simple time. She will need to rest after tonight. After they finish taking down the man who has caused her so much pain.

“I didn’t know that I could be that scared anymore.”

She says it with almost a sense of wonder, as if she had seen magic done before her very eyes.

Her fingers pull him closer by his undershirt, head resting on his heartbeat, just so she can hear it, and not that he’s real.

“It felt so real.”

He pauses before he speaks.

“Fear is real,” he starts, smoothing his palm over her head. “But what you saw is not the truth.”

She looks up at him, eyes tired but open, a bit brighter, life returning to her.

“I kept seeing what happened to me before, with the doctors. And then you, I kept losing you. I don’t think I’ve ever been in that much pain. At least not all at once.”

It was wrong for him to feel. He felt guilty about. But he was grateful for her concern. Because losing her was one of his greatest fears, and he didn’t even know when that happened.

He pulls her closer.

“I can’t protect you from the pain you carry. I’m sorry about that. But I will do my best to make sure that you will never lose me. Not as long as I can help it.”

She hums, looking up at him with a slow, timid smile. Finally, she presses her forehead against his.

“Pull me back next time, too?”

It’s lighthearted, as is her way. But her fingers are still clenched in his shirt, weight still leaning on his body, touch still seeking to make sure that he is real and whole.

He closes his eyes and breathes in her scent as if he, too, has to make sure that she’s real.

Then he vows: “Always.”

[soriseerakyra]

Ardor -3-

You wake just as the bells begin ringing—a familiar sound, though today it feels more like a warning than a comfort. A reminder that you’re far from home. Far from safety. The silk sheets are cool against your skin, untouched by dreams. Sleep did not come last night. Anxieties and half-formed hopes chased it away.

If the interrogation in the receiving room was any indication of your future here, you’re not sure how long you’ll survive the Red Keep. No, there would be no true peace for you here until your mother took her throne.

Restlessness has done little to ease the ache in your chest. It hurts to wonder if the boy who once clung to your words has grown into a man who would mistrust them. Aemond, who had once been certain in the quiet of the night, had let silence speak for him in the light of day.

Perhaps your mother had been right. There was no love in these halls—not anymore. No honesty. No sanctuary. Why else would he have been afraid to show even a fraction of what he’d once felt for you?

Still, he lingers in your thoughts, tall, quiet, and devastating. A man grown. Handsome now, even if not conventionally. His voice lower, his eye sharper, his promises more dangerous.

You sigh, brushing your fingers against the fabric of your nightdress, trying to quiet your racing thoughts.

A knock interrupts them.

A young chambermaid enters—kind-looking but nervous. She dips into a curtsey and avoids your gaze.

"The Queen requests your presence for breakfast, princess," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Prince Aemond will be in attendance."

Your fingers are still against the fabric. Of course, he will.

"And I—I have been sent to help you dress."

You nod, rising slowly from the edge of the bed. She moves quickly, perhaps too quickly, toward the wardrobe, nearly stumbling over the hem of her skirts. Her hands are nimble but unsteady as she lays out a pale gown embroidered with soft silver threading. It's beautiful—too formal for a simple breakfast, but you understand the game now. Every appearance is a performance.

As she gathers brushes and pins for your hair, you watch her reflection in the mirror. The way her eyes flick to you, then away again. The way her mouth twitches, as if she wants to say something but doesn’t dare.

“Has something happened?” you ask quietly, not turning from the mirror. "Have I frightened you?"

She stiffens.

"No, princess," she says quickly, too quickly. "Only... It’s not every day someone speaks kindly to me. Or asks."

Her voice is small, but the truth in it rings louder than expected.

You hold her gaze in the mirror for a moment longer, then look down at your hands.

"Then let today be different," you say. "Speak freely. I won’t tell a soul."

She hesitates and bites her pale lip, but her shoulders finally relax when she glances at you again, meeting your kind gaze.

"People saw you in the garden, with Prince Aemond."

You stiffen slightly, a breath catching in your chest. "Did they?"

"Yes, my lady. There are whispers."

"What do they say?”

She looks down, twisting a ring on her finger. “They say something happened in the godswood that he held your hand too long. That you stayed with him longer than a proper lady should. That he touched your face—softly.”

She peeks up at you then, cheeks flushed with the daring of repeating it. “Some say he kissed you. Others say you let him.”

You don’t reply right away. You meet her gaze in the mirror, eyes calm, voice even.

“And what do you say?”

She flushes slightly, red cheeks burning brightly against her pale skin. 

"There is naught for me to say, Princess."

Her fingers are nervous once more as she fingers the curls in your hair.

You let the silence stretch just long enough to let her squirm, then gently say, "I’m not angry. Only curious."

She exhales a shaky breath, clearly relieved.

“I think,” she says carefully, “that it is better for us if at least one of the princes is... occupied.”

You let out a soft breath, something between amusement and resignation. The chambermaid busies herself again, her touch steadier now as she places the final pins in your hair. When she’s finished, she steps back, eyes downcast.

“You look every bit a princess,” she murmurs. “Though I think they’ll be watching for more than your dress today.”

You nod once and thank her softly. Then you rise.

A pair of noble ladies fall silent as you approach, then burst into laughter behind your back. A knight nods stiffly but avoids eye contact. Even the guards at the stairwell avert their eyes, as though you carry some invisible shame.

You begin to understand the chambermaid’s nervousness.

There are rumors.

Whispers born of last night’s stolen moments beneath the Weirwood. Even if you had stood at arm’s length, even if no one had seen what passed between you, somehow, they know, or they believe they do.

Is this what Aemond meant to protect you from?

You make your way through the Keep, every footstep echoing louder than the last. At Dragonstone, the winds carried truth. Here, the marble carries lies.

And they are heavier than steel.

***

The breakfast table is small, modestly set. Queen Alicent sits at the head, serene in a soft green gown, her posture perfect, her hands wrapped around a delicate teacup. Aemond sits at her right. He does not look up as you enter.

The silence is oppressive. A polite smile is all Alicent offers as you curtsy.

“Good morning, princess,” she says.

“Good morning, Your Grace.”

She gestures for you to sit across from Aemond. He glances up once, briefly, then resumes pouring his tea—the eye patch gleams in the soft morning light. You cannot read his expression. Not yet.

The food is untouched.

“I have given the matter of your mother’s proposal considerable thought,” Alicent says calmly, after a long silence.

You lower your teacup; your hands suddenly feel cold.

“And I have decided to accept it.”

You blink.

She continues, “The realm needs symbols. Reconciliation. And your union with my son will serve both causes.”

You glance at Aemond. He does not move.

She looks to him, then back to you. “The betrothal will be announced at the end of the week. Until then, you are both to conduct yourselves with dignity. This court is not kind to indiscretions.”

The warning is clear, and it cuts.

“I understand,” you murmur.

Aemond’s voice comes a beat later. “So do I.”

There is no warmth in the words—only agreement.

Breakfast after is a quiet affair, filled with small sighs and the sipping of breakfast wines. And lingering.

Aemond would catch your gaze, and both of you seemed to freeze. His gaze on your skin makes you buzz with excitement. Despite what he had said in the godswood, he was clearly more comfortable in front of his mother than with the others.

That should not have been surprising. You can still remember him cradled to her chest, his blood spilling through her fingers. Even strained, there was a bond between them that neither could honestly deny.

You are so engrossed with his stare that you nearly jump out of your seat when a servant taps you on the shoulder. 

"The Queen would see you, princess," she says with a bow. "Privately."

You feel it then—that strange tightening behind your ribs. Not quite dread. Not quite curiosity. You rise, smooth your skirts, and let your feet carry you to Alicent Hightower’s private salon.

She is waiting by the window, pale green robes shimmering in the morning light.

“Come,” she says gently. “Sit with me. No guards, no council. Just two women.”

You sit.

She pours tea with steady hands.

“I thought you might enjoy something calming,” she says. “This blend comes from Oldtown. Very grounding.”

You thank her. You drink. It is warm, floral, and deceptively pleasant.

Then she looks at you, eyes sharp beneath the softness.

“You’re being watched, my dear,” she says. “You always will be now.”

You don’t respond. Not yet.

She continues: “There is no official betrothal. Not yet. But the realm already believes it. The people want a story. The nobles want a symbol. Your mother offered one. My son... did not reject it.”

You study her, weighing each word.

“Is this a warning?” you ask.

Her smile is sad. “No. It’s a truth. And one, you must learn to bend in your favor.”

She leans in, almost conspiratorial.

“The realm loves a tale, my dear. Make sure the one they tell about you is one you can live with.”

***

It shouldn't surprise you that he is standing outside your chambers when you return to them.  But your heart skips slightly when you find him leaning against the wall next to the door.

"You're here!" It comes out more excited, breathier than intended.

He doesn't hide his smirk at your excitement either. And you're glad for it, even as your cheeks warm. 

"Walk with me?"

You move to step forward, but you hesitate.

"The whispers," you start with a furrowed brow. "The servants are already gossiping. This morning--."

He cuts you off, a long finger pressed to his mouth. You quiet instantly and listen. 

*pit pat*

You hear them quickly, the footsteps of those listening. You ache to turn and confront them, but you doubt they would be there if you turned around. 

He stands up straight, a softer look on his face, and you quickly catch on to his suggestion. He hesitates, and you know why. 

He wants to offer you his arm. 

But he denies himself.

Instead, you follow his long strides, two or three paces behind him.

*** 

The library is as inviting as you remembered it being. The same place where you studied together as children. The same high windows. The same warm leather chairs. The same silence. 

The pair of you find yourself in a familiar alcove, a familiar window seat.

"I wanted to see you without anyone watching. I couldn't speak freely at breakfast."

"It seemed easier," you offer.

"A little."

"And I imagine that there will still be ease droppers here."

"Daorys bona jāhor shifang. (No one that will understand.)"

He slips into High Valyrian easily.

"Bona mazverdagon ao biare?(Does that make you happy?)"

He seems to shiver when you respond to him. His jaw sets and fingers flex. It's as if you've offered a man dying of thirst water.

"You still speak beautifully."

"Is this what you brought me here for?" You question. "To tell me how beautiful I speak?"

"No," he says, the word sharp but not unkind. His eye searches your face, as if the correct answer lies somewhere between your lips and the shadow of your doubt. "I brought you here because I needed to be away from them. From the ones who think they know how this should go."

"How should this go?"

He shifts closer, boots quiet on the thick rug. The sunlight shines, casting a golden light on the floor. You can smell the faint scent of old parchment, rose oil, and something distinctly his.

Something flickers in his eye. A possessiveness that you haven't seen since you were children. "The way you dreamed it should. But not yet."

Until after the announcement.

You breathe slowly, trying to temper the pull in your chest. "Then reach for me when no one's watching. Like now."

He hesitates only a moment.

Warm long fingers lace with your cold hands.

It's warm, steady—a silent promise.

You hold his gaze.

"This won't be easy," you murmur.

"Nothing worth anything ever is," he replies.

You don’t kiss. You don’t lean into each other. The moment doesn’t call for softness. It calls for steadiness.

So, you sit in silence. Two dragon children in a tower of stone, listening to the fire crackle and the weight of fate draw closer.

But for the first time in days, you don’t feel alone.

[soriseerakyra]

Persephone -3-

Strange. To be awoken by darkness. On Meridian, such things were for lovers and restless nights.

Mornings were lazy, peaceful affairs. Maids pulled back the curtains to reveal the amber rays of forever twilight. Soft hands shed Kalia's nightgowns and dressed her in smooth linen fabric, which was airy and breathable, perfect for the first few hours of the day.

There was no such thing on Giedi Prime. The black sun and its hellish, stark white light offered little comfort. Artificial light flooded the room the moment her bare feet touched the floor. Kalia had learned as much when she woke from a nightmare to pace.

The best thing to do was to avoid what would likely be another day in hell: stay in bed.

At least Kalia could say that was done right. Soft satin sheets, a slightly firm bed, and a room cooled to the perfect temperature. Despite the appearance of her hosts and surroundings, the Harkonnens themselves did not relish discomfort.

But she could only enjoy temporary bliss for so long.

That’s right, she could not stay here. Despite her comfort, she was being edged out of the bed moment by moment.

She could hear them outside her door, speaking in whispers in their strange tongue, listening, reporting, waiting.

But the chamber maids were the least of her worries.

On her nightstand lay a blade, smooth, sharp, and ivory white. It was his blade. Feyd-Rautha’s. The cause of her restless night.

Kalia had never given thought to taking her own life before. Never had she seen the need. Even when the idea of marrying came up, she had never fought against it. Never worried about the constraints she would be put under. Never considered the need to escape.

Her mother had done well for her, secured her place in the order of things. And she had learned well. However, none of her teachings had prepared her for this. For Giedi Prime. For Feyd-Rautha.

Rumor alone was enough to make her stomach curl. Seeing him in action had terrified some parts of her. And, to her dismay, delighted others.

There would be no love with the Lord Na-Baron. No bond of trust or understanding. She was not sure that what her parents had was love, but her father would follow her mother anywhere.

She would not have that.

After all, her father was a trickster, not a murderer.

To fall out of favor on Giedi Prime meant death—and that was if she could win it in the first place.

While Feyd seemed interested in her, she was sure that she was no more than a passing interest. A flower to be plucked, her petals pulled before the stem was crushed under a boot.

She would not survive such a thing.

She was not as hard as her mother or Lady Fenring. She would break if too much pressure were applied—and that would be worse than death.

So, she contemplated using that white blade.

She had not surrendered to her thoughts of anguish.

Yet.

She shifted under the heavy covers of the bed, toes flexing as the cool sheets dripped over her body like running water.

It only took a second for the eyes watching her to realize she was ready to be readied.

The pads of her feet touched the ground, and the door to her room slid open.

A quartet of featureless female drones entered and bowed to her.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. She was not a Harkonnen yet.

She was dressed quickly; with all the care they could muster. She was perfumed, then made to smell of the same hint of sweetness that Feyd-Rautha had worn yesterday, less musk and fresher—a relief.

She was dressed in a sheath dress, as form-fitting as it was elaborate. Intricate with detail, a white serpent eating its tail was woven into a pattern. She had a hunch that the clothing was from the Baron—a not-so-subtle dig at her father’s ignorance.

It was only when shoes were slipped onto her bare feet that one of the drones spoke.

“You have been summoned to dine with Na-Baron Feyd-Rautha and his guests.”

The word “guests” sent shivers down her spine. This was how her humiliation would come. How would he begin to break her?

But she pressed on and gave a nod signaling her unnecessary consent.

“Take me.”

They were her first words of the day. She hadn’t expected them to sound so strong.

Her attendants flanked her in a pattern meant to guide but not overstep their boundaries. They are quiet for the rest of the journey.

They didn’t need to. She was not a Harkonnen yet.

As she fell into step, she was reminded of the blade and its sharp promise of relief, waiting for her if she chose to take it.

Kalia expected the stares. The twitching cheeks. The barely contained contempt. Nobles of Giedi Prime were not known for their hospitality. However, she was surprised by the masks, which mainly covered the eyes.

Few at Feyd-Rautha’s table hid their faces completely. She wondered if her host would even allow such a thing—the ability to hide before his very eyes.

No.

She decided very quickly.

He loved reveling in pain. Covering one’s entire face wouldn’t have allowed him to indulge in such a thing.

“My wife-to-be! Come!”

He sat at the head of the table, elevated slightly, as if on a throne. She could see from here that he was slouching, legs spread wide. A king with no crown, and here is where he held court.

The room was like any other on Giedi Prime. Dark. However, it seemed dinner times were special occasions instead of the usual stale white light that lit these halls. The dining room was accented with a distinctive orange glow, reminiscent of the sunset of her planet. She understood immediately; she was on display, and any wrong move and she would be tonight’s meal.

It was not the only strange thing. The room smelled of sweat and spice. She was unsure if the spice was being pumped into the room or if the nobles had been indulging long before she entered. But judging by some of the harried look on the faces she could see, this was not the first engagement of the day for many of them. And likely not their first time having to please Feyd-Rautha.

As Kalia approaches Feyd, he motions for her to sit next to him. A smaller seat than his, but still larger than the others. He had done her that one favor. Made her status known.

“Do you like the light?” He asks with a wide grin. “I had it done in your honor.”

A chuckle falls over the table. Her eyes flicked around the amused table before she plastered on a small smile herself.

“It’s lovely, the color reminds me of the fury of our sun.”

It was the nicest thing that she could say, and it had the benefit of being true. Red sometimes seeped into the high skies above the world. But her planet was a lovely, lived-in orange. A homey feeling. They had been blessed.

A part of her felt pity for these people. They would never really understand the joy of color. What life-giving light really looked like, or how it felt on the skin. The richness of green grass, or the dark blue of a small lake.

Feyd only nods at her response, seemingly liking the comparison. He turns to address the room, raising his glass full of an unknown liquid.

“Our guest from Meridian honors us today. The first bloom to grow in this rot!”

It’s the soft laughter that follows that puts her on edge: a few raised eyebrows and one woman smirking behind a folding fan.

‘They want me dead’

Or at least to see her broken. She had heard that nobles on this planet took pleasure in watching the torture of lower-class citizens and servants. She was the most entertaining object they could have found. A highborn lady broken on Giedi Prime for them to savor. It would be like theater.

Kalia keeps her posture rigid, and her fiancé leans into whisper in her ear.

“They want to see you squirm. I want to see what you can do.”

Then he raised his voice again.

“Shall we dine?”

***

Dinner was as exotic as the planet itself. Kalia did not doubt that the delicacies were prepared to be as decadent as possible. But her stomach turned at the sight of them.

Each dish was more extravagant than the last, with some platters being served still wriggling, blood pouring when a fork was inserted into a creature.

The conversation was like any other among nobles, braggarts boasted, schemers murmured, and the dull spoke the loudest. This was familiar. She had been to court before and seen the games that were played. Even as they insulted each other and laughed, she realized she could win this game if she were careful.

Her quiet observation is interrupted by a noblewoman, one of the few who wears something other than black, grey, and white. A fashionable ensemble that more resembled armor than dresswear.

The woman tilts her head with a smile.

“Tell us, Lady Kalia. Is it true what they say of Meridian women? That their voices are trained to charm even the desert winds?”

A snicker followed, “Send them to Arrakis, then see what the savages and worms make of them.”

A murmur of interest follows, “Let her sing for us, then.”

A command it was. As if she were a serving girl.

“If the wind bows to a song, it is because it knows it's outmatched.”

A simple response.

A beat of silence.

Then Feyd laughed, a low, sharp sound.

“The teeth of a politician. You may be too smart for them.”

He looked at Kalia directly, his grin widening.

“You should have come out of your room sooner.”

She meets his dark gaze steadily.

“Perhaps I was waiting until the company was worth the risk.”

Feyd did not stop smiling.

"Careful, Kalia. You're starting to interest me."

And the court, for the first time that evening, went quiet enough for her to hear the hum of the air vents.

She had passed another test. For now.

***

Later, the court had thinned, and the nobles drifted into shadows and corridors; Feyd had remained.

Sitting on his throne, he stared for what seemed like hours. He watched her with a slightly parted mouth, examining what she chose to eat and drink. And when she finished and returned to her room, he turned his gaze back to the court, watching as they gossiped, reading their lips as they whispered to each other.

He was only absorbed in their secrets as long as he found them fascinating. And it seemed that there was little left for them to offer him.

He said nothing when he stood and began walking. Not toward that upper hall. Not toward the chambers where he slept or plotted. Or to where his darlings waited for him. Instead, he walked toward the far end of the hall. Toward the only door that would open for no one but him.

He pauses at the threshold, finding the girl sitting in one of the many seats in her room. Unmoving, unchanged, as if she were waiting for him to retrieve her.

He pauses at the threshold and turns his head slightly.

Kalia understands quickly. She follows.

The door hisses shut behind the pair.

It was a private viewing chamber, windowless but lit by a single column of soft white light. In the center stood a low table, a pair of narrow chairs, and a decanter filled with a dark liquid.

He poured one glass and handed it to her.

“You surprised me.”

Kalia takes the glass, face seeming relieved as something familiar touches her lips. “I imagine that’s a rare feat.”

Feyd eyes her, taking in her perfect posture, her slightly narrowed eyes, and her finger tracing an outline of something on her thigh.

“Rare. Dangerous. Irritating. The same thing, sometimes.”

Neither one of them sits.

“You know what I expected?”

She arched a brow. “A broodmare.”

“Careful,” he smirked. “I expected boredom.”

A pause. The light between them flickers.

She blinks. He breathes.

The dress fits her well.

“You should have come out of your room sooner,” he says.

“What else would you have shown me?” She questions. “I already know you kill well.”

He steps closer. “I could have shown you more.”

She tips her head back, “What more is there to see?”

He holds her gaze for a long moment. He reaches out.

She doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t touch her. Fingers hover just above her exposed collarbones.

“How I can ruin anything beautiful,” he says.

He turns to leave.

She let out a slow breath.

“You can try.”

Feyd stopped in the doorway.

“You would have died,” he murmurs. “If you pulled that knife.”

She doesn’t turn to look at him.

“I know.”

He lingers for a heartbeat long, then leaves without another word.

The room falls silent again.

Kalia finishes the glass in her hand, the blade lightly scraping the outside of her thigh, when she puts the glass down on the table.

She had planned to do it. To threaten him at least.

But she enjoyed dinner and a drink more than she thought she would.

[soriseerakyra]

The Quiet Between The Screams

TW: Pregnancy, mentions of matricide, mentions of self-harm, dream murder

He touches your stomach as if he is checking you for a wound. No smile. No reverence. Just a palm, calloused and cool, pressing lightly against the small swelling beneath your ribs. As if something inside might break. As if he were expecting it to bite.

You can’t blame him. You haven’t felt human in weeks.

Your ladies gasp when he touches the small bump. They were worried about this, about letting him be around you when you were in such a vulnerable state.

The high chamber is silent. Outside, Giedi Prime howls with its usual industry—grinding gears, plasma drills, a sky carved open by chemical lightning. But in here, everything is still. No guards. No surveillance. Just you, and Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, and the child twisting quietly inside your womb.

"It kicked," he says.

You nod. You don’t correct him. You don't ask if he's pleased. You're not sure you want to know.

He pulls his hand back. He wipes it on his coat as if he had touched something unclean.

You close your robe.

He leaves in a hurry, and your ladies clamor around you. It has been this way for the past few weeks.

His behavior is strange.

It’s what haunts you as you sleep. How off-put he is by your distended body. You may not be sure if 'off-put' is the right word. Perhaps 'unsure,' 'hesitant,' or 'maybe wary' would be more accurate. All things that were not Feyd-Rautha. All things that haunted you in your dreams.

You were only at the beginning of the third month of your pregnancy. Barley a bump there feel. But you had been glad. This was what you were sent here for. Secure the bloodline and your future. It was the outcome of all of these noble marriages and should have been expected.

Except your husband seemed…surprised. Surprised by your pregnancy, astonished by your excitement, and shaken by the prospect of the future.

You were no fool. You did not expect the murderous Na-Baron to shower you with affection the way another might. Did not expect him to pat you on the head and say how proud he was of you. But you certainly had not expected him to run away from you. To avoid your form entirely.

You knew he had problems with his mother. That the friction there had led to her death. However, no one seemed to care enough about your safety to tell you why she was killed.

He moved you here, to this high chamber. Away from your marital bed, away from him. As if he could not stand the sight of you. The idea of. His visits are all like this. Short, lacking understanding, and a hurried exit.

If this were to continue, you wouldn’t be sure how long you would have left. How long your child would have without you.

***

That night, your hauntings change.

A boy who looks like Feyd in all ways except for his eyes smirks at you. He presses a dagger deep into your abdomen over and over again, with the ease of pulling a lever. With the care of cutting grass. He murders you. He smiles. And you can only be glad that he is healthy.

It's terrifying. But you cannot bring yourself to do anything but rub your belly soothingly when you wake alone in your new chambers. You could not abandon your child to such a fate. To be capable of such cruelty.

Your tears begin to well up in your eyes, warm as they roll down your cheeks. There is no one to comfort you tonight, only the darkness. Only the silence.

***

Dinner is the only thing that retains its normalcy. He stares at you with his usual interest. Always wondering what you choose to eat, where your taste buds linger. Tonight, he wonders why you are not drinking wine.

“Is it spoiled?”

You can only shake your head, exhaustion from another sleepless night clinging to your bones.

He hushes himself, watching you with wary eyes. You both continue in silence for moments more. But he cannot help his need for conversation.

"You’re quiet," he says over dinner, not looking up.

"You left a knife on my table."

"A gift."

You snort. "Of protection or permission?"

He glances up then. His eyes are the color of hunger.

"Both."

You mull it over, thinking of the short, blood-red blade that was left in the quiet of the night for you. It was silly that it brought you comfort. Because it could have only been left if he was watching you, waiting for those few hours you fell asleep to leave you your gift. A romantic gesture of the highest order from Feyd-Rautha.

And yet.

He doesn’t speak again for a long while. Then, as you reach for a piece of bread, his voice is low and curious.

“Do you think he’ll hate you?”

Your hand freezes mid-reach. You look up slowly.

“What?”

Feyd leans back, expression unreadable. “Our son. Will he hate you for bringing him into this world? Or will he save that for me?”

Your heart flutters at his curiosity, so much so that you nearly disregard his question.

“My goal is to make sure that he is happy. There is no reason he cannot be, even here.”

He snorts. “I’m happy. Would you have him be that way?”

You pause for a moment, meeting his eyes deeply so that he may understand your meaning. “I mean happy in the way that you make me.”

He cannot answer this because he cannot lie and say that he doesn’t understand it.

There were nights he spent curled into your stomach, simply listening to you breathe and to your heartbeat. A feeling he had not understood nor deemed necessary at the beginning of your courtship. Now, he cherished it in ways he refused to name. It had become a ritual, something primal and silent. And with your body changing, with the heartbeat no longer just yours, he did not know what part of the sound still belonged to you—and what belonged to the thing he helped create.

“You can try.”

You can’t help but grin.

He always did love issuing a challenge.

***

He stands at the foot of your bed, fists clenched and breath heavy. Under these lights, you see familiar dark rings around his eyes. He had also been losing sleep.

"She called me her redemption," he says finally. "Her clean slate."

"And?"

"I never asked to be her second chance."

“And you hated her for it?”

“Yes.”

Your lips roll into a line, unsatisfied with his reason, but you cannot argue with him because there is confusion in his eyes, too. As if he doesn’t know the reason why he is who he is.

“If he is like me, will you hate him?”

“I will love him.”

He comes closer and kneels near the side of your bed. He hesitates before he puts a hand on your belly.

“If he is like me,” you ask. “Will you love him?”

Contemplation settles across his face. And his hand this time snakes under the blanket, settling on the bare skin of your stomach. He rubs this time using his entire palm to feel the budding seed. The feeling of his calloused hand on your skin sends shivers down your spine.

“He will be mine.”

You chuckle. Perhaps that was better than love to him.

[soriseerakyra]

All of You

The suit loomed inside its case like a silent sentinel. Jet black from mask to boot, it absorbed the light around it, matte plating layed over a dense mesh of armor weave. Its structure was brutal and functional—sculpted to intimidate and endure. The gauntlets bristled with small, sharp fins like the bones of a predator’s wing, and the heavy cape hung in rich folds behind the mannequin, draping like a shadow given weight. At the center of the chest, the iconic bat symbol was carved in raised graphite-black, a subtle but unmistakable sigil of fear.

The mask—no, the cowl—was the worst of it. Sleek, angular, and impassive, it was molded to resemble something less than human. The pointed ears curved backward with menacing grace. The eye sockets, dark and empty, stared outward like twin voids. You imagined Bruce behind it, his features hidden and voice distorted. It wasn’t just a disguise. It was a wall—one built of grief and fury, meant to separate him from the world and everything in it.

It’s hard to describe the emotions running through your mind. You can’t rightly say you’ve been lied to. But you had known Bruce for years before you started dating him. For almost a full two years of this relationship, you still had no idea.

A part of you had known that something was wrong. He never seemed fully engaged, especially on dates. Always watching, looking out for something. You had assumed it would be paparazzi or ex-partners. But no. It was this.

This. This part of him that is cut off from you and the rest of the world. How many people knew? It was no question that Alfred knew. The trusted butler likely knew most, if not all, of the man’s secrets. He had raised him since he was young, after all. But who else?

Your name rings through the cave.

It’s not accusatory, just surprised.

You know that voice so well, but how well do you know the man behind it?

You turn slowly, your heart hammering. Bruce stands at the edge of the platform, soaked from the rain, blood trailing down his temple and onto the dark material of his undersuit. The lower half of the cowl still clings to his face, his mouth tight with something between fear and resignation/ For a moment, neither of you speaks. The hum of the Batcomputers fills the space like a third presence—alive, watching. Then his voice, quitter now, hoarse: “You weren’t supposed to be here.”

You can’t help the laugh that forces itself from your throat.

Before he left you, hours ago now, the third time you’d been abandoned in his home after you’d been invited under the premise of a date, he had left in a hurry, smiling at you and telling you to, “Feel free to explore.”

How that had come back to bite him.

You’d known much of the manor now, with the many times you’d been left to your own devices to explore. The expansive rooms and studies you had marveled at, you’d come to know like the back of your hand.

So it was a surprise to find a room you didn’t know. A bookcase you’d never noticed, by the gap left behind it that led downstairs and to a dark cave.

It’s hard to see his expression under his mask. His mouth and the lines around it do most of the work to tell you how off guard he is. How surprised he is. That this was something that you were never supposed to find out about.

A part of you aches at that.

But you swallow it back when he stumbles forward a bit, blood leaking through his gloved fingers and leaving a trail down his path.

“Bruce!” You gasp.

He groans and stumbles into a chair to catch himself before he falls to the ground.

You are by his side seconds after he collapses into the chair.

“What happened?”

It feels silly to ask when he is so clearly injured. He slides the broken cowl off his face, letting it fall to the wayside.

“A blade made its way through the suit.”

You gulp down the anxious feeling in your chest, your mind making the effort to disregard the ton of information that is being tossed at you so that you can worry about his health first.

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

It’s the first thing you ask, because it’s the first thing that regular humans would do when they are injured.

“No.”

His voice is calm, and it's for your sake. Not only because he’s been stabbed, but because you have found out his secret.

You meet his blue eyes and find them tinged with worry, not pain. It’s such a foolish thing. How could he be worried about what you think when he’s bleeding out in some cave?

Your irritation causes you to purse your lips, a slight frown pulling at the corners of your mouth.

“Do you have a first aid kit?”

“Yes, but you don’t have to—”

“Where?”

He pauses for a moment, searching your face, before pointing you in the direction of a drawer.

By the time you retrieve it and return to him, he has already taken off his shirt, exposing the wound.

The wound is small but gushing, no doubt a result of him pulling the knife out before he’d made it home.

“We need to put pressure on it.”

He simply nods. “Do what you need to do.”

Trust. How funny.

You aren’t sure how much gauze you use, and there is a used bloody pile of it beside you by the time you finish stitching up the gash on his side.

You lean back in a chair you’d found not far from the expansive desk and rest for a moment. It had taken more time than you’d like to admit to patch him up, to get him to a point where he would be able to heal. But the stitches weren’t straight, and you weren’t sure that the wound wouldn’t get infected.

But you had tried your best at something you had never done before.

“Thank you.”

He looks at you with concerned eyes. He’s still unsure about what to do next, and so are you.

You sit in silence for a moment, him watching you for your reaction, and you still looking at the fresh wound that you’d patched together.

“I shouldn’t ask why you didn’t tell me. It’s your secret to keep, even now. But I can’t help it. I still want to know.”

His eyes soften slightly when yours meet his. Perhaps there is a hint of hurt in your gaze; you know there is confusion.

His brow furrows, his mouth opening and closing multiple times as he struggles to find the words to explain. Or instead, tries to find the words that won’t hurt you.

“It’s not my goal to tell anyone,” he says finally. “I don’t want anyone to know that doesn’t need to know. And for your safety, it was better for you to only know Bruce Wayne.”

“For my safety?”

You feel silly for asking the question in the first place. Of course, that is what he would say. What other explanation could he provide for you?

“But what would have happened if I never found out tonight?”

You don’t mean to speak the words out loud, you’re still ruminating over your feelings, but you do. “What if I never found out why you always run off in the middle of dinner. Or why do you sometimes just abandon me here? Or why it seems like you don’t take me seriously?”

“I do!”  He says, confusion lining his face. “More than anyone ever before. I want this to work.”

“It doesn’t feel like it. You don’t know how lonely it can be when it feels like you are always getting ready to leave, even when I think we are having a good time.”

His face falls, the line of guilt and exhaustion deepening around his eyes. He drops his gaze, as if ashamed to meet yours.

“I thought I was protecting you from the worst parts of my life,” he says quietly. “But maybe I’ve just been keeping you from all of it, even the good.”

You say nothing at first. The pain in your chest is too real, too layered for words. But you don’t look away either. Your silence is as loud as his admission.

He swallows.

“The truth is, that I didn’t—don’t—want you to see me as this. This, him” his eyes flicker behind you for a moment. You don’t have to turn around to know that he is looking at the case. The cowl has been watching the pair of you since the beginning. “I don’t want you to have to deal with him and all that comes with it.”

“But I want to be with you, and he is you.”

It’s slightly exasperated. Your tone, and you feel even more frustrated when his eyebrows seem to furrow in confusion.

“The problem isn’t that you’re Batman, it’s that you’ve been lying to me this whole time and making me feel crazy for seemingly caring about you more than you did me.”

Yes, that's it. Hurt. It is the core of what you are feeling right now.

Bruce flinches like you’ve struck him. There’s no dramatic denial, no defensive rise in his tone. Just a heavy stillness. The kind that only comes with the realization that he has truly, deeply hurt someone he never meant to.

“I never wanted you to feel that way,” he says, barely above a whisper. “You weren’t crazy. You were right. I just…didn’t know how to let you in.”

You sigh, pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. “That’s not enough, Bruce. Wanting something isn’t the same as doing it. You can’t just hide behind good intentions.”

A pause. The sound of his massive computer’s idle hum fills the silence again, a soft constant reminder of where you are—of the truth between you now.

“I know,” he says finally. “But I want to do better. If you let me.”

You let your hands fall to your lap, heart pounding with the weight of the choice. The trust that was shattered was not easily built. But this is what you’d wanted all this time. To be closer to him, to know all of him. And he’s offering it to you now.

A part of you feels like it may be too late. How many other secrets is he hiding that you’ll have to pry out of him so that you feel like you’re on the same page?

But another part looks at the man in front of you, bruised, beaten, bloodied, and raw—feels the sincerity in his voice, sees it in the way he doesn’t look away—and wants to believe him.

“I’m not sure. Can you give me some time?”

The words have his shoulders dropping, but you’re glad to see that his open eyes don’t close themselves up to you when you say it.

“As much as you need.”

***

You find him in the kitchen before the sun rises, a cup of coffee in hand.

His movements are slower than usual, the bandages around his torso visible beneath the half-buttoned shirt he’s tugged over his shoulders. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just walks over and places the mug gently in front of you.

“Alfred makes better coffee,” he mutters, a hint of sheepishness in his voice.

You offer a tired smile, fingers wrapping around the warmth of the cup. “I’m not here for the coffee.”

You both sip silently for a few minutes, shy eyes meeting each other’s and then looking away. There is a weight between the two of you—a worry on his part and yours.  When you finally feel brave enough, you hold his gaze for a moment, and he lets out a tense breath.

“I don’t want a perfect version of you,” you say softly, eyes on the steam rising between you. “I don’t want just Bruce Wayne, and I don’t want just Batman. I want both. I want all of you.”

You finally meet his gaze. There’s no anger left in your voice, just a quiet strength.

“But if we’re going to do this—really do this—there can’t be any more lies. No more vanishing acts. No more keeping me in the dark.”

His expression folds into something small and reverent. He nods once, and you see the promise in his eyes before he even says it.

“No more lies.”

The words settle over you like dawn breaking over the skyline. Soft, hesitant, but real.

You take a sip of the coffee, let the moment linger. You can’t smile yet, the hurt still lingering. But there is a flutter in your chest. A hint that this may be the start of something new. The beginning of something real.

For now, it’s enough.

[soriseerakyra]

To Stand Beside the Dark

How long had it been since you'd seen him? How long had it been since he upended your world?

There he stood, an unspoken question hanging in the air as he stood over you. Your blade, your saber, still gripped in your hand. If only you could get the correct angle on him. But your fingers were trembling, much like the light around his red blade.

It's sick, that crystal. Almost as sick as he was for coming here, for tormenting you all these years. But if he was going to kill you, then so be it. You were surprised he left you alive the first time anyway.

"I don't want you dead," Kylo Ren said. His voice, distorted through his mask, came quieter now. Almost hesitant. It was not the same voice with which he screamed for you, with which he had destroyed this village when they would not turn you over to him.

You looked up from your kneeling position. Smoking huts, burned bodies, and stormtroopers securing the area. All for you. Because of you.

"Then why do this?" you spat, fury and grief rolling in your chest. "Why attack us? Why kill them?"

He stepped forward, boots echoing. The lightsaber in his hand dimmed to the hilt.

"Because you would not let them go. You would have let them hold you back. Even now, can you say you should be on your knees? You used to be able to hold your own."

You flinched. You heard the word even if he hadn't said it.

Weak.

You're running had made you weak. Your hiding had made you weak. And now you had been too weak to protect the people who hid you.

"But you could be more," he said.

Your breath caught.

Even now, you cannot tell if he did it on purpose. For months, he'd been invading your mind. Little thoughts. Curiosities. Things that hadn't mattered until your thoughts had begun to slip into his. And then he locked in like a vice. Following you from planet to planet. Your trail had ended here.

It had been a ruse. A bait, a lure. All of those innocuous thoughts meant to lure your mind to touch his. A proposition you could only deny yourself for so long.

His thoughts had seemed so natural, as if he had no idea his mind was being watched. How strong had he gotten since you last saw him?

And his words now. The words were simple, but they struck deeper than any blow. He was still watching you, mask off now, face bare. Those storm-lit eyes held something unreadable—not pity, not triumph. Something that twisted your gut far more than either.

"More than what? A ghost? A failure? A traitor?"

"More than what you have let yourself be," he said. "You were trained to channel power, not bury it. You were fierce. Beautiful. You were alive."

"Don't."

"Why not? Because it's true? Because you still feel it too?"

You turned your gaze away, not out of shame--out of fear that he was right. Because deep beneath the fear, the guilt, the sorrow, there was a flicker of something darker. Something dangerous.

There was a reason that he had been able to connect to your mind after all of this time. There was a reason you had let him in so readily. And you had known. That no matter how much you ran, he would find you.

"I didn't come here to fight you," Kylo continued. "Not this time. I came to offer you what neither side ever would. Freedom. Power. And the truth."

You dared to look back at him. "What truth can you offer?"

"That you belong with me. And you would never be beneath me. You are mine. I am yours. My equal."

He extended his hand. Open. Unearthing. And yet every bit as dangerous as the ignited saber that had once been there.

The Force trembled. Between you, around you. A familiar feeling. One you used to savor. One that you still do. You could feel his presence wrapped around yours, like a shadow in firelight. And part of you--the part you had spent years trying to silence--leaned forward.

"Someone will have to pay for this," you start, voice weak, a tightness to your throat. You were holding back, keeping yourself from saying what it was your heart is crying out for you to say.

He ignores it.

"Say yes," he whispered. Not a command, a plea.

Is that what all of those niceties that he had been playing in your mind were for? For this moment. For you to see that the man you had loved was still there. In some way.

And maybe, just maybe, you were still in love with the monster he had become.

Your fingers touch his. The pads of your fingers warm against the cool leather of his glove. "What am I saying yes to?"

"Everything."

You flush, heat running from the top of your head down to the soles of your feet.

What an intoxicating notion.

And then you rise.

Not just to your feet, but into the space between you, letting your saber fall to the scorched dirt. Letting your silence be your answer. The Force swells in your chest like a second heartbeat, rhythmic and wild, latching to his own.

His hand tightens over yours.

No cheers. No fate-sealing ceremony. Only the electric knowledge that a line has been crossed, that you will never again be who you were. Whatever future lies ahead, it will not be walked alone.

He tilts his head slightly, a wry smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. "You always were hard to break."

You meet his gaze, voice cool despite the chaos burning around you.

"Maybe I just needed a better offer."

[soriseerakyra]

Rain on Caladan

The rain on Caladan is cleansing. Heavy in just the right way. It helps that all of the old stone work on the planet makes the echoes of the drops more pleasant. It’s even better when the sea is calm, waves not roaring with high tide—just a smooth surface for the drops to bounce into, like dark glass stretching into the horizon.

The old watchtower near the edge of the cliffs offers protection from downpour, but it's too late already. Your cloak is already half drenched; you can feel the drops soaking through to your scalp, and your clothing is starting to stick to your back.

But you don’t mind. You love the rain. It was one of the things you’ve learned to love most, here on your time on Caladan.

Your planet was different. Tropical. The rain came with high humidity, accompanied by sweat and bugs. Thick air that never truly felt cool, except for in the depths of the night. You couldn’t help but smile when the calm wind blows through, a shiver running down your spine.

“I’ve never seen someone so happy to be freezing.”

You would have jumped if the voice had not been so familiar. Had it not belonged to the boy that you were waiting on.

“I’ve never met a boy who was so happy to keep a woman waiting.”

The tease in your voice is half-serious.

He comes to stand by your side, pale skin damp with a drop of rain, curls of his hair sticking to his forehead. He smiles when you frown.

“Paul, your mother is going to be furious!” You say with a slight gasp. “You’ve ruined another pair of dress clothes.”

He looks down at the dark garments, so soaked that the rain glistens in the gray sunlight. He chuckles.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” He began to turn to face you fully. “Besides, someone borrowed my cloak without asking. I didn't have enough time to go and get another.”

At the mention, you pull the garment closer, fingers digging into the inside of the thick fabric.

“It’s not my fault that you didn’t plan. This was your idea after all. Sneaking out in the middle of a storm.”

You agreed.”

“I was coerced.”

“Coerced?”  He asks incredulously, a hint of a smile still playing at his lips. “How?”

“I seem to remember someone moaning that it would be our last storm together. How would we be able to watch the rain anymore? How romantic it would be to end the night by the cliffs.”

He turns slightly red as you recount. He thought himself a bit of a romantic, or at least felt that he was trying to be. Whatever he thought, you knew that he was trying his best. This is the first time for both of you, after all.

The first time being in love.

It was your idea to leave in the middle of the banquet,” he threw back. “We could have waited until after.”

You shoved him playfully with your arm, “Where is the fun in that? No adventure, no spontaneity.”

“I didn’t know Bene-Gesserit believed in such a thing.”

It made your blood run cold, the reminder of your station. You had shed many of your black robes once you became his bride. But you could not change what you were, nor the fact that you were placed here to control him.

Paul is perceptive and sensitive to when your mood changes. You aren’t sure when he became so good at reading your emotions. It’s terrifying how much of a failure to your order you were when it came to him.

You were soft. Easily malleable and ready to fall on every word he said. And he would do the same. How foolish it was to pair two young people together who would crave each other's presence so. Didn’t they know that would upend any ingrained loyalty? The human heart was imperfect after all.

And so were your feelings.

“I didn’t mean to bring it up,” he said, voice soft.

“I know.”

He steps closer, nudging your shoulder gently with his. “We can pretend that I didn’t say it.”

You glance at him sideways, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You? Pretend? That would be a first.”

“I’m very good at pretending,” he says solemnly, then grins. “I’ve spent the entire banquet pretending not to fall asleep.”

You laugh, the sound mingling with the steady pitter-patter of rain. The tension breaks like mist in sunlight.

“Well, consider this your reward for surviving it.”

“You, soaking wet and smug? Best prize I’ve ever earned.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling again, fully this time. He reaches out, brushing a rain-slick curl away from your cheek. You lean in and kiss his. He stiffens in surprise, a small rush of air leaving him.

“There, your real prize, but let’s not talk about politics tonight.”

“Agreed,” he whispers slightly in awe. Moments of affection were still rare between the two of you. Something rarely broached and each moment supremely savored.

You fell into a soft silence. For a moment, there is only the storm, his hand in yours, and a moment you both pretended could last forever.

You sit together on a low ledge beneath the arch of the tower, your cloak spread now from your shoulder to his. You begin to feel a strong urge to talk to him about the weight on your heart. Talk to him about the reason why you needed to be in the rain tonight.

“You aren’t so special anymore.”

The tone is playful, but your voice is quiet, almost lost in the rhythm of the rain on stone.

“Oh? Why?”

“I haven’t been sleeping either,” you say after a pause.

He turns his head towards you, surprise then concern lighting his face.

“Don’t worry, it’s just nightmares. They’re about Arrakis. About what it will do to us. To you.”

“I know,: he says softly. “I haven’t been sleeping either.”

You look over, concerned, “The move?”

He shakes his head. “The dreams are getting worse.”

He doesn’t elaborate. He doesn’t have to. You’ve heard of the prescient visions—his mother had whispered to you about them, even before the wedding. But the look on his face…You’ve never seen him so haunted by them.

“They’re getting worse,” he continues. “More vivid. I see a desert without end. And people…people I don’t know. Or maybe I will. I see you sometimes. But not always.”

You know what he doesn’t say, what he can’t say. He doesn’t want to hurt you. He doesn’t want to tell you about what could happen. About the girl. The one that loves him, the one that kills him. For now, at least he is still too mindful of your feelings to tell you the truth.

You place your hand on his.

“I see nothing. There are no visions. Just blackness.” You admit. Just the weight of everything pressing down. My order. My loyalty. And then you.” You pause, your throat tight. “And how much I don’t want to lose you.”

He laces his fingers with yours.

“You won’t.” There is a bit of certainty in his voice as if he had decided that such a thing would not happen—a command over the future.

“I believe you.”

A breeze curls around the tower, bringing the scent of sea salt and rain. You lean your head against his shoulder, and for a while neither of you speaks.

The storm continues, but for a few minutes, you both find peace in the heart of it.

The sky begins to darken, clouds fade into a deep, bluish black, and the sea becomes a solid mirror of black glass.

The storm lets up. The once heavy downpours become small drips. Caladan has dictated that your time together here has come to an end.

“Would you come back to my room with me?”

Your back stiffens in surprise.

Paul’s voice is quiet, careful. “Not for anything more than this. I don’t want to be alone tonight. I don’t want you to be either.”

You had seen his chambers before, but never spent more than a few minutes there, even as husband and wife.

You search his face for mischief, for hesitation—but find only sincerity.

“Yes,” you say softly. “Let’s go.”

He takes your hand. The walk back to the keep is silent, your footsteps muffled by wet stone, the world hushed and dark.

His chambers are warm, dimly lit by the soft glow of lanterns. He helps you out of your soaked cloak,, drying your hair gently with a towel. You do the same for him.

There’s laughter, quiet and shy, as you both fumble through the domesticity of it.

You lie beside each other in his bed, clothed and close, his arm wrapped protectively around your waist. You breathe in sync. Your head finds the hollow of his shoulder, and his lips brush your hair.

“I’m glad we had this,” you whisper.

“Me too,” he replies. “I’ll remember it when the sand starts to burn.”

You want to chuckle, but his eyes slowly start to close. His face becomes a still, beautiful mask as his breathing turns soft, for likely the first time in days, he sleeps. Your eyes become heavy soon after, and you bury yourself into him.

‘I don’t want to lose this.’

And you have decided that you are not going to. You will change fate if you must—your own command for the future.

For the first time in days, maybe longer, sleep comes to you both. Not with fear, but with stillness. As if Caladan, in its final gift, had offered you peace.

And when morning comes, you wake in each other’s arms to the soft gray light of dawn. Rain still clings to the windows, but it is quieter now.

You rise together. Tomorrow has arrived.

Arrakis waits.

[soriseerakyra]

Ardor: 2

Aegon is many things: a liar, a womanizer, a drunk. But Aegon is also still a young boy. And you had never seen him as small and as terrified as he is now…

“Me?” He questions and swallows thickly as the desperation almost engulfs him….

When was the last time you had seen your grandsire so angry?...

Never.

You’d seen him pout at your mother, chide the children, but he never looked at any of you with anything other than adoration…

“And where did you hear it from, boy?”...

The accusatory tone sends a slight shiver down your spine. Instinctively, you grab the sleeve of your mother’s dress. She doesn’t hesitate to lace her fingers through yours. Your brothers, too, are protected. Lucerys cradled against her stomach, and Jacaerys hung onto her other arm. It’s a sight of motherly protection mirrored across the room…

Aemond is huddled in the Queen’s bosom, a maester standing over him, dabbing his eye with a cloth.

How did a fight between children turn into one of them being maimed and the legitimacy of your brother’s being questioned?

Aemond’s eye is gone, and Vhagar is his now. But at what cost? Had your warning meant nothing to him?

***

The memory crashes over you as you take in the halls—unfamiliar now, changed by that night. The Red Keep is green now, filled with the symbols of the Seven. You held nothing against the faithful, but the prevalence of the idols on every part of the keep was…disturbing. When did it become acceptable for peasant idolatry to overtake Targaryen might?

The clicking of heels and the rattle of armor snaps you out of your reverie.

You have little time to take in the sight of Queen Alicent Hightower and the Kingsguard Criston Cole before you dip into a low curtsey.

“There you are, my dear, I thought you had gotten lost.”

“Forgive me, your Grace,” you start your voice as deferential as possible. “I was so taken by the changes in the great hall that I became lost in my wandering.”

Alicent takes a beat, and you dare to look at your host, ignoring the scoffing of her guard. The queen’s face is a bit distant, and a small smile graces her face. “You always were like Heleana in that way.”

She steps closer and holds out her hand, “May I?”

You nod

She takes your chin between her thumb and forefinger. She studies your face for a moment. Eyes flickering from chin to forehead and to the silver of your hair.

“Truly a Valyrian beauty,” She starts with a click. “You are your father’s daughter.”

Your cheeks warm at the implication, but it is easy to bite your tongue and keep from responding. Your mother had prepared you for this. She trusted you not to let small comments undo you.

But you would keep a note. You were your mother’s daughter, after all. You will eventually be able to repay the comments in kind.

“Come then,” she says, turning in the flurry of her skirts.

“Your Grace?”

“We will discuss your mother’s proposal in my chambers.”

***

The queen’s receiving room is smaller than the small council chamber, but is no less imposing, especially with the company. Narrow windows let in a weak light that pooled in uneven patches across the stone floor. It was a room meant for smaller, more intimate shows of power. There would be no maester here to go and record the conversations in their little book.

Being beside the fire, the crackling hearth is where you feel the safest. There is power in being soothed by your natural element, something you so desperately needed with all the scrutinizing eyes judging your every breath. When you were younger, your father told you that everything that looked big would grow smaller. So, why did you still feel the smallest in the room?

Though the raven had surely arrived long before you, the Queen skimmed its words as if they were newly written. You stand before the queen’s council today, frowning faces and distrustful eyes.

There is not a hint that your grandsire is in the proceedings. It should have been him presiding over these matters. The issue would have been resolved easily. He’d smile widely and kiss your forehead while rejoicing at the proposition. You were one of his darling girls after all.

You can only hope that after this ordeal, you will get the opportunity to see him.

Alicent was one of the few who sat at the small round table in the center of the room. She looked every bit the ruling queen, her posture regal, and her robes immaculate. Otto Hightower stood rigidly; hands tucked behind his back like a man holding in his judgment. Criston Cole hovered near the entrance of the room. No doubt ready to cut you down if you should make a run for it. Some part of you wondered if anyone would dare to stop him should he raise his sword to you.

There is an unfamiliar face in the shadows, seated behind the queen as if to whisper in her ear. Lord Larys Strong. You knew the face of his brother well, but not his. His ever-smiling visage, however, set the hairs on the back of your neck on end.

Aemond sits at the round table across from his mother. His posture is immaculate, and his hands are folded neatly. He looks as you imagine he would, no, he is much more than you thought possible. Even with the eyepatch, he is beautiful. It burns that he won’t even spare so much as a glance. You are petrified under the inspection of all these eyes, and he cannot even be a small source of comfort.

Otto takes the letter from his daughter once she offers it to him. Like her, you are sure he has already read and reread it.

“The Princess Rhaenyra has made her position known. In the spirit of unity and reconciliation, she proposes a betrothal between the Princess Velaryon and Prince Aemond. A union to mend the perceived rift within the bloodline and to secure the peace of the realm.”

He folds the letter into a pocket as quickly as possible, as if its words were cursed.

The silence that follows is long and uncomfortable. An inkling feeling tells you that your fate has already been decided. This was a formality. A way to torment you, the way they felt your mother had tormented them.

You feel exposed, young, and inexperienced. Your mother had taught you everything she knew about the art of politics, but your mind goes blank under the hostile stares.

To make matters worse, Aemond still has not spared you a glance.

“A desperate ask and move sending her here alone,” Alicent remarks. Despite her cool tone, there is a bit of pity in her eyes.

“A strategic one,” Otto counters, tone chiding. “If the Princess wishes to unite the branches of our house, it is not something we can dismiss out of hand.”

Ser Criston Cole scoffs, “A ploy to lull you into false peace. She offers a flower with one hand and hides a blade with the other.”

Lord Larys shifts, the quiet scuff of his cane breaking the tension. “Peace is a pretty word, but it is still a collar. The question is, who holds the leash?”

You stared at your hands.

You were no fool; you did not believe that this would have gone easily. But it is different to imagine hardship than to experience it. Some part of you also thought you would have had an ally in your corner.

Once, you and Aemond had whispered about futures not written by other men’s hands. He had pulled your hair with reverence and kissed the curly strands like a knight making a vow. You had believed that if you were drowning in this nest of vipers, he would pull you out. How foolish.

Now he sits still as a statue—a polished blade with no hilt.

Alicent’s gaze lands on you, sharp as broken glass.

“Well?” she asks. “You are not mute, girl. What say you to this… proposition?”

You hesitate, your heart thundering in your chest. Your ears begin ringing. You cast another pleading gaze at Aemond, but he seems preoccupied with the wine in a silver chalice.

He does not even try to meet your gaze.

“I…” you begin, then swallow the bit of bile that has rushed into your throat.  “My mother offers peace through a marriage pact. If Prince Aemond desires this offer of peace, then I would not deny him or my mother. Nor would I deny it to the realm.”

“And what would you desire, other than some trite possibility of peace?” Otto asks with a slight tilt of his head. You are unsure if he means it as harshly as it sounds, or if he struck a bitter tone in all his dealings.

“I desire understanding.” Your voice is soft, embarrassingly so. “Though perhaps I believed that I already had it.”

At that, Aemond finally turns his face toward you. His mouth twitches at the corners, but it is hard to read this new creature—you cannot tell if he feels guilt, disdain, or anything else toward you. You had hoped to see something flicker in his eye. Affection, regret, anger, even. But all you see is a hint of polished indifference. And when he spoke, it was to the room, not to you.

“If my queen and grandsire deem it wise, I will accept what is given.”

You flinch. Not because of the words, but the ease. As if he were accepting a sword. Or a burden. Not you.

Ah, is that what you are now? Something to be given? A trinket?

How cruel.

Sorrow pierces your heart, and you are forced to bite the inside of your cheek to numb the pain. If anyone noticed your change in demeanor, no one would speak of it.

The Queen and her men begin to murmur to themselves, discussing the position, timing, and appearance of such a union. You move even closer to the small hearth. If you could enter the fire and become a dragon, you would burn everyone in the room. But for now, you wish to feel the familiar warmth, fantasizing about your mother being with you and holding your hand through this.

Because it turns out, you are not the dragon you thought you were.

According to some, you were less than that, less than human.

A piece of cattle to be bartered.

How sad that the buyer seemed so indifferent.

***

He sees her take a ragged breath and stumble her way to the wooden door of the chamber. In her daze, it seems almost too heavy for her to open. His instinct is to stand and open it for her. But he clenches his fist around the silver goblet instead. Aemond hadn’t taken a sip of the wine. It had been a simple distraction. It was better to see the thick red liquid in his cups than to look at the distressed look on her face.

It was heartrending.

When she finally opens the door, she doesn’t look back, letting the heavy thing slam shut behind her so she can stumble freely into the hallway. No doubt she is looking for a place to get away. Somewhere safe from the vipers who made her feel less than what she was.

A queen.

Aemond can feel his mouth twitching a little. It’s hard to admit to himself that he was one of the vipers that poisoned her confidence.

And now he wonders is it too late for him to suck the venom out?

His girl was still strong, though. Not a tear had escaped, even when she trembled as she spoke. Her admission that she still wanted him warmed him on the inside. But he wasn’t sure what she expected of him. To openly admit the same? Things had changed since that day on the beach. And each of the beasts in the room would seek to use her against him, if they knew it was possible. Even his mother. Scheming worms, the lot of them.

“Aemond?” His mother's voice is practically honey compared to how she addressed the young princess. He casts her a cool gaze. “What you want matters, as well.”

His grandfather clicks in disagreement.

“I’ve made my opinion on the matter known.”

She nods, casting a forlorn look at the others. " It's decided then. Someone will have to inform the girl in the morning.”

Aemond would not normally tune out the rest of the conversation. But there is something in him that burns with excitement. A tingle of childlike glee that takes him too long to control. When he becomes aware, he is in the chamber alone. He was vaguely aware that his mother had called him several minutes ago, but he could not remember how long or what she wanted. Now he realizes it was to tell him she was leaving.

He taps his fingers on the table's wood, staring at where the princess once stood, hands clasped by the fire, as straight as she could. She had carried herself well. But he knew the pressure of it would have left her in a heap.

She had looked to him for help, support, and security, and he could not give it to her.

He stands abruptly and exits the room, his jaw clenched, boots echoing against the stone as he tracks down the girl. He knows where she has gone—where she always hid when she was young, a space that comforted her.

As expected, he found her in the gardens, just past the marble arches, and standing beneath the rustling boughs of the Weirwood tree. She enjoyed the face and the idea that someone was listening.

The fading light of the late afternoon catches her silver hair. It’s even more beautiful than the last time he saw her. He would admire everything else about her, but she won’t turn to face him.

She startles when he crunches on a wayward branch. She turns to see him, her pretty face stained with tears, her soft eyes swollen. He’s glad he hadn’t caught her amid her tears; he’d be unable to function if he had. She turns away from him, fingers busy tracing patterns in the old bark of the tree.

“You could have said something to them,” she said quietly, without facing him.

“Not to them.” Her shoulders rose, tense.  “To me.”

He exhaled, long and slow. It's more for his benefit than hers. He could not bring himself to break. Not yet.

The wind shifted, blowing through her hair and his. His arms began to pimple. He could smell her, even among the smells of the flowers in the garden and the musk from the trees. It was the oils in her hair that assured him of this.

“What would have been the right thing to say?” He asks.

She turns to him then, eyes sharp, anger flaring. And something else too. “Are you telling me you would not know what to say. You who always have something to say. Clever little truths. Sharp little cuts. And sweet little lies.”

“You think I enjoyed that. Enjoyed them tormenting you?” He’s surprised by how emotional he sounds.

He is still himself. It’s better not to lose control. There are so many watching all the time. Maybe she had forgotten that in her time at Dragonstone.

“Then why did you let them do it?” There is a cry in her voice now, a desperation.

Aemond’s eye cuts away from hers. He won’t be able to hide if she tears up again. He can’t admit to her the helplessness of his position in this castle. Claiming Vhagar had given him some liberty, but he was not free from the lies and deceptions that took place hourly. He was no longer free to be the boy who swore oaths to her. Not yet.

“There is no power in emotion. The only thing that matters is what ink says on parchment. Eagerness would not have aided either of us in that situation.”

“And are you?  Are you eager?”

Aemond doesn’t answer her question right away.

Are you eager?

The words sting more than they should. Not because they accuse, but because they see.

He watches her delicate and trembling fingers trace the Weirwood’s bark, the way they once traced the contours of his palm when she still trusted him. His tongue is leaden. He has no cleverness now, only the terrible clarity of his actions. Or rather, the actions he’s failed to take.

She watches him with eyes that have stopped pleading and started hardening. They are not cold yet but closing to him. He sees the door in her heart beginning to shut.

“No,” he says at last, voice rough. “I am not eager.”

She stops tracing.

“Games are being played in this castle. Machinations and schemes, all of which will involve you now. All of which I will have to protect you from. I am not eager for you to experience that pain. To have what you feel for me tainted by it.”

She doesn’t speak at first. She looks at him hard, weighing whether to believe him. Aemond wonders what she’s been told about trusting any of them. Will she have been warned by her mother, by Daemon, about the games that will be played for the Iron Throne?

The silence continues, but he can see her thinking. Her eyes have been honest in that way, so he lets the quiet linger.

Finally, she breaks it. “And who will protect me from you?”

The words should slice clean through him, hurt him somehow, but he can’t bring himself to feel wounded by them. She was right to ask. She needed to protect herself from the one person he could not defend her from. Her crying in the Godswood was evident proof of that.

“I am not your enemy,” he must at least make her realize that.

“But you weren’t my ally, either,” she replies, voice just as soft. “Not in there. Not when it mattered.”

Aemond takes a step closer. She doesn’t move, but her jaw tenses, a warning. He stopped short. Not close enough to touch—he doesn’t dare yet—but close enough to speak without the wind stealing his words.

“I was afraid,” he admits, the words bitter in his throat. “Not of you. Never of you. But of what they would do if they knew what you meant to me. What I-what I still feel.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

There was a flicker--undefended.

But she doesn’t speak.

She’s waiting.

“I couldn’t protect you from that room,” he continues. “But I can protect you now. If you let me.”

“I shouldn’t have to let you,” she says. “You should have stood up before I asked.”

“I know.”

Another pause. Aemond watches her fingers relax slightly against the bark. He wants so badly to reach for them. But he waits.

She shakes her head. “You’re not the boy from the sea wall anymore.”

“No,” he agrees, something hollow in his voice. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t remember how to be.”

She stares at him for a long, drawn-out moment, searching for the lie. When she finds none, her shoulders soften—just slightly.

“You must swear it then.”

Her gaze doesn’t falter. If anything, it sharpens, as though she’s testing whether he truly deserves to stand this close, to say what he’s saying.

“To what?” he asks, the words caught between defiance and vulnerability.

She tilts her head slightly, as if weighing him and weighing whether he’s ready to understand.

“To me,” she says simply. “To the part of me that still wants to trust you. To the part of me that stood in that room, alone, and looked for you—not because I needed a hero—but because I thought we were the same.”

Aemond’s breath catches.

“I cannot swear false oaths,” he says quietly, solemnly.

“Then don’t,” she replies. “Swear only what you mean. I’ve had enough of court lies and polished words.”

The wind rustles through the garden again, brushing leaves from the weirwood tree around their feet like crimson snow. The scent of citron and smoke from the castle kitchens wafts faintly, grounding them in the moment. The light is softer now. Gentler. Or perhaps that’s just her face, no longer hard but cautious.

“I swear,” Aemond says, and for once, there is no heat behind it- no arrogance, no posturing—just truth. “I will not fail you again. Not as a man, not as your kin. Not as whatever I still hope to be to you.”

Her eyes fluttered closed for the briefest moment. A silent exhale. Not forgiveness. But not rejection either.

“You’ll have to do more than swear,” she says after a beat.

“I will.”

“You’ll have to choose.”

“I have.”

She looks at him again, uncertain. “Then prove it.”

Aemond nods once, low and deliberate. He takes one step closer; this time, she doesn’t stop him. His hand hovers, then brushes her fingers lightly, carefully, like one touches a bird's wing that may take flight at the slightest tremble.

“I will,” he repeats, voice so low it almost merges with the wind.

 He doesn’t press. Because this isn’t a conquest, it’s not claiming.

It’s asking. And she lets him stay

[soriseerakyra]

Stage Lights and X-Ray Eyes

A/N: This has been in my head for a year...Enjoy!

*Plop*

“SUPERSTAR STUNS WITH CRIME-FREE SHOW IN GOTHAM!”

Clark Kent should be surprised when the newspaper is slapped down in his face, but he’s used to it by now.

Lois stares at him with a chipper smile, cheeks pulling up painfully at the sides. Eye twitching, eyebrows unnaturally raised.

“Have I got a story for you, Smallville.”

‘Another lead to pass off, more like.’

He knew by now how Lois looked when Perry pushed a story onto her that she absolutely wanted nothing to do with. That’s where he came in. Not that he really had any way to deny her. He was still the rookie in the bullpen after all. He glances down at the paper in front of him, and a black-and-white image of the titular starlet singing to a crowd of thousands dominates the majority of the front page of the Gotham Times.

“Music not your thing?” He asks smartly.

Lois blinks softly, her face relaxing from its tight, forced state. His quip having put her at ease, she gives him an easy smirk.

“Let’s just say I’m not looking to cut my teeth on how pretty a singer looks in her new designer dress.”

“I guess that’s why you came to me,” he starts. “I am the fashion expert around here.”

The chuckle that Lois lets out is warm. Clark can feel his heart skip a little and his cheeks color at the sight of her genuine smile.

“Glad we are on the same page. Let me know how it goes, yeah?”

“Y-yeah.”

It’s all he can get out in response as she happily saunters away from his desk. The tension left her body, allowing her to glide effortlessly. He doesn’t know which one of them is more excited. Lois, because she got the weekend off, or him, because she finally talked to him like one of her colleagues.

***

Tight.

Being sewn into your costume was always a ritual, one equal parts glamour and quiet suffocation. The garment, crafted to perfection, hugged every curve like it had been molded to your body. Zippers, laces, and hooks drew it snug, each fastening a promise of elegance and control.

A perfect second skin.

Well… third in your case.

You’ve never protested. You asked them to make you a star, and their hands did all of the work. You let them stitch and tug, pin and adjust, the prick of needles. Being made over like a doll. This was nothing; the easy part. And nothing compared to when you finally touched the stage.

Fame is the thing you wanted—what you had wished for. And these pre-show moments were the necessary steps to make it happen.

In these rare moments, you were allowed to be passive, transformed into a porcelain doll for them to dress and perfect. Because the moment you stepped out that door, the illusion would shatter. You would have to become her again.

They all relied on your performance. Your success was their security. Your spotlight ensured their paychecks. So you let them move around you like worker bees, tending to their queen with quiet reverence and the buzzing urgency of purpose.

“Hair next,” someone said. “The curls are starting to fall. We’ll need to reset them.”

“Is she sweating?”

A face appeared in your periphery, scanning you with quick precision. “No. Makeup’s holding.”

“Good. Those lashes were hell to get on.”

A honey-blonde girl knelt at your feet, her skin the shade of butter pecan. She fiddled with the straps of your heels, stealing shy glances up at you as she worked. Her voice trembled just enough to betray her nerves.

“Ready for tonight?” she asked, trying for casual but failing.

You saw it in her eyes—that flicker of awe, the breathless anticipation. Her hands fumbled more than once with the buckles.

Starstruck.

She was still new. The others had long since learned that your radiance wasn’t magic. It was work. Smoke and silk and sacrifice. But she would learn. For now, you gave her a soft smile to ease her jitters.

“As I can be, thanks to you guys,” you reply with a smile.

Her cheeks darken, and she shyly glances away. And for a moment, you find yourself having to suppress a chuckle. Until her grip on your leg tightens.

“H-hey!” She stutters, surprised, and then anger fills her. “You can’t be in here!”

A startled shiver runs down your spine as the chaotic room is suddenly still. The sudden silence is terrifying. Hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and fear bubbles to the surface of your skin.

You turn carefully, mindful not to undo the hard work of the artists who hadn’t finished their tasks yet.

At the door stands a man, shoulders sheepishly hunched, with wide blue eyes that seem just as alarmed as everyone in the room. The wine and white plaid shirt, partially hidden beneath an almost too tight light brown leather jacket, is enough to clue you into the fact that he is not one of your fans who’s snuck backstage for a sneak peek.

His unexpected entrance has caused a bubble of tension to fill the room, and he’s the first one to break it.

“Sorry,” he stutters out quickly, a few fingers coming up to push up the square frame of his glasses.

He has uttered an apology, but he hasn’t made a move to leave.

“Oh, you’re going to be sorry!”

You aren’t sure who screamed it, but the intruding man is soon swarmed with angry bodies pushing and prodding him out of the door. One of your dedicated stylists is in the back of the mob, threateningly waving his still-hot curling iron, promising to burn the man if he doesn’t move.

Strange that, with all the mass pressed against the intruder, none of your defenders can seem to get the man to move an inch or two.

Desperate blue eyes meet yours, and you can’t help the chuckle that slips from your lips.

It’s not the first time you’ve dealt with someone who's snuck backstage, and it won’t be the last. For some reason, people always think it’ll be easy to get to you. Maybe early on in your career, but not now. Not when so many people depend on you.

“I’ll call security,” the girl at your feet mutters, finally releasing her protective hold on your leg to go and find someone’s phone.

Oh yes, how did he manage to get past your security?

“Please, I didn’t mean any harm.” It’s a desperate thing that falls from his lips. A soft voice with the barest hint of a midwestern drawl is pleading with you for mercy.

Curious, your fingers find the shoulders of the blonde girl before she can press send on her call.

“Then what did you mean by coming back here and scaring us all?”

The room settles into a rumble of accusatory mumbles at your question, bodies waiting for the man to answer. The pinging of metal prongs lets you know the curling-iron-armed stylist is ready to act should the man not have a satisfactory answer.

“I-I just wanted an interview. I’m Clark Kent, with the Daily Planet.”

It’s an earnest answer, and he can’t keep the grin from forming on his face when a few in the mob begin mocking him. He shows his press badge as proof.

You have vague recollection of the Daily Planet, having given an interview or two when you’d passed by on tour before.

Your lips twist in amusement, and the crease of his frown on his face only gets larger.

“If you can find me after the show, I’ll give you one.”

The tension eases from the room at your decree.

The man’s eyes light up, and for a second, you feel bad for giving him an impossible task.

“Thank you,” He gushes as he finally begins to slip back through the door frame. For a man so large, he’s quickly able to shrink back into the shadows of the dimly lit hallway.

Your team doesn’t move until he’s entirely out of sight, their wary glances following him until they are sure that he is gone.

The door shuts, and your intruder is gone just as quickly as he appeared. The room seems to relax for a second. Tension drains from the room as worried beings lock eyes with each other, seeking comfort. That man truly didn’t seem to understand the high alert he put everyone on.

If you had any intention of giving him an interview, you would have been sure to impress upon him the issue of his interruption.

The lull in activity is over in a moment. Like clockwork, hands resume their tasks, and you’re back to being primped and preened for your performance tonight. You all realize that you must put the disturbance behind you. And you're mentally blocking out the audacity of that reporter.

You almost feel bad for that reporter; whatever angle he was thinking of writing about will be gone in a few hours, and he’ll have waited through the whole concert for nothing. But there's nothing to be done about it now; it’s not as if you’ll ever see him again.

***

It always feels strange to slip back into your own body—a sudden relief filling you, like the sensation of slipping off a too-small latex glove.

Your alter ego was a little taller, eyes a little bigger, and mouth slightly poutier. But she was still you. You looked enough like your other form that people often asked if you were related, but most never bothered you in public.

You were subject primarily to silent speculation and whispers between friends. And that is just how you wanted it.

Fame without the downsides. Most of the time. You were still free to be yourself without having to worry about how you would manage a life.

Slipping away from your handlers had always been something you were good at. Those close to you were more than trustworthy enough to keep your secrets.

Once you changed back into your regular form, you were able to slip out of the stadium with some of the stragglers, concertgoers too drunk to find their ride or still high from the experience, and those taking pictures.

You sit on a bus stop bench watching small groups of people stumble along sleepy, dark roads. The total opposite of the congestion

“There you are!”

You freeze.

A large form passes in front of you before you’re able to comprehend what’s happening.

There in front of you stands the journalist who forced his way into your dressing room. He looks at you with excited eyes and a nearly boyish smile. He looks at you with a mix of relief and excitement because he’s fulfilled his task, and now he’s here to ask you whatever inane questions he has for his paper.

But how did he…?

“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong person.”

That should be enough. The difference in tone of your voice should be enough to throw him off. Like your other features, your voice is a little deeper, with slightly raspy tones, different from your facades' honey-dipped tenor. Your eyes flicker away from his and back to your phone screen, willing the car icon to move closer to your location.

Your eyes flicker back up when you realize that he hasn’t moved.

He’s looking at you blankly for a second. All joy and relief at having found you drained from his face. His eyes flicker up and down your form for a second as if he’s trying to confirm what he’s seeing.

Then he tries again.

“I’m sorry, I know we met in kind of a weird circumstance earlier, but I’m Clark Kent. You told me to find you after the show for an interview.

You bite the inside of your cheek in irritation.

“And I told you I think you have the wrong person.”

Your lips pull down in a frown, and your eyes squint in practiced irritation.

His brows furrow at your confusion. “If you want to reschedule, we can do this at another time, it’s just that you said to find you after the show.”

Your throat tightens, and the hairs on the back of your neck begin to stand on end. Something isn’t right with this guy. Earlier, when you met him, you didn’t think that he had any ill intentions. But what kind of freak was he that he could see that you were…well…you?

You clench your fingers around your phone tightly, the muscles in your belly clench tightly, and you become nauseous.

It’s the second time in the day that the man has caused you fear.

White light hits the corner of your eyes, and your phone vibrates in your hand; your ride has come just in the nick of time.

The only thing you must do is to get away from this extremely dedicated reporter.

He’s still looking at you with clear blue eyes, eyes too bright and lively for this time at night. You know he’s waiting on your next move, hoping for an answer you were sure you were incapable of giving him at the moment.

Your throat is tight with anxiety. This man appears to be either a stalker or overly aggressive at his job. And neither one of those possibilities is something that you want to deal with right now.

“I have to go, my car is here.”

Your explanation is mumbled as your eyes cut away from him, unsure why you are giving the strange man an answer in the first place.

“But-,”

You rise quickly from your seat, and he takes a measure two steps back, his reflexes surprisingly fast for someone of his size.

You dash to the car waiting for you across the street, its driver now flashing his headlights in annoyance.

The moment your foot steps onto the gravel-paved road, you feel a twist—an awkward roll of your ankle inward. Your knee gives out at the sudden irregular feeling.  The realization that you're falling comes fast, your eyes close quickly, and one of your hands comes up to protect your head almost instinctively.

Your blood is tingling with apprehensive jitters as you wait for the feeling of cool, rough pavement to scrape against your exposed body parts.

Then you feel it, a warmth spooled against your ribs.  Large hands splayed against your back and side, wrenching you from the grip of an unfortunate, and highly embarrassing, spill.

Your eyes open in bewilderment as you realize that you are more right-side-up than you expected to be a few seconds prior.

Straight ahead, you see your ride share driver throwing his hands up in exasperation, beckoning you to hurry to your paid-for seat.

“Are you all right?”

It’s not until you feel warm breath on the back of your neck that you realize that you are being cradled by the man who’s had you on edge.

“I’m fine.”

You're forceful when you rip your body away from his. But he’s quick to release you without any fight. His hold had been so light it had almost seemed like he’d been afraid you would break. Your clumsiness is probably making him feel as such.

His brow is furrowed in a look of concern, and he appears gentle.  A hand of his reaches out to steady you when you step down off the sidewalk.  His concern seemed so genuine that you almost feel bad for not trusting him. Almost.

You walk away, heading to the car and trying to assuage the guilt that’s building in your stomach.

You only make it to the halfway point before you turn around.

“You have a card?” Your voice is little more than a mumble, but the reporter is either an excellent lip reader or has the hearing of a retriever because he perks up immediately.

His large hand shoves its way into one of his jacket pockets as he easily steps over the sidewalk.  He does it with such ease, it's almost as if he's mocking your little spill earlier.

 Your fingers brush against each other when you take the card from him.

His cheeks burn red.

You cut your eyes away.

"I'll text you," it's a mumble. You wonder if he can tell how defeated you feel.

 You don't dare meet his gaze again to find out. Instead, you hurry to slip into the car, sliding down the back seat to wallow in your pity.

Was this how everything ended?

***

“Interview With a Shape Shifting Starlet!”

No, that felt wrong. She hadn’t even agreed to the interview yet. How about…?

“Superstar Disguises Self to Live Among Us?”

No, that felt worse. Invasive. Icky.

Clark Kent didn’t sleep last night. He’d been haunted. He didn’t see it when he caught her sitting alone last night, how spooked she’d been.

How genuinely scared she was.

Even when she had practically run away from him, he’d been too enthused actually to notice those buckeyed looks she gave him.

She hadn’t even seemed that scared when he ‘found’ himself in her dressing room.

She was so in control then, so above it all. Ethereal, almost blinding.

‘And half dressed.’ ‘

He feels his cheeks burn, and he’s sure that he’s red as a tomato.’

He had tried his best not to look, but it was all happening so fast. He was glad that he had gotten a good look at her, though. Without it, he never would have found her again.

Her posture had changed. Her voice, her gait, even the lines of her jaw. But those eyes. He could pick those pretty eyes out of a crowd, a solar system away.

But he’d been too indulgent to read the distress.

Imagine that Superman couldn’t tell when someone was afraid.

Clark sits at his desk at the Daily Planet, pencil twirling in his hand. He doesn’t have the heart to write any of his proposed headlines on the computer. He was too worried he might accidentally get inspired.

He wasn’t looking to write an exposé on a woman who looked like she was genuinely in fear for her life.

But what was it that he was supposed to do now?

The city skyline starts to pale as the sun begins to creep up. Light was cracking through the big open windows of the office.

Clark leans back in his chair, glasses off, finger rubbing at his nose bridge.

She had told him no twice and had tried to run away from him.

And still she said, “Do you have a card?”

Guilt.

It's eating him up.

While he may have remembered those eyes at first because of how beautiful they were, he can’t stop thinking about them now because of how familiar they seem.

He flips the page in his notebook.

He couldn’t write the article, it wouldn’t be right.

But he could write a letter.

“You looked afraid when I found you. Not afraid of me, but afraid of being seen. I know that feeling. I live it every day…”

***

“And it was unfair of me to put you in this position without thinking.”

One of your legs is folded on your lap as you read the letter. Sun warming your back, you reread the letter. The whole thing is lengthy and filled with other versions of apologies, admissions, and small memories that he must have held onto. He recounts their first interactions – awkward and uninvited — and how unprepared he was for her presence. He writes about the moment he saw her alone at the bus stop and how he should have seen more than just a source for a story. Because his mind could see her for what she truly was at that moment. A woman who just wanted to vanish into the night, and he hadn’t let her.

Somewhere between the small apologies and the anecdotes, you forget yourself; a small smile cracking the façade you had put on when you had agreed to meet him here at the park. You had told yourself that you would be stoic, solid as a rock. But you couldn’t.

Not when he handed you the letter and hurried away with a wave, blush of embarrassment on his cheeks. Not with all the self-deprecation and the indications that this man was just a giant dork who loved his job.

You press the paper against your thigh, eyes still skimming the last few lines. There’s something comforting about the slant of his handwriting, the way he loops his lowercase' e's as if he’s not in a rush.

“I won’t publish a word,” he wrote. “I just wanted you to know someone saw you and didn’t look away.”

You exhale slowly. That line—it settles into you like warmth after cold rain—a slight relief.

Then your fingers hover over your phone.

You shouldn’t reply.

You’ve told yourself to let this go. Fame and privacy can’t coexist. That people like him, good at heart with keen eyes, are too dangerous to let close.

But still, you type out a message.

Coffee? Somewhere quiet? No interviews.

Your finger hesitates above send.

Then taps.

You set the phone down beside the letter and pull your knees to your chest, letting the city move outside your window.

Maybe this doesn’t have to be about headlines.

Maybe this time, it’s just about being seen.

***

The café was tucked between a laundromat and a shuttered bookstore—quaint and forgettable.  It had been her suggestion. Clark had suggested a dinner, but received an emphatic “No!” in response. He supposed that a superstar wouldn’t be a fan of somewhere loud and crowded, like a dinner in a busy city. But she also probably personally wasn’t a fan of the noise when she was herself either.

He arrived early. He had already claimed a corner table where the light didn’t quite reach, nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee and nervously rereading the message she had sent. It had come early in the afternoon, but he couldn’t read it at his desk. Not after he handed her that letter and ran away like a weirdo.

He also didn’t want to be seen on his phone after he failed to put the story Lois had so graciously given him. She was quick to send him daggers when he came in that morning and had nothing to show for the expensed ticket that was bought for him.  

But when he had read it, his heart thumped with relief.

Coffee? Somewhere quiet? No interviews.

Would it have been wrong if he had admitted to himself that that was precisely what he had hoped she would write?

The bell over the cafe door jingles as it opens, and Clark is surprised. She’s here, the real her, like she agreed to.

She wore sunglasses even though the sky was overcast. Understandable. But the style was different from the sweatpants and hoodie that he caught her in that night.

He catches her gaze, and she gives him a nod; he smiles. He hoped he didn’t come off too eager. She didn’t give him one back; instead, she opted to head to the counter and place her order before coming to sit down.

For a moment, neither spoke. She didn’t remove her glasses, and he couldn’t keep the awkward smile from his face.

He realizes he’s doing it when she furrows her brows a little, confused.

Clar cleared his throat. “Thank you for coming.”

“I almost didn’t.”

Her voice is steady, but he can tell that it is not entirely the truth.

He goes along with her words.

“I figured.” He paused. “I meant every word I wrote.”

“I know.” She looked at the table, then up at him. “You have kind eyes. It’s annoying.”

Clark huffed a quiet laugh. “Sorry about that.”

A server came by and placed her order in front of her—a light coffee-based drink with a cinnamon-coated rim.

“I thought you’d ask for tea,” he starts. She stared at him blankly. “…you know…because…singer.”

She doesn’t even crack a smile.

“So, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to talk,” he said. Or…sit.”

“Still deciding.”

Silence again. But it wasn’t tense. Even as she stared him up and down, he didn’t feel any pressure. No feeling that she meant him any harm. She was just…unsure. Measured.

Finally, she asked, “How did you know it was me?”

Clark’s expression softened.   “I didn’t. Not at first. But when you looked at me backstage, then again at the bench, I saw the same thing. Something under the surface.”

Her lips purse.

“Bullshit.”

***

His blue eyes go wide at the curse, like he didn’t expect you to be capable of the words. And he was right. You weren’t usually one to confront someone for lying; something about that felt hypocritical. But for you, this was a matter of life and death.

You take off your sunglasses, and he averts his gaze.

“Tell me how you knew it was me.”

He turns red quickly, from the tip of his nose to his ears. His jaw clenches for a moment like he’s wrestling with something—whether to lie again or to admit something that might make him sound crazy.

Finally, he exhales.

“Two things,” he holds out two fingers like he’s going to lose track of the number if her doesn’t. “Y-your eyes.”

“My eyes?” You questioned.

“They’re pretty both ways.”

He sounds so shy and sincere, saying that your heart thumps in your chest, and a burst of heat paints itself across your cheeks.

“Thanks. What’s the other thing?”

He exhales.

“I saw your heartbeat.”

You blink.

“What?”

He rubs the back of his neck, shoulders hunched slightly. “It’s going to sound… weird. But I have certain abilities. And one of them is… I can see things. Hear things. Like your heartbeat, the rhythm of your breathing. It didn’t change. Not when you changed your hair, your clothes, even your voice. It was always you.”

You’re silent.

Not out of fear, but surprise. Maybe a twinge of understanding.

He continues, voice softer now. “I didn’t mean to. It’s just something I pick up on sometimes, without trying.”

“And you didn’t write about that either?”

“No.” His answer is immediate. “Because that’s not the story I care about.”

You lean back, studying him again.

You want to ask, “Did you make a wish on a magic stone too?” But that seems a little invasive. So you ask instead.

“So, you’re special too.”

He nods.

You bite the inside of your lip. You're supposed to think it's not really the weirdest thing to happen to you. More and more remarkable individuals seem to emerge in the world all the time. Aliens too.

You nod slowly. The quiet stretches between you again, this time with something new inside it—recognition.

And maybe a little bit of trust.

***

Is it wrong to text a stranger nonstop for days? It’s what you’ve been doing since your last show. Your last performance in Metropolis was the final stop of the tour. And you were in no hurry to leave. Not since you made a new friend. One where you could be just you. Without lace, lashes, or lenses.

Clark’s messages are short. Sometimes funny, sometimes awkward, always genuine. You were glad he agreed to keep messaging you, though. He preferred talking on the phone. You hated it.

He never pries. Never asks about your performances, your set list, or the gossip swirling around your name online. He talks about the city mostly. The places he likes to visit are late at night. Where to watch the best sunrise. Which rooftop cats are the boldest.

And you find yourself telling him things, too—mundane things. About the tea, you burn your tongue on, about how you bring blankets from home because you can’t sleep on hotel sheets. About your favorite movies, and the pair of socks your aunt gave you for your birthday.

Sometimes, you don’t even realize how much time you’ve spent talking to him until your phone buzzes with a low battery warning.

Tonight is one of those nights. You’re lying on the hotel couch in an oversized hoodie, bare-faced and warm under a blanket. Your phone buzzes.

“Rain’s coming in. You ever watch the storm from the museum steps?”

You smile. You hadn’t. But now you’re curious.

Twenty minutes later, you’re there. Hood up, sitting on the cold marble steps of the Metropolis Museum, the city stretched in hazy lights below. The sky rumbles softly overhead.

He joins you without fanfare. No surprise this time. Just a quiet presence beside you, holding out a paper cup.

"Chamomile," he says. "I guessed."

You take it, letting your fingers brush his. "You’re getting better at this."

"I had help."

The two of you sit in silence for a while, sipping tea as rain starts to fall in soft, lazy drops. The city glows through the mist, warm and alive.

You speak first. "I haven’t stayed in one city this long in years."

Clark hums. "That a bad thing?"

You shake your head. "No. Not bad. Just... different."

"Different can be good."

You glance at him, and he’s already looking at you. And for once, you don’t look away.

Your voice is quiet. "Do you ever wish you could just be one thing?"

"All the time," he admits. "But then I remember—some people get to be two. And that’s not a curse. It’s a gift."

The rain gets heavier, but you don’t move.

Neither does he.

***

She doesn’t notice the figure.

How could she?

She’s wrapped up in the rain. Watching it roll down the uncovered stairs, catching a few drops in her hands, and smiling up at him. But Clark does. His head shifts slightly, just enough for his brows to furrow.

Her pretty eyes become concerned when she feels him stiffen next to her. His hand comes up to lightly touch her arm.

“We’re being watched,” he says. Voice so low it nearly vanishes beneath the rain.

She stiffened beside him. He didn’t need to use his vision to know the figure had moved. The glint of a lens confirmed it. Then it was gone, tucked back into a coat, and the shadow turned away, walking off with a pace far too smooth.

She was already up, hood drawn tighter. "Paparazzi?"

Clark shook his head, rising beside her. “No. They would have taken more than one photo. That was deliberate.”

He didn’t like the way the stranger carried. Smooth, unbothered by the fact that they had been noticed. Someone who had already known exactly where to stand, when to photograph, and when to vanish.

She checked her phone as it buzzed, and her face paled.

Nice disguise. Shame if the world found out.

His jaw locked. That cold, gnawing anger he rarely let surface crept in.

"We should go," he said immediately. "Now."

They descended the museum steps. The rain grew harsher, but he kept her close, matching her pace without crowding her. Her breaths were short. Her hands shook.

Back at her apartment, she bolted the door while Clark scanned the perimeter. Every window, every corner of the rooftop across the street. His hearing stretched into the quiet.

Nothing.

Yet.

She asked the question without turning around. "Who would do this?"

He hesitated.

Then: “Someone who knows what you are. Or… who—what I am. Maybe.”

He sees it flash on her face for a moment—Who are you? But she quiets it quickly.

He was relieved. He should tell her, shouldn’t he?

He knows who she is. What she is. Was it only fair?

And she asked slowly, “You think this is about us?”

Her eyes seem to flash a bit brighter just so her meaning is clear.

“I do.”

She pauses, and he can read the expressions on her face, the trains of thought that she is going through.

And then she exhales. Her shoulders, which had been taut since the moment he spoke at the museum, finally lowered.

“I’m tired of running,” she says quietly. “And hiding.”

He takes a step closer, his hands still open and nonthreatening. “Then don’t. Not alone, anyway.”

She meets his eyes. Hers are uncertain, but not unwilling.

“I’ll need your help,” she says.

“You’ve got it,” he answers. “Whatever it takes.”

And somehow, despite the fear crawling in the back of her mind, she believes him.

She finally believes someone.

***

You had hoped it was a one-time thing. A scare in the rain. A photo that never surfaced. That the person that Clark had sensed was nothing more than a person walking by, in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

But then the second message came.

You looked tired tonight. Maybe you should sleep more.

You haven’t performed in nearly a month. Haven’t left the hotel room that’s become your apartment, since that night.

Clark had taken to checking in on you more frequently, sometimes in person, sometimes just through text. You didn’t tell him everything. Not yet. There was a part of you that didn’t want to look helpless. Not to him. Not when he looked at you like you were someone still whole.

A part of you also didn’t want to tell Clark because you were angry with him. Furious that he found you out. And angry that he wasn’t the only one now. That this started happening after you had met his stupid, wonderful face. How could you need him to be around and be so rage-filled at the same time? But you need him.

Because the eyes—whoever they belonged to—never left.

Sometimes, you saw them out of the corner of your eye when you slipped out for groceries. A reflection that lingered too long in a passing car. A silhouette at the edge of a building that disappeared before you could double-take.

The worst part? You started to second-guess your own senses. Was it paranoia? Or instinct? A part of you had started to regret your wish. Not just being famous or having a perfect form part. But you felt silly. Who makes a wish and doesn’t ask for some kind of superpower? Something that you could have used to protect yourself.

Because, the threat is getting closer, one night, the elevator in your building chimed at the wrong floor. No one stepped out. But when the doors closed, there was a folded piece of paper on the floor.

Your name. Scrawled in ink.

You opened it with trembling hands.

I liked the black hoodie better. You don’t need to hide from me.

You don’t remember the last time you screamed.

But you did then.

By the time Clark arrived, the note was on the floor, and your hands were still shaking. He didn’t ask questions at first. Just stepped inside and locked the door.

You didn’t ask how he knew you were home, or how he had gotten there so fast. You were just glad that he was there.

Sat on the couch together, you fiddled with your hands, clammy with nervous sweat.

“I think he’s getting closer.”

“He?” Clark asks. But nothing in his tone screams surprised. You were sure he’d known that entire time, too.

“I feel it in my bones,” you say, giving him a nervous smile. “I don’t think I’ll have to worry about being alone anymore.

It was a horrible attempt at a joke, one to make you feel better.

But the way that Clark’s face seems to crumble in on itself…How could he find himself carrying just as much as you had? You were still a stranger.

And that’s why you said.

“I don’t think you should hang around me anymore, Clark. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

His eyebrows raise, and his face softens, but there is a bit of anger in those blue eyes. A bit of darkness you hadn’t seen before.

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

He takes the note from your coffee table. “But him. I think it’s time that I meet him before he meets you again.”

You nodded, throat too tight for words.

If he was done waiting, then you were too. Whoever was following you has stopped being patient, and so have you.

***

It was her fault.

How couldn’t it be?

She knew what she was doing every time she stepped on stage and smiled. Oh, and that voice of hers.

Enchanting.

He hadn’t minded it if it was hers or not. Not that he couldn’t tell which things were intrinsically hers. Her hair color, skin, the smile, the way her knees knocked slightly together. And god, those eyes! He couldn’t get enough.

But he was fine not being the only one that got to see the here that was perfection, in both forms.

Because she was generous, she toured around the world. Letting the world see her perfection.

But the key was, she shared.

This spending, time with a newspaper writer, wasn’t exactly fair. And it wasn’t exactly him. Who was Clark Kent to monopolize her time? To get her to lock down her time in Metropolis when she never stayed in any place for more than two weeks, tour or not?

No. It wasn’t fair.

Clark Kent hadn’t quit his job for her.

Clark Kent hadn’t followed her around the world.

Clark Kent hadn’t lost his family for her.

So why did Clark Kent get to have her?

No, he’d nip it in the bud before it got that far. Before the larger man could even get the chance to lay his hand on her.

Because no one loved her the way Henry Miller had.

***

I promise I won’t be more than 15 minutes.

How many times had you begun to type it out? But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You knew what you were doing, so it makes sense. He had made you promise to tell him anytime you went out.

“I’ll be there,”  He said.

But how could he? And how could you bring yourself to ask that of him? He needed to work and live his own life.

The one that was far less complicated than when you had entered.

If you had just agreed to give him that interview, he wouldn’t be involved in this mess in the first place.

And perhaps, neither would you.

So you went out.

Hood up. No makeup. Your “real” face.

It was supposed to be fifteen minutes, just as you promised in the text you never sent.

Just enough time to breathe, and just enough time to get some ice cream from that bodega on the corner that you and Clark had passed so many times.

And then it happens.

That itch.

A bit of twisting of your skin, your instincts on fire. Too heavy a silence in the aisle. The store felt eerily empty. You couldn’t see the cash register from back here, but you could see the back door, and the fact that it is slightly cracked open, just enough space for you to run.

And so you do.

Or you would.

If your wrist hadn’t been grabbed.

If you hadn’t frozen where you stood.

“I liked you better in the black one.”

The voice itself wasn’t remarkable. Averagely low, bland, nothing remarkable about it.

But you recognized the cadence—the words.

You turned slowly.

He looked like any other man. Slight frame. Brown short hair. Jeans, coat, bland like oatmeal. But his eyes were already devouring you. Wide and too bright.

You don’t recognize his face.

But he knew yours.

And worse, he smiled like he owned it.

“Who are you?” you asked, already backing away.

He didn’t answer.

Just tilted his head, like a curious dog, and said, “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

You turned and ran.

And then you screamed.

***

It pierces his ears, that scream. He’s never heard anything like it. It seemed to be happening right next to him, but also all around him. And he’s not alone because everyone in the office seems to wince.

Like a dog whistle, they could all hear it calling to them, but they didn’t understand. Lois looks confused for a moment, but she shakes off the tone. Others do too.

But Clark can still hear her, and the anguish in her tone is evident.

He’s up and moving before Lois can even ask what’s wrong. His glasses are in his pocket, and the elevator is ignored entirely. Within moments, the wind howls past his ears as the city blurs beneath him.

He follows the sound.

***

He has you pushed up against the wall, a hand clamped over your mouth. One of his eardrums is bleeding.

You don’t know what you did to cause it—screamed too loudly? Fought too hard? But it doesn’t matter.

Henry Miller is panting, ragged, and furious. His face is a mask of desperation and obsession. Spittle dots the corner of his mouth.

“I loved you first,” he hisses. “I saw you before all of them before you changed. Before you hid. You think Clark Kent sees you? You think he deserves you?”

You shake your head under his grip, fury rising even as panic claws your chest. You try to knee him again, like you did moments earlier, but he pins you harder.

“I’ll release it,” he growls, fishing in his coat pocket. “All of it. Your face. The raw footage. Let them see what you are. Then we’ll see who comes crawling back.”

Before the words even finish leaving his mouth, there’s a sudden whoosh of displaced air and a crash like thunder.

Henry is gone.

One second, he’s pressing against you; the next, he’s across the room, slamming into a metal shelf that crumples behind him.

Clark stands where Henry had just been. No glasses. No hesitance. Dipped in Blue and red.

Superman.

“Don’t touch her again,” he says, voice ringing with something ancient and absolute.

Henry groans, trying to scramble toward the device he dropped. Clark’s foot lands on it, crushing it with a satisfying crack.

“It's over.”

You slump to the ground, breathing hard, chest heaving. Clark is already at your side, crouching low, hands not touching but ready.

“Are you okay?”

You nod, but it’s shaky. He sees the tremble in your hands. Without asking, he pulls off his cape and wraps it around your shoulders.

Henry is moaning behind the shelves, but you block it out. You stare at Clark, this man who had been beside you as a reporter and now hovered like a myth come to life.

“You’re him,” you whisper. Not a question.

“I am,” he says. “And I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

But you shake your head. You pull the cape tighter around you

“No, I’m sorry. I should have texted, like you said. I just…”

Your voice breaks, but only slightly. You shake your head again, angry at yourself—for the fear, for the pride, for letting it get this far.

Clar doesn’t press. He simply lowers himself beside you, his presence a shield against the world.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says gently.

“I just wanted some ice cream.”

It’s pathetic as it comes out of your mouth. Voice slightly hoarse, exhaustion beginning to overcome you.

Clark smiles, and it’s not the kind of smile people give when they think you're being silly. It’s soft. Understanding.

“Then next time,” he says, “I’ll go with you. We’ll pick the flavor together.”

You close your eyes for a moment, the tension slowly seeping out of your shoulders. His words shouldn’t mean as much as they do—but right now, they mean everything.

A moment passes. Then another.

You finally look at him. “I think I need to go back to the hotel.”

His expression shifts—not surprised, but attentive.

“Okay,” he says. “Come here.”

You hesitate. Not out of fear. Just awe. He’s already removed his jacket, his cape unfastened, catching the low streetlight in soft folds. He steps forward, arms steady, posture sure.

You nod.

When he lifts you, it’s effortless. Like you weigh nothing. His arms are warm, one beneath your knees, the other around your shoulders, and then—

The city drops away.

The wind roars past you, but his body shields you from the worst of it. Lights blur into lines. Streets become threads of gold and red. You press your face lightly into his chest, breathing steadily, eyes closed.

You’re safe.

He lands on the hotel balcony like a whisper.

You don’t move right away. Neither does he.

Finally, you look up.

“Thank you,” you say. And it means more than just for the flight.

He sets you down gently, brushing your hair back from your face.

“I’ll stay close,” he says. “In case you need me.”

You look at the empty room behind you, and then back at him. The night suddenly feels too long to spend alone.

“Would you stay?” you ask. Quiet, but sure.

Clark blinks, then nods. “Of course.”

You leave the balcony doors open as you walk inside together. He shrugs off what’s left of his suit jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. You grab a blanket from the bed, tossing it onto the couch, then hesitate.

“Bed’s big enough,” you murmur.

He meets your eyes—not with surprise, but with understanding. “Only if you want me to.”

You nod once.

You both settle in, silent but not uncomfortable. The hum of the city becomes a lullaby beneath the glass windows. His presence is steady beside you, not looming, just there.

You fall asleep to the sound of his breathing, warm and human and close.

And this time, you don’t dream of being followed.

***

Clark was awake before the sun broke over the city.

Old habits. A farmer’s clock buried under years of heroism and secrecy. He didn’t need much sleep anyway, not really. But he had stayed still through the night, careful not to wake her. She had curled closer sometime during the night, her head resting on his shoulder, the steady rhythm of her breath easing something tight inside his chest.

It wasn’t until the sun began to shine with a soft morning gold that she began to stir.

She blinked slowly, tugged the blanket up over her shoulder, surprise eking out of her very being. Then she blinks. Clark can see the wheels turning in her head as she remembers the events of yesterday.

A smile then a frown, before her face settles on a look of unguarded contentment. They sit in that silence for a moment.

Then:

“I have a question.”

Clark turned his head to her gently. “Anything.”

Her brows furrowed slightly, lips pressed in thought. “When you’re flying… what does it feel like?”

He blinked, then smiled softly. That wasn’t the question he expected.

“It feels,” he began, voice quiet, “like the world lets go. Like gravity forgets to hold you. And for a while, all you can hear is the wind and your own heartbeat. Like nothing else matters.”

She nodded slowly, like she was memorizing that.

Then: “Do you feel free?”

He hesitated. “Sometimes.”

“And the other times?”

He glanced out the window, where the skyline glimmered.

“Other times, I feel like I’m flying toward something I can’t quite catch. A danger I’m always late to stop. Or… a life I’m still figuring out how to live.”

She was quiet at that.

Then she reached for his hand beneath the sheets.

“You weren’t late last night.”

Clark turned back to her. Her expression was earnest. Honest.

“No,” he said. “Not last night.”

Silence for another beat.

“One more.”

He nods.

“Do you twinkle or were you born that way?”

Clark’s brows narrow in confusion. “What?”

Her mouth purses, “I mean like this.”

Her eyes seem to flash, and all around her, small twinkling lights seem to appear like fireflies. When the haze disappears, she’s in her perfect form.

With another flash of her eyes, she seems to release that state, and she’s back to normal.

“So do you twinkle?”

She laughs—real, unguarded—and the sound makes his chest ache in the best way.

“Well, don’t let it get to your head,” she says, pulling the blanket higher around her shoulders. “It’s just light-bending particles. A little reflexive shimmer. Not even that impressive.”

“It’s beautiful,” he says plainly.

She goes still at that. Not because she doesn’t believe him, but because maybe, in that moment, she does.

Clark shifts onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. “Does it hurt?”

She shakes her head. “Not really. It’s more like... holding your breath. You can only do it for so long before you need to let go.”

He nods slowly. “I know that feeling.”

Their eyes meet again. Something unspoken lingers between them. Not fear. Not tension.

Hope.

A gentle knock on the hotel door breaks the spell—room service.

She looks at Clark, a question in her eyes.

He smiles. “I’ll get it.”

As he moves toward the door, she sits back against the headboard, arms wrapped around her knees.

He opens it, signs, thanks the server, and wheels in a tray stacked with covered plates and two mugs of coffee.

“Did you—?”

“I called down while you were sleeping,” he says with a shrug. “You had a rough night. I figured waffles might help.”

She laughs again, shaking her head in disbelief.

“You’re kind of ridiculous.”

“And you’re kind of amazing,” he replies, placing a plate in front of her.

She blushes but doesn’t argue.

As they eat together, the morning light grows stronger. Outside, the city stirs with its usual chaos. But inside the room, there’s a rare and sacred kind of quiet.

Not the kind born from fear.

The kind born from beginning again.

***

It’s a Friday morning. Weeks since the storm at the museum. Since Henry Miller's arrest.

The world had moved on. Quietly and then all at once.

Your name never hit the headlines. Footage of you never released. Clark made sure of that with the stump of his foot. If anyone had known about your run-in with Superman, it would have been the bodega clerk. And as far as he was concerned, you were just another girl that Superman saved. That was good enough for you.

Clark had promised to protect you, and he had kept his promise. So you figured it was only fair that you kept your promise to him, too.

***

The bullpen at the Daily Planet buzzes with its usual chaos—phones ringing, reporters arguing over phrasing, coffee machines hissing nonstop.

Clark is at his desk, unable to focus. He hadn’t talked to the girl since last night. She had sounded mischievous on the phone. Promising him that she had a surprise for him.

He’s halfway through rereading the same sentence for the fifth time when the room goes quiet.

It’s not total silence, but a shift—a collective breath held.

He glances up and sees her.

She stands just inside the bullpen doors in her full form. The version of her that the world knows. Posed. Radiant. Not intimidating, but undeniable.

She offers a small wave.

Clark blinks.

Then stands.

“Hi,” she says. The same mischievousness he heard on the phone is alive in her eyes.

“Hi,” he echoes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” she interrupts, walking closer, pulling a notebook from her bag. “Besides… I figured you’ve waited long enough.”

He recognizes the notebook. The one he’s seen her scribble in more than once, always closed before he could sneak a peek.

“For the interview,” she clarifies.

“You’re serious?”

She nods. “You still want it?”

Clark stares at her for a moment, then laughs—a soft, disbelieving sound. “Of course I do.”

“Then find me a quiet room, Kent.”

His coworkers are still watching as he leads her into an empty, glass-walled conference room, which is private enough.

He pulls out a chair for her. She raises a brow, amused, but she sits. He settles across from her, pulling out his recorder, notepad already open.

“You can ask anything,” she says. “But I might not answer everything.”

Clark’s smile turns thoughtful. “That’s fair.”

The recorder clicks on.

And for the first time, without fear or disguise, the story begins—on her terms.

***

METROPOLIS TIMES “SUPERSTAR SINGER SETTLES IN THE CITY OF TOMORROW” Beloved international star surprises fans—and local reporters—by calling Metropolis her new home.

Sources close to the performer say she’s “ready to write a new chapter.”

[soriseerakyra]

A Dance of Smoke and Fire

Tonight, the Street of Silk was alive. He could smell the cheap perfume, the spilled wine, and hear the laughter that was too loud and sharp to be true. The people seemed to writhe as they walked, lust-filled air heightened by the heat of a hot night. Aemond hated it. He hated the noise: the leering, the looting, the sweat of it.

Aemond understood intuitively that he was superior to these people. The whores and the whore mongers. If he could get what he needed in the quiet safety of his chambers, he would.

But there was nowhere to breathe in the Red Keep, eyes always watching. Little mice here and there are ready to use any indiscretion as fuel for some scheme. Most people there were no better than the people here. They both would have judged him for his perceived indulgence.

Tonight was not about pleasure for him. It never was. What he wanted was silence. Where no one whispered to him about what it is that he must do. Sylvi could do that. Sylvi was good at that. Being silent. The woman understood the value of silence. Od simply breathing. She was reliable. And never asked anything of him.

Other than her payment.

Tonight, though, was different. He knew as much when he entered the establishment. There weren’t many times that he heard yells that were anything other than from drunk clients.

“I told you no!”

In the main hall, he sees the voices. Sylvi and a girl. A woman. Maybe only slightly older than he was. She wore no velvet corset, no jewelry. Her silver-blonde hair was pulled to the back of her head in a long braid. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, fire flickering in her eyes, more intensely than in the flames of the hearth.

“He can find someone else to fuck. I don’t care who or what he is!”

The madam grabs the girl by the arm, aware of all the eyes on the arguing pair. She hissed in her ear what Aemond could only imagine. There were not many that Sylvi offered her kindness to, not on work nights.

The girl rips her arm away.

“I told you what I would and would not do when you hired me.”

She stepped away from the flames, closer to Aemond, though he doubts that she’s noticed that.

His stomach drops to his feet as her face comes into better view.

Not because of her beauty.

But because she looked like him.

Like his family.

Like Old Valyria pressed into flesh, and she did not flinch, not when Sylvi raised her voice again. Not when a drunk nearby shouted something crude. Her spine stayed straight. Her eyes, molten.

Aemond moves out of the girl's way before she notices and takes his place in a dark, secluded corner. Shadows clung to him like a second skin. Wine was poured. A new girl came and offered to sit with her, but she waved her away.

He watched the silver-haired girl as she disappeared through a back curtain, face stormy and proud.

Something inside him—something dangerous-uncoiled and stirred.

He would come again tomorrow.

***

Sylvi pushes. You understood why. However, sometimes the pressure was too great. You had made your boundaries known when you had come to work in the brothel.

It was true, there was better money to be made working for her rather than working with her. But this was temporary—a setback.

You didn’t hate Sylvi or what she did; if you did, you would have never agreed to work for her. Would have hated that this was an option in the first place. Would have hated your mother, you didn’t.  What Sylvi wants from you is too much. It necessitated a lifestyle you weren’t willing to commit to. Building a clientele, keeping their names straight, and keeping them happy is not something you want to spend time doing. In King’s Landing, it is hard to get out of the life once you start.

Cooking for the brothel was enough. Sylvi had already roped you into occasionally letting men run their fingers through your hair, just for a chance to feel something like the royals had.

But last night was too far. The man had wrapped his fingers around your tresses and tried to force your head down, much further than what was appropriate.

Needless to say, a swift punch to the drunkard's nose was enough to get him to release you.

As she always does, Sylvi pretended like it never happened. It's great that the two of you are friends again. And you allowed it. Though you wouldn’t forget, and neither would she. You weren’t sure how many more times you could get away with until your temper ran out of this place.

You were sweeping the floor in the back hallway, trying to cool your nerves. Your haunches still hackled from the incident yesterday. It wasn’t until you were calm that you felt the hairs on the back of your neck begin to prick up. You know when someone is watching you. Your awareness is high in this place.

You know when someone is watching you. It feels like little pinpricks of heat on the back of your neck.

You glance over your shoulder and find nothing but the darkened hallway and the distant echo of laughter. Still, the feeling clung to you.

A strike of nerves began to eat away at your stomach.

You knew who was watching.

You’d seen his pale face in the corner, not too long after your conversation with Sylvi. It was her favorite.

The long-haired Targaryen.

You had seen one of them up close before. The older one, Aegon. Drunk laughing in one of the pleasure gardens when he thought no one was watching.

But this one was different. He is silent. He watched everyone and anyone at least for a moment. And you did not doubt that it was he who was watching you.

And gods help you, but you wanted to know why.

***

He returned the next night. And the next.

Never spoke. Never called for anyone, not even Sylvi herself. He just sat in the shadows like a silver statue. The girls began to whisper. Uncomfortable with the feeling of being watched, of being judged, but no one approached him. He paid too much in good money to stop him from just sitting at the table.

You pretend not to notice him.

You scrubbed tables, fetched wine, and chopped onions in the heat-blasted kitchen until your fingers were raw. But his eyes were weighted so that you could feel them on your back.

It continued this way until finally, Sylvi approached you.

“He’s asking for you.” No preamble, no smirk. Just the facts.

Your eyes narrow, “To fuck?”

Sylvi looks at you with laughing eyes and a smirk that calls you a fool, “To pour his wine, girl.”

That was worse somehow.

Still, you went.

The private room was warm, hot from the fire, and not the sticky sweat of moving bodies. Aemond Targaryen sat with one leg crossed over the other, the stem of a goblet between two pale fingers. He watched as you entered—openly, without shame.

You pricked up the decanter without a word and poured. The wine shimmered in the dim light like blood.

“Is that all, my lord?” You put your best foot forward, hoping that he would dismiss you. That this was just some strange fantasy. That he just liked staring at silver-haired girls.

“You don’t belong here,” he says. His eye cuts into you quickly, as if trying to read your reaction.

Ah, so that’s where this was going. Another one who thought he needed to save a girl from a life she had chosen.

You blink away the realization and smile. “And you do?”

He doesn’t return it. “I know what I am.”

You set that decanter down harder than you meant to. “Then you’ll understand when I say, so do I. And I am not—”

He tilts his head as he interrupts, “Not a whore?”

Your eye twitched first, then your cheek. You could feel the rolling heat of your anger filling you to the brim.

He smirks, as if he can see the fire rising in your chest. As if that is the exact reaction that he expected.

You stifle it quickly, embers turning to smoke in your chest. You won’t give some princeling the satisfaction of seeing another one of your tantrums.

“Not yours, anyway.”

For a moment, silence stretched between you, taut and humming. You should have left the moment he started testing you.

But you didn’t.

Curiosity?

Why had he been staring at you?

“What do you see when you look at me?” You ask.

“Myself.”

His answer cuts through you like a hot blade. Not what you had been expecting. It wasn’t a compliment. But he wasn’t condemning you either. Your body tingles as your embers begin to smolder.

Aemond leans forward, the firelight catching the edge of his eyepatch, a hint of blue peeking under the thing. “You know what you are. So do I.”

You swallow thickly. Nerves this time.

“And what is that?”

“Fire.”

The word echoed. You hated that you felt yourself trying to catch your breath.

He doesn’t touch. Doesn’t try. Just sat and drank his wine with a blistering eye as he watched every emotion flicker across your face.

You leave, unable to stand being in the presence.

You feel the heat of him still burning on your back.

***

It’s a festival night. That means more clients. More clients mean more food. More food means more ale. And more ale means more drunks.

The kitchens ran out of food. Your job switches from cook to barmaid instantly. You're on the floor getting as many drinks to as many patrons as you can.

The air is thicker than usual, sweet with the scent of mead, sharp with the smell of sweat. The musicians in the corner play discordant, drunken melodies. Somewhere, a woman laughs too loudly. Somewhere else, a person sobs.

It takes all of your skill to dodge the grabby hands and angrily gently turn down the lecherous smiles.

You balance a tray on your shoulder, weaving through tables as if you were born into this type of chaos. You weren’t.

You catch flashes of familiar faces—regulars who tip too little and talk too much. You’ve learned not to meet their eyes. It invites them into conversation, and conversation leads to assumptions.

Someone grabs your wrist as you pass.

“Another round, silver girl,” the man slurs. His eyes are red, his cheeks redder, and his grin is not inviting.

You smile with your mouth, not your eyes. “Get it from the bar.”

He doesn’t let go.

“Don't be rude. Pretty thing like you—”

“Let. Go.”

The tray shifts dangerously in your grip as you jerk your arm back. The man’s grip is ironed by liquor. Just as you’re about to drop the drinks entirely—

“She said no.”

The voice is quiet. Cool. Sharp as a blade.

Aemond.

You hadn’t seen him arrive, but there he stands, just over the man’s shoulder.

Not looming. Not threatening. Just watching.

And it’s enough.

The drunk lets go with a grumble and slinks back into the press of bodies. You adjust the tray and give Aemond a look—half gratitude, half warning.

“You planning to watch all night again, prince?”

His lips twitch, almost a smile. “Only if I am entertained.”

“I suggest you find a better hobby.”

You walk away before he can reply, heat prickling up the back of your neck to your cheeks. But when you reach the bar to reload, he’s still there, just within view—still watching.

And gods help you, you let him.

It’s deep into the night when it happens. A glass was thrown, an argument ensued, and a woman was grabbed.

You hear the familiar refrain of “She’s mine!” Followed by the oh so common, “I saw her first.”

You pause when the chaos begins. Tray empty, you’re able to put it down to your side and watch the scene about to unfold.

A shove, then a punch, and suddenly, two groups of men are on each other quickly. Tossing, breaking, biting. Themselves, their enemies, and worst of all, the girl.

It’s Sylvi who turns the situation into a necessary chaotic frenzy.

At the entrance, she screams, “Guards! Get these fuckers out of here!

The city watch is within their favorite brothel within seconds.

The numbers in the small building swell, and you are pressed further and further back against a wall until you can’t breathe.

The guard have no room to draw their blades in here. No weapons to calm the tension. What started as a brawl between rivals turns into a desperate bout for escape. Bloodied hands, broken fingers, and cracked ribs. It's all happening so fast you can barely understand what’s happening.

Until you’re grabbed. Not by your wrist, but from below. A strong arm cups the back of your knees, and you’re cradled against the chest of a lanky body. Said form hustles through the kitchen and out the back door.

Into an alley.

The air outside is freezing in comparison. No hearths, no writhing bodies, no heat from the stove. It’s silent too, no doubt the chaos on the main road has driven most into hiding. No one wants to be on the bad side of the city watch.

He doesn’t put you down once you’re safe. The way he grips your shoulders and knees, you are unsure if he’s able to. He looks straight ahead, breathing hard through his nose. Anger is in his eyes and etched on his mouth.

He waits until he’s collected his breath before he speaks.

“You should have moved sooner,” he mutters.

You begin to twist in his hold; he clamps you down tighter. “I can walk.”

“You could have been trampled.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

“Then you’re either lucky or stupid.”

You glare at him. “Let me down.”

His jaw ticks. But he obeys.

Your boots hit the cobblestone with a soft thud. The night air instantly begins to coil around you, pimpling the exposed flesh of your arms. There was no need for a shell inside.

The darkness of the alley is illuminated by the open back door of the place from which you were just rescued. A foolish idea to head back inside now.

It's silent between the two of you. Only the sound of your shuddering breaths as he looks off into the distance, at the moon perhaps.

You break the silence first, if only to have something other than your chattering teeth to listen to.

“You keep watching me.”

“You keep pretending not to see me.”

A pause.

Then he steps closer, slow and deliberate.

“Why do you think I watch?”

You don’t answer. You can’t because the look in his eye isn’t one that you have seen before. It’s not lust. Not fully.

It’s recognition.

And something deeper.

Something that might cause you to burn.

***

When did you decide to walk? You weren’t sure. The light in the kitchens had dimmed; it meant the brothel was empty. There was no going back there tonight, maybe not for a few days. Where you would sleep, you weren’t sure. But it was easy not to think about it in the presence of your companion.

He’s staring even now as you walk on together.

“You don’t have to stare, I’m not going anywhere now.”

Not that you had anywhere to go.

Your arms cross around your chest, freezing air whipping past your arms, calling you a fool.

He steps closer, and before you can ask him what it is he wants, a warm cloak is thrown over your shoulders.

You are suddenly bathed in him. Clove and cedarwood, the faintest smell of smoke. Warmth begins to seep through to your bones before you can even argue with him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you mutter.

“You’re cold.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“It’s not your responsibility.”

He purses his lips at the last remark. But you can see it, even in the dark. The glint in his eye speaks louder than he ever has.

Isn’t it?

You pull the cloak tighter, despite yourself.

The city is quiet now. Lanterns flicker behind shuttered windows, the cobbled path stretching dark and uncertain ahead of you both.

“Why do you keep coming back?” You ask your voice quieter now, honest in a way you hadn’t intended to be.

“Why do you stay?”

The question takes you by surprise.

You stop walking. He does too.

“I don’t have much choice.”

“You have enough to keep your pride.”

That stings more than it should. “Is that what it is to you? Pride?”

“Aemond turns to face you fully. “No, it’s defiance.”

You tilt your head. "Is there a difference?"

"One burns out when no one’s looking. The other—" he steps closer—"burns even when it’s alone."

His words echo in the stillness. You’re not sure what to say. The cold has faded, or maybe it’s just his proximity.

“You think that’s what I am?”

He studies you. "I think you know exactly what you are. And you're terrified of what that might mean."

You smile sardonically, “I know what I am, I’m not a fool, Aemond. And telling someone wouldn’t change a thing.”

"No?" he asks, voice low. "Then why haven’t you told anyone? Why haven’t you taken what you know and made it your weapon?"

You stare at him. His eye holds you there.

“Because what good is royal in a whore house? The moment I spoke, it would have become real. And real things can be broken, sold, used.”

His jaw clenches. “So can silence.”

He moves like he might reach for you, then stops. He lets the pause stretch until it almost hurts.

"Do you want to be broken?" he asks.

You hesitate. Then, softly: "I want to be seen. And I want to survive."

Aemond nods once, like something in your answer pleases him—or maybe cuts too close to something in himself.

"Then let me see you."

The words land between you like a spark in dry tinder. You look down, then up, and nod again.

You ache at the burn.  A longing that you had buried deep reawakened at the simple command. He becomes bright in the darkness, brighter than the moon in her element, like the only thing you needed to guide you through the night and beyond.

 Ah, so that’s why he had been staring.

***

“I look like both of them, apparently, my mother's skin, nose, and mouth—his everything else.

Your voice is quiet in the godswood, but it doesn’t need volume to carry weight. The black bark of the weirwood looms behind you, its red leaves whispering with every cold gust of wind. Aemond listens in silence, seated opposite you beneath the old tree’s sprawling roots.

He hasn’t interrupted, not once.

You sit with your knees drawn up, cloak still wrapped around your shoulders, though its scent has faded since that night.

“I only ever saw him twice,” you continue. “Once from far away. Once, when he didn’t know who I was. He said something cruel to my mother. She didn’t flinch. She was made out of steel. A whore that couldn’t be bought or broken. I loved her.”

Aemond shifts slightly but still doesn’t speak. His eye is on you, steady, unyielding.

When you tell him your name, you see the surprise on his face. Perhaps it sounds familiar.

“She wanted it to be something noble. So that even when they heard the name Waters, they’d still bow.”

There’s silence again. You glance at him.

“You’re not going to ask who he was?”

“I already know.”

You study him. “You say that like it’s obvious.”

“It is,” Aemond replies, his voice low. "You carry his arrogance. His fire. The way you speak—it’s like you expect the world to fall to its knees or burn trying.”

“Is that why you were staring?”

Aemond’s eye narrows slightly, but he doesn’t look away. “I was staring because I saw a dragon pretending to be a kitchen girl.”

Your breath catches.

He continues, softer now. "Because when you walked past the hearth light, I thought—‘She should be flying.’"

“Tell me, prince, if I had walked into the Red Keep and declared myself a royal bastard, would you have welcomed me?”

It takes him a moment to answer. And you wonder if he is considering lying to you. You quickly bury the thought. He wouldn’t lie.

“No,” he answers honestly. “They would’ve called you mad. Or ambitious. Or worse.”

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “So, I was right to keep it quiet.”

“You were right to survive.”

He moves toward you then, slow and deliberate, and you don’t move away. He doesn’t touch you—not yet. Just stand close enough for warmth to pass between your bodies.

“I wouldn’t have welcomed you either,” he admits, voice low. “Not then. Not before I knew what it meant to wear a name like a chain.”

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “And now?”

“Now I don’t care what name you wear.” He says it like a vow. “I care what you are.”

“And what am I?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Mine. If you’ll have it.”

There’s no rush. No demand. Just a quiet offering between two people who’ve lived too long being told what they are and never asked.

You reach up and place your hand against his chest.

“I don’t want your protection,” you say. “I want your truth.”

“And you have it,” he says.

You lean into him then, slowly, resting your forehead against his. For a moment, neither of you breathes.

The fire crackles. The wind outside whispers past stone and shutter.

And when he lifts his hand to cup the side of your face, it’s not a claim. It’s an answer.

You’re not going back to the brothel.

And he’s never letting you disappear into shadow again.

[soriseerakyra]

Nice To Meet You -21-

Bruce Wayne is confused, and there is a fly in his ear.

The sting of the champagne rolling back over his tongue leaves him feeling buzzed by the time it pools in his belly. The warmth languishes there like a pool of warm honey. It only takes a moment before the sips of alcohol blossom in his veins, and he’s feeling more lightheaded than he was before.

Is this what it feels like to be drunk?

He recalls the vague memories of being slumped over in a booth, unruly dark hair covering his eyes, and the feeling of teetering between euphoria and absolute misery. From his late teens to his mid-twenties, he always skipped the pleasurable parts of drinking. The minor lightheaded tingling that leaves you deliriously happy. The release of inhibitions that lets one dance on the floor with abandon. He didn’t have time to sit in those moments. The ache in his heart always threatened to consume him, so he quickly chased it away, which was the only way he knew how.

He dove headfirst into punishing blackout nights. He was always glad for the hangovers in the morning. The pounding of his head is enough to drown out his sorrowful thoughts, at least for a little while.

He suffered for his recklessness, though. His recollection of that time reads more like flashes of someone else’s life than a record of his memories. He hated himself, he hated Alfred, he hated…everything. Safe to say that the constant blacking out had been one of his many bad coping habits. In his later years, he’s learned the practical art of not drinking in public. Not that anyone but himself would realize it. He was as good with a slip of the hand as any thief was, save one. He can’t remember the last time he’d been tipsy in public, let alone drunk—well, except for right now.

The annoying buzzing is back in his ear again; It sounds like a fly bouncing around, tickling the sensitive skin, sending small, uncomfortable shocks down his jaw. He moves to use a finger to rub at the irritation, but his rising hand is laced with the slender pale fingers of the woman he’s forgotten that he was in the room with. Her copper-red hair keeps fluctuating in hue. His hazy mind can only recognize it as a function of the dimming lights as his eyes roll back and a pleasurable high rolls through him.

“Bruce?”

His eyes flutter open. Surprise wakes him from his drunken stupor, the familiarity of the tone settling over him like a blessing. His dark blue gaze finds purchase on the slightly parted mouth that called his name. It only takes him a moment to place the familiar lips and the curious orbs staring at him.

The name of his house guest tumbles from his lips, and the being in his arms freezes for a moment. A frown of confusion pulls down her face. She looks at her hands, curiously, and then… acceptance. Bruce is only vaguely aware of those eyes looking at him with a different interest.

“What are you doing here?”

He tries to sound as scolding as possible, but he truly is happy to see her. He remembers that she should not be here, but for his life, he cannot remember why.

She pouts. Lips glistening and more tantalizing than ever. Fingers slide up the lapels of his tuxedo. It sends a new warmth down his spine, and his instincts have him surging forward.

His fingers sink into the plushness of her hips as she presses herself against him. He is reminded of the hug the two had shared previously. He had not been Bruce when he had that hug. He could barely feel her through his suit, and he could not enjoy the warmth of her body pressed against his.

            However, he savored the small puffs of her breath that fanned out against his chin and part of his cheek. He relished the smell of vanilla, sugar, and flour that bloomed in his nostrils. Specks of dough flattened into a paste against the apron she wore, the tops of her fingers caked in the same sticky batter. She had been baking in that state. Her worry-baking caused a pool of emotions in him at precisely the wrong time. How was he supposed to push the image of her baking in his kitchen out of his mind when he needed to focus on protecting her the city?

            Now is the perfect time for him to enjoy her. When he was feeling as loose as he ever had, the urge to press himself against her was stronger than ever. He cups her cheek, and she presses against him even closer. His thumb runs over her cheekbone, and she looks up at him coyly. Then a smile teetering on the edge of seduction spread across her lips. His heart hammers in his chest, and the rush of blood through his body leaves him feeling tingly.

‘But this isn’t right.’

            The thought hit his mind with the same force, a thumping louder than the beating in his chest. It was far more painful than the ache for her could ever be. There was pleasure that tinged a longing for a person; this was pure pain. It was only made worse by the fly voice screaming in his ear. Overwhelmed with the sensations, his mind flashes images of his real baker.

            The last time he touched her, he could feel the chill of surprise roll down her spine. He had seen the shyness in her eyes and felt the flush on her skin. She did not want to pull away from him any more than he wanted to part from her. And while he was sure that she was capable of seducing him if she put her mind to it. The way she would lick the frosting off the tip of her fingers when she thought no one was watching was a clue enough to that.  But that had been far from her mind at the time. She was nervous, unsure. Inexperienced. Even as her lips had parted, and she tilted her head up closer to him, he could see her mind whirling in her eyes; overthinking every movement she made. She’d wanted that closeness but had been afraid to push him too far.

It’d been adorable as it was intoxicating.

            He was lucky that his mission was at the forefront of his mind. Without the focus, he may have wavered and given in to her, indulged in her, and changed everything about their relationship. Maybe they would have sunk in too deep, too fast. He was grateful that he hadn’t. He was even more thankful that the scene happened to run through his mind. The image in his mind of the flushed woman made one thing incredibly clear: this person was not her.

            His body seems to act on instinct. As soon as the thought registers, the woman’s fragile wrists are taken into his hands, and he thrusts her away from him.

            Maybe it’s because of the alcohol, but he does not have his usual strength about him. A push that would have usually cleared a person across the room only moved the woman a few steps back. And from the smirk on her face, that was only because he caught her off guard.

“Maybe we should slow down just a tiny bit.”

            He means it to come out smooth and to have his deep baritone voice do most of the heavy lifting for him. However, he can hear his slurred words and knows the desired effect will not happen.

            The person in front of him, the one wearing the face of his baker, takes a step back. For a moment, they seem stuck. Their bodies become so still that Bruce is unsure whether they are breathing. Then it happens.

            The…creature begins to shake. Skin bubbling and head shaking form fluctuates so quickly that the being becomes little more than a hazy, waxy image. A blur or smudge on the foreground of the room. It’s not until the tendrils of thick copper hair appear in the place where the head should be that Bruce realizes that the creature is transforming.

            He swallows deeply, and his tongue slips over the roof of his mouth, and he must fight the urge to grimace. He does not know how he did not taste it before. The sting behind the honeyed drink he would barely sip.

‘Drugged.’

            The grim thought has him frowning instantly. Even as his mind is sobering up, his body is not as quick to follow.

            The amorphous blob of a face seems to settle on another familiar visage, as the red-headed woman he recalls following up to this suite reappears. There is no seductive gaze to her blue eyes now. No playful smirk pulling at her thin mouth. This was not going according to her plan, which landed him in a very different circumstance than he was in only moments before.

“You’re something else,” she starts with a drawl. “I hadn’t expected you to be quite so…willful.”

            With his body not under his control, he realizes that he is entirely at her mercy. The thought that scared him the most was that he still did not understand what the woman wanted from him. Even her interest in him at the party had not been noticeably clear. And now, with her supernatural abilities on display, he was even more uncertain. He cannot help the concern wrapping through him, his tongue feeling even heavier in his throat. She eyes him shrewdly, like a lion stalking her prey.

            If he did not think through this situation quickly, he doubted he’d be leaving this party the same way he came in.

*Buzz*

            The annoying noise is back in his ear again. At least now, he can make it out as microphone vibrations and his son's raspy voice yelling.

He could hear it now, the familiar rasp of his son’s voice echoing in his head.

“I know you hear me, old man.”

            The younger boy tries to say it confidently, but his tone is resigned. Bruce does not blame him; he has no idea how long Jason has been trying to reach him without getting a response. As much as he hated Bruce, he would not let him die—not like this, at least.

Bruce moves his numb fingers up to the receiver of the earpiece, but the only response he can give the boy is a grunt.

            His captor thrusts a strong fist into the middle of his abdomen and finds himself stumbling back. His weight falls on top of the wooden desk in the center of the room,

            He underestimated the situation, but he accepted that fact quickly. Later, his pride would urge him to punish himself for the mistakes he made here tonight. Deep in his core, he knew this was not how the night should have gone. He was better than this. He had done better than this. He had planned better than this. And worse, he knew that she deserved better than his failure tonight. Even now, he could picture her worried face, how she would fret over him when he returned.

            If he returned.

            He would like to smell the scent of vanilla and sugar again.

“Just move the fuck out of the way.”

            Bruce does what he can and throws himself behind the desk—just in time. The moment he does, the room fills with smoke, and he can hear the familiar thick snap of breaking wood. Jason is never as careful of collateral damage as Bruce would like.

“Augh!!”

The creature’s scream is followed by a gurgle, and less than thirty seconds later, rough hands are pulling his body up from the ground. Bruce is blinded by the same smoke his attacker his, but the grip on his frame is familiar.

Jason expertly heaves his unresponsive body onto his shoulders. The younger man does not comment, but he does make a grunt of strain before he can comfortably settle Bruce’s weight over his shoulders.

Then the boy takes off as quickly as he can. Bruce can only imagine the goal of getting him back to the manor and back to safety. But he is becoming delirious again and can only utter a small, “Thanks,” before he passes into unconsciousness.

***

The strain of irritation is already prickling at her shoulders. She cannot help the scoff that falls past her lips as she watches her form dissolve into a puddle of filth on the carpet of the small office.

To have an infiltrator was one thing. To lose a prize like Bruce Wayne was something else.

Kristen bites the inside of the corner of her mouth until the familiar iron taste of blood washes over her tongue. It is something she does to remind herself that she is the real her. She is alive, although she does not know how long that will be with her recent string of failures. It also helps give her a release when she is unfathomably angry. She would not punch a wall like some petulant child. Her failures are her own, a result of her miscalculations.

She walks over to the small drink caddy on the far side of the room and pours herself a drink.  How could she have known that Bruce Wayne was protected by one of the Bat’s many proteges?

‘Explains so much.’

She thinks it bitterly. One person in this town always escaped physical danger more than others. She cannot remember when someone successfully robbed Wayne Manor or extorted the billionaire. At least now she knows why.

‘His own personal boogey man to protect him.’

She downs the drink before placing the glass back down. She should let him go. She knows she should. Plenty of other rich sacks are in town, across the country, and around the world. Tangling with Batman or Bat-Lite tends to backfire on people.

She hears footsteps. Soft, softer than any person should be. A weight settles over the room. And the lights seem to dim on their own. A patch of skin on her body begins to burn. With the burning, she can feel the pattern of her master’s mark coming to life. She knows that if she were to turn around, a figure would be staring at her from the doorway and waiting for her. Waiting for her to give what their master is due. But her hands are empty once again tonight.

She knows she should leave Bruce Wayne alone, but has already promised to deliver the man. Failure to pay meant that she would be the one on the chopping block next. Kristen was willing to give up many things in this life—family, love, other people’s lives—but she was not willing to give up herself.

            Not ever.

***

Bruce Wayne has woken up from a rough night in many ways. Achy, hung over, sweaty, screaming, and some combination of all.

He does not remember the last time he’s woken up like this. Body warm, face cool and damp. With a gentle wipe over his forehead, he quickly recognizes the softness of one of his bathroom hand towels. It is damp, slightly overly so. A drop of water rolls down from his forehead to the inner corner of his eye, causing it to twitch at the intrusion. At the moment, the towel is removed from his forehead.

Time seems to stop for a moment. He cannot discern any movement. It’s been quiet so long that he almost wonders if he dreamed of the towel on his head.

“Bruce?”

She breaks the silence with her sweet voice. Concerned and quiet as if she is worried that she’ll disturb him if he is not truly awake.

Bruce’s eyes flutter open, squinting slightly as the rays of the morning sun hit his still-adjusting retinas. The bright light dims when her face fills his vision.

He chuckles.

Her furrowed brow, tired eyes, and lips pulled down into a concerned (now irritated) frown.

“Why are you laughing? You almost died?!” Her voice is high with incredulity, worry, and the tiniest bit of anger.

“You look just how I imagined you would.”

Her face relaxes almost instantly, and his words are softer than he intended them to be. It takes her a moment to register what he says before her gaze suddenly turns bashful.

As flattered as she is, her following words are still a complaint.

“You shouldn’t have been thinking about me,” her cheeks puffed with a hint of frustration. “It’s probably why you look half dead in the first place.”

He wouldn’t burst her bubble and let her know this was normal. Not the being saved by his angriest son part, but everything else came with the territory. He’s had more bruises, scars, injuries than he can count, and injuries that will never heal. But what good would telling her that do?

“I couldn’t help myself.”

Her mouth opens and closes for a moment, shocked by his open flirtation, but the way she cuts her eyes back and forth lets him know that she is anything but repulsed by it.

They sit in silence after that.

As his eye begins to feel heavy and close, he feels a smaller hand slip into his outstretched hand. The palm is hot and slightly clammy. She no doubt had to fight back more than a few nerves to do this.

“I’m glad you’re home,” she whispers.

He smiles.

“Me too.”

[soriseerakyra]

Nice To Meet You -20-

A/N: Sorry Its taken so long TW: Death, mentions of Abuse, mentions of cancer

Kristen believed that most American platitudes were made to keep the people docile. There was no other explanation that she could reasonably understand. People didn't like to be told that the world was against them. That the hand that was dealt to them when they were born would be the plight they kept when they died. That's why she couldn't help but roll her eyes whenever someone told her that hard work would pay off. For whom? And when?

The only thing that she truly believed in was the fact that time was money. And she had had little of either. Her earliest memories were of the rush that her mother was always in. A rush to wake her and her brothers up and get them off to school. A rush to get to work. A rush to prepare her father's dinner. And a rush for Kristen to go up sooner rather than later. The summer Kristen turned ten, she understood why her mother had always been in a rush, all the way up until she died—breast cancer.

It hadn't slowed her mother down—not that she was allowed to. Her father either hadn't known his wife was sick or hadn't cared. Kristen had a month to grieve before he gave her the look. A raised eyebrow and frown on his hard face. She hadn't realized it, but her brothers had been giving it to her too. And in the pit of her stomach, she realized she had rather quickly become a mother of three two weeks before her tenth birthday.

There was always so much to do, never enough time, and never enough help. Not that she could ask for it anyway. She did "woman's work now." Even though she didn't feel like a woman and that her work didn't feel any less important than what her father did.

When she did find herself at school, she could barely keep herself awake enough to pay attention. To do the bare minimum felt like pushing a boulder uphill. But her teachers passed her anyway, and after her third year of barely making it, she realized that it wasn't their sympathy for her situation that was keeping them from failing. They saw themselves in her. A person being ground to the bone burnt out before she would even graduate high school. She hadn't even been tossed into the meat grinder that was adult life yet. They couldn't bring themselves to be the straw that broke the camel's back.

It wasn't until she finished squeaking by in high school that she realized that she didn't have to be like her mother, her teachers, or, God forbid, her sorry excuse for a father. There was more out there. She could have more and be more.

Out of all the phrases, the one that she found the dumbest was the adage that money couldn't buy happiness. Every time she thought about it, she wanted to laugh. Since pulling herself from under her father's thumb and scrounging a living out in Gotham, she had seen more than enough to know that money was happiness. And she would do anything that it would take to get hers.

In Gotham, she had seen every end of the spectrum. Poor, wealthy, insane and poor, megalomaniacal and wealthy. And while being poor in Gotham wasn't something that she'd wish on her worst enemy, being wealthy in Gotham could get you anything.

Her time catering to her father and brothers had given her one skill she'd be ever grateful for, and that was to anticipate others' needs. To know what they wanted before they knew they wanted it. And in Gotham, she found that she had a ready-made clientele that had just been waiting for someone like her.

For those few in society who had always known wealth, always known luxury, and had never had so much as a brush with want, money made the world mundane.

And for the obscenely wealthy, combating the mundane is something they would throw an endless amount of money at.

And Kristen could do that. Find things, people, places, and activities that were out of the ordinary.

The problem with most procurers of the extraordinary was that they had morals. Some lines that they weren't willing to cross. Kristen was not bound by such things. She had experienced enough in her life to know that the true wants of human nature tended toward the dark side, and she knew exactly how to appease them.

She was lucky to find such a treasure in Gotham, and it was part of the reason that no matter how successful she got, she would never leave.

Still, she wasn't successful just because she had a niche product. She was a salesman at heart and a damn good one too. Better than her so-called bosses anyway. All of the clients that the firm had come on her ability to sell herself to the customer. Carlisle would have floundered without her—a pride that she tried hard to hide. Sure, she played at being a secretary, but this was her true passion. Where she truly shined.

Before the body hits the floor, it wavers for a second. Head slumping forward and dragging the body down to the ground with its momentum. A pool of dark liquid forms where the body lies. The pool of liquid lies stagnant for a moment before it seemingly starts to hiss. Then it begins to writhe as it changes color and bubbles up.

The crowd of onlookers looks back in fascination as the body begins its strange rotting process in front of them.

She can see them now. Their mouths pulled tight in anticipation, pupils blown with hunger, fists clenching as the implications of what was just shown to them. They are all ready to devour what she has to offer; she just has to name her price. But Kristen isn't a fool. She can bait a one-time customer easily, but she needs repeat clientele.

The screen behind her unfolds as the hum of a projector cuts through the air. Her captive audience looks up at the screen in front of them, and gasps ring out through the room.

"That's me!" someone screams out. She can't tell who; the lights of her little stage play aren't conducive to recognizing faces. But she'll have their identity soon enough.

"Oh, my God!" Another person screams out. "Clara's not even in the country!"

More and more murmurs of recognition ring through the crowd, a frenzy of chatter and excitement running through the attendees as their minds run rampant with possibilities.

The image flickers to an image of a man with fashionably cut brown hair. He's chatting happily with a woman at the bar with a cocktail in his hand. It's Geoffrey, a low-level account manager who was eager for promotion. And as such, he was willing to consent to anything that was asked of him, even if he was asked to sign a suspiciously long and overly complicated contract.

"As you can see, Geoffrey is alive and well." She starts smoothly. "Luckily for him, he'll never know the fate of his well."

Kristen looks down at the slowly dissolving body and steaming puddle. She kicks it lightly with her heel and gives a sly look to the audience.

"Other self."

As she finishes, she gets a bit of a chuckle from the audience, all of them primed and ready to hang on to whatever it is that has to sell them.

"Unless, of course," she walks to one of the captives on stage and removes a good. "I'm lying."

The same young man on the screen, laughing, is currently bent on stage with his hands tied behind his back. Wrists chafing against his rope tidings as he strains out a scream into the cloth gag of his mouth. He shakes as he tries to understand where he is, but some lights are blinding him. He can barely see the woman next to him, let alone the crowd that is in front of him.

"Who knows?" she croons as she watches the boy shake in front of her.

For a moment, the room is silent again as she presses the barrel of the gun to the back of the young man's head.

She can hear them all breathing. The young man next to her was whimpering with fear. Her captive audience huffed in anticipation like the animals they were, eager to see what color liquid came out of the poor boy's head. She quickly pulls the weapon away from the boy and holsters it on her ankle.

Both the boy and the crowd slump when she puts it away.

"But tonight, for the right price, someone in this room gets to find out who is the real one and who is fake."

Kristen can't wait for the clamoring.

She casts a sly gaze on the other four captives, who are all in various states of distress. "And of course, Geoffrey is only the opening act for tonight. We have a whole show planned."

She walks to the front of the stage, arms outstretched in invitation.

' This must be what it feels like to be a star'

It's all she can think of as her audience begins to yell their price. A shiver runs down her spine in ecstasy. The pleasure of knowing what she's accomplished tonight is almost enough to outweigh the yanking in her heart. She doesn't falter for a moment, though, not even when the yanking feels unbearable. If anything, she can only smile wider. If tonight is successful, even her boss will be pleased.

***

If you chewed on your lip anymore, you were sure that it would start bleeding. To say you were worried was too loose of a term.

What had you gotten them into?

At least out here, you could think. It was too much to be inside the manor. Everything felt oppressive -- heavy. Not that it wasn't beautiful; there was just a weight haunting the place. A grief that seemed to scream through the walls. And with your anxiety, you weren't really in a place to mentally deal with it.

Out here, though, in the garden, you've found a little bit of peace. Save for a few flowering patches of white blossoms, there was not nearly the same amount of weight out here as there was on the inside. The implication was there, of course. The hedges were cut to impersonal, perfect rectangles and ovals, and with the occasional tree offering shade, the garden itself was more like an oversized lawn than anything. And that was perfect for you right now. Later, maybe you would interrogate the owner over the lack of foliage or any kind of scheme for this patch of nature. But right now, as you find yourself perched on a stone bench, you are grateful for the lack of anything obtrusive. Because from Wayne Manor's gardens, you could see clearly across the city. And while you didn't have supervision, you could swear you could almost see your apartment building from here. Camille's brownstone too.

The thought causes you to bite the inside of your cheek in distress. So much has happened, almost too much.

When this was all over, how were you ever supposed to go back to normal? How was she? While you somehow find yourself at the center of whatever whacked scheme is occurring, you will never understand what Camille has gone through since being abducted. How was she? How was her baby? What were they doing to her? You hadn't had the heart to call her fiancé, Brian, back after the abduction. What could you say to someone who was likely grieving the loss of both his wife and child? The possible loss of them both was not something that you were ready to process, and you probably would never be.

You let your eyes run over the skyscrapers, taking in all that you could of the Gotham skyline. You never let your eyes wander too far, not toward the harbor, or at least in the direction of it. Even with this view of the city, you couldn't see that far out, but your heart knew what was in that direction, and it beat erratically with worry every time your gaze so much as drifted toward that direction.

It seemed like hours since they had left. And while you know that you shouldn't worry, especially since this is their job,

"Bruce and Jason are fine, you know."

"Ah!"

You jump.

A steadying hand grabs your arm and pulls you back toward the stone of the bench you were sitting on.

Kind blue eyes look at you with a slight apology as twitching lips try to quiet a laugh.

Bruce had left Dick Grayson in charge of both you and Damian before he left. A part of you felt slightly irritated at the notion of needing a babysitter, but you quickly realized that his presence was more for your comfort than your protection. The likelihood that someone would abduct you from Wayne Manor was slim. But you alone, with your thoughts, wouldn't have gone well, and you both knew. It's not like you would rely on Damian to reassure your rampaging mind. He's a child, and you wouldn't alleviate your trauma by forcing him to be around you. Besides, he was still very skittish around you, preferring to only make an appearance when you could bait him with sweet treats. Like baiting a stray kitten. And Alfred was kind, but every time you spoke to him, you realized there was a strange look in his eye. You weren't sure if calculating was the right word for it. Questioning perhaps? As if he was wondering just how long you would be around for. You imagined you wouldn't feel the breadth of his warmth until he determined whether you would be a permanent fixture of his employer's life or not. So yes, perhaps leaving Dick Grayson to accompany was the right move.

"Don't laugh," you say, hearing the slight whine in your voice as a frown pulls at your lips. This was at least the third time he's snuck up on you.

"Sorry," he says with a chuckle. "You were off in La-La land, I called your name like three times first."

You let out a sigh.

"I know it's nerve-wracking," he says quickly. "But they'll be back, at least by the time you wake up."

It's not the first time that he's said something like this tonight, and you get the feeling that he's trying to get you to go to sleep. So that when you wake up in the morning, everything will be alright. He's good. The most emotionally mature of the four you've met, although you aren't sure how much of a compliment that is. Neither Bruce nor Jason would know the meaning of "opening up" if it punched them in the face. And while you wouldn't judge Damien too harshly considering he was a child, you weren't too careful to admit that you would find him insufferable if you didn't want to pinch his cheeks so much. You were sure there was some sort of ache within Dick, too. No matter how much he smiled, there was always a little bit of hollowness in his eyes. An ache that you weren't sure stemmed from his nights of crime fighting, but you know wasn't exactly helped by it either.

"It's not like I'm worried about their capabilities, you know," you start after you begin to mull over the words you wanted to say. "It's the guilt that's getting me."

"Abooouut?" he questions playfully, his legs stretching out as he folds his arms behind his head and looks up at the stars.

For the first time throughout the night, you look at something other than the Gotham skyline.

"Oh wow," you say with a tinge of awe in your voice. You'd been so busy, wrapped in your head, that you hadn't considered your position. You are outside of the city for the first time since you moved cross-country. The lights of the city usually dull the night sky; all but the brightest of stars are lost to pollution. Here you can see the twinkling of the stars and the faint outlines of constellations. It brings a smile to your face. You used to love looking up at the sky with your family.

You cast a glance at the boy next to you; he doesn't press, but he still has a questioning look in his eye, waiting for you to answer the question.

"I voted yes to move here, you know?" You start with a huff. You can feel your toes curl anxiously in your shoes. "I voted that I should move here from San Francisco, and now all this has happened."

"That's not-,"

"Camille voted no. She didn't want to leave. She loved the city, the bay, and the people."

One of her favorite things had been to wake up early on a Saturday morning and drive. Whether it was going down to LA for a concert or finding a trail to go hiking in the redwoods, you had taken that away from her.

"And now, we moved here, and people from my company are terrorizing this place!"

Weight, it felt like so much of it was on your shoulders. And the thing that made you feel even worse was the fact that you couldn't even solve the problem if you tried. They say there's no use crying over spilled milk, but what else are you supposed to do when you can't even clean it up?

He doesn't say anything, and for a moment, your anxiety begins to gnaw at the back of your mind. 'Is he thinking I'm at fault too?'

The sting is unexpected, and it stuns you for a moment before heat begins to radiate from the center of your back. Then comes the pain.

Your shoulders snap back unexpectedly fast, almost as fast as the slap on the back you received from the young man sitting across from you.

Dick looks at you with comically large, sheepish eyes as he hides the offending hand behind his back.

"Y-you," you start with a gasping realization.

"I-it was supposed to be like a cheer-up thing," he squeaks out quickly. "I wasn't trying to hit you. I mean, I was, but not that hard."

Still, even with his panicked tone, he can't hide the slight playfulness of his tone or the twitching of the corner of his mouth that lets you know that he'd rather be laughing than apologizing.

It strikes something in you—something familiar. And your body reacts before you can understand what's happening.

The thumb and forefinger are primed in a well-practiced position. And perhaps because he didn't expect any real form of realization, he is left to the mercy of your type of grip on his cheek.

"I can't believe you just hit me," you say, pulling his cheek in irritation.

"Ow!"

"You can't just go around hitting people!"

"What do you mean? I do that all the time!"

The two of you share a look.

"Pbst-"

You laugh, both of you. And for a moment, it feels like you can forget your troubles. A moment of happiness in your grief.

"I was going to go for your ear," you admit.

"Like a grandma?" He questions with disbelief.

It gives way to another round of snickers.

As the bubbles of amusement die down in your chest, you feel your shoulders slack. A wave of tension that'd been keeping you awake, snapping.

Your companion shoots you a knowing look accompanied by a triumphant smirk. You'd only seen the like on your younger brother's faces whenever they thought they'd gotten the better of you. Whenever they'd thought they'd be able to get away with saying, "I told you so."

You slap his arm.

"Didn't we agree that hitting people is wrong?" he says with mock offense.

"Only when you do it," you correct. You roll your shoulder to prove a point, your flesh is still slightly sensitive.

"Ah."

The lull gives him enough time to recollect his thoughts. To return to the real reason why the two of you were out here.

"It sucks," he starts honestly. "To know that there is somebody you care about being hurt and you can't do anything about it."

You listen quietly, seeing the subtle ticks of his features as he tries to reconcile the emotions behind the advice he's giving you.

"But the only thing you should probably feel bad about is being a poor judge of character."

He can barely keep serious for more than a moment.

"What?"

"I mean, seriously, your boss didn't give you icky 'I-kidnap-people-for-fun' vibes?"

You force your lips into a pressed line to keep the small smile from pulling at your lips.

He throws up his hands in mock surrender.

"Bad guys are gonna do what they do. Something tells me that this would have happened whether you guys stayed or not. At least now you hear from us. And we might not be the sanest people either, but I still think we're pretty cool."

"Hey," you scold, an unserious frown coming to your lips. "I'm older than you, you know. I should be the one giving you rational adult advice. I used to be good at it too."

"I bet you were great at it," he says with an easy smile and a crinkle of his eyes. "And I'll ask you for some when I need to make a pound cake or something. But on this stuff, I've got you beat."

His words make sense—more than you would allow. And you want to let them into your mind and absolve yourself of the guilt. But there is always that little voice in the back of your head telling you the opposite.

You barely have time to process your feelings before you hear a rustle in the bushes.

"Oh shit," the exasperated tone of the young man next to you gives you a clue about what's going on.

And the dull colors of red and yellow running from one bush to another confirms it.

"Damian does this all the time, doesn't he?" you say with slight disbelief. He was like a cat, coming and going as he pleased.

"Yeah, I suggested putting a leash on him, but what do I know?"

He stands quickly, and you realize he intends to go and retrieve his brother. He gives you a look, one that urges you back inside, as he had asked many times earlier that night.

You smile at him, and he lets out a slightly exasperated sigh. It seems that in a short time, he's gotten good at reading you. He knows that you have no intention of going inside. But you decide to give him a little bit of peace, something that alludes to the fact that you'll get at least a little rest tonight.

"Make sure you bring him back before it's too late in the morning; I'm making biscuits."

He gives you a mock salute: "Yes, ma'am."

He's gone quickly after that, and you're alone in the garden again. Alone with your thoughts.

'Now I just have to wait for everyone to come home.'

Home...?

Oh, that's new.

[soriseerakyra]

Persephone: Part 2

Kalia didn’t have any allies here. No, perhaps she never had any at all. It was her father who sent her here, after all. In all likelihood, this was planned—to sell her off to the Harkonnens. Realistically, it was a significant coup. A marriage that would raise the status of her house immensely. But she was alone. So alone.

The revelation had her reaching out for a hand. Lady Fenring, standing next to her, was the perfect stand-in for comfort. She allowed Kalia to wind her pinky around hers. The warmest gesture anyone had seen a Bene Gesserit make this side of the universe. Her mother would not even let her rely on her that much.

Given the situation, Margot could understand why Kalia sought support. If only to keep herself from collapsing into a heap. She would allow it—once.

Only once.

Kalia was glad for her presence, but the realization that she was a plant was dawning on her, and she could feel the bile rising in her throat once more. She didn’t hesitate to ask in the moments they had alone.

"Did my father sell me? Did he do this?"

Margot's mouth quirked down, disappointment marking her lips.

"Do you think he could have kept this from you?"

Kalia was quiet for a moment. Her father was a horrible liar. He'd break out in hives and cold sweats. He barely kept from wringing his anxious hands together when he hid her birthday presents. What luck she had to be born to an honest casino owner in all the universe. No, he hadn’t done this. He wouldn’t have been able to stomach such a betrayal.

"Then it was her, wasn’t it?"

"There are many plans and paths that we take that are laid out far before birth."

Of course. Of course there were.

Bene Gesserit witch.

The thought was acidic, and she wasn’t sure who she was cursing more—her mother or Lady Fenring.

The door opened with a hiss, and the sight of him overcame her. She wasn’t sure what she expected. An escort to a negotiation room? Unnecessary—the marriage had already been decided. The Baron was to present his nephew. Unneeded. She would take Feyd-Rautha, and she would enjoy him. Until she gave birth to an heir, she was of less concern than the dirt under his fingernails. It was always going to be the Na-Baron himself who came for her. She was his, after all. Her mother saw to it.

He appeared out of the hallway's darkness, pale like a moon. The dark voids of his eyes sent a shiver down her spine. She tensed. Hairs prickled on the back of her neck, and she suddenly became aware of her breathing. Or rather, the lack thereof. Cool droplets of sweat gathered at her brow as her fingers folded into fists.

Human, he has to be, right?

She found herself doubting her own eyes as his pale pink lips pulled back to reveal coal-black teeth. He drank in the sight of her. Her throat clenched with fear.

Doubt clouded her mind. The only certainty: her mother had sold her to a monster. One who looked at her like a predator at its prey.

Hunger.

And yet there was more to him. She knew it because he planned for her to be here, planned for her to witness him in all of his gory glory. He had shown her who and what he was. All that was left was for her to show him herself. And god, did she hope she was not found wanting.

"My Lord Na-Baron," Lady Fenring greeted him with a curtsey. "You know our guest."

Kalia began to mimic the other woman, but a pale, outstretched palm stopped her before she could bend her knees.

"Leave."

Aside from a quick flash of his eye, the command was his only acknowledgement of her.

Chilling—for someone like Margot to be so easily tossed aside.

His voice was a sharp rasp, like sandpaper grating over her ears.

Lady Fenring freed herself from Kalia’s grasp in an instant. She did not even grant a passing glance as she left her alone with him. With the monster. Her kidnapper. Her fiancé.

Don't look him in the eye.

It was the first thought that came to her when she was alone with him. The hairs on her neck stood. Her eyes latched onto the first thing they could: his hands. The same hands that had just ended lives for sport.

She quickly tried to focus on something else. His tunic, perhaps. But her other senses kicked into overdrive when she saw the long black garment. He had to have been covered in blood when he left the arena. And yet he'd changed for her.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked, closing the distance between them. Barely an arm’s length remained.

Her nose twitched, expecting the stink of blood, sand, and sweat. But it was nothing like that. More than clean—he smelled of sandalwood, musk, and something sweet. A surprising mix. A hint of vanity she wouldn’t have expected from something like him.

Maybe human after all.

"Look at me," he commanded. But his voice didn’t rise.

Lucky. That hint of anger might have triggered something worse. Still, irritation prickled up her spine. She looked up into eyes that glinted with a hint of defiance—a better feeling than fear.

"I am not afraid."

Her chin tilted upward. Pride surged in her belly. She wasn’t a child. He wasn’t a monster (she hoped). She had come here expecting to die, or at least to survive nobly. Noble to noble—this situation could still be remedied.

That was how the Bene Gesserit survived.

He studied her. His eyes narrowed slightly. Then—he smirked.

"Good. Fear is for the arena and..."

His voice coiled under her skin, restrained, intense. As he trailed off, his gaze glazed with some private fantasy. He was holding back. Not out of gentleness—but because he was a dam barely holding back a flood.

He stepped closer, leaned forward, raised a pale finger. It hovered near her cheek.

Her head jerked back instinctively.

"You should not worry. I can’t hurt you yet," he said, with a brief, gravelly chuckle. "You have time to prove yourself interesting."

He circled her, not touching—never touching—but close enough to disturb the air with each pass.

She met his gaze again, steady.

"Then I’ll try not to bore you."

He stopped behind her.

"You’ll have to."

A beat. Then a rustle. He placed something beside her.

A knife.

Balanced perfectly on the edge of a low table.

"You’ll stay here," he said. "My wing. My rules. You try to run, you die. But you won’t."

She didn’t ask why.

He leaned in. Whispered so close it could have been a kiss if it weren’t a threat:

"Because part of you wants to see what I’ll do next."

He left.

And god help her—he was right.

[soriseerakyra]

Persephone: Part 1

A/N: Promised this last year

Hell.

Kalia of House Ioulo had been consigned to hell. She knew it, her father knew it. And more importantly, her host knew. But she had been trained since birth to smile and wave, even in the face of danger.

Much like the company she kept.

“It’s not so bad here. While there may be an adjustment period, you will begin to enjoy yourself, especially when you realize how much power you have. And you’ll have more than most.”

Lady Margot Fenring’s words had the benefit of her accent. As beautiful and seductive as she was. The way her tongue caressed the words she used to sell Kalia a lovely picture of her would-be life here.

If only she had chosen it.

“I do not lust for power, Lady Fenring.”

“And yet, you’re here. This was meant to be your brother’s seat, no?”

Her pointed question was punctuated with a raised eyebrow and polite smirk.

“He was ill.”

“Your father would have waited.”

“Would you have kept Baron Harkonnen waiting?”

It was a good, sensible reply—if only Margot weren’t Bene Gesserit. But Kalia knew she could hear the cover-up in her words, even though there was truth in them. No one would keep the Baron waiting, even if he were the one in debt.

The nearly sunless sky of Giedi Prime had been an unwelcome contrast to her precious jewel of a world. But still, even if she knew that she would lose her life in the end, she would not have traded the opportunity to leave the confines of Meridian for anything. She was her father’s envoy; there was power in that. More than any lady should rightfully have. Especially when she was of marrying age.

The role had been reserved for her brother, the next heir of House Ioulo—a way for him to introduce himself to the heads of the other great houses. So, when he fell too ill to right himself in bed, let alone stand, the duty was passed to her.

So far, she had fulfilled them admirably, introducing herself and her brother by proxy. Until the message came that she needed to head to Giedi Prime. It had been a troublesome trip, made worse by the fact that her orders were changed. An economic crisis had erupted after she began her journey, and the only thing her father could think of to remedy it was to call in the debts owed to him. Starting with Baron Vladimir Harkonnen.

A stupid, foolish idea, but one she carried out, nonetheless. Even if it was a death sentence.

Or at least an end to life as she knew it.

Her house was a small one, on a small world. Rich in beauty and lacking in resources. Tidally locked to its fierce red star, only a small band of land was habitable, let alone farmable. Her ancestors, for generations, had had to make do. And then came a revelation. Her grandfather's grandfather made Meridian a playground for the noble and wealthy. Casinos, pleasure houses, and atmosphere. Three things that the wealthy houses could not get enough of. Including the Baron. Especially the Baron. He spent his money and the credit her father “gave” him. Her father was calling in on this debt.

No one called in a debt on the Baron.

Not even the emperor, and indeed not some middle-sized house on the outskirts of nowhere.

It was irrational, a trip that was doomed no matter the outcome. Either she would return successfully, and the Baron would come later to decimate her house, or… Or?

She was quite unsure why she was still alive. When she confronted the Baron, she was sure her head would be removed from her shoulders. But when she told him her purpose, he merely laughed and had her escorted to this private box of a room.

Only two seats were present, one for her and one for the Lady sitting next to her. Though she was not an unwelcome sight, she was a confusing presence. Unless she, too, was meant to be executed.

“Why am I here, Lady Fenring?”

She smiled at Kalia; she liked her boldness. Kalia could sense it.

“To enjoy the games, of course.”

The wall began to roll up before them as if on cue, bathing the room in the all-encompassing stark white light of Giedi Prime’s poisonous star.

It was not simply a room but a viewing box, high over the planet's famous arena.

Thousands of people were already losing their minds and screaming in excitement.

“Why…?” The question fell flat on Kalia's tongue as competitors stumbled drunkenly into the arena.

“To get a look at him, of course.”

She didn’t have to ask who “him” was.

The crowd was already chanting his name. And she looked down at the ingress just as the pale white dot of his person began to make an entrance.

“Feyd-Rautha!”

Even from here, she could see the repeated salutes.

“Feyd-Rautha!”

The thumping from their stumps beat against the stadium like war drums.

“Feyd-Rautha!”

No, it was more than that.

She realized it as the screaming stopped being uniform and became a frenzy. If she were closer, she was sure she would see people frothing at the mouth because this wasn’t simply joy.

“Feyd-Rautha!”

It was worship.

There was something odd about watching white blood fall on white sand. Something sanitized.

Something humane.

Even though this situation was anything but that.

He yelled and grunted with every swing and thrust.

He was an animal, cutting, stabbing, and killing.

And yet…

And yet…

It was hard not to be drawn in by his strength. The grace with which he moved and twirled his blade.

He was practically a dancer.

Lithe, stronger, and elegant.

Beautiful.

“A work of art, isn’t he?”

Lady Fenring’s voice was sly and knowing.

Kalia turned back to look… oh?

When had she gotten up to the window?

When had she pressed her hand to the glass to look closer?

Lady Fenring answered for her.

“He’s mesmerizing, pure chaos.”

A scream from the crowd let her know that he had killed another.

It was hard to resist the urge to watch him.

“Indeed,” her voice wavered. She took a thick gulp to steady her words. “Does he kill them all?”

“Yes, and sometimes they die with honor.”

She shivered.

How cruel.

How terrifying.

How enticing.

She couldn’t resist the urge to look.

As she did, the last victim fell. A blade to his throat, a yell in his face. He was dragged away quickly by the picadors, serving as a cleanup crew.

The crowd yelled, Feyd-Rautha basked in it, slowly spinning in a circle, arms outstretched, head thrown back, and black teeth gleaming.

It was startling, then, when the animal became sentient. When he stopped basking and turned to face her, he took a blade and pointed toward her box.

The crowd screamed.

“L-Lady…”

He bowed, his head never tipping in deference, as if he intentionally kept eye contact with her.

As if he saw her.

Knew her.

But that was impossible.

“He knew I’d be here, watching.”

“Indeed, he insisted,” the sister said, her tone slightly smug.

Or maybe it just sounded that way because Kalia was only beginning to understand what was happening now.

“He felt it was only right,” she continued, “To show you his worth.”

“Why?” Her tone was dry, slightly defeated. Her belly filled with dread, bile rising.

“You know why.”

“Why, Lady Fenring!?” she asked more forcefully. She turned to face the cunning beauty.

The Bene Gesserit smiled, unbothered by her fury.

“It’s your engagement present, my dear.”

[soriseerakyra]

Ardor (Part 1)

A/N: Sitting in drafts since last year...

Your uncle was a quiet boy. Chubby-cheeked and silver-haired. His face was broader than his sibling’s, and few beyond his mother and yourself, found him remotely cute. Still, his Targaryen features would serve him well in time. Even if he never truly became ‘handsome,’ the mystique of his birth alone would win him far more lovers than simple beauty.

“Will you miss her?”

Moments ago, your aunt Laena had been returned to the sea—the rider of the largest dragon on earth, undone by childbirth.

“The idea of her, perhaps.”

He hums in quiet understanding. Only your mother, perhaps, understood your meaning better than Aemond did. He often found himself dissatisfied with his family, questioning whether they lived up to the Targaryen name, especially his brother.

Laena had been the rider of Vhagar, the scion of both houses Velaryon and Targaryen, and the tamer of the Rogue Prince. Yet she died not in battle, not at the height of glory, but of something so ordinarily human. A part of you ached. You all were destined to die; no one had ever dissuaded you of that notion. But you wondered if anyone else found it troubling—or if you were the only one disturbed by the fact that someone like her could have such an ungracious end.

And she was not the only one. Before your very eyes, your grandsire seemed to melt. A shadow of the man whose lap you were once bounced on. Now, he could barely stand. Not from age, but illness.

‘What point is there in being special if it didn’t protect you from dying like a peasant?’

It is the thought that has been plaguing you since you found out about Laena’s death. Even more prominent now that you had not been able to stop thinking about your mother, Rhaenyra, dying in some mundane way. Laenor, your father, you were sure would die at sea, as many of your kin had. Was that all that special, either?

            Your mother spoke to you of how she dreamed of being a knight when she was a girl no older than you are. You envied that girl. At least she had a dream. All that you could rightly say was that you didn’t want to die a useless death. But perhaps that was inevitable, given your position. Maybe that is what embitters you about your aunt, her ability to have her freedom and her choice to remain mundane.

“I’m surprised you asked me,” you start, nudging the younger boy slightly. It’s hard to keep a bit of a tease from your voice. “You seemed to have difficulty giving my cousins and brothers a little compassion.”

            The younger boy stiffens against your shoulder, and the tandem swing of your legs over the edge of the sea wall stops for a moment. He hesitates, and you can feel his mind reeling. He always took a moment to think about how to respond to you, almost overly cautious about his words—a stark contrast to how he treats many others in your shared family.

            He slightly lifts his head from your shoulder, only enough to look you in the eye. His mouth opens and closes briefly, still trying to form the right words. You know what’s bothering him; he wants to say something clever. Something that he thinks will impress you with his wit. Like, only something about how the others weren’t worth the kindness. His praise of you is always tinged with his disapproval of others.

You never took him too seriously when he said things like that. Every time he would say something, his voice would waver, always unsure if his insults would land the way he wanted them to.

He was always unsure of you. Always waiting for you to turn on him. To decide you didn’t like him and taunt him like the others did. To think he wasn’t worth your time. But you never turned, and that always left him slightly off kilter.

            He meets your gaze with stern eyes and red cheeks. Even in your melancholy, the sight of him causes you to smile. His serious expression was his only shield, and it always faltered when he faced the reality of his infatuation with you. Pale amethyst eyes, usually full of confidence, flicker across every inch of your face before cutting away as coolly as he can.

            He suddenly seems much more interested in the view the pair of you snuck away from the reception for.

“You know why,” he has to force the words out. “Don’t tease me.”

            The sea air stings your nose as your cheeks flush, a giddy nervousness rising like a tide. If he were Aegon, you would have laughed off the sentiment. The pompous flirt quickly whipped sweet words toward any woman with a pulse. But not Aemond. Not your sweet Aemond. He would never say things like that unless he meant them.

            You were no stranger to infatuations, or rather, being on their receiving end. Love notes from squires and occasionally their craven knights had often found their way into your chamber; they made good kindling for your fireplace. But those things were for play. For reading out loud and giggling amongst friends while servants provided little cakes and sweet tea.

            This was not that.

            Your hand would be reserved for a well-ranked lord. And you weren’t foolish enough to not realize that your dear uncle could be one of those lords in the future. After all, your grandsire craved the pace and togetherness of a united Targaryen house. A marriage between you would go a long way to seeing that peace realized…in theory.

“I suppose,” you muse. “Though I should see no reason why my knowing should keep me from hearing actual words.”

            He sits up again, color faded from his cheeks, his normal mask returning. His jaw tenses momentarily, and a glaze over his eyes tells you he’s toying with the idea of trusting you with one of his secrets. No doubt your prompted confession or…

-Woosh-

It’s the sound of warping and a low grunt. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore and part of the stonework of the seawall is nearly loud enough to drown out the rumble from a ways down the beach.

Grieving on her own was your aunt’s dearest companion, Vhagar. She appears simply as dark hills against the horizon to the untrained eye. Her breaths are in tune with the heavy waves. Slow heavy breaths, a sure sign of her age and sadness. She groaned often, sounding like damp wood straining in an old castle. Vhagar was probably the only one in more pain than your grandmother and cousins.

Aemond squeezes your entwined fingers, palms suddenly sweaty. It had been he who had bade you away from the others and to this secluded corner.

‘And not out of concern for my feelings, it seems.’

Or at least, consideration for you was only a small part of his intention.

He stares at the beast with a hunger. He swallows thickly, pupils dilating at the sight of her tossing uncomfortably in the sand. There is a need in him to claim her; to claim his heritage.

The realization struck cold. He stared like a man starving at a feast. His body leaned forward slightly, tension pulling every line of him taut. You could see the thoughts racing behind his eyes—his hunger, his purpose.

You turned to him, skeptical.

“Is this what you brought me out here for?”

He didn’t answer right away. Perhaps he misread your tone.

“Are you worried? Do you think that I cannot do it?”

“No,” you said, but the word came slower than it should have. “I’m… frustrated.”

His posture stiffened.

“Should I give up then?” he snapped. “Abandon my birthright?”

He began to pull his hand from yours, but you caught him, held fast.

“There are other dragons, Aemond. Other chances. Syrax has laid—”

“Syrax?” he scoffed, bitter. “Am I meant to beg your mother’s mercy for an egg? Like a common petitioner?”  

His voice cracked with hurt, with shame. And something else.

You understood. You always had. Your dragon hatched beside you, nestled in your crib like a twin. Aemond had never had that. The longer he waited, the more hollowed-out he seemed—like some part of his soul was withering. And worse, the way the others laughed. The way his own brother smirked. His pride was rotting in his chest, and the envy festered just beneath.

He wasn’t asking you to understand anymore. He was telling you: he would do it.

You had tried to soothe his worries before, impressing that even if he had never claimed a dragon, you could never think less of him. You had this conversation in the dragon pit many times as he stared longingly into the darkness.

His fists are balled, his lips pulled back in a slight snarl, but most tellingly, his eyes are determined. Your eyes flicker to the Vhagar mountain, and a deep sorrow fills your chest.

He wanted to claim her, and he would die trying to do so.

And worse, any attempt would be seen as a betrayal. It would be a betrayal.

“It is the day of my aunt's funeral, give my family time to mourn at least. Let Baela decide if she wants to attempt to claim her and give her time. Give her and her sister time to part with all they know of their mother. It is cruel to take away all they have of her so soon.”

He frowns. When outraged, he scrunches his nose, lets his cheeks flare with heat. He tries to control himself, appearing as though he is not as affected as he is. But you know him. And while he is the humblest of the two princes, he is still a Targaryen prince. He is used to getting what he wants.

You could see the struggle on him, how he worked to keep the storm inside.

“She will likely fail,” he muttered.

“Maybe,” you allowed. “But it’s hers to try. Yours after. Not now.”

You knew that face. He wanted Vhagar. And Targaryens did not wait when fire called them.

“Besides,” you added softly, threading your fingers through his again, “this isn’t the Dragonpit. If something goes wrong out there, there’s nowhere to run.”

He looked at you, then—really looked.

“Do you think me weak?”

The question was sharp. Almost accusing.

“Weak?” You shook your head, incredulous. “Never.”

He searches your face, but his mask doesn’t drop. Not fully.

“I just…” You paused, feeling your throat tighten. “I just don’t want to watch you die.”

The words silenced him.

For a moment, the tension drained from his shoulders as if that was all he needed to hear. Not cautious. Not judgment. Just care.

As if listening to your conversation, Vhagar rolls onto her side in the distance. Her massive bulk causes debris to fly around her, almost inviting the young boy to try and challenge her.

He untangles his fingers from yours and makes a quick movement. There is a slight tug on the ends of your hair. He’s wound a few strands of your hair's damp, curled ends around two of his fingers. You watch with a curious raised eyebrow. He mumbles something too low for you to hear but presses a quick kiss to the ends of your wavy strands. He’s done this before, and you wonder how many know that the hot-tempered prince fancies himself a romantic.

“Are you promising me you’ll come back?”  You can’t help the small chuckle that follows.

“No,” he’s quick to hush you. “After I claim her…I will ask my father…”

The confidence seems to die on his lips, but his eyes are still hard, determined.

“Ask grandsire what?” 

Whatever it is, he cannot bring himself to say it aloud. Whether it is the fault of shyness or uncertainty, you cannot determine which causes him to remain silent.

Instead, he presses another promising kiss to the ends of your hair before releasing the locs. Just as your hair slips through his fingers, a familiar voice rings out from behind the pair of you.

“Darling?”  Your mother's pretty face is concerned as she examines you. You imagine the scene she’s happened upon was not what she expected.

A slight tilt of her head, and you’re quick to take your place by her side. She pulls you in close when you reach her, a mother's worrying gaze running over every inch of you as she threads her fingers through your hair.

She only looks at Aemond for a moment before finally allowing the tension to release.

“Your brothers,” she starts with a small half smile. “They need your support.”

A cold chill of guilt rolls off your shoulders.

Your brothers are hurting, too. They are probably the only ones here who genuinely understand what Rheana and Baela are experiencing. It’d be selfish of you to spend so much time away from them. Still, you can’t help but smile at the boy who monopolized your time. Content with the nod you receive in return, you quickly leave and find your younger brothers.

“Of course.”

Your mother doesn’t step in with you immediately; thoughts are racing in her head. Your mother is not cruel to children. And as far as you were aware, she was pretty indifferent to her younger brothers. However, how long that would last is hard to say. Right now, you only wonder if she is staring the young man down with the eyes of a Queen or a concerned mother.