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humanpurposes · 1 year

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My Heart Belongs to Daddy part ii, modern!Aemond

Series Masterlist // Main Masterlist // And if it feels good, then it can't be bad

modern!Aemond x step-daughter

Warnings: 18+, smut, daddy kink, spanking, degradation, questionable relationship dynamics, infidelity, mentions of grief/loss, no underage elements

Words: 5900

A/n: Thank you for the love on the first part! Let me know if you want to be tagged in upcoming parts or follow me @humanpurposes for updates. Also available to read on AO3.

The wedding of Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen is turning out to be exhausting and a little overwhelming. It’s been built up for months as the event of the year in King’s Landing, extravagant and scandalous, which describes the family rather well.

Every room in the Red Keep has been booked to accommodate the city’s elite. It’s a beautiful venue, an ancient redbrick castle overlooking the bay, once a home for royalty, now the flagship of a chain of luxury hotels, and the crowning jewel in the Targaryen empire.

She glances around the ballroom where the guests are mingling while they wait for the arrival of the newlyweds. It doesn’t take her long to spot her mother, martini in hand, making smalltalk with Corlys Velaryon, who just happens to own the largest shipping company this side of the Narrow Sea. Alys Rivers is nothing if not efficient.

They had been surprised to receive an invitation at all, but then Rhaenyra has always valued appearances above everything else. They had hardly heard from her since Harwin’s funeral, and even then it was funny half-smiles and overcompensating niceties to gloss over the obvious pain in her eyes. That’s the thing about Rhaenyra, you can never really tell what she’s thinking.

She looked other-wordly floating down the aisle in a white satin and lace gown. Her father, Viserys, CEO of Targ Corp and patriarch of the Targaryen dynasty, walked beside her. Maybe it was the lighting in the Sept or the red and black suit, but he looked pale, and his eyes were heavy and tired. Rhaenyra’s step-daughters, Baela and Rhaena, trailed behind them in matching maroon dresses, while the three Strong boys lined up beside Daemon at the altar. A picture perfect family.

She tried not to judge Rhaenyra too harshly for wearing white– damn purity culture and the misogyny that comes with it, but she couldn’t help but think how she preferred the vintage cocktail dress she wore when she married Harwin.

She’d been too young to remember that wedding, but she’d seen the photos enough times. There was one she especially loved, of the bride and groom on the front lawn of Dragonstone, smiling to each other like they had a secret (turns out they did when Jace was born eight months later), while she and Helaena stood in front of them. Their faces were round and chubby, scrunched into the confused frown toddlers make when they’re made to wear pale pink dresses and carry round baskets of rose petals.

Alys fell out with her parents in her mid teens. She always said it was her uncle Lyonel who was there for her, who saw her through to adulthood, who offered her a room when a shitty ex-boyfriend left her with no money and a positive pregnancy test when she was twenty-two. And having no siblings, she said Harwin was more like a brother to her than a cousin.

Losing one of them would have been hard enough, but losing both had been devastating. In a lot of ways it still is.

“Harwin was so dear to us all,” was all Rhaenyra had said to them on the day of the funeral. So dear it took her just over a year to marry her own uncle.

Not that she’s in much of a position to judge.

A large, gentle hand settles on her back and Aemond hands her a flute of champagne. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

He means the ballroom. Gold paints the vaulted ceiling and trails down the walls, the pillars and the archways, as sunset bleeds in through the windows.

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” she says, trying to hide a grin.

They’ve managed to avoid each other all day until now. He sat with his siblings at the ceremony, while she and Alys were on a bench at the back of the Sept.

She allows herself a better look at Aemond’s suit; midnight blue, with a subtle floral pattern that would be easy to miss if her eyes were only skimming over it, and a baby blue tie that matches his eyes perfectly. He’s cropped his hair for the occasion too, it’s shorter at the sides but still long enough at the top to run her fingers through, to tug on. He looks beautiful. He always looks beautiful.

His hand stays in place against her back, unassuming but just firm enough to keep her on edge as he leads her further into the hall. “The decor was inspired by Versailles, but the hall itself dates back to the original Keep. You’re into this sort of stuff, aren’t you?”

She doesn’t know why he needs to ask. At this point he knows better than anyone what she’s ‘into’.

“This used to be the throne room,” she says, nodding to the platform at the end of the hall. “Imagine, the Iron Throne used to sit there and now it’s a stage for fucking a jazz band.”

The corners of his mouth curl into a reserved smile that makes her heart hum. Aemond is rarely one for obnoxious laughter, but then every time she can make him smile it feels like a little victory. It hurts a little too.

They settle at the edge of the room and his hand slips away, but he makes up for it when he leans into her, close enough that she can smell the dark, almost boozy scent of his perfume on his neck. “How are you doing, by the way?”

It’s a question she’s avoided asking herself. She spots Jace, Luke and Joff across the room, sitting down at a table with Aegon, Daeron and another guy she doesn’t recognise. They look happier than she feels, and suddenly she feels ridiculous for wallowing in her own self pity.

She shrugs. “Alright I think.”

Aemond’s face is somewhere between a frown and amusement, the face that means I can see right through you.

She shifts on her feet, looking for something else to focus on.

Larys Strong, she notices, is standing by the bar. They had run into him at the Sept, and though they’d definitely made eye contact, he made no attempt at conversation. He keeps his head low, only looking up to glare at Alys.

“Gods that man’s pathetic,” Aemond mutters, following her line of sight. “Not still upset about Harrenhal, is he?”

“Considering mum took half his clients when she left, I’d say yes. He’s always been good at holding grudges, creepy uncle Larys.” Harwin’s brother, director of what used to be King’s Landing’s most successful PR firm, recently overtaken by Rivers PR.

“Shouldn’t that be ‘creepy second cousin Larys’?” Aemond says with a little smirk.

“My version has better ring to it, rolls off the tongue easier.”

A hand suddenly slaps her shoulder and she nearly drops her glass. Aemond quickly takes it from her as Viserys Targaryen pulls her into a stiff embrace and makes a grand exclamation about love and family that she forgets to pay attention to.

She’s a little bewildered but manages to smile. “Good to see you again, Mr Targaryen,” she says. As she pulls away she catches the eye of the woman standing over his shoulder. Alicent Hightower has donned her usual shade of dark green in a velvet dress that compliments her auburn hair and elaborate gold jewellery perfectly. She has a particularly sour look on her face this evening.

“How are you, love?” Viserys asks. “Doing well I hope?”

A thousand thoughts flood her head, but she can already see the interest dying in his eyes. So she just nods.

“How is school, you’re still at school, aren’t you?”

“She’s at the university, dear” Alicent corrects him, “final year, yes?” Her lips thin as her eyes finally spares a glance for her son. “Two years behind Aemond.”

Mother and son exchange a vacant look.

“Yes,” she says, making her best attempt at Alys’ networking voice, “I study History–”

“Excellent! Well wonderful to catch up, and good to see you too, son.”

Aemond nods in acknowledgement as his parents move away to offer a similarly shallow greeting to the next group of guests. His breath tickles over her neck as he sighs. At least Rhaenyra tries to act friendly.

“I’m sorry–” she blurts it out, not really sure why she assumes it’s her fault.

He smiles. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

There’s an uneasy feeling of guilt settling in her stomach. She knew Aemond wasn’t on the best of terms with his parents, but she hadn’t realised it had gotten to a point where they would hardly even look at him.

Her fingertips brush over his as he hands her back the glass.

She watches his eyes as they start to skim over her lavender summer dress, the thin straps running over her shoulders, the dainty gold necklace on her neck and the gathering of silky fabric at her bust.

“You look lovely by the way,” he says.

For a moment she forgets how to breathe. Maybe she should be used to his compliments and praises by now, but it still makes her nervous. “For a lovely occasion,” she says, taking a tentative sip.

“Hmm.”

“Not a fan of weddings?”

“Not overly fond. This…” he briefly sweeps his gaze around the room, at the endless arrangements of orchids and roses, the crystal centrepieces on the tables and the perfect smiles that are just a little too forced. “It’s all very pretentious.”

“I would have thought you like that, all the pomp and ceremony.”

He huffs a laugh as he takes her glass and casually brings it to his lips. “Call it a combination of circumstances.” He keeps his eyes on her as he tips the glass back.

She does the same, admiring the sharp features of his face, his jaw, his chin, his neck and the way it bobs when he swallows.

He “tsks” at the dryness of the champagne and hands her back the glass. “Things with my family have never been straightforward.”

But even less so over the last year, she imagines. For most of her life, the Targaryens existed at a distance. She and Alys used to see more of the Strongs– Harwin, Rhaenyra and the boys– for birthdays, the occasional family dinner and that summer they joined them at Dragonstone. But that was before things really started to get messy, before the lawsuits and the infighting.

None of it is helped by the fact that Viserys and Alicent despise Alys. They think she’s an opportunist, desperate for some profitable connections, stealing away their golden boy. She knows her mother better than that. Alys is less of an opportunist, more of a pragmatist, and to her credit she doesn’t pretend to be oblivious to the benefits of dating the son of the wealthiest man in Westeros.

She likes to think Aemond’s more than that though. A little less entitled than Rhaenyra, and certainly more motivated than Aegon, but brilliant in his own ways. He has a first class degree in International Relations from the University of Oldtown, a quiet but mysterious public persona, with a Hightower work ethic and an understated confidence, usually wrapped up in a Prada suit or a vintage leather jacket.

She finishes her drink before she asks, “have you spoken to Jace and Luke yet?”

His face darkens. Another point of conflict. Aemond had a falling out with the Strong boys when they were kids, something to do with inappropriate use of a kitchen knife on Luke’s part, resulting in the scar slicing down the left side of Aemond’s face. By some miracle it managed to spare his eye.

“Might be worth saying ‘hello’ at least?” She suggests.

He glances over at their table with his lips pressed together, rubbing his thumb over his index finger.

Before she knows it her hand is on his bicep, stroking her thumb over the fabric of his suit. It’s her usual reaction when she notices he’s anxious.

His eyes meet hers. His nostrils flare as he takes a deep inhale. “Maybe later,” he mutters.

A rush of cheers and applause announces the arrival of the bride and groom. Rhaenyra has changed from the elaborate gown she wore to the Sept to a black slip dress, with rows and rows of diamonds dripping from her neck. They make their way to the high table and the guests begin to settle at the round tables around the hall. She doesn’t look back to Aemond before she heads for Jace and the others.

Jace is in his first year at KLU studying politics. It’s a small campus and she often sees him hanging around the humanities block or in the library. Understandably he’s not been himself these last few months.

“Alright?” he says brightly, pulling her into the first genuine hug she’s received all day.

“Yeah,” she sighs. “You?”

“Yeah.”

“Sure?”

Jace seemed so much younger a year ago. All three of the Strongs seem to have grown up far too quickly. “It’s just been… things have changed so quickly.” He runs his fingers through his dark curls, grown down to his shoulders, she notices. “I just miss him, you know?”

She offers him a bittersweet smile. “Yeah, of course.”

“But Daemon’s great. He makes mum happy. That’s what matters most.”

She sits between Aegon and the other guy at the table and realises she vaguely recognises him. He looks older than Jace, with dark hair, surprisingly sleek stubble and silver direwolf cufflinks on his sleeves.

The dinner is infuriatingly exquisite; seared tuna, steak that almost melts in her mouth, followed by a raspberry and rose pastry and a lemon posset topped with purple primrose petals. It’s all pretentious and so very Targaryen.

Her eyes keep wandering. There’s a haunting kind of beauty about watching Daemon and Rhaenyra. They keep their fingers intertwined and share smug, knowing glances. They fit perfectly together, despite the taboo of it all.

Alys and Aemond are at a table with the Velaryons and Aemond’s sister, Helaena and her girlfriend. Alys keeps a hand over Aemond’s as she talks to Rhaenys and Corlys about some (no doubt dull) business venture, but she’ll make it sound brilliant. Her skills of persuasion are second to none.

She had half expected Aemond to follow her, but that was a stupid expectation, wasn’t it? She’s enough to fuck behind closed doors, not enough to sit beside at a wedding dinner.

She needs to stop getting her hopes up. She needs to stop looking for more from him because she’s only setting herself up for failure. But that’s just the problem, she wants to cling to every look, every hand against her back, every whisper in her ear, and convince herself that, whatever this is, that it’s for something more than just carnal desire.

She often finds herself wondering if Alys really loves Aemond. It started off as a casual thing, from what she could gather without wanting to know the details. Alys would go on these overnight ‘work trips’, which she suspected were really dates.

Her suspicions were confirmed when she came downstairs one morning to find Aemond Targaryen in the kitchen, leaning over the island and sipping an espresso. That was after his last fight with Alicent and Viserys. He had been planning to retreat to Aegon’s, but ended up spending the night with Alys instead.

She watches Aemond, running a slender finger over his fork, his eyes moving sceptically around the room, until they settle on her.

He smirks, and then he turns to strike up a conversation with his sister.

Alys certainly likes him enough to get him involved in Rivers PR, to let him live in their house and sleep in her bed.

What does he get out of it, she wonders?

“Got your eye on someone?”

The unfamiliar voice snaps her out of her trance. The boy with black hair is leaning into her.

She glances down at his cufflinks. “Stark?” She guesses.

“Cregan. My dad’s an old mate of Viserys’.”

He’s a politics student too, a classmate of Jace’s and captain of the KLU rugby team with the muscles to prove it. She recognises him a little better as they talk; he was at Baela’s Halloween party last year, though they hadn’t spoken then.

Jace shoots her a quick wink from across the table and inclines his head ever so slightly towards Cregan. She swears under her breath and rolls her eyes at him. Gods, as if she needs help from her cousin to get laid.

It’s Aegon who starts ordering rounds of shots. She tries to stick to champagne at first, until she looks across the room again. Aemond leans into Alys, as though he might kiss her, but she turns her head and his lips settle on her cheek.

After seeing that, she reaches for the tequila, met with cheering from Aegon and Daeron.

Daemon and Rhaenyra take to the floor and sway to a dreamy number played by the jazz band. Rhaenyra soon takes Helaena by the hand and Daemon grabs his girls to join them on the dancefloor.

She smiles as she watches them all, Rhaenyra and Helaena spinning around each other, Baela and Rhaena giggling at Daemon’s smooth moves that come straight from a 50s movie.

“I feel like we should go up,” Jace says.

Luke starts to groan but Joffrey is already up and dragging his brothers with him.

Aegon turns to her in his seat. The oldest of the Targaryen Hightower siblings and undisputedly the messiest, but she had found him the most approachable that Summer at Dragonstone. “What do you say, kid?”

How could she say no to that sly, self-assured grin and those puppy dog eyes? They’re a little duller than Aemond’s, closer to grey than blue. She lets him lead her to the dance floor.

As she and Aegon sway to the charming brass and bass, she wonders if Aemond is watching them. She doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of checking. Not just yet.

Aegon leans into her ear. She ignores the sour, bitter smell of alcohol on his breath. “How is Aemond?”

It takes her off guard. She finds herself a little perplexed, eyebrows raised and lips parted as she tries to think of an answer that won’t seem suspicious.

But having to think about it at all must be incriminating.

Does Aegon know? If he did know, why would he want to bring it up?

“Good, as far as I’m aware.”

Her internal crisis seems to evade his attention. His eyes move between the space over her shoulder and the floor as he gnaws slightly on his lip. “Look, I know this isn’t your problem, but I just worry about him.”

Aegon Targaryen, worried about his brother?

“He said things were difficult lately.”

“Gods yeah, things have been tense with dad trying to sort out his will. Mum and Rhaenyra have been at each other’s throats, then there’s granddad trying to get something out of it all. It’s a fucking mess.”

Realistically she doesn’t know him that well, but between their few interactions and what she’s heard from Jace and Luke, Aegon is easy to understand. It’s strange seeing him so concerned, about anything really.

He sighs heavily. “Then Aemond went and completely fucked up a contract with Storm’s End and mum was livid.”

“That’s it? They fell out over a work issue?”

“She needed it. She’s really pushing for Aemond to take over from dad, because Gods know once Rhaenyra’s in charge she’s not letting the Hightowers get a fucking look in.”

“What about you?”

“Me? I’m the designated disaster child, no one expects anything from me. Aemond’s always been perfect. And now he isn’t.”

It would explain the dramatics of it all.

“Are they happy? Him and Alys?”

She’s not sure how she should know, or what the criteria for ‘happy’ would even be.

“They must be. I don’t see why he would stick around otherwise.”

Aegon’s lips flash into a crooked smile that disappears as quickly as it comes. “I think he wanted to get out. I said he could come live with me, hells, he could afford his own place.”

“So why doesn’t he? Get his own place, I mean.”

“He likes the distraction, something to get him away from Targ Corp, and the rest of us, I suppose. I think he needed an escape.”

The pace of the music picks up in a flourish and Aegon spins her under his arm. Aemond is looking at them.

At some point in the night, the band is swapped for a playlist of songs everyone knows the words to, and closer to midnight the hall becomes a haze of thumping bass and sparse bursts of red and green lights. She loses count of the number of cocktails she’s had, all she knows is her mind is buzzing blissfully. She feels happy and careless, but one drink away from a nasty hangover in the morning.

Aemond is still at his table, sipping a glass of what she guesses is whisky. He loves an old fashioned, if they’re out for dinner or if he makes it himself at home. He talks to Rhaenys and Corlys, and has a brief exchange with Daemon and Rhaenyra when they come over to him, but other than that he just sits and watches her.

She’s not sure how she ended up dancing with Cregan. He wraps a large, muscular arm around her waist and holds her close against him.

He brings his lips to the shell of her ear, shamelessly letting them brush against her skin. It feels nice. “Sure you’ve not got your eye on anyone?”

She smiles even though he can’t see her face. “Why is it important?”

“I’m trying to figure out what my chances are here,” he says as his mouth moves along her cheek.

She giggles as she pulls away from him. “You’re lovely,” she says.

“But?”

A hand lands firm on her shoulder. She recognises his perfume and a cool steel ring against her skin.

She turns into Aemond and puts her hands on his chest. “Are you going to dance with me?”

Aemond holds her wrists and leans into her so that she can hear him over the music. “I think you look tired.”

“I don’t feel tired. Where’s Alys?”

He cocks an eyebrow like he’s irritated she would ask. “She went to bed an hour ago.” Then his mouth curls into a smug pout. “Do you want me to take you upstairs?”

He starts to stroke his thumbs over her hands and his eyes, though hard to make out through the darkness, are fixed on hers. She can’t quite catch her breath. “Yeah, I do.”

They don’t speak as they head up. Her room is on the third floor, and they could take the lift but a few other guests have had the same idea. Quicker and quieter to take the stairs.

Occasionally her hand brushes against the sleeve of his suit but he doesn’t react. She listens to his breath, heavy and pointed, and imagines he might want to say something but keeps deciding against it.

They reach the hall on the third floor, lined with mahogany panelling, vintage gold lamp shades mounted on the walls and patterns of dragons swirling in the red carpet. It’s empty, so she weaves her arm through his.

Aemond holds her arm tight. “Had a nice time?”

It was nice to see her Strong cousins. It was nice to chat to Baela, and get to know Rhaena a little better. It was nice to dance with Cregan and to know Aegon cares about his brother.

“Yeah,” she sighs, letting her head drop against his shoulder. “You?”

Aemond starts to tell her about a conversation he had with Corlys about some new customs regulations that could screw over his company. She likes to watch him when he’s explaining something, how he moves his hand around, how he tilts his chin up and presses his lips together when he’s thinking.

When they come to her door she drags herself away from him and swipes her keycard over the lock. The door is heavy and Aemond reaches over her to prop it open as he follows her inside.

He switches on the low lights and hovers by the door to the ensuite, muttering about tariffs while she slips off her heels and places her jewellery on the vanity.

He looks deliciously casual and self-assured, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets, the warm lights dancing over his cheekbones and the shape of his nose. “...they just can’t compete with the Triarchy, not to mention the extra costs…”

His eyes drift to where she stands. They stare at each other for a moment. The silence is screaming at her.

“Who was the guy you were dancing with?” He asks.

“Friend of Jace’s. He studies politics.”

Aemond hums and smiles to himself. “Looked like the two of you were getting on very well.”

She could point out his poorly placed frustration and that their entire involvement revolves around someone else.

“Is that why you came over?”

He’s still smiling but there’s an intensity to his stare. He puffs his chest a little as he takes a slow breath. He taps his fingers three times against the wall. “Did you like him?”

Restraint is one of Aemond’s most defining traits, she thinks, everything about him is meticulously planned, and every decision is a considered one. Restraint is also his downfall in some cases. He rarely raises his voice or gives into his impulses, but he tries too hard to hold back and craft his perfect image. It excites her whenever she sees the cracks and inconsistencies in him. They feel sacred, another secret she gets to keep.

She takes a few slow steps towards him, until she can smell his perfume again. “I might have done.”

“Might,” he echoes. “If it weren’t for what?”

She tilts her head. His eyes are soft and his lips are parted. She holds the scarred side of his face in her hand and kisses him. She intends it to be slow and reassuring but it’s too easy to get lost in him. She presses herself into him and caresses the back of his neck and she deepens the kiss.

Until his other hand cups her head, lightly pushing her away. “I should go back to the party,” he whispers.

“Why?”

He takes a breath through his nose.

“Stay with me for a little while,” she says, nudging her forehead against his. “I need you.”

His face starts to light up, a familiar playfulness in the curl of his mouth. “Need me?”

She trails her fingertips down his shirt, tracing over his chest and the ridges of his abs, dangerously close to his belt. “Aemond, please.”

He walks forward and she stumbles with him until her back is against the opposite wall. He grips her chin between his fingers, forcing her to look up at him. “Try again, sweetheart.” His voice is low and it makes her feel weightless.

“Please, daddy,” she whispers.

He half growls a “hmm” before he pulls her into him to claim her mouth. His kiss is firm, slow and hungry. She was right about the whisky. She can taste it on his tongue and feel it tingling on her lips.

His knee slides under her dress, between her thighs, and pushes up. She gasps at the pressure and starts to rut her hips against him.

“You’re so eager,” he hisses, “what a desperate little slut I’ve made out of you.”

His hands slip under her thighs to carry her to the edge of the bed. He’s careful as he draws her dress over her head and lays it out over the armchair by the window.

He leans over her, laying her down, working lips, tongue and hands over every inch of her bare body. He starts by kissing her neck, sucking at the soft spot that always makes her melt. His hands run over her collar to her breasts, kneading and pinching her nipples between his fingers. Then he goes lower, planting a trail of kisses down the valley that leads to her waist and her stomach. Usually he likes to drag this out, treat her to divine torture until she had to beg, but tonight he is urgent, no less desperate than she is.

His hands run down her thighs, skimming one moment and squeezing the next. And then she feels his lips against her panties.

“Oh you do need me, don’t you?” He teases. “You’re already so wet for me, baby.”

She writhes against his mouth, desperate for just a little more friction. “Oh fuck, please, daddy, just–”

“Not yet.” He stands over her, slips off his suit jacket and starts to roll the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the pale skin of his forearms. “I’m going to take care of this pretty pussy, but first you’re going to tell me why the fuck you thought you could flirt with Stark, right in front of me.”

She gazes up at him. His expression is stern and intense, and she finds it thrilling.

He pulls her to her feet and takes her place sitting at the edge of the bed, running his hands over the silky fabric covering his thighs.

“Come here,” he orders, taking her hand and guiding her to drape herself over his lap. She can feel the bulge in his pants pressing into her stomach.

He’s gentle at first, stroking his palm over her ass, toying with different pressures and patterns.

The first slap is gentle.

“How many– ah!”

The second slap is harsher and she groans at the sting it leaves behind.

“You’re gonna take what I give you,” he says, stroking softly again while his other hand rests on her neck. “We’re done when I say we’re done.” Slap. “Understood?”

“Fuck!” She gasps, “yes, daddy.”

“Hmm, that’s my good little girl,” he says, running his other hand through her hair. It’s comforting, lulling her into compliance. “Now, have you got an answer for me?”

“I wasn’t trying to flirt,” she utters.

Her answer is met with a few succinct blows. She doesn’t care to count them. She breathes through it, focusing on the burn and controlling her reactions to it. She tries to keep her hips still, but she can feel her pussy throbbing and her arousal dripping between her legs.

“Don’t play dumb with me,” Aemond warns. “You’re smarter than that, baby, I know you are.”

He switches between tenderness and pain so easily. Every time she feels his hand against her flushed skin her belly tightens and she starts to shiver, never quite sure what to expect.

“Do you know what I think?” He asks, slipping finger underneath her panties, circling through the wetness and the sensitive flesh of her pussy. “I think you’re just a needy little whore, desperate for my attention. But it’s okay baby, I know you can’t help it, right?”

She can’t help the broken whimper that escapes her throat as he inches closer to where she needs him most, or the cry that comes when he withdraws his touch delivers another stinging slap.

“Shh, baby,” Aemond coos, “I know it hurts but I need you to know you’re mine,” a point he emphasises with another few strikes that have her squealing and squirming over his lap.

“I’m yours,” she mewls.

Slap. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours, daddy!” She cries, “only yours.”

He strokes his palm over her again and she grips the duvet, expecting another slap. Instead, he curls his fingers over the hem of her panties and slowly drags them down over her thighs. “I’m going to take care of you, baby,” he says, planting a kiss at the base of her neck, “just like I always do.”

Unable to form a response, she nods absentmindedly. The anticipation is driving her crazy but she trusts him completely.

He positions her with her back on the bed again, and kneels before her. He kisses along her thighs, groaning with satisfaction at her little whimpers and moans.

He leans in and kisses her pussy as sweetly and delicately as he would her cheek, letting his lips linger against her. “I’ve been thinking about you all fucking day,” he says, teasing her with gentle pecks and licks while his hands knead at her thighs. “You looked so pretty in your little dress, I couldn’t wait to take it off and have you laid out for me, just like this.”

She runs her hands through his hair as he deepens his movements, that delicious feeling rising and rising as he draws his tongue from her entrance, up to tease her clit, and back down again.

He slides a single finger in, letting out a soft groan at her slick and the sound it makes as he inches further in.

Her hips buck when he starts to flick his tongue over her clit, met by the weight of his hand against her stomach to hold her in place.

“Just relax, sweetheart, be a good girl for me, that’s it.”

Her eyes start to glaze over as her orgasm builds slowly. Agonisingly slowly. She stills her hips, fighting the urge to grind against his mouth. She’s left panting and groaning, desperate for more but she has to be good for him.

“Daddy,” she chokes, feeling a single tear stream down her temple. “Please… please…” she whimpers as she feels herself hurtling closer and closer to the edge. Just a little more and she’ll fall apart.

“There you go,” he hums, pushing deeper and working his tongue faster. “I want you to cum, baby, want you to finish all over my mouth.”

Finally she comes with a stuttering moan, back arched and pleasure rippling through her body, leaving her pleasantly numb in the afterglow.

Aemond presses a sweet kiss against her quivering cunt, trailing back up her body, coming to nuzzle into her neck.

“You alright?” He whispers. “I’m not being too harsh, am I?”

She turns her head to look at him. His eyes are so bright and his breath washes over her skin. He’s still wearing his shirt. She wants to tear it off him, feel every inch of him with no barriers or modesty.

It just slips out, mindless and simple, like a breath or a heartbeat. “I love you.”

He looks at her, wide-eyed and vague. She leans up to kiss him and he pulls away.

Then he comes to his feet, looming over the bed. He wipes his hand over his mouth and drags it over his chin.

She’s sure her heart has stopped beating. Why is he staring at her? Why hasn’t he said anything?

“I should…” His eyes dart around the room, to his suit jacket discarded on the floor. Then back to her, trembling, breathless and bare.

She props herself up onto her elbows, drawing her legs together. She’s never felt ashamed of herself in front of him before.

“Aemond?”

Suddenly he snaps out of whatever trance he’s been under.

“Night,” he mumbles, disappearing around the corner of the ensuite. The door opens. The door clicks shut.

Her hands shoot up to her hair, tugging and gripping, if only to have something to do with her hands. When it gets too painful she smooths her hands over her neck. Her pulse drums under her skin and beads of sweat trail down her back.

What the fuck was that?

Tags : @marthawrites @randomdragonfires @urmomsgirlfriend1 @aaaaaamond @boundlessfantasy

#my fics #aemond targaryen #aemond x original female character #aemond smut #aemond fanfiction #aemond x y/n #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fanfic #hotd fanfic #hotd fan fiction #hotd fanfiction #modern!aemond #modern au #house of the dragon fanfiction #stepdad!aemond #my heart belongs to daddy

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vyl3tpwny · 2 years

Note

do you have a preferred method to get vsts and other such instruments for a DAW?? im poor as heck and dont know ANYTHING about piracy, im so scared of getting goobered by people on the internet

i wish i knew more about the best go-to sites for pirating rn unfortunately i have no clue. ppl on the internet can have such shit intentions too so i dont even know where to look or who to ask. but also here's some free + VERY cheap things u may consider (below the break):

vital synth (i will always shill for vital bc i use it constantly and its free lol)

ob-xd synth (it says buy for $49, but the free download is on the left. the buy link is just a donate)

klanghelm plugins (all these are made by one dude. mjuc is a great vintage style compressor, the dc8c is a pretty featured compressor for the price, sdrr has a particularly nice tube saturation/distortion, and vumt is a great metering plugin, i have vumt on every single project since 2019)

analog obsession (if you donate $5 to their patreon you can get every single plugin they make. also all made and maintained by one person. lots of different things, so i recommend just downloading everything and exploring the functions of the plugins)

tokyo dawn labs (all very high quality mixing stuff. they have free versions of most of their premium stuff and they're quite featured despite being free. ez.)

kilohearts (they recently made all their main effects free. and if you want their flagship stuff, its all rent-to-own as well.)

sforzando (soundfont player. if you dont know what soundfonts are, theyre essentially really condensed, lightweight sampled instruments. they can often sound rlly cheap or tacky [which might be good, i definitely love that sound] but just install this and google [instrument] soundfont and just find lots of free instruments that way)

togu audio line (some free effects and instruments if you scroll down. but i also recommend TAL Sampler if you want a cool sampler and can afford it)

meldaproduction (has a free plugin suite. theres an annoying watermark at the bottom for free versions, but everyone understands. shit is expensive)

native instruments (they have the komplete start bundle which is just a bunch of free decent stuff)

musicradar FREE SAMPLES (ive sworn by a few of the sample resources that i've gotten from musicradar as far back as 2011 lol)

looperman FREE SAMPLES (looperman is a user-sourced sample website where ppl upload samples they've made* and you can just download and use them for free. sometimes people request specific credit, so check for that if you can. *NOTE: its very possible for people to upload unlicensed samples or stuff they didn't make so use your best judgement when sorting through stuff)

freesound FREE SAMPLES (freesound rules always reliable)

synth1 (AHHHH IM SO HAPPY I CAN RECOMMEND THIS RIGHT NOW!!!! synth1 used to be abandonware but was finally picked up again and is supported by modern systems once more. i used this religiously from 2013-2017. and i'm going to start using it again honestly)

valhalladsp (this is the only exclusively premium thing i'm going to leave in this thread [aside from bitwig, below], but it's just that god damn good. every plugin of theirs is $50, so if you can manage to go for ValhallaVintageVerb and/or ValhallaDelay you will basically never need another reverb/delay ever again; would recommend NOT pirating from them if you can help it bc theyre definitely a very small company but u know.. ur call)

bitwig (if you need a DAW, i can now heartily recommend Bitwig. it's on the rent to own program through splice if you're ok getting it legally...)

—

i know this isnt what u asked but i hope its still helpful. i've also rescinded my recommendations for spitfire audio bc the company was revealed to be run by a bunch of queerphobic knuckleheads. everything in this list i have personally used for my own music and can vouch for them from actual experience (YES even bitwig, i made the song "Futura" on Carousel exclusively with Bitwig, making it the first time i've made an entire song outside of Ableton since 2014).

again i hope this helps, forgive me for not knowing enough about pirating at the moment 😭 please make so much music and please look at this animal:

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sirfrogsworth · 1 year

Text

I am so tired of this brand pissing contest.

All of the metal bricks do pretty much the exact same thing. There isn't a better one. Just a slightly different user experience.

It basically comes down to 3 things. UX preference, ecosystem, friends/family.

Some people like the UX of iOS, some prefer Android. Either will do almost all of the same things. Android allows for more customization and tinkering. iOS tends to keep things stock but has more reliable apps—though Android development has improved.

Some people have PCs. Android and Google services tend to work better with a PC.

Some people have MacBooks and iPads. You would be silly not to get an iPhone at that point, because the integration of Apple products is seamless and kind of amazing.

And finally, what is everyone else in your group using? If they are mostly on iPhones, you will find communicating a little easier if you also have an iPhone.

There is one thing Apple does better than other manufacturers that I should include. Longevity. They support their devices for pretty much their entire lifespan. They allow software updates for as long as your phone will tolerate them. And since their hardware design is unified, you can always count on getting a well made product no matter the price point. No need to research each model to see if it is prone to break or has an exploding battery. This point makes me a little frustrated because so many iPhone users will upgrade every year for some reason. Unless there is a new feature you absolutely need, this is wasteful.

Android flagship phones tend to have decent longevity and get continued software updates. But there has always been an issue with the more budget models being forgotten about after a year and receiving no more software. You need to do a lot more research to see if the manufacturer of a particular line of phones has a history of quality manufacturing and good support or if they abandon their phones once the warranty period is up. I tend to steer people toward Pixel phones if they don't feel like doing the research. Google has been decent about long term support so far.

You have to evaluate your circumstances and choose the platform that will serve you best. In all honesty, you can make either work regardless. And you will probably have a few frustrations no matter which you choose.

Brand loyalty is stupid.

Pick what suits you best.

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ghostofskywalker · 1 year

Text

One Night To Change Everything

Commander Wolffe/Fem!Reader

Fictober Day 13 of 31

Words: 827

Summary: To everyone else around him, Wolffe's affections for you were as clear as the highest-grade Corellian Vodka. It was just the commander that needed a little help to see it.

Clone Troopers Masterlist

Wolffe didn’t have romantic feelings. He was a high-ranking commander in the Grand Army of the Republic, he just didn’t have the time for them. And he certainly didn’t have feelings for the 104th’s civilian administrator, no matter what Sinker and Boost tried to say to him.

It wasn’t that he hated you, that couldn’t be further from the truth, but he didn’t do romance. Not only could clones get into a lot of trouble if they were caught engaging in romantic relationships, but he never even considered that with you. You were someone he thought of as a friend, and yes, you were very beautiful, but he didn’t have those kinds of feelings for you.

Or at least, that’s what he told the men under his command every single time one of them said something about how Wolffe needed to “make a move.”

They had practically dragged him to 79’s after you had agreed to go out and let loose for a little while they were on leave, and there really was no use trying to back out. Sinker and Boost were excellent on the battlefield, and their iron courage also extended to going head-to-head with their commanding officer. Plus, if he was being truly honest with himself, he enjoyed nights out with his men, and he wanted to make sure that you were safe as well. Maybe that last part wasn’t the whole truth, but it was all he was willing to admit right now.

But that pointed self-ignorance didn’t last long, because as he sat in the booth at 79’s and watched as you were approached by several of his brothers from different battalions, Wolffe finally had to admit that maybe Sinker and Boost were right about how he felt about you. It certainly didn’t help that you had left behind the drab officer’s grays that he had always seen you wearing while on the flagship. Your outfit now was in no way inappropriate for the setting, but it suited you in a way that the Republic-issued uniforms would never be able to hold a candle to, and he couldn’t stop staring.

Fantasies passed through his head of finally taking your hand and kissing you. They were more intoxicating than the drink in front of him, but there was still something that kept him from acting on those feelings. Maybe it was fear of getting rejected by you, the fear of what might happen to you if your romantic tryst was uncovered, or wanting to avoid the inevitable teasing of the rest of his squad, but all he could do is sit there and stare.

He didn’t even truly register the sight of you walking in his direction, but moments later you were there, taking a seat next to him in the booth. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, everything is fine,” you said as you took a sip of your drink. “I came over here to ask you the same question actually.”

That definitely caught him off guard. “Why?”

“Because we’ve been here for half the night already and you haven’t left the booth,” you said. “I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Most of the times we come here I stay to the background anyway, just in case anything happens.”

You nodded. “And as honorable a duty as that is, I feel bad that you’re sacrificing your night out.”

“I don’t mind,” he said. “I like knowing my men are safe, and it seems like they’re behaving tonight.”

You smiled, a sight that Wolffe immediately committed to memory. “That’s great news, because I really came over here to ask you for a dance.”

There was no other person in the entire galaxy that could have convinced him to leave the booth and head over to the dance floor, but he followed you like a puppy. You gently took his hand and began to slowly coax the dancer in him out from behind the shield he kept up all the times.

The music changed so many times, and with each new song he felt more comfortable. As something slower came across the speakers, you moved closer to him, and his hands found your waist. “See?” you asked, a smile on your face. “Isn’t this much more fun than sitting at that booth all night?”

“You were right.” Maybe it was the one drink he had all evening, maybe it was the euphoria of dancing with you, but he did something then that he would have never had the courage to do before. He leaned down, moving to kiss you on the cheek, but you moved at the last second, pressing your lips to his.

It was something he’d never forget, and even though he knew that his troops were likely whooping and cheering from the border of the dance floor as they watched their commander kiss the 104th’s civilian administrator, he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

- the end -

i no longer have a taglist! if you're interested in being notified when i post, you can follow my library blog @ghostofskywalker-library and turn on notifications!

#ghostofskywalker.fictober #commander wolffe #commander wolffe x reader #commander wolffe x you #clone trooper x reader #commander wolffe fanfiction #star wars x reader

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drdemonprince · 8 months

Note

what made you choose a deer for your fursona?

It's a long story that I am all too happy to tell!

I first attended Midwest Furfest in 2018, after years of being curious about it. My boyfriend at the time was a member of the Neo-Futurists Theater, and the Neo's had a longstanding relationship with the MFF community. They perform their flagship show (Too Much Light Makes the Baby Go Blind, later rebranded as The Infinite Whale) there every year, and when the theater company's former founder attempted to steal their show name/copyright following his ousting due to sexual assault allegations, MFF really came through to offer considerable moral support.

There was lots of goodhearted joking about the furry community within that theater space, and I'd always been curious about furries and a supporter of them in heart if not in fact, and so I finally decided one year to tag along, see my boyfriend performing there, and walk around the convention floor and visit the dealer's den during my down time.

I absolutely LOVED IT. I was completely blown away by the artistry of the suits and the playful spirit of the suiters. I ran into a few friends there, outing them as furries to me, and we grew closer. I also took notice of some teal, sparkly resin antlers while I was in the Dealer's Den:

I snapped those things up and put them on immediately. Some stranger started to pet me right away (which is technically a convention consent violation, and should *not* be done, but I personally was the opposite of troubled by being treated in this way) and I was hooked.

I had always had a "thing" for antlers and horns since playing the PS2 game Ico back in the early 2000's. The young male protagonists horns representing an unwanted appendage and a visible "curse" was very appealing to me... as a boy who had been saddled with two very unwanted appendages of my own. (trangsender). I also have had many very magical encounters with deer in Ohio and Pennsylvania where I grew up. As a skiddish bottomy freak whose caused a lot of car accidents, a prey animal that also has the power to kill people in vehicles seemed plenty apt. So when I found some antlers to wear, it seemed like a natural enough fit for a potential fursona.

Then my friend @jettvector designed my fursona, using the teal antlers as a jumping off point. (this art has his old watermark on it, but he goes by jettvector now. commission him!):

Now that I had a friend-assigned fursona and was officially a furry, I ran with it, and began commissioning some art that further refined my image of the character:

this is from 9inko on Instagram

this one is from @heresvix, who specializes in deer

and this one is from @murgzt . I am currently having a partial fursuit of this iteration of the character made by Daring Duck Designs!! :0

A few things that I love about my sona's design: I love that his ears are big and really stick out, as my ears do the same, I love that he has a spot reflecting my monroe piercing, I love that deers are spotted in general, which can allow me to recast my own bacne scars in a more positive light, and i love that his greenish teal skin reflects my own olive complection (which I used to get a lot of weird comments about as a kid and felt self conscious about).

I also accumulated some gear in the meantime that allowed me to better embody my deersona, who I now call DD (which stands for Deer Devon, Docile Deer, Devon Dawn, my former DD tits, or any numer of potential things haha)

Hood by Miss Kinky Latex UK, photo by @photopotamus.

I have become a little bit more of a furry with each passing year, and it wouldn't have been possible without the hard work and creativity of so many people within the fandom, many of whom are beloved friends. <3 That's part of what makes it so special. Thanks for asking!

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jpitha · 3 months

Text

Between the Black and Grey 50

First / Previous / Next

Fen's flagship the Contemplation of Eternity linked into existence a few hundred million kilometers from the Gren station. For the first time since she left with Gord and Spyglass all those years ago, she was home.

"Empress! We have entered the system. We are being pinged by traffic control." The comms officer said. She was a young woman, sitting in the front of the Command Desk, hunched over her station.

"Ignore their pings, Lieutenant. Sensors, please begin scanning the runabouts hovering around the station. Look for ones that seem to have more weapons than you would expect."

"Yes Empress. Can... you be more specific?"

Fen turned her gaze upon the Sensor Suite officer. She was an older woman, in the middle of her career and in the few days that Fen had been aboard, didn't find anything objectionable about her. She held the gaze for two beats more than was comfortable and said "Not really. Look for runabouts with heavy slug throwers, engines with an overdriven ion trail, some might even have some large laser batteries."

She saluted sharply and turned back to the screen.

They continued to approach the station. It was never very busy, but Fen noticed that there seemed to be even less traffic than normal. There were only a few ships docked to the bottom of the station, and the traffic in system was sparse. Seeing the station brought back a flood of memories to Fen. Her old life with Ma-ren, the K'laxi familial line that raised her, her siblings and parents. It seemed so long ago but wasn't even ten years ago.

"Empress, they're getting awfully insistent. We have passed two security perimeters without contacting Traffic Control and they really would like to speak with us. They've said if we pass another perimeter they will be forced to assume our intentions are antagonistic and will fire upon us."

Fen smirked. She knew what kind of defenses the Gren station had. It was an old station, built to defend against other Gren factions and maybe the Sefigans. Against a human Super Dreadnought, it couldn't compare and they knew it. It was a bluff. "Continue to ignore Traffic Control, Lieutenant." She turned "Sensors? What has your scan discovered?"

Lieutenant Daniels sat up and turned to face Fen. "Empress, you were right, there is a small swarm of runabouts that look like they are regular Gren station ships, but have oversized drives as well as heavy weapons. Some even seem to be hastily fitted with K'laxi slug throwers."

"Those would be Pennfenn or Tam'itarr's ships. They shake down folks coming in for 'docking fees' and 'contraband inspection.'" Fen looked down at her pad and saw the scan of one of them. Their familiar shape looked back at her. "Helm, continue your approach."

They thrusted closer to the Gren station. As they passed the final perimeter, the runabouts stopped their casual orbit and approached Contemplation. "The runabouts have targeted us, but their weapons have not powered up yet." Sensors said.

"Free all weapons, but do not target or fire yet." Fen said. "Contact Traffic Control, please. I would like to speak to them."

The Comms officer's fingers danced over her pads, and the face of the Gren head of Traffic Control appears on the screen. He looked like any Gren that the crew had seen, furred and scaled, with mouthparts like a crab and a large bulky body. Growing up among them, Fen could read their body language better than her crew, and she knew he was very worried.

"Human Imperial Ship! Please cease your approach! Your act of aggression has not gone unnoticed. We have already dispatched a runabout to Gate to the Gren homeworld to alert High Command of your treachery."

Fen muted the call. "Sensors, do you see the ship he's describing?"

"One moment... yes. I see it. It's one of the altered runabouts you asked for me to search for. It's boosting towards the gate at a high rate of speed."

"Are they still within targeting distance?"

"For the laser batteries. They're on the ragged edge of our missiles and out of rage of the slug throwers. If we launched now, a missile might catch up before they reach the Gate, but we'd be close enough that the Gate might take a hit too. It would be risky."

Destroying a Gate would be seen as an extreme act. The people on the Gren station would be trapped - or at least at the mercy of the Humans and K'laxi and their wormhole generators. "Do not fire upon the runabout, let it go."

"Aye, Empress."

The call was un-muted. "This is Empress Fenchurch Whitehorse of the Human Empire, first of her name. I am looking for the Gren named Tam'itarr. You will provide him within three standard units. If you do not, my shock troops will board and we will find him. Any attack against my ship will be met with overwhelming force."

The Gren on the other end of the line was stunned into silence. His mouthparts moving aimlessly, like a sputter for a human. He turned his head to something out of the sight of the camera and as he turned back there was a burst of static.

"Signal is being overridden from inside the station, Empress. Someone else is piggybacking on their signal."

"Locate the source of the signal, but do not block it. Let them break in."

"Doing it now, Empress."

Fen turned back to the screen and saw - through the static and distortion - a familiar face.

"Fen! As my legs carry me around, I have not seen you in cycles. You have done well for yourself!"

"Tam'itarr. You know why I'm here." Fen steely gaze bored into Tam'itarr.

"I have a - how do humans say it? - a hunch. But, you know me, I never was stupid." The camera panned, and they could see that Tam'itarr was surrounded by K'laxi. He was with the refugees. "If you make any attempt to capture me, then I will be forced to take action against your dear family." Fen could see that the K'laxi were sitting together, with a few Gren standing over them with their long, bladed weapons out. Sitting in the front was Da'reni, the matriarch. The old K'laxi looked into the camera and her eyes widened, and her ears twitched. She "Fen. You have found your purpose after all."

"My purpose?"

Da'reni nodded. "I assume you know what you are at this point yes?" Fen nodded without speaking. "Then you have become what you were meant to become. We failed. All our work, all our sacrifice, was for nothing."

"No! Your work wasn't for nothing. I am who I am because of you. Because of the family. I have taken the lessons you gave me and applied them in my work." Fen had seamlessly switched to her childhood dialect, and everyone on the command deck was watching her, surprised.

Da'reni smiled sadly. "I know that you mean that as a compliment, child, but you are also saying that the things we taught you are making you a better oppressor. Why did you return, child?"

"Tam'itarr shot Ma-ren! Shot her in the back as we were running. I had always planned on returning to extract revenge, but I will admit that I had not planned originally on returning with the entire human Empire at my back."

"Tam'itarr shot her? He had told us that the human you were with, Gord had shot her as you both ran to Spyglass."

"No, Gord was trying to help us. Tam's goons shot her with a long range rifle." Fen was tearing up telling Da'reni the story. "She almost made it."

Da'reni looked at Tam'itarr and turned to look at the other Gren behind her. "Fen, Empress. There are so few of us left. Tam'itarr's people have made our lives here hard. To hear the truth now after all these years? Your vengeance is righteous, I so declare. Mourn us, but do not let our lives stay your hand. Avenge Ma-ren, avenge us. Know this - we loved you with all our hearts."

Tam'itarr turned the camera back to himself. "I hope your reunion was a touching one, Fen. I noticed that you switched to your K'laxi dialect as soon as you started speaking. You had better not be planning something, my people like it here, we'll be staying a while, making sure that you-" Fen closed the connection.

"Empress, are you all right?" The captain, sitting next to her turned and looked kindly at her. He was older, with a beard flecked with white. His uniform sharp and the medals on his chest gleaming.

Tears flowed from Fen's eyes and ran down her cheeks. She took a shaky breath, held it, and let it out again. "Thank you captain. I am fine. Just had an unexpected reunion. Weapons." Fen took another calming breath. "Target the reactors on the station. I want them offline but not destroyed. Shock troops at the ready. We're going to hard dock and then board. I will be accompanying you, ready my armor. We take Tam'itarr alive."

#humans are deathworlders #humans are space orcs #sci fi writing #humans are space oddities #humans and aliens #jpitha #writing #humans and ai #humans are space capybaras #humans are space australians #Between the black and gray

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monstersandmaw · 10 months

Text

Changing Tides - human prince 'cursed' into merfolk body (sfw)

Hello! This has been up on my Patreon for my $3 and $5 tiers to read for a week now. If you want to get early access to stuff, and to access my entire back catalogue, here's a link.

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

Anon sent me this message and I responded with almost 8000 words:

"human prince who got cursed and turned into a merman, and while his family and the royal court struggle to find a way to break the curse he finds he's actually happier as a merman"

It's 3rd person, sfw, and features an orca clan who adopts our frightened prince, and there's a hint of mlm romance for one of the orcas with a human in the future... Anyway, I hope you like something a little different.

Content: some mild elements of body horror during the curse/turning scene, brief but not gory/too explicit mention of marine animal death, some implied trauma resulting from a transformation against his will/separation from family and previous existence at a young age, brief description of blood/injury from a harpoon to another character

Wordcount: 7965

Dusk gathered over the gentle swells of the open ocean, gilding the new yardarms and painting the perfectly crisp, white sails of the Royal Navy’s flagship with a pink and orange watercolour glow. The ship’s guests drank and laughed, and celebrated The Sea Rose’s maiden voyage, utterly unaware that they were enjoying their final few moments of life as they knew it.

Unremarkable in almost every way, a small porpoise had been playing in the bow wave, its small, dark body darting mere inches from the stem each time it plunged in and out of the spray and waves.

It didn’t hear the warning from the sea witch racing to catch up with it, and when the young porpoise’s concentration slipped and the black-painted stem of ‘The Sea Rose’ collided with its solid little body, no one on board noticed the tragedy of its passing. Even if the guests hadn’t been half drunk on the heady mix of wine and their own self-importance, there was no one on lookout in the crow’s nest that day; the new ship was flanked for her safety by two frigates a little way off, both crewed with the Navy’s finest and bristling to the gunwales with cannon and ammunition. There was no need to keep a watch this time.

There was, after all, no danger.

And yet, the animal’s accidental death would not go unmarked, unmourned, or unpunished.

Heedless of the vengeful danger rising swiftly from beneath the ship, the king himself strode along the main deck in his white and gold finery, leaving his guests for a moment as he spotted his thirteen year old son standing at the taffrail on the afterdeck and staring out at the ship’s trailing wake.

He slapped the skinny boy on his shoulders by way of a greeting, and nearly sent him toppling over into the sea from the force of his jovial blow. Hauling him upright again with a meaty fist at the scruff of his velvet doublet, the king laughed, cheeks red with drink and the bracing sea air, and he grinned down at his second eldest son.

“What’s got into you, lad?” he asked, his words a little thick and his green eyes a little glassy. “You’ve begged me for years to be allowed to go to sea, and now you’re here, you look like you’d rather be anywhere else! You’re not seasick, are you, lad? You’re going to be Admiral of the Fleet when your brother ascends the throne — can’t have you turning green at the slightest bit of swell!”

“It’s not that, father,” he said, mustering a smile for the king. “I’m sorry. I was just… thinking.”

Down below on the deck, the little prince’s older brother was talking with a few of the captains and admirals, and the boy felt suddenly every bit as young as he was. ‘King’ Eolan was a title that would suit his brother one day, with his regal bearing and his noble features, while the younger boy was gangly and too skinny to fill out the doublet he wore or the fine leather boots on his small feet.

He didn’t get the chance to observe the Crown Prince in action for much longer though, because a shudder ran the length of the new ship, and conversation sputtered and died.

The sails quivered and the rigging shook like spiderwebs before a coming storm. All the hands looked to their stations while the royal guests shifted uneasily and someone dropped a wine flute into the silence of the swelling sea. The Crown Prince scuttled up the stairs to the afterdeck and joined his father, tense and alert, though not before laying a hand on his little brother’s shoulder and offering a reassuring smile.

While the ship sailed past the stricken porpoise in a foaming, heedless rush, the creature bobbed past with its back broken, dead on impact, and the sea darkened around it and then began to boil and churn along the sides of the ship.

Finally, a shout went up and someone standing by the rail on the port side pointed and then reeled back in alarm. They were joined by more guests and sailors until half the ship’s company was hanging off the side and staring into the water that had turned an inky black around the corpse of the sea creature.

The thirteen year old prince followed his father to the railing of the high afterdeck and peered over in time to see a humanoid figure rise from the water. Her long, wet hair hung around her shoulders like a veil of moonlight, and her eyes flashed the colour of the ocean on a summer’s day. Her skin was freckled and oddly iridescent and the air around her seemed to shimmer like the road on a summer’s day. In her right hand she held a staff that was the silvery brown of old driftwood, wrapped around with seaweed like the leather on the grip of a quarterstaff, and her lower body appeared to be that of a leopard seal.

The prince’s breath caught and he stared, slack jawed down at her, forgetting to be afraid.

At the sight of her though, the guests recoiled and grabbed at the charms and holy pendants they wore around their necks, but it would do them no good. The witch raised her staff and let out a wordless scream of grief. As if whisked by a winter squall, the sea rose up around her at her call and a huge wave sloshed against the side of the ship, rocking it and sending a wall of spray and foam across the main deck.

Wherever the droplets of water touched, a flurry of white feathers appeared, and from the afterdeck, the king and the two princes watched a flock of startled seabirds flounder upwards into the sky. In their wake, the main deck lay completely deserted.

The king swore and unsheathed the steel sword at his hip but the young prince simply clung to the wooden railing and continued to stare down at the sea witch.

All his life, he’d heard tales of merfolk and of the magic they wielded, but he’d never dared dream they might be real. He’d spent hours begging the merchants who came to the castle for stories from the fish markets, since every sailor claimed to have fallen in love with a selkie or kissed a mermaid on one of their voyages, but he’d never truly believed that merfolk really did exist.

“What is the meaning of this?” the king bellowed down at her over the sound of the settling sea. “Return this ship’s crew and my guests to me at once, witch!”

“Never!” she snarled. “They’ve flown far away now, oh great king,” she added sarcastically, still sneering, “Your pretty birds won’t return to you now!”

“Why? What prompted such an act?” he barked. To his younger son, he suddenly gestured and added, “Come away from there!” With a desperate look over his shoulder, he hissed at the Crown Prince, “Eolan, protect your brother!”

The witch smiled and the younger prince saw tears tracking down around the corners of her smile as it turned from malice to grief. “Father…” he breathed, wanting to warn the king, but not knowing quite why or of what.

“Quiet!” the king hissed with a sharp motion of his hand. “Eolan, fetch a harpoon. I will have her hide on my wall!”

The Crown Prince snuck away down the stairs, out of sight of the sea witch, and then disappeared below decks. As he left, the younger boy finally let go of the railings and came to stand behind his father.

“Your ship,” the witch called above the wash of water against the sides of the vessel, “Is an abomination! You toss your refuse into the sea to choke the life from those who live there, tangle us in your nets, capture us… skin us!”

She paused and choked something raw and visceral and far beyond articulation. Drawing energy into the staff in a swirl of mist, she came to the real crux of her grievance.

��Your ship took my familiar from me and you didn’t even care to notice!”

“Your what?”

“Shadow!” she wailed, and that sorrow finally crystallised into rage. She pointed as the body of the dead porpoise floated over towards her and then with another heartbroken shriek, she raised the staff not at the king, but at his son. “I curse you!” she spat at him. “I curse you! May your son’s frail human legs fail him and may he know the plight of our people first hand! May the air choke him and the water you disdain be his only solace!”

A bolt of lightning seared down out of a clear sky and struck the deck of The Sea Rose behind the king in a spray of splinters. Ozone and singed wood filled the air as he turned around at the wheezing gulp that left his son’s throat. At the sight that greeted him, the gilt steel sword dropped from his fingers to clatter across the deck at his feet.

The boy’s legs had gone completely limp and he hit the deck hard, eyes wide with terror.

“Father,” he tried to choke in panic, but the sound lodged in his throat.

He brought one hand up instinctively to claw at his neck as he failed to breathe, suffocating in the ordinary sea air, and a moment later his fingers found the three slits of gills in his skin that had not been there before the lightning of the witch’s curse had struck him.

Before the true terror of his discovery could sink in, however, a blinding pain erupted in his chest and his hips, and his legs began to spasm.

The boy tore at the trousers which were suddenly constricting and strangling him, cutting into his legs, and he rolled on the deck as he ripped them off to reveal the distinctive opal-green and black pattern of a mackerel’s skin beginning at his hips. He clawed wildly at his skin in horror trying to halt the change, and his father dragged the fabric away just as the transformation ran its course, and his son arched his back and writhed on the deck like a landed catch, unable to breathe and blind with terror.

Footsteps on the stairs announced Eolan’s return and when he saw his brother lying on the deck with the barbed tail of a mackerel, he crashed to his knees beside them, the harpoon forgotten.

Not knowing what to do, the king knelt at his son’s side and stroked his curly, black hair out of his eyes which were bulging as he failed to breathe.

“Father,” he mouthed, chest spasming.

The skin of his remaining human body turned a grayish silver, like tarnished pewter, and between his fingers as they scrabbled at the deck the king could see a thin webbing stretching and flexing. Black, wickedly sharp claws raked the wood of the deck to splintered furrows as the boy twisted and panicked.

“What do we do?” Eolan whispered, tears filling his eyes. “Father? He’s dying… He can’t breathe!”

Acting on the most fragile of hopes, the king picked his son up in his arms and held him briefly, kissing his forehead. “I love you,” he said. “I will find a way to reverse this.”

Before the cursed prince could work out what was happening, he had been flung over the side of the ship and hit the water with a heavy smack.

The rush of cold seawater across his new gills was a relief beyond anything he’d ever felt. Instinctively, he drew in water through them and let his body start to sink.

Above, the shadow of a second ship, the frigate ‘Persistence’, announced itself with a volley of musket fire, and the sea witch dived out of sight, dragging the body of her slain familiar with her into the depths, the young prince forgotten entirely.

In all the commotion, the prince disappeared into the depths of the coastal waters, alone and afraid for the first time in his life.

The clan of orca-folk cautiously breached the surface and paused to watch the selkie on the shore light the driftwood pyre with the tip of her staff, and dipped their heads as one in respect. The creature at the heart of the kindling blaze was most likely her familiar, and they decided not to trouble the witch in her grief.

Leaving her, they swam in silence out of the cove and moved along the rocky shore, casting uneasy glances at each other. Magic was rare among the merfolk, but those who changed their shape at will, like the selkie folk and their distant, inland relatives, the kelpies, had it more strongly. There had been turmoil on the sea that day, and even now that the stars had blinked to life in the sky above, the waters still churned with unease.

A younger member of the clan swam on ahead, not quite understanding the wary reverence her relatives had for the sea witch, and, distracted by the passing of a very ordinary but still very quick seal, she raced off in a stream of bubbles to play with it. Yes, her kind hunted seals, but when they were being that obvious about their pursuit, the seal was in no danger.

She blasted around the rocky promontory but splayed her wide flippers to bring herself to an abrupt halt when she spotted a boy about her own age lying curled on the sandy bed of the next cove’s floor. He was hunched in on himself and seemed to be in some kind of distress, so she swam slowly over to him. He had the dizzying markings of a mackerel — black lines and opal shimmers like summer sunlight on the sea’s surface — and she wondered if perhaps he’d been left behind on the annual migration.

As she approached, he raised his head and his mouth opened in a soft ‘o’ of surprise, gills flaring.

“Hi,” she grinned. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” she said. “You alright?”

He shook his head.

“Pearl?” Her older brother’s voice sounded from close behind her, wary and warning, and she glanced back over her bare shoulder at him. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I just found him.”

Hook swam past her, pushing her roughly to one side, and he loomed over the terrified stranger and bared all his sharp teeth at him. Hook was only a year older than Pearl, but he liked to play the grown up with her, and it irritated her no end. She grabbed the wide flat of his tail as it wafted past and yanked him sharply backwards. It wasn’t enough to move him much, but it brought his long, black and white hair drifting into his face and undermined his attempt at a tough persona a little.

The strange boy cringed away, hands above his head, and Hook relented when he saw he was no threat, and clearly terrified.

“You hurt?” he asked, though he could taste no blood in the water. “Where’s your shoal?”

In no time, they were joined by the whole orca-folk clan, and it was decided that the stranded boy would swim with them for the winter until his people returned to these waters to claim him. The boy didn’t speak, but he seemed able to understand them, and something told Pearl he’d been through something more awful even than being abandoned by his shoal.

Over the next few weeks, she first coaxed some tentative smiles from him, and then, when they had stopped to rest one night in another rocky cove further to the south, he laughed.

It happened when Hook got his finger clamped by a massive lobster and he swore and flung the thing away before washing it further from him with a great sweep of his tail, scowling. He was growing into his body and would one day outgrow even their father, and the motion sent the offending crustacean spiralling away on the temporary current.

When the wash of water in their ears had settled, they heard a quiet giggling and looked around to see him sitting near a bed of kelp, one hand over his mouth, and laughing softly. His eyes were the most beautiful brown, like a seal’s, and when Hook saw who was laughing, his indignation at the incident melted away like the ice in the spring, and his whole body softened.

Pearl watched as Hook swam over to the strange boy, the one they’d taken to calling Mackerel for the beautiful patterns on his tail, but the boy stopped laughing almost immediately. Hook’s shoulders dropped and he looked mortified when he saw unease and uncertainty in the boy’s eyes.

“It’s alright,” Hook said with a half-smile. “I deserved to get pinched the way I picked her up,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking. You want to see if we can find another one and I’ll show you the right way to do it?”

Tentatively, the boy nodded, and Pearl watched as the boy swam off at Hook’s side. He didn’t swim like normal merfolk, but more like a newborn still getting used to his tail. Sometimes he started to sink and panicked, and the first few times it had happened, Hook had actually had to lift him up to keep him from sinking completely. Unlike them, he was a piscine merfolk, meaning he could breathe water and not air, while they were mammalian and needed to surface. When Hook went up to gulp fresh air those first few times, Pearl would watch the boy and make sure he didn’t sink until Hook returned.

He seemed to grow in confidence though over the winter, and by the time of that first laugh, he was just a bit awkward in the water. He couldn’t hope to keep up with Hook, but her brother had a kind streak to him for all his brash bravado, and he kept pace with Mackerel. Slowly, the boy began to talk with them, but he never spoke of what had happened to him, and any time they asked him where his shoal was or where he’d grown up, he shut up tighter than a clam and refused to talk. Eventually, they stopped asking.

He did till them his name though, and they were surprised to learn it was a human name. Pearl had been named for the lightness of her irises — such a pale blue it was almost silver — and Hook had been named because the patch of white under his tall dorsal fin looked like one of the barbed devices that humans used to catch fish. Mackerel, however, turned out to be named Theo, and when asked why he had that name, he just shrugged and said his parents must have liked it. They stuck to calling him Mackerel, or Macks, and he didn’t object in the slightest, only smiling shyly the first time Hook used his new name.

When spring came to the waters where Pearl’s clan hunted, no piscine merfolk came looking for Mackerel, so he simply stayed with the orca folk.

One year became two, became three, became five.

Hook grew into a monster of a merman, with muscles rippling over his body and a reputation for taking on anything he deemed a threat to his clan, from great white sharks to fishing boats. Mackerel grew as well. Gone was that awkward, faltering motion as he swam — he could out pace any of them in a race and he was lithe and graceful and elegant when he moved. He laughed a lot too.

Pearl noticed how he would watch her swim past and then look away, and when Hook caught him staring at her like that, he washed him playfully away with a wave of his massive tail and sent him spiralling off into the murky depths with a laugh and told him to come back when he could win against Pearl in arm-wrestling.

Then, one summer evening, Mackerel disappeared.

They’d been swimming nearer to the shore than was wise in the warmer months, when humans often gathered on the shore with their fires to dance and sing and make a strange music of their own. Hook and Pearl’s mother called the clan back from the shallows and led them away when they heard the strange notes of human song and saw the orange lights dancing on the shore like strange, swirling blooms of plankton that spat sparks into the sky, but when Hook turned to Pearl to ask her something, he tensed and looked around.

“What?”

“Where’s Macks?” he asked, his hold tightening on the driftwood spear he usually carried in his right hand. Its ghostly-white blade was made of honed whalebone, and it had gutted a great white from nose to tail only the week before. The colour had drained from Hook’s usually tanned face, and he looked around frantically in the gloom that night had cast on the sea.

“Maybe he didn’t hear mother calling?” Pearl whispered.

“Stay here. I’ll go back for him.”

“Careful!” Pearl hissed, but he was already sliding away like a shadow, consumed by the growing darkness.

Hook searched the cove where they’d been intending to rest until they’d discovered the humans too close for comfort, but found nothing. Panic began to rise as he looked further along the dark, jagged rocks of the shoreline.

Eventually he started to run out of air, and surfaced carefully, mindful of the massive dorsal fin that stuck up like a sail behind him now that he was full-grown. If the humans spotted it glinting in the dark, they’d hurl harpoons at him or try to snatch him for a trophy. Merfolk — both saltwater and freshwater — didn’t last long in captivity, and he had no intention of being taken.

Then, at the far end of the sweeping cove, he spotted the opalescent glimmer of Mackerel’s scales and saw his greyish body draped over a rock. He was leaning on it, staring at the humans. His black hair, which, in the water, was flat, had started to curl, and Hook couldn’t believe he was out of the water at all. He was going to asphyxiate if he stayed up there too long, but the orca kept watching him a little longer. He liked Mackerel’s body; how it was different from the powerful orca folk. He was built for speed and agility where Hook was built for a combination of wild bursts of power and slower endurance. He might have begun courting him, bringing him gifts of carved whalebone and rare trinkets from the seabed, if Mackerel hadn’t clearly been attracted only to his sister or her female friends. So, he’d kept his affection for him chaste, and now as he watched, he realised with a jolt that Mackerel was crying.

Slowly, he swam over to him, keeping in Mackerel’s line of sight, and when his best friend turned to look at him, Hook’s heart cracked and sheared apart at the look on his face.

“What?” Hook asked, pausing and bringing his hands up to speak in the Hunter’s Tongue they used with each other when they needed to be silent in the water. He’d taught Mackerel himself, and he’d soon picked it up like he’d been speaking it all his life.

Mackerel only shook his head though and then dipped his neck below the waterline to breathe before rising up and staring again at the humans.

Hook turned to watch, but didn’t he understand. Humans were fascinating, sure, but they weren’t beautiful enough to make grown merfolk cry, surely?

Strange structures had been erected on the soft, pale sand, which looked like they were made of the same material that humans used to catch the wind and drive their boats and ships. These though were coloured the same shade as the urchins and starfish that hunkered down in rock pools at high tide, and whatever they were made of glittered occasionally like the sun on the water. The humans were laughing and moving around in odd patterns around their fires.

“What is it?” Hook whispered when he was close enough to Mackerel that their bodies touched all along one side.

“I miss them,” Mackerel rasped back. His voice didn’t work very well above the water, needing the cool caress of the waves to make it audible.

“Miss who?”

“My family.”

Hook went still. Macks had never talked about his family in all the years he’d lived with Hook’s clan. He looked from Mackerel to the humans and back again. “What do you mean?”

Mackerel bit his lip. “These people…” he said. “I know them. Hook, I was —”

A shout went up and something lanced down out of the dark, piercing the water and glancing off Hook’s large, rounded flipper. He cried out in shock at the sting of it as blood blossomed in the dark water, and he yanked Mackerel down into the waves just as another spear flew into the waves like a diving bird.

This one landed in Hook’s flat tail, and it wasn’t a spear. It was a harpoon.

Thick and barbed, the weapon lodged itself in his tail and he found himself hauled up the beach by a small party of humans before he could even flounder or lash out. His own spear had been dropped when he’d reached for Mackerel and he only prayed that his friend had the sense to swim for the depths. Not that he was about to go down without a fight, he thought as he readied himself to lash out with his fists, and even his teeth if he had to.

Of course, Mackerel had the self-preservation instincts of a piece of seaweed in a Spring Tide, however, and he breached the water a second later with a screech of distress that made even Hook’s eardrums hurt. For an instant, the tearing pressure on his tail was relaxed and he heaved his body with all his might, knocking the shadowed figures aside and sending them tumbling into the sand.

Then he saw Mackerel hauling himself up the beach, and the men started to run for him too.

Panic set in to Hook until he heard Mackerel yelling at them. He was yelling a name. A human name.

The figure at the front of the group skidded to a halt in the wet sand and stood there in shock while a wave washed up the shore to him and sloshed over his boots. “Theo?”

“Eolan…” Mackerel wheezed. “Please… Let him go…”

The figure crashed to his knees in front of Mackerel and tilted his face up to look him in the eye.

Hook seized the opportunity and swung his tail again, scattering the last of the humans tugging fruitlessly on his line now that there were too few of them. The barb of the harpoon was right through the meat of his tail and it was bleeding everywhere, turning the sand a nasty dark hue.

“Let… him go… Eolan. For me.”

“Brother? Little brother?” the human choked, bowing over him.

“Yes. It’s me. Let. Him. Go.”

The human turned his face to look at Hook then, and Hook recoiled. He looked like Mackerel, just… older. And harder too.

“Get back into the water,” Hook growled at Mackerel. “You’ll choke up here.”

That made the human — his brother? — look sharply back at him, and when Mackerel nodded and his lungs started to seize, the human dragged him unceremoniously into the water himself by the tail.

Hook meanwhile clawed his own way back down the beach, dragging the harpoon with him. If it ripped out of his tail, he’d bleed to death, but if he didn’t get away from these humans, they’d hang him up like the sharks and the tuna they took great pride in catching, and they’d wait til he bled out or died from the stress of it.

He yanked at Mackerel’s tail and dragged him the last way into the water too, then half-swam and half-sank down into the safety of deeper water. Pearl was waiting for them with Hook’s spear in her hand and swam at him, crying out when she saw the harpoon in his tail.

“It’s bad, Hook. We have to take you to the sea witch,” she said. “Mackerel, what in the name of the Deep were you thinking?”

“I…” he croaked. Like a piece of flotsam caught in the grip of the tide, he didn’t know whether to return to the beach or follow them into the sea. Hook didn’t have time to wait though, and he let his clan bear him away, looking back over his shoulder at Mackerel in disbelief and confusion.

Pearl drew Mackerel after them, and he followed in mute shock.

The sea witch’s lair was somewhere most merfolk avoided, mostly because magic was as unnerving to them as human fire, and the sea witch was powerful. She had never been known to turn away anyone in distress however, and when she scented blood in the water and saw Hook being borne into the protective ring of rocks around her home by two of his kind, weak from blood-loss and pain, she darted over immediately and hissed a curse.

“Humans,” she said through gritted teeth as she instructed the orca folk where to leave Hook. He found himself drifting in and out of consciousness on a soft bed of woven kelp, and when he looked up she smiled at him. “Easy, sweetheart. We’ll get you taken care of. I’ll need you to be brave, and you might need to hold onto someone while I take it out. There’s no easy way to do it, but my magic will patch you up afterwards. It’ll scar, but at least you’ll have your tail, eh?”

He nodded. “M… Mack…” he moaned, but Mackerel didn’t appear. When he cracked his eyes open again, he saw Mackerel staring at the witch with abject terror in his big brown eyes.

“It’s alright, lad,” she laughed, waving him over. “Come. Your friend needs you now.”

But Mackerel didn’t move.

When he remained, drifting on the currents like a mindless jellyfish, the witch tutted and gestured more impatiently, until she went still and really looked at him. “You’re… You can’t be… By the Deep, you’re him, aren’t you?”

Slowly, he nodded.

When Hook let out a groan as the water drifted over his injury and moved the harpoon, the witch focused again and said, “No time for that now. Someone hold him while I heal him up.”

Mackerel did move then, and he swam right around her and came to hold Hook’s hand in a firm grip. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Not your fault. Humans are awful. I hate them,” Hook spat. “I hate them all, I —” He cut off as the witch yanked the harpoon out and immediately began to heal it. Hook’s eyes rolled and he lost consciousness at last.

When he came to, he found Pearl at his side, curled up asleep the way she had done when they were really young. He stroked his hand over her hair and she stirred, blinking and rolling over.

“You’re alright?” she asked and he nodded.

Moving his tail experimentally up and down, he found that the pain had gone, and the wound had been mended to leave a silvery scar in the top and a pink one in the white of the flesh underneath. “Where’s Macks?” he asked and she swallowed and looked away. “Pearl?”

“He’s gone.”

“Gone?” Hook jerked upright and glared at her. “Gone where?”

“He talked with the sea witch for ages and she gave him something, and then… he just left.”

“Without saying where he was going?”

“He swam to the surface like he was one of us running out of air. I don’t know what happened.”

“Where is she? Where’s the witch? I want to ask —”

“I’m here,” came the witch’s harsh voice from nearby. “Don’t get your flippers in a flap,” she added, rolling her eyes. “And something tells me your boy will be back…”

“He’s not my boy,” Hook growled.

The witch just rolled her eyes. “Maybe not in the way you wish, but he’s not for you anyway. Your blood told me an interesting story when I drank half of it in by accident earlier. How are you feeling?”

She moved her seal’s lower body from side to side in a sinuous sweep and lifted up his enormous fluke, nodding with a satisfied grunt when she inspected the scar.

“I’m fine. Tell me what’s going on.”

“It’s not really my story to tell, if he’s not told you already,” she said carefully, “But I lashed out a long time ago when humans took my familiar from me, and I took it out on the wrong person. I wanted the humans to know what it was like to suffer at the hands of someone you feared, so I gave one of them a tail and gills in a fit of pique to make his father pay. I was so wrapped up in my grief at Shadow’s death that I clean forgot about the lad when the humans opened fire on me, and I’ve not thought about him from that day to this.”

“Mackerel…” Hook exhaled, his blue eyes wide. “He… He was human, once, wasn’t he?”

The witch nodded. “Pampered little princeling out on his father’s brand new ship. Shadow got too close and the ship hit my familiar. The shock of it broke something inside me that day, but I never should have taken it out on an innocent child.”

“Where is he now?”

“I gave him the means to return to his people. If he stays on land for longer than a single cycle of the sun and moon, he’ll stay there and never return. If he returns to the sea within that time, he’ll never be able to return to his human form again.”

“Why would you make him choose like that?” Hook demanded, face like a thunderhead.

“My magic isn’t infinite, boy,” she scoffed. “I can’t give him a shifters gift. He must choose, his family in the water or his family on land. By all accounts, the humans have scoured the land looking for a way to get their cursed prince back, but no witch has been willing or able to help them.”

Pearl shook her head. “Probably no one wanted to go against the Sea Witch…”

The witch blew a stream of bubbles from her mouth and shrugged. “If they had, I might have heard about the situation and remembered the poor boy I tossed into the ocean like a piece of discarded bait. Your clan shamed me with your honour in taking in the boy as your own.”

Hook swam out of the witch’s lair not long after that and made straight for the cove where the humans had been frolicking on the shore like spinner dolphins in the surf before they’d spotted him and Mackerel.

There, sitting close together on the beach by the dying embers of the fire, he saw his best friend and the human who’d called him ‘little brother’.

For a long time, he watched, transfixed.

Mackerel was wrapped in a piece of fabric that looked like a small, patterned sail, only it fell softly around him, and from under it, Hook could just see a pair of feet. His gaze snagged on them, and he wasn’t sure how long he stared. He wondered what it was like to have two limbs instead of one — perhaps it was like controlling his flippers and his tail separately…?

Suddenly, on the rocks above him and to his right, a male voice cleared his throat, and Hook jumped, lurching away with a snarl.

“Sorry,” the man said with an earthy chuckle. “Didn’t want to spook you, but I figured you should know I was here, and that you’d better not try anything either,” he warned.

Hook’s upper lip peeled back to show his row of sharp teeth. “If he wants to be there, I won’t stop him,” he growled. “Who are you?”

“Crown Prince’s bodyguard. You?”

“His friend.”

Hook eyed the man up and down and found he didn’t dislike him, physically. Like Hook, he was clearly a warrior, since he had what the humans called a ‘sword’ belted to his hip, and he carried a long spear in his right hand. His clothes looked like they’d been made of fish scales though, and Hook immediately wanted to touch. The fabric shimmered in the torch light and clinked softly, almost musically.

When he saw where Hook was staring, the man chuckled. “Yeah, mail’s a bit like fish skin, I suppose.”

“Mail?”

“This,” he said, plucking at the shirt that ended halfway down his thighs.

He crouched down, leaning on the spear for balance, and at the sight of the dark, soft fabric underneath the mail and covering his legs, Hook’s curiosity surged and he swam a little closer.

“Fuck,” the man breathed when he saw the way Hook moved.

“What?”

“Never been this close to one of your kind.”

“Without hurling a harpoon at us, you mean?” Hook growled, gripping the rock at the man’s boots and raising himself up out of the water enough to reveal his entire torso. Then, with one hand, he grabbed at the man’s mail shirt near his neck and hauled him close.

The spear dropped from his hand and clattered onto the rocks, but the human didn’t resist him.

“Holy shit,” he exhaled instead.

Hook snarled, lip rising again on one side, and he heard a shout of alarm from the beach.

Flinging the man aside so that he toppled and landed hard on his backside on the rock behind him, Hook looked over to find Mackerel standing shakily and staggering on the sand. The ‘sail cloth that wasn’t sail cloth’ fell to his waist and he grabbed at it, just as his brother lurched to his feet and helped to steady him.

Together they walked shakily around the cove and over to the rocks that jutted out into the sea like a dock, but the shore was too jagged for Mackerel’s bare, human feet, and besides, he was too unsteady on his unfamiliar legs.

He beckoned Hook over though, and Hook glanced back at the Crown Prince’s bodyguard, then sloshed into the water and drove himself at the shore with a few powerful sweeps of his tail. There, he half-beached himself, looking up at Macks.

Mackerel crouched, keeping the soft fabric around himself and half hiding his strange limbs from Hook’s view for some reason, and the older man stepped back when Mackerel nodded at him. “You’re human?” Hook croaked, looking up at him.

Mackerel made a little sideways motion with his head. “For now. I’m sorry I never told you what happened. I… I was afraid you’d… that you wouldn’t want me in your family anymore if you knew the truth. I know how you talk about humans…”

Shame twisted in his gut and he looked back at the man on the rocks who was standing up at the approach of Mackerel’s brother.

“You going to stay with them?” Hook asked.

“I’m not sure. I want to talk with my brother a bit longer. While I can. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

Hook nodded. “I understand.”

“Hook…?”

He met Hook’s blue eyes with his brown and reached for him. His skin was warm and soft in the firelight, and Hook found he missed the stony grey it had been before. Being human didn’t suit him, but he didn’t feel it was his place to say that, so he just swallowed and nodded. “Take your time. You know where we’ll be.”

“Hook, whatever I decide, you're family too. All of you. Pearl and you and the whole clan. You took me in and cared for me in a way my family on land never really did. They sheltered me and they loved me, but… not the way you did. I’ll always love you all for that. You know that, right?”

Hook nodded once and shoved his weight backwards in the sand, awkwardly carving a channel in the wet shoreline with his massive body. He glared as Mackerel’s older brother strode back across to join them, and he helped Mackerel to stand. His legs trembled and wobbled, and he laughed and leaned into his brother, and the two retreated up the beach to talk some more.

At the whispering of metal rings sliding like scales across one another, Hook glanced to his right and saw the guardsman approaching along the sand. He set down his spear and held up his hands, laughing softly. It was a warm, chuffing sound, and it stirred something in Hook’s gut that he’d thought only awakened for Mackerel.

“What do you want?” he asked, though it came out more petulant than threatening, and it only made the human warrior snort another little laugh. “You sound like a seal with a cold, making that noise.”

That made the man’s laughter grow and he shook his head. Hook saw that his hair was wavy and dark brown, and it looked impossibly soft. A shiver ran down his whole body and he felt a spark of arousal thrum through him. He was glad he was lying on his front, for one.

The two princes talked long into the night, and Hook stayed with the guardsman.

Slowly, he got over his hostility and started to ask questions about the humans’ world, and once he’d started, he couldn’t stop. The guardsman had plenty of his own questions too, and by the time the sun was well up into the sky and hammering down on them, Hook’s deep voice was hoarse and his golden-brown skin was dry and prickling.

“I should…” he rasped, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the water behind him. “I’m going to turn into one of your baked fish soon.”

“Shit, I’m sorry,” the guardsman said. His name was Kit, it turned out, which Hook thought was a very funny sounding name. “You need a hand getting back in the water?”

He didn’t, but the thought of having this human’s hands on him sounded suddenly and bizarrely appealing, so he shrugged. “You strong enough to actually help me, or are you just looking for an excuse to get your hands on a merman?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

Again, Kit laughed. It seemed so easy, so natural for him to laugh, but Hook felt a little flicker of pride all the same at having made him do it.

“With all that muscle you’re packing? Probably not,” Kit admitted. “Seemed polite to ask though.”

Hook snorted too, and shook his head. His hair had dried while they’d been talking and it was tickling his face. The guard surprised him by reaching out and tucking it behind his ear with a smile. “I’m glad I met you, Hook,” Kit said. “Maybe… no matter what His Highness decides, you’ll meet me here again some time?”

“His… Highness?”

“The one you call Mackerel. He’s a prince, you know?”

“He’s just… Macks,” Hook scowled.

“Yeah.”

Kit straightened with a grunt and dusted the sand off his legs, and Hook used his forearms to back himself back out into the surf, tail lifted so it didn’t drag like an anchor.

His back was burned, and the saltwater was agony to start with, but it had been worth it to spend so long in the company of the strange human. He ducked beneath the water without a word and vanished, deciding to wait out the rest of the time until Macks’ spell conditions were met in the solitude of a nearby kelp bed.

Occasionally he surfaced, but he didn’t go back to the shore, and finally, when the moon was starting to rise again, he breached the water one last time and looked to the beach. There was no sign of Macks this time, and he realised he’d probably made his choice.

Grief struck him a worse blow than even the harpoon, and he curled inwards with a grunt as saltwater leaked from his eyes and he realised he was crying. He doubled over and turned towards the open ocean. His scarred tail gave a throb of pain as he pushed himself to the limit and blew past his clan who had been waiting nervously out in the open water all day.

Pearl yelled after him but he ignored her. He wasn’t sure how far along the coast he swam but eventually he doubled back to familiar waters and located his clan.

And there, in the middle of all of them, was Mackerel.

Hook halted and stared, and the motion of his black and white tail attracted his best friend’s attention enough that he stopped mid-sentence and darted away from the girls, his body flashing like a minnow between the figures of orca merfolk. He shot out and blasted over to him at a pace even Hook hadn’t known he was capable of, and collided with him with the speed of a racing tuna fish. He gave a soft ‘oof’, a cloud of bubbles rising up to the surface in a foam as the air was knocked from his lungs and he started to cough. Mackerel tugged him up to the surface and made sure he got a good gulp of air before hugging him again.

“I know you don’t see me as your brother,” he said, “And I’m sorry I can’t give you what you wanted, but… I hope you’ll accept me back into the clan all the same.”

“I love you,” Hook said, “No matter what, or how. I can’t believe you stayed though. I thought… I thought…” He squeezed him tightly, using his flippers as well as his arms, and Mackerel laughed.

“Turns out I actually prefer being a merman,” Mackerel laughed. “I was always out of place on dry land, but here… I think I’m meant to be here.” He waited a beat and then said, “My brother’s guardsman seemed quite taken with you. Maybe you can keep flirting with him when I go and visit my brother?”

Hook shoved him away and then used his trademark tail-wipe to wash him even further away, and the two of them laughed.

“Race you?” Macks asked.

Mackerel did an easy back-flip in the water, rolling gracefully and then twisting like a strand of kelp in the current. When Hook thought back to how he’d been in those first few weeks — when, he now knew, he’d only just acquired a tail instead of legs — he realised how Mackerel had really grown into that pretty tail of his.

As pretty as it was though, it somehow wasn’t as appealing as Kit’s legs anymore, and Hook hid a secret smile as he let his slippery friend scoot away from him before setting the muscle of his tail to good use and powering after him like an incoming breaker.

Relations with the humans changed after that. The old king died some years later, though not before he got to see his lost son one last time, and over the course of the next year, trade and new laws governing fishing rights and shipping lanes were established for the safety and benefit of the merfolk.

And if Hook disappeared from the clan for extended periods of time, and if those periods happened to overlap with Kit’s time off duty, well, it was only a sign of better things for both worlds, surely?

I really hope you enjoyed this. If you did, please consider showing your support by reblogging. It really is the best (and totally free!) way to help the artists and writers whose work you enjoy.

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#merman #merfolk #cursed prince #curse #orca merfolk #3rd person #exophilia #fairy tale

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makeitagood0neao3 · 4 months

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Weather Me To Nothing (3/4)

Pairing: Dark!Paul Atreides x Female!Reader

Word Count: 3,881

Summary: Reader is the heir to the throne with an impossible choice to make. Torn between protecting her sisters and finding her way in the universe, will she make the right choice?

Warnings: Dark!Paul Atreides. 18+ only! Explicit sexual content. Arranged Marriage. Non con. See tags for more.

A/N: Thank you for sticking with this fic! Comment and reblogs make me smile. Sobbing as they turn to statues at the bedside, I'm trying not to crush into sand.

Read Part 4

The sun isn’t high yet, but it’s hot anyway. The sun is low on the horizon, the spice on top of the sand shimmers like a sunset over water. You stumbled slightly stepping onto the ramp, prompting your guard to plant you in a chair far from the pilot’s. Feyd-Rautha sits next to you, your Sardaukar pilot flying to the neutral place agreed upon. The vial of poison between your breasts is cool, reminding you of its presence.

You are in a Stillsuit, though you aren’t sure you’ve put it on right. If only your father saw you now, dressed like a local in cling tight material. No beaded bodice, hairline sweaty and already sunburnt.

Here in the desert you will not get a traditional ceremony, no frills or details for you to fuss over. No family in attendance as the both are feuding. Your father had offered to bring Paul to his Flagship to meet you, but he refused, wanting you to be brought to him until the alliance was secured. You are confident that your father is elated at this form of punishment; no fair bride before the empire. Just dumped on a planet at the axis of war.

The pressure of the day is upon you, burning you from inside out. If done correctly, you’ll be back at the Capital by morning and with your sisters for your second wedding ceremony whenever Vladimir deems it to occur.

The Thropper flies over two harvesters and their security detail, spice kicking up from the sand, iridescent in the breeze. The fan blowing toward you from inside glistens in the streams of light. You cough, knowing most of it is in your lungs. Feyd spares you a glance, but you don’t look at him.

It is only when you approach the valley that rests between two large rock formations do you begin to feel the physical effects. Hyper aware of the temperature, the sweat on your brow and all the open space that will make it nearly impossible for you to run from the Fremen. You’re still drowsy from the sleeping pill and try to blind the horizon into focus. How will you escape past the sandworms, the great creatures who will devour you and the sand around?

The Thropper approaches a flat ledge against the rock formation and lands. The propellers shut off and the ramp releases behind you. Feyd reaches over to touch the vial that hangs from your neck before speaking.

Tucking in the vial beneath your suit, you stand. You feel eyes on you, but can’t make anyone out in the shadow. Your guard exits first and you trail behind, the shawl curled around your crown to stop your hair from flying. As you round off the ramp, you catch sight of movement.

By the time you lift your head, there are half a dozen that have joined, out from the shadows. Paul stands at attention in the center, secured in his Stillsuit. The dark curls of his hair swirl in the wind as he watches you. Your movements are stopped when you see the Fremen behind him. The shadows of the rock don’t conceal his age. He’s older than you expect, maybe early twenties.

“You were only supposed to bring one,” Feyd-Rautha’s voice is gruff next to you.

“As was she.” Paul’s voice is confident. About to defend yourself, your mouth gasps before Feyd continues.

“She is a Princess. Her guard does not leave her side.”

“Then why are you here?” Paul’s head tilts to the side, examining.

“To report the success of this ceremony to the Emperor and House Harkonnen who is the govenor over this planet.”

“You won’t be present for it.” This catches you off guard, and surprised, you look to Feyd for explanation. “Only Fremen and those accepted by them are welcome in the seiches. She enters alone.” Your guards remove their swords from their sheaths. The sound of metal swiping against the leather has your spine upright. The Fremen remain relaxed, hands free of any weapons.

“That wasn’t the agreement,” Feyd states as if it will change their minds.

Impatient and light headed, you decide to try and regain control of the situation and step forward. You pull your scarf down off of your head to reveal yourself.

Paul’s face is impassive, not a finch of his lips or clench of his hands to indicate whether he is pleased or not. Perhaps he expected Irulan. Tired of the informalities, you speak, hoping to gain the upper hand again.

“Paul Atreides. I am pleased to see you again. Though I wish it were for better circumstances.”

“Is a marriage ceremony not a joyful occasion?” He half smiles. You know you can’t apologize for this father’s death or the death of his people. That will further implicate your father, though you’re sure he already knows this. You give him a smile instead of a direct reply.

“There must be a place for us to hold this ceremony that accommodates both of us. I have come all this way to wed you, without sisters or my father to give me away. Could we perform the ceremony up here?” You offer, trying to sound like the idea just arrived to you.

“We will be wed in the seitch or not at all.” Paul’s eyes are impossibly blue, his voice is firm, but not cold or lifeless.

You’ve never been in a position where you did not have the upper hand. It is clear none of them are intimidated by these men who could destroy anyone else with a swing of their blades. You are tempted to say no, to refuse this change in the plan. It would mean imminent war, resulting in the extinction of the Fremen and whoever decided to join the war against your father. Your sisters would be caught in the middle. That is too much bloodshed for your soul. You will do what you must.

“Who will communicate the completion of the ceremony to the Empire?” You ask, keeping your tone light.

A woman steps forward from behind two tall, imposing Fremen warriors, her black hair long and pulled away from her face.

“I am Dr. Liet Kynes. The Judge of the Change. The Emperor knows me personally. I will inform your guard once the ceremony is complete.”

She sounds sincere enough and you’ve heard her name before.

“Do you swear my safety?” You ask Paul.

“I swear it with my life,” He gives you a slight smile and you can see the youth in it. He’s only a few years younger than yourself, the violence on Arrakis hasn’t completely stolen his boyish grin.

“I will go with them,” you say, eager to dismiss the tension between the two groups. Your guard makes no move to sheath their weapons or stand at ease. It’s clear to you now, that these two may not be loyal to you, but to Harkonnen command. Feyd turns to face you before dropping his voice so it does not carry over the gusts of wind.

“No-” He begins in Galach, but Paul can probably understand it.

“The union must be valid. We must do this their way. Allow me to go rogue once more. My father will expect this of me.”

Feyd looks down at you, his skull wet from the heat, though the pigments of his skin still a bright white. He is hesitating, you can see the calculations he is running through in his head, weighing the options of just killing Paul here. But that would be sloppy and there are too many witnesses. The Fremen in the shadows could disappear before they were attacked and report this information back. He cannot have any more loose ends.

“Their seitches aren’t big. Memorize your way in and how many Fremen you see. We will meet you here at sunrise.”

“Sundown,” you try to correct.

“No, the Fremen leave their seitches at night when it’s cooler. Sunrise.” He says again.

“The sun is high, Princess, and your Stillsuit is not fitted. You’re losing moisture every moment you spend out here.” Paul’s voice echoes off the rock. You glance down at your suit, it is unbearably hot and dying from dehydration is not what you had in mind for today.

You step around Feyd before turning to him completely, your back to the Fremen. You can’t risk them hearing you in your native tongue, so you speak softly to Feyd in his. His eyes narrow, probably shocked to hear you speaking it, but it’s one of the few words you know. He nods, repeating the word.

Refusing to show these people any fear or doubt, you keep your chin level and walk with purpose. Paul is slightly taller than you remember him, though it’s been years since you’ve seen him.

Paul gestures to your suit before asking, “May I?”

You nod and his eyes float over your body, inspecting the suit. You hold your breath, praying he doesn’t feel the flat vial that hangs from your neck. Paul places his hands on your shoulders before grabbing a strap and tightening it. His hands float to your wrists before pulling each sleeve lower and securing them. His hand grasps your hip, giving the fabric a yank, making you shift on your feet. His attention is briefly over your shoulder, gloating at Feyd-Rautha and your guard. Finally, he kneels and makes a few adjustments at your ankles before standing once again.

“Let’s get moving.” Extending an arm, he gestures for you to follow the warriors that have already begun to enter the narrow opening between the rock.

It takes several steps before you realize the path is declining, the light from the sun only reaching tips of the opening. Senses heightened from the spice in the wind, you try to maintain a steady breath to not overwhelm yourself. You don’t miss how the opening of the path becomes tighter, the warriors in front of you descending in a single line rather than two at a time. Confirmation that you are alone sets in when you hear the Thropper buzz from overhead as it departs, though you expect it will remain close.

Unable to remember when your fear of small enclosures began, you are familiar with the sense of foreboding that spikes your adrenaline. Every step forward towards the shadows is an internal fight to not turn and run out into the open expanse of the Dune.

“I didn’t realize the daughter of the great Shaddam took orders from Harkonnens.” Paul’s voice is low and close behind you. The only sound is of feet shuffling against the dirt and his voice.

“She doesn’t,” You say, haughty. Your next step has your foot sliding, but you recover quickly.

“Feyd-Rautha didn’t seem to respect your decision to come alone.”

You slow and whip your head around at him. “Can you blame him? He is my escort on this planet and has been entrusted by the Emperor himself to see to my safety.” You don’t know why you’re defending the heathen, but you won’t allow anyone to speak to you so brazenly.

“After the ceremony, I will be solely responsible for your safety. You will be an Atreides and the wife of the Mahdi. My people will look after you.”

You believe he’s just saying that, because that’s the expectation. The mutual understanding between wedding houses. You don’t actually expect him or the Fremen to protect you when they’re in the middle of a war against the Harkonnens. If they can offer you up as a pig to slaughter to make them leave, then they’ll do it. Which is why you have to leave before they understand how valuable it is to have you here, in their world.

“How did you know my suit wasn’t fitted?” You call behind you to ease the tension.

“The Fremen will tell you it is because I am the Mahdi. I can sense it’s off.”

“His Stillsuit was perfect the very first time I met him. That’s when I knew he was the Messiah.” Dr. Kynes calls up to you from the back, her tone light and reminiscent.

“Dr. Kynes is Fremen, she was raised in the way,” Paul offers. You didn’t realize she was raised here. Only that she conducted countless research. “You’ll learn soon enough.” It would be impertinent to learn how to fit your suit before leaving before sunrise.

“The Harkonnens have been here for generations and still can’t fit a Stillsuit. A mistake like that could have killed you. It just goes to show that no matter how long you’ve spent in the Dune, not everyone belongs here,” says Dr. Kynes. You can’t tell if its a dig at the Harkonnens or a warning, but she’s not wrong either way. You don’t belong here.

You continue to walk down the path, following Paul now. His companions have gone ahead, disappearing in the turns ahead. It’s become noticeably darker the deeper you descend, the tips of the rock cliffs above casting shadows that cover you. How much deeper will you go?

Paul seems at ease and oddly trusting of you. You are the daughter of the man who ordered his family murdered and yet, he seems to treat you with respect. You can’t unpack this while bordering on a panic attack, you’re just thankful for the distraction.

There’s so much Spice that’s blown in here from gusts of wind hundreds of feet high. It feels like the shimmer in the air is trapped in the alleyway, boxing you in. It hits you harder than you expect. You begin to press your hand to the walls as you pass to stop from swaying. Eyes watering and scratchy, every tear fallen is a loss in moisture to be recirculated by the Stillsuit. You come up to an almost pitch black entrance that must lead underground. The sight has you stumble, clutching the wall still touched with sunlight.

Paul turns around to face you before approaching.

“Princess,” he begins, “breathe. I reacted to the Spice too. It will pass.”

You shake your head, the Spice isn’t the problem, but it is amplifying your panic. You’ve been running on adrenaline since you boarded the Thropper and can’t possibly go into that cave. Is there even a way out? It’s too tight of a space.

Unable to take your eyes off the dark cave, Paul sees your distress and asks what’s wrong.

“I can’t- I can’t go in there,” You force out.

Paul glances behind him as if entering a small, dark space is normal.

“You’re afraid,” he says, but sounds like he’s unsure of what exactly.

“It’s too-” you shake your head, eyes watering now from the fear. You don’t think you can actually say it. It’s been your secret since you were a child. He squares his shoulders, but it’s when his throat bobs that concerns you. You’re unsure if he’s training in using The Voice or not, but don’t want to test his patience. “It’s too small. I can’t go into small spaces. It’s too dark.”

He assess you, leaning back on a heel, more relaxed than he was.

“The path inside is not as narrow as this one. It’s well lit and I will guide you.”

“The ceiling is too low, I know it. What if it collapses?!”

“I have the memories of all Fremen who have lived on Arrakis throughout time. Not a single seitch has ever collapsed. What if I told you there was sunlight inside?”

You look up at him, pure disbelief and distrust on your face.

Paul sighs, the boyish smirk returning. “You must not fear. Fear is the mind killer.” He doesn’t say it to condescend, it’s more in understanding. He extends his hand to yours, closing it over the rock, adding just enough pressure to show you that he’s there. He grabs it and slides it off the wall. You look at him as he pulls you forward, just an inch at a time. He moves slowly, afraid he’ll spook you like the frightened animal you are.

He releases one of your hands and turns forward, but leaves himself open to you behind him. Giving your hand a firm squeeze, he urges you to keep walking. Paul disappears in the darkness until only his hand is left. He gives you another squeeze and you breathe deep, your opposite hand on the wall. You push into it, needing to feel something sturdy.

The praises of his voice are just loud enough for you to hear, encouraging you forward. You’re blinded for a moment in complete darkness, before trusting Paul, trusting the man you have to kill, to lead you deeper. Your eyes adjust quickly and can make out a light above. There is a stone hallway, perfectly lit, thousands of words in the Fremen language written on the walls, the ceiling. You look around, unable to take it all in at once.

Continuing down the hall, it opens into what can only be described as a mountain beneath the sand. The walls and your lungs simultaneously open up, making you you dizzy with how vast and tall the walls are. There are hundreds of people milling about, some pulling carts with the greenest plants you’ve ever seen and others mingle in small groups. In the center of entrance is a vast pool of water, man made, running dozens of feet ahead. Vines wrap around the wide pillars that stretch to the ceiling. As promised, sunlight streams in from above on the vines and water.

No one has noticed to two of you yet, but Paul’s guard waits just ahead.

“Our seiches make the manor in Arrakeen seem small. Does it meet your standards?” He smirks at you, but you know it isn’t a dig at your nobility, but your claustrophobia.

You sheepishly nod, embarrassed to have been so afraid of something so beautiful. And no one knows about this place. This sacred secret only shared by the Fremen and now you, few have witnessed it’s expanse. On the wall behind the pool of water is a mural of a Sand Worm so long it twists down the corridor so large, your father would be envious. How old is this hall? How many generations has it survived?

You continue walking with Paul leading the way. His guard follows, but they seem more at ease down here than they did above. Fremen are beginning to notice you now, heads turning and conversations pause as you walk by. When they see Paul, he all repeat ‘Lisen al Gaib’ and bow before him. To you, they spare no greetings. This would be offensive on the surface, but you aren’t in your world now, but theirs. If they let you pass unnoticed, it will make it easier to escape later.

Paul leads you past the pool of clear water to the other end of the hall. The opening is carved to look like an open mouth with eyes carved into the stone above. Long hair flows out from the sides of the head of the face.

Through this opening is a winding of halls that open into coves with seating all carved into the rock. Artificial light looms from above, creating dim and cozy atmosphere. Some coves have people speaking together in hushed conversation while others are empty. Paul’s pace picks up and soon you arrive at the first of many staircases.

You arrive at a bedroom, a round bed against the far wall. Paul leave you there, striding away with the posture of Duke. The Atreides are known for being proud and his confidence radiates out of him. The door opens and Dr. Kynes enters with a garment in her hand. She lays it on the bed then steps back, allowing you to evaluate it.

It’s a beautiful beaded dress, champagne colored with swirls of gold metallic. The neckline is high with sleeves that trumpet at the wrists. It’s stunning and shines in the warm light above. The beads of the fabric and the swirls of the metallic seem to move like spice on the top layer of sand. Either the sleeping sedative and the spice are muddling your mind or the stress is making you imagine things.

“This dress is ceremonial. Every bride of the Naib in this community has worn this gown. It goes back generations.”

You aren’t sure what to do with that information, but you don’t ask, already overwhelmed.

“The ceremony will take place under the moon. Most of Sietch Tabr will be in attendance.”

“How many is that?” You ask.

“Nearly ten thousand.”

“Ten thousand people?” You ask, still breathless. The estimates from the Harkonnen’s for the entire planet were barely above that.

“Don’t believe everything the Harkonnen’s tell you, Princess.” Dr. Kynes says with a smirk.

She calls to someone outside the door. It opens and a woman enters holding a plate of food followed by another woman with folding linens. “These women are Sayyadina. They’re here to prepare you for the ceremony. You must allow them to follow every step, as tradition dictates.”

You nod and offer a greeting. They raise their heads to look at you, their eyes bright blue and skin covered in Fremen writing. Extremely uneasy at the prospect of being bathed and fed. Like a virgin for sacrifice. Do the Fremen sacrifice? You don’t know, but can’t let your guard down. After picking at the food, you politely ask the women to turn around while you undress before being bathed in the adjoining bathhouse. Quickly, you take off the vial and slip it beneath the mattress, resolving to get it later.

Hours later, you are bathed and dressed in the swirling spice dress, the women with delicate hands and soothing voices pin your hair up before placing the beaded headdress over you. They whisper to each other and seem to be praying over you, but you can’t be sure. You ask them what they’re saying and they tell you as much. Are they lying?

You’re losing energy as the day wears on. Constantly alternating between alert and fatigue when the adrenaline drops. As you sit and wait for the final steps of preparation to be complete, you swear you can see the swirls of metallic on the dress moving. The design over the thighs has you reaching out to touch the fabric. Suspicious, you follow the lines with your fingertip and find a thin layer of spice on your fingertips when you pull your hand away. Rubbing it between your fingers, you feel the smoothness and smell cinnamon as it dissolves into your skin.

You jolt, suddenly alone in your room, but still sitting in the chair. How long have you been alone? Moments before, you recall feeling calm, at peace and still. Now, your heart beats so hard you can feel it pulsing into the soles of your feet, pounding in your ears. So much pounding. Or is that the door?

The door opens and Dr. Kynes stands in a traditional Freman attire, free of her Stillsuit.

“It’s time,” she says, her voice light as she smiles slightly. Surprising yourself, you stand steady on your feet and float to the door.

Read Part 4

#dark!paul atreides #x reader #dark!paul atreides x reader #feyd rautha #feyd rauth harkonnen #manipulation #inappropriate use of the voice

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peemanne · 4 months

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The year is 20-whateverwhocares. RGG Studio just came out with their newest entry in their flagship series, Like a Dragon 13. Throughout the newer entries, three mysterious characters have been introduced as allies to Ichiban's party.

First we have a cafe owner whose customers think he dresses rather excessively for his job. Through hard work (and beating down whoever barges in asking for protection money), his humble little shop quickly becomes the #1 joint in Ijincho, without him even gunning for it. Customers can sometimes hear him mutter “I’ll be ready for you, bro. When we can finally face each other again.” whenever he closes for the day.

The second, a scary looking blonde takoyaki vendor. He can be seen awkwardly rolling his little cart around town, with his occasional glances being mistaken for death glares. It’s hard work, and he’d really rather not have to lug around his cart out in the burning sun the second someone inevitably tries to rat him out to the cops, but he does it anyways. Ichiban happened to meet him one day, and helped to get the suspicion around him gone. He then got a free serving of a new flavor named after him. It was just alright.

And the third one is Yoshitaka Mine. He’s just there. He started hopping bars, for some reason. Ichiban met him under a bridge, amazed at how his suit and pants remained perfectly clean despite the fact that they were standing in the sewers.

They all then meet up at the cafe, thanks to an invitation from Ichiban. The three of them take the time to sit down and get to know each other, as the owner brings out sunflower-themed parfaits for them to munch on. In the middle of the conversation, the takoyaki vendor leans forward in his chair and points at Mine, with disbelief painted on his face.

“Ya did WHAT to their orphanage?!”

#rgg #ryu ga gotoku #yakuza #like a dragon #nishikiyama akira #goda ryuji #mine yoshitaka

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squeakadeeks · 10 months

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I'm working on making all my flagship OCs into OOAK dolls, so heres a WIP for Sulu! He has draculaura's body since all the male dolls didnt suit his body type. But a consequence of using draculaura as a base is i had to order his head separately and i'm still waiting on it, hence his current headless state!!

#my art #OOAK dolls #im kind of disappointed since i thought sulu's design would translate better to a doll #but its pretty underwhelming #im hoping his face will fix it but making a crisp sci fi look is much harder than the homespun style of the pupet crew

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acescorazon · 11 months

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I LOVE YOUR FIC CHANGES!!!!! I HOPE YOU UPDATE SOON!!!!!

THANK U BBYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY. ILY MUAH. I was updating like every day but then i got my period... i mean i fell into a pit of darkness and didn't have the energy to climb out. How bizarre. ANYWAYS, HERE'S YOUR FOOD.

Title: Changes Ch: 5/?

Rating: M (I'm just putting that as the rating in general for every ch lol)

Word count:2291

Warnings: Depressed clown :(

Chapter excerpt:

"Mihawk keeps asking about you," Mohji announces all of a sudden, "He keeps asking if you're okay and if your illness is something serious." Hawkeye keeps asking about him… Why? To know if he's died yet? What a joke! That man doesn't care about Buggy, why is he even wasting his breath asking about him? "I just keep telling him that you have the flu, and he's always like, 'Ah…is that so? Tell him I hope he feels better.' Isn't that…ridiculous?!" Yeah, that is rather ridiculous. Buggy has a hard time believing that Mihawk is genuinely concerned about him, but at the same time, he can't imagine why he'd just pretend to care either. It's weird.

|Ch1|Ch2|Ch3|Ch4|

The next several days are on an endless loop for Buggy. He stays in bed all day, unwilling to come face to face with Mihawk after his little drunken rant from days prior, afraid of what Mihawk will say to him now that he's completely sober. So, he stays in bed, either sleeping or lost in thought. He should be preparing men, supplies, and their new flagship for departure, but he can't bring himself to do it. At the very least he should be making sure everything on Emptee Bluffs Island is going smoothly, and yet… he doesn't care about that either.

Being in Cross Guild is so…exhausting.

Crocodile has called for meetings every single day, and every day, Buggy has one of his men lie and say he's sick. He's missed about 10 meetings now, he thinks. He can't remember, everything is starting to blend in together. All he knows is that sooner or later Crocodile is going to get pissed and come looking for him, and then what? Beat him up? Threaten him? Actually, kill him this time?

Man, who cares?

Cabaji, Mohji, and Richie, often come by and sit with him, usually overly worried about Buggy's well-being and not believing him when he says he's just sick or tired, but of course, Buggy always tells them that he's fine.

Today, they're with him again, sitting by his bed and trying to get him to eat some of the sea king the other members of the crew somehow caught and killed today. "Captain…" Mohji sighs, "Come on, at least take a couple of bites." He asks, but he sounds more like he's begging than asking. "You've hardly eaten anything these last few days." While that is very true, it's because Buggy doesn't have much of an appetite these days, nothing tastes right or really interests him, and god knows he doesn't have the energy to make his own food…just… he just wants to sleep.

Buggy sits in his bed, slightly peeved that Cabaji and Mohji insist he sit up in general, and looks down at the sea king on his plate. He's not normally a picky eater, you can't be picky when you've spent most of your life at sea, but… this thing reminds him eerily of a poison dart frog with its vibrant color and spots, yet at the same time, it's got fins and a body like a snake... He doubts his men would actually cook up something poisonous, they aren't that naive…but still, Buggy has no interest in this fish..frog…snake thing.

But if he did die from ingesting it…that'd just be his luck, wouldn't it? Death seems… inescapable at this point, and he often wonders just what or who will end up taking his life first. "I'm not hungry," Buggy repeats, but Mohji and Cabaji seem determined today.

"Just take a couple of bites, please, Captain?" Mohji practically begs, "Just a couple, it's actually really good!" Doubt it, Buggy thinks.

Cabaji follows suit, "Yeah, just take a couple of bites and if you don't like it, you don't have to eat the whole thing! We'll just feed the rest to Richie, right, Mohji?"

"Right!"

Buggy really doesn't want to eat anything, but he hates to make the other two worry, so he ends up taking a couple of bites of his lunch, and yeah, it isn't bad…it's one of the better-tasting sea kings that he's had, this one actually tastes like chicken despite its weird appearance, but Buggy still only eats a couple of bites, just enough to get the other two off his back and then hands Mohji his plate to give to Richie.

He wants to lie back down, but the others won't let him. "Um, Captain?" Cabaji calls out, seemingly a little nervous, "Uh, how about I run you a warm bath and…uh, How about I help you wash and brush your hair today?" Cabaji suggests with a small grin. Oh, yeah, basic needs are a thing. Man, Buggy really doesn't care about any of that stuff anymore, he's going to die anyways, so what's the point? He'll just ask one of his men to make him look nice for his funeral.

"Okay?" Cabaji asks, still smiling.

Buggy understands what this really is about. This is a very polite and roundabout way of telling him he needs to bathe, but none of his men would ever outright tell him he stinks so they have to use words like, 'Oh, how about I run you a bath and help you wash your hair today?' Or, 'Wow, you look like you need to relax…how about a nice bath?'

Whatever.

Buggy lets Cabaji run him a bath, and he sits and waits in bed while he prepares everything for him. He watches Richie eat his leftover sea king, and can't help but think how nice it'd be to be a lion, well, actually a cat. If reincarnation exists, he thinks he'd like to live a carefree life as a cat, a spoiled one too. Being a pirate isn't something he thinks he'd want to do again unless he could live a life with his old crew again, this time a happy one that isn't cut short, maybe then he'd be a pirate again... Or he could be a star in the sky, that'd be nice.

"Crocodile has asked about you too, but only once, and when I told him you had the flu, he rolled his eyes at me and went: 'Of course that dumb clown is sick.' And then walked away! I tell ya, I don't know what the others see in those two!" Mohji frowns, "They're so mean to you! I… I think if we all banned together then we could…you know…." He whispers the next part of his sentence, "Show them who's boss."

Honestly if Buggy thought he and or his crew had a chance against Mihawk and Crocodile, then he would have had both of them taken out a long time ago, but he knows even with an army of men, he couldn't take out one of his business partners, let alone both. It's a fun thought though, "Let's not waste our time," Buggy replies, exhaling a long, shaky sigh, "Besides, it's like I told you before, I can handle those two! Do you really think I'd let them beat and bully me?!"

Mohji just stares at him from his seat, obviously not convinced but he doesn't push the subject any further, and thank God for that.

Cabaji reappears a few moments after that, telling Buggy his bathwater is ready, and in all honesty, Buggy rather not do this, but he doesn't feel like hearing the other two complain either. He follows Cabaji into the bathroom and tells him he can at least bathe himself, and somewhere at the back of Buggy's mind he feels like he should feel more ashamed by the situation, but he doesn't. His former captain always told him that good friends don't judge you when you're at your lowest times and that they instead help you when no one else will, and so maybe that's why he has no guilt about letting Cabaji wash his hair. He'd do the same for him and then some. He and Mohji are more than just subordinates, they're friends, no, they're family, and honestly Buggy doesn't deserve either one of them.

As he washes Buggy's hair, Cabaji also tells Buggy that Mihawk keeps asking about him. Again, Buggy finds the idea of Mihawk asking all of Buggy’s crew about his well-being almost comical. Did the world’s strongest swordsman grow a heart? Ha, as if. Or maybe Buggy’s earlier suspicions are correct, maybe Mihawk’s waiting, hoping that Buggy’s ‘flu’ will take him out and that he won’t have to deal with him anymore, which honestly seems like a more realistic explanation for everything.

A hot bath and a nice relaxing hair wash later, and Buggy’s sitting on the small couch in his room, getting his hair brushed by Cabaji as he listens to both Mohji and Cabaji ramble on about this and that, and occasionally bicker over trivial things. It feels like his men are the only consistency in his life, but he wonders if there will be a day when even that changes. Maybe he’ll end up with so many men that their crew will seem more like an army than a family, then again maybe he won’t live to see the day when that’s actually a problem. And if that doesn’t happen, then maybe Mihawk will eventually end up replacing Buggy’s crew with a new, more efficient one that he hardly knows let alone can consider his family…who knows?

Now, as stated before, Buggy’s usual visitors consist of Mohji, Cabaji and Richie, but today Buggy finds himself getting an additional guest in his room. Sometime around late afternoon Alvida joins Buggy’s already boisterous company, and as soon as she realizes Buggy’s perfectly fine, she sighs at him,”I knew you weren’t sick.” she mutters as she has a seat on the couch next to him after Cabaji and Mohji fight over who’s spot she can take, “But oh well, you won’t believe what I just saw.” She says, grinning.

Hopefully, she saw Crocodile and Mihawk board a ship and sail as far away from the island as possible, never to return again, but that’s just not realistic, is it? “What did you see?” Buggy asks though he’s not particularly curious about her gossip today.

“Mihawk and Crocodile were fighting.”

“Crocodile and Mihawk bicker every once in a while, so what?”

“No, they were actually physically fighting earlier.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know but they were both heated,” Alvida claims, “I think they reached a draw, but they were fighting for a long time, half the island saw it.”

Despite claiming that he doesn’t care about either of the two, Buggy’s slightly curious about Mihawk and Crocodile’s altercation. Sure they’ve butt heads a couple of times in the past because Crocodile is so damn overbearing and of course, Mihawk doesn’t take being bossed around lightly, but they never get physical with things, it’s usually just threats of possible fights that don’t go anywhere. Maybe that was it, maybe Crocodile just got too controlling again, and Mihawk got tired of it. He did say he was tired of Crocodile’s shit the other day… Yeah, that’s got to be it…Because what else could it be???

…

A couple of more days go by after that, and Buggy’s still stuck in that same loop: Sleep. Overthink. Sleep. Overthink. Sleep. Overthink. Of course, there are brief things that break the cycle like Mohji and Cabaji checking on him and feeding him and making sure he’s being taken care of, but other than that, it’s just sleep, overthink, repeat. He just doesn’t see the point in getting out of bed every day when Mihawk and Crocodile are just going to make his life a living hell, or worse, end his miserable existence.

Despite all his stress though, there are times when his bedroom is rather comforting, he knows that it offers him no real protection from the outside world, but in his room he feels safe and like he’s miles away from all his problems even though they’re literally just right outside. He thinks he’s missed, hm…12 meetings now, maybe 13 …14? Who knows, he’s surprised that Crocodile is even still calling for them, or that he hasn’t come barging into his room to yank him out of his bed and beat him to death for ruining his perfect schedule.

Buggy doesn’t care about Cross Guild though (or for much of anything right now) he never has and he doubts he ever will. He’s perfectly fine just keeping himself locked away in his bedroom for as long as possible. Mohji will take care of the others and if he doesn’t, then Alvida will, and if she doesn’t, then Buggy’s sure that Crocodile and Mihawk will boss his men around, but they’re strong, spirited, and oblivious, they can handle anything.

Something breaks his seemingly endless depressive cycle by the time he’s missed 18 meetings…or was it 19?

One of his men comes into his room around midmorning, like always, and tells him that a meeting has been called… But today, Mihawk’s the one who’s called for the meeting apparently, and Buggy instantly tells his subordinate to tell Mihawk that he’s still under the weather and can’t go to the meeting, to which his subordinate replies, “He says it’s urgent, Chairman Buggy, and that if you can’t go to the meeting room, that he’ll bring the meeting here instead.”

That’s got to be the worst, no, actually, the second worst thing he’s been told in his entire life. Why? Why now? Why can’t Mihawk and Crocodile just hold their dumb meetings by themselves? It’s not like Buggy gets to make any decisions or his input matters, why does he have to leave his safe space and go see them?

((A/n: Hate how they didn't add ChouChou to the live-action or Richie. The idea that some of you might not know that Richie is a lion and you might think he's just some guy is funny though lol.))

#one piece #cross guild #my writing #wondering if should post two updates today or save it for tomorrow lol #Look though the girls (gender neutral) are fighting!!#THINGS ARE SLOWLY STARTING TO CHANGE HMMMM #but first *singsongs* DRAMAAAA~#was gonna wait til the weekend to start posting all this bs but then i got the ask soooooooooo lol #ask #i be out here updating on random ass weekdays at random ass times when i know that the chances these will be seen are better during #the weekend #And yet...i say...fuck it...we ball...

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