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painted-flag · 3 months

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From Eden. Benjicot Blackwood

✧.* masterlist (Part two here)

✧.* pairing: benjicot blackwood x velaryon!oc

✧.* summary: caught in the brewing of war, Daenys Velaryon must forge alliances for her mother's claim to the throne. The Riverlands are paramount and she had the inexplicable luck of meeting Benjicot Blackwood.

✧.* word count: 11k.

✧.* note: this is a whopping long imagine. thank you all for the support on the preview. this is brought to you by instant ramen and my inability to focus on coursework. no beta reader as I live life on the edge (truthfully i do not have any)

A loud clap of thunder followed in succession by the flashing of lightning illuminated the library of Dragonstone. In the late hour of the wolf, Daenys found herself entombed within the walls of parchment, scanning drawn-up battle plans and strategies written by maesters who had nary seen a single battle. The feeling of ever-present stress loomed over her, creeping from the shadows that were not illuminated by scattered candles. That feeling of anxiety - pressing down harshly on her chest - had been a footnote in her life.

Daenys did not need to be a dragon dreamer, like her namesake, to see the future of her house. War was coming, that much was obvious. She knew at the age of nine that her mother’s claim would be challenged and since then her life had been spent preparing. The intensity of conflict did not matter, Daenys would be prepared regardless. So, like most nights, she had settled herself among the pages of books. Her body, worn from training all day, had relished in the feeling of sitting down in a plush chair.

The book in her lap, An Analysis of Ground Moves of the First Dornish War, had begun to kill her mood. The maestor who wrote it had no skill of explanation, nor seemed to have care for fighting in general. She cursed his weak analyses on certain moves and more outwardly she cursed the tone in which he wrote when speaking of her Targaryen ancestors - in particular the women. Daenys leaned back in her chair and repressed the urge to chuck to tome across the room. All that access to knowledge and training yet maesters still seemed to fall short.

The echoes of footsteps sounded between claps of thunder. Daenys glanced up to see her mother. Rhaenyra had her hair down in light waves. The nightclothes she wore were made from black and red fabrics and stitched in the fashion of dragon-influenced style, part of a matching set that the two women shared. Her eyebrows were furrowed and her mouth set in a line. The heir apparent sat down in the chair beside her daughter and glanced at the book in Daenys lap.

“The hour is late, yet you are out of bed?”

Daenys’ arms rested on the book, “Sleep could not come.”

“Or have you run from sleep? Increasingly so, as of late.” Her mother’s observation cut deep. It was true, for Daenys had become antsy. More and more nights were spent reading, and even more days training with the sword. Exhaustion had become her friend and respite her enemy. She felt behind, as her training had only started a few years prior - after years of requesting to learn. Any day a war could break, yet she sat about for most of her life doing nothing but sewing and other pointless tasks to be a good wife.

“Don’t you feel it, mother? That sinking feeling of... something clawing at your feet for that damned throne.” Daenys’ gaze rose to meet Rhaenyra. As her mother's only daughter by birth, they held a certain bond. The ability to understand what one another wished to say without so much as a word. A twitch of the brow, a quiver of the lip, or the tilt of their head was worth more than what any uttered words could convey. Mother and daughter, one unable to live without the other. Like bees and flowers or the moon and sun. A push and pull of exchange. Rhaenyra knew her daughter wanted to help, and it crushed her. She wanted Daenys to live without that fear - to relish in her days as a princess.

“The burden is not yours to bear alone,” Daenys spoke after a minute of silence. Rhaenyra sported a fleeting smile at her daughter's words.

“I know, but it does not pain me any less,” Rhaenyra adjusted in her seat, “Is there anything you wish to discuss about it?”

“We need the Riverlands.” There was not a moment of pause between her mother's question and the answer. “There is loyalty secured in many regions, especially the North, but the Riverlands are important. We do not have a strong enough hold there.”

Rhaenyra resisted smiling at Daenys eagerness in politics. Had she been born minutes before Jacaerys instead of afterwards, Rhaenyra would have been confident in claiming her as heir. Jacaerys, as dutiful as he could be, was still lagging in comparison to his twin regarding diplomacy.

“And how do you propose to remedy this?”

Daenys paused, reluctance flashed across her face for a moment but she pushed it down. “I have to marry.” Rhaenyra tilted her head in a questioning manner but Danys continued, “I know I have been against it, but you need a strong foothold in those lands. Many major battles in history are fought there and if our house is to remain strong, we must command as much of it as possible.”

“The Tully’s have no available members to marry.”

“We needn't rely on House Tully. There are other houses there that are sure to have available sons. House Frey, Mooton, Bracken, Mudd, Blackwood, Lothston, and many more. One that is as close to the Tully’s as possible and stocked with a good amount of soldiers.” Daenys’ gaze swept along the darkened room, the bookshelves being illuminated by a small number of candles and the raging storm outside.

“I want you to be happy-”

“My happiness is seeing you on that throne. Mother, you deserve it more than any other fat and drunk lord who lives on the continent.” The women giggled, and for a brief moment the storm outside - political and natural - ceased to exist.

“This is what you want?” Rhaenyra held her breath after she asked. Daenys nodded gently. They once again settled into a silence, their eyes focused on the flames inside the hearth. More thunderous roars from outside continued to assail Dragonstone. “I have some news, of which only a few know.”

Daenys sat up straighter, intrigued with what her mother had brought up. She marked her spot in the book and placed it on the small table beside her chair. Her body turned to see her mother more clearly.

“I am with child.” Rhaenyra’s words echoed in the room, “It was just confirmed this morning with the maester.”

“That’s good news, mother, truly.” Daenys reached out to hold Rhaenyra’s hand. They both smiled, content to last in their bubble.

“I think it's a girl. There is something about this pregnancy that feels different than all the rest.” The heir to the Iron Throne spoke softly, but loud enough to be heard above the raging storm.

“Good. We’ve been dreadfully lacking women in the family. We are outnumbered.” Daenys looked back at her book, the title of the First Dornish War embossed into the leather binding, “Visenya.”

Rhaenyra looked at her quizzically, and Daenys continued, “You should name her Visenya.”

Her mother smiled gently and nodded, “I shall take that to heart. Now,” She got out of her seat, “Get to bed, ñuha prūmia.” Rhaenyra gave Daenys a gentle kiss on her forehead before walking away and out of the library.

Daenys stayed in her seat, gazing mindlessly into the fireplace. Her heart was heavy. The prospect of marriage never worried her much. Any suitor that wished to court her quickly ran upon seeing her stepfather Daemon, who always seemed to grip Dark Sister tightly when they approached - a signal of warning. She never had to worry about ending up with a foul lord, or even end up marrying any time soon. Yet, her allegiance to her mother was stronger than any distaste for being wed. She got up and blew out some of the candles around her.

She made her way across the library, down the many winding halls of Dragonstone, and into her bedchamber. Once settled at her vanity, she put her hair in a simple braid to protect it while she slept. Turning towards her bed, she spotted her sword resting against the chest placed at its foot. She walked over and unsheathed the steel. It was not Valyrian steel, unfortunately. But, the piece was expertly crafted at the behest of Daemon. Her hand gripped the hilt and the other gently traced the centre of the blade.

Daenys swore that she would not make the task of gaining her hand easy for the Riverland lords. If her mother were to gain an ally, he would need to prove his worth. She had built up a reputation over the years. A beauty, that much is true, and the ability to charm members of the court easily, despite what some gossip about her parentage may say. However, upon being taught to fight by Daemon, she had managed to also build up a reputation for sharp wit and even sharper fighting skills.

Exhaustion had finally caught up to her, so she moved to put the sword away and crawl into bed. Once settled, Daenys fell into a world of dreams.

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

Daenys wished, with all her heart, that she could go back in time and club herself over the head for even suggesting a search for a husband in the Riverlands. The conversation with her mother two weeks ago quickly led to plans being laid. Daenys, on the back of her dragon Suneater, and her brother Jacaerys on the back of Vermax, had arrived at Riverrun to be greeted by Lord Elmo Tully. A kind old man, with dark red hair, streaked with the white of age. Daenys did not wish for her brother to accompany her, but Rhaenyra was adamant that she have a member of the family there to make sure she was not completely alone. Rhaenyra also added that it would help Jace’s claim to the throne more if he met and treated the lords of the Riverlands.

However, the trip to the Riverlands quickly became sour. On the third day there after settling in, the petitions began. She was only a few hours in, and Daenys had already grown frightfully bored by the endless men - young and very much old - that made their case. Lord of this castle or that holdfast, it did not matter. All the men started to blend into one, with a few that managed to stand out. She sat on a raised dias in the grand hall of Riverrun, with Lord Tully to her right and Jace to her left. Occasionally, after a particularly awkward or gross petition, Jace and Daenys would glance at one another in complete awe. Daenys had underestimated the audacity of some men and now she finally understood why Rhaenyra had so many wild stories of overzealous lords making their petitions to her. At first, her stories seemed too odd to be fully real, but now in Daenys’ own few hours of experience, there was no doubt left in her.

She leaned back and stifled a yawn as the old man in front of her droned on about his experience in some battle long ago. Lord Tully saw the princess's mood and leaned forward, “Thank you, Lord Ryger, for your attendance. It appears we shall end the petitions for the day and continue on the morrow.”

Daenys resisted letting out a sigh of relief, though the look on Jace’s face showed he was just as relieved as her. Many men in the hall said their proper goodbyes, bowing to them before exiting.

“Thank you, Lord Tully. It seems that I have many people to consider.” Daenys gave him a flattering smile, hoping that it could mask her previous displays of indifference.

“That is good,” Lord Tully stood up and bowed to both her and Jace, “I shall you both at the feast tonight.”

Once gone, Daenys sat up straighter in her seat and turned her torso towards her brother, “There’s to be a feast?”

“Of course there is.” Jace smiled at the exasperated look on his sister's face. Truly, the whole time he had been rather entertained. A little bored, but ultimately found humour in his sister's expressions throughout the morning of lords' petitions.

She leaned back in her seat and slid down slightly, sighing loudly. “A whole bloody feast.” Jace began to laugh, but Daenys would have none of it. “Don’t be too quick to humour, brother. All the lords who are already married are bound to have daughters, and as the future heir to the throne, I do believe they will flock to you like flies to shit.”

“Are you saying I am the shit in your comparison?” The smile on Jace’s face faded.

“You said it, Jace, not I.” She bounced to her feet and made her way towards the exit.

Jace called out as she left, “And where are you off to?”

“To Suneater,” Daenys responded while looking over her shoulder, “Lords cannot follow me into the sky.” She walked away to the sound of her brother's light chuckles. The dress she was wearing had begun to feel heavy on her, the weight of her mission to gain a good husband to aid in any possible future challenges to her mother seemed impossible. From the men she met so far… the outcome was looking bleak. There was one man who was closer to her age, yet every detail about him escaped her. Was it Aken… perhaps Barken… Breaker? The only detail worth noting about him was the garish yellow shade he wore, the rest was all exactly like every other man before.

Daenys had changed into her riding leathers and gleefully made her way through the halls and to the courtyard. Upon exiting the castle, she glanced around the yard full of many men who were talking and sparring. The bustling laughter continued, with some lords near her choosing to greet her. Daenys pushed off many wishing to start a conversation with the excuse of going to visit her dragon. At the mere mention of her companion, the lords backed off. They are too fearful at the thought of a dragon, why do they think they are fit to marry one?

Glancing around at the fighting people while proceeding through the courtyard, she looked at a group. They were sporting red and black, and a feeling of homesickness washed over her. House Targaryen colours were familiar to her, mixed with Velaryon colours of course - for her father. The hushed voices of her uncles echoed in her mind; Bastard.

Brushing that thought away, she decided to watch the group. The men dressed in those colours were sparring. A blond struggled against the blows from a dark-haired man, his lean and built form assailing with strength.

It seemed that whenever the blond one got the upper hand, it only lasted for a short time. Daenys slowed her walking as she passed. While she was many metres away, she could still hear the words of encouragement and jest by the other men around them - dressed in the same colours of black and red. The blond man was facing her, and upon seeing the Princess, got momentarily distracted. The dark-haired man moved quickly, knocking his opponent to the ground in one fell swoop of his legs. The blond crashed to the ground and let out a string of curses, his clothes muddied.

“Is the ground comfortable, Rickard?” The dark-haired man joked. The men around would have laughed, but their eyes moved to where the blond, Rickard, had his eyes. They all seemed frightened. Daenys could tell they were all around her age and most likely had never seen a member of the Royal family, given the fact that they were frozen on the spot. Rickard got up, albeit in a clumsy manner, and tilted his head down in a subtle bow with the rest of the men following.

The dark-haired man turned and his eyes met hers. She could not gauge their colour, as she was standing a good few feet away. The grip on his sword slacked. He seemed stunned and a faint red coated his face. Daenys could not tell if it was from his training or her presence. He nodded to her and she hummed gently before nodding back to him and the other men.

While Daenys was intrigued by those men, all she wanted was a reprieve from the men around her. She turned her body and continued on her previous course, oblivious to the stares that followed. On the other side of a hill - a fair distance from the gates of Riverrun - lay Suneater and Vermax. The two were beside one another, as their personalities blended. Occasionally, the two would clash much like her and Jace, but truly acted as siblings. Daenys felt the weight on her chest that accumulated throughout the day disappear. Finally, she could be free, even just for a while.

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The hours had passed in mere moments. Daenys had begun her flight midday and had landed as the sun began to set, giving her just enough time to get to her chambers and have the maids prepare her for the feast. She was delighted that the courtyard was relatively empty, save for a few servants mulling about. No pesky conversations to derail her.

However, Daenys heard the sound of grunting and the beating of a sword. She turned to a corner of the yard to see the same dark-haired man still training. The others had left, but he lingered on. His back was to her, but she doubted he would even notice her if he was facing in her direction. He seemed completely enraptured in the swings of his sword, as if the world had disappeared and here he remained.

Daenys recognized this focus. She too felt that, albeit when riding her dragon. It was a feeling of belonging like there was nothing else meant for her to do. No more masking and pretending to feel like the people around her, just free to get lost in something she loved. The process of becoming a different person and getting lost in the way it makes you feel. She believed it must be a similar thing to the way he was fighting. She paused for a moment to study his form. Strong, but sly. With each stroke of the sword, images of the royal painters appeared in her mind. The art of their brush strokes mirrored that of the steel he swung. Calculated and precise, but free. Each time the steel met the straw dummy, it looked like paint hitting a canvas.

Daenys did not wish to disturb his focus, but the burning intrigue of who this man was had overpowered that wish, “I do believe he is dead.” The man stopped with a jump and swung his body around in quick succession, his eyes alert. It was only upon seeing Daenys and assessing her as no immediate threat that he let his guard down.

“Yes, princess, um… indeed.” His response made Daenys almost wish she did not disturb him. It was clear that he appeared slightly shy when not engrossed in combat. A part of her related to it.

“I apologize for my earlier interruption. It was not my intention to have distracted your friend.” Daenys stepped close and leaned against a fence that connected to the large stables. She was within just a metre or two of the man and could now finally see him more clearly. He was a pleasant sight, exceedingly so compared to the dozens of men she met that morning.

“You need not apologize, princess. It was his fault, he should have been focusing on the fight.”

“Well, I hope he is alright from the fall, Lord…” Daenys trailed off, hoping to know his name. She thought back to her morning in the hall and meeting all the lords who contended for her hand. She could not remember him. That could not be right, she would remember a man who looked like that. It seemed that he was not there in the morning, most likely to see her in the days to come.

“Benjicot Blackwood, your grace.” He nodded at her, his dark hair moved gently in the subtle breeze.

“It is nice meeting you, Lord Blackwood.” Daenys smiled at him. She felt unusual, to be taken by charm so quickly and with so few words. She searched within her brain for any knowledge regarding the family. It was an old house, with roots deep within Westeros spanning back to the first men. Kings during the Age of Heroes. She remembered reading about their ability to field an army larger than that of House Tully, yet still bent the knee to them.

“You flatter me, princess, but I am not Lord Blackwood yet. My father still presides over Raventree Hall.” Benjicot’s voice was calm, despite his appearance coming off as slightly nervous.

“I am sorry, Lord Benjicot, for the misunderstanding.”

Ben broke eye contact and gazed around the courtyard for a moment before returning to her, “We seem to be apologizing repeatedly to one another, your grace.”

“Yes, let us end that,” Daenys situated herself to sit on the fence, a rather unladylike action. She found that she could get away with that type of behaviour the further she was from the court of Kings Landing and Dragonstone. “What brings a member of House Blackwood to Riverrun at this time?”

“Well, the crown princess happens to be visiting,” Ben answered.

“I heard she is spoilt and vain.” Daenys joked.

Ben seemed to loosen up just slightly at her friendliness, “She is not so bad. Rather pleasant if you ask me.” The two stare at one another for a few moments, wondering which one would break the jest first. In a display of synchrony, they both smiled and let out a short burst of laughter.

Daenys spoke after calming down, “So I am just pleasant, my lord?”

“Yes, your grace, incredibly so.” Ben’s words sounded more sincere than expected and it caught Daenys slightly off guard.

“You are not so bad, as well, Lord Benjicot. Incredibly so.” Daenys jumped down from the fence and brushed off her hands that were resting along the wood. “I hope you are not absent from the feast tonight as you were this morning. I should like to speak to you more, my lord.”

“I will be there princess.”

The two both nodded to one another before Daenys began to walk away. As she retreated, she could not help but feel a little less stressed about the feast. Maybe the idea of being surrounded by boisterous lords, many eager to dance with her, would not be so bad if Benjicot Blackwood was there.

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The band was in full swing. The echoes of their instruments, playing a quick jig, bounced off the vaulted walls of the great hall. People sat at multiple long tables and ate from the vast amounts of plated food. There were others out of their seats, conversing with groups or dancing in the centre of the room. Lord Tully was at the centre of a table position in front of all the others. The Velaryon twins sat on either side of him. Jacaerys and Lord Tully were engaged in deep conversation on a topic Daenys had little care for. She stared at her plate of food. No matter how hard she tried, Daenys could not will herself to eat. The nerves of this night and having countless men stare at her made her stomach ache and turn.

A figure stood up at the table, bowing to all three of them. He was adorned in brown and a muted yellow colour, with the sigil of a red stallion on his chest. While Daenys did think it ugly, she could not say the same for his appearance. He had a slender figure, and his facial structure was pretty for a man. His brown hair reached just past his shoulders, most of it pulled into a tie at the back with some loose strands.

“Lord Tully, Prince Jacaerys, Princess Daenys,” He started, “It would be an honour to ask the princess if she should like to dance.”

“I believe my sister would love to join you,” Jace answered.

Daenys kept her head facing the man while her eyes turned to the side. Jacaerys was looking at her, an amused smile on his face. She focused back on the man and put on a pleasant smile, “It would be my pleasure.” She slowly got out of her chair, hoping for some miracle to prevent their dance. A fire set in the hall, or perhaps the gods could shake the earth and swallow her whole.

When the man took hold of her arm to escort her, Daenys turned around and mouthed to her brother: traitor. Jace just waved slightly and picked up a mug of ale. The two made their way to the dance floor and joined many others. Her hands clasped hers as they faced one another and began moving. Daenys had to concentrate on her footwork, as her dancing skills were never the greatest.

“Aeron Bracken, your grace. I am sure you remember me from this morning.”

“Ah yes, how could I forget such a memorable petition… with ah… great accomplishments.” Daenys gave him a fake smile. She hoped that response would satisfy Aeron, as she truthfully had no memory of what his petition was. The words he had said sounded the same as all the rest, so despite not remembering, she could guess that they revolved around their accomplishments and house.

“It gladens me that you have been thinking about me, your grace.”

Daenys almost scoffed. Where did she ever mention thinking about him? Why would she think of him of all men? There was a brief flash of red and black in her vision, accompanied by a blur of dark hair. Swallowing her frustration down, she continued her womanly facade.

“Yes, House Bracken is wonderful in their abilities and longstanding position in history.” The few things she knew about the house were their origins with the first men, and their proclivity to engage in petty disputes with other houses. She thought it best to not bring up the latter information. However, it did not seem that she would not have to bring it up as Aeron began to rant.

“There are some houses here that are not as fortunate or kind as mine. Some that are no good to be around, your grace.” Aeron’s face darkened slightly as his vision zeroed in on a group across the hall. Daenys turned and strained her eyes, for she was not as tall as him. Upon seeing through the crowd who he was looking at, her brows furrowed. Benjicot Blackwood stood conversing with a group of men at one of the tables.

Aeron looked away and back at the princess, “I caution you with keeping the company of Blackwoods. They can be savage and cruel.”

A flood of information swooped over her mind. A week prior to leaving for the Riverlands, she had tirelessly scanned through books on their history. She suddenly realized why both of the Houses sounded familiar. Out of the countless battles she read about, House Blackwood and Bracken were frequently are the forefront and more often than not the ones that started those conflicts.

Daenys felt an odd urge to defend Benjicot, “You do not think I did my research before coming here, Lord Aeron?”

“No, princess, that was not my intention,” He seemed to stumble over his words and his face flushed, “I just wish to protect you.”

“I do not need your protection, my lord. I do believe having a dragon does that for me.” Daenys was thankful that the song was coming to a close. They separated and both bowed to one another like all the other partners on the floor. “Your baseless attempt at character assassination is just that, baseless. Thank you for the dance, Lord Aeron, but I think I will take my company elsewhere.”

Daenys gave him one last nod and walked away. She wanted to get away from Aeron quickly. She walked in the direction of Ben and his company of men, but an old lord stepped out in front of her just as she made it to him. The lord was old and greying, his wrinkled skin sagged against his stern face. Daenys never gagged at the sight of a person before, but she found herself almost doing so.

“Princess Daenys, would you care for a dance?” His shrewd voice shattered her temporary relief.

“Oh Lord–” She began, but was swiftly interrupted.

“Lord Mooton,” Benjicot had spotted her approaching and saw the lord moving her way and quickly lept to action, “It is good to see you. I believe it was your great grandson's twentieth nameday celebration that we last saw on another. I have heard that your wife was looking for you.” Ben had his shoulders squared and towered over the old man's form. Daenys and Ben exchanged looks, resisting the urge to laugh in the lord's face at this awkward exchange.

“Oh, yes, Lord Benjicot. Apologies princess, for I must go.” The man bowed and moved away, his old form moving slowly.

“I owe you, Lord Benjicot, for saving me.” Daenys smiled at him. Her arms joined behind her back as she swayed side to side.

“You need not thank me, your grace. Though, I would appreciate it if you would do me the favour of joining me on the floor?” Ben held out his hand. While he seemed confident, Daenys could tell there was still a shy nature being hidden - it was clear in his eyes. The hand that was outstretched shook so slightly it was hard to catch, but she did. Just a few minutes ago she wanted nothing more than to stop dancing, but in this case, she did not mind it. She had just found the right partner.

Daenys took his hand in hers and the shaking ceased, “I shall.” Ben escorted her to the floor and they began to dance. She was even more nervous, as her lack of talent in dance may embarrass her in front of him. Ben did not seem to mind for he guided her gently before she could make any mistakes.

“You should have seen the look on your face when Lord Mooton spoke to you. Pure befuddlement, your grace, possible disgust as well.” Ben quickly turned her to the pace of the music.

“Do not jest of that, my lord. I felt like I would die.” Daenys retorted.

“You would die? I think it would be Lord Mooton that goes first, considering his age.”

Daenys let out a short laugh, “I do not know what I would have done if I had to suffer a dance with him.” She almost shivered at the thought of that lord's eyes scanning her body in such a predatory way.

“Do not worry about it, your grace. All it would take is a stiff breeze to knock him over and it would no longer be your problem. Perhaps I could jump out of nowhere and startle him to death for you?” The dance had Ben pulling her closer with both of their hands connected.

“I did not take you as a man quick to murder.”

“Ah, but for you, dear princess, I would not hesitate.” Ben’s words sounded incredibly sincere and he made sure to be looking right at her when he said them.

“You flatter me, my lord,” Daenys said, “I wanted to mention it earlier, but I must compliment your skills in fighting. Watching you train was engaging.”

Ben spun them around and kept pace with those around them, “I shall hold those words with me for life, your grace.”

“I also wished to ask if we could spar together.” Daenys raised her brow at him, hoping that he would like the same as well.

“I can not even think about attacking you, princess. It would be improper.”

Daenys knew he would not relent so easily, “I have been learning for a few years now, you need not worry about it.”

One of Ben’s hands reached down to her waist as they had to start walking to the right in a circle with others dancing. “Princess, the moment I even go in to swing at you, regardless of practicing, every lord in the castle would hunt me down.”

“Then we shall make sure nobody sees. After the morning petitions on the morrow, we can meet up outside the gates and find a clearing somewhere.” Daenys tried to distract herself from the way his hand felt on her waist.

“After you have been driven to frustration by all the lords? I should be worried you may take that anger out on me.” Ben spun her around again. The two of them released their grip on one another, stepping back a few paces and turning before finally coming back together again.

“With the skills I saw today, I do believe you can handle it,” Daenys said.

“I can handle that and more, princess,” Ben responded and his grip on her hand and waist tightened slightly. Daenys blushed heavily and hoped that it would not be too noticeable. She paused momentarily to figure out how to retort, but no words came to her. They settled into silence for a moment. The music died down and the dance came to a close. Daenys and Ben released their hold on each other and took a step back.

“Thank you for the dance, Lord Benjicot. You need not worry about attending the petitions tomorrow and putting forth your name. I do not need to hear your case as I already favour your company.” Daenys tried to say what she wanted to say without making it too obvious or breaking any rules of propriety. It would be unseemly for a woman to actively pursue someone, but that would not stop her from voicing her opinion.

“I favour your company as well, princess,” Ben responded, though he seemed slightly stunned. Daenys smiled at him and went back to the main dining table.

Lord Tully had left, most likely off speaking to some guests, but Jace still sat at the table. He was nursing a mug of ale in his hand and sent her a large grin.

“What have you done now, dear brother?”

“Nothing, sister, however, I must admit I did not take you as one who liked to dance.”

Daenys sat down in the seat beside him. She reached out for some of the ale and swallowed it down. “I don’t like dancing.”

“Then why did you spend five dances with the same man?” Jace asked. He gave off a tone of innocence to his question, but she could sense the subtle tease.

She paused for a moment to load some food on a plate. It was five dances? She could have sworn it was only for a minute or two. Deciding not to voice that, she continued. “Why did you care to count?”

“Because you are my sister and it is my job to watch out for you. Tell me, who is he?”

Daenys was almost reluctant to answer but knew Jace would continue to pry until he got one. “Benjicot Blackwood.”

“...So?” Jace placed his ale down and showed her his full attention.

“Pardon?”

“What do you think of him? You seem quite taken.” Jace nudged her shoulder gently.

“We met earlier in the day. He seems nice and is easy to converse with. However, the manner of me being taken by him is none of your concern.”

Jace leaned back in his seat and laughed, “Ah, okay. So it is not my concern that this whole time we have been talking, Lord Benjicot has not stopped looking at you.”

Daenys froze. Jace held his gaze to her side, where other people were, and must have been looking at Ben. She knew he was there. Now that she was told, she could practically feel Ben’s gaze on the side of her face. She felt herself getting flushed again. That whole night, she felt like she was on the verge of a meltdown with all of the lords looking at her. Their greedy gazes wished to have her solely to claim her blood for their children. Yet, Daenys could not help but crave the gaze of that dark-haired man. She shook her head gently and stood up abruptly.

“I have become tired, Jace. I shall retire for the night.” Daenys did not wait for her brother's response before she scrambled to get out of the hall. Her feet carried her swiftly out of the large doors and down the stone hallway. She picked up her pace once away from the prying eyes of people. Her hands gripped the skirt of her dress, the palms clammed up.

Upon reaching her guest chamber, Daenys threw the door open before shutting it quickly. Her chest rose up and down with each breath and the bodice felt tighter than it was just minutes ago. Her actions of the day quickly came flooding back at her. This was not supposed to happen. This was never part of the plan.

Daenys somehow felt like she had failed her mother. She came to the Riverlands to find a strategic match, not find herself relishing in the company of some man. She was no believer. The princess knew from a young age that any sort of marriage was to be one of convenience, one arranged. She felt better having some bit of freedom in choice, but that choice was still dictated by what would be best for securing her mother’s throne if it were to come to war.

Now, she found herself waiting with bated breath for her sparring session with Ben. As if counting the minutes would make the time go by faster. Logically, House Blackwood would be a great house to align with. They can handle more soldiers than the Tullys despite the Tullys being liege lords of the Riverlands. There is an extensive history of military triumph and a fair amount of wealth - not just monetarily - connected to Raventree Hall. It would be completely fine to connect their two houses, yet her budding feelings for Ben made her feel as though that decision was biased.

Mother would know what to do. She always does.

Daenys sat on the end of her bed, gazing out of the opened shutters of a window and staring into the night. The stars looked beautiful, but she missed the familiar sound of waves crashing against the rocky shores of Dragonstone. Homesickness washed over her. She went to the desk in a corner of the room and retired some parchment. The inkwell was full and a quill lay next to it. If there was one person she could vent to and get advice, it would be her mother.

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The next day, Daenys found herself in the same spot she was in the previous day. In the great hall, with Lord Tully and Jace, watching as dozens of men spoke about themselves. How great their houses are, how great they are, and how extensive their coffers are. Except today felt different than previously. She was more impatient. All she focused on was her meeting with Ben later. The ability to speak to him more freely outside of the prying watch of others.

To be caught would be scandalous, however, that thought made it more thrilling.

Once Lord Tully concluded the gathering, Daenys quickly left her chair. She did not run, as it would be unladylike, but she moved as fast as was socially accepted. She went back to her room to dress in the proper attire and retrieve her sword. Once finished, Daenys opened her door and crashed into someone's chest. Jacaerys stood there, barely having been knocked by her slamming into him.

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Danys adjusted her clothing, “Out to train.”

“Alone?” Jace raised his brow. Although he asked the question, it was as if he already knew the answer.

“Must I even entertain such a question?” Daaenys sighed.

“Don’t do anything Mother would not approve,” Jace told her. Daenys resisted the urge to laugh. While Rhaenyra did not speak to her sons about her youth, she spoke to Daenys about it. The stories of her sneaking away with Daemon and later her trysts with Sir Harwin were mentioned in hushed voices over tea times. Gossiping together was one of Daenys’ favourite pastimes.

“Of course, Jace. I will be as pious as Mother.” Daenys answered before moving down the hallway. She was almost skipping with joy at the prospect of spending the rest of the day with Ben.

Outside the gates of Riverrun, Ben was leaning against a tree as he waited for her. When she came in sight, she sent him a smile and a slight wave. He got off the tree and walked to her as well. Once close, they began moving in the direction of the dense forest.

“Are you well rested, your grace? You left the feast early last night.”

She paused before responding. “If I am entirely honest, I miss my home. I left to write a letter to my mother.” She did not feel it necessary to touch on the fact that the very nature of that letter was primarily centred around him.

“I am sorry to hear that princess. The Riverlands can be overwhelming for those not born here.” Ben paused to step over a high fallen tree trunk. On the other side, he offered his hand to her.

“I did not mean it as a slight. I’ve found myself to be quite fond of these lands, my lord. It's beautiful here, truly.” Daenys tried not to think about how warm his hand was in hers. How the callouses were strangely comforting despite their roughness. She gently stepped on and over the trunk before coming back down. Her arm went down to her side, but their hands were still joined. She cleared her throat gently and Ben dropped her hand, coming back from wherever his mind wandered. They continued on their way under the canopy of trees.

“Can I ask you something?” Daenys questioned.

“Anything, your grace.”

“Must we exhaust our title in conversation with one another? It would be much better, and easier if I may add, if you just called me Daenys.”

Ben remained silent for a moment, his vision focused on the ground below him to not trip over a root. “That would not be appropriate, princess.”

“At the very least, we can do so when we are alone?” Daenys awaited his answer.

“Then just call me Ben or Benji. Benjicot can be a mouthful.”

Daenys giggled, “Sounds good, Ben.”

They both exchanged quick looks and then focused their attention back on where they were going. After walking for a while, they hit a small clearing. The grass was low and there were no objects around that they could trip on.

“How much do you know of sparring, Daenys?” Hearing her name come from his voice had her dazed for a moment. It sounded good.

Deciding to deceive him for a moment, she responded. “Only a little bit. Some basic offensive and defensive moves.”

“Then we shall have a round to see where you are at. We will start with the wooden swords.”

With his words, they moved into starting positions. Ben lunged first and his strike was blocked. She moved around him, turning quickly and striking him. He too managed to block it, but before he could make another move, Daenys swung again and hit his bicep. It was quick and unexpected, revealing that she may know more than what she stated. He was shocked for a moment and caught off guard. Ben smiled. He was excited by her quick thinking ability.

“Were you telling the truth?”

“Not quite, but the look on your face was worth it.” Daenys adjusted her stance, with the wooden sword still in her grip.

“Who taught you? Many men seem reluctant to teach women these sorts of things.”

“I begged for years. I was told it was not ladylike and surely not something a potential husband would accept in a wife. But, many months after my mother married my stepfather, I decided to ask one more time. I was ten and three when I did. I marched right up to Daemon and asked him. It felt inevitable that he would deny my request, but he just laughed and told me to be ready on the morrow in the sparring yard. I joined my brothers in their training.”

Daenys remembered that day vividly. She was scared out of her wits. Until then, she never really bonded much with Daemon and was terrified by his reputation. She had clasped her hands behind her back in an attempt to hide their shaking. Her small frame, made even smaller in his presence, stood tall. Years later, Daenys would be confident in saying that her relationship with her stepfather was solid.

“As in Prince Daemon?” Ben was bewildered, “Like the Rogue Prince?”

“Yes, him.”

Ben shrugged his shoulders, “I doubt you could learn anything from me then.”

“Are you the one of those men who are ‘reluctant to teach women these sorts of things’?” Daenys used his words against him.

“There are many things I could teach you.” Daenys pretended not to catch on to the other meaning of his words. She did not even know if that was intended by him.

The two resumed their stances before going back to fighting. It was amazing how quickly time flew afterwards. Their bodies moved together in tandem. One moved forward, the other moved back. They bumped into one another multiple times. Daenys struggled to keep her beating heart under control when they would brush. It was occasionally hard to focus, as Ben looked increasingly better when he was in his element. She also pretended to not see the somewhat longing gaze he would send her way occasionally.

During a moment when he was particularly distracted, she used it to her advantage. She swung forward, moving her wooden sword in a circle and disarming him. The move caused her body to be closer to him, and his reflexive move grabbed onto her wrist holding her sword and pulled her close in a grip hold.

They were exhausted from the hours of movement. Daenys chest moved up and down at a rapid rate. The fog from their breaths intertwined in the air as their faces got close. Her free hand had somehow landed on his chest. There was no denying the lean muscle under his tunic and vest.

“I thought you did not like it when people got easily distracted?” Daenys teased him.

“Well, it is hard not to with you here,” Ben responded. His eyes stared into hers, an intensity hidden in them.

Daenys could not for the sake of her life find a response. It was bold, his compliment. It would not be considered appropriate had they been anywhere else, but they were alone. The realization of that struck her. They were completely alone. Ben leaned in slightly but stopped. Due to their height difference, his nose brushed the top of her cheek. His breath was haggard.

“Please tell me if I have misinterpreted any of your advances. Tell me and I swear I will leave you alone. I will go back to Raventree Hall and give you peace.” He voiced in a low whisper.

Ben began to pull away, but Daenys used her free hand resting on his chest to grip the fabric and hold him in place.

“Don't go,” She began, “You have not misinterpreted me.”

“I will not do anything without your permission, my princess.” Daenys did not wish to correct him on addressing her by her title, for the use of the word ‘my’ before it lit something in her chest. He leaned back to where he previously was, his breath fanning her face. She nodded to him before leaning in and connecting their lips.

It felt feverish, the unbridled heat that surged through her. She had the blood of the dragon, yes, but this was something else entirely. The wooden sword in her other hand, which was held at the wrist by his, dropped to the ground. He moved his hands, one going to her waist to pull her close and the other settling on the small of her back. His lips were chapped but felt soft nonetheless. His nose pressed into her cheek as he deepened the kiss. They both were unskilled in it, and they were slightly out of sink, but the passion was there. Daenys hands moved to his face, cupping it. Her thumbs brushed over his high cheekbones. The kiss gave her more warmth from the mild frigid weather around than any coat she could wear. There was a safety to it, an assurance of protection.

For a brief moment in this foreign piece of land, Daenys felt at home.

They pulled away, but only slightly so. Their noses still touched and she was grateful to feel any part of him. His hands squeezed gently, giving her some positive affirmation.

“You are better at this than your swordsmanship.” Daenys joked.

“You speak as if you have experience, Dany.” Her heart stopped for a moment at his nickname.

She breathed in and out slowly, “You’re the first.” Ben nodded at her words, a breathless smile sweeping across his face.

“For me as well.” They both were stuck in an embrace, eyes staring back at one another.

“I…” Daenys paused to gain courage, “I would not mind if we could do that again.” She felt terribly shy by her request, and images of her younger self being rejected whenever she asked to learn how to fight flashed in her mind. Ben leaned forward and rested his forehead against her. An amused groan left his lips.

“You will be the death of me, my princess.” He leaned forward and kissed her again.

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

Daenys sat in her bedchamber with a parchment scroll gripped in her hands. It had been a few days since she sent her letter to her mother and she had finally received a response. The petitions only lasted two days, with the rest being spent mingling among the lords during the day and feasts at night. It was the early hours of the morning and she had just finished bathing. She lounged in her room in a robe and ate from a platter of meats and cheeses to break her fast.

The letter she had sent her mother had been filled with her worries. How she had met many lords of the Riverlands and some that may be of help. Largely, the contents centred around her blooming companionship with Benjicot Blackwood. Daenys revealed her troubles about feeling that she would be failing if she found herself attached unnecessarily. She felt that her judgement had been compromised by her affinity to Benjicot’s company. She may be overlooking another house that may be better for them come the outbreak of war.

Rhaenyra’s response was just what she needed. Despite her mother not physically being there, her words soothed Daenys. The heir assured her that House Blackwood would be a good fit, not just strategically but for her happiness as well. She kept reading a section of the response over and over.

I was never fully happy with your plan. Sending my only daughter off to pick an arrangement that would surely make her miserable. I of all people can relate. Let yourself feel, ñuha prūmia. You are allowed happiness, so pursue it. Many women of the realm would give anything to be in your position. Do not waste it for me and my troubles.

Daenys sighed. It was the confirmation she had been waiting for. Over the last few days, she had slipped away from Riverrun and joined Benjicot in the woods to spar. Though, more often than not, the sparing would be accompanied by fleeting touches and fevered kisses. Despite the dropping of formalities, he still treated her as his princess. Which, if Daenys was honest, was not a bad thing.

All the time spent with him, the voice in the back of her head had filled her with worries about failing her mother. Now, with confirmation that her choice was not wrong, Daenys felt the urge to rise from her chair and keep running until she found him. Jump in his arms perhaps. But that would not be appropriate and she cursed the realm for their stupid rules.

Daenys got up and changed into her gown for the day. She had dismissed the maids earlier, wishing to have some semblance of peace. When she was situated in her attire and sat at her vanity to style her hair, a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in!” Daenys called out gently as her fingers moved to meticulously form a braid.

Jace walked in. His hand rested on the sword at his hip as he sauntered over to her vanity. “Good morrow, sister.”

“Good morrow to you,” Daenys pinned up the finished braid and moved to work on another, “What brings you to my chambers this morning? Normally you would be out hunting with one of the lords.”

“While that is true, I did just have to most interesting conversation while I broke fast,” Jace paused, “With Benjicot Blackwood.”

Her fingers halted their movement and she looked at him through the large mirror positioned in front of her. Jace was smiling, but it was not the usual smirk as a warning of him teasing her. It looked genuine. She tilted her head in curiosity.

“And, pray tell, what were you two meeting for?” Daenys feigned a casual attitude. She did not want to reveal her nerves.

“He invited me to break fast together. It would be rude of me to deny him.” Jace answered.

Daenys pinned another braid up, “You did not answer my question, brother.”

“I believe it is Ben’s right to share.”

She finished her hair and turned in her seat to face her brother. She narrowed her eyes at him. Why did Jace address him so informally? Her hands rested on the seat and she resisted the urge to grip them tightly. Daenys was confused and she did not like it one bit. She relaxed her shoulders and maintained a pleasant resting face.

“I did not know you two were so close.”

Jace was picking up and inspecting the bottles of oils and serums on her table, displaying a sense of casualty. “Oh yes, one may say we could be brothers.”

“Enough, Jacaerys. Tell me now.”

Her brother set a glass vial down and backed away. He continued to smile while going to her door. “I will be out riding for the morning. Have a good day, sister.” Jace then opened the door and left Daenys to sit and mull over their conversation.

“Bloody halfwit.” Daenys huffed.

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

The princess found herself strolling through the halls of Riverrun. There were no particular activities she planned for the day, so her mind was distracted. It was near an alcove that a hand shot out and grabbed her forearm. She was pulled in with another hand covering her mouth. Her shout of surprise was muffled. Daenys found herself in a secluded area with her back against the stone. There was a tiny window giving the area a hint of morning glow.

Fear flooded her veins and she cursed herself for leaving any means of a weapon in her room. She brought her leg up to knee the assailant in the crouch. A shout of pain came from the figure, a voice so familiar. When the man crouched over the ease the pain, the streaks of light from the window illuminated his face.

“Ben! Oh, I am so sorry.”

Daenys moved to hold his shoulders but he just held up his arms while still in visible pain, “No, Dany, this was my doing. Not the wisest decision to sneak up on you like this.” Benjicot was doing everything to show he was not in pain, but failing. He breathed in deeply.

“Great strength and good form, my princess.” Ben tried to laugh it off, but his chest still heaved.

“Dearest, what in the seven hells was that?” Daenys crossed her arms.

“Oh, if I knew what it would take to be called such a sweet nickname by you, Dany, then I would have injured myself sooner.” Ben beamed at her. He managed to get over the pain quickly and stood straight. His arms moved to wrap around her waist and pull her from the wall towards his chest.

Daenys arms rested on his shoulders. “What if I had my knife on me?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time I’d have been stabbed,” Ben responded.

“It is not funny. I could have seriously hurt you.” Daenys felt his thumbs making circles as he held her hips.

Ben kissed the crown of her head, “I have no doubt you would have done serious damage, my princess.”

They stood in their embrace in the dimly lit alcove. It seemed as though the only time they could spend together was during fleeting moments of isolation. Despite the worry of being caught, Daenys would not wish it to be any different.

“My brother visited me this morning.” She began speaking, “Jace informed me of your shared meal.”

Ben’s face dropped. Nervousness etched its way across it. “He told you what we spoke about?”

“No,” Daenys answered. His unease cleared at her confirmation, “It was rather aggravating, what little information he gave. Is it something I should be worried about?”

“Nothing to worry about, Dany.” One of his hands lifted to cup her face. He moved his thumb up and down her cheek.

“Can I be privy to it? Or is it some man thing?” Her hands, which were resting on his shoulders, moved lower to settle on his chest.

“No. I planned on making a show of this, but truly I cannot wait any further.”

Daenys tilted her head, “And what can’t you wait for?”

“Well, I went to ask your brother first, as I am a gentleman who does not wish to compromise you and-” Ben began, but was swiftly cut off by Daenys.

“You? A gentleman? You may not have compromised my maidenhood, but that thing you did with your tong-”

“My love, please, I cannot be distracted by such a memory.” Ben closed his eyes and breathed in deeply to calm down. “I wished to ask your brother for permission to court you.”

Daenys waited with bated breath. “And my brother?”

“He is a very agreeable man. He acquiesced but noted that ultimately, the decision remains with you.” Ben tightened his hold on her.

She smiled widely, “I believe you already know my answer.”

The two broke into laughter before quickly leaning in to kiss. They pushed against one another. Desperation, earnestness, and care poured out of them. Most of all, pure relief. Daenys shivered at the intimacy of his hold on her. One of Ben’s hands cradled the back of her head as he pushed them back to the wall, cushioning her from the jagged stone. A groan slipped from his mouth as Daenys opened hers. The kiss was possessive, and his grip tightened. The hold on her waist warmed, and his fingers threaded through her hair.

“You are so beautiful.” Ben voiced between kisses before moving back to devour her again. His lips trailed from her mouth, across her cheek and to her neck. He stopped at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. Daenys sighed at the contact, heat flaming through her body.

“Ben, someone may come.”

“Damn them. I do not care.” He seemed intent on kissing her, with his mouth moving to her collarbone.

“I would rather not have my honour questioned, my love.”

He paused and lifted his head to look at her. His eyes held an intensity she had scarcely seen from him before, “Say the word and any man who questions you will be dead.”

“As much as your words are comforting, I could not put you in such a position,” Daenys gave him a chaste kiss, “I am just happy my brother gave his approval.”

“If you were only there. He did try his best to be intimidating.” Ben said.

“Jace was never good at threatening people. Were you scared?” She joked.

“I feigned some bit of fear,” He began, “I find men to be more pliable when they feel better about themselves.” Ben stood proud of himself. He grabbed her hand and lifted it to his mouth to lay small kisses on her knuckles.

“So you manipulated my bother?”

“I would not call it that. Moreso gentle encouragement to achieve the answer I so desired.” Ben skirted her question and began to rock them gently side to side, “But even if he did manage to scare me, no amount of fear would stop me.”

Daenys pulled back from his embrace, “No amount of fear would stop you?”

Ben paused his movements and looked her in the eyes, “I don’t like that look on your face, my dear. You’re up to something.”

“Well, since you wish to court me, there is one such condition from me.” Daenys tried to ease his piqued curiosity. Ben awaited her explanation. “Meet Suneater.”

His face fell immediately. His eyes darkened and the muscles in his body tightened. Daenys saw his reaction and worked to soothe him by grabbing his hands and rubbing them.

His voice came out strained, “You want me to meet your dragon?”

───── ⋆⋅⋅⋆ ─────

Daenys giggled as she led Ben through the muddy pathway outside of Riverrun. Her dragon and Vermax were perched outside the castle, as it was not a large enough estate to hold the both of them. She held his hand clasped in hers as the two made their way to the sleeping dragon. They came across a clearing that was surrounded by a low stone wall. Jace had taken Vermax for a flight, so Suneater was alone. She lay curled and sleeping peacefully. Her strong breath came out of her nose.

Suneater had dark grey scales. However, upon closer inspection, there were subtle gold flakes throughout her body, intensifying at the base of the scales before being covered by the black of a next one layered above. Daenys had never known a bond such as the one she held with her dragon. Her closeness to her family was strong- especially Jace since they were twins. But her dragon was entirely something else.

Now that Benjicot wished to be with her, he must know all of her. Suneater was the other part of her soul. Despite hatching in her cradle and being of the same age, Daenys view her as a daughter.

Daenys let go of Ben’s hand and walked to her dragon, “Sȳz ñāqes, Suneater.” Good morrow. Suneater’s eyes blinked open and her head lifted to see her rider approaching. Ben had stopped walking and stood by the entrance, unsure of whether or not he should get closer. “Hilago, sagon sȳz. Nyke hae bisa vala.” Please, be good. I like this man.

She reached out to scratch Suneater’s chin. The dragon let out a near purring sound at the contact and closed her eyes. Daenys continued her movements and turned to Ben.

“Come here. She won’t hurt you.” Upon seeing Ben still standing, Daenys continued. “I swear she will not do anything. You have my word.”

After that, Ben moved towards her. His steps were slow and calculated as he wadded through the low grass. Once he was about a metre near her, Suneater’s eyes snapped open to stare him down. A puff of air left her nostrils and Ben seized his movements to a halt.

“Gīda. Rȳbagon.” Calm. Listen. Daenys assured her. Suneater calmed down but kept her eyes on Ben. He was an unknown man who stood too close to her rider. Daenys used her other hand to grab Ben and pull him closer. Once he was beside her, she spoke up, “You can touch her.”

Ben swerved his head and gave her a look muddled with alarm and uncertainty. He breathed in and out slowly to stay calm next to such an intimidating beast.

“Touch her?” His voice dripped with fear.

“Calm down, Ben, its not like I am asking you to fly with me.” He seemed to ease at her words, “Not yet, at least.”

Ben sputtered but went completely silent when Daenys grabbed his hand and placed it on the dragon's side. Her hand, in its small size, barely covered his. Ben felt the scales and the subtle breathing of the beast. His fear swept away and was replaced with awe. As a boy, he had heard of many older men around him who had seen dragons, but never himself had he ever seen one. The stories in his books growing up were filled with him, the history books even more so when covering events after the Conquest. In all his dreams, never did he think he would be standing so close to one and touching it.

“See, it is not so bad.” Daenys laughed gently. She grabbed his shoulder and rubbed it gently.

“Yes. It is not so bad.” Ben was still breathless.

He removed his hand after a while and, with a surge of confidence, leaned down to kiss Daenys. It was a calm one, not as heated and passionate as the others. His strong arms pulled her against his chest. Daenys melted in his hold and kissed him back. She did not believe she could ever tire from kissing him. Her heart swelled.

For the first time in many years, Daenys prioritized her own happiness.

Ben pulled back and looked her in the eyes, “You are a wonder.” Their foreheads connected. The two closed their eyes and relished the sounds of nature around them. The steady breeze brushed the branches of trees and the crows spoke as they flew around. The rumbling of breath from Suneater produced a steady beat to focus on.

The lovers stood in that field, each far from their homes - one more so than the other - and felt nothing but a sense of belonging.

A budding love became solidified in their bond that day. Each mirrored the other. Their gentle demeanours were undercut by their cunning in the ways of fighting. Both a ticking bomb of violence, who would gladly follow the other into any battle.

_______________

✧.* endnote: apologies for any typos or terrible grammar. i did come up with a couple more ideas centred around these two, so if it is wanted i could write (much shorter) pieces about these two. thank you all for the support that has been given. i appreciate it more than you know <3

#benjicot blackwood #bloody ben #house blackwood #house bracken #benjicot blackwood fanfic #benjicot blackwood imagine #hotd fanfiction #hotd imagine #ben blackwood #benjicot blackwood x oc #house targaryen #house velaryon #fire and blood #house of the dragon #benjicot blackwood fanfiction #asoiaf imagine

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biblomaniac · 2 months

Text

Supercorp headcanon:

Kara is ready to combust.

Everyday this week has been complete torment, but in a delicious way.

On Sunday, Lena wore an A-line floral dress to a brunch The Foundation hosted to promote its new Girls in STEM program.

On Monday, Lena showed up to CatCo for lunch with Kara in black slacks and a waistcoat, with a deep purple silk blouse underneath. Kara had to restrain herself from running her hand up and down the back of Lena’s blouse during their customary hug of greeting.

On Tuesday, the forest green dress Lena wore hugged her curves so well Kara couldn’t help but stare everytime she caught a glance of it across the room.

On Wednesday, a Hellgrammite started a fire in the business district that required the Superfriends help. J’onn, Lena, and Brainy stayed at the Tower as support for Supergirl, Dreamer, Sentinel, and Guardian. Four hours after the initial emergency alert, Supergirl flew into the tower through the balcony. She couldn’t wait to take a hot shower and maybe order some Chinese for dinner. But first, she had to write a debrief of her final saves from the day.

“Hey, darling. Are you ready to go?”

“Lena, hi! I’m almost—“ Kara starts to answer, but abruptly stops when she looks to the side and is eye level with Lena’s chest. “—done.”

The blue low-cut blouse Lena is sporting has left a considerable amount of cleavage exposed. Kara’s heart thunders, her face flushes, and her hand’s clench tightly to keep from reaching out to Lena. Unfortunately, the table under her grip isn’t prepared for the brunt of Kara’s Kryptonian strength, leaving two holes of twisted metal.

“…Oops.”

On Thursday, when Kara got to Lena’s penthouse, she found Lena snuggled on the couch in her National City University sweatshirt. The shirt was at least two sizes too large on Lena, giving it an oversized look. Kara’s eyes zeroed in on long, pale legs when Lena stood to greet the blonde with a hug.

After their hug, Lena moved into the Kitchen to gather snacks for their movie night. Without her heels, Lena had to tip toe to reach the Oreos on the second shelf.

“Darling, I can’t reach,” Lena huffed. When Kara turned to help, all the blood rushed to her head when she saw the former CEO’s nearly nonexistent short’s patterned with Supergirls crest.

Kara crossed the room on wobbly legs, reaching over the brunettes head to grab the Oreos, crackers, tea, and anything else from the top shelf Lena may need. If she takes a moment to glance down at her crest running along Lena’s ass and hips, well, she’ll just keep that little secret to herself.

On Friday, Lena wore black leggings and a soft white sweater to game night. Lena looked so soft and docile with her hair down, minimal makeup, and fuzzy socks. Kara couldn’t help but tuck her head into Lena’s neck, breathing in her sweet scent during their hug.

“Are you okay, darling,” Lena quietly asked as she moved one hand to cradle Kara’s head closer, while the other clutched onto strong broad shoulders.

“Fine, I’m fine. I just missed you.” Kara admitted.

“We saw each other last night, Kara.” Lena chuckled, moving to release Kara. The blonde wasn’t ready to let go, but did so anyway. Dropping her arms from Lena’s waist, Kara grabbed her hand and leading Lena to their favorite spot for game night.

On Saturday, it all finally comes to a head. The whole gang is out at Al’s Bar, enjoying the first night they’ve all been able to meet in what feels like years.

Lena looks stunning, dressed down in tight black ripped skinny jeans, a red crop top, brown leather jacket and black pumps. Their table had been crowded, and Lena made the executive decision to sit in Kara’s lap to “save space” for M’gann, who would be joining their group after her shift.

The drinks had been flowing steady all night, leaving everyone at least a bit tipsy. Kara had even indulged herself with an Aldebaran Rum and Coke. She sips slowly, remembering how it felt to be drunk the last time she had this drink. Lena’s proximity plus the alcohol is a heady combination.

By the time Kara is halfway through her drink, her left arm has snaked across Lena’s stomach, open palm holding the brunette close to her chest, while her right hand alternates between Lena’s thigh and her cup. Kara is hardly paying attention to the conversation, focused mainly on how close Lena is, how her hair smells like vanilla and honey, or how her heartbeat sounds strong and steady.

“Corazón, let’s go dancing!” Andrea exclaimed, pulling Lena to the dance floor.

Ugh, Andrea. It’s not that Kara dislikes her former boss, per se. The blonde just prefers that Kara and Lena time is not interrupted.

All week, Andrea has been popping up wherever Lena is. She stuck to Lena’s side during the entire Sunday brunch; called Lena for a meeting in the middle of Monday’s lunch date; was present for every single round Lena walked after Tuesday’s press conference; popped into the tower after Acrata helped with the fire on Wednesday; Thursdays movie night was interrupted when Andrea texted Lena about a “fashion emergency,” regarding a dinner she was going to; Andrea came halfway through game night on Friday, stealing Lena as her game partner and leaving Kara to third-wheel Alex and Kelly for the rest of the night.

Kara watches as Lena and Andrea move through the crowd of bodies to find a spot to dance in.

“You should just ask her out,” Alex leans over the the table to whisper-shout, her fourth beer clutched in her hand.

“Who?” Kara asks, trying hard to seem nonchalant.

“Lena, you dolt. We can all see clear as day how you two feel about each other. Put your big girls pants on and talk to her!”

“I don’t—I can’t, Alex. What if she rejects me? Our friendship just recovered, I can’t risk it asking for something I don’t deserve,” she laments, circling the rim of her glass with her finger.

“What about what Lena deserves? She cares about you, Kara. It’s been years of you two dancing around this thing.” Alex says.

“We aren’t dancing around anything, Al. She won’t want me, she doesn’t—“ the rest of her words die in her mouth as she catches a glance of Lena and Andrea on the dance floor. Lena’s back is pressed to Andrea’s front as the move to the beat of the music. When the song changes, Lena turns in Andrea’s grasp, standing chest to chest.

The glass in Kara’s grip shatters, spraying glass across the table. Thankfully, Kara’s cup was nearly empty.

“Shit, sorry. I’ll clean this up,” Kara said, using multiple napkins to collect the shards of glass.

Alex laughs, covering her mouth with her hand. “Kara, stop being a wimp and talk to her before Andrea asks her out again.”

“Yeah, okay, you’re right. I can do this, I got this.” Kara nods her head determinedly, chugs what remains of Alex’s beer and stands to make her way to Lena. As she navigates her way toward her hearts desire, she see’s Andrea’s hand lowering from its position on Lena’s back to rest on her ass. All conscious thought leaves Kara’s head as she quickens her pace just short of SuperSpeed to reach Lena.

“Lee—“

***************************************************

“Corazón, let’s go dancing!” Andrea exclaimed, pulling Lena to the dance floor.

“Drea, what are you doing?” Lena’s asks as she follows Andrea out to the floor.

“I’m helping you, Lena. If we get Kara jealous, she’ll stop acting like such a Girl Scout and finally make a move,” Andrea says, waving off Lena’s concern.

Lena stops walking and starts swaying at Andrea’s insistence, matching her moves seamlessly. It feels just like boarding school, with Andrea leading Lena by the hips. “I don’t know, Drea. You’ve been interfering all week and she hasn’t said so much as a peep. I don’t think she has feelings for me.”

“Joder, las dos son tan despistadas. She will! She has been jealous all week! We just have to step up our game,” Andrea exclaims in exasperation, turning Lena so that the brunettes back rests against her chest.

“Look at her, she’s glaring right at us! When the song changes, I’ll grab your ass and this will all be over,” Andrea laughs.

“Andrea! This is ridiculous. What does Sam think about this whole situation; shouldn’t you be worried about what she’ll say?”

“What’s between Samantha and I is none of your concern, Corazón. But if you must know, she told me, and I quote, “I hope it works so Kara can grow a pair—“

“Hey!”

“—I’m sure she won’t be bothered by what means I use to help you both along.”

“You know what? Fine, whatever. When it doesn’t work I don’t ever want to talk about this to either of you ever again.” Lena mutters, thoroughly embarrassed and ready to call a quits to their plan.

“I reserve the right to tease you both when it does,” Andrea replies, turning Lena around at the song change and moving one hand to grasp Lena at the ass.

“Kara’s coming; I told you this would work! Play cool,” Andrea says.

As Kara closes the final distance, she reaches a hand out to Lena, touching her on the shoulder, intent to end whatever this is between her and Andrea.

“Lee, mind if I cut in,” Kara asks sharply. Lena gives Andrea a glance, dismissing her wordlessly as she accepts Kara’s hand.

“I’m gonna step outside to take a call. Lena, call me later if you want to…talk,” Andrea imparts with a sly smile before moving to exit the bar. Kara glares daggers at Andrea’s retreating form.

“Hi, darling. How are you?” Lena asks, watching Kara’s face transform from a scowl to a happy grin.

“Better now that you’re with me,” Kara says pulling Lena closer by the waist. That Aldebaran rum may have given her a bit of confidence, but she won’t do anything Lena doesn’t want. “Is this okay?”

“Of course, darling. Are you okay; you looked a bit frazzled when you came over.” Lena wraps her arms over broad shoulders, admiring Kara’s beauty as they slowly grow closer to one another.

“Yes, yes. I was just a bit nervous, I guess.” Kara ducks her head at the admission, blushing.

Nervous? Odd. Kara may not be as outwardly imposing as Supergirl, but she is hardly nervous since her reveal to the world as being Supergirl. The synergy of Kara Zor-El encompasses both Kara Dancers and Supergirl, but without the necessity to hide behind one mask or the other.

Lena can’t hide the surprise in her voice, “What do you have to be nervous about?”

“I just—I want to be Andrea—“

“You want to be Andrea?!”

It seems the rum has also compromised her ability to articulate clearly.

“No, wait, that’s not what I meant. I want to be in her place with you. I’ve been…jealous. She’s interrupted our time together everyday and just now she was…” Kara bites her lip, turning her head to look away.

Lena bends to the side, trying but failing to catch Kara’s gaze.

“She was what, Kara. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.” Kara is jealous. It almost seems too good to be true. Maybe Andrea’s plan will work after all.

Kara lifts her head, piercing blue eyes gazing into Lena’s own. “She was touching you! Holding you! I don’t want her to do that, Lena. I want, I want to do that.” Kara states with conviction, voice hardening determinately.

Kara thinks she’s overstepped when Lenas arms loosen from around her neck. She prepares to apologize, heart breaking at the thought of Lena turning her down. That is, until Lena reaches for her hands, dragging them from their purchase on her hips to rest just above her ass.

“You want to hold me like this?” Lena whispers, head tilted and pupils dilating. “You can Kara, you can touch me however you want.”

The blonde moves her hands down tentatively, looking for any signs of unease. “When she doesn’t find any, she palms at Lena’s ass, pulling her forward and holding tight. “This okay?”

“Perfect, darling; keep going.” Lena noses at Kara’s neck, interested to see how far this will go.

Kara starts to dance, leading Lena along to the thumping beat. She feels a new kind of thrill, so unlike the one she gets from being Supergirl. There is a hot, pulsating feeling running through her veins.

The superhero tilts her head down to lay a kiss on Lena’s temple. “This okay,” she asks, internally begging for Lena to want more.

“Keep going.”

Kara starts to lay soft kisses down the side of Lena’s face, hands still kneading her supple behind. When she reaches the brunettes jaw, she noses her way along the skin back up to her ear. She lays one more kiss on the shell of her ear before she whispers, “More?”

“More.” Lena says, nearly panting under Kara’s ministration.

The blonde drops her face to the crook of the shorter woman’s neck, placing a kiss on each pulse point before laying a third on the beauty mark at the center of Lena’s throat.

Lena reaches up, one hand tangling in the hair at the base of Kara’s neck, while the other holds firmly to a bulging bicep. “Keep going, darling,” Lena rasps.

Tentatively, Kara laves her tongue against the mark. At the sound of Lena’s quiet moan, Kara sucks at the mark. When she pulls away, there is a blossoming patch of red over the skin.

Kara touches her forehead lightly to Lena’s, gazing into verdant eyes.

“Can I kiss you?” Kara implores, cerulean eyes glassy and wanting.

“Please,” Lena supplicates, leaning forward ever so slightly.

Without further ado, the blonde presses her mouth firmly to the red painted lips in front of her. It isn’t long before the brunettes tongue runs across her lips seeking entrance into her mouth.

*********************************************

“Did it work?”

“Of course it did, Tesoro.” Andrea answers into the phone.

“Fucking finally. I’ll call Lena in the morning and get all the dirty details. Now that that’s taken care of, when are you gonna come see me?” Sam implores.

“I thought you were coming here next weekend?”

“ I am, but Ruby’s at summer camp for the rest of the week. I thought you could come spend some time here in Metropolis before we fly to National City.”

“Well, what’s in it for me,” Andrea flirts, already looking for red eye flights out east.

“You, me, an empty apartment, and all the time in the world to do whatever we please.”

“Promise me we can do that thing I like and I’ll be there in the morning.” Andrea knows she’s pushing her luck, but there’s nothing sweeter than a little pain with pleasure.

“Oh, baby, we can do whatever you want—” Samantha starts, voice sickly sweet, “—if you get here before dawn,” she finishes, voice low and demanding.

“Done.”

#supercorp #lena luthor #kara zorel #supergirl #kara danvers #kara x lena #first kiss #headcanon #pining #jealousy #andrea rojas #samantha arias #rojarias

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lola-writes · 3 months

Text

One-Eye & the Dreamer

(Aemond's POV)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x O.C Aylana Velaryon

Word Count: 2,2k

Themes & Warnings: slow burn, friends to enemies, enemies to lovers, violence, blood, targcest, sexual themes, tension, drama, angst, fix-it of sorts, eventual smut, sexual inexperience, forbidden love, high valyrian, dance of dragons, POV first person

Summary: Aylana Velaryon foresees Aemond Targaryen's fate and assigns herself to alter it.

Written from Aemond's POV.

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Gravity had nothing on us, my dear.

You can’t untie red strings of fate.

This is how it feels to fall in love with the atmosphere.

The world surrendered to a symphony of wind. Turbulence thundered in my ears and whipped my hair untamed as I ascended the skies. Rising higher and higher, the clouds enveloped me in a blinding haze, and the elements of the earth below decreased into a mosaic. I conquered the celestial at such speed that I felt like Aegon reborn.

Vhagar was an extension of myself, her undulating muscles beneath my straddling body felt as if connected to my own, forcing our masses through the heavens with an effortlessness. I commanded her higher still, and she heeded my command. We defied gravity in a dance of grace and power.

As we approached the stratosphere where air ran thin, I straightened in my saddle, and my mighty Vhagar leveled out, conforming to every delicate change in my movements. The world below became an inverted dreamscape as we sailed the vague interstice that marked the transition between sky and oblivion - the clouds beneath were the unconquered sky, and the indigo above was the ocean, and I was flying upside down.

Together, Vhagar and I, were limitless.

The memory of when I first claimed her was so potent it eclipsed everything else, real or imagined. It was like walking penniless and finding a mountain of gold at your feet. What was one to do with such power? A power so raw and exhilarating, it consumed. Suddenly, I had no fear. Suddenly, I was not alone…

I leaned into Vhagar’s warmth and she folded her wings against me. We plummeted back down towards the earth, a thrilling drop that sent a jolt of pure ecstasy through my veins. My stomach lurched, and beneath me, Vhagar’s thorax vibrated – a deep, primal roar that resonated through my very bones. In that moment, I mirrored her, a guttural exclaim of pure, unadultered joy escaping my lips.

Never had freedom tasted so sweet.

The force of our descent sliced through the nebulous clouds like a knife through cotton, and as we emerged, the Narrow Sea gaped wide, glittering beneath the noontide sun like a crystal embellished blue silk. I leveled out again and watched Vhagar’s twin loom out of the water.

In the distance, the seven huge drum-towers, proud sentinels of pale red stone, rose out of the sea on their stony summits, and the tolling bells welcomed me back home. An unfamiliar fleet of ships coasted down Black Water Rush like wooden beads along a blue mesh - an unremarkable observation, as nobles from every corner of the realm had been descending upon King’s Landing for the wedding. They had all come through the gates by horse and carriage, none by sea.

Traders perhaps? Coming just in time to fortify our stores for the upcoming plunder.

So many fucking mouths to feed. I had seen them endlessly pour through the castle gates in a river of gold, silver, and polished steel – their banners displaying the sigil of house Lannister, Baratheon, Tully, and I could’ve sworn I saw a direwolf banner among them. Would the Starks truly find a Targaryen wedding of such importance that they would bother dragging themselves out of their frozen pits? It was to be a grand affair, to be sure. A celebration with tourneys, hunts, feasts, and dancing, to last for at least a fortnight.

If I had it my way, I would escape and race the wind on Vhagar. But mother’s orders were a bittersweet curse. We were to be on our best behavior, a euphemism for me babysitting my nuisance of a brother, to ensure he does not imbibe every wine cask in the keep, and to hearten my sweet sister who always grew gauche in social gatherings.

One could hardly fathom I was the youngest.

But the chief of my worries was Aegon. He already had an inclination of getting unreasonable drunk on a plain day. I shuddered to think of the lengths he might go to in tribute to his own nuptials.

Unease filled my gut.

But it wasn’t the vigil of my siblings that rendered me apprehensive.

As I drew close enough that I could make out the banners, I realized that these were no ordinary trading ships. In fact, these weren’t traders at all. I tugged at the reins and Vhagar gathered air beneath her leather and sprung up high, casting her mighty shadow atop the vessels.

Memories consumed me like a bad aftertaste. The sigil-emblazoned sails draped across the masts below needed no introduction. The seahorse and the three-headed black dragon caught the wind.

It could only mean one thing…

The thought got knocked right out of me as a bone-jarring impact to Vhagar’s thorax threw me off my saddle. Her earsplitting roar resounded across the blackwater, as I tumbled down her back. Instinctively, I snagged my wrist through a loop in her saddle ropes, dangling precariously until she steadied herself. I hauled myself back up, heart hammering in my chest, adrenaline pouring into my bloodstream. I scouted the skies for an attacker in a glassy bewilderment, growing acrimoniously aware of my disability. But the firmament was still and empty.

What in the Seven Hells?

Another blow. It knocked me aslant, and I felt fury consuming me like poison. Gritting my teeth, I gripped the saddle horn and twisted the reins twice ‘round my forearm, and perceived every muscle of Vhagar’s back contracting beneath me, waiting to charge.

Who would dare challenge me?

A flicker of movement caught my eye. A shape, shrouded beneath Vhagar’s wing membranes, was soaring alongside us. And when I turned to look, my eye met a stranger, masked and cloaked, stalking us on a dragon as black and swift as a raven. But the beast was miniscule in relation, just the age to breathe fire, and yet had nearly forced me to meet the gods.

Humiliation morphed into a blinding rage that seethed through my veins and marred my vision with a red mist. “Ossēnagon, Vhagar!” Kill. I growled, and steered her toward the trespasser. But the figure crouched down in their saddle, and their dragon dove towards the city.

Fucking craven.

We went after them. Their descent was swift and inaudible, while mine was slow and thunderous like a moving mountain. The pale orange rooftops of King’s Landing, bleached from the summer’s scorching sun, spread out like a vast rust beneath our darkening shadows. I pursued them to the Hill of Rhaenys, where we landed opposite each other outside the crypts of the dragonpit.

Dismounting, I started towards them, each step a measured threat. The steel of my dagger sang its lethal warning as I drew it from my scabbard. But the stranger stood their ground, defiance flickering in their shadowed form. My anger, already a simmering cauldron, boiled over. I closed the distance between up, a growl ripping from my throat, raw and primal.

“You!” The word barely a breath before my blade bit their throat. A desperate struggle ensued, but my palm collared the nape of their neck, locking them to the steel. A Kingsguard’s alarming exclaims sounded in the distance, but the words faded underwater.

“The Stranger requests an audience.” The contiguity drowned my voice into a whisper. I took pleasure in that I towered over them, and felt their hot, humid breath against me, hitching beneath the sharp edge.

“My prince!” Ser Harrold Westerling, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, came running towards us. His voice, booming like thunder, always sufficed in snapping the whole court to attention. But it wasn’t his timber which stirred me this time. “Let her go!”

His words carried me out of my raging inferno.

Her?

I blinked through my apprehension and scavenged the stranger’s frame with my eye, as if I’d awoken from a dream and seen them for the first time. A tug, a rustle, and their hood fell back and settled around their shoulders.

A wave of ice ran down my spine.

It was like seeing a ghost. The protagonist of all my nightmares coming alive, ready to haunt me.

Aylana Velaryon.

Her eyes, the color of sunlit amber flicked with gold, held mine with an unsettling intensity. She seemed to see right through me, demanding answers I could not provide. Then, a knowing smile played on her lips.

“Skoros iksos pirta, kepus?” What’s wrong, uncle? A sardonic edge laced her voice. “Gaomagon ao daor gīmigon issa?” Do you not remember me?

The words hit me like a physical blow. I swallowed, stunned by her High Valyrian.

For a moment, I believe I stood petrified, unable to tear my gaze from her, unable to utter a word.

A torrent of questions, accusations, apologies – years of unspoken turmoil – churned within me. But now, with her life literally in my hands, the words deserted me. My tongue, usually an agile weapon, felt like lead. This was the person who had haunted my every waking and sleeping thought for years, and all I could manage was a stunned silence. Perhaps my countenance spoke volumes where my voice failed.

She echoed the girl I remembered, but time had woven its changes. I had to take it all in. Her voice, saccharine and laced with a hint of mockery, was a stark contrast to the playful child I held in memory. Her once youthful features had sharpened, cheekbones higher, lips fuller. Then, my gaze, fell upon the one jarring element – a crimson scar that snaked across her left eyebrow, expressing a raw pink sheen beneath a shell of transparent skin. Years had passed, yet the wound looked fresh.

The accident.

My jaw tightened as venom seethed through my veins.

I could still see her crumpled, lifeless form in the dirt, her skull cracked open, every time I closed my eye.

And I was holding the bloody rock.

Shame coiled in my gut like a suffocating weight. I could not bear to look at her.

“Some things never change,” she said facetiously. “Don’t you agree, uncle?”

Shit.

I was still holding my knife to her throat. I recoiled with such force that the effort pushed her back as well. A bright seam of red welled up at the lip where my blade had kissed her and painted the length of her neck like dark fruit.

I reviled myself. I had tried to kill her. Again.

But she just smiled, a dimple flashing in her cheek. As if we were still kids and she had made a humorous jest.

I realized I had been holding my breath when a gasp escaped my lips and air rushed back into my lungs. The silence stretched on, thick and heavy.

“Aylana.” I spoke her name derisively without intending to, as I sheathed the knife at my waist where my gaze lingered a moment, dreading to meet hers.

My stomach turned. I never used to call her that. It sounded so formal and distant on my tongue, just like ‘uncle’ on hers. But that’s what we were to each other now - our friendship no more than a distant memory. I no longer assumed myself worthy of her alias. I had lost that privilege. Just as I had lost my friend.

The weight of the past pressed down on me, suffocating.

Agitation infiltrated my mind and my whole disposition must have come off as reticent and hostile. I watched her pull her gloves off finger by finger and release the clasp of her cloak. There was an attitude in her movements and a poise in her posture. Beneath she was dressed in sable flying leathers that clung tightly to her body.

I averted my gaze.

Frustration clawed at my chest, and whatever other feeling it was that made my mouth dry and my palms clammy.

“You look well, nuncle,” she said.

My eye met hers and I noted them briefly flicker across my eyepatch. Her scrutiny made the leather singe my skin with awareness. Growing diffident, I looked away.

“Hmmph,” I said, my favorite expression of disdain.

I knew what she was implying. That if I had only listened to her that night, instead of acting like an arrogant scoundrel, I wouldn’t be looking like a eunuch with one eye at present.

And she was right in mocking me. If her insults were the currency for my betrayal, I would gladly become a spendthrift.

My breathing shallowed as I gazed at the damage I’d caused. I had to get out of there.

“I hope we did not frighten you earlier,” she said, interrupting my escape. “I only thought I might test the mettle of the largest dragon in the world. She truly is remarkable. A fair exchange, to be sure.”

I turned to look at her, and I didn’t know what I must’ve looked like, because the playful smile that had been dancing between her lips our entire encounter, vanished. There it is, I thought. The realization. The Aemond you knew is gone. This is the monster you forged.

“Ser Harrold,” I said. “Escort the princess to the Red Keep. And make sure she does not test the mettle of anyone else in the city.”

“Certainly, my prince,” said Ser Harrold, the Lord Commander who was the very first person to see my face after the loss of my eye. This fact made him remarkably significant somehow.

I mounted Vhagar and took to the sky, watching Aylana and Nymax blur into mere specks on a canvas.

This would be a celebration I was sure to remember…

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173 notes · View notes

hintsofhoney · 2 years

Text

Radio and the Rain

Pairing(s): Dean Winchester x F!Reader

Summary: When a bad storm forces you and Dean apart on a hunt, he realizes just how much you mean to him.

Tags: 18+, smut, making love, p in v, all that jazz... nothing too crazy

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: Hello, I'm back after almost 6 months. Moving across the country (again) among other big life events (all good ones!) gave me the worst writer's block of all time, but thanks to my friends (@soaringeag1e & @emoryhemsworth), writing this fic per their suggestion (based off Radio and the Rain by Chris Young) is what finally pulled me out of it! Beta'd by my angels @wayward-dreamer and @makeadealwithdean. Alright, hope you all enjoy, and I promise I'll be back again with more things soon!

You can also read me on Ao3!

DEAN WINCHESTER MASTERLIST | SUPERNATURAL MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

“Y/N!” Dean calls out, doubtful that you can hear him over the sound of the rain coming down as he tries to ignore the panic building inside him. His hair is stuck to his forehead from the downpour, water droplets streaming down his face as he tries to shield himself from the weather. It’s no use. He’s soaked to the bone – he’s not sure he could have worn enough layers to keep him dry, not in this storm – and the darkness of the forest seems to go on forever. He could have sworn there was a town nearby – some light pollution would be really helpful right about now – but he seems to be shit out of luck. Thunder booms above him, almost deafening, and he keeps on what he hopes is the right path, his heart rate steadily increasing. He needs to find you.

“Y/N!” he yells again after another minute passes. If he’s soaked, he can’t imagine what you must be. He remembers what you’re wearing; skinny jeans, a thin green t-shirt, a black faux leather jacket, hunting boots. Normally, he doesn’t complain about your refusal to wear more layers, but right now, ‘I told you so’ is on the tip of his tongue. He would need a large amount of hands to count how many times he’s told you to prepare for anything , and that a flimsy t-shirt and jacket weren’t gonna cut it, but in your defense, this storm came out of nowhere. He had to give you that, at least.

“Dean!” he whips his head around at the faint sound of his name making its way through the rain, and yells yours out once more before making his way towards your voice. His eyes are adjusted enough to the dark to where he can make out silhouettes of fallen trees ahead of him, stepping over them with little caution as you call out to him again. He has to make sure you’re okay. He has to get to you.

“I’m here, Y/N!” he yells, “Where are you!?”

“Dean!”

He hears it, clear as day from behind him. He turns around in time to see the outline of your soaked body appearing from behind the trees.

“Y/N!” He rushes to you, taking your cold hand in his, and you can’t tell if he’s relieved or angry to see you – or a little bit of both. You should have listened to him when he told you splitting up was a bad idea, but completing the hunt had been the only thing on your mind, Dean’s lectures about safety be damned. “Jesus, you’re freezing,” he comments, like he isn’t an icicle himself. He wants to say, ‘I told you splitting up was a bad idea’, but he holds his tongue. He can lecture you later.

He grabs you firmly by the shoulders, looking you up and down. “Are you okay?”

With the rain pouring down, he sounds like he’s whispering, even though you can tell he’s only a decibel away from full-on screaming. Lightning strikes in the distance, and you’re able to get a clear view of his face for a brief moment. Water streaming down his clenched jaw, hair soaked and plastered to his forehead, worried green eyes searching yours. They land on your cheek, which you think is bleeding thanks to the branch that smacked you in the face a few minutes ago, and you roll your eyes at his over-concern.

“I’m fine, Dean. It’s just a scratch.”

“C’mon,” he replies gruffly, pulling you into his coat in an attempt to shield you from the rain. “Baby’s got a first aid kit in the back.”

Ten minutes of walking later and you can make out Baby’s silhouette parked on the road on the other side of some trees. The rain seems to have gotten even worse – if that’s even possible – and the thought of being underneath some type of roof (Baby’s was just as good as any) where you’d have an opportunity to get dry was getting your tired legs through the last bit of your trek out of the muddy woods.

Your first step onto the dirt road comes with more rain as you come out from under the umbrella of trees. Dean opens the back door for you, ushering you inside and telling you not to worry about your shoes (something that he was usually a stickler about; he liked a clean car). To your surprise, he gets in behind you, quickly closing the door before the backseat can get even more wet. He leans over the front bench, fishing his keys out of his pocket, before starting the ignition and turning on the heat. The radio comes on as Baby starts up, and he lets it play as he opens the glove box and pulls out a flashlight, before sitting back and reaching underneath the driver’s seat for the first aid kit.

“Hold this,” he orders, turning on the light and handing it to you, the brightness of the bulb causing you both to squint as your eyes adjust.

“Dean, I told you, I’m fine,” you reiterate with an exhausted sigh, watching as he opens the white box in his lap.

“Shine it on your face, I need to get a better look.”

You roll your eyes, pointing the flashlight on your cheek, allowing Dean to grab the underside of your chin as he moves your head to the side and examines the damage.

“Needs to be cleaned,” he announces, letting you go and pulling out a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and gauze from the kit. You watch as he unscrews the cap and flips the bottle over, letting the cloth absorb some of the liquid before flipping it back and closing it. “This is gonna sting.”

He says that every time, and you chuckle softly in response. “Yeah, not my first time.”

He doesn’t even crack a smile. He grabs underneath your chin again, dabbing your wound with the cloth, and you’re too focused on his mood to even notice the sting. A minute passes by, and you’re sure it’s clean by now, but he seems to be on autopilot, jaw clenched and eyes both focused in on what he’s doing and glazed over at the same time.

“Dean,” you say gently, placing your free hand on top of his, stilling his movements and pulling him out of his trance. “I think it’s clean.”

Silence, except for the rain and the radio, which is quietly playing Is This Love by Whitesnake (not usually what this station plays, but it’s 2 a.m. and you figure they probably save the sappy 80s songs for this time of night).

And then, “You can’t do that.” His voice is barely above a whisper.

You furrow your eyebrows and tilt your head. “Do what?”

“Scare me like that. I didn’t – I thought –” he shakes his head, dropping his hand and placing the gauze back in the kit, along with the rubbing alcohol, before closing it and shoving it back under the seat. “Just – you can’t do that.”

“Dean, the storm came out of nowhere. We’ve split up on hunts so many –”

“And it’s never my idea!” he interrupts.

“What do you want me to say, Dean!? ‘I’m sorry that God decided to flood the earth again while we were out hunting werewolves’!? I am fine , okay? I can handle –”

He cups your face in his cold hands, careful to avoid the fresh cut on your cheek. “I don’t doubt that you can handle yourself. But I can’t lose you, do you get that?” His face is inches away from yours, and the flashlight slips out of your hands and onto the floor as your breath catches in your throat. The radio starts playing the all-too familiar beginning chords of Night Moves , and you can’t bring yourself to do anything but nod. Dean tucks a strand of wet hair behind your ear. “I can’t lose you,” he whispers.

“I know,” you reply breathily. You place your hand over his again. “You won’t, De.”

The corner of his mouth lifts up into a brief half smile – one that you would have missed had you not been watching his every move. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip with a feather-light touch, and all you can hear is the radio and the rain.

“Your lips are freezing,” he comments, not-so-subtly (in true Dean fashion).

“Shame there’s no way to warm them,” you whisper back, biting back a smile.

“Hm,” he smirks, leaning in. “I can think of a way.”

You close your eyes as his lips meet yours, instantly sending warmth back into your body. Night Moves is still playing, and you ignore the irony as you kiss him back like not freezing to death depends on it. It’s not your first kiss with Dean, but it’s the first one that feels like it really means something, like you could be more than just friends who hook up occasionally. His hands move from your face to your jacket, unzipping it before he helps peel it off your body, your wet skin making everything a thousand times harder. He carelessly throws it into the front seat before his lips move to your neck and he works on getting his own top layer off. He finds your sweet spot right under your ear, one that sends warm shivers down your spine, and then his hands are back on your body, finding their way underneath your soaked shirt, trailing up your sides. His palms feel warm against your skin, and you don’t know if it’s the heat blasting through the vents or the adrenaline pumping through your veins, but you’ve never been hotter.

The two of you separate for a few seconds and tug off the remainder of your clothes, everything landing in a nice pile on the front seat — muddy boots included. The cleanliness of his car is the last thing Dean is concerned about right now.

You feel a lot more comfortable naked — meaning, you’re only wet where you want to be now — and you lean back in the seat, your head resting against the door, as Dean hovers over you, taking you in. The flashlight on the ground was your only source of light with the moonlight blocked out by the storm still raging outside.

“You’re beautiful,” he states, not like an opinion, but like it’s an undeniable fact. Like if you were to look up ‘beautiful’ in the dictionary right now you’d find a picture of your face.

You smile. “Thank you.”

His finger traces your jaw bone, his thumb gently outlines the scrape on your cheek. “I don’t think it’s gonna scar,” he says. You love it when he’s like this: pure and unfiltered, saying exactly what he’s thinking when he’s thinking it.

You chuckle softly. “Good. Be real ugly if it did.”

His expression turns serious. “No it wouldn’t.” He states that like it’s a fact too, and you have no choice but to accept it.

“Okay. It would be pretty badass, I guess,” you concede.

He smiles and nods, leaning down to kiss you softly, quickly, before pulling back and whispering, “Yeah, it would.”

He trails his kisses down your jaw, neck, collarbone, and you catch the next song on the radio — Feels Like the First Time — and roll your eyes and try not to laugh because of course . You’re brought back to the present when Dean’s mouth wraps around your nipple, his tongue flicking over the hardened bud as your hands instantly come to grip his wet hair.

“Fuck,” you breathe, back arching off the leather seat, and he chuckles softly before releasing you with a ‘pop’.

“That’s the plan, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes again, but they quickly close as he moves to give your right nipple some attention, gently pinching the other between his thumb and pointer finger. Your moans cause his cock to twitch, and you feel it against your inner thigh, imagining what it must look like right now.

“Please,” you beg, and you both know exactly what for. He gladly returns his lips to yours, before nestling himself comfortably (or as comfortable as one can get in the backseat of a ‘67 Chevy) between your legs, still damp and sticky from the rain. He kisses you hard as he enters you slowly, and you moan into his mouth as you adjust to his size. Nothing’s ever felt so good.

“Jesus,” he breathes, pulling away momentarily and bracing himself with one hand on the fogged up window as he bottoms out and stays there, looking down at you like you’re the only thing that matters to him, and right now, you are. “Mm, fuck .” He starts to move, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck, his hot breath and soft groans doing nothing to help stall the tightening coil in your abdomen. “‘m never letting you out of my sight again,” he whispers.

All you can do is nod; he feels so good, you never want him to stop.

“Can’t fuckin’ lose you,” he mumbles, his face coming to hover above yours as he cups your unscathed cheek with his free hand. “You hearin’ me?” He shakes his head. “I can’t.”

You nod again, a little more aggressively this time. “I know, Dean. You won’t,” you reassure him through unsteady breaths. It’s your turn to shake your head. “You won’t.”

You hadn’t noticed his thrusts speeding up, too lost in your emotions until he hits a spot that you didn’t even know you had.

“Oh, fuck ,” you hiss, arching your back. “Fuck, right there.”

He listens, picking up the pace ever so slightly, his lips on your neck again, his heavy pants in your ear. “Shit, sweetheart, you feel so good.” He’s breathing so hard it’s barely audible, but you hear it clear as day, and it’s what brings you to the edge.

“Fuck, Dean, I’m gonna —”

“Me too, me too.”

And then you’re tensing underneath him as a wave of pleasure washes over you, his cock twitching inside you as he fills you up, and he’s holding himself up on trembling forearms, desperately trying not to collapse on top of you as the exhaustion from the day finally hits you both like a tidal wave. Through heavy breathing you notice that it’s still pouring outside — probably deeming you stuck here on this no name road until it lets up — and that You Shook Me All Night Long is playing on the radio, and you can’t help but giggle softly and shake your head.

“What?” he questions, confused.

“I think both the weather and the radio are demanding that we go again.”

TAGLIST(S)

If you signed up for my taglist but don’t see your name below, it’s because Tumblr won’t let me tag you!

FOREVERS: @writercole // @makeadealwithdean // @slamminmine // @impala1967dwinchester // @wayward-dreamer // @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan // @deandreamernp // @kitkatd7 // @thewritersaddictions // @foxyjwls007 // @kyjey // @boeshaneboy // @besas-stuff // @babypink224221 // @stoneyggirl2 // @440mxs-wife // @sexyvixen7 // @samsgirl93 // @alwayssnivellus // @simpfoegeorge // @ajordan2020

SUPERNATURAL: @deans-baby-momma // @cookiechipdough // @roonyxx // @jassackles // @roseblue373 // @redbarn1995

DEAN WINCHESTER: @perpetualabsurdity // @lyarr24 // @solarrexplosion // @rach5ive // @akshi8278 // @pink-sparkly-witch // @emoryhemsworth // @whore4romance // @themerc-with-a-mouth

You can join my taglist(s) here!

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester smut #dean winchester #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester fanfiction

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ralkana · 8 months

Text

Fluffbruary, Day 3

February 3: umbrella | seashore | mist

Dream of the Endless / Hob Gadling

Rated G

-----

They are in the Dreaming. His stranger has returned to him, and called him friend, named himself Dream, and they have since met a score of times. They have exchanged stories, traded smiles, shared wine and confidences, and his stranger, his friend, Dream, expressed a wish to show Hob his home. His realm.

So here they stand. He knows he is curled up on his bed in his flat, sleeping deeply, but he is also here. A beautiful sunny day, a gorgeous meadow, a light breeze.

"How does it work?" Hob asks, curious, always curious, and even more so when it comes to anything to do with his friend, his - well. Anything to do with Dream.

"You are a dreamer, and you are here at my request," Dream tells him. "This world, my realm, is for the dreamers. You only need wish, and whatever you wish for will be at hand."

"But you - you've said you are the Dreaming, and the Dreaming is you."

"Yes. That is a simplified answer, but fundamentally correct."

Hob grins. "I'm a simple man, my friend."

Dream's smile is small but fond. "You are anything but, Hob Gadling."

"So if you are the Dreaming, and I ask for something, it is you who provides it, yes?"

" - Yes." Dream's hesitation is brief, so brief it might be missed by anyone who hasn't spent every minute in his presence hungrily studying him. "If I so choose."

"Hmm," Hob says, considering. He does not wish to ask for anything his friend might not freely give. He has wondered lately, what the limits there might be. He thinks those limits may have changed, might be changing still.

In the real world - in the waking, he thinks carefully, a concept Dream has taught him. This world he inhabits now is no less real. In the waking, it is midwinter, cold and dreary, and he has longed for a reprieve.

"This is the kind of day fit for a warm summer rainstorm," he says, and laughs in delight as the clear sky slowly fills with clouds, wispy at first and then heavy with promise. There is a rumble of distant thunder, and then the patter of gentle rain.

Hob laughs again and lifts his face to it, closing his eyes as he feels the raindrops slide through his hair, caress his cheeks.

He opens his eyes, eager to see his friend in the rain, to see it slide down his nose, drip off his chin. Dream, of course, is completely dry in the midst of the rain, though it puddles at his feet and bends the grass around him.

"You are a wonder," Hob says, in awe of the power his friend so casually displays.

Dream's eyes widen at the words, and his fond smile tucks slightly, almost shy. Diffident, it would have been called once - that word has mostly fallen out of favor, and Hob could never have imagined it applied to his stranger. But this is no longer his stranger.

"Should you not wish for an umbrella, now?" Dream asks, his voice catching as Hob lifts his arms to the sky, runs his fingers through his dripping hair. "Or shelter from the rain?"

"No," Hob tells him, watching him through the rain, feeling it settle into his clothes, the drops sliding down his body. "I want to feel it on my skin."

You are the Dreaming, he thinks. And the Dreaming is you. I want to feel you on my skin.

Dream draws in a sharp breath, and Hob shivers as he watches his eyes darken, grow hungry. His long fingers flutter, as if to reach, to clutch, before curling into fists. Holding himself back. Denying himself.

There is no need for that, my Dream, he thinks.

"I wish," he says, but he falters. He is sure. He is sure of what he wants, and he is sure of what Dream wants, but he was sure before, and the cost was great.

Cool fingers brush his cheek, and he gasps. Dream is so near Hob can see the glitter of galaxies in his eyes. The rain falls on him now, in his dark lashes and on the pale perfection of his skin.

"What do you wish for?" Dream murmurs, his voice so low it feels like it is merely an ache in Hob's chest.

Everything you wish to give, he thinks.

"A kiss," he says, and the sun breaks through the clouds once more as their lips meet.

END

-----

Thanks to @fluffbruary for the inspiration!

#dreamling #centennial husbands #hob gadling #dream of the endless #fluffbruary #fluffbruary 2024 #my fic #tumblr fic #fic challenges #my immortal sunshine boy #my sad wet king of cats

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divinehedons · 1 year

Text

godless promethean, elektran rage.

navigation: masterlist

pairing: pirate!joel miller x siren!reader

word count: ~8.4k words (I KNOW I'M SO SORRY)

summary: when the wrath of poseidon brings in something not quite human, a hardened pirate with the harshness of a soldier at war faces a bright-eyed siren with the delusion of a dreamer.

warnings: this is a DARK, EXPLICIT fic. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT or i will BLOCK you. so much plot, pirate!au, siren!au, joel is a violent motherfucker, reader is a metamorphic creature that turns human-like when not submerged in water, graphic depiction of violence and injury, mentions of abduction and implications of abuse, explicit p-in-v sex, oral (f!receiving), squirting, creampie, soooo much murder. it's like a greek tragedy without the incest.

note: THANK YOU FOR 600 FOLLOWERS!!! much of this work was inspired by me rereading the odyssey by homer, but the trope of joel x siren!reader is not of my own making! thank you so much for reading, and as always, comments and reblogs are much apprciated!

Be strong, saith my heart. A wave crests over the hull of the ship. Then another. And another. I have seen worse things than this. Synchronized hands haul the rope for the sails, a last attempt to regain control of their vessel. The Balkan sea stretches before weary sailors, endless and unforgiving, with one foot in their watery grave and the other clawing to live.

In the midst of this carnage is The Flounder, harbinger of chaos, populated by a crew of men who pillage, murder, and destroy anything that gets in their way. Joel once thought of him and his men as indestructible. The Wrath of Poseidon makes him reconsider otherwise.

“Goddamnit, Bonnie, we’re never gettin’ out of this mess!” Joel yells over the deluge of rain, tightening his grip and growling as the rope digs in to the skin of his palms. He sees another wave crest over them, sturdy as a wall, coming down upon their shivering backs, leaving them spluttering out seawater. He coughs momentarily, heaving in air as he digs his feet into the deck.

When he regains his breath, he hears his name being called. He looks, their Captain bellowing from where he steered. His new orders came through in the middle of the crack of thunder and the whistle of an unending storm. Check beneath the deck for damages. Fix anything that could sink them. He calls for someone to replace his hold and he runs for it.

In his head, he had begun to pen a letter back to his waiting daughter under the care of his brother. Dear Sarah, he thinks, climbing down the ladder and finding himself in knee-deep, ice-cold water. I promised you that this will be my last expedition. That after this, we shall live out however you want us to. I only hope that I can live up to that promise. He cusses under his breath when he finds a growing leak in the hull, crossing himself as he immediately went about to fix it temporarily with what materials he could find. You’re safer with your uncle Tommy than here in this misery. And should anything happen to me, know that I love you and I trust you to be good to him, too. He crosses the threshold to see if there was anything else, moving across floating bottles, bobbing up and down with remnants of booze. With a sigh, isolated from the chaos above deck, he leans against a column, grabbing a drifting bottle and swallowing down the booze to settle his nerves.

I grow old, I grow old. He mouths the words under his breath. I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

The muffled sounds of the world melts away as he tries to catch his breath, gritting his teeth from the ache in his hips. Getting too old for this. He tries to think of a way that rest can be comfortable in this mess. Sleep, he thinks, delicious and profound. The very counterfeit of death. It is only when his nerves settle that he hears it.

A splash in the common room. Too loud to be some drifting object. Something that continues to move against the motion of the ship between the waves. He stills himself, the empty bottle slipping between his fingers. Slowly, he moves closer to the source of the sound, like a predator stalking his prey in the darkness. He retrieves a drifting harpoon, peeking through the threshold of the room to inspect. In the semi-darkness, interrupted by the flickering of lanterns and dying candelight, he catches the shimmer of something alive. He raises his weapon, looks through his good eye, his brows crinkling at the effort to focus.

Too old and too goddamn blind for this shit.

He blinks a few times more before he finally sees. And what he sees is you.

Your lithe arms reaching against the walls of the ship, trying to find a weak link that could let you escape. Were you brought in by the waves? Were you the very thing responsible for the leak he just had to fix? Initially, Joel made the movement to speak, to ask how you had ended up here—the sea is no place for a maiden like you. But his breath hitches when he looks closer to see… well, you. The incandescent flickering of a scaled tail, blending with inhuman yet somewhat human skin around your hips, and your upper body, glorious, unmarked, and completely fucking naked.

Perhaps it was the months at sea, conversing with no one but the same crew of men who, despite their intelligentsia and capabilities, do not exactly have the looks capable of producing in him the flustering exhilaration of some teenager. But he, of all people, know of the stories, too. The whispers shared in the saloons in the darkness. The shared thrill and excitement of such beauty and danger lurking beneath the temptresses’ skins. He has heard of claws coming for his companions’ throats, have heard of the trickery they can cause with the power of the ocean entirely at their disposal. He thinks of Odysseus again— tethered to the mast of his ship, The only one of his men to hear the voice of the sirens and have survived. Odysseus, who would have laid his life down just to come close to the very presence of something so divine.

Another thing he knows is that the price of one siren is half the bounty they had planned for. Months of work cut out for himself. Months closer to seeing his daughter again. It’s enough to give him the taste of freedom. His own little piece of heaven that, ironically, is someone else’s hell. The funny thing was, he does not feel guilt about it.

Perhaps he was not Odysseus. He was not as noble. Nor did he ever want to be. A noble character would never provide a good life for his Sarah, waiting for him oceans away.

That was the decision that sealed the creature’s fate before him. Without a second thought, he fires his harpoon, the sharp head piercing through the creature’s shoulder as an angelic wail emanates from her precious throat. With her pinned down, he had begun yelling, calling for the presence of men to see what they’ve caught in their vessel. Their ticket to riches. The honeypot herself.

The blade itself incites to deeds of violence.

He swallows down the guilt as the thunder of heavy steps descend upon their victim, her screams only growing louder and louder amidst the exhilarated, disbelieving laughter of his companions. He does not dare to look. Does not dare to see those doe eyes of yours begging for respite, pulling him into your charms.

An eye of an eye. A good life for Sarah in exchange for hers.

Fair enough.

—-

When The Flounder has escaped the barrages of the storm, the sea is quiet. Some would even say peaceful. Joel wouldn't exactly use that word. Not when he hears your wails breaking the silence. That first night, no one understood what needed to be done. No one even bothered to try and treat your wound. The very wound he had caused. Everyone had something more important to do. Clear the seawater beneath the hull, secure the sails, have a quick meal, get a few winks of sleep. Naturally, the mythical being, as all other inconsequential things, were tucked away, you dealt with the usual brusque nature of men.

So when he had been called to watch you before dawn broke, that's what he set his mind to. Stepping down beneath the deck, with spare scraps of cloth and booze in hand. They've cleared out the flooding. But the wood hadn't dried completely. Mick, who he had passed beforehand, gave him a questioning look. "Aren't ya scared she'd rip your throat out?"

He scoffs, tilting his head to the side as he speaks. "I'm more scared of the stench she'll make if she starts dyin' on us, Micky."

What he did not expect when he opens the closet you've been locked in is the metamorphic cross between a tail and legs you kick out at him. What he hears next is the snarl, your body knocking him over, small, webbed hands slipping around his throat. “You asshole!” That same heavenly voice, filled with so much malice that does not fit with the angelic features towering over him. You speak in a language he does not understand, a torrent of words driven by so much emotion that he sees a glance of what Homer was so distasteful about. You could kill him, devour him bones and all and you wouldn’t even flinch.

However, he sees how your rage blinds you, too. Blinds you to his precise movements, making you think you’ve subdued him, only to suddenly flip your positions, pinning you down by your wrists, trying to look into your eyes.

What you see, staring up at him as your last yells escape you, is the strands of silver in his hair. What follows next is his tired eyes. A sea of stories that you feel as if you can almost hear them if the world is quiet enough. However, you cannot deny the warmth to them. The fire that you failed to see in the other men that shoved you in the closet you have been suffocating in. It’s what makes you stop in your struggle as you finally hear his voice.

“Damnit, let me help you, honey, c’mon…”

It’s then that Joel finally comprehends what he sees. You, a mythical being that shifts from merfolk in one instance, to a walking goddess in the next. Perhaps it was what helped your kind survive; camouflaging yourself and disappearing amidst throes of people. “You turn when ya… when…?”

You swallow, breathless and trembling as you grit your teeth. He sees the panic in your eyes, the idea that he can just betray you if he wanted to. If it would benefit him.

“Let me help you, darlin’.”

“W-when I’m…” You breathe in sharply. “When I’m not in water.”

He nods, slowly, watching the lithe legs and your bare body, spotless and perfect in every way. “I see.” He removes himself from you, moving away from your periphery. You gather your breath, turning over to see him, kneeling over an upturned washtub, somewhat filled with some form of water or another. “Those men up there? They can’t see you like this, otherwise…” he trails off, preferring not to picture what they’d do. What they’ve all once done before at sea. “Ya hear me?” He looks back at you, watching the way your hands gripped your bleeding shoulder wound, evidence of what he had already done to you. “You don’t know what else they can do to a pretty girl like ya.”

So, gently, he kneels beside you with a pained groan from the ache in his knees. You flinch under his touch and he gives you a stern look. “Why did you do this?”

He shakes his head, opening the bottle he brought down with him to pour it over the gaping flesh. Your soft fingers grip on to his arm, the softest whine escaping your lips as you squeeze your eyes shut. “You’re not the only one fightin’ to survive in this world, honey.” He shushes you gently, moving to wrap what pieces of cloth he could find, using them to bandage your wound as you finally soften in his hold. He helps you into the tub, and he tries not to look into your eyes again.

You spoke again when he turned away, giving you the privacy he assumed you needed. “Just because you need to survive doesn’t mean I need it any less.” He stops in his tracks, looking down for a moment before clearing his throat. “Are men always this wretched? That one must tear down the innocent to survive?” He moves to answer, turning back momentarily, before sighing, turning back to continue cleaning up the mess. “Thank you, though. For… this.”

You know exactly how to describe it. You just don’t want him to hear it. The gentleness that comes, not in the absence of violence, but despite the abundance of it.

Joel hears the noise in his head, clouding his thoughts and drowning them out as he moves from one place to another.as he tries not to think about you, quiet in a tub of water, pretending to ignore him. Men are so quick to blame the gods…

He hands you a plate of scraps. The trimmings from a loaf of bread. A slice of some meat, and the last pieces of cheese he could find. “Eat,” he orders gruffly, moving to sit by the side of your tub, while he seats himself with a slice of bread. “Can’t have ya dyin’ of starvation either.”

You obey, weakened by the struggles of the evening, disheartened by your imprisonment, so close to freedom and at the same time so far away from it. You eat slowly, as if considering each little fragment you were handed, as if the world is unfamiliar in the presence of someone else.

Joel couldn’t help it. Perhaps it was your charm. Whatever it was, he started to tell you things.

He tells you of his life, so far away from the ocean, landlocked. He tells you how they make a living with animals. But he also tells you about Sarah. Sarah who dreamt of the world. Sarah who he was doing all this for. Sarah who asked him as a child to read to her every night. Sarah who was growing more and more with each passing day, the gap between the two of them becoming wider than he could ever comprehend.

“My survival may not mean much,” he says, “but hers is the most vital thing in my life, doll.”

He feels your gaze on him, becoming easier and easier to see as the sun slowly grows higher in the sky. In thirty minutes, his watch will end, and you do not know how the next man will treat you next. Will he be kind? Will he have Joel’s eyes?

He turns to leave, taking the plates with him as he stands up with a pained groan. “Don’t cause too much trouble, girl.” He only stops when you say his name, his gaze catching the blurry image of you, your tail sinking beneath you in the tub. “Yeah?”

“Will you read to me when you return?” you whispered, afraid to show fragility in your own internment.

He nods after a moment of thought, clambering up on deck to report back to the Captain.

Men are so quick to blame the gods.

—

For a while, a week or so, you believed things could be nice with Joel somewhat in your corner. Everyone else seemed to care less or cower in fear of you. Maybe because you do try to scare them away. At least, if you were going to be betrayed, it was Joel doing the betraying.

He returned at the same time just as he did the night before. And slowly, a routine emerges. He cleans your wounds, he feeds you whatever he finds. Then he reads to you. His eyes are too weak to read without you holding the lantern. So you learned that second night to emerge from your tub and to hold the lantern for him. He reads to you with the skilled words of a bard. He reads to you as if he’d read this tale before. Perhaps to Sarah? Perhaps to someone else?

You feel your stomach curdle at the thought of there being someone else in his life. You swallow down the bile and listen more closely.

When he leaves at dawn, you lie in the tub, dreaming of the words he had read to you, turning your back to the man that comes next. They do not bother you. You do not bother them. You become a ghost until he brings you to life.

Sing to me, Muse, of the Man of many wiles.

By the third night, he brings with him a blanket for you to wrap yourself in as you sit closer beside him, trying to follow the words he read, only to surrender because the letters are too rigid, too unnatural. You began shutting your eyes as he reads to you, learning of Odysseus, a once too familiar name you have heard in others of your kind before…

Sing to me, Muse, of these matters. Daughter of Zeus,My starting point is any point you choose.

You begin to talk to him too by the fourth night, observing your transformed toes as he hammered little areas he figured needed repairs. You tell him of the world beneath the waves, the languid distances you’ve traveled, never truly feeling as if you have found a home. You tell him, too, of wonders big and small.

You spoke of all these things, pretending to be unaware of the way he listens with such interest. It’s like you wanted him to be interested. How could you not, when night by night his eyes become warmer and warmer whenever they fell upon you? How could you not when he’s the only one that cared?

You try to read his thoughts, sometimes, when it’s quiet and he prefers to sit by himself, finding a few winks of sleep while you ate your food. He’s rather good at hiding them. You wonder if it makes his life easier. You wonder if any of it is easy for him.

Then he asks you something on his fifth watch.

“Is the whole singin’ thing somethin’ you actually do?”

You turn your head over your shoulder, setting down the snowglobe you’ve taken an interest in the last couple of hours. You saw it on a shelf this afternoon. And you had been impatient for Joel to arrive ever since. You consider the question, Then you smile and nod meekly.

“Do…” you pause, moving to face him instead. “Do you want to hear?”

He smirks, moving the chair closer to your seated frame, seating with the backing pressed to his front, legs straddling the seat, arms atop, covering that sliver of chest you had been sneaking glances from all evening. He had that thin linen shirt on again— the one that swoops down his chest. The one you see in your dreams.

“Only if it won’t kill me, sweet cheeks.”

You like that. Sweet cheeks. You barely understand what it means. You nod slowly, moving to lay on your back as you stare at the ceiling, monotonous and unchanged since you last looked. As you sing, you try not to look him in the eye. As if you cannot bear the sight of him seeing your capabilities and forever changing his perception of you. The hymn is warm, almost homely. A relentless Odyssey that means to take you home. A song that’s said to bring forth memories of home. You know Joel does not understand the language. Nor do you want him to. You won’t admit it, but you’re still terrified of what he could do if you remind him of how much he misses his home.

But what is even more surprising is this: instead of reminiscing about the tropics from which you have loved so deeply, all you can think about is him. All you can picture is his face. All you can see is possibilities of how he’s looking at you now.

When you finish, dawn is already breaking over the horizon. He has to go.

Quietly, you rose and slowly return to the tub with your snowglobe, watching as your body metamorphosizes— your last line of defense for survival. The shine of your scales so familiar, but never this clear under the water. The light is always so diffused— as distant as a foreign planet. Joel, on the other hand, stays there for a few minutes more, looking at the spot where you just were—at the plank of wood bearing the wet shape of your body. You started to think maybe he won’t leave when he swallows, rising from where he sat, and approaching you to hand the cheese he couldn’t eat from his portion of the meal.

“I quite enjoyed that,” he confesses, tucking the food into your palm. Just then, he encloses your hand in both of his, taking a moment to savor the feeling of your cool, changed skin against his. He wonders momentarily if you’ll feel different without your tail. “Thank you.”

He leans down, bringing your hand up to his waiting mouth, his lips pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. A shiver runs down your spine as you comprehend the sensation. His lips. How warm he is… the scruff of his beard against smooth skin. You feel him smirk against your hand, pulling away as he makes his way above deck.

And on your hand is the reddened skin that evidenced the smidgen of affection you were giving. And for now, it’s enough.

You turn your back to the world once more and into your own dream world, staring at your hand as you dream of Joel all morning long.

—

You suppose everything that goes around does eventually come around. You wonder why you're so optimistic. But, you supposed, just as things were getting better, the fates had other plans in store for you.

The call came just as you were coming of the stupor of sleep. From what you can tell, it was barely midday, and someone was yelling above where you resided. All hands on deck.

The thunderous noise of heavy feet trundle above head. The man watching you grumbled, muttering something along the lines of, "don't you dare think about running, li'l bitch."

You watch him slam the door, and curiosity gets the better of you. You rise slowly from the tub, slinking along the floor, struggling to lift yourself enough to peer out from one of the windows. But when you do, you've come to realize the gravest sin of your naivety.

There is a ship to be plundered. Slowly, the masks worn by the men where you are melt away. You see familiar men with their swords drawn, laughing maniacally, screaming and terrifying the ship they've found to appease their hunger.

You feel your body changing, and you begin to turn away from the window when you catch sight of silver hair and scruff. A visage that you finally see in broad daylight.

Joel is one of the men who almost seem to dance to the song of violence. Perhaps the stories were true. Perhaps the secrets of the shadows are laid bare in the light. Even Joel's secrets cannot escape the midday sun. When you see him, he is in battle with some toughened fisherman, their duel witnessed by cowering passengers and well-dressed women. For a moment, you think Joel will come to his senses, see how senseless all this violence is.

But then he takes the man by his hair, holding his head and facing him to the sun. His sword arches across the expanse of his victim's neck, rivulets of blood bursting forth in gush, an unstoppable stream. A squeal escapes you, the violent image burnt into the recesses of your brain, forcing you away from the window.

You run on shaky legs, screaming and yelling, reaching the doorway and attempting to push the door open, only to find resistance. Your fists pound the hard wood, your body pushing and shoving, unable to accept the fact that you can't call to him— show him that you saw and you demand an answer why.

For the first time, ever since Joel shot you with a harpoon, you truly understood something you tried so hard to ignore.

You sleep under the shelter of murderers. You think you felt affection from the hands of a man who just as easily took someone's life away. You are only loved because you're something else. Something not human.

You are only loved because you'll ensure their survival.

—

The blade itself incites the deeds of violence.

When the carnage ended, Joel raised his head to see the sky beginning to paint itself in bolder strokes of colors. He stretches his arms, only to feel the sticky plasma of drying blood sticking to his arms, his torso, spotting the expanse of his face. He is the last to leave their conquered ship, and he takes his time. He walks along the scattered piles of bodies, putting whoever hasn't perished out of their misery with the very same blade he wielded in battle. He's alive. He can go home. He watches the revelry on their vessel: men roasting the spoils from the kitchen, barrels upon barrels of ale and mead slowly being chewed through.

The stage is set. All they need is a little shock of entertainment.

But what he worries about is you. You who probably cowered from fear at the sudden influx of noise. You who definitely saw the things they are capable of doing. You with the wound on your shoulder, healing at a snail's pace with your imprisonment. So, he takes the time to find supplies to help you. He finds antiseptic. He finds needle and thread. It will have to do.

When he returns to his ship, He has spread oil across the deck where the bodies lay. With one bloody hand, he strikes a match to burn away the evidence of their carnage. The burning ship drifts further and further into the horizon, drowned out by the sounds of cheering. Joel is handed a mug of better than average mead.

As he watches the lights flicker and consume the rest of the ship, one question remains at the forefront of his thoughts, echoed and repeated by every voice in his head.

Do I dare?

Clarity comes when he's two mugs in, everyone else fucking off to see how much treasure piled up. He looks at the door that leads directly where you are and the question becomes clearer. It is in the iambic beat of his heart. I am, I am, I am.

It's in the excitement at the thought of seeing you tonight and having a good meal to offer. He begins to smirk, taking two plates and finding food he thinks you'll like.

Do I dare disturb the universe?

—

You do not look at him when he enters. You cannot, knowing the things you’ve seen today. Especially when you hear he’s happy, humming as he sinks down the stairs from the deck. The jump on his step was not there before. And instead of finding that itching curiosity to see if he was smiling or if you were responsible for this joy, you feel your stomach sour at one thought.

Perhaps the slaughtering of others brought glee to his bones.

“You must be hungry,” he says softly, placing a hand on your shoulder. You feel a strange stickiness to his touch. So strange that you finally look, only to be horrified by the sight of his bloodsoaked hand. You yelp helplessly, shrinking away from his touch. You shed tears, luminescent in the semi-darkness, as precious as pearls that only he can see. “Darlin’...” His hand comes to cup your face gently, trying to make you look him in the eye. In this form, your skin is cold, the warmth of his hands turning your skin red.

“Y-you killed them,” you finally manage, the iron smell filling your senses. Seeing you panicked, Joel reaches down into the tub to slowly bring you out of your tub and into his willing arms, slow shushes escaping him. “Are you going to kill me, too?”

So that was what you were so scared of.

You bury your face into his chest, his shirt smelling of him— of sandalwood and musk, tobacco smoke, and underneath it all, a few specks of blood. Meanwhile, he lets you, cradling you in his arms as you continue to shed your tears. He lets you, knowing you wouldn’t listen to him with so much emotion in that pretty little head of yours.

But when you do eventually calm down, he doesn’t miss a moment. He couldn’t.

“I can never harm you, honey.” He breathes in through his nose, finally close enough to smell you. The sea air in your hair, sunshine and honeysuckles from lands he can only dream of. “I can’t even if I tried.”

Slowly, he lays you down where he had dropped his sheet—the sheet you’ve been wrapping yourself around. The sheet that smells like the both of you; that way he could imagine waking up to you the past few times he had gotten sleep. Slowly, he straddles your changed form, naked and so fucking divine it has his head spinning. “Can I take care of ya, darlin’?” He waits for you. Even when everything is pushing him to kiss you— he has to know you want this.

He has to know you’re not miserable.

Seeing this, you take a deep breath. You hold his face. Your skin, smooth and not exactly human, bright against his, earth-marred, bloody, and burnt from days in the sun. And yet, you do not see those flaws. All you see are his warm eyes, so desperate to tell you he wants you, and yet so willing to walk away if you asked. So you grip him by his shirt, pulling him against you in a wanton, desperate kiss.

It is the first kiss you share. The first of the hundreds you’ll share that night. But you will always remember that first.

Because it’s burning against your cool skin. Because the scratch of his scruff is a sensation you have not felt in the long life you have lived. He holds your face, bringing your head closer to him, pressing against the front of his skull, making you whine from want as he deepens the kiss. You’ll always remember it because you know this kiss.

You can already see the ending before the two of you ever began.

His hand slips into your hair, his mouth pulling away from yours, only to drift down your cheek, your jaw… He chuckles against your skin when you gasp so meekly, melting like butter in his arms.

“Let me take care of you, sweetheart,” he whispers, marking the crook of your neck with his mouth. “Let me show you how ya have me wrapped around your pretty li’l finger.”

Already, you can see him in your memories, tangled up in him. His kisses on your neck, his spit drying against your skin. His fingers reaching and tearing you apart. In the eternity you’ll be facing alone… he’s there. Just there, a willing invitation to a dream.

He’s pushing your legs up, now fully transformed, and he comprehends everything. Without words, it seems, things simply come naturally to him. He cups your cheek with one hand, folding your body in half as your legs drape over his broad shoulders. His thumb brushes your lips, and you part them for him. You let him fuck his thumb into your wet mouth, groaning at the way you suck on him. “Good girl…”

Just then, his other hand reaches down, a warm sensation cupping your cunt as you whine softly against him, looking him in the eye. “Good God, are you always this soakin’?”

You slowly pull back, shivering softly from the sensation of him parting your folds. Only you, Joel. No one else can do this to me. He comprehends, and he groans again, leaning down to kiss you. His cock aches in the confines of his pants. Just like that, everything dulls out and he can only comprehend this: to have you. You, you, and just you.

“Guess I have some makin’ up to do to ya, huh?”

Just then, his head disappears between the valley of your breasts, marking a trail of blood-red hickeys down to your stomach, one hand pinching a nipple harshly enough to make you squeal, to which he shushes you again. Gonna get us caught, doll. He continues his way, finally finding your sweet cunt. He shifts his hands so he can slowly part your folds. He kisses the inside of your thighs just as you clamp one hand over your whining mouth. And, with nothing left to do, he takes a deep breath, looking at your face as he sinks his tongue down between your folds, tasting you with a longing groan of delight.

Even his griefs are a joy long after to one that remembers all that he wrought and endured.

All you can feel is the flurry of rhythm Joel sets. His trembling jaw, as if whispering prayers to whatever powers may be. His tongue splitting you open and fucking you raw in a way so obscene, you think it’s unbecoming. Perhaps it is. Perhaps by letting him have you this way, you have turned your back on your world. But he fucks one finger into your surprisingly warm cunt and everything else fades away into the silence.

“Fuck, baby…” It’s so easy, you whining urging him on, calling for him and begging to just keep going, dear God. One finger becomes two, then three. Then he raises himself so he can see your face better. So he can see the way your features contort into a heavenly amalgamation of beauty and pleasure and wonder in one full spectrum. But there is nothing more beautiful when his fingers brush against something that made you keen closer to his touch, eyes wide open with your mouth trembling.

“That’s it, isn’t it, darlin’? It is, huh?” He chuckles, the rumble of it vibrating from his chest, echoing to the backs of your thighs, and finally, straight to your wanting cunt. He smirks, his upper body shifting so his arm was much more free— just so he can keep aiming for that one spot that made you keen so beautiful he gets a glance of your otherworldly beauty.

A long forgotten poem comes up from the back of his head, just as he was pulling your orgasm from your willing frame, his other hand covering your mouth before you get too loud just so you wouldn’t be interrupted, caught, and possibly separated.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. “Good fuckin’ girl. Such a good girl, honey…” I did not think they’ll sing for me.

You shut your eyes, grinding your hips into his touch, chasing a sensation you can’t even dare put into words. You whine into the palm of his hand, feeling as if your skin, normally so cool, set on fire with the desire you have for Joel. You peer through your damp lashes, making out the silhouette of his smirk, his warm eyes somewhat swelling with pride.

“Joel… there’s… there–” you barely get the words out when you feel it. Your vision going white, the electricity flowing through your body, and coming out of you in warm bursts.

Heaven, you think, from how Joel so lovingly described it.

When you come to, he’s pulling his fingers away, and a spurt of fluids follow in the wake of his absence. He chuckles, the sound of it emanating the very depths of your consciousness. “Didn’t know ya could do that, pretty girl.”

It leaves you warm, slightly sleepy. Slightly drifting in and out—the way the ocean climbs and recedes from the shore.

You don’t notice the way Joel watches you. The way blood smeared your perfect face. You do not notice his hand tracing down your torso, coloring it a faded, rusty red. Marked by him, and for him.

And yet if some god shall wreck me in the wine-dark deep, even so will I endure. For already have I suffered so much, and much have I toiled in perils of waves and wars. Let she be added to the tales of those.

“Please eat,” he finally says as he kisses your forehead. “I saved a plate for you.”

So you do. You sit up, trembling, the cool porcelain pressed against your thigh as you feasted. Grapes, expensive nuts, and meats you could only dream of. You try not to think of the price he paid to lavish you with such an offering. Because now, instead of the guilt, you feel the rumblings of power in your veins. You have become his very god, the one he’d slay men for. The very god to which he offers a plate paid for by carnage. And if you’ve become god, what can you offer him?

Heaven was not fit to house a creature such as I.

—-

He makes love to you after dinner. Slow, careful. He doesn’t want to terrify you. He doesn’t want to get caught, either. He has you on his lap, your cool hands cupping his heated face, spineless from pleasure as he fucks up into you, giving you a moment to accommodate him and get used to the feeling of his cock stretching you wide open. Every vein, his very length, arching and filling you up in the best way there is to be filled.

“Tell me you want this,” he asks, and you oblige him. You whine for him, calling, biting your lip and throwing your head back. You lead his hand to your chest, heaving with slow, shaky breaths. He knows what you want without ever asking it of you. And that is why he squeezes the curve of your breast, sitting up to press his mouth to your collarbone. The kisses set your skin aflame, his fingers pinching and pulling the pleasure from your willing body.

So he gives you everything. You cum once again with you on top of him. You cum again after he bends you over the nearest table with his rough fingers rubbing circles on your needy clit. And on the third time, somewhere when it’s quiet, you both lie on the blanket, your back to his chest, his cock unmoving inside of you.

It’s a moment of respite. A lull. A moment to catch breaths.

“How much did you see earlier?”

His arm is around your waist, his mustache brushing against the back of your ear. It’s nice. It’s almost domestic, a word so foreign to you. Perhaps domesticity is something innately human. But he makes you have a taste of it. And it tastes so sweet. You hum softly, tilting your head so he can kiss more of your neck.

“I saw the first man you killed,” you tell him, to which he groans, pulling you closer. “I couldn’t watch any more after that. It was… too much.” You feel his teeth brushing against the curve of your ear. Then he bites gently just to hear you squirm.

“I don’t want you lookin’ anymore, sweetheart,” he whispers, “not if it’s going to upset you this much.” He leans up, peering over your peaceful face, with your eyes shut and your body languid. “But… I suppose I’ll try.” You open one eye, peering up at him. “Less murders, my queen, yes ma’am.”

You giggle, pressing your palm to his mouth as he continues to tease you with such pet names. He speaks behind your palm. Angel baby, cutie pie… Other pet names you don’t comprehend because the sounds disappear into your cool skin.

And then he’s fucking you again, with you on your side and him above you, caging you in his arms. You catch your lip between your teeth, gritting out half-choked moans. Already, the pleasure has begun to border the line between pleasure and pain. Already, you feel your legs quaking, but you feel the tremble in his spine as well.

He’s close. He’s so fucking close.

That’s when you notice how sporadic his bursts of movement are becoming. Fewer and shorter in between. So, you begin to give back, maneuvering your bodies so you’re laying on top of him once more, digging your blunt nails down against his biceps. You feel his hands on your waist. Bloody hands that have taken an infinite number of lives before you. Bloody hands that will take who knows how many lives after. Bloody hands, that, despite their track record, hold you as if you are so fragile in his grasp.

Gentleness incomprehensible. The best of the world in the palms of his hands.

The both of you, flying into deep, empty space. Alone with Joel in the aether.

Watching his orgasm wash over him just as yours does for the fourth and last time. He pulls you into his chest, letting you moan into his chest. The only thing that betrays his release is the stuttered breaths, the shaky fingers. That is all. And then you feel the warmth of his seed, buried deep within you, treasured and tucked away. It’s so much, you feel it reach places you didn’t expect it to be.

Even when he’s ending things, he’s giving you everything he’s got.

In the afterglow, he takes care of you. Already, the sun is rising Once again, you won’t see him until it’s dark again. You’ll be turning away from the world and dreaming of those eyes and his smile. But for now, he wipes you clean, kissing your forehead as he brings you back to your tub. For now, you hold his hand for another minute.

“Y’know… Sarah loved playing siren as a fuckin’ kid,” he finally says, cleaning up the plates in silence. “She loves the sea.”

You peer over the lip of the tub, smiling up at him dreamily. “She must be so beautiful. With your smile?” You sigh, leaning back as you look up at the ceiling. “You must miss her much.”

He brushes your cheek with a sigh, shrugging. “Every fuckin’ day, baby.”

He walks away from you, and you wait for him to look back. He does, with a shit-eating smirk at your dazed eyes, neck marked up by his own doing. “Don’t kill anybody today, Joel.”

He nods slowly. “Get some sleep, squirt.” As you turn away, the smile drops. He cannot show that vulnerability out there, amongst the men he’s shared blood, sweat, and tears with. Men he killed from and men he killed with. Men who’d want to tear you apart and swallow you whole. Men who’d kill him if they knew what the two of you did all night.

Then how should I begin to spit out the butt-ends of my days and ways? How should I presume?

He doesn’t have to presume for long. Not when he emerges on deck and he sees the dark shadow of land specking the endless sea of blue he had grown accustomed to. There stands the rise and fall of a mountain, a jagged line breaking the skyline.

The Captain speaks, and the shock burns through him so rapidly that he tries to hide it by leaning against the starboard side.

We hit land midday tomorrow. Our li’l baggage ‘bout to finally bring in some fuckin’ money.

The clock is ticking, what else can he do? Go, go, go.

—

When Joel returns, he’s waking you from a long, languid sleep. You turn to smile at him, but there’s a different look in his eyes. An urgency, a finger pressed to your lips to ensure silence. He carries you from the water and you’re brought up close to see the crease on his forehead. When he wraps you in the sheet, that’s when he speaks.

“Need t’get ya out of here, baby.”

The great escape. The prison break.

Now you feel the tension.

He waits for you to turn, to become inconspicuous. Meanwhile, he’s hot on his heels. He’s gripping a rucksack in his hands, heavy with some inconceivable baggage, muttering to himself. You start to understand the madness. You start to wonder if there’s two versions of Joel waiting behind every door. One of them is the lover— the man who’d kiss you as he introduces you to a world of pleasure. Then there was the monster— the man who sliced open the throat of the person he was robbing blind, the man who fired the harpoon that caused your imprisonment.

“So the monster has come to set me free of my bonds.”

You rise, shaky on your legs and clothed in that sheet that kept you modest. It’s when he stops in his tracks, looking you in the eye before sighing, tearing the cloth away from you to introduce a linen shirt of his. It smells of him; perhaps it even reeks of him.

“They’re going to butcher you if I don’t try, sweetheart.”

You do what you promised to yourself you’ll do when he asks you something. You put your blind faith into his hands and take a leap.

He leads you through a maze of rooms you cannot comprehend. You stop at the crosshairs. You duck under tables when he asks you to. And you know why. Because the men who thirst for your blood can be found on every corner. Because you’re running out of time. Because he’d rather lose you to the waves than those who shed blood like he does.

In a matter of minutes, you find yourselves in the cool evening air. It’s a blind spot, and it’s far enough that he helps you to the raft while it’s almost silent. The sounds of men beginning to have dinner so distant and far away, it’s like an entirely different world. Skillfully, Joel lowers you both into the ocean, the distant beating of the waves masking the sound of him cutting the rope that tethered you to the ship.

He keeps one hand on the behemoth you’ve escaped, and he audibly counts. Quiet enough for you to hear. Tens. Hundreds. Then, a thousand seconds passes.

He pauses, straining to hear. In the flickering light of the lanterns, you see the silver in his hair and his beard. You wonder, momentarily, if it’s the last you’ll see of him. That’s when you hear it.

Yells. But not of alarm. Not of you, their treasured prisoner, missing from her cage. It’s the yells of panic. Of suffering. Of pain.

Upon seeing your features, Joel finally reveals the hidden card up his sleeve.

“I poisoned them. I poisoned them and robbed them blind so they’ll never come after you.”

You look to him, waiting for another shoe to drop. But there is none. This is who he is, laid bare for you to see. Your devotee, giving you the ultimate sacrifice. This is not the monster nor the lover. This is Joel. All masks have fallen to their knees and prostrated themselves before you. Every post abandoned and conquered, only for you.

“Go.”

You blink, and his trembling fingers hold your cheeks, his shaky lips kissing the crown of our head.

“No one’s coming for you as long as I’m there to stop them.”

When you don’t move, he grits his teeth, as if caught between a rock and a hard place. A second passes, then his arms take you, throwing you overboard and into the familiar depths of an ocean below.

The waves welcome you with a surge of power, relentless and enduring. More immortal than you. More divine than you can ever hope to be. The moment you are released from Joel’s hold, the saltwater licks clean the wound on your shoulder. It washes away the scent of Joel’s shirt.

He’s already being erased from you.

From beneath the depths, everything comes back to you. The kiss on your hand, the scraps of food. His sticky, bloodmarked fingers marking you. All of it, slipping through your fingers like sand. In the cool darkness of the open sea, all you can see is a flame starting from the base where you last saw Joel. A fire spreading amongst the ship which you once hailed your prison.

You can see Joel’s boat, smaller in comparison, already racing away towards the shore.

All you can do now, with the power of Poseidon surging and bubbling beneath your veins, is to sing. To sing a hymn that begs before the very gods themselves. But it’s a song that begs Joel, too. Begs him to remember you.

Don’t forget me. You do not know if he hears you. Don’t forget me.

You attempt to follow him beneath the waves.

Don’t forget me.

—-

Against all odds, Joel Miller disembarks from the train to find himself in a farmland so familiar to him. Against all odds, it is three weeks later, and he’s followed all the roads and finds himself home.

He breathes in the smell of wheat under the scorching summer heat. He embraces it. He puts one foot ahead of the other, sea legs no longer present. The ground is too still that it still sometimes unnerves him.

A few meters away, he catches sight of the house. The windows wide open, the breeze making the curtains dance within. And on his porch is a familiar figure that had lowered her book and peered in his direction. He sees her face, and relief encompasses his bones. Sarah.

She’s running to him, yelling, loud and youthful and her face is like the sun. He feels himself smiling, too. The first time in weeks. Miles of walking and sleepless nights fade away with each step you take closer together. Then she’s running to his arms squealing as he embraces her.

Tell me. Is this really then Ithaca?

Finally, the years that separate the little family are slowly bridged. He rebuilds. He tells her stories. He tells her about you. When the sun sets, he tucks Sarah in and kisses her forehead.

Now, here he is. A couple of months that feels like decades have passed him by. He dreamt of you every night for the past three weeks. He sits in his bath, wondering if this was ever how you felt in those long, terrifying days. Did you feel peace, too?

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea, by sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown.

His eyes fall shut. His breath slows.

A moment of peace as he sees your face, smiling at him, languid hands reaching and asking him to follow you.

He hears your voice, singing into his ear as he chuckles.

Until human voices wake us, and we drown.

taglist: @tuquoquebrute @boofy1998 @persephone-girl @lunxramour @none-of-this-makes-any-sense

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #pirate!joel miller x siren!reader #pirate!joel miller #pirate!au #siren!au #mermaid!au

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lol-im-done · 25 days

Text

Impossible Choices

formerly titled: The High Priestess & One Eyed Prince

summary: You had been raised expecting nothing more than to do us your Gods instructed, to use your powers to keep the Targaryens in power but what happens when that very family threatens to destroy itself?

pairing: aemond targaryen x reader

tags: slow burn, forbidden love, enemies to lovers, dark magic

can also be read on ao3

chapter one: a lesson in those we serve

‘Hen ñuha ānogar māzigon kivio dārilaros se zȳhon kessa sagon vāedar suvio perzo. From my blood come the Prince That Was Promised and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire.’

The walls of Dragonstone trembled from the thunder that accompanied the customary summer storm. Amongst the candles that lit up the Painted Table, Aegon Targaryen would share the weight of his prophetic dream with his sister-wife Visenya. He had already shared it with Rhaenys the night before as they bathed, her melodic voice encouraging him to follow the path the Gods had shown him. Tonight hushed High Valyrian carried the Song of Ice and Fire to Visenya, her pale eyebrows furrowing in concern at his words. Aegon, a dragon dreamer as Daenys once was, foresaw darkness from beyond the North descending on the world, ravaging it until nothing was left but a barren wasteland. The only one that could confront this unending darkness was a Targaryen, the only power to destroy the foe was the might of dragonfire.

Visenya was a pragmatic ruler, she wished for her bloodline to live on regardless of what the Gods showed Aegon. Visenya understood that to maintain their bloodline on the Iron Throne they would need more than just their dragons. There was a force that rivaled them completely- magic. Even if Old Valyria had been reduced to rubble, its descendants and ancient knowledge were scattered across realms. By the next moon sorceresses were brought to Dragonstone. From Valyrian bloodlines and as far as Asshai these women bent the knee to the three headed dragon. Sacrifices of dragon blood and hearts of those that rotted in the cells were made in the cliffs of Dragonstone. The voices of the Valyrian Gods were heard for the first time in over a century, awakening an ancient power not seen since the Doom. The Gods promised these sorceresses unparalleled power in exchange for their unwavering devotion.

In honor of their patron the sisterhood became The Order of Visenya- vessels of the Valyrian Gods and loyal to the Targaryens, the Song of Ice and Fire would become their mission. The Order worked in the shadows, shrouded in secrecy and enacting the will of their volatile Gods. From the end of Aegon the Conqueror's reign until young Jaehaerys was crowned was a time plagued by instability and violent upheavals. In the end peace prevailed for the Realm. Despite the endless personal tragedies that plagued the Targrayens, they remained on the throne and the dragons did not cease in hatching. In this era of stability, you were chosen and raised in the ways of the Order. The succeeding generation to live their life in service of the Valyrian Gods. Yet it would not take long to see the cracks in the Targaryen dynasty that would form into a dangerous chasm, deep enough to send the ancient house and the rest of Westeros with it, falling into the pits of the Underworld.

Driftmark, 126 AC

The scent of salt and sea drifted from the crashing waves up to the balcony where you stood, the rumbling of dragons mingling with the cry of seagulls. The rays of sun warmed your skin through the thick muslin of your robes and one could have almost described the day as perfect if it were not for the grief that encompassed the island of House Velaryon. Turning away from the sea, you stood at attention for High Mother Valarr. Imposing and commanding, the quintessential traits for the matriarch of the Order of Visenya. Her unnaturally golden eyes roamed over you and your fellow Sisters ensuring the veils covered your young faces sufficiently. You were unaccustomed to the veil, not having worn one until this day but High Mother Valarr’s words rang clear in your head- ‘Sisters of the Order of Visenya are not seen or heard, they are felt.’

“His Grace the King requested our presence here today Sisters. I need not remind you the significance of that or the consequences of any untoward behavior,” she raised her slim eyebrow. For not ever being a mother, she did play the role of strict one exceptionally well. Her title of High Mother had nothing to do with her maternal qualities but that of supreme mystical leader, just as your title of Sisters had nothing to do with shared blood but that of shared mission.

Lesia and Aera stood straighter besides you. “Yes High Mother,” the trio replied in unison.

“You are not here to indulge yourselves in sweets or interact with the court. Watch carefully, this will be an important lesson in those we serve.”

“Kessa konīr sagon tolie riñar?” Will there be other children?

You and Lesia cringed, Aera was too outspoken and spirited for her own good at times. No amount of lashings would change that.

“You know better than to ask about that Sister Aera, remember your place.”

Aera tucked her chin in embarrassment, High Mother Valarr sending you all a final warning stare.

“The funeral proceedings have come to an end, the royal court will arrive soon. I will collect you by supper time.” In an elegant sweep of her coal black gown, she was gone.

“Konīr iksos daorun naejot gaomagon,” Aera grumbled as royal mourners began entering the balcony, flocking to the tables of smoked meats, aging cheese and fruits. There is nothing to do.

“I shall braid your hair, it may be our last time with this length. Māzigon mandias,” Lesia beckoned you. Come sisters.

“Nyke jāhor umbagon naejot urnēbagon se zaldrīzoti,” you insisted. I will stay to watch the dragons.

This was your first time in the presence of the royal court, having lived your whole life in the Motherhouse in Pentos until being brought here a sennight ago. You could see who could only be King Viserys, looking just as decrepit as High Mother Valarr had described him. At his side High Mother Valarr and Prince Daemon, who’s eyes could not stop wandering to Princess Rhaenyra who stood alone in the distance. Though what had drawn your attention from the mourning courtiers was someone who seemed in a world of their own. In the middle of it all was a young girl, long white hair cascading down her back. As she whispered her riddles to the spider in her grasp you could see an aura emanating from her, swirls of light blue making her glow like a night star. She was no ordinary Targaryen but a dragon dreamer, kissed as a babe by Tesarion the Goddess of Prophecy. The sound of approaching footsteps caught your attention. Please don’t approach me, you begged internally.

Slowly with measured steps a boy shuffled closer to you, looking out at the dragons that were perched on the cliff nearby. Judging by his white locks and shorter stature compared to that of the other Targaryen Prince that was currently leering at passing serving girls this had to be the youngest of King Viserys’ offspring. For a few moments no words were spoken, what would you have to say to a Prince? Aemond was having similar thoughts, what was there to say to a member of the Order of Visenya? He knew only what he had heard from his Father, the Maesters and his Mother, none of them giving a clear answer but his loneliness had won him over.

“Which dragon is to your liking?” Aemond finally found his voice, surprising himself. He could not see your face clearly, the veil blurring your countenance but he could tell he had startled you. You turned to face him fully now, conflicted if you should contradict High Mother Valarr’s instructions but you did not wish to insult the Prince.

“I think Sunfyre is quite interesting, Dreamfyre is beautiful as well.”

“Caraxes is most fearsome I hear,” Aemond gestured to the Blood Wyrm that flew above the castle.

Growing confident you chose to carry on the conversation. “There are also wild dragons roaming Dragonstone, have you seen them?”

For a moment Aemond’s stomach turned, sure your next question would be where his own dragon was but that fear quickly dissipated as you continued.

“I hope to find them all, and yet the ones before us are only a fraction of what used to be.”

“What do you mean?” he tilted his head.

“In Old Valyria they had thousands of dragons, all who served different purposes. The smallest and swiftest dragons carried messages and parcels across the Freehold and the largest, even larger than Balerion, were trained for battle. They even had dragons who were as small as birds and were kept in homes to catch vermin.”

This was the longest conversation Aemond had ever held with someone outside of his household, and he found himself captivated by your words. You spoke with such certainty as if you had lived in Old Valyria, as if the Doom had never happened at all. Catching your breath from the excitement, you attempted a small smile, which he sheepishly returned. A passing noble who had imbibed in too much wine stumbled into the Prince, pushing him closer to you. The moment your hand brushed his a wild blush spread across Aemond’s freckled cheeks. You, on the other hand, went rigid. Aemond could have sworn he saw something akin to a glow come from your eyes, the apology dying on his tongue.

There in the sand dunes, a small figure approaches a slumbering beast. A fast beating heart and the scent of dragon smoke. A new rider claimed in the darkness.

In an instant your face became deathly serious. “Oregon naejot aōha kustikāne, gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon,” you whispered to Aemond. Hold to your strength. Do not be afraid.

“Aemond!”

The Prince looked like he had been smacked, the Queen appearing behind him in a furious billow of green. You did not have to turn to feel the vexation emanating from High Mother Valarr behind you. High Mother Valarr and Queen Alicent simply scowled at one another, pulling you and the Prince in opposing directions. Even as his Mother reprimanded him for speaking to a heretic, your words did not leave Aemond’s mind. Those very words would save Aemond that night; when his heart felt like it was to burst from his chest as he faced off against the largest dragon in the realm and when he was among the clouds on the verge of slipping from the saddle he forced himself not to be afraid. When Lucery’s blade sliced through his eye and the world exploded into unending agony he forced himself to hold onto his strength.

High Mother Valarr had taken your supper as punishment for disobeying her but you were much too preoccupied to care. From the moment supper had concluded you had rushed to the window that faced the sand dunes, wringing your hands and pacing hoping the Gods would give you a sign your premonition had been correct.

“Ao jurnegon raqagon ao iprattan torgos,” Lesia said from her bed, her steely gray eyes following you. You look like you ate worms. You were about to toss back a retort before High Mother Valarr appeared. “What has you so unnerved, Sister?”

You hesitated for a moment, hoping she would believe you as none of you had expressed this ability yet. “I saw a vision of Prince Aemond after his hand brushed mine. I believe he will try to claim a dragon this night.”

There was a brief moment of surprise before her usual stoic expression took its place. “Dangerous that one, foolish raqagon tolvie targārien vala,” High Mother Valarr tutted, before leading you back by the hearth. Like every Targaryen man.

It only took an hour or so before the news reached the room right as you had all finished your nightly prayers to the Gods. High Mother Valarr showed no sign of concern as the servant prattled on about a grievous incident between Prince Aemond and the Velaryon children. Entering the hall, it was brimming with whispers, all visibly on edge as the pieces of the story came together- claims of bastardy and attempted murder. From your place you could see Aemond sitting on a chair, face twisted in pain as Queen Alicent clasped his hand in hers squeezing it so forcefully it had gone white.

The Maester was making a haphazard effort to sew the wound close but the scar was jagged, oozing blood that dripped down the boy's cape and onto the floor. Others averted their gaze at the sight but you and the Sisters watched carefully after the Maester’s technique. As the frenzied shouts and accusations flew through the air, all you could think of was your healing lessons from a few moons ago. The spell was not complicated, even a Sister in training like yourself could have restored the eye if given enough time. Time had run out, the eyelid was now sewn shut and the eye itself rotted in a plate.

“High Mother Valarr can’t you-.”

As if sensing your request she gave you a silencing look. “I will not. Lady Hightower wishes to be rid of us, so she shall not benefit from our skills.”

Suddenly a desperate voice called out to her. “High Mother Valarr, what is your view?” King Viserys asked, seemingly overwhelmed by the mounting pressure from his lady wife and beloved daughter.

The lie flowed easily through her lips. “I agree with the Maester’s opinion, Your Grace. The eye is beyond repair.”

Queen Alicent visibly blanched at her words, tears brimming in her eyes as her trembling hands came to cover her face.

“Do not mourn me, Mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye…but I gained a dragon.” Aemond’s proclamation did nothing to assuage the Queen. Slowly her hands stilled, falling slowly to her side to reveal a rageful visage. A flash of a blade, the screams of children and like lionesses desperate to protect their cubs the Princess and Queen collided. The Order was unperturbed by the turn of events, pillars of stillness in the sea of drawn swords and cries of vengeance.

“Where is duty? Where is sacrifice?”

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.”

Duty, sacrifice, righteousness- they knew nothing of the weight it truly carried. When royal blood spilled across the stone floor once more, you felt something shift in the air. Uneasy glances were shared, what did the Gods think of this?

“This proceeding is at an end.”

As Lesia and Aeria slept soundly beside you, you could not manage to rid your mind of Aemond. His pained expression haunted you every time you attempted to close your eyes. As if moving on their own accord your feet found the floor, quiet as a mouse you slipped from the bed. If High Mother Valarr caught you out of bed and in the Prince’s room no less the consequences would be severe, but there was something pulling you towards him. Intuition guided you towards the royal wing, the guard stationed was slumped against a pillar snoring, not at all aware of the young girl sliding past him. There under a pile of furs and quilted blankets was Aemond, discomfort clear on his face even as he slept. Sniffing the cup beside him you gagged at the smell of Milk of the Poppy, Maesters were truly good for nothing. Turning back to the task at hand you spotted what was necessary, a knife. With a practiced hand you made a cut across your thumb, squeezing it in order for the blood to pool out.

“Nyke tepagon ao ñuha ānogar naejot giēñagon aōha ōdres.” I give you my blood to heal your pain.

The drops of blood hit the swollen scar, sinking beneath the stitches to do as your incantation bid. Once his face relaxed, no longer suffering you breathed a sigh of relief and thanked the Healing God Shrykos.

“Sweet dreams My Prince.”

Through the haze of Milk of the Poppy, Aemond heard a soft voice, words gentler and sweeter than anyone had ever spoken to him. Before he could decipher it, sleep pulled him under once more.

High Mother Valarr was eager to leave Driftmark and by sunrise you were already on the sea making your way to Dragonstone. Sitting on the deck you pondered the events you had witnessed on Driftmark. In only one day you had seen the crumbling foundation of House Targaryen- divided factions of the royal court. High Mother Valarr had been wise to bring the Sisters here. If she suspected an impending conflict or challenge to Rhaenyra’s succession, it would be the Order’s duty to stop it.

#hotd imagine #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #house of the dragon

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dashofmonsters · 9 months

Text

Dreamers & Delusions- Pt. 5

merman x female reader

It's been a couple weeks now since you and Tao had started your fake dating situationship thing. He walks you to and from work as often as he can and invites you to his home more and more.

You end up hanging out with him most days and are rarely at your grandmother's except to sleep or get ready for work. On the days you don't have work and don't want to go to the beach, Tao has let you hang out at his rental. It was odd at first but you quickly got comfortable with it.

Today though, you couldn't get out of the house. The weather has gotten worse and it's been raining for two days straight. Yesterday you saw him while he was out grocery shopping, he looked a bit upset then. Over and over he kept asking if you'd be okay but you'd told him you'll be fine.

Now, you're not so sure.

It's only been two days but your grandmother hasn't shut up.

"Your looks will only last so long. You should consider doing something that will keep him on his toes. Maybe try to freshen up your wardrobe," your grandmother rants from her recliner.

"He's not interested in stuff like that. I mean he dresses like uncle Rob when he's out mowing the lawn for fucks sake. Merfolk don't care about that stuff," you roll your eyes as you fiddle with your phone.

You hear your grandmother scoff.

She wasn't quite onboard with you "dating" Tao after she found out he was a merman. She kept complaining that it would be difficult to have a normal life together and what would your kids look like. It's been never ending with her on that front but now she's back to you.

"I'm just saying, what if he does get bored with you? You'll at least be ready for someone else," she states.

"Just shut up! You don't know jack shit! No wonder you're fucking alone! Do you hear yourself," you snap at her. You feel like you should feel bad for what you just said but you don't.

Your grandmother rises from her recliner and stomps towards you with a foul glare.

"I took you in you ungrateful little bitch. Day in and day out I let you come and go as you please and this is what I get? I took pity on you because of that piss poor excuse of a daughter of mine... But I can see the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree," she seethes, spitting on your face.

Thunder roars outside and shakes the house. A flash of lightning and the power is off. You can still make out the miserable shape of your grandmother in front of you. You can still hear her breathing impatiently, undeterred by the darkness.

"You're right, the apple didn't fall too far from the tree. My mom's a fuck up who lost her husband just like you did," you spit back to her.

Your cheek stings suddenly and you realize your grandmother has slapped you. Again and again, three... four times she hits you before you grab her wrist and shove her away.

"Fuck this," you holler, stomping away from you grandmother and down the hall.

You can hear her yelling at you, cursing you and your mother. But you ignore her as you pull the door open. The rain is coming down in sheets and although it's noon, the sky is almost dark as night.

Slamming the door behind you, you take a few careful steps down the stairs and bolt across the empty street. The walk to the beach is slow but you don't care. You just want to be there, you want to feel the wind as it whips off the waves.

The rain stops for a little bit, slowing to a sprinkle as you step onto the drenched sand. Your shoes get stuck a few times till you decide to just take them off. Little by little you make your way to the life guard tower. The rain picks up again as you climb up and curl into a ball against the back wall.

Your stomach drops and you hold yourself as you start to cry. You hate feeling like this, you hate that every time you fight with your grandmother you let her get into your head.

You feel nauseous and tired, drained from yelling and running in the rain. You just wanted a fresh start away from your hometown. You wanted a better life, an easier life, but everything has been getting difficult lately.

The heaviness of the rain lulls you to sleep as you curl up with a damp beach towel you found in the tower. You're shivering cold, but you're to tired and eventually you drift to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tao:

I haven't been able to shake this horrible feeling since I woke up this morning. I dragged myself out of my tank earlier than usual and showered off. The hot water helped me clear my head as it has been every morning.

I cannot stop thinking about my dear friend and more often then not I fall asleep with her on my mind. Sweet dreams usually follow and I wake up angry at myself for thinking of her too much.

Today is different though, the shower helped long enough for me to dry off and make it to the kitchen before I started thinking of her again.

I've let her into my home so often so she can avoid her grandmother and little by little she's left bits of herself here. A jacket that I have hung next to my own by the door. A couple of her books that I've skimmed through but found it too licentious to finish. And her crown from the night we shared with the pixies.

I have placed her crown in my nest room for a reason I cannot understand. I have fallen asleep with it in my hands almost everyday. Three days ago I had thought I lost it and nearly ruined my home looking for it. I was ashamed of myself when I found it in one of its usual spots in the room.

I felt horrible that I let my thoughts of her consume me so, but today it's worse. So much worse. I feel dreadful and not because of my thoughts of her. Something deep inside of me is uneasy and restless.

My kitchen is in a state of chaos after I make breakfast, an unusual sight for me since I clean as I go. I eat quickly and quietly but I am unable to finish eating. I feel sick and I almost double over when I start on the dishes.

Bile bubbles up in the back of my throat and my chest feels heavy. That horrible feeling explodes and suddenly I find myself racing to the door.

The rain is coming down hard and I can hardly see anything in front of me but I make my way down the wooden steps. I freeze in my tracts once I get to the bottom.

Something feels off, wrong and twisted.

I allow myself a moment and another as I realize my instincts are coming alive. I sniff the air again and again until I smell it.

It's faint but it's undeniably her scent.

The rain would have washed it away already unless she has left the safety of her home.

I start running then, running for dear life towards the beach. The horrid feeling I had was for her all along, for the safety of my only friend and shoal mate. I had ignored it for too long, I just hope that I'm not too late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You startle awake from the loud thunder clapping. The rain had gotten worse as you slept. The clouds have darkened and the wind has grown stronger. The tower groans as the wind assaults it every few minutes.

Groggy and cold and wet, you try to find another beach towel to wrap up in but you find none. You try to consider your options but your mind is so tired and you're becoming a bit anxious with the storm getting worse.

You decide then to make an attempt to get to Tao's home. You'd be safe there and far away from your grandmother.

Step by careful step you make it down the tower and your heart stops at the view in front of you. The waves are hitting the beach harder and fast. The tide is high and you're a bit too close to the water than you're comfortable with.

You look around and decide that if you can get to the houses on the other side of the beach you can worm your way through that neighborhood to his house.

Slowly and ever so cautiously you step forward. You have to balance yourself as the wind is constantly threatening to knock you down. You're teetering closer and closer to the waves as you walk towards the houses. You keep trying to walk away from them but somehow manage to find your feet right back in the water.

You're halfway there when you hear something behind you but by the time you turn around it's too late. You're knocked out almost instantly and you fall hard and fast. The waves lap at your body, slowly pulling you into the ocean.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tao:

I race up and down the beach trying to find her, my body fighting to transform under the heavy rains. I sniff the air again and again but the scent has drifted. No, it's drifting...

My heart stops as I look out into the dangerous dark waters.

I sniff again, hoping I'm wrong but I'm not.

I sprint towards the waves and jump as high and as far as I can into the ocean. I dive in and within second I smell her... I smell her blood.

I force the transformation and swim as fast as I can towards her scent. This storm will have no doubt invited several unwanted predators to this area and if they have smelled her blood...

Something heavy rams into my side and I reel back as I see a bull shark charging towards me. I harden my fist using what magic I have and punch the creature on the snout before electrocuting it. The shark shakes its massive body and tries to attack again.

I haven't the time for this.

Not wanting to kill an innocent creature, I use my magic to disrupt the currents and have the shark swept up in them.

Quickly I swim away and try to follow the scent again. It's getting further and further away but stronger. She's loosing blood and fast.

I push myself more than I ever had before and swim until I feel like my lungs might give out. The scent of her blood becomes so strong I can practically taste it.

Grinding my teeth, I move faster until I see her limp body bobbing in and out of the water. I quickly surface and see her loosely hanging onto a plastic trash bin. I quickly pull her into my arms and look around us.

I can hardly see the beach from here... She was pulled so far from land.

Gathering my strength I swim hard towards the shore. I have to be careful and keep her head above the water, it's not easy. I would give her gills like I did the night we danced with the pixies but she's not awake for it. I have to shift her ever so often as the waves threaten to pull us under and I have to use an immense amount of magic to keep the currents steady.

I almost panic when she slides out of my arms and I have to quickly swim back for her. I pray to the goddesses for the first time in a long time that I make it back to the shore with her alive.

By the time we reach land the sky is truly dark. The wind has died down and the tide has lowered. I pull her and myself up, breathing heavily as I lay us down. I look at her and I feel a mix of pain and relief. She's breathing but she's hurt.

Blood trickles down her head and there's a gash on her leg where her pants have been torn. I work fast to bring myself back to my human form. It hurts like hell forcing it and I grit my teeth. I am motionless for a few minutes after my tail has split into legs. It burns worse than ever after swimming so hard.

I shake as I force myself to stand and carefully scoop my friend into my arms. My muscles ache but the gnawing heavy dread I had felt has subsided a great deal. Holding her close to me I begin the long walk back home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's warm and quiet when you finally wake up. You're sitting on a bench covered in towels with a space heater next to you. You tilt your head back, a searing pain making you wince.

You gasp, a wheezing noise leaving your mouth. You hear someone running towards you and you feel their warm hands on your face.

"Thank the goddesses, you're finally awake," Tao says.

You can only tell it's him by his voice, your vision is still blurry and your head hurts so bad.

"Why the hell were you at the beach," you hear him yell.

You try to open your mouth but it's dry and tastes like salt. Your head lulls to the side and your blurry vision becomes slightly clearer. Tao is kneeling before you, his hands move from your face to your shoulders. He grips you and you wince, everything hurting.

"You were over a mile away from the beach when I found you! You could have been killed! For... Fucks sake you were covered in blood when I found you! Were you drinking that vile human alcohol again? Why would you go out and do something like that," Tao shakes you, still yelling and unable to control himself.

You limply raise your hand a plop it weakly over his arm. You mouth a few words begging him to stop as you begin to cry. Your voice is hoarse and your throat sore but you manage a few dry words.

"I'm sorry... please Tao... Please stop... You're hurting me," you cough and are nearly out of breath from just speaking.

Tao stops shaking you and loosens his grip on you. His hands fall to the bench before snaking around you and pulling you closer to him. He rests his head on your lap and you feel him shivering.

"I thought I had lost you... I couldn't find you and when I did... You were so far away and unconscious. You were just floating there while bleeding out. Why were you there... Why," Tao holds you closer, his nails digging into your skin.

You cough as you try to speak but it's no use. You keep coughing and coughing so hard it hurts. Tao quickly scoops you up and brings you to the kitchen where he gently sets you on the counter. He brings you a large glass of water that you chug down. You're still coughing but it doesn't hurt as bad as it did before.

Tao takes your cup and refills it and as he hands it to you, you start crying again.

This day keeps getting worse and worse and you just want it to end. First the fight with your grandmother, then you get knocked out and dragged into the ocean, and now Tao is mad at you.

A part of you wishes that you stayed lost at sea. That you might have finally found some peace and everyone would probably be better off without you. That thought consumes you till you start weeping in earnest.

"Fuck," you hear Tao curse and then you hear something break.

You begin to shake even as Tao wraps his arms around you. He holds you, not too tight but close enough that you can hear his heart beat.

"I'm sorry, please stop crying. I just-," Tao tenses up and you hear his voice crack. "You're all I have, please be more careful... please."

You hear what he's saying but you're too tired, too hurt to really register any of it. He keeps talking, his voice calming down but the words are lost on you. The pain you feel on your head is dulling but draining. You keep going in and out and Tao keeps talking.

There's a loss of heat for a moment, your eyelids too heavy to peel open to see what's going on. You feel yourself being lifted and walked somewhere. Something warm and soft is wrapped around you before you're set down on something even more soft. You limply nestle into it before allowing sleep to claim you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tao:

I pace in my kitchen for what feels like hours. I am feeling too many things at once and I cannot sort them properly. My friend is safe and fast asleep in my nest room. Her injuries were not deep but there were many. I cleaned and bandaged what I could without having to strip her but I fear I might have missed a few cuts and wounds because of that.

Her words play over and over in my head, when I asked her what she was doing at the beach. In my rage I yelled at her, again. In my desperation I accused her of being drunk even though I realized too late I didn't smell any alcohol on her breath. I have made a terrible mistake.

She might resent me now, might even fear me. She's already afraid of sharks and my mer half is similar to that creature. She was terrified the first time she touched my tail. What if she's still terrified of me but doesn't say anything?

Rage swells in my heart for what I have done, for hurting her and making her cry. I look down at my hand, my knuckles are torn after punching the wall and the skin on my fingers are slightly cut.

I am not good enough for her... I've hurt her...

That anger quickly dies down and is replaced with a gnawing sorrow. I slide to the floor and grip at my hair while grinding my teeth. Three, no four of my front teeth pop out from how hard I bite down. I spit them out and wince as I feel the back row shift forward.

This pain must be my punishment for what I have done. I must beg for forgiveness when she wakes up. I cannot bare the thought of her being afraid of me, it hurts too much.

I sit and center myself as I shed the front row of my teeth and spit them out little by little. I am covered in blood and I feel horrible. A new back row will grow in a day or two causing more well deserved pain. It will serve as a reminder of what I've done. For now though, I am tired and my shoal mate needs me to watch over her.

She ran to the beach for a reason. I was too enraged to hear her out and too impatient to let her heal before speaking.

I clean myself up and quickly change into something warm before heading to my nest room.

My friend is sleeping soundly but with tears sliding down her cheeks. I carefully place a hand over her forehead, she is cold. I have wrapped her in a large towel since she is dirty and too tired to change into anything.

I pause and try to think what she would even wear. My clothes are large and one of my shirts would fit her like a short dress. I imagine it for a moment and inhale sharply. It would be the only thing I own that would fit her and it would cover just above the knees. I slap myself for thinking of her like that.

She is my friend, she is my shoal mate, you are not good enough for someone like her.

I chant that over and over again but the more I do the more it feels like a lie.

What if I could be more than just a friend to her, what if I am good enough for her, what if she could be my-

I stop that last thought. It would be too good to be true if she could be more than just a friend, but to be my mate or my fated mate? I would pray to the goddesses everyday for the good fortune of allowing me to meet her.

But that is not the case, no matter how much I wish it.

I carefully step around her and lay by her side, gently pulling her into my arms. Hearing her breathe settles me and I feel myself purring. I chuckle remembering how I reacted to her talking about that. I know talking about purring is embarrassing but I never questioned why until after that day.

She has made me question myself, question my upbringing, and my kin more often than not to the point that I'm not sure who I really am. I've allowed myself to be defined by what I am and where I'm from that I don't know who I am. She mentioned once that she hates being judged by her work and family and I'm starting to understand that.

I hope that tomorrow I can make amends with her so that we can talk and learn each other more

~~~~~~~~~~~~

You ache everywhere when you wake up. Your head in pounding and your stomach makes an angry growl. The lights are dim when you open your eyes. You're surrounded by plush pillows and blankets that smell freshly laundered. You suddenly realize that you're in Tao's nest room.

You try to sit up but every fiber of your being is screaming in agony. You groan in pain and wince when you touch your head. Everything starts to slowly come back and the last thing you remember is Tao wrapping you up and carefully laying you down.

A cough forces its way out until you're having a fit. Your throat is on fire, dry and sore. You hear heavy foot fall and suddenly you see Tao. He helps you sit up and brings a cup to your lips. You slowly drink, some of the water not making it into your mouth.

Tao holds you as you catch your breath, the dryness in your throat has subsided but it's still sore. You loll your head till you're looking up at him and whimper a quiet apology. You feel Tao's grip on you tighten before he carefully lays you back down.

"No, it is I who should be sorry. You are injured and exhausted and I had yelled at you, again. I made a horrible accusation and expressed my anger about what had happened when you're already vulnerable and cannot speak. I am ashamed of myself," Tao admits, his voice despondently.

You limply pat his hand, "As long as you're not mad at me or hate me we're good."

Tao takes your hand in his and lightly squeezes it, "I will never hate my friend but I am upset that you put yourself in danger. What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't," you say then cough. "I was running on pure emotions and spite. I-" you cough again and again into another fit. Tao helps you drink once more and tells you that you can talk once you're better.

But you ignore him, needing to get this all off your chest.

"I got into another fight with my grandmother. She was being a class A bitch about some shit and then she brought you into the conversation and I lost it," you explain, clearing your throat afterwards.

"So you ran to the beach in the middle of a storm," Tao asks dryly.

"Like I said, wasn't thinking. I just wanted to get way from her and my feet just took me there. I stayed up in the guard tower where I passed out, emotionally exhausted and when I came to, I decided to make my way to your place," you say, pausing to let Tao help you drink some more water.

"I don't know what happened but the next thing I knew I was bashed in the back of the head! I came to a few times when I was being dragged further from land... I remember getting scrapped up and screaming from the pain. I probably passed out again afterwards. Then you found me. You saved me," you can't help the tears that start coming on then.

As you cry you start to remember being helplessly dragged miles away from shore. Too sore to move and terrified that you might drown or become fish food. You screamed so much your throat became raw. You remember your leg being torn by a rock and being whipped against a buoy so hard your back bruised immediately. Everything hurts and feels sharp and dull all at once. Worst of all, you're starving and your tummy is not being quiet about it.

"What is that sound," Tao asks.

"My stomach... I haven't eaten anything since the day before my grandmother and I fought. So it's protesting and-"

Tao quickly sets you back down and scrambles out of the room. You hear chaos unfold from the kitchen and before you know it he's back with an armful of snacks.

"Please eat these while I go cook you something warm," is all he says before rushing off again.

He's deposited the snacks in front of you, all of them being your usual favorites that you munched on when you hung out here. You always brought them over and never really stored any here. You don't want to think too much into it aside from him practicing to be a good mate to someone else. You'd get your hopes up for no reason otherwise.

You happily tear into a bag of chips and chow down. Three bags of chips later Tao returns with a large bowl of soup. It smells so good your mouth starts watering.

Tao helps you sit up and piles a few pillows behind you. You reach for the bowl only for Tao to move the tray with it on his lap.

"You're shaking too much, I'll feed you," Tao states.

You glare at him for a moment and then at yourself, "Fuck."

"Eat and then I'll take you to the bathroom so you can bathe yourself and clean whatever wounds you can or I couldn't get to," he says, scooping some soup up and bringing it to your lips.

You take a bite, trying not to be awkward in this situation, "What wounds? And I don't even have a change of clothes what would I even wear?"

Tao makes you take a few more bites while he mulls over your question. He's clearly uncomfortable about something an it shows as plain as day.

"Tao, let's not be weird about this. We're both adults buddy," you say after finishing another amazing bite of soup.

"I didn't get to the wounds on your back or thighs since... since touching or getting to either spot would have been highly inappropriate," he answers, looking away from you though.

"Ok, I appreciate the chivalry but what if I had a really really bad injury on either spot of I don't know some weird fish venom you would have had to strip me and I would have been alright with that. I trust you dude and not once have you creeped me out," you tell him.

He finally looks back at you and the whites of his eyes slowly turn black. "I do not feel worthy of such trust my friend, not after what I did."

"Well guess what, you have my trust regardless of loosing your shit and rightfully so! You were scared, I get it. You don't have to keep beating yourself up over it," you reach out and lightly pat his arm.

"Are you certain? I hurt you and yel-"

"I said it's fine, jeeze! Water under the bridge. Forgive and forget. Less sadness, more soup," you pat his arm again and make a face.

Tao chuckles and shakes his head, "How is it that you're torn up and still as talkative as ever."

"My mouth doesn't have an off switch man, I could ta-"

Tao shoves a spoonful of soup into your mouth.

"I do believe I just found the off switch for that mouth of yours," he grins.

You swallow hard and as mad as you feign to be you can't help but to laugh, "Ya got me, feed me good food and I shut right up."

With that Tao feeds you another bite but it's a bit much and some of the broth slides down your chin. Before you have a chance to clean it off, Tao wipes it off with his thumb before cleaning it off with his tongue. Your brain blanks out for a moment and you feel your cheeks heat up.

"I uh think I'm getting full... Don't want to eat too much in one sitting," you try to play it cool but your voice cracks and you want to crawl under a rock and bang your head against a wall.

"Understood, I can save the rest for when you're hungry again. I'll put this up and draw a bath for you," he nods before standing up.

Your stomach sinks when you remember that you have nothing to wear after you get out of the bath.

"Oh uh yeah hey Tao buddy, um I don't have a change of clothes so...," you start, making a few nervous and fiddly gestures with your hands.

Tao stops in his tracks and visibly tenses up, "Right, I uh... I put one of my larger shirts for you to wear in there. Unfortunately that's the only thing I own that would fit you so..."

There's an awkward silence between the both of you that is blessedly broken by a loud roll of thunder that shakes the windows.

"That's fine," you finally squeak.

"Alright," Tao nods.

"Ok then," you pat your knees.

You scream internally and beg the universe to help you not make this day any weirder and wilder than it's already starting out to be.

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