#salty seas arc

[dailyeca]

"Sometimes the light is strong enough to reach to the bottom of the sea."

(- Lighthousekeeping, Jeanette Winterson)

[waywardsalt]

working on post-ph stuff and toying with the idea of the pseudo-triforce trio this time around wanting their what respective piece represents in somewhat subversive (at least within the context of loz lore) ways but really struggling to figure out what tetra would want wisdom for and how it could then be subversive since. its a bit hard to figure out why/how past wisdom wielders in past loz stuff were wise and how they represented that

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

I've been dreaming of the Undersea Marauder.

There are so many rules in this world. So many shackles to keep him down.

Let nothing obstruct his errant path.

How does a moment last forever? How can a story never die?

A fish is bound to the water his entire life.

It’s not a life for him.

Floyd is on his back, set adrift in the face of the Coral Sea. His hands cradle the back of his head, and he finds himself staring up. A flock of birds form an arrow, slicing through the sky. He wonders where they're going, what they'll do there.

Some merpeople dreamed of trading scales for skin, but Floyd thinks about giving up his fins for feathers. A pair of wings with which to witness all manner of strange things…

He chuckles soft.

Wouldn't that be so freeing?

“Eheheh. I wanna try it, too! Wait up for me, birds. Here I come…!”

Floyd rights himself and dives unto the frigid waters. His powerful tail undulates like a teal ribbon, propelling him after and faster. He steadily gains, chasing the shadows of the birds that skim the surface of his home turf.

Floyd approaches, lifting himself toward the shimmering boundary between sea and sky. A second later, he breaks through with a mighty splash.

His body elegantly arcs in the leap. He’s a skipping dolphin, a flying fish.

Free.

Floyd launches higher and higher, zipping past the flock. He collides with some birds, screeching with laughter as they spin like cars out of control.

Here come the clouds now—he easily bursts through them. They’re made of cool and fine-grained beads of water, refreshing him as he flies.

And higher still he goes, the sky dimming, a gradient of light to dark.

Floyd is among the stars, each twinkling like diamonds in greeting. The planets, like massive globes of sugar orbiting him.

The eel is weightless, effortlessly floating through space. With his arms, he paddles--and though there should be no gravity, the space warps and gives like water, letting him sail as smoothly as a ship after a storm.

He reaches out and plucks a star out of the cosmos, giving it a curious lick. The taste is like sweetened milk, and so he pops the entire thing into his mouth.

Then begins his descent.

At the peak of his jump, surrounded by the stars, he bends downward and plunges.

But there are no longer any waters waiting for him.

He crashes through a canopy of leaves. They scatter like papers, raining down verdant, brown, scarlet, tangerine, and gold. Sunlight pierces them, giving each a magical glow.

Roots come, skittering by him like a snake might slink. Thin tendrils extend from them, brushing his face.

Maybe there is some other name for them? Hyph-something, myce-whatever. Floyd does not care to remember his twin's excitable rambling.

Alarmingly, he spies an ugly bulbous cap poking out from a root. His nose crinkles with disgust.

Shiitake mushroom.

Floyd paddles through the fungi and plants, the scent of dirt and chlorophyll filling his nostrils. It's fresh and green mixed with damp and earthy, nothing like the salty smell of the sea.

Jade would like this, he thinks.

Daisies push through, their petals tickling his skin. He takes a shaky breath, holds, shakes again, and...

Sneezes!!

A great gale is unleashed, clearing his surroundings in an instant. Floyd is sent flying up, up, and away--

He shoots out of the dunes. Sand scatters from the force he emerges with, throwing particle clouds up into the air. Floyd flails, trying to balance his body. No use--he flops uselessly under the pull of gravity.

A scream rips from his throat. Not of terror, but of joy.

The landscape unfolds into a sandy expanse. In the distance, he sees an oasis guarded by palm trees. And below, a great city crowning the desert.

There are bright tents and stalls pitched, merchants hawking their wares. Vases and lamps with unique patterns, ripe fruits, adornments in a variety of designs.

Families and friends mill about in the packed marketplace, satisfied with their mundane lives, the schedules they keep. So content, so peaceful.

Floyd grins.

And he lets himself plummet straight into a stall.

The weight of him collapses it with a loud THUD. The merchant looks on, horrified, and his circle of customers gasp, putting distance between themselves and Floyd. Sticky with fruit juices, he removes the strand of black hair that clings to his cheek.

"Eh, guess it could be worse," Floyd shrugs, tossing off a chunk of watermelon sitting like a hat on his head. A line of juice dribbles down his forehead.

He notices the crowd staring and wiggles his tail in a casual pseudo-wave. One person immediately faints--but luckily, they're caught by a concerned onlooker.

"Riffraff!" the merchant shouts, waving a fist. "Scoundrel!! I demand compensation for what you've wrecked!"

Floyd rolls his eyes. He sounds like Azul.

The eel hauls himself off the pile of fruit--and peels right past the feet of the customers. The merchant's face heats.

"Guards! GUARDS!! Come quickly, HELP!! There's a sea monster on the loose!!"

Floyd rapidly drags himself across the market, digging his talons into the ground, his tail pushing him forward. He gleefully writhes as people scream and flee, clearing a path for him. His laugh, cackling.

He's at the waterways that thread the city when heavy footsteps spill into the street.

"He went that way!!"

Floyd doesn't look back before he dives back into his natural element.

The water welcomes him, its streams washing off the sand that paints his skin, loosening the hair that clumped from fruit juices. A tender kiss, a kind hand.

He has returned to the sea.

The channel goes deeper than Floyd thinks. It widens, becoming an entire ocean bathed in sunlight. A coral reef teeming with life stretched out below him, and when he runs his hand along it, tiny seahorses escape and trail bubbles.

He turns his head this way--a school of rainbow tropical fish race by. The other way, a band is in full swing. A carp on the harp, the plaice on the bass, bass on brass.

Floyd twirls as he passes, happily humming along to the tune. The music wraps around him, giving a warm embrace. He almost misses his name being called, almost forgets himself.

"... od....... loyd... Floyd! There you are."

A face that matches his appears beside him. He is followed by a boy with lilac skin, a series of squirming tentacles at his beck and call.

“Where did you vanish off to?” Jade asks. “Azul and I were starting to get worried about your whereabouts. Weren’t we, Azul?”

“I’m more concerned for the places he visits rather than Floyd himself. Who knows how much collateral damage he could cause unsupervised,” the octopus merman grumbles.

“Oya, Azul… Could it be that you lack faith in Floyd? Even though he has unquestionably served you since middle school?"

"You're saying strange things again. I recall him losing interest and changing his mind last minute more often than 'unquestionably serving'." Azul raises a brow. "So? Where were you all this time?"

Floyd flings himself at the duo, slinging his arms around their shoulders and pulling them close.

"F-Floyd?! What is the meaning of this?" Azul sputters, struggling against his binds.

"I was everything and everywhere all at once," he responds with a laugh. "I was as free as a bird! I'll tell you guys about it~"

"Fufu, it sounds as though you've been away on quite an adventure. We would, of course, be more than happy to hear of your escapades."

[leincendiaire]

anyways salty thoughts. dont expect me to be nice

this is the one problem not exclusive to the finale, god ed's character arc just. didnt do it for me at all. I excused it before cuz I thought it would pay off as the season went on but nope. he never had a genuine apology moment, just that youtuber apology like gag and the cat collar joke. like they literally show us how the crew was completely scarred by his actions but theyre later just completely fine with him on board???? and stede keeps being his biggest stan when I think he would have been like hey what the fuck!! im sorry I hurt you but I am not responsible for your actions and you hurt my crew whom I hold very dear!! I love ed but Fuck he really went too far those first episodes and he never makes up for it. they only ever focus on His Own self journey, not how he hurt and traumatized practically every other character.

"well, I think narratively izzy's death made sense but—" no!! no it fucking didnt!! im sorry but it was just lazy writing!! they didnt know what to do with him so whoops he gets shot in the dumbest way possible. like, this aint my first rodeo, it aint the first time ive seen a character start off on their character journey to happiness only for writers to give up on it and kill them off. it's a tiring fucking trope tbh and I really wish they hadnt fallen into this trap. like his death scene wasnt good either, if youre gonna do it at least focus on his relationship with the crew, you know, the people he came to accept as family? not the man Who Shot Off His Fucking Leg And Almost Killed Him? I know they had an important relationship but that shit should have been talked about way beforehand, it deserved closure. they should have acknowledged they werent good for each other and made peace with it. izzy deserved a death with people who actually made him happy. ALSO THEY BURY HIM ON FUCKING LAND?????? he spent his life at sea!!!! he is the most devoted out of everyone to being a pirate and you bury him next to your fucking inn???? fucking twats istg

lastly I swear they forgot stede is the main character. they forgot literally everything about how to write him. he gets No Focus in the finale, and every scene he is in is bullshit. I actually wanted to punch my screen every time there was a joke about him being incompetent or whatever. like, hello??? thought we left that shit in s1??? he had Multiple Episodes about learning to be a pirate and adjusting to his new life and gaining more skills but no. he is just silly old loserboy for his cool war criminal boyfriend now. literally no skills or experience whatsoever. ok sure yea thats totally how he acted the rest of the season. also the fuck is it with him staying behind to run the inn with ed?? wasnt the whole conflict last episode their different desires out of life, with ed wanting to start a normal life and stede wanting to be a pirate?? when the Fuck did he change his mind. who are you and have you done with my boy

honestly I feel bad because jenkins is actually a good writer and the whole fandom really expected a lot from a man making his second show, and I think there were a lot of budget cuts and production issues so I can see why it turned out this way. he is probably mad about this too, I bet the cast also, like even the acting in this episode didnt feel passionate, and thats saying a lot since these actors really love this show. im just frustrated. man. time to write fics ig

[yeorin08]

Homies forever?

Did your homie come up to you one day all excited with an illegal book about the outside world, and your homie didn't give a fuck about government and law. Then your eyes saw the shine in those obviously gorgeous soul awakening blue eyes. Hearing him talk about the outside world with excitement made you want to earn something you never thought you needed.and from then on ,you shared dreams.

You protect your homie from bullies,you take care of him, you want to be with him forever and explore the outside world with your homie.

Your homie gave you a purpose in life which you want to achieve,you want to destroy all the danger beyond the wall just so you can make your dream come true.

You join the millitary with your homie and together you graduate, u hold hands, probably have gotten the most intimate with your homie than any girl that people have started creating rumours about your closeness with homie.

You and your homie want to join the recon corps,

when the titan was picking up your homie to eat him , even in half unconscious State, missing a leg, and hurt pretty bad, you were ready to save him, even if it meant to give up your life.

You were ready to give up your life and saved your homie but went down the drain instead.

In the pit of the Titan you realised you haven't given up on your dream, dreams with homie, that enraged you so much you turned into a titan

you recognised your homie hand while being unconscious,and interwined his hand back

A few hours later your homie saves your life again .

Your homie is the only one who could wake up the sleeping Beauty inside the Titan and bring you back to reality

Your homie wakes you by reminding you the dreams you guys shared.

"I thought you have forgotten it long ago, but... you remembered"

And throughout your homie was with you, he got you out of the Titans nape after you blocked the hole in the wall of rose.

and later you and your homie are in recon crops but with new problems.

Your homie's speech during female titan arc motivated you so much that you were ready to abandon your humanity to capture Annie any how.

Seasons later your homie got molested by some old pervert just for the sake of plan where you and historia would be safe.

He even killed a few people to get you back from rod reiss.

Then the mission to retake wall Maria came;

Your homie saw your shaking hand and decided to help, motivated you and with his pretty face, blue eyes and beautiful hair ,you calmed down.

You tell him how you were motivated by the shine in his eyes when they were 8-9 years old.

once again your homie wakes your sleeping Beauty ass up by reminding you of dreams, after you got kicked by betholt.

Your homie entrusts you with his dreams for you to complete it "witness the ocean for me?"

Seeing your homie's Crisp body made you devastated, from each corner , and both physically and mentally.

You see your homie struggling to breath and now with new hope you are screaming for him to continue breathing.

You fought your captain to bring back your homie.

"He's the one who's going to save humanity"

With your cries and please , the serum is given to your homie and your homie lives.

You run to hug your homie when he wakes up . A few Tears of relief washes over your eyes.

You offer you jacket to ur half naked (hot waisted) homie.

One year later you guys are finally at the sea (which didn't go as planned)

You are ready to give up everything so your homie can live long and free. You entrust your everything on your homie and go for genocide.

You guys travel years in path , just you and your homie , witnessing all the beauty the world could offer and looking at your homie's happiness have your chest swelling with love , affection and maybe pride.

You see the flames of water

Land of ice

Field of sands

And huge lakes of salty water

After that your homie punches you for saying hurtful things to your adopted sister.

Then you guys make ou-

Then you guys say everything you have wanted to say to each other cause it is "now or never " moment. You guys talk with no filter, no nothing just you and your homie talking with thick ass sensual tention background music.

Your homie tell you how he also shared the blame for your crime , after all he was the one who showed you the book about the outside world, he shares the equal shoulder for the sins.

and you promise each other to meet in hell and be together forever!!

Fuck everything and tel me

Is HE STiLL YoUr HOMie??!!

[ch0wen]

༝ ˚ ༝ My Lady is the Sea ｡ ˚ ༝ - Prince Eric x Fem!Reader | NSFW

𖠳 ᐝ warnings: brief smut, 18+ (minors dni), unprotected sex & cursing

Sea salt tickles your nostrils as you step out onto the wooden dock. Nose twitching like a bunny to rid the salty air from your sensitive nerves. You glide forward only a few feet, and your left shin knocks into a wooden pole. A barricade lined the perimeter of the landing. Fencing that stops you from falling into the unknown below. An oil lantern illuminates a portion of the dock and the gradually darkening surface of the deep. The expansive waters lurk just beyond the fading arc of light. Your body gently sways with the sounds of the waves stirring.

Instinctively, you flex your hold on a roped handle. A heavy, disgusting mixture of beer and spit sloshes in the bucket that you have been entrusted to dump out. Polluting the ocean, you think. An unfortunately common attribute of living in a coastal town. It's second nature to dump and forget. Water appears to be along every horizon you look to. It surrounds you, yet it's ever-moving. Continuous. Traveling away.

How you wish you could be out there now. Just like your father had moons ago. Oh, the precious things he gifted you with when he returned to the marina! The carefully selected treasures. He always seemed to know which new object would earn an excited squeal from you because of its sparkles or funky shape. Whispers at bedtime of now fictitious-sounding tales on how he acquired them. To you, his trips were like storybooks. Too embarrassing to admit, you used to go to sleep late into your teens with visions of exploration dancing in your head. Dreaming of the uncharted waters and cloudy faces of the friends you'd make. He'd promise to you, that you would soon be old enough to explore the world with him.

But you couldn't truly treasure the last retelling of his adventures because no one foresaw he would leave it on a cliffhanger. He never came back. Your mother forbade you from speaking of his expeditions as time passed. "Don't go towards the beyond." "This is your home." "You're safe here." she chided. Here, on land. The hope soon ended with the stories. You grew accustomed to the familiar. You were raised here. It's all you have known. Is it worth it to leave at this point?

However, there are instances when you fall back into childlike wonder. In the quiet lulls, similar to the brink of falling asleep, you can't help but contemplate what else the waters hold past their horizons.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝

A faint, muffled tune begins inside and wafts out into the silence. The merry-sounding song envelops you. You blink out of the reverie to adjust your vision in the darkness.

You can hear the pub's piano, in desperate need of a tuning, as you push open the door. A gaggle of men are singing a sea shanty in the dining space. They look disheveled but have dancing smiles. You can't help grinning as you watch these men celebrate life.

“Just docked," Gwen, your co-worker, calls from over her shoulder. She fills up two cups and then slides them over the bar top towards one of the waiting men. He slaps a few coins down and moves back to the crowd, like rejoining a school of fish.

Gwen wipes up the liquid he left, “I heard one of them holler that they came in from the Carribean.”

“I feel like that's only the third ship from around there this season."

"How do you manage to even keep track? There have to have been hundreds of vessels that have passed through here."

You blushingly shrug at her knowing smirk. Teasingly, her fingers reach out to flick at your slightly tarnished necklace. A chain made from Spanish silver with a locket bearing some type of ruby gem.

Leonardo was the one who had graced you with this last year. He was a buccaneer. He and his crew docked in town for a fortnight. He was charming and proud. In the tavern, he was always drunkenly boasting about the treasures he had found. The people he'd fought. The Lords he'd impressed. The people he'd fucked. He was so fun.

When your birthday happened around the time he was in town, he came stumbling into the bar with this necklace. He said it was nothing and that he had dozens of more valuable findings in a chest on board his ship. But he never showed you to prove that to be true. However, you did thank him ever so graciously that night.

He sailed out a day later. No harbor was his home. You're used to this life working as a bartender in a popular trading port. You see hundreds of thousands of faces. All of these handsome men ranged from sailors to buccaneers. They all share with you the amazing stories of their lives. They fascinated you. Inspired you. Seduced you. - You can't help but be attracted to the rugged, good-looking, and ambitious type.

A man unexpectedly calls out from the crowd towards the pair of you. His voice grabs your attention like a Siren's song. There were too many bodies to place where it was coming from in the mass of people, but you swear you briefly saw a hand in the air on the left side of the room.

“My lovely bar maidens, a round of your finest ale, please, yeah?"

“Right away, sir,” you nod curtly while pivoting obediently to fill the dregs.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝

The rosy-cheeked, rowdy men cheer even louder as you approach with their fifth round of booze. Their attention has been won, not by the promise of refreshments, but by the beer sloshing over the rims and onto the pair of bouncing breasts carrying it all.

Low whistles scatter around the table at your cleavage while you lean over to set down the ale. Mucky hands grabbing for the foaming tankards. You catch a handsome man staring through the limbs. He gives you a dimpled smirk. His eyes betray him as they glimpse down to what you can assume is your chest. Well, he's no better than any man.

Your retreating form hears the same voice from before exclaim, “Here is to another voyage through uncharted waters! I am grateful for all your hard work, boys. And thanks to Grimsby for laying off the scolding because we're three days past schedule."

You're back at the bar. A crewmate, with a red kerchief pushing back his straw-yellow hair, heaves an overfilled mug in the air toward the handsome man,

"And a special thanks to our Captain, whose mother would keel over from learning the adventures her dear boy has taken us on. Prince Eric!"

"Prince Eric," they unanimously cheer!

Together, as they collide their drinks, fat drops of the golden liquid splash onto Prince Eric's tunic and wet his chest. The strings of his shirt are untied. Making the neck loosely hang open with his chest hair on full display. Your eyes are drawn to it. Tracing the outline of his defined pecs through the thin fabric. You're no better than a man. Worst yet, he notices you staring. His stare seems to darken, and he motions his mug towards you as a 'cheers' gesture before returning focus to his companions.

Clearing your throat and dirty mind, you turn back to tend to one of your regulars, a local fisherman slumped over on a stool at the end of the bar.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝

Eric strides over as you scrub up the beer rings on the bar, left by the patrons who previously occupied the empty stools. He fluidly pulls one out to sit and drums his fingers along the wood. Blue eyes staring you down for a third time tonight,

"Can I get you anything?”

“I think I should take a breather. My crew is too enthusiastic to get me drunk.”

“Sounds like you're having a bad night." He threw back his head and let out a loud laugh. Admittedly, it was too big of a reaction to that poor joke attempt. You wring out your rag into a nearby bucket to hide your smile.

You wait for a beat before sparing him another glimpse. He’s staring at your chest again. You feel the exposed skin warm under his look. You’re tempted to peek down to see how much this corset is causing you to spill out.

“Did you get it locally?

“Sorry?”

"The necklace," he half-gestures towards you.

You clasp at the pendant, "Oh, this."

He nods with his eyes fixed on your chest a moment longer before moving up to your face. His cheeks are flushed and eyes hooded, assumedly, from the pints he and his crew have slung back. You're moving toward him, holding out the chain to let him get a closer look.

“I think it’s from the Spanish Islands. A pirate passing through last season gave it to me.”

His large hand reaches out to replace yours. “It’s beautiful. I have an eye for treasures like this.”

He's so close like this. You watch his eyes flick around the locket, his fingers tracing over the gems, and the way his dark curls fall as he tilts his head to examine.

“Silly me to think anything else. Here I thought you were just checking out my chest.”

“Well, you do have wonderful tits," he absentmindedly states. He leaves you gaping as he pulls back.

"Thank you for letting me have a look. I'd be rather fond of that if I were you. That's a special gift."

"Y-yeah, but given to me by a not-so-special guy," you shrug.

You sense an awkward pause, but he watches you with a soft, dimpled smile. You motion towards the window out to the harbor, “Which one is yours?”

“The biggest one. Naturally.”

You stifle your giggle and notice a boat at the end of the port. Beautiful and massive.

“Wow, you weren't kidding. What's it like up there?"

"On the boat? You work in a marina. Have you ever been on one?”

“Oddly, no.”

He didn't hide his shock.

“I'm sorry. Are you telling me that summer lover could give you a necklace but decided not to show you his deck?”

“Something like that," you lean onto the bar, "How unfortunate for me, right?"

His hand strikes the top of the bar as he rises from the stool, causing you to flinch.

“Well, that simply just won't do! Do you want to come see mine?"

The lamplight and mischievousness dance in his eyes, "I can give you the grand tour.”

“Will you let me spin the wheel?”

"Only the most skilled helmsmen are allowed to touch," he pouts, then that damned smile graces his lips again, "but I think I may be able to bend the rules for you."

“I’m going on break,” you call to Gwen before following the handsome voyager outside.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝

"And, this would be the Captain's quarters."

"Oh, Captain Eric?"

He sheepishly rubs at the back of his neck, "I don't particularly like going by titles. Makes me feel like I'm trying to say I'm more important than others. I swear by my men. We venture out for fun, but I'd be stuck at port without them."

"That is a very noble thing to say, Prince Eric."

"Come off it," he laughs while moving over to a table against one of the walls. Eric picks up what appears to be a rock. He turns the object in his hands before showing you.

"Fossilized sea stone. Found it off the coast of my home island."

He places the textured stone in your open palms. The unexpected weight of it doubles you over, but Eric catches you. His hand lingers on your hip.

He proceeds to tell you about the rest of his findings laid out on the surface. You love the way his face lit up. Making himself exhilarated with his own stories. You listen intently and let yourself live vicariously through his retellings.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝

Eric locks an ornate chest up as you watch. Sitting on the table now cleared of his glories. “So, are you considered a sailor, explorer, or just a guy with a boat and a lot of time on his hands?”

Eric laughs, "The last one, for sure. Once I turned nineteen, my mother allowed me to venture out and sail with the crew. I've always loved the idea of discovering something new on my voyages. Whether it be places, possessions, or people."

He's moving into your space, "I am happy to have met you, Y/N."

"And I, you, Prince Eric."

"No titles here." He leans in with a hint of a grin in his whisper, "I forbid it."

"Oh, that sounds like a command, and I shall obey, Your Majesty."

He chuffs as you see his eyes drop to your necklace again. His fingers dance along the silver chain before exploring further and grazing over the top of your chest. He makes sure to peek up at you for some sort of permission. Silently, you put your hand over his own to guide him to grab a handful of your breast. Eric takes the cue and squeezes while closing the gap between you with a kiss that immediately heats up. Hands knead your breasts over your camisole-corset top.

"And here I thought you've been admiring my necklace all night. I feel scandalized," you tease while he kisses your neck.

"No, no, it is beautiful! But, these," His calloused hands give a reassuring squeeze, "are really lovely."

Hands quickly work to pull down your blouse to expose your tits. Eric rolls a nipple between his forefinger and thumb. Gasping, you arch up into his touch. Legs instinctively spread wider to allow him in. You feel his dick twitch the moment he presses closer.

A moan growls in the back of his throat as he rolls his hips. Grinding his hard-on into your wetting core while you kiss. Your skin grows hot, his breaths come heavy, and the heat is building between your legs. 

Eric put his mouth to your breast, sucking at your skin in obscene, open-mouthed kisses. Eliciting a low keening sound from you. He withdrew just enough to lave at your nipple, back and forth, over and over, until your pussy thrummed to the same beat.

"Is it very unprincely of me to tell you that I would very much like to fuck you right here, now, in my chambers?"

"You are but a man, my Prince."

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝

Your body was thrown across the desk. You don’t know where to put your hands, so they grip and scrape at the wooden surface while Eric fucks into you.

He has a firm hold on your naked waist. Keeping your long skirt hiked up to your stomach so he could watch himself penetrate you. He has a brutally harsh pace going. The delicious feel of the drag and pull of his cock.

Eric braces himself on the desk. A toned arm flexes next to your head. His face is now closer to yours as he changes the angle of his hips. With the newfound support, you feel him speed up his thrusting. He groans into your chest. Playfully biting a nipple before kissing up to your neck. His movements were enough to bring you dangerously close to reaching your high in only a few minutes.

"Oh, Prince Eric," you whine.

"Fuck." His hips stutter. "What's my name?"

"Captain Eric. Eric. Eric. "

A wave of bliss hits you and you screw your eyes shut. It doesn’t take long before both of you reach your orgasms. You hold onto Eric's biceps with all your might, as you scream his name. No doubt loud enough for everyone in the tavern to hear.

༝ ˚ ｡⋆ 𓇼 ⋆｡ ˚ ༝

At dawn, you're re-dressed and carefully creeping over the creaky floorboards. Trying not to wake any of the still-drunk crewmates who had found their way back onto the ship.

Catching your eye, the silver locket, sat on the once-empty desk, glints in the daybreak. Eric's back rises and falls. The rest of his bare body is covered by the messy bedsheets. Blissfully oblivious of your exit.

You let that sleeping form be your final image of the handsome Prince and disembark the Royal ship.

[thedragonbloody]

~ Fire & Love ~

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CHAPTER 5

Rhaella

The steep cliffs rose majestically, defying the horizon, and Rhaella, with her bow and arrows in hand, enjoyed the view.

The salty breeze caressed the princess's hair as she stood on the highest cliff, her piercing gaze fixed on the target ahead. The ebony bow sparkled with the promise of exceptional skill, a precious gift.

Focusing, the string was extended until the bow reached its perfect span. In the same gesture, her arms lowered it, maintaining its position. The arrow was almost at eye level. She was getting used to the sting of her fingers and the force she had to apply to the string. She wasn't thinking, and could barely notice time passing. She perceived her surroundings through her mind, with the almost perfect focus in which she united her will and her strength, and turned the aim into reality. Her fingers moved and the rope was released. The energy accumulated in that stance was released all at once, propelling the arrow that cut through the air in a graceful arc before hitting the centre of the target with precision. A subtle smile curved her lips as she prepared for another attempt — she seemed to have got the hang of it.

However, the momentary joy was broken by the distant sound of bells announcing morning, bringing the princess to the sudden realisation that she had exceeded the time.

The distant sound of the bells echoed across the Narrow Sea, marking the transition from dawn to morning. Each chime reverberated like an uncompromising reminder of the time that, like the bells, waited for no-one. A metallic symphony, a ritualistic echo that carried through the halls of the fortress, calling subjects and nobles to their daily duties. However, for Rhaella, on that hillside, the bells were a warning that her moment of tranquillity had to come to an end — she was late.

The princess slung her bow over her shoulder and prepared to descend the cliffside. She had to get back quickly before the seventh toll.

The hem of her gown trailed across the rocks, and her nimble feet, with calculated steps, found support on the steep ledges embracing the Red Keep. She moved with a peculiar grace, her long silver-white hair flowing in the wind like a royal standard.

The mesmerizing sight of the Narrow Sea stretching below captivated her momentarily, allowing the princess to forget the duties awaiting atop the castle.  However, during this little act of distraction, the once firm stones beneath her feet began to show their treacherous nature and an unexpected slip altered the course of her descent.

The princess's breath caught, her heart leapt - but her countenance remained determined. With swift and precise movements, instinct guided her to find a foothold, enabling her to resume her descent and cling to a ledge before the fall could be consummated.

Her knees and palms grated against the rough stones, but each injury was accepted as a kind of tribute for her fleeting freedom.

As the princess neared the slope's base, a stone above her slid, striking her forehead directly. The impact with the ground was abrupt, a cut opening on her forehead, staining her face with blood. Rhaella rose disheveled, shaking off the dust from her dress in an attempt to mitigate the grime.

She ran her fingers over the corner of her forehead, noticing blood trickling and a sharp pain emerging immediately.

— If mommy sees this, I'll be in deep trouble...— groaned the princess in concern.

Swiftly, she opened a small pouch, extracting a cloth usually reserved for herbs hidden for her sister. Then she remembered that she still needed to get the catnip herbs that Vhaelys had asked for earlier. The princess sprinted towards the sea as fast as she could, dampening the cloth with saltwater and wringing it out. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, pressing the cloth against the wound as forcefully as she could.

The burning, although painful, was not the cause of her despair. She needed to return promptly because breakfast with the family awaited, and only the Seven knew that Queen Alicent wouldn't allow her to see the light of day if she appeared in such a state in front of the court guests.

She rinsed the cloth in the water and wiped her stained face, then ran back to the secret passage while pressing the cloth over the cut.

In a hidden corner above the rocks at the entrance to the passage, she spotted the plant her sister had wanted. The herb grew solitary on the cliffside, and small grasses could be seen growing slowly around it.

She removed the blood-covered cloth and wrapped the herb to prevent it from crumbling inside the bag.

And hoped the bleeding wouldn't start again.

Jacaerys

Meanwhile, Jacaerys, the first-born, stood before the looking glass, fine-tuning his elaborately embroidered garments. His expression reflected a mixture of expectation and responsibility. The impending arrival of his birthday carried an anticipation that harmonized with the vastness of the sky beyond the castle walls.

The week of celebration loomed, and, of greater import, the first flight that the prince would undertake astride his dragon in the public eye. Although not yet fully grown, Vermax had already grown enough to take the young prince to the skies.

Jacaerys was robust and somewhat tall for his years, took longer than his sisters to fly his dragon. Vermax, despite having hatched first among the brothers' dragons, was still not big enough to carry the prince to great heights.

Princesses Vhaelys and Rhaella, who took to the skies with their dragons when one was seven and the other six, flew together and some say that at that moment the bond between the two sisters became unbreakable.

Jacaerys was adjusting the embroidered garment for the fifth time, even though the maid had already done so. His brown eyes reflected his obvious anxiety in front of the mirror.

Today he had to receive the guests for the celebration with his mother and Queen Alicent, he had to behave. 

His thoughts were swept away to some corner of his mind when the doors to his chambers opened and his mother entered accompanied by his dear sister Vhaelys.

Princess Rhaenyra approached with an affectionate smile.

— Good morning, dear — she stroked the boy's hair and placed a kiss on his forehead. — Are you ready?

Prince Jacaerys smiled nervously.

— Sort of... — he looked at his mother. — It's going to be okay, right?

Princess Rhaenyra stroked the boy's face, she was very proud of her son, and always appreciated his commitment to his duties — even when he was anxious, like today. A fond smile appeared on her lips.

— Of course you will, Jace. I'll be right by your side, there's nothing to be afraid of. You'll do fine, I'm sure. 

— Just say hello to some nobles who are arriving, brother — Vhaelys smiled. — Why are you so nervous? We've already done this several times.

Jaecarys rolled her eyes and grimaced at her sister, her snub nose wrinkling.

— It's different this time, Lys.

— You're the crown prince, Jace — now it was Vhaelys' turn to roll her eyes. — The lords should be anxious, not you. Right, mama?

Princess Rhaenyra watched her children exchange grimaces and laughed.

— All right, that's enough for both of you — she stroked her belly. — The day of your brother's first flight is coming up, don't upset him so much, darling. Come on, Jace. I'll fix your hair, I still need to see Luke.

— Where's Rhae? — asked the prince as his mother reached for the brush on the dressing table. — Don't tell me she's run off with some horse this time... — he whispered to his sister.

Princess Vhaelys sighed.

— No, she went to the cliffs. She must have practised with her bow again — Vhaelys sat on the edge of the bed and stared at her brother. — Don't even think about making that face, even you wouldn't stop her. Unless you want to get another finger bitten off.

Jacaerys laughed and raised his hands in surrender.

— What are you both laughing at? — Princess Rhaenyra approached and began brushing her son's hair.

Vhaelys looked at her mother and brother and laughed again.

— Remember when Jace told you that Rhae had sneaked out to play in the kennels?

— How could I forget... — Rhaenyra laughed. — She was five, I still don't know how she managed to get out.

— When Mum brought her back to her room, the first thing she did was try to pull my hair - Jacaerys smiled. - She couldn't even reach.

— That's true, — the mother smiled nostalgically. — Didn't she end up biting your fingers instead?

— Yes! - the children replied in unison.

Rhaenyra laughed without holding back and so did her children.

— I remember trying to get her mouth off your fingers — she wiped the tears of laughter from the corner of her eyes. — Jace, you thought she'd ripped your finger off.

— She bit me like a dog! — Jace defended himself.

— You haven't stopped crying, Jace! — accused Vhaelys and laughed again. — Remember, mama? You needed Ser Harwin to hold you down so you could look at Jace's fingers.

— And you, Lys? — accused the prince — You just watched!

— Well, you split on her — she shrugged, smiling.

Rhaenyra stroked her son's head as she watched the two of them argue.

The crown princess saw the loyalty between her children as a sacred bond, a pillar that transcended the intricate webs of politics, which more often than not separated rather than united. For her, her children were not just heirs to a legacy, but fundamental pillars for each other.

The relationship between her children was a source of pride and comfort for her. Every gesture of loyalty between them was like a tribute to the lineage of the three dragons — a testament to the blood that flowed through their veins.

However, there was a peculiar aspect to her sons' loyalty that Princess Rhaenyra noted with amusement. Their ability to hide Rhaella's escapes, even when the matriarch already knew the truth, was a sign of the complicity that permeated the family.

She saw this act of secrecy as an expression of love and protection.

— She cried and apologised for about three days - Jacaerys sighed. —  Now I understand, because Dad can't fight with her...

—  Your father can't argue with any of you... — claimed the princess. —  Speaking of him, has he turned up here yet?

Ser Laenor Velaryon, despite his commanding presence when wielding a sword, was known for his compassionate and affable nature, a trait that often made it difficult for him to take a firm hand with his children.

His reluctance to adopt a more authoritarian stance could result in moments of indecision, especially when faced with situations that called for more assertive leadership.

Even so, Ser Laenor's compassion left an indelible mark on his childrens' hearts.

Prince Jacaerys nodded.

— I haven't seen him this morning, maybe he went to see Luke first.

Suddenly, the door swung open and Ser Harwin Strong, Princess Rhaenyra's loyal knight, entered with the silent grace characteristic of guardians. His polished armour shone in the dawn light and his golden cloak stood out on his shoulder.

His build was a mixture of strength and robustness. With a stature that defied common standards, Ser Harwin was said to stand like a tower, indestructible, his broad, muscular shoulders conveying a sense of undeniable power. His massive, muscular body was a representation of his unrivalled strength, and his imposing aura could eclipse even the giants of the North.

His face was adorned with a sparse beard that signalled the virility of his actions, a map of lived experience. Deep lines skirted his eyes, silent witnesses to battles fought. A pair of brown eyes that have witnessed the best and worst of the court. The fierce glint of these irises, sculpted by life, seemed to reflect a wisdom moulded by the intrigues and loyalties that permeate the corridors of power.

His steps were firm, echoing a determination that resonated in the halls and battlefields, a presence that undoubtedly left a mark wherever he went. This was Ser Harwin Strong, known as Breakbones.

The knight bowed his head in deference and spoke.

— Good morning, Prince Jacaerys and Princess Vhaelys — he resumed his resolute posture. — Princess Rhaenyra, the preparations for breakfast are almost ready. I think you only have a few minutes before you meet the king and queen.

The prince and princess said good morning in unison - this happened quite often. The commander's presence, although marked by imposing physical strength, was also wrapped in a human warmth that won the hearts of Princess Rhaenyra's children.

There are those who say that the relationship between Ser Harwin and the princess's children was shaped by a genuine affection. Septon Eustace, in some of his writings, says that Breakbones was not only the knight who protected them, but a confidant, a mentor and, above all, a friend.

The children's admiration for Ser Harwin went beyond his skill with the sword and his impeccable armour. It was the honesty of his advices, his patience with their endless questions and his warm smile that won their hearts.

Princess Rhaenyra smiled and nodded to the knight.

— Thank you, Commander - she turned to her children and said. — I need to see your brother before we go to breakfast. Why don't you go and meet your uncles? I'll see you soon. — And she kissed each of them on the forehead.

They both agreed.

The princess headed for the door and left her son's chambers just as the door behind her closed. She sighed wearily.

Ser Harwin

There was a subtle exchange of glances, laden with promises and shared memories.

— The princess should rest — suggested Ser Harwin with his polished tone and deep timbre. — The end of the pregnancy is near.

Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, living up to the Valyrian lineage, embodied the majesty and beauty of her house in every feature. Her hair was a cascade of liquid silver-gold, gracefully falling over her shoulders with a sheen that captured every gaze.

Her violet eyes were like incandescent stars, piercing and full of boldness, a boldness that persisted even after giving birth to Prince Jacaerys. Her expression, often marked by determination, could instantly soften when she looked at her children.

For them, her gaze took on an unparalleled tenderness. The princess's rigid posture dissolved in front of her children, revealing a woman who not only led with firmness but also harbored a maternal devotion. Her womb, a silent witness to the future of the House of the Dragon, was wrapped in luxurious robes that emphasised both her majesty and the promise of new life.

While maintaining the demeanor of a future queen, Rhaenyra carried with her a touch of softness that only motherhood could bestow. But just like everything in life, there was a price to be paid for the joy her children brought her.

The fatigue of motherhood was not only physical but also emotional, a journey that demanded not just physical strength but a resilience that transcended the limits of the body. The constant presence of the princess in the roles of mother and future queen added an extra weight to her shoulders.

Despite the weariness of potentially giving birth to her son at any moment, she remained unyielding.

—There are many things to do, Commander - her hands rested lovingly on her belly as she walked — And rest is not one of them. It seems to me that Rhaella has gone beyond the walls again... — whispered the princess.

Ser Harwin smiled.

— She went to practice with the bow — he informed. — Woke up early and passed through the kitchen, as usual. I still haven't figured out where she exits…

The princess chuckled.

— If even you haven't figured it out, then she's cleverer than I imagined… — she paused for a moment and looked through the window in the hallway. — There are guests to be received, and in the coming days, there will be more. Find her before her absence is noticed by others…

Her eyes, deep and intense, carried a veiled meaning that only they shared. There was a silent complicity, a mutual understanding that extended beyond the formalities of the court.

— As you wish, princess — his voice resonated with devotion, and with a bow, he left.

His bond with Princess Rhaenyra went beyond the duties of a simple protector; there was a deeper connection there, a bond that only the most attentive of hearts could understand.

The flame of this feeling, fuelled by intrigue and impossibility, burned brightly, illuminating the darkest corners of his being. His eyes, often hidden under impenetrable armour, reflected the duality of his position as protector and lover.

Every touch, every glance exchanged between the two was an act of rebellion against established norms, weaving a complex web of emotions that intertwined with their intertwined destinies.

However, this love, although deep, was interwoven with the fragile threads of discretion. Aware of the shadows that hung over them, Ser Harwin and Princess Rhaenyra kept their relationship away from the judgemental eyes of the court. It was a dangerous game, but for Harwin, every moment shared with Rhaenyra and her children was worth the risk.

Harwin's heart swelled even more when it came to the children. For him, each child was a reflection of the love they shared, and he welcomed them with tenderness and dedication. Each child's laughter was a symphony that echoed in his chest, each innocent gesture a reminder of the life they had built together.

Rhaella

Cavernous silence enveloped the stone walls of the secret passage as Princess Rhaella Velaryon emerged into the dimness of the basement below the kitchen. The vaulted stone ceiling cast dancing shadows over her as she made her way through hidden corridors that connected to the darkest and most secret corners of the castle.

The dim glow of the little light that managed to enter the depths of the place revealed stones worn by time, and the distant whisper of the sea echoed loudly. The path, an intricate labyrinth hidden beneath the foundations of the Red Keep, was known to few.

As the princess continued, a veiled tension weighed on her shoulders, reflected in the haste of her steps and the agitation in her eyes. The soft sound of her breathing echoed in the underground chambers as she neared her final destination: a discreet corridor in Maegor's Holdfast, close to the bedrooms.

Maegor's Holdfast was a castle that stood like an imposing sentinel in the heart of the Red Keep. With a square structure and thick walls, it was known for being impenetrable — which wasn't quite true. King Maegor had ordered the construction of some secret passages — few, but very well hidden. However, two of them had already been discovered by Rhaella and her alone.

Nevertheless, on the winding path between the shadows, fate had an unexpected encountee. As Rhaella pushed the small stone wall behind an ornamental cabinet in the castle corridor, stealthily emerging from behind the furniture to turn the corner with her quick steps — the impact was inevitable.

Ser Laenor Velaryon, her father, emerged in front of her. The encounter was like the clash of two powerful chains, a collision that reverberated through the empty corridors. The princess, for a moment, unbalanced, the force of the encounter dispelling her haste, and her eyes showed a spark of surprise.

At the same time, Ser Laenor was also taken aback. The momentary expression of shock on his face soon gave way to a mixture of concern and paternal recognition.

— Rhaella! — he grasped his daughter's shoulders. — What happened?

— Papa! — the princess spoke in surprise. — What are you doing here?

Ser Laenor quickly looked around to make sure no one was nearby, then he put his fingers to his lips to indicate silence.

— We need to keep it down — he whispered. — Are you okay?

A mischievous smile appeared on the girl's lips.

— You're hiding too! — she accused. — Left the castle without mommy knowing again and you're late.

Ser Laenor laughed.

— Guilty — he crossed his arms. — Let me guess, you sneaked out again to the cliff, and lost track of time.

She raised her hands in surrender.

— Guilty.

The man bent down to her height, lifting her bangs. With the rough hands of a swordsman, he examined the wound on Rhaella's forehead, concerned not only about the visible injury but also about what could have led to such a state.

— If your mother sees this, she'll kill both of us — he remarked. — How did this happen?

The princess, with a hint of weakness, tried to smile to reassure him, but the urgency was evident in her gaze. She shook her head, indicating that it wasn't the time for explanations.

— Papa, forget about it. Come on, quickly — she pulled him by the hand. — I need your help; Ser Harwin must be after me. And if he finds me, we'll both get a scolding from mommy.

Understanding the situation, Ser Laenor acted swiftly — he picked up the girl in his arms and headed toward the princess's chamber.

The pair continued through the silent corridors, father and daughter, sharing a secret.

Vhaelys

— These birds are watching us — Vhaelys said as she walked in the company of her brother in the lower courtyard.

— Really? — Jacaerys restrained a laugh. — Are you... how do they say it? — with her arm wrapped around his, he made them both stop walking and whispered. — Ah yes, paranoid. Or maybe our little sister filled your head with old legends last night.

Vhaelys smiled and squeezed her brother's arm as a warning sign — he shouldn't laugh at her.

— Maybe both things — the princess's dress hem rustled as she grabbed it and pulled her brother along to keep walking. — But I'm sure that raven on the top of the wall scrutinized all our movements.

Jacaerys laughed and exchanged a playful glance with his sister.

— They must be curious about the approaching celebration — a voice came from behind them. — Even the birds wish to see Jace's first flight.

— Daeron! — Jacaerys smiled upon seeing the boy.

Daeron Targaryen's golden hair cascaded in soft waves, capturing the sunlight like threads of liquid gold. His beauty was remarkable, but it was the warm and friendly expression on his face that truly highlighted his presence. The amethyst-cut eyes reflected subtle intelligence and the kindness that defined his reputation, emanating a serene light that calms and attracts.

Even at such a young age, the refined and graceful posture he held revealed a confidence that was not imposed but innate.

The prince wore a finely crafted fabric tunic, adorned with delicate details that indicated not only his royal position but also his refined taste. The chosen colors seemed to complement the softness of his smile, while the embroidered symbols revealed to which house he belonged.

— Good morning, Jace... — he greeted the prince with a smile and then bowed to his niece. — Good morning, Lys.

— Good morning, Daeron — the princess replied, trying to hide the smile that threatened to appear on her lips. — Has Helaena left for the hall?

— I can't tell you — the young prince looked back at the tower behind him. — I haven't seen any of my siblings this morning. But I believe she should arrive with my mother.

— I see... — she sighed dejectedly. — I hoped to meet her on the way.

— Daeron, are you going to practice in the Dragonpit today? — Jacaearys asked.

The prince turned his gaze away from his niece.

— I intend to — he smiled. — After we receive the guests with my mother, I can ask Ser Criston to take us there.

— That would be great! — Jacaerys replied excitedly. — Aegon said he'd give me some tips, but he didn't show up yesterday...

— Aegon... Well, how to put it... — Daeron sighed. — He's Aegon.

Jacaerys laughed.

— Did he get into trouble again?

— The question would be when is he not in trouble? — Daeron murmured. — Aegon and mother are not on good terms, so don't be surprised if his mood is unpleasant. You know...

— But is he okay?

— I don't know, you know how he is...

— I think we should head to the hall before they miss us — the princess warned. — I'd hate to receive a reprimand.

The princes agreed in silence and headed towards their destination.

Ser Laenor

The tranquil atmosphere of the room was disrupted by the entrance of Ser Laenor, who accompanied Rhaella to the edge of the bed. Carefully, he positioned his daughter in a seated position, focusing his attention on the cut on her forehead.

— Let's take care of this, my dear — he said. Stepping away, he began searching for something around the room.  — We don't want a scar.

— A scar? — the girl exclaimed, startled. — It wasn't that deep, papa. Look, it's already stopped bleeding.

Laenor chuckled from the other side of the room.

— Papa, maybe you should check the false bottom in the dressing table drawer. Lys keeps a wooden box with ointments for these situations.

Laenor, curious and grateful for the discovery, retrieved the box and found a treasure trove of medicinal solutions prepared by his eldest daughter.

— You and your sister always surprise me, — he said, taking the box out of the drawer. — How many times have you been injured?

— Just a few scratches here and there — the girl said, swinging her feet absentmindedly.  — Lys is very good at taking care of them.

— Has your sister been sneaking things out of the meisters' room? Where did she get all this?

Opening the box, the man found an enchanting array of small vials carefully organised. The scent of herbs enveloped the room.

He identified jars containing wine and vinegar, each playing a unique role in the preparation of treatments. The wine, known for its antiseptic and anti-inflammatory properties, demonstrated Vhaelys' attention to detail. Vinegar, meanwhile, could be used to clean and disinfect wounds.

Small dried leaves from various medicinal plants were carefully arranged in separate compartments. Vhaelys, with her expertise, had selected each herb with specific properties, creating a versatile collection for different needs.

Alongside the leaves, Laenor found homemade ointments made from a mixture of natural ingredients. These ointments, duly labelled by the princess, promised relief for her sister's injuries.

— Well... — she laughed. — We both made them, but I brought some of the leaves. But it's a secret, papa. Don't tell anyone, okay? Lys will be angry if she finds out I let you take this.

The man laughed, but his heart swelled with love.

— I promise I won't tell - he held out his finger to the girl. — A knight's word.

The girl wrapped her finger around his and smiled.

— A knight's word.

He approached his daughter's face and brushed away the small strands of hair that had fallen out. He gently took the clean cloth he had found and moistened it in vinegar, and began to gently wipe the cut on Rhaella's forehead. The sensation of the cool liquid contrasted with the temperature of her skin, but the man tried to carry out the procedure gently, ensuring that the cleaning was effective without causing any further discomfort to his daughter.

— It looks more superficial than I thought. You'll be fine.

As he worked, the soft light in the room emphasised Laenor's calm expression, contrasting with Rhaella's anxiety. The vinegar, with its antiseptic properties, played its part in purifying the wound.

— Your sister really cares about you. — Dad smiled. — But you should be more careful, little one. Try not to get yourself and your sister into trouble, okay?

Princess Rhaella agreed sadly.

― I know. I'm sorry, papa.

― It's okay — he applied ointment to the wound. ― Looks like we're done. Are there any more injuries that need attention?

The girl smiled mischievously and lifted the skirt of her dress to show scratched knees, then turned her palms to her father.

― Maybe a few more...

Ser Laenor sighed.

― Will you tell me how you got all of this? — he said, focused on cleaning the scratches.

― I slipped on the cliff... — when she noticed her father stopped what he was doing and looked at her worried, she quickly added, ― Nothing too dangerous. Just like you said, I didn't go that high this time.

― I would hardly classify slipping on the cliff as nothing too dangerous, Rhae — he raised his eyebrows.

The girl smiled.

― Oh, papa, I promise it wasn't really dangerous.

The father returned his attention to the other knee.

― Rhaella, I didn't give you a bow as a gift to put yourself in danger like this — once he finished cleaning the wound, he focused on applying the ointment. ―If your mother found you the way I found you, you would have given her a damn heart attack. Or worse, what if the queen found you like this?

The girl's expression changed.

― I know. I'm sorry... — she sighed disappointedly. ― I meant to come back earlier, really. But I got distracted, and by the time I noticed, the bell was already ringing... And I ended up slipping when I tried to come faster. I'll be more careful.

― Okay, as long as you know that, it's enough — he took one of the girl's hands and applied vinegar. ―We don't want to bring trouble to your mother.

When Sor Laenor finished tending to all the scratches on his daughter, they both realized they needed to hurry to breakfast as soon as possible.

― I'll call Eileen; you need to get ready — he turned to the door, but was stopped by the girl's hands.

― No, we can't call Eileen — the girl ran to another corner of the room where the dresses were. ― We don't have time; the seventh bell rang a while ago. You'll have to help me, papa.

― Rhaella, you need to wash up ― he looked at the girl's face and hair still matted with dried blood. ―There's no way you can get to the hall in this state.

The room shared by Princess Rhaella and her sister was a sanctuary of elegance and comfort. The sturdy, finely adorned stone walls gave the space an aura of royalty. The duality of personalities was reflected in the meticulously chosen decoration.

The high ceiling extended over a majestic canopy bed, intricately carved, with silk curtains flowing gracefully. Fine linens and meticulously embroidered pillows provided a touch of refinement.

Luxurious rugs, woven with intricate patterns, covered the cold floor, providing a welcoming atmosphere. A fireplace carved with dragon details offered warmth and soft lighting. In addition, two leather armchairs, one on each side of the room, provided comfortable places for reflection.

Small details revealed the distinct personalities of the sisters. Shelves housed favorite books and personal items, reflecting each one's unique interests. The gentle scent of scented candles permeated the room, creating a cozy atmosphere.

In the corner, separated by a long wooden screen, there was a bronze bathtub adorned with flower paintings. And around it, soft fabrics and robes hung, ready to envelop the sisters in comfort after a rejuvenating bath.

Laenor's eyes wandered around the room and settled on a bucket next to the bathtub. He approached, picked up the small container nearby, and dipped it into the bucket.

It was water.

― Rhaella, was this water from yesterday's bath?

― Oh, yes! Lys didn't use all the water they brought ― she said without taking her eyes off the dresses, and for a moment she seemed to have an awakening. ―Papa! That's it! You're a genius; we can use this water to clean me up!

Sor Laenor laughed.

― Well, that's what I was thinking ― he rolled up his sleeves. ― We need to be quick, come on!

― I still haven't found the dress! ― frustrated, she huffed.

― Come and clean up, and I'll look for it, okay? ― Laenor approached his daughter. ―Which one is the dress?

― It's the black and blue one, you know? The one grandpa Corlys gave me.

― All right, ― he smiled. ― I'll look for it; now, go clean up quickly.

She agreed.

The dark wooden cupboards were full of exquisite costumes, but Ser Laenor, aware of his daughter's tastes, searched meticulously through the garments. With a masterful touch, his skilful hands found the desired fabric, and he removed the dress with a triumphant gesture.

― Here you are, darling. This is the one you were looking for, isn't it? ― Ser Laenor asked, presenting the black and blue dress, adorned with delicate details.

― Yes, Papa, this is it. Thank you.

Ser Laenor arched an eyebrow and asked.

― Haven't you started cleaning up yet?

The girl pouted and whispered.

― The water's too cold...

Ser Laenor rolled his eyes and crossed his arms.

― Anyone who's late has no right to complain about the water, Rhaella ― he laughed, putting his dress on the screen. ― Come on, I'll help you. We need to be quick.

The bucket, sturdy and polished, rested in skilful hands as Ser Laenor lifted it to pour the water into the tub. Clear, sparkling drops fell from the container with a soft sound, echoing in the calm atmosphere of the room.

The water, now released, created delicate ripples on the surface of the bronze tub. It was as if tiny liquid diamonds were dancing in the light, capturing and reflecting the golden hues that permeated the room.

Rhaella, waiting with anticipation, finally stepped into the tub after it had been filled. The clear liquid enveloped the princess in its cold embrace, causing a wave of goose bumps.

Ser Laenor, attentive to his daughter's expression, skilfully completed the task, allowing the water to reach the desired level. He placed the bucket on the floor and leaned close to the table to pick up the soap, handing it to his daughter.

Rhaella took the vegetable oil soap, with its enveloping fragrance of calendula and rosemary, and began to apply it to her skin. The soft texture of the soap glided delicately over her body, leaving behind a trail of perfumed foam. The enveloping fragrance of calendula and rosemary wafted through the air, creating an atmosphere of freshness and relaxation.

Rhaella's movements were cadenced and gentle, as she dedicated herself to cleansing every centimetre of her skin. She spread the soap on her hands while trying to remove the dirt from her nails.

Ser Laenor, realising the need for more specific care, picked up the washcloth from the table and began to gently scrub Rhaella's back. The vegetable fibres, impregnated with foam from the oil soap, glided delicately over the princess's skin, gently removing any trace of dirt or impurity.

With skilful and attentive gestures, Ser Laenor concentrated on the areas most prone to the accumulation of impurities, such as the nails and the hardest-to-reach parts of the back. The loofah, in his hands, became an instrument of care, an extension of paternal affection as he ensured that his daughter was completely clean.

The soft sound of the loofah gliding across her skin blended with the murmur of the water in the bath. Dedicated to his task, Ser Laenor picked up the small container, dipped it into the water to collect a little and carefully poured it over Rhaella's head. The water, now charged with the essence of soap, ran down the princess's hair, carrying with it any trace of her adventures.

At the feel of the cold water, the princess let out a pained moan and another wave of goosebumps ran down her back.

— Papa! — she exclaimed, as she tried to remove the strands of hair now stuck to her face.

— We're almost done, don't be such a whiner.

He gently massaged his daughter's scalp, his skilful fingers working to wipe away the trace of blood that persisted. The foam turned into a fragrant cascade, enveloping the strands of Rhaella's hair.

And in that serene silence, Ser Laenor not only washed his daughter's hair, but also wove an intangible tapestry of affectionate memories. Each touch resonated in a connection that transcended time and the ages.

Daeron

The Small Hall, a majestic enclosure within the Red Keep, unfolded in grandeur under a high, vaulted ceiling. The room, designed to hold up to two hundred people, boasted a refined grandstand that ran the length of the room, offering a splendid view to all who had the privilege of taking their seats

Carefully arranged tables adorned the space, offering an elegant and functional setting for important meetings and events. The imposing, richly carved wooden doors guarded the entrance, inviting those present to walk through the ornate entrance.

The choice of location had been prompted by the preparation of the Great Hall for the Princes' Name Day. However, unlike the vastness of the Great Hall, the Small Hall had a more intimate atmosphere, with its tapestry-covered walls and polished floor.

— It looks like we're just in time — said Jacaerys. — We're the first.

Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden reflections on the meticulously prepared tables. Arranged in symmetrical rows, they boasted embroidered linen tablecloths and a collection of fine plates and silver cutlery. Arrangements of fresh flowers, picked from the gardens of the Red Fortress, adorned the centre of each table, spreading a soft fragrance throughout the room.

— Mummy must be on her way... — the princess murmured. — Let's sit down and wait.

The enticing aroma of freshly prepared food enveloped the small room, creating a combination of smells that aroused the senses. Small portions of freshly baked biscuits, with a golden crust that seemed to crumble at the slightest pressure, were displayed on an engraved silver tray.

The servants moved gracefully, serving the delicacies with attention. Their silent but hurried footsteps added to the atmosphere of the hall, while silver plates and utensils tinkled softly under their skilful hands.

A large brown bowl, permeated by the comforting warmth of cooked oats, was adorned with slices of fresh apple and sprinkled with a generous pinch of cinnamon. The cosy scent enveloped the Small Hall, awakening the promise of morning comfort.

Orderly rows of loaves of bread of different shapes and textures took pride of place and exuded an irresistible fragrance of fresh fermentation.

Porcelain chalices contained almond milk, with its creamy texture and smooth flavour. Silver kettles released steam while mint and nettle teas infused the room with a combination of aromas. The freshness of the mint and the herbal notes of the nettle danced in the air, creating a relaxing atmosphere.

The Knights posted at the entrances to the small hall kept a discreet watch over the place. Their watchful eyes swept the room, ensuring the safety of the Royal family.

There were moments — not many, but a few — when Prince Daeron seemed content with his family's absence. It was nothing new that when everyone was together the tension increased, and everyone's thoughts could be heard if someone looked closely.

Daeron liked little company, and each of them was well selected. He wore a thoughtful smile, but in his heart there was a loneliness that no child should hide.

Ever since the conversation with his mother about possibly being sent to Oldtown - his mind had been filled with anxiety and anguish. But as soon as he crossed the courtyard and met his nephews, calm set in.

It was true that he preferred Tessarion's company more than anyone else's, but he cherished the moments with Helaena and Vhaelys. They were attentive, and their conversations were curious and thought-provoking. Even if it was about embroidery — he would still enjoy it.

He didn't notice that he was staring intensely at the princess in front of him, his amethyst eyes gazing at her with curiosity, even though he didn't understand what she was talking about. Until he was asked.

— Daeron?

He blinked confusedly, as if he had just woken up from a deep dream.

She laughed.

— You didn't hear anything, did you? — her eyes were shrewd and teasing. — I asked if you and Jace had read The Reckoning of Time. Jace said no.

— Ah, yes... — he tried to regain his posture. — No, I mean I haven't read it. What would it be about?

— Don't push her, Daeron.  She'll start rambling about time again.

Daeron smiled and arched an eyebrow.

— Well! You see… — she seemed ready to give a speech. — It is considered a grand work. It is, indeed. Archmaester Walgram delved deeply into the issue of ancient studies, where various cultures count days, seasons, and years differently. You see, I've already spoken about this.  The way we perceive time is so senseless. Other people might perceive it differently! The concept of time is so… I don't even have words. Oh, it really makes me… how do you say it? Truly…

— Bothered? —  Daeron suggested.

— Exactly! Bothered, that's the word.

Jacaerys began to laugh.

— Two things you shouldn't mention around Lys. The time and cats. She won't keep quiet about that...

Vhaelys rolled her eyes.

— It's just that you boys can only think about swords and fights. It's hard for you to keep up with my reasoning, Jace.

Jacaerys stared at her in confusion.

— Did you mean to say I'm less intelligent?

— Oh, I didn't say anything. You should spend less time with Aegon your head is becoming as empty as his — she turned to Daeron. — No offense.

Daeron laughed.

— I'm not offended.

— Hey! Wait a minute, I study as much as you do, Lys — accused the brother.

— Yes, of course you do. But it wasn't me who confused Evenfall Hall with Harrenhal... — she teased.

— It was one time, Lys! Just once!

— Well, there was that other time you said—

— All right! — Jace interrupted. — Very clever of you...

While laughter echoed in the room, Daeron couldn't help but wonder if he would ever have the confidence to share lighthearted moments and jokes with his own siblings.

Aegon's judgmental gaze and Aemond's more reserved demeanor seemed to form a barrier, making him a distant observer of the more intimate family dynamics. Restlessness grew within him as the dilemma of possibly having to say goodbye and leave for Oldtown cast a shadow over his heart.

Among laughter and shared memories, Daeron would realize that his journey was his alone and that, perhaps, finding his own voice within the complex family fabric would require time and patience.

— For your information, we've already learned about the Ghiscari wars, haven't we? — Jacaerys directed his question to Daeron.

— Oh, yes, Maester Gavin taught us...

— Five times did Old Ghis fight Valyria when the world was young, and five times did they lose — Jacaerys rambled. — Imagine the number of dragons in those days...

— It's said that the ancient Ghiscari Empire was the first great civilization in the known world. According to Maester Gerardys, the empire was already forming before the Long Night... — a shiver ran through the princess. — Eight thousand years ago.

— The Long Night... — Jacaerys sighed. — Rhaella loves hearing about those legends, doesn't she?

— Well, let's change the subject. I don't find it the least bit enjoyable to talk about it on a morning like this. Or any morning, actually...

— Do you believe in the legends, Lys? — Daeron asked curiously.

— It's not that I believe; I just don't think it's good to talk about...

— Has Rhae been reading about demons and giant ice spiders to you and Helaena again? — Jacaerys smiled. — Septa Noelle must love that.

Vhaelys nudged her brother as a reprimand.

— For your information, Septa Noelle hasn't complained about anything. We've all been studying very well, thank you.

— Speaking of Rhaella... — Daeron spoke up. — Where is she?

Aemond

Aemond was immersed in the pages of his book, each word an escape to a distant place. His serious and concentrated countenance revealed his curiosity for the written words, whose stories flowed through the lines like winding rivers.

In the silence of that moment, the door slowly opened, revealing the majestic figure of Queen Alicent and the graceful presence of his sister Helaena. Their gazes fell on Aemond, who didn't lift his eyes from the book.

Alicent Hightower, the queen consort, radiated elegance with every graceful movement. Her noble features were emphasised by a serene expression, indicating the presence of a queen. Her hair was tied up in an elaborate hairstyle, which gave a clear view of her expressions.

The dress, meticulously designed, hugged the queen's figure impeccably. The green colour chosen was so deep that it could be compared to the dense shade of a lush forest. Luxurious and ornate fabrics made up the outfit, giving it a quality that only a queen could boast.

Intricate details adorned the sleeves and collar of the dress, adding an intricacy that echoed belonging to House Hightower. Fine jewellery, matching the lush green, sparkled on her fingers and neck, subtly reflecting the light.

— Aemond, it's time for breakfast. Come, my son.

While the promise of a meal brought with it the anticipation of sharing the table with his family, there was a heaviness in his heart that grew by the minute. The echo of talk of dragons and flying would fill his ears, and he would have to hide his frustrations.

King Viserys, his father, would talk animatedly with Jacaerys and Daeron about the Name Day and expectations about the flight. For the Targaryens, these majestic creatures represented not only symbols of power, but also a magical connection to Valyria's heritage. However, this connection had escaped Aemond, leaving him in a state of despondency and insecurity.

He couldn't have been more despondent about breakfast.

— Aemond? — Queen Alicent called out again.

— Can't I stay away from breakfast today? — he asked, even though he already knew the answer. — Just today...

She watched Aemond with a stern expression as he reluctantly took part in breakfast. Her usually serene eyes became as sharp as razor blades at her son's attitude. The sternness on her face reflected not only maternal authority, but also the expectation that her son fulfil his duties.

— Aemond, I understand that we don't always want to follow through on our responsibilities, but the commitments of your position are undeniable - with a firm voice and obvious patience, she continued - We're close to your brother's name day celebration. There are guests, and we need to show perfection. What do you think they would say if they knew you were absent from breakfast? There are whispers in this castle, Aemond. I need you to do this, okay? Everything has to go according to plan.

Aemond opened his mouth to say something, but then shut it.

— I know you don't want to hear about dragons — she sighed. — Even I'm tired of always hearing about these beasts. But one day, I told you, you'll have your own dragon. When the time is right. For now, I just need you to fulfil your duties, understand?

He agreed.

— Yes, mother. I'll do what you want.

Alicent smiled.

— I'm proud — she paused, then looked at the book her son was reading. — What are you reading?

 — The Edge of the World by Maester Balder. It's a collection of tales and legends.

— And the seven-pointed star? You're reading it, right?

— Yes, I read it last night before going to sleep as you instructed.

— Ah Aemond, I'm happy. I really am - she caressed her son's face. — You'll be a great man, faith will keep you on the right path. The seven will guide you, you'll see.

The little prince's chest swelled, he could make his mother proud. His father never paid him enough attention, and without a dragon Aemond was apparently nothing in his eyes. However, in his mother's eyes he could be great and ruthless if he wanted to.

It was great to have her recognition.

— If Aegon were just a little more like you... — she rubbed her face. — May the seven help me.

— There's blood on swords... — murmured Helaena in the corner of the room. — Cracked heads... blood, blood.

Helaena was a unique girl, wrapped in a cloak of strangeness and sensitivity that sometimes seemed incoherent with the reality around her. The boy was used to her sometimes disjointed speech, which manifested an inner dialogue that remained enigmatic to those around him. Her words were like fragments of dreams escaping, creating a web of mystery around him. Aemond couldn't help but wonder about the thoughts that inhabited his sister's mind, a peculiar and confusing world that he couldn't fully understand.

The queen looked at her daughter with affection and reached up to stroke her hair. But as always, the princess shied away from the touch.

— Helaena, darling... — the queen sighed. — That's all right. I think we should go to the small hall now. Today will be intense.

— Is Aegon awake yet?

— Of course he is, I sent him to the small parlour first, so there wouldn't be any unforeseen circumstances... - she tightened the skirts of her dress. - From today onwards, the next few days must be perfect. You all need to look good.

— Do I need to welcome the guests with you?

— It won't be necessary, Daeron will do it. It's his name day, so it's only fair. Don't you have a lesson with Gavin this afternoon?

— Yes, mother. We're going over the arrival of the Andals and the Age of Valyria. It's been very productive.

— That's great. And Septon Eustace? Is he teaching you well about the faith?

— Oh yes, Septon Eustace has made us repeat often that men bow to their lords, and lords to their kings, so kings and queens must bow to the Seven Who Are One. That's the order.

— Septon Eustace is a wise man, he's right about that - she smiled cheerfully. — Remember, Aemond, that the laws of kings are one thing and the laws of the gods are another.

Alicent adjusted her posture and set off resolutely towards the door.

— We're wasting time. Come on, my children — as soon as the door opened, Ser Criston Cole approached and whispered something in her ear. The queen's expression changed, her eyebrows arched and a disapproving look crossed her eyes. — I wonder if that child will ever learn to behave like a real princess. But I think it's unlikely, the apple does not fall far from the tree...

Aemond didn't have to think too hard to realise who his mother was referring to.

Alicent Hightower's stern expression unleashed a storm of thoughts in Aemond's mind. His eyes, turned away from his mother's reproachful gaze, sought refuge in the memory of the moments shared with his niece.

He was used to his mother's judgements about Princess Rhaella's behaviour, especially when compared to the strict standards of the court. But for Aemond, the girl represented a breath of fresh air in the midst of expectations.

A bright spark amidst the shadows of rigidity, she epitomised freedom and authenticity for Aemond. Like an artist of the imagination, she transported him to lands of fantasy and dreams, where conventions were forgotten and the magic of the mind could flourish.

The young prince knew that, in his mother's eyes, the connection with his niece was viewed with disdain, a deviation from the paths she had set for him. However, Aemond couldn't give up the joy that the girl's presence brought, and every laugh shared became a rare treasure that he secretly treasured.

[spop-romanticizes-abuse]

Okay one last ask, this time a bit more coherent. I was going to write about how disappointed I was with how hordak was handled, how much potential he had to show cult trauma (which was passed over to catra via the chipping episode) which could've paralleled Adora realising she's not a weapon but a person, to help the resistance thanks to his previously established extensive experience commanding Prime's fleet (but no, gotta have catra tap into the hive mind) and show that the clones were taught to be evil and didn't start out that way (but no, let's just introduce a nameless clone who's there mostly for comic relief) but I won't do that. Even though I'm salty that his defect was completely forgotten about and the villain we've had for 4 seasons spent most of season 5 offscreen.... I won't. It's an essay for another time.

Instead, I'll just point out the moments which, in hindsight, made me realise just how little SPOP cares about the original material or the story it was supposed to be telling:

One of the first eps of season 1 shows a multitude of silhouettes of different princesses. We only see a few of them (why tease them if they'll never show up on screen?)

Adora's friendship with Swift Wind is underutilised and he's mostly shoved to the sidelines

Sea Hawk

The war isn't being taken seriously (something which you've brilliantly discussed before)

Nate doesn't bother to explain what Gray Skull even IS until a brief moment in s5 where it turns out to be the name of Mara's rebellion cell or something. It was literally a second which I almost missed.

Adora's arc about finding her family and potential hinting at Adam and the extended MOTU universe is dropped.

The princesses don't act like processes and are barely even friends with each other.

The theme of "friendship conquers all" is quickly dropped as the princesses stop seeming sympathetic (cough, mermista and perfuma) and friendly with each other. At the end of s5 they had a great opportunity to parallel the s1 finale, but nah, gotta make it all about catra.

Micah, a former KING and magician of great power, spending s5 as either an awkward dad or chipped so that catra wouldn't face any consequences for killing Angella.

Sorry, who? Angella? Yknow, the one Catra killed in s3 and whose death haunted all of s4 and which was never discussed again in s5.

Entrapta getting more shit from the alliance than catra or scorpia put together despite being responsible for less bad stuff and the show still trying to gaslight us into thinking the princesses are her friends.

Worldbuilding? What worldbuilding?

^^ (i have nothing more to add)

[amnagsv]

proposal 💌 pg10

you had never seen water so blue, so clear and clean right to the sea floor. salty mist and spray from the helm of the boat dusted your neck, décolletage, through the ends of your hair. you raised your chin to the sky, smiling quietly to yourself as you appreciated the perfection of your summer break: relaxing in greece with your love, pierre, close friends and his family.

your two weeks in paradise was suddenly drawing to a close. it had simply flown by. despite the slow mornings in your shared villa, extended nights in nearby party towns, leisurely sensual nights with pierre, the flight back home and the reality of raceweeks and your own chaos were just days away. 

with reality looming, pierre steered the small boat away from the town and across the ethereal greek coastline. fish swam in the clear water. volcanic cliffs accented the shore. you engaged in soft, playful conversation with pierre’s mother, while the rest of the family enjoyed the views. yet just metres away, you were enamoured with pierre before anything else. his trained arms gripped the wheel, veins popping as he turned. your vision fixated on his back - strong, defined, littered with beads of sweat and salt water across his muscles. his favourite orange trunks - matching the bikini befitting your suntanned body - contrasted the blue of the sky and the sea, drawing your eyes back to him at almost every opportunity. he leaned back to smile at you intermittently, a sparkle in his eyes and a smirk on his face that you knew he only drew when he had something up his sleeve.

the engine sighed to a halt as the boat approached a beautiful hidden cove. 

“we’re here, this is the place!” pierre exclaimed as he turned towards you. his brothers and fathers cheered, as if to celebrate something secret, while his mother rose to fetch a small box of local delicacies - meats, cheeses, small salads - to enjoy a family lunch in the beautiful, private little clearing between the cliffs. the sun shone down on the deck as your love approached you, pulling the sunglasses over his eyes to hide a secretive expression.

“i always wanted to take you here, cherie,” the arms you were admiring reached around your waist and a salty, deep kiss was pressed to your lips. 

“it’s beautiful, pierre,” you sighed, leaning into his embrace and closing your eyes in quiet bliss. “this whole trip has been perfect. i can’t thank you enough and express how lucky i am to have you.”

“it wouldn’t have been right without you, my love. the fun isn’t over yet though, come on, swim with me to this rock, the view is incredible,” he pointed towards a platform in the middle of the cove, volcanic rock peering over the waves and plateauing into a little stage. 

with a little breathless laugh you agreed, taking his hand as you plunged into the water together. as you swam away from the boat, his family raised their phones and cameras. maybe something was different about today, but maybe you were overanalysing pierre’s cheeky, evasive approach to the day. you shrugged it off, head down into the waves and towards the rocky platform in the middle of the arc of cliffs. 

pierre beat you to your destination, offering a hand as the rugged volcanic rock pressed into the soles of your feet. he was right, the view over the cliffs, the greenery atop them, the sea and your boyfriend’s family on the little white boat was beautiful. looking into his eager blue eyes, pierre squared his body to yours and unzipped a pocket in his swim shorts. your gazes didnt part as he bowed to one knee, your jaw dropping in unison as he began with your name, and a nervous laugh. 

“from the moment i met you, for three whole years, you’ve been the centre of my world. i hold in my heart every minute we share together, because from the first time you looked at me, i was totally overwhelmed by you. i was so proud to make you meet my family because i was certainly sure that they would love you” he opened a small shiny box, home to a beautiful diamond ring. “i realised i had never met anybody like you before, when i laid awake one night and was just thanking god that i had even met you, that our paths had crossed, even if i could never call you mine. but i am the luckiest man alive to have fallen in love with you, and i fall harder and harder every day.  you are my inspiration, my motivation, and my goal. i want to be with you forever, as our dreams come true, as we expand our family, as we take on new adventures. will you marry me”

you had dissolved into tears before his speech had finished. your knees were weak and you sunk into his embrace, smiling and laughing and crying all at once.

“of course i will, yes, please, absolutely...” 

pierre absorbed your elation in a long, deep kiss. for a moment, you had felt like the only two people on earth, radiating your own magnetic field, but the boat’s eruption into cheers and the pop of a champagne bottle echoed across the cove and brought you back to reality. pierre slid the ring onto your finger as you basked in the moment - surrounded by people you love and documented from a distance on the boat, but the moment itself, and the words exchanged, between you and your new fiancé only. 

[deep-sea-gigantinism]

i decided that i have so many x-files fics that i should create a masterpost!

My AO3

One-Shots

- “a night like this”

Scully should be writing her reports on what they’ve found so far in Bellefleur, but Mulder invites her out for a run. She decides she could use some time away from her computer screen.

- “to the ends of the earth”

After the arrest of Donnie Pfaster and Scully’s subsequent breakdown, Mulder takes her back to his apartment so that she can stay the night.

- “when the night was full of terror and your eyes were filled with tears”

Dana Scully has just returned to work and is tired of being seen as fragile. The only problem is, she herself is afraid to wade back into the waters of her everyday life, but luckily, Fox Mulder is here to give her a push.

- “at least most things”

It’s Mulder’s birthday, and it’s also a Friday. Scully is intent on making dinner for him, but things don’t exactly go as planned.

- “as all things do”

Mulder is back in his apartment and has no idea about the depth of the emotional wounds from his abduction. When he starts to fall apart, he calls Scully.

Multi-Chapter Fics

- “even in the sigh of the headlight sea, your tears were salty ocean”

Dana’s year of healing after her near-death experience during redux ii and a character study of her and Mulder in the aftermath of the cancer arc.

- “smoke signals”

The ghosts have finally left Mulder alone. They haven’t gone far, though, and Scully swears she can feel their hands around her throat. Mulder and Scully spend a week at his father’s house in Martha’s Vineyard to bury the past in the yard.

- “TBD”

This fic will be based on my idea of Scully and Mulder coming across an X File on one of William’s school trips

[dailyeca]

sleeping on the sea bed

[cabezadeperro]

Beautiful for Rexwalker?

hello anon!

first meeting, pre-relationship. T, 1k.

---

Obi-Wan’s arrival finds him still messing with his arm, sitting on the warm tarmac with his back to a crate. The sun’s high up in the sky, and the air smells like the sea, cold and salty. Now and then Anakin finds himself just breathing it all in, the brine and the smell of the damp duracrete of the landing pad. He won’t ever get used to it: by now, he’s been in almost more worlds he can count, but there’s a part of him that will never forget the desert. Now and then, he still dreams he’s back home, back in the slave quarters of Mos Eisley. Anakin opens his eyes to the dark of his bunk room in the Venator expecting to see the opposite wall of his narrow childhood bedroom, the paint scratched and scored by generations of kids just like him.

He’s very far away from Tatooine, however—for better or worse. Anakin licks his dry lips, tasting salt, and rubs with his flesh thumb the tip of his screwdriver. There’s something wrong with the wrist joint: it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t jam, but Anakin can feel the wrongness on the back of his neck, a staticky ball of tension and maybe-future pain.

It’s been four months. Four months since Mom and Padmé. Four months of war. Two months of—of this. Anakin can feel the clone troopers’ minds all around him, distinct and individual and growing familiar, growing comforting. He’s finding he doesn’t mind war that much.

Obi-Wan does. His Force presence is muted, exhausted. He’s being groomed to fill one of the now empty seats at the Council, and he doesn’t like it, but he’s allowing it to happen anyway. Windu’s Venator hovers high up in the sky, hidden by distance and the thin cloud cover. Anakin wasn’t invited; he minds that less than he thinks he probably should. 

Anakin’s finished sealing his arm back up by the time Obi-Wan makes his way across the landing pad and stops in front of him. Anakin clicks his tongue, annoyed, and he can almost hear Obi-Wan’s eye roll before he moves and his shadow slips off Anakin’s arm. 

He’s not alone. Anakin puts his tools away and leans back against the crate, looking up, squinting against the sun and the light. The trooper next to Obi-Wan looks—he kind of looks like Alpha, and he very much doesn’t, at the same time. His armour looks like his but newer, shinier, and in the Force he feels very bright. Anakin blinks, caught by surprise, and turns to look at Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan’s already watching him. He cut his hair a couple weeks ago, and Anakin can’t quite get used to the way the shorter style makes him look older, more serious. It’s not bad, but it isn’t good, either. It’s just new, and weird, and Anakin finds himself, now and then, looking for his master in the crowd, even when Obi-Wan is right next to him.

“Captain,” Obi-Wan says. His blue eyes flash: Anakin rolls his, and heaves himself to his feet with a grunt. “This is my Padawan. Anakin Skywalker.”

“Sir,” the trooper says. He has yet to take off his helmet. He’s stiff, too formal. Shiny. “I look forward to working with you.”

Anakin doesn’t raise an eyebrow, and he doesn’t turn to look at Obi-Wan.

“Sure,” he replies. Obi-Wan sighs.

“Captain Rex is an ARC trooper,” he says pointedly. “He was in Geonosis.”

Oh, so he’s not so shiny after all. Anakin folds his arms.

Obi-Wan clears his throat. He’s looking between them, an unreadable expression in his face. 

“I’ll let the two of you get—familiar. With each other. You’ll be working together more often than not,” he continues after a beat. Anakin nods distractedly, still staring at the captain; the trooper says something empty and official-sounding Anakin forgets almost immediately.

Obi-Wan leaves. The silence grows heavy and awkward almost immediately: Anakin tries and fails to find something to say. His face feels hot. He reaches for the bond, and Obi-Wan tugs at it impatiently, tucks himself away: he’s tired and exasperated and kind of laughing at Anakin, because he’s a bastard.

“So,” Anakin starts. He clears his throat. The trooper is still looking at him, very still, very stiff. He’s hard to read in the Force: Anakin could, if he tried, and the temptation is there, but so is Obi-Wan’s potential disappointment, so he doesn’t. “So. Have you been an ARC long?”

The trooper twitches. 

“... no. Not really. Sir. Just a little over a month.”

He sounds defensive. 

Silence falls again. Anakin wishes he could go back to fiddling with his arm. 

“You can take off your helmet. If you’d like,” Anakin blurts. He just looks so—off. So new. Against the pockmarked concrete of the tarmac, against the carbon scored larties and the washed out blue of the sky, the white plasteel of his shell feels out of place. “You don’t have to. But you can.”

The trooper tilts his head at him. For a beat, for two, he just stares, hard to read, hard to understand. And then he reaches up, breaks the seal of his helmet, and there it is. His face. Brown skin, darker eyes. A shock of blond hair, unexpected, buzzed very short. 

He looks young. They all do, but it hits Anakin harder this time. His jaw is still soft, his face round. There are freckles over his nose and a small, new-looking scar on his chin. When he smiles, tiny and crooked and weirdly knowing, Anakin clears his throat and looks away. 

“Sergeant Seventeen has told me quite a lot about you, sir,” Captain Rex says suddenly. Anakin blinks. His face feels hot.

“Nothing good, I’m sure,” he mutters. Captain Rex’s smile widens. 

It’s a good smile, on the nice side of cocky. Anakin’s staring, and he knows it. He clears his throat, looks away, and then he looks back. Captain Rex is staring right back: his gaze is steady, sharp. Reconsidering.

[cinnamontoastcroonch]

Plsplspls any laurance headcanons to feed the starving?

oh but of course my sweet.. eat up

laurance ideas to feed the starving <3

- when laurance was brought back from the nether by ungrth, at least in cannon, he was unconscious. however, I believe he was in a state of shock induced by pain/trauma and obviously the experience of transcending realm barriers. picture wide, fear stricken eyes, with deep purple and grey circles beneath them. the striking color of his bloodied body and bruises are only accentuated by his extreme lifeless pallor. he’s frail and not quite human. something is off.

- following his escape, he spent much time recovering with the help of zoey. due to this, he catches himself feeling shy or ashamed around her, mainly after his recovery. this is largely due to how she was the first to see him in his worst state, and in a way he feels she should not have had to “deal with” his issues at that given time.

- another piggyback—laurance never got time to mentally recover from his time in the nether. he spent months enduring both physical and psychological torture, he was out, and then zane came along and brought a war with him. then garroths interesting little side quest (betrayal) and the irene dimension ordeal. 15 year time skip. HE IS BEING WHIPPED AROUND IN THESE EVENTS LIKE A RAGDOLL (heheheh…the council might laugh at that) anyways, he had absolutely zero time to collect his bearings and quite honestly is very lost. deep down, he wonders if it all could have been avoided somehow.

- because of this, he doesn’t recognize himself. his flirty confidence is just a facade that he wears to remind himself of who he used to be. to be truthful, his breath catches when something brushes against a particularly bad scar, or even if he looks at a flame for too long.

- laurance pops his knuckles as a sort of nervous-tick.

- laurance can braid hair beautifully—yet another thing he credits to cadenza. whenever there is downtime, he might be seen braiding the hair of those he is close with. its a comforting task for him, and reminds him of home.

- when he and katelyn were imprisoned during the werewolf wedding arc, the two of them were obviously extremely restless and stiff with stress. as time dragged on, he eventually ended up braiding katelyn’s hair. at first she was annoyed, asking him “what the hell are you doing”, to which he did not respond. she was exhausted, and to be quite honest it calmed her nerves a bit, so she didn’t argue. she pretended not to notice how the task seemed to rid his hands of their trembling.

- his favorite animal is a hawk. he likes to believe its his father watching over him whenever he happens to see one.

- sometimes, if he has a particularly bad night, he can be found at the beach , on his knees at the edge of the water. the moonlight on the water is blue and tranquil, and it helps to calm him. amidst the shore he can pretend that his salty tears are merely sea spray.

- after about half of the s2 events, this man needs a massage. he is to tightly strung and he hardly realizes it. once he was looking particularly stiff while donna was around, and she practically forced him to lay down so she could “work out some of those knots” he protested, mainly scared of his more gnarly scars being exposed, but donna, being the mother she is, didn’t mention the scars and artfully dodged them. he will never admit how much he needed it.

- when the group was exploring ruins on the island, he was grateful to have something like the historical environment to distract him. that’s part of why he was so fascinated.

[thehistoriangirl]

The Tides Have Veiled [Second Interlude]

The second arc of the story comes to an end with this part :3 I'm still not 100% sure, but I think this fic will have other four arcs Thank you all for reading this story! Hope you like it! ^^

Viktor x Fem!Reader/Gothic AU; Haunted Sea---1.4K----SFW**

> MASTERLIST <- Previous // Next ->

Synopsis:  Piltover the Old has an old lighthouse that looms over an abandoned port. From the house in the wailing cliff’s edge, the lighthouse owner watches that the beacon is being lighten up each time darkness arrives, so that monsters wouldn't dare to crawl inland, or so legends say. Both buildings are haunted, maybe even the man himself, by both past and present ghosts. Surprisingly, the keeper’s work is beyond turning on the beacon every night— but the rest is on you to discover.

Chapter Summary: There were three times when the beach of Piltover the Old got stained with blood during your lifetime. This is the first one.

Tags: Strangers to Lovers | Ghosts | Slow Burn | Bonding Time | Some Lore | Dysfunctional Family Dynamics** |

Taglist: @lunar-monster @local-mr-frog @bittercyder @blissfulip

Interlude II: The Crimson Tide

As soon as you enter the lighthouse, you know Viktor isn’t there.

It feels empty when you call his name. The walls newly painted echo the sound of your voice back to your ears without an answer; your footsteps, however, are absorbed by the wooden steps when you decide to climb toward the beacon room, the keys jingling in your hands, still cold from your father’s grip on them.

The open windows carry the salty marine breeze, some hairs prickling your forehead as you get near the balcony where a chair is put against the wall with a book atop the seat.

Nosy, you peek at the worn-out dark blue cover, the words Marine Legends almost erased.

Looking at the coast, you see him. He’s like a painting now—probably all the time, but today it remembers you of those seascapes hanging on the overly decorated foyers from all those wealthy people hosting parties in the city.

There are too many seas today: a sky icy blue, like the frozen surface of a rippling lake with the clouds streaked in harmonious lines across it, and the navy blue of the sea that sways in gentle waves. And in between all, there is Viktor, sitting in a formation of rocks by the cliffside.

Your stomach churns, almost like a sensation of vertigo pulling you toward the rail, down to the sea. You don’t want to get close to it, but you doubt Viktor will be returning soon to the lighthouse as it’s just past noon.

Also, your father told you to return soon, as you must get ready for a soirée.

Back at his studio, your eyes were glued to his stern face, the handsomeness of his youth washed by the ferocious sun in the middle of the sea, by the cold breeze continuously hitting his face, by the scars some mermaids got to draw on his flesh before he carved his own.

Your hands were interlocked against your stomach, wanting to stop a sudden wave of nausea. “Luna told me I wasn’t invited to dinner tonight.” Mr. Fresnel could frighten with your air of perpetual melancholy and the intense gaze you bear, just like your mother’s. Or even worse, he could take a liking to you and go crazy, she had said with her blank expression, knowing-it-all, supposedly.

Gavin clicked his tongue. “You know you shouldn’t mind her comments—you and Astraia are equally my daughters,” he says, his light eyes glued to your face, pulling your back straight.  “No matter what everyone says.”

You felt the twitch of your nose—words stuck that run across your mind in disdain.

Daughter? Only when you see fit. When you need my face to distract a man long enough to sign a paper to give you money.

“Mr. Fresnel is a gentleman, with all that privileged education in the newly built city,” Gavin continued, as if sensing your disgust. “It’s a wonder that a man like him still believes in the miracles coming from the sea.”

He wouldn’t be the first one, not after all the dozens coming from poor coastal towns to Piltover to harvest all the riches of the sea, and all its mysteries. Now, the desolated, wild coast was scattered by huts and docks with fishing boats gently swaying against the waves.

The magic had gone away, and everything was his fault.

Gavin pointed at you, the golden marriage band in his hand twin to the one in the other that is scribbling away. The sight makes you want to yank the older band apart from him. Bold of him to think he deserves the memory of his previous marriage after Gavin left all the things of your mother to burn. "Don't disappoint me."

He held your gaze, the air heavy. Don’t disappoint me even more, hangs in the silence.

Taking deep breaths, you make your descent toward the beach, gripping the keys so hard it’s a miracle your hands aren’t bleeding.

It’s a beautiful day, but now you can only focus on the way the sand pushes your feet under, how the long skirt tangles around your legs like a net, with the roar of the waves growing closer, calling you, demanding you to submit to them just like your mother did. That it’s the only way you could be free.

“Miss,” Viktor says, your eyes darting away from the waves toward his face, chestnut locks of hair glued to his forehead thanks to the humid ambiance. “What do I owe your presence?”

“I came to give you the spare keys.” You swallow hard, feet walking toward the shallow end of the beach, stepping over broken shells and wet sand, almost as if it would devour you. “My father told me to tell you not to lose them again, or you’ll have to pay for the duplicate.”

He brushes his cold fingers against yours when he takes the keys, stuffing them in the breast pocket of his shirt. “I won’t, don’t worry. It was… eh, an… accident.” His cheeks look dusted in pink, and you have to look away.

“Well, it’s fine. I… I think I’ll go now,” you say awkwardly, your stiff hand waving him goodbye.

“Miss, wait,” Viktor calls. He can’t get down the rocks so easily, between the slippery surface and his cane, so you relent and come back to him. “I… I wanted to give you something I’ve found.”

“Oh?”

“It-it’s something I think it’s pretty and… eh, maybe you might like it, perhaps?” All red cheeks and avoiding eyes, Viktor puts a shell the size of your palm from behind his back, bright pink, and orange in stripe spirals.

It feels like being hit in the stomach, bathed in freezing water during winter. You look at the shell, feeling a pull down your insides, down toward the sea.

“You don’t like it. I should’ve known it,” Viktor mutters, clearing his throat as his fist closes around the shell. “You don’t like the sea, you probably don’t like things that come from the sea, either.” He chuckles, trying to hide his nervousness. “Of course.”

“I like the sea.” I’m just scared of it.

“You don’t have to lie to me, Miss,” Viktor says, his golden eyes filled with resolution.

“I’m not lying,” you mumble, closing your eyes when you see his brows furrow. “I just… I hear the screams, Viktor.” Your arms tangle around yourself in a makeshift hug, trying to hide you from his gaze, from this sea that whispers your name in each wave rolling against the beach. “I hear their screams.”

His inquisitive expression morphs into surprise, and you're filled with regret. Why did you say that? He's going to think you're out of your mind, and perhaps he wouldn’t be wrong—if he’d say it, then Gavin and Luna would be right. You don't want to know what you'd do if that's the case.

"You saw it," Viktor says instead, his tone soft and barely audible, making you lean closer to him, ignoring how the water has started to soak the edge of your skirt. “How the waves turned red.”

“I did." The words are stuck in your throat, and you don't really know how long you were expecting to let it out. Since the death of your mother? Or was it since the first time you saw it? Just an innocent child gazing at the yellow sand turned red with splashes of blood, ears filled with wails of agony. “I did.”

Viktor's thumb rests over his chin, deep in thought. "But they don't come here anymore. They know, now.” He looks at you. “Do you fear them?”

Yes, you want to say. Yes, I do. But you don’t, not really.  You're the daughter of your father and mother, after all, and they didn't find them threatening at all, for better, or for worse.

You understand them—how they were used to fulfill stranger’s desires, tossed aside when they weren’t needed anymore. How they retaliated, with sharp teeth and murder songs, unbridled magic and purposeful.

You want to be like them.

“How do you know about the mermaids?” you ask instead, the image of the marine legends’ book in the beacon coming back to you. “Do you like mermaids?”

Viktor looks toward the sea. “I find them fascinating. They were the reason behind the sudden blooming of this town, and now, they’re behind its downfall. It’s… poetic, in a way.”

You chuckle despite yourself. All these years you can't hate the men working under your father’s thumb, they had families to feed, vices to fulfill. But your father? He has no excuse. No exit.

“Yes. I suppose it was only a matter of time.” You can’t trample with powers you don’t understand, at least not for very long.

“A matter of justice, one might say,” he adds with a slight smile. “Then, would you like to keep the shell? Or… eh, maybe it’s not of your liking?” Viktor extends the shell toward you. “You can hear the sea from here, and there will be no screams. I promise.”

It's your turn to feel flustered, lips curved in a smile. This time, your fingers are the ones brushing his palm when you take the shell in your grasp, smooth and warm, heavier than it looked.

“It’s beautiful. Thank you, Viktor,” you say. “I’ll give you something back soon.”

He chuckles. “There’s no need. I’m not giving you this for you to feel indebted.”

Habits are hard to change, you assume but prefer not to tell him that. At least, not yet.

“I’ll let you go now,” Viktor adds once you don’t say anything. “But I hope I will see you soon, Miss.”

“Me too,” you smile, tucking the shell in the inner pocket of your coat as you wave him goodbye, striding up the hill.

Midway through it, you see the outline of a person waiting for you at the top.

“Astraia," you say, hating the slight pain in your voice from climbing so fast. You don’t stop, however.

"You shouldn't behave like that," your sister says, hands taking fists off her dress to avoid it getting dirty. “What will father and mother think if they see you like that with the keeper? It would ruin your reputation.”

As if I have one. “I don’t care.” You’re an oddity, the child of a crazy woman who may be just as crazy, why does it matter? To keep a false image of yourself that will get washed away? “And you shouldn’t either. Focus on your debut, Astraia.” You look at your younger sister’s pristine hair and fawn-like eyes, so, so naïve.

She says your name, but you don’t care. You just can’t care anymore. “What did he give you?”

“Mind your business—”

“If it’s a shell, you know you have to throw it away!” she cuts you off, taking you by the shoulders. “They’re dangerous, you can’t keep them close to you. They… they attract monsters.”

Your jaw feels tense, if it’s for anger or frustration, you don’t know.

“I’m already surrounded by monsters, Astraia, my dear,” you say coldly. Your words freeze her, and you push her hands away, walking toward the house whose entrance looks like an open mouth ready to swallow you whole. “Just... let me alone.”

From the Diary of Astraia Galvin.

Dear Diary,

Today marks one month since my sister hugged me. Since she talked to me. I didn’t think that when she told me that now she was dead to me, she’d mean it. I’m like a stranger to her. She feels cold and aloof like a ghost roaming our shared floor. I wish I knew how to amend it—where did I do something wrong? I only wanted to protect her. Sometimes, I want to go to the ocean and dig up that shell I throw away, but the ocean is forbidden and dangerous. I know I’d die if I ever set foot in it. But what if death is the price I have to pay to earn my sister's forgiveness? Could she be that cruel? I don't believe Mother. She loves me. She has loved me ever since I have a memory. What changed? Was it me? Her? I want to go back to those days when I could lay on her bed while she told me a story about the sea, to wake her up in the middle of the night and both tiptoe down the stairs to prepare hot chocolate because the nightmares wouldn’t end. I want her with me, and I don’t know what to do to cross the rift created between us two. No, when the abyss that separates us is filled with black-ink water that smells like death and magic. Today is raining and she isn’t here; I don’t want her to do something she will regret, as I don’t wish for her the pain that now consumes me like the candle on my desk, almost out and without her returning from the lighthouse. I don’t want the sea to take her. I don’t want the mermaids to claim her. Dear Diary, I only want her to be free. For us to be free. But… I don’t know how much we’ll have to pay for that to become true. And I’m too scared to find out.

[watercolorfreckles]

Deep Blue // siren x pirate

This is not related to my series "The Siren" 😊

He expected the water to be cold.

The kind of cold that crushes every other thought from your mind, the kind that could freeze his lungs into glass and shatter them.

Instead, it was a blanket, wrapping him whole.

Able to swallow him up in it's silken embrace.

It was the humming, he realized too soon, that lulled him into comfort even in the sea's icy clutches.

A voice like that could make anything bearable.

A siren's song could charm the grim reaper; could stop death in it's tracks.

When the siren poked her head above surface, the humming seemed to tear a path straight to the overboard pirate, skewering him to the spot.

He didn't want it to end.

Their eyes met. Hers as golden and glittering as the stars above them, porcelain skin glistening in the moonlight.

The humming stopped, and the pirate returned to himself all at once.

It was cold.

The bite of it stole the air from his lungs--or maybe that was just the sight of her.

The pirate scrambled for his sword, yanking it from it's scabbard, but the cold left his bones so heavy.

It slipped from his numb fingers and sank.

The pirate cursed and dipped beneath the water, craning for his blade to no avail.

When he surfaced, the siren's lovely face was mere inches from his.

He jolted, but couldn't force himself to move away.

Beautiful was too dull a word to describe her. Too meager. It spoke nothing of the sharp edges of her. Of the way the water bent around her nimble fingers and beaded on her lips. Golden hair spun silver and haloed by the moon, as if its celeste bled over the very essence of her.

He couldn't stop staring.

Above him, his shipmates laughed and jeered, bidding the siren to drown the poor sod who'd dare defy them, as they steered the ship away.

So sure were they that throwing her a bone, a metaphorical lamb of sacrifice, would keep them safe from the monsters of the deep.

The pirate shivered.

And the siren smiled. "You are not built for these waters, human."

Her speaking voice was a song of its own. It rolled over him like the waves at his back.

She continued, "Your people cast you overboard like the guts they chum the water with. Does that make me the shark, dear cabin boy?"

The pirate finally had the sense to back away from her in the water, for all the good that might do him.

"I do think I'd feel safer if you were a shark, miss," he admitted, voice choked in a salty rasp.

She looked to be around his age, a mere 17, though he could have been off. Surely time wouldn't dare touch such an ethereal creature as she.

The siren's laughter was musical. She curved in the water, circling. He stole a glance at her tail, sleek and strong and golden as the sun that spilled in her eyes.

"Miss. So formal coming from a human, especially a pirate. Your kind have no manners." He felt her lips brush his ear. "Wouldn't you rather call me a beast? Monster? Mustn't I be a devilish creature for daring to be beautiful, for tempting your kind so?"

The pirate released a shuddering breath. "These are your waters. The ocean, your home. Some might wager that dying at sea is a risk we ocean-lovers take when sailing her deep blue."

She hummed, arcing in the water to face him again, the waves of her hair framing her face like a perfect painting. "Was it worth it?"

For even a moment on the endless, swelling sea, ever chasing the horizon? He didn't have to think.

"Aye."

The siren's eyes narrowed. "Was it not but a week ago your lowly crew tried to capture me in your nets? As if the waters are not ours, but yours to raid and cull?"

"I..."

The cold rendered him stiff and sodden, the fatigue tugging him under a tumbling wave. When his head bobbed above the surface again, his breathing was labored.

The siren's head cocked like that of a curious bird.

Her fluid movements carved through the water, closing the distance between them and resting a hand over his racing heart.

The cabin boy closed his eyes. "Do what you must. I know better than to invade a home without consequence."

A clawed hand gripped his vest, holding him upright in the water when another wave tried to drag him under.

Her fingers flexed. "No fight left in the pretty pirate boy? I could drown you."

He smiled slightly. "If I am to die in Deep Blue, I'll count it payment to her for allowing me my travels among her billowing waters."

The siren's eyes flashed. "In what way did you betray your pirate friends for them to abandon you to the likes of me?"

The cabin boy met her glowing gaze. "I freed the fair siren maiden they plucked from the sea. It took them a week to determine it was I who cut the ropes. They thought if I 'fancied you' so much, it'd be only fair if you had me."

The siren's eyes narrowed. "You lie."

His teeth began to chatter. All he could focus on was the searing cold immobilizing his limbs.

He closed his eyes again. "I do not. If you are going to kill me, please at least sing as you do it, yeah?"

There was silence apart from the lyrical white noise of the waves crashing and towing.

Then, the siren began to sing. The pirate allowed the melody to tug him into oblivion, filling his veins with honey and warmth once more.

He woke up on the beach, hours later. The sun was rising, spilling it's light amongst his beloved horizon.

It reminded him of the gold in her eyes.

Part 2

I think I like this one! Or maybe that's just bc it's 2 am 💀 Why did this take me almost 2 hours and then I edited it in like 2 minutes

General Taglist: @pinned-to-the-wahl , @valiantlytransparentwhispers , @distance-does-not-matter , @redbircl , @lilaccatholic , @crazytwentythrees , @thelazywitchphotographer , @chibicelloking , @lolafaiy , @thinkwrite5 , @putridghost , @tobeornottobeateacher , @sunflower1000 , @bouncyartist , @feyriddle , @yet-another-heathen , @silverwhisperer1 , @distractedlydistracted , @pensivespacepirate , @appleejuice , @deflated-bouncingball  @maybe-a-cat42 , @m0chik0furan , @mercurymom, @fairysprinkless , @vuvulia , @classicplesiosaur, @amongtheonedaisy , @dabi-s-whore, @rose-pinkie , @trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room , @scorpio-smiles , @inkygemuwu , @wolfeyedwitch , @thewhumpmeisterx3000 , @xxkitsurikaxx, @moonquires , @lem-hhn , @fanastywhump , @smallangryfish , @ladybookworm , @freefallingup13 , @acaiaforrest , @a-blue-comedy , @puppyaddict , @pickleking8, @a-person-who-likes-musicals , @talkingsperm , @qualitychaoslover , @deckofaces,

[stackofstories]

Luke woke. He woke to blinding sun and the feeling of being cooked alive. He woke to confusion.

Mouth full of salt and a headache the size of the North, he groaned as he rolled onto his back and sprawled like a starfish.

Luke tested his arms, his fingers, his legs and his toes. He was whole. There was nothing missing, nothing hurting. He was alive.

He found the will to sit up.

Luke stared at the immensity of the dark blue waters. Pointed, black spires jutted in the distance. He thought them to be thirty to sixty meters tall. Before washed over him. He had been flying in a storm, making his way back home, back to Dragonstone, when his Uncle tore from the clouds and tried to kill him.

A battle played in his head. Arcs of cold, bracketed lightning and his terrified breathing. His Uncle was less human and more like a god of vengeance. But gods were not infallible.

Luke unhooked himself from Arrax. He gripped the reins, and sucked in air before they crashed into the furious sea. He started kicking as soon as he was in water. Away from Arrax. Away from Vhagar. The dragons would pull him to the bottom of the sea like the sinking of a ship.

All he had to do was get away and kick. He was a strong swimmer, Father ensured that.

But there was his uncle, less god, more human. Luke dove into the stormy grey and he saw a glint of silver-white descending as fragile bubbles ascended, he saw fear and the reaching out of a desperate hand. Uncle’s panicked name on his lips.

He had been afraid.

Father had told him if it were a choice between saving himself and a drowning man: save himself. A drowning man would kill them both.

But he could not leave Uncle. So, he dove further and further until his lungs burned for air and his eyes registered mostly black. He cut Uncle free with a knife and they kicked up and away. Away from their dragons who joined Nagga and her specter kingdom of broken ships and drowned men and gods.

Away.

The memories in his head abruptly cut off, and Luke guessed their end. He had drifted ashore and when some primal part of him registered he wasn’t drowning, he wasn’t going to die, he had rested.

Luke searched the horizon for a glimpse of sail, a lowly fishmen’s skiff, some scrap of civilization, but his focus kept shifting to the spires. They resembled the teeth of a beast and forebode the treachery of these waters.

Likely below breaking waves were a million of those spires as big as aurochs and twice as sharp as steel. No captain with half a brain betwixt his ears would steer into these waters.

Luke scrubbed his stinging eyes and cursed the salty wind.

He stood on wobbly legs and turned from the sea.

“Gods be good,” he murmured, his weak knees nearly buckled.

He was met with a different sea. A sea of giants.

Each tree was at least a hundred meters tall by his measure, they crowded together, gnarled and twisted, reaching for the sun. Luke gripped round his waist and swallowed when he felt his dagger.

He contemplated death. If he stayed near the shore – it might be a slow and miserable death waiting for the possibility of a savior. But Father taught him the ways of the sea and Luke was certain he knew enough. If he chanced the forest, it was the unknown. He was not familiar with the woods. When faced with the prospect of the woods he was suddenly all too aware of the pageantry, the artifice, the careful construction of trundling on the kingsroad in a wheelhouse, the double-deck carriage, made from the finest trees and richly oiled; the inside full to bursting with dornish wine, chilled cuts and sweet meats, and blankets, or hunting in the crownlands woods ensconced by armed knights and abiding servants. There had never been the possibility of hunger, thirst, or exposure.

Those last three would kill him. Glancing over his shoulder, Luke looked at the beach. There was no shelter to protect him from the elements, no fresh water to drink. The sea offered food–he watched a hermit crab unfurl from its shell and scuttle the beach— but not near enough to feed him.

So, the forest. He kept a tight hand on the pommel of his dagger. One foot in front of the other.

“Nephew!” a voice raised.

Adrenaline pierced Luke like an arrow to the heart. He jumped, his head swiveled to the sound.

Straight ahead, crouched in the sand and pebbles, was Uncle. His long face was heavy with fatigue, his skin had begun to bruise, and his lone eye shined bright and focused.

A soak in the sea does not quell a dragon’s fire, Luke thought with an odd shot of irritation and affection at the consistency of Uncle.

“You laid so still. I had thought you dead, nephew.”

Why are you surprised? I should be the one surprised. I saved you from certain death and forgot all about you. But you’re here, smirking and cantankerous, and very much a problem.

Luke offered half of a shrug.

“I’m sorry to disappoint, Uncle.”

“Not disappointed. If you’re going to die, it will be by my hand.”

Luke saw the bait. He left the words between them. The truth of it, he did not have any room in his mind for their usual scrabbles. I’m not going to fight. I’m not going to fight. He turned back to the forest.

“Where are you going?”

“Away.”

“Evidently. Away where? I told you, you would die by my hand, or not at all. If you go into the forest, you will die. We should wait here, a ship will be along shortly.”

“Go on and wait. See how well that works out.”

Uncle caught him by the shoulder. Luke frowned. “We will wait.”

Luke blinked and tugged his shoulder free. “I will not.”

“A ship will come for us.”

“Use your good eye, Uncle. Do you see the black in the distance? Do you see their numbers. And then, do you remember the fury of the sea. No captain will risk his crew and ship for us.”

“We’re dragons.”

“No captain gives a shit.”

“Your mother, my idiot brother, your idiot brother… must I spell out the obvious. There are other ways off this place.”

“We have dragons. But how would they find us? Do you know how long it would take.”

“I can wait.”

Luke scoffed. “Then wait, Uncle. I cannot. Father told me, a man can last three days without water.”

Uncle narrowed his eye and his lip curled, its edge as sharp as the Targaryen ancestral longsword, Dark Sister. “And what of the terrors and beasts in the woods?”

“I never took you for craven,” Luke said, using the momentary lapse to skirt his uncle and resume walking.

Hissing, Uncle followed him into the woods.