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emilykaldwen · 8 days

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Seventeen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

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Author's Note: We've got Rhaenyra POV! We've got Aemond POV! We've got a surprise in the end! Thank you for all the support and patience. You're all getting this chapter early since I'm out of town for the weekend! Enjoy!

PLEASE PLEASE subscribe to the series page or my author page so you get updates when we start the next story! You're not going to want to miss it. (And follow @emkald-fic on tumblr if you read here!)

All my love to @vampire-exgirlfriend for her love and support and holding my hand through this chapter that just kept kicking my fucking ass. If you need more Aemond content, you must read, They Say I killed You (Haunt Me Then)! Now complete! (epilogue going up soon!)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN - Parrying the Daggers Thrown At Us

Rhaenyra receives a letter. Aemond cannot find peace until he gets a taste of it.

Grandfather is still ill, much like we saw him last but he prefers his wheel chaired more oft than not…

Things have been tense, understandably so, but Queen Alicent has been cordial and has made sure we are comfortable and have what we need…

Aegon and Aemond keep their distance, perhaps so they can glare all the better…

I do not know how to make amends for what happened…

…and they say Aemond is taken by his pains at times, darkening his room as his head aches from his wound…

I should make amends, it is right…

What do you think I should do?...

Heleana has been the warmest…

…we danced together at the feast and she was quite happy to do so. It is nice spending time with her…

Aegon is happy around Lady Abrogail and she laughs freely with him. He is not like how he used to be as much with her…

I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased to see how well she is treated…

Many houses were represented at Aegon’s nameday…

Most seemed to wonder if Aegon would have been named heir and displace you but none came to pass…

…they will inherit Harrenhal. I can see the wisdom in it as Luke will have Driftmark one day, but I think of Joffrey and Aegitsos and my uncles who do not have lands and holds to occupy them…

I love you much, Muñus, I hope you are well and that I will see you soon…

Rhaenyra ran her fingers over her son’s careful script, her mouth twitching in fondness amidst her worry of her zēapos. His letter was long, too much for a raven’s wings and she started from the beginning once she had read it through once. Twice. Her ribs ached as if Jace had been carved out of her to go on this journey and she shook her head, trying to let the feeling flit away on the breeze. Her eldest had a temper, much as she did in her youth, much as his father had, in the ways that drew her in. Time stole away much, and her own bouts of temper had cooled with each broken toy, each yelling fight, each ‘he pulled my hair!’ and ‘He pushed me and won’t share!’

The sounds of swords clanged in the yard and her gaze flitted from her son’s letter - pages crinkled in her grasp - to the courtyard below where Daemon was testing the new recruits to the Dragonstone guard. His silver hair was twisted back from his face in braids as he preferred, something about war and mindset and always be prepared.

He called something towards Joff and Aegitsos as the knight before him panted, having been bested against her husband.

Baela had not written, that much she knew, though Jace had said that she had found a friend in Helaena after a tense standoff. Rhaenyra had found the mention of it surprising, for her little sister, in the times she’d been around her, had been a quiet thing, eyes large in her face, gaze flitting to everyone and no one.

Helaena has been the warmest…

Helaena was not yet married. The match with Aegon had never come to pass.

The invitation lay on the table before her next to the plate of lemon cake she liked for her morning meal on days such as this.

The wedding of Prince Aegon of House Targaryen and Lady Abrogail Strong of Harrenhal…

In five moons, the spectacle would be held in the Riverlands. In five moons, the realm would look upon her brother once more, peacocked and pulled out, as Daemon sneered, by Otto Hightower to show him off as a contender, to put pressure on her father to change his mind. Her father had nearly twenty years to change his mind and still, he had not. Not even in her absence, cowardly as it sometimes felt to retreat and lick her wounds, had her father’s support of the claim and her family seemed to waver. Try as the Hightowers might to scream and spread slanders that would call for bloodshed, her father still would not be swayed. It was the sense of satisfaction that she had felt when he came to her defense in that shadowed hall those years ago, the heated of curl in it that no matter what, there could be no question as to his choice.

He had chosen her.

Even as the feeling waned over time to give over to those moments where she doubted, all the times he had failed to reign his wife in with her abuses and vitriol, the words her son had sent her bolstered her.

I think Lord Lyonel and Ser Harwin would be pleased…

Harwin’s little sister, big blue eyes and red curls bound in braids, peeking curiously over the edge of Lucerys’ cradle next to Jace because ‘She asked if she could see the baby and give him this,’ Harwin had said, as the little girl presented her attempts at embroidering a little dragon on a pillow. Little Abrogail, half Harwin’s, half Alicent’s. She had tried to bring the girl to Dragonstone with them. Would she not be happier away from the court politics with her brother and the quiet? Lord Lyonel had given her a surprised, then hard look, and Rhaenyra had felt chastened in a way her own father had never been able to evoke within her.

“I will keep my daughter with me, and should I send her away, it will be back to her home, at Harrenhal, with her brother.”

Grief washed through her like the crashing of the waves on the rocky shore below and she felt her own jagged edges inside of her. Lyonel Strong had been the best of them, putting the realm first, always by her side at every council meeting she attended, encouraging her, even as his face grew graver with each brunette curled boy she bore.

Violet eyes swept across the parchment again. A servant in the camp had tried to attack the girl, Jace said. Crept into her tent, assuming she would have been alone. Inquiries were being made, but as far as anyone could see, the man had just been a baseborn servant - blending in like no other. Rhaenyra pursed her lips and looked down at the training yard once more, fingers drumming along the stone ledge of the terrace.

She wondered how wrapped around Lady Abrogail’s finger her half-brother might be… and how opportune this moment was.

Alicent’s eldest was marrying and taking a seat in the Riverlands. It was not the bold choice that Rhaenyra had thought would happen. Surely one of the many Lannister girls, or one of the Baratheons - a great house who would be invested in their own daughter becoming queen would have made more sense.

Harrenhal, for the wealth and lands that it had, did not command armies the way the Stormlands did. It did not have endless coffers the way Casterly Rock boasted of. It was a moody fortress on the edge of the God’s Eye, surrounded by lush farmland and woods that were dark and deep and felt that you were somewhere fanciful, somewhere that didn’t hold dragons nor thrones, nothing except for a warm hand wrapped around her own.

The clashing and screaming of steel in the yard below pulled Rhaenyra from her thoughts, and away from the path of her sorrows and regrets. Turning her back to the sight below, she reached for her own parchment and quill, pushing aside the letter from Lord Celtigar.

Lady Abrogail… Good tidings on news of your approaching nuptials…

Aemond pursed his lips, his gaze rising from the book before him, a study on the Conqueror’s approach to the first Dornish war,to squint across the barrel room near the top of the tower that held the library in the Holdfast. He drummed his fingers upon the scarred wooden table, a fingertip running along the crescent burn from the time Abby had accidentally knocked over a candle while they were reading about Harren the Black.

He exhaled slowly, the way the Braavosi manuals advised and looked back at his book.

It had been weeks since his brother’s festivities, and the chill of the end of the growing season had crept in. It was not cold by northern standards, but the air cooled, the rains rolled in for the next several months, and angry storms fell over them from the Narrow Sea, their winds piercing and frightening, as if they were dragons themselves in the winds that the Storm God rode, threatening to tear apart the Red Keep brick by brick.

Helaena’s nameday had passed with quiet fanfare, the lingering lords of the realm who had not left parading their sons in front of his maiden sister. As if any of them were worthy of a dragonrider, someone as clever and kind as Helaena.

It had been complicated over the past weeks since the talk in the garden, and Aemond still wasn’t entirely sure how he felt. What had been most surprising had been the strange sense of release when his sister let him go, leaving him to sit in the rain before Visenya’s statue, her words ringing in his ears.

‘I would burn Dorne for you… but I do not want to leave behind a world of ash and bone.’

How desperate Helaena had looked, angry and frightened and full of hope as she begged not to have a husband, but a brother back. ‘How else am I supposed to protect her?' he had wondered. How else could he offer his sister protection and security if it wasn’t to marry her, to tie her to him so that she would never have to fear, never have to doubt her acceptance and those who loved her?

Aegon had not wanted to marry her. She was weird, he’d sneered. How miserable Helaena would be, how miserable they both would have been. Aemond had done the right thing. He’d stepped up, he had gotten Mother and The Tower to break the betrothal. Even if they had not promised him and Helaena to one another, that was alright, it would simply be a matter of time.

He had Vhagar. There could be no further doubt that he was truly a Valyrian. There could be no more doubt as to his place in the world. All that was left was his sister.

Guilt gnawed deep in his stomach, shame twisting around his throat when the thought filtered through. Helaena was not a bauble he needed to collect to prove something. Collecting her was not protecting her. Collecting her was not about her, but for him, and it was this knowledge that he had thought about constantly.

His sister deserved more than being a broodmare, to be a pawn in the games. The forced distance the last few weeks had given him, after Helaena pushed him from the proverbial nest, had left him unsettled and snappish.

The loud thud of a book hitting the stone floor reverberated through the room. A heavy tome, judging from the heft of the sound, followed by a soft giggling, a deeper snickering sound chasing after it before they muffled and fell quiet.

He knew, with the utmost certainty, why it had fallen quiet.

Ever since the betrothal, the grip on his best friend had been slipping. Oh, him and Abrogail were an unlikely pair, but few appreciated books and history as his cousin did. While digging in the dirt and helping Helaena catalog her collection had been fulfilling, there was something joyous in being able to have someone who understood the quiet and sanctity of the library, and who loved books and reading and learning as he did. Lyonel Strong had always indulged his questions when was young - far more enthralling than Mellos and Orwyle were, and he had fostered that curiosity in his daughter.

‘All she’s going to care about is making babies with Aegon!’ Helaena had cried, frustrated and angry when they’d been alone after the fight in the brothel.

There was a soft cry, and Aemond scowled at his book before his chair scraped across the stone floor and he strode purposefully towards the source of the sound. The histories of the Riverlands were there - not just observational books, but the census, the trade information, things used by the small council’s not-quite-so-small army of clerks and counters and lawmakers. The section of the library that Abby had frequented since the announcement and that he had helped her with.

“Not here,” came the whispered whine, laced with laughter. Aemond rolled his eye as he turned the corner of the aisle. It was shadowed somewhat this far down, The strategically polished silver angled to bounce the light around so as not to pose a fire risk among the precious books, although the day was gray and cloudy and the light reflected was that of a lamp. Abby was pressed against the bookshelves, the blue and silver brocade of her skirts rucked up with her stockings on display, her legs at present, wrapped around his stupid brother’s waist. One arm was stretched out to grab onto the bookshelf behind her, and the fallen book that had been in its place was still on the ground. Aegon’s face was buried into her chest, or maybe her throat?

He was half-blind, after all, sometimes details could be mercifully missed. Or ignored.

“This,” Aemond said, his voice even and dripping with every ounce of annoyance and betrayal he felt, “is the library, not a brothel.”

Aemond’s fists clenched at the disrespect both of them displayed to a place they knew was important to him. At the announcement of his presence, Abby squeaked, Aegon’s arms tightening around her as she scrambled to lower herself without sending them both toppling. He held his arms folded behind his back, his hand scraping along his elbow as the pair of them got themselves in order and he shook his head when Aegon looked at him, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. Abby had turned to straighten her gown.

“Are you really going to act like this?” Aegon said, for it was barely a question. “We weren’t in front of you and your book. You were the one seeking us out.”

“Because you both weren’t as quiet as you thought you were,” Aemond snapped. “It was distracting.”

A lazy smirk crossed across his brother’s flushed face and he wanted to punch him square in his stupid nose. Let him kiss his future wife with his face bashed in. “Well, my lady is distracting-.” There was a soft sound as Abby smacked Aegon’s shoulder, cutting him off with an exaggerated ow, the flinch was nowhere near the violent response that inhabited his brother when it was their mother doing the hitting. She peered around Aegon’s shoulder, her mouth just as swollen, her cheeks just as flushed and her features apologetic.

“We’re sorry, Aemond. Things just got out of hand. I shouldn’t have-”

“Don’t you apologize,” Aegon interrupted her this time, a fierce look on his face.

“No, actually,” Aemond cut in, taking a step forward, using the few inches he now had on his brother to straighten his shoulders. “She’s right. Thank you, Abby, for apologizing. Are you upset that she has to apologize for you, since your self-awareness is worse than a billy goat ramming his head into things?”

Aegon’s mouth gaped in offense, his flush deepening. There was a bruise along his neck that was going to be difficult to hide. The glib nature of his eldest brother was a trial at the best of times, but this? “You know this isn’t your place to run about as you please. Shall I just unlock my doors, let you roll around in my sheets and over my personal things while you’re at it?”

“It’s the fucking library, Aemond. It doesn’t belong to you-”

Abby let out a startled cry as Aemond’s fist shot out, but as much as he would love to punch his brother, he shoved him instead, feeling the crackling of frustration, the rumble of Vhagar in his chest. “Because it’s all yours, is that it? You mewling fucking kitten. This isn’t just my library, it’s hers too, but you don’t fucking care about anything that means something to anyone else if it gets in the way of what your limp cock wants.”

“Aemond, truly, we’re sorry - Aegon, no!” Abby’s voice was lost in Aegon’s growl as his brother came back with another shove, sending him back a few steps. Aemond laughed, a hint of a sound like the thin scrape of wind whistling through a crack. Yes, yes let the idiot push him around. Let him continue to pull his friend away from him, from him and Helaena both. His gaze darted briefly to the redhead, blue eyes wide as she pressed herself back against the shelves, before meeting his brother’s lighter gaze.

“You are a glib fucking fool, Aegon,” Aemond said lowly, his mouth curling as he readied for a fight, needing to expend the burn of flame inside of him. “I don’t care what the pair of you do, I’ll say nothing should Mother hear of it, but-” he stepped forward and shoved Aegon hard into the bookstack. The ancient wood creaked and groaned, but the stacks were bolted to the floor to prevent them from topping. A few books fell from the force of Aegon’s frame smacking into it. “Stay the hell out of my library.”

He did not look over his shoulder, even as Abby called his name, apology rife in her tone. He strode through the halls, calling for his horse to be saddled while he went to angrily pull on his riding leathers. The left side of his temple ached as it was wont to do when his face was full of tension. Helaena would make him tea, protect him in the quiet, but that was not meant to be today. The last he saw, his sister was in the gardens with Jacaerys.

How he ached to wring the stupid bastard’s neck.

How bright he seemed to make Helaena laugh.

How betrayed Aemond felt by it all.

Why hadn’t Helaena said anything? Why hadn’t she told him that she didn’t want to be married? Why had she just let him wander around like a puppy and now left the fool?

‘But hadn’t she told you?’ a little voice drifted through Aemond’s mind and he paused in the lacing of his leathers. Had she not told him by pursuing that fool Warren Fossoway, and the time that he had spied her kissing him - for he had seen Helaena push the squire behind the carved dragon pillar by the gardens.

‘But she would let me kiss her, she would kiss me, and she’d touch me and I her and-’ The flurry of thoughts ached as he pulled on his boots.

It would not hurt as much if it was anyone but Jacaerys.

The ride to the beach beneath the shadow of the Red Keep was a blur. The rock outcropping of Aegon’s High Hill was a craggy, sheer thing, but the beach below was one that Vhagar enjoyed sunning herself, a guard dog laying at the foot of the bed in a way. Her head lifted as Aemond approached, lowing in greeting and shaking sand from her scales. The tension in Aemond’s chest began to ease at the sight of her, and he approached, patting a gloved hand along her scarred neck, scratching along a vicious scar she must have received in Dorne. There were no words exchanged, not the way Aegon chattered with Sunfyre. Aemond’s bond with Vhagar was one of feeling, of such deep understanding that no words needed to spill from him. In no time, he scaled her great bulk and yelled out the command to fly, which his dragon responded with her own, what he assumed was excited, call in return.

Vhagar landed on the cliffs on the western side of Massey’s Hook, the bay below dotted with smaller fishing boats this far out from King’s Landing and away from the bustle of the capital. Rage and grief, anger and fear were a tempest in his gut and he rankled at the call of Moondancer as his cousin circled above them.

If Baela wanted this fight, then he would meet her, unflinching. Let her see what dragons were made of. They did not all reside on Dragonstone.

“Laodijes peldios!” Baela howled at him, her voice a sharp shout on the breeze, her face twisted and ugly with fury, fists at her side as she readied herself to hit him should he get within reach.

Aemond glared at her, the distance between them shrunk now to an arm length. Vhagar was a great shadow behind him and he could feel the sulfuric heat of her breath as she exhaled buffeting at his back. Moondancer was a little ways away, shrieking fearfully and Aemond could not tell if the dragon reflected her rider’s mood, or her fear of Vhagar.

“You’re a fucking fool. Daemon Targaryen is your father, your mother a Velaryon, and you still don’t realize that a dragon cannot be stolen.”

“You had no fucking right!” Baela snarled. “Vhagar was for Rhaena to claim-”

“If Vhagar had not wanted me, she would have eaten me and you damn well know it.” Aemond cut her off, watching her jaw click shut with a curl of satisfaction. “Vhagar chose me, not your sister. What? You want to kill me to give her another chance at claiming her? Is that what you’re here? To finish the job that you all started?”

“Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?” Balea cried, and this time, there was a choked quality to her rage. Aemond’s eye widened slightly and he leaned back from her, a curl of uncertainty that he despised. His words had been harsh, full of the anger that he had felt simmering these past years. Aemond shrugged it off. He had earned his harshness in this. He’d been the one attacked, the band of them setting upon him simply because he chose to claim his right as a Valyrian prince.

‘Why would my mother’s dragon choose you?’

Aemond ran his tongue over his teeth and leaned back on his foot, watching Baela gasp for air amidst her choking sobs, and turn from him to look out to the bay, towards Driftmark and High Tide.

He remembered his mother’s cries, her rage, her such careful and elegant control snapping as her voice cracked in the silence of the Hall of Nine.

“He’s your son, Viserys.”

“Why did Moondancer choose you?” Aemond asked. “Why did Moondancer choose you, and my egg never hatched?” Baela did not look at him but he could see the way her shoulders tensed. “Why didn’t you go find the guards? Why did you come, thinking a thief had stolen a dragon and Jacaerys brought his blade? Why did they give me a pig, pretending they had found me a dragon as they both had their own? Why did they do nothing but terrorize me with that fact for our childhoods?”

Aegon had done it too, gone in on the fun, drunk on being the eldest. It had lessened considerably in the wake of Rhaenyra leaving the capital, even if his brother sought other ways to tease him - he’d never again mentioned his lack of dragon.

Aegon had come to him in his sick bed, his curls shorn, red eyed and puffy faced, tears on his cheeks, had knelt at his bedside and vowed to him.

“We protect our own and I did not protect you. I do not care if you’ve claimed Vhagar, for I was not there for you when you needed me. It will never happen again. I will protect you. I will be by your side.”

Aemond had sometimes wondered how much of the words were his brother’s own, but he had known, with certainty, that the feelings were genuine. His brother was an idiot, and they butted heads, but his brother loved him in his own way, and for as angry as Aegon could make him, he loved him too. In his own way.

He might admit that on his deathbed, unlike Aegon, who would only need to be in the depths of his cups and into the sad and tearful mourning edge.

“What do you know, Baela?” Aemond said, his voice even, coldness creeping along the edges. “Of fighting and scraping for everything that is owed to you?” He forcefully bit his tongue, copper exploding in his mouth as he broke skin, to keep from pressing further at the loss of her birth right to Driftmark for Rhaenyra’s folly.

“A prince has to scrape for all that is owed to him.” It was rhetorical, biting, and Aemond snorted, taking a step forward, his own gaze looking out at the water.

“You may have been an idiot child, but don’t play me for a fool.” It was impossible not to see how little Viserys thought of his second family, and he had seen it plainly on Jacaerys’ face, the surprise in witnessing it. “I’m sure your father relishes every word you send to him. His little spy.”

Baela’s lip curled in a snarl and she stalked closer. Aemond stayed where he was, watching her with a narrowed eye as Vhagar let out a low growl behind him. She did not move, did not lift her head, but her nostrils flared and Aemond felt the heat of her breath swirl around him. Baela’s eyes widened, and she paused, the indigo of them shining with tears.

He turned his head slightly to look at Vhagar. “Ȳgha iksi,” he reassured her, feeling Vhagar’s displeasure seeping through him, her warning and the remembered rage from those years ago when she could not protect him or take away his pain. He reached for her snout, pressing his hand to the scar above her left nostril, rubbing against it. He turned his back to his cousin and brought his other hand up, feeling the anger hot as coals, hot as dragonfire in his chest. Vhagar was full of tension. He could feel it. Would she feel that way if it wasn’t him? If she was not so worried for him, would she recognize the girl behind him as the child that Laena Velaryon surely brought to her, as Aemond would have brought his own child? Had his grandfather, Baelon, brought his sons to this dragon before them?

The silence filled the air around them, the wind thick with tension. Aemond pressed his forehead to Vhagar, took strength from her, squeezed his eye shut and ignored the pain that lanced through his head and pulsed behind his scar.

The sob behind him was soft, and Moondancer’s cry was mournful.

“He’s your son, Viserys.”

“I did not mean to tarnish your mother’s memory,” Aemond finally spoke, his voice carrying as he looked, blind side towards Baela. “It was not done to hurt you, or to take something from you. It was… It was my only chance. And it’s something I don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand. I am… I am sorry about the loss of your mother. I did not have the opportunity to give you my condolences then, but I can give them to you now.”

The sound Baela made was strangled. Aemond turned to look at her. Baela was stiff beneath her red and black riding leathers, the metal rings in her hair tinkling as the wind tugged at her braids. He recalled the mourning child she had been sitting by her twin and Jace, the vicious yell she’d let out when she punched him in the nose that night, the howls and scream of pain. He felt Vhagar twitch and groan beneath his touch, another warning and he hushed her again, stroking her snout. He watched her gaze go towards Moondancer, who was crying fitfully, grounded still, her aquamarine wings more green against the lush grass of the clifftop.

“Do you want to pet her?”

Baela stared at him, the hostile lines to her face instantly slacking in surprise. “Skoro syt?” Her voice was small and wary, even as her eyes were wide with grief.

“My condolences,” Aemond repeated, and he found the words genuine. It was not Baela, nor her sister, or even his bastard nephews that rankled him. Oh, he wanted his revenge, He wanted what was due, but more of the blame lay with his eldest sister and their father. Of that, Aemond was secure in. He would gladly feed them both to Vhagar, to take an eye as payment for his mother.

His cousin shifted on her booted feet before whatever compelled her brought her forward. Aemond shifted, beckoning her to take her place by his side as he murmured words to Vhagar. Baela had taken her glove off, her slim, tanned hand reaching tentatively up before resting along the scar on Vhagar’s nostril.

They stood there for how long, Aemond was not sure, quietly beside one another as Baela grieved for the mother at the bottom of the Narrow Sea, and his own grief at what was taken from him.

“Do not mourn me, mother…”

‘But mourn the boy dead on Driftmark.’

It was not lightness or peace that settled over Aemond when he and his cousin parted later. He was not certain how much time had passed, only that after she had sobbed, they sat there in a strange, companionable silence eating hunks of bread and cheese and apple that Baela cut with a wicked blade. She did not give him thanks, she did not say anything, but Aemond took the offering of shared food as her own gesture of whatever truce was settled between them. The exchanged curt nods before parting, Baela northeast and away from the city to what Aemond assumed was High Tide and her grandmother and twin, while he circled back towards the city.

Aemond was not certain of the feeling he held except that it felt like he had scratched something out on a list, or deposited a burden that he was trying to carry with all his other, more cumbersome burdens. It was a closed door. That was enough for Aemond, and there was a part of him that wanted to march to his sisters and tell them that he had made nice, to have Abby’s warm smile proud with him, and Helaena’s little clap and promptly being the receiver of her latest mountain spider that Uncle Rodrik had brought her.

Instead, after entering the inner courtyard of the Red Keep and handing off his horse to one of the stablehands, he made his way to the gardens and to his own preferred solitude when the library - so recently desecrated - was not an option. No, Aemond needed air, he needed the statue of Visenya to look down upon him. There, where Helaena had snipped the strings and released him from the vow he had made, the goal that held him that was more about him than it truly was about her.

Where his sister had set him free, and he loved her all the more for it.

The problem, he found, upon striding down the paved path and through the dripping ivy, was that his garden was not, in fact, as empty as he hoped. Wylla Karstark was kneeled in front of a bush of hyacinths, carefully cutting the purple blooms and placing them in a basket beside her. She was clad in a dove gray dress, the black fabric of her kirtle beneath poking out through slashes along her shoulders and puffed at her elbows. Her fox features were pinched in concentration and Aemond watched her for a moment, silent as she had clearly not heard his approach.

Wylla Karstark was an unknown. She was pretty enough, with a long nose and sharp jaw, gray eyes that flashed when she was annoyed, which was the majority of the time. She had a rather frustrating talent of being able to look down at him even as she had to arch her neck, for she was as petite as Abby was. Their joint misfortune, just like Aegon’s. She was also well read, their conversation at the feast turning from a mutual annoyance to discussing the book of poetry that he had seen her reading, which itself had turned into a rather long and in depth conversation on the Valyrian poet, Praxilla, whose work had survived by the grace of her living the life of leisure in Lys when the Doom happened. Wylla and his elder brother unknowingly shared a fondness for drinking songs penned by the scribe, although Aemond was smart enough to know he shouldn’t bring that up.

Not until he needed to.

“It is polite to speak when coming upon someone, Your Grace,” Wylla’s northern burr was arch as she focused on her task. “I would curtsy, but you can see I’m already on my knees.”

Aemond’s cheeks flushed at the turn of her words, and he was not certain if she understood how they could be taken. He decided that she didn’t, for she did not turn to look at him, seemingly unbothered. All for the best, he supposed, for Aemond did not think he could meet her gaze should she be facing him.

“Why are you cutting my flowers?”

“Your flowers, Your Grace?” Wylla laughed, a sharp, lilting sort of sound and he wondered if that’s what she sounded like when she sang. Did she sing? He had not asked her. “These flowers belong to Queen Visenya, for it is her garden, is it not?”

“It is my garden,” he pushed back, frowning at the back of her head, the mass of thick, twisted black braids kept in place with a woven, pearl hair net with wicked looking, pearl tipped hair pins to keep the heaviness of it in place. He flexed his hands, wiping them on his riding leathers as he approached. There were other flowers in her basket, like wisteria and some of the roses from the main garden. He sat, bending his one leg to rest an arm on while the other reached in.

Up close, he could see the red flush to her pale cheeks. He did not recall them looking so red when he saw her the day before, outside of the bit of sun all the girls had gotten during the sun.

Her smack was quick, the sound of flesh stinging flesh loud and he immediately pulled back with a hiss and a glare. “How dare-”

“Those aren’t for you,” Wylla said forcefully, the gray eyes of her bright in her face as she finally looked at him. “They’re for Lady Abrogail.”

Aemond had killed a man for the fox-faced woman before him without hesitation, and the knowledge of it settled in him still, generally buried over the past few weeks because he had no idea what to do about it. They’d been attacked in the night, and Wylla Karstark had shoved a knife between the man’s ribs without hesitation. So tall, Wylla Karstark seemed, so loud, filling up the spaces she was in without holding herself back, that he had so often forgotten how small she was.

Until she was there, in front of him, those gray eyes like the storm ridden ocean.

Aemond held her gaze, reaching back into the basket to pluck one of the deep purple, nearly blue anemones that she had gathered, twirling it idly between his long fingers before reaching up to tuck it behind her ear. Wylla was still beside him, her red painted mouth parted slightly, so he could see the flash of her white teeth behind it. Her cheeks deepend in their red to match the paint on her lips and Aemon hummed.

Abby had been understandably shaken. Knowing her as long as he did, even with the smiles affixed to her face, he knew the signs as intimately as he understood Helaena’s or Aegon’s, or his own mother’s. Wylla Karstark was a mystery. She had been quiet, from what he had seen, but the wedding preparations had taken up much time with the girls, as well as her brother finally leaving the capital earlier that week.

He clenched his jaw, a muscle ticking, before he met her gaze. “Are you alright?”

Her inhale was loud. It trembled and she pressed her red lips together, her throat bobbing with a swallow and looked back at the flowers but did not move to cut anymore. Aemond did not push her, but only waited.

“Yes? No? Strangely yes,” she finally whispered. “I think that’s what bothers me more.”

“That bastard came in with intent to harm,” Aemond said. “If you didn’t kill him, someone else would have. You were incredibly brave.” None knew where he’d come from. The assailant had been clad in the same red garb as the rest of the servants. A baseborn man. Waters or Storm, Aemond couldn’t remember, much like he had no memory of the man’s face before he stared down at it, red and wheezing before he killed him.

“At least it wasn’t Aegon,” Wylla whispered, her eyes wide, drawing his attention back to her. “What would have that turned into - him sneaking in for them to slobber all over each other. Me thinking he was an attacker and-”

The snort of laughter that escaped Aemond at the idea of it all could not be held back. He bent his head, gasping for air as his shoulders shook and it was only a moment before Wylla’s own peel of laughter joined his. It had been some weeks since he’d laughed, in the wake of what happened at the hunt drying up what little humor he’d indulged in. There was an infectious quality to Wylla Karstark’s amusement that he found comforting. Aemond looked at her, her face flushed from her laughter, and he leaned in, kissing her.

The laughter abruptly stopped, her mouth soft against his, still from her clear surprise. She tasted like oranges. Abby must have indulged in the sweet and sour orange cakes they had at the feast. Wylla did not respond, but she didn’t move away either and Aemond took that as acceptance, and he lifted his hand to cup her cheek, thumb swiping softly against the apple of it. Kisses with Helaena had been different - always expected, always ready, with her initiating many of them. The one time he’d kissed Abby, when they were little and Jace had dared him to, did not count. The both of them had made faces, vowing to never do it again.

Kissing Wylla, though? He never wanted to stop, especially not when she reached up, the clippers making a soft thump along the grass to wrap around the end of the braid slung over his shoulder. She tugged it gently and Aemond broke away, blinking and gasping. “What?” he asked. “Should I have not done that?”

“Oh, you should have,” she reassured him, breathless and red faced. She licked her lips and looked at her fingers still wound around his braid, toying with the leather tie. “I was just reminded of something someone told me once.”

He cocked his head, mouth pursed. “What was it?”

The smile that cut across Wylla’s face was amused, the scar along the top of her lip giving a mischievous bend to her small, red mouth. “It was about how dragons purr when you pull their hair.”

Whatever thought started to coalesce about her late night conversation with his sisters was pushed right out when her lips found his.

I would love to hear your thoughts! Even if it's just a keyboard smash! Reblog to spread a story around so others may find it! I would love to hear your theories! What did you love? What are you looking forward to? Happy to have you here as always <3

#my fic #hotd tag #house of the dragon #hotd fic #hotd oc #fyeahgotoc #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen x oc #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon targaryen fanfiction #aemond targaryen #baela targaryen #rhaenyra targaryen #oc: abrogail strong #aegon x abby #abrogon #otp: do not go far from me #man tagging is so annoying

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fanaticsnail · 25 days

Text

Daughter of the Sea: Chapter 4

Masterlist Here, Header Masterlist Here

Word Count: 6,500+

Synopsis: After tucking your niece into bed after dinner, the two of you finally give in to your lengthy longing and spend the night in the arms of one another. A revelation once morning arrives has the blissful world you have created with one another come crashing down around you. (Smut in this chapter, MDNI, 18+).

Themes: Unrequited requited love, slow burn, long fic, long distance relationship, friends to lovers, found family dynamics, love over time, (smut, mdni 18+, NSFW - chapters will be marked accordingly), love-making, angst, hurt, gendered terms used, swearing, adult language.

Notes: Benn Beckman x f!reader, platonic!Mihawk x f!reader, platonic!Shanks x f!reader, slight mention of MiShanks ship, Beginning: Shanks is 19, Mihawk is 23, Beckman is 30, f!reader is 22, Uta is 2 months old for the sake of the plot (canonically she's 2 years old). The f!reader is suggested to be native to Kuraigana with her mannerisms and language.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @i-am-vita @since-im-already-here @mfreedomstuff @gingernut1314 @feral-artistry @writingmysanity @indydonuts

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5

Sifting through Uta's clothes and organizing her room was done hastily; placing her new clothes on hangers and setting up her small vanity. She hummed a tune, enjoying her reflection in the mirror as you worked away at neatening her treasures.

After some time, you turned to see her twirling in place with her new skirts frilling around her in a perfect circle. You were glad her childhood has been happy, especially considering the hardships of your own. Truly glad to spoil her in all the ways you had never been, you stood tall and beckoned her over with a soft wave of your hands.

“Ready for dinner, gorgeous girl?” You asked her, her hand reaching out to collect yours within, “Want to go somewhere that's just us, or do you want to see your crew for a meal?” You placed the velveteen, well-loved hawk plush on her pillow and fixed up her bedsheets.

“Can we go back to the bar place?” she smiled at you, looking down at her bed before placing her hand in yours, “And maybe have a table for just me and you?”

“Of course, sweety,” you reassure her, “Just me and you.”

As you made your way off the Red-Force, you noticed Benn Beckman standing on the deck of the bar, leaning over the side rails and looking to the ocean where you arrived from. He looked at peace, his signature frown missing from his face and a cigarette tucked between his index and middle finger. Dressed in a fine dark button-up shirt, his hair combed back, and his face clean shaven, Beckman had never looked so refined before.

Beside him was Lucky Roux, gnawing at a whole leg of lamb while joking with him. Roux’s wide, toothy grin grew when Uta suddenly tugged at your hand to pull you inside the bar.

“Roux,” you nodded your greeting, Uta tugged you in firmer, “Beckman.” Your eyes met, his silvery orbs mesmerized with the immediate contact. His lips parted, his mouth moving as if to speak, only to immediately shut as Uta thrust you within the doors of the bar.

Both of you were dressed in fine clothes, Uta's new skirts sparkling as she moved towards Shanks and Limejuice who sat alone and laughing together. As she began to demonstrate her new fine-wear to the men, you walked over to the bar and began perusing the menu.

“Need help deciding what to get, love?” a woman's voice prompted you to look up. Her hair was a vibrant green, tucked away from her face by a triangular bandana, “I'm Makino, owner of the bar.” Giving her your name in response, you nodded your greeting to her.

“I’ll take two glasses of water for now, please,” you asked, turning over the menu in your hands to gauge an appropriate meal for your niece, “Uta will likely have some chicken, mashed potatoes and I would love to see her eat some type of green vegetable.”

“We’ve got peas or string beans, do you have a preference?” she readied two glasses with ice and began filling them with water.

“I think the beans would be appropriate,” you shrugged, placing down the menu and sliding it over to her. She exchanged the waters for your Berry, handing them down with an inquisitive smile. You cock your head to the side to read her expression more clearly, your evidence collection being halted when she disclosed her curiosity.

“We don't normally see women dressed in all that finery here. You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life,” she admitted to you, prompting you to laugh a little in response. A soft rouge drew up her cheeks, mentally slapping herself.

“Thank you for your compliment, Makino. I truly appreciate it,” you teetered off your laughter, reaching forward to give her hand a soft squeeze, “I'm from Kuraigana. This is the similar style worn by our locals there.”

“Kuraigana? Is that on the Grand Line?” she asked, her curiosity growing as she readied Uta's meal for her. You nodded emphatically, beginning to talk about the land you had been living in under the rule of Dracule Mihawk.

As you both dove deeper into conversation, Benn Beckman and Lucky Roux reentered the bar. The first-mate was in a trance, his gaze locked onto you as your actions moved slower in his mind than what occurred in reality.

The soft bounce of your hair when you laughed, the passion in your eyes as you spoke to Makino, and your grand smile. The smile that haunted him from the moment he first saw you. His heart soared ever higher when Uta joined you at your side, you immediately stooping to aid her up onto the barstool to consume her meal.

He was so desperately in love with you.

Now that he knew you used both his name and love in the same sentence, he needed to make his move. Although he wanted nothing more than to sweep you into his arms and begin wooing you l like his other conquests, he physically couldn't do it. His northern star pointed him to you, calling him home to rest in your arms, but he was still unsure of where to start. He wanted to make you feel special, set aside from the rest, and most importantly: loved.

As Uta finished her meals, dipping her green beans into her mashed potato and using it as a spoon, you continued sipping at your water and praising her for eating her meal. Giving you a wide, toothy grin, Uta jumps up into your lap and starts eagerly discussing her plans for her future. Her dreams of being a singer, her travels to Kuraigana to see you and her Uncle Hawk, and how she wants to have her captain achieve his goals.

Just at the mention of his name, Shanks hovered over the bar, ordering another drink beside you. He pauses, leaning forward and giving you a soft peck on your cheek before leaning down to press his lips on the crown of Uta’s head.

“Thank you for coming to see us while we were docked here,” Shanks whispered to you, collecting his drink from the bar, “Means a lot to all of us here, especially Uta.” He smiled down at his adoptive daughter, extending his arm out to her, “It’s time for you to get to bed, little miss. Want Yassop to take you?”

“I think we both know who Uta wants to take her,” a burly voice rumbled from ahead. Beckman stepped into the bar, his lopsided smile looking first down at Uta before raking his eyes up to meet yours. You return his smile briefly before looking down at your niece.

“Shall I tuck you in, gorgeous girl?” you offered, her overenthusiastic smile immediately rising up her face. She all but sprung out of your lap, gathering your hand and dragging you onto your feet. Before you took a step towards the door, Uta’s unoccupied hand reached up and gathered Beckmans within her own.

You both briefly made eye contact once more before she dragged you towards her lodgings for the night. She was happily chirping away to Beckman, recounting all of her day with you and her in town. He would ask the occasional question, humming in interest when it was called for, all the both of you would steal looks from one another like coy, lovesick teenagers.

You both readyed Uta in her pajamas, tucking her into her bedsheets and reading her a fairytale from one of her new books. After all the bedtime routine took its course, you gave Uta one final squeeze goodnight and kissed the apple of her cheek.

“Goodnight, gorgeous girl,” you whispered to her, “I'll see you in the morning. We could have breakfast together, if you like.”

“Pretty A-...,” she yawned, stretching her arms above her head and nestling into her sheets, “...-Aunty, I would like that. Pancakes?”

“We can do pancakes,” Beckman nodded, smoothing over her sheets and drawing up her quilted blanket to keep her warm, “I'll get up early and make the batter for you, okay?”

“You're the best, Uncle Beckman,” she uttered snoozily, her eyes drooping as she flopped further into her bed, “Both my favorites together.”

Quietly exiting the room, you clicked her bedroom door closed before looking around the shared communal lounge. You clicked your tongue at the miscellaneous items askew in the room, immediately setting to work and tidying up after the Red-Hair crew.

“Leave it, Darlin’,” Beckman urged you, collecting a cigarette from his pocket alongside his lighter, “The boys’ll get to it.” You huffed a gentle laugh, continuing to collect empty drinking containers, clothing items and dirty bowls and mugs. Placing the clothes in baskets, the food utensils and containers on the bench top, and turned to face him.

“Leave me be, Becks,” you shook your head with a soft smile, “Don't keep your date waiting, and let me put myself to use while I'm here.” You continued fussing in the room, leaving Beckman perplexed while mulling over your comment.

“She is very pretty,” you continued, sighing as you began to fill the basin of the sink with warm, soapy water, “You always did know how to pick the best ones.” Beckman coughed out a soft laugh, choking on his thoughts.

Spinning on your toes to gaze up at him, you waved him off with a gentle “shoo.” Beckman's mind was racing, watching you hastily turn off the tap to the basin and gather the dishes into a neatly stacked pile. Immediately drawn back to you ushering him away to rest after being so long at sea, cradling the infant Uta in your arms, supplying the Red-Force with all the ship needed to embark on the adventure: his mind zeroed in on that single moment.

As you hummed while starting to wash the drinking glasses first, he was immediately overwhelmed by those first emotions from so long ago. He neither had the constitution, nor the energy, to make his move back then: his body too sleep deprived and seaworn to truly depict his adoration for you.

He was under no such plight now.

Just when you placed the last of the drinking cups to dry on the rack beside the sink, two strong arms wrapped around your stomach while a face buried itself in the crease of your shoulder. You froze in shock, eyes wide and unblinking. Lips found your neck, sweet kisses pressed into your skin and leading down into your shoulder.

“Beckman, what are you doing?” Your breathy voice gave you away to him, truly reveling in the attention, “You're all dressed up, and your date is waiting for you-.”

“-I got dressed up for you, Darlin’,” he groaned, his lips trailing back up from your shoulder to your neck, “Only for you.” You quickly dried your hands, turning in his arms and pushing him gently on his shoulders.

“And the woman at the bar?” you asked him, brows raised and eyes darting between his half-lidded orbs. He could barely focus on forming a sentence, his mind wanting nothing but to give into what his body was craving.

“Just a kiss, nothin’ more, I swear to you,” he confessed hurriedly. His hands began to tremble as they held you firmly, your attention momentarily drawn to them before turning back to face him.

“You deserve so much more than a simple kiss, Benn Beckman,” you gazed up into his eyes, both of you mirroring the same unspoken emotions you had for one another.

“I don't want to have anything more with anyone else,” he whispered, his body moving forward, his torso brushing against your chest, “I just want you,” his voice caught in his throat as he confessed, “Only ever you.”

The love between you was physically tangible, desire rolling from you both in waves. Before managing to speak a single word of confession, you both became overwhelmed by the sensation of finally holding each other in your arms.

Lips crashed almost violently, Beckman pinning you against the kitchen counter by his hips while your hands caught his lengthy hair in fistfuls. He pawed at your legs, hoisting you up and sitting you firmly on the counter while your lips began to attack his cheek, chin and jaw with your lips.

Turning his head, he reclaimed your lips beneath his, his hips slotting between your legs and growled into your lips as you untied his hair from within the elastic. His hair fell like curtains over his shoulders, your hands gathering up the strands and holding his head hostage to your passionate and bruising kisses.

Sliding his hands over your thighs, he hurriedly snaked his arms over your hips and drew you in closer. Pelvises brushing, you whined into his lips when you felt the outline of his stiff cock grinding against your clothed core. As you parted your lips and shifted your chin, Beckman darted his tongue out to stroke yours and deepen the desperate oscillation.

“Becks,” you sighed, hands perching on his shoulders as he trailed his lips along the outside of your mouth, “Becks, stop.” He immediately broke away, eyes wide and panicking.

“I'm sorry, Darlin’,” he gasped, your hands leaving his hair and his hands leaving your body, “Did I misread something? Did you not want this-?”

“-Uta is sleeping in the other room, sweetheart,” you whispered, a love-struck smile rising to your lips as you caressed his cheek, “And Yassop was going to come and take over supervision any second,” you tucked a stray piece of fallen hair behind his ear, “I don't particularly want us to be caught, pants down and ass out by the crew.”

Beckman’s rumbled laughter was contagious, your own joining his as he stooped lower and pressed his lips against your cheek. His lips traveled again to your mouth and hummed as his warm and slow kisses pressed against yours. Pulling away, he gazed deeply into your eyes and softened his expression: eyes half-lidded, lips parted and a small smile painted over his mouth.

“I am truly,” he kissed you with a soft peck, “deeply,” followed by another chaste kiss, “desperately,” he held his lips firmly against yours, deepening it briefly before pulling away, “In love with you.”

His confession caused your heart to beat violently against your chest, eyes swelling at the truth he disclosed to you. You collected his cheeks within your palms, rubbing a soft circle over his lips with your right thumb.

“I loved you from the moment you placed Uta in my arms,” you admitted, your voice wavering a little as you truly came to terms with your emotions, “And I have loved you every day since.” He laughed, pressing his forehead against yours.

“I win,” his nose circled your own, scrunching briefly in playful teasing, “I loved you the moment I first saw you. Just before you and Mihawk got into that large brawl, from memory.”

As the tension swelled once more between you, you shook off the feeling as soon as you heard heavy boots outside the door. Beckman broke away from you, turning away and readying his cigarette and lighter as you approached the sink. Surely and steadily as you washed the dishes, the door to the lodgings swung open to reveal Yasopp.

His pistol lay at his side, strutting on through with a soft nod to you before sharing a pointed look with Beckman.

“She sleepin’?” Yassop asked, brow raised high. Your back was turned, concentrating fully on the task of washing the dishes.

“Aye, she is,” Beckman confirmed as he lit his cigarette, inhaling a deep lungful of smoke, “You eaten?”

“Makino made some lamb stew,” Yassop confessed, wandering around to the kitchen, leaning against the countertop Beckman had pinned you against moments prior, “Had to fight Roux for the last bowl.”

“Ah, that settles my next question,” Beckman uttered, his hand raising to the crown of his head and raking through his fallen locks with his fingers, “No chance of gettin’ some leftovers for us, Darlin'.”

You huffed a soft laugh, looking at him over your shoulder and smiling mischievously.

“I have some supplies back on my ship from town,” you admitted with a shrug, “I could cook you something, if you like.”

Beckman closed his eyes, cocking his head to the side and attempting to bite back his growing smile by clamping his lips tightly around his cigarette. Yassop shot Beckman a knowing smirk, walking away from the benchtop and approaching the sink.

“Let me handle that, Hon,” he picked up a dish and nudged you away with his hips, “Go get some food sorted for you and the big guy.” Your heart began to race, turning to glance up at Beckman through your eyelashes.

“Thank you, Yassop,” you praised him, fully unable to tear your eyes away from Beckman's as his eyes darkened.

The walk back to your ship passed in almost a blink. As soon as your foot stepped atop your boat, your fine dress was immediately hoisted over your head to leave you in your lingerie. Beckman's shirt was hastily unbuttoned and shrugged away from his shoulders. All while undressing one another, your lips never left seeking out new bare flesh to press themselves against.

Finally in the crew quarters of your personal ship, your legs wrapped themselves around Beckmans hips as he wove his left hand around your shoulders, and right hand snaked around your hips to hold you firmly in place. His lips we're eagerly consuming your lips, jaw, neck and down your chest as he lined his swollen cock up with your glistening slit.

Before he prodded you with his knob, he hesitated, snapping his face up to meet with yours. You looked up at him, eyes blown with lust and lashes half-lidded. Hand caressing his cheek, he turned his chin to collect your palm beneath his lips.

“Everything okay?” you asked him in a airy whisper.

“I just-...” he darted his eyes between yours, looking down to your lips before floating back up, “...I want you to know this isn't just a notch for me,” he confessed, prodding you open with his knob, “I’ve wanted this for so long, and I want you to know how much I love you”

You smiled, closing your eyes and enjoying the feeling of his knob slowly stretching you open with shallow thrusts. Reopening them, your eyes met: Beckman's expressive silver globes pooling with love and adoration for you.

“If you're asking me if I love you too, please know that I do,” you whimper as he sheathed more of himself into you, your walls molding to the shape of his cock with each slow thrust, “Oh, Becks. I love you,” you moaned, arching your back as his cock sheathed itself deeply inside you.

“F-Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned, his forehead falling into the crease of your shoulder and neck. He began thrusting slowly, keeping the majority of his cock buried down to the hilt. His pelvis brushed against your clit, each intentional motion his hips made had his mushroomed tip curve to hit your g-spot.

You anchored your hands on his shoulders, hastily circling his shoulders to hold him closer. Your feet joined at the ankles, digging your heels into his back to prompt him to keep going. He picked up the pace, deep thrusts brushing your g-spot before pushing deeper to reach further depths within you.

“Fuck, Becks,” you moaned, arching your back and pressing your head against the pillow, “R-Remind me-... Nghmm-... Remind me again why we w-weren’t doing this f-for the past five years.”

“N-No fucking clue, Darlin’,” Beckman huffed, his hips rutting faster as he bullied your walls to take more of his brutal pace, “Coulda had you so many ways in that gloomy castle.”

“How would you’ve had me?” your mind began to fog, your smile tugging at the corners of your lips. He turned his head to face you, his grin mirroring yours between panted breaths.

“Woulda’ had you bent over that desk a few times,” he laughed, eyes rolling back as he felt your walls clench around his shaft. “Fuck,” he groaned your name, pressing a chaste kiss on your cheek, “Woulda’ had you sit at that fuckin’ desk chair, and wrap your gorgeous thighs around my face while you did your paperwork.”

You mewled as he unwrapped his left arm from your shoulder to rake at your thigh, carefully supporting it against his hips as he continued snapping his pelvis against yours.

“Pick a place in the grounds,” he groaned, his motions becoming staggered as he felt his release rapidly approach, “There's the maze,” he smirked, his gaze turning wicked and feral, “Woulda’ chased you through the damn thing in nothin’ but lingerie and some sensible running shoes.” You laughed, turning it into a short whine as he bullied his swollen tip against your g-spot.

“Oh, fuck, Beckman. I-I’m right there,” you cried, feeling the coil begin to tighten in the pit of your abdomen. Your hands pawed at him, desperately attempting to find something to tether you to the world before it came crashing down around you.

“I got you, I got you,” he chanted, his left hand leaving your thigh as he raised your hips with his right and began pistoning your body against his skin. His impossible strength heightened the pleasure he was snapping into you. Your body was flint, his hips the rock that sparked the fire to ignite your flame.

He collected your hands from his shoulders, his index finger anchoring your two wrists together as his thumb and three fingers tugged them away from his shoulders and above your head. He pressed your knuckles against the plush pillow of your bed, using his body weight to pin you against the bed.

“Becks,” you whined, “Becks, I'm close.”

“Me too, me too,” he nodded, his hips snapping with crude, wet slaps echoing within your bedroom. Mewls of your bliss and gruff groans of Beckman's own rapid approach harmonized together, your voices carrying chants of one another's names over the sea.

As your eyes began to see the dancing lights behind them, your body buzzing with bliss, Beckman's voice barked over your hypnotism to break the trance.

“Eyes on me, Darlin’,” he growled, “Wanna see you come undone. Wanna see it in your eyes.” You took your bottom lip between your teeth as you forced your eyes to stay open. He pummeled himself into you, your body beginning to shoot the buzzed sparks throughout your stomach to your toes.

“Becks, I-I'm gonna-...” you anchored your legs firmly against his body as your orgasm began to hit you, “...Beckman-... Fuck-... Beckman, I'm cumming.” Your body erupted into pure, electrified bliss. Eyes never leaving his, Beckman could see your unravel as his own shot through him.

“Fuck, Darlin’,” he barked, his hips staggering while his entire length was sheathed completely down to the hilt, “Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck.” Your walls wrung around his cock in rhythmic contractions, squeezing his shaft to the same rhythm he sheathed himself within you.

You attempted to wriggle away from his grip, the overstimulation causing you to panic a little beneath him. Sensing the panic in your arms, he released your hands from above your head and drew them up to his hair. Wasting no time, you drew his face down to meet yours, your lips consuming his whole he chased his bliss within you.

As your hands tangled in his hair, he rut himself deeply within you, his cock twitching and beginning to spill himself deeply within you. He was usually careful, wrapping himself in a barrier to hold back his spend. With you, he all but lost that thought the moment your lips met his for the first time back in the lodgings.

“I’m g-gonna-,” he warned you, his hips staggering, “Where? Where do you-.” You wrapped your legs tightly around his hips, refusing to allow him space to pull away from you as you sucked a dark, purple oval against his neck. “F-Fuck, Darlin’. Fuck, I-I’m gonna cum.”

“Please, let me have you,” you whined against his neck, biting at his flesh as you felt the rapid approach of his hard cock within you, “Please let me have all of you.”

He chanted your name, the crude snaps of his hips staggered while fully sheathed within you. Ropes of his spend shot deep within you in short spurts. His face eagerly sought out yours, his lips collecting your mouth and groaning deeply within.

His hips stilled, his cock twitching as he continued to slowly rock his hips against yours. He released a breathy whisper, something you weren't anticipating to follow. Caressing your cheek, he looked down at you while whispering in his best attempt at Kuraiganan

“I love you.”

Your thoughts betrayed you, eyes beginning to pool with emotion at his heavily accented depiction of the language. His intentions were pure, prompting you to relay your own heart in your practiced tongue.

“I love you too, Beckman,” you whispered, your hands smoothing over the fallen strands of his hair, “More than I could ever truly say, with any uttered tongue. I love you more than you could ever dream of.” He smiled, shaking his head while attempting to understand your words.

“My Kuraiganan is lackluster,” he admitted with a short laugh, his body and yours still tingling with the aftershocks of the bliss, “But I think I got the sentiment.” He chuckled, pressing his lips against yours and passing his smile to you. Your own lips mirrored his, you both groaning as he pulled his cock out of you.

He rolled beside you, cradling your shoulders against him as he continued to move his lips in slow and intentional kisses.

For the first time since early childhood, your guard completely dropped. The walls fell away from guarding your heart from the pain of breaking, each rock of resolve gently pried away by Beckman's lips coaxing you to give in. He felt your body relax, his own following suit as he allowed his hardened heart to warm to the unspoken promises of tomorrow.

You both felt exactly in the place you needed to be, that place being within the arms of a lover you valued as equal to you.

Basking in the soft afterglow of your love for a few more moments, you slowly got up and placed Beckman's dark, button-up shirt over your body; drowning in the fabric. He laughed at you, sitting up as you went to your small bathroom to gently rinse yourself of your prior collection of joint release.

Upon exiting the room, you brought a small dish and washcloth to the man sitting in your bed. You knelt beside him, gently placing the warmed water onto his body and cleansing him.

“I really should be doing this for you, you know,” he smirked as you continued to drag the cloth over his abdomen and down to his shaft.

“Why would I expect you to, especially after you were the one who topped me?” you laughed, your hands circling a ring around his cock and drawing out the final drops of his release into the washcloth.

“You saying you could top me?” Beckman taunted you, nudging your thigh with his knee.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you purred at him, leaning over his torso and tucking a loose strand of hair over his ear, “I was being nice letting you take the lead because you're special to me,” you brought your mischievous smirk over to him, cocking your head to the side and uttering your soft promise. “When you're ready again, I'll show you how good it can be.”

Your challenge did not end unseen, your night almost sleepless as your joint pleas, cries of bliss, and praises echoed well into the dark of the night. As your body finally gave in to the sweet call of slumber, that rest was found tucked within the strong arms of Benn Beckman. His slow and steady heartbeat lulled you to sleep, just as the gentle rise and fall of your chest had him blissfully achieve the best sleep he's had aboard a ship.

As the sun began to rise, Beckman woke first. He felt you nuzzle into him as he began to shift, taking a moment to commit this picture to memory. His heart was with you, his love and adoration carried with every breath you took. As you stirred, he pressed his lips against your temple.

“Mornin’, Darlin’,” his smooth drawl has you swooning as your eyes flutter open.

“Good morning, my love,” you whispered, leaning up and pressing your lips against his in a gentle kiss. Marks of your night together showed itself in soft hues of purple, small indentations of teeth and scratches on your bodies. Gazing down at you, he clicked his tongue as a reprimand to himself about his rough treatment of you.

“Shouldn't ‘a gripped you so hard,” he scolded, his index finger tracing down your body and bringing your attention to the perfect cast of his hand against your hips.

“I probably should not have sunk my teeth into your shoulder like that, either,” you noted, nudging your face against his shoulder. A small, wicked grin began to simmer atop your lips, your eyes filled with mischief as you asked, “Want me to make it up to you?”

Before he could utter a word, you were already straddling his waist, peppering his cheeks, neck and shoulders with kisses as the rush of morning blood swelled his cock with eager anticipation. Both indulging in chasing your highs, you skillfully raked yourself over Beckman’s thick cock until your walls contracted in blissful flutters around his girth; his seed spilling within you as your lips pressed against one another.

This time, Beckman did all the heavy lifting with aftercare. He drew you a warm bath, your iron pipes heating your water reserves and filling the large basin with soapy water as you lay in your bed, laughing at yourself as you felt truly happy.

The taps squeaked off, your long-haired lover returning to you with his pants hanging limply from his hips. His lips collected yours beneath his, giving you a lengthy kiss as you leant into him. Pulling away, he gazed deeply into your eyes as his smile illuminated his face.

“I promised our niece pancakes,” he reminded you, nudging your chin with his nose, “Come join us after your bath. I'll have coffee waiting for you back at the lodgings.” You swooned, whimpering at the thought as he laughed at you.

“You truly are a man after my own heart, aren't you?” you uttered more as a statement than a question, “Pancakes for the princess, coffee for the-.”

“-The queen,” he hastily confirmed your title to him, reaching down and collecting your left hand within his right, “You're my queen.” He pressed his lips on your knuckles while looking deeply into your eyes.

“Oh, stop it, flatterer,” you giggled at him, turning your left hand within his to collect his chin, “Would that make you the king?”

“Nay, my lady,” he smiled at you, his lips pressing against your palm before tugging down at your wrist, “I am your knight,” he kissed your wrist, approaching your forearm. “Your loyal soldier,” he trailed a soft kiss down to the inner crease of your elbow. “Your fierce protector,” he trailed his lips over your bicep to your shoulder, “And, most importantly,” he kissed your nose, “I am your friend first.”

“That you are, Benn Beckman,” your dazed and lovestruck eyes held his for a moment, him falling victim to your inquisitive stare, “But the most important aspect is actually,” you sat firmly up, your faces at eye level and leaving no air for misinterpretation. “You are my love,” you confessed, “You will always be my love.”

“As you will be mine,” he whispered, his voice wavering with his confession. He surged his face down to yours, his body caging yours beneath it as he pressed his unwavering love into you to solidify his vow. Just as you moved to hook your legs around his and deepen the kiss, he chuckled, tearing himself off you.

“Enough o’ that,” he chastised you, his eyes shut as he stood upright, “Keep that up, and we won't ever leave this fuckin’ room.” You rose up onto your elbows behind you, sensually biting your lip and carefully dragging your toes over his thigh.

“What if I don't want you to ever leave this room?” His head snapped over to you, his gaze firm and longing.

“You're going to be the end of me,” he sighed, catching your ankle and drawing it up to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against it. “Pancakes and coffee first,” he growled, “Then back to this room until my queen is satisfied, yes?”

You giggled a soft, “Aye, sir,” which prompted Beckman to fall deeper into your trap, truly not wanting to leave. You handed him back his shirt, aiding him to thrust his arms into the sleeves, and gave him a soft kiss goodbye. You watched him approach the tavern with a soft bounce in his step, as you shrouded yourself with the door.

As you turned to approach your warm bath, a rumble of your personal Den-Den hummed to life. Puzzled, you reached for the small shell and elevated it to your ear.

“Enjoying your time away with our niece, my dear?” the disinterested call of Mihawk hummed at you through the transponder, “She would be about five now, yes?”

“Good morning, my lord,” you smiled into the transponder as you gathered your bathing supplies to begin basking in the soft call of the water, “Have you arrived back at Kuraigana already, sir-?”

“-I’m sorry, dear,” he spoke over you, his tone depicting an unnatural worry to you, “I truly wanted to know about Uta and the Red-Hair crew, believe me. That will need to wait, I'm afraid. You need to sit down while I tell you this, and ensure you are alone.”

At the swift change of his tone, you sat on your bed, your bathtowl beneath your naked form as you gathered a robe to shroud yourself.

“I am sat, Mihawk,” you informed him in a professionally practiced tone, “What happened? What did you do?”

There was a brief pause, a small stagger of breath within his tone, his voice betraying him as he attempted to steady it. After a moment, he informed you of his travels.

“My bounty has been canceled, and, by association, so has yours.” You cocked your head to the side, holding the shell closer to your ear as he admitted, “I have joined with the marines to become one of the seven warlords of the sea.”

You were immediately flooded with dread, your mind racing with you at this knowledge. Your bounty was hefty, your collection of whispers on the wind keeping you informed of hunters and marines before you docked or left Kuraigana.

“What does that mean?” You asked, shaking your head as you attempted to process the information, “I work for them now, too?”

“Absolutely not. You work for me, and I advocated for you because you live with me in Kuraigana,” he relayed to you, “I refuse to have every Marine rat come to my door and attempt to collect your bounty each time I receive orders from the World Government.”

After taking a few moments to collect yourself, you ready the question Mihawk knew you would ask. Although he anticipated it, he truly could not prepare for the heartbreak depicted in your tone.

“What are you asking me to do?”

“You need to come home, immediately,” he whispered after taking a slow and steady breath, “Leave the Red-Hairs and come back home to me.”

The next question that fell from your lips almost broke him, the new warlord experiencing the greatest empathy for his oldest friend and closest confidant.

“Will I ever be permitted to see them again?”

The pause he produced had your breath stop, your heart beating heavier and heavier with each burst, “...it means no contact for at least five years.”

You could barely process the following information Mihawk was relaying to you, his voice attempting to produce further instructions of, “That includes calls, letters, physical contact. We will not see our niece again for quite some time.”

Your voice caught in your throat, your pulse beating heavy in your ears with a brutality you had not had since your first encounter with the fight, flight or freeze reaction.

“My dear, did you hear me?” the smooth drawl of Mihawk's voice broke you out of your rapidly panicking thoughts, your mind snapping back to you.

“I-I can't do that,” you stuttered, your eyes swelling with immediate grief, “I can't do that, Mihawk. Especially now, since-...” your voice trailed off, your eyes immediately falling to the closed door of your ship.

After a moment of silence, Mihawk clicked his tongue in shock, putting the pieces he feared together

“You're finally been in bed with Beckman, haven't you?” your stifled sob escaped your lips, prompting your right hand to clap over it. Soothing assurances poured from his honey-sweet tone.

“My dear, I'm so sorry,” his apology fell on deaf ears as your body already began to mourn the years to be lost to you. After taking a moment longer to dwell with your shattered heart, you hardened your stance and blinked back the rise of sorrow in your eyes.

“What would you have me do, my lord,” your cool tone depicting your cast aside emotions in each articulated syllable.

“Best to tell only Shanks, and leave him to relay what he wants to his crew,” he directed you, your body moving as automatically as it could to prepare yourself to receive your orders, “You need to come back before the spy network can draw a connection between us and them.”

You stepped into the bath, hastily ridding yourself of the prior night and morning shared in the arms of your lover and stepping out to dry yourself. Housing the chain of the plug out from your bath. In lieu of the sundress you had desired to wear for the day, you tugged on your old uniform: a hooded shawl, tanned pants and a lengthy shirt beneath a face shield that only showcased your eyes above it.

Before Mihawk ended the call, he advised you with a swift and steady articulation.

“You may do what you need to do to make it easier on yourself and your niece, but know,” he paused, inhaling a deep breath, “The longer you dwell with them, the more danger you put not only yourself, but Uta in. Goa kingdom hosts marines, pirates and bandits alike. If you're seen with them, the marines have been ordered to kill on sight.”

“Aye, sir,” you uttered in a voice darker than night. Mihawk uttered a final precaution to you, his sorrow almost depicted in itself, “Better to have them hate you than for them to chase you.”

Ending the transponder call, you finally had a moment to dwell in silence before deciding on what direction to take. As you looked at yourself in your vanity, it seemed as if one has already been made for you.

#one piece #x reader #benn beckman x reader #beckman x reader #op beckman #benn beckman smut #one piece x reader #one piece smut #f!reader #op x reader

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delopsia · 1 year

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I absolutely adored and loved the Rhett headcanons. Can we please get matching Bobby ones pretty pretty please with diabetes inducing amount of sugar on top 🥺🙏💕💕💕

Aaaaa, thank you! I was hoping somebody would ask for a set of Bobby headcanons! :D This got a little long again 💃

✧˖° General Bob Headcanons

Snores, but very, very lightly? To the point that he sounds more like a cat purring than anything. If you tell him he does it, he goes red in the face and denies it, even if you have video evidence of it. Bobby hears snoring and immediately thinks he must be snoring loud enough to guide ships through the fog...

Bob has this funny thing where he intentionally buys damaged products. He got left out of things a lot as a kid, the last to be picked for dodgeball, was always last to be partnered up for assignments, little things that never felt all too great.

So now he's taking home a dented can of Lysol because he knows how shitty it feels to be left out.

It is so, so easy to make this man smile. You can make the dumbest joke of all time, and Bob's got a cheesy grin that's brighter than the sun itself.

Bob doesn't always have the words to describe what he's feeling or trying to say. No matter how hard he tries, those words simply don't bubble up in the ol' noggin, and he's stuck stuttering until he can come up with something.

The longer he can't find the words he wants to use, the brighter his face goes. Blushes from the tips of his ears all the way down into his chest. Poor baby looks like he's been sunburnt

Buys trinkets that remind him of his friends, and he's got an entire shelf dedicated to housing them. A glass-blown phoenix that he found in a gift shop, a plush coyote that he picked up at the zoo, a horseshoe because his momma loves horses.

Has a talent for origami. It started out as a meaningless thing to ease his nerves, but it quickly devolved into an obsession. Flowers, elephants, stars, butterflies, he knows no bounds. He's been known for leaving them in places and waiting around the corner to see who takes it. There's no better feeling than watching someone find it and take it with them.

That being said, Bob showers his significant other in them. Once he becomes comfortable, you will never know peace. There are stars in your cups, there were origami flowers lining the edge of your clawfoot bath this morning, and you've been finding hearts for months.

Hates when people stand behind him. It's more of a nervous thing than anything because there is nothing worse than thinking you're alone and sensing someone looming behind you. If Bob can find a spot where his back is to the wall, you best believe he will be there.

Bobby can play the guitar and the piano, but he's so, so shy about it. He doesn't know where to look or what to do with his eyes while he's playing it, and he really, really doesn't know what to say if you compliment him on it.

Green thumb. Every plant is safe with Robert Floyd; growing up on a farm, it's hard not to get good at growing things. From dandelions to lettuce, he can garden just about anything.

Also happens to talk to the flowers as if they can hear him. "Hi buddies, are you getting enough sunshine?" "Hold on, hold on, I'll water you in a second." "Do you need me to rotate you?"

Eats all one type of food before moving on to the next thing on his plate. It's more of a focus thing than anything; Bob just doesn't...think to switch from the mashed potatoes to the green beans until the potatoes are completely gone.

Speaking of food, Bob unintentionally gives his S/O food-themed pet names. Honey, peaches, sugar, pumpkin, sweetie. He hardly notices he's doing it; it's just one of those things that happened.

Bob could very well have his vision corrected with a simple surgery, but he chooses not to have it because he's so used to having glasses. He's been wearing glasses since he was five; they're a part of his identity at this point.

He's one of the unlucky ones who turn bright red when he drinks alcohol. Didn't realize it until someone pointed it out, and now he absolutely will not drink in public because he's afraid of turning as red as a stop light.

Drinks his coffee black. Primarily because he can never get the ratio of additives to his liking; too much creamer, but then it's too much sugar, and oh, well, would you look at that, he accidentally grabbed the salt instead of the sugar.

Animal lover to the core. Please take him to the zoo or the aquarium, he's been dying to go, but nobody will go with him :( His favorites have always been the red pandas and the jellyfish. For no reason other than he finds them cute.

Bob's got thighs for days. God, is it a sight to watch him struggle to get into his jeans. He's always gotta jump to get them past those perfectly pale thighs.

Does this thing where he gets lost in your eyes when you speak. He's listening, but good lord, he is absolutely drowning in the way your eyes twinkle as you talk to him. Chin in hand, humming along to whatever you have to say.

#bob floyd #robert floyd #bob #robert bob floyd #robert bob floyd headcanons #bob top gun #top gun bob #top gun maverick #top gun #headcanons #delgato's asks #bob floyd x reader

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versegm · 8 months

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What the fuck is up with Mashmorgan

Someone on neocities asked me to explain the appeal of Mashmorgan in a single concise post. Well I did it lads you've got your single post. It's also 1500 words long but that's not my problem. A lot of it is stuff I've already said in scattered posts/fics, so if you follow me this will not be any news for you, but if you ever need to redirect someone to an explanation of this ship you can direct them to this post. Also fair warning this will be incomprehensible without knowledge of lb6. This is by design.

Anyways. Enjoy.

The most basic shit about Mashmorgan is: Mash and Morgan spent a long time together. So long that Mash starts considering herself a part of the Fairy Calendar over the Queen's calendar (see: Totrot having to remind her "you're not the only one who remained, you're the one who is going home! You were never meant to be here in the first place.") Furthermore, Mash and Tonelico didn't just hang out. They were good fucking friends! Tonelico trusted Mash enough to tell her that Tonelico is, in fact, a ball of rage and ressentment wrapped in a savior skin (which is a big deal considering Tonelico lies to Fucking Everyone about her true feelings on things.) It's important to note that the ONLY time Morgan ever smiles during the entire lostbelt is with Mash ("Sure! We did our best, didn't we?" while sending Mash home.)

Speaking of, the fact that Tonelico sent Mash back in the present at all is very telling of Tonelico's feelings for Mash. The excuse she gives Totrot is "well I wanna recruit Mash later," but that's very obviously bull; Tonelico's last conversation with Mash makes it very clear that Tonelico expects them to be enemies later on. Besides, how can you recruit someone you know for a fact you won't remember? Morgan has zero reasons to send Mash back to her own time. She knows she's shooting herself in the foot by doing that. She KNOWS that Mash will turn out to be an enemy. But she's sending Mash back anyways. Because it's the right thing to do? Because it wouldn't be fair otherwise, and Morgan values fairness above all? Because Tonelico failed to save Uther, but she could still help one friend on this bitch of an earth? You tell me.

Now that's our basis to read Mash and Tonelico as exes, or people who pined for one another, or just very close besties, whatever you want. Which means we've now a wonderfully tragic romance (or friendship if that's your thing, but I feel like romance makes it tasties) of two people who do love each other but cannot stand by the same side because of widely differing ideals. Adding to that the dramatic irony of Mash and Morgan never knowing each other at the same time- Tonelico knows who Mash is, Mash doesn't know who Tonelico is. Mash knows who Morgan is, Morgan doesn't know who Mash is.

Mash still holds Tonelico's memory close to her heart- Tonelico (the summonable one) has a line mentioning that though she has no idea who Mash is, Mash keeps looking at her with sadness. Furthermore, while Morgan changed a lot from her Tonelico days, Mash still knows the woman pretty well- when asked if she's willing to fight, she responds "well yeah I know the gal she won't give up without a fight."

Obviously, Morgan doesn't remember Mash. But she still holds the knight in high regards; in the Fairy Cup event, she mentions that "oh lol you guys had Mash with you no wonder you guys turned out fine." Additionally, when you barge in her throne room early lb6.2 to ask her about Mash, Morgan does not remember that name, but she does react to the description of Fairy Knight Galahad. She doesn't remember Mash, but even without her memories something still echoes in her about it.

So that's all our canon basis to go wild. What are the roads we can explore with this ship then?

For Tonelico/Mash, there is obviously a "doomed romance" angle. Whether they're lovers who can't go anywhere, or people pining unwilling to start something at all, the fact is: this romance is doomed, and they both know it. They're from different worlds and times. Mash going home implies Tonelico's failure. This love cannot change anything, but it mattered that it was here.

For Mash/Morgan in lb6, there's the "lovers to enemies" angle. As I said before, they're clearly both still fond of each other on some level. But that's not enough. They both stand on either side of that war, because they each want to protect different things. The agony! The pain! Delicious. Of course, the most tragic part of this is that Mash didn't even get to kill Morgan herself. All of this, and they never got the catharsis of battle at the end. (I should add that I'm a firm believer of the inherent eroticism of homicide.)

Less obvious, but an aspect of their dynamic that I find really interesting is that... Mash is someone who is constantly asked by various nonhuman people for understanding. Goetia, the Lion King, Beryl, all asked Mash to understand their pov and goals. Because Mash, as a homunculus, fundamentally stands at the edge between human and nonhuman. She's legitimately these people's best shot at being understood. But through this pattern, Morgan is noticeably the one person who never asks for understanding. She explains herself, but that's it. What she does ask of Mash, however, is to find a good reason to fight Morgan. Cuz Tonelico just endured 3000 years of the most senseless and brutal violence- she’s just fresh out witnessing her attempt to save Britain being destroyed on a whim. The only thing Tonelico asks is for their fight to actually have meaning for once. Don’t face me just because I’m mildly inconvenient to you. Face me because you are striving for your own star. That, I will respect, and should you succeed in defeating me- I will be fine with that. (Also because Morgan long gave up on being understood, so she's not even trying with Mash, which is why I think it fucks that despite Morgan being a fucking brick wall, Mash still manages to know this girl better than most.)

Post-lb6, on Mash's side, this ship is a case of "this girl I used to love changed a fuckton, but also She's Still Here." On Morgan's side it's "I do not know who you are, but my body does remember you and it's fucking weird." And both these things are haunted by the ghost of "Oh christ we fucking killed each other. We can never go back to who we used to be. How do we build a new relationship after All This Shit? What if she forgives me? What if she doesn't?"

Additionally. Morgan is someone who fundamentally believes herself to be evil. That's why she's always like "ohh I'm a wretched witch I do this because I'm selfish teehee." It's a Sakura behavior, she's rationalizing the bad shit happening to her as "well I was evil anyways so I deserve it." Veering into headcanon territory now, but I think Morgan would see Mash as her total opposite, someone who embodies the good in this world- she's fucking fairy knight Galahad, the purest of the round table. So it's also cool to explore Morgan thinking she's unlovable struggling to understand why Mash would be interested in her. Possibly worried about corrupting Mash too, historically things have never turned out well for people close to Morgan.

Ok this is all my thoughts that have actual canon ground. Now back to making shit up. I think Mash should get to be fucking deranged about Morgan. Mash has lost MANY people since the beginning of the story, but that trauma is shared with Guda. Morgan's however is her trauma and hers alone she ain't got no one to relate. I think it would be a great way to showcase her character development, from someone who struggled to understand Mozart's "yeah humans suck but that's why I love them!" to someone who can be incredibly Not Fucking Normal in her grief. AND that means you get neat Beryl parallels as well. Mash sees her own behavior as something reminiscent of Beryl's, and feeling SO bad about it, but what is she supposed to do? She's lost so much so fucking much can't she just have something to hold onto for once? Something more tangible than a memory? Anyways I think Mash should get to mishandle Morgan's corpse SO fucking bad.

Anyways. Say whatever about lb6, but Morgan did successfully save one thing in Fairy Britain. She did successfully save Fairy Knight Galahad.

#mahsmorgan

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roosterforme · 1 year

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I’m so excited for your smutfest!! I’m thinking fanboy needs more love, he’s so underrated. So maybe him with 30. “I will never get enough of you.” With praise. I’m so excited to read whatever you come up with (regardless of if you choose one of mine)

I was so happy to write for Fanboy! I also combined two requests! @briseisgone

Written for my Smutsational Smutfest!

I Can't Believe I Was Nervous

Mickey had been deployed for four months. You'd only been dating him for three months when he sailed away on an aircraft carrier, but you had promised him that you would be waiting on the dock for him when he returned. You just weren't sure if he was still going to want to be with you. Four months was a long time, and while the occasional phone calls had been enough for you, Mickey could have changed his mind.

You nervously kicked the tip of your shoe along the cement dock, lost in a sea of people waiting for the ship to unload. But you saw him right away. How could you not? He was so sexy and confident. You chewed on your lip, and when he reached for his phone, you called out his name instead.

"Mickey!"

His eyes darted around in your direction until he found you, and then he was shoving his way toward you with a huge smile on his face. Your heart was racing, and your palms were sweating.

"I missed you," he called out, and before you could reply, his lips were mashed against yours. "So so so much, babe," he added, dropping his bag and wrapping you up in both arms.

"You missed me?" you gasped when he paused for a breath.

Mickey froze and then started laughing. "I thought about you constantly. I told you that when we talked."

"I know but...four months is a long time." Your voice shook a little bit in relief.

"Hey, I will never get enough of you. Can we go to your place?" he asked softly. "I want to show you how much I missed you."

You spent the whole evening tangled up in your bed. Mickey's lips were all over your body before he was rocking into you, filling you with his cock.

"Does that feel good?" he grunted next to your ear, kissing your neck while you moaned his name.

"I love you, Mickey," you whispered for probably the hundredth time, as he withdrew himself again and buried his face in your pussy. He was trying to prolong this reunion, trying to make you cum for him again. Your body was lighting up from the inside, responding to him in all the ways you had missed.

"That's my perfect girl," he whispered against your pussy, working his tongue around your clit until you were almost crying. Then he let you taste him on your lips as he fucked you into the bed until he came inside you. "I love you too, babe."

You felt like you were in a daze. You couldn't believe you had been nervous when you picked him up earlier. Everything felt perfect again now that he was with you. When he climbed out of bed, kissing your cheek gently as he went, you sat up.

"Where are you going?"

He turned back to you with a smile. "Going to get a bath ready for us. And then I'll make dinner. I've been waiting months to spoil you." You sank back against the pillows and smiled nonstop as you heard him turn on the water.

#4k smutsational smutfest #top gun smut #mickey fanboy garcia #fanboy x you #fanboy x reader

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radnewworld · 4 months

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Blatant advertising, goooooooooo!

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Give me .stls, I give you minis. Don't have .stls? Just tell me what mechs you want and in Blake's name, I'll make it happen. Probably. Blake was kind of a dick anyway.

That's just primed minis though, and you want some paint, yeah? Nice, clean paintjob of your choosing is 14€ on the first, and only 4€ each for rest. A table-ready company printed, painted, based, and sent to your door for 58€ plus shipping. I defy you to find a cheaper price. Want 'em grungy and weathered or clean off the factory floor? Simple bases or more elaborate? I love doing weird environment bases! We can do it all! Want some of my blood in the paint? I would, but I'm pretty sure that's not getting through customs...

Okay, okay... I see you're a discerning customer. The basic packages aren't enough for you. You want the stuff under the counter. You want the custom machines. No worries, I've got you covered. Our techs can handle everything from adding a simple autocannon or missile pack all the way up to mashing two mechs together into an unholy mess. Twist my arm and I'll give you a record sheet to go along with it!

We'll negotiate prices in private.

Don't like stompy robots? That's cool. Into 40K kitbashes?

Or maybe you wanna make a character or two in HeroForge and pass the .stls to me; guarantee I'll do the printing and painting cheaper than they will even with shipping. Scatter terrain? Just a big pile of mini bases? Decorative add-ons? Tell me what you want and I will make it happen.

Jump on this quick too, because these chump prices won't last. Message me on this hellsite or discord (theDereckoning) or email at [email protected] and let's make the printer go brrrrrrr for youuuuuuu!

#battletech #40K #miniature painting #commission painting #mention discount code GrayPlasticIsaMortalSin for a free Atlas

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kaiapaia · 9 months

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the fall of icarus

Pairing: Suguru Geto/Reader, hinted Satoru Gojo/Reader

WC: 3269 (do not perceive me)

Content warnings: canon typical violence, for both Star Wars and Jujutsu Kaisen. Also, I borrow some plot beats from the Hidden Inventory/Premature Death arcs, so there are some potential spoilers if you haven't seen those yet.

I saw the lovely @strawberrystepmom 's It Takes A Galaxy collab and immediately knew I had to write something for our greatly beloved tragic bastard.

This was so much fun to write, as a mash up of two of my favorite universes. I did kind of play fast and loose with the lore of both series, but it was all in the name of ~drama~ so I feel like it was for a good cause. Two things I do want to mention, just for clarity's sake, is that Reader uses a modified version of Force Empathy, and that when a force user falls to the dark side, their eyes turn yellow. IDK if that's technically canon in Star Wars anymore, but I thought it was a cool detail from the older stuff and decided to use here.

Minors and ageless blogs, DNI. If you don't have an age in your bio or pinned I will block you.

There is a specter that dogs your steps in the halls of the Temple. A name, only muttered in hushed whispers in the shadowed corners. Most will refer to him as the fallen one, as if saying his name will bring misfortune.

You know him as Suguru Geto.

He was your friend, once.

You remember his smile, and the way it made his dark eyes crinkle and his whole face soften. The way his big hands felt warm even through your layers of robes as he would correct your form during saber drills. The low, smoky timbre of his voice that made even the driest of texts hypnotizing to listen to.

Most importantly, you remember the day he left. Suguru Geto and Satoru Gojo, freshly Knighted and already being hailed as some of the Order’s best and brightest, sent on a mission so important that they couldn’t tell you anything other than they were leaving. Gojo ruffled your hair and promised that he would bring you back something sweet. Geto pulled you into a hug and promised that they wouldn’t be gone long. You remember the sound of their laughter in the hangar, and the smiles on their faces as they waved goodbye from the cockpits of their starfighters.

Geto was right, they weren’t gone long. Just a few short days, long enough to miss them but not long enough to worry. When you got the ping that their ships had docked, you ducked out of meditation and hurried to the hangar to greet them.

When they emerged from their ships, you didn’t need the Force to tell you that something went wrong. You reached for it anyway, drawing it around you like a comforting blanket as you took in their expressions. Gojo had his eyes covered, a rare sight on Temple grounds, and walked without his usual boisterous charm. He half-heartedly ruffled your hair, resting his hand on your head for a moment before moving past you.

Geto avoided your touch entirely. His face was dark and drawn, black eyes inscrutable. He met your eyes for a second, before hurrying past you into the Temple. You reached out to him with the Force, and felt a wave of anger and pain so potent it hit you like a punch to the gut. The contact lasted for just a second, severed on his end as he turned to look at you. The expression on his face reminded you of a wounded animal backed into a corner, savage with pain. It was the first time he’d looked at you and made you believe that he could hurt you.

Things changed, after that. Gojo seemed to recover the fastest, bouncing around the Temple with his usual antics. He started seeking you out more, and finding increasingly transparent excuses to touch you, like draping an arm around your shoulders as you walked in the halls or dropping his head in your lap when he would find you studying in the archives. Each time, you would reach out with the Force, tapping into your abilities to connect to Gojo’s emotions. His control was ironclad, so you rarely were able to forge a connection, but there were sometimes where you caught a trace of a deep sorrow. On those days, Gojo seemed more withdrawn, and would burrow into your touch like a small child seeking comfort. You let him, using your abilities to push feelings of calm through the bond you shared.

Geto began avoiding you. Like Gojo, he made an effort to return to normal, but it fell through quickly. He no longer joined in on Gojo’s teasing commentary, and avoided your touch. You reached out to him with increasing desperation, trying to rekindle the embers of your connection, and were met with silence at every turn.

There were moments where you would wake up at night, sensing Geto’s presence outside your door. He would linger just outside your room, as if he couldn’t bring himself to knock. Each time, you would get up and go to the door. At first, you would open it to invite him in, but he would disappear before the door could slide open. After, you would stand behind the door, feeling his presence and letting him feel yours. You would rest a hand on the cold plasteel, and for those moments in the dead of night, it was almost like you could feel the warmth of his hand on the other side.

You also began to feel eyes on you. It’s not uncommon to be watched in the Temple, but it usually happens during lessons, sparring, or meditations, with instructors keeping an eye on students who might need assistance or masters looking at prospective padawans. Those eyes are usually calm and detached, the gaze feeling almost clinical as it passes over you. This gaze is heavy, like a physical touch. It feels almost… covetous. You feel it most when you’re alone, usually poring over a holocron in the archives or practicing your lightsaber forms late into the night. In those moments, you can feel those eyes following a bead of sweat that slips down your neck into the loosened collar of your robes like a lover’s touch, soft and possessive.

In your heart, you know who those eyes belong to. The Jedi teach their students to let go, and that attachment leads down a dark and dangerous path. But you can’t deny that you’ve looked at him the same way- stolen glances admiring the curve of his jaw, or the way his muscles flex under his tunic as he moves effortlessly through his saber forms. You’ve felt it, a need that simmers low in your gut, a dark whisper to sink your teeth in and never let go. It’s something that you’ve spent many hours of meditation trying to will away, very carefully thinking about anything else. It’s an honor to be chosen, to be brought to the Temple and trained. You won’t let this temptation lead you astray, and you won’t let this feeling call one of your dearest friends away from the Light.

Geto begins to spend more and more time in the archives. You see him moving like a specter, the light of the holocrons casting strange shadows over his bone white face. His eyes are dark and the bags under his eyes are darker, and you notice that his robes hang more loosely on his body. The next time that you see Shoko, you bring it up, and she shrugs helplessly.

“You can’t help someone who doesn’t want help,” she sighs. “All we can do is be there for him. Don’t worry too much, little light,” Shoko ruffles your hair affectionately. “He’s a big strong boy. Focus on your studies for now. Look for some fancy theological problem you can argue over with him once he pulls himself together.”

You swat Shoko’s hands away from your hair and smile. A voice calls her name, and she hastily puts out the very against Temple rules cigarette and throws it into a nearby wastebin. “Duty calls. Take it easy,” she gives you a little salute as she makes her way in the direction of the voice.

The smile on your face is weak, and fades when Shoko turns her back. She’s older and more experienced, and has known Geto longer. Still, you can’t shake the feeling of wrongness that has been dogging your steps, and is getting steadily more insistent as Geto continues to withdraw into himself.

Gojo is the next person on your list, but he’s been increasingly more difficult to pin down. Since being Knighted, he has fully come into his powers, and is a darling of all the masters. You hear whispers in the halls, calling him the strongest knight the Order has seen in over six hundred years. He is regularly dispatched on high profile missions and sent as an envoy of the Order to the Senate- you hear his name everywhere but rarely catch a glimpse of the man himself.

You never see him without his blindfold, anymore.

Geto is the moon to Gojo’s sun. He is still respected as one of the strongest of this generation of knights. He takes the missions he’s assigned without complaint. He never tells anyone where he’s going or when he’s going to be back, and you have to make a nuisance of yourself to have any idea where in the galaxy he is. When he is at the Temple, Geto makes an effort to act like things are normal. He laughs and jokes with Shoko, and assists with the training of the younger knights when he can. His smiles don’t reach his eyes, and he still won’t touch you. You’ve reached out to him with the Force, and it’s like there’s an obsidian wall between you, glittering black and diamond hard.

Looking back, you think the catalyst was the Jinata mission. You don’t remember the details, but you vividly remember the pyre.Yu Haibara was your age, a new knight sent on one of his first missions without the supervision of a master. He was outgoing and friendly, liked by everyone around him. Even though the body was covered during the funeral, you could picture his warm brown eyes and bright smile. Kento Nanami, another young knight your age, had gone on the mission with him. His face was badly beaten, the firelight of the pyre flickering across the yellowing edges of bruises that spattered across his elegant features. He was stoic, face set and hands folded in the deep sleeves of his robe. You wished you could offer him a hand, any reassuring touch to soften the grief you could feel roiling off him like a storm cloud.

A few days later, Geto disappeared.

At first, you assumed that he had just followed his normal procedure- taken a mission and left without telling anyone. So you waited, despite the anxiety clawing at your stomach. A week later, you woke up, gasping from a dream filled with so much blood and fire you could taste the iron and smoke on your tongue. You hadn’t been able to make out any faces in the carnage you had witnessed, but your instincts told you that something had happened to Geto, wherever he had gone. You threw yourself into meditations, playing the dream over and over, trying to glean any clarity or information from the chaos. You knew the masters would dismiss this as an anxiety fueled nightmare without proof, so you searched for some kernel of truth that would prove this was a Force premonition.

You were still searching when the news broke. Suguru Geto, Knight of the Jedi Order, a murderer. He hadn’t returned within the time allotted for his mission, so the masters had dispatched a team to investigate. The knights had arrived to find the village Geto had been sent to help burned to ash, and every one of the villagers dead. The damning evidence was the distinctive wounds of a lightsaber blade on the corpses, burned almost beyond recognition.

Flight records showed that Geto’s ship had returned to Coruscant, and the Temple began a manhunt for the rogue knight. Gojo and Shoko joined the search, both of them dropping everything. The masters squawked in indignance at having their most recognizable knight and one of their only healers leave their posts to trawl Coruscant’s underbelly, and in the resulting chaos you were able to slip out and search.

Your abilities made you uniquely qualified for this. Closing your eyes, you reached out to the Force and let it wash over you. The noise of the endless city faded away, and the duracrete jungle bloomed with color as the auras of the people around you came into view. You shuttered your mind against the rising tide of thoughts, focusing your attention, looking for one signature as familiar to you as your own. You cast your net wide, and let yourself float in the sea of noise. You could be patient.

It caught you off guard, when you finally sensed it. A presence, so close to you that you could taste it in the back of your throat. You recoiled at the seething mass of anger and malice, and opened your eyes to see a figure shrouded in black, backlit by the flickering neon at the mouth of the alley you had hidden yourself in. You scrambled to your feet, putting a hand on the hilt of your saber. Before you could make another move, the figure moved, so fast it looked like they teleported the short distance down the alley. One hand caught yours, gently pulling your wrist away from your saber. The other grasped your chin, thumb and forefinger softly but firmly pulling your gaze up to their face.

Under the hood, you met their eyes. Blazing yellow irises, set in familiar fine boned features you’d dreamed about running your fingers over. Geto stood over you, radiating a power that he had kept locked away all your years together at the Temple. You felt your knees weaken under you, and the corner of his lips quirked up as he felt you sag in his grasp.

“Hello, little light,” he murmured, eyes sweeping over your face. “So brave of you, to leave your pretty tower and come looking for the murderer.”

“I don’t believe it,” you bring a hand up to his face, and he lets you touch him. His skin is warm, almost feverish. There is more color to his face than you have seen on his features for a long time, and the bags under his eyes have all but disappeared. All you can look at is his eyes. His deep inky gaze used to draw you in, and now you can’t look away from the burning gold of his irises. “Suguru, please. Tell me it isn’t true,” you beg, hand dropping to rest on his shoulder.

He grabs your hand, flattening your palm over his heart. You can practically feel it racing through the layers of muscle and black robes that now cover his chest. “Look for yourself, little light. All my secrets are finally open to you.”

You close your eyes. It’s not strictly necessary, but you find yourself looking for solace from the way his eyes seem to pick you apart. Taking a deep breath, you focus on the beat of his heart and tap into the Force. Geto fully opens himself to you, and you have to fight to orient yourself as the riptide of his emotions and memories threatens to drag you under. You find yourself choked by feelings that are not your own; grief so sharp it feels like a knife in your ribs, rage that feels like a fire in your throat, and beneath it all a yawning chasm of despair that slowly begins to drown everything else out.

Frantically you search through his memories. His most recent ones are a mess of blood and fire. You recognise the burning structures from your dream, and through his eyes you bear witness to the humming green of his lightsaber blade cutting through villagers.

You feel tears running down your face as you watch the carnage in Geto’s memories. Gasping, you sever the connection, jerking your whole body away from the man in front of you, achingly familiar but now wholly a stranger. He doesn’t let you get far, pulling your hand back to his chest and looping his other arm around your waist, preventing you from pulling away.

“Don’t run away, little light,” he croons, looking down at you as you fight to catch your breath through your tears. “Let yourself feel. You tried so earnestly to reach out to me, to ease my burden. The perfect little Jedi,” he sneered, his face twisting into something ugly for a moment before his features smoothed out again.

“The Order teaches us to be ashamed of feeling anything other than tranquility. They train us to be perfect little emotionless soldiers, ready to fight and die for their cause. How many friends do we have to watch die, how many funerals do we have to attend without being able to grieve?” he smoothed a hand over your hair, cupping your cheek with a gentle hand. “It shouldn’t be like this, little light,” he turns your face to meet his eyes. “We shouldn’t be running around the galaxy, solving every little problem for every person too weak to fend for themselves while being afraid of our own emotions, our own desires.”

“The Force made us strong so we could help the weak,” you counter.

“Why should we be given all this power to only serve those without it?” Geto asks. “Do you truly believe that because you were born with this gift, you are to live your entire life in servitude?” You see a gleam in his eye, a teasing twist to his mouth that sends a shiver down your spine. “Tell me, little light. When was the last time that you did something only because you wanted to? How many chances have you passed by to take something that you want?”

“I know of at least a few,” he purrs, his hand sliding back to the nape of your neck, his lips close enough to yours that you can feel the soft puffs of his breath. “I don’t need your empathy to see the longing glances, the way you would start to reach for me but catch yourself.”

Geto closes the gap between you, pressing a slow, teasing kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’m right here. You don’t need to stop yourself anymore,” he whispers against your mouth. He’s so close, all it would take is a slight movement of your head. He waits for you to close the gap, and in that moment you think of all of the times you wished to be in this exact position, wrapped up in his arms and a breath away from the kind of kiss you’d only dreamed of.

He is a siren. The promise of his kiss and what it would mean calls to desires long since hidden in your heart. He is offering you everything you’ve wanted, and for a moment, you almost give in.

Almost.

“Not like this,” you whisper against his waiting lips. Calling the Force to you, you blast him back down the alley with the palm still pressed against his chest. You meet his wild eyes and settle into a fighting stance, pulling the hilt of your saber to your hand. The blade ignites with a hiss, the light casting harsh shadows in the dark alley. “Suguru Geto, I must take you in for crimes against the Galactic Republic.”

“So this is how it’s going to be,” he says with a sigh, standing to his full height and running a hand through his hair that had been blown out of its tie by your push. He pulls up the hood of his dark cloak, and steps out of the alley. You run forward, saber in hand, only to be greeted by a busy street of underworld denizens who recoil at the sight of your ignited blade. You frantically search for a trace of your old friend in the crowd. You feel a tug at your neck, as a familiar hand reaches around you to grab the pendant you wear.

“I’ll see you again, little light,” Geto whispers in your ear. He waves at you when you whirl around, your pendant twinkling in his hand, before he fades into the crowd around you.

#jujutsu kaisen #suguru geto #jujustsu kaisen x reader #geto x reader #jjk star wars au #if you made it this far mwah ily #thank you for indulging my insanity #kaiawrites

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oldfashionedbutlervibes · 3 months

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I have so many, so damn many headcanons for this little dork

And so, please enjoy some of my favorites

Dating him:

—If you are to take the dating him route, he 100 percent tries to be artsy for you, like he’ll try so hard to find clean paper and maybe a pencil in his dumpster or on the street to do a drawing of you (it actually doesn’t look that bad if he finds his materials, but he cannot draw hands for the life of him)

— If you find him with fresh swan scarring I absolutely think he can’t handle having his wounds cleaned, like at all. He will probably yelp a lot and try and swat you away, especially if your using peroxide or sum, he just can’t-

—….since mashing your phone faces together is the equivalent of a kiss I think it’d kill him- if not from his literal face blowing up from embarrassment most definitely

—on a similar topic, HE. IS. SO. CUDDLY- would be hugging you 24/7 mmkay

—tried to steal you a valentines box of chocolate once. Ended up feeling so bad he returned it after a very short 15 minutes.

—….bottom…

Your his pal

—he has like..55 nicknames for you and uses them depending on occasion

—never ever ever forgets your birthday even if you don’t stay friends long

—will truly do anything in his power to make you happy

—your killing the spider btw

—I so believe that he has found a full deck of cards in his dumpster and begs you to play uno with him :)

General

—I think he’s been mugged by stabby and shooty so many times that their just on first name basis

—tries counseling Jerry when he can 10000%, he will come over to the booth and try asking about his marriage which only makes poor Jerry feel worse but will try to not show that so Randy feels useful <3 (not like a ship but as bros)

— P A N S E X U A L (probably cannon by now but still let me have this)

—Has one attempted murder charge against his God-

—scared of every single bug except butterflies

—had a stray dog as a pet once (he named it Poof or sum)

—On the subject of animals I think he honks back at the swans to try and assert dominance

Overall I just see him as quite the silly, 10/10 partner 11/10 friend >:D

(Update: OH MY GOD- YALL ARE LIKING THIS A LOT HM? DO YOU WANT ME TO MAKE SOME JERRY/OLIVER ONES? LEAVE EM IN MY ASKS PLEASE-)

#dialtown phone dating sim #randal jade #dialtown randy #randy jade #dialtown #headcanon #dialtown oliver #dialtown jerry #dialtown stabby #dialtown shooty #fanfic #i love him so much #<3

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ask-a-w · 11 months

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Long recap about Death Island

Death Island aired on 22 June 2023 in my country and I watched it on the opening day.

Go in with low expectations and it's a fun action movie, don't expect a strong plot. The formula is similar to the previous RE CGI movies so the plot is pretty predictable!

As always, Leon destroys a vehicle and dangles from something with one arm. Leon is no longer cynical and depressed like he was in Vendetta.

Shipping is non-existent. Maybe some Valenfield if you take some scenes out of context. Cleon wise, also nothing since Leon only talks to Claire once or twice in the movie and it's about the mission. No Ada, sadly. For Jilleon, if you consider them being in the same room as shipping, sure. They conduct themselves professionally and Leon is his usual sarcastic quippy self.

Rebecca is just there 'cos she's the medical/science expert. Honestly both Claire and Rebecca don't do a whole lot in this movie.

There are no post-credit scenes.

I will be posting super lengthy spoilery recap below the Read More as I write down what happens scene by scene. So grab a drink and buckle in. If you can do a summary, feel free to do so.

Movie starts with a 1998 flashback featuring Dylan Blake, his best friend JJ, and other Umbrella soldiers in a truck that is headed towards Raccoon City in the very early days of the outbreak. They are given orders to evacuate Umbrella personnel & government officials only. If any civilian attempts to get through, they are to be shot on sight.

The truck reaches a blockade on the outskirts of the city where some uninfected Raccoon City citizens are scuffling with Umbrella soldiers. A government official’s car barely scrapes through the blockade.

The scene then cuts to Dylan, JJ, and team hiding in a butchery. Everyone except Dylan and JJ have been bitten. Orders are given on the radio to quarantine anyone who has been bit. JJ & Dylan separate themselves from the infected and hole up in a storage room that has a glass window that overlooks the adjacent room where the infected soldiers are. New orders are given that HQ won’t evacuate any uninfected Umbrella soldiers unless they kill their infected comrades. JJ readies a submachine gun (SMG), Dylan disagrees and briefly scuffles with JJ as their teammates turn into zombies and bang on the glass window which shows signs of fracturing. JJ gains the upper hand and starts shooting the zombies as Dylan lays on the floor and screams at JJ to “Stop it!”

Opening sequence time featuring each character’s mish mash of scenes from the games and this movie. You see everyone’s profiles and Leon’s profile is all redacted in black bars. Even his nationality is redacted which amuses me.

We are then shown a street in San Francisco in 2015 where Leon has parked his lime green motorbike on the side of the road as he listens to instructions from Hunnigan. They got back the OG voice actress for Hunnigan but we don’t get to see Hunnigan's face for this movie.

Hunnigan mentions a government employee who specialises in robotic engineering by the name of Antonio Taylor and he is wanted by the government for leaking military secrets to overseas groups. He has been kidnapped by terrorists in a white & orange truck and Leon is tasked to intercept said truck and “rescue” (aka arrest) Dr Taylor.

Leon spots the truck and there is a very exciting motorbike chase scene with the super powered Maria (from Vendetta) who interferes with her own motorbike. Leon destroys her motorbike but she manages to jump onto his motorbike to fight him off. Needless to say, Leon gets thrown off the bike, rolls on the road with no damage but his bike explodes in the process as he laments, “I loved that bike.”

Next scene is Claire investigating an orca carcass that has washed up on a beach. The local fishery official noticed a TerraSave tracker on the carcass and that’s why Claire is brought in because TerraSave has places trackers on marine animals for some reason... She measures the bite wound and the official asks if a shark caused this. Claire says the wound is bigger than a shark's mouth and is puzzled.

After that we are shown Jill in the dark in a garage of a house. She darts around carefully, repeatedly clicking her flashlight on and off as she searches the house. Chris orders her on the comms to secure the street but Jill responds that it's too late as she is already inside the house and then she shuts off her comms.

You might be annoyed by Jill turning the flashlight on and off because I found it very distracting.

Anyway she reaches the second floor of the house, notices blood stains on the wall and finds a female corpse on the floor of a bedroom. She gets ambushed by a male zombie, tussles with it, smashes through the second floor balustrade onto the glass table on the first floor and kills the zombie. This is the scene that is shown in the trailer.

The SWAT team and Chris in his BSAA uniform enter the house. SWAT surrounds Jill and point their weapons at her as she raises her hands. Chris says "She's with me" (feel free to count this as an out-of-context Valenfield moment) and the SWAT team disengage and search the house. Chris admonishes Jill for going into the house without backup while Jill says she's not gonna stand by and wait if there are innocent people to be saved.

We are introduced to the final main character and Rebecca is in a lab doing some research on a laptop. Chris walks in and asks for updates regarding the infected that have recently popped up in San Francisco. Rebecca says the twelve corpses in the morgue have an advanced strain of T-virus, no bite wounds, and only have needle marks. Those that are bitten by the advanced strain zombies do not turn but die from their wounds. They talk about Jill and if you watched the trailer, the conversation is about Jill and her lingering guilt of being brainwashed by Wesker.

We get to see another trailer shot of Jill shooting at targets in the gun range. Chris walks in and I don't know how Jill senses Chris is behind her but she knows he's there and takes off her ear mufflers. (Another Valenfield moment?) Chris discusses about Jill's recklessness. He talks about Piers Nivans from RE6 and how he was going to pass the baton to Piers but he tragically died to save Chris' life. Chris says people in their line of work have to be willing to die.

I can't remember much of the dialogue/argument between both of them but there's something along the lines of being soul-less and empty inside and how Jill continues to fight so she won't dwell on being empty. She ends the argument by putting on her ear mufflers and continues to angrily shoot at her targets.

Finally, we are in the big bad's secret liar where Maria and Dylan are holding a hooded Dr Taylor hostage (you won’t see the doc’s face until the later part of the movie), forcing the doctor to do some stuff on the computer. Dylan is shown with a limp and a cane. Dylan empties his revolver and leaves one bullet in the chamber. He plays russian roulette with Dr Taylor and since the gun does not fire, Dylan merely remarks Dr Taylor "will die by some other fate". Dylan also has a weird tic where he taps his cane on the floor at least five times in succession. We will learn why later...

Dylan then puts the gun to his own head and there's another flashback to the butchery in the opening scene. JJ is momentarily overwhelmed by a zombie and gets bit before he finishes off the horde with the SMG. Dylan tries one last time to plead with HQ to evacuate him and the injured JJ but HQ says all those who are bit must be killed.

Dylan and JJ fight over the SMG, and JJ fires the gun in the tussle, shooting bullets into Dylan's leg (which is why he has a limp in the present day). Dylan manages to get the SMG in the end. Flashback ends there with Dylan in the present day pulling the trigger of the revolver but nothing happens.

[From this point onwards, I might not get the scenes correctly in order but the content of the scenes are fairly accurate.]

Claire goes to the same lab where Jill, Chris, and Rebecca are in. Rebecca has analysed the bite wound on the orca carcass which has some remnant T-virus in it. The orca has been part of the herd swimming around Alcatraz. Rebecca also says this new T-virus cannot be transmitted airborne or by saliva which is concerning.

Anyway, all the victims are linked to Alcatraz so Jill, Chris & Claire (gonna dub them the trio) go to investigate while Rebecca stays behind to create a vaccine, and also be the mission liaison in case things go wrong.

The trio join a group of tourists to visit Alcatraz while Dr Taylor has escaped. Dylan tasks Maria to recover their hostage as he notices on CCTV that the trio have set foot on Alcatraz. Just when the trio plan to split off from the tour group to do some private sleuthing of their own, the tourists take turns to become zombies without being bitten.

Lots of impressive fight scenes as the trio try and fail to save the civilians. A security guard with a SMG is surrounded by zombies and their combined weight makes them crash through the floor into a sewer(?) tunnel below. Even though Jill loses her gun, she jumps in after the guard to save him by kniving a zombie but the guard sadly turns as well. Jill is now separated from the Redfield siblings.

Dylan also releases a cage full of lickers underwater with marine-like ear features that remind me of the monster from The Shape of Water. I am calling them marine-lickers to make it easier.

The siblings are now alone, surrounded by bodies. Their comms are jammed and they are worried about Jill. Both hear a thumping coming from a cart and they open it to find a cowering man hidden within. He gives his name as "Tony Davis" and I could spot from a mile away that the man was Antonio Taylor. They all try to get out of the island.

Jill, armed with only a knife and flashlight, carefully explores the tunnels. She spots a shadow in the tunnel and to us viewers, it is very obviously Leon's shadow. Jill and Leon briefly brawl with one another and come to a stalemate as Jill finally gets a good look at Leon's face and just exclaims in surprise, "Leon?"

Leon recognises Jill as well and they disengage while Leon gives Jill a spare gun from his vest before they get interrupted by a zombie. Before they can kill the zombie though, it gets pulled away by a long tongue and Leon briefly mentions "Not good" before he motions to Jill to stay silent.

Jill also has her back partially on the floor and against Leon's knee/foot(?) and Leon has one knee on the ground while his other knee/foot/hand(?) is propping Jill's back. I gotta admire Jill's serious control over her abdominal muscles as the marine-licker comes out of the shadows and uses its tongue to "taste" the air around Jill's knee and face. Jill is very disgusted and is grimacing.

One of the containers beside Jill's face begins to fall and she manages to catch it in time but she does not notice a small cartridge on top of the container which clatters to the ground. Leon shoots the marine-licker ASAP as two more marine-lickers join in the fray and they try to run away.

Jill's ankle gets snagged by a marine-licker and Leon dives in to grab Jill's hand to prevent her from being pulled away. Both of them try to kill the marine-lickers behind each other.

They run again as a bunch of marine-lickers come out from the shadows and there is a funny dialogue of Jill asking "How many are there?" as Leon replies "I am not stopping to count" before he kicks up a jerry can and shoots it, incinerating the tunnel of marine-lickers. He then replies "Zero" as Jill goes "What?" and Leon clarifies there are now zero lickers. Pffft.

The Redfields and "Tony" are holed up in a cafeteria and when "Tony" learns Claire is from TerraSave, he accuses her of being a bioterrorist for what happened in Harvardville (Degeneration). Claire angrily retorts that TerraSave was framed.

"Tony" wanders off and gets ambushed by a zombie. Claire steps in to save him and "Tony" apologises for his behaviour. We are then shown something's POV as it flies around the three of them. It aims for Claire's neck and she collapses, seemingly paralysed. Chris rushes to his sister before he gets paralysed too. "Tony" just runs away before he sees Maria on the stairs.

And we are back to Rebecca in the lab as she receives a call from Hunnigan about someone hacking into the DOD (department of defence) to obtain confidential information about bioterror attacks that have happened since Raccoon City along with files on Leon, Chris, Jill & Claire. Rebecca says she has not heard from the trio for 2 hours and decides to go rescue them. (This scene is in the trailer)

Leon and Jill are squatting down and making their way through a tunnel. (Leon is taking the lead btw) Jill questions why there is such a tunnel down here and Leon says it's probably used for transporting weapons from when Alcatraz was a military base. Jill quips Leon should be a tour guide.

Leon feels a draft of wind coming from a nearby wall and he pulls apart the wall brick by brick to find a crawl space. We do not see them crawling as they next appear in a spacious liar that has baby BOWs that are being incubated in the water, an armoury loaded with a ton of weapons that is next to a submarine dock that was "probably leftover from the military base".

They find a console that showcases bio-drones which are essentially mosquito drones. Dylan cackles over the comms and taunts Leon and Jill to go back to the prison compound where Claire & Chris are waiting.

Back to the prison compound they go while Rebecca is shown gearing up and carrying a case of vaccines as she is escorted by a SWAT team.

In the prison compound, Chris is in one jail cell while Claire & "Tony" are in another cell next to Chris. The Redfield siblings are pale and clearly unwell. Leon finally notices that Antonio is in the same cell as Claire and reveals the doctor's identity to everyone. Leon is also bit by the bio-drone and he slumps down to the floor.

Dylan & Maria finally make their appearance to the heroes and there's some egotistical villain dialogue. Dylan briefly name drops Glenn Arias from Vendetta as it is revealed both of them were acquainted. He hired Maria as she has some unfinished business with Leon for killing her dad.

Dylan says they should all be fighting the big organisations like the government who hide the truth instead of going after companies like Umbrella and individuals on the black market. He especially mocks Leon for working for the government that is clearly corrupt and Leon just says "It makes a living".

Dylan jeers at Claire for working with a NGO that does nothing but "only provides bandages" instead of doing real work to prevent bioterrorism.

He also ridicules Chris for having people die on every mission he's on and he keeps bringing in new people every time only for them to lose their lives.

Jill is spared from infection as Dylan wants her to feel his pain of seeing close friends turn and having to put them down. Claire is on the verge of turning and Dylan encourages Jill to shoot Claire before she can attack Antonio. Dylan taps his cane again and we flashback to the butchery.

Dylan has the SMG pointed at JJ and he pulls the trigger but it's empty. JJ tries to rummage through the mess on the floor and finds another SMG but Dylan grabs a metal box and smashes JJ's head with it at least five times (same rhythm as the cane), killing JJ.

Jill has her gun pointed at Dylan instead of Claire and Dylan shoots Antonio in the chest anyway. Maria and Jill fight a tiny bit before Leon manages to throw a flashbang as a distraction for Jill to escape. Dylan and Maria leave after that for "their final plan" and Dylan tells Maria not to go after Jill because there is nowhere else for Jill to go.

A dying Antonio asks the heroes why they keep fighting when things are so bleak and Leon and Chris say "There's Jill". Claire tries desperately to staunch Antonio's bleeding before Antonio reveals a secret code for a failsafe hidden in his pen. He hands the code to Claire and passes away.

Back to Rebecca on a boat as they approach Alcatraz and pull up to a choppy dock. The SWAT team notice a bogey approaching on the boat's radar which turns out to be an infected shark. Everyone dies via shark except Rebecca (plot armour is strong!)

Jill meets Rebecca in the tunnels as Jill heads towards the secret liar and she tells Rebecca to go to the cell block as the others are infected.

Back to Leon, Chris, and Claire as they shudder in pain and try their hardest not to turn. Rebecca arrives and Leon recognises her and calls her by name. Rebecca administers the vaccine to Leon by injecting him in the neck.

Jill arrives at the secret lair and the baby BOWs have released tons of bio-drones into the air which has now spread all over the globe.

Back to Rebecca, Claire, and Chris as both siblings are now cured, albeit still weakened, and out of their cells. Leon is absent as he ran off to the secret lair as soon as he could stand.

Leon is back at the console in the secret lair and tries to stop the bio-drones but he is interrupted by Maria who wants revenge on him for killing her father in Vendetta. It's a very fierce battle since Maria is super powered and Leon is still recovering so he is barely dodging her attacks. Leon gets his head & body smacked a lot in this fight too. Ouch. Maria is the one that throws a chair at Leon in the trailer.

There are also meme worthy scenes of Maria trying to put Leon in a headlock with her legs... I'm sure dirty-minded fans will have a field day with this.

Leon gets a sudden rush of energy and manages to kick Maria so hard she gets impaled on a rebar and dies. Leon shows no remorse btw and he never flirts with her in this movie.

Jill finds Dylan at the submarine dock and he injects himself in the head with the advanced T-virus and falls into the water below to merge with the BOW shark.

We have all five heroes grouping up and pointing their weapons at the mutated Dylan which looks like a cross between an elephant, RE6 HAOS, and RE4 mutated Saddler. Trailer shot of all five of them jumping to avoid the tentacle and then all of them separate after that with Jill and Chris finding caches of weapons to attack Dylan, Rebecca and Claire fire RPGs before Leon asks Claire to use Antonio's passcode on the console. Rebecca decides to accompany Claire.

All the massive weapons deal no damage to Dylan. Leon even drives a truck full of explosives into Dylan too. (Second vehicle Leon destroys in this movie)

Jill finds a short-ranged plasma rifle and asks Chris and Leon to lure Dylan over to her. So we get the trailer shot of Leon driving a humvee while Chris mans the machine gun turret on the back, shooting at Dylan and trying to get Dylan within Jill's range. Jill fires the weapon and while Dylan is seemingly dead, he still comes back to life.

Jill tries again to fire the plasma rifle but it needs time to charge and she gets smacked away by Dylan and Chris runs up to her to make sure she's alright. (Another Valenfield moment!)

Jill, Chris, and Leon run around the dock as Dylan rampages.

Before Claire can enter the killcode, Rebecca stops her and says they can control the bio-drones and the drones attack Dylan's body, "messing with its DNA".

Dylan tries desperately to escape into the ocean and they all try to close the gate leading out to sea. The gate lowers very slowly...

Jill has found a bag of weapons(?) and pulls out a flare, taunting Dylan to follow her as Leon and Chris try to assemble this huge-ass RPG that requires two people to carry.

Jill then dives into the water, Dylan follows after her, and she tries to shove a grenade into Dylan's mouth but is briefly strangled by the strap of her bag of weapons. She knives Dylan's eyeball and cuts the bag strap to free herself. It almost looks like Jill loses consciousness & sinks but then the camera cuts away to Leon and Chris firing the huge-ass RPG on the chains of the gate to make it drop down even faster.

Gate drops down on Dylan's head but doesn't quite decapitate him, Jill's bag of grenades (I think) goes off and Dylan's body explodes in a shower of goo.

Jill climbs out of the dock, miraculously dries off within a minute, and looks at the water with Dylan's gooey body. Leon and Chris are further away behind her, look at the body for a few seconds before they turn and walk away.

Scene transitions to the outside of Alcatraz where it is now sunrise. Leon jokes he can add "tour guide" into his resume as three helicopters are seen flying towards Alcatraz.

The camera shows an overhead view of Alcatraz and slowly pulls out... before the end credits roll with reels from the movie shown on the left and names of the people who worked on the movie on the right. (Kinda like Damnation's end credits)

So yeah, that's the movie. Pretty linear and not as messy as Vendetta but still predictable as the villain turns into a BOW.

Thanks for reading! I know I got a little tired at the end. I would say to watch this movie when the blu-ray/DVD comes out, probably not worth the money to watch in the theatre.

#crossbow down #death island #resident evil death island #leon kennedy #chris redfield #jill valentine #claire redfield #rebecca chambers

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emilykaldwen · 1 month

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The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Thirteen

Rating: Explicit

Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

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High Valyrian Translations (the longer sentences are within the text)

kasto bratsiot - Green Bitch valonqus - little brother hunītsos - little rabbit mo realta geal - you'll find out when Aegon does ;)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN - I'll Be a Better Man

Jace witnesses a mostly normal family dinner among the Greens. Aegon and Abby choose each other.

Jace wanted the floor to swallow him whole.

“Your collar is fine,” Baela said, teeth clicking in the anxious way she had but would never admit to. She was every inch Velaryon and Targaryen both, the gown she wore in the Pentoshi style. Black silk skimmed her swarthy and sun freckled skin, a deep v cut down her chest, the gown held closed with deep red, braided clasps. A matching cape fell in the same black silk from her shoulders down to her knees, the three headed dragon woven across the midnight expanse in the same shade as the decoration on her dress. A silver necklace was her only jeweled adornment: a seahorse and a dragon entwined around her throat.

She reached up, tugging on the collar of his dual colored doublet for emphasis, the Velaryon seahorses stitched in contrasting reds and blacks ringing around his neck. His wild curls were braided back to the base of his neck, tied with black cord and the rest curling against his neck. His mother had thought to cut his hair before he left, but was proud of his hair, and called her jealous when she was stuck with pin straight hair woven into braids.

It felt wrong to wear the colors of his mother’s house, when she still held the Velaryon sigil on her coat of arms, when his name was still Velaryon and he would not become Targaryen until he ascended the throne.

‘Who am I fooling?’ Jace wondered to himself. ‘None here look at me and think Targaryen or Velaryon.’

“You’re doing it again,” his sister snapped, tugging him into an alcove in the hall. Jace’s cheeks flamed at the closeness, smelling the jasmine perfume she favored.

“Doing what?” A pitiful protest that she didn’t buy and her violet eyes narrowed. It was not so long ago she might have distracted him with wandering hands and mouths, two bored teenagers on a lonely rock in the middle of the sea with not much else to do. That time had long passed and Jace was sure that were she to touch him now, he would not come away unscathed.

“Thinking about those foolish things that ended on our parents’ graves,” Baela hissed at him. In the arms of their dual tragedies, in the glow and shadow in the great hall of Driftmark, his concerns should have been put to bed. Jace had said the words he knew would ignite his mother, unclear of the true consequences.

Both corpses had succumbed to the flame. Jace wondered if that was the doom in his dragonblood, for all whom he cared for fated to die screaming.

Jace tugged at his doublet again and let out a hissed, “Ow!” when Baela smacked his hands.

“You’re serving on his council. You should have been serving for years now had your mother not run from the fight.”

Jace drew back at the accusation towards his mother, a snarl in his voice. “You don’t know what she went through living here, you wouldn’t say that if you knew-”

“Then she should have had the king put a stop to it, had that kasto bratsiot dragged and fed to Syrax for her treason, sent her and her whelps back to the Maester’s hold. It’s what I would have done.” Baela turned and spat on the floor to illustrate her disgust. Jace clapped a hand over her mouth and with two strides, pushed her against the wall.

“Daor,” he hissed, continuing in Valyrian. “Do not speak about things you weren’t there for and that you don’t understand.” Her wide eyes stared back at him in surprise at his anger and Jace drew back, disliking his reaction but the anger bubbled beneath the surface, unrepentant. Baela had not witnessed the growing anxiety his mother faced during their years here. Baela had not witnessed his mother’s furtive tears after a family dinner, or the clench of her jaw as he heard whispers of cruel words thrown her way as they walked the halls to his lessons. His mother was happier on Dragonstone than he had seen her in this place. “What is done is done, there is no going back. Choices were made, and now I make my own. You make your own.”

“They’ll put your drunken uncle on the throne without your mother here,” she whispered and Jace was relieved that the odds of anyone overhearing them and understanding were next to none. He doubted any of the servants around the keep knew enough Valyrian to follow the whispered conversation.

“They’d try it if she were too. Of course they would,” Jace said with a shake of his head. “Anyone in Alicent Hightower’s position would.” It did not excuse the way his step grandmother had treated his mother, but Jace had seen enough snipping at court on Dragonstone to realize that this wasn’t just an exception.

Baela had nothing to say to that and Jace moved away until his back hit the wall. It was quiet between them until they heard a pair of footsteps and soft voices.

“That was foolish and you know it, Aemond,” Helaena’s voice drifted down the hall. Jace’s widened eyes met Baela’s own and together, they shrunk further back into the shadows of the alcove.

“I was simply having a bit of fun, showing them what a true Targaryen dragonrider looks like.” Aemond’s reply was light and jesting, but the bitterness in his words were unmistakable. “Had they come on their dragons, perhaps we could have had more fun.”

“You never used to be this reckless.”

“Well I also used to have two eyes and we all know how that went,” he snapped back and the footsteps stopped abruptly. His voice went softer. “I apologize, heltar gevie. I do not mean to take my frustrations out on you.”

Footsteps resumed, lighter ones, before the heavier footfalls followed. “Yes, you do,” Helaena said firmly. “You never apologize, and attempting to do so changes nothing.”

“I’m not trying to change anything, Helaena.”

Helaena’s voice was anxious. “You need to be more careful, valonqus. You are running down a path we cannot follow.” There was a soft sound, like the jangle of bracelets. “Please cease your baiting, if not for my sake, then for mother’s.”

Aemond made a low sound in the back of his throat and Jace held his breath as his uncle’s shoulder appeared in view. It was by the grace of whatever gods looked over him that his blind eye was to the alcove and so he could not see. He was clad all in black, his straight, silver hair falling just past his shoulders, pulled back from his face with three braids. Around the side, Jace saw Helaena’s smaller shadow cast across the ground.

His uncle continued down the hall towards the solar, leaving Helaena standing in the patch of torchlight. Her gown was pale blue, with shimmers of silver thread woven through the fabric in the shape of dragons. A wide, silver belt cinched about the waist and the two swathes of blue fabric covered her, but left bare an expanse of pale skin from her sternum to her collarbones. The gown had another silver clasp at each shoulder to keep the fabric in place and Jace’s eyes fixated on the dusky little moles dotted across the skin she revealed. Her curls hung free around her shoulders and down to her waist, a loose net of winking diamond and pearls covering her hair like a makeshift veil.

Starlight in the night.

She blinked and turned her head slightly and Jace swore that their eyes met. Lavender against lavender. Then, Helaena spun on her heel and followed her brother down the hallway.

“I do not wish to be here among all the dramatics,” Baela muttered as the pair of them followed a distance behind Helaena’s drifting blue form. Jace rolled his eyes.

“As if home is any better?” he said rhetorically. In some ways yes, in other ways, there was little escaping his mother and Daemon’s more passionate arguments that would carry across the castle. It got a chuckle from Baela, so Jace considered it a win.

The family dining hall was a small affair, dominated by a long, ornately carved trestle table that could comfortably seat twenty, but that night only needed space for eleven. He was relieved that they would not be sat all on top of one another. The king was getting settled in his chair at the left end of the table, Lord Otto Hightower at his left hand.

Across at the other end stood the queen, resplendent in a gown so dark a green it was nearly black, save for the shimmer of it in the candlelight, the bodice clinging to her from neck to wrist. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a low bun and upon her head sat a silver dragon diadem, its wings spread out on either side and a pear shaped ruby made up the body of it.

Her brother, Ser Gwayne, was a head taller than his sister, with sharp cheekbones like Aemond’s, and large, dark brown eyes with a smirk that reminded him of Daemon. He was surprised to see the shock of blonde hair upon the man’s head. It was darker than the Targaryen silver, a slightly lighter shade than his father.

Jace felt the gaze of all three Hightowers flick in his direction and he kept his shoulders straight, his head held high, and a genial smile on his face. “I do hope we aren’t late,” he said with a laugh, leading the way into the dragon’s den.

If he was a dragon, so were his uncles and aunt. They were all blood of the dragon, regardless of those who tried to mold them differently, or tried to claim him and his siblings as lesser.

“Only late if I declare it so, and you are the guest of honor, my boy,” the king laughed, raising his goblet to be filled. “Come, sit, let us drink and be merry this evening.”

Jace took his place at his grandfather’s right hand, doing his best to ignore the dual stares of Otto Hightower across from him and Aemond’s wrathful, violet gaze from his seat beside his grandsire. Baela took her place beside him, and next to her, Helaena slid into her seat, speaking to Aegon on her right about her mantis. Daeron was at the end, chirping excitedly to his mother. To the Queen’s right sat Ser Gwayne, and in the chair between him and Aemond, sat Abrogail. Stiff and silent, Jace hadn’t even noticed her when he came in. Her blue eyes were large in her round face, her gown cut across the shoulders, deep blue fabric with a shimmering, dark green pattern that made it look like her dress was made of river water. The slashes in her tight sleeves revealed the deep red gown beneath, and her hair was held back in a braided crown woven with pearls, the rest falling down her back like a river of red.

Her gaze rose, large and blue rimmed with kohl, and she nodded to him in greeting. Jace returned it, his heart pounding beneath his ribs. He had always gotten along with Abrogail, even when he was often pitted against Aegon in terms of “rescuing” her in their childhood games. There was always a degree of separation between them that he hadn’t really thought of, but when he watched the way she cocked her head as Luke did, and the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled at something Daeron had said, he felt the understanding of why that he hadn’t as a boy. He had never registered the physical similarities, so focused on dark hair and pug noses as everyone had been in his eyes.

Jace let out a long breath and pulled Baela’s chair out for her, which she took with sweeping grace. Despite the earlier tension, she nodded to Helaena. “You look lovely tonight. The shade of blue suits you well, cousin.” It seemed that Helaena’s threats had earned Baela’s hard won respect, for her tone lacked the feral edge of taunt, of laying a trap, that it held with those that she did not care for.

“Thank you, Princess,” Helaena returned and then, far more softly, Jace barely heard her say, “You breasts look fantastic.”

Baela’s face twisted in a bark of laughter, choking into the goblet of wine she had just lifted to her mouth, and Jace caught Helaena’s innocent grin on her pleasant features, her own shoulders twisting and Jace quickly glanced away, grateful to see Lord Otto softly conversing with the king.

“My good-brother, Lord Rodrik, and Lord Jason Lannister will be attending council on the morrow to discuss issues with the Ironborn. It appears their summer raids have continued longer than anticipated. If it weren’t for the celebrations, Lord Jason would have stayed to defend the coast.”

The king hummed.

“A prayer before we begin?” Alicent’s usually sharp voice was soft yet guiding, echoing from the other end of the table and the conversations quieted. Hands were joined around the table and Jace did his best to suppress the shiver when he took his grandfather’s fragile hand.

Baela’s brow furrowed at Jace, sending him a silent, confused look as they joined hands and he gave a slight shrug. His step-grandmother had always been a woman of faith, that he knew, and so prayer at mealtimes was not unheard of, but not a practice on Dragonstone, or it seemed, on Driftmark. Most certainly not under Daemon’s eye.

“Mother, we thank you for the health and well being of our family as we come together for the first time in many years to break bread.” Jace chanced a glance sidelong at his grandsire, whose eyes were closed in prayer, and a flick across the table to Lord Otto, whose head was bowed as the penitent words flowed. Even Aemond sat there, head bowed. “May the Smith help us mend and forge new bonds that have been fractured. May the Warrior give strength to our king. May the Father smile down upon our coming celebrations.”

“Thank you, your grace, for those words,” Jace forced out with a smile and an incline of his head. He would not give Alicent Hightower a reason to throw cruel words at him, or find something wanting in his presentation. He was his mother’s heir, third in line, and no words of spoiled blood or pug noses would take hold on him like a barnacle to a hull.

Alicent watched him for a long moment, mouth pressed into an uncertain expression before easing slightly. “Thank you, Jacaerys.”

The doors to the back of the room opened, tucked in an alcove with a tapestry pulled aside and the servants entered, clad in simple white and red garb. The minstrels took their place near the door to the room and struck up a gentle tune. The first course brought out was a salad of sweet and bitter greens with candied almonds and a steaming broth full of root vegetables, with warm loaves of fresh bread stuffed full of saffron and currants. The table was awkwardly quiet at first, the dominant conversation being Daeron’s excited chatter as he spoke about the trip from Oldtown.

“They cheered for us!” Daeron exclaimed. “Tessarion flew across Highgarden and everyone cheered to see us. And I got to see Garmund - he’s a page for Lord Tyrell now, and they left a few days after us. We took the Mander up and I saw Lord Fossoway at Cider Hall, and then Bitterbridge and we got off at Tumbleton and Aemond! We saw Vhagar! She was flying over the Kingswood. ‘Twas brilliant! She scared half the guards with us, since the only dragon they’d ever seen was Tessarion.”

The exuberance of his younger brother brought a hint of a smile across Aemond’s scowling face, and his violet gaze shifted from where he watched Jace and Baela to look down the table, leaning closer towards Abrogail who was smiling indulgently as she soaked her bread in the soup.

“Did you? She quite enjoys it out there, and roosts in the cliffs. Perhaps she thought Tessarion was a screeching swan.” Helaena giggled and Daeron sputtered in indignation at the tease.

Even Otto Hightower looked amused, a strange fondness in his expression while the king was content to enjoy his course, humming occasionally and giving a hint of a smile before drawing Lord Otto into conversation about the Westerlands and the Ironborn.

It struck him as odd. Had he not missed Daeron? Was he not interested in the journey from one coast of their land to the other? And all the boy had seen? Daeron was talking about the small villages along the Mander, and how Ser Gwayne had explained the river villages were similar to those of the Riverlands themselves.

“The Mander comes from some spring deep in the mountains around Tumbleton,” Abrogail explained. “Were it not so, it might be possible to dig a canal to connect the Mander to Blackwater Rush. Wouldn’t it be extraordinary to travel by boat from Oldtown all the way to Harrentown?”

The empty bowls were in the process of being taken away and replaced with trenchers of broiled pork, the scents of arbor red and ginger wafting from the crackled fat. Individual meat pies arrived, stuffed full of beef and cloves, cinnamon and carrots that Baela beside him dug in with gusto. There was no fish, thankfully, for Jace was tired of fish.

“Can you imagine the amount of pleasure barges that would come out of such an endeavor?” Ser Gwayne laughed. “See the sights of the Mander to the desolation of Harrenhal.”

“Harrenhal is not desolate,” Abrogail said, teeth catching on her lower lip as if she could not believe the words came out of her. “Our family has worked tirelessly since it was so graciously gifted to us by his Grace’s grandfather to uphold Princess Rhaena’s care for it.”

“Abby is more interested in aqueducts and cisterns for now,” Aegon said, drawing Jace’s attention to the first words his uncle had spoken all through dinner. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that the pair of them matched - the only difference in their clothing was Jace’s doublet was black on the left side, and Aegon’s was black on the right side. Outside of the accidental coordinating outfits, Jace’s eyes darted back to Abrogail’s. Her cheeks were flushed.

“I’ve been meaning to study the plans for Queen Alysanne’s cistern network,” Jace blurted out before he thought too much on whether or not it was a good idea to do so. He ignored the way Otto Hightower and Queen Alicent’s gazes swiveled to him.

“They’re quite fascinating,” his aunt, no, his soon to be aunt, said softly, but there was a hopeful look in her gaze. “Aemond and I looked over them while I was working on my plans for Harrenhal.”

Aemond’s violet gaze was boring into him. Jace focused on Abrogail beside him. “I’d love to see them when you have time after all the festivities.”

She smiled then, cheeks dimpling in the way Joffrey’s did, and it made Jace’s heart ache with a sensation of loss, of things that could have been. “I would enjoy that very much. Perhaps we should include Ser Gwayne in the review, so he may be reassured he’s not being sent away to a desolate ruin.” Gwayne winked at her and Jace caught the way Aegon tapped his ringed fingers against his own goblet, watching the interaction at play before him with a scowl.

“Uncle Gwayne and Daeron will accompany Aegon and Abby to Harrenhal,” Helaena explained to Baela, who barely spoke over the course of the meal and instead was watching their family with slightly narrowed and suspicious eyes. “So it’ll be the four of us here.”

“Such fun, won’t it be, nephew,” Aemond said, droll with a smirk cut across his mouth as he drank from his goblet.

Jace met the smirk with his own smile. “Of course it will, Uncle. Just like we were boys in the training yard. I look forward to testing our mettle with one another. I have fond memories of such things, and grandfather enjoyed himself, didn’t he? What was it, grandfather? We push one another down, pull each other up?”

“Hear hear!” the king agreed with a jovial laugh, rasping and amused. “We’ll throw a proper tourney for your nameday, eh?” He reached out to pat Jace’s hand and Aemond’s own fingers clenched around his goblet.

“Well, Jace’s nameday has already passed along with Aemond’s,” came Helaena’s soft voice. “But mine is next and I think I should like a beehive of my very own. Perhaps I could take the ones over in Rhaenys’ garden? By grandfather’s tower.” She cocked her head. “The apis mellifera are quite fascinating creatures, you know. Why, I read an account that explained that after the drone impregnates the queen, their genitals are ripped out and explode, having fulfilled their purpose.” Helaena hummed, thoughtful. “Truly, it is quite common in the animal kingdom for the male of the species to be subservient to the female. Perhaps I could interest you in exploring this endeavor with me, Baela? Since Jace and Aemond will be too busy hitting one another with long sticks in the yard.”

Escaping her brother’s apartments to the gardens could not have happened sooner. Two days before, the Westerlands party had arrived.

Jason Lannister made his entrance with all the pomp and circumstance the Warden of the West commanded, and was accompanied by her grandfather, Lord Rodrick Reyne of Castamere, and her half-sister in tow.

Corynna Strong had married the third Lannister, Erwin, when Abby was still a little girl. She had not seen her sister in years, not since their father and Harwin had passed. Cory had insisted on taking her to the Westerlands, to Casterly Rock and away from everything she had known and loved, all for some excuse that ‘Abrogail needs a mother now and she should be with her kin.’ Abby had sobbed into Queen Alicent’s lap, beseeching her cousin to let her stay. The memories of Alicent holding her much as she had done when Abby was small and her mother was ill, the kindness that had become fleeting within Alicent Hightower had come, continued to feel confusing in light of her recent treatment.

‘Do not cry, dear, sweet girl. You will stay here, with us. I will care for you.’

Cory had returned to Casterly Rock as there was no way to reject the Queen’s declaration, more annoyed, Abby thought, with the lack of control over someone else than any real upset. She’d given birth not long after to her first child, and it was all for the best, it seemed.

With very little of an actual relationship, it seemed Cory was making up for lost time, diving into a series of criticisms and demands at what Abby should be doing. Pinching at her upper arms and hips, clucking her tongue and commenting how she looked sickly, brows arched in disapproval at the new gowns, ready to demand new ones made until Abby found her frozen voice and said that the queen herself had approved them.

She released a long, shuddering breath and took in the air of the garden and the scent of the hydrangeas that surrounded that particular part of the path.

“There is nothing wrong with my dress,” she muttered to herself. Her underdress was a dark, oxblood red linen, black lacing along her forearms. The loose surcoat fell around her, dark blue and green damask edged in black instead of her usual silver. Her hair was unkempt, loose and wild around her shoulders, twisting down to just past her waist like an urchin.

Another sigh and she smoothed her hands over the front of her dress and turned to go back inside only to run face first into Ser Edmund Vance’s chest.

His warm hands grasped her by the arms, laughter low and vibrating through him. “Easy there, Lady Abrogail,” he said, and she felt her cheeks flame with embarrassment. “Whatever are you running from?”

“Ru-running?” she stuttered in confusion, and drew herself away from the warmth of the older man and his refreshing care and kindness. “Oh, it’s all so much inside. I came looking for some fresh air, really.” Abby swallowed and cleared her throat. “Have you too come to take a turn about the gardens? We could walk together.”

Edmund gazed down at her, head cocked as if she were something amusing and he reached up to tenderly tuck some of her wild hair behind her ear. His finger gently traced the shell of it and Abby was helpless to hold back the shiver that snaked pleasantly down her spine. His light brown hair gleamed golden in the sunlight, every inch as valiant and noble as Ser Gwayne Hightower, every inch as handsome.

And he seemed interested in her.

Nothing could come of that. She was betrothed after all. But it wasn’t as if it was all official quite yet; only rumor and talk and they could very well declare that he’d marry Cassandra Baratheon at the feast instead of her.

She tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and they headed down the terrace into the garden maze of flowering bushes. It was just them, it seemed, and Abby’s belly fluttered at the daring impropriety of it all.

‘If Aegon can gallivant into brothels after making hollow promises, I can enjoy the companionship of a handsome man.’ Besides, it wasn’t as if Abby was planning to sleep with him.

“Abrogail is not a name I’ve heard before,” Edmund chuckled as they walked together through the gardens.

Abby shook her head, a bright smile crossing her face. The truth of it was something that made her feel close to her athair, the love in the name more than enough to make up for strange looks. “No, my father found it in a book during his studies at the Citadel. Abrogail was the name of a Shadowbinder of the supposed founding of Asshai. It’s said that after raising the city, she retreated to Stygai, the City of Ash, where she has ruled in the dark for a thousand years, with her corpses and dragons.” A laugh escaped her. “He always liked the name, and was quite content that I had no desire to flee to Asshai to learn blood magic.” Edmund’s face was the picture of surprise and disbelief, and his laughter joined hers, warm and hearty.

“You? Named for a demon witch from Asshai? I never would have thought it,” Edmund said with a shake of the head. “You are as far from such a beastly creature as they come.”

“Why thank you, Ser Edmund. I am reassured to know that my schemes to bind all of Westeros through blood sacrifice and fire are still hidden.”

Their eyes met and Ser Edmund let out a laugh. The sound was lower than before, though no less warm, and it settled in Abby’s belly, the feeling now familiar from all the times that Aegon had roused it to the surface in her. He looked down at her, his hazel eyes hooded and Abby felt herself freeze. She knew that look now, she knew what it predated, and yet she did not move away, she did not raise her hands to stop him. Instead she bit her lower lip, worrying at the flesh there. Edmund raised a hand, his thumb gently swiping at her mouth.

“That is too sweet a mouth to destroy so, my lady,” he murmured.

‘When had he stood so close?’ Abby wondered, for there were only a scant few inches between them now.

“I’m sorry,” she said, eyes downcast, the familiar words falling from her lips though she knew that she had no reason to apologize to the man before her. She owed him nothing. Yet her feet stayed firmly planted where they were.

Edmund’s thumb and forefinger found her chin, tilting her face up toward his. He smiled at her then, a slow, easy expression, and something fluttered to life in her belly, though she was not sure if it was desire or anxiety. Time seemed to still and Abby opened her mouth to make some excuse, to pull away, to head back inside to deal with her frustrating sister. But then Edmund’s lips were on hers, a soft weight that silenced her.

‘He is so warm.’ That was her first thought as his hand cradled the soft curve of her jaw. He deepened the kiss then, a swipe of his tongue against her own. It was so different from how Aegon had kissed her. There was no battle for dominance that she was expected to lose, no licking flame of the desire that had built and built for years now. It was a nice kiss, she supposed, and Edmund was a nice man. For a moment she leaned into him, tasting him, allowing him to guide her face just where he wanted it, allowing him to lead.

The confusing feeling in her belly grew and she knew it now for what it was - a distinct sense of wrongness. For all that Aegon was, and for all that he was not, he was hers. Edmund was not, would never be.

She pulled away, ever so slightly, tilting her face back toward the ground as the heat built in her cheeks.

“Come now, Abrogail, demon queen of Asshai,” he whispered. The sound of his voice was rough, like water over the stones of the river, and it tugged at something in her, something she had only so recently discovered. He leaned in once again, this time crowding her against the wall, his mouth on hers. Her hands found his chest, fingers curling into his doublet, just as the cold stone of the wall seeped through her gown, shocking a gasp from her. “I knew you didn’t find me so terrible.” The edge of laughter in his voice should have calmed her. Instead discomfort skittered uncomfortably over her skin.

‘He doesn’t taste right,’ she thought, and as quickly as the thought came, Abby pushed it stubbornly away. Then, just as quickly, she realized he had not used her proper title. The intimacy of it doubled the uncertainty she felt and her struggling attempts to figure out how to release herself from it.

“Should I think you so terrible, Ser Edmund?” she asked him. Without waiting for an answer, she pushed herself on her toes to kiss him, to ignore the discomfort that she was feeling and tell herself that this was more than fine. Helaena had kissed other boys than just Aemond or Warren Fossoway. She had overheard Cassandra Baratheon whispering about stolen kisses behind tapestries and in alcoves with some lord. She too should get her share of kisses. Even when they didn’t make her ache low in her belly, it still stroked at the shivery bit that made her want.

Even if the kiss was only nice, even if he pressed his body against her more and stroked the heat of his palm against the curve of her waist, slipping beneath the fabric of her surcoat to bunch at the linen at the base of her spine.

A sound of protest tore from Abby and she pushed at Ser Edmund’s chest, but he did not move. He seemed to take her sound for one of desire and dropped his hand from her jaw to the curve of her breast. The discomfort and warring desire flared hot and instinct drove her. She lifted her hand and clawed her fingers across the side of the knight’s neck, unable to get her knee up or hope to push him away, to do what Harwin had taught her.

To do all the things she didn’t need to when it came to Aegon.

It was Edmund’s turn to hiss, and he drew back with a startled look. The hand that had been on her breast reached up to clap against his neck and she could see the lines of crimson her nails left in their wake.

“Unhand me,” she snapped, cursing the tremble in her voice, and shoved at his chest, trying to get his arm out from under her gown.

“Are you trying to live up to the moniker, Abrogail?” He asked in amused confusion, looking at the red on his fingertips.

“Lady Abrogail, Ser Edmund,” she forced out. Her hands were trembling and she shoved him back again now that there was some space between them. He faltered back a few steps, and Abby tried not to think that he’d done it to make her feel better, not because there was actual strength behind it, and the thought of it was almost enough to have her claw across his handsome laughing face. “You overstep with your familiarity.”

“Have I? Was it not you who kissed me just now?” He tilted his head, regarding her like a child. “How can one overstep when one has been invited.” It wasn’t a question, and Abby’s cheeks burned at the truth in his statement.

“I-I did not invite you to touch me that way, ser.” Her fingers curled against her belly but she forced them down into fists at her side, refusing to let him see how desperately she wanted to protect herself. “And you did not move when-”

“Many women give such protestations, Abrogail-”

“Lady Abrogail, ser.”

A smirk played across his handsome face, another shake of his head, and the condescension she felt from him reminded her of the same that she felt from the queen. She felt trapped and confused at the idea that these people thought her a little girl, a naive child, yet put her in these positions and expected something more of her.

The way she had expected more from Aegon.

‘You put yourself into them’, said a voice that sounded suspiciously like her brother, Larys, curled unpleasantly in her mind.

“If you’re trying to insinuate that ladies do not play at the occasional dalliance within the gardens and in the shadows of a keep, Lady Abrogail, then you have much to learn.” He reached up to try to brush her hair from her face once more and she snarled at him, reaching up to claw at the back of his hand, this time like a feral cat. She gripped his hand, nails cutting into the skin, and tore quickly.

“Leave marks,” Harwin had told her, cupping her face in his hands with the most serious look she’d ever seen. “Should someone hurt you, you tear at them like the pikes in the Red Fork in a feeding frenzy, so none could ever have cause to doubt you.”

She wanted Harwin then, to stand between her and this awful man who had come to her in friendship and kindness.

Yet, Harwin was dead and she was alone.

“I do not wish to learn anything from you, ser, if you only wish to speak down at me so.” Her voice did not tremble this time and her fists clenched in her skirt, ignoring the shine of red beneath her nails.

“Oh, but I’m sure the drunken princeling they mean to shove into our lands is an eager teacher, hm?” He chuckled at whatever look must have been on her face. “Your father was one of the smartest men in the realm, and they say you are clever as well. Do not tell me you are distracted by the gold and the titles.” He advanced and she retreated, her back hitting the wall once more, but she would not shrink against it. “If the Targaryens mean to exercise power in our realm, they will be in for a rude awakening. You, my lady, need people on your side and I am happy to be your stalwart advocate.” His voice lowered. “Your shield. Your teacher. Your-”

“Prince Aegon is my betrothed. He is my shield, my defender, and I am his. Do not mistake the colors of my bridal cloak for the loss of my family name and my loyalty to the rivers. I am Lady Strong, and my children will be raised in our way, blood of the dragon or not. If you dare to insinuate that my marriage has compromised the honor of House Strong, or our standing, I shall make it known of your dishonor towards me, which is now considered treason, in case you’ve forgotten. And if you try to touch me again, I will tell Aegon, and he will have you dragged by the hair to feed Sunfyre. He is my shield, and he shall defend me. Not you.”

Her trembling increased and Abby clutched her skirts, giving the knight nothing more than a sidelong glance as she darted around him, the dismissal she gave chafing at the manners and propriety that had been etched into her bones, even after what he had done, the words he had thrown at her.

She did not know where she was going, only that she needed to run from this. A sob tore from her throat and she pressed the back of her hand to her mouth before spitting the lingering taste on the ground, as if it were enough to rid the memory.

The crescent of red beneath her fingernails made her skin crawl and she hiccuped a small, frightened sound as she burst into the Godswood.

Aegon was standing there beneath the great heart tree. He faced the carved, weeping face, his head tilted back, eyes closed as if in prayer.

She turned abruptly in hopes of avoiding him, avoiding his questions and his angry eyes, and her skirt caught between her legs and under her shoe, sending her to the ground where her hands scraped against the pavestones. She let out a pained cry before she could stop it, all hopes of being gone before he noticed her dashed as she was.

“Abby?”

“Please not now,” she whispered, wincing at the bloody scrapes on the heels of her palms. Her prayer was not powerful enough because Aegon was there beside her, his hands reaching out before he stopped himself. Aegon’s fingertips only just brushed her hand and he gazed at her. His silver hair fell into his eyes, lilac clear for once.

He had freckles over his nose and across his cheeks. She loved those freckles.

“Let me see,” he said softly. “Please?”

Abby couldn’t breathe. Her throat was choked up and she shut her eyes, hot tears rolling down her cheeks and with a nod, she held out her scraped palms to him for inspection. “I’m sorry,” she whispered instinctively.

“Why?” He asked just as softly. He pulled a handkerchief from the inside of his jerkin. He paused in the motion, brow furrowing as he realized that a dry handkerchief wouldn’t do much good. She shook her head and spat on the heels of her palms.

“There,” she sniffled. Aegon snorted and began dabbing the dirt off the scrapes.

“Clever girl.”

“I try.”

“Why are you sorry?”

Abby blinked through her tears. “What?”

“You said you were sorry. I was asking you why.” Aegon’s thumb stroked along the lifeline of her left palm in a soothing manner. There was a gentleness in him that eased the lonely fear she felt. “Unless you were apologizing for falling. Then perhaps your skirts should apologize to you.” His eyes widened, lips pressed together comically, and he shrugged.

Abby’s teeth scraped over her lower lip but it did little to disguise the twitch of her smile. “Mayhaps-” her words were cut off by the hiss of pain. It was fleeting and he shushed her softly.

“I’m sorry.” His thumb pressed gently into the center of her palm and his eyes hidden by the fall of his hair.

“Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitched and Aegon met her gaze. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Pink bloomed in the round of his cheeks and he leaned forward to press his forehead against hers. Abby released a long breath that she felt like she’d been holding for weeks. Mayhaps she had. Or perhaps it was only in the past minutes since she’d woken that morning. Since…

“I…” He breathed in her exhale and Abby was transported to the meadow in the Kingswood where everything in her begged to soothe him and tell him it was okay. Then, she held back. Here, she held back too. “I didn’t see you. I thought I did, but I wasn’t.”

Her eyes flooded with tears at his words. Aegon was not one to apologize, but since this betrothal, he had done so twice already. She knew he had meant them before, but little had changed. In the simplicity of the words that spilled from him now were different. Quiet. Vulnerable.

Truth.

Three times for a wish. Three times to make it real.

Aegon’s hand cupped her left cheek and his thumb brushed her tears away, but they were replaced with more. “I saw… Cole says every girl is the Maiden, every woman the Mother,” he whispered with his voice cracking. “My mother who has rejected me with more fervor while she clings to me for this mad future, and how she clings to her Seven as if it will make it better and yet none of them were what I needed. It was you. It was always you standing there when I had nowhere else to turn. You, who had always been there with open arms to accept me. How could I see you as anything but holy? How could I not see you as the Maiden come down to me, as if I was as worthy as Galladon of Morne for your affections. How could I not cling to you when my mother and her gods turned their backs to me. To face the idea that I was losing your acceptance when I didn’t know what I had done was too much. It was too much like everything else. Gone was the safe harbor in you, because I was so foolish as to not see the true you, only what my mother and Cole had told me you should be.” Tears shone in his lilac eyes and rolled down his cheeks as her own did. “I was blind to truths, no better than my father. I punished you for it. It’s unforgivable, to treat you so, when I’ve always wanted… I do not know.”

The prince was not prone to rambling. He was not one for a slew of words and speeches and declarations in this sort of way. While not as reticent as Aemond could be, to hear Aegon present this all to her was a surprise. He was breathless at the end of it with lilac eyes wide and focused on her and Abby’s heart clenched hard in her chest. The idea that this was something he’d tumbled over and over with himself and was looking for the opportunity to tell her took her by surprise and overcame the fear and the nerves that threatened to drown her.

Abby leaned into his touch, wet mouth dragging against the skin of his hand. Words were wind. Words did not matter coming from her right now. She knew that she had her own apologies to make, but the lack of rehearsal in Aegon's words, the way he compared himself to the man he hated most, tore at the gentle parts of her and robbed her of her own declarations, as if Aegon had borrowed them to give himself strength. Her tears came faster and Abby drew back when Aegon shifted.

"You do not ne-need to know, just hearing you…” Her breath hitched as she tried to find something to say that felt worthy, but he silenced her when he reached down to scoop her into his arms. Her lips parted and she tried to speak, but being held close like this, surrounded by the warmth of him instead of the cold ground, or being crowded against a cold stone wall by someone she did not truly want, had her falling silent. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck as he headed up the gentle incline and carefully sat them down among the twisting roots of the weirwood tree.

How often had the two of them sat here beneath the bone white boughs, sharing marchpane and honey cakes? How often she was talked into reading him tomes assigned by the maester for his studies?

He said nothing as they sat, only held her in his lap and pressed his warm lips to her forehead before tucking her head beneath his chin. Abby lifted a hand to fist into his black shirt sleeve and for the first time since the death of her family, she let herself lean into him for the warmth and reassurance that had been absent from her life for so long. The culmination of everything that had come before, everything happening now, threatened to drown her. She pressed her face further into his neck, her sobs soft against his skin, and his arms tightened around her.

Abby had seen Aegon at low and weak moments. He had wept in her lap and into her hair numerous times over the years.

Now Aegon had found her fallen, and like she had done so often for him, he lifted her up.

Aegon’s tears wet her hair and her own soaked into the collar of his shirt. Abby imagined herself sinking into him, slipping into all the gaps and spaces of his body and nestling in there where it was warm and quiet, where they could be alone together away from everything else.

“I’m sorry for what I said that night,” she whispered against his throat, her nose stuffed from her crying and voice thick and raw. “I expected something different from you, something I never asked for, and that wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.” She swallowed past the lump in her throat and Aegon’s arms tightened around her, his fingers stroking her hair.

“You are rather terrible at asking for things,” he said in his own low voice. Abby let out an indelicate snort, sputtering at the gentle tease. She vividly recalled the last time he ordered her to tell him of her desires, and her cheeks flushed deeper than they already were. How she craved it, how she wanted more.

She shifted against him so her fingers could fidget with the buttons on his shirt, needing something to distract her hands with. “I suppose I need to practice then.” A swallow and a sigh. Aegon huffed a chuckle and his breath sent her hair fluttering. His hand was warm when it took hers and she felt him run his thumb against the back of her hand.

Then Aegon went still, and Abby swallowed. There was no resistance when he lifted her hand and there was no hiding the red crescents beneath her usually well kept nails, and the streaks of crimson on her fingertips he hadn’t seemed to notice before.

Fair enough. Aegon often missed the details.

“What’s this?” he asked in that low tone, the one that vibrated through his chest and into her very bones. “Abby?”

Cold swept through her veins and a terrible knot of anxiety twisted tight in her belly. Shame followed quickly after the cold, a red hot sensation that burned along her neck and stung at the corners of her eyes, painful in her cheeks. It was one thing for men to engage in such things. It was another for women, let alone someone betrothed to the prince of the realm. She could still feel the vicious smack of the queen’s palm against her face, the cold and remote look in the woman’s large eyes as they tore her apart.

She had been given a duty as Aegon’s betrothed, and it was to fix him. It wasn’t to love him. It wasn’t to be intimate and passionate with him. How ugly the thought was. How cruel it was to think they had betrothed them, while thinking that she could not love the wreck that was Aegon, that she cared for in spite of his faults and flaws. How could she do anything but love him?

Helaena had her share of stolen kisses. Many of the ladies of court had. Why should she be any different? Aegon certainly was no chaste, virtuous son. He would come to their marriage bed well practiced.

Abby’s mouth was dry and she swallowed harshly. Nerves were night moths fluttering wildly in her belly. “I…” Another clearing of her throat, and Abby lifted her gaze to meet his. “Ser Edmund tried to take more than what I had allowed. It seems chivalry was not part of his knight’s vows.”

Silence grew between them while Aegon studied her face and she felt bare before him. There was no hiding behind her hair even as she half tried to. There was no disguising the flush of her skin and the trembling of her mouth. She wanted to beg him not to be angry at her, that she didn’t intend to make the knight think he was owed more, but Abby kept her mouth shut. She had kissed him just as he kissed her and it had been her choice to do it.

Aegon studied her face with her hand clutched tight in his, thumb pressed into the center of her palm. She didn’t look away. She would not look away, no matter what kind of shame she felt. Defenses pushed at her throat. Little hedges like ‘I promise I didn’t encourage him’ were tempting, but she swallowed them down as she tried to swallow the shame she felt and the anger at how the man had behaved.

Slowly, Aegon shifted the arm that curled around her so he could lift his hand to cradle the back of her head, his fingers in her hair. The touch sent a shiver down her spine and chased away the heated curl of shame with the intimacy of it. His thumb stroked against her palm and he gave a slow nod.

“I suppose with how I’ve treated you, it’s the least you could have done for yourself, hunītsos.” The use of the endearment took her by surprise, and she met his gaze, the pupils blown wide with a simmering anger. “But if this is from protecting yourself, I’ll bring you his hands should you wish.”

Her laugh was short and shocked, tearful as it was relieved and she curled her fingers around his. “I do not need his hands. He walked away wounded in both body and pride after I told him that you would have him drug by the hair to feed to Sunfyre. Though I would hate for our poor boy to be fed such a meal.”

Aegon stared at her in ill disguised surprise at what she said. She couldn’t tell what was going on through his mind. Was he upset with her? Did he think she asked for it? That she had led him on how he had accused her of?

“You, my fierce Abrogail,” he finally said, hand still cradling her head and his other came up to trace a knuckle along the softness of her cheek, “were brilliant. You hide your claws and fangs so well, but they are sharp to be sure.” Aegon’s cheeks were lightly flushed, lilac eyes dancing with a tumult of emotions she could not untangle. But she knew his anger lay not with her. “Our poor boy?”

Abby scrunched her face up shyly. “Sunfyre likes me and I like him. You have to share him.”

“I have to?”

“You must.”

Aegon rolled his eyes and nudged his nose against hers. “I mean it truly. I do not enjoy the idea of someone else kissing you, but it pales to the treatment after. I would not have you hurt and afraid. I know how men can be.” He faltered then but Abby could fill in the details. She understood that Aegon had been that sort of man. ‘Was he still that sort of man?’ she wondered.

“Were you aware he’d gotten a child on one of my maids barely a moon ago? He did. I gave the girl moon tea and money for her to go back home to her family and find a new position, since she was clearly incapable of refuting my son’s advances. Very much like you seem incapable of refuting him.”

Her voice was a quiet breath and she pressed against his chest. “Would… if you kissed me and I didn’t want it, or if you touched me and I didn’t want it, even if maybe I seemed like I did, o-or I had changed my mind. Even when you’re my husband and you have your rights. I know you have your rights and my duty and-”

“I would stop,” he cut in. Aegon’s voice was firm, and she knew that he meant it. “I never want to look at you and see fear in your eyes. Fear that I put there. I will take anger, I will take pity and sadness, but I could not...” His voice had started strong, but as he went along, it wavered, thick with emotion until he fell quiet with a shake of his head. “When you looked at me that night of the feast, the words that you said-”

“I should not have-”

“Stop,” he commanded, not harshly, but firm. “I need to say this. When you said those things, the idea of you seeing me as something sick and broken, I could not abide it. I could not breathe. If you saw me as a monster, as something not worth your touch, then there was nothing else for me.” Aegon tilted back, putting space between them, his head thumping gently against the tree, and he turned his gaze to the gentle whisper of the blood red leaves above them. “I was harsh with you in my pain. You caused me hurt and I wanted to throw it back tenfold. Why should I try, if I upset you so? If you no longer leaned into my touch, for the little time I had it? I… fuck.”

Aegon would not look at her, and Abby felt a knot of worry in her chest, the cold and hot feeling twisting through her. His hands had fallen away from her as Aegon drew in on himself, but she did not pull away from him, did not reject him, and he did not shove her away. “We didn’t make promises,” she whispered.

“We did. You asked me to only ever touch you that way.” He pulled his fingers through his hair, tugging on the silver strands as he took a deep breath. “I… took the Lefford girl into my bed.”

Marla Lefford, Lord Loras Lefford’s younger sister who had arrived with the Riverlands party. A pretty maid around her age, with pin straight brown hair and bright green eyes. She’d been nice, if a little flighty, when they had met.

Abby felt a rush of jealousy but swallowed it down, letting it burn all the way to her gut, a new sort of pain. A nod. “Were you kind to her?”

He might have snorted a sad sort of laugh, but there was no effort in it. Honesty was the order of the day and he shrugged. “I wasn’t unkind. I wasn’t the first one there, but I think she expected more. More care, perhaps. More enthusiasm, certainly.” He swallowed audibly and looked up at her. “I’ve been… engaging with Cassandra Baratheon. I didn’t take her to bed. I wouldn’t.”

The memory of Cassandra Baratheon speaking of stolen moments in alcoves and behind tapestries came in stark clarity and she felt a coil of heat and sick. She’d listened to her and never realized that it was Aegon she’d been referencing.

“Why not?” She didn’t want to know, but the words escaped her before she could lock them away. The jealousy burned hotter as she thought of Cassandra Baratheon and her womanly secrets, her sharp laugh and the tossing of her hair. How beautiful and worldly she was. How stormy and clever she was. How so obviously not Abby.

She was the better match for Aegon in the long run. Cassandra Baratheon was the heir to the Stormlands as it stood right now.

But Cassandra Baratheon did not grow up at Alicent Hightower’s knee. Cassandra Baratheon would not be a tool sought to control Aegon by his mother through her. Perhaps that was what made him want her. Abby thought she would choke on the notion.

“If I took her to bed, I knew she’d hurt you with it,” he said softly. “For whatever that is worth, I didn’t want to hurt you in that way. Whatever was happening was between us, I would not put you in her sights with my foolish choices.”

“She’s coming to Harrenhal with us,” Abby said in the same quiet voice.

Aegon clucked his tongue, a helpless look. “I have been known to, as you say, not think things through.” He looked at her then, helpless and nervous, tentative and hopeful. Brave, in the way he so rarely exhibited. “We do not have to bring her to Harrenhal. If you do not want her there, then she won’t be there.”

Her eyes rounded in surprise at the decision placed in her hands. She held it, unsure of what to do. Courtesy, propriety, the swallowing of unpleasant emotions, all of it compelled her to answer that she would put the matter behind her and allow Cassandra to come with them, so as not to offend the fickle Lord Borros. It would be the right thing to do. The forgiving thing to do.

The Seven preached such forgiveness.

Septa Lyserra taught those virtues, yet the woman had pulled her from Aegon’s arms, torn the ring forcefully from hair where it had gotten caught, sought to punish and inflict pain for something that Abby did not find wrong, did not think she had anything to be sorry for. That was not kindness. That wasn’t gentleness, or understanding. It was cruel.

Should she tell Aegon what had happened in his mother’s room? To explain? No, she couldn’t. She couldn’t come between Aegon and his mother.

But how she ached to say something. How she wanted to tell Aegon the pain that had been caused, and to be defended, to be comforted and protected. How she wanted to use her voice to speak of the hurt that she’d been caused.

“I do not want Cassandra Baratheon at Harrenhal,” she said in a quiet but firm voice. Her eyes were wet and she still trembled from the emotions tumbling through her. “I do not begrudge you what you engaged in with her, and I’m glad you told me. But I do not want her there. I do not want her in our home, where we’re to make our life together. I do not care what it says of me, of what gossip would spread; if they call me insecure, if they call me jealous. I do not want her there.” Her breath hitched and she reached up to drag the edge of her red sleeve across her wet eyes. “You’re a prince. You’re charming and beautiful, and you ride the most beautiful dragon in the world. I want to be yours, Aegon. I’ve only ever wanted to be yours and… and I-I want you to be mine. I want you to want me as much as I want you. I do not care about the Lefford girl, or Cassandra Baratheon, whatever brothel visits, or what else came before. I am selfish enough to admit I want you to myself now. I want our marriage, our marriage bed, to be only for us.”

Aegon looked at her like he’d never properly done so and Abby’s hands fluttered up to cover the flush of her cheeks, tilting her head to hide behind the fall of her messy curls. For the first time the two of them sat there with their hearts held out to one another, without dressing or armor. They were naked, their ribs cracked open, and she was begging to crawl inside the cage of him, to wrap herself around his heart and be surrounded by him, bone and flesh knit together to hold her close and keep her safe and warm.

“Hunītsos,” he murmured, and he wrapped his hands around her wrists to tug them from her face. She resisted and he snorted, tugging more until he had her wrists held. “Abby, look at me.”

Her resistance gave way and he held both her wrists in a single hand so he could cup her left cheek in the rough warmth of his palm, his fingers stroking where they tucked into her hair. Aegon was smiling softly. It was a ghost of one, barely there, and he simply watched her, searching for answers to questions she did not know.

Then his smile widened and he nodded and Abby thought she finally knew what question he had been asking all this time.

It was not conscious to fall forward into his touch. He pulled her in and the feel of his mouth was, before everything, right. The taste of spiced wine and something inherently Aegon. There was no sense of wrongness or unsettling discomfort. Kissing Aegon felt like coming home. It felt like being wrapped in a blanket warmed by the fire on a cold night. Gently, he used the grip on her wrists to tug her closer and when he released her, she twined her arms around his neck and his freed hand looped around her waist to cradle her close. The kiss did not deepen. It was nearly chaste. It was a dream. It was everything she missed over these past weeks.

The groan that Aegon released when they parted shot straight through her, and it took everything in her not to whine for more. She wanted to chase his pouty mouth and dive into the pool of heat that had gathered between them. Instead, he nuzzled his nose against hers before resting his forehead to hers.

“I want to be better for you. I want to be who you see me as. I want to be worthy of you, but I do not know how. I do not know if I’m good enough.” Abby’s fingers lifted to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck and breathed in his exhales. “I am afraid” went unsaid but she could hear it woven amidst his words. The desire to comfort him was there, threatening to overwhelm her, to push aside her own pain, to reassure him without doubt that it was fine.

“Who do you want to be, mo realta geal?”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

She pressed a kiss to his lower lip. Soft and sweet, a gentle reassurance. Aegon exhaled and she could feel his shiver match her own. “I have always believed that you did not have to be what you were. To throw yourself into wine and women, to put down your swords; these are things I wish you had not done, but I understood why. When you said those words to me, when you lashed out in pain, I grew angry because I realized you were supposed to be different when it came to me. I also was not seeing you fully. But I see you now, and I still want you. I choose you and whomever you choose to become. Do not do it for my approval. Do it because it is what you want most. You do not have to be anyone else but Aegon, and whatever that means to you.”

Aegon’s nod was minute, the gesture reminding her of the little boy he’d once been, shy and nervous. “Do you mean it?” He whispered, and she would not have heard him had they not been so close. His voice was thick and his eyes shined with tears.

“I do,” she whispered.

He sniffled and nodded again. “You do not need to be my mother. You do not need to be one of those perfect ladies. You are fierce and passionate and you are so beautiful when you are free. You are not the Maiden or Mother or whatever the seven hells demand. You are Abrogail Strong and I’ve wanted you for as long as I have had memory.”

“I don’t know if I know how to be anything else, Aegon.” Her voice was so small she could barely hear herself.

“Neither do I, Abrogail,” he said with his own soft kiss to her trembling mouth. Abby whimpered and his chuckle was soft and deep, snaking through her with a heat that made her hands shake. “We’ll be fools together, won’t we? Stumbling in the dark to figure it out.”

A shaky laugh sounded and she shook her head with a shy and tremulous smile. “I’m afraid of the dark.”

“That you are. Never fear, I shan’t let go of your hand.”

“Good, because I will not let go of yours either.” Abby felt her cheeks flush and watched his own do the same. It had been so long since she heard him sing or pluck the strings of his gittern or lyre. “I would like to hear you sing me songs again.” He had done so when they were young, but Aegon’s interests had fallen to the side as they’d grown, the same as her own interests in painting and archery had done. Could they, perhaps now, reclaim them?

He exhaled, blowing moonlit hair out of his eyes. “Well, then it’s settled. Might as well chain us together.”

“Is that not what marriage is supposed to be?” She asked with a teasing grin and a pinch to his side. Aegon squealed with a high pitched sound and her grin broadened. “Ticklish, my prince?”

She found another spot along his ribs and he squirmed with another flurry of strangled giggles as she tickled him. His hands found her and the soft, tender bits beneath her arms and her shrieks of laughter joined him as they fell sideways in a tangle of limbs and laughter.

[chapter fourteen]

#fic: the maiden and the drowning boy #aegon ii targaryen #aegon ii targaryen fic #aegon ii targaryen fanfic #aegon targaryen #aegon x oc #aegon ii targaryen x oc #hotd #hotd fic #hotd fanfic #house strong #aegon x abby #my fics #baela targaryen #jacaerys velaryon #jacelaena

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